Government.
He tipped the paper into a litter bin and turned his thoughts to his next move. Now, at least, the pattern of Liz’s last day alive was emerging. She had risen late, tried to call him at the office, been too lazy to keep ringing and, to amuse herself, wandered into town to spend some time with Matt. When he had left her, she must have paid up at Mama Reilly’s and headed back through town. She had been in Water Street at the time of meeting Derek. More than likely, with time on her hands, she was en route for Fenwick Court. When Derek had offered her a meal at the up-market Ensenada, she must have decided to indulge in a little shopping to celebrate, and taken her haul back to Empire Dock. There she had exchanged a few words with Brenda outside the door of the flat before getting ready for the date with her brother-in-law. For the third time in less than twenty-four hours she had in her carefree way demoralised a man who had dared to believe that her leaving Coghlan opened the way for him. Might either Matt or Derek, unlike himself, have translated anger and humiliation into murderous action? Harry thrust the thought aside. Matt was right. Forget the police’s reluctance to arrest the obvious suspect. Concentrate on Coghlan.
Time to pay that gentleman another visit, Harry told himself. Make him understand that no amount of beating would throw him off the track. Force him out into the open. Pressure him into making a mistake. Confront him at the gym.
He picked up the car and drove to Brunner Street. From the outside the Fitness Centre seemed strangely lifeless. As Harry walked over from the opposite side of the road, he realised that
yellow blinds had been drawn at the windows. Reaching the door he saw that the closed sign was up. Beneath it someone had scrawled in black felt tip until FURTHER NOTICE — WE APOLOGISE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.
Baffled, he pulled at the steel handle and banged on the opaque glass pane.
He heard footsteps from inside, followed by the drawing-back of bolts and a chain. A clean-cut young man in a tweed suit that seemed a size too big and a generation too old for him finally broke his way through the security and smiled regretfully.
“The Centre’s closed today, I’m afraid.”
“So I see.” Harry craned his neck to look beyond the young man. There was no sign of the gum-chewing assistant or Paula or Arthur. On the floor of the shop front were several large cardboard boxes and a girl in a smart jacket and tight black skirt was kneeling beside them and inspecting their contents, a clipboard in her hand. “Is Mr. Coghlan around?”
The young man said, “Sorry, he isn’t. Are you a member here?”
“No, but I do need to see Coghlan. What’s going on?”
His cheeks pink, the young man said, “I’m afraid there has been a slight hiccup. My colleague and I are from the office of the joint receivers, Bowler, Goldsmith and O’Gorman. We…”
“Receivers? You mean the place has gone bust?”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t go so far as to…”
“Spare me the professional niceties, Bowler’s are my firm’s accountants.” Harry extracted an old business card from his wallet. “Don’t worry, I don’t act for Coghlan, I just need to find him. Fast.”
The girl had joined her colleague at the door. Her manner was as crisp as the cut of her short fair hair. After scrutinising the card, she said, “The bank called us in this morning. Michael Coghlan has defaulted on his loan repayments and they decided to pull the plug. Where he is, no one seems to know. The staff are upstairs, helping our people to fathom how the business works. There’s an idea it might be sellable as a going concern. Trouble is, it’s closely identified with Coghlan and there’s an unconfirmed rumour that he’s been arrested.”
“Arrested? Why?”
The girl shrugged. “No idea. Hand in the till, I suppose. That’s the usual in these situations, isn’t it?”
Harry stared at her, thinking on his feet. An arrest. Was the long search over at last? He must speak to Skinner. Or Fingall. “Can I use your phone?”
“Be my guest. Or rather, the bank’s guest.”
She stepped aside and he dialled the number of the Canning Place headquarters. Skinner and Macbeth were out, as was Dave Moulden, and the junior detective on the murder inquiry team to whom he was put through deflected his questions in a more-than-my-job’s-worth manner. Harry rang off. He would have to go there in person. On his way out, he thanked the fair girl, who had resumed the tedious chore of stock-taking.
“No trouble. Any of your clients wants to buy a gym, let George Harvey-Walker know.”
“If he believed any of my clients was rich enough to buy a business from a bank,” said Harry, “George would put up my audit fees! See you in the office some time, perhaps.”
He smiled at the girl and left. In the space of five minutes his spirits had soared. Arrested? Rumours like that didn’t spring out of nothing. Evidence must have come to light connecting Coghlan with the crime — perhaps both of them. As he crossed the road to the car he smacked the air with his fist in celebration. Now let the bastard sweat.
Before calling at Canning Place he decided to visit Coghlan’s solicitor. The reception area at Fingall’s office was crammed with a family of gypsies whose members were all trying to talk at once to the hapless secretary who had been sent out to deal with their complaint about a delay in handling some legal work on their behalf. Harry fought his way to the front and asked the small, mousy-haired girl behind the desk to tell her boss Harry Devlin wanted to see him right now.
Experienced in resisting such demands, the girl said that Mr. Fingall was down in London on an important case and wasn’t expected back that day.
“What is he…?”
The bleeping of the switchboard distracted the girl. She picked up the phone and said, “Fingall and Company… oh, yes… not till tomorrow afternoon? Certainly. I’ll ask Veronica to check your diary.”
Struck by the note of deference that had entered her voice, Harry leaned forward. “Is that your boss?”
Irritated at his interruption, the mousy girl nodded. “Excuse me, love.” Harry laid a hand on the receiver and pulled it from her, ignoring a shriek of protest that for a moment silenced even the grumbling gypsies in the background. “Ruby? This is Harry Devlin.”
Even at a distance in excess of two hundred miles, Ruby’s anger was unmistakable. “Devlin? What the hell are you doing butting into my conversation with a member of my own staff? You’ve — ”
“Is it true Coghlan is under arrest?”
“Still waging your crusade? You’re a fool, Devlin, I said you were wasting your time trying to pin your wife’s killing on my client.”
A sick sense of defeat engulfed Harry. Was the rumour untrue after all? The switchboard girl tried to retrieve the receiver, but he brushed her tiny hand away as if swatting a fly. “So he hasn’t been arrested?”
In a tone evasive yet indignant, Fingall said, “Mind your own business. Put me back to my receptionist.”
“Tell me one thing…”
The phone went dead. Harry swore and banged the receiver down on the desk. The girl glared at him and said, “Satisfied?” He grimaced and strode back through the melee to the door. One of the gypsies was apparently about to commit an act of criminal damage on the property of Fingall and Company in the hope of grabbing attention and Harry barely resisted the temptation to shout encouragement.
Outside again, he quickly decided on what to do next. He hurried over to the Magistrates’ Court round the corner and used the payphone to call Ken Cafferty. Whilst he waited he watched the scurrying of barristers and solicitors, the frantic conferences with clients, the striking of deals with the prosecution. Normally he would be in the thick of it all himself, but today the concerns of his professional colleagues seemed as remote as those of a race of extra-terrestrials in a bad S.F. movie. He was wondering if Coghlan would ever be brought to trial, when the reporter’s breeezy voice came onto the line.
“What can I do for you, pal?”
“Can you spare me a few minutes?” Harry consulted his watch. “Look, my throat’s as dry as a bone and it’s almost opening time. We could talk in the Dock Brief in five minutes, perhaps?”
“This is about your bete noir, Mister Michael Coghlan, I suppose?”
“Right. I’m hoping you’ll be able to shine some light in the darkness.”
“Doubtful. After all, I’m a journalist. But the Dock in five minutes is all right by me. Mine’s a pint.”
“I’ll have it waiting for you,” Harry promised.
