All the Lonely People (19 page)

Moulden scratched his nose reflectively. “This second murder, it's hard to explain away, you see. Unless there's been a hell of a coincidence, it wipes out any chance that your wife was simply the victim of a random street crime, Yet if we're right, and Coghlan and Edge are clean, who does that leave?” He gazed solemnly at Harry. “You see why you've been subjected to a touch of the third degree? No alibi for the first murder, on the scene of the second at just the right time. Motive and opportunity . . . it doesn't look good.”

“What about means? How was Froggy killed?” Dave Moulden smiled, but his eyes were watchful. “That's what we can't tie in with you. I suppose you've realised that already? The boys reckon they went over your flat with a fine toothcomb. Perhaps you'd hidden it somewhere else or picked it up for the sole purpose of wiping little Evison out.”

“Stop talking in riddles. Tell me how he was killed.” Moulden said softly, “Pensby's been blabbing to the Press, despite our words of warning, so there's no point in my holding back, I suppose. Evison was shot with a sawn-off shotgun, probably fired when the din of the dumper trucks provided a cover. So far we haven't been able either to find the weapon or to link you with it. Until we do,” he said, unsmiling now, “no copper, not even Wes Macbeth, is likely to risk an arrest. You may as well be on your way. No more third degree for the time being. But Harry, mate, if there is a link, you're finished. And not all the legal loopholes in Liverpool will be enough to save your skin.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Brenda was waiting for him when he arrived home on the stroke of midnight. She must have been listening for his footsteps down the corridor, since she emerged from her flat at the moment he began unlocking the front door of his. Barefoot, she seemed much smaller than usual, unvarnished and defenceless. Looking down at her, he could see more clearly than before the traces of grey in her hair as it spilled on to the shoulders of a kimono patterned in black and gold.

“You look wrecked,” she said.

“I'm all right.”

“Come in for a minute.”

Inside her flat, he realised that his whole body was aching. In half a dozen fractured sentences he told her what had happened. Released from the need to control his temper with the police, he felt a sudden fury at all the violence and death and at the sickening knowledge that the killer still walked free.

She poured him a generous measure of whisky. “Here, have this.”

He gulped the drink down and banged the empty tumbler down on a table. He was breathing hard.

Softly, she said, “Hey, you're having a bad time.”

She leaned over to pat his arm. Without thinking about it, he grasped her wrist and pulled her towards him, pressing his mouth on hers. He could feel her tremble and then respond. Their tongues met
.
Touching her made him want her. They didn't stop kissing for a long time.

Eventually, she took his hand and led him to her bedroom, a tranquil place decorated in pink and blue, with the image of a double bed reflected in the doors of the mirror wardrobes that lined one wall.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” she asked.

When he nodded, she smiled and slipped the kimono off, letting it slide on to the floor. As he kissed her breasts, she undressed him, her nimble fingers unfastening buttons, belt and zip whilst all the time she made little moans of pleasure.

Their flesh merged to shut out the world in a joint rejection of all its misery and viciousness. When he looked down, he saw her face shining and at last the thought of satisfying her blotted out his anger and sorrow. Deep into the night she cried out with joy, but he remained mute, lost in her and in the unexpected Tightness of their coming together.

Next morning she was awake before him, smiling as he made a sleepy effort to prise stubborn eyelids open. Running fingers through the tousle of his hair, she asked, “And how do you feel today, Mr. Devlin?”

“Fine, Mrs. Rixton, fine.”

“You were . . .” She flushed and broke off, embarrassed. “No, I always say too much. Anyway, I - God, is that the time?”

Half eight already. He had slept through the alarm. “I must rush,” she said. “Though I would love to stay.”

Over breakfast, he confined himself to monosyllables, not grumpily but content to listen to Brenda talk about the day ahead of her in the office. She had cooked a meal of bacon, tomato and fried egg with toast and marmalade to follow and he ate hungrily, unable to remember when last he had consumed so much at such an early hour.

Suddenly, Brenda exclaimed with irritation and clapped a hand to her brow. “Oh God, I forgot! One of your lady friends called to see you last night.”

“Yes?”

Brenda smiled slyly. “Inquisitive of me, I know. Poking my nose in. But I heard someone ringing your bell so I took a peek. Your - er - friend was on the point of giving up. She was all dressed up in a kaftan, said she was going to a party and had wondered if you wanted to go along.”

It could only be Dame. “Did she leave any message?”

“Only that you weren't to worry about missing her. She had remembered something you might like to know, but it probably wasn't important. And she wouldn't give her name, just said she was a fellow art lover.”

