Midnight on Lime Street (19 page)

‘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 pacing 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.

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 falling 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.’