All the Lonely People

by Martin Edwards

  Jim’s craggy face puckered with bewilderment. “Are you having me on?”

  “Would I?” Harry leafed through the telephone pad tear-offs tucked underneath the desk calendar. Nothing that Lucy couldn’t cope with. “I want to check a file, it’ll only take a moment. Then I’ll be off again.”

  Jim contrived a wry smile and hoisted himself down off the desk. At the door he said, “Don’t rely on me for bail, that’s all.”

  “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

  “Famous last words.” With a shake of the head, Jim wandered off to his room.

  Delving into the top drawer of his second filing cabinet, Harry located a buff folder marked TRISHA SLEIGHTHOLME-SOLICITING CHARGE and rifled through the sheaf of papers secured by a green treasury tag. The first page of his handwritten notes confirmed that Trisha wasn’t on the phone, but gave the address of the Toxteth flat in which Peanuts Benjamin had set her up to ply her trade. He jotted it down on a scrap of paper which he thrust into his inside pocket. Having a contact amongst the street girls might help him to find Marilyn and thus, he hoped, Rourke more quickly. Today’s calendar motto, he noticed, was: It is possible that blondes also prefer gentlemen.

  After a quick parting word with Lucy, he picked up the M.G. and set off up Duke Street. The February night was falling now and the sodium lights cast their eerie glow on the darkening city streets. Graffiti on the walls of a disused bacon factory angrily proclaimed that the I.R.A. would win. He passed the austere bulk of the Anglican Cathedral, not two hundred yards away from the gym which Coghlan was never going to see again. Turning on to Upper Parliament Street, he slowed down, starting to squint into doorways, searching in vain for a prostitute who bore a resemblance to Marilyn Monroe. At the traffic lights opposite the mosque, a police Escort pulled alongside him; Harry sensed its occupants giving him the once-over. He accelerated away. The idea of having to explain a kerb-crawling charge to Skinner and Macbeth did not appeal. At the next lights he turned into Grove Street and managed to shake off the police car. Another left brought him into Falkner Square, notorious as the favourite outdoor haunt of the city’s prostitutes. No one was in sight, there were just a couple of black cabs cruising hopefully. Perhaps it was too early yet.

  A minute later he was in Castlereagh Avenue, one of half a dozen broad, lamp-lined streets in the vicinity built in the days when Toxteth was where Liverpool’s prosperous merchants lived in splendour. He pulled up outside the tall terraced building numbered thirteen and said a silent prayer that the M.G. would still be there when he returned. Stone steps led up to a front door which stood ajar. There were half a dozen doorbells but only two had accompanying name cards. Harry checked the piece of paper in his pocket. Flat F, that was it.

  Keeping his fingers crossed that he wasn’t interrupting Trisha in the middle of a professional engagement, he pushed the door open and climbed the flight of stairs that led from the scruffy hallway. On the first landing were Flats C and D. He climbed again and found himself outside a door marked F. Sellotaped to it was a card marked TRISHA and decorated by little heart shapes in mauve felt tip letters.

  His loud knock brought an immediate response. Trisha’s voice, challenging yet with an undertow of anxiety. “Who is it?” The question of a woman who is not certain that her next customer will not be the last. A rapist, perhaps, a psychopath, a murderer . . .

  “Harry Devlin.”

  After a moment’s scrutiny via the spyhole, she admitted him. Crossing the threshold, he absorbed at a glance the rush matting in lieu of carpet, the cracked mirror hanging from the old-fashioned picture rail, the dripping I Love Ibiza tee shirt draped across the clothes maiden in the hall. Curry smells wafted in from the adjacent kitchenette.

  “You had me flummoxed there. It’s a bit soon for punters. Besides, only me regulars call at the house first, and then they’re likely to give me a ring first.” Her eyebrows lifted a fraction as a thought occurred to her. “Changed your mind?”

  “I’m here to beg a favour.”

  Mischievously, she breathed, “Nothing - out of the ordinary?”

  “Behave, Trisha. All I need is your help.”

  “Last solicitor who asked me for that, I charged him double.”