“My friend has a peculiar sense of humour.” He grinned. “She's called Dame. By profession she's a mud wrestler and I've known her for years. Not a romantic entanglement. She's a sweet lady.”

Brenda gave him an earnest look. “Even if there was a romance, it's none of my business. Don't worry, Harry, I won't start thinking I own you on account of our having spent a little time in bed together.”

He touched her arm. “Tonight we may make it to the Ensenada.”

Her slim hand reached across the oak breakfast bar. “No need for promises, Harry. Let's just make the most of this while we can. It's been - well, you know how it's been. Whilst you were gone yesterday evening, I was thinking things over. I'm not looking for commitments, truly I'm not. Here and now is sufficient for me.”

“Brenda, I . . .”

“No, no, there's no need for us to say any more at present. Though I'd be glad to come over for lunch today, if you're free.”

“I'll be free,” he said, “provided I'm not beaten up or accused of killing my own wife. Life hasn't been predictable lately.”

She fetched her coat and bag and then kissed him gently on the cheek. “Mind how you go, Harry. Next time I see you, I don't want it to be in prison or a casualty ward.”

Five minutes later he followed her downstairs to the car park. Flecks of rain swirled about in gusts of wind that came in from the Irish Sea. He climbed into the M.G. and, turning right out of the main gates, headed away from the city centre towards Aigburth Road. Reaching the area where many of the university students lived, he entered a maze of side streets, finally pulling up in front of a dilapidated Victorian villa with an overgrown front garden. This was where he had dropped Dame off after their Sunday meal together.

Her name was inked on a dog-eared card next to a bell labelled flat sb. Harry had noticed that none of the curtains at the windows were drawn; this wasn't the home of early risers. He rang half a dozen times and at long last saw through the multi-coloured glass panes of the front door a bulky silhouette stomping down the hallway. Dame's muttered imprecations were plainly audible.

Throwing the door open, she was already launching into a tirade of abuse when Harry said quickly, “Mind if I come in?”

She stared. “What brings you here at this God-awful hour?”

“Dame,” he said, “it's quarter to nine. All over the city kids are arriving at school, people are working. Besides, I got a message that you wanted to tell me something.”

She grunted. “You know I'm a creature of the night, darling. And you haven't picked the ideal moment. Anyone else and I'd tell them where to go. Never mind, follow me.”

Leading him upstairs, she said, “Been in the wars, have you? You look the worse for wear.”

“Who isn't?”

“Ouch,” she replied as they reached the landing, “I know I'm not at my best right now, but you don't need to rub it in. This way.”

The sitting room of her flat was large, high-ceilinged and furnished out of a second-hand shop. A dark red Indian rug, which Harry recognised from Dame's previous digs, was draped over one wall. In the middle of a faded settee was another old friend, a moth-eaten teddy bear unoriginally named Aloysius, whose amber eyes were fixed in a permanent, disapproving squint. There was a faint aroma of incense in the air. One of the internal doors opened into Dame's bedroom and Harry could see a young man there, hastily sliding into corduroy trousers.

“Don't worry, Rupert,” she called, “it's not an angry husband or the man who comes to collect the rent.” She winked at Harry. “As you can tell, I've turned to cradle-snatching. Rupert's at the Uni. We met last night at a party, wasn't I lucky? He studies Economics and wants to become amerchant banker.” With a disgraceful leer, she added, “I hope he values my assets.”

Rupert came into the room, buttoning his shirt with clumsy movements. He was tall and willowy and around eighteen years old. In an accent picked up in some public school a couple of hundred miles away, he said, “Actually, I think I ought to be going, Dame. There's a lecture at eleven, I really ought . . .”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a tired wave of the hand. “This is my solicitor, by the way. Harry, Rupert. Rupert, Harry.”

Harry nodded gravely as the student shot him a bewildered glance from under dark, feminine lashes. The boy said, “Hello. Right. Well. I'd better be off, then.”

“Cheeribye,” said Dame, yawning.

Rupert wavered in the doorway. “I - I'll give you a call sometime.”

Dame arched her eyebrows, causing his pale features to redden. “I doubt it, darling, but I am in the book, should you ever want to continue our fascinating conversation about John Maynard Whatsisname.”

Rupert blushed again and was gone, one of his shoelaces still flapping wildly as he hastened down the stairs. Sitting herself down beside Aloysius, whom she gave a comradely punch in the stomach, Dame sighed and said, “You must forgive me, Harry, I picked him up at a party last night. Never could resist a pretty face.”

