The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  The back door opened. ‘Louisa?’

  Ah, here came the beloved. ‘Hello, sweetheart. I thought you were off to buy clothes.’

  He stood and stared. ‘You look terrific.’

  ‘Ah, the hair.’ She’d forgotten it. ‘Mags is still here. She’s cutting Moira’s hair now. Then she’ll do our makeup.’

  ‘You don’t need it.’

  ‘And you’re very sweet.’ All his reticence was leaving him. The fear of getting involved and losing loved ones was drifting away into the past, and Lucy was delighted with him. But there was always something happening. Tomorrow loomed. There was going to be trouble in Moira’s life, too, because some bit of stuff had fallen off Richard’s plate, and it was rotting all over Mersey View.

  ‘Why do I need clothes? I found loads when the house was being cleaned.’

  ‘David.’ Lucy sighed. ‘Costume drama is out, dearest. You need decent, casual clothing. Not shabby junk for odd job work, and not a consultant’s pinstripe with tie and white shirt. Moira will sort you out tomorrow while Glenys and I are in the lions’ den. You need a couple of jumpers, long-sleeved tops, Tshirts and trousers – two or three pairs. And no baggy Y-fronts. Don’t ask why,’ she said when he opened his mouth to speak. ‘It’s a joke. One of Moira’s.’

  David continued to look at her. Looking at her was one of his greatest pleasures, but he was having a bit of hormonal trouble, the sort of difficulty he had not endured since his teenage years. Louisa Buckley was driving him mad. She was always busy, was usually surrounded by people, and he was getting just a little tired of waiting. ‘I cannot continue like this,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘Neither can I. But please, don’t expect too much of me. I may not be any good at it. I’m a bit afraid of doing it badly.’

  He raised his hands and shrugged. ‘That makes two of us, then. I’m not exactly versed in the art, am I? So. Tomorrow we go to Alderley Edge, and I buy clothes under the instruction of Moira while you try to warn Trish whatever-her-name-is that your husband’s a bad bugger.’

  Lucy sighed. ‘Yes, that’s about the size of it.’

  ‘I could make a vulgar remark at this point, Louisa.’

  ‘Too late – I already heard it. Moira and I spent yesterday expressing our basest thoughts. She’s one terrible woman. Come here, lover.’

  The way he held her was different, as the fear had gone. His hands roamed, and the kisses were hungry. Lucy was no longer walking on eggshells, because this lovely man had finally put away thoughts of loss.

  ‘I’m the love of your second life. It will be soon, I promise. And it doesn’t have to be at Tallows, or at your house, or in Liverpool. It’ll happen wherever it happens.’

  ‘Louisa?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How did we spend that night together without making love?’

  ‘I shall never know the answer to that. Probably because my boys were in the house, and possibly because we weren’t quite ready.’ She returned to the task of making tea. His eyes were boring into her back. Whatever, wherever, it had to be soon. And why should anyone else matter? Why should she continue prim and proper because her sons and her daughter were in the house? ‘Stay with me tomorrow night,’ she suggested.

  ‘But aren’t Lizzie and Simon there?’

  ‘Yes. As are Mike and Paul. In a couple of weeks, there will be bed-and-breakfasters, but so what? We’re beyond the age of consent, we’re free people – well, I suppose I am technically married, but to hell with it. Hal put a bolt on my bedroom door, so while people can get from the hall into the kitchen, and from there into the body of my flat, they can’t enter our room.’

  Our room. He liked the sound of that. ‘Carol and Dee?’ he asked.

  ‘Are adults. They are also employees, and they’ve been running a book.’

  ‘A book on us?’

  She laughed at him. ‘They’re now taking bets on the month of our marriage. I got Moira to put fifty quid of my money on December. That should pay for a short honeymoon, then we can have a proper one next summer.’

  His grin widened. ‘Is this you managing me again?’

  ‘Of course.’ She picked up her tray. ‘I make all the minor decisions, but I’ll leave the more important ones to you. Like opening this door for me now so that I can carry the food through.’

