For the Love of Liverpool

by Ruth Hamilton

  Amelia jumped up and down in her booster seat. ‘Can I come? I’m good at buying petrol. Granddad lets me help. I know all the words.’

  Tim shook his head. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea. We’d have to walk along a main road and the cars are going very fast. Wouldn’t you rather stay here with Julia and Brenda? Your Other Granny?’

  Amelia shook her head very firmly. ‘I can see a pavement. We can walk on that.’

  Outmanoeuvred, Tim had to concede the little girl was right. He weighed up the risks – take her with him, knowing she could help with the language barrier but risking her getting tired, in which case he’d have to carry her plus the full petrol can? Or leave her here, possibly creating a scene? The town looked close. He’d give it a go.

  ‘All right, you come with me,’ he said, undoing his seat belt, checking that he had his wallet, and getting out of the car to collect the bright red petrol can. ‘Stay close to me, mind. See you, folks. Wish us luck.’ With that, the intrepid explorers set out.

  Contrary to his expectations, there were no petrol stations along the main road, and no signs that Tim could recognize either. He soon realized that even if Amelia could say the words in French and understand them when she heard them, she couldn’t yet read much. It was no surprise. She was still so young – easy to forget when listening to her conversation, but true nevertheless.

  ‘I know,’ he said, striving to sound positive and in charge of events. ‘The next really nice-looking street we find, why don’t we go down that and see if there’s a shop or a bar, and then we can ask where the nearest petrol station is.’

  Amelia nodded solemnly. ‘I think that’s a good idea.’ She pulled her hat more firmly onto her head.

  ‘You sure you’re not tired yet?’ Tim asked.

  Amelia looked up at him with an expression exactly like her mother’s. ‘Of course not. I’m not a baby.’

  ‘Of course you aren’t,’ said Tim. He knew when he was beaten.

  Before long the older part of town came into view and a pleasant stone-walled street opened off to one side of the main road. ‘Here,’ said Amelia imperiously. ‘We’ll go down there.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Tim, figuring it was as good as anywhere. A cluster of buildings a little way along looked promising, with colourful illuminated signs projecting from the walls indicating shops or bars or both. ‘Come on, we’ll try it.’

  He gripped Amelia’s little hand more firmly and they marched down the street, certain of finding what they needed. Before they could reach the first sign they noticed a dark alley to their right and heard footsteps coming from it. Out from its entrance stepped a black-clad man, clearly a priest, and behind him one of the tallest, broadest men Tim had ever seen.

  ‘Non, non,’ the priest was protesting. He switched to English. ‘You must wait. I need to arrange for the doctor to visit la pauvre fille, then I may hear your confession. Wait. Attendez, I beg you.’

  The big man’s voice was full of despair. ‘Père Pierre, I’m going mad. I have to tell you everything. Please, it won’t take long, I’ve waited for ages and you don’t know what it’s doing to me.’

  Tim came to a standstill. Desperate men of this one’s size were probably best left uncrossed. ‘Hang on a minute, Amelia,’ he said. ‘Let these two go by.’

  But Amelia was staring at the big man, who now turned and noticed them. Tim drew himself up to his full height but he was still a good half-head shorter than the figure before them. He cleared his throat to say something, but Amelia beat him to it.

  Pointing a finger at the giant, she raised her chin and said: ‘I know you. You were putting that big dolly in a pit.’

  *

  I gaze at her as she sleeps and wonder if my fervent wishes are distorting reality. I have so longed for her to recover that I might be imagining it. And yet to me her bruising does seem less noticeable, her face closer to its usual exquisite shape. I know this cannot be so, that it’s been a matter of mere hours since I last saw her, and still somehow my eyes seek to deceive me. Kate is looking better.

  She stirs and turns on her pillows and I lean back a little, not wanting to wake her if her slumber is helping this miraculous restoration process. All disciplines of medicine from the ancients onward agree that sleep is the ultimate method of enabling the body to heal itself. Heaven forbid that I should deny my beloved her best remedy.

