All the Lonely People (18 page)

“Will I let you down?”

He laughed. “No danger. Come inside for a minute. Table's booked for eight.”

As he was offering her a seat in the lounge, the bell summoned him for the second time. He groaned and hurried to answer the door. Outside were Skinner and Macbeth. Immediately, he was transported back to the nightmare of the previous Friday morning, but he swallowed and managed to say calmly enough, “Evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

In his customary sorrowful way, Skinner said, “I believe that you are acquainted with a Mr. Stanley Evison.”

The unfamiliarity of the forename baffled Harry momentarily before he said, “You mean Froggy? I've come across him, yes. I've been trying to make contact with him today.”

“And why might that be?”

Harry noticed that Skinner was no longer calling him “sir”.

“Let's just say that I want to ask him one or two questions.”

“I hope you're not waiting on the answers,” said Skinner softly.

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Evison's body was found earlier today. He had been murdered.”

“Where?” It was the first thought that occurred to him.

Looking straight at him, Skinner said, “At the Pasture Moss Waste Disposal Site, off Pasture Road.”

It was a nightmare, like something out of a
film noir
scripted by Cornell Woolrich. “But I was there earlier today.”

Unblinking, the Detective Chief Inspector said, “So we understand. And I have reason to believe that you can help us with our enquiries.”

The cliched phrase, and the manner of its delivery, stung him. “Surely you don't . . .?”

Both policemen were motionless. Just as in his first encounter with them on that terrible Friday, Harry felt as if he were being measured and found wanting. He looked from one to the other and said, “This is absurd.”

Skinner sniffed, evidently still struggling with his cold. He said, “Would you mind accompanying us to the station now?”

“What if I refuse?”

The set of the mournful face hardened. “In that case we would simply take the necessary steps. You know the score.”

Harry knew what that meant. They considered there was a prima facie case against him on a charge of murder, perhaps of a double crime. They had enough evidence to justify arresting him, though not enough - surely? - to want yet to proceed with a trial. He could choose between resistance and co-operation. Over the years he had seen too many of his own clients make the wrong choice. He nodded at Skinner and looked around for his raincoat.

The sound of voices had brought Brenda to the doorway of the lounge. He saw her made-up face crumple with dismay and the policemen stare at her with grim curiosity. Their minds were easy to read: His wife's not buried yet and already he's knocking a slice off the next-door neighbour.

Quietly, he said, “Please would you ring Pino at the Ensenada, Brenda? I won't be able to make it tonight.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Why did you lie to the boy?”

Macbeth's sardonic tone and the sly sidelong glance he shot at Harry gave the impression that he scarcely expected an honest answer. He had taken off his tie and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to reveal brawny arms thick with dark hair. His hands lay flat upon the scratched top of the round table that stood between them, his palms down as though he were trying to crush the wood. For the last ten minutes he had been chewing something. The need for common courtesy had gone.

Harry let his eyes roam around the mustard-coloured walls of the interview room. The furniture comprised the table and three chairs; the walls were bare. In one corner sat the constable with the pitted face, ballpoint pen raised. A fresh page in his notebook awaited something new: a breakdown and confession, perhaps. All evening, the drip-drip-drip of the inquisition, repetitive but seemingly endless, had stretched Harry's nerves to snapping point. He had to keep biting his tongue to remind himself of the need to take all this seriously and to concentrate. The police were not treating the interrogation as a game.

“Why did you lie?” Macbeth repeated.

“I've already explained a thousand times.”

“Try again.”

At first, two or three hours ago, Harry had down-played his activities after Liz's death, had not acknowledged the strength of his determination to identify her murderer. But he hadn't lied outright - why should he? -and under Skinner's patient, probing cross-examination he had been forced to admit the full extent of his quest for Coghlan and the attack upon him outside Empire Dock. When Skinner left the room, the sergeant took over, not bothering to hide his contempt. Macbeth concentrated on the death of Froggy Evison, yielding no information, nagging for the reason why Harry had visited Pasture Moss that day.

“You couldn't even fool Pensby,” he said derisively.

Pensby, it turned out, was Geoff, the freckled youth from the tip. Harry gathered that the lad himself had found Froggy's body, not long after his own departure from the scene. The cause of death had not been mentioned and Harry knew he was being tested. There was always the chance that a killer might make the mistake of revealing knowledge of more facts about the crime than the police had disclosed. Harry had seen the strategem work too many times with his own clients to disparage its effectiveness. There was no danger of his falling into that particular trap, but Geoff had evidently regaled the police with a detailed account of Harry's arrival at the tip in search of Evison, not omitting to mention the initial cock-and-bull story about Myra's illness. Macbeth had fastened on to the silly subterfuge and would not let it go.

