All the Lonely People (9 page)

Chapter Nine

At eight the next morning, the alarm's buzz woke him. The coldness of the day made him shiver; his restlessness during the night had thrown the duvet onto the floor. Already the memory of staggering home from the Lear was as hazy as a scene observed through a smeared windowpane. He had an idea that he'd taken the phone off the hook and ignored a tapping at the door accompanied by a voice that sounded like Brenda Rixton's asking if he was all right.

Nothing could be seen when he pulled the bedroom curtains apart. Fog had rolled over the Mersey, covering the water with its grey quilt. No hint of human life anywhere outside; he might have been marooned on an urban island.

He was drinking black coffee when the doorbell rang. Brenda again? No: when he put his eye to the spyhole, the sad face of Chief Inspector Skinner gazed back at him. It was a gut-wrenching repeat of the start to the previous day and for a moment he thought that he must still be dreaming. When he opened the door, he saw Macbeth was there as well.

“Sorry to disturb you again, Mr. Devlin,” said Skinner. There was a faint snuffle in his voice, as if he had picked up a February cold. “We have a number of additional questions for you, I'm afraid.”

Harry stood aside and they walked into the lounge. His grudging offer of coffee was accepted and as he poured two more cups from the jug, he sensed they were appraising his words and movements, on the look-out for evasions and inconsistencies that might suggest he intended to tell them less than he knew. Macbeth didn't take a seat. Sleek and immaculate in a leather jacket and slacks, he prowled the room like a panther about to pounce.

Skinner said, “We'd appreciate it if you could take us through your movements again on the day that your wife was killed.”

Harry repeated his account of the events of Thursday. Already it seemed a lifetime away. Neither policeman took notes. Skinner listened intently; his sergeant radiated cynicism.

“Is there anything you would wish to add to your statement?” asked the Chief Inspector. “Or change?”

Harry shook his head. “Why should I?”

Macbeth spoke at last. “Why did you call at Coghlan's house yesterday?” He glared at Harry, daring him to deny the visit.

“I wanted to talk to the man. Simple as that.”

“Why?”

How to reply when there was no safe, sensible answer? “Liz left me to live with him. I've never met Mick Coghlan, but he's still one of the most important people in my life. When she was dead, I thought I should at least speak to him.”

“Mourning together?” The sergeant shovelled on the sarcasm.

When Harry said nothing, Skinner asked, “How did you react when your marriage broke up?”

“I celebrated with champagne, what do you imagine?” Even as he spoke, Harry regretted being provoked into a bitter, childish response. No good would come of it. He had counselled clients a thousand times about keeping cool under interrogation or in the witness box. Easier said than done.

“You must have felt wild.”

Why deny it? “Of course, but at least I had enough nous to realise there was no way I could change her mind for her. If she ever wished to come back, it had to be her decision, taken in her own time. She-”

“Yes?”

“She was a strong-willed woman, Chief Inspector. Threats or pleading, neither would have achieved anything. They would only have made her more determined.”

“Presumably you never lost hope that one day she'd tire of Coghlan and want to give the marriage another try?”

Harry grimaced. “In the back of my mind, yes, I suppose you're right. Liz and I shared some good moments. But she used to complain I spent too much time working for too little reward. She wanted something more from life.”

“All the same, you never divorced. Exactly why not?”

“I had no urge to and Liz never asked for it. Neither of us bothered with the recriminations that make lawyers rich.” He pondered for a moment and then said, “Some lawyers, at any rate. I put her in touch with a solicitor from Maher and Malcolm and we sorted things out as painlessly as possible. The money side was simple. We sold the house and split the lot down the middle. She wasn't greedy. She was confident Coghlan could keep her in the style to which she wanted to grow accustomed.”

Macbeth snapped, “And what about Wednesday night?”

“What about it?” Despite himself, Harry could feel the sergeant's hostility beginning to get under his skin.

Stolidly, Skinner said, “You must have been aggrieved when your wife turned up, as you say, out of the blue. Let's face it, she was treating this place as a hotel, somewhere she could rest her head between lovers, isn't that so?” When Harry failed to answer, he continued, “Frankly, Mr. Devlin, I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd been furious with her. Only natural in the circumstances.”

“Believe it or not, I was glad to see her again.”

Macbeth moved forward, his lean body tense. “Did you sleep with her on Wednesday night?”

“I told you. She slept in the bedroom, I had the couch.”