  A moment passes and then she stirs again, sighing this time and rubbing her eyes. I want to tell her to stop, that she must not damage her injured eye any further, but when has she ever done what I’ve told her? She brings herself into a sitting position and opens her eyes. Both eyes.

  I gasp in shock.

  She grins in delight. ‘Got you. You didn’t think I could do that, did you?’

  I admit she is right. I tell her how much better her face looks and she reaches over to her nightstand.

  ‘You have this to thank – well, this and Monica.’ She holds out a small white tube of ointment. I take it and examine it sceptically.

  ‘Really? This is what you believe has helped you?’ I’m all for complementary therapies, but arnica cream has always struck me as a waste of money, time and effort. However, the glowing face before me says otherwise.

  ‘Of course. I’ve mentioned it before on several occasions. Monica was good enough to find me some, and you can see the result for yourself. A few more applications of this and I’ll be as good as new.’ She smiles brightly but I detect the wince she tries so hard to hide. Arnica cream might help the bruises but it won’t have the slightest effect on the broken ribs and damaged spleen. I sit on the bed and kiss her brow.

  ‘Almost, anyway.’ I shake my head. ‘You are impossible, you know that.’

  She doesn’t deny the accusation.

  ‘Is there any news?’ she asks, as she always does. I am sure she hates relying on me like this, but she has little choice.

  ‘Amelia is safely on her way with the rescue party. I spoke to Tim at lunchtime. He seemed to be in a very picturesque part of the world, and said Mrs Bee had issued them all with regulation doses of sun cream.’

  ‘Good,’ Kate interrupts. ‘I can’t have my angel getting burnt. My parents would never have allowed it. I knew Mrs Bee would look after her as I’d wish.’

  ‘He might ring again later with a progress report – apparently Brenda has selected their overnight accommodation with the help of her trusty guidebook and he dare not say no.’

  Kate nods in approval. ‘I’m sure she’ll choose only the best. I can’t see her putting up with anything remotely sub-standard. Besides, they all deserve the best.’

  ‘They do.’ I heartily agree. To bring back this most precious jewel, my darling’s daughter, no expense need be spared. And yet they must continue to be vigilant and not appear too obviously extravagant, thereby drawing attention to themselves; it is a difficult balance to strike. Still, with the combination of personalities and skills involved, I am convinced they stand the very best chance of success.

  ‘My love, I simply have to leave this place soon,’ she tells me, fixing me with an intense gaze. ‘Surely you can see that now I am so much better, I will recover more quickly at home?’

  At once I am on my guard. I don’t wish to distress her but I cannot condone jeopardizing her recovery by moving her too soon. ‘Is that what the doctors say?’ I ask.

  She puffs out a sharp breath of frustration. ‘You know it isn’t. But those are the same doctors who hold an identical opinion to yours about this miracle cream of mine. And look how that’s turning out.’ She clenches her jaw. ‘I cannot stay here. I can achieve exactly nothing, marooned here in this bed.’

  Now I am worried. ‘You must rest and heal, my love. I know it annoys you and it would do the same to me if we were to swap places – and how I wish we could. But for your own health, and crucially for your own safety, you must remain here.’

  ‘Is there still no word of Amber Simpson’s whereabouts, then?’ Kate ca
nnot hide her anxiety as she says this.

  I shake my head. ‘She’s gone to ground. Giles texted me from America, where he’s arrived in one piece, to say he’s had a number of missed calls from her, so she’s still up and operating somewhere, but she didn’t leave any clues as to where she’d made the calls from.’ At least he’s got away unhindered and undamaged, or at least physically so; I suppose a part of me was expecting to hear that Amber had attacked him.

  ‘What about Gus? Has he been charged?’

  I smile. Here at least is some positive news. ‘Yes, he finally cracked. He’s admitted he was paid by Amber to launch that car at you. Moreover, he’s confirmed that his instructions were to kill you. He’s hoping for a reduced sentence now that he’s collaborated with the investigation.’

  I can see from Kate’s expression she has little sympathy with the man, and I can hardly blame her.

  ‘But he hasn’t said where Amber is?’

