The suicide note was written, and he had handled it only with surgical gloves. In his pockets sat more gloves, a syringe, a sharp in a closed plastic carton. The insulin was of the type she used, and he just had to give her an overdose, plant her prints on paper and syringe, and leave the scene. Moira would be safe. ‘Will I be safe? Will I be able to live with this?’ he whispered.
All doctors did a module on psychology. It was useful, as it provided some insight into the workings of the mind, and such knowledge was necessary for a practitioner who dealt with a broad spectrum of human behaviours. Even now, he remembered the lectures on psychopathic disorders. Murderers were special. They had an extra bit of wiring, a circuit that bypassed the usual path along which thought and emotion travelled. Serial killers were amazing, because they had no fuse box, no safety valve that might cut off when the brain went into overdrive. They felt nothing, had no sympathy, no empathy, no love in them.
‘I’m no killer. I have love.’ He also had a package from the local DIY store.
After replacing the insulin in the surgery refrigerator, he put away gloves and sharp, placed the suicide note in the shredder and found a screwdriver. In every room and on every landing he fixed a smoke alarm. If anyone asked why he had bought so many, the reply sat in readiness on the tip of his tongue. His wife could no longer walk any distance, so the household needed to be guarded properly against the danger of fire.
He rolled up his sleeves and finished off work he had started earlier. Outside, he fixed a light that made night into day if and when anyone approached the front door. Let her come. Moira would forgive him. Moira always forgave him.
During their last evening together in the shed, Moira opened up. She talked about early symptoms, double vision, knees that became disobedient, face pain misdiagnosed as neuralgia, total exhaustion, scans and other tests that finally told the truth. ‘He was in a state worse than mine. He closed the surgery on Liverpool Road, moved his work into the house, and started reading. There’s not much he doesn’t know about MS. Underneath the terrible jokes and the manufactured courage, there’s a dreadful fury. He’s angry not with me, but with my illness and with God. The fact that he can do little or nothing to help makes matters worse.’
Lucy stared down into her glass of burgundy. ‘What’s the big deal at the moment, Moira? Because I think he’s on track for some kind of nervous collapse.’
‘Do you?’
Lucy raised her head. ‘I feel as if I know him, you see.
There is an attraction between us, and he’s one of the men I might have loved. Not like David, not a meeting of minds and all the other rubbish that goes with true love. And Richard gets on my nerves, annoys me a lot. But he’s in trouble.’
‘It’s of his own making,’
‘He goes elsewhere for sex.’
‘Yes.’
‘And he confesses his sins to you, because that’s your role in his life now. You’re his mother confessor. You’re his counsellor, psychologist, whatever. The fact is that you have been complicit in his misdeeds.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You even briefed him to choose from the intelligentsia, the better educated, the cream.’ She would say it now. ‘Because you’re a snob, Moira.’ That should do it; that should release some of the anger.
‘Bollocks.’ Two spots of colour appeared on pale cheeks. ‘I want him to find a wife or a good partner, someone who’ll look after him. My illness is life-limiting, and I—’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why control him? He’s old enough to make his own choices.’
‘And daft enough to make the wrong ones.’
‘So? Let him pay the price. It’s his problem and his privilege.’
‘That … article hanging round Mersey View is a well-known prostitute.’
‘She’s supermarket staff. Once upon a time, she worked the streets, and she’s a bit of an Amazon when it comes to war. Like Carol, Dee and Shirley, she stands her ground.’ Lucy made no mention of dog dirt and letters. But she had a plan.
When Moira was in bed and all dishes were washed, Lucy took herself and her phone outside. For about half an hour, she sat on a swing and wondered whether she was doing the right thing. Then she decided that she didn’t want to get anyone out of bed to answer the phone, and she pressed the buttons before it got too late. ‘Richard? Yes, ’tis I.’
‘Is Moira all right?’ were his first words. No matter what, no matter who, where or why, he would always love his wife, and Lucy knew that.
