Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘No. Mrs Mather’s in charge with her son, and the day was quiet, so I stashed the good stuff in the safe and left her totting up the takings. She’ll lock up and go home when she’s finished. The Christmas trade won’t start for a couple of weeks yet.’ He looked through the window. ‘I see they’ve made a midget snowman.’

  She sighed. ‘They may as well have fun while they still can.’

  ‘Laura, I—’

  ‘I’ve done the notes. When I take the children to the Bramwells’, look in the top drawer of the bureau and see if I’ve forgotten anything. We’ll talk about it later before we go to . . . before we go upstairs.’

  Andy smiled; she was blushing like a teenager. Sometimes, she seemed so young, so naive. ‘Hey, if it bothers you, I’ll sleep down here.’

  ‘No, you won’t. I told you before, I’ve made up my mind. You’re my man now.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Another thing your children will have to deal with, another change of circumstances.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was some power in her voice at last. ‘Never forget that my children may be Carsons by surname, but they also have McMahon blood in their veins. I am so much stronger these days, and they will grow into their strength, too. They’re fond of you.’

  ‘And their father?’

  ‘Never visits them. It would upset him too much.’

  ‘It’s all about him, isn’t it?’

  Laura paused, potato masher held aloft. ‘I think it always was, Andy. His mother was very unkind to him, kept calling him a sinner, especially when he started growing up. She’s all right with him now – or she was till we separated, but he was an unhappy teenager.’ She pulled herself together. ‘Get them in, Andy, then I can feed them. We’ve a lot to do tonight.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not as young as I was, Laura.’

  ‘Andrew Martindale, I was referring to the notes. Bring the children in and let’s be a family.’ While creaming the mash, she stood at the sink and watched as Andy talked to Matt and Lucy. He was a good man. Hopefully, he might become the father figure her children needed.

  Bert Heslop, private detective, found Brandwood Street. Carson’s house stood on the end of a row; a dark blue van was parked at the side of the building. Neil Carson had taken in his pint of milk very late in the day, and Eve Mellor’s description had been good. It was half past four; Bert was scribbling notes on his pad. Miss Mellor was dying, so speed and accuracy must be employed.

  The day had been cold with flurries of snow, and evening had begun its descent. He turned on the engine and drove round the streets for a while so that he might heat the chilled air in his car. For a reason he failed to define, he knew there was something very wrong with the man who had lifted the milk from his step. Perhaps it was the eyes? They had shifted from side to side as if expecting to see something or someone he feared.

  Returning to a different part of Brandwood Street, he watched as Carson moved past him in the blue van. Careful not to seem over-keen, he followed the vehicle at a slower pace. On a main road, Carson stopped. This section of the long stretch was named College Row and, after parking, Neil wrote down the number of a house at which Carson was staring. ‘He’s up to no good,’ the detective mumbled to himself.

  Glancing round, he caught sight of the chip shop mentioned by Miss Mellor. In there, Mrs Carson had found among wrappings evidence of her husband’s possible involvement with the murders. Why was the man watching the house? Chills played up and down Bert’s spine.

  Neil Carson drove a few yards closer to the road, but Bert stayed where he was. Why? he wondered. ‘Why am I choosing to keep watch here?’ he whispered. Because the killings on the Dock Road had stopped? Because he suspected that Carson’s next target might be his own wife? Curtains were pulled into the closed position by a tall man. After half an hour or so, Mrs Carson emerged from the house with her children. She disappeared into the chip shop, which was not yet open to the public. Bert decided to buy his supper there as soon as possible, because a hungry man felt the cold more acutely.

  Using a torch, he re-read notes made yesterday after his meeting with Eve Mellor. Mrs Carson had spoken unexpectedly to a new acquaintance about the cross found in a drawer, and that lady had told Meadowbank’s madam. Had Mrs Carson confronted her husband? Was she now in danger? When he looked up from his scribbles, he saw that Carson’s van had gone.

  He switched off the torch. The man in Mrs Carson’s house had to be Martindale, a well-known and respected jeweller. The call to Miss Mellor had come from one of his shops, so . . . So he would knock on the door. ‘Should I?’ he asked the dashboard. Shivering again, he gave birth to the next couple of thoughts. Was Carson’s missus insured? Had he been making sure that the kids were not in the house? He leapt out of his car and ran across the road.

