The Liverpool Trilogy (131 page)

A fat woman in a red coat was airing her views loudly. ‘See, they were mostly prostitutes and the like, them that’s disappeared. But Susie Crawford weren’t. Him next door to
me’s a copper, and he said they found all sorts inside her. You know. In her private bits.’ The last two words were mouthed soundlessly, their sole accompaniment the sound of bubbling
chip fat. ‘I’d call him an animal, but there’s no animal as bad as what he is.’

‘Terrible,’ said Roy. ‘I wonder if he’s finished?’

The red coat shrugged. ‘Him next door to me what’s a copper says they don’t finish till they get caught. Or till they die. It’s as if they can’t stop themselves,
you see. Somebody should stick a knife through him. Not the copper; I mean the queer feller. He wants burying ten feet down under a ton of concrete.’

Roy nodded. ‘So they think all the missing girls died at the hands of the same chap who killed Susie . . . ?’

‘Crawford, her name was. Nothing to do with biscuits, not rich. Student teacher, she was. Lived round the corner from me sister in West Derby, lovely girl, magic with kids.’ Red Coat
sniffed. ‘Just stick him in a room with Susie’s mam. She’ll bend his bloody membership card for him. She’s that mad with grief, I bet she’s got the death certificate
filled in except for his name. Wanders about looking for motorbikes and sidecars, she does. A young couple seen one near where Susie’s body got found.’

Motorbike and sidecar? No. Plenty of people had those. But he was an odd-looking fellow, that Clive Cuttle. He seemed to look at people without seeing them. He knew his tobaccos, all right, but
he wasn’t really customer-friendly. A bright stripe of pure terror painted its way from the base of Roy’s spine right up into his skull. He didn’t know why. Something was out of
context, out of place. Something was usually attached to a motorbike and sidecar. On foot. Clive Cuttle had walked up and down Lawton Road several times. Was he there now? Didn’t he like the
idea of working for a woman? ‘Er . . .’ He ran, leaving the door to close itself behind him.

Running with a limp wasn’t easy. And what would Rosh say when he turned up for no good reason? She didn’t know he’d gone for chips, did she? The motorbike-and-sidecar man
wouldn’t choose her; she was a decent woman, not a prostitute. But Susie Crawford had been a normal girl, a student. Rosh was buying the shop. Damn this leg; damn football; damn the hospital
that had done just about everything wrong.

He had a key to Rosh’s front door. Where was it? Right-hand trouser pocket? No, it was in the breast pocket inside his jacket, and his fingers curled tightly round the metal once he had it
in his hand. He left his boots outside, because the bad leg had a tendency to stumble its noisy way through life. With only socks, he missed the lift in his footwear, but he had no option. If he
was wrong, he’d look a right idiot.

‘Bugger,’ he whispered. He was going to walk – no, creep – with no surprise chips, no fish, no shoes, no dignity, and no mushy peas, all because Clive Cuttle was a
miserable-looking man with a motorbike and a surly manner. Silently, the door swung inward, and Roy thanked the saints that he’d remembered to oil it a few days ago. If he was wrong, if she
was just sitting there with or without Anna, he’d ask if he could borrow some cocoa, and say his shoes had started to hurt.

A sickly smell mingled with a different odour, one Roy didn’t recognize as the metallic stench of newly spilt blood. Anna stood halfway up the stairs in a long blue nightdress. Roy put a
finger to his lips and shook his head. Something was wrong. In an otherwise heavy silence, some small sounds emerged from the kitchen.

For as long as he lived, Roy would never account completely for the next two or three minutes. Blood. Rosh on the floor naked from the waist down. Man in a mask pushing, pushing things . . .
broken glass. Green glass. Shards being thrust into—

Carving knife. Man dragged off beloved on floor. Black mask. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Man on linoleum, knocked out by me. Knife through neck into floorboards, its thrust so violent
that evil now impaled. How strong an angry cripple can become. I hear the red-coated woman in the chippy saying that someone should stick a knife through him. ‘Stay away, Anna.’ Cover
Rosh. Small bottle labelled chloroform on floor. Cloth nearby. Handkerchief, I think. Tick-tock, tick-tock. ‘Go upstairs, Anna. The kids mustn’t see . . .’

He heard her climbing the treads. Remove the mask. Clive Cuttle. No breath, no heartbeat, no more. Rosh breathing and bleeding. Phone. Must get phones put in our houses. They thought I broke
Dad’s neck, but I broke this man’s instead. Do not touch her. Do not remove anything from her. It will cut again on its way out.

