All the Lonely People (14 page)

Chapter Sixteen

“Froggy!”

The man with the bulging eyes had been opening the side door to the Ferry Club when Harry hissed his name. Instinctively, he pivoted, right arm raised to ward off an assault. Scowling into the unlit gloom of the alleyway, he called out, “Who's that?” He sounded nervous.

Harry moved out of the shadows. After a fifty-minute wait in the freezing night with only two dustbins full of decaying debris for company, his mind was as numb as his hands and feet. Since speaking to Jane Brogan, he had been fired only by the belief that answers to some of his questions might be found here. If Rourke was a regular, the people from the Ferry might know how to trace him.

“We crossed paths last Thursday evening. You spilled beer over me.”

Froggy stared at him with, Harry thought, relief rather than fear. Had he been expecting to be waylaid by someone else?

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“I don't know you,” said Froggy belligerently.

“We've never been introduced, that's true. My name is Devlin.”

Froggy screwed his face into a frown. He hesitated for a moment before making a defiant gesture with his left hand and saying, “So what?”

“Can we go inside?”

“I've got work to do.”

The man was enveloped in a navy blue anorak a couple of sizes too big for him. Harry seized the anorak's loosely flapping belt and hauled Froggy's face up to his. At close quarters he was again conscious of the unpleasant smell he had noticed during their last encounter.

“I won't keep you long. Now let's have a chat in the warm.”

If Froggy had contemplated further protest, a second glance at the set of Harry's jaw caused him to think better of it. “Five minutes, that's all I can manage,” he said, striving for dignity. “The boss - ”

Harry shoved him in the direction of the door. “Lead the way.”

Once inside, Froggy pressed an internal light switch and pulled open a door marked staff only. Harry followed him into a tiny room containing two ancient wooden stools, cleaning materials and the wherewithal for making tea and coffee. A few dried-up biscuits were scattered over a dusty formica worktop. In the harsh light given out by a shadeless bulb, Harry noticed an earwig sliding away into a crack by the skirting board. Froggy tossed the anorak over the biscuits and waved him towards one of the stools.

“Take the weight off your feet.”

“I'm not stopping.” Harry took a photograph out of his jacket pocket. “Recognise her?”

He had taken the snap of Liz on holiday in Malta four years ago. She was sitting on a stone wall overlooking the Grand Harbour at Valletta. Her skin had a Mediterranean tan and she was wearing a skimpy tee-shirt, very short shorts and sandals. He hadn't been able to find a picture that gave a better likeness when rummaging through his flat after returning from Aneurin Bevan Heights.

Froggy's nostrils twitched as he calculated pros and cons. “Nice-looking chick,” he temporised.

“You know who she is?”

A throaty, man-of-the-world chuckle. “Don't reckon I'd forget her in a hurry. Customer here, is she?”

“Was, Froggy. She's dead.”

As the man went through a pantomime of non-comprehension, Harry said steadily, “She was stabbed last Thursday, the night you jostled me at the bar here. You'll have read about it in the papers. Her name was Liz Devlin.”

“So you're the solicitor,” said Froggy slowly. He tried to convey the image of a man upon whom realisation is beginning to dawn, but Harry didn't doubt that he had recognised the photograph straight away.

“You've got it. Now, do you know her?”

A gleam of cunning appeared in the protuberant eyes, belying the innocent uncertainty of his words. “I don't get it. She was mugged, wasn't she? Why are you asking all these questions?”

Harry laid a hand on Froggy's shoulder. “She used to meet someone here, isn't that right?”

Froggy made as if to resist but, catching sight of Harry's expression, again changed his mind. “Okay, I may have seen the lady here once or twice,” he admitted, “but I never spotted her with anyone special. ‘Course, I'm rushed off my feet most nights.”

“Do me a favour,” Harry said. “You know Mick Coghlan?”

Froggy gave this as much consideration as a judge called upon to deliver a verdict, but all he said was, “Doesn't he run the gym up Brunner Street?”

From outside the door came the sound of light footsteps - a woman's heels clicking towards them. Harry released his grip on the other man.

“Don't waste time.”

“Haven't seen Coghlan in this place,” said Froggy, shaking his head.

The footsteps paused. “Okay,” said Harry softly, “what about a feller by the name of Rourke.”

“Froggy!”

