Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  The van was two streets away, and Neil still felt rather shaky when he finally climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘Glad I didn’t take one of the strong tablets,’ he said under his breath. Driving slowly, he made his way out of a maze of streets and onto the main road from Liverpool to its northern villages. ‘Plenty of time,’ he told himself as he neared College Row. ‘I can rest down the side street and see what Laura’s up to with her old bloke.’ He had the petrol, the rags and a box of matches; he also had a slight headache which was probably a side effect of that damned pill.

  Lights flashed in his mirrors. Something was travelling close to him, much too close. He picked up speed, but he was too late, because the other vehicle seemed out of control.

  And it just happened. One minute, he was hurrying along at about forty miles per hour, and the next he was shunted right across the road. Whatever had hit him was powerful enough to push him and his van through a plate glass window. He hadn’t been looking often enough in the rear-view mirror – it was that medicine of Mr Wray’s, it had to be. He was a good driver, an excellent driver, but his brain was out of order tonight.

  Just before Neil lost consciousness, he caught a glimpse of the front end of a single-decker coach reflected in his twisted wing mirror. Then something sparked in the rear of the van, and the can of petrol exploded. He was in the chip shop! Matt and Lucy were in the chip shop and . . . And he passed out.

  A few pedestrians stopped walking, knowing full well that they couldn’t help. Flames entered the shop and burned furiously, possibly fed by cooking fat. Faces appeared at first floor windows, but nothing could be done. Bramwell’s Chippy was on fire, and there were people trapped in the flat.

  Bert Heslop and Andrew Martindale heard the explosion, but they were concentrating on Laura’s house and were allowing for no distractions. Andy, curled in an imitation of the foetal position, stared stoically ahead. ‘It’s still a little early for fire-setting,’ he remarked. The tiny car was uncomfortable for a man of Andy’s height. He shifted, but no position suited him.

  ‘Crazy men do crazy things,’ was Bert’s response. ‘I’ve been in this business over twenty years, so not much surprises me now.’ He glanced at his companion. ‘You’re the cuckoo in my nest, aren’t you? But we couldn’t use your car, because it’s needed as bait. Sorry you’re tied in knots, Andy.’

  ‘Shut up, Bert.’ There was no malice in the message.

  The detective grinned. The scene reminded him of Laurel and Hardy in one of their many silly predicaments.

  They sat through several silent minutes. ‘Something’s burning,’ Bert announced eventually. This statement was underlined by the sound of ambulance, police and fire vehicles. The emergency services passed Laura’s house. ‘Hell,’ Andy mumbled. ‘I’ll just . . .’ he opened his door and struggled out of the minuscule vehicle. ‘You stay here,’ he ordered before marching quickly to the top of the street.

  ‘Oh my God!’ It was the Bramwells’ place, their home, their business, their twins . . . And Laura was there. He had forced her to go back to her place of work where she was now in danger, and possibly . . . ‘No!’ he screamed, running towards the fire. ‘Matt? Lucy?’

  A fireman caught him. ‘Sir?’

  ‘My family – my little family—’

  ‘All out, sir. Some smoke inhalation, but all safe.’

  Andy sagged against the young man’s sturdy body. ‘How many?’ he managed.

  ‘Four children, three adults. Sir?’ He had seldom seen a man sobbing as hard as this one.

  ‘The coach?’ Andy managed.

  ‘Driver dead, van driver in a bad way. Some minor injuries to coach passengers, but—’

  Andy blew his nose. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Do you know who was driving the van?’

  ‘Carson. Couldn’t read the first name, but his address is here on College Row. His licence was damaged.’

  ‘Will he . . . will he live?’ was Andy’s next question.

  ‘Not my place to say, sir. He’s in a bad way, like I told you before. They’ve all been taken to the workhouse,’ he added, using as reference the name of the institution whose purpose was now medical.

  ‘Walton,’ Andy said quietly. ‘Thank you.’ For the first time in his adult life, he felt like kissing a grown man. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  ‘You’re welcome. It’s our job.’

  Andy continued grateful. ‘And it’s a mess,’ he said.

