The Liverpool Trilogy (37 page)

Lexi had been a bit hacked off. All the drama had gone out of her life, and she was fed up with Mersey View and its crackpot residents. Just one more thing to be done, and she’d be out of there. It was going to be bright, colourful and difficult to forget, so it would suffice as her swan song. Purple. Yes, that was her signature colour, and it should do very nicely.

Greasy Bleasdale had found out what she’d been doing on the work computer. Because of that, he wanted her to make herself available as and when he needed something to rub up against. But Lexi had her standards, and servicing a sweaty bastard across his desk or in the men’s loo after the shop had closed was definitely outside the terms of her contract with the supermarket chain. And things were getting worse. When she was shelf-stacking, he often crept up behind her to cop a feel. Again, she found this behaviour unacceptable.

She’d been stuck in the back room yesterday cutting cooked and cured meats, and he’d had a go. If she’d been quick enough, she might have grabbed his member and introduced it to the bacon slicer. It would have been a brief acquaintance, but she would have enjoyed every second of it. However, prison for separating a filthy swine from his closest friend was not a good idea. But she had to get out of the job.

And she might just do that, because Tom Rice, the guy with the limp, was interested in her. She’d had to come clean about her past, because he was after her street-wisdom, her knowledge of working girls and their clients. It was something to do with his job, but she wasn’t sure what he did. He’d told her she needed to dress more quietly, and she’d be answering phones for some of the time.

Finally, he phoned and told her the truth. He was a private detective, had been a policeman, knew her history, and wanted a bright, intelligent woman in her thirties to help him. ‘I can only be in one place at a time,’ he said. ‘So whoever gets the job will be split between office and overspill.’

‘Overspill?’

‘When I’ve trained an assistant, he or she will get the cases I’ve no time for.’ He gave her his address. ‘Wednesday, four o’clock, interview. OK?’

OK? It was bloody marvellous. ‘Shall I give my notice in at work?’ she asked.

‘Not yet. I’ve three others to see. Pretend to have a dental appointment on Wednesday, and we’ll take it from there.’

She was excited. She’d be able to disguise herself, buy wigs and posher clothes. Would she get an allowance for clothing? Should she phone him and ask? No. He liked her. He knew all about her past, and he still liked her. And, when it came to finding out stuff about folk, she was A1. Greasy Bleasdale would soon become history.

Richard turned off his mobile phone, since he needed no noisy interruptions. Concentration was necessary. Tonight, he had to focus totally on his dilemma, and on his plan to remedy it.

Without Moira, the house had no soul. Without Moira, he had no soul. The creature from Litherland was continuing in her efforts to discredit him, and his wife would be back tomorrow. He’d promised that he would never use a prostitute, but he had failed to keep his word. Yes, he’d taken up with a supermarket check-out girl and yes, he had been careless, but he hadn’t been aware of Lexi’s past. ‘Someone with a bit of education,’ Moira had always said. ‘Someone who knows about my condition.’ Latterly, she had even sought a life companion who might take the job of wife after Moira’s . . . He couldn’t bear to think the word.

He patted his pockets, thereby reminding himself of Dr David Vincent, saint, protector of sick children, creator of a famous charity, lover of the only other woman Richard truly wanted. The phone was on vibrate only, the stuff he needed was distributed evenly throughout coat and trouser pockets, and it was now or never.

Murder was not to be undertaken lightly. Murder dressed as suicide was even more difficult. Self-disposal was something Moira contemplated almost daily, and he didn’t want the woman he had married to be pushed over the edge by a tart. Lexi’s behaviour was not improving. She didn’t know that Moira was away, so she would believe by now that her letters had resulted in no reaction from either of the Turners, and her campaign might well intensify. Why hadn’t he come clean? Why hadn’t he explained to Moira that he had made a huge mistake?

And why, why, why was he even contemplating this dreadful deed? Wasn’t it rather like taking a neutron bomb to finish off a bluebottle? He could tell Moira – albeit rather late in the day – what she probably knew already, then everything would slowly get back to normal. Except . . . he swallowed. No. Not normal.

