All the Lonely People (21 page)

In a tone evasive yet indignant, Fingall said, “Mind your own business. Put me back to my receptionist.”

“Tell me one thing . . .”

The phone went dead. Harry swore and banged the receiver down on the desk. The girl glared at him and said, “Satisfied?” He grimaced and strode back through the melee to the door. One of the gypsies was apparently about to commit an act of criminal damage on the property of Fingall and Company in the hope of grabbing attention and Harry barely resisted the temptation to shout encouragement.

Outside again, he quickly decided on what to do next. He hurried over to the Magistrates' Court round the corner and used the payphone to call Ken Cafferty. Whilst he waited he watched the scurrying of barristers and solicitors, the frantic conferences with clients, the striking of deals with the prosecution. Normally he would be in the thick of it all himself, but today the concerns of his professional colleagues seemed as remote as those of a race of extra-terrestrials in a bad S.F. movie. He was wondering if Coghlan would ever be brought to trial, when the reporter's breeezy voice came onto the line.

“What can I do for you, pal?”

“Can you spare me a few minutes?” Harry consulted his watch. “Look, my throat's as dry as a bone and it's almost opening time. We could talk in the Dock Brief in five minutes, perhaps?”

“This is about your bete noir, Mister Michael Coghlan, I suppose?”

“Right. I'm hoping you'll be able to shine some light in the darkness.”

“Doubtful. After all, I'm a journalist. But the Dock in five minutes is all right by me. Mine's a pint.”

“I'll have it waiting for you,” Harry promised.

He arrived at the pub as the doors were opening and had collected the drinks when Cafferty arrived. The reporter's cherubic face was pinker than ever and he was breathless from hurrying through the town.

“Glad to see you're still out of jail, Harry.”

“So far.” He raised his glass. “Now tell me what's going on. Have they arrested Coghlan for the murders or not?”

Ken Cafferty took a couple of sips and then said, “As you legal chaps like to say, on the one hand yes and on the other hand no. That is to say, he has been arrested. The Met issued a statement an hour ago.”

“The Met?” So that was why Ruby was in the capital. Harry was still mystified. “What's it got to do with London police?”

“Everything. You see he's been arrested on counts of attempted murder and conspiracy to steal four million quid from a security outfit in Leytonstone. The big bullion raid last Wednesday.”

Of course. Harry had read about it casually in the Bridewell.

“Apparently he was big mates from way back with some bloke who ran a heavy mob down the East End.” Cafferty sniggered, unable to resist a dig at the soft South. “Stupid bugger, he should've known that a gang of Cockneys couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery! Anyway, he was in the car and he took a pot shot at a have-a-go guard who was brave or daft enough to try to stop the gang. The man's still on a life support in intensive care.” Unable to conceal his pleasure in announcing a scoop, Ken paused to finish his pint whilst Harry stared at him.

After half a minute the reporter put his glass down and said reflectively, “But you see what it means? It's hardly likely that even an ambitious member of the criminal fraternity such as Michael Coghlan would arrange to bump his girlfriend off at the same time that he was up to his neck in a robbery that's probably going to earn him twenty years in Parkhurst. There are limits, even to the criminal imagination.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Gold,” said Dave Moulden. He made a lip-smacking noise of satisfaction. “Lots of it. Okay, maybe small change by Brink's Mat standards, but still enough to keep the likes of you and me in Woodbines till the end of our natural.” He added grudgingly, “Got to hand it to the Sweeney. They've wrapped this one up good and proper.”

“Liz's murder must have been very convenient for the police,” said Harry grimly. He was twisting his fingers round the handle of a plastic mug filled with tepid tea. They were in a small room in the same corridor as the one in which he had been interrogated the previous night. Harry had come back here as soon as Ken Cafferty had left him to follow up a rumour about corruption and councillors' expenses.

“Even if Coghlan twigged he was being watched,” he said, almost to himself, “he wouldn't necessarily fear that his part in the raid was known to the police. I suppose his first hope was to weather the storm. When I found him at the West Liverpool I could tell that he was bending under the weight of guilt. I should have guessed he might have something else to be guilty about.”

“Coghlan must feel as sick as a pig,” said the policeman with relish. “Look at it from his point of view - the murder enquiry was another piece of bad luck. Along with the inside man at the warehouse losing his nerve and naming names when he decided to cough, and that guard trying to be a hero when Coghlan had a sawn-off in his hand and an itchy trigger finger. Not the same gun as killed Evison, by the way, to stop you wondering. Apparently, our friend was meant to be away from Liverpool for less than forty-eight hours. In the normal course of events no one would have missed him. He never dreamed he'd become a centre of attention through his lady friend getting herself murdered.”

Noticing Harry flinch at that, Moulden rubbed his nose and continued more soberly, “The ringleaders of the gang are East Enders who live in the posh parts of Essex these days. Their names wouldn't mean anything to you, though they're well known in their own patch. Now the bastards must be kicking themselves. Coghlan was supposed to be an asset to the team, a nail-hard Scouser with a track record of successful robberies and a mate in the jewellery trade who happened to have a smelter that they could use to melt down the gold.”

