All the Lonely People (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The front door of the house called Paradise Found was unlocked. It opened to his touch. The first-floor light was still on. Not bothering with the bell, Harry walked into the reception hall. Ahead of him, an open-tread staircase led to a galleried landing. From upstairs, he could hear the sound of running water. However many baths she takes, he thought, nothing will cleanse her of the guilt.

He called out: “Angie!”

No reply.

“Angie, it's me. Harry Devlin.”

Up above, the water was switched off. He waited for a few seconds and then heard soft footfalls. Angie O'Hare appeared from round the bend in the staircase. She wore a short crimson gown with sleeves rolled up and seemed unsteady on her bare feet. The auburn hair was uncombed and strands of it drooped over her face. Her unmade-up cheeks seemed sunken and old. For a moment Harry wondered why he had ever thought her attractive. Then he looked into her deep blue eyes and remembered.

As she reached the bottom step, he said, “It's over. Rourke's dead. He lost control of his car and came off the road on to the railway track. The Hunt's Cross train did the rest.”

“My God.” Her voice was hoarse. Then: “I'm glad.”

Harry moistened his lips. “I know what happened.”

“Yes.” Her ruined face managed a mirthless smile. “When we talked, I realised how dogged you were, that you'd never give up. In a way, I'm thankful. So much went wrong. I never thought it would end like this.” She motioned towards a door leading off from the hall. “Let's sit down for a minute.”

He followed her into a spacious lounge built in the shape of an L. Above the gas fire, on the stone chimney breast, hung a framed photograph, a wedding picture taken outside a register office. He moved over to look at it. Angie was dressed in lemon crepe-de-chine with white handbag, hat and matching gloves. She was holding a bouquet of roses and looking into the complacent eyes of Tony Gallimore. It was an adoring look, and strictly proprietorial.

Harry thought of the man he had left in the Ferry Club, a man flimsy as tissue paper, and asked himself what the two women had seen in Tony Gallimore. Liz had died for him. Angie had killed for him. Neither woman was a fool. Why had they not been able to look beyond the sharp suits and glib chat?

Talking to Gallimore earlier that evening, threads of past conversations had linked in his mind, forming an unexpected pattern. Liz's casual mention of her lover's neurotic wife. Brenda talking about her maiden name. But of course, he had thought, some women never adopt their husbands' surnames because they are feminists, or perhaps for professional reasons. Like some women lawyers and - yes - entertainers.

As soon as the possibility that Angie O'Hare might be married to Gallimore had occurred to him, finding corroborative clues was easy. On the night of the murder, when dedicating that old Burt Bacharach song to her man, she had been gazing towards the back of the concert room where Tony Gallimore stood. At that time he had no doubt been thinking, not of his wife, but of his mistress's failure to keep their clandestine appointment. And, of course, there was Harry's own visit to the Ferry last Monday evening. Why had it not occurred to him that it was strange that a club singer should be walking around long before the show was due to start, treating the place as her own? No doubt she had eavesdropped on his conversation with Froggy, fearful of what Evison might say, interrupting as soon as it seemed Harry might persuade him to talk.

So, after putting down the Mauser, Harry had asked Gallimore the last question, trying to make it appear offhand. “Your wife is Angie O'Hare, isn't she?”

Gallimore had given the necessary confirmation. Baffled by Harry's abrupt change of mood, he had stared as if sure he was in the company of a dangerous lunatic. The relief on his face as Harry brusquely got up and left had been as plain as a notice to quit.

At different times, both Angie and her husband had said that their solicitors were Windaybanks. The phone call to Quentin Pike had filled in the background. And what the keyboard player had said to his boss at the door of the Ferry that evening implied that Angie O'Hare would not be performing at all that night. Harry had speculated that she might have arranged a crisis rendezvous with Rourke, something that could not be handled backstage. At last his guesses were getting nearer the mark.

