Her senses humming, she reached for her phone and pressed the quick dial button for her boss.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Kate, my beautiful Kate, is coming home. The doctors have agreed she no longer needs constant supervision as her spleen, lungs and diaphragm are recovering and her ribs and leg will mend just as well in her own bed as in the one she’s occupied so resentfully in the hospital ward. We have the option of hiring a private nurse for her but have decided to wait and see how she copes first of all.
I have agreed to the hiring of a private ambulance to bring her back, as the front seat of my car is no place for one with injuries such as hers. Besides, it will afford her better protection, should it be needed. Not that I believe even Amber Simpson in all her misguided aggression would attempt to attack Kate on the way back from hospital, but it makes sense to take all available precautions.
Kylie is in the midst of a flurry of activity, knowing how exacting Kate is when it comes to order and cleanliness. Despite her growing bump the girl is vacuuming the stairs, dusting the ceilings with Mrs Bee’s special long-handled brush, and polishing surfaces until they gleam. For not only is Kate coming back tomorrow morning; tomorrow afternoon will see the long-awaited arrival of little Amelia, with her four rescuers. Kylie would die of shame if Mrs Bee found any cause for complaint, and so she’s turning the house into something worthy of the Ideal Home exhibition. I’ve tried to tell her to slow down, that she’s done enough, but she’s having none of it. She has her mother’s determination and eye for detail, I’ll give her that much.
So I had better leave her to it. Time to gather the pack for their ritual outing – in all of the disruptions of the past few weeks, the one constant is the dogs’ need of exercise, and plenty of it. They too will be beside themselves at Kate’s return and it will be all I can do to keep them from jumping all over her, which would cause far more harm than they could ever imagine – if indeed dogs imagine. I feel they do.
Whistling to them I set off for the great outdoors, pausing to swipe six strong leads from their hooks. I cannot wait for the day when Kate is once again well enough to come with me, calling to her darlings and throwing their sticks as they hurtle around her. I swear they have found me second best in her absence. There’s nothing like a dog’s honest gaze to put you in your place.
Now, though, there’s no stopping them as they bound around and about, full of the joys of spring, little realizing their mistress will be back tomorrow even if not exactly back on her feet, and the element that has been lacking from their lives will be restored to them. How we’ve all missed having her here. If anyone had told me at the start of the year that I would be feeling like this before midsummer I would have laughed in their face – but it is without a shadow of a doubt true. One more day, one more night of solitude and then the Bees, Tim, Julia, Amelia and my most precious Kate will all be here, where they belong.
‘Is that her, there?’ Marcom had been known to complain when rung up after already putting in a long shift, but when it was for something like this he didn’t mind in the slightest. He had hurried back to the station when Watkins had got hold of him. They were closing in on the crazy woman who’d paid to have Kate Price mown down, and the sooner she was off the streets the better. She was a walking liability, a danger to the public, as she was so irrational. Now, watching footage from just a few hours ago, it seemed as if she could well be a running liability as well.
‘It could be.’ Watkins watched as a figure, definitely female, jogged past a camera mounted on one of the entrances to Sefton Park. The quality of the image was not of the best, and it was hard to make a positive identification. The woman wore sunglasses, but her hair was hidden by a baseball cap rather than a sun hat. Her clothes were baggy, and the impression she presented was very different from that of the well-dressed young professional they were familiar with from work photos, colleagues’ descriptions and the CCTV from the day of the visit to Manchester. The figure before them now seemed scruffy. But if she was avoiding detection, wouldn’t she try to change her look? It made Watkins more convinced, not less.
‘Can we get over there now?’ she asked eagerly.
The sergeant sighed. ‘Look, I appreciate you’re keen, and you’ve done sterling work here, Watkins. But you’ve been here all day. You won’t be in a fit state to tackle this homicidal bunny-boiler if that’s what it comes to. You need to go home, get some rest, be ready for whatever tomorrow throws at us.’
