‘Paddy?’
She snapped out of her reverie. ‘Removed?’
‘Yes.’
She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. ‘So Finbar and Michael are next on the list?’
‘It would seem so, yes.’ He dried his eyes. ‘Our sons are in Epping Forest, too. They got above themselves, tried to start their own business. Business? Beating up shopkeepers and pub landlords who won’t pay protection? It seems they were all in on the plan. Or perhaps the older ones were removed as a warning to these two boys.’
‘They were still our sons and my brothers, Kev.’ Peter and Callum, Martin and Jack, three murders and one natural death. Or had Peter died of fear?
‘I know who they were, love.’
‘If Finbar and Michael had never gone to London with the boxing club—’
‘I know that, too.’
‘They’d never have been sought out by their elders. Do they say where they are?’ Inside, she burned. Was it fury, was it grief? She was unable to separate the two emotions. She wanted to kill; at the same time, she needed to weep a river of tears. Whatever Martin and Jack had become, they had been her babies, hers and Kev’s.
He swallowed audibly. ‘I don’t know what it says further down. Like you, I’m busy mourning two sons. We should go home, love. We’ll read the whole thing together, then deal with poor Maureen and Tom. Remember, she has two sons missing and two brothers dead. And you know how she is.’
They left Ernie Avago-Simpson asleep in his chair. Outside, they were assailed yet again by the deep, cloying fragrance owned only by roses. Some of the blooms were so dark in colour that they appeared almost black. Ernie had worked for years on the dark side, but only in his garden. His search for a black or navy rose had occupied his whole retirement. ‘Keep him safe,’ Paddy ordered the Almighty. She was beyond begging, beyond prayer. It was time the big boss got told what to do, because He had clearly been getting it all wrong. Was anger with God forgivable? Why, why was He allowing all those terrible things to happen to people who tried their very best in this vale of tears?
In the van, she asked Kevin not to start the engine. She wanted to arrive home prepared, because Maureen would probably throw a fit, and full knowledge was the best armour. ‘Let’s see it now,’ she said. ‘Because I’d sooner know what’s what before facing Maureen.’ She took the letter and read it aloud, omitting only the first few lines. That was the bit she and Kev already knew about, and it was, she hoped, the heaviest part.
We feel guilty, because we were approached by others who wanted to work a few patches. It’s not as if the new firm was standing on anyone’s toes – Ronnie and Reggie don’t work that part of London, the Spits weren’t interested, the Bow Boys told us to please ourselves, and we got no sense out of the Greeks as per usual. Then Uncle Peter died suddenly, but at least he had a funeral. Representatives of all the firms were there, so imagine our shock when Uncle Callum disappeared. It wasn’t his fault. He knew nothing about the new firm, so he was killed as a warning to us.
We got an anonymous note to say stop the big ideas, then our uncles Martin and Jack weren’t around any more. Evidence was put on our doorstep with the milk. I don’t want to upset you even more by telling you what it was, but we knew they were dead. That left just me and Mike. I don’t need to tell you that we’re in big trouble. We’re leaving Ernie’s soon. Our women are coming up north for us. No one knows our girls – at least we hope they don’t. But we have to disappear, as I’m sure you will understand by now.
Gran and Granda, we’re so sad about the uncles, and we don’t know who did all that. But we know who didn’t do it. The Kray twins’ lot are not guilty of the killings. We thought they’d come for us when we saw their car outside the flat, but they hadn’t. Reg gave us money and told us to get the hell out of London pronto. This means we’re protected by them, but God knows what they might expect in return. We don’t know whether we’ll ever be safe, and we shouldn’t have come anywhere near Bootle, but we just gave the girls Ernie’s address in a hurry before we got the train. Even if the old man hadn’t been here any more, we could have waited in the alley at the back. Tell him thanks, by the way. He was very good to us not just now, but all our lives.
Mam’s already upset, so we didn’t tell her the really bad news when we saw her for a few minutes. We gave a kid a few bob and told him to fetch her to the alley. She went mad because of Reen’s wedding. With all the trouble down south, we’d forgotten about it. Mike’s writing to her now. We may have been followed. The trouble with London gangs is you don’t know who to trust. But we trust the Krays. I know they can be vicious and they won’t improve with age, but they’re on our side.
