For the Love of Liverpool Page 4

  He pulled up outside her front door and turned off lights and engine. ‘Thank you for talking,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The fire had died, though the dogs remained in situ, two tails banging on the rug in lazy greeting. After stroking the good boys’ heads, Alex and Kate sat on the sofa, leaving space between them.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it and shut up, will you?’

  She obeyed.

  ‘I was eleven years of age, Kate, but even now, it’s printed on the insides of my eyelids. Not all the time, of course. I have dreams, and they sometimes come when I’m awake, too. Imagine feeling unable to close your eyes.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

  ‘Exactly. I’m letting you in as far as I can, because you did me the great honour of opening up as much as you dared. The picture I carry is violent. I am just an onlooker, and I can’t look away. My problem with women stems from that horrible vision. Like you, I lost someone who was dear to me but, unlike Amelia, my loved one can’t ever come back. I . . . I also think my love was undeserved.’

  ‘Dead?’ Kate whispered, opening her eyes.

  ‘Yes. You have a fear of abandonment. I’m almost the exact opposite, since I dread becoming attached. We’re both crackers, aren’t we?’

  ‘Probably. Sorry about tonight, Alex. I was a very spoilt only child, and there’s been no discernible improvement. If I stamped my little foot, my parents caved. I still have a tendency to stamp.’ She waited a few seconds before continuing, ‘What do you do about sex? Feel free not to reply, of course.’

  ‘Friends with benefits,’ was his immediate answer. ‘It works for me and for them.’

  ‘And are you happy with things as they are?’ She opened her eyes.

  ‘No, I’m not happy, Kate. I don’t actually look for happiness; my preferred destination would be contentment. I’d like the ordinary life, two children, some dogs, family holidays in Spain or Italy.’

  ‘And you can’t have any of that.’ This was not a question.

  ‘Not yet,’ was his reply. ‘I move forward an inch at a time with Tim’s help. He’s a good man, and he was a great kid. At the age of thirteen, he saw what I saw and dragged me out of there, out of the place I can still see. And although he takes the pee out of me, he’s my main support.’

  ‘Such sad creatures we are,’ she breathed.

  He turned and looked at her. ‘You are now another problem for me. Tim taunts me relentlessly about my Stepford Wives, plain women I employ in the central office. He accuses me of cloning them. The truth is that I am not attracted to any of them, so I’m safe.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘The answer to the question in those wonderful eyes is yes, I am attracted to you, but I’m not ready. And I believe that you, too, exist in a state of unreadiness.’

  Kate chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘You’re probably right. So where do we go from here?’

  Alex raised his shoulders. ‘I carry on with my job, you do yours. If there’s a film we want to see, or a concert we want to attend, we go. And we continue to see Tim regularly. He should be told that we are friends. Not yet an item, but keeping company from time to time. I’ll come here for an evening meal on Friday, and you will come to my place the following Friday. We’ll spread the load.’

  ‘You’re going to trust my cooking, Alex?’

  ‘I could ask you the same, because Mrs Bee won’t be preparing food on a Friday. She goes out and leaves me with the microwave. Look, we’re equally crazy, equally alone, and we probably deserve one another. Let’s live a little and hope not to suffer from food poisoning.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And I can’t wait to watch you in that kitchen,’ he said. ‘I’ve never studied an OCD sufferer cooking a meal. Should be fun.’

  ‘Do not mock the afflicted.’

  ‘Do not deprive me of my hobby,’ was his swift response. ‘That would be cruel beyond measure.’

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you have siblings?’

  The smile was replaced by a thoughtful expression. ‘An older brother. He’s in Australia. And a younger sister. She’s in a home for disabled people. I was raised by my paternal grandparents from the age of almost twelve, and Stephen, my brother, was taken in by a wealthy aunt and uncle in Sydney. Susan is in Fleetwood; she was born handicapped.’

