The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘No.’ She sat next to him. ‘She has to be warned.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Listen, sunshine. You’re the brains of this outfit – I’m here just as decoration and landlady. We need to find out who died in that place. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t talk to her.’ She was tempted, though. It would be so easy to walk away and let the world get on without her help.

  He thought for several moments. ‘Let me search for a way, please. If you barge in, she’ll think you have an axe to grind.’

  ‘I have! And his head’s the bloody grindstone. Look – he has a date at Bolton Magistrates’ Court in a few days, because he’s going to lose his driving licence. We could hang about there.’

  ‘With an axe?’

  Lucy dug her companion in the ribs. ‘Don’t get clever with me, son.’

  He pushed her into a prone position, climbed on top of her and tickled her until she screamed. ‘That’s a deposit,’ he said. ‘Returnable if we don’t reach completion.’

  ‘Caveat emptor,’ she replied, trying to cover her near-nakedness. ‘Buyer beware, because you don’t know what you’re taking on.’

  ‘I’ve just seen most of it.’ He stood up and announced his intention to go for a shower.

  ‘David?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you.’ There, it was said. He was adorable, intellectually sound, amusing, handsome and imperfect. She couldn’t remember when she’d last said those three precious words to Alan. Poor Alan. Poor Alan? What about the widow who’d landed herself with him? She was the one who deserved pity, surely?

  David turned in the doorway. ‘I was thinking last night. Pondering the mysteries and all that stuff. And I decided that you were the second love of my life, but that’s not the truth.’

  ‘Oh? What am I, then?’

  He smiled, and nodded knowingly. ‘You’re my second life. You’re the love of that second life and the core of it. I remember you not just from childhood, but also from the future. I read Einstein on the fabric of time – oh, years ago. I don’t know how or whether he managed to prove it, but he saw the fourth dimension as one – past, present and future all together.’

  ‘So there’s no such thing as time?’

  ‘Apparently, we made it up to give the Swiss something to do with all those wooden cuckoos. Oh, and for calendar makers, of course.’ He left the room, then popped his head back round the door. ‘Mind you, try telling that to a child waiting for Christmas. Tim used to open those doors on the Advent calendar at the crack of dawn before counting how many days he had to wait.’ He disappeared again.

  Lucy sighed contentedly. He had just let Tim go, and she had been both witness and an element in the cause. Children were never replaceable, while his love for Anne had clearly been absolute. But surely it was easier to start another adult relationship than it was to say goodbye to a child? He was making strides, was more relaxed and easy in her company. Lucy quickly threw on some jeans and a blouse in order to go and help Moira finish packing.

  Carol and Dee were in the main sitting room. The large woman looked up from her task of changing a cushion cover. ‘Hiya, Lucy. We heard you screaming. Is that him of long-standing what I heard talking in yonder?’ She inclined her head towards the bedroom. ‘The clue was his bloody dog shedding hairs all over me floors.’

  ‘It is David, yes.’

  Dee giggled. ‘Has he managed to sit down yet? Because various veins and piles go hand in hand, you know.’

  Lucy was learning fast that Liverpudlians had a way of abusing words and throwing them together that was deliberately double-edged and, on occasion, confusing. She raised an eyebrow at Dee. ‘I’ve got him a rubber ring,’ she said seriously. ‘We blow it up with a bike pump.’

  They both studied her for a few seconds. Was she keeping up, or was she serious? ‘She’s learning,’ Dee pronounced.

  Carol shook her head. ‘Ooh, I don’t know. I mean, she’s only a Woolly. They can be a bit slow. But a rubber ring? Can you see a doctor like him sat on a rubber ring?’

  Dee thought about that. She still looked as if she had mumps, though a more accurate description would be a mump, since just one side of her face remained distorted. ‘No. A doctor wouldn’t sit on a rubber ring.’

  Lucy tutted. ‘I’m going away with Moira for a few days. Will you come back and feed the cat in the evenings? He’ll be sulky, though I doubt he’ll commit suicide by starvation.’

