Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  She giggled like a schoolgirl. ‘What do you want more than anything else in the world? Leave me and Lisa out of it.’

  His lips parted as he drew in extra oxygen. ‘My lads. Have you heard from my lads?’

  ‘No, love.’

  ‘Then what . . . ?’

  She placed a hand on her abdomen. ‘Not just Babs, Tom, because I’ve got a little passenger, too. I know you’ll love it even if it’s a girl. I’m praying for a boy, but we’ll just have to wait and see.’

  Motionless, he allowed a single tear to obey the law of gravity. ‘Thank you,’ he breathed a second before the tear became a flood.

  ‘No – thank you,’ Belle replied, eyelids in top gear. ‘I never wanted Lisa to be an only child. I’ve made love, kissing included, with just two men in my whole life. He might have been a rum bugger, but I loved him, and I love you more. So they’re both children of love. I couldn’t feel more for anybody than I feel for you, Duffy. You’re all my tomorrows.’

  ‘And you know how to turn my tap on, girl.’

  She smiled through the wetness in her own eyes. ‘That’s good, because what use are you with just the one hand?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Wrapped together, crying together, they celebrated a little knot of cells that belonged to both of them; it was the perfect end to an imperfect day.

  Sisters Helen Veronica and Mary Veronica were slumped in armchairs in Nellie’s subterranean living quarters. On a small sofa, Eddie and Nelson fought for space. ‘I’m fed up now,’ declared Detective Sergeant Barnes, who had served his plain clothes apprenticeship to the satisfaction of his betters. ‘We must have missed him by no more than a few seconds.’

  Mary sighed. ‘Well, we know he’s in a green car with no proper lid. It was parked in the back jigger. The neighbour was clear enough about that much.’

  ‘Sports car,’ Eddie mumbled. ‘This dog is trying to shift me.’

  ‘He does that,’ Helen answered absentmindedly. ‘Take him in the garden, Mary. He may need to relieve himself.’

  Mary chuckled. ‘Eddie, Nelson, or both?’

  Helen glared at her sister in Christ. ‘Please yourself.’

  Alone, Helen and Eddie sat in silence for a while. Having kicked open Boss’s mother’s door, Eddie was now recognizable. Bearing a court order at the time of invasion, he expected no trouble in the legal sense, but he had mucked it up. The murderer of his best friend remained at large. ‘I have to get him for Dave’s sake, Nellie.’

  ‘I know. Just listen to me, all right?’

  He combed his hair with restless fingers. ‘What?’

  ‘The house next door to Mrs Shuttleworth’s is empty. Mary, Nelson and I should take it. I’m sure she wouldn’t recognize us. We might befriend her, and we can certainly keep a wary eye on comings and goings. Ask the police to put a phone in for us.’

  He stopped scraping at his hair and began to rub his chin. ‘That may not be a bad idea.’

  She laughed. ‘I knew a first from Oxford would be useful at some stage.’

  Eddie blinked. ‘Educated, then?’

  She nodded. ‘By nuns, of course, until I was eighteen. Then off I went into the unreal world of academia, worked my socks off and returned to the nuns.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I got the call.’

  He grinned. ‘So that’s why you need a phone.’

  She giggled again. ‘Of course. God may ring to tell me it’s all been a mistake, and I’ll be released to function as a lay person in an unsuspecting world.’

  Eddie stared at her. ‘We always knew you were different. Smelly Nellie is missed down Lime Street, you know.’

  ‘I miss her, too,’ Helen replied. ‘Perhaps she’ll return in time.’

  In a comfortable silence, they stared into the log fire.

  ‘Yes,’ Eddie said finally. ‘We’ll do that, then, as long as the powers agree. Make sure you dress like others in the street, flowered pinafores, curlers sometimes, headscarves – you know the score. Go out as if you have jobs.’

  ‘I certainly do know the score. I’ll work mornings, and Mary can do afternoons or evenings. That way, we can make sure there’s always one of us in residence. You can come and go. Colour your hair and wear paint-spattered overalls. I’ll be your mother and Mary can play the part of your aunt.’