  Harry refused to be diverted. “I’m looking for a girl known as Marilyn. She works round here. I’d like to find her fast.”

  “Is she another of your clients?” A faint grin. “Or the other way around? Don’t make me jealous.”

  Patiently, he said, “I simply want to talk to her.”

  “You wouldn’t be wanting to cause bother for her? The law’s the law. You’re either inside it or not. You’re in. Marilyn and me, we’re out.”

  “This is personal.” He leaned back against the wall, arms folded. “You’ll have read about my wife in the papers, yes?”

  “More than that, Harry. The busies came round to check your alibi. Remember us meeting in the Ferry last Thursday? They wanted to know all about it.”

  Harry had forgotten telling the police about his casual meeting with Trisha, had overlooked the diligence with which they checked and counter-checked.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”

  She waved away his apology. “No problem. I wasn’t entertaining when they arrived. What’s this all about, anyway?”

  “It’s possible that Marilyn knows someone who knows something about who killed Liz.”

  Trisha scanned his face for a moment, then said, “Wait here. I’ll get my coat.”

  She darted into the living room and re-emerged a minute later wearing a knee-length fake fur coat. “A present from Peanuts,” she said with a trace of pride. “He’s not as bad as people make out.”

  Her legs were bare and she was still wearing her fluffy indoor slippers. He gestured towards them. “Don’t you want to put some shoes on?”

  “We’re not going far.”

  She led him back down the stairs and into the street. The sharpness of the evening breeze made him wince, but Trisha didn’t seem to care. She traced a path through the streets. A couple of cars passed, moving slowly. The drivers peered furtively at Harry and his companion before continuing on their way. At the bottom of Falkner Square, Trisha halted at the pavement’s edge. Up ahead a taxi had pulled up alongside a telephone kiosk. A thin figure in a leather jacket and mini skirt skipped out from behind the red box and spoke to a man on the passenger side of the cab. Then she opened the rear door and clambered in.

  “That’s not her,” said Trisha authoritatively as the taxi sped off in the direction of Myrtle Street. “Young Carla, she’s only fourteen. Wrong, innit?”

  Harry waved towards the Square. “This is Marilyn’s patch?”

  “If she’s working tonight, she won’t be more than a hundred yards from here. Goes round in ever decreasing circles, she does. Course, you’ve got to keep on the move, otherwise it’s an easy lock-up for some lousy scuffer with nothing better to do.”

  Harry said nothing. He had spotted a woman moving out from the shadows on the other side of the road at the sound of another approaching vehicle. As a scrap metal truck lumbered by, she retreated again into the blackness, but for a moment a nearby street lamp had shed its cone of light upon a thatch of blonde hair. The woman was vaguely familiar. He realised that he had seen her for a brief moment in the Ferry. Of course, it struck him now. He had actually seen her interrupting a man - Rourke? - who was talking to Evison.

  He tensed with excitement. At last it was all beginning to come together. He had been right to link Liz’s vague report of the man with the battered face who, she had claimed, had been following her, with the ex-boyfriend whom Jane Brogan had attacked in the Nye. Shirelle had confirmed that. And now he knew there was a connection with Froggy. But there was still much that Harry did not understand.

  “Seen her?” asked Trisha.

  “I think so.”

  “Leave the talking to me. She can be a rough cow. Moody, too. But she’s all right, Marilyn, just had a har
d time, see?”

  In little, mincing steps Trisha went on ahead of him. Harry held back. The familiar knot of tension was grinding away in his stomach again. Instinctively, he sensed that he was on the verge of a breakthrough, that the truth about the deaths of Liz, her child and Froggy Evison was about to come within arm’s reach.

  The two women came into view. Trisha had her hand on the arm of the blonde, as if to prevent her making a bolt for it. Marilyn was well nick-named. At first glance on a February night her hair and curving figure might remind anyone of the screen goddess. The illusion didn’t last long, even in semi-darkness. Her eyes lacked sparkle and the red mouth was stretched in an ungenerous line.