Still looking at the wedding photograph, not facing her, he said, “The Ferry Club belongs to you, I found that out this evening.” Windaybanks had handled the conveyancing, Quentin said. “Although that came as a surprise, it shouldn't have done. After all, most singers dream of owning their own club, isn't that right? You were never going to be a second Cilia Black, but you made a few bob in your day, all the same. When you finally gave up hope of hitting the charts again, you put the money into buying a place where you could always top the bill.”

He turned round. “You were married to your manager in those days,” he said, “and when he ran off with a dolly bird you had a nervous breakdown.”

A terrible tragedy, Quentin had sighed, losing out on her career and her marriage within such a short time: she simply couldn't handle it.

“The Ferry had a succession of managers while you tried to pick yourself up again. No wonder the place went downhill, turned into such a dive. Finally you hired a pretty boy called Tony Gallimore. No one would say he had the greatest business acumen in the world, he was simply an opportunist with a smooth smile. But you fell for him and that was that.” Harry's tone roughened as he tried to provoke a response from the woman on the sofa. “I suppose he saw you as his meal ticket.”

Tears glinted in the blue eyes, but she kept her voice under control as she answered, “You're wrong. He loved me. Then, he loved me.”

Deliberately cruel, Harry said, “You were besotted with him.”

“All I ever needed,” she said, “was to be with Tony. You wouldn't understand.”

“Wouldn't I? I was married too, don't forget.”

“That woman.” The words reverberated with Angie's contempt for his wife. “She wrecked everything for me. Tony and I, we were so right for each other. Our marriage worked. Oh, yes, I know he had other women. I wasn't born yesterday. But none of them meant anything to him. He'd take what he wanted, then kiss them goodbye.”

“And you could live with that?”

She lifted her head in a gesture as defiant as that of a martyr going to the stake. “Yes, Mr. Devlin, I could live with that. But with your wife, it was different. She simply would not leave him be.”

“Liz was certainly different,” he said, almost to himself. “When an idea became fixed in her head, there was no dislodging it. At least until she grew bored and started searching for something new. I'll bet she swept him off his feet. So he spun her a line, told her he owned the club, gave the impression all the money was his. Relegated you to the status of a nagging nobody in the shadows and persuaded Liz to keep quiet so you wouldn't discover the affair too soon.

“She took a part-time job to be near at hand for their lunch-time adulteries. The two of them tried to be discreet, but it didn't work. Obviously you realised Tony was playing away from home again and tried to reel him back in as usual. Trouble was, when he began to back off, Liz put him under pressure. She wasn't some empty-headed bimbo who was happy to fade into the scenery.” Harry opened his eyes again and asked, “Did you know that she attempted suicide?”

“Yes. He told me so.” She picked at the seam of her gown. “What you say is right. I soon cottoned on that he was seeing someone. He denied it at first, but he still made the silly mistake of leaving a photograph of her in his wallet. I found it, of course. Eventually, I forced the story out of him. Poor Tony isn't strong. He admitted everything. I made him promise to get rid of her. He said he'd been intending to break it up anyway, but then she did that melodramatic thing. He said he'd caught her only just in time, though I don't believe for a minute that she meant to kill herself. It was just a ruse, and Tony fell for it.”

Poor Tony? Harry's heart did not bleed. The man had been forced to choose between his wife and his mistress, yet the idea that he might have seen murder as a solution to his dilemma had always been far-fetched. Angie had married an easy option man. He must have fancied screwing a worthwhile settlement out of a divorce. The risks of serious crime were not, Harry was sure, in Tony Gallimore's line.

“And shortly afterwards, your husband told you that Liz was pregnant by him. That he'd made up his mind to go to her and bring your marriage to an end. Did you decide then that she must die? That for you to stay together, you'd have to murder the woman he wanted?”

The auburn head nodded, but Angie said nothing.

Harry persisted, “You'd met Rourke at the Ferry, I expect. How did you settle on him to do your dirty work?”

After a long pause, Angie said, “He used to hang around backstage. Full of big talk, you know the type. He said he was a dangerous man to cross. I think maybe he fancied me and that his idea of a chat-up line was to scare me with stories about how tough he was. So, you see, that was how it all began. It made me think - what if I could use him to put that woman out of the way? I'd have Tony again, we could get back to the way we were before.” She looked towards the photograph hanging on the chimney breast. “I've had plenty of men, Mr. Devlin, over the years. Of course I have. And Tony has his faults. I'm not naive. But even so, he's the only man I've ever really needed. Do you understand?”

