Martin Edwards - All the Lonely People

“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 might snap. Like a man who flips when some tart taunts him about his virility. Say your wife made some nasty remark about his height and he reacted violently? You’re going to tell me she wouldn’t, they went back years together, and that anyway he’d never wait cold-bloodedly for hours before taking his revenge. But who knows? I’ll be interested to learn what the Skinhead comes up with.”

Harry glanced sharply at the detective, aware of the shrewdness concealed by his ponderous manner. Plenty of criminals, including some of Harry’s own clients, had over the years betrayed themselves by underestimating Dave Moulden. The police hadn’t given up on Liz’s stabbing, however many gaps might still exist in their picture of the background to the case. Improbable as was the thought of Matt’s guilt, Harry felt glad that he hadn’t mentioned the idea — was it so unlikely? — that his old friend might have been the father of Liz’s unborn child.

“What about the Evison murder?”

“Whilst you remain the obvious suspect.” said Moulden slyly, “you’ll have noticed that we still haven’t arrested you as yet. Otherwise, we’re asking around in the usual way. Looking into the Ferry Club side of things, naturally. Turns out one of the barmaids was on a social security fiddle. Wes is with her now. Pike’s representing her. A bail job, probably, but we may turn up something worthwhile.”

Harry put his cup down and stood up. “So it goes on. Thanks for your time, Dave. And for the tea, though your vending machine’s due for an overhaul, I think. Did you check Rourke out, by the way?”

“What do you take us for? The young man is known to us, I can tell you that, though we’ve not been able to lay our hands on him so far. Joseph Malachy Rourke. Twenty-two years of age. Never knew his father, spent his formative years in care. Used to go shoplifting as a kid. Committed an assault outside the Ferry Club — where else? — twelve months back. But the complaint was withdrawn. Frighteners were put on the kid he duffed up, I expect. Happens all the time, doesn’t it?”

Moulden shook his head sadly. “There’s a smack possession charge that dates back a couple of years, though he’s a user rather than a dealer by all accounts. Plus a wounding that dates back to his teens, and a taking and driving away without the owner’s consent. But he’s spent more time in remand centres than in jail. A run-of-the-mill ruffian rather than a master-criminal, by the sound of him. Not a pleasant chap for your wife to have been consorting with. At least you could say that Mick Coghlan was your better class of crook. Four million quids worth of bullion isn’t to be sneezed at.”

“Fool’s gold,” said Harry. “All right, keep me posted.”

“Will do. And Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Obstructing the course of justice is part of your job, okay. But don’t let it spill over into your private life. Leave the detecting to us.”

Harry returned to the foyer where he spotted two figures disappearing together out of the main door. A short tubby man in a dark suit and a blonde wearing a black PVC macintosh and huge circular earrings. Quentin Pike and his client. Harry hurried to join them on the step outside.

“Afternoon, Quentin.” he said breathlessly to the solicitor. With his sparse curling hair and steel-rimmed glasses, the man’s resemblance to a middle-aged Owl of the Remove was belied only by his reputation for charming the ladies. “And Shirelle. Sorry, I don’t know your second name.”

The barmaid stared angrily at him and said, “It’s Lafferty, Shirelle Lafferty.”

Pike tapped him on the shoulder. “What’s this, Harry, trying to poach my clients?”

“Perish the thought. This is a private matter.” Out of Shirelle’s range of vision, Harry winked at Pike in a man-of-the-world way. “The lady and I are previously acquainted.” He turned back to her. “Can I have a quick word with you, love?”

The barmaid looked doubtfully at her solicitor, but he simply shrugged and said, “Don’t worry, I’m sure you can handle Mr. Devlin. In any case, there’s nothing more for us to discuss at present. I’ll be in touch.” With a vague wave of the hand, he was gone.

She turned to Harry and said, “So what’s all this in aid of? I’ve worked out who you are — that brief whose wife got killed the other day. And last time I saw you, you wanted to speak to Froggy. Now he’s dead and all. You ought to carry a Government health warning.”

“Did you know my wife? She used to spend time in the Ferry, or so I believe.”

“Look, I’ve only been working there a few weeks, haven’t I? And now the busies have taken an interest, it looks as though I’m all washed up. Mr. Pike reckons they won’t send me down, but it’s not nice, is it? I was only trying to make ends meet, wasn’t I? Anyway, what was I saying? No, I never came across her. I’ve just been telling that black bugger the same. No matter how much he kept on at me, I couldn’t help him. All right, I saw her picture in the paper, but it didn’t mean anything to me.”

“There was a boyfriend of hers — you may recall him. A man called Rourke. He spends a lot of time at the Ferry.”

Clicking her tongue impatiently she said, “I’ve already told the police I can’t help them. I’ve only been there a short time, hardly got to know the regulars even.”

Harry felt the first spots of a renewed shower of rain fall upon his shoulders. While Shirelle fished in her capacious handbag for a pink folding umbrella, he cursed the inadequacy of Jane’s description. Only one bit of it stood in his mind. “Another thing,” he said, “I think he’s been in a fight lately. Someone made a mess of his face.”

“A fight?” Her brows knitted in concentration. “You don’t mean Joe, do you?”

A shiver of excitement ran down Harry’s spine. For once he had guessed correctly. “You’ve got him. Joe Rourke.”

“Used to see a lot of Joe.” She sniggered. “He was certainly smitten.”

Harry grasped her by the hand. “Now can you remember him being with my wife?”