Midnight on Lime Street (27 page)

Gordy rose to his feet. ‘Out, Murdoch,’ he said quietly.

The horse moved his head away from Babs and stared at the trainer.

‘Out,’ Gordy repeated.

After neighing loudly, the animal turned.

Ian stood in the doorway. ‘Come here, Mad Murdoch,’ he ordered.

Murdoch pondered. There were too many people in this room, and a young one was summoning him. Young ones tended to be interesting. He walked towards Ian, who stroked his nose before taking hold
of his mane. ‘Let’s go outside, shall we?’ Ian coaxed.

Horse and boy, pursued by gales of laughter, left the scene.

The psychologist looked at the doctor who had performed the physical examination of the boys. ‘Relaxed household, wouldn’t you say, Ryan?’

Dr Ryan, chuckling too hard to reply, nodded his agreement.

‘That was indeed Mad Murdoch,’ Babs announced when laughter approached its natural death. ‘He’s a bit of a character. We’ve got cats, dogs, chickens, donkeys,
Murdoch’s mother, and geese, too. After Murdoch, who’s spoilt, the geese are the worst. One of the donkeys is blind, so Murdoch looks after him. Mr Crawford rescued them all. He’s
working with the RSPCA.’

Dr Macey spoke. ‘Lippy and I know you of old, Don. You have your faults like the rest of humanity, but you do no harm and perform many a charitable deed. You already know that Lippy and I
would be happy to take these boys, but I think there’s more for them here. Looking after animals is good therapy.’

‘Mr Hourigan?’

Gordy turned and looked at the welfare woman. ‘Yes, that would be me.’

‘You’re willing to take them?’

He nodded. ‘In a heartbeat. I’m of a huge Irish family, so I’m used to youngsters. Mr Crawford’s housekeeper and his nurse will cook meals for the boys, so they’d
have two homes and several adults plus the menagerie outside. Donkeys are good company and very affectionate.’

‘And school, Mr Hourigan?’

‘Just a cock-stride away.’

‘And Gordy’s a linguist,’ Don said. ‘Four languages – he speaks Irish, English, Animalish and Rubbish.’

Phil and John arrived at the door. ‘Can we go outside with Ian and that daft horse?’ Phil asked.

‘Of course you may,’ replied the owner of the estate. ‘If you want to earn your keep, shovel some dog shit and bury it deep behind the garage. Thanks.’

Both doctors and the psychologist stood up. ‘You’ve probably won yourselves temporary custody of three needful boys,’ the psychologist announced. ‘It’s good to have
them pro tem, because it gives you a chance to understand them and decide whether you want them permanently. This way, we all have time to think. The boys’ wishes and decisions will be taken
under consideration, too, when we have our meeting.’

The crowd left with several cream cakes over which they would doubtless fight, while Don, Gordy and the girls returned to the kitchen. Babs watched through the window as Lippy told the boys how
the meeting had gone. ‘They’re laughing, Sal. God bless them, they’re happy.’

Lippy climbed into the van and drove away.

Immediately, the three lads ran into the kitchen. ‘Thank you,’ Ian said. ‘We’ll be good.’

‘Just be yourselves,’ was Gordy’s advice. ‘When boys start acting good, we send for doctors.’

‘Well,’ Phil said, scratching his head, ‘you’d best get a vet, because that horse is behaving itself. John rode it. He fell off, like, but that was his fault, and Murdoch
just stood over him and made sure he was all right.’

‘Come with me,’ Gordy said. ‘I’ll show you how to muck out. Working with animals is fifty per cent fun, fifty per cent shit and fifty per cent hard graft. It’s time
you met some donkeys, too. They’re Mr Crawford’s pet project.’

‘That was one hundred and f-fifty per cent,’ John said.

‘I know. The extra fifty is Murdoch.’

Don’s eyes twinkled as he watched through the window while Gordy took the boys across the lawn towards the paddock. ‘I think they’ll be all right, baby girls. I’m going
back to bed.’

Babs followed him up to make sure he didn’t have a fall. The scent of tonight’s scouse floated up the stairwell, making the house smell homely. Homely meant safe. She was OK, Sally
was OK, and Don was better than he’d been for weeks. As for Gordy – well, he was promising . . .