  Trisha took charge. “Marilyn, this is a mate of mine. Harry Devlin.”

  “Yeah?” There was no sign in the dull eyes that she was acquainted with his name.

  “He just wants a word with you, that’s all.”

  Suspiciously, the woman said, “I’m working, Trish, can’t you see?”

  “This won’t take a minute. And he’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s right,” he assured her. “I’ll pay you for your time. Easy money, better than working.”

  “You want to talk here? It’s freezing, I have to keep moving to keep warm, never mind the bleeding busies.”

  “Use my place if you like,” offered Trisha.

  “Thanks,” said Harry. “All right with you, Marilyn?”

  “Suppose so.”

  The three of them started back towards Castlereagh Avenue. Out of Marilyn’s range of vision, Trisha looked meaningfully at Harry and mouthed the words: “Smack head.” Harry nodded. He acted for enough drug addicts to be able to recognise the signs of their weakness. Heroin was cheap these days and freely available. His thoughts turned back to Rourke. Two women more different from Liz than Jane and this Marilyn would be hard to imagine. Perhaps the man had eclectic tastes. Or was there another explanation for his interest in Harry’s wife?

  Peanuts was waiting for them inside the flat. He was stretched out in an armchair like an eastern sultan, taking his ease. Reggae music filled the room. As Harry and the two prostitutes walked through the door, Peanuts grinned and said, “Shit, man, I never knew you were kinky. Two beautiful ladies. For anyone else, this would cost real money, you know what I mean?”

  Harry left the explaining to Trisha. As she talked, he whispered to Marilyn, “Joe Rourke, your feller, I need to talk to him right now. Where is he?”

  She yawned. “Who cares?”

  “I care, Marilyn. Tell me.”

  “No idea. I’m finished with him anyhow. We was only together for a couple of weeks. Got other protection now. Me old boyfriend’s come out of the nick last Monday.”

  The stomach knot was tightening again. “Give me an address. Anything.”

  “Can’t help you, mister. He stayed at my place till I threw him out. What do I want with him now? Besides, the money’s all gone.”

  “The money?”

  “Yeah, yeah, he had a few quid. All spent, like I said. It doesn’t last long.”

  Harry gripped her bony arm hard, his fingers digging into the flesh. Marilyn cried out, as much in surprise as in pain.

  Peanuts said, “Hey, man, that isn’t nice,” and made as if to get out of his chair.

  In a warning voice, Trisha said, “Harry, be careful.”

  He released the blonde, but the suddenness of his action seemed to have loosened the woman’s tongue. She said, “He’ll be out on the razz as usual. Fancies himself, does Joe. You’ll find him easy enough.”

  “Where, Marilyn?”

  Pouting, she said, “Try the Ferry Club. He likes the scenery.”

  Harry groaned. “That place, yet again. All right, I’ll try it.”

  Trisha gave him a make-the-best-of-a-bad-job smile. “Might see you there later on, then. You’re getting to be a regular. Better watch it, else Tony’ll fix you up with a job.”

  Harry spun round. “Tony?”

  “You must know Tony,” said Trisha.

  The stomach ache had become agony. “No,” he said. “Who is he?”

  She gazed to the heavens. “He’s only the boss man. The feller who runs the Ferry.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The city centre streets had an uneasy early evening calm as Harry walked towards the Ferry Club. From a basement bar came the sound of the drunken singing of “Danny Boy”. A loiter of kids aged twelve or thirteen hung around a hamburger stall nearby, loudly re-telling old jokes about the Pope. A police van cruised towards Dale Street, the men inside scanning the pavements in search of the first signs of trouble. Harry nursed closer to his chest the heavy object that he was carrying wrapped up in a chamois cloth inside his jacket. He was aware of the rapid beating of his heart. He arrived at the Ferry to find its entrance bolted and barred. The doors would not open for another two hours. He paused outside, looked up and asked himself how he could have been so blind. The realisation of his own stupidity hurt him as much as the drubbing he had taken outside the Empire Dock the other night. Tony - Anthony. Anthony - Tony. He had noticed the name of the boss of the club above the main door on the night of the first murder. Reginald Anthony Gallimore, licensed pursuant to Act of Parliament, et cetera et cetera. That unthinking failure to make the obvious connection when Dame had mentioned the name of Liz’s lover was wormwood and gall to him. He understood now why his wife had suggested that they meet at the club on that dreadful Thursday night. Not, after all, in order to see Rourke. She had planned an assignation with the man in charge that night and had meant to accompany him back to the Ferry, so as not to miss the chance of a minute in his company before they split up for the night.

