For the Love of Liverpool Page 16

He pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.

  ‘So you’re going for a divorce?’ Kate asked.

  ‘You can bet your life I am.’

  ‘And the children?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not easy. Too many dads divorce their children along with the wife. They start off filled with good intentions, then they miss a week, leave it a month, and end up seeing their kids a couple of times a year. But I’m not that sort of father, so I’m hanging on to my kids.’ Again, he raised his shoulders. ‘I’ve had a word with Lois.’ He paused. ‘Now I believe you’re supposed to ask who Lois is.’

  Kate grinned. ‘OK, I’ll play the game. Who is Lois?’

  ‘My lover. There’s been nothing between me and Monica since Troy was born. A man has needs.’

  ‘So does a woman,’ was her swift response.

  Pete grinned. ‘I wonder how I knew you were going to say that? Don’t start being predictable. Alex loves your unpredictability.’

  Kate dug her companion none too gently in the ribs. ‘I know what my man likes, thank you muchly. Have you noticed I’m learning to talk Scouse?’

  ‘A bit. But muchly is a Lancashire word.’

  ‘I stand corrected.’

  ‘All right, Mrs Clever Clogs. Come and have a look at my wife’s palace.’ He went off to collect clothes and toys for his little boy, and she followed him in, wandering around the place on her own, taking her time.

  Kate was in the middle of scrutinizing the main bedroom when a pair of hands encircled her waist.

  Alex noticed that she didn’t flinch; she knew the feel of him, the scent of his body wash, the tempo of his breathing. ‘What are you plotting?’ he asked.

  ‘Monica,’ was her reply. ‘Her taste and mine differ, but everything in Merrilocks is laid out for her in the plans. She can live there and make sure the tradesfolk are giving us our money’s worth. Monica can be foreman. As long as she’s not in jail, that is.’

  ‘She won’t go to jail.’ Alex scratched his head. ‘Are you sure you want her? She frightens me to death at times; she’s like one of those small terriers created to nip the heels of cattle all the way to the milking shed.’

  ‘Heelers. Manchester heelers.’

  ‘We had cows round Bolton on the moors.’

  Kate nodded pensively just as Pete joined them.

  ‘Did I hear you mention the name of my dear departed?’

  ‘Yes,’ they replied simultaneously. ‘Kate’s giving her a job,’ Alex went on. ‘She’ll be up in Blundellsands frightening plumbers and electricians to death. I’ll light a candle for them in church. They’re going to need divine intervention.’

  ‘As long as she’s not in jail, I’ll offer her the job,’ Kate announced.

  Pete thought about that. ‘If you need a plasterer, don’t ask me. I won’t be available.’ He walked to the bedroom door and stopped. ‘Who’ll wash up? It was either me or the girls here. She never did that sort of job.’

  ‘There’s a dishwasher,’ Kate told him. ‘Ask your wife to contact me on my mobile when she gets back from Spain. She’ll be of use to me, and she’ll be out of your hair. You have my number. I’ll arrange to meet her at the house on Merrilocks Road. If she’s in prison, I’ll interview her there.’

  Alex threw up his hands in despair.

  ‘Bloody women,’ Pete muttered.

  *

  It wasn’t far from Saint-Martin-aux-Fleurs to Saint-Martin-de-Fugères, but it felt like ten kilometres on a bike, though the French catered very well for walkers and bikers. There was a track running parallel with the main road, and it had been well laid out for travellers on foot or on pushbikes. England threw the odd narrow lane alongside dual carriageways, but the French did these things so much better.

  Max had to return the borrowed bike, pick up the rental car and drive back to Fleurs. Trev’s bicycle would be taken apart later, packed in the car with the rest of the camping gear and returned to the hire place in one piece some time later today. That was the theory, anyway. The striking of camp had been done at six in the morning; Max had demolished Trev’s last place of abode. Everything was hidden as well as possible, and that included Trev’s body.

  He missed Trev, missed the complaining, the moaning, the help with day-to-day life in a part of the forest that was visited by very few people. In truth, they hadn’t seen a soul since pitching, which was just as well. From time to time, Max stopped and rested, sweat pouring from his brow; France was certainly a few degrees warmer than London. It was May, and temperatures were on the up. Trev, on the other hand, was down.