  He opened the door. She was a minx, and she would continue in the same vein. His Louisa was adorable. But he was determined to smack that bottom, because she deserved chastisement.

  Sometimes, Alan felt as if he’d never had the surgery, because the pain in his heart had returned. He was unable to treat it, since his drug of choice was no longer available to him. The resulting introspection was not pleasant, as he was becoming only too well aware of his sins, and depression began to hang over him like a black, rain-bearing cloud. The pain in his heart was not physical; it was the weight of past misdemeanours for which he could never atone and, on top of all that, he seemed to be experiencing genuine affection for Trish.

  Did he love her because she was the right woman for him? Or did he love her for volunteering to get him out of severe financial trouble? Tomorrow, the money would begin its travels. Tomorrow, Trish would meet Glenys, who had disguised her name. He dared not ask whether the transfer of funds was going to be swift and electronic, or slowed to a near-stop by the advent of the weekend. Nor did he dare to beg Trish not to go tomorrow, as she would want to know why, and he couldn’t tell her. Had he been able or willing to drink, none of this would have bothered him. The small, niggling details of life had never been obscured by alcohol, but the bigger picture had been for ever rosy or forgettable.

  Strangely, after a brief period of impatience, he had grown used to Trish, to dancing, to crown green bowling, donkeys and bingo. She was a good cook, a gentle soul, and she twittered on happily all day like a budgie in a cage. There was comfort in her endless chatter, encouragement in her sunny optimism, security in the certainty that in Blackpool, at least, the days had a pattern.

  But they weren’t in Blackpool any more. No longer impressed by the sheer size of Styles, he heard the electronic gates closing behind him and felt that he was imprisoned. Trish was no longer his jailer. This was confinement of his own making. He could blame no one for his situation, because he was its sole architect. There was only one option open to him, but the thought of laying bare his soul, and seeing the disappointment in Trish’s face, horrified him. He was a coward. On top of everything else, he was a yellow-belly.

  ‘You get to the doctor in the morning. He was pleased with you last time, but I think you’re getting a bit of post-operative depression. I found it on the inter-web. It says you’re always excited when the surgery’s over with, but that a descent into negativism is not uncommon. You’ve descended.’

  He had. She was right enough, but this had nothing to do with his open-heart procedure. He was going to be alone, homeless and, as there was nowhere else to go, dependent on Lucy. And on the prison service … ‘I’m not a good man,’ he announced quietly.

  Trish stood at the kitchen island, rolling pin held aloft. ‘There’s none of us perfect.’

  ‘I’ve been dishonest in my time.’

  She placed her weapon on the work surface. ‘Alan, do you think my Howie got as far as he did by telling all the truth all the time? I mean, he never stole directly, but he didn’t drop his prices when he bought in bulk. To win, he had to be wise, and to be wise, he was forced to be cunning.’

  Alan dropped on to the kitchen sofa. ‘I feel better in Blackpool, love.’

  ‘Aye, well, I dare say we both do. I just have to see this lawyer woman tomorrow, then we’ll go back. Glad you’re settled there, because this place is all but sold. The main thing is to stop you going to jail. You owe money to the biggest building society in the country.’

  This was torture. Trish had been nurse, cook, friend and supporter since the day he had escaped from Easterly Grange – she had even organized his exit from the place. After so ma
ny weeks in his own room, he had become slightly stir-crazy, and had not appreciated her attempts to help him on the road to recovery. She had fussed and mothered like a clucky hen until he had been tempted to throw food at her, but … but she was a good woman, and she meant to save him from real prison, from a long sentence for fraud. Would Glenys prevent Trish from carrying out her promise? ‘I wronged my family,’ he said hesitantly. ‘My wife I treated with contempt. I have two sons I don’t know, and a daughter I loved until she outgrew me. They’ll be getting on with life, glad to be rid of me, all of them.’

  ‘Alan?’ She stood still, hands covered in flour, pastry spread before her waiting to line a dish. ‘Alan?’

