He shook his head. “I dunno. All I’m sure about is that she was telling the truth when she confided her fears in me and that I should have listened.”
“You shouldn’t reproach yourself.”
“Don’t you start,” he said bitterly. “You above anyone else know what Liz meant to me. And you can’t imagine that I’ll let it rest there. No, Coghlan was responsible, must have been, there’s no other candidate. I owe it to her to make sure he doesn’t get away with murdering her.”
Dame leaned across the table. “Listen, speaking as one obstinate bugger who loved Liz to another, I wish you well. But don’t forget, this isn’t one of your courtroom games where you give the other guy hell then go off to the bar together afterwards, the best of friends. The only law Mick recognises belongs to the jungle. Watch out for man-traps.”
“I’ll take care.”
“Good.” Her strong fingers laced around his. “So how are you spending the rest of this cold Sunday? Out on the warpath or has the lunchtime entertainment sapped you so much that you need to recoup your strength?”
He pushed his cup to one side and said with a glimmer of a smile, “Late afternoon on a February Sunday in Liverpool? Not much more I can do till tomorrow morning, so I’m at a loose end. How about you?”
Dame laughed, a raucous sound coarsened by years of coping with crumpled dreams. “I’m all dressed up, with nowhere to go. This outfit cost the thick end of three hundred quid and that was in the January sales. But when I go back home tonight there’ll just be one ring working on the gas hob, one bar of the electric fire glowing. I rent a flat in Aigburth the size of a broom cupboard. I’m not exactly desperate to rush back. Why don’t we have dinner together? I won’t insult you by offering to pay. How about it?”
“Dame, that’s an offer no man could refuse.”
She laughed so loudly that an old lady at the adjoining table turned round and stared. “Oh, Harry, if only that were true. If only that were true.”
Chapter Thirteen
“My name is Fingall,” said Harry into the handset of his office telephone. “Reuben Fingall.”
The words rolled off his tongue as smoothly as if spoken by Ruby himself. The accuracy of the impersonation, the unexpectedly precise capture of that characteristic note of smugness, gave Harry a small surge of pleasure. In his schooldays he had amused himself and others with his amateur mimicry. Harold Wilson and Tony Hancock had been favourite targets, but he hadn’t been sure that he had retained the knack sufficiently to deceive Paula from the gym at the other end of the line.
“I’m afraid Mick isn’t expected in today, Mr. Fingall,” she said in a cloying tone evidently reserved for her employer’s close friends and professional advisers.
Harry already knew that from Ken Cafferty. This morning Ken had told him that Coghlan had been released by the Metropolitan Police uncharged and was supposed to have returned to Liverpool, although he could be found neither at the Woolton house nor at the gym. Meanwhile, Fingall was in the Crown Court attending on another case and remaining unusually tight-lipped about the whole affair, having declined to reveal his client’s whereabouts. Skinner was saying nothing either and Ken had given up the hunt, having decided to wait for his quarry to emerge in the fullness of time. Harry wasn’t so patient.
With the audible click of the tongue that conveyed Reuben’s disapproval of any response that didn’t suit, Harry said firmly, “I must contact him today, Paula — it is Paula, isn’t it? You will appreciate that my call concerns urgent legal business. Michael would be most anxious that I speak to him.”
“Hold on,” said the woman, “I’ll check with Arthur.” Harry waited. After a single early night, he felt fitter and more relaxed, ready to continue his quest for Coghlan. He had taken Dame to a bistro in Penny Lane, where they had relaxed and talked for three hours about good times shared in the past. After driving her home, he had declined her invitation of coffee, even when she had solemnly assured him that seduction wasn’t on her mind. He’d gone straight back to the flat, resisting also the temptation of a stop-off at the Dock Brief and an invitation from Brenda to come round for a drink. He suspected she had been awaiting his return and her downcast expression caused him a moment’s remorse, but the prospect of drifting into a cosy routine of evenings shared with his next-door neighbour failed to entice him and he had politely but firmly pleaded a splitting headache.
