Journey's End

by Josephine Cox

  Calling her to sit down, the Inspector asked more questions: When had Lizzie last seen Patsy? Was there anybody who bore her sister a grudge?

  ‘Think carefully,’ he urged. ‘We’re looking for a vicious killer. Is there anything you can recall about her friends … any small, seemingly insignificant thing?’

  ‘No!’ Patsy took to pacing the floor again. ‘I’ve already answered all your questions. For God’s sake, why don’t you leave me alone?’

  The Inspector observed how exhausted and distressed she was; he glanced at his young colleague who shook his head, and he decided enough was enough, at least for now.

  So far, he had no reason to believe that Lizzie was involved in any way with the tragedy of her sister, Patsy.

  ‘Very well, that should do for now. We’ll leave you in peace,’ he told Lizzie. ‘But I might have to call in again, so don’t go too far away. Meantime, if you can think of anything, anything at all …’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ she answered wearily. ‘I’ve told you all I know.’

  ‘Would you like a WPC to stay with you for a while?’ he asked. ‘I can arrange that if needed.’

  ‘No. I’ll be all right. I’m better on my own.’

  After they were gone, she watched out the window while they climbed into the Black Maria and drove off, the headlights making weird moving circles on the road ahead. ‘Good shuts to you!’ They wouldn’t leave her alone. Why did they keep coming back? It was all too much.

  Yanking the curtains together, she went to the cabinet and took out a bottle of whisky and a glass. She poured herself a tot and carried it to the fireplace, her sorry gaze following the leaping flames as they vaporised up the chimney. ‘Trent, you bastard! If it was you who hurt her, I swear to God, I’ll swing for you!’

  Taking a gulp of the spirit, she coughed and cursed and took another sip, which she then spat into the fire –jerking backwards when the alcohol sent the flames into a flurry.

  She thought of her sister, floundering in the water, maybe even calling for her, and her heart broke. She took to pacing again, then poured herself another drop of whisky and carefully drank of it; somehow the pain seeming to ease. But not the reality. Somebody had murdered Patsy. Was it somebody she had known and fallen out with? After all, it had to be said, Patsy had a spiteful tongue at times. Who could have killed her? And why?

  ‘Did you do it, Eddie?’ She pressed her face through the curtains and looked down at the street. ‘Did you kill my sister?’

  She took another swig of the drink. ‘Where are you? Out with some other poor unsuspecting woman?’

  In a wild fit she threw the glass across the room. It smashed into the wall, then lay in shards on the floor, the liquid seeping into the carpet.

  Sobbing, poor Lizzie fell into the chair and covered her face with her trembling hands. ‘I’m sorry, Patsy,’ she cried out. ‘God help me, I’m so, so sorry.’

  The news had spread far and wide; people talked of it in the streets, in their homes huddled round the wireless, and in the pubs across Liverpool. But some people had still not heard about the woman who had been fished out of the river. These included workers on night-shift, who were only now getting out of their beds, the desperately ill, or the drunks who had been womanising since earlier that day. Among the latter group was Edward Trent. After picking a couple of pockets he had a few quid stashed in his wallet and was feeling on top of the world.

  ‘See you another time, sweetie.’ He stumbled out of the terraced house, gave the woman inside one last, slobbery kiss and a quick fumble, then made his way along the darkened streets, chuckling and congratulating himself. You’ve still got it, matey! he thought proudly. Ain’t nothing in a skirt can resist you.

  He came to a sudden halt. Narrowing his bloodshot eyes, he peered at the headlines on the paper-stand:

  LOCAL WOMAN FOUND DROWNED.

  POLICE CONFIRM MURDERER

  STILL AT LARGE.

  Horrified, his mind filled with the sequence of events that night. He saw Patsy struggling in the water, pleading for him to help her. He recalled the way he had wrenched the plank from the seat and smashed it into her head in a drunken frenzy of rage.

  And he was terrified.

  Making straight for Dock Lane, he constantly glanced about, more nervous than he had ever been in his life.

