Martin Edwards - All the Lonely People

Keeping his fingers crossed that he wasn’t interrupting Trisha in the middle of a professional engagement, he pushed the door open and climbed the flight of stairs that led from the scruffy hallway. On the first landing were Flats C and D. He climbed again and found himself outside a door marked F. Sellotaped to it was a card marked TRISHA and decorated by little heart shapes in mauve felt tip letters.

His loud knock brought an immediate response. Trisha’s voice, challenging yet with an undertow of anxiety. “Who is it?” The question of a woman who is not certain that her next customer will not be the last. A rapist, perhaps, a psychopath, a murderer…

“Harry Devlin.”

After a moment’s scrutiny via the spyhole, she admitted him. Crossing the threshold, he absorbed at a glance the rush matting in lieu of carpet, the cracked mirror hanging from the old-fashioned picture rail, the dripping I Love Ibiza tee shirt draped across the clothes maiden in the hall. Curry smells wafted in from the adjacent kitchenette.

“You had me flummoxed there. It’s a bit soon for punters. Besides, only me regulars call at the house first, and then they’re likely to give me a ring first.” Her eyebrows lifted a fraction as a thought occurred to her. “Changed your mind?”

“I’m here to beg a favour.”

Mischievously, she breathed, “Nothing — out of the ordinary?”

“Behave, Trisha. All I need is your help.”

“Last solicitor who asked me for that, I charged him double.”

Harry refused to be diverted. “I’m looking for a girl known as Marilyn. She works round here. I’d like to find her fast.”

“Is she another of your clients?” A faint grin. “Or the other way around? Don’t make me jealous.”

Patiently, he said, “I simply want to talk to her.”

“You wouldn’t be wanting to cause bother for her? The law’s the law. You’re either inside it or not. You’re in. Marilyn and me, we’re out.”

“This is personal.” He leaned back against the wall, arms folded. “You’ll have read about my wife in the papers, yes?”

“More than that, Harry. The busies came round to check your alibi. Remember us meeting in the Ferry last Thursday? They wanted to know all about it.”

Harry had forgotten telling the police about his casual meeting with Trisha, had overlooked the diligence with which they checked and counter-checked.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

She waved away his apology. “No problem. I wasn’t entertaining when they arrived. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“It’s possible that Marilyn knows someone who knows something about who killed Liz.”

Trisha scanned his face for a moment, then said, “Wait here. I’ll get my coat.”

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?”