Midnight on Lime Street (40 page)

Nellie shrugged. ‘If we can’t find the whale, we need plankton. Fetch, Mary.’

‘I need to think overnight,’ she answered. ‘I mean, there’s—’

‘What?’ Nellie asked.

‘She’s talking to somebody. There’s a man in there with her.’

‘Don’t panic,’ Eddie whispered. They were parked in a street at right angles to the old woman’s house. ‘Mary, lie down. Nellie, take the dog for a walk.’ When
Nellie and Nelson had left the car, Eddie drove slowly and turned right into Boss’s street. ‘Stay down,’ he hissed, ‘he knows you.’

‘I’m down. Be careful, Eddie.’

He slid out of the car. Be careful? The bastard had murdered Eddie’s best mate, so carefulness was a long way down on his agenda.

‘We’ll get m-murdered when Gordy finds out.’ John’s stammer was rearing its head due to panic. ‘Why the bloody hell do we l-listen to him,
Phil?’

Phil shrugged; he had no idea. ‘We were supposed to have a walk on the beach,’ he said.

Ian spoke up. ‘Southport’s tame. We’re going to Liverpool.’

John opened his mouth to speak, thought for a second, and closed it again; what was the point? He caught Phil’s eye, nodded and communicated silently with a nod. The train was slowing, and
the two friends of Ian’s rose to their feet and moved towards the door.

‘What are you doing?’ Ian asked.

‘Getting off the train,’ Phil replied calmly.

‘Why?’ the leader of the escape committee wanted to know. ‘This is Formby.’

‘Because we owe Gordy.’ John, minus the stammer, drew himself up to full height. ‘And we owe Mr Crawford, Mr Macey, Babs and Sal. The girls will have told all three men, and
you can bet your bottom dollar there’ll be somebody looking for us in Liverpool. Don’t worry about Boss, because you’re more likely to be snatched by police or Lippy Macey. Good
luck – you’ll need it.’

‘Traitors,’ Ian snarled.

‘Come with us?’ Phil held out an arm.

‘No, there’s nothing in Southport for me.’ He sat back. ‘Go on then, yellow-bellies.’

The cowards alighted at Formby Station.

Ian, wearing a deep frown, stayed where he was and folded his arms. Deep down, he knew he was being stupid, but he clung to the idea of freedom. Would he ever be free? When was this court case
promised by Macey going to happen? How could anyone fight the Church all the way to the Vatican? He was scared. What should he do?

The train started to move slowly. Before it got the chance to pick up speed, he hurled himself out onto the platform, landing safely on hands and feet. John ran to pick him up. ‘You damn
fool,’ he snapped, stutter-free. ‘Trying to get yourself killed, are you?’ Phil sped past the pair, caught up with the quickening train and slammed the swinging door shut.

Ian clambered to his feet and pulled himself away from John’s hold. ‘Leave me alone,’ he snapped. He didn’t want to admit that panic had overtaken determination, that he
was scared of going to Liverpool by himself, that he was upset because of the near-certainty that Sally hadn’t picked him. Bill hadn’t even bothered to fight back; how humiliating that
had been. When was a fight not a fight? When it was a beating – that was the answer.

‘We know,’ John said softly, ‘because we’re hemmed in again like we were in that bloody hut. It’s just one of them things, eh? Like we won’t be on
Boss’s Christmas list, and some of the brothers could be looking for us to try and shut us up. We’ve no choice, Ian.’

With no choice, they stood together in a shelter and waited for the Southport bus; with no choice, they were dragged into Lippy Macey’s car to be scolded by Gordy. The seller of tickets at
Southport Station had recognized their photographs. They were causing a lot of trouble and showing no gratitude whatsoever. Lippy was bending over backwards for them; he had almost reached
agreement with the Brothers Pastoral, who were considering replacing the three sinners with lay teachers, preferably female, who would supervise the pupils’ welfare. ‘If that’s
what it takes and they’re willing to comply, the school will get an extra year’s lease,’ Gordy concluded.

Lippy chipped in. ‘There’s another clause, boys. The three predators must be unfrocked, and they have to face a judge and jury, or no agreement and the school closes.’

‘Thanks,’ the three boys said in unison.

‘Sorry,’ Ian added.

‘We’ve all been young,’ Mr Macey said, ‘but you need to find some patience. This type of reckless behaviour isn’t acceptable, and it must stop.’

The leader spoke up again. ‘It was me,’ he admitted quietly. ‘We’ve been locked up a long time, you see. And I was in charge of the breakout from school, so John and Phil
think they need to go wherever I go. I’ve been in a bad mood, see.’