A woman's voice, smokily distinctive, saved the man from having to reply. Even so, Harry noted the flash of alarm in the prominent, red-veined eyes at the mention of Rourke, and the grateful way in which Froggy turned as the door of the room creaked open. “Herself,” he whispered with a gap-toothed grin.

A tall, sinuous figure in a close-fitting sweat shirt and jeans was framed in the doorway. Auburn hair spilled on to her shoulders and her curved fingernails shone scarlet under the glow of the naked bulb. A subtle, expensive fragrance accompanied her into the room as she regarded the two men from under long lashes. “Sorry,” she said huskily, “am I interrupting something?”

“No problem,” said Froggy. “I'm just on my way to check the cellar. This is Mr. Devlin. He's - he's my solicitor.”

Even as the woman's pencilled eyebrows rose, the man said in a tone of finality, “Okay, then?” to Harry and bustled out.

Angie O'Hare's features relaxed into a smile as she settled her gaze on Harry. She wouldn't see forty again and, without the camouflage of stage make-up, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth were plainly visible. Yet there was something hypnotic about the look on her face. Harry had sensed the strength in her when listening to her sing last Thursday night and now he felt the force of her personality catching hold of him, much as a torch beam might transfix a moth. He felt his interest in Froggy melting away.

“Have you taken to visiting club-land in search of clients, Mr. Devlin?” she said at last. “Or is our Froggy such a valued customer that he has you at his beck and call twenty-four hours a day?”

Harry said, “I have a little unfinished business with Mr. . . . do you know, I've forgotten his second name.”

The eyebrows lifted again, but she said, “Evison, I believe.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Don't tell me he really is a client of yours.”

“No.” Harry was suddenly conscious of the incongruity of his dress: the casual jacket, open-necked shirt and moth-eaten scarf. “But I'm glad you're prepared to believe that I'm a solicitor.”

Angie smiled again. “The solicitors I've come across haven't been as conventional as you might expect. But then, I haven't known many.”

“Count your blessings.”

“You're too defensive, Mr. Devlin. The lawyer I use is a very good man. Quentin Pike.”

“I know him.” Yes, and Quentin could never be accused of cultivating tedious respectability. According to local gossip, he spent most of his time seducing pretty trainee lawyers whom he picked up at week-end Law Society advocacy conferences at which he discoursed on the technique of persuasion.

Angie leaned against the work surface, resting her elbows on the dirty heap of Froggy's anorak. She didn't seem anxious to leave, or for Harry to go. For some reason that pleased him. In the claustrophobic atmosphere of the tiny room, the aroma of her perfume was almost over-powering; like a truth drug, it made him want to unburden himself to her. He found himself saying, “I heard you sing on Thursday night.
Eleanor Rigby
and all the rest.”

“The old favourites,” she said lazily. “Have to keep the customers satisfied.”

The rich colour of her hair and the provocative jut of the well-formed breasts beneath the shirt would have done justice to a woman fifteen years younger. He hadn't wanted to succumb to her charm and flirt with her, but she was hard to resist. He broke the eye contact and said, “I lost touch with your career.”

Angie grimaced. “Most people did. I had some hard times. Tastes change. Female vocalists went out of fashion.”

“I was glad to hear you again.”

“Thank you.” She moved her face nearer to his and
Ma Griffe
assailed Harry's senses. “Tell me, though, what really brings you here?”

With this woman, he felt no need to prevaricate. He wanted to tell her about Liz. Quickly, and without either emphasis or embarrassment, he ran through the chain of events that had brought him to the Ferry the previous week and said that he wanted to trace the man whom his wife had, he guessed, planned to meet here that fatal night. The singer listened gravely. She didn't indulge in easy exclamations of shock or sympathy and Harry was grateful for that. As he talked, he saw the sparkle fade from her eyes, to be replaced by an awed, almost haunted look.

“Do you know who he was, this missing boyfriend?”

“Maybe the man she used to live with, Mick Coghlan. Or someone she'd apparently once had a fling with, by the name of Rourke. Though she'd mentioned someone else to me and some of our friends - a rich businessman called Tony.”

Angie breathed out and brushed his hand with the tips of her scarlet nails. Softly, she said, “You must be hurting badly, Mr. Devlin, but is this going to achieve anything? Chasing around after all your wife's lovers?” She sighed. “What are you trying to prove?”

“How can I rest while the man who killed her is free?” He didn't say anything about his thirst for a direct, physical revenge. That was still taboo, a secret whose existence he scarcely dared to acknowledge, even to himself.