  ‘Police will be authorizing a check of the coach’s brakes for possible failure. A man in one of the flats across the way said the driver was flashing his headlights at the van, but the van driver made no attempt to move out of the way. It’s grim, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse.’

  The older man walked away. First, he had to tell Hubert Heslop what had happened; second, he must get to Walton Hospital to see how his precious Laura, the Bramwells and four delightful children were faring. There was, of course, a third subject, one Neil Carson who had taken yet another wrong turning in life. Rather belatedly, he gave thought to the people on the coach. Thank God they seemed not to have suffered too badly, though he was sorry for their driver.

  He pulled himself together, straightened his shoulders and walked towards the place where he and Heslop had been keeping vigil. They needed to get to the hospital.

  Neil Carson lay face down on a bed. They were cutting away his clothes, and the pain was beyond anything he could have imagined. Although he felt as if he were still on fire, his teeth chattered loudly.

  ‘Another quarter grain,’ a male voice snapped. A needle was stuck in Neil’s arm, though he scarcely felt it. The nurse who had administered the drug squatted down. ‘It’s your back,’ she explained. ‘Your front’s hardly touched, but there’s a terrible smell of petrol on your clothes.’

  ‘Spare can,’ he managed finally. ‘In the back. A gallon.’

  She didn’t tell him about the flesh melted away so badly that a part of his spinal column and some ribs were visible; nor did she inform him about the lack of hair on the back of his head. Instead, she held his hand and stayed where she was. Miracles aside, the patient was going to die. ‘Can I get anyone for you? Your wife, perhaps?’

  ‘Priest,’ he garbled.

  ‘Just a priest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No family?’

  ‘No.’

  The young nurse rose to her feet. ‘He wants a priest,’ she whispered to the attending doctor.

  ‘Be quick, nurse,’ Neil begged. ‘I want you to be here. The priest can’t talk, but you must.’ He knew he was dying.

  She ran off to ask the senior doctor’s permission. The accident victim’s vital signs were not good; he was in shock, and major organs were threatening to shut down. When the priest was on his way, the nurse retraced her steps back to Neil Carson’s bedside. The staff had done their best to remove his clothing, and the hole in his back was packed with sterile gauze. ‘He won’t make it, will he?’ she mouthed.

  A consultant shook his head gravely. ‘Fourth degree,’ he said softly. ‘Right through every layer of tissue to the bone – the spine. His kidneys are giving up, his BP is off the bottom of the scale, and his heart’s like a ferret up a drainpipe.’ He raised a hand. ‘Sorry, sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant.’

  The nurse lowered her head. ‘It’s all right, sir. Cases like this one bring out the best and the worst in all of us. I’ll sit with him till the priest comes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  So while Neil Carson made his quiet way towards the end, just one young woman sat with him.

  But when the cleric arrived, the patient rallied. He spoke softly, so quietly that the priest had to kneel and lower his head in order to catch what was being said. Ordered by the man in the bed to remain as witness, the nurse joined the priest and knelt beside him on the floor.

  Neil gabbled, tripping over words that spilled in a disorderly fashion from a mouth that was twisted in reaction to pain. ‘Jesu
s forgave Judas. On fireplace. Magda . . . Magdalene repented. Notebook. Sideboard. It was me. Jesus said that . . . told me . . . get rid. I killed them. Gave some the clap. Mrs Pears— Mrs Pearson was mistake. Monster is me. Bless me, Father, for I have si . . . nned.’ A rattle on his breath advertised the proximity of death.

  The nurse wept and said nothing.

  But the cleric did not hesitate for a single beat of time. He anointed the patient and, on behalf of the Almighty, forgave him his sins. There would be no court case, no prison, so Neil Carson had used a lay person as herald, because a priest could disclose nothing. The nurse would be the harbinger of this man’s tale, while the notebook, should it be found, would probably be the real witness.

  Neil died on the second rattle, and both people at the bedside sagged with relief.

  ‘Thanks be to God in His mercy,’ the priest said.

  ‘Is he forgiven?’ Staff Nurse Chalmers dried her eyes.

