The Liverpool Trilogy (38 page)

He cleared his throat. ‘If David hadn’t come along, you and I—’

‘If’s a big word, Richard. If only’s the story of my life. I’ll see you tomorrow. Four o’clock, behind the house called Tallows.’

Lucy sat for a while after the call had ended. She fastened her cardigan, because the evening air was cool. All around her, leaves were curling and crisping in accordance with the rules of Mother Nature. Soon, they would fall in soft whispers all over the grass, geese would skein their way across the sky, and the earth would lie dormant for five months. The price of beauty was the yearly sight of its death. But it wasn’t death. It was sleep.

Her own winter had lasted for almost twenty years. Marriage to Alan had meant silence, shadows, the loss of self. Even in sunshine, she had felt the chill, and she had stopped looking for rainbows. She remembered that first sight of the river when she had bought the Liverpool house on the spot for cash. It was home. Well, it was one of her homes. Because she and David would have three between them, and that was good. But there had been a rainbow over the Mersey on the day she had taken Stoneyhurst. She had bought a rainbow.

Poor Richard. He was probably right. Had David not happened along, she would probably have become one of his sacrifices. Moira had endured because she filled one of his many needs – she was his mother. But he was mercurial, and sexual partners were dispensable, replaceable. David was a for ever man; he was also the other half of her.

As if on cue, her phone rang. He wanted to say good night from his lonely bed. He was absolutely bogged off about sleeping on his own. Why couldn’t he come to the shed, because he knew how to be quiet, and what time did she need him in the morning for Alderley Edge, and was Glenys going in her own car? And why was Louisa laughing at him?

‘You’re lovely,’ she said. ‘I worked out that we’ll have three homes when we marry – mine, yours and Tallows.’

He snorted. ‘And I’ll lay odds that we’ll never be in the same place at the same time. You are avoiding me.’

‘I’m not. It’s just that stuff keeps happening.’

He sighed in an exaggerated fashion. ‘And will stuff happen tomorrow?’

She thought about that. ‘Possibly. We’re setting a trap. I’ll tell you about it after you’ve bought some decent clothes – bring a fortune, because it’s Alderley Edge – and after I’ve sorted out my husband.’

A pause ensued. ‘Are you creating these circumstances, madam?’

‘No. I just seem to get dragged in.’

‘You will be bloody dragged in when I get hold of you, lady. This is getting ridiculous now. Am I using the wrong deodorant? Would you like me to book myself in for a facelift and body waxing?’

‘No. Come as you are.’ She doubled over with laughter when he decided to go vulgar. Bodily fluids, body parts and ancient curses were thrown into the arena. Then he got silly. He had never been kept in suspenders for so long, nor had he been so consulted. This was the one. This was the lunatic she’d always needed.

Life without drink was different. Until recently, it had been pleasurable, as if some deity had tested Alan’s eyes and given him a pair of good spectacles. Trish was an excellent woman, and even line-dancing was almost fun. He had been in danger of becoming content, and contentment was worth more than happiness, which was a fleeting emotion that was incapable of enduring.

But at this moment in time, Alan needed whisky. He would have sold his soul for a double, his body for a full bottle. And that was the price, of course. If he drank again, he’d be in a box within months. After tomorrow, he could well be in a jail cell, a prisoner of his own past misdemeanours. He couldn’t wipe the slate clean, couldn’t stop tomorrow happening. But he could absent himself . . .

Darkness threatened. The nights were drawing in, and this one might be his last. He threw the rope over a thick bough. Albert Pierrepoint was never around when he was needed, was he? The famous hangman had been renowned for his attention to detail, the carefully planned quick deaths he had provided. Alan would strangle, and it would be slow.

The old garden chair was in place, the rope was ready, and no gardeners came on Friday. Now, he had to go in for cocoa. Tomorrow he could choose between death and jail. In truth, he had already made his decision.

Sleep eluded Moira. Lucy had gone outside and was probably talking to David. They had an excellent relationship and a good chance of enduring the trials of marriage. Marriage could be hard work. Richard was high maintenance, and poor Lucy had already been through one difficult partnership, so it was perhaps as well that she had met someone she could trust.

These few days spent in the company of her friend and neighbour had taught Moira that life without a male partner could be fun. She had missed Richard, of course, had felt the lack of his cutting wit and his physical elegance. He was, she supposed, better looking than David, but perhaps she was prejudiced.

