Martin Edwards: All the Lonely People

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.”

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 cetera. That unthinking failure to make the obvious connection when Dame had mentioned the name of Liz’s lover was wormwood and gall to him. He understood now why his wife had suggested that they meet at the club on that dreadful Thursday night. Not, after all, in order to see Rourke. She had planned an assignation with the man in charge that night and had meant to accompany him back to the Ferry, so as not to miss the chance of a minute in his company before they split up for the night.

So it was Gallimore of whom she entertained such high hopes. Moneyed and handsome, the man she hoped to marry. What had gone wrong and why had he not come forward in response to the news of her death? And was it mere coincidence that Rourke, the man who kept her picture, who followed her around the city, also frequented the Ferry? Slowly, the fog within Harry’s mind was beginning to clear. At last he could identify the shadowy outlines of the truth.

He turned down the alleyway where forty-eight hours earlier he had lain in wait for Froggy Evison. It was deserted. Lined up against the wall were half a dozen black bin liners from which old ring-pull lager cans and torn crisp packets spilled. The side door was shut. He tested it. Locked.

For half a minute he beat on the metal panel until his knuckles were raw. Nothing. Impossible to make anyone hear inside. He had taken a step back towards the front of the building when he heard a key turn in the lock. The door swung open and the fair-haired keyboard player whom he had encountered on his previous visit stepped out into the night.

Glancing back over his shoulder, the man was saying, “Maybe the agent will come up with someone. The kid from Wrexham might be free. The one who sings like Randy Crawford.”

The reply was too low for Harry to hear. As the door began to close, Harry moved swiftly. Grabbing the door’s edge, he held it fast for a moment and stepped inside. He was looking straight at a tall black-haired man in a slim-fitting designer suit, the man whom on previous visits Harry had assumed was the manager, without appreciating that he must actually own the place. In the intervening week the tan seemed to have faded and his moustache to have drooped. Wrinkles had crept around dark eyes that no longer smiled with complacent authority. At the sight of Harry he stared as if coming face-to-face with a poltergeist.

He knows who I am, thought Harry. He’s been afraid that I would turn up.

“Tony. Tony Gallimore.” The words came out harshly; for Harry, it was like listening to someone else talk. During the past few days he had spoken to more than one man who had slept with his wife. But this was the one whom she had thought she loved.

“You’re Devlin.” A statement rather than a question, spoken in smoothed-down mid-Atlantic tones which bore not a trace of the Scouser’s catarrhal whine.

The keyboard player joined them in the doorway. “Problems, boss?”

“Nothing I can’t handle, Neil. I’ll see you later.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Yes, Neil. No sweat. There’s no need for you to stay.”

With a last dubious look at Harry, the keyboard player zipped his white blouson and was gone. Gallimore said, “What do you want here? We have nothing to say to each other.” That charming smile reserved for the punters and his ladyfriends was nowhere to be seen.

“Wrong.” Harry jerked his thumb. “Let’s talk indoors.”

Gallimore hesitated, but another glance at Harry’s face helped to make up his mind. “As you wish.”

He led Harry to a room at the far end of the passageway. Its door was marked manager — strictly private. The office was palatial in comparison to the cubby-holes which Harry had seen on his previous visit. Comfortable chairs, a paper-laden desk, swish cordless phone and a year planner festooned with coloured oblongs and triangles. Two walls were covered with photographs of club acts. Perhaps half of them showed Gallimore with his arm round skimpily clad singers and dancers. Most of the pictures were adorned with trite messages and autographs: All the best from the Stimson Sisters, Luv to Tony from Cara xxx. Gallimore sat behind the desk and waved Harry into the other chair.

“You didn’t answer me, Mr. Devlin. What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“Talking won’t help any of us. Elizabeth is dead.”

Elizabeth. Harry would never associate the full name with the woman he had married. To him, she had always been Liz. Perhaps that had been her problem: she was a Liz who yearned to become an Elizabeth. He said, “It’s about her death that I wanted to see you.”

“I can’t tell you anything.”

“I think you can,” said Harry.

Tony Gallimore laughed sourly. “Elizabeth used to talk about you. She said you were sharp enough on the surface, but that crazy obsessions would take hold of you, then you became unreasonable. I hope I’m not going to be one of those obsessions.”

“She seems to have spent most of her time discussing me with her fancy men,” said Harry wearily.