Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Thanks,’ the three boys said in unison.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ian added.

  ‘We’ve all been young,’ Mr Macey said, ‘but you need to find some patience. This type of reckless behaviour isn’t acceptable, and it must stop.’

  The leader spoke up again. ‘It was me,’ he admitted quietly. ‘We’ve been locked up a long time, you see. And I was in charge of the breakout from school, so John and Phil think they need to go wherever I go. I’ve been in a bad mood, see.’

  Gordy shook his head. ‘Bill said you battered him.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Because young Sally chose him.’

  Ian nodded. ‘Yes, and he never raised a hand to me.’

  ‘He knows you’re only fifteen, Ian. Bill’s a man, bigger, older and stronger than you. And he knows how you feel. You shouldn’t go through life with your fists, but.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then you stay in Dove Cottage and behave yourselves while Mr Macey tries to get the eejit monks brought to justice. All we ask of you is patience.’

  ‘Don’t hurt Brother Bennet or Brother Williams,’ John begged. ‘They’re good blokes, Mr Macey. Bennet’s the head, and Williams is an amazing teacher, very quiet and well liked. He’s never hit a kid as far as I know, and we nearly always remember his lessons. We don’t like to disappoint him.’

  ‘I’ll bear all that in mind,’ Macey said as he pulled into the Crawford estate. ‘Now, go and play with donkeys or stay in and do homework.’

  Three chastened boys left the car.

  ‘You took on a lot there, Mr Macey.’

  ‘Did I, now? Well I happen to think those boys are worth saving. Bye for now.’

  Gordy stood outside Dove Cottage. He and Babs still had to face Don Crawford. ‘Bugger,’ he muttered. ‘I’m putting the kettle on.’

  Sitting or lying on a bed in the vast kitchen of Meadowbank Farm, Eve Mellor had plenty of thinking time. Sometimes, she wondered whether she might be obsessed, yet she remained incapable of controlling her instincts. The farm was up and running again with Kate in charge, so Eve was left to her own devices for several hours each day. It was him; she knew it was him.

  She had been out several times on Thursday evenings, but she’d never seen him. The devil seemed to be looking after his own.

  ‘I have you worked out, Carson.’ Some woman, possibly his wife or his mother, had pissed him off. So from women he expected punishment in order to be angry enough to go and . . . She swallowed. Angela had served a purpose, or so it would appear. Perhaps being so close to death made Eve more acutely aware, more sensitive. She grinned. Mam had always said that Eve was as sensitive as a docker’s hook.

  ‘Docker’s hook?’ she whispered. ‘I could do with one of them to rip his bloody face off.’

  It was his eyes, she decided. Most of the time, they seemed flat, expressionless and almost dead. Then, all of a sudden, they would flash, as if some hidden thought had dug its way out of his brain all the way to his face. ‘It’s him,’ she repeated. ‘I know it’s him.’ The medicines were helping, but she couldn’t do the job alone, so she would get Kate to phone Bert Heslop. A retired policeman, Bert was good at finding folk. ‘I’ll put a stop to him,’ Eve muttered. ‘There’s a place in hell for him. And I’ll phone Heslop myself.’

  Fifteen

  Eve soldiered on bravely, trying hard not to make the household miserable. Her attitude remained decided, though she was occasionally visited by pain that became almost severe enough to warrant a scream. With her bed under a kitchen window and a telephone extension by her side, she scribbled her stories, stopping from time to time to ponder the case of the Mersey Monster. She had months or perhaps weeks to live, and she wanted him dealt with before she shuffled off. The discomfort would worsen, and she needed to be tougher than tanned leather.

  The nearer she came to death, the more certain she was that Neil Carson fitted the bill. He had shifty eyes and a weak chin, never a good combination. He wanted more punishment than Angela was willing to deliver; any bloke who arrived in a flowered shirt with a matching floral tie had to be weird. And he craved to see his own blood, so he was best out of here. The man was crackers. During that very dramatic phone call, he had lost his temper completely. Yes. He was quite possibly the perpetrator. And he worked on turn-about shifts . . .

  Eve had looked for him twice, but had failed to find him. With winter beginning to tighten its grip, sitting in a car looking for a killer was not comfortable, especially for a sick woman. She needed help.