This happy little interlude would end tomorrow. She was going home to a damned fool. She loved a damned fool. She, too, was a damned fool. With this pleasing thought in mind, she finally drifted into sleep.

David lay in splendour, and in splendid isolation. The bedroom was the best of all the beautifully decorated rooms. It was the bridal suite, with its own newly installed bathroom, a four-poster bed and amazing furniture. She would love it when she eventually got round to seeing it. He grinned. Louisa, at forty-five, was reliving the thirties she had missed. She was fun. She was naughty, and he adored her silliness.

Money had been no problem, since his income had sat around gaining interest since . . . yes, he could allow that thought. Since the death of his only child, David had needed little. He ate, paid his bills, and studied his way through every spare moment. But he could see his money now, as he had spent a great deal of it to make a home fit for his beloved.

He clasped his hands on the pillow behind his head. Louisa had been wise. Behind the daftness, she housed a very fine brain. She couldn’t compete with the dead, so she had slowed everything down for his sake. Had he been divorced, she might not have hesitated for this length of time. But Anne, a much-loved ghost, had needed to be laid carefully away, and that had taken over a decade.

‘Thank you, Louisa,’ he whispered. ‘Though I still intend to deal with you.’

Richard Turner packed a bag. Having called in a couple of favours, he was now able to travel to Lancashire in order to . . . Lucy was right: he had to tell Moira everything, up to and including his plan to commit murder. She would understand, because she always did. Lucy did, too. Between the two of them, they formed one perfect female companion. Moira spoiled him and made him laugh, while Lucy could have been, should have been . . .

He shivered. Some thoughts were too delicious to merit more than a few seconds. She would be wasted on that medical equivalent of an anorak, the goodly nerd who did a fair imitation of a train-spotter or a devotee of real ale. He was vague, untidy, dull and very annoying. What on earth was she doing with a rollmop herring when there was caviar to be had?

Caviar? She’d been plain enough, had called him selfish, and she was probably right. And he had been out of order lately. Otherwise, how on earth had he managed to contemplate murder? It was time to open his mouth and let the truth out. Lucy was right. That was her one failing – she was usually right.

Trish was feeling unhappy, and he wouldn’t talk to her. Having tried to pinpoint the start of the awkwardness, she suspected that it had begun when she had announced her intention to meet a lawyer in the Boule Miche coffee shop. She had phoned the lawyer, and had got nowhere. Business was best discussed face to face, Trish had been advised. ‘You’re not drinking your cocoa, love.’

Automatically obedient, he took a sip.

‘What’s the matter with you, Alan?’

He shrugged. ‘Post-op depression, as you say. I’ll take this upstairs and get an early night.’ He left the scene, mug in hand.

No good night kiss, then. Trish took a mouthful of her own cocoa. It didn’t taste right. Nothing tasted, sounded or looked as good as it once had. She loved Alan, but he seemed to be going off her. Even though she was prepared to discharge his bankruptcy, he seemed cold and distant.

What had she done wrong? And look at the size of this kitchen. She couldn’t wait to be out of here and settled somewhere normal. But not alone. Life alone was bigger than this damned house. She was afraid. He was afraid. His fear was almost certainly tied to the woman she was going to meet tomorrow. Well, Trish would wear her five-hundred-pound suit and some good shoes. Power dressing was essential, because she had no idea what she would be facing in that coffee shop.

When she got to bed, he was pretending to be asleep. He’d poured away the cocoa – she could tell from the shape of the stain in his mug. She undressed and lay as stiff as a board beside him. Tomorrow was a big day. She couldn’t work out why, but it was going to be momentous.

Lucy almost jumped out of her skin when her mobile rang. How did she get rid of bloody ‘Amarillo’? Children understood these things, but there was seldom a child to hand when you needed one. By the time she located the offending article, it was well into
Sha la la lala lalala,
and she was well into desperation. The shed was not soundproof, and Moira could be well awake by now and trying to dance.

It was Richard. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m here.’

‘Where, you soft lad?’

‘Here. Look through the window – I’m outside.’

She opened the door, and he almost fell in. ‘Where is she?’

‘Asleep in there.’ She pointed to the door behind which poor Moira was trying to rest. ‘Try not to wake her – she was a bit wobbly tonight.’