  ‘He claims he doesn’t know. His only contact with her was via the health club or in her flat – he doesn’t know where else she might be or anyone she might have turned to for help.’ I can believe that, since as far as I know the woman has no friends. ‘And therefore, my darling, it’s much easier to guard you here, in a public place with plenty of people around, including the hospital security staff, than at the house.’

  Kate looks mutinous. ‘I simply don’t accept that.’

  I shrug. ‘It’s how things must remain for the time being.’

  ‘For how long?’ Kate asks the crucial question with her trademark directness.

  ‘As long as the doctors decree.’

  She shifts uncomfortably. ‘I need to speak to Amelia. Not Skype, she can’t see me like this, not yet. But with a day or two more on the magic potion, I might manage to appear respectable. I have to speak to her, you must understand that. I have to know she’s really safe, and hear her voice for myself.’

  I nod. I do understand. Kate fears for her daughter’s safety just as I fear for Kate’s, and every hour I am away from her is torment. ‘I know, my love.’ I sigh. ‘I can’t promise, but if we can sort something out in the next few days then I will move heaven and earth to do so. Just give it a little more time.’

  Reluctantly, she gives in. ‘But don’t expect me to concede so easily in future,’ she warns me, and that glint in her eyes reassures me that she genuinely is on the mend.

  Seventeen

  Although the light in the ancient walled street was far from bright, Tim could see that the big man’s complexion had turned deathly white. This was nothing to do with his earlier agitation. It was a direct result of Amelia’s peculiar comment.

  ‘Dolly? I don’t know what you mean.’ But his voice was quavering, not at all the sort of tone one would expect from a person of his size.

  ‘Yes, you do.’ Amelia stood her ground. ‘You pulled a big dolly from the river, and then you dressed it and put it in a pit. In the forest. Near Granny’s house.’

  The man stared at her in horror. ‘No, no, you’ve made a mistake. I don’t go round playing with dollies. That’s for little girls.’ He attempted a smile, but it came out as a cross between a snarl and a grimace of pain.

  ‘I didn’t say you played with it,’ Amelia pointed out. ‘You just took it out of the water and then put it in the big pit. That was all.’

  The man sagged against the nearby wall of the alley’s entrance, despair etched on his face. His companion – the priest – went to him. ‘Mon ami, what is this? What have you done?’

  The big man groaned. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all day. It wasn’t a doll . . .’

  The priest made a decision. ‘I must find the doctor. He lives in the next street. Then you must tell me everything. Wait for me back at the presbytery. Does it concern these good people? Do you need to tell them something too?’

  The man dipped his head. ‘It’s about this little girl.’

  Tim spoke up. ‘We can’t come with you. We need to get back to our friends, but first I have to find some petrol. Our car broke down.’ He held up the red can as if to emphasize his point. ‘Although I would love to hear what you have to say.’ He gave the big man a cool, searching look.

  ‘Then it is decided.’ The priest spoke again. ‘Mon ami, take these people to the petrol station near the boulangerie. It is not far,’ he assured them. ‘And then give them instructions how to reach the presbytery. You may park there. I sense this is important for all of you. But now I must fetch the doctor, who might yet save the young girl I have tended all day.’ He nodded, and rushed off.

  The big man put his hands to his face and groaned. It was as if he could not look at Amelia. Her very presence was causing him acute distress. Tim felt some sympathy, but if this man was who he thought he was, that sympathy was decidedly limited. However, the most vital thing right now was that this giant knew where petrol was to be obtained.

  ‘Right,’ he said with authority. ‘Show us where this garage is or nobody will be going anywhere. Then you can come with us and show us where to park.’

  The big man groaned again, but he was left with little choice in the matter. Reluctantly, he led Tim along the street, with Amelia clutching Tim’s hand, her face full of curiosity at this turn of events.

  *

  Monica was on a mission and when that happened there was no stopping her. She’d set her heart on finding beautiful fittings for the almost-completed flats, and she could just imagine the exact lampshades that would work in the alcoves beside the fireplaces. She’d spent hours trawling every known antiques shop or vintage market stall in Merseyside, phoning those she couldn’t physically get to, but none had the precise thing she had in mind. She was not prepared to give up, though. One dealer had mentioned a former colleague who often picked up lampshades for his clients, but he was based in Manchester. Monica had taken his number and rung him first thing in the morning.