  Carol announced that she would stay at Stoneyhurst until Lucy returned, and that she would, if necessary, force-feed the two reprobates in the roof. ‘And if you’ll throw in that long-stood-up feller, I’ll have the time of me life.’

  Lucy punched the big woman playfully. ‘He’s spoken for.’

  Dee’s face lit up. ‘Told you,’ she said. ‘You owe me a fiver and a fish supper, Mam.’

  ‘Shoo,’ Lucy ordered. ‘Both of you. Bugger off upstairs and clean a couple of bathrooms.’

  When they had gone, Lucy watched Richard retrieving something from the car against which he had committed GBH the night before. He still had a face like thunder, so she remained thoroughly determined to get Moira to Tallows for a while. What on earth was the matter with him?

  David came in and followed the line of her gaze. ‘Acting like he’s lost a quid and found a penny. It’s perhaps as well you’re getting Moira away from there tonight. He looks as if he could use the services of the bomb disposal unit. Mind you, they’d need a few sandbags – he seems to be packing a fair amount of dynamite. What the hell’s up with him, Louisa?’

  ‘Something specific,’ she replied thoughtfully. ‘And something he can’t tell her while she’s so ill.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘A woman, I’d say. He misses sex.’

  ‘So do I, but I don’t make a career of it.’

  Lucy grinned. ‘I noticed.’

  At last, David was on his favourite horse. ‘See? I knew you’d say something. I knew that clever mouth of yours wouldn’t stay shut for more than a few minutes.’ He was trying hard not to laugh. Years of misery, childcare and introspection had fallen away from the shoulders of this capable woman, and her humour was the factor that had kept her sane. ‘And I wouldn’t change a hair of your head. You carry on putting me in my place, honey, because you are my sense of proportion.’

  ‘Oh, get in that kitchen, pour coffee and eat your toast.’

  He went into the kitchen, poured coffee, and ate his toast. She was a bossy-boots, but he would deal with her later and in another place. Einstein was wrong, because the future was going to be a very wonderful story. ‘The future is real,’ he said aloud.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shut up and eat your toast.’

  Glenys and Lucy walked for miles. The shops were nowhere near the Crown Court, though they found a decent lunch in a poshed-up cellar not too far away from where Glenys had handed over her brief. But they went for a post-prandial stroll and did some serious window-shopping in the centre of the city, finally turning back to face the Mersey as they sauntered in the direction of their parked cars.

  On Hanover Street, Lucy ground to a halt. ‘There it is!’ she cried. ‘Supposed to be the best hairdresser for miles, and you need a mortgage to walk in. Do you think they’ll charge us for looking through the windows?’ But the windows were not seeable through. Clients who paid hundreds of pounds for hand-knotted extensions didn’t want the world and his wife staring at them.

  As the pair turned to walk away, the door opened and a figure stepped out of the salon. Once again, Lucy ground to a halt.

  ‘You keep putting your brakes on,’ her companion complained. ‘Or are you running out of fuel?’

  ‘I know her.’ The woman was never out of the newspapers, since she ran a prize-winning business.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Glen, go back to my house. Tell your satnav 32, Mersey View, Waterloo. Poetic, what? Go on. All you need is to follow your nose up the dock road. I have to do this by
myself. Go on, shoo. I’ll be OK.’

  While Glenys walked away towards her car, Lucy watched the woman who had emerged from the hallowed portals of Liverpool’s third cathedral, a building dedicated to the cause of female beauty. It was Herbert’s place. A fabulously flamboyant perfectionist, he ruled this corner of the city with a rod of iron that failed completely to conceal a heart of finer metal.

  The woman outside Herbert’s of Liverpool was pushing items into the back of a van when Lucy joined her and asked if she might help.

  ‘Oh, ta.’ The woman did a quick double-take. ‘Erm … do I know you?’

  ‘You know my husband.’

