*
The parlour in the presbytery was dark and cool. Tim had the distinct impression it was used only for best, and that it was an honour for them to be there. He wasn’t sure what to expect. It was close to Amelia’s bedtime but she was wide awake, desperate to see what was about to happen, unable to sit still despite Brenda’s best efforts to keep her on her lap. Brenda and Brian were now perched on the edge of the spindly sofa, their backs ramrod straight with tension.
Julia squeezed Tim’s hand. Now that they were here, she was content to let events take their course. She sensed that this evening would bring everything to a climax, and there was little she could do to influence matters other than support Tim. Despite all that she knew of what had brought them here, her finely honed doctor’s instincts led her to believe they were in no physical danger – she would never have allowed Amelia into such a situation otherwise. She wondered just what was going on in the kitchen, where Père Pierre had led the big man as soon as they’d all arrived. She strained her ears to hear, but either the soundproofing was excellent in this old house or they were talking very quietly indeed.
Max was slumped on an old wooden chair, sobbing into his hands. He’d let it all out – everything he’d done with the gang in London, selling drugs and trashing Kate’s house in Liverpool, the plot to kidnap the little girl who was now sitting in the front parlour, and finally the business with poor old Trev. ‘I never killed him, honest,’ he’d pleaded, frantic for his friend the priest to believe him. ‘I just covered him up, respectful like. I never knew the kiddy was watching. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head now.’ His shoulders heaved as all the long-bottled-up secrets spilled out, each one more horrific than the last.
‘I know, mon fils, I know.’ Père Pierre nodded his head sagely. He’d long since pieced together the gist of his English guest’s past, from remarks he’d let slip, together with the obvious trauma the memories were causing him. It had to have been something bad. He gave silent thanks that Michel – or Max, as he now knew him to be called – had seen the error of his ways before carrying out his instructions to kidnap the child.
He truly believed Max to be remorseful, and that he no longer represented a danger to any of the people waiting in the parlour. When the man was ready he would welcome him into the Catholic church, baptize him, and then offer him absolution. Now, though, there was something Max had to do, for his own sanity.
‘Come, mon ami,’ the kindly priest said. ‘You have confessed to me, but now you must seek forgiveness from those you intended to harm. You must tell them who you are and what you planned to do. They will have guessed much of it, but they need to hear it from you. You will feel the weight lift from those broad shoulders of yours if you do so, believe me.’
‘I can’t, Father.’ Max shuddered with shame at the very idea. ‘Don’t make me. I can’t face them. That beautiful little girl. What was I thinking of? I can’t do it. I won’t.’
‘I can’t make you. I do not have that power, and nor do I have the right.’ The priest regarded him gravely. ‘You alone can do it. But it will be for the good of your eternal soul. What price a few minutes of pain now when your life everlasting is in question?’
Max shook his head in confusion. He didn’t know what had come over him these past few weeks. He’d never cried back in London, let alone in front of anyone. If anyone had started to talk to him about his eternal soul he’d have run a mile. Somehow now it seemed perfectly normal. Was that what was at risk here – his soul? Père Pierre was watching, in anticipation. Max sighed heavily and lumbered to his enormous feet.
‘All right. I’ll do it. Come with me, Father, cos I don’t think I can bear it on me own.’
‘But of course,’ said the priest, and held open the door, hoping Max would have the courage to carry out this act of penitence.
Max stumbled into the parlour, and stood before the ancient fireplace, his hands held in front of him, gripping each other tightly. He floundered for a moment, seeking the words to begin. Then, as when he’d confessed to Père Pierre, it all came flooding out. He tried to temper some of it so that the little girl wouldn’t be shocked, and they didn’t need know what the gang had done in London. Besides, he suspected that the adults already knew.
When he came to the plot to kidnap Amelia, he got down on his knees in front of her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and for a moment he almost cried again. ‘It was a terrible thing what we said we were gonna do. But as soon as I got to France I knew we couldn’t do it. Please believe me. You’re safe now. I won’t cause you no harm. I’m so very, very sorry.’ Max’s face had gone bright red and he was sweating, although the room was getting chillier by the minute.
