A Mersey Mile

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘You are a stupid woman,’ she said aloud.

  For a while, she sat and marshalled her thoughts into some semblance of order. ‘There is but one small step between love and hatred,’ she said. In three weeks, Frank would be married to his real childhood sweetheart. ‘And I’ll be stuck with Lanky Laithwaite.’ He was malleable, at least. Frank was not about to reshape himself for her, was he? Whereas Bob . . . Bob wanted her. His work was suffering, because his brain had moved south for the winter. Clearly, she was not suffering alone.

  Elaine Lewis closed her eyes. ‘You may be the centre of your own universe, but you’re not even a crease on my map,’ Frank had said. So he despised her. Rather too tired to summon up the energy required for temper, she kept herself on simmer. Mum knew there was something amiss with her. It was time to pull herself together with the help of a man who clearly adored her. That had to involve a sexual relationship she neither wanted nor needed, though the longing for physical contact with a man grew stronger every day. ‘It should have been Frank.’ It would never be Frank. He was lost, almost as finally as her father had been lost for eight years.

  She concluded yet again that Frank Charleson might well complain and ruin her chances with the firm. He didn’t want her involved with the defending of children and the upholding of their innate rights. He didn’t want her anywhere near his and Polly’s lives. She must stop this rocking; her personality disorder had to remain where it belonged, under her pretty shoes, trampled on, ignored, squashed to death. And she should go home. It was late at night, and Mum might even send for the police if she continued to go missing on a regular basis.

  The threatened blot on her copybook needed to be erased before it soaked in and set. He had to be removed in case he got the chance to spoil her career. Murder? Did he deserve to die because he had refused to bed her? The answer was probably yes. It was rather radical, though, and what if she got caught? Oh, her weary mind was going too fast. Shouldn’t having Bob Laithwaite as an ally be enough? Not if Frank submitted a complaint in the morning, she thought. Her brain was moving in circles; this had to stop.

  She must go home, take herself up to bed and sneak out again. Her thoughts were becoming even further out of control. There was a can of petrol in the boot for emergencies. This was an emergency. It was regrettable, but she must remove Frank from the scene. He hated her, had rejected her, and the only way of preventing further difficulties involved petrol, a funnel, some rag and a match. This was a foolish and dangerous way to think, her sensible side was saying. What else might she do?

  Her loud, uninhibited self was screaming for her to commit murder. Sense must prevail. There had to be another way.

  Christopher Foley heard the bell at his front door. His housekeeper was outside with Kaybee, so he hastened downstairs before finishing his morning prayers. It was ten minutes past eight, he’d been up in the night ministering to the sick, and he wasn’t dressed. After fastening the belt on his dressing gown, he opened the door, looked straight ahead, and lowered his gaze until it fell on a child. The child was Billy Blunt, and Billy needed to be at school by nine o’clock. ‘Is this you leaving St Anthony’s and transferring to us?’ he asked. ‘Because this school’s not as convenient for you. Are you in trouble at all?’

  ‘No, Father. What’s a bothy?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A bothy. That’s where he keeps all the newspapers with his photos in. He has a big suitcase thing hidden under planks of wood and stuff. In a bothy.’

  ‘I think it’s a Scottish word for a shed or a derelict cottage on a farm. Away inside with you before we both freeze to death. This is what my poor old mammy used to call pneumonia weather.’

  Inside the house, Chris’s housekeeper had just returned to light the fire. ‘Thank you, Mona. Toast and tea for two, please. Where’s Kaybee?’

  ‘In the kitchen eating her breakfast.’ Mona went off to do her bit of catering.

  ‘Get near the fire,’ Chris ordered. ‘Shiver the winter out of yourself.’

  Billy was staring at the priest. He was just an ordinary bloke like Dad, striped pyjamas under a brown dressing gown, slippers at one end, stuck-up hair at the other. ‘You don’t look like a priest. You look like an ordinary bloke.’