Neil Carson stood at the school gates, a flat cap pulled low over his eyes. Just a few hours ago, he had killed a woman, a piece of dross without which the world would
supposedly improve. Now, he watched his children, just two among many healthy, happy youngsters celebrating freedom from the confines of classrooms. How would Matt and Lucy turn out? They no longer
had a daddy to guide them; Matt, in particular, needed a leader of the same gender. And little girls loved their daddies, didn’t they?

‘Neil?’

He ignored the voice. He wasn’t expecting company, didn’t want to talk, yet he knew who it was. Why now? Why did she have to be here right now?

‘Neil – it’s me.’

He turned. It was Laura. No, it wasn’t. She looked like Laura, but with a slightly fuller face and colour in her cheeks. Laura had no sisters. Her hair was shiny; her hair had never been
shiny. ‘Hello,’ he answered uncertainly. He’d been gone for . . . for how long? Days, weeks, a month? And she looked so well. She was happier without him, it would appear.
‘Hello,’ he repeated.

‘Watching them play, are you?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I brought them packed lunches. They both decided that they don’t like school dinners, so I thought I’d start today with homemade stuff. They forgot to pick the boxes up on
their way out of the house.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t you visit?’ she asked eventually. ‘Why not come for a meal with us when you’re on a suitable
shift?’

Neil stared hard at his wife. She was painted. Although she wasn’t as heavily coated as street women, she wore powder and lipstick, some colour on her eyelids – and was that mascara?
Oh, God. Had she turned, taken a step away from her old life and towards . . . towards the murky side? ‘I have to go,’ he said abruptly, walking to his bike. He threw his leg over the
crossbar and pedalled furiously along the pavement until he was far enough away to stop and check traffic.

He pulled into the road and began the journey back to Greasy Chair Hell. Today, he was moving in with Joseph Turton and his mother, so his domestic circumstances would be cleaner and easier from
now on. Joseph was coming at twelve, and Neil’s shift would begin at two o’clock, so there wasn’t much time.

His heart was beating rapidly. Rumours about a body in a side street by the Dock Road were beginning to circulate; as yet, there was nothing in the newspapers. Although anonymous, he was the
most hated man in Liverpool. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, ‘where are you?’ It was a grey day. The only bit of brightness had been in the faces of children at play. Oh, and
Laura’s features had been decorated . . . What was the woman up to? Another man. There had to be another man.

He was being replaced. She couldn’t remarry because of her faith, but if she introduced a substitute father . . . He couldn’t bear the thought. Perhaps he should visit for the
occasional meal. First, he had to move house, so he must try to concentrate on getting today right. He no longer thought clearly, and often lay awake in the night persecuting himself about Dolly
Pearson and her poor mother. He continued to nurse the suspicion that he was losing his mind.

‘I’ll take good care of Joseph’s mother,’ he mouthed to himself. ‘After all, everybody made mistakes.’

Laura walked into the playground after the whistle had sounded, and handed lunch boxes to the teacher in charge. She smiled at her son, then at Lucy, both standing still in
lines straight enough for the Trooping of the Colour.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Carson?’ the teacher asked.

Laura blinked as if waking from a dream. ‘Oh, yes. Sorry – I was just anxious to get the children’s food to them. Their names are on the boxes.’ Smiling politely, she
left the school grounds and began the walk to work. Neil had disappeared, of course.

She stood and stared blankly at the road. There was something not right with him. There had been something not right for a while, and now he seemed even worse. The way he’d looked at her
– she shivered. She might have been a sample, some kind of experiment on a slide or in a Petri dish. Whispering, she said her favourite prayer. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,
ora pro
nobis
’ – oh, she’d lapsed into Latin again – ‘now and at the hour of our death. Amen.’ Death. Had he? Could he? Was he a . . . a murderer?

He’d never been demonstrative, but neither had she except when it came to her children. Neil was a boring man with a boring job, just one friend who still lived at home with an ailing
mother, and no hobbies beyond the odd fishing expedition and a pint after work. He was not a warm person, seldom laughing, never getting upset, and he seemed to have no imagination.

But none of the above sufficed to account for him now, because he was very, very different from the quiet, kind man she had married, the good father and excellent provider. There was a darkness
about him; his eyes had changed, seeming somewhat flat and lifeless. He hadn’t been able to look at her today, was almost incapable of standing still, as if someone had wound a spring in him
and it was nowhere near to running down.

