“Froggy, at last! Where were you?”
A small man jostled past Harry, catching his elbow and causing him to spill some of the beer that the blonde had poured a moment before. Without a sideways glance or an apology, the newcomer said in squeaky indignation, “Had things to see to, didn’t I?”
“The boss was chasing after you. As soon as he turned up, her ladyship threw a fit. God knows why, he wasn’t back as late as he said he would be. Anyway, you should have been here at half nine, so if he’s searching for someone to kick, you’re favourite.”
The man had protruding eyes and a forehead wrinkled as if with the effort of years spent making up excuses. It was a petty rogue’s face, of the sort Harry encountered every day of his working life. Standing by his shoulder, Harry caught a whiff of a foul smell, distinctive even in the Ferry’s murky atmosphere.
After a pause for thought the man said, “Anyone asks, Myra’s been took sick. They’ve rushed her into hospital and I’m only just back from the Royal. Okay, Shirelle?”
The barmaid shrugged. A bulging eye twinkled at her as a new line of self-defence evidently occurred to the man. “And I’ll keep me mouth shut about yer job at the Apollo. Promise.”
Shirelle tossed her blond mane in contempt. The earrings jangled with menace, but she spoke resignedly. “All right, I’ll cover for you. Now sod off.”
The small man blew her a kiss and shoved back through the crowd, vanishing from view. Liz still had not turned up. Harry spotted a trio of young girls slinking through the double doors at the other side of the concert hall. Off to the disco. Liz loved to dance and it occurred to him that she might be jiving the night away. He followed the girls downstairs. On the dance floor half a dozen women were swaying to the beat thudding from head-high speakers in each corner of the room. The dancers gazed into space, while the strobes painted them in ever-changing colours. Liz was not amongst them. Harry took a long draught from his glass and went back upstairs, in time to hear Russ Jericho wind up his act with a mumbled platitude about a terrific audience. The applause was patchy and Harry didn’t join in.
A compère in a black velvet suit with flecks of dandruff sprinkled like snowflakes around the shoulders strutted on to the stage. As he gabbled about the quality of the entertainment, more people gravitated towards the bar. Harry scanned their faces in the hope of seeing Liz. No luck.
He turned to the man standing next to him, a stocky figure sales-rep smart in jacket and tie, and said, “I’m looking for a woman. Tall, dark, she . . . ”
The man interrupted him with an ironic wink. “Aren’t we all, pal, aren’t we all?”
Harry finished his drink in silence. Where was she? The old frustration at her thoughtlessness began to burn within him: had she stood him up? For all he knew, she might be at the Demi-Monde or Huskisson’s with some new bloke she’d just picked up. Of course, he should blame himself for succumbing to the temptation of her note like an addict craving for another fix.
“Well, that’s enough from me,” said the compère and a slurred voice from the audience bellowed assent. “Now is the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The highlight of our show, our very own hit recording artiste.” He rolled off the last word with a Gallic flourish before rising to a new crescendo: “Yes, ladies and gentlemen. The enchanting. The talented. The lovely. The one and only - Miss Angie O’Hare!”
The keyboard player and drummer in the background burst into life with a Lennon and McCartney number. The people at the tables started clapping and someone cheered. A woman swept on to the stage, microphone in hand, singing about all the lonely people.
For Harry, her sound belonged to the distant past and the pop music of his youth when once or twice she had made it to the lower reaches of the record charts. Sixties ballads had always appealed to him and he still had an Angie O’Hare album somewhere at home. The song brought Brenda Rixton back to mind. Lack of companionship must cause her to contrive their regular meetings in the corridor or lift at Empire Dock. Where the lonely people all come from, he thought, matters less than where they find to go. And, suddenly, he felt Liz’s failure to turn up as keenly as a nettle sting.
Angie O’Hare took a bow and as her head rose again, for a second he fancied that he saw a glimpse of sadness in her sapphire eyes, as though she too identified with the lyric. But within moments he realised that he must have been mistaken, for a smile of triumph spread across her face as she said, “Thank you all so very much,” and started talking about the next number that she was going to sing. Feeling cheated, Harry reached for a cigarette and looked away once more.