Gordy shook his head. ‘Bill said you battered him.’

‘I did.’

‘Because young Sally chose him.’

Ian nodded. ‘Yes, and he never raised a hand to me.’

‘He knows you’re only fifteen, Ian. Bill’s a man, bigger, older and stronger than you. And he knows how you feel. You shouldn’t go through life with your fists,
but.’

‘I know.’

‘Then you stay in Dove Cottage and behave yourselves while Mr Macey tries to get the eejit monks brought to justice. All we ask of you is patience.’

‘Don’t hurt Brother Bennet or Brother Williams,’ John begged. ‘They’re good blokes, Mr Macey. Bennet’s the head, and Williams is an amazing teacher, very
quiet and well liked. He’s never hit a kid as far as I know, and we nearly always remember his lessons. We don’t like to disappoint him.’

‘I’ll bear all that in mind,’ Macey said as he pulled into the Crawford estate. ‘Now, go and play with donkeys or stay in and do homework.’

Three chastened boys left the car.

‘You took on a lot there, Mr Macey.’

‘Did I, now? Well I happen to think those boys are worth saving. Bye for now.’

Gordy stood outside Dove Cottage. He and Babs still had to face Don Crawford. ‘Bugger,’ he muttered. ‘I’m putting the kettle on.’

Sitting or lying on a bed in the vast kitchen of Meadowbank Farm, Eve Mellor had plenty of thinking time. Sometimes, she wondered whether she might be obsessed, yet she
remained incapable of controlling her instincts. The farm was up and running again with Kate in charge, so Eve was left to her own devices for several hours each day. It was him; she knew it was
him.

She had been out several times on Thursday evenings, but she’d never seen him. The devil seemed to be looking after his own.

‘I have you worked out, Carson.’ Some woman, possibly his wife or his mother, had pissed him off. So from women he expected punishment in order to be angry enough to go and . . . She
swallowed. Angela had served a purpose, or so it would appear. Perhaps being so close to death made Eve more acutely aware, more sensitive. She grinned. Mam had always said that Eve was as
sensitive as a docker’s hook.

‘Docker’s hook?’ she whispered. ‘I could do with one of them to rip his bloody face off.’

It was his eyes, she decided. Most of the time, they seemed flat, expressionless and almost dead. Then, all of a sudden, they would flash, as if some hidden thought had dug its way out of his
brain all the way to his face. ‘It’s him,’ she repeated. ‘I know it’s him.’ The medicines were helping, but she couldn’t do the job alone, so she would get
Kate to phone Bert Heslop. A retired policeman, Bert was good at finding folk. ‘I’ll put a stop to him,’ Eve muttered. ‘There’s a place in hell for him. And I’ll
phone Heslop myself.’

Eve soldiered on bravely, trying hard not to make the household miserable. Her attitude remained decided, though she was occasionally visited by pain that became almost severe
enough to warrant a scream. With her bed under a kitchen window and a telephone extension by her side, she scribbled her stories, stopping from time to time to ponder the case of the Mersey
Monster. She had months or perhaps weeks to live, and she wanted him dealt with before she shuffled off. The discomfort would worsen, and she needed to be tougher than tanned leather.

The nearer she came to death, the more certain she was that Neil Carson fitted the bill. He had shifty eyes and a weak chin, never a good combination. He wanted more punishment than Angela was
willing to deliver; any bloke who arrived in a flowered shirt with a matching floral tie had to be weird. And he craved to see his own blood, so he was best out of here. The man was crackers.
During that very dramatic phone call, he had lost his temper completely. Yes. He was quite possibly the perpetrator. And he worked on turn-about shifts . . .

Eve had looked for him twice, but had failed to find him. With winter beginning to tighten its grip, sitting in a car looking for a killer was not comfortable, especially for a sick woman. She
needed help.

The running of the business was now in Kate’s hands, and she was doing an excellent job, thereby allowing Eve time and opportunity to write and to wonder about Mr Postman. Every day, the
girls came in to eat and to keep her company, so living in a kitchen was a sight better than mouldering in some hospital ward. The stories would never be finished unless Kate took them up after
Eve’s death, yet they served a purpose, as if they cleansed the soul.

It was Friday. Belle had phoned before lunch for a chat, and she had informed Eve that although her instructor seemed on the brink of collapse, poor man, she had sailed through her driving test
without killing anyone, so that was a bit of good news. She and Tom were off to Jacob Martindale’s jewellery shop on Smithdown Road. Jacob, long dead, had been founder of the chain.