“Are you absolutely sure about that, sir?” Skinner conveyed disbelief without sacrificing a scrap of politeness.

“I'm hardly likely to have forgotten.”

“You see,” Skinner persisted. “Mrs. Devlin was obviously an attractive woman. Charming, vivacious. Everyone we've spoken to has agreed about that. And she was your wife, sir, come home after two years with another man.”

“We didn't sleep together, Chief Inspector. I wish we had.”

“You told us last time,” said Macbeth, “that you hadn't seen her throughout that two-year period. Do you wish to change that statement?”

“No.”

“Then it isn't true that you'd been meeting your wife regularly for some time?”

“Totally untrue.” Harry was startled. The trend of the interview was puzzling him and he looked from one detective to another in search of a clue to their line of reasoning. Their faces were trained to yield no secrets, but he was conscious of frustration not far below their surface assurance. They were uncertain of their ground, he could tell. Important pieces were missing from the picture that they were trying to build and so they were pursuing a speculative enquiry in the hope of stumbling across a fresh signpost to the truth. He was well acquainted with how they must feel after years of cross-examining resilient witnesses - themselves policemen, more often than not - who refused to break down but whom he suspected of holding the key that he sought. The tricks of their trade closely resembled his own: the haphazard questioning, the dodgem swerves from blandness to provocation.

Might as well steal the initiative. “So what progress have you made with the investigation, Chief Inspector? Any prospect of an arrest in the near future?”

“Not imminently, I'm afraid, sir. As you can gather, our enquiries are continuing. We have received some valuable information, it's fair to say.”

“Such as?”

“Well, sir, you'll appreciate that we have to limit what we disclose at this stage, even to the husband of the deceased.”

The deceased. The words struck him like a slap on the cheek, a reminder of the fact of Liz's death. He said, “Have you traced her lover yet?”

Macbeth snorted. Skinner said calmly, “I'm sorry to say that my sergeant isn't finding it easy to come to terms with the existence of your wife's new lover.”

No need to feign bewilderment at that. “I don't understand.”

“I'll spell it out for you, sir. We've interviewed a large number of people who were on good terms with your wife, including several of the friends and relations you told us about. So far, none of them can come up with a name for this new man in your wife's life.”

“Nothing odd about that, it's typical Liz.” How to explain her to men whom she had never met? “She would like to dramatise the situation, make a mystery where none existed.” A thought occurred to him. “And she certainly told her sister a little about the man.”

“Together with one or two others, that's perfectly true. But it is a mite surprising that she played her cards so close to her chest, wouldn't you agree? I gather that she was a lady who liked to - if I may say so - talk about herself.”

“The man's married. She didn't want his wife to find out.”

“Could be, sir.” Skinner's eyelids drooped. “Then again, there seems to have been a widely held opinion that one day the two of you would get back together again. Mrs. Edge thought that, for instance.”

“As I said, it was my hope too. Forlorn, as it proved.”

“Yes, Mr. Devlin. All the same, I can believe she was unhappy with Michael Coghlan - she'd made a bad move there. I can accept that she was having an affair. Yet there's no hard evidence of any other relationship. Obviously, you will say that she covered her tracks, but at present the man most people think she really cared for was you.”

“I wish they'd been right.” Harry felt the urge well up inside him to find a cigarette, have a smoke to ease the tension. But he suddenly realised that it was important for him to resist temptation. “I've already made it clear to you that I'd have been glad to have her back. She could have left Coghlan any hour of the day or night as far as I was concerned.”

“Yet, sir, is that correct? The man's known for being violent. Would she have had the nerve to kick him into touch?”

Harry said, “Liz didn't lack guts.”

Macbeth intervened. “What about her attempt at suicide?”

“What are you . . . ?” Too late Harry realised that he didn't know how to reply. In his confusion he allowed the sentence to trail away. The detectives were watching him closely. Taking a deep breath, he said, “She never discussed it with me.”

“Yet you were aware of it?” This was Skinner.

“Yes - that is, I saw her left wrist on Wednesday night. I didn't mention it then. I imagined - in her own good time . . .”

“The wounds were only superficial, I'm told. But they appear to have been inflicted recently. Could you explain why you failed to mention the matter in your statement?”

Helplessly, Harry shook his head. “No reason. It didn't cross my mind. Or seem important. Obviously I only gave you the gist of what happened the other night. Not a verbatim report.”