  The running of the business was now in Kate’s hands, and she was doing an excellent job, thereby allowing Eve time and opportunity to write and to wonder about Mr Postman. Every day, the girls came in to eat and to keep her company, so living in a kitchen was a sight better than mouldering in some hospital ward. The stories would never be finished unless Kate took them up after Eve’s death, yet they served a purpose, as if they cleansed the soul.

  It was Friday. Belle had phoned before lunch for a chat, and she had informed Eve that although her instructor seemed on the brink of collapse, poor man, she had sailed through her driving test without killing anyone, so that was a bit of good news. She and Tom were off to Jacob Martindale’s jewellery shop on Smithdown Road. Jacob, long dead, had been founder of the chain.

  Belle and Tom were returning mended timepieces, while young Lisa was going to meet the children of Andrew Martindale’s lady friend, so Belle seemed happy with her lot as Mrs Tom Duffield. Babs, too, had phoned, and Eve had laughed enough to cause a stitch in her already troubled right side.

  Kate arrived at the bedside. ‘Cuppa tea, love?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet, pal. I’m still getting over that phone call from Babs. Sal’s got a hobby – well, she had. Collecting boyfriends, she was. Oh, and Babs is pregnant, so she has to marry that horse man – the Irish one. The boys who were in the scout hut ran away and were brought back, but oh . . .’ She reached for a handkerchief. ‘Hang on.’

  Eve dried her eyes. ‘It’s the way Babs says it all – she should be writing, not me. She paints pictures with words, and she uses loud colours, but you never know what’s coming next. I asked her did Don Crawford know about the pregnancy, and she told me he did, so I said, “How did he take it?” Her answer was that he’d taken it badly, gone a funny colour and might have swallowed too many of his pills, so he was down Southport Hospital getting looked at for overdoses and what have you. Laugh? I had to change me knickers.’

  The new boss of Meadowbank sank into a chair. ‘Who’s with him at the ozzy?’

  ‘The lad who was beat up by the other lad. The one whose mate got murdered by the drugs people. Bill, I think he’s called. Only he’s being checked for concussion, so Don’s likely on his own. His head got banged on the floor.’

  Kate’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘Don’s head?’

  ‘No, the lad what got beat up by the other lad. You don’t listen.’

  ‘But which lad was it who beat up the other lad with the dead mate, Evie?’

  ‘I’ve got no bloody idea, have I? You know stuff happens round Babs – she’s like a magnet for trouble. And that horse comes into the kitchen every day, clears a five-foot fence and wanders inside for apples and carrots and anything else that’s hanging about – like cakes. Geese flap in with hens and dogs and cats – it’s like Noah’s ark. Babs can’t ride the bleeding horse while she’s pregnant – oh, I do miss her.’

  Kate smiled. ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘Well, I do, so you thought right for once.’

  Kate sighed. ‘I never thought I’d be saying this, but so do I. The new girls are great, don’t get me wrong, but Babs is tough with a heart of gold underneath all the cheek.’

  ‘She thanked me, and she meant it,’ Eve whispered.

  ‘No!’

  Eve nodded. ‘There was a little tear in her eye and a catch in her voice, know what I mean? But she’s got used to Southport, and I think she loves her new job now t
hat Don’s being sedated. The two girls cook and clean and give him his medicine and a bath when he’s able. When he’s not, they give him a bed bath. I know they would have gone with him to the hospital, but Babs has got an appointment with her GP, and young Sal’s going with her to the doc’s while the Irish fellow keeps an eye on the runaways. Babs will be starting on iron and vitamins, I suppose, all that rubbish you have to swallow when you’re expecting.’

  Kate delivered a sad smile. ‘So many changes, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman in the bed paused. ‘And more changes to come.’

  ‘I’m scared, Evie.’

  ‘And I’m not? Anyway, I’ve other things to worry about.’

  Kate’s gaze drifted towards the window. Her best friend, her dying best friend, was about to embark on yet another lecture relating to Neil Carson and his weak chin, his bad taste in clothing, his wicked temper and the fact that he begged for punishments too brutal even for Angela.

  ‘I’m handing it over,’ Eve said.

  ‘Handing which to what?’