  He smiled at her. She was what his father might have termed a grand lass, since she was loyal and faithful. ‘You’ve been a treasure,’ he told her. ‘I’m going for a bit of a walk. They told me to get plenty of gentle exercise.’ He left her standing there, hands floury, pastry still waiting to line the same dish.

  Alan had developed a strangely comforting relationship with Damien, the llama from hell. Damien no longer spat at him, which was just as well, since llama spit was more than spit – it was stomach contents. He handfed the animal with kitchen scraps before stroking the woolly neck. ‘I’d be better off dead. They’d all do very well without me.’

  Damien continued to chew in that strange, side-to-side way, grinding the food for minutes before attempting to swallow.

  ‘I’ve got the rope, and I’ve found a strong enough tree. You see, Damien, I could be locked up by this time tomorrow. They’ll tell her everything I’ve done, and Trish will leave me to it. Hiding away won’t be easy, because I’ve nowhere to go.’ He swallowed. ‘Except to Lucy. And the Halifax will soon find her. I’m finished, lad.’ Could he use that rope? Could he hell.

  He walked back to the house. Trish was twittering, but he explained that he was tired and going up to bed. She berated him for not eating, but he simply switched off and didn’t hear any more. There was nothing he could do, because his number was finally up. No matter what Trish said now, she probably wouldn’t speak to him at all tomorrow.

  His dreams were populated by loud men, slamming doors and the quiet voice of Lucy. ‘Guilty,’ she whispered again and again.

  ‘Wake up!’ Trish was shaking him. ‘You must be having some terrible dreams, Alan.’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘It’ll be this post-operative depression again,’ she said. ‘Stop worrying. Tomorrow, you won’t be a bankrupt any more, and we’ll find a business to buy into. It’s nearly over now, love.’

  She was right, of course. It was all over bar the shouting.

  Lexi had been a bit hacked off. All the drama had gone out of her life, and she was fed up with Mersey View and its crackpot residents. Just one more thing to be done, and she’d be out of there. It was going to be bright, colourful and difficult to forget, so it would suffice as her swan song. Purple. Yes, that was her signature colour, and it should do very nicely.

  Greasy Bleasdale had found out what she’d been doing on the work computer. Because of that, he wanted her to make herself available as and when he needed something to rub up against. But Lexi had her standards, and servicing a sweaty bastard across his desk or in the men’s loo after the shop had closed was definitely outside the terms of her contract with the supermarket chain. And things were getting worse. When she was shelf-stacking, he often crept up behind her to cop a feel. Again, she found this behaviour unacceptable.

  She’d been stuck in the back room yesterday cutting cooked and cured meats, and he’d had a go. If she’d been quick enough, she might have grabbed his member and introduced it to the bacon slicer. It would have been a brief acquaintance, but she would have enjoyed every second of it. However, prison for separating a filthy swine from his closest friend was not a good idea. But she had to get out of the job.

  And she might just do that, because Tom Rice, the guy with the limp, was interested in her. She’d had to come clean about her past, because he was after her street-wisdom, her knowledge of working girls and their clients. It was something to do with his job, but she wasn’t sure what he did. He’d told her she needed to dress more quietly, and she’d be answering phones for some of the time.

  Finally, he phoned and told her the truth. He was a private detective, had been a policeman, knew her history, and wanted a bright, intelligent woman in her thirties to help him. ‘I can only be in one place at a time,’ he said. ‘So whoever gets the job will be split between office and overspill.’

  ‘Overspill?’

  ‘When I’ve trained an assistant, he or she will get the cases I’ve no time for.’ He gave her his address. ‘Wednesday, four o’clock, interview. OK?’

  OK? It was bloody marvellous. ‘Shall I give my notice in at work?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet. I’ve three others to see. Pretend to have a dental appointment on Wednesday, and we’ll take it from there.’

  She was excited. She’d be able to disguise herself, buy wigs and posher clothes. Would she get an allowance for clothing? Should she phone him and ask? No. He liked her. He knew all about her past, and he still liked her. And, when it came to finding out stuff about folk, she was A1. Greasy Bleasdale would soon become history.

