For the Love of Liverpool

by Ruth Hamilton

  Then it was over to them. His best course of action was to return home and wait for news, which he had been assured would come. Thanks to his charitable donations the police were anxious to keep him on side, so they dispatched a team of officers to lie in wait for the owner of the green car to appear. Afternoon stretched into evening, day into night, before there was any sign of action.

  It was after ten o’clock when Alex took the phone call. A man had been apprehended as he drove the car away from the garage, and a can of petrol had been found in the boot, leading the arresting officers to suspect his intention had been to find a quiet spot and torch the vehicle, destroying the evidence. The man was refusing to speak, but they were confident that a spell in the cells would loosen his tongue. Meanwhile their colleagues had gone in search of Amber Simpson.

  There had been nobody at home. The pristine flat was empty, although signs of recent activity had been found in the bin: a thoroughly scrubbed container from a ready meal, wrapping from a packet of oven chips, the trimmings from salad vegetables. Of the occupant of the flat, however, there was no trace. The manager of Chillex had vanished into thin air.

  Alex had racked his brains as to where she might have gone. He gave the police the OK to go to the club and search within, although he doubted she would have chosen anywhere so obvious. The police guard at the hospital had been alerted, although again it was unlikely Amber would risk turning up there now she knew how closely Kate was being watched. Alex gave them the woman’s former address over in Litherland, although that was even more of a long shot as Amber had made no secret of the fact that she hated the place, and had never mentioned any friends or even acquaintances in the time she’d lived there. In fact she’d never talked about friends at all. Giles had been the one person he knew of in her private life, and he hadn’t been able to wait to get away from her. Now Alex came to think of it, Amber’s life was desperately sad. She had no close relationships at work; her rivalry with Marty was widely known, and with everyone else she had been professional but decidedly cool. She had concentrated her energy on her obsession with Alex and, when a rival had stepped into her path, on destroying her. Destroying his wonderful Kate.

  A day had passed since the operation at the garage and the Sefton Park flat but there had been no progress. CCTV of the area had been scrutinized but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack: a woman of average height, on her own, wearing who knew what, could blend into a crowd at will. The one thing Alex was convinced of was that she wouldn’t be far away. She would not want to be out of reach of the object of her driving obsession: him. At some point in the not too distant future, he was sure she would emerge, and he would just have to be ready for that – unless the police could catch her first. But where was she?

  *

  Kylie glared at the vacuum cleaner and its odd attachments. She’d never bothered with the thing at home, and her mother hadn’t seemed to have any trouble with it. But this was a whole new kettle of fish and looked completely different from their old one. Still, she was determined not to let Brenda down. She knew how house-proud the little woman was, and just because the housekeeper was away didn’t mean everything had to fall apart on the domestic front. Kylie had decided to take her place as far as possible, but she might have bitten off more than she could chew – with this device at least.

  She picked up the nozzle piece again and tried to work out where it went. The tube seemed to be a completely different size. Cautiously she poked around the body of the machine and pushed various buttons and panels. Finally one sprang back, revealing another place where the nozzle’s tube might fit. With a cry of triumph, Kylie twisted it into place and pressed the on button. It worked.

  Now she only had to drag the thing up the stairs, cleaning as she went. Bending over wasn’t as easy as it used to be, now she was noticeably thickening around the waist, but at least she wasn’t being sick all the time like before. She wouldn’t even think about it. She concentrated on not tripping over the lead as she progressed upwards to the top landing. Nobody was going to say the place had gone to rack and ruin in the Bees’ absence, not if she had anything to do with it.

  She didn’t want to imagine what could have happened to Kate. Kate had been so kind to her, and she’d had absolutely no reason to be – she hadn’t known her from Eve and might well have despised her for getting pregnant so young. Instead she’d taken her under her generous wing and helped her to see how she might have a future. It was almost as if someone had removed a blindfold. Kylie had been at the point of despair, unable to get past the enormity of having a baby and her mother’s opposition, which led to a tidal wave of guilt when her parents separated. Now she was more certain of what she wanted to do, even if the way ahead would be fraught with difficulties. She felt that she was in a place where she could face them – and it was all down to Alex and Kate. Kate, who even now was lying in a hospital bed, her ribs broken and her eyesight damaged, all totally undeserved.

  Well, there might not be much Kylie could do about that, but she could ensure that the house was as spick and span as possible for whenever Kate was deemed fit enough to return. She knew of the woman’s OCD, how painful she would find it if the place was a tip. Everything had to be just right, and Kylie would do her utmost to live up to Mrs Bee’s high standards. She might even venture into the inner sanctum, the shrine to John Lennon.

  Kylie wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Of course she knew who he was, who the Beatles were – you couldn’t grow up in Bootle and miss that piece of information. Sometimes her dad would belt out one of the songs, to make a change from his usual favourites such as ‘I Will Survive’. He’d taught her and her sisters the words to ‘Yellow Submarine’ and ‘Octopus’s Garden’. That wasn’t quite the same as going into a small, windowless room dedicated to a dead man. There were valuable things in there, Mrs Bee had said, items that would fetch a lot of money if Alex ever wanted to put them up for auction. The whole idea made Kylie nervous – what if she broke something?