“Mr. Fingall, so sorry to keep you,” said Paula sweetly. “It seems Mick may be out playing golf.”
In this weather? Harry stared out at the rain teeming down upon Fenwick Court. Nearly forgetting to maintain Ruby’s exact elocution, he said abruptly, “And which club might he be playing at?”
“The West Liverpool.” A pause, during which mental cogs must have whirred. “Weren’t you actually the person who proposed him for membership, Mr. Fingall?”
Ring off, Harry instructed himself, before you make a mess of it. “Thank you very much indeed for your help,” he said in a Rubyesque purr and put the receiver down. The West Liverpool, no less. One of the most prestigious courses in the country, he believed, although in truth he scarcely knew the difference between an eagle and an albatross. Ruby had certainly introduced Coghlan into high society.
Picking up his coat, Harry spotted The Professional Conduct of Solicitors in a dusty corner of his bookcase and wondered whether passing oneself off as a fellow lawyer was a specific disciplinary offence. Better look it up sometime.
Driving through the city, Harry listened to a cassette of early Beatles hits. The young Scouse voices sounded fresh and alive: hard to believe that of Matt’s hero had been silenced by an assassin’s bullet. Somehow the energy of the rock ‘n’ roll music complemented Harry’s morning mood. Eight hours’ sleep was partly responsible, but so was the satisfaction of at last having the chance to confront the man who had changed his life. It was like embarking upon the first steps of recovery after a long, wasting illness.
The West Liverpool Golf Club occupied one hundred and fifty acres on the suburban fringe, five miles further up the coast than the most northerly dock. The links stretched out towards the sea from the end of a cul-de-sac lined with opulent Victorian villas. Nowadays the club was said to be the haunt of the nouveau riche, the marketing men and finance directors who ran what was left of the city’s industry.
Undeterred by a large signboard bearing the canard that all trespassers would be prosecuted, he parked outside the clubhouse, a sturdy Victorian edifice topped by a clock tower and disfigured by a low post-war extension apparently constructed out of the remnants of a giant Lego set. Even on this foul February morning, a dozen other cars were lined up again the grey brick wall: they included a Merc, an Alfa, three BMWs and, discreetly at the far end, a white Escort with a man inside who seemed more interested in Harry’s arrival than the newspaper ostentatiously propped up on his lap. Whilst manoeuvering, Harry had caught sight of a square face before it had disappeared behind the Daily Mirror. Harry thought he recognised the man as the pock-marked constable who had helped to carry out the search of his flat on Thursday.
The rain was easing as Harry marched in. When in doubt, display confidence. Observing a tweedy gentleman of retirement age in the lobby, he called out in an old-school-tie-voice, “I say, wouldn’t happen to have seen Michael Coghlan, would you?”
The elderly man didn’t seem impressed by the mention of Coghlan’s name. A twitch of his lips implied that he deplored the need to admit the uncouth to this noble place merely because they cultivated the right people and could afford the course fees. “Saw him going towards the show room,” he said grudgingly.
Harry decided to wait. An encounter with a naked Coghlan was more than he was ready for. Assuming a proprietorial air, he strolled into the cocktail bar and ordered a beer. Two walls of the long rectangular room were adorned with oak boards recording the names of past winners of a host of golfing competitions and a row of faintly ridiculous portraits of former captains, each of them wearing a red and yellow striped blazer with matching tasselled cap. On the far side, rain-blurred glass doors led on to a verandah from which one could view the eighteenth hole. A couple of hardy soul in waterproof gear were visible, putting out on the last green. Harry took his glass to a table near the door and was idly flicking through an ancient copy of The Field when Coghlan walked in.
Recognising Liz’s lover was easy. Coghlan wasn’t shy of seeking publicity for the gym and from time to time the local paper carried his photograph in connection with some sponsorship or other. He was built like a stevedore and dressed like a football star. An open-neck designer shirt revealed a hairy chest and a gold medallion. A Rolex
