Yet Matt had no need to feel inadequate. He had a sharp brain and a flair for making a fool out of anyone crass enough to equate a lack of size with a lack of nous. From his father, an equally diminutive sales manager in the motor trade, he had inherited an entrepreneurial zest that had enabled him to start a market stall flogging Beatles memorabilia of doubtful provenance before setting up the Freak Shop. There was more than a trace of self-mockery in the name he gave to the shop which he had transformed into a cross between a fancy dress hire business and a pornographer’s discount store. Liz had enjoyed working there. It suited her unshockable style.
The shop was protected by steel shutters and conspicuous burglar alarms. Harry rang the bell and heard bolts being slammed back before Matt’s head appeared round door.
“Come in.”
The silent, unlit shop seemed as eerie as a waxworks in a Hammer horror movie. To one side was a counter covered with tricks, toys and masks which caricatured people in the public eye, along the other ran a rail from which were suspended clowns’ suits, Elizabethan dress and a score more examples of the costumier’s art. Matt led the way past a sign which said private - NO RIFF-RAFF, through a bamboo curtain and into a sparsely furnished back room. On a table in the corner was a tattered paperback of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance together with an opened bottle of Lambrusco and a paper cup. In one corner was a battered old Rock-Ola jukebox that Matt had been tinkering with for as long as Harry could remember. The walls were adorned with a dozen posters showing Matt’s hero, John Lennon, at different stages of his career from the Cavern Club days to the self-indulgence of the seventies.
Mall swept a pile of Swedish magazines off a rattan chair and waved Harry into it.
“Tea, coffee? Beer, wine? Tequila, Bloody Mary? Cannabis, cocaine?”
Harry grinned. “Coffee’s fine.”
As Matt bustled, they talked of days gone by. Friday night at the Dock Brief or the Drum, Saturday afternoons spent watching soccer at Anfield or Goodison, whilst Liz went round to see Maggie or Dame. When the coffee was made, Matt perched on another chair opposite Harry. His face was suddenly screwed up with pain.
“This can’t be happening, you know, Harry. I can almost believe she’s here with us in this room, checking her make-up in the mirror and complaining about our grubbier customers.” He switched to the past tense. “She had a genius for making me laugh, squeezing me out of a bad mood. Like I told you when we met in the pub the other week she turned up out of the blue just before Christmas. I was glad to take her back. You know how it hurt me when she took that job with Yes.”
Harry remembered. During their marriage, she’d met at a party the director of a fashion concept retailer and he’d offered her the chance to run a store in the Cavern Walks. She’d packed that in at the time she met Coghlan; he was apparently the sort of man who felt his masculinity threatened if the woman in his life had a full-time job.
“She was beginning to find the life of luxury a bore?”
“Suppose so. Liz never talked much about the creep she was living with and I seldom asked. I gathered that he didn’t care for her coming back here, but she’d made up her mind and once that happened she was an irresistible force. Even where Mick Coghlan was concerned.”
“Any idea why she didn’t simply walk out?”
Matt gave him a pitying look. “You think I didn’t suggest it? There was a day when she came in with a mark over her right eye. He’d hit her, I knew, although she denied it. But she simply said she’d make any move in her own good time and I knew her better than to act like a nanny.”
Harry said tightly, “So the bastard did beat her?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting Liz was lilywhite. Matter of fact, she said she’d thrown a lamp at the guy and cut him across the face. A stormy relationship, you might say.”
Harry bit his lip. Never once had he laid a finger on Liz during their marriage, yet come to think of it, she had once taunted him with that, while hurling pots and pans around in the kitchen after a row over something of no importance. “You never lose your temper!” she had shouted, “That’s no way to behave, bottling things up. You ought to let yourself go once in a while. Like other men. Like me.”
Matt said, “Not as if she had no one to turn to. There was Dame. Maggie, possibly, though the two of them had drifted apart. Or even me.” He bowed his head. “I offered to let her stay at my place, anytime she needed to escape. But she never took me up.”
