Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  Things were bad enough even without intervention by the law. Angela was threatening to quit, as was Belle Horrocks. Belle had been the most stable and dependable of the girls, but she was now on the brink of leaving Meadowbank. Babs had gone, Sally had gone, and their replacements were still learning the job. Client numbers had dropped. Trevor Burns had stopped visiting. A butcher, he had often brought gifts of joints for weekends, and had always been cheerful. After recommending Neil Carson, he had disappeared. Neil Carson. Eve didn’t like him, though she couldn’t fathom why. In theory and when interviewed, he came across as an ideal customer, and yet . . .

  Those who wanted Baby companions were fewer these days. Eve had lost at least a third of Babs’s clients. Meanwhile, Barbara Schofield was living the life of Riley up in Southport. If that girl fell in shit, she would always emerge smelling of roses. Don Crawford’s place was under consideration as an animal shelter, though Babs and Sal were to be housed there in the event of Don’s death. Well, perhaps Babs belonged among strays, though young Sal was a lovely girl. ‘What the hell am I going to do?’ Eve muttered to herself. Should she close down, sell up and hope to live on the equity?

  In town, she decanted her passengers and spoke to those who waited for her. ‘The cops are a few hundred yards from the farm,’ she told them. ‘According to Belle, they’re looking for drugs stashed in a shed somewhere, so I’m shutting down for tonight.’

  ‘What about tomorrow?’ someone asked.

  Eve ploughed through her busy brain. ‘The farm will be closed until the cops have given up. Look in the Echo personals every night. I’ll find a way of letting you know when I’m re-opening. After that, you’ll have to phone me for details like pick-up locations. That’s all I can do; the police are too close for comfort.’

  She drove homeward in the empty van. Her life’s work was going down the drain, and all because some stupid vagabonds had stored something or other in a hut that stood hundreds of yards from the farmhouse. There was no doubt in her mind – she and the girls would be questioned. It would be enough to make them all quit, she believed. Perhaps it was time to go. She might well have been thinking right after all. ‘I’m getting a bit old for this,’ she muttered.

  Parking outside Meadowbank, she turned off the engine, closed her eyes and wondered who the hell would want to live here on a windy and exposed plain in a house that wasn’t exactly pretty. There were no amenities to hand, no decent views, and there was no protection from the vagaries of British weather. ‘Sod it,’ she cursed. Sighing deeply, Eve Mellor climbed down from the driver’s seat, locked the van and entered her house. It was all out of her hands, and she must accept what fate dished up for her.

  Acting Detective Sergeant Eddie Barnes visited Lime Street Station at the end of his shift. Dave Earnshaw, still in uniform, greeted his erstwhile partner with a broad grin. ‘What time do you call this?’ he asked. ‘Oh, I like the suit, by the way. My new bloke’s a rookie, so he’s searching the men’s lavs. How was your first day?’

  ‘Grim,’ was the answer. ‘We just missed catching the runaways from that monks’ place. We found a massive stash of stuff, and we think it’s Albert Shuttleworth again.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s always him, and he always gets away.’

  ‘Holy Mary,’ said a familiar voice.

  Both officers turned. ‘Hi, Nellie,’ Dave said. ‘Are you saying your beads again, eh?’

  ‘I am not. There’s little time for prayer when I’m doing my life’s work.’ She drew Eddie to one side and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Mary’s a double agent. All the church-going and preaching is supposed to be a front for her drug-dealing, and she does deal up to a point, or she sets up deals. According to Mary, who deliberately keeps poor company, Shuttleworth’s in Moss Side, Manchester, but only the good Lord knows where the rest of his team is. Your Chief Constable has been on to Manchester’s Chief Constable. The house in Moss Side will be raided at dawn tomorrow. So you’ll have your man.’

  Eddie relaxed. ‘He could go down for murder.’

  Nellie shook her head. ‘Rumour has it that one of the lads working with heroin overdosed that poor boy, but they were all ordered by Shuttleworth to get rid of the body. Holy Mary told us yesterday. But yes, Boss – as he likes to be addressed – will go down for something, but it might not be murder. More likely accessary after the fact or some such nonsense. And for being a drugs baron, of course.’