As she neared the chip shop, Laura Carson froze in her tracks. The cross. The initials. The diamond cutting on one side. It all crashed into her head for the umpteenth time. The newspaper
she’d discovered among the wrappings. Once again, she allowed her mind free rein. Where had he discovered that cross? Initials – what had they been? Had the murderer of the girl dropped
it, sold it as second hand, or . . . ? No, no, he could not be the killer. Perhaps Neil had found the jewellery on the pavement near the murder site; or he could have bought it, she tried to
reassure herself.

Mind, he’d stopped going to Confession and Holy Communion. Why? He’d been so punctilious, Confession once a fortnight, Communion every Sunday, Benediction, Midnight Mass at
Christmas, wearing the mark on his forehead on Ash Wednesday, kneeling in church for the vigil through part of Good Friday and Holy Saturday, serving at the altar if there were too few boys to do
the job. Now? Nothing. There was nothing in his head, nothing in his eyes, no vestige of the man he had been.

She waited for her heart to slow, leaning her body against the wall of the ironmonger’s shop next door to her place of work. Should she talk to the police? How might Matt and Lucy feel if
their father got taken in for questioning? And the cross had disappeared before Neil had left the house, so she couldn’t check the initials.

It was a quarter past eleven, time to start chipping the potatoes in readiness for lunchtime. There was batter to mix, bread to butter, there were soaking marrowfats to transfer to the pan. She
wasn’t responsible for all those tasks, but she had fast become part of the well-oiled machine created by the Bramwells. They liked her. The customers liked her, while her children and the
Bramwells got on very well together.

She pulled herself together, fixed a bright smile to her face and went to do the job she loved.

Sister Helen Veronica had not been prepared properly. She had been in training as owner of a working dog; the detective helping her had travelled all the way from Birmingham in
order to teach her how the animal would react in the presence of drugs. ‘He’s one of the first in this country,’ he explained, ‘and some of us went to Paris to learn the
job. A dog’s sense of smell is about forty times superior to ours, because they’re wolves, carnivores that had to hunt to live. Watch me, watch him, and watch where the drugs
are.’

Helen, happy enough to be educated, wondered what St Veronica thought about the presence of heroin, amphetamines, cocaine and cannabis in the convent. But within days, she and the animal known
as Nelson were tuned in to each other. Instructed to keep the dog with her at all times, she put his bed next to hers and took him out with her every day, and he even attended services in the
chapel and some meals in the refectory.

Sister Helen, otherwise known as Smelly Nellie, was only semi-prepared. Nothing on earth could have fully prepared her for the love. Nelson was of a serious, almost studious turn of mind. His
first owner had grown old, and Nelson had experienced little fun for some time. He knew when he was working and when he wasn’t. As a scruffy-looking professional, he wore no collar and
required no leash, since he needed to be independent and mobile when at work; as a pet, he sported a leather collar and had begun to play a game named by his owner ‘pawball’. She kicked
a tennis ball, and he pawed it back to her.

The vet had declared the crossbreed to be part bearded collie, part terrier and part human. ‘He’s a grand dog, in very good health for a five-year-old, but he needs more exercise and
some activity to cheer him up a bit.’

Of course, the whole convent tried to ruin him until the sisters were told not to feed him or fuss him, because this was a special dog, one who must have just the one owner who would nourish
him, walk him and keep him well. He must cling to her and only to her, since he should not get distracted. ‘He wears no restraints outside,’ she told her fellows. ‘He has to pin
himself to me on the streets, or he’ll be run over. At the station, he must concentrate on what his nose tells him, and when he signals I shall inform one of the policemen. Nelson will ensure
that I stay undercover by keeping his reactions discreet – he will never jump on a carrier of drugs. So please, leave him to me and Mary. She’s the other one who may be at Lime Street,
and she is the only exception to the rule.’

So Helen and Nelson became roommates. She talked to him, prayed with him and taught him how to play. When not on duty in town, she introduced him to the convent grounds, where he did all the
sniffing and digging that comes naturally to dogs. Yet he never approached the small graveyard where several Veronicas rested. He watched other nuns working in vegetable patches, but he
didn’t interfere with those areas, either.