  ‘God forgives the sick, my child. And I don’t mean his burns, because this man was ill in his head. Go now and ask your superior might you be allowed to phone the police. The patient had you here as witness for a reason. You must tell them that the Mersey Monster is probably here, and that a notebook is likely to disclose his truth. I can share this only with you, and the rest goes with me to my grave.’ He left to tend other tormented souls.

  Avril Chalmers put away her handkerchief. Leaving curtains drawn around the deathbed, she walked to the ward office. A fireplace, Jesus, Judas? Perhaps Neil Carson had been mentally ill, in which case he would surely find a place with God. Now, she had to carry the weight of it, as did the priest. But at least she could talk. And she would.

  Police on Lime Street were stood down at half past midnight. The informant had phoned the station to say that the meeting had been postponed for twenty-four hours, since the new drugs baron had business tonight. Members of the force, all plain clothed, were advised to return to base.

  Eddie felt glad; with another day to prepare, he could sit and think for a while, organize things better, get more officers on the job. After instructing the rest to move in fits and starts, he made his way back to his place of work. Nellie. He decided that he wanted Nellie’s dog, so she would need to be here tomorrow. ‘I’ll get him, Dave,’ he whispered. ‘He’s finished.’

  Eighteen

  It was a very full house.

  As soon as everyone had been given the all-clear, three adults and four children left the hospital with Andy. Outside, he summoned a taxi to carry the Bramwells to Laura’s house. Since the shop and living accommodation had been assessed as probably unsafe, the Bramwells had to stay at the Carsons’ home. Matt’s bedroom now contained two boys head-to-tail in his bed, and two girls were head-to-tail in Lucy’s. Laura had a camp bed in Lucy’s room, which was the smallest, while Andy settled on the living room sofa. Daisy and Barry Bramwell took the master, and Andy was plotting downstairs for hours.

  By morning, he had sorted everything out in his head and on paper. The owners of the chip shop could remain here, while he, Laura and her children should get away as soon as possible. He glanced at the clock; it was half past seven, and the police had failed to wake the sleepers upstairs. Only Andy knew that Neil was dead. Sighing, he went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea for Laura. This was day one. By tonight, the Carson family and he would be many miles away, or so he hoped.

  ‘Andy?’

  He turned and looked at her. Sleep-tousled and in a plain cotton nightdress under an unfastened towelling robe, she looked almost childlike. ‘Sit down,’ he said softly.

  Taking the chair opposite hers, he held both her hands. ‘The police came earlier. Neil died.’ He paused. ‘Laura? Look at me, darling. They wanted to talk to you about the fire and about Neil, but I explained that you’d been suffering the effects of smoke inhalation, so they left.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all she managed.

  ‘So we need to get away before the story hits the press. The Bramwells can stay here and keep an eye on their premises. Neil wasn’t insured to drive the van – it belonged to his dead friend. So we have to hope the coach company’s insurance will cover the rebuild. I’ll help if necessary. Laura?’

  She stared at him as if they were yards apart. ‘What?’

  He decided that she hadn’t heard everything.

  ‘Did he suffer?’ she asked.

  ‘I have no idea, sweetheart.’

  ‘Was he the monster?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Laura nodded absently. ‘I’ll get dressed. Take me to the presbytery. I want a priest with me at the police station.’ She stood up.

  ‘But you haven’t drunk your . . .’ She had gone. ‘Your tea,’ he finished lamely. She was in shock. Did she believe that Neil had tried to kill her and the children? The coach brakes had failed, and the whole thing had been an unspeakable accident.

  He went back to the kitchen, intending to prepare eggs for scrambling. After breaking eight, he mixed them in the jug so that he might cook breakfast in stages when people came downstairs, but the doorbell interrupted him. Opening the front door with his eyes fixed at adult height, he was forced to lower his gaze for the small man on the front doorstep. ‘Bert,’ Andy exclaimed.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Bert crept inside. ‘You know he died?’

  Andy nodded.

  ‘Does she know?’

