tactics towards a tricky customer. Switches in mood and personnel, from the gentle let’s-get-it-off-our-chest approach to the bluff that there was already enough evidence to lock the suspect up and throw away the key. All conducted in an environment that might have been designed to reproduce the claustrophobia of the waiting prison cell. Harry had seen clients succumb through fear, fatigue and ignorance, as well as guilt.
Returning Macbeth’s gaze, he realised just how easy it is to confess. Here and now, even he had the momentary urge to put an end to all this hassle. How tempting it would be to tell the man what he wanted to hear, making it up as you went along. Was it any wonder that people claimed responsibility for crimes they hadn’t committed, simply groping for the illusion of respite from those endless questions that wore you down like water slowly eroding stone?
Suddenly Macbeth asked, “How old is she, Mrs. Rixton? Forty? Forty-five?” When Harry shrugged in reply, he continued, “Very different from your late wife, that’s for sure. Not exactly a dolly bird.”
Don’t be provoked, Harry told himself, break the spell. As lightly as he could, he said, “Maybe I ought to have a solicitor present.”
“Losing your bottle?” jeered Macbeth. “You people are all the same. Bent as a corkscrew and less guts. Call for Fingall, why don’t you? Or Hendrickson, perhaps. They know all the dirty tricks of your trade.”
“Or,” said Harry, “I could simply walk out. I’m not under arrest.”
Macbeth’s arched eyebrows said: Not yet. Harry rose to his feet. “Face it, Sergeant, you don’t believe I killed either Liz or Evison. You’re pissing in the wind.”
The policeman stood too. “Don’t you see, Mister Solicitor? There’s only one link between the two deaths. You.” He drew a deep breath and then spoke more deliberately. “Was she carrying your child? Did you beg her to leave Coghlan? Or was Coghlan the father and did you blow a fuse when you found that out? Either way, Evison must have known too much or at least have put two and two together. You traced him to the rubbish tip, had an argument — and killed him. Pensby turned up before you could get clean away, so you panicked into feeding him a load of bullshit.”
“Go back to the drawing board. Coghlan’s your man.” Harry wiped a hand across his brow. The sweat was sticky to the touch. Decision time had come. “If you’re not going to arrest me, Sergeant, I think I’ll be going.” He took a couple of paces in the direction of the exit.
Macbeth was saved from the need to reply by the opening of the door. Skinner looked in and said coolly, “Spare me a minute, Sergeant.” The younger man strode out into the corridor, where the two detectives held a muttered colloquy. In his corner, the constable began to chew his biro. Presently, Harry heard approaching footsteps and the Chief Inspector saying, “Okay, Dave, it’s over to you.” In response, a face appeared round the door, weather-beaten and welcome.
“Christ,” said Harry, “the cavalry’s arrived.”
Detective Constable David Moulden grinned in his lopsided way and said to his note-taking colleague, “Scarper, son, this master-criminal and me are going to have a quiet chat.”
The young constable scuttled out and Moulden settled his burly frame into the chair that Macbeth had recently vacated. Clicking his tongue, he said, “Well, Harry lad, another fine mess you got yourself into.”
“Dave, will you speak to that bugger Macbeth and his bloody boss and convince them I’m not a double murderer?”
Soberly, the older man said, “Convince me first.”
Irritated by the reply, and reminded by his empty stomach and parched throat how long it was since he had last eaten or had a drink, Harry said, “They must be desperate if they’ve sent you to prise out a cough, mate.”
Moulden didn’t smile. “You’re in a tricky situation, don’t misunderstand that. So what’s been going on?”
Harry gave him a precis of events. When he had finished, he said, “Skinner put me through the wringer. Macbeth too, though with less finesse. They almost had me thinking I was guilty.”
“They’re good jacks, Harry. It’s a tough case. But Skinner’s determined — reminds me of you in a funny sort of way. Once he gets into an investigation, he’s like a bloody limpet. And Wes Macbeth.. ” Moulden sucked in his cheeks. “Well, he doesn’t like lawyers.”
“I’d noticed. But who does?”
Lowering his voice, Moulden said, “He has his reasons. His kid sister was raped when he was a teenager in Kirkby. The feller who did it lived in the same deck-access block. He took his time, didn’t spare her anything. Some sharp defence brief from Manchester spent hours cross-examining her about her sex life, driving her to hysteria in order to get his client off. You know the drill. He argued that she led the creep on. Worked a treat. The jury fell for it hook, line and bloody sinker. A month later the girl gassed herself. A kitchen oven job. Wes found her body when he got home from school.”
He gave Harry a considering look. “It could have turned Wes crazy, but he decided to fight back from the inside and joined up with us. Got his promotion in record time, and not just because he’s a token black. He’s a hard bastard, Harry, but he follows the rules and he’s good at his job. You can be sure he won’t let any lawyer stand in the way of getting a conviction. He regards your lot as worse than the thugs and thieves you represent. I’ve told him myself that’s as daft as judging us by the odd ones who put their hands in the till or rough up a youngster on sus. All the same, if I’d been through what he’s been through, I don’t suppose I’d chum up with any defence brief who came my way.”
Harry said, “The lawyer was only doing his job.”
“So is Wes, so stop bleating.”
Neither of them spoke for a minute. Harry shifted his thoughts back to the central problem of the murders. Two deaths now — three if you included the unborn child. With Evison gone, he was as far away as ever from being able to prove that Liz’s lover had murdered her. To his dismay, he became aware of tears of frustration pricking at his eyelids.
“It must be Coghlan, Dave. No one else fits the bill.”
Moulden said, “I know you hate the man, and I don’t blame you for that. But we need more to go on than a gut feeling. Face it, if that wasn’t the case, you’d have been locked up by now.”
Obstinate as a chastised child, Harry said, “He had the motive and the temperament.”
“Not the opportunity, though. When your wife was killed he was two hundred miles away. That’s for certain.”
“His alibi checks out?”
A curious expression flitted across Dave Moulden’s face. Was it veiled amusement? “We’re satisfied about his movements, yes.”
“These things can be set up from a distance, have you thought about that? Coghlan has plenty of hired hands available, I suppose it was one of them that attended to me the other night.”
“You think that hasn’t been considered? Give us credit for knowing our own business best.” He hesitated. “All I can say is that in the light of our inquiries we have reason to doubt whether Coghlan was connected with the death of your wife.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Sorry, mate, can’t say anything more.”
“Was Coghlan aware Liz was pregnant?”
“We don’t think so. At least, not until we told him. Unless he’s a bloody good actor.”
Harry thought for a few seconds, then said, “Who else did your people tell about the baby?”
“The sister-in-law. No one else as far as I’m aware. We were interested to find out who your wife had confided in, but it seemed she was a lady who liked to keep these things close to her chest.”
“Have you traced the businessman she was involved with? This Tony?”
Moulden shook his head. “So far we’ve drawn a complete blank. Which is interesting. Your wife was a talker, said everything but her prayers, by all accounts. Yet we hadn’t even been able to put a name to the man until you told Skinhead an hour ago. She obviously said more to your mud-wrestling friend than anyone else, and even with her she didn’t let much slip, did she? Makes you wonder if he might have been a figment of her imagination, doesn’t it?”
“Remember, the man was married.”
“That may explain it.” Moulden winked. “Matter of fact, though I don’t officially approve, it’s true that you’ve picked up one or two snippets that had escaped us. This feller Rourke, for instance. None of the people we’ve talked to have let on about her seeing him.”