Harry wondered why she had not gone to Matt, rather than himself, on Wednesday night. He said, “She was involved with someone new.”
The little man compressed his lips. “I tumbled to that. There were signs. She’d spend half the day having muttered conversations on the telephone, pop out for a few minutes and be gone for an hour. Her mind wasn’t on the shop this time around, I soon found that out. Anyway, she told me a week ago that she was packing the job in. The last few days, she didn’t even come in to work. I didn’t make a fuss. She was too busy with her Prince Charming, I suppose.”
“Who was he, Matt?”
“She didn’t say. And I didn’t ask. Like I said before, it was all a case of in her own good time. I was willing to lend an ear if she wanted to talk, but there was no point in trying to discuss anything before she was ready. She wouldn’t take any notice of me.”
“Did she strike you as frightened?”
Matt considered. “On edge, yes. Jumpy, at times. But frightened - I dunno. I suppose the truth I don’t want to face is that I was no longer close enough to her to tell.”
“Yet she came back to work here, that signifies something.”
“Does it?” His tone became unexpectedly sombre. “Dunno. It was almost as if - she had some ulterior motive. The job seemed like a means to an end as far as Liz was concerned.”
Harry said suddenly, “Did you know she was pregnant?”
The question seemed to catch Matt off balance. He paled and said hastily, “Yes, yes, the police told me. First I heard of it.”
“So you don’t know who the father was?”
Frowning, Matt replied, “No, of course not, how could I?”
“What else did the police have to say?”
Slowly, the little man said, “When I heard that she was dead, I thought it must be a sex crime. They happen every day - though never, you expect, to someone you know. Yet the police seemed too keen to dig up the details of her life, as if they imagined there might be some clue to the thing buried in her past. Not as though she was simply another crime statistic. They wanted the dope on you, for instance.”
Harry felt his cheeks burning. “Yes?”
“And Coghlan, too, of course. How did she feel towards the two of you? Did any friends call on her here? Did she have any enemies?” For an instant, the old humorous twist turned up the corners of his mouth. “I wasn’t much help, I’m afraid, but I did make it clear that you at least were kind to animals and good with small children. Poor but honest, at any rate in comparison to every other lawyer I’ve ever met.” He paused. “They asked who was to blame for your breaking up.”
“And?”
“Drop the worried look, I said she was an idiot. When they suggested you might have harboured a grudge, I said no. I’m sure you must have kept hoping she’d come back to you once she’d flushed Coghlan out of her system.” He lowered his voice. “Believe it or not, I envied you. Despite the way she messed you around, at least you had the memories. There was a time when she cared for you.”
“You too, Matt.”
To his surprise, the little man responded furiously. “Are you kidding? I was a convenience to Liz, nothing more. Christ, I’m only a midget. Someone to pat on the head from time to time, that’s all.”
For a minute, Harry was silent. Matt had been a volatile character for as long as he had known him, but this fierceness was unexpected. A nervous reaction to the death of a friend whom he had known for most of his life, or did it signify something more? I
n the end Harry collected the coffee jug and poured them both a second cup. After taking a sip of the muddy brown liquid, he said, “I think Liz was murdered by Mick Coghlan.”
“What makes you say that?”
Harry explained about Liz’s nocturnal visit and the fear that she had described. The anger rose within him as he recounted his conversation with Skinner a couple of hours earlier. “I swear to you, Matt, the man who killed her isn’t going to get away with it.”
Matt stared at him. “What can you do?”
“Leave that to me. At present, I’m trying to put the piece together. That was one of the reasons why I wanted to talk to you and Dame.”
“That reminds me.” Matt brightened a little. “A mutual friend called in yesterday, after we spoke. A girl who knew Dame from her time at the Playhouse. Lovely brunette, she wanted a Whore of Babylon’s outfit for this party up at the University. Anyway, she told me that Dame’s currently starring in the lunchtime show at Franco’s in Rumford Place. If you move yourself, you might catch her now.”
“What sort of show?”