  Thus the next step was decided upon. Boss’s time was almost up.

  Neil Carson set about his new campaign with vigour. He found himself enjoying whores, because not only did he have a good time – he was also spreading his disgusting illness far and wide throughout the city. As his nerves settled, he used every woman who offered herself. He carried protection in case victims demanded it, but each item was peppered with small holes, so he was doing his job. This way, men as well as women would be punished for unseemly behaviour.

  Neither Jesus nor Judas put in an appearance. The house settled, as if all vestiges of Joseph and his mother had left at last, and Neil no longer feared voices or muffled footsteps. Now on an easier mission, he did his job at the post office, came home to eat, then set out to do the real work. His pattern changed, since he was no longer completely dependent on darkness; the killing had stopped, and he was now imposing a slower death on prostitutes and those who made use of them. Even if they lived, treatment would be needed, so he was on a winning streak.

  He polished off fish and chips, reaching for a bottle of beer to complete his meal. But he never got to drink it, because the doorbell sounded. The days had shortened and, on this particularly cold November evening, he had made up his mind to stay here and do a bit of washing. He was running out of socks and— The knocker hammered. Who the hell was it? A visitor he hadn’t expected? It was no use pretending not to be in, because darkness had established itself and he was burning electricity.

  He opened the door.

  ‘Hello, Neil.’

  Stepping back as if avoiding the fangs of a snake, he retreated from his wife and her companion, who was smartly dressed, tall and graceful. ‘Er . . . you’d better come in, I suppose. I thought you worked Friday nights.’

  ‘I took the evening off,’ Laura said.

  ‘I see.’ Unsteady on his feet, he led them into the modest but clean home. His heartbeat, too, was erratic, staggering in his chest like a drunk on his way home from a night on the ale.

  They followed him. Laura looked round the room as if assessing its contents – including the resident.

  ‘Sit down,’ the host said, his tone clipped.

  ‘So this was your friend’s house?’ she asked.

  ‘Er . . . yes. His mother died and he seemed unable to live without her. Please sit down. Would you like some tea?’

  The couple sat together on Joseph’s old sofa. ‘No, thank you,’ Laura answered.

  A short silence followed. ‘What can I do for you?’ Neil’s voice was suddenly higher than normal, almost as if he were still waiting for it to break. It was the way they were looking at him, as if they could see inside his head, as if they were accusing him of . . . of something or other.

  Laura, made bold by Andy’s presence, spoke up. ‘A woman called Jean Davenport was murdered,’ she reminded her legal husband. ‘The initials on the back of her missing gold cross were JD. You had that gold cross in your sock drawer.’ Although she had no memory of the letters engraved on the cross, she took a chance, and she knew from his expression that she had struck gold in more than one way.

  ‘Really?’ His voice was still wrong. ‘I never noticed initials.’

  ‘Yes, really. JD.’ Laura folded her arms and scowled at him.

  A few beats of time crawled past. ‘I bought it.’

  ‘From?’ she asked, an eyebrow raised.

  ‘I told you – a chap on Paddy’s Market.’

  The other eyebrow joined its twin, and he knew she didn’t believe him. From somewhere within his tortured insides, a burp escaped. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  Andrew crossed one long leg over the other. ‘Where is i
t now?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing to do with you,’ Neil managed to snap.

  ‘Anything that concerns Laura worries me, too.’ He stared hard at Carson, who reminded him of a deer caught in the headlights of a car. ‘Are you the Mersey Monster, Mr Carson?’

  The fixated man took a stiff pace backwards and fell over the raised kerb at the edge of the hearth.

  ‘Careful.’ Andrew Martindale’s tone was soft, dangerously so. ‘You’ll end up in the flames if you don’t watch your step.’

  Neil inhaled suddenly. There had been an edge to the man’s words, as if he had been talking about the devil’s furnace rather than a small coal fire. ‘Of course I’m not the killer, Mr Martindale. I may have bought the woman’s cross from a market trader, but that means nothing. The murderer could have sold it to him. Or perhaps somebody found it.’

  ‘Do you know the person responsible for the deaths of these women?’ the older man asked.

