Midnight on Lime Street (42 page)

‘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 it 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.’

‘You’re fey,’ he said, laughter cracking the syllables.

‘I’m not. I’m Barbara. Fay Wardle still works Lime Street, I think. Anyway, I have to get away from you. In four hours, it’ll be tomorrow, and it’s bad luck if you
see me before the wedding.’

He grinned broadly. ‘I wasn’t listening,’ he lied, ‘I was checking Murma, because she’s been favouring her right rear over her left. But she’s well. I think
she limps when she wants a treat.’

‘A joker like her son, then?’

‘No, love. He’s probably taken his daft ways from his father.’

‘Have they still not found him?’

Gordy shook his head. ‘We think he may have emigrated to Australia or America, because Ireland’s too small for him.’

‘Has he got a passport?’

‘Probably.’

They shared a kiss, after which Gordy stood and watched her as she disappeared into Wordsworth House. She was his future, they had a brilliant horse, and life from this day on promised to be
rosy. He concluded that he was a happy man. ‘And a lucky one,’ he whispered as he turned and set off towards home, singing tunelessly under his breath, ‘I’m going to be a
daddy.’

In Wordsworth’s kitchen, four boys stood to attention.

Sally’s head entered the room. ‘Well?’ the mouth asked.

Babs blinked. They stood in a row, three who had escaped from the grip of abusive teachers, a fourth who had mourned the murder of a lifelong friend. She swallowed. Booted and suited, they were
all so handsome. Don had provided the clothes, which would double as garb for court appearances, and the result of his kindness was pride in the faces of four young men who knew they looked great.
‘Well,’ she said, dropping into a ladder-backed chair. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say.’

‘First time for everything,’ Sal laughed as the rest of her entered the room.

Babs stared at her. The younger woman looked stunning. Given her head, Sally had been secretive about the little frock she was having made by a local seamstress. And the courageous (bordering on
outrageous) madam had gone for purple satin with a low, scooped neckline. Her shoes were pink, as was a wide sash round her tiny waist. ‘Me flowers are going to be pink and purple too,’
she announced gleefully. ‘What do you think, Babs?’

For answer, the bride burst into tears.

Sally’s jaw dropped. ‘Hey, don’t worry, cos I bought a cheap pink frock in case you thought I looked ready for a funeral. You never cry.’ She addressed the boys.
‘She never cries.’

The girl who never cried folded her arms on the table and placed her head on them.