Amelia looked at him – their eyes were at about the same level. ‘I know you won’t hurt me,’ she said in her small piping voice. ‘You’re a kind man. You showed us how to get petrol.’
Max gaped at her as if he couldn’t believe it.
‘But before . . .’ he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I wasn’t a kind man before. I was the opposite of kind.’
The child nodded. ‘Yes, you said. But you’re kind now. So I forgive you.’
Père Pierre moved out of the shadows where he had been standing leaning against a wall. ‘There, you see, mon fils. You did not even have to beg for forgiveness. It has been granted to you.’
‘Out of the mouths of babes . . .’ murmured Tim, struck by the simple trust Amelia had showed this man who had intended to do her dreadful harm in order to hurt her mother, both of them completely undeserving of such brutal treatment. He could scarcely believe it: that this monster, who had had them rushing halfway across the continent, was now on his knees, full of remorse. He closed his eyes, and felt Julia squeeze his hand again.
Amelia was safe – they all were. They hadn’t really discussed it, but it must have been in the back of all their minds, as it had been in his: something could go very wrong on this journey. They’d kept it light, made it all about taking Amelia for an adventure, but he’d felt deep down that there was always the possibility they’d have to deal with two ruthless gang members experienced in violence.
Now they’d been told that one of those men was dead, a tragic accident by Max’s account, and that Max himself had had a complete change of heart. Something about the French countryside had worked a spell on him and he was an utterly changed man. The professional part of Tim’s brain was keen to work out exactly what had gone on, what had brought about this sudden conversion. Then he realized he didn’t want to know. Questions like that were part of his day job and he’d left it back in Liverpool; his task here was to rescue Amelia and keep her entertained until her mother was well enough to see her. Certainly, if the threat of Max was removed, that had just become a whole lot easier.
The priest put his hand on the big man’s shoulder. ‘Come, mon ami. You have been given more than you had dared to hope for. Now it is best that you rest, and we will see what tomorrow brings, after you have had a good sleep. For I believe you will indeed have a good sleep.’
Max yawned at the words. ‘Father, you might well be right.’ He got to his feet once more and looked sheepishly at the assembled group. ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you all the way out here. I only hope you get to see the place a bit and see how gorgeous it is.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tim. ‘I’m sure we will.’
‘And take care of that little one,’ Max continued, a tear coming to his eye which he hurriedly dashed away.
Amelia glanced up at him and gave that dazzling smile she had inherited from her mother. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll look after them.’
*
‘So you’re sure about this, are you, sir?’ the policeman asked.
The antiques shop owner sighed in resignation. Even though all of his trade was above board, or at least as far as he knew, getting involved with the police was the last thing he wanted. It wouldn’t do his reputation any good in the business. Some sources wou
ldn’t touch him after this, if it got out. Still, when he realized what rested on finding the owner of the vase, he knew he had little choice but to cooperate.
‘Yes, I’m as sure as I can be,’ he sighed. ‘Like I said, she wore dark glasses and had her hair tucked up in a sun hat, but that wasn’t so unusual as it was a fine day when she came. I thought it was a bit odd she didn’t take the glasses off once she was indoors, but we get all sorts in here. Besides, she might have had a headache or something.’ He turned to his stack of paperwork. ‘Here, I gave her a receipt and she signed it. I kept a carbon copy. A bit old-fashioned but that’s what I like.’
‘Very sensible of you if I may say so.’ The policeman consulted his phone, clicked on an image and moved his fingers to enlarge it. He squinted at it and then at the piece of paper the man was showing him. ‘Now I’m no expert, but they look pretty similar to me.’
‘What’s that you’re looking at?’ the shop owner asked, intrigued.
‘It’s a shot of Amber Simpson’s signature, as signed at her place of work,’ the policeman explained. ‘As you can see, she prefers basically to scrawl her initials. Just as she has on your receipt.’