“Killory?”

“You've got it. I'm glad that little worm has been locked up, we've been chasing him for years without any joy. The two of them were under surveillance at the request of our friends from the Smoke. Anyway, last night word came through that the big boys had been lifted. Two of them were en route for warmer climes, I gather. Matter of fact, Coghlan was picked up at roughly the same time that we were letting you go from here.”

“Thanks for confiding in me.”

“Be reasonable. SOS - that's the Flying Squad to you and me - told us the minimum possible. That was fair enough, it was a delicate operation. Handled on a “need to know” basis. And we did tip you the wink that you were making a mistake in pursuing Coghlan. I understand Skinhead dropped a hint on day one. But would you listen? Any road, justice should be done. The man'll be inside for years and skint when he comes out. You heard his gym business is on the rocks? The gee-gees are to blame, so people are saying. He's gambled all his money away. No wonder your old lady's interest in him waned. No disrespect, but she did have an eye for the wallet, didn't she? “Course, this bullion job was designed to set him back up in the manner to which he was accustomed.”

As the policeman sat back, content, Harry gestured to the fading bruise around his own eye. “And this?”

Moulden frowned. “Truth is, we're not sure about the attack on you, Harry. In fact, Skinhead's bet is that Coghlan wasn't responsible. Okay, so he did get Ruby to have a word with you after you caught him in his panic stations conference with Killory. So what? Isn't that what lawyers are for, to protect their clients' interests? Doesn't mean to say the bugger had you roughed up a few hours later before he was certain you wouldn't be heeding the friendly words of advice. Innocent till proved guilty, Harry, as you solicitors would say.”

“If not Coghlan, who?”

“You've got enemies, Harry, must have. At your end of the legal market, it's only to be expected. That beating may have had nothing to do with your wife's death.”

“I told you before, the man who attacked me wanted me to take my nose out of other people's business. Who else could have set that up but Coghlan?”

Moulden looked unconvinced. “Obviously we've put the lads from London in the picture about your wife's death. Nobody's taking anything for granted, even though we don't think he's involved. They'll be questioning Mister Coghlan intensively about it over the next few days. Mind you, he's not feeling too grand at the moment. Got hurt whilst resisting arrest, it seems.” He allowed himself a smile. “You won't be sorry to hear that in the circumstances, I suppose.”

“All I want now is to find the man who killed Liz. Despite everything, it's hard to accept that Coghlan had nothing to do with it. But assuming that's right, a murder remains to be solved.”

“You think we've overlooked that?”

“No, I realise the wheels keep turning. But not fast enough for me. What's the latest?”

“I shouldn't tell you this,” said Dave Moulden slowly, “but we got word this morning that she spent some time with your pal Barley at lunchtime on the day she was murdered. They were spotted at Mama Reilly's. Story is, he walked out in a paddy. He didn't let on when we interviewed him originally. Intriguing, eh? Skinhead set off in person half an hour back to have another chat with him.”

“Look, Matt's got nothing to do with it. I know about that lunch, I was with him this morning.” He avoided going into detail. Let Skinner ferret out the sad story for himself. “Besides, I don't think for a minute that he could have brought himself to stab Liz to death.”

Choosing his words with more care than a man on oath, Moulden said, “Not personally, perhaps.”

“Then how - oh, Christ, you don't think he hired someone to kill her just because they had a tiff?”

“Anything's possible, Harry. “Course, the same might be said of your brother-in-law.”

“Derek? Are you kidding? The only contract he'd recognise is one for long-term car parking beneath the Atlantic Tower.”

Poker-faced, Moulden said, “Still waters run deep.”

“Spare me your words of wisdom, Dave. Not even you can really believe Derek Edge is responsible for wiping out his sister-in-law and that grubby parasite Evison.”

“Much as I think accountants are parasites too, mate - to say nothing of your lot - I'm inclined to agree with you. If only because he lacks the bottle. Barley, on the other hand, is a volatile character by all accounts. He might snap. Like a man who flips when some tart taunts him about his virility. Say your wife made some nasty remark about his height and he reacted violently? You're going to tell me she wouldn't, they went back years together, and that anyway he'd never wait cold-bloodedly for hours before taking his revenge. But who knows? I'll be interested to learn what the Skinhead comes up with.”

Harry glanced sharply at the detective, aware of the shrewdness concealed by his ponderous manner. Plenty of criminals, including some of Harry's own clients, had over the years betrayed themselves by underestimating Dave Moulden. The police hadn't given up on Liz's stabbing, however many gaps might still exist in their picture of the background to the case. Improbable as was the thought of Matt's guilt, Harry felt glad that he hadn't mentioned the idea -was it so unlikely? - that his old friend might have been the father of Liz's unborn child.

“What about the Evison murder?”

“Whilst you remain the obvious suspect.” said Moulden slyly, “you'll have noticed that we still haven't arrested you as yet. Otherwise, we're asking around in the usual way. Looking into the Ferry Club side of things, naturally. Turns out one of the barmaids was on a social security fiddle. Wes is with her now. Pike's representing her. A bail job, probably, but we may turn up something worthwhile.”