“All I wanted was to talk to Evison,” said Harry. Wearily, he went back over the old ground. “I was sure he'd been holding back on me when I spoke to him at the Ferry. The first time I'd seen him, on the night that Liz was stabbed, he'd come in to work late and seemed agitated about something. When I challenged him at the club, I was sure he knew more than he was prepared to admit. Might have been bravado, a desire to impress, but I didn't think so. I had to speak to him again to have any hope of getting to the truth. At the rubbish tip, I had to spin some kind of line to get even the kid to talk to me.”

“A regular Sherlock, aren't you?”

“Listen, Evison's dead. He may have been killed by a Keep Britain Clean campaigner, but more likely he had a clue to this mess and that's why he had to die. Whoever did this,” Harry gestured at his own bruised eye “ - would hardly scruple at eliminating Froggy if he was a threat.”

“Wasn't Evison a threat to you?”

Mustering every last ounce of self-possession at his command, Harry said, “You're on the wrong track, Sergeant. While we sit here wasting time a killer is on the loose.”

“To believe all this, we have to accept you were devoted to your late wife, despite the fact she treated you like dirt. That you have no pride, that you will let a woman walk all over you, turn you into a laughing stock, and still shed a tear when she gets her just desserts.”

The calculated provocation made Harry flinch, but all he said was, “Accept what you like.”

“And yet with the inquest not yet over, with the woman still not decently buried, you're carrying on with your next-door neighbour. Your period of mourning didn't last long.” Macbeth relaxed in his chair, almost smiling, daring Harry to lose his temper.

He could recall countless occasions such as this. Sitting in on an interview, sometimes in this very room, and feeling impotent whilst his clients protested, pretended, evaded, elaborated, before in the end deciding to confess to their crimes. Over the years he had seen everything from the remorseless grilling of a teenage yobbo already black-and-blue as a result of injuries sustained whilst allegedly resisting arrest before his lawyer arrived, to the careful wearing down of a conman or petty blackmailer. The occasional breaks that paved the way for a change of tactics towards a tricky customer. Switches in mood and personnel, from the gentle let's-get-it-off-our-chest approach to the bluff that there was already enough evidence to lock the suspect up and throw away the key. All conducted in an environment that might have been designed to reproduce the claustrophobia of the waiting prison cell. Harry had seen clients succumb through fear, fatigue and ignorance, as well as guilt.

Returning Macbeth's gaze, he realised just how easy it is to confess. Here and now, even he had the momentary urge to put an end to all this hassle. How tempting it would be to tell the man what he wanted to hear, making it up as you went along. Was it any wonder that people claimed responsibility for crimes they hadn't committed, simply groping for the illusion of respite from those endless questions that wore you down like water slowly eroding stone?

Suddenly Macbeth asked, “How old is she, Mrs. Rixton? Forty? Forty-five?” When Harry shrugged in reply, he continued, “Very different from your late wife, that's for sure. Not exactly a dolly bird.”

Don't be provoked, Harry told himself, break the spell. As lightly as he could, he said, “Maybe I ought to have a solicitor present.”

“Losing your bottle?” jeered Macbeth. “You people are all the same. Bent as a corkscrew and less guts. Call for Fingall, why don't you? Or Hendrickson, perhaps. They know all the dirty tricks of your trade.”

“Or,” said Harry, “I could simply walk out. I'm not under arrest.”

Macbeth's arched eyebrows said: Not yet. Harry rose to his feet. “Face it, Sergeant, you don't believe I killed either Liz or Evison. You're pissing in the wind.”

The policeman stood too. “Don't you see, Mister Solicitor? There's only one link between the two deaths. You.” He drew a deep breath and then spoke more deliberately. “Was she carrying your child? Did you beg her to leave Coghlan? Or was Coghlan the father and did you blow a fuse when you found that out? Either way, Evison must have known too much or at least have put two and two together. You traced him to the rubbish tip, had an argument - and killed him. Pensby turned up before you could get clean away, so you panicked into feeding him a load of bullshit.”

“Go back to the drawing board. Coghlan's your man.” Harry wiped a hand across his brow. The sweat was sticky to the touch. Decision time had come. “If you're not going to arrest me, Sergeant, I think I'll be going.” He took a couple of paces in the direction of the exit.

Macbeth was saved from the need to reply by the opening of the door. Skinner looked in and said coolly, “Spare me a minute, Sergeant.” The younger man strode out into the corridor, where the two detectives held a muttered colloquy. In his corner, the constable began to chew his biro. Presently, Harry heard approaching footsteps and the Chief Inspector saying, “Okay, Dave, it's over to you.” In response, a face appeared round the door, weather-beaten and welcome.

“Christ,” said Harry, “the cavalry's arrived.”

Detective Constable David Moulden grinned in his lopsided way and said to his note-taking colleague, “Scarper, son, this master-criminal and me are going to have a quiet chat.”

The young constable scuttled out and Moulden settled his burly frame into the chair that Macbeth had recently vacated. Clicking his tongue, he said, “Well, Harry lad, another fine mess you got yourself into.”

“Dave, will you speak to that bugger Macbeth and his bloody boss and convince them I'm not a double murderer?”