  Lizzie saw him coming, that burly familiar figure, swaggering and stumbling as he headed for safety. Taking him by surprise, she flung open the door and lunged at him.

  ‘Did you do it?’ she screamed. ‘Did you kill her, you bastard?’ Sobbing and broken, she clawed at his face until, grabbing her by the wrists, he thrust her backwards into the room.

  ‘Shut your mouth, you stupid cow!’ He kicked the door shut. ‘Want to get me hanged, do you, yelling that sort of stuff to all and sundry?’ Sobered by the reality of it all, he pushed her against the wall. ‘You don’t really believe I killed her, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ she choked. ‘The police won’t leave me alone.’ She gabbled on, ‘I told them I don’t know anything, but they keep coming back …’

  He threw her into the chair. ‘Stop your whining, woman. Tell me exactly what they said.’

  She told him how the Inspector had asked her to report anything she might think of that would help track down the killer. ‘You didn’t hurt Patsy, did you?’ she begged. ‘Tell me it wasn’t you.’

  He turned on the charm. ‘Of course I didn’t hurt her.’ Taking Lizzie into his arms, he rocked her backwards and forwards. ‘I didn’t like her, you know that much …’ An awful thought struck him. ‘You didn’t tell the police that we fought, me and your sister – you didn’t tell them that, did you?’

  ‘No.’ She hadn’t said anything because, whatever he was, she still loved him, God help her. But if he had murdered Patsy, then that would be a different tale. ‘I don’t want to believe it was you,’ she confessed tearfully, ‘but I know how much you hated her. Eddie, I don’t know who or what to believe. My head is pounding so hard, I feel I’m going insane.’

  ‘Ssh.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Like I said, I didn’t care much for Patsy, no use pretending I did, but what in God’s name makes you think I could do a thing like that to her? Drowning her like you would a diseased rat … smashing her head in when she was pleading for help. What kind of a monster would I be if I’d done a terrible thing like that, eh?’

  He felt her stiffen in his arms, and knew straight away what he had done. ‘Slipped up there, didn’t I?’ he asked cunningly. ‘So, you didn’t know that part of it, eh?’

  When she tried to loosen herself from his hold, he held on even tighter. ‘Silly me!’ he laughed. ‘Letting my tongue run away with me.’

  ‘YOU!’ From somewhere she found the strength to free herself. ‘YOU KILLED HER … like that?’

  His words made a picture in her mind, and it drove her crazy. Sorrow became rage; she started battering at him with her fists, screaming at him, wanting to hurt him like he had hurt Patsy.

  Like a mad thing he turned on her, hitting out with bunched fists, sending her crashing into furniture, snatching her up and knocking her down again, until bloodied and battered, she lay on the floor, her nose split, her front teeth gone and her eyes swelling out of her head.

  He looked down on her and laughed contemptuously. And when the laughter stopped, he issued a grim warning. ‘If I find you’ve opened your trap to the police or anyone else – ever – I’ll be back to finish you off … just like I finished your sister.’ He had no pity or compassion. ‘Do you hear me?’

  Her hands up as though to protect herself, she moved her head in acknowledgement. Blood trickled out of her mouth.

  ‘Good girl.’ He grabbed her purse and emptied it, leaving a few shillings. ‘There’s enough there to get you right away from here – the sooner the better, if you know what I mean?’

  He next went to the kitchen, where he stuffed his face with food before leaving. �
�Don’t forget what I said, Lizzie girl,’ he said chillingly. ‘One word, and you know what will happen.’

  Fearing for her life, she lay still as he went out the door, remaining that way for what seemed an age; she heard the clock chime the passing hours. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she wasn’t sure of time or place, or even if she was still alive.

  After a time she crawled to the chair and pulled herself up. Going on unsteady legs to the bathroom, she washed and changed and patched herself up the best she could.

  Returning to the bedroom, she took the small suitcase out of the wardrobe, packed a few things and left.

  She didn’t know where she might go, or how she would manage once she got there. All she knew was, if she stayed he would be back. If she talked he would find her and kill her, just as he had killed her sister, Patsy.

  And so she left, as silently and quickly as her injuries would allow.