  Neil shook his head.

  ‘Where is that gold cross now?’ Laura asked.

  He tried a shrug, but his shoulders were too knotted to look casual. ‘I lost it,’ he answered. ‘Decided to get you a new one, stuck it in my pocket because I might have got a few bob for it, but . . . I don’t know where it went.’

  She rose to her feet. ‘Well, I know where I’m going.’

  Andy joined her.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Neil managed to ask, panic trimming the words.

  ‘I’m taking Laura home,’ Andrew replied. ‘She needs to pick up the children from their grandparents’ house and get them off to bed.’ He stared hard at the man who seemed so shaken by that stumble onto the hearth. Neil Carson was not trembling because of a small accident; he was terrified by something else altogether. Had the jabbering wreck been waiting for Laura to announce that she was going to the police? Perhaps she should make a telephone call, at least. But the children, of course; she always put Matt and Lucy first.

  They left. Neil collapsed on the sofa, whose cushions retained the warmth bequeathed by his wife and her aged fancy man. O God. O God, God, God. She knew. He had seen in her eyes, in her expression, that she had known. Martindale knew, too. ‘Are you the Mersey Monster, Mr Carson?’ he whispered. ‘I’m dying anyway. This disease will get me eventually, but I’d rather die here than in a prison cell.’ He jumped up and began to pace back and forth, from wall to window, window to wall, his mind speeding like a bus with no brakes.

  She never cared about me. Thin as a rake, sensible hair, no interest in sex. Look at her now – long, shiny ringlets, makeup, a bust. And it’s all for a man nearly old enough to be her dad. They might go to the cops. It’s Saturday tomorrow, and I’m not working. Saturdays, she works evenings in the chippy, and the kids sleep there while she goes home with Lover Boy. Am I brave enough? Am I? She won’t go to the police tonight, because it’s a bit late. Saturday, she’ll be washing and whatever else she does, seeing to the kids, looking after them till it’s time for work.

  She’ll go Monday. Except she won’t because . . . Oh, I’ll get the kids back, won’t I? I’ll have to see the doctor about ridding myself of this filthy illness. I mustn’t get caught. I must not get caught. I wonder if Angela Whiplash has moved to her flat yet? Soon enough, I’ll be in dire need of punishment, the sort of beating my mother used to deliver . . .

  Laura and Andy were back at her house; they would collect the children shortly.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked tentatively. She was a good mother; she wouldn’t want to instigate anything that might damage Matt and Lucy.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she breathed quietly.

  He enfolded her in his arms. ‘Sweetheart, you know you can’t stand back just waiting for another killing. This isn’t the Penny Lane bus running behind schedule; it’s murder. And has it not occurred to you that you might be under threat now? In one sense, you played the right card by pretending to remember the initials, and he was literally and metaphorically on the back foot – didn’t he nearly get his hindquarters burnt? This has to be done, Laura. And no, I have no intention of going to the police without you. I won’t put you in danger of being named accessary after the fact, but he is a threat to you, me and the children.’ Inwardly, he thanked God and the Post Office that a telephone had been installed in this house.

  Laura nodded. ‘I know, darling. But imagine my children at school when their father’s being questioned or charged – or both. They’ll be talked about, even attacked, or perhaps ignored by those whose parents forbid them to associate with a child of a possible murderer.’

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘But prostitutes have the same right to life as the rest of us do, and their killer needs to be stopped. We’ll just have to move and put Matt and Lucy into another school. We can’t go far, because your testimony may well be required.’

  She pulled herself out of his embrace. ‘I’ll have to stand up in court and give evidence about the cross and chain, and about the sudden change in his behaviour, won’t I?’

  Andy nodded seriously. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘I have managers in the shops. We could move to Southport.’

  Laura sighed. ‘They read the Echo up there, Andy.’

  ‘Then we must go further away and find someone who’ll look after the children while we travel back and forth. It takes ages to build a murder case. If they believe he’s the killer, he won’t get bail.’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  He bowed his head. ‘So am I. Which is why we must spend the weekend writing down everything you remember. I’ll stay with you tomorrow night.’

