would come. Real life was never good enough for her; television and movies, the admen’s images of a better life just over the rainbow, had seen to that. She would have revelled in her name being on everyone’s lips. He could picture her grinning and with a careless toss of the black hair, saving only half in jest, “Maybe this makes it all worthwhile.”
In the end he bought a copy himself and took it back to the office. Slumped in his chair, he could scarcely believe that he was reading about his wife. The newspaper told him nothing he didn’t already know. The photo of Liz must have been taken years ago; probably some journalist had prised it out of Maggie. Liz had been looking straight at the camera, wearing the practised smile she had learned in her abbreviated modelling career. On the facing page was a smaller, smudged file photo of himself. It dated back to a much-publicised case when he had defended an enterprising Evertonian who earned a crust impersonating people summoned for jury service, but reluctant to perform their civic duty. Harry gazed at the rag for a minute or so, then threw it into the wastepaper bin.
Sighing, he contemplated the beer belly that bulged unmistakably beneath his shirt. A few years ago he had run in the Liverpool Marathon with the minimum of training; these days he used the lift in the Empire Dock rather than climbing the stairs. Cigarettes and booze were partly to blame, but so was the sense of futility that had dogged him since the marriage breakdown.
Thinking about keep-fit reminded him of gym-owning Michael Coghlan. There was no escaping the man; he muscled into any memory of Liz. Realistically, was it conceivable that Coghlan murdered her? The fingernails of Harry’s right hand dug into his left palm as he was seized by the impulse to find Coghlan and beat the truth out of him.
Of course, the logical thing was to go home and wait for the police to act, but he no longer cared about the logical thing. On the calendar, today’s saw was There are situations in life when it is wisdom not to be too wise. For once the message rang true. He pushed the remaining files to one side, said goodbye to Lucy and left.
Brunner Street was five minutes distant by car. He parked across the road from a Chinese moneylender’s and walked down to the old brush factory that had been converted into Coghlan’s Fitness Centre. A gaudy yellow signboard nailed across the building’s soot-blackened exterior promised high quality facilities and a family atmosphere. Harry walked in past a ground-floor display of jogging gear and sweatshirts and a gum-chewing assistant who was chatting up some girl on the telephone. The place was quiet. Too far from the city centre to appeal to health-conscious businessmen who fancied a lunch hour work-out, thought Harry, and too close to Toxteth to make an up-market image credible. He went through a door marked members only. It led to a flight of steep stairs which he took two at a time out of some vague gesture of solidarity with the keep-fit clan, but by the time he reached the top he was puffing for breath.
Upstairs a red-haired woman sat at a small table reading the fashion page of a glossy magazine. She wore a tight tee shirt emblazoned with the legend: My boss is a comedian — the wages he pays are a joke, and an expression as bored as the voice in which she asked for his membership card.
“I’m looking for Mick Coghlan.”
His eyes roamed around the gym. No evidence here of the family appeal of Coghlan’s, just a handful of squashy-nosed men in singlets and boxer shorts working out on the punch bags and dumb-bells or pressing their hairy, hard-muscled bodies up and down with practised ease on the green mats that covered half the pine block floor. Grunts and curses punctuated the sweaty silence. On the far side of the room, a burly and balding man in a faded tracksuit stood, arms folded, watching the activity. A navy blue towel was slung over his shoulder. He caught sight of Harry and stared at him in a menacing, sleepy-eyed way, as if he fancied himself a Liverpudlian Robert Mitchum.
The woman said, “Mr. Coghlan isn’t here.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you want him, anyway?”
“I need to talk to him urgently.”
“Arthur.” She called to the burly man, who strode towards them.
“What’s the problem, Paula?”
“This feller wants to see Mick. Reckons it’s urgent.”
Arthur scowled at Harry. It was like sustaining the visual equivalent of grievous bodily harm.
“So who are you?”
“My name’s Devlin. Harry Devlin.”
The man looked puzzled for a moment, as if the name rang some far-off bell, then his brow cleared and he picked up a copy of the evening paper from the table, turning to the story about Liz’s murder.
“Harry Devlin, eh? Well, pal, Mr. Coghlan isn’t here and I don’t think he’d want to talk to you if he was.”
“Is he back at the house?”
“You deaf or summat? I said, he wouldn’t want to see you. Now scram before my patience breaks.”
Harry began, “Whatever you say, I’ll be sure to…” But he got no further because the man laid a couple of shovel-like hands on his shoulders, spun him around and frog-marched him towards the door.
“Arthur,” said the red-head in a warning tone.
“No problem,” came the reply. “Simply seeing Mr. Devlin out.” He released his grip and bent down to hiss in Harry’s ear. “My manners aren’t always so good. Now fuck off and don’t come back.” One push sent Harry tumbling down the first few steps and had him clawing at the rail to regain his balance.
Downstairs the youth was still busy on the phone. Harry left Coghlan’s Fitness Centre without regret but with no sense that it had been a wasted visit, either. He had the illusion of having done something positive and he’d seldom experienced that kind of feeling recently. The next move was to find out whether Coghlan had yet arrived home.
Liz had phoned him a couple of times after going to live with Coghlan, asking him to send on a few of the things she had left behind on the day she moved. Harry remembered that her new address had been in Woolton; he stopped off at a post office on the way to check the details in the phone book. It was five o’clock and darkness had fallen. He drove throughout the waste land of the inner city towards the more affluent suburbs, trying to work out what he would say if Coghlan was there. In truth, he had no real idea of how he would handle things but that, perversely, was part of the challenge.
Coghlan’s place was a modern detached in spacious grounds, worthy of a successful executive or a villain too smart for the police to catch. More than likely there was a swimming pool at the rear. That alone would have been enough to captivate Liz — she loved the water and used to say that as a kid she’d had a recurrent dream of being a mermaid. Harry pulled up outside, walked to the door and pressed the bell.
Behind him, someone boomed, “Harry Devlin — what the hell are you doing?”
The unexpected familiarity of the voice was bewildering. Harry whirled round and snapped, “Who’s there?”
“You shouldn’t be here, you daft sod.” A man with a chest as broad as a coal barge emerged from the gloom. The gravel rasped beneath his feet; there was nothing subtle about his heavy tread. For all his anonymous plain clothes, the man would never be mistaken for anything but a policeman.
“Dave.”
Detective Constable David Moulden nodded. “Long time no see.”
“Why are you…?”
“I asked first. This is the last place I thought I’d run into you, Harry.”
“Last place I would have intended to come if…”
With a gentleness surprising in a big clumsy man, Moulden interrupted again to say, “Sorry about your missus, Harry.”
Harry looked at the detective. They hadn’t met since one night the previous summer when a client of Harry’s had taken it into his head to crash a stolen taxi cab into a police car. “Am I right in assuming Coghlan hasn’t turned up yet?”
“Correct.”
“Significant, don’t you think?”
“You know me, Harry, I’m not paid to think.” The good-humoured expression was as effective a mask as any.
“Any idea where the man is?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that we’d like to talk with him when he does show up. Result is, two of us have been sent to keep an eye on this place. My mate’s in the car down the road. But you’ve no business