  Because just as Patsy predicted, Edward Trent had ruined her life, yet again.

  Chapter 21

  ‘CLEAR OFF, YOU filthy devil!’ The burly proprietor of a butcher’s shop in a little parade a few streets away from Dock Lane, opened his door to find Edward Trent sprawled across the porch and lying in his own vomit. ‘Go on, get off with you. I don’t want the likes of you on my premises!’

  When Trent made no movement, the butcher gave him a vicious prod with the brush-end of his broom. ‘Go on, you drunken bugger … GERROUT OF ’ERE!’

  Opening one eye, Trent rolled over in his vomit and clambered up. ‘What the ’ell’s wrong with you?’ His bloodshot eyes met the look of disgust on the other man’s face. ‘Can’t a poor bloke lie his head down for the night, without being poked and prodded awake?’

  The big man gave him another shove with his broom. ‘Bugger off … or you’ll feel the sharp end where the sun don’t shine.’

  ‘Who the devil d’you think you’re talking to, eh?’ Trent squared up to retaliate, until he saw the other man’s massive, muscular neck. On better days he would not have thought twice about going for the throat, but feeling drained by a night of booze, violence and fornication, he had neither wish nor energy to tangle fists, especially with a man the size of an ox. ‘All right, all right! Hold your horses.’ He coughed and spat. ‘Give me a minute to pull meself together.’

  ‘Pull yourself together somewheres else.’ With a mighty shove, the butcher sent him flying backwards, where he fell in a heap on the pavement. ‘If I see you round these parts again, it’ll be more than a broom-end that comes at you! It’ll be a bloody great meat-cleaver!’

  Still grumbling and cursing, he went back inside, returning a moment later with a bucket of water, which he slung over the vomit and Trent as well. ‘That should wash the stink off you!’

  Laughing, he went back inside and slammed the door, leaving Trent hobbling down the street, with water dripping from his every angle.

  Heading for a public convenience, he relieved himself and afterwards swilled his hands and face at the sink. He flattened his hair with the palms of his hands, straightened the collar of his shirt and tidied himself up for his next port of call. ‘It’s your long-lost lover-boy, Lucy darlin’,’ he crooned to himself in the mirror. ‘Up to now I ain’t been able to pin you down, but I will, my pretty. Come rain or shine, I’ll not give up till I find you.’

  Trent had made a trip out to Overhill Farm the day before, to check out the lie of the land. It had been a blow to hear from the village tobacconist that Lucy had moved south many years ago; the man who sold him his packet of baccy seemed to imply there’d been some scandal, but Trent couldn’t take it in. One of his headaches was starting up, and the proximity of the river where his son had drowned made a rushing noise go through his head, like the sound of the water on that terrible night. He had had to leave the shop in a hurry.

  Maybe Lucy had come back, he thought. Back to Liverpool where she belonged. But where would she go? The thought struck him like a flash of lightning. To the Irishwoman’s house, that’s where.

  His next stop was Bridget’s old house, the brothel at 23, Viaduct Street.

  He banged on the door, until a young girl emerged.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked politely.

  ‘I want to speak with Bridget,’ he growled. ‘Tell her I’m looking to find an old friend, and I reckon she’s the one to help me.’

  Frowning, the girl began to close the door. ‘No one called Bridget lives here.’

  Trent thrust his foot forward and jammed the door. ‘I don’t believe you.’ He bent his head to her. ‘You’d best go and get her,’ he threatened. ‘ ’Cause if you don’t, I might just force my way in. So you’d best shift yerself and do what I say.’

  Growing afraid, the girl continued to argue. ‘I told you there’s no one here of that name. Now please go away!’ Again she tried to close the door and again he stopped her, until she called out for help. ‘Daddy!’ Her voice sailed through the house. ‘Dad, it’s a man and he won’t go away.’

  On hearing heavy footsteps come down the stairs, Trent decided to leg it. The man might report him to the police and have him arrested – and then who knew what might happen.