Harry put his cup down and stood up. “So it goes on. Thanks for your time, Dave. And for the tea, though your vending machine's due for an overhaul, I think. Did you check Rourke out, by the way?”

“What do you take us for? The young man is known to us, I can tell you that, though we've not been able to lay our hands on him so far. Joseph Malachy Rourke. Twenty-two years of age. Never knew his father, spent his formative years in care. Used to go shoplifting as a kid. Committed an assault outside the Ferry Club - where else? - twelve months back. But the complaint was withdrawn. Frighteners were put on the kid he duffed up, I expect. Happens all the time, doesn't it?”

Moulden shook his head sadly. “There's a smack possession charge that dates back a couple of years, though he's a user rather than a dealer by all accounts. Plus a wounding that dates back to his teens, and a taking and driving away without the owner's consent. But he's spent more time in remand centres than in jail. A run-of-the-mill ruffian rather than a master-criminal, by the sound of him. Not a pleasant chap for your wife to have been consorting with. At least you could say that Mick Coghlan was your better class of crook. Four million quids worth of bullion isn't to be sneezed at.”

“Fool's gold,” said Harry. “All right, keep me posted.”

“Will do. And Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Obstructing the course of justice is part of your job, okay. But don't let it spill over into your private life. Leave the detecting to us.”

Harry returned to the foyer where he spotted two figures disappearing together out of the main door. A short tubby man in a dark suit and a blonde wearing a black PVC macintosh and huge circular earrings. Quentin Pike and his client. Harry hurried to join them on the step outside.

“Afternoon, Quentin.” he said breathlessly to the solicitor. With his sparse curling hair and steel-rimmed glasses, the man's resemblance to a middle-aged Owl of the Remove was belied only by his reputation for charming the ladies. “And Shirelle. Sorry, I don't know your second name.”

The barmaid stared angrily at him and said, “It's Lafferty, Shirelle Lafferty.”

Pike tapped him on the shoulder. “What's this, Harry, trying to poach my clients?”

“Perish the thought. This is a private matter.” Out of Shirelle's range of vision, Harry winked at Pike in a man-of-the-world way. “The lady and I are previously acquainted.” He turned back to her. “Can I have a quick word with you, love?”

The barmaid looked doubtfully at her solicitor, but he simply shrugged and said, “Don't worry, I'm sure you can handle Mr. Devlin. In any case, there's nothing more for us to discuss at present. I'll be in touch.” With a vague wave of the hand, he was gone.

She turned to Harry and said, “So what's all this in aid of? I've worked out who you are - that brief whose wife got killed the other day. And last time I saw you, you wanted to speak to Froggy. Now he's dead and all. You ought to carry a Government health warning.”

“Did you know my wife? She used to spend time in the Ferry, or so I believe.”

“Look, I've only been working there a few weeks, haven't I? And now the busies have taken an interest, it looks as though I'm all washed up. Mr. Pike reckons they won't send me down, but it's not nice, is it? I was only trying to make ends meet, wasn't I? Anyway, what was I saying? No, I never came across her. I've just been telling that black bugger the same. No matter how much he kept on at me, I couldn't help him. All right, I saw her picture in the paper, but it didn't mean anything to me.”

“There was a boyfriend of hers - you may recall him. A man called Rourke. He spends a lot of time at the Ferry.”

Clicking her tongue impatiently she said, “I've already told the police I can't help them. I've only been there a short time, hardly got to know the regulars even.”

Harry felt the first spots of a renewed shower of rain fall upon his shoulders. While Shirelle fished in her capacious handbag for a pink folding umbrella, he cursed the inadequacy of Jane's description. Only one bit of it stood in his mind. “Another thing,” he said, “I think he's been in a fight lately. Someone made a mess of his face.”

“A fight?” Her brows knitted in concentration. “You don't mean Joe, do you?”

A shiver of excitement ran down Harry's spine. For once he had guessed correctly. “You've got him. Joe Rourke.”

“Used to see a lot of Joe.” She sniggered. “He was certainly smitten.”

Harry grasped her by the hand. “Now can you remember him being with my wife?”

“Sorry. When he wasn't hanging around the stage, he'd be with Marilyn.”

“Marilyn?”

“It's not her real name,” said Shirelle bitchily. “Reckons she looks like Marilyn Monroe just because she's got that same kind of hair and tits the size of pumpkins.”

“Any idea where I can find her?”

She shot him a quizzical glance. “You want to meet Marilyn?”

“Yes. She might be able to help me.”

Shaking her head, Shirelle said, “Mister, you don't want her kind of help. Or maybe you do. Anyway, you'll be able to find her easy enough. Even if she isn't in the Ferry tonight, she'll as like as not be around and about up Toxteth way.” Seeing light begin to dawn in Harry's expression, she added maliciously, “But be sure to take a few quid with you. They say Marilyn's one of the greediest whores in Falkner Square.”