‘She’s not bad. Eating solids, walking to the bathroom, needs a bit of help when she gets there. Oh, and she’s speaking English – none of that mixed-up stuff. She’s happy here.’
‘Away from me.’
‘Not at all. Richard, can you get cover for a few days?’
He blustered for several seconds before asking for her reasons.
‘She’s happy here. I’d like her to be happy with you here. Just for a few days. Talk to her in an unfamiliar but pleasant setting. As you well know, this illness of hers affects her emotions, her immune system, and all bodily functions. Sometimes, a new environment can make a difference.’
And it poured from him. Although Lucy knew some of it courtesy of Carol and Dee, she made no attempt to interrupt. As she heard the increasing desperation in his voice, she wanted to offer comfort, but she held herself in check. The bloody woman was possibly capable of arson, though he wasn’t sure, and he was breaking the rule of patient confidentiality by passing on information he had gained from notes. There were now fourteen smoke alarms in the house, while the outside had been fitted with a single light that used enough electricity to power Blackpool during the illuminations season.
‘Richard, why didn’t you tell me before?’ No reply came. ‘Richard?’
‘Because I love you, damn it all.’
‘And you love Moira.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then get a locum. She needs you. She needs you enough to want to hear from your lips all you have just said to me.’
‘It’ll make her ill, Lucy.’
‘And this silence, this distance between you will make her well?’
He delivered the rest of it, serving up a recipe whose components included surgical gloves, insulin, syringe and needle. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘Of course you couldn’t do it. Richard, I’m not a medic. I’m just a nurse who hasn’t practised for years. But I can tell you’re en route for a breakdown, because you’d never have considered murder if you were well. Get a locum, get the hell out of there, and come to Tallows by four tomorrow afternoon.’
‘But—’
‘No buts. Leave butting to the goats. If you love this wonderful woman, do as I ask.’
‘And if Lexi comes here while I’m away?’
‘I’ll be there. Set a thief to catch a thief, and a woman to catch a woman. If I need muscle, I’ll have my sons and David.’ She thought about what she had just said. ‘I’ll have Mike and Paul. David can be the referee.’
He cleared his throat. ‘If David hadn’t come along, you and I—’
‘If’s a big word, Richard. If only’s the story of my life. I’ll see you tomorrow. Four o’clock, behind the house called Tallows.’
Lucy sat for a while after the call had ended. She fastened her cardigan, because the evening air was cool. All around her, leaves were curling and crisping in accordance with the rules of Mother Nature. Soon, they would fall in soft whispers all over the grass, geese would skein their way across the sky, and the earth would lie dormant for five months. The price of beauty was the yearly sight of its death. But it wasn’t death. It was sleep.
Her own winter had lasted for almost twenty years. Marriage to Alan had meant silence, shadows, the loss of self. Even in sunshine, she had felt the chill, and she had stopped looking for rainbows. She remembered that first sight of the river when she had bought the Liverpool house on the spot for cash. It was home. Well, it
was one of her homes. Because she and David would have three between them, and that was good. But there had been a rainbow over the Mersey on the day she had taken Stoneyhurst. She had bought a rainbow.
Poor Richard. He was probably right. Had David not happened along, she would probably have become one of his sacrifices. Moira had endured because she filled one of his many needs – she was his mother. But he was mercurial, and sexual partners were dispensable, replaceable. David was a for ever man; he was also the other half of her.
As if on cue, her phone rang. He wanted to say good night from his lonely bed. He was absolutely bogged off about sleeping on his own. Why couldn’t he come to the shed, because he knew how to be quiet, and what time did she need him in the morning for Alderley Edge, and was Glenys going in her own car? And why was Louisa laughing at him?
‘You’re lovely,’ she said. ‘I worked out that we’ll have three homes when we marry – mine, yours and Tallows.’
He snorted. ‘And I’ll lay odds that we’ll never be in the same place at the same time. You are avoiding me.’
‘I’m not. It’s just that stuff keeps happening.’
