A Mersey Mile (44 page)

But one urge dominated his psyche and his soul, and that was the need to confess. Guilt hung heavily on Catholic shoulders, as it was a weighty package placed there by teachers and priests when
a child was still an infant. From the age of seven, Don had been aware of sin and its subdivisions. A venial sin might be eradicated by an Act of Contrition, but a mortal misdeed demanded a higher
price, and he should pay it.

Yes, the hangman awaited him. The only person to whom he might confess was Gladys, and what would be the point of that? Unforgivable even by the ordained, he knew there was nothing Gladys could
do to relieve him of the burden. He must continue to bear it alone.

He stood up. The coops were as secure as possible, while a grieving woman needed his support. She had to be cared for. The last words on Matt Mason’s lips had been ‘Take care of each
other.’ A man’s dying wishes must be obeyed, and the taking care of Gladys was no onerous task. Don had to be strong for her sake until she recovered from bereavement.

He walked back towards the house and his daily dose of whiskey. She would have bottle and glass ready on a tray with his newspaper, and she might well have gone upstairs to run his bath. How
much longer would he live the idyll? When would they come for him? Should he move on and save her from the grief ? Many questions, but few answers.

As dusk fell, Elaine gave her mother a post office box number for mail. ‘It’s the only way,’ she explained. ‘I move about so much, so a friend picks up
letters for me. If you mark the envelope urgent, she’ll make sure I get the message as quickly as possible.’

‘Are you leaving already?’ Christine asked, her face displaying dismay.

‘I must, darling. Have to be in Italy next week, and I’ve a million things to do, calls to make, appointments to keep. Be happy,’ she ordered before turning to Richard Pearson,
head of the Pearson Agency. ‘Look after her, please.’ He had probably been the chief of all the followers, and the smile she awarded him didn’t touch her eyes.

‘Of course I shall.’

Elaine had filled in the blanks. Another guest had told her that Richard Pearson was a private detective, and she still retained the memory of being watched and pursued. Christine had married
the man who had shared with her a level of betrayal that was unforgivable. Bride and groom knew that Elaine had been obsessed with Frank Charleson. On top of that, her first bed partner was here
with a very attractive woman. Everyone present probably knew the whole story. But far worse than that was the fact that Lanky Laithwaite was aware of her current lifestyle. If he knew, how many
more here and in London held the truth? She couldn’t stop, not yet, not until her bank balance became healthier. And there was the other thing – she needed sex like other people needed
food. Being paid by the elite for her services added seasoning to the recipe.

She kissed her mother and, without awarding her stepfather a second glance, left the house in as slow and dignified a manner as she could manage. The urge to scream and rant bubbled inside her
chest. She felt desperate almost to the point of no return, yet she managed not to explode. This was a feeling she’d experienced last year, when crazy thoughts about petrol and matches had
skipped through her brain. She must remain calm, sensible and on the right side of her temper. But she also needed to be more careful in London.

What could Bob Laithwaite prove at the end of the day? That she entertained gentlemen with cocktails and dinner, that she enjoyed the company of intelligent conversationalists who might improve
her chances when her modelling career was over and she returned to the law? Rumour? Did it have any real value?

A knuckle tapped on the windscreen.

She wound down her window. ‘What now?’ she asked. It was Bob Laithwaite, her second mistake, her first bedfellow. ‘What?’ she snapped.

‘Four little words,’ he said. ‘
News of the World
.’

Who would dare, she wondered. ‘Really? I have no idea what you mean.’ Would he go so far as to bring down members of the Cabinet, bigwig barristers, a judge or two? ‘Keep
guessing, idiot, because you couldn’t be further from the truth if you tried. Yes, I entertain important people with their wives or husbands. Yes, my dinner parties are famous. Do you think
I’d risk my own reputation and my own chances by walking on the wild side? When my looks fade and the modelling work peters out, I’ll have the right contacts.’

He laughed. In a sense, the woman continued dangerously naive. ‘Some of us who practise north of Watford do have influence, you know. And we aren’t deaf.’

‘I’m so pleased for you.’

‘And I am warning you, Elaine.’

‘Are you? And those you seek to destroy by your lies don’t deserve such treatment. Feel free to talk to them and their families, since all are welcome visitors at my
parties.’