  Max, too, was down. Last night’s dream continued to haunt him, and he still saw the dripping wet Trev standing there, asking even now to be taken home. Like most Londoners, the dead man would have chosen to be buried under English rather than French soil. ‘Leave me alone, Trev,’ he whispered. ‘I did the best I could.’

  He reached Fugères, and handed in his bike. The area was so seasoned in the art of dealing with visitors that most understood and spoke some English.

  Sitting in the hire car, Max pinned his eyes to the police station. ‘It’s too late,’ he whispered. ‘And all my papers are false. I’m a crim. I can’t prove I didn’t murder him. They’d get my real name, and . . .’ There was more to it than that, wasn’t there? Deportation. Standing in the dock at the Bailey, twelve people deciding, one judge sentencing . . . Oh, hell, what if Trev’s family came looking for him? ‘And I’ve a history with police and courts.’

  He drove away. He had things to do.

  The child watched the big man as his car pulled onto the road. Very early this morning, she’d seen him pull a large dolly out of the river, dress it and put it in a hole. Then he’d filled the hole in. That was no way to treat a doll, even if it was big enough to wear frocks in a shop window. She’d run straight back to Grandmère and Grandpère’s house for breakfast, because she wasn’t allowed to stray. And now she couldn’t tell, mustn’t tell, because this was the second time she’d come to the woods today, and the woods were on the list of places she was forbidden to visit. But she was so worried about the big dolly.

  Nine

  To the great surprise and delight of both parties, Kate and Monica got on like the proverbial house on fire. After the first few minutes of slight awkwardness, they were seated near a coffee table in the multi-functional living area of Kate’s house with cups of tea and bourbon biscuits.

  ‘Is it OK if I dip?’ Monica asked.

  ‘Dunking is compulsory in any property of mine,’ was the serious reply. ‘My mother told me it was ill-mannered, so I have perfected the skill over many years.’ She waited for a moment. ‘So, you didn’t get locked up, then?’

  Her visitor blushed. ‘No. Pete stuck up for me, said I needed to see a doctor. They brought one in, like, and I told him how I get through the days. So I have to go and see somebody at the hospital. What’s OCD?’

  Kate laughed, then coughed through a mouthful of tea, making an unsightly mess of her blouse. This broke any residual tension.

  Once recovered, Kate rose to her feet. ‘Follow me,’ she said. In the kitchen, she threw open every cupboard door. ‘That’s OCD, though it’s been slightly disordered by workmen. They must be stopped.’

  Monica was still mopping tears of laughter from her cheeks. ‘My kitchen’s like that,’ she announced. She sat at the table while Kate righted the sins of tradesmen.

  ‘Can you read scale plans, Monica? I have everything worked out to the last centimetre. I paid a man to draw them up.’

  ‘Can I read plans? I designed and fitted our kitchen myself, apart from heavy worktops, gas and electric. There’s not much I can’t do when it comes to fixtures, fittings and decorating.’

  ‘Ah, but you’ll be the supervisor. You’ll live here and keep the men on their toes. I’ll show you colour charts and fabrics et cetera later. There’ll be a living wage, and you can have a break from recent . . . difficulties. Look. What you did was wrong and rather stupid, bu
t you didn’t kill anybody. Don’t blush.’

  ‘I love Pete, but I don’t know how to show it. I get wound up.’

  ‘And the children?’ Kate’s tone was gentle.

  The shorter woman stared down at the table. ‘My mam died when I was young. I think I was walking, but I can’t remember. That police doctor said I hadn’t got a . . . a template to work with, so I never learnt how to be a mam. Them kids get on me nerves, but if anyone hurt them, I’d swing for ’em.’

  Kate reached across and took both Monica’s hands. ‘I do understand. I’ve been in a bad situation myself, and I sent Amelia to live with my parents for a while. How I might have managed to park four of them, I’ve no idea.’ She looked into her new friend’s eyes and saw pain. ‘Monica?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I trust you. Look at me, please.’ She waited until they had achieved eye contact. ‘I killed my first husband. He attacked our daughter, so I shot him.’

