Liverpool Love Song

by Anne Baker

  ‘I was, I never failed, but it seems I’m not the first person this has happened to. It’s not always one hundred per cent—’

  ‘Oh hell and damnation!’

  Chloe was very churned up. Her second pregnancy had come as a shock, but even worse was hearing Adam’s reaction to the news. It drove home that he felt no responsibility for fathering another child. She needed his help, craved his support, but he’d dropped her and Lucy back home and driven off again.

  That could only mean he no longer loved her. The days went on and he was going out more and leaving her alone with Lucy. She gave up going to auction sales or trying to help with the business. Adam said there was no point; business was falling off. It was getting harder to make a living, and the prices achieved at auction sales were lower than they had been. They were both irritable and starting to argue about things of little importance.

  At the clinic, they kept telling her she’d find the second birth easier than the first, but she felt low and despondent. The weeks of waiting dragged, and she felt unable to do anything until it was over. She looked on it as something to be endured and did not welcome another baby.

  Chloe felt fat and frumpish, took less interest in her clothes and let herself go. She no longer looked smart. Adam seemed to be making a life apart from her, and she was afraid he’d want her and the children to leave. She’d thought it difficult to leave Adam with one baby, but with two it looked virtually impossible. She felt trapped. What was she to do? Lucy didn’t allow her much rest and she felt chronically tired.

  With the approaching birth of her second baby, Chloe felt her relationship with Adam had fallen away. He was spending many evenings out in smart bars and restaurants, but he no longer asked her to arrange a babysitter and go with him. Instead she was left alone to take care of Lucy.

  She did manage the occasional day trip to Liverpool to see her mother. The garden was gorgeous, Mum seemed happy and full of life and Rex was usually there. He told her she didn’t look too well and seemed concerned. She thought he was trying to draw her out, but how could she confess that her relationship with Adam had gone pear-shaped when she’d insisted on living with him against their advice?

  On one occasion Auntie Joan was there too. She recounted a few problems, though Chloe thought they were minor compared with hers.

  ‘Walter’s worried about his business. I wanted him to sell it and retire. He put it in the hands of an agent, but nobody seems interested.’

  ‘But Joan, he said he was happy to carry on,’ Helen said.

  ‘He is really – he’s not sixty-five yet and he’s strong and healthy – but his accountant, Tom Cleary, is a couple of years older and he’d like to go. They’ve been advertising for an accountant to take his place, but so far no luck. They haven’t found anybody they think would be suitable.’

  Chloe tried to show Joan she cared, but it just wasn’t there.

  ‘You’ll feel better when your baby’s born.’ Joan patted her arm. ‘How much longer is it?’

  Chloe’s time came at the beginning of June. Adam ran her to the hospital and afterwards took Lucy to Liverpool, where her mother had offered to care for her. She found the second birth took longer and was more painful than the first.

  ‘A baby boy,’ the midwife told her. ‘He weighs six and a half pounds.’

  Chloe hadn’t wanted him, but when he was put into her arms to hold and she looked at him for the first time, she felt quite different. Her face felt hot with mother love.

  ‘A perfect baby son for you,’ the midwife enthused. ‘Strong and healthy.’

  He had a sweet face and just fluff for hair. Chloe was marvelling at his tiny hand when it closed round her finger and squeezed it. He was a lovely baby and she gave him her heart. Adam chose his name. He was to be Zacharia Adam James Livingstone, Zac for short.

  On the day they were due to leave hospital, Mum and Rex brought Lucy home. They both walked round the sitting room nursing Zac, telling Chloe with more enthusiasm than Adam could muster that he was a gorgeous baby.

  Adam had provided a fancy afternoon tea with cake and tiny sandwiches served in his usual style. Chloe was cheered by the company and the pleasure of being back home and reunited with Lucy. As soon as Helen and Rex had gone, she felt tired and would have liked to rest.