  Andrew Martindale opened the door. He held a tea towel in one hand and a plate in the other. ‘Yes? May I help you?’

  ‘Let me in, please. He may be planning his next move as we speak.’ Bert had to put his head back to see the face of this very tall man. ‘I’m a private detective and I’m following Neil Carson. He was watching this house, and he drove away just minutes ago.’

  Andy widened the gap and allowed the short man to enter the hall. ‘Living room on your right,’ he said, placing plate and towel on the hall table.

  Grateful for the fire’s warmth, Bert perched on the edge of an armchair. ‘Hubert Heslop,’ he announced.

  ‘Andrew Martindale.’

  The visitor held out his hands to the fire. ‘Cold night,’ he commented.

  ‘Yes, the weather’s serving up a taste of winter,’ Andy replied. Surely this man was here to discuss something more dangerous than snow?

  ‘I suspect Carson’s ready to strike.’ The small detective paused and fuelled his lungs with a large intake of oxygen. ‘Well, a Mrs . . . er . . . Belle Duffield was spoken to by Mrs Carson during a visit to one of your shops.’

  Andy nodded. ‘Yes. It was rather rash, but she seemed to trust the lady.’

  ‘She is trustworthy. Mrs Duffield spoke on the telephone to a very discreet client of mine, someone who has used my company in the past. I am employed by a Miss Eve Mellor to follow Neil Carson, since she believes him to be the Mersey Monster.’

  The taller man placed himself in a chair opposite his visitor. ‘I see.’ He didn’t quite see, but he felt he ought to make some comment.

  ‘I know about the gold cross and the behaviour of Mr Carson. He was outside just now, watching while Mrs Carson took the children to the chip shop. Will they be home later?’

  ‘No. Saturday nights are busy, and Laura works late, so Matt and Lucy stay with the Bramwell twins in the flat on the floor above the shop. She will come back, but they’ll return tomorrow in time to get ready for church.’ He paused. ‘What’s going through your mind, Mr Heslop?’

  ‘Bert.’

  ‘Right, Bert – I’m Andy. I’ll make some tea while you get your thoughts in order.’

  But Bert followed Andy into the kitchen. ‘When does Mrs Carson come back to the house?’

  ‘About half past eleven, usually. Occasionally, she works till midnight.’

  The small man nodded thoughtfully. ‘Does he know she suspects him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And does he know that you share her opinion?’

  Andy nodded.

  ‘Then he’ll probably be here later tonight. I’m assuming that you haven’t yet spoken to the police?’

  ‘That’s right – we haven’t.’

  ‘Well, I suggest that now would be a good time.’

  Andy stared down at his companion. ‘We’re going to do it together.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Monday.’

  Bert inhaled deeply once more. ‘You could both be dead by then. I think it will be arson – that’s usually the choice of a cowardly man. With women, it’s poison, but men use fire if they want the hands-off approach.’

  With his hand sh
aking, Andy brewed the tea. ‘She’s frightened enough already, and the children are up and down the stairs at the Bramwells’ until bedtime, so she has her hands full. On Saturdays, their curfew runs later.’ He followed Bert back into the living room and placed the tea tray on a low table. ‘You watch and I’ll watch. Let’s get the police when he tries to set the house on fire.’

  Bert’s lips settled into a grim line. ‘I’m not sure it will be arson. He could have a gun or . . .’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘If he is the monster, he’s downright dangerous.’

  Andy leaned forward, elbows on knees, clenched hands supporting his chin. ‘I’ll walk her back here in a few hours and I’ll tell her then what might be happening. You watch from the side street across the road – you can see this house clearly from there. Laura and I will walk through the house and, after switching on lights, we’ll go through into the rear alley. He won’t do anything until he thinks I’m asleep, because I could bring him down as easily as swatting a fly. I may be older, but I’m fit. I’ll take her along the back all the way to the Bramwells’ place, then I’ll return here, put the downstairs lights out, switch on the bedroom lamp, leave again via the rear door and cut through a few streets to join you in your car. She’ll be with her children, and I’ll be out of his line of fire – no pun intended.’