The drinkers’ queue had thinned and he traced a path towards the serving blonde. She was lying to a tall, tanned man in a slickly tailored dinner jacket whom Harry took to be the manager.
“Froggy? He only arrived half an hour ago, poor lamb. His wife’s sick and they’ve whipped her into the Royal. He shouldn’t really have come at all, but he didn’t want to let you down.”
“Do me a favour.” The man tugged at the ends of his dark moustache. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, but you could tell from the gesture that he thought himself handsome. Even the barmaid, concentrating on her trivial deceit, let her eyes linger on her boss a little longer than necessary before she spoke again.
“Honest,” she insisted, “you only have to ask him. But mind what you say, he’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”
Worthy of an Oscar, Harry thought. He coughed and shuffled, drawing attention to the fiver in his hand. Ignoring him, the manager said, “He’ll be under more pressure if I find that he’s been spinning me a yarn.” But he turned away as he spoke.
After being served, Harry stayed by the counter, sipping the beer and telling himself that Liz would not be coming now. Why she had bothered to summon him here was anyone’s guess. It would have made more sense to listen to Jim’s advice and steer clear, but where Liz was concerned, logic was as scarce as love in a brothel. Today had been reminiscent of their marriage as a whole, as he twitched at the end of whatever strings she cared to pull.
From the stage, Angie O’Hare was crooning the chorus of Don’t Make Me Over. He looked around the concert room. Everywhere, men and women were pairing off, like chess players easing through a well-tried opening game. Through the crowd, he could see the man called Froggy deep in conversation with a customer who had his back to Harry. Spinning another tall story, no doubt. But then the customer’s girlfriend, a sulky blonde with a tart’s wiggle, interrupted them and drew her man aside. Froggy resumed his desultory collection of disused glasses, casting a surreptitious glance at the manager as he did so. Harry saw the little man relax visibly as he spotted his boss at the rear of the room, standing with arms folded, looking abstractedly towards the stage.
Angie was in full flow: no matter how many times she had wrapped herself around the lyric, she still managed to give it everything. Harry could vaguely remember fancying her when she was in her prime. Women had been a mystery to him then. Come to that, they still were. But tonight, in a shimmering silk dress slashed from the waist and with her auburn hair fashionably frizzed, she looked as good as ever. There was a strength there, a sense of power, that he found as attractive as the curves of her body. Unexpectedly, he experienced his first stirrings of desire for her that he could recall since long-ago schooldays and when the number spiralled to its climax, he found himself applauding with the rest of the Ferry crowd.
Breathing hard, she inclined her head in acknowledgment, and this time Harry could detect no hint of anguish in her eyes. Softly, she said, “Tonight is very special for me, so I’d like to dedicate this next song to the man in my life.” She sent a secret smile into the sea of faces. “I sang it to him on the night we met. It means so much to me - and, I hope, to you.”
Absurdly, it was as if for Harry the words had broken a momentary spell when Liz was forgotten and for an instant the singer was in tune with him. The keyboard player struck up with the opening chords of The Look of Love and Ha
rry started to edge towards the door. Liz would not be seen in the Ferry Club tonight.
On the way out he felt a hand brush against his leg. He glanced round and found himself looking at the grinning face of a woman in an unflattering tight red frock. She might have been any age between twenty and forty. Her freckled face was as used as an old bus ticket and somehow familiar.
“Looking for company, darling?”
Harry paused, trying in vain to place her in his memory. At the sight of his hesitation, she said, “No need to be shy. Mine’s a vodka and lime. Or - we could take a walk if you like. I’m not too fussed about her voice, are you?”
Bony fingers dug into his arm. Decisively, he shook his head and said with a rueful grin, “Sorry, love. Not tonight.” Or any night, please God.
“You don’t remember me, do you? I’m Trisha. Peanuts Benjamin is my friend.”