  A long pause was followed by, ‘Oh. Yes. Well. Look, if there’s going to be a fuss, can we sit in the van? Only I’ve just handed over to one of Mr Herbert’s staff, and she might be watching, and if she tells Mr Hedouin, my new boss, I could be ruined. Please? Your husband was ill, and he needed someone to talk to, and I’ve not seen him in ages, honestly …’

  They climbed into the van. ‘Right, Miss Livesey,’ Lucy began. ‘There’ll be no row and no fuss, because I am getting a divorce from him, so calm yourself. And you’re right – he was seriously ill and might easily have died. He’s been in hospital for weeks.’

  Mags Livesey nodded rapidly. ‘I know. He fell off the face of the earth again, and I went to his office in Bolton and they told me where he was. So I bought some flowers and grapes and clogged it halfway across Manchester, and they wouldn’t let me see him.’ Blushing bright pink, she looked Lucy in the face. ‘I never loved him, you know. But he looked so bloody awful when I last saw him – I could tell he was getting sicker, even though he pretended to be all right. You see, I told him to bog off, then I felt all guilty in case I’d made him worse.’

  ‘He’s disappeared yet again,’ said Lucy. ‘And none of it’s your fault, Miss Livesey.’

  Mags smiled tentatively. ‘Just call me Mags. You’re making me sound like some godawful headmistress.’

  ‘All right, Mags.’

  The self-made woman relaxed slightly. ‘Good job it’s a small world, eh? See, I got the franchise for this Nouvelle Reine stuff from Tête à Tête in Paris, and a right bloody mouthful that is for somebody who doesn’t know French.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, they were right pleased with me, because I worked damned hard, and they’ve made me an offer no bugger would refuse. To cut everything short, I’m selling my shops, handing over the franchises, and going to work at a health spa called Styles in Alderley Edge, all marble columns and swimming pools.’ She paused for effect. ‘Had a look round yesterday. And guess who was lurking in the hall? Yes, it was the man himself.’

  Lucy shivered slightly. No one should have to put up with Alan. ‘Tell me, is the householder recently widowed?’

  Mags bit her lip. ‘She is. That’s why she’s selling, and the price tag’s over five million.’

  Lucy whistled.

  ‘Look,’ continued Mags. ‘You never got this from me.’ She rooted in the depths of her vast handbag. ‘Your Alan is at this address.’ She passed over a card. ‘That’s the name of the man who died. All kinds of folk will have his business card – you could have picked it up anywhere. You should see where they live, it’s all footballers and big business folk. She’s Trish, and she’s nice. Dead normal.’ Mags stopped and ran her eyes over the woman next to her. ‘It was all lies, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘You nicking his money and bogging off with it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry. He was wanting to cadge off me, trying to get me to sell my business to shore his up. I told him where to go, and he went. But I’ve been in your house in the past and seen your photo – that’s why I recognized you. In my line of work, we never forget a face.’

  They prepared to part on good terms, and Lucy was about to step out of the van when a thought occurred. ‘Any chance of a favour? I’ll pay you.’

  Mags nodded. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Here’s my mobile number.’ Lucy passed a card to the beautician. ‘If you’re in Bolton this coming week, give me a call. If you can spare a couple of hours, I’ve a lovely friend who’d enjoy a bit of a makeover. And so should I.’

  ‘Right. You’re on, mate.’

  They shook hands. ‘I like you,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Yes, I like you and all. I’ll do what I can for you and your friend before I go back to London for all these meetings. Then if you ever want a weekend break at Styles, I’ll try to do you a special price. You’ve good bones. I could do a lot with you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Lucy waved as the van drew away. Leaning against the tinted windows of a monumentally expensive beauty emporium, she sent a text to David. Didn’t want to disturb u. Have found Alan. Lucy xxx.

  So. She knew where Alan was, but she didn’t know what he was up to. Did she need to know? Shouldn’t it now be every woman for herself? If she could just leave well alone, he would be out of her hair for ever. In which case, why had she bothered at all? Sometimes, she came perilously near to losing patience with herself. Yes, no, yes, no …

  ‘Hello, Lucy.’

  Oh, bloody hell. She arranged her features in a fashion intended to be neutral. ‘Richard. I’m just on my way back home. You?’

