All the Lonely People (6 page)

Macbeth said, “Mind if I look round?” After his superior's low-key questioning, the sound of the black detective's voice came as a shock. The accent was deepest Kirby, the tone unambiguously insolent. Even before Harry could reply, the young policeman was on his feet, prowling about the room, his whole body taut with expectation. Harry noticed that he touched nothing.

“What were you wearing last night?” As an afterthought, Macbeth tossed in a “sir” that added to the insult.

Trying to steady his voice, Harry described his clothes and, turning to Skinner, asked, “Where was she found?”

“Didn't I tell you?”

Unsubtle, thought Harry. “No, Chief Inspector.”

“One of our patrolmen discovered the body on his rounds. In Leeming Street, at the bottom of an alleyway running down by the tyre centre, Albiston's.”

A mean place for anyone to die. A liver-rotted wino would be ashamed to finish up there. For an instant Harry thought he was going to vomit. Only with a heart-straining effort of will was he able to conquer the feeling of nausea.

“When was she killed?” he asked.

Skinner shook his head. “Too soon for us to say, sir.”

And even if you could, you'd keep that card up your sleeve, thought Harry. He noticed Macbeth push open the bedroom door and step inside, but made no objection. Instead, he pressed for more information and the chief inspector painted in a few background details.

There was, said Skinner sombrely, no indication of a sexual motive for the attack, although pending the post mortem it was too early to draw a firm conclusion. The murder weapon had been a Stanley knife, of the kind sold in hardware shops on every street corner. So far it had not been found. Liz's handbag had been stolen, but picked up two streets away. No money or credit cards - just the empty wallet - but the driving licence had identified her. Ironic, as she never cared to drive; being chauffeured was much more in her line.

Slowly, Harry said, “Presumably it was some kind of street crime? A mugging gone wrong.”

“We can't rule out any possibility at this stage.” Skinner's melancholic face offered no hint as to whether he considered it likely or not. Yet Harry's years in the law had taught him anything could happen in this city. A kid desperate for money to feed his taste for heroin perhaps, setting on a woman alone, messing up a bag snatch, then grabbing for his knife in a spasm of panic.

“As I mentioned, sir,” continued Skinner, “I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to accompany my sergeant to the mortuary.”

Before Harry could speak, Macbeth strode out of the bedroom, barely able to contain a savage smirk of triumph. To his superior he said, “A couple of suitcases in there, sir. Also a shopping bag full of women's things. The luggage is marked with Mrs. Devlin's name.”

“You failed to tell me about that, Mr. Devlin.”

Harry shrugged. “I forgot, that's all.”

“Really, sir?” The corners of Skinner's mouth seemed to turn even further down than before.

It took Harry's last reserves of self-discipline for him to respond evenly. “Liz dumped them there yesterday when I was out. I think I told you, my neighbour exchanged a word with her in the early evening.”

“If you don't object, sir, we'll have to carry out a search of your flat. A routine precaution, I'm sure a man with your background will understand.”

Harry nodded, as for the first time this morning his mind began to work. From the moment they'd learned Liz had spent Wednesday night here, he'd been in the frame. Skinner's attitude made it clear that his time at the Ferry, his speaking to Trisha, gave him no alibi. Liz must have been killed earlier in the evening. If it was much later, the police wouldn't have arrived so quickly. And if he objected to their making a full search, a warrant would materialise like an ace from a conjuror's palm.

“Go ahead, Chief Inspector.” He hoped he sounded more relaxed than he felt.

Skinner nodded and Macbeth walked over to the door. As he got up to leave, Harry had to choke a bitter laugh in his throat as a thought sprang into his mind. Never mind about a mugging - hadn't Liz in this very room, not forty-eight hours earlier, expressed her dread of meeting her death at Mick Coghlan's hands? And he had dismissed it as an absurd flight of fancy. Perhaps to be suspected of murder was the start of his punishment for having disbelieved her.

Chapter Six

“Yes, that's my wife.”