Her tone gentle but decisive, she said, “Don't you think you ought to ask yourself - is she worth it?”

“What do you mean?”

The auburn head dipped. “I never met her, Mr. Devlin. And yet - the picture you paint makes me think I wouldn't have taken to her if I did. Faithless, selfish, greedy . . . isn't that the truth about your wife?” He stared at her, galled by the scathing words after the way in which she had seemed to understand him. Seeing the bitterness of his reaction, she continued earnestly, “I'm sorry, that must sound callous after everything you've been through. But wouldn't you be better putting the past behind you? Think it over. Surely it makes sense.”

He drummed his fingers on the formica table, scattering the dust, but said nothing. After a short pause the nails touched his icy flesh again and she said, “Mr. Devlin?”

“Call me Harry,” he said.

“Harry, you've got to understand - there's no going back. You seem to reproach yourself for something, God knows why. If she was the type who played around, she never would have changed. Once a marriage cracks at the seams, you can't ever put it back together again.”

For a minute or more, neither of them spoke. Then Harry said, “You may be right. Probably are. Makes no difference, I'm afraid.”

Someone knocked and a fair, tousled head appeared round the door. Harry recognised Angie's keyboard player. In a thick Scouse accent he enquired, “You ready, gorgeous?”

The singer nodded. “With you in a second, honey.” She cast a final glance at Harry. “Coming to see the show?”

He said no, but thanks all the same. At the door of the little room, Angie O'Hare turned to face him. He moved towards her so that their cheeks were no more than six inches apart. “I'm sorry about your wife, Harry, truly I am,” she said, “but you must get over it. For your own sake. That's the sad thing about life, isn't it? If you don't look after yourself, nobody else will.”

No point in arguing. “I was glad to meet you,” he said, “I liked hearing you sing about all the lonely people.”

They stood there for a moment or two. Then the auburn hair bobbed and Angie said, “Goodbye, Harry.” She followed the blond man towards the rising tide of disco music from the dance floor beyond the far end of the passageway. Harry gazed after her, relishing her proud, upright carriage and the sway of her buttocks in the tight jeans. He hadn't fallen in love with Angie O'Hare, but he could imagine what it would be to love her.

Left to his own devices, he wondered whether to pursue Froggy for further interrogation. The other staff, too, perhaps. But his conversation with the singer had unsettled him and after a few seconds reflection he swung on his heel and walked out by the way he had entered. Outside, he pushed through a group of drunken early evening revellers, oblivious to their jeers and invitations to a fight. He was trying to rid himself of the ghost of Liz that Angie O'Hare had conjured up, the ghost of a woman faithless, selfish and greedy, a woman not worth yearning to avenge.

Chapter Seventeen

Fuzzy after two hours' drinking, Harry sat at the bar of the Dock Brief, trying to remember what is was like to be capable of logical analysis and rational thought. A Victorian pub mirror hung on the wall and he gazed at his reflection: at the dark-ringed eyes and the features blurred by doubt as well as alcohol. Unbidden, a line from Shakespeare studied long ago rose in his mind. Where are your quiddits now, he asked the haggard image, your quillets, your cases, your tricks?

Pushing his glass across the counter, he nodded a goodnight to the barmaid. She was coping with a flirtatious drunk who was trying to tempt her into a shared week-end in Paris. Catching Harry's eye, she bustled over.

“Friend of yours was in here earlier on. Sorry, I forgot to mention it.”

“Yeah?” The people he drank with in the Dock were better described as acquaintances.

“Dark-haired lady.” The barmaid threw out a quizzical look. “Attractive.”

For a fleeting, insane moment, he thought: It's Liz. Her ghost. Conquering that immediate reaction with an effort, he said carefully, “Did she leave a name?”

The woman searched in her memory, ruffling a hand through her tight brunette perm. At last she said, “Maggie, that was it.”

Harry was startled. His sister-in-law and her husband frequented wine bars from time to time, but neither of them would normally contemplate calling in a place like this. What did she want? Christ, another question. He shambled out, buttoning his thin jacket in an inadequate effort to resist the razor edge of the wind from the sea. Someone in the pub had said that this was going to be the coldest night of the winter so far. At least it might help to clear his head.