So sorry to bring all this mess to Liverpool. By the time you get this, we’ll be long gone. Give our love to Reen and tell her to be happy. Sorry again.
Fin xxx
Both occupants of the car sat in silence for a while. Paddy, who had scarcely acknowledged the existence of her brothers, who had seldom spoken of her sons, felt close to breaking point. She had always expressed the belief that work kept a person going, that the ordinary, everyday routine helped to keep folk sane. The idea of cooking and clattering about in Scouse Alley’s kitchen did not appeal. Her usual standin was Maureen, her last remaining child. Even Maureen didn’t have the complete recipe. On those rare occasions when Paddy became ill, her daughter was given a packet of herbs and told to do her best, but Maureen’s best was unlikely to be achievable today.
Kev broke into his wife’s thoughts yet again. ‘Give me the herbs, and I’ll make it. I know it won’t be like yours, but I’ve done it before a couple of times and nobody complained.’
‘How do you do that? How do you climb inside my head?’
‘Practice.’
She sighed heavily. ‘You can help, but I want things to look normal. Our son-in-law killed three men last night, and I refuse to endanger him.’ A thought struck. ‘And we may have to give up the faith. Because we’d need to tell what we know in Confession. Anything withheld could be sacrilege, and we know about killings. A priest can’t intercede for murder or manslaughter until or unless the police are involved. The same with theft. Restitution or a donation to charity is required for theft before a blessing can be given.’
Kev agreed up to a point. Outsiders believed that Roman Catholics could do as they liked and get their souls cleansed every week. This was far from the truth. The bigger sins against society needed to be dealt with by society before absolution could be granted, yet he and Paddy could not hand Tom over to the law. ‘But we didn’t commit murder, Pads. Neither did Tom, because he saved many lives. If there is a sin, it’s his to tell. Ask our priest without actually telling him—’
‘Give it up, Kev. If you asked that one his name, he’d need to look for his birth certificate. He’s more pickled than a jar of silverskin onions. I’ll find a sober priest in another church.’
They drove home slowly, as if they didn’t really want to go there. Both blinked back tears; both wondered whether they might have failed Martin and Jack. Had they worked too hard at making a living and climbing the steep rungs of the housing ladder? Had their sons suffered as a result? Maureen had turned out well, but girls were sturdier and more resilient than boys. And even Maureen had her limits. There was the terrible singing when she was in drink; there was also a temper hot enough to boil falling snow before it reached the ground. Paddy voiced her one positive thought. ‘Seamus won’t go to London, because he’ll have no one there.’
Kevin agreed. ‘As long as he doesn’t grow up looking for the people who killed his uncles and caused his brothers to disappear. But there’s twelve years between him and Reen, and more between him and the lads, so he’s like a different generation from Finbar and Michael.’ He parked the van. ‘Right. Now, we break our hearts again while breaking our daughter’s heart.’ He mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘I’m getting a bit past it, you know. Stuff like this gives people heart attacks.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ came the swift reply. ‘My boys were scarcely in their twenties when they went south for a look at London life. I knew I’d lost them years ago, God rest their troubled souls. My grandsons are alive and safe, I trust. The other dead ones are my brothers, older than you, older than me. Sixty-five isn’t that old. Don’t die, or I’ll kill you.’
He held her hand. ‘A pearl beyond price,’ he said. ‘Come on. Let’s get it over with.’
It was hell. Maureen ranted, raved, tore down curtains, smashed ornaments, clouted her poor husband, broke dishes and threw a frying pan through the kitchen window. Fortunately, Seamus had popped out for the News of the World and a Vimto ice lolly, so the worst was over when he returned with a rather soggy newspaper. ‘Me lolly melted,’ he said. ‘See? I was reading this about a burnt-out car in the sand dunes, three bodies in it. It was near Southport. It’s in the paper, Dad.’ He looked round. ‘What happened here?’ he asked.
Kev was good at thinking on his feet. ‘Now, you’re a clever boy reading like that. Give me the paper. Remember we told you your mam’s at a funny age?’