Watkins’s smile fell and her short blonde hair swung over her face. She was tired, yes, but adrenalin had got her through up to now. She desperately wanted to be part of whatever happened next. ‘But, sir . . .’
‘No use arguing,’ the sergeant said, asserting his authority. ‘We’ll get the new shift on to it. Your work won’t have gone to waste, Watkins, but you have to go home now. Whoever goes to Sefton Park has to be fully alert and at peak physical fitness, not half dead from being stuck at a desk all day. You’ll be first to hear if anything happens, but I want you back in tomorrow good and ready, as although we’re tightening the net we haven’t got her yet. We’ll be lucky if we snare her tonight; the odds are this will go into tomorrow if not beyond. Don’t tell anyone I said that, but it’s true.’
Reluctantly, Watkins reached for her light coat. ‘Yes, sir.’ There was nothing for it. She’d have to do as she was told, but as she walked towards the door she could hear her boss rounding up detectives and uniform constables to get themselves over to Sefton Park, and she wished with all her heart she was among their number.
Pete paused in the act of plucking his eyebrows, wondering if he’d done the right thing. He could have asked Molly Partington to babysit, but he had a strong feeling that he’d asked his neighbour for enough favours lately. He would be forever beholden to her for coming to the rescue the night Monica took off for Spain with the girls, leaving little Troy on his own. That didn’t mean she would want to help out every time his life didn’t go to schedule, as was the case only too often.
He’d deliberately not worked since taking sole charge of Britney and Chelsea, but tonight the club had been desperate. Their much-publicized guest act all the way down from Glasgow had called in sick at the last moment, and they had sold nearly all the tickets – a huge and angry crowd left with no entertainment other than to turn to drink was the last thing Sandra and Nick wanted. Could Pete come in, just this once?
Pete had ummed and aahed, and wondered if he could leave his daughters on their own for a few hours if it came to it – then realized that would be doing exactly what he’d blamed Monica for. The girls might act as if they were nearly adults but he knew better. If either of them woke up from a bad dream they’d want to see a parent’s face, not cope on their own in a cold and silent house.
In the end he’d bitten the bullet and rung Monica. Their conversation had been surprisingly civil. Ever since the dreadful day when they’d all heard the news about the threat hanging over Amelia, relations between the two of them had thawed somewhat. He understood her better now, and working for Kate had given her a focus for what he had to concede were impressive skills. She, in turn, realizing she had a condition which could in all likelihood be treated, had eased up. Admittedly she wasn’t exactly what you could call laid back, but she wasn’t simmering with anger all the time either.
He hadn’t seen her this evening, as her taxi was just rounding the corner as he was on the way out, but he had no doubt that she’d look after the girls and he could rest easy on that score. Now he had to turn his attention to giving the punters what they’d paid for.
Grimly he assessed his appearance in the mirror. It didn’t take long to undo the careful work of years of meticulous grooming. His eyebrows needed major attention. He sucked in his cheeks and pouted. Yes, he still had it – but he’d have to get plucking and fast. The stubborn little buggers had re-emerged the second he stopped his regular sessions with the tweezers. Maybe he should go all out, have them removed by electrolysi
s and then get gorgeously shaped ones tattooed back on, but was that really what he wanted? What if his grandchild thought he was weird? He didn’t usually give a fig what anyone thought of him, but the prospect of a grandchild . . . somehow that was different.
After a few minutes of painful plucking, he sat back, satisfied. That was better. He’d have to hope the redness abated in time, or else slap on some extra-thick makeup to cover it. Now for the false eyelashes. ‘Ma, he’s making eyes at me,’ he sang, as he delicately attached them. The beginner’s mistake was to rush the process, but he knew that could be fatal. An eyelash at the wrong angle was worse than no eyelash at all. It would seem as if a spider had escaped over his face, and that wasn’t the look he was after.