Bob paused for a few seconds before replying. Perhaps she wasn’t naive at all. Her dinner parties were likely to be great successes, because she was a perfectionist to the point of
obsession, but what did her dinner parties hide? She had a great brain and was clever enough to work out that her body was worth money. The fashion designers of Europe paid her well, but men of
real means probably paid more. She had made herself into a socialite, possibly with a male companion by her side, a stooge whose sole purpose would be to deflect rumour. But rumour had begun to
seep northward and must be rife in the capital. ‘How much does a high-class whore earn these days, Elaine?’ It was fleeting, but he was almost sure that uncertainty visited her eyes
until she blinked it away.

‘Mum!’ she called.

Bob stood back to allow Christine to take his place.

‘Please visit us soon, Elaine,’ Christine begged.

‘I shall. But I must go now. Things to do, people to see. Enjoy Paris.’ She drove away.

Christine spoke to Bob. ‘Is she all right?’ she asked.

‘She’s just as she was when she worked with me,’ he replied truthfully.

Christine noted that the words had been chosen with care. Her daughter, successful in the world of modelling, a proven favourite in law, was not happy. Elaine seemed to have no capacity for
happiness. ‘Bob?’

‘Yes?’

She breathed deeply. ‘Did you have a relationship with her?’

‘No,’ was his immediate reply. ‘I spent an afternoon with her at my house, but I couldn’t . . . it seemed I didn’t come up to scratch on her dance card. She’s
needful, very needful.’

‘Oh? In what way?’

‘In every way. She demands constant attention. That’s just the way she is. Try not to worry about her. She looked beautiful today, didn’t she?’

Christine nodded. ‘All I want is for her to be happy.’

Bob just smiled. This good woman’s wedding reception had already been disturbed by Elaine, and he wasn’t going to make matters worse. ‘She’s having a great time, better
than any debutante, always entertaining people, always travelling. I think she’s as happy as she’ll ever be, so stop worrying.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

When they returned to the house, the cabaret was under way. Mary Bartlett, the butcher’s wife, had teamed up with Hattie and Ida, and all three were ruining ‘Sisters’. Instead
of the usual lyrics, they sang about their trades: ‘When a certain gentleman arrived from Rome, all Ida had to offer was
Woman’s Own
,’ and later, ‘Cauliflower,
beans and ham on the bone.’ It was tuneless, it didn’t scan, and everyone loved it, especially those who had drunk more than a drop too much.

Linda’s mother, drunk and happy, sang ‘Danny Boy’, which brought tears to many eyes. The tears were not born of emotion, though many of those present were sad to hear the
murder of such a pretty song. Chris Foley rescued the situation by producing a harmonica and leading a sing-song.

Norma kept an eye on the bride. It seemed that the brief return of Elaine had not done much good, because Christine was quiet. ‘If only she’d stayed away,’ Norma whispered to
her son.

‘Snap,’ he replied. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

She decided not to leave the job to Polly. ‘I’ve bought a bungalow. This house is now in your name, so do as you like with it. Polly would like to live here. She told me
so.’

He grinned broadly. ‘That’s right, kick me in my weak spot, Mother.’

‘Please live here, Frank.’

‘We probably will, so don’t start fretting. I’ll have to let the flat.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’ve improved in many ways, Mother. Thank you for the
house. Polly will love the garden; so will Moppet when she gets mobile.’ He shook his head. ‘Imagine that. A mobile Moppet. When the screaming and nappies die out, the chasing around
begins. I can’t wait.’

‘Oh, you’ll be all right, son. Polly can manage just about anything, can’t she?’

He blinked. Having suspected for some time that Mother approved of his wife, he was none the less surprised when she verbalized her opinion. ‘She’s capable. Keeps me in my place for
a start.’

‘You love her.’

‘Always have, but she turned me down the first time I asked. And the second time, too. She finally married me for the
Beano
, the
Dandy
and a washing machine. I threw in a
fridge, and made sure she was pregnant, so I had her cornered. It was damned hard work, believe me.’

Norma wasn’t fooled. Polly’s love for Frank was clear; it shone in her eyes every time she looked at him. ‘You seem to have some sense after all,’ she told him.
‘Whilst I was obviously without any.’

‘True, but you’re getting there.’ He looked round to make sure nobody was listening. ‘What did you really think of Elaine?’