  The woman in the bed grinned. ‘Bert Heslop. Remember him? Dapper little chap with a muzzy and very small feet, drives a Mini now and makes it look like a big car. For a dwarf, he’s a very clever man.’

  ‘Private dick?’

  ‘That’s the one. I still see him in town sometimes. He followed some of our nastier customers when we first kicked off here at the farm. He can follow him now. Straighten your face before the wind changes, Miss O’Gorman. My mind is made up.’

  Kate O’Gorman sighed heavily. ‘Yes, I remember the little chap from way back. But how many hundreds of thousands of blokes are in Liverpool, Evie? And out of all of them, you’ve picked this Neil Carson one. What if you’re wrong?’

  ‘Then Bert Heslop will tell me I’m wrong, won’t he?’

  ‘I wish you’d just let it go, Evie.’

  ‘I’ll let go when I’m in me box. Go and peel your veg, missus. I’ve better things to do than waste time watching you in a state. He’s a shift worker at the post office. He kills when he’s on lates. And thicken your custard a bit; the last lot looked as if it had been squeezed out of a teenager’s acne.’

  ‘Eve!’

  ‘Bog off.’

  When Kate was occupied at the business end of the kitchen, Eve reached for the phone, but it rang just before she lifted the receiver. It was Belle again. Eve listened carefully, inserting a prompt here and there, but never embarking on real conversation. She was right! Her heartbeat quickened; at last, there seemed to be some sort of proof about Neil Carson.

  ‘I’ll call you again from home, Eve. I’m using Mr Martindale’s phone in the office behind his shop, so I’d better ring off. He thinks I’m phoning me mam.’ Belle ended the call.

  Eve pushed herself into a sitting position. The words she’d heard rattled round in her brain like marbles in a tin. Neil Carson’s wife was in the jeweller’s shop with the jeweller, her children and Tom, Belle and young Lisa. ‘It is him,’ she mouthed while reaching for the phone once more. This had to be done properly. ‘Mr Heslop?’

  ‘Yes. May I help you?’

  ‘I think so. It’s Eve Mellor from Meadowbank Farm. Remember?’

  ‘Ah yes. Would you like me to call by?’

  ‘Tonight if possible. I’ll be on my own in bed in the kitchen. I’m dying, you see.’

  A short pause was followed by, ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll come at about eight o’clock. Will that do?’

  ‘Oh yes. That will do very well indeed.’

  Another pause. ‘Is there anything you need, Miss Mellor?’

  She smiled to herself. ‘Just you, your notebook and a pen will do nicely, thanks.’ Eve ended the call and leaned back on her pillows.

  Belle parked the van outside their house. Lisa was lifted out by Tom, who stood to watch while the child dashed off in near-darkness to show her grandparents the silver St Christopher medal and chain given to her by the kindly jeweller. She would stay with Sam and Frankie this weekend, though she was usually a movable feast during daylight hours. ‘Bye,’ she shouted as she closed her grandparents’ gate carefully.

  Tom and Belle walked through their own front doorway. ‘What happened?’ Tom asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

  She kissed him. ‘Let me make a cuppa first. It’ll give me time to sort my head out. I mean, I didn’t know her, did I? Why me, Tom?’ She walked into the living room/kitchen and set the kettle on the hob. Tom followed her and sat on the sofa. ‘It’s your face,’ he advised her. ‘You’ve got one of those faces that people talk to.’

  She huffed at him. ‘You’re biased.’

  Tom chuckled.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am biased.’ He let her get on with brewing tea. She needed time to think, because he realized that something of moment had happened between her and Laura Carson during their expedition to Cooper’s Cakes. Belle had been jittery ever since the two women had returned with custard slices, and she had even asked if she might phone her mother from the jewellery shop.

  ‘Here.’ She passed him a mug and sat beside him. ‘Just give me another minute,’ she begged. Max wasn’t here, so distractions were minimal. The dog had learnt how to acquire food in two houses and was intelligent enough to get his own way. Sometimes, an animal could be useful when a pause became necessary.

  ‘OK.’ Tom sipped at his tea.

