All the Lonely People Read Free Page A

the wall clock reminded him that he hadn’t retrieved his alarm from his bedroom. Eight o’clock already and he was supposed to be back at the Bridewell by half-past to complete his stint of twenty-four hours as the city’s Duty Solicitor, as confidant of the thieves and muggers, drunks and vandals who were picked up by the police and had no one else to turn to. Cursing, Harry struggled to his feet. He yearned to stay and talk to Liz; even if she was no longer his, he could think of no one with whom he would rather be. For a moment he contemplated phoning in to say he was sick and unable to come in today. But the work instinct won and he shambled to the bathroom instead.
    After a hasty wash and shave he looked in on Liz. So many times, waking first, he had watched her exactly like this. With the duvet tucked beneath her chin, her face seemed as peaceful as a child’s, and as innocent. No make up, no worry lines, no hint of any suffering. Why should she want to cut her own wrist?
    Shaking her, he said, “I must go. There’s food and drink in the kitchen for breakfast. Okay?”
    In a slow ceremonial way, like a monarch bestowing attention on a humble subject, she opened her eyes. It took a second for them to focus on him and then she smiled. “Thanks for looking after me.”
    Harry wasn’t sure if she was teasing him. “You might call me,” he said, trying to be off-hand about it. “We could have lunch.”
    â€œI’d love to be your honoured guest. No, seriously.”
    He could feel himself tense as her fingers touched his hand.
    â€œYou all right, Liz?”
    â€œFine.” The green eyes widened. “I feel safe here.” Her arms dangled negligently by the side of the bed and once more he saw the damaged wrist.
    Flinching, he turned to go. “See you later.”
    Outside, rain smacked the pavements with sadistic fury. For once it was worth taking his car the short distance into the city centre. He drove an M.G. convertible, twenty years old and still lively beneath a rusting exterior. The only car he had ever owned; he was comfortable with it and didn’t believe in change for the sake of it. Glancing every so often at his watch, he weaved through sodden one-way streets, squeezing past roadworks and imperilling pedestrians who took a chance.
    The riddle of why Liz might want to kill herself continued to nag at him. Might he have been mistaken in interpreting the marks on her wrist as the legacy of a failed suicide bid? He didn’t think so. In the past he had seen similar scars disfiguring his clients. One had been the victim of a messy divorce, another a kleptomaniac with a heroin habit: both had tried to kill themselves. Could Coghlan’s vicious streak have caused Liz comparable despair? Anything was possible - and yet the Liz he knew loved life, would never bring it to an end a moment too soon.
    He arrived with less than a minute to spare. The Magistrate’s Court was not yet open but he turned into Cheapside and banged on the heavy black door round the corner. A taciturn constable let him in, jangling keys in his pocket as if to taunt any sharp-eared ruffians incarcerated in the holding cell with the sound of freedom. He unlocked the iron gate leading to the cell and motioned Harry through.
    The Bridewell sergeant was perched on his high chair like a pre-war schoolmaster, while a pack of his subordinates lolled on a bench opposite the holding cell, engrossed in the racing pages of the Sun and Mirror. On an oblong of white card suspended by string from a hook in the wall, someone had written: please do not ask for bail, as a REFUSAL MIGHT OFFEND.
    â€œAll right, mate?” enquired the sergeant. He peered at Harry’s shiny-elbowed suit and scuffed Hush Puppies. “You really must give me the name of your tailor some time.”
    â€œPiss off, Bert,” he said without malice.
    No matter how many times he came here, it always