  The woman across the table gasped. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Oh yes. I thought I’d married a stockbroker and discovered that he was, in truth, the planning department of a London gang. He beat me several times, but when he turned on Amelia he signed his own death warrant.

  ‘After I shot him I gave police the details of his three confederates – they’d done a big job, so what with what he’d done to Amelia and helping the police with their inquiries, I was found not guilty of murder and discharged. But I had to change my name, send my daughter away once she’d recovered, and escape to Liverpool. You’re not the only one who chose the wrong life. But you’ll be safe. You have the tradesmen, and a security guard stays every night. Alan does five nights, and his brother covers at weekends.’

  Monica’s skin paled, and she took a deep breath. ‘So even posh people make mistakes, like?’

  Kate shrugged. ‘Look no further than royalty. I talk what you term “posh” because my parents do, my school friends did – it was how we were raised. Had I been born elsewhere and into a different family, I’d have spoken differently. We all have to manage the hand we’re dealt.’

  ‘It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is. Listen, Monica. I’m no expert, but I think you may have something other than OCD. Obsessive compulsive disorder can be part of a bigger picture. Tell me, can you remember whether you felt grim and depressed after giving birth?’

  The little woman blinked a few times. ‘I was always tired, fed up with life. Couldn’t be bothered doing much.’

  ‘And it got worse?’

  ‘I think so. And I cured myself by finding a hobby. It kicked off with magazines that had photos of house interiors in them. I’d cut them out and save them. Once I started making our place nice, I felt cured.’

  Kate nodded thoughtfully. ‘It was a distraction, darling. Alex had stuff in his childhood that stopped him moving on, too. We know a man called Tim Dyson. He’s abroad just now, but when he comes back Alex will talk to him about you – or I will. If post-natal depression isn’t nipped in the bud, it can only get worse. My first few months with Amelia were difficult, so I got help. With four children and no treatment, you’ve never managed to recover. I could be wrong, but Tim will winkle it out one way or another. Agreed?’

  Monica nodded furiously. ‘You’re right, I reckon.’ She paused. ‘Pete’s got another woman, but he doesn’t know I know.’

  ‘We all need warm arms to hold us. You’re not selfish; you’re ill. This house will give you thinking time and a chance to be boss over men.’

  ‘Ooh, I like the sound of that.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  Before they both descended into a new bout of giggling, Kate led her new friend back into the big living/sleeping/dining area and spread plans on the floor. ‘This is flat one, and we’re standing in it, so it will be the last to be worked on. There’ll be a communal entrance hall with three private doors. Each upper flat, first and second floors, will have its own staircase behind its door.’

  Monica was fascinated by detail. ‘Them curtains is too long, Kate.’

  ‘Muslin. A puddle of muslin on the right floor can be very effective. It’s purely for decoration, because there’ll be a blackout blind at the window. I’ve done some drawings of fireplaces for the upstairs living rooms. There are specialists in Liverpool – architectural antiques. We’ll go together to choose.’

  Monica bit her lip. ‘Are you doing this because you feel sorry for me?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. I went to your house with Pete and saw your work. You know what you’re doing.’

  ‘But yours is so much nicer, Kate. Real high class.’

  ‘No, it’s neutral. We make a blank canvas with a neat finish, which means very pale grey or the dreaded magnolia with white. If someone wants a purple wall, they can have one, but that’s up to them. Skirting boards, ceiling roses and any architraves will stand out in bright white. Kitchens and bathrooms very modern, plain bedrooms and staircases – we’re selling. The big selling point will be the fireplaces. Now, they must shine.’

  ‘So you’re being faithful – know what I mean? It’s Victorian, this house, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. But if they want modern furniture it will still look good. They can choose a 1950s pink refrigerator, orange cups and those awful green plastic moulded chairs – retro is fine. Victorian buildings are very forgiving as long as you steer away from flock wallpaper and cheap doors.’

  Monica was learning, and she was hungry for more. Pete would look after the kids, wouldn’t he? For the first time in her life, she might feel useful, valued, appreciated. ‘Should I feel guilty about leaving the kids?’ she asked.