Macbeth said, “So you say that your wife arrived unexpectedly on Wednesday night after two years of playing away from home. You noticed that she had tried to kill herself but didn't utter a word. And the next day she was murdered. Is that what you're asking us to accept?”

“I'm not asking you to accept anything,” said Harry. To his dismay, he found that he was almost shouting. “I've simply explained what happened.”

Skinner said, “But are you telling us everything you know?”

“As far as I can recall. You must remember, this isn't an ordinary experience.” Feeling the need for a prop, for something to do with his hands, he again felt that pressing desire for the comfort of a cigarette. It occurred to him then that Liz would have been amused by the thought that she had, indirectly, caused him to practise such self-denial when all her attempts to persuade him to give up during her lifetime had failed. He relaxed, but only for a moment.

Skinner finally lobbed his grenade.

“So it would come as a complete surprise, would it, for you to learn that your wife was pregnant?”

Harry stared at the detective, unable to utter a word.

“Yes, Mr. Devlin, about eight weeks gone.”

Hoarsely, Harry said, “I know nothing about that. Nothing at all.”

Skinner's gloomy face wrinkled with disbelief as he said, “Can we take it, then, that you deny being the father?”

Chapter Ten

The moment the detectives had gone, Harry telephoned his sister-in-law. Maggie's voice was anxious. Gone was her customary assurance, the quiet pleasure at having planned life as a series of attainable targets - marriage, children, money - that had irritated Liz and, perhaps, made her jealous.

Cutting short the conversational preliminaries, he said, “The police have been round again. They tell me Liz was pregnant.”

“What?”

He repeated himself. From Maggie's faltering response, he had little doubt that the news stunned her just as much as it had him.

“She didn't tell you, then?”

“No, no. I - can't believe it.”

“Hard to imagine, I agree, Liz as a mother. It hasn't sunk in with me either, yet.” Nor had it. Their own talks about having children seemed to belong to a long ago era when being young meant that there was plenty of time, no need to rush. Liz had said, “Let's live a little, first.” Unless she had grown careless, her outlook must have changed. The reminder of how far he and his wife had grown apart in the two years of their separation was like a punch to the solar plexus.

Maggie asked, “Do they know who the father is?”

“Apparently not. They were enquiring whether I was responsible.”

“But that's ridiculous!”

“So I told them. Whether they believed me or not is another matter.”

“Could it . . . could it be Mick Coghlan?” Strangely, it seemed to Harry as though she were hoping that he would say yes.

“Maybe. I gather that he's still missing. The man will have a lot of explaining to do if he shows himself.”

“You still think he killed her, don't you?” Her question was curious, tinged with uncertainty, but still less sceptical in tone than she had been the previous day. Again, it almost seemed as if she were willing herself to believe in Coghlan's guilt.

“Who else would want to do her harm?” he asked. When she did not reply, he continued, “Take it from me, Liz was genuinely afraid the other night. I should have realised.”

“Stop blaming yourself, Harry. You couldn't have guessed it would end up like this.” She said, with nervousness that he found difficult to fathom, “What about her new boyfriend?”

He grunted. “It seems you and I haven't been able to convince the coppers that he was anything other than a figment of the imagination. Or, possibly, that Liz and I had got back together again, but she was too scared to tell friend Coghlan.”

“Oh God, Harry, what a mess.” Even at the other end of the telephone, her dismay was plain. “The police seem to be flailing around in the dark.”

“Simply doing their job. Not easy. There's something else. I blotted my copybook by failing to tell them. Forgot to mention it to you, as well.”

He told her briefly about the marks on Liz's wrists. She snorted with scorn.

“Suicide? That I will not believe. She simply wasn't the type.”

“A week ago I'd have said the same, but the more I think all this over, the less sure I become about everything.”

“I'm sure, Harry.” He could hear the passion bubbling in Maggie's voice. “She was my kid sister, remember. And it's out of the question. Liz was in love with life, there's no way she would want to kill herself.”

“A cry for help, perhaps?” Even as he made the suggestion, Harry realised how unlikely it was.

“Who was she crying to? No, Harry, face up to it. There's something here we don't understand.”

“I'm going to make it my business to understand, Maggie. I owe her that. The trouble is, neither of us was in her confidence. Any idea who might have been?”

A few seconds passed before Maggie said slowly, “I can think of a couple of names. Matt Barley, for one. Liz always cared for him. And Dame, of course. She was her oldest friend.”

