All the Lonely People

by Martin Edwards

  ‘You own the shop which sells leathers? Or the travel agents next door?’

  ‘No, I’m up above.’

  The words on the blackened signboard at first-floor level were hard to decipher. The officer peered at them. ‘Tattooist’s studio, is that? You’re the feller I heard on Radio Liverpool this morning?’

  ‘The one and only. Liverpool’s Leonardo da Vinci.’ With boozy bravado, Finbar shrugged off his jacket and ripped open his shirt. On his chest was an extravagant, multicoloured image of a naked woman astride a horse. Her modesty was not quite saved by long dark tresses, and she seemed unaware of the exophthalmic scrutiny of a caricatured Peeping Tom.

  ‘I’ll gladly autograph you as a souvenir,’ he offered. ‘And if you can salvage the electric needles I keep up there, I’ll turn you into the Illustrated Man free of charge.’

  The officer tipped his helmet back, a now-I’ve-seen-everything expression spreading across his face.

  ‘Thanks very much, but I’m pretty as a picture as it is.’

  In the distance, a second siren howled its warning.

  ‘Here come the police,’ said Harry. Ruefully, he asked himself why, earlier that evening, he hadn’t refused Finbar’s invitation for a quick one. He knew the folly of becoming too closely involved with his clients and their misfortunes, yet it was a mistake he could never help making. If only he’d been taught at college the knack of remaining aloof, of concentrating on rules in books, instead of becoming fascinated by the people who broke them...

  ‘Anything combustible in there?’ demanded the fire officer.

  Finbar bowed his head, momentarily abashed. ‘I had paint and thinners on the landing. Been planning to decorate. Early resolution for next New Year.’ He gazed up at the flame-lit heavens. ‘Sod’s law, eh? I should have left the dirt to hold the place together.’

  ‘What about the ceiling tiles?’

  ‘Polystyrene.’

  ‘Perfect. A fire trap, waiting for a spark. All right - wait here out of harm’s way while I take a gander.’

  As the officer rejoined his men, a police car appeared, its lights flashing. One of its occupants raced towards the blaze, the other strode towards Harry and Finbar, waving his arms like a farmer directing sheep.

  ‘Move, will you? Don’t - hey, for Chrissake, it’s Harry Devlin! What are you doing here, pal? I thought you chased ambulances, not fire engines.’

  Harry nodded a greeting. He knew Roy Gilfillan of old.

  ‘Where there’s a disaster, there’s sure to be a solicitor. Finbar’s a client. We were having a pint in the Dock Brief, putting the world to rights, when some bloke burst in and said a building in Williamson Lane had gone up in flames. We dashed over and it turns out to be - ’

  Another siren interrupted him and he swung round to watch the arrival of the turntable while Roy Gilfillan marched over to his colleague, who was conferring with the fire officer outside the entrance to Finbar’s studio. Harry noticed the Irishman’s eyes slide away from the fire to a couple of girls in the crowd behind them, blondes en route for a nightclub who had paused to goggle at the inferno. Finbar winked at them and was rewarded by smirks of encouragement. Even at a time like this he was incorrigible.

  ‘Do you need to call Melissa?’ asked Harry, hoping to lead Finbar away from temptation. ‘Tell her what’s happened?’

  ‘No problem. She’s not neurotic, not like Sinead, doesn’t make a fuss when I tell her to expect me when she sees me. I’m not a train, I don’t run to timetables.’

  ‘Neither does InterCity, but at least it stays on the rails most of the time.’

  Finbar chuckled. ‘Truth to tell, I’ve a lot on my plate already, so far as the fair sex are concerned - even leaving Sinead and her bloody alimony demands aside. I bumped into a girl I used to know only this morning. A lovely lady. I reckon I might be able to persuade her to rekindle the flame - ’scuse the phrase, in present circumstances. And then there’s Melissa ... Jases!’

  Across the street, the door which led to the tattoo parlour finally disintegrated in an explosion worthy of an Exocet. Awestruck, Harry and Finbar gazed at the wreckage. Above them, men in breathing masks were directing water jets from the top of the ladder down on to the blaze, while at ground level two more firefighters armed with axes moved towards the entrance. Safe behind the cordon, winos cheered as if on the terraces at Anfield. Oblivious to his audience, the fire chief pointed towards the building. The policemen stared obediently at something, then Gilfillan gestured for Harry and Finbar to approach. The two of them edged closer.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Finbar. ‘Any closer and I’ll get scorch marks on Lady Godiva.’

