here, you’re well aware of that.”
Harry said grimly, “I’d dearly love to speak to Coghlan myself.”
“Forget it. This is a murder inquiry, Harry, not some piddling burglary. You’re personally involved. Do yourself a favour and keep out of it.”
Harry fished for more information, but landed nothing. Moulden might not have been told much about the case by his superior officers and in any event was too good a policeman to let anything slip.
On his way back to the city centre, Harry asked himself what the journey had achieved. Coghlan’s continuing absence was hard to understand. Had he done a flit? The first signs were that Skinner was right in implying that Liz’s death had not been a straightforward case of a mugging or rape that had gone murderously wrong. More than ever, Harry wanted to find out for himself exactly what had happened to her. But how could he do that?
Tonight of all nights he couldn’t go to the Dock Brief. Too many people who knew him frequented the place and he wasn’t in the mood for repeated condolences. Instead he chose the Lear, a free house in Lime Street which took its name not from the Shakespearean king but from the Victorian rhymester who under Lord Derby’s patronage had written many of his poems over at Knowsley Hall. Pictures of luminous-nosed Dongs and toeless Pobbles decorated the walls, strange companions for the seamen and tarts who packed the bar.
Harry sat at a table by himself for hours, drinking slowly and turning the day’s dreadful news over and over in his mind. Quite apart from the traumatic news of Liz’s death itself, the way in which Jim, and especially Maggie, had reacted to the crime was somehow unsettling. And where was Coghlan? Was the nagging thought that the man might have murdered Liz prompted by logic, loathing or merely his own reluctance to accept that she might have met her end at the hands of a teenager doped out of his senses by smack?
In the corner of the snug, a couple of prostitutes were conducting a drunken dispute about a customer beneath a framed print which depicted the Owl and the Pussycat in their beautiful pea-green boat. And as the evening wore on and alcohol, fatigue and consciousness of what he had lost fuzzed his mind, the murder of Liz began to seem more ludicrous by far than a simple piece of nonsense verse.
Chapter Nine
At eight the next morning, the alarm’s buzz woke him. The coldness of the day made him shiver; his restlessness during the night had thrown the duvet onto the floor. Already the memory of staggering home from the Lear was as hazy as a scene observed through a smeared windowpane. He had an idea that he’d taken the phone off the hook and ignored a tapping at the door accompanied by a voice that sounded like Brenda Rixton’s asking if he was all right.
Nothing could be seen when he pulled the bedroom curtains apart. Fog had rolled over the Mersey, covering the water with its grey quilt. No hint of human life anywhere outside; he might have been marooned on an urban island.
He was drinking black coffee when the doorbell rang. Brenda again? No: when he put his eye to the spyhole, the sad face of Chief Inspector Skinner gazed back at him. It was a gut-wrenching repeat of the start to the previous day and for a moment he thought that he must still be dreaming. When he opened the door, he saw Macbeth was there as well.
“Sorry to disturb you again, Mr. Devlin,” said Skinner. There was a faint snuffle in his voice, as if he had picked up a February cold. “We have a number of additional questions for you, I’m afraid.”
Harry stood aside and they walked into the lounge. His grudging offer of coffee was accepted and as he poured two more cups from the jug, he sensed they were appraising his words and movements, on the look-out for evasions and inconsistencies that might suggest he intended to tell them less than he knew. Macbeth didn’t take a seat. Sleek and immaculate in a leather jacket and slacks, he prowled the room like a panther about to pounce.
Skinner said, “We’d appreciate it if you could take us through your movements again on the day that your wife was killed.”
Harry repeated his account of the events of Thursday. Already it seemed a lifetime away. Neither policeman took notes. Skinner listened intently; his sergeant radiated cynicism.
“Is there anything you would wish to add to your statement?” asked the Chief Inspector. “Or change?”
Harry shook his head. “Why should I?”
Macbeth spoke at last. “Why did you call at Coghlan’s house yesterday?” He glared at Harry, daring him to deny the visit.
“I wanted to talk to the man. Simple as that.”
“Why?”
How to reply when there was no safe, sensible answer? “Liz left me to live with him. I’ve never met Mick Coghlan, but he’s still one of the most important people in my life. When she was dead, I thought I should at least speak to him.”
“Mourning together?” The sergeant shovelled on the sarcasm.
When Harry said nothing, Skinner asked, “How did you react when your marriage broke up?”
“I celebrated with champagne, what do you imagine?” Even as he spoke, Harry regretted being provoked into a bitter, childish response. No good would come of it. He had counselled clients a thousand times about keeping cool under interrogation or in the witness box. Easier said than done.
“You must have felt wild.”
Why deny it? “Of course, but at least I had enough nous to realise there was no way I could change her mind for her. If she ever wished to come back, it had to be her decision, taken in her own time. She-”
“Yes?”
“She was a strong-willed woman, Chief Inspector. Threats or pleading, neither would have achieved anything. They would only have made her more determined.”
“Presumably you never lost hope that one day she’d tire of Coghlan and want to give the marriage another try?”
Harry grimaced. “In the back of my mind, yes, I suppose you’re right. Liz and I shared some good moments. But she used to complain I spent too much time working for too little reward. She wanted something more from life.”
“All the same, you never divorced. Exactly why not?”
“I had no urge to and Liz never asked for it. Neither of us bothered with the recriminations that make lawyers rich.” He pondered for a moment and then said, “Some lawyers, at any rate. I put her in touch with a solicitor from Maher and Malcolm and we sorted things out as painlessly as possible. The money side was simple. We sold the house and split the lot down the middle. She wasn’t greedy. She was confident Coghlan could keep her in the style to which she wanted to grow accustomed.”
Macbeth snapped, “And what about Wednesday night?”
“What about it?” Despite himself, Harry could feel the sergeant’s hostility beginning to get under his skin.
Stolidly, Skinner said, “You must have been aggrieved when your wife turned up, as you say, out of the blue. Let’s face it, she was treating this place as a hotel, somewhere she could rest her head between lovers, isn’t that so?” When Harry failed to answer, he continued, “Frankly, Mr. Devlin, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d been furious with her. Only natural in the circumstances.”
“Believe it or not, I was glad to see her again.”
Macbeth moved forward, his lean body tense. “Did you sleep with her on Wednesday night?”
“I told you. She slept in the bedroom, I had the couch.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that, sir?” Skinner conveyed disbelief without sacrificing a scrap of politeness.
“I’m hardly likely to have forgotten.”
“You see,” Skinner persisted. “Mrs. Devlin was obviously an attractive woman. Charming, vivacious. Everyone we’ve spoken to has agreed about that. And she was your wife, sir, come home after two years with another man.”