  Kate swallowed. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘The poor girl doesn’t know anything different, so she’s happy enough. She speaks her own language and has a beautiful dolls’ house – yes, she’s a young adult, but she still needs her playthings. Paints, crayons and chalks all make her happy, like a child on her birthday. She has dozens of soft toys, and she recognizes me. My name is Ta-da, which is probably her version of teddy, because every time I visit I take her a teddy bear. Her favourite is a tiny one in a container slightly bigger than a matchbox. He has a sheet and a pillow, and she keeps the lid open so she can see him. He’s her baby, the only one she’ll ever have.’

  I will not cry; I won’t make him any more miserable than he already is. Such sadness, such grief. Apart from Tim, I’m probably the only person he’s confided in. There’s more to it, just as there’s more to my story, so I won’t push him, because I understand only too well what he’s enduring. I tell him life’s tough, and he just nods and says he’d better go.

  And he’s gone. No hug, no kiss, no fuss. But at least he admitted that it’s there, the attraction between us. I suspect that a hug or a kiss would have led somewhere, and neither of us is fit to travel. He uses women, just as I have used men to relieve tension or take my mind off something. Alex and I are bonding, so neither a quick roll in the hay nor a romp round a bedroom offers an answer. This selfish woman is going to learn to be extremely patient.

  Castor and Pollux move to their beds, and I start to shed the glad rags, silver dress, silver shoes, silver jewellery. Tonight worked. Daddy’s little rich girl got what she needed, which was more than a dance in Alex’s arms. Instead, we both gave each other a little piece of ourselves. He’s worth waiting for, and so am I.

  *

  In a bruised, battered and abandoned high-rise building in London’s East End that reeked of urine and rat droppings, four men sat on plastic chairs round a plastic table. Like an army with no leader, they were confused and angry, at a loose end while they awaited instruction from captive superiors in three separate prisons. One boss was contained in Wandsworth, another in Durham, and a third in Walton, Liverpool. The fourth, Gentleman Jim Latimer, known to his friends as Jimmy, was dead, his ashes supposedly scattered on the Thames and on his parents’ grave in Chelsea.

  ‘I think we should bugger off and forget it,’ Weasel said. ‘I mean, they kept our names out of the hat, they’ve gone down for the big job, we don’t know where the rest of the stash is, so what’s going to be in it for us? We may not be top of the tree, but we have to live, innit? We got to start thinking about ourselves and what we want.’

  Mad Max jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. Max had two modes – silent or seething. ‘Listen, you rat-faced skinny bastard, Jimmy died. They’re not all inside, are they? Only three are in jail, because the fourth is dead. He was the star, he done all the planning. We have to get the one who shot him, right?’

  The other two agreed with Mad Max. Anyone with a desire to remain alive tended to agree with the big man. Even Weasel, number four and least important, was nodding vigorously.

  ‘They’ll send word to us; they’ll find a way,’ Max said fiercely. ‘If they want us to get her, we will. No matter how long it takes, we’ll find the bitch. She’s easy to recognize, and the kid will be with her.’

  Trev shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that. Seems her mum and dad have done a disappearing act. My auntie that cleans in the same Kensington block as they live in says she heard they’d gone to France. And when they go away, see, they often take the kid wi
th them. Wouldn’t surprise me if Mrs Katherine Latimer handed her over to them and took off on her own.’ He scratched his head. ‘I just can’t work out how we can get to the bottom of any of it. It’s like a jigsaw with half the pieces gone walkabout.’

  The third man shrugged. The pecking order among the bottom four was Max, Trev, him, then Weasel. They were couriers for much of the time, carrying drugs or money or both to constantly changing locations. The third man’s nickname was Brains, as he could get into and out of anywhere, including most safes, though aside from that gift he was a slow thinker. ‘It’s worth millions,’ he mused, almost as if talking to himself. ‘We done a good job, all of us – even Weasel. I wonder if Jimmy’s wife took off with the rest of the loot? The papers say there’s still a load missing.’ He shook his head. ‘She could have took it, Max.’

  ‘Nah.’ The big man scowled. ‘She’s straight – that’s why she shot him. Anyway, things out of private bank security boxes aren’t easy to offload, and some are good for blackmail. She wouldn’t know where to start, and neither would we.’