He reached the Strand, lost in contemplation as he crossed the six-lane highway, almost walking beneath the wheels of a tanker that he hadn't even seen or heard. Why care about whether the murderer was found? Liz was dead and nothing that he could do would bring back her carefree laughter or tantalising mockery. Yet the spell that she had first cast over him at the Albert Dock firework celebrations, no more than a couple of hundred yards from this very spot, remained unbroken. Her leaving had not lessened her power over him and in death the spell had become a curse.

He took a short cut via the main car park that served the residents of Empire Dock. The solid bulk of the converted warehouse loomed ahead of him. Lights shone behind curtained windows, forming a chequer board of hidden lives, but the place was still, with just the rumble of the traffic in the background and the footsteps of Harry and another man fracturing the silence. Harry paused when he reached his M.G. Might as well check that the alarm was on, he'd been absent-minded about it lately. One day someone would make him pay for that.

The alarm was set, after all. He had been worrying about nothing. You're becoming neurotic, he told himself. At that moment, he noticed that the other man's footfalls had stopped. He couldn't help glancing over his shoulder. There was no one else to be seen.

Joining the path that led to the flat development, he heard the clip-clop of steel-tipped shoes again. Another look round. Nothing. He began to move faster.

Resurrected period lampstands ran along the edge of the path, casting cones of illumination down into the darkness. One of the lamps was out. Straining his eyes, Harry sensed rather than saw the movement of a figure a dozen yards ahead of him. It might have been a beer drinker's imagination. It might not. Harry calculated that if he spurted, the safe haven of the lit-up doorway of the Empire Dock was no more than forty seconds away. Yet that barely perceived figure could cut him off with time to spare. If he wanted to. Was the risk worth taking? Was there any risk at all or was he simply cracking up?

A sudden lateral movement by the other man decided him. The way home was being closed down. Time to change direction. Harry veered off the path, clattering along the cobbled area that led to the river, lengthening his stride, breathing in and out in short draughts. He caught the sound of the other man, hurrying by the wall of the building. No option now but to chance it. Harry broke into a run.

The man in front of him began to run as well. Harry gained the impression of an athlete's fluid, easy rhythm. His pursuer was driving him away from the lee of the Empire Dock and back towards the open road. Harry cursed. Already the exertion was making him gasp, one more reminder of his lack of condition. A whiplash of panic caught him. The other man was gaining ground.

One of Harry's feet caught a cobblestone that was raised a little above the others. He stumbled, fought to regain his balance. An arm stretched around his waist from behind, toppling him again. As he struggled free, a gloved hand caught at his shoulder. Staggering, Harry glimpsed a balaclava mask. This wasn't a teenage mugger, jumping a passer-by for a few quid. The man was only a fraction taller than himself, but steamroller-solid and as his muscular frame loomed against the night sky, whilst he steadied himself for the onslaught, Harry could only shield his eyes and wait for the first blow to descend.

The man hit him in the stomach with a fist that felt like a lump of steel. Harry crumpled.

There was no respite as he sank towards the ground. Harry shut his eyes and a ribbed glove sliced across his face, a cruel strike that left his cheeks singing and his nose feeling as though it had been buried in the back of his head. Retching violently, he wanted to weep as well, but the tears had been smashed out of him. Sticky blood oozed over his mouth and chin. He could taste its sour flavour. Somewhere in the distance a dog began to bark.

Harry thought: It would be quicker if the hound was set on me to finish the job.

His assailant stood back for a moment, like an artist admiring a canvas. Through a slit in the balaclava, he said, “You should've stayed out of it.” The intonation was back-street Toxteth. He took another step back and launched himself into a steel toe-capped kick that crashed against the side of Harry's body. Had he not telegraphed that his attack was aimed at the temple, allowing Harry the time to twist away, that might have ended it all. Even the mis-hit filled Harry's mind, his whole being, with pain. For an instant, he could think of nothing else but the agony. Yet in the background the barking had grown louder and the racket broke into his consciousness.

“Shit!” said his attacker. The single syllable was crammed with violence, but also with fear.

In a moment he was gone. Harry heard his boots thudding away into the night. Now the barking was frantic. Harry forced his eyes open and saw a huge Alsatian bounding towards him. From a distance, the animal had a furious look. Even in his battered state, Harry thought how ironic it would be to escape from being pulped by the thug only to finish up as supper for man's best friend.

Panting noisily, the dog reached him. It surveyed his prostrate body with what might have been hungry relish. Harry tried to move, but failed. Groggily, he heard approaching footsteps from the direction of Empire Dock.

“You all right?” someone asked.