  Laura awarded him a tight smile. ‘Then you will sleep with me. It’s a new mattress, one Neil never used.’ She reached out a hand and stroked his face. ‘Adultery’s a sin, but there are greater offences.’

  ‘You’re blushing.’

  A small giggle escaped from her throat. ‘I need comfort, Andy. I need you. And I’m blushing because I’ve never . . . never solicited before.’

  He swallowed. ‘I can just hold you; we don’t need to do anything.’

  ‘Oh yes, we do. You’re my husband now.’

  Barbara Schofield sat on an upturned orange crate. She had a torch and two apples. Murdoch looked down his long nose and sniffed at her hair. What did she want? They’d never before gone riding in the dark, and she was carrying no tack. What strange creatures the two-legged were.

  ‘I’ve brought you both an apple.’ She kissed Nicholas Nye’s soft nose before handing him his prize. Murdoch took his apple; she was up to something. Babs was the exception when it came to human rules, because she usually did what she wanted rather than what was expected of her.

  ‘You probably don’t remember, Murdy, but not very long ago, Murma brought you into the world, all dangly legs and stringy tail, not much sense, just enough to make yourself stand up and stagger on very stupid feet. She looked after you, cleaned you up, fed you and helped you get strong enough to walk proper, like.’

  He whinnied softly.

  ‘Yes, I know you love your mam. Well, I’m going to be a mother, too. It doesn’t take as many months to build a human as it does to make a horse, but I can’t ride until the little one’s born and weaned. I’ll be there with you for as long as I can, but I can’t ride you – can’t ride any horse. The big race still doesn’t allow female jockeys anyway, so you’ll have to get used to a bloke just in case.’

  Change was coming; he could tell that much from her tone.

  ‘I will never leave you, Mad Murdoch. See, we’re a pair, you and me. We do as we’re ordered when we feel like it. So, when you travel in a horsebox to learn how to outrun and out-jump other horses, I’ll be there with Gordy. When you go to leap about on Mr Macey’s land, I’ll be there. Every time you need new shoes or when the vet comes, I’ll be wherever you are. It’s nothing to do with who owns you, because I love you – and anyway, I’m one of the three with a stake in you, though that doesn’t matter any more. And when you float over
all them fences, me and Gordy will be watching you, and Nye will be waiting for you in an . . . enclosure I think they call it. We love you, baby.’

  The animal snorted.

  ‘Don’t be rude,’ she chided. ‘You know we love you.’

  In the next stable with Murma and two donkeys, Gordy Hourigan wiped his eyes. For a reason he would never work out for the life of him, Babs and the naughtiest horse he had ever trained understood each other.

  He shoved the handkerchief into a pocket. Tomorrow would be their wedding day. Don Crawford had squashed his anger and had signed over Dove Cottage to the couple, so all was well. Madam Horse-Lecturer would be wearing white, because her pregnancy was not yet evident, and she had refused a honeymoon in Ireland because she wouldn’t leave that blooming horse. Bill was going to be an usher, as were the three runaways, while Lippy Macey had been cajoled into performing as best man. Bill had threatened to dash round the registry telling everybody to ’ush, and Sally was delighted to be the chief and only bridesmaid.

  ‘Everything will be the same apart from your jockey,’ Babs was now informing her favourite animal. ‘Gordy and I won’t ever leave you. He loves you, too, only he hasn’t told himself that yet. And when you and me show the rest of the world how to win the Grand National, everybody will know your name.’ She crossed her fingers; women would ride in the race soon, or so she hoped.

  The horse whinnied again, and Gordy grinned. He pictured her first day here when she’d draped herself across the back of a semi-wild horse; no fear, no hesitation. ‘Made for each other,’ he mumbled to the nearest donkey. ‘Both winners, both difficult when they want to be, sensible when they need to be.’

  Babs hugged her horse and his blind friend. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ she said before leaving them in peace. Outside, she shone light on uneven ground and began to walk towards the paddock gate. A second beam of light joined hers, and she knew Gordy had been listening.

  ‘That was a private conversation,’ she told him haughtily. ‘Me and him have stuff to talk about.’