He had to get out, had to get to the phone box.

Phone. Three nines. Police and ambulance. ‘I killed him. He was killing her. Like the others, I suppose. Come quickly, she’s bleeding to death. No sirens, please. Her children are in
bed.’

A blur of frantic activity. Rosh taken to hospital, Anna with her. Pretty young policewoman to sit here in case kids wake. Body carried out eventually. I killed him. Now I know how Tom Walsh
felt when he deliberately scooped the scum off the water at that wedding party. His wife looks like Rosh. But Rosh is the more beautiful of the two.

They are taking me to the police station. I don’t care. As long as they save my Rosh, I don’t give a tuppenny damn. Do policewomen know about children’s breakfasts? Will she know about Alice? Alice throws a right wobble if
she’s given the wrong stuff. Phil, make sure Rosh gets through this. Talk to the Big Man upstairs, tell Him she’s needed and wanted . . .

Thus Roisin Allen and her mother came to be at the Women’s Hospital where Tess Compton lay in recovery. Remarks were passed among the staff, while Don Compton, who was
very busy working on a boudoir for his wife, wondered about these almost identical twins. Well, not twins, because his Tess was a few years older than Mrs Allen, but this Roisin was a very near
copy. It was like seeing double. Surely there wasn’t a second bundle of trouble like the one he’d married? There sat Tess, every inch the angel, every ounce the naughty child. She was
lovely.

‘I’ve brought your knitting, pet,’ he said after kissing the top of her head.

‘So I’ve to work myself to death in here as well? No rest for the wicked, is that the case?’

‘Leave it till you’re more comfortable, then.’ He sat. ‘The woman in the side ward who had the operation a couple of nights ago – has she come round yet? Is she any
better?’

‘Did you bring the rest of the wool? No. I think they’re keeping her like that deliberately. They want her asleep while she heals a bit.’ She lowered her tone.
‘She’s been hurt in a terrible way, Don. They were hours sticking her back together, so I’ve heard. That was one total madman. Kidnapping girls and women and killing them seems to
have been his hobby. I’m glad he’s dead.’

‘Was she raped?’

She nodded. ‘But not in the usual way.’ Tess dropped her voice even further. ‘They say he used broken glass and a vegetable knife. Police reckon he’s that serial killer
– I bet all those missing girls are buried except for the one where he got disturbed. Anyway, he’s a goner as well. Mrs Allen’s man friend killed him, and he got arrested.
Who’d arrest somebody for killing a killer? But he must still be inside, because she’s had no visitors except her mother and an old man called Eric. It’s a terrible business
altogether.’

‘Kids?’ he asked.

‘Three. Two girls, one boy. Neighbours are helping to look after them, because their grandmother’s here most of the time. These stitches are tightening up, Don. I feel as if
I’ve been in a hot wash and my seams shrank. But I had a walk today, poked my head in to see how she was doing. No change. But I’ll tell you what – she could be my sister.
I’ll knit you a winter woolly when I’ve done this cardigan.’

Don tried not to laugh. Tess still had a butterfly mind, flower to flower, one subject to another, no warning, no application for permission—

‘Don?’

‘What?’

‘I asked what colour you’d like.’

‘Brown.’

She sighed. ‘I want to come home.’

‘You can’t. I’m decorating. And I’m doing your round for Johnson’s. Mark’s collecting the football pools on his bike. I’m terrified in case anything
blows away, but Anne-Marie’s got Saturday mornings off because you’re in here, and she rides pillion. They both have security bags practically padlocked to the insides of their leather
jackets.’

Tess’s arms folded themselves, while her expression was extra sober. ‘So you let her have a leather jacket?’

He nodded in mock shame. ‘I did.’

Tess tutted. ‘Leather jackets are like tattoos – they’re for the lower echelons.’

‘The what?’

‘The uneducated.’

She would never change fully, but he no longer wanted her to change in every area. ‘Mark’s educated,’ he said. ‘As for tattoos – yes – I’d kill her
myself. I was bad enough when she got her ears pierced.’

‘I know you were.’ She chuckled, then placed a hand on her healing scar. ‘Don’t make me laugh, it hurts. Go on home to this bordello you’re making for
me.’

‘Boudoir.’

‘Yes, that as well. I don’t want anything vulgar.’

‘Right, Miss. Is detention over now?’

‘It is.’