Fine, Harry thought, I bleed and vomit for fun. He managed to bend his neck sufficiently to see the owner of the voice. His saviour was a young man in the navy blue uniform of the security firm which patrolled Empire Dock after dark. He was fresh-faced and anxious and his “peaked cap was too big for him.

“Down, Sabre. Stay.”

Harry uttered a low moan.

“You don't look too healthy. Let me give you a hand.”

The guard bent down and patiently attempted to help Harry, if not to his feet, at least to a crouching posture.

It was a slow process, with a couple of false starts. Every bone in Harry's body ached. He felt like a trodden grape.

Wiping the blood from Harry's face with a handkerchief, the youthful guard said, “The guy sure took a dislike to you. You'll look a picture tomorrow and no mistake. Black eye, the lot.” He gazed towards the Strand. “The bugger will be far enough by now. I'll call the police.”

“No.” It was Harry's first coherent syllable for some time, but he invested it with as much finality as he could muster.

The guard appraised him. “Do you know who he was?”

Harry didn't answer. Instead he probed his teeth with his tongue. None of them seemed loose.

“What was it all about?” When no reply was forthcoming, the guard said, “Suit yourself. Main thing is to get you home. You're a resident, aren't you? Third floor, am I right?”

The lad was observant. Harry contrived a painful nod of the head.

“You fit enough to make a move? All right, easy now. Take my arm.”

They made excruciating progress to the entrance of the Empire Dock, Sabre trotting patiently at their side. Sitting behind the desk was Griff, the senior night porter, a square-shouldered, bushy-eyebrowed man in his fifties who was as Welsh as Cardiff Arms Park.

“Bloody hell, sir,” he said, “you look as though you've had an exciting night.”

Harry managed a wan smile. His rescuer described the incident briefly and again Harry declined an offer to call the police. He thought twice when Griff suggested medical treatment, but he was reluctant to attract attention by turning up at Casualty and although every part of him was aching, there didn't seem to be any bones broken, nor any need for more than rudimentary patching up. Time would heal the cuts and fade his bruises.

“Up to you, sir,” Griff shrugged. “Very well, Colin. Take over here for five minutes while I take -Mr. Devlin up.”

Harry thanked the young guard. He would see him again later. Without his intervention, and the ferocious assistance of Sabre, Harry would have been a hospital case at the very least. Most probably, he would have been making a quick return visit to the mortuary.

As the lift took them upwards, Griff talked away. “Lot of dangerous people about in this city, sir. But if you don't mind my saying so, you need to watch your step. I don't know what all that was about and I don't want to know. You've had a rough time lately, but you want to be careful about who you get involved with. You'll be aware from your profession, sir, some of these hooligans are none too fussy who they hurt. Or kill. You may not be so lucky next time.”

They arrived at Harry's flat. Griff took him into the lounge, helping him to ease off his jacket and shoes so as to rest on the sofa, before excusing himself and leaving the flat.

Harry shut his eyes again. Straightening out his thoughts and feelings immediately was difficult, but still he raged against the thug who had beaten him and the man who, Harry was convinced, had sent him. So Mick Coghlan was intent upon seeing him off. Harry's stubborn refusal to heed Ruby Fingall's velvet glove warning must have caused Coghlan to resort to direct violence.

Harry heard Griff talking to someone. A woman's voice. Brenda Rixton. He looked up as the two of them walked into the flat together. Brenda exclaimed in dismay as she saw him, then walked over to the sofa and bent over him, as solicitous as a doctor inspecting a patient in intensive care. He felt her fair hair brush against his cheek.

“Just look at you!” She winced. “What a mess. Wait a minute.”

She fussed and bustled, ordering Griff to assist in handing her first aid supplies from the bathroom medicine cabinet as though he were a trainee nurse. Harry felt her cool hands checking his rib cage. A wet cloth was applied to his sore eye and cheeks. Painkillers were administered. He bit his lip and assured her that he would soon be all right, but she took no notice. Eventually Griff, satisfied that the recovery process was underway, returned downstairs.

Brenda squatted beside the sofa and took Harry's right hand in both of hers. “You don't look after yourself,

that's your trouble. You need someone to hold your hand.”

Harry was too weary to argue. Besides, she might be right. He closed his eyes again. As consciousness slipped away, his last thought was that if Coghlan wished to shake him off, the man could scarcely have made a worse misjudgment. Briefly that evening, Harry's determination had started to crumble. But now he would never give up, no matter what the cost.