The child nodded. ‘Is she on a maddy?’
‘She is definitely out of sorts.’ Out of her mind would have been nearer the mark. ‘Come on, we’ll go fishing.’ He took the boy next door. If Reen and Jimmy were at it again, he would put a stop to it. Seamus’s innocence must be preserved at all costs.
So Paddy was left once again with the fruits of her daughter’s fury. She’d always been at a funny age, this one. Maureen’s temper was swift, hot and soon dispersed. It had occurred to Paddy that Maureen should have been involved in demolition, so quickly did she destroy a room. ‘Get her a cup of tea, Tom,’ she said. ‘If you’ve any cups left. If not, she can make do with a jam jar, a bucket – whatever.’ She eyed her wild daughter. ‘Have you finished now? Is the tantrum over – can we call the dogs off and tell the coastguard to stand down? Because you’re not the only one in grief. Is the devil out of you?’
‘Yes. I want me boys.’
‘And I can’t ever have mine, Maureen. My brothers and my sons, all gangsters, all dead. Your sons are alive and with their girlfriends. When you’ve stopped destroying your home, read properly the letter they left for you. I have things to do, a business to clean and run.’
‘Don’t leave me, Mam.’
Paddy held her unpredictable, feisty child. ‘You’ve got Tom.’
‘He killed those men,’ Maureen sobbed.
Paddy withdrew her physical support. ‘You were the one with the gun in the bag. Tom did what came naturally to him. Now, you just listen for once instead of feeling sorry for yourself. Had Tom not acted as swiftly as he did, you’d have no son to fetch that silly newspaper. Seamus wouldn’t be fishing with your dad; he’d be on a slab in the morgue, and he’d be full of holes. Would that be your preference? Should Tom have allowed that to happen instead of ridding the world of a few more gangsters?’
Maureen shook her head. ‘I’m just confused and frightened.’
‘You’re also missing a kitchen window, and half a tea set. It’s time to put your temper to bed once and for all. You indulge yourself, kicking off like that. There’s a seven-year-old boy living in the house, and he’s better behaved than you are. Your carryings-on could force him to leave home early, just as his brothers did. You can’t possibly expect him to be content living here with you and your moods.’
A very silent Tom entered the room and pushed a mug of tea into his wife’s hand. The younger woman rallied. ‘Are you saying it’s my fault that Finbar and Michael went away?’
‘No more than I’m asking whether Martin and Jack were driven away by me. But think about it. Seamus was angry enough already because of the satin suit and hat. Then he comes home with the newspaper and finds his house wrecked by his own mother. And has it not occurred to you that the police might be on their way? I know none of the wedding party will betray us, but are we completely sure that no stranger saw what went on? Well?’
Maureen dropped into a chair. ‘I didn’t think—’
‘And there’s the answer. You react like an animal when it senses danger. Now, I’m off to my work, because we have to carry on as normal. I believe that kitchen window of yours has been broken more times than a bowl of new-laid eggs. Tom still keeps the right size of glass in the shed, so get him to replace it before the bobbies turn up. As for the rest, shift the breakages and put your furniture in the middle of this room. You’re decorating. I mean it, Maureen.’
‘All right.’
‘And stop these eejit tantrums. What you’re short of is a good hiding, madam. Oh, and remember, when you get time, read that letter again. Have Tom with you when you do. No kicking off.’
There was no van, because Kev had taken Seamus out of the war zone for a few hours. It was quite a walk from inner Bootle to the edge of the Mersey, but Paddy had done it before. On this occasion, however, she was not exactly full of energy. Her brothers were dead. That alone was enough to knock her sideways, but her sons? Those two little lads had learned to read at her knee. How proud she had been of her ability to teach them that vital art. Reading was the key to all else. It opened doors to history, geography, science …
As soon as they were at school, they’d started bullying. Nothing major at first, but they learned in time how to terrify, subdue, dominate. Any teacher who tried to control them suffered, and they excelled at boxing. Michael and Finbar had travelled a similar path with the noble art, though they hadn’t been quite as naughty as their uncles.
