Midnight on Lime Street (30 page)

Well, I didn’t bother going into the cinema. The Odeon’s a big place, and it’s dark, of course, and I might not find them, so I just hung round in the street imitating a spare
part until they came out holding hands like a couple of school kids on a first date. I followed them. On the bus, they sat joking and giggling – it’s enough to turn a man’s
stomach. When they got off the bus, I got off. So now I have their address. Nice houses with little front gardens all neat and tidy. A big dog greeted them as soon as they opened the door.
Wavertree.

Neat? Tidy? How neat and tidy can the man be if he’s living with a whore? She’s from Meadowbank Farm, and she’s quite a looker, too. According to Angela, Belle is good for
anyone in pain, because she’s done a course in massage. Has she left Fat Mamma? They seemed very close on the bus, almost like newly-weds.

I’ll have to go home soon and think about this. Joseph will be worried, so I’ll give him a quick ring from a call box before he gets that neighbour in, the one who wants paying. I
like looking after Joseph’s mum. When she’s well enough to sit at her table, we play cards and dominoes. I’m making her a big tray with legs so she can sit up in bed and play
games or do a jigsaw. I must remember to buy her a couple more pillows.

My hand’s healing well. I wound the wire round a couple of boxes, told Joseph I’d cut myself on it. The police are busy round the docks again, but they’ve no idea how or where
to find me. I no longer shout in my sleep. I think that all stopped when I was living in Greasy Chair Hell. But I do miss the kids. Oh, and I must find out what Laura’s up to with her powder
and lipstick.

After phoning Joseph, I talk to Fat Mamma.

‘Is Belle there?’ I ask. ‘I usually see Angela, but I think I need Belle.’

‘We’re shut,’ she says. She doesn’t like me, and the feeling’s mutual.

‘I was hoping for a back massage,’ I moan. ‘I hurt myself at work.’

There’s a pause. ‘She left,’ she pronounces. ‘I’ll get another masseuse in time, but not yet, because we’re closed.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Why did she leave?’

Another pause. ‘She left to get married if you must know.’

‘That’s nice, Miss Mellor. I hope she’s happy.’ I replace the receiver. Now, there’s an interesting challenge; Belle’s away from the docks, married, probably
no longer on the game. She’ll think she’s fallen on her feet. Oh no, Belle. You’re going to drop to your knees like a stone when I get round to you. I can guarantee that.

Eve suspected that she was supposed to feel grateful, since Detective Constable Barnes had been kindness itself. He and a friend called Dave had helped in their spare time,
removing the massage table, Angela’s range of fixed equipment and just about anything else that might have betrayed the secrets of Meadowbank. It was now a genuine-looking refuge for
ill-treated women. The decor was loud, but Eve told other cops who used the house that it had been like this when she bought it.

Attic Four, generally employed for storage, was now used by police. Plain clothes cops occupied it in shifts, so there was always a presence. Using a ladder, they took turns to look over the
trees through a telescope in the hope of catching somebody up to no good. They had also built a garden shed near thick, evergreen bushes which, after small holes had been cut in foliage, gave
officers the opportunity to spy through binoculars trained on the scout hut.

Some clever clogs professor from Liverpool University had installed an alarm under the wooden floor of the place in which those three runaway boys had lived, and a loud bell sounded in Attic
Four whenever anyone stepped inside the hut. This might prove useful at night when, even with magnification, very little could be seen in darkness.

Eve was being compensated, but the girls weren’t working, and restlessness pervaded the farmhouse. Eve remembered feeling like that when she’d had no income due to her sudden weight
gain. As for the money she was being paid – well, the police used most of it in food and cups of tea. Still, they were a decent enough lot, she supposed, and she was truly glad of the chance
to rest. She wasn’t herself . . .

Kate came in with a mug and a plate of sandwiches. ‘Here you are, love.’

‘How are the troops?’ Eve asked wearily.

‘Well, they’re getting nearer to revolting. Angela’s leaving tomorrow, and Mo’s fed up. Judy’s talking about setting up her own reflexology clinic in a practice
that offers alternative medicine and treatments. I think Cynthia misses the sex more than the money; I’ve always said she’s a nympho. What the hell next, Evie?’

The big woman shrugged. ‘I suppose we got that little shed near the bushes out of it.’