The notes. He had photocopied the lot before passing them on to Lexi’s latest doctor, and he had read them all. The woman had been treated for minor burns in 1978. Her scars had healed, but people in the next house had perished. Diabetes type one had been diagnosed within months, and an endocrinologist had commented in writing that the shock of the fire might have contributed to the child’s worsening health. She had gone for counselling, but had been unable to speak about the fire. Had a five-year-old child killed her neighbours? Would she kill him and Moira?

He walked to the window. The girls had returned to Edinburgh for some daft half-marathon involving hospital beds, an old ambulance and a dozen or so off-duty fire fighters. According to Alice, the proceeds were to go towards putting the prof of Anatomy and Physiology out of everyone’s misery once they could find a vet willing to do it. In spite of his misery, Richard smiled as he remembered some of the giddiness displayed by himself and Moira while cavorting with a crowd along the Royal Mile on rag days.

Simon, currently resident next door with his stunning bride, would be deserting the north. Richard was alone. This was how it would be when Moira was no longer attached to the mortal coil. His daughters, both beautiful women, would go wherever their chosen specialty took them, though he had hopes for Steph, since she seemed to be veering towards neurology, and Liverpool was the centre of excellence for that discipline. The centre of excellence could not yet cure Moira, but Steph was determined to work in the field that might, one day, come up with decent remedies for multiple sclerosis, Parkinson’s, muscular dystrophy and all the other merciless evils that killed people an inch at a time. ‘I can’t do it,’ he told the window.

Looked at in the cold light of day, the situation seemed ridiculous. He had indulged in sexual activity with a woman of ill repute, though she was no longer working as a prostitute. The idiot woman had demanded marriage, and he had lost his temper with her. Dog excrement and letters were no big deal, and he would probably have taken a chance had he not read the notes. Now, he lived in fear of arson, and this was not the cold light of day. This was the dimming light of a September evening, the harbinger of winter. In weeks, clocks would skip back one hour, and out of the safety of shadows might arrive those whose activities required the blackness of night. Muggers, burglars, car thieves and . . . arsonists.

Perhaps Lexi had played with matches. Perhaps one of her siblings had set fire to the house next door, but he could not erase the notes from his mind. She had been traumatized and reduced to silence. There again, she could have been riding close to hyperglycaemia, but he could not be sure.

The suicide note was written, and he had handled it only with surgical gloves. In his pockets sat more gloves, a syringe, a sharp in a closed plastic carton. The insulin was of the type she used, and he just had to give her an overdose, plant her prints on paper and syringe, and leave the scene. Moira would be safe. ‘Will I be safe? Will I be able to live with this?’ he whispered.

All doctors did a module on psychology. It was useful, as it provided some insight into the workings of the mind, and such knowledge was necessary for a practitioner who dealt with a broad spectrum of human behaviours. Even now, he remembered the lectures on psychopathic disorders. Murderers were special. They had an extra bit of wiring, a circuit that bypassed the usual path along which thought and emotion travelled. Serial killers were amazing, because they had no fuse box, no safety valve that might cut off when the brain went into overdrive. They felt nothing, had no sympathy, no empathy, no love in them.

‘I’m no killer. I have love.’ He also had a package from the local DIY store.

After replacing the insulin in the surgery refrigerator, he put away gloves and sharp, placed the suicide note in the shredder and found a screwdriver. In every room and on every landing he fixed a smoke alarm. If anyone asked why he had bought so many, the reply sat in readiness on the tip of his tongue. His wife could no longer walk any distance, so the household needed to be guarded properly against the danger of fire.

He rolled up his sleeves and finished off work he had started earlier. Outside, he fixed a light that made night into day if and when anyone approached the front door. Let her come. Moira would forgive him. Moira always forgave him.

During their last evening together in the shed, Moira opened up. She talked about early symptoms, double vision, knees that became disobedient, face pain misdiagnosed as neuralgia, total exhaustion, scans and other tests that finally told the truth. ‘He was in a state worse than mine. He closed the surgery on Liverpool Road, moved his work into the house, and started reading. There’s not much he doesn’t know about MS. Underneath the terrible jokes and the manufactured courage, there’s a dreadful fury. He’s angry not with me, but with my illness and with God. The fact that he can do little or nothing to help makes matters worse.’