  Chris smiled. Some of the cheek was coming back. ‘Nor should I look like a priest, child. I dress up for God, not for my own amusement, and certainly not for a young visitor. Now, give me a minute, so.’ He went to the bookshelves and flicked through the pages of a large volume. ‘Scottish. It’s a worn-out building on a farm. It’s left so that any person may use it for shelter in times of need, like in a blizzard. So where did you hear it?’

  ‘In a dream.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He’s not happy any more, Father. It’s because he knows that everybody knows he isn’t dead. She said the word bothy. Her name’s . . . I might remember it in a minute.’

  ‘She?’

  Billy nodded. ‘Her name sounds like . . . like happy.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes, but it rhymes with bad.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Glad. He’s storing farm things for her in the bothy, and that’s where he keeps the box with newspapers in. He doesn’t look like he used to look. He’s stronger and not fat, and he’s keeping bits from papers, bits about him not being dead.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where he is? Might it be up in Scotland?’

  ‘She doesn’t talk Scottish.’

  ‘How does she talk?’

  ‘Through her mouth, same as everybody else. Sorry, Father. She talks a bit Woolly, but not real Woolly. It’s a quiet voice. She seems to be a gentle sort of person.’

  ‘Not a Lancashire accent, then?’

  Billy was a wise young man. ‘You see, they can be anywhere. I mean look round here – we’ve Scousers, Chinese, Scottish, Irish, Italians. We’ve Polish people, too, and Jews who got here in the war – they talk like Germans.’

  ‘Can you see the farm in your head?’

  Billy was thinking hard.

  ‘Can you see the farm, son?’

  ‘Not really. I try, but it all goes away. Dreams do that. I usually remember just the talking. I’m sorry, only it’s just him I see, and her if she’s near him. She’s nice. He’s nice now, says his bedtime prayers, pushes an old man in a wheelchair and reads him stories. Don, he’s called – I mean Father Brennan, not the old man. He should have been a farmer, you see. If he’d not been a priest, he would have been all right.’

  Mona came in. ‘There you are, Father. There you are, Billy. Wash your hands when you’ve finished, because you don’t want jam on your school books, do you?’

  Kaybee rushed in, knocked over the small breakfast table, grabbed toast and ran off with it.

  Chris threw up his arms. ‘Oh, my goodness. Animals have no commandments to break, Billy. That’s why they’re perfect. We can’t be perfect, because we know right from wrong.’ He was laughing. ‘Do you ever wish you were a dog, Billy?’

  ‘They don’t live long. Anyway, my dad blames Moses, says he shouldn’t have wandered off up mountains looking for stones with writing on.’

  Chris dried his eyes. ‘Oh, God, I love Liverpool,’ he said.

  Mona came back after chasing the dog. ‘Father,’ she said sternly, ‘she’s getting worse. I can’t catch her. The devil himself couldn’t catch her, I swear. And you’ll need a new rug, because that one will never come clean.’ She left in a darkening mood.

  ‘We’d better clear up,’ Chris said. ‘Mona can be mortallious troublesome when she’s riled.’

  ‘I’ll be late for school if I help you, Father.’

  ‘Then I’ll take you. A biretta’s better than a letter from home.’

  ‘Sounds like a poem.’ Billy righted the table.

  Chris scrubbed at jam with his handkerchief. Neither rug nor hanky emerged in a good state after his effort.

  They tidied up as best they could, and Chris went upstairs to dress himself. It was a strange busines
s, yet he had every faith in Billy Blunt’s dreams. Eugene Brennan would be found.

  They walked together towards St Anthony’s. Chris decided to catch Billy when he wasn’t concentrating. ‘Does the farm have a name?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Sounds like Rovers,’ was the child’s quick reply.

  So a Don was living with a Glad in a place that sounded like Rovers. An old man lived in the same place. It was time to talk to the police again.

  After hiding his van in an alley, Frank opened the door to Aladdin’s Cave. Just one letter lay on the mat with By Hand inscribed in perfect copperplate on the envelope. He picked it up. It was from her. He didn’t need to open it to know it came from Elaine Lewis, since he’d seen her signature often enough on correspondence connected to the purchase of the business.