  Perhaps everybody would be back before the little room was due its regular clean. That would be best. However, if it came to it, she’d gather her courage and go in there, give it a once-over, so as not to let Brenda down. Nobody knew how long they’d be away, or what they’d face when they got there. Kylie wasn’t stupid. Although the grown-ups had tried to shield her from the details, she was fully aware that there were two thugs who’d once worked for Kate’s husband now on the loose in France, on the hunt for little Amelia. They were dangerous men who would stop at nothing. Brenda, Brian, Tim and Julia were taking a big risk. There was no way of telling what they’d encounter once they got to the little village where Kate’s parents had gone. Kylie briefly shut her eyes and tried to push away the thought that they might well be walking into an ambush.

  No, that couldn’t happen, wouldn’t happen. Tim was a clever man, everyone said so. He’d think of something. He was smarter than any lowlife criminals, surely. Kylie gave her head a shake and her newly natural-coloured hair swung about her face. She finished the last tread of the stairs and switched off the vacuum. She’d play her part, however small, in keeping this show on the road and then, when they brought Amelia home, she could help look after her. If there was one thing she was good at, it was caring for young children.

  Fourteen

  Tim ran his eyes over the rack of newspapers in the shop opposite the hotel. Everyone else was taking the opportunity to rest after the journey, but he wanted to get going, test the lie of the land. For such a small place, the range of papers available was impressive. French ones, obviously, with today’s date. Then there were German and Spanish ones – yesterday’s. Finally he saw what he was looking for: British ones, two days old, most of them. He picked up The Times and for good measure the Daily Mail. Of course, he could have bought today’s paper at the airport before setting off, but he wanted to see what news might have reached any British people around here. He glanced around, but the heat of the day meant that all s
ensible folk were inside in the shade. Well, he didn’t need to be sensible, he just had to get the job done.

  He took the papers to the counter and his loose change from his pocket. ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ he asked.

  ‘But of course,’ said the man behind the counter, emerging from the shadows. He was older than Tim, maybe in his forties, with jet black hair and a casual yet immaculate shirt, worn in the way that only the French could achieve. ‘We ’ave a lot of English visitors ’ere.’

  That was a relief. Tim had managed to understand the satnav but that was partly because he knew what sort of things it was likely to say. His schoolboy French was rusty and he didn’t trust it to get him through anything but the simplest of conversations. He hoped it would improve once he got used to the sounds of the language again, but he didn’t want to rely on it.

  ‘Have there been many around recently?’ he asked now, as lightly as he could, handing over his euros.

  ‘Oh, quite a few,’ the man said, handing some coins back across the counter. ‘Some are just passing through; others stay for a few days, to see la belle Loire, you know.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tim nodded, aware that few other British visitors would have the same urgent mission as he did. ‘We’re here to see some family friends,’ he went on, thinking he had better offer some information if he hoped to get anything useful in return. ‘We think some other people who know them might be here too. I wonder if you have seen two men, one very big and older than me, and one about my age. They’ve got London accents.’

  The shopkeeper shrugged. ‘You English all sound the same to me.’ He smiled. ‘But mostly it is families or older couples. Sometimes students with their . . . how do you call them, bags on the back.’

  ‘Rucksacks,’ said Tim, with a sinking feeling. Max and Trev would not fall into any of those categories.

  ‘Yes, rucksacks.’ The man paused to think. ‘But now you say it, I am remembering something. It was a little while ago . . . I recall this man because he was very big. He was alone, though. He seemed . . . not afraid, but a little bit as if he has worries. Would that be your friend?’

  Tim wanted to say Max was no friend of his, but stopped himself in time. ‘Maybe,’ he responded instead. ‘I don’t think he knows France very well, so he might be worried about that, you know, not being able to speak to people or find his way around.’

  The man snapped his fingers. ‘Yes. He ask me directions. He was a little bit lost. He had a map but it did not have the small streets on it. I say him where he find bicycles.’

  Tim nodded. ‘That might well be him. Thank you. That’s very helpful.’

  The man smiled back. ‘I am ’ere to ’elp.’

  Tim grinned and tucked his papers under his arm. He would find a pleasant little cafe to sip a coffee or maybe a cool drink and read the news. Then he would go in search of a bike hire shop, to see if anyone there remembered the man who he was increasingly convinced must be Max.

  Max set down his shovel and wiped the perspiration from his brow with his forearm. The East End never got this hot. The trees in the middle distance seemed to swim before his eyes as waves of heat rose from the baked ground of the graveyard. Breaking the earth when it was this dry was exhausting. In his old life he’d have complained about it to Trev and Brains and Weasel – never upwards to any of the bosses, he wasn’t stupid – but the four of them always shared their misery. Now, though, he couldn’t do that as he still couldn’t speak the lingo, though he was trying. Sometimes his colleagues spoke slowly enough for him to get the gist of what they meant, but a lot of the time it was impossible.