Soberly, the older man said, “Convince me first.”

Irritated by the reply, and reminded by his empty stomach and parched throat how long it was since he had last eaten or had a drink, Harry said, “They must be desperate if they've sent you to prise out a cough, mate.”

Moulden didn't smile. “You're in a tricky situation, don't misunderstand that. So what's been going on?”

Harry gave him a precis of events. When he had finished, he said, “Skinner put me through the wringer. Macbeth too, though with less finesse. They almost had me thinking I was guilty.”

“They're good jacks, Harry. It's a tough case. But Skinner's determined - reminds me of you in a funny sort of way. Once he gets into an investigation, he's like a bloody limpet. And Wes Macbeth . . .” Moulden sucked in his cheeks. “Well, he doesn't like lawyers.”

“I'd noticed. But who does?”

Lowering his voice, Moulden said, “He has his reasons. His kid sister was raped when he was a teenager in Kirkby. The feller who did it lived in the same deck-access block. He took his time, didn't spare her anything. Some sharp defence brief from Manchester spent hours cross-examining her about her sex life, driving her to hysteria in order to get his client off. You know the drill. He argued that she led the creep on. Worked a treat. The jury fell for it hook, line and bloody sinker. A month later the girl gassed herself. A kitchen oven job. Wes found her body when he got home from school.”

He gave Harry a considering look. “It could have turned Wes crazy, but he decided to fight back from the inside and joined up with us. Got his promotion in record time, and not just because he's a token black. He's a hard bastard, Harry, but he follows the rules and he's good at his job. You can be sure he won't let any lawyer stand in the way of getting a conviction. He regards your lot as worse than the thugs and thieves you represent. I've told him myself that's as daft as judging us by the odd ones who put their hands in the till or rough up a youngster on sus. All the same, if I'd been through what he's been through, I don't suppose I'd chum up with any defence brief who came my way.”

Harry said, “The lawyer was only doing his job.”

“So is Wes, so stop bleating.”

Neither of them spoke for a minute. Harry shifted his thoughts back to the central problem of the murders. Two deaths now - three if you included the unborn child. With Evison gone, he was as far away as ever from being able to prove that Liz's lover had murdered her. To his dismay, he became aware of tears of frustration pricking at his eyelids.

“It must be Coghlan, Dave. No one else fits the bill.”

Moulden said, “I know you hate the man, and I don't blame you for that. But we need more to go on than a gut feeling. Face it, if that wasn't the case, you'd have been locked up by now.”

Obstinate as a chastised child, Harry said, “He had the motive and the temperament.”

“Not the opportunity, though. When your wife was killed he was two hundred miles away. That's for certain.”

“His alibi checks out?”

A curious expression flitted across Dave Moulden's face. Was it veiled amusement? “We're satisfied about his movements, yes.”

“These things can be set up from a distance, have you thought about that? Coghlan has plenty of hired hands available, I suppose it was one of them that attended to me the other night.”

“You think that hasn't been considered? Give us credit for knowing our own business best.” He hesitated. “All I can say is that in the light of our inquiries we have reason to doubt whether Coghlan was connected with the death of your wife.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Sorry, mate, can't say anything more.”

“Was Coghlan aware Liz was pregnant?”

“We don't think so. At least, not until we told him. Unless he's a bloody good actor.”

Harry thought for a few seconds, then said, “Who else did your people tell about the baby?”

“The sister-in-law. No one else as far as I'm aware. We were interested to find out who your wife had confided in, but it seemed she was a lady who liked to keep these things close to her chest.”

“Have you traced the businessman she was involved with? This Tony?”

Moulden shook his head. “So far we've drawn a complete blank. Which is interesting. Your wife was a talker, said everything but her prayers, by all accounts. Yet we hadn't even been able to put a name to the man until you told Skinhead an hour ago. She obviously said more to your mud-wrestling friend than anyone else, and even with her she didn't let much slip, did she? Makes you wonder if he might have been a figment of her imagination, doesn't it?”

“Remember, the man was married.”

“That may explain it.” Moulden winked. “Matter of fact, though I don't officially approve, it's true that you've picked up one or two snippets that had escaped us. This feller Rourke, for instance. None of the people we've talked to have let on about her seeing him.”

“They may have met at the club,” said Harry. “Could that be significant?”

The policeman heaved large shoulders. “I'm not paid to do much thinking, but obviously we need to interview the man. Trouble with this case is, all the leads take us nowhere. Take an example - your brother-in-law's farewell meal with her had us interested. Of course, we sniffed around. Very embarrassing for a pillar of the community like Mr. Edge, I'm sure. The upshot being, we found he did arrive at the Adelphi precisely when he claimed. No one there had the impression that he'd just left his sister-in-law's corpse lying in an alley. No forensic links whatsoever and the timing would have been too tight for comfort anyway. And as far as we can tell so far, he was working in his spick-and-span office in Water Street when Evison was killed.”