  Wondering briefly about poisons that might be absorbed through the skin, he carried the letter to the counter and opened it. She was sorry. She was ashamed. She was guilty of trying too hard. She accepted that his heart belonged elsewhere. She had behaved unprofessionally and immaturely, probably because she’d never imagined herself in love before. She begged him not to harm her career. She further implored him to write his account pertaining to the Billy Blunt case and send it to her. She remained sincerely, Elaine Lewis.

  He picked up the phone. The instrument he had ordered weeks ago was working at last. An operator asked for a number. He got through to the firm’s switchboard, then to Miss Lewis. ‘It’s Frank Charleson. I read your letter, and don’t worry, I’m not going to spoil your life as long as you stay the hell out of mine. I shall write to you about what happened when I punched the fat priest.’

  ‘Thank you. I just want to—’

  Frank ended the call, and found himself shivering. Just a few syllables had fallen from her lovely lips down the wires and into his ear. But he knew her; by God, he knew her. The locks had been changed, so the key she had to this place had been rendered useless.

  Women killed. They usually left their victims to die alone and choking on poison or in fumes created by fire, but they were capable. She was fit for just about anything, because she wasn’t right, wasn’t in one piece. It was almost as if that wonderful brain had a core solid enough to concentrate, pass exams and do her job, while outer layers had fragmented to the point where she was unable to control her emotions. She could kill. The neighbour needed to come and go quickly two or three times, or he might be . . . Oh, God. Frank stopped shivering and got on with his day.

  He had hung up on her. She’d had a really bad day yesterday, and had finished up so tired and muddled that the thought of murder had appealed, but oh no, she’d sat up for hours composing that wretched letter. On top of all that, someone was watching her. Her instinct for self-protection was always on guard, and she was definitely being followed. The pores on her arms and the back of her neck opened when she drove or walked through town. Why? Who?

  Bob had to be dealt with now. To get his hands on her, he would doubtless sell his soul if necessary. She wandered down to his office and posed in the doorway. ‘I’ve come to leave a deposit,’ she said. ‘If you’re interested, that is.’

  He blinked stupidly. ‘What?’

  ‘Stand up, idiot.’ She closed the door. ‘Come here.’

  It hit her like a ton of badly stacked bricks tumbling from a lorry. When he touched her, she trembled. His hungry kisses took away her breath, and he had to support her, since her legs turned to jelly. If it was like this with Bob, how might it have been with . . . with the other one? Frank.

  ‘Little minx,’ he whispered between kisses.

  She could do this. She could do anything at all if she put her mind to it. Yet this was not really connected to her mind. Relatively late in the day, she was discovering something about herself. Her body needed this. ‘I’m a virgin,’ she told him.

  ‘Then it’s time you got help.’ His hands began to travel. ‘We can’t do this here, Elaine.’

  ‘Then you must book a room for Mr and Mrs Whoever. I’ll see you after work.’ With enormous difficulty, she summoned up the strength to return to her own office. She had just learned something, and she didn’t know whether it was good or bad. It seemed that she needed sex, and just about any donor would do. Interesting. At lunchtime, she would buy something exciting to wear. Frank Charleson could have his little lard-soaked caterer. Elaine Lewis was going to inherit a law firm by marrying the nephew. Well, she might just do that. On the other hand, there could be someone else just round the corner . . .

  Richard Pearson placed a large brown envelope in Christine Lewis’s hands. ‘It’s all in there,’ he said, ‘photographs included.’

  Norma Charleson stared hard at her housekeeper. The poor woman was clearly on the verge of nervous collapse. ‘So Elaine is behaving like somebody who isn’t normal?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose she is fixated, almost obsessed. But don’t despair, because people do change, you know. I’ve caught many a man in a clinch with his extra-curricular woman, and he’s done an about turn, gone back to his family and stayed. Those who change partners are seldom happy. The problem for them is that when they ask their wives to take them back, it’s too late. Elaine may just snap out of this pattern. Never give up hope, whatever the nature of the problem.’