He disappeared. Lucy sat on the sofa and wondered how much dafter the world could get. Her beautiful daughter had married the boy next door after knowing him for five minutes. David was turning into a sex-starved teenager, while Richard had been planning murder. A woman named Lexi was attempting to hasten Moira’s death, Alan had disappeared, and tomorrow a posse was to be formed in order to hunt him down in Alderley Edge, home of the rich, the famous and the stupid. Oh, bugger.

Right. This was it – she’d had enough. Shower cap – don’t spoil the hair – quick swill, towel dry, dress, pick up the keys to Alan’s BMW, write a note for Moira.
Stay as long as you like. I’ll call in when I get back from Cheshire tomorrow. Love to both, Lucy xx

It was eleven o’clock. She sat in her husband’s car and saw a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker peeping shyly from beneath the passenger seat. ‘Oh, Alan,’ she sighed. ‘If you’d stayed off the sauce and made me a proper partner, I would have found you the bloody money.’

There was a full moon low in the sky, but it was no longer red, because the sun, its partner in crime, was long gone. Ancients had feared the harvest moon, believing it to be bewitched and bleeding. ‘I’m going to Chorley New Road,’ she advised Earth’s single natural satellite. ‘Come with me if you like.’

After crossing through town, she pulled into David’s drive. Someone had done the garden, since the front window, once hidden completely by very tall grass, was fully visible. She took a key from her purse and let herself in, her breathing slowing while she waited for the alarm to sound. Nothing. The red eye in a top corner of the hall winked at her, but no siren followed. He’d forgotten. He was forgetful, and she adored him. Samson pushed a cold, wet nose into her hand before returning to his basket, a lavish, padded item chosen by a master who clearly loved his dog.

She entered the kitchen and switched on the lights. It was all new: bright white units, stainless steel splash-backs, Belfast sink, cooker with seven burners. Lights on kick-boards poured changing colours on to a metallic floor. It was fabulous. The living rooms were also stunning, and he had done all this for her.

Lucy crept up the stairs. Every time a tread creaked, she flinched, but she held on to the hope that his sleeping, like everything else, was done thoroughly.

Oh, God. He had bought her a four-poster and, if her eye was as good as she suspected it to be, it was French and a restored antique. He knew she loved château furniture. She felt like weeping. He was asleep, bedside lamp still burning, a book drooping from his hands. After removing his skew-whiff reading glasses, she relieved him of his book. It was Anne Robinson’s autobiography, so at least he had managed to put down the medical tomes.

In the en suite, which had clearly been a large bedroom in an earlier life, she found a double bath, plus a double shower. He was living in hope, then. Twin washbasins perched boldly on a granite surface above storage cupboards, and the mirror was surrounded by lights so bright that they were judgemental. Naked, she stared at herself, noting every crease, every bulge, oversized breasts that seemed to be moving south for the winter.

‘You have to be brave,’ she mouthed. David was going to be a lights-on man, so he might as well see what he was getting, warts and all. She shivered, pulled on a robe that was still damp from his shower or bath, switched off the bathroom lights and returned to the bedroom.

He was still asleep. She threw off the robe and, with excruciating slowness, peeled back the duvet and slid in beside him.

‘You’re late.’

She almost jumped out of her skin. ‘You sod. I thought you were fast asleep.’

‘Nope.’ He turned towards her. ‘Thank you for fitting me into your busy schedule. Who’s looking after Moira?’

‘Richard. I told him to come.’

‘Excellent. Now, be a good girl and think of England. You can leave the rest to me.’

Lucy sat at the kitchen island in David’s suddenly spotless house. She was wearing one of his shirts, plus a pair of sunglasses she’d discovered in the depths of her Tignanello handbag, and she felt stunned. She hadn’t expected him to be so . . . so what? Competent scarcely covered it. Amazing was, perhaps, nearer the mark. But she was absolutely exhausted, and a busy day lay ahead.

She also nursed a vague suspicion that she was sitting outside the head teacher’s office after receiving punishment, and it wasn’t fair, since she’d done nothing wrong. Or maybe last night had been some sort of competition, in which case he’d taken gold. Stamina? The word had been invented for Dr David Vincent. There’d been champagne, too. But champagne didn’t create hangovers, did it? The world was too bright, and he was too flaming cheerful for such an early hour. And, in spite of all the above, she was deliriously happy. She wasn’t going to tell him that, though. Not yet, anyway. Because he, too, was learning how to play the game, and he was cleverer than she was.