  Detective Sergeant Eddie Barnes stared hard at the old woman. ‘Who’s “us”, Nellie?’

  She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Let’s just say that Holy Mary and I do a job very similar to yours, though we answer to a higher authority.’ She pulled him further away from his ex-partner.

  ‘MI5?’ Eddie asked in a soft voice.

  ‘Higher than that,’ she replied.

  He shrugged. ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  A familiar enigmatic smile spread itself across Smelly Nellie’s face. It disappeared when she changed the subject briefly. ‘The killer of prostitutes seems to be taking a rest, and we have now acquired a murderer whose target may be teenage boys. He’d been filled with drugs – they found an ante-mortem bruise on his arm, just the one puncture wound and no signs of regular use. The lad was killed by an overdose; he probably had no tolerance for the substance. Drugs are being cleared from the site, and Shuttleworth’s fingerprints are all over the cottage. His minions slept where they worked and in sheds in the garden.’

  Eddie pondered. ‘How come you know so much, Nellie?’

  ‘I make it my business to know.’

  ‘Bu—’ The plain clothes officer scratched his head. ‘What the hell’s going on, Nellie?’

  She tutted at him.

  ‘Come on, tell me,’ Eddie begged.

  ‘Just know I’m on your side, as is Holy Mary. I may look and smell like a vagrant, but I’m doing a job. Trust me – I’m not here just to hang about looking like the wreck of the Hesperus. Method in madness, son.’ She walked away with the famous battered and bruised Silver Cross pram.

  Dave had wandered off to find his rookie partner, who had been in the men’s for at least fifteen minutes. Eddie, wearing his wedding suit, which happened to be the only one he owned, stood and watched Nellie. He was off duty, but he intended to carry on working until he got to the bottom of Nellie’s secret. She was a police informant; that fact was as clear as a spring morning.

  *

  Neil Carson was confused. Having been set on a path dictated by heaven, he seemed to have taken a turning off the main road, and he had enjoyed every moment of his foray into the unknown. The wilderness was a happy place filled with soft-fleshed women, bright colours, sexual fulfilment and, latterly, the punishment he deserved and enjoyed.

  Angela gave him exactly what he needed – a good hiding followed by a level of joy he had never experienced until now, until her, until Angela. But his adventures were over for a while, because the house had been closed down due to an invasion of the district by police.

  He sat in his cramped attic room. It contained a bed, a small table, a chair, a cooker, a sink, one cupboard and a wardrobe with a filthy curtain instead of a door. Sandwiched between him and another tenant there was a small, shabby bathroom with cracked tiles, a dirty floor and a bath so ancient that its top surface was peeling and showing rust. He replaced washers in the aged brass taps, cleaned the lavatory and included in his rent book a complaint about conditions. A written message was returned to him. It stated that if he wanted the Ritz he’d need to pay a lot more, and he could leave whenever he chose. Neil was angry, because two thirds of his net income went to Laura and the children, so better accommodation was beyond his reach.

  He remembered the ordered, comfortable life with the children and Laura in a clean house. She was a good housekeeper, a loving mother, an excellent cook and—

  And she was no longer his because he was no longer himself. Who was he? What was he? He stood up and started p
acing about the small area. They had been there that night; Judas had even drunk the beer. Mary Magdalene had been mentioned, as had the city’s prostitutes, and he had been given clear instructions to rid the streets of sin.

  What if he’d imagined all that? Was he mad? Did a mad person know he was mad? Did being sane enough to question his sanity mean that he was not insane? O God, O God. The pacing had to stop before the old biddy below started banging on her ceiling again. He sat and considered his terrible situation. The idea of returning home had to be discounted, since Laura didn’t want him, and he had ceased to desire her bony body and her Victorian resignation in his bed. Matt and Lucy he missed terribly, but he couldn’t bring them here and . . . oh, he was so lonely. He needed something to do, a plan, a project. ‘You have something to do,’ he said aloud. ‘Clean the streets.’

  Detective Sergeant (Acting) Eddie Barnes came to a halt at Miller’s Bridge. Nellie walked down towards the river, stopping at a large old house set back from the street.