“That I leave to your fertile imagination. But you know Dame.”
“On a Sunday?”
“So she said.”
Harry shook his head. “What’s the world coming to?”
The two of them walked towards the front door, exchanging commonplace conversation before Harry said, “You know, I came round here on Thursday, when I was trying to make contact with Liz. The place was shut up in the afternoon. It’s not an early closing day for you, is it?”
The little man seemed discomfited. “No, not Thursday. I was out.” He looked at the ground and said again, “Just out.”
Chapter Twelve
Both women were smeared with mud from head to toe. They wore skimpy bikinis, one red, one blue, and enough bare flesh was visible to delight the watching men. The taller and heavier of the two girls had her opponent in an arm-lock and was threatening to dip her blonde head in the muddy bottom of the lime green plastic swimming pool that the management of Franco’s had installed over the dance floor.
Cradling his pint in his arm, Harry pushed his way towards the front of the crowd. Had the city council’s entertainments sub-committee really licensed this performance for the Sabbath? Most likely Franco’s were just taking a chance with the law and raking in the profits. As he moved forward, a roar of approval greeted the emergence of the smaller girl’s pert, pink-tipped breasts from her bikini top as her assailant tightened her grip.
Harry fixed his gaze on Dame, who now had the blonde in a parody of a half-nelson, to the accompaniment of boos worthy of a televised wrestling contest. Looking up for a moment, she spotted Harry and winked saucily at him before being diverted as the other girl managed to wriggle free. In the ensuing mêlèe, the blonde contrived to unfasten and then detach Dame’s bra, which she waved in triumph above her head. Dame grabbed it back from her, but with a magnificent gesture threw it at another goggling teenager, to the noisy acclamation of his fellow lookers-on.
“Will you look at that,” breathed a bespectacled youth standing by Harry’s side. His glasses were in danger of steaming up. The sight of Dame’s pendulous bosom, milky white but rapidly caking over with mud, became too much for him and he lapsed into silence.
The blonde beckoned at the boy who had caught the bra-trophy and a surge from behind pitched him headlong into the plastic pool. Alcohol had endowed him with bravado and, staggering to his feet, he bowed to his friends before turning with a start when Dame flopped towards him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Diverted, he was no match for the other girl’s nimble attentions to his belt and zip and within seconds his trousers were down at his ankles. As Dame started to unbutton his shirt, everyone bellowed with beery amusement. Soon enough, though, they had cause to groan as the man in the dapper get-up of a fight referee arrived from backstage to stop the bout and declare a dead heat. The two girls bowed to rapturous applause and exited arm in arm. Gathering his clothes and grinning inanely, the audience participant stumbled back to be swallowed up in the crowd.
The entertainment over, Harry and the others drifted in the direction of the bar. His second pint was nearly at an end when he heard a couple of ribald comments from the other men standing at the counter at the same time as a long arm snaked around his waist. At the same time, a husky voice in his ear said, “Mine’s a Bacardi and Coke, in case you’ve forgotten, and take no notice of this ignorant mob, I only have eyes for you.”
As he turned his head, Dame’s cheek pressed against his. He found her hand and, clasping it, ordered drinks for them both. Moving back, he surveyed her virginal white blouse and black leather skirt, newly combed shoulder-length hair and wicked smile.
“I hardly recognised you with your clothes on.”
“That’s what all my men friends say,” she said. “Cheers.”
He took a draught from his replenished pint pot and said, “Congratulations. An outstanding display in every way.”
She laughed. “I ought to try harder with the diet, be honest. Anyway, Franco’s made up. It brings the punters flocking in on what would otherwise be a dead day. Specially you repressed office types. The fellers tell their old ladies they’re just popping out to the local for a quiet Sunday jar and then they leg it down here for a bit of harmless fun.”
“Almost a public service.”
“You’re not wrong.” She emptied her glass. “Thirsty work, though.”
As he tried to catch up with the barmaid, he said, “Been here long?”