  They’d got on like a house on fire when the dealer realized this woman was as obsessed with lampshades as he was. He’d happily taken some pictures of his current crop and sent them over, staying on the line long enough to hear Monica’s cry of triumph when she opened her email account.

  ‘I’ll be there on the next train,’ she told him. ‘Don’t let anyone else see them till I get there.’

  ‘Right you are,’ the dealer said. ‘We’re near Piccadilly station so I’ll expect you soon.’

  Now Monica strode along the busy pavement, expertly avoiding other bodies as she looked at the screen of her phone, flipping between the street map and the pictures of the shades she hoped to buy. Part of her said it was silly; she should just get something plain from a department store, as whoever ended up living in the flats would want to choose something to their own taste. But another part of her brain argued that she had a duty to show what the place could really be like, make it seem as special as possible so that Kate would get a good price, and to have something small but distinctive such as period shades would add the finishing touch.

  For someone in high stilettos she moved very fast, showing no trace of a wobble as she covered the short distance to the antiques shop. She was a hunter tracking down her quarry and God help anyone who got in her way.

  The icon on the screen showed her that she’d reached her destination, and sure enough, here was the street. As she pushed open the door to the dealer’s, the man behind the counter glanced up and his face broke into a wide smile. ‘I don’t have to ask who you are,’ he said, and Monica beamed right back.

  She took a moment to look around the place, and she knew at once she’d made the right decision in coming here. It was filled with gorgeous items, one-offs, treasures she couldn’t wait to explore. There were exquisite ornaments, delicate pieces of furniture, and in the corner near the window, so that they could reflect the light, a collection of glass lampshades that took her breath away. It was like coming home; or, rather, to a home she’d always dreamed of.

  She forced herself to be practical
, and drew her notebook from her bag. She couldn’t go buying any old thing; the dimensions had to be just so to look right in the alcoves. She studied the notes she’d studiously made, but knew that with such a choice she’d have no difficulty in finding what she was looking for.

  ‘Let me lift down the ones at the top,’ offered the shopkeeper tactfully, realizing Monica’s lack of stature meant she couldn’t really see the uppermost ones.

  Monica pressed forward eagerly, putting her notes down on the counter so that the man could see them and help her find the most appropriate items. In what was possibly one of the happiest fifteen minutes of her entire life, Monica picked the ones she liked that were also the right size, and set about getting a good price for them. The man didn’t put up much of a fight – he could probably tell that if the sale went well, he’d have a regular customer here in the shape of this exacting little woman with the immaculate taste.

  Monica figured the delicate items were too fragile to cart down to the train station but that Kate wouldn’t object if she took a taxi. It was while she was ordering one, as the man carefully swaddled the ruby glass in bubble wrap, that she spotted something which looked strangely familiar. She cut short her call.

  ‘What’s that vase doing there?’ she asked abruptly.

  The man looked up. ‘Oh, that came in this week. Do you like it? It’s in a very different style to what you’ve just bought, I must say.’

  Monica shook her head impatiently. ‘No, I don’t like it particularly. I thought I recognized it, though. My boss had the exact same one in the house she’s doing up. Used to belong to some old aunt or other.’ Monica’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Do you know who brought it in?’

  The man looked taken aback. ‘Is there something wrong? We’re a respectable outfit here, you know. I hope you aren’t implying anything’s amiss.’

  Monica tutted. ‘I’m not saying that. But my boss has been in a whole lot of trouble recently and she didn’t deserve none of it. Sorry, but I’m going to call the bizzies.’ She hated to do that when she thought she’d just made a new friend who might well not welcome the attention, but a clue was staring her right in the face. There couldn’t be many vases in the north-west with that intricately cut pattern. There had been one in Kate’s kitchen in Blundellsands, left there because it was a good size for flowers – until, to the best of Monica’s knowledge, Kate had given it to Amber for the Sefton Park flat. There was no getting away from it. If Amber had been in this shop less than a week ago, the bizzies would have to know.