  Snatching the girl by the lapels, he told her gruffly, ‘If I find out you’ve been lying to me, I swear I’ll be back to punish you.’ Although from her demeanour he had a sneaking suspicion she might be telling the truth and if so, that was a real setback in his search for Lucy.

  As he ran away, he could hear the girl sobbing, then the man shouting as he ran in full pursuit, ‘HEY YOU! COME BACK HERE!’

  At the bottom of the street, Trent turned to see the man gaining ground, so he darted into the ironmonger’s and when he saw his pursuer run past the shop, he made a cautious exit, afterwards cutting down an alley and getting away, out of sight.

  A short time later, having retreated to a public house in search of ale, he was seated by the window downing pint after pint. ‘I’ll find her, you see if I don’t!’ he told anyone who would listen. ‘She’ll not get away from me this time.’

  Bleary-eyed and incoherent, with no one taking any notice of his ramblings, he took to gazing out the window. And that was when he saw her walk by, a tall woman with a bold step and a pretty face. A woman who stirred a memory deep down inside him.

  She was older than he remembered, but there was something about her – the walk, the profile – something that he recognised from years gone by.

  Then it came to him: she bore a distinct resemblance to Vicky Davidson, the wife of Barney and a dear friend to Lucy. He had been told in the village that Vicky and her family had left England and emigrated to America – so what could she be doing here?

  Growing excited, he followed the woman, becoming more and more convinced that she was Vicky Davidson.

  Unaware that she was being watched, Vicky went into the estate agent’s office down the road and seated herself on a chair set before a desk. ‘Is it all ready?’ she asked the young man seated opposite.

  He greeted her with a smile. ‘It’s all done,’ he informed her. ‘The house is yours, for twelve hundred pounds.’ He handed her the key, together with an envelope. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Maitland.’

  With his hands in his pockets, and his cap pulled down well over his eyes, Edward Trent strolled into the shop and meandered about as though he was in no particular hurry, examining the For Sale details pinned up on the wall. And when the young man promised to be with him shortly, he merely nodded and looked away, and no one was any the wiser about his true intentions, though he had been slightly thrown to hear the woman being addressed as Mrs Maitland.

  ‘You’re the first person I’ve ever had who’s come in to buy back a house they lived in many years ago,’ the young man was saying to Vicky. ‘You must have loved it very much.’

  ‘Oh we did.’ Vicky cast her mind back over the years to those happy days in the little farmhouse, when her three bairns were born, and her beloved Barney had been with her. They had not had a care in th
e world. Paradise lost, indeed.

  None of this felt real to her. It was as though she had stepped back into a time that was so long gone, it might never have existed. And yet it had, for it was stored right there – in her heart, her mind and in her soul. Secure in her deepest memories.

  From that first moment when she had returned to this part of her world, she instinctively felt as though she belonged. The poor, war-damaged streets of Liverpool had welcomed her like an old friend. Despite the passage of the years, its character had not changed all that much, and even the very air smelled the same – thick and salty from the Mersey, alive with the essence of people and life. This was her world, this had been the true magic in her life; Liverpool, Overhill Farm, and her precious family.

  ‘How long did you live at the farmhouse?’ The young man sensed how she had slipped into her memories and he was intrigued.

  Vicky smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. It seems a lifetime ago that we lived there,’ she answered. ‘My husband Barney and I had our three children in that same house. We lived in it, worked the land around it and were very content.’ She said wistfully, ‘In fact, the years in that lovely place were the happiest of my entire life.’

  ‘And now you’re moving back in?’

  Taking the envelope, she stood up. ‘That’s the idea, yes.’

  ‘With your husband, Barney?’

  Deeply moved, she merely shook her head, then said quietly, ‘I really must be going now.’

  ‘You do know the house needs a deal of work?’ The young agent wanted to sound businesslike.

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ she answered confidently. ‘I’ve already arranged for a builder to renovate some of the original features that have fallen into disrepair, and I’ve spoken with a decorator and such. I’m assured they can complete the work within a month. Meantime, I intend to stay at the hotel, though very soon, I shall be going down south for at least a week, as the daughter of my old friend Lucy is getting married.’