Belle and Tom were returning mended timepieces, while young Lisa was going to meet the children of Andrew Martindale’s lady friend, so Belle seemed happy with her lot as Mrs Tom Duffield.
Babs, too, had phoned, and Eve had laughed enough to cause a stitch in her already troubled right side.

Kate arrived at the bedside. ‘Cuppa tea, love?’ she asked.

‘Not yet, pal. I’m still getting over that phone call from Babs. Sal’s got a hobby – well, she had. Collecting boyfriends, she was. Oh, and Babs is pregnant, so she has
to marry that horse man – the Irish one. The boys who were in the scout hut ran away and were brought back, but oh . . .’ She reached for a handkerchief. ‘Hang on.’

Eve dried her eyes. ‘It’s the way Babs says it all – she should be writing, not me. She paints pictures with words, and she uses loud colours, but you never know what’s
coming next. I asked her did Don Crawford know about the pregnancy, and she told me he did, so I said, “How did he take it?” Her answer was that he’d taken it badly, gone a funny
colour and might have swallowed too many of his pills, so he was down Southport Hospital getting looked at for overdoses and what have you. Laugh? I had to change me knickers.’

The new boss of Meadowbank sank into a chair. ‘Who’s with him at the ozzy?’

‘The lad who was beat up by the other lad. The one whose mate got murdered by the drugs people. Bill, I think he’s called. Only he’s being checked for concussion, so
Don’s likely on his own. His head got banged on the floor.’

Kate’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘Don’s head?’

‘No, the lad what got beat up by the other lad. You don’t listen.’

‘But which lad was it who beat up the other lad with the dead mate, Evie?’

‘I’ve got no bloody idea, have I? You know stuff happens round Babs – she’s like a magnet for trouble. And that horse comes into the kitchen every day, clears a five-foot
fence and wanders inside for apples and carrots and anything else that’s hanging about – like cakes. Geese flap in with hens and dogs and cats – it’s like Noah’s ark.
Babs can’t ride the bleeding horse while she’s pregnant – oh, I do miss her.’

Kate smiled. ‘I thought you might.’

‘Well, I do, so you thought right for once.’

Kate sighed. ‘I never thought I’d be saying this, but so do I. The new girls are great, don’t get me wrong, but Babs is tough with a heart of gold underneath all the
cheek.’

‘She thanked me, and she meant it,’ Eve whispered.

‘No!’

Eve nodded. ‘There was a little tear in her eye and a catch in her voice, know what I mean? But she’s got used to Southport, and I think she loves her new job now that Don’s
being sedated. The two girls cook and clean and give him his medicine and a bath when he’s able. When he’s not, they give him a bed bath. I know they would have gone with him to the
hospital, but Babs has got an appointment with her GP, and young Sal’s going with her to the doc’s while the Irish fellow keeps an eye on the runaways. Babs will be starting on iron and
vitamins, I suppose, all that rubbish you have to swallow when you’re expecting.’

Kate delivered a sad smile. ‘So many changes, eh?’

‘Yes.’ The woman in the bed paused. ‘And more changes to come.’

‘I’m scared, Evie.’

‘And I’m not? Anyway, I’ve other things to worry about.’

Kate’s gaze drifted towards the window. Her best friend, her dying best friend, was about to embark on yet another lecture relating to Neil Carson and his weak chin, his bad taste in
clothing, his wicked temper and the fact that he begged for punishments too brutal even for Angela.

‘I’m handing it over,’ Eve said.

‘Handing which to what?’

The woman in the bed grinned. ‘Bert Heslop. Remember him? Dapper little chap with a muzzy and very small feet, drives a Mini now and makes it look like a big car. For a dwarf, he’s a
very clever man.’

‘Private dick?’

‘That’s the one. I still see him in town sometimes. He followed some of our nastier customers when we first kicked off here at the farm. He can follow
him
now. Straighten
your face before the wind changes, Miss O’Gorman. My mind is made up.’

Kate O’Gorman sighed heavily. ‘Yes, I remember the little chap from way back. But how many hundreds of thousands of blokes are in Liverpool, Evie? And out of all of them,
you’ve picked this Neil Carson one. What if you’re wrong?’

‘Then Bert Heslop will tell me I’m wrong, won’t he?’

‘I wish you’d just let it go, Evie.’

‘I’ll let go when I’m in me box. Go and peel your veg, missus. I’ve better things to do than waste time watching you in a state. He’s a shift worker at the post
office. He kills when he’s on lates. And thicken your custard a bit; the last lot looked as if it had been squeezed out of a teenager’s acne.’