He sighed in an exaggerated fashion. ‘And will stuff happen tomorrow?’
She thought about that. ‘Possibly. We’re setting a trap. I’ll tell you about it after you’ve bought some decent clothes – bring a fortune, because it’s Alderley Edge – and after I’ve sorted out my husband.’
A pause ensued. ‘Are you creating these circumstances, madam?’
‘No. I just seem to get dragged in.’
‘You will be bloody dragged in when I get hold of you, lady. This is getting ridiculous now. Am I using the wrong deodorant? Would you like me to book myself in for a facelift and body waxing?’
‘No. Come as you are.’ She doubled over with laughter when he decided to go vulgar. Bodily fluids, body parts and ancient curses were thrown into the arena. Then he got silly. He had never been kept in suspenders for so long, nor had he been so consulted. This was the one. This was the lunatic she’d always needed.
Life without drink was different. Until recently, it had been pleasurable, as if some deity had tested Alan’s eyes and given him a pair of good spectacles. Trish was an excellent woman, and even line-dancing was almost fun. He had been in danger of becoming content, and contentment was worth more than happiness, which was a fleeting emotion that was incapable of enduring.
But at this moment in time, Alan needed whisky. He would have sold his soul for a double, his body for a full bottle. And that was the price, of course. If he drank again, he’d be in a box within months. After tomorrow, he could well be in a jail cell, a prisoner of his own past misdemeanours. He couldn’t wipe the slate clean, couldn’t stop tomorrow happening. But he could absent himself …
Darkness threatened. The nights were drawing in, and this one might be his last. He threw the rope over a thick bough. Albert Pierrepoint was never around when he was needed, was he? The famous hangman had been renowned for his attention to detail, the carefully planned quick deaths he had provided. Alan would strangle, and it would be slow.
The old garden chair was in place, the rope was ready, and no gardeners came on Friday. Now, he had to go in for cocoa. Tomorrow he could choose between death and jail. In truth, he had already made his decision.
Sleep eluded Moira. Lucy had gone outside and was probably talking to David. They had an excellent relationship and a good chance of enduring the trials of marriage. Marriage could be hard work. Richard was high maintenance, and poor Lucy had already been through one difficult partnership, so it was perhaps as well that she had met someone she could trust.
These few days spent in the company of her friend and neighbour had taught Moira that life without a male partner could be fun. She had missed Richard, of course, had felt the lack of his cutting wit and his physical elegance. He was, she supposed, better looking than David, but perhaps she was prejudiced.
This happy little interlude would end tomorrow. She was going home to a damned fool. She loved a damned fool. She, too, was a damned fool. With this pleasing thought in mind, she finally drifted into sleep.
David lay in splendour, and in splendid isolation. The bedroom was the best of all the beautifully decorated rooms. It was the bridal suite, with its own newly installed bathroom, a four-poster bed and amazing furniture. She would love it when she eventually got round to seeing it. He grinned. Louisa, at forty-five, was reliving the thirties she had missed. She was fun. She was naughty, and he adored her silliness.
Money had been no problem, since his income had sat around gaining interest since … yes, he could allow that thought. Since the death of his only child, David had needed little. He ate, paid his bills, and studied his way through every spare moment. But he could see his money now, as he had spent a great deal of it to make a home fit for his beloved.
He clasped his hands on the pillow behind his head. Louisa had been wise. Behind the daftness, she housed a very fine brain. She couldn’t compete with the dead, so she had slowed everything down for his sake. Had he been divorced, she might not have hesitated for this length of time. But Anne, a much-loved ghost, had needed to be laid carefully away, and that had taken over a decade.
‘Thank you, Louisa,’ he whispered. ‘Though I still intend to deal with you.’