‘Yes, and it’s a few hundred yards from the house. I won’t be walking all the way there to fetch a stepladder or a bloody broom. Maybe we should get a guard dog and use the
shed as a kennel.’ Kate studied Eve. ‘Look, Belle’s found you loads of girls—’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’

‘And Eddie said the police will be gone in a few days if nobody turns up. If somebody does turn up, the cops will go immediately.’

Eve stirred her coffee slowly. ‘I’ve left this place to you in my will, Kate.’

‘What?’ Kate dropped into a chair. ‘What’s wrong with you? Why are you talking about your will?’

Eve shrugged. ‘Everything’s wrong. Bad headaches, stomach pains, stupid knees, a bit of dizziness sometimes.’ She pulled herself together. ‘You’ll need to get a
driver, somebody you can trust. Do a timetable like mine and take no nonsense from any of the girls.’

Kate clamped her hanging jaw into its proper position. ‘I’ll get the doctor.’

‘No, you won’t. I’m not dying in hospital.’

‘But they might fix you.’

Eve’s laughter was hollow. ‘I sat in that chip shop with Belle and Tom – they even made me laugh. They’re so happy. And he had to help me up out of the chair. I’ll
never know how I drove home, but I must have, because I’m here. Look, I can’t have an anaesthetic. I’m too fat, I smoke, I eat too much of the wrong stuff, and there’s no
fight left in me, Kate.’

Kate bit her lip. Eve had changed recently. There was little hope in her eyes, and she appeared to care less and less about the house. Occasionally, she even seemed close to tears. How could
she, Kate O’Gorman, run this place without the solid presence of her only friend? Eve had attitude. She ran the business like the commander of some military base, no nonsense while on parade,
no quarter given to those who fought each other or neglected clients. ‘I can’t do it without you,’ she whispered.

‘You need somebody like Belle,’ Eve said.

‘There isn’t anybody like Belle. Can you imagine Cynthia, Mo or Judy being any use? Anyway, the people in charge here need to be older and without clients. What will I do? Advertise
in the papers?’ Panic rose like bile in her throat. ‘Don’t leave me, Eve.’

‘Me time’s running out, babe.’ Eve grabbed her friend’s hand. ‘I’m scared, too. Now, listen to me. When I go, get Belle. She’ll find somebody for you,
because she’s very clever and she knows loads of people from way back. Make sure you meet a few, and choose somebody you like, a woman you won’t mind sharing a room with. And straighten
your bloody face in case the wind changes.’

Kate fled, sobbing into her hands. With no Eve, there would be no Meadowbank Farm. She rushed through the kitchen; if the girls wanted feeding, they’d have to shape up and cook for
themselves.

Mo was alone, reading in an armchair. ‘Kate?’ she called. ‘What’s the matter? Why are you running? Kate, for the love of God, stand still and talk to me.’

But Kate didn’t stop; she ran right through the large area and locked herself in the room where she and Eve had slept for years. It wasn’t a big room, and Eve’s stuff was
everywhere. Her huge dressing gown hung from a hook on the door, and the top of the dressing table was covered in hair rollers and the scarves she wore over them.

An Agatha Christie novel sat on the shared bedside table; Eve loved Miss Marple and Monsieur Poirot. Next to the book stood a jar of the antiseptic cream Eve used under rolls of fat to stop the
effects of sweating. The door to a shower room stood open; Eve could no longer fit in a bath. Twin beds were dressed differently: Kate’s was covered in blue, Eve’s wore a floral pattern
on the top quilt. This was Eve’s room. No one else should have this room.

Kate sat on her friend’s bed. Eve dying? No, it wasn’t possible, because she hadn’t finished her book, she was listening to a serial on the BBC Home Service, now named Radio
Four, and she’d started knitting a new winter cardigan. Eve was tired, yes, but she would pull round, surely? There was only one thing for it: Kate must find a way to fetch Dr Mannix, the one
who looked after the health of all the girls. Eve might be annoyed, but better that than dead.

Mo was banging on the door and making quite a racket. Kate opened it.

‘What the hell’s up?’ Mo demanded to know.

It spilled from Kate’s lips like the torrent delivered every minute by the River Niagara. ‘She says she’s dying. I don’t know what to do, because she . . . she
won’t listen to sense, says she wants leaving alone, no doctors. I don’t know what to do, don’t know where to turn, or—’

Mo blinked. ‘Who? Who’s dying?’

‘Eve. She says she wants to die here, not in hospital.’

