The Four Streets Saga

by Nadine Dorries

  Howard’s blue and white panda was parked at the iron gates. As he opened the door, he turned round and winked. She looked at him and they both smiled. A nervous smile. A smile that wished they were both in a different time and place, far beyond the four streets and the double murder investigation. A smile that made a promise. Soon. When this is all over.

  Soon.

  The interview was difficult from the start. Daisy had appeared nervous as they stepped into the large police station at Whitechapel, and now she had become quiet and non-responsive.

  Even though the nuns had told her Molly was dead, she didn’t appear to have taken in what it meant.

  ‘It would have been better to do this in the convent,’ Miss Devlin whispered to Howard as they descended the dark stone stairs to the interview room.

  ‘We can’t,’ he replied. ‘It has to be done on a tape recorder.’

  To prove his point, Howard wound a thin ribbon of brown tape round one of the two wheels on the front of the machine that sat on the interview desk.

  Simon, who had asked to lead the interview, came into the room behind them.

  Howard reflected on how neither he nor Simon had ever before been involved in a case with so few clues and so little motive. This was the seventh murder case they had worked on together. Howard had been called up for yet another meeting in the superintendent’s office that morning. He had explained that he could not find a single motive for either the murder of a much loved priest or that of an old woman, whose only crime was to have been in possession of a wicked sweet tooth.

  The case had hit the news headlines yet again and put Howard’s superiors in a bad mood. ‘Police clueless over double dock street murders,’ the Daily Post headline taunted them from the paper-sellers’ stalls along the streets of Liverpool.

  ‘No clues anywhere,’ Howard said to Simon when he came back into the office. ‘A motive is where our investigations usually begin. We have no motive. We have no beginning. All we have is simple Daisy.’

  Simon removed his silver cigarette case from his trouser pocket and held it open in offering to Howard. A fountain of tobacco fell out over the newspaper Howard was reading. Despite their intense disdain for the press, they read every word of the article.

  ‘Thought you smoked filters?’ said Howard, flicking the tobacco away with one hand as he eased a Woodbine out of the case with the other. ‘You are the only person I can think of, other than the murderer, who smokes Pall Mall. Where do you get them from? Where is the closest baccy shop to the four streets that sells them?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Simon replied. ‘I decided filters are for queers and moved onto Woodies,’ as he snapped the slim case shut and slipped it back into his trouser pocket. ‘I gave myself a hernia tugging at the filters. I’ll ask around the baccy shops, see if anyone knows, but you do realize, don’t you, thousands of people in Liverpool smoke Pall Mall.’

  Howard nodded. ‘I know, that’s why I say we have no leads.’

  They both lit up. Enough said. Once again they both leant over the newspaper.

  The basement interview room at the station was high and gloomy, lit by one light bulb, shaded by a bottle-green, glass pendant lightshade, and a single window that was protected by four vertical iron bars, sunk into the concrete.

  The brick walls were painted brown to halfway up, then cream the remainder of the way up to the ceiling. The cream had turned a murky shade of brown, thanks to dense cigarette smoke, which, due to a lack of ventilation, hung around in the atmosphere, refusing to leave.

  Grey light stealthily slipped in between the iron bars, but failed to reach even the table round which the four now sat. Daisy was constantly distracted by the sound of footsteps as people on the pavement outside walked past the window.

  Howard bent to sweep a carpet of cigarette ash from the table with the cuff and lower arm of his jacket, and laid down two notepads and pencils.

  ‘Gosh, seven o’clock already,’ said Miss Devlin, with a false brightness.

  ‘Yes. The time is moving on, sorry,’ Howard said.

  ‘Did you have a busy day today?’ enquired Howard as she looked around.

  ‘No more than usual,’ she said.

  Making small talk in a big space. That was what they were doing now. That and waiting for whatever Daisy would say to make a difference.

  The tape recorder was ready. The table was ready. Everything was ready to begin.

  Miss Devlin took a deep breath.

  She felt as though they were sitting in a hospital waiting room, expecting a doctor to walk in and announce some life-altering news.

  ‘It worked, he lives.’

  ‘It failed, he died.’