  ‘Smell that!’ shouted Gilfillan, pointing towards the doorway.

  No mistaking the stink of petrol from close range. Harry exchanged a look with the policeman.

  ‘And see the inside of the passageway?’

  The fumes made their eyes water, but squinting through the hole Harry saw charred walls immediately beyond the space where the door had been.

  Finbar pushed a hand through his unruly dark hair. He was a stocky man, barely as tall as Harry but broader in the shoulder and a few years older; yet his wonderment was that of a wide-eyed schoolboy.

  ‘Are you telling me this wasn’t an accident?’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘The seat of fire seems to have been the other side of your front door - the burning is worse there than further up the stairs. Add that to the smell and there’s only one diagnosis.’

  ‘Arson?’ asked Harry. For all the heat, he felt a sudden chill.

  ‘Suspected malicious ignition,’ Gilfillan’s colleague corrected him primly, before turning to Finbar. ‘Is there anyone who might have a grudge against you?’

  Finbar looked nonplussed. After a pause for thought, he allowed a guilty grin to lift the corners of his mouth. It was a moment of self-knowledge.

  ‘Only everyone I’ve ever met.’

  The Making of All the Lonely People

  All the Lonely People was my first published novel, and holds a special place in my affections. So I am delighted to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the first hardback edition by seeing the story enjoy a new incarnation as an e-book – a format undreamed of when Harry Devlin arrived on the scene.

  Many authors who are labelled as crime novelists did not intend, when they first started writing, to work within a particular genre, and some are troubled by the desire of publishers, booksellers and readers to categorise their fiction. It seems to be relatively unusual to have had a long-nourished ambition to write not just one detective novel, but a whole series of them. Yet that was always my dream.

  The dream came when I fell in love with a remarkable woman , - or rather, with what she did - at the tender age of nine. The woman was Agatha Christie, and her detective stories were the first adult novels that I read. From the beginning, I was fascinated by the way Christie wove her plots, and shifted suspicion between her characters, combining subtle clues with red herrings so as to come up with one surprise solution after another. Her ingenuity took my breath away. Ever since I had learned to read, I had yearned to write the kind of stories I most enjoyed. An only child, I had plenty of time to myself, and to a large extent I lived in my imagination, making up countless stories for my own amusement. Once I discovered Agatha Christie, I became determined to write mysteries that teased and entertained others as her books teased and entertained me.

  I devoured every detective novel that my heroine had written, and when I ran out of new Christies, I turned to other crime novelists, including Dorothy L Sayers, and two stalwarts of a later generation, Michael Gilbert and Julian Symons. From them, I learned that the mystery novel can offer a range of pleasures in addition to a satisfying plot – strong characterisation, evocative settings, and an insightful portrayal of society. And, in a series of detective novels, an author who cares to do so has the scope to chart not only the developing life of the detective – and the supporting cast – but als
o changes affecting the world in which they live.

  I’d started writing mysteries at primary school, producing a series of tales, carefully handwritten in exercise books, featuring a detective duo called Melwyn Hughes and Sir Edward Gladstone; they were an updated version of the Holmes and Watson from a favourite series of films starring Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. At grammar school, I continued to read avidly and fantasise about becoming a published crime writer, but although I wrote a few more detective stories, including one Sherlockian pastiche, I became too self-conscious to repeat the uninhibited melodrama of my pre-teen efforts.

  At school, I never came across anyone else who shared my ambition to write, and never met a published author. My parents, understandably dubious about my single-minded focus on such an elusive goal, encouraged me to train for a “proper job” to fund my living costs while I tried to produce something worthy of publication. So I decided to study law at university, and when I went to Oxford, at last I found myself surrounded by would-be novelists, and with the chance to attend talks given by leading authors. I never plucked up the courage to introduce myself to them and seek practical tips, but I’ve never forgotten, when nowadays I meet people with an ambition to write, how much constructive encouragement can help.