He kissed her. In a way that truly mattered, she had managed, albeit by accident, one radical move away from her past. There could be no more babies, no more danger of her upsetting Rome by
making love for its own sake. ‘I love you, Mrs Compton,’ he said.

She tilted her head to one side. She knew he melted when she tilted her head to one side. ‘Who was she, Don?’

He didn’t hesitate. ‘Just Molly.’

‘Fat Molly?’

‘Yes, fat Molly.’

‘All right. Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Go on. Get on the end of a paintbrush and make the bedroom nice for me.’

Don stepped away. He’d thought she would throw a tantrum, but she’d taken it quite well. Didn’t she love him enough to mind what he did and with whom? Then he saw her
expression. She was smiling at him. Perhaps the operation, the threat of death, had made her mature a little?

‘They’re not feeding me,’ she complained. ‘Bring me some custard creams, a pasty from Wetherton’s, a packet of crisps and a bottle of ice-cream soda.’

‘But they said—’

‘And a quarter of liquorice allsorts.’

He sat down again. ‘Look, love. You’ve half a mile of stitches down below, and that’s just on the outside. Inside, every layer’s stitched with stuff that melts away, so
you can’t go packing the food in. They explained this. You’ll get wind. That’s why they’re cutting down on your food.’

The smile remained. ‘You want me in your bed?’

‘I do.’

‘Then I’ll settle for the pasty.’

‘I’m not bringing you a pasty.’

‘Half a pasty.’

‘No.’ She hadn’t grown up. She would never grow up. The forever child from a wooden caravan in a barn was still here. Hunger was something she hated and dreaded above all else.
The whole Compton family was a well-fed unit, and even the wildlife in the front and rear gardens was pleasantly plump. Tess was reliving a deprived youth because she was desperately hungry.
‘I’ll think of something,’ he promised.

‘You’re a good man.’

‘Glad you noticed. Glad I noticed how scared you are of having nothing to eat and too many children.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, it’s time we got to know each other.
We need a few meaningful talks, love.’

A group of people entered the ward, shepherded in by the sister.

‘Collingfords,’ Tess pronounced. ‘Look at the flowers. You could fill a small graveyard with that lot. They’re at war with Johnson’s, but they’ll never win.
Johnson the Dyers and Cleaners are the cream. Which is why I work for them.’

‘Of course.’

Tess folded her arms again. ‘Mrs Allen’s mother’s a very small but very loud lady. I’ve talked to her – well, listened to her when I got as far as the corridor. She
says her sleeping beauty’s just bought a shop, and I’ll bet you a pound to a penny the Collingfords are setting up a collection service. They’ll be looking for a base in Waterloo,
and I reckon she’s been chosen.’

‘You know it all, don’t you, Tess?’

She nodded. ‘I wasn’t behind the door when they gave out brains. A meat pasty, not cheese and onion. I don’t like their cheese and onion.’

The Collingfords disappeared into the side ward.

Don awarded Madam his full attention again. ‘No pasties, our kid. You’ll swell up, and your bowels will press on your operation. A couple of butties is my final offer, no
negotiation. And you have one bite, then wrap it up again in the greaseproof.’

She stared bleakly at her bedcover. ‘If we found anything, we had to hide it. If somebody suspected that you had found something, you got beaten till you told them where it was.’

‘This is different, Tess.’

‘But the hunger feels the same.’ She looked up at him. ‘I had arms like twigs, Don. With a little hammer, you could have got a tune out of my ribs. I’ve dug up raw
potatoes and eaten them. She said I look like her.’

He scratched his head. ‘Who said?’

‘I wish you’d listen for once. Mrs Allen’s mother said I look like Mrs Allen.’

‘Right.’ He would never keep up with her, would he? Her mind shot all over the place like spilled mercury, fragments breaking away to travel in many directions. She should wear a
warning sign,
I am quicksilver
, so that the populace might be warned before dipping in.

‘Don?’

‘What?’

‘Are you still working for her?’

‘Eh? Oh . . . not just now. I’ve got time off for bad behaviour.’

‘Will you go back?’

‘I don’t know. I might man Injun Joe’s phones while he goes out sleuthing. And I can help you with your jobs, stop Mark looking at you all soft while you’re football
pooling. I think our Anne-Marie’s just an excuse so he can be near you.’

Tess sighed in the manner of a ham actor. ‘I can’t help being beautiful, can I?’

‘No, you can’t.’

The ensuing silence was shattered by a blood-curdling scream and the sound of nurses’ feet pounding in the direction of the little side ward. The Collingfords emerged and were shunted into
the corridor.