A Mersey Mile (48 page)

‘But might he still be alive? Is there a chance?’

Mac shook his head. ‘Nay, Paul. He’d ripped the flesh off his back with hooks on the end of a home-made cat o’ nine tails. He’d poured the contents of Gladys’s ash
pit in the wounds, and he wore a couple of sacks pinned together, but we could see the damage where the material was torn. There’s no way the man could have survived that. It looks as if he
swallowed all old Matt’s medicines after ripping himself to shreds. The empty bottles and boxes were all there.’

‘But he gave the medicines back to the doctor.’

Mac shook his head. ‘He said he’d given them to Nurse Barton, the big woman with the bike. Morphine, some of it. It was planned, Paul. He must have told the doctor one thing and the
nurse another. He’s been dead for a while, quite a few hours. I tried not to disturb anything, but I did touch a wrist to look for a pulse, and he was cold, very cold.’

Paul swallowed hard. ‘Go and tell my dad, Mac. I’ll have to stay and look after Drovers. Explain it all for me and get me some clean clothes. We can’t have her coming back home
to find dead animals and the place gone to pot.’

‘The police will want to talk to you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Will I get one of your brothers?’

‘If anybody can be spared, I’d be glad of the company tonight.’

Alone again, Paul folded his arms on the table and rested his head on his hands. Poor Gladys. That rat of a husband had walked out on her, and Don Hall had been her salvation. Now he, too, had
gone. But why? He’d been quiet of late, but he’d never been a great talker. Tears gathered and poured, wetting Paul’s fingers and the tablecloth. But tears wouldn’t clear
the yard or tidy the hen house.

He sat up. The fire was happier, so he riddled more ashes and stuck a shive of bread on the end of a toasting fork. There was work to be done, and a body needed fuel. For Gladys’s sake,
the Cropper brothers would keep this place ticking over. Big Mac and his family would help, as would many people from nearby farms. Toast and another cuppa, then the show would go on.

It was a sombre gathering at the house of Mr and Mrs Richard Pearson. Frank brought his mother, who was having a refresher course in driving so that she might take the reins of
her property business once more. Still nervous about taking charge of a car, she sometimes relied on chauffeurs.

Three people sat in a heavily charged silence, because no one knew what to say to the fourth. Christine Pearson, mother to a woman who was now under arrest, sat still as a stone close to a fire
that failed to warm her. The government, currently in crisis over Suez, was threatened by a beautiful girl, and the beautiful girl was Christine’s fault.

Richard took Frank through to the back of the house. ‘You know that chap who worked with her,’ Richard whispered.

‘Yes, Bob Laithwaite. Bob’s become a good friend. He’s liaising with the NSPCC over the Open Door project we’re working on; it’s for kids in trouble.’

‘I’d like to talk to him, Frank.’

‘That can be arranged. I’ll get you an appointment with him. He’s a good chap. He often comes for a meal at our house, brings his girl with him. You’ll find him easy to
talk to.’ He placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder. ‘This is going to be like bereavement for Christine.’

‘I know, son.’

‘Bob took care to warn Elaine at your wedding. He told her that her goings-on had attracted attention. Try to hold yourself together, Richard. Christine needs you now. And get a doctor,
because she may need help sleeping. As for feeding her – well, it won’t be a walk in the park. But she’s stronger than she looks. Anyone who could manage my mother before her
epiphany proved the existence of backbone. Hang on.’ He crept into the hall. Christine was crying. Frank treated himself to a sigh of relief. The dam had burst; thank goodness for that.

Norma, kneeling on the floor next to her friend, held on tightly while the sobbing worsened. Frank couldn’t help displaying a tight smile. Mother’s arthritic knees seemed to have
taken a turn for the better. It was plain that she really cared for Christine, and that fact gladdened her son’s heart for a few seconds.

Norma glanced at Richard. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll stay the night. I know you look after her well, but sometimes, a woman needs a woman.’

Richard nodded his agreement.

Norma’s attention shifted to her son. ‘Ask Polly to pack me a few bits from the granny flat – underclothes and toiletries, mainly. She’ll know what I want; she’s a
sensible girl.’