  Somehow, though, he didn’t feel like complaining now. He felt as if he’d been handed a second chance. Even if the work was hot and back-breaking, he didn’t have the slightest urge to whinge. He loved this place. He felt as if he’d been reborn. The simple kindness he’d been shown, the food, the air, it was all unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Sometimes he had to pinch himself to test if it was all a dream.

  His hand brushed against his pocket and he remembered the rosary beads that he carried here. He’d taken Père Pierre‘s advice and started using them as worry beads, and was slowly getting accustomed to them. Back home he’d probably have been laughed at for getting them out in public, but here everyone seemed to think it was normal. He could walk along the street running them through his fingers and nobody batted an eyelid. Gradually it was becoming a habit. They were especially handy when his thoughts turned to Trev, as they frequently did. Poor Trev. If only he’d loved this country as much as Max himself did . . . but he hadn’t and that was that. His death had freed his former partner in crime to move on to a new life – as long as he didn’t get caught.

  Max sent up a reminder to whoever was around to listen that he and Trev hadn’t gone through with the kidnapping. When he looked back to how he’d been thinking on the way over here, seriously intending to snatch a little girl – one whose head had been bashed in, to boot – he could scarcely recognize himself. Would they really have threatened a kiddy with actual harm? What if she’d screamed, or been difficult in some other way? Was that who he was, a child abductor? Sure, he’d done some pretty bad things back in London, but he’d never knowingly hurt a child. Handed out the occasional slap, maybe, if one had been deserved. This was on an entirely different level.

  At least now the child was safe – or safe from him. Now the loot had been found there was no point in stealing her in order to put pressure on the mother. But what if someone wanted to revenge themselves on Kate Latimer, who was still living the life of Riley if that big place they’d trashed was anything to go by? Once she sold Jim’s London house she’d be sitting pretty once again. He didn’t wish her harm any longer, but would all the people put out of work when the gang had folded feel the same? All the many associates of Gentleman Jim and his henchmen over the years? Maybe the heat was baking his brain and he wasn’t thinking straight, but he was suddenly filled with anxiety for the child.

  Should he try to warn the grandparents? Get a message to them somehow? Go and see them in person? But if he did that he’d not only risk blowing his cover, he’d have to take leave of absence from a job he’d only just started. He’d have to explain himself to Père Pierre. Max let out a big sigh. Realistically, one day he was going to have to do that anyway, to come clean to his benefactor. He had the strong impression that the priest wouldn’t be judgemental, but all the same, who’d welcome a would-be child abductor into their home? Once the good father knew the truth he might feel differently about trusting Max. Who wouldn’t? Max’s face creased with anxiety. He wasn’t used to having a conscience and he didn’t really like it. It was inconvenient, to say the least. To live with himself, he was going to have to do something to protect the child and he would have to tell the priest what had brought him to this point in his life. He knew it was the only way to stand a chance of staying here. But if he did say something, it might all fall apart. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. He didn’t dare.

  *

  I sit and watch her eat, my Kate. I bring her small nutritious meals three times a day and make sure she’s got healthy snacks in between or in case something happens to prevent my next visit. It’s not that I don’t trust the food at the hospital – they’ve been excellent about everything so far – it’s just that I can’t bear for her to have anything but the best. Especially now, when she’s so pale and so injured. She’s picking her way through a Marks & Spencer salad. I can tell she’s trying to look as if there’s nothing wrong, that she’s enjoying it with a strong appetite, that she’s not in pain, but the reverse is true. How can it not be when her face is so bruised? Just moving her jaw muscles must be agony. But she’ll never admit it.

  The doctors have impressed upon her that she must leave all the superficial facial injuries alone or she’ll suffer permanent scarring, but it must be hell on wheels not to pick the scabs and scratches that pepper her once immaculate complexion. It makes my own face itch just to
see them. I’d adore her even with scars but I know she will not want them as they will bring to mind the terrible image of the car bearing down on her, its murderous intent abundantly clear. She will want to return to how she was before that dreadful day, but will that ever be possible?

  She looks up, in full knowledge that I have been watching her, and lays down her fork. The salad is only half-finished.

  ‘Eat up,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat and positive.

  ‘I will. I’m just taking a break. It’s allowed, you know.’ She flashes a glance at me, and the undamaged eye still retains its bright fire. Its companion, however, remains resolutely shut, the bruising around it now turning livid purple and deep blue, from the former red and brown. The doctors have told me that’s a good and necessary thing and when those colours begin to fade she may be able to open the eyelid again. There’s no reason to believe the damage is permanent. Or at least that’s what they say. I wish I fully believed them.

  ‘Has there been any further development?’ she asks now. ‘Has that foul rogue broken his silence yet?’

  I shake my head. I checked with the police before visiting her, of course, as I knew that would be one of the first things she would want to know. However, while we are desperate for a speedy resolution to the case, the pace of justice cannot be hurried.

  ‘No,’ I tell her. ‘He’s keeping to his vow of silence. The police have applied for and been granted an extension to how long they can keep him without charging him, though. So there is still room for hope.’

  She harrumphs impatiently. She’s all for flouting procedure, this goddess of mine. But even for her, they cannot bend the rules.