every day — though never, you expect, to someone you know. Yet the police seemed too keen to dig up the details of her life, as if they imagined there might be some clue to the thing buried in her past. Not as though she was simply another crime statistic. They wanted the dope on you, for instance.”
Harry felt his cheeks burning. “Yes?”
“And Coghlan, too, of course. How did she feel towards the two of you? Did any friends call on her here? Did she have any enemies?” For an instant, the old humorous twist turned up the corners of his mouth. “I wasn’t much help, I’m afraid, but I did make it clear that you at least were kind to animals and good with small children. Poor but honest, at any rate in comparison to every other lawyer I’ve ever met.” He paused. “They asked who was to blame for your breaking up.”
“And?”
“Drop the worried look, I said she was an idiot. When they suggested you might have harboured a grudge, I said no. I’m sure you must have kept hoping she’d come back to you once she’d flushed Coghlan out of her system.” He lowered his voice. “Believe it or not, I envied you. Despite the way she messed you around, at least you had the memories. There was a time when she cared for you.”
“You too, Matt.”
To his surprise, the little man responded furiously. “Are you kidding? I was a convenience to Liz, nothing more. Christ, I’m only a midget. Someone to pat on the head from time to time, that’s all.”
For a minute, Harry was silent. Matt had been a volatile character for as long as he had known him, but this fierceness was unexpected. A nervous reaction to the death of a friend whom he had known for most of his life, or did it signify something more? In the end Harry collected the coffee jug and poured them both a second cup. After taking a sip of the muddy brown liquid, he said, “I think Liz was murdered by Mick Coghlan.”
“What makes you say that?”
Harry explained about Liz’s nocturnal visit and the fear that she had described. The anger rose within him as he recounted his conversation with Skinner a couple of hours earlier. “I swear to you, Matt, the man who killed her isn’t going to get away with it.”
Matt stared at him. “What can you do?”
“Leave that to me. At present, I’m trying to put the piece together. That was one of the reasons why I wanted to talk to you and Dame.”
“That reminds me.” Matt brightened a little. “A mutual friend called in yesterday, after we spoke. A girl who knew Dame from her time at the Playhouse. Lovely brunette, she wanted a Whore of Babylon’s outfit for this party up at the University. Anyway, she told me that Dame’s currently starring in the lunchtime show at Franco’s in Rumford Place. If you move yourself, you might catch her now.”
“What sort of show?”
“That I leave to your fertile imagination. But you know Dame.”
“On a Sunday?”
“So she said.”
Harry shook his head. “What’s the world coming to?”
The two of them walked towards the front door, exchanging commonplace conversation before Harry said, “You know, I came round here on Thursday, when I was trying to make contact with Liz. The place was shut up in the afternoon. It’s not an early closing day for you, is it?”
The little man seemed discomfited. “No, not Thursday. I was out.” He looked at the ground and said again, “Just out.”
Chapter Twelve
Both women were smeared with mud from head to toe. They wore skimpy bikinis, one red, one blue, and enough bare flesh was visible to delight the watching men. The taller and heavier of the two girls had her opponent in an arm-lock and was threatening to dip her blonde head in the muddy bottom of the lime green plastic swimming pool that the management of Franco’s had installed over the dance floor.
Cradling his pint in his arm, Harry pushed his way towards the front of the crowd. Had the city council’s entertainments sub-committee really licensed this performance for the Sabbath? Most likely Franco’s were just taking a chance with the law and raking in the profits. As he moved forward, a roar of approval greeted the emergence of the smaller girl’s pert, pink-tipped breasts from her bikini top as her assailant tightened her grip.
Harry fixed his gaze on Dame, who now had the blonde in a parody of a half-nelson, to the accompaniment of boos worthy of a televised wrestling contest. Looking up for a moment, she spotted Harry and winked saucily at him before being diverted as the other girl managed to wriggle free. In the ensuing melee, the blonde contrived to unfasten and then detach Dame’s bra, which she waved in triumph above her head. Dame grabbed it back from her, but with a magnificent gesture threw it at another goggling teenager, to the noisy acclamation of his fellow lookers-on.
“Will you look at that,” breathed a bespectacled youth standing by Harry’s side. His glasses were in danger of steaming up. The sight of Dame’s pendulous bosom, milky white but rapidly caking over with mud, became too much for him and he lapsed into silence.
The blonde beckoned at the boy who had caught the bra-trophy and a surge from behind pitched him headlong into the plastic pool. Alcohol had endowed him with bravado and, staggering to his feet, he bowed to his friends before turning with a start when Dame flopped towards him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Diverted, he was no match for the other girl’s nimble attentions to his belt and zip and within seconds his trousers were down at his ankles. As Dame started to unbutton his shirt, everyone bellowed with beery amusement. Soon enough, though, they had cause to groan as the man in the dapper get-up of a fight referee arrived from backstage to stop the bout and declare a dead heat. The two girls bowed to rapturous applause and exited arm in arm. Gathering his clothes and grinning inanely, the audience participant stumbled back to be swallowed up in the crowd.
The entertainment over, Harry and the others drifted in the direction of the bar. His second pint was nearly at an end when he heard a couple of ribald comments from the other men standing at the counter at the same time as a long arm snaked around his waist. At the same time, a husky voice in his ear said, “Mine’s a Bacardi and Coke, in case you’ve forgotten, and take no notice of this ignorant mob, I only have eyes for you.”
As he turned his head, Dame’s cheek pressed against his. He found her hand and, clasping it, ordered drinks for them both. Moving back, he surveyed her virginal white blouse and black leather skirt, newly combed shoulder- length hair and wicked smile.
“I hardly recognised you with your clothes on.”
“That’s what all my men friends say,” she said. “Cheers.”
He took a draught from his replenished pint pot and said, “Congratulations. An outstanding display in every way.”
She laughed. “I ought to try harder with the diet, be honest. Anyway, Franco’s made up. It brings the punters flocking in on what would otherwise be a dead day. Specially you repressed office types. The fellers tell their old ladies they’re just popping out to the local for a quiet Sunday jar and then they leg it down here for a bit of harmless fun.”
“Almost a public service.”
“You’re not wrong.” She emptied her glass. “Thirsty work, though.”
As he tried to catch up with the barmaid, he said, “Been here long?”
“A fortnight. The money’s good, but I’m just filling in. I’ve been promised an audition for the new Bleasdale at the Everyman. Besides, it’s only a question of time before the scuffers catch up with us here. At present, we get one or two off-duty constables who keep their mouths shut, but word’ll get round. I need to look to the future.”
Ever since he had first met her, Dame had been on the verge of a breakthrough in her acting career. A few years back, she had managed a bit part in a TV soap, only to be wiped out in a hotel fire on the whim of a scriptwriter under pressure to boost the ratings. Her appearances in regional rep had been confined to stripping off in unfunny farces. Otherwise she led a twilight existence, working mainly in pubs and clubs, transferring her affections from one unsatisfactory man to another, not allowing the knock-backs to diminish her faith that fame was