‘Right, Mother.’ He was proud of his Polly. She could probably deal with anyone from earls to tramps, because she made things happen and treated everyone the same. ‘I’d
best go and open up,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring your things after closing time, Mother.’ He retained the inability to offer comfort or comment to Christine. After shaking
Richard’s hand, he touched the weeping woman’s hair. ‘See you later, then.’ His voice was gruff, because it strove to cover a plethora of emotions including sympathy, anger
and a ton weight of frustration. He could offer no real treatment for Christine’s wounds.

He sat in his van and cursed under his breath. How had such a lovely woman managed to produce a monster? From High Court to Cabinet via back benches, onward through police and embassy staff,
Elaine Lewis had cut a swathe through England’s capital. She was greedy, self-serving, narcissistic and mad. On top of all that, she was dangerously clever, though not quite clever enough, it
would seem. According to press reports, somebody from the mansion flats had broken the story. It was probably just as well, all things considered. Perhaps further damage might have ensued had
Elaine not been stopped.

He needed Polly. At times like this, she was both balm and anchor.

Before sallying forth to pick up some goods in Netherton, he took a detour and called in at Brookside Cottage. He gave Norma’s request to his wife, who had been listening to the radio.
‘Oh, Frank,’ she breathed. ‘How is Mrs Lewis – I mean Pearson?’

‘Christine’s weeping, love.’

‘Good. It’s best to let it out. Our Cal didn’t cry for a week when Mam died. Tears are part of the healing. Come here, my lovely lad.’

They sat on the sofa, each clinging to the other. ‘You read these things, or hear them on the wireless, but they’re never about people you know, are they?’ she said.

‘It’s our turn,’ he replied. ‘And poor Christine’s.’

Polly planted a kiss on his temple. ‘Never mind. Elaine never got to mess with your credentials, did she?’

He sniffed. ‘She’s a predator.’

‘And I’m not.’

‘No. You’re just a pest, and I love you. Sometimes, I need to come home and tell you that.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Hmm what?’

‘Glad I’m not at the cafe.’

‘So am I, babe. Because loving you is no joke.’

‘Except in the cafe.’

‘Except in the cafe.’

She awarded him a dirty look, but it was never collected, because he was dozing in her arms. To hell with the shop, she told herself firmly. Until Beth woke, she would hang on to her man, the
beautiful soul who would always be her first naughty, adorable child.

‘Wake up, Polly Poppet.’ Frank had a Moppet and a Poppet to care for. The former was in Seaforth with Frank’s mother, while the latter had ceased to be a
morning person since giving birth to said former. He considered using a flannel dipped in cold water, but his little wife was capable of being quite fierce if provoked. ‘Polly? Come on,
sweetheart. Open your eyes and give your old man a smile. We need to get a move on, love.’

‘No, leave me alone. It’s the middle of the night.’ She rolled over, taking a pillow with her. Cuddling this item, she drifted again towards sleep, grumbling softly as she
tried to reclaim her rightful place as a resident of unconsciousness.

He walked round the bed and switched on a table lamp. ‘Today is London day,’ he said. ‘I’ve run your bath. Open your eyes.’

‘ ’S not,’ she replied. ‘London tomorrow. Go ’way. I’m having a lovely dream.’

‘It is tomorrow, love.’

‘Is it?’ At last, one bright eye glared at him. ‘It’s never tomorrow; it’s always today.’

He couldn’t argue with that.

‘Where’s Beth?’

‘We took her to Mother’s house last night – remember?’

‘Oh. Yes. London.’ She groaned. ‘I’ll have a bath when we get back, because I’ll want to scrape away the contamination.’ She sat up, stretched, yawned and
looked at the luminous alarm clock. ‘Five o’clock?’

‘It is. We leave Scotland Road at six.’

‘We need our heads testing,’ she complained before yawning and stretching again.

‘It was your idea, babe.’

‘Then I’ll have the first appointment with the head doctor.’ She looked him up and down. ‘I love you,’ she told him. He looked good in black. Actually, he looked
good in more or less anything.

Frank laughed. ‘Loved by a pest who’s first in the queue for head testing. I love you, too.’ Several times a day, they reminded each other that they were still young, still
head over heels, and still needed one another. ‘So I’d better be second in the queue for analysis.’

‘You’ll always be first in line for me, Frank. And you’re blushing.’

‘Is it a long queue?’

‘Not particularly. Just you, Jimmy Nuttall, and Dusty Den’s horse, though I’m not sure about Flick; I think he’s only in it for my carrots and apples. Oh, and he likes
the crusts off brown bread.’

‘What about my friend Chris, then?’