  Trev agreed. ‘Yeah, she’s no crim, and she didn’t shoot him for the stash. He kicked the kid.’ He shrugged. ‘So she blew his head off. I’m not saying what she done was right, but the kid was in hospital with broken bones. That’s why she was found not guilty. But she put Jimmy’s other mates inside, didn’t she? And we don’t know where nothing is.’

  ‘We’re lucky she didn’t know any of us, or we’d be locked up too,’ Mad Max growled. ‘Funny how I’m the one that gets called Mad just because I’m big. Gentleman Jim was the real nutter, beating his wife up and nearly killing the little ’un. Still, respect and all that – he paid a big price.’

  ‘We just got to wait, then,’ Brains said. ‘But while we wait, can we get pie and mash? Me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’ They hastened towards a door that hung crookedly from one hinge. It was time to get out of this stinking hole and go to hunt for supper. Who knew, with appetites satisfied, they might just conjure up a plan. But come what may, Katherine Latimer must be found.

  *

  Another man, in circumstances far removed from the decay of a high rise waiting to be demolished, was thinking about Kate. He occupied a mews that clung to the fringes of Chelsea’s better side, and he, too, was determined to find the runaway, because he loved her. ‘Why didn’t she tell me she was going?’ he whispered.

  Dr Giles Girling, known to his friends, patients and colleagues as Dr Gee-Gee, paced about the small room. He’d been on duty when Amelia Latimer had been brought in by her beautiful mother, who had screamed like a banshee until an orderly had turned up with a trolley and two nurses. The little girl had appeared dead, but she’d eventually been saved, thanks to God and a very good surgeon.

  Giles had assisted Mr Moores in theatre, where a piece of the little girl’s skull had been removed to allow for swelling. A punctured lung had been remedied, a broken ankle set, and after many weeks in hospital the child had been well on the way to a full recovery. Miraculously, there had been no obvious brain damage.

  He remembered coming out of theatre and standing by the surgeon while everything was explained to Katherine Latimer, whose face had been whiter than her daughter’s. After Mr Moores had left the waiting room, Giles had listened to Kate’s confession. She had shot the man who’d injured her child. Yes, he’d owned guns, and she’d used the one kept in a drawer with napkins, coasters, playing cards and bullets. ‘My husband,’ she had concluded. ‘Now, take me to my daughter, please, then telephone the police.’ So he took her, left her, and followed her instructions.

  He stood by the window, eyes closed as he replayed the terrible scene. Officers from the Met had arrived. Kate had simply sat in the corridor and spoken in a monotone reminiscent of a robot. This was a woman in deep shock. She had been looking through a pane of glass at her child.

  ‘He did that,’ she had said, waving her arm towards her little girl, so frail, head bandaged. ‘Something major went down yesterday evening. I can always tell when it’s a big job, because he hits the vodka like a ton of bricks. His eyes were wild. Aside from that, he’s meticulous, very much the city gent, sets off every morning in his pinstripe suit, carrying the compulsory umbrella and document case. I thought I’d married a stockbroker; I was wrong. He was very, very far removed from the stock exchange.’ At last, she had referred to her husband in the past tense.

  ‘He took two bags up to the guest room last night. Amelia was already in bed, and I was watching a Blackadder repeat. He was upstairs for quite some time before coming down to get another slug of vodka. Now, this is the really out of character part. He must have left one of the bags open, and the door to the guest room ajar too. He went back upstairs, and started shouting at Amelia. She screamed for me, and I knew he was in danger mode. Not that he ever hurt her before – I was the one who kept falling downstairs, so to speak – but she was still screaming, so I grabbed the gun and ran up. As I crossed the landing I could hear him kicking her little body against the wall. She must have helped herself to pearls – there were pearls scattered all over the carpet after I shot him. If he’d closed the door like he always did before, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Are you sure there were just two bags, Mrs Latimer? It was a very big job. Safety deposit boxes have been emptied – many of them.’

  ‘I only noticed two, but I was in a hurry. There may be others further inside the room – I don’t know.’ She turned to Giles. ‘Please let me go back in now,’ she said.