  Only no one would live. They were already dead and whatever Daisy revealed wouldn’t alter that. Miss Devlin knew that what Daisy was about to say could possibly place someone’s neck in a noose.

  Someone else might die. Someone she may know.

  She felt slightly nauseous.

  It had begun to rain and the footsteps of passers-by became hurried. In a sudden downpour stilettos clicked rapidly alongside the steady clomp of solid brogues as in the twilit street the gutters filled. As they passed, cars sent up small tidal waves that splashed the pavement and soaked ankles, but never quite reached the basement window.

  Daisy stared at the window and at the stockinged legs running past.

  Simon had asked Daisy a number of the most subtle of questions but it was obvious, they were getting nowhere.

  ‘So, what did you and Molly talk about?’ asked Simon, gently, for the fourth time.

  ‘Go on, Daisy,’ Miss Devlin said, as she squeezed Daisy’s hand, ‘you aren’t in any trouble. You’re here because you are a grand help and a very important person.’

  Daisy grinned. She didn’t think anyone in her whole life had ever been as nice to her as Miss Devlin was, except maybe Molly.

  ‘Go on, Daisy,’ said Simon, ‘we are all ears.’

  The only noise in the room was that of the background hum of the tape recorder as the metal wheels swished round and round. From the street outside came the sounds of footsteps and trailing voices, the incessant patter of rain and beeping car horns. Life was moving on, whilst down in the Whitechapel basement they waited.

  Daisy giggled at Simon. ‘All ears! You aren’t all ears, you only have two ears, doesn’t he, Miss Devlin?’ Her expression had softened. Daisy was beginning to enjoy the fact that they were interested in what she might have to say. They were interested in talking to her about her friend, Molly Barrett.

  Daisy found her courage. She remembered that there were things she could say about Molly.

  The memory of Molly sitting with Daisy at the Priory kitchen table came back to her. She was encouraged by a gentle pat on the arm from Miss Devlin, who with her delicate painted fingers lifted Daisy’s fringe and pinned it back into her cross-clips.

  ‘We talked about making cakes, me and Molly Barrett, and she always gave me some of the scones she had baked for the father and, oh gosh, she told me such funny stories about Tiger. That cat, he was the divil himself. Molly never knew what he was going to bring in through the door next.’

  Daisy began to laugh. They laughed with her and then, as the laughing subsided, Daisy continued to smile at each one of them in turn. They all smiled back.

  She had made them smile. She couldn’t have been more pleased with herself if she had imparted a nuclear code. Daisy continued.

  She talked about the neighbours. Especially Molly’s nosy neighbour, Annie.

  Simon shot Miss Devlin an earnest look.

  She looked at her watch. Surely, something must happen soon.

  Miss Devlin gave Daisy a big, false smile and nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, go on, Daisy,’ she said.

  ‘She talked about all the people on the four streets because she knew them all, she did, every one of them. She didn’t like Deirdre very much, because she never paid her bills and she said Sean McGuire was flirty. She even told me tha
t once she saw Little Paddy nick a bottle of sterilized milk from Mrs Keating’s doorstep. Can ye imagine? She was such good fun, was Molly Barrett, so full of stories. She used to make me laugh, so she did. I only ever laughed when I was with Molly. She was so nice and always said nice things to me, like, Daisy, you are the only person around here who can keep a house and a secret as well as I does. I used to love her coming, so, I really did.’

  Daisy began to look sad and her voice cracked with distress.

  ‘Molly was the only person who was really nice to me. I miss Molly now. I wish she was here and she could tell you all the things we talked about better than me. She was my only friend in the world, Molly was, and I miss her.’

  Daisy began to cry. Miss Devlin began to cry. Howard took out his hankie.

  Simon put his head in his hands in exasperation.

  Things were not going well.

  Howard rang the bell and a young officer carried in a tray of tea. He also brought a clean ashtray and removed the full one from the interview table.

  ‘Have a cuppa, Daisy,’ said Miss Devlin, pouring tea into the pale blue cup and saucer.

  Howard decided to have a try himself and nodded to Simon to indicate as much. He had nothing to lose. He would have to put the words into her mouth and see what happened next.

