muster.
The guard appraised him. “Do you know who he was?”
Harry didn’t answer. Instead he probed his teeth with his tongue. None of them seemed loose.
“What was it all about?” When no reply was forthcoming, the guard said, “Suit yourself. Main thing is to get you home. You’re a resident, aren’t you? Third floor, am I right?”
The lad was observant. Harry contrived a painful nod of the head.
“You fit enough to make a move? All right, easy now. Take my arm.”
They made excruciating progress to the entrance of the Empire Dock, Sabre trotting patiently at their side. Sitting behind the desk was Griff, the senior night porter, a square-shouldered, bushy-eyebrowed man in his fifties who was as Welsh as Cardiff Arms Park.
“Bloody hell, sir,” he said, “you look as though you’ve had an exciting night.”
Harry managed a wan smile. His rescuer described the incident briefly and again Harry declined an offer to call the police. He thought twice when Griff suggested medical treatment, but he was reluctant to attract attention by turning up at Casualty and although every part of him was aching, there didn’t seem to be any bones broken, nor any need for more than rudimentary patching up. Time would heal the cuts and fade his bruises.
“Up to you, sir,” Griff shrugged. “Very well, Colin. Take over here for five minutes while I take — Mr. Devlin up.”
Harry thanked the young guard. He would see him again later. Without his intervention, and the ferocious assistance of Sabre, Harry would have been a hospital case at the very least. Most probably, he would have been making a quick return visit to the mortuary.
As the lift took them upwards, Griff talked away. “Lot of dangerous people about in this city, sir. But if you don’t mind my saying so, you need to watch your step. I don’t know what all that was about and I don’t want to know. You’ve had a rough time lately, but you want to be careful about who you get involved with. You’ll be aware from your profession, sir, some of these hooligans are none too fussy who they hurt. Or kill. You may not be so lucky next time.”
They arrived at Harry’s flat. Griff took him into the lounge, helping him to ease off his jacket and shoes so as to rest on the sofa, before excusing himself and leaving the flat.
Harry shut his eyes again. Straightening out his thoughts and feelings immediately was difficult, but still he raged against the thug who had beaten him and the man who, Harry was convinced, had sent him. So Mick Coghlan was intent upon seeing him off. Harry’s stubborn refusal to heed Ruby Fingall’s velvet glove warning must have caused Coghlan to resort to direct violence.
Harry heard Griff talking to someone. A woman’s voice. Brenda Rixton. He looked up as the two of them walked into the flat together. Brenda exclaimed in dismay as she saw him, then walked over to the sofa and bent over him, as solicitous as a doctor inspecting a patient in intensive care. He felt her fair hair brush against his cheek.
“Just look at you!” She winced. “What a mess. Wait a minute.”
She fussed and bustled, ordering Griff to assist in handing her first aid supplies from the bathroom medicine cabinet as though he were a trainee nurse. Harry felt her cool hands checking his rib cage. A wet cloth was applied to his sore eye and cheeks. Painkillers were administered. He bit his lip and assured her that he would soon be all right, but she took no notice. Eventually Griff, satisfied that the recovery process was underway, returned downstairs.
Brenda squatted beside the sofa and took Harry’s right hand in both of hers. “You don’t look after yourself, that’s your trouble. You need someone to hold your hand.”
Harry was too weary to argue. Besides, she might be right. He closed his eyes again. As consciousness slipped away, his last thought was that if Coghlan wished to shake him off, the man could scarcely have made a worse misjudgment. Briefly that evening, Harry’s determination had started to crumble. But now he would never give up, no matter what the cost.
Chapter Eighteen
“How’s the invalid?”
Brenda’s voice, reassuring as the dawn chorus, wafted in from the hall. Harry lifted his face from a pillow which she must have slipped beneath his head after he had fallen asleep on the sofa. The slight movement sent a flash of pain tearing down the side of his face with the sudden force of an electric shock. Unable to stifle a groan, he gritted his teeth and checked the clock. Ten to eight.
She appeared in the doorway, slim and business-like in a grey suit. “I thought I would pop in before I went to work.”
“Thanks.” Harry hated the grudging note that he heard in his voice, but at present he felt like an animal wanting to lick its wounds; he would rather have been left alone. Knowing her kindness and concern was genuine and that he ought to be experiencing gratitude simply burdened him with an extra weight of guilt.
“Let’s have a look at you.” As she walked up to the sofa, Harry levered himself into a sitting position, moving as cautiously as a vertigo sufferer on a high wire. The effort was rewarded by a burning sensation that travelled from shoulder to waist and a renewed throbbing within his chest.
“You’re still in pain,” she said.
Confirmation was superfluous and heroic denials were not in his line, so he kept quiet and steeled himself to ignore the aching of his ribs. But his face must have betrayed him with a give-away grimace, for Brenda looked at him for a moment and then compressed her mouth in a determined manner.
“I’m going to call the doctor.”
“No!” The firmness of his reply surprised even him.
“But you may have a fracture. There might be some internal damage.”
“I played soccer for years, Brenda, I’m used to knocks. There’s bad bruising, a few cuts and bumps, but not much more.”
“You look as though you’ve done fifteen rounds in a heavyweight bout.”
“I’ll live.”
She leaned over him, gazing down earnestly. “Aren’t you going to tell me what it was all about?”
“Nothing to tell. A common or garden mugging. Happens every day. And night.”
Exasperation flickered over her lightly powdered face. “Oh no, you don’t convince me like that. You really think I’m naive, Harry, don’t you? Griff said…”
“Never mind what Griff said.”
“That young guard, Colin, may have saved your life. Griff told me that you could have been killed if he hadn’t come upon the scene. You must call the police, Harry, don’t you understand?”
“And tell them what? That I was jumped by a man in a balaclava, someone I couldn’t recognise again if he walked into my office and asked for help with his social security claim? No, Brenda, there’s nothing to be gained from involving the police. They’ll never catch him.”
“Certainly not if you don’t give them a chance,” she said. For the first time in their acquaintance, he detected signs of temper in her. He found that oddly satisfying, as if at last he had broken through the surface layers of good neighbourliness and struck the real woman underneath. With new interest, he looked at her as she said, “There’s some other reason why you are so reluctant, isn’t there? Connected with the murder of your wife. Am I right?”
She was more perceptive than he had guessed. He said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
A vexed sigh. “You don’t fool me. But you won’t let anyone help, will you? You’re obstinate, Harry Devlin, you’re one of the most pig-headed men I’ve ever met.”
He had to smile. “I couldn’t disagree with that.”
More gently, she said, “It’s not always a bad fault. I’m stubborn myself at times. When I make up my mind about something, I don’t let go without a battle.” Her gaze dwelt on him for a little while. Finally, she said, “I won’t nag you any more. At least, not yet. I have to go now. Duty calls. Is there anything I can get you? No? Well, think again about seeing a doctor. And the police.”
“You’ve been very good to me.”
