Martin Edwards - All the Lonely People

Headlights flashed at him in furious remonstrance as he overtook a slow-moving van on a bend, and a warning blast on the horn of a passing Sierra reminded him to concentrate oh the road. Rain was beginning to fall and his wipers scratched the windscreen noisily, blurring everything in sight. As urban sprawl gave way to suburban dwellings of increasing opulence, he eased his speed and peered around in search of the avenue that, according to Quentin, led to his destination in Freshfield Close. Eventually he spotted it and, braking sharply, he took two sharp turns, bringing him into the boulevard where he meant to confront the creator of his past week’s agonies.

Tall conifers obscured the house, but looking down the drive, Harry saw a lamp burning above the porch and another light behind a curtained first floor window. Outside a front gate which bore a slate sign inscribed paradise found, someone was parking a Citroen hatchback. Harry slowed, straining through the darkness to identify the figure clambering out from the driver’s seat and slamming the car door. The figure moved beneath a street lamp: a man, black-haired and strongly built, wearing a navy’s jacket and jeans.

Harry pulled up behind the Citroen. The man had been about to walk up the drive of the house; now he looked back over his shoulder. Harry opened the door of the M.G. and the man spun round. Harry took a couple of paces forward. The rear quarterlight of the Citroen was shattered and he caught sight of a dark shape on the back seat of the car. Easy to guess it was a shotgun from which the barrels had been sawn off and that the car had been stolen by the man at the house gates. From fifteen yards away, Harry could feel the violence in the stranger: it sparked in the air like electricity.

“Rourke?”

In the clear evening air Harry’s voice sounded unnaturally loud. He was cold and tense and the Mauser was rubbing painfully against his chest.

“Who’s that?” The tone was threatening, but perhaps it carried a hint of fear as well. The two syllables were all Harry needed to confirm that this was the man who had attacked him outside the Empire Dock. And, for sure, stabbed Liz to death in Leeming Street.

Harry advanced. Twelve yards between them now. Ten. Eight. Rourke’s hand slipped inside his jacket, a reflex action. Harry wondered if the knife was there.

Five yards short of the man, Harry stopped, “I know you murdered my wife, Rourke. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Yeah?” Joe Rourke stared at him defiantly. “Now you’ve found me. So what?”

Harrv took a sten forward. He felt no uree to rave or rant. His own restraint surprised him; seemed strange and unnatural. He said, “How much were you paid, Rourke? How little was my wife’s life worth?”

A scornful laugh. “Five grand.” The dark head tilted back; in the glow from the street light Harry could see the faint outlines of the scar tissue which Jane Brogan’s attack had left under Rourke’s right eye. “Two and a half up front. The rest after. It’s all spent. Soon goes.” He might have been talking about money won on a bet.

“And Evison?”

“Not a penny.” Rourke spat on to the ground. “Had to clear him out, didn’t I? He said he’d seen me follow her down Leeming Street while he was on his way to work at the club.”

“And he put the squeeze on you?”

“Yeah, the silly fucker. All the same, it was worth something, killing him. I came here to collect.”

Harry had guessed as much. “And?”

“And you’re trying to fuck me about. I should’ve finished you off while I had the chance the other night. That fucking dog.” Another laugh. “No Alsatians here, though. You won’t be lucky twice.”

As he finished speaking, Rourke whipped his hand out of the inside pocket. Harry saw steel glinting through the stubby fingers. There was a dark smear on the blade. Harry almost gagged at the sight of it. The man had not even bothered to clean the weapon that had killed Liz. Rourke took a step forward. This was their second encounter on a dark night and Harry knew it would be their last.

The Mauser. He remembered it just in time and with a single instinctive movement ripped the gun from its hiding place beside his chest. In his grasp it felt smooth and solid, it gave him courage. He pointed it straight at Rourke’s marked face. For the first time, he looked directly into the murderer’s eyes. Something shone in them — was it fear?

Shoot him, said a voice inside his head. Shoot him while you have the chance. He would do the same to you. What mercy did he show to Liz or to the baby that she carried?

“Put the knife down,” he said. Inwardly, he cursed his own weakness, the tremor that he heard in his voice.

Rourke did not reply. He threw himself forward like an animal intent upon the kill, clutching the knife at waist height. Harry swayed to one side as the blade came arching up in a savage blow aimed at his heart. It missed by inches and as Rourke followed through, the hard bulk of his body caught Harry’s shoulder.

As they both went sprawling, Harry kicked out in desperation at his attacker’s wrist. In the moment before the two men hit the ground less than a yard apart, Harry heard the knife fall too. As it clattered away just out of reach, Rourke let out a muffled cry. The impact of collapsing backwards on to the pavement knocked the breath from Harry’s body and the cracking of the side of his head against the concrete slabs filled his eyes with tears. Yet it seemed as if he were too numb to feel pain and somehow he managed to cling on to the gun and, with it, the hope of staying alive.

Harry rolled over on to his side and saw Rourke stagger to his feet. The man seemed dazed; he took one look at the Mauser and stumbled on to the road, to the driver’s door of the Citroen. Harry hauled himself up off the ground, first to a half-crouching position, then back to the vertical. As he did so, the Citroen revved furiously. Harry flattened himself against the fence edging the pavement, still gripping the gun so tightly that the metal bit into the flesh of his fingers, and watched as, with a squeal of brakes, the French car swept away and out of sight.

Harry hobbled back to the M.G. and started it up. Although Rourke had vanished, he had seen him turning at the end of the close. Back on the main road, he spotted the Citroen’s sleek lines a hundred yards ahead. Harry put his foot down, oblivious of the aching of his head and the forty-mile-an-hour limit. Rourke must have realised he was being followed. He accelerated through changing traffic lights and hurtled off into the night. Harry held his breath, and with barely a sweep of his eyes from left to right drove straight through on the red.

Further on, the road narrowed into a single carriageway. Harry could, see Rourke manoeuvring the Citroen with dodgem skill around parked cars and slow movers, daring oncoming vehicles to bar his way. Harry kept on after him, spinning the steering wheel this way and that, offering a silent prayer of thanks for the lightness of the traffic. The M.G. might be rusty, but it responded like a racing horse to an Aintree jockey’s whip. Harry’s breath was coming in short gasps. He was closing on the killer’s car.

I won’t let him get away, thought Harry. If it’s the last thing I do, he won’t escape me now.

Twice at the last moment Rourke swerved off into side streets, but he couldn’t lose the M.G. They were in South Liverpool now. The streets were built up with rows of terraced houses and there was a small shop on every corner. Few people were about, just one or two taking their dogs for a walk and the usual knots of teenagers shouting and jostling. The gap between the cars was down to twenty yards. Brakes screaming again in protest, Rourke took another tight corner at fifty, with Harry only seconds behind.