  ‘I had to see … someone.’

  ‘This isn’t West Derby.’

  ‘Someone else.’

  ‘Ah.’ This kind of thing happened to men all the time, she supposed. They managed to love one woman, but to make love to many. Her attraction to Richard Turner was animal – well, it certainly wasn’t vegetable or mineral – yet she loved David. Richard was probably a toy, something disposable, an item to be thrown away after use. Because she was female, she wasn’t supposed to speculate in this manner. But she did, though nothing would persuade her to endanger her relationship with David. ‘I must get my car. Glenys has gone ahead – she’s my lawyer, from Bolton.’

  ‘I’ve been to see a lawyer,’ he said.

  Lucy stared hard at him. He put her in mind of a deer that was failing to outrun a lioness. Yes, serious hunting was executed by the females of most species … ‘What’s the matter with you? All that banging around in the car last night, then the funeral pyre in the garden – your behaviour isn’t doing Moira any good. She told me about the moods. She predicted the fire-starting and the refusal to talk. Why make her worse?’

  ‘That was not my intention.’

  ‘Then straighten yourself out before I bring her back from Tallows.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He delivered a mock salute before walking away. As he moved, he found himself smiling in spite of everything. Lucy could order him around any day of the week – he relished the idea of being subservient to so magnificent a specimen of womanhood.

  She watched him. He was attractive and overtly available. But he wasn’t for her, and she berated herself inwardly. After years devoid of all physical contact with a man, years during which she had scarcely contemplated sex, here she stood eyeing up the talent like a sixth-former on her way home from school. She marked it down as emotional regression and went to find her car.

  Lexi was livid. The bloody nurse/receptionist at Richard Turner’s surgery had sent a letter to a Liverpool lawyer, copy to her. It stated that Miss Alexandra Phillips had joined the practice, had visited Dr Turner only once, and that the author believed the visit had been made with a view to entrapment.

  She came at an earlier date (see enclosed records) for a medical examination, which I performed, as the doctor was out on calls. Thereafter, she had one appointment, and Dr Turner struck her from his list immediately after the consultation. I have no knowledge of their relationship, but I can assure you that any close contact between these two adults must have occurred before she joined this surgery. Our part-time doctor, Celia Cooper, will verify under separate cover that she never treated Miss Phillips.

  They were all bastards. They would stick together no matter what, while she wou
ld be left like rubbish in a wheelie bin waiting for the council to dispose of her. It wasn’t fair. He’d had his roll in the hay, and now he wanted rid of her. Doctors, lawyers, police – they were all in cahoots, and her reputation would no doubt precede her if she put up a fight.

  Laurel and Hardy were probably in on it, too. They worked for that well-stacked woman next door to the Turners, but they were in and out of the Turner house like rats in a sewer. Carol Makin, who was built like a tank, and her daughter, Dee Baxendale, were seasoned adversaries of Lexi’s. Dee, the opposite of her mother, did a fair imitation of a pipe cleaner, but she had a gob that could clear a drain from forty paces. Their Beryl suffered with MS, so they probably considered themselves experts in that area. Richard’s wife had the same disease.

  Lexi would have to play very dirty. They would have trouble pinning anything on her, because she intended to play anonymously. Doc Turner would know who was waging the war, but he’d keep it to himself, since he was a coward. All men were cowards. Women, on the other hand, made things happen. And boy, was she about to make things happen! But she had to go home first and think about it.

  As she turned towards the marina, she noticed Carol Makin on the top step of the house next door to the Turners’. Lexi lifted her chin and put her hands on her hips. ‘Was Weightwatchers shut, then, love?’

  Carol raised two hefty fingers in a V-sign. She wasn’t going to start shouting her mouth off on Mersey View. But Litherland Lexi was here again, God save the Queen and may the best man win. ‘Dee?’ she stage-whispered. ‘Come here.’

  Dee arrived, armed with a feather duster and one of the plastic pipes belonging to Lucy’s Kirby vacuum cleaner. ‘What?’

  Carol pointed down the street. ‘Fetch,’ she ordered.