Her jaw dropped slightly. ‘Father Foley?’

‘Oh yes. He said if he hadn’t been ordained, I would have had serious competition. He’s just a dirty old wolf in a priest’s vestments. Now you’re the one
blushing.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are.’

She threw the pillow at him. ‘It’s hormones,’ she pretended to snap. ‘And it’s your fault. I’m expecting your son. I was going to tell you after
London.’

Frank swallowed hard before sinking onto the edge of the bed. ‘Oh, Polly,’ was all he managed at first, hugging her closely. Seconds passed before he added, ‘I know you wanted
them close together, but this is a bit quick. My son?’

‘Nobody else’s, that’s certain. I can tell it’s a lad because I feel different from how I was with Beth. Remember? I was sick from the very start.’

He pulled himself together. ‘Have you been to see the doc?’

‘Not yet. I don’t need to. I’ll go tomorrow or next week.’

‘But London. Are you all right for London? All that way, then standing there after the petition goes in?’

‘I’m as fit as a flea. The real question should be, is London ready for us?’

He kissed her before lifting her off the bed. ‘Get dressed.’

‘Are you crying, Frank?’

‘No. Stand on your own two feet, missus.’ He set her down.

She knew he was shedding happy tears, but she left him to compose himself while she had a quick wash and donned funereal garb. She couldn’t help grinning, because she guessed that a
certain black, floaty nightdress was partly responsible for her condition. He’d bought the bloody thing for her, so yes, it was all his doing, bless him. She was delighted. If Beth
couldn’t have a twin, she could become a sister at a very early age.

‘Are you pleased?’ he called from the bedroom.

‘About the baby? Yes, of course I am. Are you?’

‘Yes. Very happy.’

She returned, pulling a dark navy blue sweater over her head. ‘Wreaths?’

‘Den has them. Chris has the coffins, Ida has the banners and I’ve got the petition; it weighs a bloody ton.’

Polly nodded thoughtfully. ‘Do we trust Ida with banners? Do we trust her with anything?’

‘No, but Hattie will keep her in order. I’ll go and make a bit of breakfast.’

She placed a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be worrying about this.’ The other palm patted her belly. ‘They’ll both have a playmate, and they’ll help each other like
Cal and I did. A child needs another child. I’ll be sleeping in chain mail after this one, because three’s a crowd, four’s a job lot, and five’s a Sunday afternoon football
team in the park, so you’ll be rationed.’

‘I’ve got a good tin opener, Pol. Oh, and some wire cutters.’

‘I know, love. We’ll have however many we’re sent, eh? Go on. I want a bacon butty with HP and a gallon of tea.’

‘No morning sickness?’

‘I told you, it’s a boy.’

He went downstairs. Polly sat for a minute on the bed, her right hand twisting Ellen’s engagement ring. ‘He’s happy, Ellie,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll look after
him and keep him smiling. God bless you, babe.’

Richard Pearson gazed into the sad eyes of his exhausted wife. She had lost weight, and the charcoal suit hung loosely about her thinner body. ‘We don’t need to go,
you know,’ he said quietly. The whites of her eyes remained pink after days of weeping, and her face was creased with lines of worry. All he wanted was for her to be well and untroubled.
‘We don’t need to go,’ he repeated. ‘Polly and Frank will understand – so will the rest of them. You need rest, Christine.’

‘I have to go, but I don’t want to be on a coach with other people. As long as we get there by twelve, we’ll be in good time. I’m sure a policeman will direct us to
Downing Street. The press will be there, Richard, but they won’t know I’m her mother. We can share the driving.’

‘You’re worn out.’ He took hold of her hands. ‘Have you changed your mind about having Elaine here?’

Christine shook her head. ‘No, I have not,’ she replied emphatically. ‘I’m not going to look after her and make sure she answers the conditions of her bail, and
you’re certainly not taking responsibility for her. No, Elaine is not coming to live with us.’ She drew herself up.

‘But Christine—’

‘She can go into a bail hostel with other criminals. I wash my hands of her. Plus, I won’t have her anywhere near Frank and Polly, not after what Bob Laithwaite said to you. If she
can threaten national security, imagine what damage she could do here in Liverpool. She’s . . . she’s manipulative.’

‘But will you live to regret not offering your support?’

‘No. I’ll either drop dead with shame or pull myself together and enjoy my happy second marriage.’ She smiled wanly. ‘What did you take on, Rich?’