“Right. I didn't have an address to give the police where they could contact Dame. Is she still around? And if so, where?”

“God knows. Frankly, I shudder to think.”

Harry decided not to pursue that one. He was fond of both Maggie and Dame, but the two women had never hit it off: the one a paid-up member of the bourgeoisie, the other as cheerfully down-market as a fish and chip supper. “Anyhow,” he said pacifically. “I ought to get in touch with them.”

“Like I said yesterday, you shouldn't interfere. Leave it to the police to sort the whole thing out.” Again anxiety caused her voice to tremble a little. “They'll unravel it all if you give them time.”

With a vehemence that took even him by surprise, he said. “But they didn't know Liz! Don't you see? If this isn't a commonplace street killing, then Liz was murdered because of who or what she was. I was her husband, I lived with her day and night. I can cut corners that the police painstakingly plod round. And what's more, I won't waste time and effort wondering if I'm the bastard who stuck a knife in her.”

His sister-in-law sighed. “You always were an obstinate devil. I suppose nothing I can say will change your mind. But if you really cared for her, you would remember Liz as she was, not trample over her grave.”

That stung him. Sharply, he said, “Sorry, Maggie. I simply can't sit back waiting for something to happen when out there is a man who has stabbed my wife.”

After hanging up, Harry checked the number of the Freak Shop and dialled immediately. After what seemed like an age, Matt Barley answered.

“Matt, this is Harry.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line before the other man said, “Harry, what can I say? It's unbelievable. I feel so sick that Liz should have died like that. I keep expecting her to walk through the door, late for work as usual. I phoned yesterday evening, but there was no answer. Just meaning to say - well, you know. I remember how much she meant to you.”

They talked for a minute before Harry said, “Can I come and see you, Matt? There are things about the murder that bother me. You saw her regularly, you may be able to help. I'm sure the police have grilled you, but would you mind?”

“Okay,” said Matt. Did Harry detect a shade of reluctance there? “If you think it's necessary. That is - I'd be glad to see you, of course, but I'm not quite sure what you're getting at. Some maniac killed her. Isn't that the top and bottom of it?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Can I come over now?”

“Well . . . it's difficult, Harry. I'm rushed off my feet. Short-staffed at the moment. Won't tomorrow do?”

Harry kept pressing but ultimately had to agree to call at the shop the following morning. As a throw-away line, he asked if Matt knew where Dame could be found these days.

“She chucked her job in at the casino,” said Matt. “Liz did tell me what she was up to, but I can't remember off-hand. Something barmy, as I recall. Let me think it over, it'll probably come to mind before we meet.”

As he was saying goodbye, Harry heard the doorbell again. It seemed to him that the sound would forever be associated with the arrival of horrific tidings. He went to the door slowly, aware of an involuntary tensing of the muscles in his neck, arms and legs. This time, though, the visitor was innocuous. Brenda Rixton's carefully made-up face smiled at him through the spyhole.

When he invited her in, she seemed for once to be tongue-tied, almost embarrassed, “I came to ask - how you were coping,” she said, after a couple of false, stammering starts.

He shrugged and said, “All right, I suppose, in the circumstances.”

“I wondered . . .” she began “. . . I mean, you must be feeling pretty low. Yet at a time like this, you really need to keep your strength up. So I thought you might like to share lunch next door.”

“I couldn't possibly put you to all that trouble,” he said hastily. “Besides, I'm going out for a long walk. Clear my head.”

“No trouble,” she said quickly. “If you're busy - perhaps dinner tonight?”

He was about to refuse again, but something in her expression made him have second thoughts. It was a look of yearning for company that he felt he could not ignore. So he simply said, “That's very kind of you. What sort of time?”

“Shall we say seven?” She beamed. “Good. I'll see you then.”

After she had left, Harry threw on a coat and scarf and went out to the waterfront. Walking along the path towards Otterspool, he mulled over the endless questions surrounding Liz's death. Where was Coghlan and was he the father of the child that the murderer had also killed? Was there something odd about the attitude of people like Matt and even the policeman Macbeth, let alone Maggie and Jim? Or was he being misled by his own over-stretched imagination?

At least he ought to be capable of sorting out what had been going on in Liz's life during the past two years. Learning of the loss of her unborn child had, if that were possible, strengthened his resolve to discover the man who had committed the crime. A night's sleep had at least helped to bring matters into perspective. He still wanted to strike out, to take revenge. But more than that: making an effort to contribute towards the killer's detection would help exorcise the guilt he felt for having ignored Liz's fear of Michael Coghlan.