  He watched as she disappeared down the side of the building. It was Magdalene House (pronounced Maudlin, he seemed to remember), and it was inhabited by women. When she did not reappear, he guessed that she had entered the place by a rear door. So this was the answer to many questions.

  After waiting for about fifteen minutes, he followed in her recent footsteps. She was below ground in a lit cellar. He peered down through grating and watched as she took off her filthy coat and dumped it in a large chest. Everything in the room was clean to the point of spotlessness, and there was no sign of the pram.

  Feeling like Peeping Tom, he returned hurriedly to the street and walked to a pub on the corner. As he was no longer in uniform, he entered the premises and ordered a double Irish before parking himself at a corner table.

  Nellie was a Veronica. Veronica had created the Veil of Veronica by wiping the face of Jesus on His way to crucifixion; this sisterhood named after her was a working order as opposed to a contemplative commune. The nuns nursed in hospitals, taught in schools, fed the homeless, counselled the young, cared for the aged and sat with the dying.

  He swallowed his drink in seconds. Smelly Nellie and Holy Mary were brides of Christ, so yes, they answered to the highest of all authorities. Nellie lived her days among filth and squalor, while Mary took her life in her hands in order to mislead those who dealt drugs. Eddie remembered Quick Mick lying on the ground in Lime Street Station. Nellie had touched the head of her old friend, probably with holy water or even the oils of Extreme Unction.

  Humbled without understanding fully the reason for his mood, the acting detective began the walk home. He would hold the secrets of Nellie and Mary, as they must be kept as safe as possible. There were good people in the world, and he intended to protect two of them.

  Seven

  Ian Foster woke when the sun bled over the Pennines to spill its pale, autumnal light onto the Mersey plain. He was afraid, disorientated, uncomfortable and shivering in a ditch under a sprinkling of dew. After the passage of several seconds, he pushed cold hands into coat pockets and found the paper given to him by Belle Horrocks yesterday. He blinked back tears of gratitude, because it was a ten bob note wrapped in a page ripped from a notebook. Among other things, that page bore the address and telephone number of Babs Schofield. The number, written by Babs on a wall in the hut, was already etched into his brain, but he appreciated the thoughtfulness of Belle, who scarcely knew him, Phil and John. There was kindness in the world, but would he ever trust males again?

  The certainty that it was time to give up remained with him as he rooted in his bag for food. The letters had been effective, but some people had short memories, and the school run by the Brothers Pastoral needed to be closed down within the foreseeable future. Other boys had suffered, and Ian wanted them to be given the chance to talk. So. He decided to collect his thoughts, two lads covered in coal dust, and a way of getting them and himself clean.

  There were public baths in town, but the hatchet-faced women who doled out soap and towels would surely refuse to admit three stinking boys and a load of coal dust. And anyway, the facility was too far away from here, wasn’t it? ‘Strike while the iron is hot,’ he mumbled. They didn’t have an iron either, so clean clothes would be creased as well as stolen. For a reason Ian couldn’t be bothered to question, he wanted to look smart during interviews with reporters and police. Babs might sort out something or other if he phoned her . . .

  His breakfast was a sickly mix of milk chocolate and lemonade. Having read somewhere that mountaineers and the like always carried chocolate, Ian had made sure that all three escape bags contained Cadbury’s and a drink. So, what now? Phil and John the Stam were in a coal cellar, and all three boys hadn’t washed or bathed in a month. He couldn’t go to Southport, since he was unfit for public transport, while his two mates were probably as dirty as the back of a sooty grate by this time. How was he supposed to get them out of the cellar during the hours of daylight? Could Belle provide them with a means to clean up and dress in the decent clothes they’d stolen from washing lines?

  He read the page again. Belle was leaving the farm . . .

  A grin appeared of its own accord. Belle knew Babs well, and Babs had a way of making things happen. If Barbara Schofield decided to go to Mars, the race between the USA and the USSR would be over, because Babs would win. So he had to find a phone box.