“A fortnight. The money’s good, but I’m just filling in. I’ve been promised an audition for the new Bleasdale at the Everyman. Besides, it’s only a question of time before the scuffers catch up with us here. At present, we get one or two off-duty constables who keep their mouths shut, but word’ll get round. I need to look to the future.”
Ever since he had first met her, Dame had been on the verge of a breakthrough in her acting career. A few years back, she had managed a bit part in a TV soap, only to be wiped out in a hotel fire on the whim of a scriptwriter under pressure to boost the ratings. Her appearances in regional rep had been confined to stripping off in unfunny farces. Otherwise she led a twilight existence, working mainly in pubs and clubs, transferring her affections from one unsatisfactory man to another, not allowing the knock-backs to diminish her faith that fame was just around the next corner.
The drinks arrived. She said, “Thanks, Harry,” and then, more sombrely, “Don’t feel you need to talk about Liz if it hurts too much.”
“Matter of fact, Dame, I didn’t simply come here for the pleasure of ogling at your boobs. Lovely as they are. I wanted to have a word with you about Liz. You were as close to her as any of us.”
“I feel as though a part of me was killed that night.” She uttered the phrase simply, without any false dramatics. She had grown up with Liz, lived in the next street to her, gone to school with her, shared early boyfriends with her. After a moment a harder note entered her voice as she said, “Where’s that shit Coghlan? There’s a story going round that he’s done a runner.”
After Harry had told her of his most recent conversation with Skinner, he said, “Why don’t we go somewhere quiet to talk?”
“Suits me.” An impish grin spread over her face. “I know a place where we won’t be bothered.”
“Lead me there.”
“You’ll have to put up with a few more topless ladies though.”
He studied her own conspicuous curves and in the same bantering tone said, “I’m intrigued. Let’s go.”
As they left Franco’s, Dame entwined her arm in his. “The Olivier it ain’t,” she said, “but at least it pays the rent.”
They chatted about inconsequential things as she led him through the labyrinth of city streets. Eighteen months or more had passed since their last meeting and she filled in the gaps with a panache that had him laughing every dozen yards. She told him of her ill-starred spell as a stand-up comic in Manch
ester cabaret and of how her last live-in lover, supposedly a company director with a fortune tied up in the futures trade, had done a flit with five hundred pounds from her building society account. The cash had supposedly been borrowed to tide him over a week-end until, he’d said, a hiccup with his bank due to a computer break-down had been sorted out. As ever she took her disappointments philosophically; hers was a life of easy-come, easy-go.
When they reached the city end of Dale Street, he asked “Where are you taking me?”
She squeezed his hand. “Losing your bottle? Trust me. I’ll make you believe I’m a highbrow yet.”
“Dame,” he said. “I’d willingly believe anything of you.”
Giggling, she said, “And you’d be right.”
“So what’s our destination?”
“You’re looking at it.” She stretched out a long arm and pointed up the incline that lay before them towards the stately buildings of William Brown Street, the Iron Duke’s monument and the Corinthian bulk of St. George’s Hall. “The art gallery,” she explained, as though to a slow-witted infant. “Remember what I said about the bare ladies? They’re two a penny in there.”
Following her past the two statues which guarded the approach to the Walker Gallery; Harry was unable to resist a grin, “Do you come here often?”
“All the time,” she said with a wave of the arm. She treated a young man at the bookstall to a seductive pout; he had been admiring her figure and now responded with a blush. “Take that disbelieving look off your face, Harry Devlin. I went to art college once, remember?”
He had forgotten that and assumed a contrite expression. She nodded vigorously and said, “I may only be a humble mud wrestler, but this place fascinates me. It has a magic I never found in any other gallery. Don’t ask why, I could never explain.”
Harry’s last visit here pre-dated his marriage. He let Dame guide him, showing off her knowledge and occasionally revealing a love for a particular painting that had a passion as real as the eroticism of the show at Franco’s had been fake. As he listened to her expound upon the merits of Augustus John, he reflected that, like Liz, Dame had never lost her capacity to surprise.
All the Lonely People Page 10