The sweet, sickly stench of the mortuary was everywhere. Instinctively, Harry knew that he would never escape it. No matter if it faded from his nostrils or was cleaned from his clothes. At any moment in the years to come, he would recall this grey morning and again be haunted by the odour of the place of death.

He stood with D.S. Macbeth as the attendant, a silent white-coated man, pulled the sheet up to cover Liz's face. Seeing her again in this tiled, windowless room seemed unreal. Yet there was no denying that the cold corpse was hers; the last self-deluding prayer, that the police had blundered over identification, had gone unanswered. The dark hair curled as crisply as ever over closed eyes and for all their bluish tinge, the lips had a twist of self-satisfaction. As if to say, “I told you so.” The mortician's skill almost fooled Harry; it looked as though she were only sleeping. But a second glance at the pale waxy cheeks that he had so often kissed made him realise the spirit had gone. All that was left of Liz on earth was an empty, lifeless shell.

He felt dazed. For a second he thought his legs were going to buckle beneath him, but he summoned up the last of his strength and managed to straighten up. He dare not let himself sink into a quicksand of despair. He must reach for solid ground, try to make sense of the cruel absurdity of what had happened to his wife.

The attendant wheeled her away on a squeaking trolley. Harry did not watch her go. Instead he demanded, “Have you interviewed Coghlan yet?”

His expression unreadable, Macbeth said, “I understand he's out of town.”

“Liz was terrified of him,” said Harry. He could not help brooding about Wednesday night. “I should have listened instead of thinking it was all an act.”

The policeman said nothing. He led the way into the raw air outside and directed Harry to his unmarked Montego. Macbeth was a good driver, swift and certain, and within ten minutes they were back at Empire Dock. Two squad cars were parked by the entrance and Harry had to walk past the morning porter and relief security guard, who had stared with naked curiosity when he got out of the car, but averted their eyes in embarrassment as he approached, finding themselves unable even to offer a good morning. He could imagine their fascination at the police activity and their ghoulish speculation about whether he was implicated in the death of his wife.

Inside, the police were taking the flat apart. Not a book remained in place, nor probably a speck of dust. The cheese plant had collapsed on to its side and no one had troubled to restore it to the vertical. Strangers tramped backwards and forwards through his home as if on the concourse at Lime Street Station. What were they searching for? Something to pin him to the murder scene, Harry presumed. A photographer was carefully gathering together his gear and an acned constable who seemed anxious to please was flourishing two large polythene bags for Skinner's inspection. The packages were sealed and bore blue-inked labels stating their contents and the date. Inside were the jacket and trousers Harry had worn the previous night.

In his West Riding monotone, the chief inspector said, “We'll need to remove one or two personal items for forensic tests, Mr. Devlin. You'll appreciate, in a case of this kind we have to take a number of routine steps of this sort. I'm afraid I also have to press you for some further information about her background, sir.”

At Skinner's prompting, Harry sketched a picture of the past. Family details. Liz's parents had died years ago. Her father was a Pole, who had settled here after the Second World War and found himself an English girl who worked in a bakery in Bootle. There were two children. The older sister, Maggie, nowadays lived in the best part of Blundellsands. Her husband was a partner in the local branch of a country-wide firm of accountants, a dust-dry character with a flair for figures and as much sense of humour as a computer system. Liz had loved to poke fun at him.

Job details. Liz had left school at sixteen, hoping to make it as a model, but her looks weren't fashionable that year. After a few photo sessions with sweet talkers who may not have had film in their cameras, she'd hauled herself off the slippery slope and settled for shop work and finding a man. She'd graduated from one-night-stands with fumbling teenagers and married men whose wives didn't understand them to an on-off affair with a boutique owner who made her his assistant manageress. But after a couple of years of dithering, he'd decided he preferred the company of his own sex. Yet Liz hadn't let the experience sour her. She'd taken a job with Matt Barley, and when Harry met her as fireworks lit the sky at Albert Dock, had betrayed no hint of past disappointments, confident as ever that good times were around the corner.