  Yet again, he kicked himself mentally for not bringing the bike. He wished he had binoculars so that he might creep westward and see what was happening several fields away. Still, he had enough change for a phone call to Southport, so that was something. Babs would soon be on board, and rockets would be launched. God help the guilty; even the innocent might expect a grilling from Miss Barbara Schofield. Ian continued to wear the smile while the sun warmed him and hope flickered in his heart.

  Eve Mellor was exhausted. She slumped at the desk in her office, plump hands supporting a plump face and a multiplicity of chins. Wearing an ancient housecoat, plastic curlers under a chiffon scarf, slippers, and a face that might have been described by Baby Babs as a near imitation of a bag of spuds, she was waiting for the farm to be invaded. The police had stayed away thus far, but the night-long pregnant pause had been draining. Sleep had eluded her completely; even good old Kate had appeared ruffled after all the reorganization of the house. But Kate had managed to return to her room and was probably sleeping now. ‘It’s all down to me,’ she muttered bitterly. ‘I’m the one who’ll end up with the shitty end of the stick.’

  Someone tapped quietly at the office door.

  ‘Come in,’ Eve called with her last few dregs of energy.

  Tom Duffield’s head insinuated itself into the room. ‘Hiya, Eve.’

  Her jaw travelled south rather quickly, and her hands found the desk, because she suddenly needed firm support. ‘What the blood and liver salts are you doing here? I took everybody back to town in the van last night.’

  He entered the office completely and closed the door. ‘You were probably in too much of a panic to count properly. I hid in Belle’s wardrobe while you collected the rest of them.’

  Eve blinked stupidly. ‘She had no clients last night.’

  He shrugged. ‘She had me. She had me with her all night.’ A long pause was followed by, ‘I’m hoping she’ll always have me.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard me, Eve. We’ve got plans.’

  ‘Have you, now?’

  Without invitation, he sat across from her at the desk. ‘We’re getting a vehicle, probably a van, and she’ll learn to drive. She can pick up and return like you do, Eve, only her passengers will be clocks and watches rather than men. Well, I might go with her, and in that case I suppose she’ll ferry one man. Her mother and father live a few doors away from me, and we’ll be with her little girl, too. Lisa can have two homes to choose from.’ He waited while his message sank in. ‘I’m talking possible marriage here, Eve.’

  Eve swallowed. It was all fa
lling apart. After Kate, Belle had been the mainstay of Meadowbank Farm. She was intelligent, gentle, kind and careful; Belle Horrocks was a rarity. ‘I got compensation for Babs and Sally,’ she snapped. ‘Now I’m losing another.’

  ‘You’ll get nothing for Belle, sorry,’ he answered immediately. ‘She’s a free woman in a free country, and she’s walking out of here with me today. We’re just waiting for an old friend of mine to come and help us with her things, then we’re gone for good. She needs to get away and start a new life. We might have waited, but circumstances forced us to hasten matters.’

  ‘The police.’ Her tone was flat, almost resigned.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Eve shook her head. Angela would be moving on in a couple of weeks, so that would leave the place two girls short, while the amateurs who had replaced Babs and Sal were not yet up to scratch. ‘She’s used goods, Tom,’ she said, sarcasm in her tone. ‘Why not wait until somebody with a cleaner history comes along?’

  ‘Aren’t we all used or damaged goods? Look at me – one hand missing, and I could do with a new pair of eyes with the close work I do. I used other women till I found Belle, so what’s the difference? Is it OK because I’m a bloke and she’s just a female? Anyway, it’s nothing to do with you. She made me come and tell you because she’s too polite to just disappear without a word.’

  ‘She already told me she was thinking of going. I didn’t know why or when, but she has mentioned it a couple of times just lately.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Right, well, she’s thought, and she’ll be out of here this afternoon. Nobody feels safe at the moment – I’m sure you understand why they’re all like cats on hot bricks.’

  Eve turned her head and stared westward through the window. ‘All right, just go, will you?’ Her voice was cracking, and she felt dangerously close to tears. When had she last cried? Mam’s funeral? She never wept; she always fought her way back, but where was her ammunition now? Admittedly, there were girls working the streets, some of whom might be grateful for the safety she offered, but the cops were just a few hundred yards away.