  ‘Daisy, did you tell Molly that you saw someone murder the priest?’

  Miss Devlin was in the middle of wiping Molly’s nose with her own lace hankie as Daisy answered.

  ‘Oh, yes I did, I did see who did that,’ said Daisy, ‘and I’m not talking about the Priory, because I know I’m not allowed to talk to anyone about anything that happens in the Priory, but that was outside, an’ so I told Molly when she came.’

  Miss Devlin stopped wiping Daisy’s nose.

  Howard and Simon both put down their cups at the same time and leant forward. Howard gently asked, ‘Who murdered the priest, Daisy?’

  It was now almost dark outside. The Victorian street lamps lent their aid to the single bulb illuminating the room. The long shadows, banished to the corners by the central light, clambered up the walls and hovered over them all. Waiting.

  Miss Devlin noticed that the rain had stopped falling and that the footsteps were now few and far between. The workers were home. She imagined her sister putting the key in the door, switching on the lights, picking up the post from the mat. Doing the normal things they did every day, sometimes together, and here she was, Miss Devlin, about to hear who had brutally murdered the priest. She was trying hard not to shake.

  ‘It was Tommy Doherty, from number nineteen Nelson Street,’ said Daisy. ‘I saw him with me own eyes.’

  Miss Devlin slumped back in the chair.

  It was over. The suspense.

  ‘It failed.

  He dies.’

  Simon motioned for Howard to follow him outside the cell.

  ‘I just need a word with Howard, Miss Devlin. I will ask them to send you some more tea. Will you be all right with Daisy? We will only be a few minutes.’

  ‘Of course,’ Miss Devlin replied.

  She was in shock. She knew everyone in the Doherty family and would even count Maura as her friend. This was a terrible mistake. It could not be true. She looked at Daisy who was tucking into an arrowroot biscuit with no idea of the bombshell she had just dropped.

  ‘We will be all right, won’t we, Daisy?’

  ‘Eh, what?’ Daisy said, looking up.

  ‘Nothing, Daisy,’ said Miss Devlin. ‘It’s fine, really, it’s fine.’

  ‘Right,’ said Howard, ‘do we arrest him now?’ He had closed the interview door behind them. Simon paced up and down in front of him, rubbing his fingers through his hair. He appeared anxious.

  ‘No, we bloody can’t arrest him. There are just a few things here, Howard, that you may have forgotten. Tommy Doherty has an alibi. He was a witness for Jerry Deane and his alibi is the rest of the card school. Remember that? They were all at the card school, together with the rest of the fucking street. Have you seen the man? He wouldn’t say boo to a goose. We have been watching him since Molly Barrett told us what Daisy said to her. We know he didn’t murder Molly Barrett. The super is very sure that whoever murdered the priest also murdered Molly. There is no way two entirely different psychopaths would have chosen the same street to have their fun on in such a short space of time. Add to that the fact that Daisy is simple and would be a nightmare in the witness box. Do you really think you should go to the super and get him to arrest Tommy Doherty, a man with a cast-iron alibi, on the back of that?’

  Howard looked confused. ‘I don’t understand. When Molly told us what Daisy had seen, you were excited, you thought we had nailed him, and yet now you are telling me we haven’t got anything?’

  ‘No, Simon. What I am saying is that, until we began questioning Daisy, I didn’t realize how simple she was. She is a sandwich short of a fucking picnic. With Molly Barrett alongside her, to stand testimony to Daisy’s character and to what Daisy saw, we had half a chance. Without Molly and with Daisy that flaky, I’m not sure we have any chance at all. How was I to know that someone was going to come along and murder the old biddy? For fuck’s sake, Howard, she was a harmless old lady and our only credible witness.

  ‘Go and take them both home. I am off upstairs to phone the super to make sure he is free first thing in the morning, so we can ask him what he thinks. Go inside to those two and I will join you in a minute. Whatever we have, it has to hold water in a court of law and I don’t think we have that here.’

  Ten minutes later, when he went back into the interview room, Simon noted that Howard was deep in conversation with Miss Devlin, and Daisy was working her way through the biscuits.