Lucy stared down into her glass of burgundy. ‘What’s the big deal at the moment, Moira? Because I think he’s on track for some kind of nervous collapse.’

‘Do you?’

Lucy raised her head. ‘I feel as if I know him, you see.

There is an attraction between us, and he’s one of the men I might have loved. Not like David, not a meeting of minds and all the other rubbish that goes with true love. And Richard gets on my nerves, annoys me a lot. But he’s in trouble.’

‘It’s of his own making,’

‘He goes elsewhere for sex.’

‘Yes.’

‘And he confesses his sins to you, because that’s your role in his life now. You’re his mother confessor. You’re his counsellor, psychologist, whatever. The fact is that you have been complicit in his misdeeds.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You even briefed him to choose from the intelligentsia, the better educated, the cream.’ She would say it now. ‘Because you’re a snob, Moira.’ That should do it; that should release some of the anger.

‘Bollocks.’ Two spots of colour appeared on pale cheeks. ‘I want him to find a wife or a good partner, someone who’ll look after him. My illness is life-limiting, and I—’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why control him? He’s old enough to make his own choices.’

‘And daft enough to make the wrong ones.’

‘So? Let him pay the price. It’s his problem and his privilege.’

‘That . . . article hanging round Mersey View is a well-known prostitute.’

‘She’s supermarket staff. Once upon a time, she worked the streets, and she’s a bit of an Amazon when it comes to war. Like Carol, Dee and Shirley, she stands her ground.’ Lucy made no mention of dog dirt and letters. But she had a plan.

When Moira was in bed and all dishes were washed, Lucy took herself and her phone outside. For about half an hour, she sat on a swing and wondered whether she was doing the right thing. Then she decided that she didn’t want to get anyone out of bed to answer the phone, and she pressed the buttons before it got too late. ‘Richard? Yes, ’tis I.’

‘Is Moira all right?’ were his first words. No matter what, no matter who, where or why, he would always love his wife, and Lucy knew that.

‘She’s not bad. Eating solids, walking to the bathroom, needs a bit of help when she gets there. Oh, and she’s speaking English – none of that mixed-up stuff. She’s happy here.’

‘Away from me.’

‘Not at all. Richard, can you get cover for a few days?’

He blustered for several seconds before asking for her reasons.

‘She’s happy here. I’d like her to be happy with you here. Just for a few days. Talk to her in an unfamiliar but pleasant setting. As you well know, this illness of hers affects her emotions, her immune system, and all bodily functions. Sometimes, a new environment can make a difference.’

And it poured from him. Although Lucy knew some of it courtesy of Carol and Dee, she made no attempt to interrupt. As she heard the increasing desperation in his voice, she wanted to offer comfort, but she held herself in check. The bloody woman was possibly capable of arson, though he wasn’t sure, and he was breaking the rule of patient confidentiality by passing on information he had gained from notes. There were now fourteen smoke alarms in the house, while the outside had been fitted with a single light that used enough electricity to power Blackpool during the illuminations season.

‘Richard, why didn’t you tell me before?’ No reply came. ‘Richard?’

‘Because I love you, damn it all.’

‘And you love Moira.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then get a locum. She needs you. She needs you enough to want to hear from your lips all you have just said to me.’

‘It’ll make her ill, Lucy.’

‘And this silence, this distance between you will make her well?’

He delivered the rest of it, serving up a recipe whose components included surgical gloves, insulin, syringe and needle. ‘I can’t do it.’

‘Of course you couldn’t do it. Richard, I’m not a medic. I’m just a nurse who hasn’t practised for years. But I can tell you’re en route for a breakdown, because you’d never have considered murder if you were well. Get a locum, get the hell out of there, and come to Tallows by four tomorrow afternoon.’

‘But—’

‘No buts. Leave butting to the goats. If you love this wonderful woman, do as I ask.’

‘And if Lexi comes here while I’m away?’

‘I’ll be there. Set a thief to catch a thief, and a woman to catch a woman. If I need muscle, I’ll have my sons and David.’ She thought about what she had just said. ‘I’ll have Mike and Paul. David can be the referee.’