All the Lonely People by Martin Edwards Page A

hadn’t been to blame, they had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And afterwards, he had felt lost, for there had been no scapegoat for him to hate, except for the never-to-be-identified hoaxer whose false alarm had sent the engine thundering to disaster that foggy November night, now so long ago.
    Skinner’s voice jerked him back to the present. “I’m afraid there’s been no mistake, though I am going to have to ask you to provide formal identification of the body shortly.” Skinner fished inside his jacket and offered him another cigarette. Harry took it with an unsteady hand. “I am sure this must be difficult for you, sir, but would you be good enough to tell me what happened, from when Mrs. Devlin came to see you onwards?”
    In a daze, Harry described his discovery of Liz in the flat on Wednesday night. He gave a fragmented account of their conversation and of how he had missed her on the phone during the following day and responded to her written summons by making his fruitless visit to the Ferry Club. He spoke dully; his mind was elsewhere as he tried in vain to reconcile himself to the fact of her death. When he mentioned her fear of Coghlan, he noticed the chief inspector exchange a glance with his sergeant, but the combined effect of hangover and shock made him uncaring about anything other than his loss of Liz. After he had finished talking, he bowed his head, as if to say: What does any of it matter now?
    But Skinner wanted more. “This note that she left for you. May I see it?”
    Harry tried to recall what he had done with it. “That’s . . . yes, I remember now. I burnt it. In a temper, I admit.”
    â€œWhy do that? It seems an extreme reaction.”
    â€œI was angry, that’s all. She was taking it for granted that I would chase after her.”
    â€œYet that is precisely what you did,” pointed out Skinner. “Very well. Did you go to the Ferry Club right away?”
    â€œNot immediately. I made myself something to eat first, read a little, then went out. I must have left here about twenty to eleven.”
    â€œAnd did you bump into your wife on the way?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œTalk to anyone whilst you were out?”
    Harry hesitated, then told the detective about his conversation with Trisha. Skinner nodded, Macbeth made a note. Yet neither of them seemed interested.
    â€œAnd you say you left at about twelve?”
    â€œGive or take ten minutes. I can’t be precise. Look, do you mind-”
    â€œYou came straight home, you said. Anyone see you arrive back? Or depart?”
    â€œNot as far as I can recall. The porter may have been on his rounds.”
    Skinner appeared to reflect on Harry’s answers for a moment or two before saying, “What were your feelings towards your wife, Mr. Devlin?”
    Harry scoured his mind for a suitable reply. But how could he give a sensible response to someone who had never met the woman? What were his feelings for Liz: love, hate, devotion, fury? All in equal measure at every hour of the day? He stretched out his arms helplessly.
    â€œYou’re speaking in the past tense,” he said at last, “I don’t think I can cope with that at the moment. Any minute now Liz will walk through the door and tell me this is all some gigantic joke. An out-of-season April fool.”
    Skinner’s pale pink tongue appeared between narrow lips. “I’m sorry, Mr. Devlin, but I have to ask you this - did you kill your wife?”
    Harry lit another cigarette. Although he avoided the detectives’ eyes, the prickling of his skin told him that they were weighing him up like ratcatchers examining their prey.
    â€œLiz tempted me to murder from the hour when I met her, Chief Inspector. She was impatient and impulsive and infuriating. I never came across a woman who could goad me with such ease. I won’t pretend she didn’t sometimes drive