‘Right. Right.’ Mo’s mind was running like an articulated lorry with no brakes. Any minute now, it would crash, jack-knife and never move again. She had to do something, since
poor old Kate was fit for nothing. ‘Let me think,’ she begged, leading Kate back to the living end of the kitchen and sitting her down. ‘Don’t move,’ she ordered.
‘I’m going to find a doctor.’

‘Get Mannix.’

‘I will. And I’ll tell Eve it was my idea, not yours. So don’t be worrying, because I’ll keep your name out of it.’

Kate sighed deeply. ‘Don’t act soft, Mo. She’ll know I told you.’

‘Tough. If the shoe was on her foot, she’d get everybody including the coastguard to help you. I’m going.’ Mo left the room.

Against all the odds, Kate drifted into fitful sleep.

‘OK, Thompson,’ Mo said to herself. ‘How do you play this one?’

An idea hit her out of the blue. She smiled to herself. The blue? They were no longer the boys in blue, because they were detectives, but she would go upstairs with tea and chocolate biscuits,
and one of them could fetch the doctor.

Before returning to the kitchen, she put an ear against the office door. Eve was moaning softly. Right. It was time to start the ball rolling.

Bill was given a room named the butler’s pantry. It was on the ground floor of Wordsworth House, and it held a single bed, a battered wardrobe and a chest of drawers. It
had been used in the past by people engaged to do outside work like gardening, fence-mending and jobs in the stables.

When Bill woke on his first morning, a Mr Macey, who was sitting patiently on a ladder-backed chair beside the bed, introduced himself. ‘I thought someone should be here on your first
morning, since you must feel out of place.’

‘I’m William Tyler,’ Bill replied, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. ‘People call me Bill.’

‘I know, Bill. I also know you’re eighteen, and no one can force you to stay here. The runaways are living in the gatehouse with a Mr Hourigan who trains horses, though he has just
one at the present time. Murdoch can be harder work than a stable of twenty.’

‘Murdoch?’

‘Yes. First name is Mad, second Murdoch. He’s a law unto himself, but he has promise if we can but turn the naughtiness into something more useful like racing. Now, we’ve heard
that your parents and your brothers have split up and gone to Belle Vale and St Helens. Your job won’t suffer, because I’ve had a word. And I can take you to a builder friend of mine
who is happy to continue your training. You are now Bill Morris.’

‘Thanks,’ Bill said.

Lippy Macey rose to his feet. ‘There’s a small bathroom next door, and your breakfast will be on the table in the kitchen in about fifteen minutes. I’ll leave you to get
on.’ He placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘It will all turn out well. Try not to worry, because the chances of you or your family’s being targeted are
minimal.’

Alone, Bill wondered briefly about his parents and his brothers before going for a shower. The man had said it would be all right, and the man’s photo was always in the newspapers, though
Bill had never bothered to read the details. He showered, shaved, cleaned his teeth and pulled on his next-to-best jeans with a Liverpool Football Club T-shirt. After combing his hair, he followed
the sound of chatter till he reached the kitchen.

The three lads were there; he’d seen them only once before, but at least they remembered him. ‘Sorry about the drugs,’ he mumbled.

Ian laughed. ‘What drugs?’

‘I know,’ Bill replied, ‘mum’s the word.’

Ian continued, ‘Oh, these two ladies looked after us when we were in the hut. This is Sally.’ He blushed. ‘And this is Babs. They look after Mr Crawford now. This is his house,
and he’s having his breakfast in bed. Sit down.’

Bill sat. ‘Where’s Mr Macey?’ he asked. ‘He talked to me before.’

Phil answered. ‘He’s at the cottage near the main gate, talking to Gordy Hourigan. We stay with Gordy, but eat here most of the time. John has a bit of a stammer, but it’ll
stop troubling him when he knows you better. Ouch! No need to kick me under the table, John Lucas.’

John grinned at Bill. ‘I r-remember you. You were with B-Boss and his gang.’

‘Yes. They killed Roy. I suppose that’s why we’re all under wotsit – protection.’

Ian shook his head. ‘No. We’re here because of the monks; Boss and his load of trouble is a new reason, and another problem since he escaped from jail. Has he threatened
you?’

The new arrival nodded. ‘And my family. They’ve moved out.’

‘They’ll get him,’ Babs pronounced. ‘From what I’ve heard, he’s too big to stay hidden for long. The best place to put him would be six feet under, but
he’s clever, isn’t he? Anyway, eat your breakfast, Bill. Mr Macey’s taking you to a place where you can carry on learning about building.’