  ‘Well?’ Howard enquired.

  ‘I am seeing him in the morning. We can have a good night’s rest ourselves beforehand.’

  As they were gathering up their things to leave, Howard said to Simon, ‘I will run the ladies home now, in the panda, if that’s all right with you?’

  Simon winked at Howard. ‘That’s fine by me,’ he replied and then asked, thoughtfully, ‘Daisy, what made you look out of the window that night if the place where the father was murdered isn’t under your bedroom window?’

  Howard fleetingly wondered why they hadn’t asked that question when the tape recorder was running. How did Simon know which window was Daisy’s?

  ‘Oh, ’twas Bernadette,’ replied Daisy cheerfully.

  ‘Bernadette?’ Howard looked at Miss Devlin. ‘Who is Bernadette?’

  ‘Well, I know of only one,’ said Miss Devlin, holding on to her hat with one hand and removing her hatpin with the other, ‘but she died a few years back now. She was Nellie Deane’s mammy, so it can’t have been her.’

  Miss Devlin picked up her gloves and handbag from the table, ready to leave.

  ‘Oh yes, ’twas,’ grinned Daisy. ‘She’s there all the time in the graveyard. I often watch her. I see all the ghosts. I was never afraid of them. I am now, though. I don’t want to see the priest. I don’t want to see his ghost, ever.’

  Miss Devlin was speechless. Howard and Simon groaned in unison.

  24

  HARRY DIDN’T TELL Maura he had been picked to play Joseph in the school nativity play. She heard it from Angela. Despite the churlish way in which Angela imparted the news, Maura thought her heart would burst with pride.

  ‘Our Harry is playing Joseph, is he? Our Harry? Well, isn’t that just the best bit of news we have had for a long time now, eh, Angela?’

  Angela looked at her mother as though she had gone mad.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ she replied. ‘If I had been picked for Mary, now that would be the best news. Harry’s a boy, so who cares what part he has in the play? All he has to do is put a tea towel on his head, wear the coat the sisters will make and carry a toy lamb.’

  Angela continued to grumble, despite the fact that she could tell Maura had long since stopped listening.

  ‘At la
st,’ said Maura, flushed pink with pride, ‘this is something we can hold our heads up and smile about.’

  It had been too long. Excited at the news, Maura knocked on the wall for Peggy to kick off the jungle mops. This was something to crow about, although Maura knew perfectly well that it would last only minutes, compared with the constant speculation about who had murdered Molly Barrett, the question that had now eclipsed the previous one, who murdered the priest.

  The news about Harry’s starring role did not have the same joyous impact on Tommy, who fretted every single day about their Kitty.

  ‘Try and be pleased for Harry,’ Maura said to him that evening, once all the children were in bed.

  ‘I am, Maura, I’m trying. It would be easier to be happy for Harry if we could write to Kitty and tell her that her brother is to play Joseph. That would help.’

  ‘I know, but it is a long time off, Tommy. The school term has only just begun. There may be a chance, surely to God, somewhere between now and Christmas to get news to our Kitty. Rosie has written to say that, once Christmas is out of the way, Kitty will be back with us soon after. It will all fly past, Tommy. Our Kitty will be home soon, so she will. That is what I am holding on to.

  ‘Holy Mother!’ Maura shot up from the arm of the chair. ‘With all the excitement, I haven’t marked off today on the chart.’

  She walked over to the range and picked up the pencil hanging from a piece of string, tied to a nail next to a chart she had made with the days marked off until Kitty returned to the fold.

  Not one of Maura’s neighbours had questioned this, or even thought it was slightly odd. Maura was known to be a devoted mother and most of the women found it endearing how much she missed Kitty.

  ‘Just so typical of Maura, it is, to send Kitty to look after her poorly sister in Mayo, when she is missing her so much back here. God, she is the paragon of virtue, that woman is,’ said Peggy to Mrs Keating.

  Standing on the doorstep, she leant out and snatched up two of her boys by the scruff of the neck as they ran past. She slapped both of them across the backs of their legs and ordered them into the house for their tea, never breaking her stride as she spoke. Mrs Keating didn’t bat an eyelid.