Of course. He had defended her on a soliciting charge eighteen months ago. Result: a fine, paid off no doubt by her going straight back on the streets again. As far as he could recall, she had still been in her teens at that time, but women aged rapidly in Trisha’s business. He said hello and asked how she was.
“All right. You know. I’m having a night off, as a matter of fact. Peanuts had to sort out some bother at the Ludo Club. Pity, we was going to celebrate him getting off. In court, I mean. You did a good job, he’s really made up.”
“I’ll get you that vodka and lime.”
“Don’t bother, I was only messing. Anyway, I’m sick of this place. Might as well catch a taxi and go back.”
They went outside together. One of the men on the door treated Harry to a knowing smirk. Trisha stuck her tongue out at the bouncers and put her arm in Harry’s, a gesture of camaraderie rather than a come-on. For him, it was a relief to get back into the open air.
As they walked down the road, looking for a cab she said, “So what are you doing in the Ferry? It’s not where you expect to find posh solicitors, a dive like that.”
“Long story,” he said. “Would you believe I was just looking for my wife?”
“Oh yeah?” She giggled in incredulous merriment. “And I’m an Avon lady. Never mind, you didn’t meet anyone this evening, but there’s always tomorrow.”
A black Corporation taxi pulled up in front of them. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Goodnight, Trisha. Give my best to Peanuts.”
She climbed into the cab and then lowered the window. “Call him if you want. He’ll fix you up, no problem. Specially after what you did for him in the court today.”
He smiled without answering and waved her off. Left on his own, he suddenly felt overcome by exhaustion. Drink and disappointment had made his limbs heavy and his every movement a battle against fatigue. Trying without success to think about work rather than his wife, he dragged himself back once more along the city streets that led to the Empire Dock.
The flat seemed quieter than ever. Liz wasn’t there, nor had he expected her to be this time. Pulling his clothes off sleepily, he noticed the suitcases and plastic bag which she had abandoned in his bedroom. Then he remembered that scarred wrist, the stupid tale about Coghlan wanting to kill her and how sold she seemed to be on her latest lover. Since they had split up, her life had changed in a way that he did not understand. And through an alcoholic blur, he realised that tonight the two of them were further apart than ever.
Chapter Five
The insistent wail of the doorbell woke him. Harry opened his eyes a little. Everything was dark. The throbbing inside his head seemed always to have been there, though he tried to tell himself it was only an early morning hangover. Ignore the racket, he told himself. Wait for it to go away.
Again the bell rang, for a full minute without a break. Impossible to sleep through that. Swearing, he peered at the luminous digits of the radio alarm. Five-fifty. There must be some mistake. But after a brief pause came another ear-piercing summons to the door.
“All right.” He admitted defeat with a dehydrated croak. Climbing out of bed wasn’t as easy as usual; his legs might have been those of a rheumaticky pensioner. Struggling into a dressing gown, he padded into the hall. The noise ceased as he put a filmy eye to the spyhole. A man’s face, bleak as a mountain range, filled his line of vision.
In a hoarse whisper, Harry said, “You realise what time it is? What’s this all about?”
“Mr. Devlin.” A statement of fact, rather than a question, uttered with glum authority.
“Correct. And who are you?”
“Police. Will you let us in, please?”
Harry unlatched the door, but didn’t release the chain. Outside stood two men in suits. The man who had spoken was heavily built and aged about forty. He had sandy hair, thinning on top and going grey. The corners of his mouth turned down to give him a lugubrious look. Harry recognised his accent as West Yorkshire. His companion was a generation younger, lean, lithe and wary as a soldier scanning a street in the Bogside. But what struck Harry most was the colour of his skin. In Liverpool, a black cop with a sergeant’s stripes was still unexpected, like a mermaid rising from the murky depths of the Mersey.
“Detective Chief Inspector Skinner,” said the first man. His melancholic tone matched his appearance. He indicated his colleague. “This is D.S. Macbeth.”
“I don’t care if he’s Banquo’s bloody ghost. What’s the big idea?”
