heel and walked out by the way he had entered. Outside, he pushed through a group of drunken early evening revellers, oblivious to their jeers and invitations to a fight. He was trying to rid himself of the ghost of Liz that Angie O’Hare had conjured up, the ghost of a woman faithless, selfish and greedy, a woman not worth yearning to avenge.
Chapter Seventeen
Fuzzy after two hours’ drinking, Harry sat at the bar of the Dock Brief, trying to remember what is was like to be capable of logical analysis and rational thought. A Victorian pub mirror hung on the wall and he gazed at his reflection: at the dark-ringed eyes and the features blurred by doubt as well as alcohol. Unbidden, a line from Shakespeare studied long ago rose in his mind. Where are your quiddits now, he asked the haggard image, your quillets, your cases, your tricks?
Pushing his glass across the counter, he nodded a goodnight to the barmaid. She was coping with a flirtatious drunk who was trying to tempt her into a shared week-end in Paris. Catching Harry’s eye, she bustled over.
“Friend of yours was in here earlier on. Sorry, I forgot to mention it.”
“Yeah?” The people he drank with in the Dock were better described as acquaintances.
“Dark-haired lady.” The barmaid threw out a quizzical look. “Attractive.”
For a fleeting, insane moment, he thought: It’s Liz. Her ghost. Conquering that immediate reaction with an effort, he said carefully, “Did she leave a name?”
The woman searched in her memory, ruffling a hand through her tight brunette perm. At last she said, “Maggie, that was it.”
Harry was startled. His sister-in-law and her husband frequented wine bars from time to time, but neither of them would normally contemplate calling in a place like this. What did she want? Christ, another question. He shambled out, buttoning his thin jacket in an inadequate effort to resist the razor edge of the wind from the sea. Someone in the pub had said that this was going to be the coldest night of the winter so far. At least it might help to clear his head.
He reached the Strand, lost in contemplation as he crossed the six-lane highway, almost walking beneath the wheels of a tanker that he hadn’t even seen or heard. Why care about whether the murderer was found? Liz was dead and nothing that he could do would bring back her carefree laughter or tantalising mockery. Yet the spell that she had first cast over him at the Albert Dock firework celebrations, no more than a couple of hundred yards from this very spot, remained unbroken. Her leaving had not lessened her power over him and in death the spell had become a curse.
He took a short cut via the main car park that served the residents of Empire Dock. The solid bulk of the converted warehouse loomed ahead of him. Lights shone behind curtained windows, forming a chequer board of hidden lives, but the place was still, with just the rumble of the traffic in the background and the footsteps of Harry and another man fracturing the silence. Harry paused when he reached his M.G. Might as well check that the alarm was on, he’d been absent-minded about it lately. One day someone would make him pay for that.
The alarm was set, after all. He had been worrying about nothing. You’re becoming neurotic, he told himself. At that moment, he noticed that the other man’s footfalls had stopped. He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder. There was no one else to be seen.
Joining the path that led to the flat development, he heard the clip-clop of steel-tipped shoes again. Another look round. Nothing. He began to move faster.
Resurrected period lampstands ran along the edge of the path, casting cones of illumination down into the darkness. One of the lamps was out. Straining his eyes, Harry sensed rather than saw the movement of a figure a dozen yards ahead of him. It might have been a beer drinker’s imagination. It might not. Harry calculated that if he spurted, the safe haven of the lit-up doorway of the Empire Dock was no more than forty seconds away. Yet that barely perceived figure could cut him off with time to spare. If he wanted to. Was the risk worth taking? Was there any risk at all or was he simply cracking up?
A sudden lateral movement by the other man decided him. The way home was being closed down. Time to change direction. Harry veered off the path, clattering along the cobbled area that led to the river, lengthening his stride, breathing in and out in short draughts. He caught the sound of the other man, hurrying by the wall of the building. No option now but to chance it. Harry broke into a run.
The man in front of him began to run as well. Harry gained the impression of an athlete’s fluid, easy rhythm. His pursuer was driving him away from the lee of the Empire Dock and back towards the open road. Harry cursed. Already the exertion was making him gasp, one more reminder of his lack of condition. A whiplash of panic caught him. The other man was gaining ground.
One of Harry’s feet caught a cobblestone that was raised a little above the others. He stumbled, fought to regain his balance. An arm stretched around his waist from behind, toppling him again. As he struggled free, a gloved hand caught at his shoulder. Staggering, Harry glimpsed a balaclava mask. This wasn’t a teenage mugger, jumping a passer-by for a few quid. The man was only a fraction taller than himself, but steamroller-solid and as his muscular frame loomed against the night sky, whilst he steadied himself for the onslaught, Harry could only shield his eyes and wait for the first blow to descend.
The man hit him in the stomach with a fist that felt like a lump of steel. Harry crumpled.
There was no respite as he sank towards the ground. Harry shut his eyes and a ribbed glove sliced across his face, a cruel strike that left his cheeks singing and his nose feeling as though it had been buried in the back of his head. Retching violently, he wanted to weep as well, but the tears had been smashed out of him. Sticky blood oozed over his mouth and chin. He could taste its sour flavour. Somewhere in the distance a dog began to bark.
Harry thought: It would be quicker if the hound was set on me to finish the job.
His assailant stood back for a moment, like an artist admiring a canvas. Through a slit in the balaclava, he said, “You should’ve stayed out of it.” The intonation was back-street Toxteth. He took another step back and launched himself into a steel toe-capped kick that crashed against the side of Harry’s body. Had he not telegraphed that his attack was aimed at the temple, allowing Harry the time to twist away, that might have ended it all. Even the mis-hit filled Harry’s mind, his whole being, with pain. For an instant, he could think of nothing else but the agony. Yet in the background the barking had grown louder and the racket broke into his consciousness.
“Shit!” said his attacker. The single syllable was crammed with violence, but also with fear.
In a moment he was gone. Harry heard his boots thudding away into the night. Now the barking was frantic. Harry forced his eyes open and saw a huge Alsatian bounding towards him. From a distance, the animal had a furious look. Even in his battered state, Harry thought how ironic it would be to escape from being pulped by the thug only to finish up as supper for man’s best friend.
Panting noisily, the dog reached him. It surveyed his prostrate body with what might have been hungry relish. Harry tried to move, but failed. Groggily, he heard approaching footsteps from the direction of Empire Dock.
“You all right?” someone asked.
Fine, Harry thought, I bleed and vomit for fun. He managed to bend his neck sufficiently to see the owner of the voice. His saviour was a young man in the navy blue uniform of the security firm which patrolled Empire Dock after dark. He was fresh-faced and anxious and his “peaked cap was too big for him.
“Down, Sabre. Stay.”
Harry uttered a low moan.
“You don’t look too healthy. Let me give you a hand.”
The guard bent down and patiently attempted to help Harry, if not to his feet, at least to a crouching posture.
It was a slow process, with a couple of false starts. Every bone in Harry’s body ached. He felt like a trodden grape.
Wiping the blood from Harry’s face with a handkerchief, the youthful guard said, “The guy sure took a dislike to you. You’ll look a picture tomorrow and no mistake. Black eye, the lot.” He gazed towards the Strand. “The bugger will be far enough by now. I’ll call the police.”
“No.” It was Harry’s first coherent syllable for some time, but he invested it with as much finality as he could