‘Of course she gave a different name,’ the dealer mused. ‘Same initials, though. Must make it easier for her to remember.’
‘Criminals often do that, sir,’ the policeman said ponderously.
The dealer shrugged. The young woman hadn’t seemed like a criminal to him, just a little over-cautious in some ways and edgy in others. He certainly wouldn’t have put her down as the instigator of an attempted murder. That was a new one for him.
‘Don’t suppose you have any security cameras here, sir?’
The dealer shook his head. ‘As I told you, I’m a bit old-fashioned. I don’t hold with all that electronic stuff. I have a burglar alarm because I wouldn’t get proper insurance without it, but that’s it.’
The policeman nodded, as he hadn’t expected anything else. ‘That’s a shame, sir. We really need to track her movements on that day. However, plenty of the streets around have CCTV and there is coverage at the station. So if you could just describe again what she was wearing . . .’
Eighteen
‘I’d assumed you’d decided not to call,’ said Alex when Tim rang him much later that evening. ‘Has Mrs Bee’s boutique hotel not got any signal then?’ To be truthful he’d been alarmed by the lack of communication as the hours went on, fearing that something untoward had happened to the party since lunch, but he’d resisted ringing France as he didn’t want to wake Amelia.
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Tim said. ‘We haven’t got there yet. We’re still in Nevers. Better late than never, though. Better still, we’re at a guesthouse run by nuns.’
‘Good lord, man! You haven’t finally got religion, have you?’ Alex had thought nothing Tim said would ever surprise him, but he hadn’t expected this.
Tim laughed down the line. ‘Not quite. Although the people who run this place are kindness itself and a damned fine advert for a life of service and contemplation. But you’ll never guess who we ran into earlier, in the company of a priest.’
Alex acknowledged his friend was right. He didn’t have a clue. ‘So tell me.’
‘You’d better make sure you’re sitting down and maybe have a stiff drink to hand. It’s not a short tale.’
Alex had in fact been standing at his kitchen window, but he took Tim’s advice, pulled out a chair and simultaneously treated himself to a generous glug of single malt. It was late, after all, and he deserved some indulgence after a day working in his head office combined with shopping for and visiting Kate, and managing to give the dogs two walks. At least Kylie had taken on Brenda’s mantle and seen to the house, as well as producing a very passable casserole.
‘You ready yet?’ came Tim’s voice.
‘Fire away.’
And so Tim did, trying to convey the shocking coincidence of literally almost bumping into the very man they’d been trying to avoid at all costs, and then finding how very much he’d changed.
Alex listened in stunned silence, and spoke only when Tim eventually concluded with Père Pierre’s insistence on their staying at the parish guesthouse. ‘I was glad of the offer, to tell you the truth – finding somewhere else that Mrs Bee would deem acceptable would have been no mean feat at that late hour.’
‘I’m sure.’ Alex tapped his thumbnail against his teeth. He didn’t want to spoil the moment but the account was, in fact, incredible. ‘Look, I know you must be tired after all that driving, and I can tell this priest is a persuasive sort of fellow, but . . . can you really trust him? Do you genuinely believe that this Max, who let’s not forget sold drugs in my clubs and caused the death of a teenager, as well as ransacking Kate’s house, has turned over a new leaf? Is it likely, after all those years leading a life of crime? Haven’t you all been hoodwinked?’
Tim let out a deep breath. ‘I can see why you’d say that, but, hand on heart, I’m as certain as I can be that it’s true. You know I’d never expose Amelia to danger, nor put Julia or the Bees at risk. If only you could have seen him, Alex. He’s had a bona fide conversion. He sincerely regrets everything he has done in the past and wants to make amends. Père Pierre’s going to keep him here, helping his good works, turning his remorse into something useful. It’s like a miracle. Père Pierre puts it down to St Bernadette.’