  Adam surveyed the sitting room of which he was so proud and said, ‘What a mess, and you’ve only been back a couple of hours.’

  Certainly it was no longer an elegant room. Zac’s carrycot stood on the coffee table and Lucy’s toys were strewn round the carpet. She’d spilled milk and crumbs on the sofa and there were bibs and shawls everywhere. Chloe set about tidying up.

  For her, the first weeks with Zac on one routine and Lucy on another were very hard work. She didn’t know how she’d have managed without Ruby to help with the housework. Lucy kept her on the go most of the day and Zac broke her sleep at night.

  She was alone with the children for much of the time. She was seeing less and less of Adam. Apart from Ruby, she’d hardly spoken to an adult since coming out of hospital and certainly she’d not had time to think of smartening herself up.

  She felt her mother was her lifeline; she often rang up for a chat and she was sympathetic. ‘Your problem is you haven’t yet had time to recover from the birth. With a new baby to care for and a toddler of two who never stops, it’s hard going. Why don’t you come to me and have a week’s rest? I can look after Lucy and you can sleep when the baby does and stay in bed late. You’ll feel better afterwards; it’ll put you back on your feet.’

  Chloe thought a short break would help not only her but Adam too. He was suffering from the broken nights as well, and was often tetchy with them.

  Later that day, she suggested it to him. ‘Mum keeps ringing up and asking how we are. She’d love to see how Zac’s getting on.’

  ‘Yes, well, at the moment money’s a bit tight for holidays.’

  Chloe knew Adam was finding things more difficult, but didn’t believe money was as short as he made out.

  ‘It would only be the train fare and a bit of pocket money. It’s more a change and a rest than a holiday.’

  ‘Even so …’

  Adam’s income had always ebbed and flowed, but now he said he could do nothing right. He was passionate about antiques and good at dealing. He loved being his own boss, and when he had money he was generous, but his present problem did crop up from time to time.

  He’d gone to a recent private house sale and been so impressed with the quality of the furniture and the prices it was being knocked down for that he’d not only sunk all his working capital into it, but borrowed more.

  He’d had a private client who’d asked him to look out for a George III dining table with a set of matching chairs, and he’d expected to have no problem selling it to her, along with some of the other items. But the table was a rectangular drop leaf and now she said she particularly fancied an oval one. Though he managed to sell two occasional tables, he’d failed to sell the more important pieces to any of his contacts, so he’d entered them in an auction sale.

  ‘If they sell and I make a reasonable profit, you and the kids can go,’ he agreed. ‘Hopefully, it’ll do you good.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WITHIN A FEW HOURS, Leo had a clearer idea of what might be possible. All his life he’d been trapped in lowly jobs and small-time theft; this was his chance to go big-time.

  If he took someone else’s identity before he stole anything, it would shield him, keep the police away from him. If it came to the worst and the theft was traced to Francis Clitheroe, he could disappear, revert to his own identity and the police would find it very difficult to pin anything on him. It was the smart way to avoid arrest.

  In the meantime, Francis had been killed only yesterday; there was a good chance his bank had not been notified yet. Leo decided he had enough information to open a charge account in Clitheroe’s name at one of the large department stores. But if he was going to do
that, he’d need to move quickly; the sooner he did it, the safer it would be.

  It was four in the morning and the time at which he and Gary ate another meal. Leo could smell savoury scents coming from the kitchen as he locked the blanket and pillow back in the housekeeper’s cupboard.

  Gary was frying. ‘Tomato soup with hot bread rolls,’ he said. ‘Then these fillet steaks with fried eggs on top to follow.’

  ‘With chips?’ Leo asked.

  ‘No, too much damn trouble to make, though I’d like them. We can finish off with black forest gateau and lashings of cream.’

  All the time he ate, Leo was pondering on opening a charge account – or several accounts. He decided he’d try Watson Prickard to start with; they sold the high-class clothes Francis would have chosen. And if he was to take his identity, he would need them. The problem was, he didn’t know whether the real Francis already had an account there.