  Bert smiled grimly. ‘And you’ll leave your car parked outside the house so that Carson can assume that you’re inside with his wife.’ He looked Andy up and down. ‘Will you fit in a Mini?’

  ‘I’m reasonably collapsible. Listen, Bert, if he can be caught red-handed, he’ll be put away tonight. Once he’s locked up, it will be easier for Laura and me to heap the other pieces of evidence on his head. The story will come out, of course, but if we do it my way, he’ll go down for attempted arson, and he’ll crumble under questioning about the dead women. I think this will be the quickest way to be rid of the man.’

  Bert remained unsure. ‘Perhaps we could get the cops out tonight and have them watch what’s going on and—’

  ‘No.’

  Bert’s jaw dropped.

  ‘No,’ Andy repeated. ‘What if you’re wrong? What if he makes no attempt to harm me and Laura tonight? The boys in blue may decide to take none of it seriously – we might even be accused of wasting police time.’ He poured the tea. ‘Now, I’ll make us something to eat. We may be in for a very long night. Do you like eggs?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Good, because I’m great with eggs. I’ll bring you some bread – use the toasting fork. Bread singed by fire is always tastier. I’ll go and start scrambling.’

  By the time they’d eaten together, both were easier. Whatever happened, each felt he’d found in the other a friend for life.

  Eve sat near the huge fireplace in her chariot. Chariot was a word so much more acceptable than wheelchair. She watched Baby Babs dancing with her new husband, saw her girls chatting away to others in the party, and felt content, because she’d done a good enough job of raising these surrogate daughters.

  Babs and Gordy had their own place at Dove Cottage, and the three abused boys would be staying here in Wordsworth for a few nights, as would Eve, Kate and the girls. Meadowbank was closed for the week, so all its residents were in holiday mood. She shifted in the chariot; the pain was beginning to get to her.

  The best man arrived by her side. ‘Miss Mellor? I’m Macey, commonly known as Lippy.’

  She held out a hand. ‘Eve Mellor. I’ve a smallholding outside Knowsley. Babs and Sal stayed with me for a while.’

  Lippy pulled up a chair. ‘So the three boys who ran away from school hid in a hut near you?’

  ‘They did, yes.’

  ‘Ushers today,’ he told her. ‘And I have news for them. The offending brothers have been thrown out of the order and are on bail awaiting trial.’

  ‘Should be bloody shot,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve no time for bastards who prey on kids. Still, let’s not think about them, eh? I’m staying here for a few days with my old friend Kate. I know it’s late in the year, but a change of air might suit.’

  There was sadness in the smile he delivered. ‘If you need a doctor while you’re in Southport, use Don’s. As a temporary resident, you retain the right to be treated.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He patted her hand. ‘The tiny bundle of fire dressed suitably in red is my wife. She’s a doctor, too. You won’t be alone, dear lady.’

  When he had walked away, Eve fixed her eyes on bride and groom. They were clearly happy. Tomorrow, one of the lads might take Eve and Kate to meet the famous horse, the very one who had hated Eve on sight. She groaned under her breath. Soon, it would be morphine, and morphine would render her less than sensible.

  ‘Eve?’

  She turned to find Babs squatting beside her. ‘You look lovely,’ Eve said. ‘I was that proud when you came into the register office – well, I could have cried.’

  ‘We never cry, you and me.’

  ‘It’s not every day a daughter gets wed, love. I felt as if you were my girl. If I could choose a child of my own, you’d be high on the list, babe.’

  ‘Oh, Eve.’

  ‘I know, I know. I don’t want to go, but this bugger’s got a grip of me, and it’s going to win. I’d love to be a granny by proxy, only it’s not going to happen.’

  Babs blinked rapidly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, love.’

  The bride stood up and brought a chair to Eve’s side. When seated, she took Eve’s hand. ‘I’ve been watching you. You’re in pain.’

  ‘Yes. But make sure I don’t die in hospital, will you? Kate’s promised, but she might panic when the time comes. She’s not as strong as we are. Angela said she’ll phone you when . . . when or if any decisions are made.’

