“They may have met at the club,” said Harry. “Could that be significant?”
The policeman heaved large shoulders. “I’m not paid to do much thinking, but obviously we need to interview the man. Trouble with this case is, all the leads take us nowhere. Take an example — your brother-in-law’s farewell meal with her had us interested. Of course, we sniffed around. Very embarrassing for a pillar of the community like Mr. Edge, I’m sure. The upshot being, we found he did arrive at the Adelphi precisely when he claimed. No one there had the impression that he’d just left his sister-in-law’s corpse lying in an alley. No forensic links whatsoever and the timing would have been too tight for comfort anyway. And as far as we can tell so far, he was working in his spick-and-span office in Water Street when Evison was killed.”
Moulden scratched his nose reflectively. “This second murder, it’s hard to explain away, you see. Unless there’s been a hell of a coincidence, it wipes out any chance that your wife was simply the victim of a random street crime, Yet if we’re right, and Coghlan and Edge are clean, who does that leave?” He gazed solemnly at Harry. “You see why you’ve been subjected to a touch of the third degree? No alibi for the first murder, on the scene of the second at just the right time. Motive and opportunity… it doesn’t look good.”
“What about means? How was Froggy killed?” Dave Moulden smiled, but his eyes were watchful. “That’s what we can’t tie in with you. I suppose you’ve realised that already? The boys reckon they went over your flat with a fine toothcomb. Perhaps you’d hidden it somewhere else or picked it up for the sole purpose of wiping little Evison out.”
“Stop talking in riddles. Tell me how he was killed.” Moulden said softly, “Pensby’s been blabbing to the Press, despite our words of warning, so there’s no point in my holding back, I suppose. Evison was shot with a sawn-off shotgun, probably fired when the din of the dumper trucks provided a cover. So far we haven’t been able either to find the weapon or to link you with it. Until we do,” he said, unsmiling now, “no copper, not even Wes Macbeth, is likely to risk an arrest. You may as well be on your way. No more third degree for the time being. But Harry, mate, if there is a link, you’re finished. And not all the legal loopholes in Liverpool will be enough to save your skin.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brenda was waiting for him when he arrived home on the stroke of midnight. She must have been listening for his footsteps down the corridor, since she emerged from her flat at the moment he began unlocking the front door of his. Barefoot, she seemed much smaller than usual, unvarnished and defenceless. Looking down at her, he could see more clearly than before the traces of grey in her hair as it spilled on to the shoulders of a kimono patterned in black and gold.
“You look wrecked,” she said.
“I’m all right.”
“Come in for a minute.”
Inside her flat, he realised that his whole body was aching. In half a dozen fractured sentences he told her what had happened. Released from the need to control his temper with the police, he felt a sudden fury at all the violence and death and at the sickening knowledge that the killer still walked free.
She poured him a generous measure of whisky. “Here, have this.”
He gulped the drink down and banged the empty tumbler down on a table. He was breathing hard.
Softly, she said, “Hey, you’re having a bad time.”
She leaned over to pat his arm. Without thinking about it, he grasped her wrist and pulled her towards him, pressing his mouth on hers. He could feel her tremble and then respond. Their tongues met. Touching her made him want her. They didn’t stop kissing for a long time.
Eventually, she took his hand and led him to her bedroom, a tranquil place decorated in pink and blue, with the image of a double bed reflected in the doors of the mirror wardrobes that lined one wall.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” she asked.
When he nodded, she smiled and slipped the kimono off, letting it slide on to the floor. As he kissed her breasts, she undressed him, her nimble fingers unfastening buttons, belt and zip whilst all the time she made little moans of pleasure.
Their flesh merged to shut out the world in a joint rejection of all its misery and viciousness. When he looked down, he saw her face shining and at last the thought of satisfying her blotted out his anger and sorrow. Deep into the night she cried out with joy, but he remained mute, lost in her and in the unexpected Tightness of their coming together.
Next morning she was awake before him, smiling as he made a sleepy effort to prise stubborn eyelids open. Running fingers through the tousle of his hair, she asked, “And how do you feel today, Mr. Devlin?”
“Fine, Mrs. Rixton, fine.”
“You were…” She flushed and broke off, embarrassed. “No, I always say too much. Anyway, I — God, is that the time?”
Half eight already. He had slept through the alarm. “I must rush,” she said. “Though I would love to stay.”
Over breakfast, he confined himself to monosyllables, not grumpily but content to listen to Brenda talk about the day ahead of her in the office. She had cooked a meal of bacon, tomato and fried egg with toast and marmalade to follow and he ate hungrily, unable to remember when last he had consumed so much at such an early hour.
Suddenly, Brenda exclaimed with irritation and clapped a hand to her brow. “Oh God, I forgot! One of your lady friends called to see you last night.”
“Yes?”
Brenda smiled slyly. “Inquisitive of me, I know. Poking my nose in. But I heard someone ringing your bell so I took a peek. Your — er — friend was on the point of giving up. She was all dressed up in a kaftan, said she was going to a party and had wondered if you wanted to go along.”
It could only be Dame. “Did she leave any message?”
“Only that you weren’t to worry about missing her. She had remembered something you might like to know, but it probably wasn’t important. And she wouldn’t give her name, just said she was a fellow art lover.”
“My friend has a peculiar sense of humour.” He grinned. “She’s called Dame. By profession she’s a mud wrestler and I’ve known her for years. Not a romantic entanglement. She’s a sweet lady.”
Brenda gave him an earnest look. “Even if there was a romance, it’s none of my business. Don’t worry, Harry, I won’t start thinking I own you on account of our having spent a little time in bed together.”
He touched her arm. “Tonight we may make it to the Ensenada.”
Her slim hand reached across the oak breakfast bar. “No need for promises, Harry. Let’s just make the most of this while we can. It’s been — well, you know how it’s been. Whilst you were gone yesterday evening, I was thinking things over. I’m not looking for commitments, truly I’m not. Here and now is sufficient for me.”
“Brenda, I…”
“No, no, there’s no need for us to say any more at present. Though I’d be glad to come over for lunch today, if you’re free.”
“I’ll be free,” he said, “provided I’m not beaten up or accused of killing my own wife. Life hasn’t been predictable lately.”
She fetched her coat and bag and then kissed him gently on the cheek. “Mind how you go, Harry. Next time I see you, I don’t want it to be in prison or a casualty ward.”
Five minutes later he followed her downstairs to the car park. Flecks of rain swirled about in gusts of wind that came in from the Irish Sea. He climbed into the M.G. and, turning right out of the main gates, headed away from the city centre towards Aigburth Road. Reaching the area where many of the university students lived, he entered a maze of side streets, finally pulling up in front of a dilapidated Victorian villa with an overgrown front garden. This was where he had dropped Dame off after their Sunday meal together.
Her name was inked on a dog-eared card next to a bell labelled flat sb. Harry had noticed that none of the curtains at the windows were drawn; this wasn’t the home of early risers. He rang half a dozen times and at long last saw through the multi-coloured glass panes of the front door a bulky silhouette stomping down the hallway. Dame’s muttered imprecations were plainly audible.