‘The fashion model?’ She shrugged. ‘Something wrong with her. Christine deprived herself of all kinds just to get her through university.’

‘I know. The ingratitude of children, eh, Mother?’

‘It’s more than ingratitude, Frank. She needs help.’

‘Yes, she does.’ He knew that only too well.

Chris Foley had seen enough coffins to last him until he needed one for himself. ‘Whose bright and totally stupid idea was this?’ he asked.

‘Yours,’ chorused Frank and Polly.

The priest mopped his brow. ‘You should have had more sense than to listen to me. When did I last have an intelligent thought?’

Man and wife stared down at their paintbrushes. Polly scratched her head. ‘Erm . . . Frank?’

‘Give me a minute. I’m sick of this black paint. Er . . . he got the coaches to take us to London, had Kaybee neutered, decorated the kitchen after nearly burning it down. He must
have had a bit of sense when he did those things.’ They both paused to study the parish priest of St Columba’s.

‘I doubt he leaves the price on the bottom of his shoes,’ Polly said.

‘Do you want a black eye?’ Frank raised his loaded paintbrush.

‘Not today, thanks.’

‘Or I could do you a red one if you’d rather.’

‘Trying to give them up,’ she said before turning on their ordained friend. ‘You said it was multiple murder by the authorities. You said we had to have cardboard coffin lids,
black on one side, white with red writing on the other. One for each street, one for each business, one for each church and school. You’re on churches and schools, Frank’s on
businesses, and I’m on the streets.’

Chris shook his head sadly. ‘Frank, you must get Polly off the streets. She’s enough to do without selling her body for recreational purposes.’

Frank laughed. ‘No, she’s given it up, because they wanted change out of a ten-bob note. She wore out four pairs of shoes, but her mattress is still brand new, practically
unused.’

Chris eyed the relatively new bride. ‘Is she no good?’

Frank shook his head. ‘She’s rubbish. Except when she’s with me.’

They all continued painting their miniature coffin lids. The London march was just weeks away, so Ida and Hattie were busy collecting signatures for the petition. Although their protest might
have little or no effect, it was vital that parliamentarians understood that people had power.

‘How’s the cafe?’ Chris asked.

‘A riot,’ Polly replied. ‘Carla and her husband have moved in. Their surname’s Cook, and customers were calling them Can’t Cook, but Cal gave them some lessons.
Hattie sometimes helps with breakfasts, so her shop doesn’t open till ten o’clock, and Ida does dinners, because she has a lad who serves in the newsagent’s. They’ve had the
fire engines out once, but people kept going in for the entertainment value. At the start, everything was either raw or overdone, and the accidents continue, but it gives folk something to gossip
about.’

Frank laughed. ‘They’ll keep going till the bulldozers arrive.’

‘Did you hear about Jimmy Nuttall?’ Chris asked.

‘What about him?’ Frank sat back on his heels. Painting in black was very depressing.

‘He soled and heeled his boots with his first lot of bacon, said they lasted a lot longer than when the cobbler mended them. Oh, and he said the eggs were so hard-boiled, they’d have
done as golf balls if they’d been a different shape.’

‘Never mind the golf, Father Chris,’ Polly advised. ‘There’s God and there’s golf, and they both begin with G, but don’t confuse them. Paint your
lids.’

Chris painted his lids. Women these days were very bossy.

The lift attendant didn’t think much of the newest tenant of Hogarth Court. She was a snob. Blissfully unaware of his own inverted snobbery, he scarcely looked at her
whenever she encroached on his beautifully kept territory.

She settled herself on an upholstered bench, her feet resting on good Wilton carpet. Desmond was on duty today. He wore an interesting and rather regal uniform, and she approved of his
existence, but he was too low down the pecking order to merit much attention. He closed the gates and pressed the button for her floor.

Desmond, used to lords, ladies, the high-born and the well educated, shared her unspoken opinion. She was merely middle class, which fact was displayed by her silence. Other residents spoke to
him, allowed him to help with the carrying of shopping; they shared jokes and anecdotes, treated him like a human being. Members of the middle class were different. They looked over their shoulders
at their ancestors, who were almost invariably working-class, and they feared a return to that status, so they gave themselves airs. Well, he knew what she was, and he had no intention of
attempting to communicate with a beautiful slut.