  Richard turned off his mobile phone, since he needed no noisy interruptions. Concentration was necessary. Tonight, he had to focus totally on his dilemma, and on his plan to remedy it.

  Without Moira, the house had no soul. Without Moira, he had no soul. The creature from Litherland was continuing in her efforts to discredit him, and his wife would be back tomorrow. He’d promised that he would never use a prostitute, but he had failed to keep his word. Yes, he’d taken up with a supermarket checkout girl and yes, he had been careless, but he hadn’t been aware of Lexi’s past. ‘Someone with a bit of education,’ Moira had always said. ‘Someone who knows about my condition.’ Latterly, she had even sought a life companion who might take the job of wife after Moira’s … He couldn’t bear to think the word.

  He patted his pockets, thereby reminding himself of Dr David Vincent, saint, protector of sick children, creator of a famous charity, lover of the only other woman Richard truly wanted. The phone was on vibrate only, the stuff he needed was distributed evenly throughout coat and trouser pockets, and it was now or never.

  Murder was not to be undertaken lightly. Murder dressed as suicide was even more difficult. Self-disposal was something Moira contemplated almost daily, and he didn’t want the woman he had married to be pushed over the edge by a tart. Lexi’s behaviour was not improving. She didn’t know that Moira was away, so she would believe by now that her letters had resulted in no reaction from either of the Turners, and her campaign might well intensify. Why hadn’t he come clean? Why hadn’t he explained to Moira that he had made a huge mistake?

  And why, why, why was he even contemplating this dreadful deed? Wasn’t it rather like taking a neutron bomb to finish off a bluebottle? He could tell Moira – albeit rather late in the day – what she probably knew already, then everything would slowly get back to normal. Except … he swallowed. No. Not normal.

  The notes. He had photocopied the lot before passing them on to Lexi’s latest doctor, and he had read them all. The woman had been treated for minor burns in 1978. Her scars had healed, but people in the next house had perished. Diabetes type one had been diagnosed within months, and an endocrinologist had commented in writing that the shock of the fire might have contributed to the child’s worsening health. She had gone for counselling, but had been unable to speak about the fire. Had a five-year-old child killed her neighbours? Would she kill him and Moira?

  He walked to the window. The girls had returned to Edinburgh for some daft half-marathon involving hospital beds, an old ambulance and a dozen or so off-duty fire fighters. According to Alice, the proceeds were to go towards putting the prof of Anatomy and Physiology out of everyone’s misery once they could find a vet willing to do it. In spite of h
is misery, Richard smiled as he remembered some of the giddiness displayed by himself and Moira while cavorting with a crowd along the Royal Mile on rag days.

  Simon, currently resident next door with his stunning bride, would be deserting the north. Richard was alone. This was how it would be when Moira was no longer attached to the mortal coil. His daughters, both beautiful women, would go wherever their chosen specialty took them, though he had hopes for Steph, since she seemed to be veering towards neurology, and Liverpool was the centre of excellence for that discipline. The centre of excellence could not yet cure Moira, but Steph was determined to work in the field that might, one day, come up with decent remedies for multiple sclerosis, Parkinson’s, muscular dystrophy and all the other merciless evils that killed people an inch at a time. ‘I can’t do it,’ he told the window.

  Looked at in the cold light of day, the situation seemed ridiculous. He had indulged in sexual activity with a woman of ill repute, though she was no longer working as a prostitute. The idiot woman had demanded marriage, and he had lost his temper with her. Dog excrement and letters were no big deal, and he would probably have taken a chance had he not read the notes. Now, he lived in fear of arson, and this was not the cold light of day. This was the dimming light of a September evening, the harbinger of winter. In weeks, clocks would skip back one hour, and out of the safety of shadows might arrive those whose activities required the blackness of night. Muggers, burglars, car thieves and … arsonists.

  Perhaps Lexi had played with matches. Perhaps one of her siblings had set fire to the house next door, but he could not erase the notes from his mind. She had been traumatized and reduced to silence. There again, she could have been riding close to hyperglycaemia, but he could not be sure.