He could hear the crowd getting rowdy even though he’d firmly shut the dressing-room door. Time to put the big frock on and to wow his eager public. If he was honest with himself, he’d missed it – the way he’d go out on stage and get all the punters onside, even if they’d been hostile to begin with. Gingerly he slipped the shiny material over his newly adorned face and pulled the sequinned fabric over his specially shaped torso. He shimmied in front of the full-length mirror, then finally fixed on his most flamboyant wig. He flexed his toes inside his absurdly high stilettos and adjusted his balance – no point in getting all dolled up only to fall flat on his arse in front of everyone. Right, he was ready. He might not be a Glaswegian, but he was the best damned drag act in all of Merseyside and he knew it.
Two hours and two sets later, he was exhausted but ecstatic. The crowd had gone wild, not in the least disappointed that the promised act hadn’t shown up when they realized they had their local favourite back again. It was like the return of the prodigal son. He’d been inundated with offers of drinks, food, after-show parties and the occasional suggestion of something so shocking that even he, who considered himself pretty broad-minded, had been momentarily lost for words. Clearly not everyone knew he was a family man at heart.
As he drove back to his house and his waiting children, he acknowledged that this was indeed the truth of it. He loved performing – it was in his blood. And he absolutely adored coming back to his family, who were the centre of his world. He’d never doubted it for a second, but recent events had brought home to him how easily it could all come crashing down. It was up to him to ensure that never happened.
Easing the key into the lock, he could hear gentle snoring from the living room, where the light of the TV screen flickered. He put his head around the door and saw Monica stretched out on the sofa, head propped on a cushion, mouth slightly open. He knew she’d be mortified if she woke up and found him looking at her and yet he made no move. Seeing her there like that felt completely right. Sleep robbed her of her sharp edges, her caustic tongue, and revealed her to be the same woman he’d fallen in love with all those years ago, before all the kids came along, before they’d got angry with each other and lost the ability to know instinctively what the other wanted. He knew he could never recapture the past; life had moved on. Monica still had to sort out her blood tests and see what could be done, for a start. Yet perhaps he wasn’t being too naively hopeful to think that they might just make a go of building a new and better future.
Twenty
DC Watkins was at once delighted and disappointed. Disappointed that the operation last night had come to nothing – or, rather, hadn’t actually succeeded in pinning down Amber’s exact location, though examination of still more CCTV footage revealed that if she wasn’t living in the Sefton Park area then she was certainly spending an awful lot of time there. What a shame there had been a run of sunny days, Watkins thought churlishly, enabling the would-be murderer to wear dark glasses all the time without standing out as an idiot.
Delighted, though, because after a decent night’s sleep here she was, all revved up and ready to go, waiting by one of the number 75 bus stops to see if there was any action. She did her best to blend in, glancing at the digital display, pretending that her desired bus hadn’t shown up yet, tutting with the other people waiting when the display changed for no apparent reason. She hoped her demeanour didn’t scream plain-clothes police. She’d put on her most informal clothes, dark jeans and an old blue shirt, and hoped people took her for a mature student.
She glanced at her phone, just as half of the other passengers were doing, but she was checking for any texts from the rest of the team, who were strategically deployed near the park gates where Amber had been picked up on film, or at other bus stops near the ones she was known to have used. Still others were interviewing owners of guesthouses or even landlords who’d recently let out properties – she was glad she hadn’t had the tedious task of checking the details for that. But in a city with so many people passing through, whether they were tourists, business travellers or students, how could every newly available room be found? Even assuming Amber wasn’t kipping on an unknown mate’s sofa.
She couldn’t think like that. She had to stay positive, trust the team. Amber was around here somewhere. It was only a matter of time before she had to venture out again, and when she did, they’d have her.
Amber was happy. She had a plan again, and that meant her world was coming back to normal. Without a plan, chaos threatened, but now she could ward it off, thanks to a new piece of information.
She had rung the hospital, pretending to be a concerned friend who wanted the visiting hours for Kate’s ward. A helpful receptionist had checked and then dropped the bombshell – Kate would be leaving the establishment this very morning. Amber had narrowly avoided swearing, recovering just quickly enough to say, ‘That’s marvellous. Does that mean she’s better?’ But the receptionist didn’t know.