  Kate smiled. ‘I’d trust your Pete with a dozen of mine. I’ll be buying more houses once I’ve sold the one in London, so there’ll be work for you as long as you need it. But let’s see how you get on here first, shall we? Now, on to the more serious stuff. I need a second sugar rush – are there any bourbons left?’

  *

  Max doubled back all the way to the city of Nevers, where he paid a further month’s rental on his hired car. He bought a few essentials, including yesterday’s Daily Express. He and Trev were in it; photographs, too.

  At the tourism office, he was given directions to a campsite on the outskirts where he could pitch his tent. Bed and breakfast in Nevers cost an arm and both legs, so the decision to camp out was automatic. He walked to the quayside, sat down, and read the press article.

  It stated that he and Trev were implicated in the recent Hatton Garden heist. While the main players were in jail, these ‘known associates’ were believed to have been used as lookouts; they were also dealers in the handling and selling of class A drugs and were not to be approached by members of the public. That final statement shocked him. Drugs, yes. Too dangerous to be approached? That was just stupid. The law continued to live up to its reputation, then: it was an ass.

  Walking back to the city, the Express in his pocket, Max was struck yet again by the cleverness of the French. A blue line painted on the road led visitors to places of interest. A simple yet inspired idea that ensured the area thrived, because sightseers needed to eat and felt compelled to buy souvenirs of the beautiful sites they visited.

  Many of the old roads were cobbled; Max was glad he’d got rid of the bike. Bikes, plural, he reminded himself, though he scarcely needed the nudge, because Trev’s dead face haunted him almost constantly. Trev would not have appreciated Nevers; no proper pubs, just bars and restaurants fit only for old fogeys and teatime with Mother. The lad had failed to recognize the sheer beauty of this part of the planet.

  For Max, the Loire valley was perfect, though he was glad he had started to grow a beard. There were many English here, some as permanent residents, so he must disguise himself as best he could. And being alone might help, since police were looking for two men. Still, he wished he had some company, even if that company moaned and griped all the time.

  Oh, yes, this was a clever place. A
dense shopping area sat almost on top of the sites where historic buildings and monuments had been planted centuries ago; yet another point was gained by the French. They certainly knew how to do things, how to make them work. Paris was sensible, properly planned, everything radiating from a central point. In comparison, London was just a load of villages sewn together like some oversized quilt.

  Wandering around, he found himself in a chapel in the church of St Gildard. The main attraction was the coffin of a nun, St Bernadette, who had died in the nineteenth century. A cordon prevented onlookers from actually touching the glass, but he could get close enough to see that she seemed to be merely asleep. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered.

  The priest standing next to him smiled. ‘Yes, she was a friend of Jesus and His mother.’

  ‘Wasn’t Bernadette from Lourdes?’ Max asked.

  ‘She is safer here. Lourdes pilgrims are sometimes hysterical.’

  ‘Your English is good, Father.’

  ‘Thank you. I worked in London for some years, but I wanted to come home.’

  ‘Can’t say I blame you. Now I’m here and just getting to know the place I don’t want to leave, but I need work.’

  The priest turned his gaze away from the coffin and looked his companion up and down. He took a breath and seemed to come to a swift decision. ‘Good. I have work for you.’ He blessed himself, and Max copied him, thanking the saint in her glass coffin for yet another miracle. He wondered what he was in for but figured he might as well see where this conversation took him. It wasn’t as if he had many alternatives.

  Outside, the priest introduced himself as Pierre Dubois. Max responded in kind, offering his new identity as Michael Shipton.

  ‘Where do you stay, Michel?’ the cleric wanted to know.

  ‘In a tent, Father.’

  ‘Are you Catholic?’

  ‘No,’ Max confessed. ‘I just copied what you did in there to be polite.’

  ‘Ah.’ The man nodded. ‘This is no problem to me. You may call me Pierre, and I give you room at mon presbytère – my house. If you prefer life in a tent, put it in my garden. But the work I have you must think of first. We need gardener for all churches. Also, gravedigger.’