  He was glad when knocking-off time came round. He left his anorak hanging on its peg in the staff cloakroom, walked out of the building with Francis’s mac folded over his arm covering his file, and went home to his bedsit in the cheaply converted Victorian house. He sank down to rest on what was supposed to be a sofa during the day, converting to a bed at night. It spent most of the time as a bed; it was too much trouble to return it to its guise as a shabby sofa. With his hands behind his head, he stared up at the stained ceiling and allowed himself fifteen minutes to get what he planned to do straight in his head.

  Then he polished up his only pair of oxford lace-ups, washed and changed into a clean shirt and added a tie. He found the pullover he’d nicked from Lewis’s last year and hoped that with Francis’s mac he’d appear to be a respectable member of the professional class. He was feeling jittery by now, and hungry again, so he made himself a cup of tea and ate the contents of a tin of baked beans, cold and straight from the can.

  The one advantage of his bedsit was that it was very central and he could walk to all the main shops, hotels, theatres and cinemas in town. He found himself outside Watson Prickard’s before he had his nerves totally under control. But he wasn’t going to get cold feet at this stage; this was an opportunity too good to miss. He studied the clothes in the windows and then went in and did the same round the shop. What did he fancy, and what would Francis Clitheroe choose?

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ A sales assistant approached him.

  This was the part that scared Leo. He smiled. ‘Yes. You have some very nice suits here. I was wondering if it would be possible for me to open a charge account?’

  ‘Yes, sir, come this way, will you?’ Leo could feel his heart pounding, though he’d worked out exactly what he’d say if it turned out Francis Clitheroe already had a charge account here. It would be almost impossible to sound convincing; he’d need to make a quick getaway.

  He was led to a seat at a small table and handed over to an older man, who brought out a ledger and some forms and began asking questions. What was his name and address, his profession, his salary and his employer’s name? Leo had memorised all that but he couldn’t stop his pulse racing.

  Entries were being made in the ledger and forms being filled in on his behalf. Leo saw his hand trembling and pushed it deep into his mackintosh pocket. The questions went on. Did he have a bank account? If so, where? What credit cards did he hold and what was his mother’s maiden name?

  The man asked Leo to wait a few moments. In his absence, Leo took out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face. There were butterflies in his stomach too. The man returned with a smile on his face, and Leo began to feel a little easier. Another form was pushed in front of him; a pen was offered.

  ‘For your signature, sir. You will see from this that you are allowed credit of up to three hundred pounds.’

  Leo was able to breathe normally after that. Clearly Francis had not previously had a charge account here and they would not hear he’d been killed until they contacted his bank. Feeling elated, he returned to the racks of high-class suits. He bought himself one in pale grey wool of the sort Francis would have worn. Then he chose several shirts and three silk ties, and finally two pairs of shiny formal shoes.

  He’d never bought so many clothes at one time and felt he needed to come up for air. Once they were wrapped up and the bill signed, he left the shop and made for the nearest café. His mouth felt dry and he was cold and quaking inside. He told himself it was because it was the first time he’d ever done such a thing and that it would be easier next time. He knew if he was going to do it again, he must do so straight away. He ordered a cup of coffee and allowed himself fifteen minutes to get his nerve back.

  He rushed home to drop his parcels and decided he’d go to Lewis’s next. If all went well there, perhaps he’d have another go in Owen Owens.

  It wasn’t difficult to get credit; everywhere he went, they bent over backwards to serve him. He was gaining confidence. Francis’s job, his address and the salary he earned seemed to do the trick. He was handed bills that took his breath away. The agreement was that he’d be given thirty days to pay off the full amount, or make a minimum payment and be charged interest on the balance. He wasn’t planning to do either.