  As a student, I dabbled in different types of writing, publishing a little poetry, and having a radio play – a comedy about a bigamist called “The Marrying Kind” – broadcast locally. But when I moved from full-time education to a working life, as an impoverished (no minimum wage in those days) articled clerk in a firm of Leeds solicitors, I returned to crime. But only in the fictional sense. The bleak reality of life as a criminal lawyer never appealed to me.

  In long hand, I wrote a breezy thriller about the disappearance of the football star, rejoicing in the title of Dead Shot. I paid someone to type it up, but ran out of cash after a few chapters. I decided I must teach myself to touch-type, and duly did so, but by that time I had come to the conclusion that Dead Shot simply wasn’t good enough to deserve publication. So the book as a whole was never typed, and never sent anywhere. A good thing, too, I think....

  By this time, I had qualified as a solicitor, and moved to Liverpool. My choice of firm was dictated by my judgment of where I would have the best chance of pursuing a career as a crime novelist. This ruled out the big firms, which demanded that young lawyers devote themselves body and soul to fee-earning, especially after one partner in a leading practice saw mention on my CV of my ambition to write fiction (I was an honest but naive job-seeker) and asked, with a disbelieving sneer, if I saw myself as a budding Graham Greene. The firm I joined paid much lower wages, but its two senior partners had published legal books, and one of them was a frustrated novelist. He and I later tried to collaborate on a “It Shouldn’t Happen to a Solicitor” sort of story in the James Herriott mould, but the contrasting styles arising from our different perspectives meant the generation gap proved unbridgeable.

  I was encouraged to write for the legal press, and after I’d ghost-written a book review for my boss, the first article under my own name appeared when I was 25. After that, there was no stopping me. I lost count long ago of the number of legal articles I’ve published, but it is well over one thousand. At the age of 26 I approached a publisher of legal books, and persuaded them to commission me to write a textbook on the subject of buying business computers. At the time, I’d advised on just one such transaction, but I brimmed with the confidence of youth. And I told myself that, even if my legal experience was sketchy, I could write readably on the driest topic. When Understanding Computer Contracts was published, I was intensely proud. At last I had published a book! What is more, it earned excellent reviews and gained me a reputation, however undeserved, as an expert in an emerging field of law. A year later, it was succeeded by Understanding Dismissal Law, a subject I knew a bit more about, and a string of other legal books followed.

  The experience of seeing my books on the shelves was gratifying, but I remained as desperate as ever to write a crime novel of quality. The experience of Dead Shot had at least shown that I possessed the stamina and drive to produce a full-length mystery, and that in itself made writing the book which never saw the light of day an invaluable apprenticeship. Stamina and drive matter, because so many would-be writers give up too soon – there are always countless good reasons to devote the long hours spent writing to some other, more immediately fruitful, occupation.

  I decided that if I were to write a book suitable as the first entry in a long-running series, I needed to have three strong components. First, a detective character who could credibly become involved in a number of mysteries. Second, a strong setting that had not been over-used. Third, a hook that would entice people to read on.

  I wondered about the old adage “write what you know”. As advice, it has limitations – I wanted to write about murder, but thankfully I had never been involved in a murder case. At that time, I’d never met anyone who had committed murder, or anyone who later became a murder victim. I was strongly attracted by the escapism of fiction. But I was also keen to write a novel which conveyed an impression of realism. I didn’t know any police officers or private eyes, but I did know something about the lives that lawyers lead. And this resulted in my inventing the character of a likeable but unlucky, and rather down--at-heel, solicitor whose work brought him into uncomfortably close contact with crime and criminals. Thus was Harry Devlin born.

  I’ve lived in Cheshire or Wirral, neither of them far from Liverpool, almost all of my life, though I have never had a home in the city itself. But I have worked a stone’s throw from the Liver Building and the River Mersey for more than 30 years, and the city still enthrals me. In my experience, the overwhelming majority of its people are marvellously kind and good-humoured, while its history is extraordinary. Once Liverpool was the second city of the British Empire, but it fell on hard times in the 20th century, and decline accelerated after the Second World War. Many people who are unfamiliar with the city associate it as much with crime and deprivation as with the Beatles, but stereotyping Liverpool and Liverpudlians is a huge mistake. Not long after I arrived in Merseyside, the area convulsed with riots, and one week-end, as I took a visiting friend from London on a bus trip through a riot-scarred housing estate near where I lived, I asked myself whether I’d made a mistake in re-locating. When I’d contemplated a move from Leeds, people had warned me against Liverpool; it’s a city that arouses strong feelings among both supporters and detractors, and the detractors tend to be in the majority. But I think the detractors are profoundly mistaken, even though Liverpool occasionally seems to be its own worst enemy. After the riots, a senior politician, Michael Heseltine, guided the city along the long and winding road of regeneration. A spectacular garden festival was held, the Albert Dock and its environs were redeveloped, and, despite many mis-steps along the way, Liverpool began to fulfil its potential.