“Sorry to interrupt.”

She shook her head. “Think nothing of it. Your arrival provided an opportunity for him to slip away without commitment. The alternative would only have been pretence and promises that wouldn't be kept. I know the score, all right.” She contrived a grin. “I regard myself almost as a social service these days, passing on all my experience to a younger generation, more or less anyone who has a spot of energy and is willing to learn. Price is reasonable, too. A few drinks, a meal. Any road - you didn't come here to listen to me sermonise on the subject of men.”

“My neighbour told me you'd remembered something.”

“Your neighbour, yes.” Dame regarded him thoughtfully. “A lady who seems very solicitous about your welfare.”

He didn't want to get involved in a discussion with Dame about Brenda, or to embark on up-dating her about the death of Froggy Evison and his interrogation by the police. Firmly, he said, “What came to mind?”

“After I saw you on Sunday, I went round to see Matt the next morning. To have a bite of lunch, talk things over. He said that he'd been talking to Maggie and to you. And he told me there was something he'd forgotten to mention, about this character who was following Liz. She told him that she'd tried to play it craftily when she was trying to work out whether he was really after her. He used to be hanging around in the city centre when she left the Freak Shop at lunchtime and in the afternoon. One time, she told Matt, she waited round a corner in the Cavern Walks and the guy almost cannoned into her. Then he mumbled something and went on his way. But she managed to see that his face was battered. Scratched, you know, as though he'd been in a fight. That made her all the more certain he was one of Coghlan's roughs from the gym, according to Matt.”

Slowly, Harry said, “Now that is interesting.”

Dame ran a hand through her hair. “I told him you would want to know. It's only a little thing, I realise, but you'd look on it as another link in the chain. Matt was doubtful. He reckons the last thing you need is to get embroiled any deeper in this whole bloody mess. I see what he means, but . . .”

He nodded. “Yes, thanks. You're right. Dead right. And, Dame, there's another thing - did you tell anyone at any time that Liz was pregnant?”

With a puzzled frown, she considered. “No, I don't think so.”

“Sure you didn't mention it to Matt, for instance? Before your last conversation with him, I mean.”

“No, I'm fairly certain of that. Why do you ask?”

Harry made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Something's been nagging at me, that's all.”

Dame tickled Aloysius under his chin and confided in him, “Harry doesn't change, does he, Al? Loves to be enigmatic.” Turning back to Harry, she said, “Can I offer you anything? Coffee, booze, and illicit substance? You can bolster my ego, tell me that Rupert can't recognise a good woman worth cherishing when he sees one.”

“I have to go,” said Harry, “but you already know that you can do better for yourself than some scrawny undergraduate who isn't even ambitious enough to want to change the world.”

“Yes, darling, but so few worthwhile members of your sex realise what they are missing where I am concerned. A good man is hard to find, as well as vice versa.”

He grinned. “Okay, Dame, keep in touch. I'll be seeing you.”

She blew him a kiss and he climbed back down the stairs. He felt infused with a new vigour, as though Brenda's love-making had the restorative properties of a patent cure for his hangover of grief and guilt. He drove back to the city centre fast, but not recklessly, alive again with a mental checklist of people to see and questions to ask.

At the Freak Shop, the exotically-coiffed Tracey was wrapping up a wad of Swedish magazines for a middle-aged man with a caught-in-the-act expression. When Harry approached the counter she nodded in the direction of the bead curtain. “If it's the boss you want, he's in the back.”

Parting the beads, Harry found Matt poring over a pile of invoices; his pen was poised and his mouth pursed in disapproval. John Lennon looked down from the wall with the cool superiority of one who had made a fortune without ever having to fret about who paid the bills. The short man glanced up briefly and waved Harry towards the rickety chair.

“Becoming a regular visitor, aren't you, mate? With you in a minute.”

Harry reversed the chair and perched on it, legs astride. “How did you know that Liz was pregnant?”

Matt jabbed the point of his pen so sharply into the document he was studying that the paper tore. Jerking his head to look at his visitor, he said brusquely, “What do you mean?”

“Don't try to fob me off, Matt. You and I should have too much respect for each other to piss about.”

“I'm not. . .”

“You knew she was pregnant. You told me so yourself last Sunday. The police deny telling you. So does Dame. No one else was aware of it. So how did you find out?”

In the pause that followed, Matt avoided Harry's eyes, instead looking blindly at the sheaf of papers in front of him. When at last he spoke, his voice was subdued. “Liz told me.”