Marriage details. At first, life together had been full of promise. Liz had always wanted to squeeze the maximum pleasure from life, and for a time he could deny her nothing. Not swish clothes, not holidays in the sun, not all night parties, not clubbing it till the early hours. But the time came when a summons to the Bridewell interrupted a romantic dinner that she had slaved over for hours, and when the free flow of money had to slow down. Slowly, slowly, the cracks began to show. He was content simply to be with her, but she had grown frustrated, impatient for something more than he could give. Harry realised she could never change, and for all the rows that had torn them apart, secretly he had never wanted her to.

“Finished in the bedroom, sir.” A uniformed flunkey attracted Skinner's attention. They conversed in low voices over by the entrance hall, whilst behind them a walkie-talkie crackled.

Harry absorbed the scene. The unhurried comings and goings were grimly compelling to watch as the team of men approached the end of their task. The frustration he had felt when seeing them pore over his clothes and furniture was submerged by curiosity as they made vague efforts to restore a semblance of order in their wake, stuffing books back onto shelves and righting the wretched cheese plant at last. Only doing their job, he told himself, it's a necessary evil. And yet he already understood that this place - no, more than that, his whole life - would never be the same again.

Skinner returned to his side. “Nearly ready, sir.”

“Found anything of interest?”

When the chief inspector failed to reply, Harry pressed him about the murder. Skinner let a few more droplets of information trickle out. There had been, he said, half a dozen separate wounds in the body. Harry felt his gorge rise in his throat as he tried to visualise what had happened in that darkened alley, but he kept his voice calm as he asked if that meant that the murderer was certainly a man. Impossible to be definite yet, said Skinner, but undoubtedly someone possessing very considerable physical strength. How much had the Press been told? A statement had already been made, the detective told him, but it would be sensible to prepare for their questioning.

“I can handle them,” said Harry, as much to himself as to Skinner. He clenched his fist, as if glad of an outlet for his anger at having lost Liz. “No way am I having a bunch of journalists camping on my doorstep day and night, trying to grab a story.” He glanced at the clock. “I must ring the office, let them know why I haven't arrived.”

He got through to Jim Crusoe at the first attempt and in two or three clipped sentences explained that Liz was dead. At the other end of the line, his partner's shock was almost tangible.

“It's - my God, I heard on Radio City that a woman's body had been found, but I never . . . ” Jim's voice trailed off into nothingness.

“Tell Lucy I'll be in later.”

After a pause, Jim said in amazement, “You're not coming in to work?”

“What else should I do? The police are all but through with me. I just have to talk to Maggie about all the arrangements, but the inquest's bound to be adjourned. There's nothing else for me to do but sit and mope. The way I feel at present, I'll be better off in the office than sitting here with my head in my hands.”

“Look, I - I want you to know . . . Christ, this is terrible.”

Harry could picture his partner going back over the past and all his gibes about Liz, her greed and unfaithfulness. Too late now to apologise, he thought savagely, but all he said was a brusque “See you later” before ringing off.

Skinner was back. “I think we can leave you in peace for the time being, sir.”

Harry gazed at the room. It still bore the indelible marks of unwanted intrusion.

“Where do you go from here?”

“We have plenty of inquiries to make in a case like this, sir.”

“Your sergeant told me Coghlan's still out of town.” He hesitated for a moment, then added impulsively, “Make sure the bastard doesn't slip through your fingers. I don't want him to get away with this.”

“I wouldn't jump to conclusions if I were you, sir. As a solicitor, you don't want to find yourself on the receiving end of a libel writ.”

“For saying that he killed her? That's slander, not libel, Chief Inspector, and anyway there's a defence of truth.”

“I'm keeping an open mind, Mr. Devlin, and I'd advise you to do the same. You'll be available if I need to speak to you again, sir?”

“I'm not thinking of doing a moonlight, if that's what you have in mind. But I've told you everything I know and that isn't much. Liz and I had become strangers. So until you have some news for me, you don't need to call round again. Having half the police force here all morning is bad for business when my job is to keep clients out of trouble. The neighbours must have had their eyes out on stalks since your lads turned up with their fancy cameras and their two-way radios.”