  So it was Gallimore of whom she entertained such high hopes. Moneyed and handsome, the man she hoped to marry. What had gone wrong and why had he not come forward in response to the news of her death? And was it mere coincidence that Rourke, the man who kept her picture, who followed her around the city, also frequented the Ferry? Slowly, the fog within Harry’s mind was beginning to clear. At last he could identify the shadowy outlines of the truth.

  He turned down the alleyway where forty-eight hours earlier he had lain in wait for Froggy Evison. It was deserted. Lined up against the wall were half a dozen black bin liners from which old ring-pull lager cans and torn crisp packets spilled. The side door was shut. He tested it. Locked.

  For half a minute he beat on the metal panel until his knuckles were raw. Nothing. Impossible to make anyone hear inside. He had taken a step back towards the front of the building when he heard a key turn in the lock. The door swung open and the fair-haired keyboard player whom he had encountered on his previous visit stepped out into the night.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, the man was saying, “Maybe the agent will come up with someone. The kid from Wrexham might be free. The one who sings like Randy Crawford.”

  The reply was too low for Harry to hear. As the door began to close, Harry moved swiftly. Grabbing the door’s edge, he held it fast for a moment and stepped inside. He was looking straight at a tall black-haired man in a slim-fitting designer suit, the man whom on previous visits Harry had assumed was the manager, without appreciating that he must actually own the place. In the intervening week the tan seemed to have faded and his moustache to have drooped. Wrinkles had crept around dark eyes that no longer smiled with complacent authority. At the sight of Harry he stared as if coming face-to-face with a poltergeist.

  He knows who I am, thought Harry. He’s been afraid that I would turn up.

  “Tony. Tony Gallimore.” The words came out harshly; for Harry, it was like listening to someone else talk. During the past few days he had spoken to more than one man who had slept with his wife. But this was the one whom she had thought she loved.

  “You’re Devlin.” A statement rather than a question, spoken in smoothed-down mid-Atlantic tones which bore not a trace of the Scouser’s catarrhal whine.


  The keyboard player joined them in the doorway. “Problems, boss?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, Neil. I’ll see you later.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “Yes, Neil. No sweat. There’s no need for you to stay.”

  With a last dubious look at Harry, the keyboard player zipped his white blouson and was gone. Gallimore said, “What do you want here? We have nothing to say to each other.” That charming smile reserved for the punters and his ladyfriends was nowhere to be seen.

  “Wrong.” Harry jerked his thumb. “Let’s talk indoors.”

  Gallimore hesitated, but another glance at Harry’s face helped to make up his mind. “As you wish.”

  He led Harry to a room at the far end of the passageway. Its door was marked manager - strictly private. The office was palatial in comparison to the cubby-holes which Harry had seen on his previous visit. Comfortable chairs, a paper-laden desk, swish cordless phone and a year planner festooned with coloured oblongs and triangles. Two walls were covered with photographs of club acts. Perhaps half of them showed Gallimore with his arm round skimpily clad singers and dancers. Most of the pictures were adorned with trite messages and autographs: All the best from the Stimson Sisters, Luv to Tony from Cara xxx. Gallimore sat behind the desk and waved Harry into the other chair.

  “You didn’t answer me, Mr. Devlin. What do you want?”

  “To talk.”

  “Talking won’t help any of us. Elizabeth is dead.”

  Elizabeth. Harry would never associate the full name with the woman he had married. To him, she had always been Liz. Perhaps that had been her problem: she was a Liz who yearned to become an Elizabeth. He said, “It’s about her death that I wanted to see you.”