Martin Edwards: All the Lonely People

A faint movement by the priest attracted Harry’s attention. Slowly, the coffin began to slide out of sight. Within an instant, it seemed to Harry, the deep blue curtains had been pulled together and the box was gone forever. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he realised the service was over and that people were beginning to shuffle about, waiting for him to move. He got up from the seat and stumbled towards the exit. From behind, he felt the pressure of an arm supporting him.

Jim Crusoe’s voice whispered “in his ear. “It’s done.”

Gently, his partner propelled him out into the cold morning air where the priest was waiting. Harry mumbled a few words of thanks in mechanical response to the young Welshman’s attempt to offer consolation. He scarcely noticed the pile of wreaths and the tied-on cards which bore messages of sympathy and were flapping in the breeze.

A short distance away stood Skinner, head bowed in contemplation. For the police, the official file had closed following the death of Rourke. Enough evidence had been obtained to tie him to both murders: the knife, the shotgun, a couple of witness sightings of him at Pasture Moss at around the time when Froggy Evison was killed. The tabloid press had talked about the suspected murderer who had died in a freak car crash, but there had been plenty of good stories around lately — riots in a Scottish prison, the resignation of a Cabinet minister — and already the deaths of Liz and Evison were yesterday’s news.

The papers didn’t have an inkling about Angie O’Hare’s involvement and neither Harry nor Skinner planned to enlighten them. As far as the outside world was concerned, it was a simple case of a forgotten star of days gone by finding herself unable to cope with life amongst the second-rate. The local rags had called it a tragedy; in the nationals, it scarcely rated a mention. The inquest was unlikely to disclose too many secrets and the verdict was sure to be suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed.

When he had listened to Harry’s story, had it typed up for the record and signed, Skinner had said, “A bitter thing, is jealousy.” It was the first spoken indication that he accepted Angie had hired Rourke to do her dirty work, though later a check on her bank account revealed that she had withdrawn five thousand pounds shortly before the stabbing of Liz. Harry had looked at him and said, “Not so much jealousy, Chief Inspector, as the fear of being on her own again.”

He took a few paces down the shingle path which led from the building. Feeble rays of sunlight were beginning to filter through the greyness overhead. In a narrow bed under the shelter of the roadside wall, the year’s first greenery had started to emerge: snowdrop and crocus leaves, tokens of the coming spring.

He raised his eyes. The early morning mist had cleared and he could look down from the slopes of the crematorium grounds and see the Liverpool skyline in the distance: the contrasting forms of the two cathedrals, the muscular bulk of the buildings on the waterfront. Beyond, the charcoal ribbon of the Mersey flowed towards the Irish Sea. Pasture Moss, though nearer at hand, was masked from view by rows of redbrick terraced houses. According to a bulletin on the local radio the previous day, the waste heap was to be levelled soon and the land grassed over and reclaimed for recreation. There was talk in the papers of a resurgence in local industry and pride. Whether it was a rebirth or just a period of remission interrupting the decline of a dying city, Harry didn’t know. He doubted if anyone did.

Brenda Rixton had caught up with him. She had been sitting quietly at the back throughout the service. Now she extended a hand and they shook formally, like strangers acknowledging mutual respect. Their eyes met for a moment and then they walked towards the crematorium gates, together and yet still alone.