  Now Giles sat on a small window seat and allowed his thoughts to wander through nearly two months of almost daily contact. She told him about her life as spouse to a gangster. ‘He was a good-looking man, always perfectly turned out. Said his money was tied up in stocks, so he moved into my house after the wedding. Amelia was only a few weeks old the first time he came home covered in blood and said he’d been mugged. I was suspicious, but unsure of what the hell he’d been up to. And I wasn’t allowed to ask questions, of course.

  ‘The next morning, I heard that a young policeman had been found dead in Maida Vale. It was much later on that I realized Jimmy might have played a part in that murder. When I questioned him, he broke my arm. Every time I came to A and E, he was with me. He promised that if I ever spoke up, he would kill me – that was the only one of his many promises that I actually believed. The police know everything now. We will go through the motions of a court case, but I probably won’t serve time, because I’ve helped by giving the police the names of three of his cronies. They’re in custody.’

  Giles hadn’t expected her to leave London. One friendly sergeant told him eventually that her identity had been changed and that she had moved far away. And that was that. He couldn’t cheat and call in hospital or family doctors’ details, because Katherine Latimer no longer existed on anyone’s books or computer screens. Had she changed the child’s surname? Or were the grandparents looking after Amelia?

  He had reached an impasse. Kate had worked in London theatres, so where might she go to find similar work?

  He poured himself a double Armagnac. After twelve years in the making, it slid down like honey with a bit of heat in the tail. ‘I told you I’d fallen for you, Kate, but you said you weren’t fit for marriage.’ Was she fit for it now? Oh, if only he could find out . . .

  Three

  Although I’m not exactly one of the party people, I do like to choose where I spend my free time, and a busy Merseyside A & E would not be my destination of choice, especially on a Saturday night. In the short hallway, we encounter a collection of drunks and their various contributions to the scene: tuneless singing, vomit, urine, and a stench for which I can discover few words. Just think pigpen and have done with it.

  My father drank. He didn’t indulge every day, but he’d go out on a binge, come home during the night and all hell would ensue. I keep a fairly good cellar and enjoy my wines, but I feel sorry for these guys in the hallway. They aren’t people any
longer; even animals don’t lie in their own effluent.

  Of course, Powder Puff Pete has to have his say, so I drag him by the good arm into the unit before he starts World War Three among the inebriated and liver-damaged. God knows there’s enough trouble on this globe without him throwing his five quids’ worth into the mix. He’s going to be difficult. I can tell he’s going to be difficult because he won’t sit down; says he’s still recovering from being in my car.

  ‘Listen, boss,’ he announces as we enter the main area, ‘you want to try wearing this corset. Even with a couple of ribs removed, it kills me when I sit. I blame Jane Fonda; she kicked off with the lose-some-ribs idea.’

  Across the packed room, voices recede until silence reigns. Now, I’ve had some awkward moments in my life, but this should rank somewhere high on that lengthy list. Not that I keep a written account, but Pete and I must present as a very strange couple. I, Alex Price, am a reasonably normal-looking bloke, but Pete? Where to begin?

  He’s extraordinarily tall and lathered in makeup. The wig is yellow blonde and piled up enough to give him an extra five inches in height. A pink dress covered in sparkles dominates the picture until you see the shoes – hot pink, peep-toed and peppered with sequins. Size twelves. His nickname – Powder Puff Pete – was bestowed on him by other performers at Champs aux Fraises, as he owns a dark and rampant beard that seems to grow in minutes. This nuisance he paints with some strange liquid probably manufactured by Dulux; on top of that, he applies a prodigious amount of powder using something on the lines of a Brillo pad. This is his powder puff, and no one must touch it.

  He suddenly realizes that he has a captive audience. In spite of a possibly broken arm, he delivers ‘Tragedy’ in a falsetto that would challenge Barry Gibb of the Bee Gees, followed by ‘Tiptoe through the Tulips’. The ensuing round of applause is not appreciated by staff, and Pete gets processed immediately. Shunted off, probably to X-ray, he leaves me to answer a barrage of questions about my companion. Yes, he’s a man, yes, he can sing in a normal voice too, and no, he doesn’t make his own frocks. He’s here because he slipped in onion gravy and might have broken his arm.