  Again, the older man inclined his head before leading Bert Heslop into the living room. ‘Everyone’s fine,’ Andy said, ‘though they did breathe in a bit of smoke.’

  The private detective closed the door. ‘He confessed to a priest and to a nurse, so—’

  ‘So he was the killer?’

  ‘Yes. There’s no doubt. The police are searching his house now. It seems there’s a notebook and the wire he used round their necks.’

  Andy swallowed audibly. ‘Dear God.’

  ‘The police want to talk to Laura.’

  ‘Yes, I know. She’s taking me and a priest with her.’

  ‘Very well. I’m off to Southport to speak to Miss Mellor. She hired me, so I should have gone to her first.’ He stood up, held out his right hand and shook Andy’s. ‘At least he can do no more harm,’ he said quietly.

  When the detective had left, Andy stood and stared through the window, though he noticed little. Neil Carson could cause no more trouble? Oh yes, he could. The man was dead, but the results of his evil might very well hurt one lovely woman and two innocent children. They needed to emigrate.

  Eve opened her eyes. The refreshing Southport air had made her sleep well, and she decided to stay where she was and return to the land of dreams . . . oh, God, she wasn’t alone. Where was Kate? The other single bed was empty. In order to make room for wedding guests, the two women had stayed in a small office on the ground floor, and there was scarcely room for two beds what with the desk, some chairs, several filing cabinets and bookshelves.

  He was staring at her. There was no space at all now, because a bloody great horse took up the small gap between the beds. To get out, he would need to reverse. Did horses come with reverse gear? He was whickering at her, the gentle sound emerging from a mouth that seemed not to threaten. This was one beautiful creature. For the first time in her life, she failed to be afraid of a very large animal. Carefully, she sat up. She did this slowly not because of Murdoch, but in order to minimize pain.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked, noticing how his ears pricked up when she spoke.

  For answer, he placed his nose against her head.

  ‘You know, don’t you, Murdoch?’

  He blew a fair imitation of a raspberry against her scalp.

  ‘That’s my attitude,’ she told him. ‘To hell with cancer and therapy. They could burn holes in me, but I ordered them to bugger off.’

  The horse sighed and pulled back his head.

  She stared hard at him for several seconds, noting the well-defined musculature in the neck and
on his shoulders. Were they shoulders? They probably had some posh name given only to horses. ‘You’re beautiful,’ she whispered.

  ‘Thank you,’ offered a disembodied male voice.

  Eve watched in fascination as a short man jumped on to Kate’s bed, walked up it and descended into the small space in front of Murdoch.

  ‘Mr Heslop,’ she cried.

  He stroked the animal’s nose. ‘Fine fellow,’ he said before seating himself on Kate’s pillow. ‘A little girl in the kitchen told me where to find you, Miss Mellor. I didn’t want to disturb you, though I see you already have a visitor.’ He seemed neither surprised nor deterred by the unusual house pet.

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  It was like a tennis match. The horse’s head changed direction in reaction to each speaker.

  ‘You were right,’ Bert Heslop said.

  ‘Was I?’

  He nodded. Murdoch nodded. Eve nodded. ‘So where is he?’

  ‘In a morgue, I expect.’

  Murdoch whinnied.

  ‘Dead?’ Eve felt her jaw slackening.

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Bloody hell. How?’

  Murdoch stamped a foot.

  ‘He expects to be included in the conversation,’ said the detective. ‘Yes,’ he advised the largest item in the room. ‘A coach hit him and its driver died at the scene while crashing into Carson’s van. At first, it was put down to failure of brakes, but the coach driver may have suffered a heart attack. I’m here to tell Miss Mellor that Neil Carson died of burns, one of them fourth degree.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Eve wanted to know.

  ‘Right through to the bones of his spine.’

  Beyond exhaustion, Eve lay back on her pillows. ‘So how do you know he’s the Mersey Monster?’

  ‘He confessed to a nurse and a priest. There’s a notebook.’

  ‘What about a notebook?’

  Bert tapped his nose with a forefinger. ‘He kept a diary, and I have friends in high places.’

  ‘Police?’