Gatliffe became desperate. Realising that he might be throttled, he took hold of Cochran’s wrists and wrenched them away so that he could speak again.
‘There’s no need for this, Ol,’ he bleated. ‘We’re friends.’
‘You betrayed me, you bastard.’
‘Get off. You’re hurting me.’
But Cochran was in no mood for mercy. Pulsing with anger and prompted by the need for revenge, he went for the throat again and squeezed hard. Gatliffe began to panic and found a surge of strength that allowed him to grasp his friend by the arms and force him sideways. Locked together, the two of them rolled over and over on the grass until they fell into the water. It was very shallow but the shock of the cold water made Cochran release his hold at last. Gatliffe struggled to his feet, spitting out water. When Cochran surfaced, he, too, was spluttering but was the first to recover. As Gatliffe tried to wade to the bank, he was gripped from behind and hurled back into the river, disappearing from sight for a few seconds.
Cochran was not going to let him go a second time. As soon as Gatliffe’s head rose above the water, Cochran grabbed his hair and pushed him down again, determined to keep him there until he drowned. Gatliffe flailed wildly but he could not shake off his attacker. It was only a question of time before his resistance was broken. Cochran was exultant, laughing at his triumph, thinking of nothing else but of meting out the ultimate punishment to his friend.
He was so obsessed with getting his revenge that he didn’t see the two detectives running along the bank towards him. Keedy was in the lead but Marmion was only a yard behind him. Sizing up the situation, they didn’t hesitate for a second. They flung off their hats, tore off their coats, then plunged straight into the water. While Keedy knocked Cochran over with a crash tackle, Marmion helped the victim, taking Gatliffe by the scruff of the neck and hauling him up to the surface. Gasping for air, he was so weak that Marmion had to carry him to the bank.
Keedy, meanwhile, was involved in a frenzied contest with Oliver Cochran. Waist-deep in the water, they traded punches, then grappled. Cochran did everything he could to get free, struggling, spitting and even trying to bite his assailant. Keedy did not stand on ceremony. Pulling one hand away, he bunched his fist and pounded Cochran’s face until the man yelled in agony, ending with a vicious right hook that caught him on the ear and momentarily dazed him. Keedy was quick to overpower him, twisting one arm behind his back and forcing him to the bank. Marmion was waiting to snap handcuffs onto the escaped prisoner. Cochran was not finished yet. Even though both detectives had hold of him, he managed to swing a foot and kick Gatliffe who was still sprawled on the grass.
Keedy pulled the prisoner out of reach of his former friend.
‘It’s all over, Cochran,’ he said. ‘You’re going back to prison.’
Uniformed policemen were now hurrying along the bank. When they arrived, Keedy handed over Cochran. As they dragged him away, he was howling with rage. Marmion assisted Gatliffe to his feet.
‘How do you feel now?’ he asked.
‘He tried to kill me,’ said Gatliffe in horror. ‘Olly tried to drown me.’ He gave a shudder. ‘Thank God you came, Inspector!’
‘The person to thank is your mother, sir. When we called at your house, she told us you’d gone fishing and where we’d be likely to find you. We had a feeling that Cochran might have got here first.’
‘It’s where we always used to come. It was our special place. Me and Ol spent hours fishing here.’
‘Well, you won’t ever do it again,’ said Keedy. ‘Cochran’s fishing days are over.’ He glanced down at his sodden clothing. ‘Look at the state of me,’ he moaned. ‘I’m soaked to the skin.’
‘We all are, Joe,’ said Marmion, examining his own dripping trousers. ‘Let’s find somewhere to dry off — come on.’
The address she’d been given was in one of the less salubrious areas of the city. An air of unspecified danger hung in its grimy streets. Had she not been so determined, Irene would have turned back and sought the safety of her own home but she had not come this far to be thwarted. Ignoring the lustful stares and the coarse comments she attracted from ragged men loitering in doorways, she walked quickly on and averted her gaze from the scrawny women who looked at her smart clothing with an amalgam of envy and hatred. Disappointment awaited her. When she reached the house where Ernie Gill was lodging, she was told that he was not there. The most likely place to find him, she was informed, was in the pub two streets away.
It was bad news for Irene. If Gill had been drinking, he might become unpredictable but that could not be helped. She simply had to see him. Though it meant braving the denizens of the Three Tuns, she was not afraid. Irene pushed open the door of the lounge bar and stepped into the fug. Through the curling smoke from cigarettes and pipes, she tried to pick out Gill from the dozen or more people there, conscious that all eyes were on her. An old man spoke up.
‘Eh, ’ow much d’you charge, darlin’?’ he asked.
There was a roar of laughter at Irene’s expense. She rose above it and took a few steps forward so that she could peer around. Three men were sitting at a table in a corner. One of them leapt to his feet and came scurrying across to her.
‘Is that you, Irene?’ asked Gill in amazement. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I need to speak to you, Ernie.’
‘That’s wonderful. Let me buy you a drink.’
‘No, no,’ she said, touching his arm as he turned towards the bar counter. ‘I only came for a talk.’ She looked around. ‘Is there somewhere more private than this?’
‘Let’s go into the snug.’
As he took her through a swing door into a tiny room, there were jeers from the other patrons and a barrage of crude remarks. They sat down either side of a small, round, beer-stained table. Gill grinned expectantly.
‘This is a lovely surprise, Irene,’ he said.
‘It’s not a social call.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘A lady at your house suggested I might try here.’
‘That would be Maggie — Maggie Thompson. She’s Brad’s wife. He’s the friend who took me in.’
‘She told me that you spent a lot of time here,’ said Irene with disapproval. ‘Whereas you reckoned you were looking for a job.’
‘I found one,’ he said, proudly. ‘I start tomorrow at a barber’s not far from here. It’s not the same as working on a liner but it’s a job. What about you? I thought you’d have started in that toy factory by now.’
‘Not until next Monday.’
He leered at her. ‘So what did you want to speak to me about?’
‘I want to ask you about this, Ernie.’
She opened her bag and fished out the article from the Liverpool Echo. She slapped it on the table in front of him and watched his reaction. He was nonplussed at first. Puzzlement gave way to wariness then turned into positive alarm. He read the article twice.
‘Well?’ she pressed. ‘What have you got to say?’
‘I’m … very sorry that it happened.’
‘You were involved, weren’t you?’
‘No!’ he cried.
‘You were part of the gang that smashed up that house.’
‘Of course I wasn’t, Irene.’
‘Look at the date. It was the day we landed back in Liverpool.’
‘So?’
‘You told me that you went out drinking then decided to go in search of a German family you knew about. It was them, wasn’t it?’ she challenged, pointing at the press cutting.
‘I never went anywhere near this place.’
‘The wife managed to escape but the man was beaten to a pulp. He hung on in hospital for days but eventually died. That means the people who attacked him committed murder.’ She grasped his wrist. ‘Were you one of them, Ernie? Are you a killer?’
‘No — I swear it on my mother’s grave!’