Alex wanted to scoff. This was way beyond his comfort zone. Miracles rarely happened as far as he could see, and coincidences weren’t to be trusted . . . and yet. He paused and took a sip of the Scotch. Wasn’t a miracle exactly what had happened to him, that day outside Tim’s consulting rooms? When Kate had lost her heel? Wasn’t that the most bizarre, unlikely, impossible twist of fate? Perhaps he should be less cynical.
‘Seriously, old man, you have to trust me on this,’ Tim was saying now. ‘I’m no pushover, you know that. And can you imagine Mrs Bee being taken in? That’s simply never going to happen. Her bullshit detector’s too well tuned. This is the real thing. Max is no danger to any of us any more. Amelia’s free to enjoy her adventure. Although I have to say I think she would like to come back soon. I don’t know how possible you think that is.’
Alex got up and began to stride around, unable to keep still in the wake of such news. It was hard to take it in: the fear they’d all had that this monster would take Amelia from them could now be consigned to the past. Kate would have to be told first thing tomorrow. Her joy would be beyond compare. He said as much to Tim. ‘But,’ he went on, ‘we still have the problem of Amber to contend with. There’s been some news on that, actually. The police rang me this evening – I thought it was you to begin with – to say they’ve had a lead. Amber has been traced to an antiques shop in Manchester and they’re working on following her trail via CCTV and the like. It will take a while, but it’s something.’
‘That’s good, as far as it goes,’ Tim agreed. ‘So, one cause for concern down, one to go.’
Alex exhaled heavily. ‘I know. I want to shout and scream in delight that we don’t have to worry about Amelia any more, but it’s hard to rejoice when we have our very own psychopath on the loose somewhere nearby. I’m convinced, and so are the police, that she’s only biding her time before she has another attempt on Kate’s life. How can I ask you to bring Amelia back to a situation like that?’
‘I know, old man. It’s hard. But you do have excellent security to call upon,’ Tim reminded him. ‘Anyway, how is Kate in all of this? Today’s news will pep her up, I’ll be bound.’
‘It will,’ Alex acknowledged. ‘She’s healing remarkably quickly, Tim. Monica’s found her some wonder potion that’s putting paid to the bruises faster than anyone could have believed. She’s desperate to speak to Amelia, but has avoided doing so up to now as the facial injuries slightly distorted her voice. Also, she was afraid Amelia would ask to Skype and she knew she couldn’t risk that. However, I think it’s time to try it, just a call, no video. Shoul
d we see if we can arrange it for tomorrow?’
‘Excellent suggestion,’ said Tim at once. ‘You know, I am beginning to wonder if we have underestimated this soon-to-be-daughter of yours. She’s not asking to be flown home on the first available plane, she just wants to talk to her mother. She’ll understand if Kate sounds a little different, and we can say that we can’t get a signal for Skype where we are – which might well be true. But a short chat – what harm can that do?’
Alex nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said decisively.
My eyes mist with tears. It feels like a lifetime since I spoke to my daughter, the most precious child in the world. Just to hear her voice floods me with relief and joy in one heady cocktail. Relief that she has taken to this enforced road trip so easily, despite not having previously known any of her travel companions; joy that she is no longer under threat of kidnap. And I must confess to an element of pride too. That’s one well-adjusted little girl, and she most assuredly didn’t get that from her father.
I listen enthralled as she chatters on about what she’s seen so far and how much she likes Mrs Bee and Julia. That bodes well for the future, as they are liable to play a major part in her life to come. Julia has helped her do some drawings and she can’t wait to show them to me. Well, perhaps she won’t have to wait much longer.
Sure enough her next question is, ‘When can I see you, Mummy?’
A lump forms in my throat but I can’t let it show when I next speak. ‘Soon, my darling. You know Mummy had a bit of a car accident? Well, I need just a little more time to get better. I’d hate for you to come back and then find I couldn’t hug you as tightly as I would like to. I’m definitely improving every day, so you don’t need to worry. It just takes a while and it never goes as fast as you’d want it to.’
For the Love of Liverpool Page 29