Amber had initially been furious. How come Kate had escaped with hardly a scratch? Then she reasoned that she was jumping to conclusions. They were probably keen to get rid of her – everyone knew all hospitals were forever short of beds. As long as Kate no longer required expert treatment twenty-four hours a day, they were most likely packing her off home. She’d still be in lots of pain – good.
In fact, Amber calculated, this could be to her advantage. The hospital had been like a fortress: cameras, police, zillions of staff members, all coming between her and her prey. Back at home, Kate couldn’t be so closely guarded, could she? Alex had to go to work. He might manage some of it from home but his physical presence would still be required for some matters. It was simply a matter of finding out when. In fact . . . her brain raced along its obsession-driven tracks. She could engineer a crisis, get him out of the house. That would be perfect. Then Kate would be at her mercy and she’d make no mistakes this time. That was where she’d gone wrong before, trusting someone else to finish the job, when it was always more reliable to simply do it yourself.
She hugged herself in gleeful satisfaction. For the plan to work she would have to know the ins and outs of the household. No point rushing in like a bull in a china shop. Prior preparation was the key. She would get herself over there right away, and lie in wait for an opportunity to see who was around in the daytime, what the arrangements were likely to be, and what security measures were in place.
Looking around the hated rented room, she glimpsed the sun hat she had worn to Manchester. That trip had been very successful – maybe this was her lucky headwear. Jamming her hair up under it and tucking her sunglasses into her jacket pocket, she hummed to herself as she slammed the door shut.
‘That’s it. Over that way a little – yes, careful now, and we’re almost there.’
The paramedic guided his colleagues as they gently lifted Kate on her stretcher, carrying her out of the ambulance and into the house. She shut her eyes as finally, after what felt like a lifetime, she was back in the place she had so quickly adapted to thinking of as home.
Alex walked beside her, keen to ensure that the whole process went as smoothly as possible, anxious that the journey might have caused her additional pain and set back her recovery. Yet he was sure that the sheer relief of
being back here would promote her healing. He would never have agreed to it otherwise.
The paramedics expertly handled the stretcher for the last steps of the way and then at last Kate was back in her own bed, her lustrous eyes now wide open and full of delight. She sighed with pleasure as Alex thanked the ambulance crew and escorted them out. At one point the landline rang but he dismissed it. ‘Everyone at Price Partners knows what an important morning this is,’ he told her, ‘and so they’re fully prepared to deal with anything themselves. If it’s not work then Kylie can deal with it later.’ A moment later Kylie herself appeared, smart in a crisp light blue shirt and dark trousers. ‘I’m your new nurse,’ she proclaimed, then ran forward to give her saviour a very tentative hug. ‘Now you’re to rest while I sort you out. How would you like a cup of coffee? I know how to make it just as you like it. Alex taught me.’
Kate nodded animatedly. ‘Thank you, my darling girl. That’s just what I have been longing for. The hospital was excellent but their coffee-making facilities weren’t quite up to the standard I’m used to – their priorities quite rightly lay elsewhere.’ She lay back gingerly against her own pillows, her own soft pillowcases with their impressively high thread count, and savoured the beloved and familiar view. She could hear the dogs running around downstairs. She would have to organize them to be brought up to her two at a time; even in her current optimistic mood she was aware she couldn’t handle six in this confined space.
Kylie slipped out of the room, and Kate was alone – something that she hadn’t experienced since her transfer to the hospital ward. It was a delicious sensation and she vowed to relish every moment of it. It wasn’t that she was ungrateful, far from it, but her life since leaving London had often been solitary and she’d used those long hours to assess her situation with as much honesty as she could muster. Of course, her circumstances had changed for the better in just about every way and perhaps such self-scrutiny was no longer necessary – or not to the same degree – but she must make the most of any fleeting opportunity.
For the Love of Liverpool Page 31