Richard Turner packed a bag. Having called in a couple of favours, he was now able to travel to Lancashire in order to … Lucy was right: he had to tell Moira everything, up to and including his plan to commit murder. She would understand, because she always did. Lucy did, too. Between the two of them, they formed one perfect female companion. Moira spoiled him and made him laugh, while Lucy could have been, should have been …
He shivered. Some thoughts were too delicious to merit more than a few seconds. She would be wasted on that medical equivalent of an anorak, the goodly nerd who did a fair imitation of a train-spotter or a devotee of real ale. He was vague, untidy, dull and very annoying. What on earth was she doing with a rollmop herring when there was caviar to be had?
Caviar? She’d been plain enough, had called him selfish, and she was probably right. And he had been out of order lately. Otherwise, how on earth had he managed to contemplate murder? It was time to open his mouth and let the truth out. Lucy was right. That was her one failing – she was usually right.
Trish was feeling unhappy, and he wouldn’t talk to her. Having tried to pinpoint the start of the awkwardness, she suspected that it had begun when she had announced her intention to meet a lawyer in the Boule Miche coffee shop. She had phoned the lawyer, and had got nowhere. Business was best discussed face to face, Trish had been advised. ‘You’re not drinking your cocoa, love.’
Automatically obedient, he took a sip.
‘What’s the matter with you, Alan?’
He shrugged. ‘Post-op depression, as you say. I’ll take this upstairs and get an early night.’ He left the scene, mug in hand.
No good night kiss, then. Trish took a mouthful of her own cocoa. It didn’t taste right. Nothing tasted, sounded or looked as good as it once had. She loved Alan, but he seemed to be going off her. Even though she was prepared to discharge his bankruptcy, he seemed cold and distant.
What had she done wrong? And look at the size of this kitchen. She couldn’t wait to be out of here and settled somewhere normal. But not alone. Life alone was bigger than this damned house. She was afraid. He was afraid. His fear was almost certainly tied to the woman she was going to meet tomorrow. Well, Trish would wear her five-hundred-pound suit and some good shoes. Power dressing was essential, because she had no idea what she would be facing in that coffee shop.
When she got to bed, he was pretending to be asleep. He’d poured away the cocoa – she could tell from the shape of the stain in his mug. She undressed and lay as stiff as a board beside him. Tomorrow was a big day. She couldn’t work out why, but it was going to be momentous.
Lucy almost jumped out of her skin when her mobile rang. How
did she get rid of bloody ‘Amarillo’? Children understood these things, but there was seldom a child to hand when you needed one. By the time she located the offending article, it was well into Sha la la lala lalala, and she was well into desperation. The shed was not soundproof, and Moira could be well awake by now and trying to dance.
It was Richard. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m here.’
‘Where, you soft lad?’
‘Here. Look through the window – I’m outside.’
She opened the door, and he almost fell in. ‘Where is she?’
‘Asleep in there.’ She pointed to the door behind which poor Moira was trying to rest. ‘Try not to wake her – she was a bit wobbly tonight.’
He disappeared. Lucy sat on the sofa and wondered how much dafter the world could get. Her beautiful daughter had married the boy next door after knowing him for five minutes. David was turning into a sex-starved teenager, while Richard had been planning murder. A woman named Lexi was attempting to hasten Moira’s death, Alan had disappeared, and tomorrow a posse was to be formed in order to hunt him down in Alderley Edge, home of the rich, the famous and the stupid. Oh, bugger.
Right. This was it – she’d had enough. Shower cap – don’t spoil the hair – quick swill, towel dry, dress, pick up the keys to Alan’s BMW, write a note for Moira. Stay as long as you like. I’ll call in when I get back from Cheshire tomorrow. Love to both, Lucy xx
It was eleven o’clock. She sat in her husband’s car and saw a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker peeping shyly from beneath the passenger seat. ‘Oh, Alan,’ she sighed. ‘If you’d stayed off the sauce and made me a proper partner, I would have found you the bloody money.’
There was a full moon low in the sky, but it was no longer red, because the sun, its partner in crime, was long gone. Ancients had feared the harvest moon, believing it to be bewitched and bleeding. ‘I’m going to Chorley New Road,’ she advised Earth’s single natural satellite. ‘Come with me if you like.’
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 30