Getting that off his chest made him feel a little better. Concentrate on the trivia, he told himself, like what the woman next door might think and how to cram a day's work into four or five hours. Bury your darker imaginings, that's the way to stay sane when the world seems full of madness.

The detective scratched his chin and said, “I can't guarantee that I won't have to trouble you once more, sir, as the inquiry develops. We have to do our job, you understand.”

Surely they couldn't now regard him as suspect? They had turned the flat upside down and found nothing; Harry was certain of that, for there was nothing to find. Even so, Skinner's attitude bothered him as the invaders finally left, abandoning him to the flat's solitude.

He slumped on the sofa whilst the events of this dreadful morning swirled around in his head, defying his attempts to impose the discipline of rational thought. Eventually he made himself a black coffee. Too bitter. Pushing the cup to one side, he forced himself up and into the stinging chill of the outside world.

Liz is dead. Repeating the words over and over would not, he knew, explain anything, but perhaps doing so would help his protesting brain to assimilate the truth.

Liz was dead. That lovely selfish woman whom he had adored. No more would she tease or taunt. The great green eyes wouldn't captivate again. That disconsolate pout when she failed to win her way belonged to history. Liz was dead and his hopes of a reconciliation had died with her. For at last he was beginning to acknowledge the truth: he had spent the past two years as a sleepwalker, dreaming that one day she would return to share with him the silly moments that had made existence seem worthwhile. And there had been many such moments. Making love beneath their own Christmas tree, the December after they were married, her slender body basking in the soft glow from the fairy lights. The Rhine cruise of their honeymoon, their hands clasped as they sailed around the Lorelei. Skiing in Austria and her radiance as she exclaimed for all the world to hear, “I feel so free!”

Liz was dead. And a primitive rage started to burn within him. Someone in this city owned the hands that had crushed out so much life. Perhaps a mugger or a maniac, but possibly the man of whom she had expressed so much fear: Mick Coghlan. Might her murder so soon after she had begged for shelter from her lover's wrath be nothing more than a macabre coincidence? Harry's mind rebelled against the idea. It was not simply that he didn't believe in such quirks of fate, but more that nailing Coghlan with the guilt had about it a rightness and classical inevitability. That the man who had wrecked his marriage should be responsible too for the final act of brutal destruction seemed as logical to Harry as his own rapidly rising hunger for revenge.

The wind from the Mersey chewed at the bare flesh of his face. The riverside walkway was deserted save for a couple of elderly dog-walkers kitted out in anoraks and fur-lined boots who glanced at him nervously before scurrying on. The noiseless moving of his lips might have disturbed them, or it may have been his wild appearance. Lacking a jersey or coat to guard against the bitter cold, with his patched jeans and thin shirt he must have looked like a ravaged scarecrow, but he didn't care.

Harry kicked a pebble over the side and heard it splash into the waves that slapped against the breakwater. They used to call this the Cast-Iron Shore, where granite warehouses towered above iron quays and the world traded through the port of Liverpool. Jesse Hartley, the no-nonsense architect who had built the Albert and Empire Docks, was said to have had a contempt for beauty, but the austere grandeur of his monuments remained now that the buildings had out-lived their original usefulness to become traps for tourists and the leisure cult. Times had changed. Gone were the days when the Mersey was crowded with big square riggers arriving on every tide, bringing cargoes of cotton from the New World. The only vessels to be seen this morning were the two river ferries, chugging back and forth from the Pierhead to the landing stages at Seacombe and Woodchurch.

After passing the Tate Gallery, he stopped as he always did at the sight of the Liverpool waterfront, with the Cunard, Dock Company and Liver Buildings towering above the stick men and women who strolled around. Why, he wondered, did he love Liverpool when behind the Victorian splendour of the Pierhead there was so much about the place to hate - the dirt and the poverty and the crime? It occured to him that, as with his ceaseless yearning for Liz, his affection for his birthplace remained strong enough to survive the worst: it could not simply fade away. The city and the woman, they would always be part of him.