  ‘She’s watching my son? Does he know?’ Norma asked.

  The man explained that Frank was currently living with Polly and Callum Kennedy, though he drove daily to his shop on Rice Lane. ‘One of our girls had a cup of tea in Polly’s Parlour. The main topic of conversation was Polly’s wedding to Frank, though a lame man, presumed to be Callum, came through from the back and said something about the wicked lawyer getting to Frank first. Polly laughed and said Elaine was crazy.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lewis, but we write down anything that seems relevant.’

  Christine, after placing the envelope on a side table, curled her hands over the arms of her chair. Elaine was a proud girl. She would hate it if she thought people were discussing her. ‘My daughter’s very clever,’ she managed to say. ‘It’s just that . . . she changed when her daddy died. She carried on working at school, did very well, but she stopped completely when it came to enjoying herself. It was as if she had something to prove, and she’s still working at it.’

  Mr Pearson smiled reassuringly. ‘She’s probably having a late teenage. Perhaps she kept herself strong when her father died and missed out on the freedom years. They get crushes on people.’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘No, that’s what I’m trying to say. She postponed her teenage. If she were fifteen, I’d take the way she’s acting as part of the hormonal quagmire.’

  This was a nice man, a good man. Christine liked him straight away. He was one of the believable people who took his job seriously; if Elaine’s behaviour had disturbed him, then Elaine’s behaviour was abnormal or at least out of step with her chronological age. ‘So she just sat there in her car?’

  ‘For the most part, yes. But yesterday she went into the shop, and there were no other customers. After a few minutes, she emerged as white as a sheet. She seemed upset and angry.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Frank?’ Norma asked.

  ‘Not in my brief, Mrs Charleson. Unless asked, I won’t speak to anyone about the target. If I hear something, I’ll make a note, but I have no time for private detectives who chatter here, there and everywhere.’ He returned his attention to Christine. ‘Your daughter has a good career and is extraordinarily clever and attractive. But she’s obsessed where Mrs Charleson’s son is concerned. As I said before, she’s having her silly years relatively late.’

  ‘She rocks, counts things and talks to herself,’ Norma said. ‘Christine and I act as confidantes for each other, so we have few secrets. But thanks for what you’ve done, Mr Pearson.’

  He stood up. ‘Richard. I’ll leave you now. If you need me again, you know where I am. Stay here, I’ll let myself out.’

  Left alone, the two women stared bla
nkly into the middle distance for a while. ‘What must we do?’ Norma asked finally.

  ‘I’m going to Rice Lane,’ was Christine’s reply. ‘Frank’s a good soul, and he’ll tell me the truth.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘And if he hits the roof?’

  ‘I’ll catch him on his way back down from the roof and batter him with my handbag.’

  ‘Oh, Norma.’

  ‘I know. I do know. It’s a vale of tears. I’ll get my coat.’

  Christine, too shocked to feel much, found her own outerwear and handbag. It was too late to start worrying about involving poor Frank, too late for any kind of worry, because her plate was already full. Her perfect girl was not perfect, and Christine was focused on discovering the truth. There had to be help for Elaine, but would she accept help?

  ‘Come on, then,’ Norma called. ‘Let’s up and at ’em, Christine.’

  They left for Rice Lane.

  Neither of them could wait. Bob, having deliberately neglected to book a room earlier, marked himself and Elaine as having meetings in the city. He felt as if his ship had finally come in because she wanted him. Yet there was something not quite right about her . . .

  Like most young men, he needed relief. If love arrived, it would be an accident, but he was prepared to take the risk. She was an ice princess with a volcanic core; the cold side of her, the one people saw on a daily basis, would prevent any repercussions in the workplace.

  She was standing by his car. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘To my house. We don’t need a hotel, do we?’

  ‘No, I expect not.’

  He crossed the city, drove up Smithdown Road towards Woolton, and pulled into the driveway of a pleasant detached house named Cherry Hinton on the edge of the village. ‘Here we are.’