On the way back home, he passed families enjoying a Saturday afternoon stroll, kids gambolling around their parents' feet. Might Liz and he have ended up like that, if he had handled things differently? No, he couldn't deceive himself. Their relationship had been a helter-skelter ride, not a journey on a long-distance train.

In the entrance hall of the Empire Dock, a rosy-cheeked figure in a raincoat which had seen better days was chatting up the porter. With a journalist's sixth sense, Ken Cafferty swung round, his face aglow with anticipation.

“The very man!”
'

With a casual wave to the porter, Cafferty walked across the foyer. “I have a tit-bit which may interest you. The police have found Mick Coghlan. He's down south, apparently, being questioned at length. They haven't charged him yet, but they haven't let him go, either. Interesting, yes?”

An overwhelming sense of relief swept over Harry. “How did you find that out?”

Cafferty tapped the side of his nose. “A good newspaperman never reveals his sources.”

But it did not require Sherlockian powers of deduction to work out that Ken must have called in here on the off-chance, on his way from the police H.Q. at Canning Place across the road. Harry dodged a dozen questions and ignored a hint that an offer of coffee would be welcome. Glad as he was that Coghlan had been located, he knew days might pass now before a confession was dragged out of the man or before Skinner and his cohorts decided they had enough evidence to make the charge stick. If, he meditated with a defence lawyer's instinctive search for the loophole, any link between Coghlan and the crime had the strength to survive critical scrutiny. Ten to one there was an alibi in the background; that would explain Coghlan's sudden departure down south. And an alibi from a crooked crony might not be easy to break.

Escaping eventually to his flat, Harry switched on the box and yet again watched the video of
Don't Look Now.
Roeg's lush portayal of Venice retained its power to hypnotise and the moment when the psychopathic dwarf strikes that final, fatal blow had lost none of its horror. As the credits rolled, he thought of Matt Barley, the only person of restricted growth - Harry understood that that was the phrase to use these days - he knew. The little man was devoted to Liz. He'd lived next door to the Wieczarek family years ago; the same age as Maggie, he had more than reciprocated the girls' affection for him. Harry had always enjoyed Mart's sometimes savage humour and his refusal to allow the mere lack of size to interfere with a Scouser's birthright of making a dodgy living, selling joke masks to kids and sex aids to middle-aged men.

He showered and changed and rang the bell next door. Brenda ushered him in, saying twice how glad she was that he had come. Her hair was pinned back elegantly and, for all his ignorance about women's clothes, he guessed that the low-cut taffeta dress had come from the place in her wardrobe reserved for special occasion wear. Her flat was identical to his in design, but she had transformed the small box with subtle wall-lighting and so much greenery that a visitor almost needed a machete to cut a way through the hall. Her living-room walls were hung with oriental tapestries and a couple of icons of the kind advertised in charity gift catalogues.

They ate by candlelight. Brenda produced a bottle of Portuguese wine to complement a boeuf bourgignon which bore no resemblance to the packet version, stuffed with monosodium glutamate, hydrolysed protein and artificial colouring, which Harry often slung in the oven for half an hour and ate without noticing. During the meal, she chatted about her job as a sales negotiator for a firm of estate agents, spicing anecdotes about unscrupulous sellers and pernickety buyers with a touch of satire that he had not previously suspected in her. When the plates had been cleared, they settled down in opposite armchairs.

“I feel better for that,” he said.

“I'm glad,” she said. “If you don't mind my saying so, for the last day or two you've looked like a man going through a living hell.”

He didn't reply. The wine had relaxed him, but he wasn't yet ready to chat about Liz's death to inquisitive strangers.

“The police came to see me, enquiring about your wife. They seemed interested in your movements on Thursday night. I explained that I'd seen your wife and yourself at different stages of the evening. They wanted exact times so I did my best to be accurate.”

She studied him carefully, as though trying to gauge his reaction.

“Routine, Brenda,” he said firmly, “I don't think I'm a serious suspect.”

“Oh good Lord, naturally! I mean, I hope you don't think I was suggesting you were.” She tried to cover her confusion by changing the subject. “I read the reports in the local rag. You've had a hard time over the years, from what I can read between the lines. They described your wife as fun-loving, I saw. I imagine,” she swallowed hard but continued, “imagine that means she must have led you quite a dance.”