Martin and Jack, one at each end of the pram, barely twelve months between them. That had been Kev’s idea. He’d wanted her to get it all over with while she was young enough to cope. Maureen had been born in a proper house, and Kev had been right, because his wife had managed. Their love life had, of necessity, become inventive, and he had stuck to that calendar like glue, as three children were enough for any marriage. Like all good Catholics, he had refused to employ real contraception. He was one in a million.
The sons of that man in a million now lay in Epping Forest. The only decoration for their graves would arrive in the form of autumn leaves. She mustn’t cry. She needed to arrive in Scouse Alley’s kitchen full of life, advice and complaints about people not tidying as they went along, about carrots being cut too thick or too thin, about the wedding, Seamus’s suit, the drunken celebrant, Maureen’s singing, the fights …
But. No mention could be made of blood lying black in moonlight, of bodies, guns, a car. It occurred to her for a brief second that Tom had meted out the family’s revenge; three dead for three dead, since Peter had died naturally. Or had he? Had terror stopped his heart? Whatever, she must stop thinking like a gangster.
She rounded a corner and saw her newest baby, Scouse Alley. There was no sign of police, no sign of trouble. Walking up the path, she checked for bloodstains, found nothing. Turning, she gazed down at the river and the street that led to it. Nothing. She hoped the car had burned thoroughly, because there might have been a scrap of paper bearing names and addresses. ‘Worrying like this will have you crackers,’ she whispered. And had the invaders from London known about Ernie, they would have bypassed the wedding and gone for their real targets.
Ernie Avago-Simpson seemed to have no idea of what yesterday’s visitors were involved with. She hoped that no surviving piece of evidence in that car would leave even the smallest clue, but beyond that there lay deeper disquiet. Who in London knew where the three dead men had been going? Had Finbar and Michael been careful? Had anyone else been given Ernie’s whereabouts? With the incident spread all over Maureen’s rag of a newspaper, the whole country would doubtless be aware of the cremated corpses. So who was safe? Those three had known where the wedding reception was to be held …
She entered the kitchen by a rear door and met with a barrage of questions. Had she heard the news? Wasn’t it terrible? Three teacups and one dead man. The number three again. ‘Minnie?’ she asked wearily. ‘Ca
n I have it from you?’
Minnie Walker did the talking. Ernie Avago’s granddaughter had found him dead in his chair not half an hour back. He had a smile on his face, but the aged whippet wasn’t happy. The old man had a couple of male visitors yesterday afternoon, but his Christine had found a warm pot and three unwashed teacups today. So someone had been there early this morning.
Paddy placed herself on a stool. ‘It was me and Kev,’ she said, her voice shaky. ‘Ernie was fine, so he was. We went a few times before Mass on a Sunday, and I usually remembered to wash up, but I was in a hurry today.’ They hadn’t visited him in months. Lie upon lie. Venal sins, but piling up like layers of paint over a huge blemish that would break through again and again. ‘He was asleep when we left him, God bless and save his good soul. Messing about with his roses when we got there.’ Another death. How many more?
Another walk ensued. After pushing her package of herbs into Minnie’s hands, Paddy cut through back streets in order to catch Ernie’s Christine. If Christine knew the identities of yesterday’s visitors … Lying was bloody hard work. A good liar needed a good memory, and Paddy’s powers of recall were not what they had been. Then there were the teacups – what if Christine wanted the police to check her dad’s cup for poison? There wasn’t a phone box on Ernie’s street … ‘Please, God, please.’
But she needn’t have worried. Christine stepped out of her husband’s embrace and into Paddy’s. ‘Mrs Moss said you’d been. She saw you with him in the garden. Bless you and Kevin.’
Ernie was still warm. He’d always been warm, generous, open-hearted. Christine and Alan, her husband, had laid him on his bed. Paddy stroked the wiry, grey hair. She was saying goodbye to several people, and Ernie was the only one she would ever reach, so this poor, innocent man represented them all. ‘Is the priest coming?’ she asked. ‘Ernie should still have the Unction, because I’m sure his spirit is standing at the back door looking at roses.’
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 87