  His plan was to spend close to the limit they were prepared to allow. He bought more clothes of every sort, pullovers and T-shirts, shorts, swimming trunks and good-quality underwear, new loafers, a trilby and a mac that fitted him, of the same make Francis had had, as well as a wallet, a watch, a leather briefcase and a portable typewriter. He would have liked a television and a small fridge, but they would have to be delivered, and his address would be different to the one shown on the application form. Sooner or later they’d realise this was fraud, and he didn’t want his bedsit pinpointed for the investigating officers. Reluctantly he decided a new television was impossible.

  As it was, it was better than half a dozen Christmases; he’d never had so many new belongings. He spread them round his bedsit, trying first one thing on and then another. When he tried to pack everything away out of sight, he found he hadn’t nearly enough storage space. He had to put his packages in a corner and cover them with a blanket.

  He must not wear his new clothes yet; he couldn’t risk his neighbours noticing and thinking he’d suddenly come into money. Many of them were students, bright lads who might envy his new gear; he must keep his plans fail-safe.

  He took out Francis’s identity tag and studied his photograph. He knew he must try to make the same impression. It wouldn’t matter that their features were quite different; this was just about whether the public would think he looked like a chief accountant. Right now, Leo had to admit he did not.

  He could see from the birth certificate that Francis had been born on the second of February 1931. That would make him thirty-six against Leo’s twenty-nine, so he needed to make himself appear older than he was.

  He couldn’t remember when he’d last had his hair cut. The Beatles had made longish hair fashionable for men, and for the last year or so he’d asked the barber to do him something similar to Paul McCartney’s cut. It had grown rampantly and needed to be reshaped, but that wouldn’t do for Francis. When the time was right, he’d have his wild brown mop cut into the style shown in Francis’s photograph. Not exactly a traditional short back and sides, but still quite restrained. And he’d find himself some heavy spectacles with clear glass in the frames; that should give him a more academic appearance and hopefully make him look older.

  That evening, Leo did not feel like turning up for work as night desk attendant at the hotel. He’d had a busy and exciting day with very little sleep. But he’d have to go because his plan was to change nothing until the time was right for him to adopt the persona of Francis Clitheroe.

  For that, he needed to find a job for Francis and get himself hired to do it. That wouldn’t be easy, but if he could find just the right niche, he would not only be paid a good salary but hopefully be able to tap into company funds and help himself. A chief accountant he th
ought would find that possible, but he’d need the top job; it would never do to have a boss who was a qualified accountant peering over his shoulder all the time.

  Leo thought about it some more, it would not be easy to pull the wool over the eyes of any accountant, even if he were considered his junior. Particularly one who had been passed over for promotion and who might therefore resent him. What he needed was a job where Francis would be the only qualified accountant in the business. Therefore, it would need to be a small- to medium-sized firm.

  There were always lots of newspapers left lying around in the hotel; Leo never needed to buy one. Both he and Gary picked up enough to give them all the reading they wanted through the night hours. Sometimes they disagreed over who should have first read of the tabloids and magazines. There were many more broadsheet papers, this being an expensive hotel.

  Tonight Leo wanted to look through the situations vacant columns to find a job Francis Clitheroe might apply for, but he didn’t want Gary to see him doing it. He waited until the security guard had settled down for his two-hour nap, then fished out a copy of each of the main broadsheets. He realised almost immediately that most of the jobs advertised were in different parts of the country. Here was one that looked hopeful, but it was in Sheffield, and there were many more in London.

  He sat back and thought about it. It would be safer to move to London, but Liverpool was where he’d been born and brought up; he had local knowledge here, and it was where he felt at home. He would be less at ease anywhere else. Francis’s new job, he decided, must be in Liverpool.

  He took the broadsheets to the rubbish pile and selected instead the Liverpool Daily Post. Accountants, he found, were much in demand; there were several firms advertising for their services. Being local meant he’d be able to check the businesses out before he applied. It was at that point that he thought about his address. Nobody earning an accountant’s salary would live where he did.