She darted into the living room and re-emerged a minute later wearing a knee-length fake fur coat. “A present from Peanuts,” she said with a trace of pride. “He’s not as bad as people make out.”
Her legs were bare and she was still wearing her fluffy indoor slippers. He gestured towards them. “Don’t you want to put some shoes on?”
“We’re not going far.”
She led him back down the stairs and into the street. The sharpness of the evening breeze made him wince, but Trisha didn’t seem to care. She traced a path through the streets. A couple of cars passed, moving slowly. The drivers peered furtively at Harry and his companion before continuing on their way. At the bottom of Falkner Square, Trisha halted at the pavement’s edge. Up ahead a taxi had pulled up alongside a telephone kiosk. A thin figure in a leather jacket and mini skirt skipped out from behind the red box and spoke to a man on the passenger side of the cab. Then she opened the rear door and clambered in.
“That’s not her,” said Trisha authoritatively as the taxi sped off in the direction of Myrtle Street. “Young Carla, she’s only fourteen. Wrong, innit?”
Harry waved towards the Square. “This is Marilyn’s patch?”
“If she’s working tonight, she won’t be more than a hundred yards from here. Goes round in ever decreasing circles, she does. Course, you’ve got to keep on the move, otherwise it’s an easy lock-up for some lousy scuffer with nothing better to do.”
Harry said nothing. He had spotted a woman moving out from the shadows on the other side of the road at the sound of another approaching vehicle. As a scrap metal truck lumbered by, she retreated again into the blackness, but for a moment a nearby street lamp had shed its cone of light upon a thatch of blonde hair. The woman was vaguely familiar. He realised that he had seen her for a brief moment in the Ferry. Of course, it struck him now. He had actually seen her interrupting a man — Rourke? — who was talking to Evison.
He tensed with excitement. At last it was all beginning to come together. He had been right to link Liz’s vague report of the man with the battered face who, she had claimed, had been following her, with the ex-boyfriend whom Jane Brogan had attacked in the Nye. Shirelle had confirmed that. And now he knew there was a connection with Froggy. But there was still much that Harry did not understand.
“Seen her?” asked Trisha.
“I think so.”
“Leave the talking to me. She can be a rough cow. Moody, too. But she’s all right, Marilyn, just had a hard time, see?”
In little, mincing steps Trisha went on ahead of him. Harry held back. The familiar knot of tension was grinding away in his stomach again. Instinctively, he sensed that he was on the verge of a breakthrough, that the truth about the deaths of Liz, her child and Froggy Evison was about to come within arm’s reach.
The two women came into view. Trisha had her hand on the arm of the blonde, as if to prevent her making a bolt for it. Marilyn was well nick-named. At first glance on a February night her hair and curving figure might remind anyone of the screen goddess. The illusion didn’t last long, even in semi-darkness. Her eyes lacked sparkle and the red mouth was stretched in an ungenerous line.
Trisha took charge. “Marilyn, this is a mate of mine. Harry Devlin.”
“Yeah?” There was no sign in the dull eyes that she was acquainted with his name.
“He just wants a word with you, that’s all.”
Suspiciously, the woman said, “I’m working, Trish, can’t you see?”
“This won’t take a minute. And he’ll make it worth your while.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s right,” he assured her. “I’ll pay you for your time. Easy money, better than working.”
“You want to talk here? It’s freezing, I have to keep moving to keep warm, never mind the bleeding busies.”
“Use my place if you like,” offered Trisha.
“Thanks,” said Harry. “All right with you, Marilyn?”
“Suppose so.”
The three of them started back towards Castlereagh Avenue. Out of Marilyn’s range of vision, Trisha looked meaningfully at Harry and mouthed the words: “Smack head.” Harry nodded. He acted for enough drug addicts to be able to recognise the signs of their weakness. Heroin was cheap these days and freely available. His thoughts turned back to Rourke. Two women more different from Liz than Jane and this Marilyn would be hard to imagine. Perhaps the man had eclectic tastes. Or was there another explanation for his interest in Harry’s wife?
Peanuts was waiting for them inside the flat. He was stretched out in an armchair like an eastern sultan, taking his ease. Reggae music filled the room. As Harry and the two prostitutes walked through the door, Peanuts grinned and said, “Shit, man, I never knew you were kinky. Two beautiful ladies. For anyone else, this would cost real money, you know what I mean?”
Harry left the explaining to Trisha. As she talked, he whispered to Marilyn, “Joe Rourke, your feller, I need to talk to him right now. Where is he?”
She yawned. “Who cares?”
“I care, Marilyn. Tell me.”
“No idea. I’m finished with him anyhow. We was only together for a couple of weeks. Got other protection now. Me old boyfriend’s come out of the nick last Monday.”
The stomach knot was tightening again. “Give me an address. Anything.”
“Can’t help you, mister. He stayed at my place till I threw him out. What do I want with him now? Besides, the money’s all gone.”
“The money?”
“Yeah, yeah, he had a few quid. All spent, like I said. It doesn’t last long.”
Harry gripped her bony arm hard, his fingers digging into the flesh. Marilyn cried out, as much in surprise as in pain.
Peanuts said, “Hey, man, that isn’t nice,” and made as if to get out of his chair.
In a warning voice, Trisha said, “Harry, be careful.”
He released the blonde, but the suddenness of his action seemed to have loosened the woman’s tongue. She said, “He’ll be out on the razz as usual. Fancies himself, does Joe. You’ll find him easy enough.”
“Where, Marilyn?”
Pouting, she said, “Try the Ferry Club. He likes the scenery.”
Harry groaned. “That place, yet again. All right, I’ll try it.”
Trisha gave him a make-the-best-of-a-bad-job smile. “Might see you there later on, then. You’re getting to be a regular. Better watch it, else Tony’ll fix you up with a job.”
Harry spun round. “Tony?”
“You must know Tony,” said Trisha.
The stomach ache had become agony. “No,” he said. “Who is he?”
She gazed to the heavens. “He’s only the boss man. The feller who runs the Ferry.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The city centre streets had an uneasy early evening calm as Harry walked towards the Ferry Club. From a basement bar came the sound of the drunken singing of “Danny Boy”. A loiter of kids aged twelve or thirteen hung around a hamburger stall nearby, loudly re-telling old jokes about the Pope. A police van cruised towards Dale Street, the men inside scanning the pavements in search of the first signs of trouble. Harry nursed closer to his chest the heavy object that he was carrying wrapped up in a chamois cloth inside his jacket. He was aware of the rapid beating of his heart. He arrived at the Ferry to find its entrance bolted and barred. The doors would not open for another two hours. He paused outside, looked up and asked himself how he could have been so blind. The realisation of his own stupidity hurt him as much as the drubbing he had taken outside the Empire Dock the other night. Tony — Anthony. Anthony — Tony. He had noticed the name of the boss of the club above the main door on the night of the first murder. Reginald Anthony Gallimore, licensed pursuant to Act of Parliament, et cetera et