  Where better to set a series of mystery novels? Liverpool’s critics constantly associate the city with crime, even though statistics do not really support the prejudice. But Liverpool has plenty of mean streets, and you would think it is a more credible location for a long-running series of murder mysteries than Oxford, or Midsomer. And there is so much about the place that is intriguing and deserves to be better known. I thought that if someone like me, from leafy, Cheshire, could fall for gritty Liverpool and witty Liverpudlians, it would be an appealing challenge to write books that portrayed the place affectionately, as well as with warts and all, so as to help people unfamiliar with Liverpool to see it differently. This was always in my mind – to write the books mainly for those who, like me, were not born and bred Scousers, though I’m always glad (and relieved) when people who have lived there all their lives tell me how much they enjoy the books.

  I was determined that my detective would be a local man with a dogged love for his native city. I toyed with calling him Harry Dowd, after a goalkeeper of the Sixties, but settled on the surname of Devlin, which
had an Irish touch that seemed suitable. Oddly enough, there is a long list of fictional detectives called Devlin, some pre-dating Harry, some more recent, but somehow Harry’s name seems absolutely right for him.

  So the detective and the locale were sorted; I just needed a strong story-line. I worried too much about plotting to begin with, but eventually I came up with the right starting point. Harry’s gorgeous, but estranged, wife comes back into his life; he thinks they can start again, but his hopes are destroyed when she is found murdered. Worse, Harry is prime suspect. So he has a double motivation to solve the mystery. He needs to clear his name, as well as to do justice to his beloved Liz.

  The key elements of the novel, and of the series, were signposted on the very first page, in the context of a film by Woody Allen – Love and Death. But the central theme of this particular book was the fear of loneliness, and what better way to reference that than with a Beatles song? ‘Eleanor Rigby’ provided the phrase that gave the book its title.

  I decided on a straightforward linear narrative. Everything would be seen from Harry’s perspective. In later books, I have enjoyed experimenting with viewpoint, but for a fast-moving thriller, a single viewpoint helps drive the narrative forward. I felt that a powerful motive for murder was essential, and once I came up with my killer’s psychological motivation, I was on a roll.

  As far as I can remember, I started work on the story in 1987. The opening chapter went through countless re-writes. I submitted an early version to a competition for first chapters of proposed novels that was run by Southport Writers’ Circle. The judge was Hugh C. Rae, a prolific and accomplished writer. He didn’t award my effort a prize, but years later I had the pleasure of talking crime fiction with him one evening at a Crime Writers’ Association conference in Scotland.

  I didn’t do much research for the book, although I did look round a flat rented by a fellow lawyer in the Albert Dock which became the model for Harry’s home on the fictitious Empire Dock development. This occupied a site which was a car park when I wrote the book, but is nowadays home to a gleaming conference centre. Oddly enough, I needed to consult professional colleagues about the Liverpool Bridewell and Magistrates’ Court that feature in the early scenes. Harry and I might both be Liverpool lawyers, but we inhabit different professional worlds – thank goodness. And I talked to a nightclub singer who happened to be a member of Southport Writers’ Circle, for background that helped me to depict the Ferry Club. But I didn’t, for instance, know anyone remotely like Matt, Ruby, Peanuts, Trisha, Froggy, Coghlan or Dame, let alone Skinner or Macbeth. I simply made them up. Nor, at that time, did I have much experience of bereavement, so I had to work hard to think myself into Harry’s mind after the death of Liz. The model for Pasture Moss came from a comparable scavenger-haunted waste heap in Wirral which featured in a depressing article written for The Sunday Times Magazine. That scrap heap had a potent symbolic value, especially as a crime scene, and the mood of the story was inescapably bleak, although lightened with humour. However, I was intent on ending the book on a note of hope about the future for both Harry and his home town.