“The very man!” ’
With a casual wave to the porter, Cafferty walked across the foyer. “I have a tit-bit which may interest you. The police have found Mick Coghlan. He’s down south, apparently, being questioned at length. They haven’t charged him yet, but they haven’t let him go, either. Interesting, yes?”
An overwhelming sense of relief swept over Harry. “How did you find that out?”
Cafferty tapped the side of his nose. “A good newspaperman never reveals his sources.”
But it did not require Sherlockian powers of deduction to work out that Ken must have called in here on the off-chance, on his way from the police H.Q. at Canning Place across the road. Harry dodged a dozen questions and ignored a hint that an offer of coffee would be welcome. Glad as he was that Coghlan had been located, he knew days might pass now before a confession was dragged out of the man or before Skinner and his cohorts decided they had enough evidence to make the charge stick. If, he meditated with a defence lawyer’s instinctive search for the loophole, any link between Coghlan and the crime had the strength to survive critical scrutiny. Ten to one there was an alibi in the background; that would explain Coghlan’s sudden departure down south. And an alibi from a crooked crony might not be easy to break.
Escaping eventually to his flat, Harry switched on the box and yet again watched the video of Don’t Look Now. Roeg’s lush portayal of Venice retained its power to hypnotise and the moment when the psychopathic dwarf strikes that final, fatal blow had lost none of its horror. As the credits rolled, he thought of Matt Barley, the only person of restricted growth — Harry understood that that was the phrase to use these days — he knew. The little man was devoted to Liz. He’d lived next door to the Wieczarek family years ago; the same age as Maggie, he had more than reciprocated the girls’ affection for him. Harry had always enjoyed Mart’s sometimes savage humour and his refusal to allow the mere lack of size to interfere with a Scouser’s birthright of making a dodgy living, selling joke masks to kids and sex aids to middle-aged men.
He showered and changed and rang the bell next door. Brenda ushered him in, saying twice how glad she was that he had come. Her hair was pinned back elegantly and, for all his ignorance about women’s clothes, he guessed that the low-cut taffeta dress had come from the place in her wardrobe reserved for special occasion wear. Her flat was identical to his in design, but she had transformed the small box with subtle wall-lighting and so much greenery that a visitor almost needed a machete to cut a way through the hall. Her living-room walls were hung with oriental tapestries and a couple of icons of the kind advertised in charity gift catalogues.
They ate by candlelight. Brenda produced a bottle of Portuguese wine to complement a boeuf bourgignon which bore no resemblance to the packet version, stuffed with monosodium glutamate, hydrolysed protein and artificial colouring, which Harry often slung in the oven for half an hour and ate without noticing. During the meal, she chatted about her job as a sales negotiator for a firm of estate agents, spicing anecdotes about unscrupulous sellers and pernickety buyers with a touch of satire that he had not previously suspected in her. When the plates had been cleared, they settled down in opposite armchairs.
“I feel better for that,” he said.
“I’m glad,” she said. “If you don’t mind my saying so, for the last day or two you’ve looked like a man going through a living hell.”
He didn’t reply. The wine had relaxed him, but he wasn’t yet ready to chat about Liz’s death to inquisitive strangers.
“The police came to see me, enquiring about your wife. They seemed interested in your movements on Thursday night. I explained that I’d seen your wife and yourself at different stages of the evening. They wanted exact times so I did my best to be accurate.”
She studied him carefully, as though trying to gauge his reaction.
“Routine, Brenda,” he said firmly, “I don’t think I’m a serious suspect.”
“Oh good Lord, naturally! I mean, I hope you don’t think I was suggesting you were.” She tried to cover her confusion by changing the subject. “I read the reports in the local rag. You’ve had a hard time over the years, from what I can read between the lines. They described your wife as fun-loving, I saw. I imagine,” she swallowed hard but continued, “imagine that means she must have led you quite a dance.”
“You could say that.”
She looked straight at him. “I understand how it feels, Harry. You see, my own husband…”
The story spilled out with no encouragement from him. Nothing out of the ordinary. She had been married for fifteen years to a Lothario who flitted from job to job and business to business. Finally, he had set up a driving school and inside six months he’d sped off with one of his pupils. Brenda said that until then she had always regarded divorced women as failures; possibly that was right and she had failed with Les.
“One in three,” interrupted Harry. He’d finished the bottle whilst she had been talking. “A third of all marriages end up in the divorce court. Not counting all those where the couple soldier on against their better judgment, because of the kids or habit or both. You can’t apportion blame.”
“I’d be glad to think so. Sometimes late at night, though, when I sit here listening to the radio or squinting at the television, I can convince myself I’m the only woman in the world who’s on her own.”
Neither of them spoke for a while. Harry thought: Perhaps fear of loneliness is even worse than the thing itself. This woman’s attractive enough, she could find someone if she put her mind to it.
Brenda stood up and yawned. “Forgive me. I’m tired and yet I suffer from sleepless nights. Doesn’t add up, does it?”
He rose too. “Terrific meal, Brenda. Very kind. Suppose I ought to be making tracks now.”
She moved towards him. Her perfume was just perceptible, a discreet fragrance, different from the exotic muck which Liz used to daub on herself. “Stay longer if you can. Don’t feel you have to go on my account.” She smiled, showing even white teeth. “It’s good to have someone to talk to. Although I’m afraid I’ve done all of the talking.”
“I’ve enjoyed it as well.” He could feel her warm breath on his cheek. Stepping back, he said, “I must go. Thanks again.”
At the door, she said, “Thank you for coming. We must do this more often. Cooking for two is much more fun than for one.” She closed her eyes and inclined her face in his direction. But he didn’t want to kiss her; it would have seemed a betrayal, although of whom or of what he wasn’t sure.
“Goodnight,” he said softly.
As he locked his front door and settled down inside, he thought about the mixed emotions on her face as she had turned away and for a moment he experienced an unexpected pang of regret that he had rejected her invitation to stay.
Chapter Eleven
Next morning he rang police headquarters and asked to be put through to Skinner, meeting the switchboard girl’s prevarication with the persistence born of years in the legal profession. After a full five minutes’ delay, the Chief Inspector came on to the line. He sounded full of cold.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Devlin?”
“Found Coghlan yet?” Better not let him know that Ken Cafferty had already broken the news.
“Mr. Coghlan is in London at present. He is assisting our colleagues in the Met, yes.” Skinner sneezed. “Meanwhile, our enquiries are continuing.”
“When are you going to charge him?”
With an obvious effort at patience, Skinner said, “As you are well aware, Mr. Devlin, there’s a limit to what I can…”
“Christ, Chief Inspector, the man killed my wife! I want to know.”
Skinner said bleakly, “I’ve warned you before about these wild allegations, Mr. Devlin. You’re under stress, I appreciate that, but you know better than most about being innocent until proved guilty. People in your line of business make a few bob out of that old principle, don’t they? Well, for your information, we have no specific reason to believe that Mr. Coghlan was concerned in your wife’s death and it is highly likely he will be returning home in the course of the next few hours. A free man.”
“But…”