“For me, it was much the same with Liz.”

She lowered her eyes. “I won't apologise, make excuses. Words are worthless. Only one thought drove me on: that if Liz Devlin died, I would keep my marriage alive. What I

didn't realise was how simple it would turn out to be. At first, that is. Joe Rourke didn't take much persuading. He wasn't shocked by the idea, far from it. I had the money, he didn't negotiate too hard. He was a cheap killer. I couldn't believe how easy it all was to set up. I even gave him the photograph that I'd taken from Tony. So that he could identify her.”

The photograph. That much-travelled photograph. The one that Jane Brogan, too, had discovered: but she had leaped to the wrong conclusion about its significance. No longer, Harry reflected, was it a romantic keepsake. It had become part of the baggage of murder.

“I left everything to Rourke,” she said wearily. “In a strange way, I trusted him. He might have taken the down payment and then laughed in my face, but somehow I never doubted he'd do as he promised. I felt - the idea of committing murder in cold blood excited him. I didn't have to tell him what to do - how could I have done? All I said was that I'd let him know the right time. It had to be when Tony had an alibi. I didn't want him under suspicion if the police found out about his affair with your wife.” She groaned. “I wanted it to look like a random crime, didn't want to point the finger at anyone special. Just as long as Tony was in the clear.”

“Rourke followed her. He was working out her movements, I suppose. Trying to judge the best opportunity.”

“Yes. She'd seen him, he admitted that to me. I was getting edgy. I was afraid that any day, Tony would pack his things and leave. On the Thursday morning, Rourke rang me to say he'd lost track of her. She hadn't been home the previous night. I was desperate, told him he'd have to find her and do it quickly. Tony was down in Birmingham, the timing was perfect. I thought it might be the last chance. That evening, Rourke phoned again. He'd been hanging around the shop where she worked and had caught up with her again. He'd been following her ever since. She was having dinner with some other man - the whore! I told Rourke to go ahead and earn his money.”

She broke off and wiped a palm across her face. Harry could see tear-stains on her cheeks. “Rourke saw me later at the club. All he said was, “Mission accomplished.” Tony had almost made a mess of my plans by coming home early. I should have realised that he would arrange to meet her off the train. But I was happy. I believed I'd saved him for myself. Having her killed was just a means to an end. I didn't regret her death.” She stared at him as if challenging him to doubt her word. “I still don't. Even though everything has fallen apart.”

“Did Gallimore guess what you'd done?”

“I don't know.” There was a haunted look on her face. “He's never said so. But there have been moments - I've caught him glancing at me strangely. Suspiciously. Perhaps it's only my conscience. I never dreamed it would ever occur to him that I . . .” Her voice trailed away.

“Whose idea was it to murder Froggy Evison?”

She bowed her head. “Rourke's, of course. I was getting desperate. I'd heard you talking to Froggy. I told Joe, and he wanted to put you out of the way for good. I said no, I wouldn't have that. No more killing. He was just to warn you off. Rough you up a little if necessary.”

Harry ran a hand over his injured ribs. “Yes, he did that.”

“What can I say? It's too late for regrets. Everything was getting out of control. Froggy had already told Joe that he'd seen him kill that - I mean, your wife. We didn't believe it, Froggy wasn't the sort to hang around if danger was in the air. But obviously he'd seen something, put two and two together. He wanted money. I was willing to pay, but Rourke said we couldn't take a chance. Once you give in to blackmail, he said, you never stop. And the morning after you spoke to Froggy here, he got in touch with Joe and said that he'd decided to double his price. He reckoned you'd be willing to cross his palm with silver, even if we weren't. That settled it, as far as Rourke was concerned.”

She looked up at him, hopelessly.

“Ridiculous, isn't it? A middle-aged woman in a suburban living room, talking about a contract killing. It isn't what I meant to happen. It's not what I meant at all.”