Skinner ignored the question. “You’d like to see our I.D., I imagine.”
He flipped open a card and his colleague did likewise. Harry tried to focus on the documents.
“Okay. So why . . . ”
“May we talk inside, please, sir?”
Skinner’s manner precluded contradiction and Harry was unable to think of a reason for not doing as the policeman asked. He couldn’t think of much at all. Leading the intruders into the lounge, he motioned them towards armchairs, more than glad to sit down himself. He saw their quick professional glances around the room, taking in the mess of books and papers, the crumpled jacket draped over the arm of a chair and the leaves of the unwatered cheese plant just beginning to yellow.
“I gather that you’re a local solicitor,” said Skinner. He spoke as if diagnosing an illness.
Harry nodded. He wasn’t acquainted with either of this pair; nothing odd about that in a large city, but why the black sergeant was glowering at him with scarcely concealed hostility was impossible to understand. Crusoe and Devlin didn’t have a bad name down at the Bridewell; they weren’t thought of as bent. Nevertheless, it wasn’t customary for the local force to pop into the homes of defence lawyers in the early hours to chat about their current caseload.
Skinner leaned forward. “I believe you are married to a Mrs. Elizabeth Devlin?”
Harry scarcely recognised the name. It must have been years since he last heard it. Anyway, it didn’t fit Liz. She had always been her own woman, never a possessed spouse. But he grunted assent.
“I am afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Devlin.”
Harry sensed that he was expected to respond, but the ache in his head blotted out rational thought. He glanced at Macbeth, but the dark face was now stripped of expression. Both men were studying him intently. After a short pause, Skinner coughed and spoke again.
“Mr. Devlin, I have to tell you that your wife died last night.”
Harry stared, first at one man, then at the other. Their features betrayed nothing. They were two detectives, watching him watching them. And waiting. Time passed. Seconds, minutes, hours? Harry neither knew nor cared. The silence made his head hurt more and his stomach began to churn.
Skinner cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry.”
Harry’s shoulders twitched. “But isn’t . . . I mean . . .” He couldn’t frame what he wanted to say. He had no idea what he wanted to say.
Softly and with no emphasis, the chief inspector said, “Your wife’s body was found last night. We are treating it as a suspicious death, Mr. Devlin.”
Harry
was conscious of the detectives’ unwavering gaze. Vaguely aware that there were questions which he should be asking - though if Liz was dead, how could any answers matter? - he clutched like a shipwreck victim at the first which entered his head.
“How did she die?”
Skinner said in the same flat tone, “She was stabbed, Mr. Devlin.”
Stabbed. The word twisted in Harry’s guts like the blade of a knife. He shut his eyes. A hundred memories surged into his mind, like unwelcome intruders breaking down the door.
Liz on the night of their first meeting, at a fireworks display within a stone’s throw of here at the Albert Dock. She’d told him then how much she loved to see the river lit up by the exploding showers of colour, had laughed and introduced herself: Liz Wieczarek. He couldn’t pronounce her Polish surname and she had teased him about his ineptitude.
Their wedding day when she’d promised to honour and obey, while a trace of humour had sparkled in her eyes and he’d tried not to grin at the provocative touch of her fingernails running along the back of his hand while the vicar droned on about the nature of their sacrament.
The evening when his cross-examination skills had drawn out the admission that she was sleeping with Michael Coghlan. When Harry asked if she loved the man, she had spread her arms and simply said, “I think so. But even if I don’t, I do know that I want him.”
Eventually he again became aware of the unblinking scrutiny of the policemen. Their watchfulness as they assessed his reaction to their news made him think of physicists noting the outcome of a laboratory experiment.
“I realise that this must come as a shock to you,” said Skinner. He coughed once more. “Even so, I wonder if you could help us by answering a few questions.”
Harry felt as if every muscle in his body had melted. This is the same room, he told himself, in which you talked to her thirty hours ago. That’s where she sat. Through the door is the bed in which she slept. Yesterday morning she was alive and said thank you, for making her feel safe.
All the Lonely People Page 4