  Time ticked on. ‘I didn’t phone my mother,’ she said at last, ‘it was Eve. I phoned Eve.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  She nodded. ‘Laura is Laura Carson. Her husband is that chap I told you about, the queer bloke who wanted bondage and flaying till he bled. He told Angela he needed to relive the Stations of the Cross, so Ange put him right, saying if he wanted a crown of thorns he could make his own and wear it at home.’

  Tom waited.

  ‘Anyway, Laura’s not one for keeping up with the news – well, she didn’t use to be. She works for some mates who have a chippy down her road, and she saw something in a newspaper saved for wrappings. It was about the murder of Jean Davenport, and it said her gold cross and chain had gone missing. Her initials were on the back of the cross.’

  Again, Tom allowed her an uninterrupted pause.

  ‘Laura’s husband had hidden a gold cross and chain in his sock drawer, said he’d bought it second hand and was saving it for her birthday. It had initials on it, though she can’t remember what they were, and then it disappeared. Why did she tell me, Tom? Why not her friends in the chippy?’

  ‘Too close to home?’ he suggested.

  ‘She’s frightened of talking to the cops because of her kids. I understand that, but . . .’

  ‘But she has a lot on her mind.’

  ‘She certainly does. Andrew Martindale knows, and she says he’s offered to go with her to the police, but she’s still holding back for the sake of her family. I know it must be hard, Tom, but how’s she going to feel if it is him and he carries on killing?’ Belle sat down next to her husband. ‘Did she tell me because she wants me to send the police to her?’

  ‘No, love. She told you because you’ve got trustworthy eyes, and she needed to offload to somebody of the same sex. Complicated creatures, women are. Even if they have a decent husband, a good dad or a brother, they’ll usually confide more easily in another woman. Anyway, she told Martindale first, didn’t she?’

  Belle raised her legs and studied her feet for a moment. She had new shoes and they hurt a bit, so she kicked them off. ‘She’s in love with him, Tom.’

  ‘And he is with her, too.’

  She grinned at him. ‘You know, for a bloke, you’re sometimes nearly human. He’s selling up, lock, stock and diamonds. He’s planning on moving abroad and taking her and the kids with him if Laura’s husband gets done for murder. If he doesn’t get charged, they’ll stay in England, but in Devon I think she said. It would be a fresh start all round, I suppose.’

  ‘All planned out, then. Is
he her father figure, Belle?’

  She raised her shoulders in a shrug. ‘Nope. I think they’re having trouble keeping away from what she calls mortal sin. Her husband was a cold fish at home, but if he’s the Mersey Monster, he must have boiled over down near the docks at least three times. It’s a bugger, Tom. Oh, by the way, Babs is pregnant. She’s marrying that horse trainer.’

  ‘Good for her. From the little I know, she needs grounding with both feet nailed to the floor. I wonder if she’ll improve with age?’

  Belle laughed.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Tom asked.

  ‘She’s lovely.’ Belle always defended her friends. ‘And no, I think she’ll always be the same – a nuisance.’ She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if Eve’s right about him?’

  ‘Carson? Well, I’d be thinking about the cross.’

  ‘So would I, yes. I’m beginning to wish Laura Carson hadn’t told me. It’s like being an accessary, isn’t it? If it’s him, anyway.’

  It was Tom’s turn to be pensive. ‘Well, you know what the police say – anything, however trivial, helps them to pursue or eliminate a line of inquiry. But at the same time, it’s up to Laura, I suppose.’

  Belle wasn’t so sure. And there was something else that needed addressing, an issue that might well keep her out of everyone’s business for the foreseeable future. She looked into the eyes of the man she adored. He was a wonderful husband and lover, a great friend to everyone in the family and an excellent stepfather for Lisa. Belle, treated like queen of the establishment, had learnt early on that Tom Duffield did not and would not ever question her past. Feeling shy with no idea why, she blushed while smiling at him. ‘Don’t get excited.’

  ‘Eh? What’s exciting about poor Mrs Carson and the gold cross?’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘A gold cross.’

  ‘I should hope not. Have you been collecting gold crosses?’

  ‘No.’

  She was being playful, so he grinned at her. Being playful often led to chasing through rooms and ripping clothes off. Mind, Lisa might come back, because Belle made a great cup of cocoa. ‘Well?’ he asked.