He arrived at the pub as the doors were opening and had collected the drinks when Cafferty arrived. The reporter’s cherubic face was pinker than ever and he was breathless from hurrying through the town.
“Glad to see you’re still out of jail, Harry.”
“So far.” He raised his glass. “Now tell me what’s going on. Have they arrested Coghlan for the murders or not?”
Ken Cafferty took a couple of sips and then said, “As you legal chaps like to say, on the one hand yes and on the other hand no. That is to say, he has been arrested. The Met issued a statement an hour ago.”
“The Met?” So that was why Ruby was in the capital. Harry was still mystified. “What’s it got to do with London police?”
“Everything. You see he’s been arrested on counts of attempted murder and conspiracy to steal four million quid from a security outfit in Leytonstone. The big bullion raid last Wednesday.”
Of course. Harry had read about it casually in the Bridewell.
“Apparently he was big mates from way back with some bloke who ran a heavy mob down the East End.” Cafferty sniggered, unable to resist a dig at the soft South. “Stupid bugger, he should’ve known that a gang of Cockneys couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery! Anyway, he was in the car and he took a pot shot at a have-a-go guard who was brave or daft enough to try to stop the gang. The man’s still on a life support in intensive care.” Unable to conceal his pleasure in announcing a scoop, Ken paused to finish his pint whilst Harry stared at him.
After half a minute the reporter put his glass down and said reflectively, “But you see what it means? It’s hardly likely that even an ambitious member of the criminal fraternity such as Michael Coghlan would arrange to bump his girlfriend off at the same time that he was up to his neck in a robbery that’s probably going to earn him twenty years in Parkhurst. There are limits, even to the criminal imagination.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Gold,” said Dave Moulden. He made a lip-smacking noise of satisfaction. “Lots of it. Okay, maybe small change by Brink’s Mat standards, but still enough to keep the likes of you and me in Woodbines till the end of our natural.” He added grudgingly, “Got to hand it to the Sweeney. They’ve wrapped this one up good and proper.”
“Liz’s murder must have been very convenient for the police,” said Harry grimly. He was twisting his fingers round the handle of a plastic mug filled with tepid tea. They were in a small room in the same corridor as the one in which he had been interrogated the previous night. Harry had come back here as soon as Ken Cafferty had left him to follow up a rumour about corruption and councillors’ expenses.
“Even if Coghlan twigged he was being watched,” he said, almost to himself, “he wouldn’t necessarily fear that his part in the raid was known to the police. I suppose his first hope was to weather the storm. When I found him at the West Liverpool I could tell that he was bending under the weight of guilt. I should have guessed he might have something else to be guilty about.”
“Coghlan must feel as sick as a pig,” said the policeman with relish. “Look at it from his point of view — the murder enquiry was another piece of bad luck. Along with the inside man at the warehouse losing his nerve and naming names when he decided to cough, and that guard trying to be a hero when Coghlan had a sawn-off in his hand and an itchy trigger finger. Not the same gun as killed Evison, by the way, to stop you wondering. Apparently, our friend was meant to be away from Liverpool for less than forty-eight hours. In the normal course of events no one would have missed him. He never dreamed he’d become a centre of attention through his lady friend getting herself murdered.”
Noticing Harry flinch at that, Moulden rubbed his nose and continued more soberly, “The ringleaders of the gang are East Enders who live in the posh parts of Essex these days. Their names wouldn’t mean anything to you, though they’re well known in their own patch. Now the bastards must be kicking themselves. Coghlan was supposed to be an asset to the team, a nail-hard Scouser with a track record of successful robberies and a mate in the jewellery trade who happened to have a smelter that they could use to melt down the gold.”
“Killory?”
“You’ve got it. I’m glad that little worm has been locked up, we’ve been chasing him for years without any joy. The two of them were under surveillance at the request of our friends from the Smoke. Anyway, last night word came through that the big boys had been lifted. Two of them were en route for warmer climes, I gather. Matter of fact, Coghlan was picked up at roughly the same time that we were letting you go from here.”
“Thanks for confiding in me.”
“Be reasonable. SOS — that’s the Flying Squad to you and me — told us the minimum possible. That was fair enough, it was a delicate operation. Handled on a “need to know” basis. And we did tip you the wink that you were making a mistake in pursuing Coghlan. I understand Skinhead dropped a hint on day one. But would you listen? Any road, justice should be done. The man’ll be inside for years and skint when he comes out. You heard his gym business is on the rocks? The gee-gees are to blame, so people are saying. He’s gambled all his money away. No wonder your old lady’s interest in him waned. No disrespect, but she did have an eye for the wallet, didn’t she? “Course, this bullion job was designed to set him back up in the manner to which he was accustomed.”
As the policeman sat back, content, Harry gestured to the fading bruise around his own eye. “And this?”
Moulden frowned. “Truth is, we’re not sure about the attack on you, Harry. In fact, Skinhead’s bet is that Coghlan wasn’t responsible. Okay, so he did get Ruby to have a word with you after you caught him in his panic stations conference with Killory. So what? Isn’t that what lawyers are for, to protect their clients’ interests? Doesn’t mean to say the bugger had you roughed up a few hours later before he was certain you wouldn’t be heeding the friendly words of advice. Innocent till proved guilty, Harry, as you solicitors would say.”
“If not Coghlan, who?”
“You’ve got enemies, Harry, must have. At your end of the legal market, it’s only to be expected. That beating may have had nothing to do with your wife’s death.”
“I told you before, the man who attacked me wanted me to take my nose out of other people’s business. Who else could have set that up but Coghlan?”
Moulden looked unconvinced. “Obviously we’ve put the lads from London in the picture about your wife’s death. Nobody’s taking anything for granted, even though we don’t think he’s involved. They’ll be questioning Mister Coghlan intensively about it over the next few days. Mind you, he’s not feeling too grand at the moment. Got hurt whilst resisting arrest, it seems.” He allowed himself a smile. “You won’t be sorry to hear that in the circumstances, I suppose.”
“All I want now is to find the man who killed Liz. Despite everything, it’s hard to accept that Coghlan had nothing to do with it. But assuming that’s right, a murder remains to be solved.”
“You think we’ve overlooked that?”
“No, I realise the wheels keep turning. But not fast enough for me. What’s the latest?”
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” said Dave Moulden slowly, “but we got word this morning that she spent some time with your pal Barley at lunchtime on the day she was murdered. They were spotted at Mama Reilly’s. Story is, he walked out in a paddy. He didn’t let on when we interviewed him originally. Intriguing, eh? Skinhead set off in person half an hour back to have another chat with him.”
“Look, Matt’s got nothing to do with it. I know about that lunch, I was with him this morning.” He avoided going into detail. Let Skinner ferret out the sad story for himself. “Besides, I don’t think for a minute that he could have brought himself to stab Liz to death.”
Choosing his words with more care than a man on oath, Moulden said, “Not personally, perhaps.”
“Then how — oh, Christ, you don’t think he hired someone to kill her just because they had a tiff?”
“Anything’s possible, Harry. “Course, the same might be said of your brother-in-law.”
“Derek? Are you kidding? The only contract he’d recognise is one for long-term car parking beneath the Atlantic Tower.”
Poker-faced, Moulden said, “Still waters run deep.”
“Spare me your words of wisdom, Dave. Not even you can really believe Derek Edge is responsible for wiping out his sister-in-law and that grubby parasite Evison.”
“Much as I think accountants are parasites too, mate — to say nothing of your lot — I’m inclined to agree with you. If only because he lacks the bottle. Barley, on the other hand, is a volatile character by all accounts. He