  ‘OK.’

  Gordy joined them. ‘Come on now, Mrs Woman. We’re going home.’ He nodded at Eve. ‘Full house here tonight. You, Miss O’Gorman, four lads and all your girls. Still, three of the boys will be back with us in a day or so.’

  ‘Are they safe?’ Eve asked.

  ‘I doubt the monks will break bail conditions, but we’ll remain on red alert. Goodnight.’

  Without announcing their intention to leave, the couple disappeared while the party was in full swing. Don had been in bed for a couple of hours, but others looked set to have fun until tomorrow. It had been the greatest of days.

  Babs and Gordy made their way to Dove Cottage and towards their own private celebration. They were a family, and families needed alone time.

  Seventeen

  There was an odour attached to the Wrays’ house, a smell that clung determinedly to everything, proclaiming loudly that the people living here were elderly. The place wasn’t dirty; it was just decadent. Maude Turton, who had lived next door, had always given off the scent of lavender or violet, but poor Mrs Wray spent most hours in the day – and possibly the night – caring for a sick cripple of a husband who scarcely knew her. She fed him, gave him bed baths, cleaned up his messes, helped him up and down the stairs, and still found time to make an extra pie for a neighbour.

  Neil Carson lowered himself into a chair. ‘I won’t eat the pie,’ he mumbled. He couldn’t eat anything that came out of a house as neglected as this one. Surfaces were dusty, while curtains and cushion covers screamed for a damned good wash. Poor woman. She was probably too old and worn out to deal properly with household tasks.

  Dolly Pearson crept into his head. Mistaking her for a whore, he had killed her, thereby leaving Mrs Pearson’s mother without one of her carers. Shivering, he sat back and tried to eliminate the thought. ‘I looked after Maude,’ he whispered. ‘I looked after her well, even loved her.’ Surely that went some way towards compensating for his mistake? He’d tried so hard. Liking women older than himself was never easy. Mother. Oh yes, Mother had a great deal to answer for.

  A picture of Joseph’s hanging body suddenly occupied his mind. ‘Stop, stop.’ He picked up a newspaper and tr
ied to read, but nothing sank in. Tonight, he was going to kill his wife and an upstanding citizen of Liverpool. ‘Don’t think about it, Neil,’ he muttered, ‘and just concentrate on the newspaper.’ It wasn’t his fault that Joseph Turton had been homosexual . . . Words on the page meant nothing, and were beginning to melt together like blobs of tar on a hot day.

  Nine o’clock. Laura would be in the chip shop for at least a couple more hours; really, it needed to happen after about one or two o’clock in the morning while people were sleeping deeply. If Martindale’s car was outside . . . ‘Patience, patience,’ he mouthed. There really was no valid reason for leaving Norman Wray twice. As long as he was back by the early hours, Neil would be safe and neither of the Wrays would know anything about his temporary escape. He’d even parked Joseph’s van in a different street.

  Traffic was still on the move outside. It was Saturday night, it was too early, and he needed to be safe.

  ‘Safe?’ he asked aloud. ‘Who can be safe after killing the mother of his children?’ Yet everything had arisen after Jesus had delivered the message, the request about ridding the streets of prostitutes. Life was a maze . . . He seemed to be meeting dead end after dead end. Dead. Oh yes, he had brought death to Liverpool, but tonight’s would be his biggest crime.

  He stood up and began his usual walk, but in a different house. Wall to window, window to wall, dead end to dead end. Hell beckoned. The need to murder his wife and her lover had arisen from tasks undertaken in the name of Jesus. Could a latter-day disciple go into the inferno? Now, that was a real and eternal punishment, a fire to end all fires.

  He paused. The children would be heartbroken, since Laura had been a good mother. But he would be a good dad; he’d always been an excellent father. He would need to seek treatment, of course.

  Fire. With fire, most people were killed by smoke, so Laura wouldn’t burn to death, would she? And to think he’d been worrying about Matt and Lucy being unsafe if the chip shop went up in flames. Life was strange, a circle with events, worries and ideas moving and reappearing like the moon and the sun, forever there, yet not always visible.