Free All the Lonely People by Martin Edwards Page A

his ceaseless yearning for Liz, his affection for his birthplace remained strong enough to survive the worst: it could not simply fade away. The city and the woman, they would always be part of him.
    In the pocket of his jeans he had thrust, out of habit, a box of matches and a handful of cigarettes. He was about to light up when, for no reason that he could understand, he changed his mind. All at once, he wanted never to smoke again. A ridiculous time for such a decision. But it was a small token of the need he had to commit himself to one objective in life, at least, that might be attainable. He hurled the matches and fags in a single movement out into the river. They bobbled on the surface for a second or two, then disappeared from view. A woman passing by tutted in disgust at this latest pollution of the Mersey.
    Increasing his pace, he walked towards Water Street. As he passed the equestrian statue of Edward VII, a pigeon, Scouse-irreverent, defecated on the monarch’s head. Harry grinned for a moment, but then his jaw set again and he made a silent vow. Of course it would be harder than denying himself a smoke. But Liz had trusted him to keep her safe and he had failed her. Now he would not rest, could not rest, until he had found her murderer.

Chapter Seven
    â€œI can forgive a man anything,” said Ken Cafferty, waving a chunky hand magnanimously, “provided he has a sense of humour. But Ned Skinner, now - typical bloody Yorkshireman! Miserable as a Monday morning in Middles-borough.”
    He lifted a chipped mug to his lips, oblivious to the ring it had left on the surface of Harry’s office desk, and beamed with pleasure at his own phrase-making. Then he sucked in his cheeks and added, “But he gets results. By God, Harry, he gets results.”
    Ten minutes earlier Cafferty had put his notebook away and they had started speaking off the record. Chief crime reporter on one of the city’s local rags, with Harry he had a you-scratch-my-back relationship of the kind that went back years and suited them both. Like most journalists and lawyers, they remained wary of each other, conscious of the conflict between the public’s right to know and the client’s craving for confidentiality. Yet within the constraints of their irreconcilable objectives, Harry was willing to feed Cafferty with as much information about a case as common sense permitted and trusted the man not to print more than was needed to make a story that didn’t sink like a stone.
    This time Harry was cashing in a few old favours. He wanted the minimum hassle from the Press and as much inside information as Cafferty could provide. The reporter was willing to oblige; after probing for half an hour, he seemed satisfied that he wasn’t interviewing a credible murder suspect. Positive leads, though were in short supply and he’d been able to tell Harry no more than Skinner had already divulged. The Coghlan angle, as Cafferty persisted in calling it, held his interest, but as Harry had kept quiet about Liz’s fear for her life - he knew better than to show all his cards at the outset, even when seeking help - there wasn’t much meat on the bones of an exclusive yet.
    â€œIt comes down to this . . .” said Cafferty, furrowing his brow. Harry knew the cherubic face and cheerfully mundane small talk masked a shrewd intelligence. “. . . was your wife simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or did she know her killer?” He paused, as if hoping to provoke a response, but when none was forthcoming, said, “Did Skinner drop any hints to you about the way he sees things? Without prejudice, as you legal bods would say?”
    â€œNot a thing,” said Harry slowly. “I can’t make out what the man is thinking.”
    â€œSniffing round for a motive, isn’t he? What can it be if not sex or money? There are no stray lunatics out on the loose to take all the blame. At least, no