“Apparently not. They were enquiring whether I was responsible.”
“But that’s ridiculous!”
“So I told them. Whether they believed me or not is another matter.”
“Could it… could it be Mick Coghlan?” Strangely, it seemed to Harry as though she were hoping that he would say yes.
“Maybe. I gather that he’s still missing. The man will have a lot of explaining to do if he shows himself.”
“You still think he killed her, don’t you?” Her question was curious, tinged with uncertainty, but still less sceptical in tone than she had been the previous day. Again, it almost seemed as if she were willing herself to believe in Coghlan’s guilt.
“Who else would want to do her harm?” he asked. When she did not reply, he continued, “Take it from me, Liz was genuinely afraid the other night. I should have realised.”
“Stop blaming yourself, Harry. You couldn’t have guessed it would end up like this.” She said, with nervousness that he found difficult to fathom, “What about her new boyfriend?”
He grunted. “It seems you and I haven’t been able to convince the coppers that he was anything other than a figment of the imagination. Or, possibly, that Liz and I had got back together again, but she was too scared to tell friend Coghlan.”
“Oh God, Harry, what a mess.” Even at the other end of the telephone, her dismay was plain. “The police seem to be flailing around in the dark.”
“Simply doing their job. Not easy. There’s something else. I blotted my copybook by failing to tell them. Forgot to mention it to you, as well.”
He told her briefly about the marks on Liz’s wrists. She snorted with scorn.
“Suicide? That I will not believe. She simply wasn’t the type.”
“A week ago I’d have said the same, but the more I think all this over, the less sure I become about everything.”
“I’m sure, Harry.” He could hear the passion bubbling in Maggie’s voice. “She was my kid sister, remember. And it’s out of the question. Liz was in love with life, there’s no way she would want to kill herself.”
“A cry for help, perhaps?” Even as he made the suggestion, Harry realised how unlikely it was.
“Who was she crying to? No, Harry, face up to it. There’s something here we don’t understand.”
“I’m going to make it my business to understand, Maggie. I owe her that. The trouble is, neither of us was in her confidence. Any idea who might have been?”
A few seconds passed before Maggie said slowly, “I can think of a couple of names. Matt Barley, for one. Liz always cared for him. And Dame, of course. She was her oldest friend.”
“Right. I didn’t have an address to give the police where they could contact Dame. Is she still around? And if so, where?”
“God knows. Frankly, I shudder to think.”
Harry decided not to pursue that one. He was fond of both Maggie and Dame, but the two women had never hit it off: the one a paid-up member of the bourgeoisie, the other as cheerfully down-market as a fish and chip supper. “Anyhow,” he said pacifically. “I ought to get in touch with them.”
“Like I said yesterday, you shouldn’t interfere. Leave it to the police to sort the whole thing out.” Again anxiety caused her voice to tremble a little. “They’ll unravel it all if you give them time.”
With a vehemence that took even him by surprise, he said. “But they didn’t know Liz! Don’t you see? If this isn’t a commonplace street killing, then Liz was murdered because of who or what she was. I was her husband, I lived with her day and night. I can cut corners that the police painstakingly plod round. And what’s more, I won’t waste time and effort wondering if I’m the bastard who stuck a knife in her.”
His sister-in-law sighed. “You always were an obstinate devil. I suppose nothing I can say will change your mind. But if you really cared for her, you would remember Liz as she was, not trample over her grave.”
That stung him. Sharply, he said, “Sorry, Maggie. I simply can’t sit back waiting for something to happen when out there is a man who has stabbed my wife.”
After hanging up, Harry checked the number of the Freak Shop and dialled immediately. After what seemed like an age, Matt Barley answered.
“Matt, this is Harry.”
He heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line before the other man said, “Harry, what can I say? It’s unbelievable. I feel so sick that Liz should have died like that. I keep expecting her to walk through the door, late for work as usual. I phoned yesterday evening, but there was no answer. Just meaning to say — well, you know. I remember how much she meant to you.”
They talked for a minute before Harry said, “Can I come and see you, Matt? There are things about the murder that bother me. You saw her regularly, you may be able to help. I’m sure the police have grilled you, but would you mind?”
“Okay,” said Matt. Did Harry detect a shade of reluctance there? “If you think it’s necessary. That is — I’d be glad to see you, of course, but I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at. Some maniac killed her. Isn’t that the top and bottom of it?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Can I come over now?”
“Well… it’s difficult, Harry. I’m rushed off my feet. Short-staffed at the moment. Won’t tomorrow do?”
Harry kept pressing but ultimately had to agree to call at the shop the following morning. As a throw-away line, he asked if Matt knew where Dame could be found these days.
“She chucked her job in at the casino,” said Matt. “Liz did tell me what she was up to, but I can’t remember off-hand. Something barmy, as I recall. Let me think it over, it’ll probably come to mind before we meet.”
As he was saying goodbye, Harry heard the doorbell again. It seemed to him that the sound would forever be associated with the arrival of horrific tidings. He went to the door slowly, aware of an involuntary tensing of the muscles in his neck, arms and legs. This time, though, the visitor was innocuous. Brenda Rixton’s carefully made-up face smiled at him through the spyhole.
When he invited her in, she seemed for once to be tongue-tied, almost embarrassed, “I came to ask — how you were coping,” she said, after a couple of false, stammering starts.
He shrugged and said, “All right, I suppose, in the circumstances.”
“I wondered…” she began “… I mean, you must be feeling pretty low. Yet at a time like this, you really need to keep your strength up. So I thought you might like to share lunch next door.”
“I couldn’t possibly put you to all that trouble,” he said hastily. “Besides, I’m going out for a long walk. Clear my head.”
“No trouble,” she said quickly. “If you’re busy — perhaps dinner tonight?”
He was about to refuse again, but something in her expression made him have second thoughts. It was a look of yearning for company that he felt he could not ignore. So he simply said, “That’s very kind of you. What sort of time?”
“Shall we say seven?” She beamed. “Good. I’ll see you then.”
After she had left, Harry threw on a coat and scarf and went out to the waterfront. Walking along the path towards Otterspool, he mulled over the endless questions surrounding Liz’s death. Where was Coghlan and was he the father of the child that the murderer had also killed? Was there something odd about the attitude of people like Matt and even the policeman Macbeth, let alone Maggie and Jim? Or was he being misled by his own over-stretched imagination?
At least he ought to be capable of sorting out what had been going on in Liz’s life during the past two years. Learning of the loss of her unborn child had, if that were possible, strengthened his resolve to discover the man who had committed the crime. A night’s sleep had at least helped to bring matters into perspective. He still wanted to strike out, to take revenge. But more than that: making an effort to contribute towards the killer’s detection would help exorcise the guilt he felt for having ignored Liz’s fear of Michael Coghlan.
On the way back home, he passed families enjoying a Saturday afternoon stroll, kids gambolling around their parents’ feet. Might Liz and he have ended up like that, if he had handled things differently? No, he couldn’t deceive himself. Their relationship had been a helter-skelter ride, not a journey on a long-distance train.
In the entrance hall of the Empire Dock, a rosy-cheeked figure in a raincoat which had seen better days was chatting up the porter. With a journalist’s sixth sense, Ken Cafferty swung round, his face aglow with anticipation.
