Bert grappled with all the confusing concepts that were rooting in his brain. Gert was respectable, had always been a good girl. Even though she’d dressed up a bit on the colourful side, she’d acted decent. There was something very wrong here. No way would Ivy Crumpsall have a loose woman living in her house with the young girl she had raised as a granddaughter. Even when Gert had lived in the little prefab house, she had been up and down to the Crumpsalls’ house, had worked full-time in Paradise as a weaver.
‘Well?’ Westford glanced at his watch.
‘I’m thinking.’
‘And just how long will that process take?’
Bert Simpson looked directly into the eyes of Andrew Worthington. He was still Andrew Worthington, no matter what. This bad bugger had never even been prosecuted for grabbing Sally, because everything had been glossed over when Ollie Blunt had accidentally impaled the lunatic on a pitchfork. Andrew Worthington had been a doomed man whose life had been saved by Ollie Blunt. Without the surgery that followed, Worthington could have died within weeks.
‘Still thinking?’
‘No.’
‘Then what are you going to do about our plan?’
‘Your plan, not mine.’ They definitely wouldn’t recognize Worthington, thought Bert. He had shrunk like a wool garment in hot water, had emerged wrinkled and worn-out. Even the eyes, which had protruded so markedly in his ugly face, were now partially shrouded beneath veils of collapsing flesh. ‘You’re on your own,’ he said softly. ‘Do what you want and say what you want, but I’m out of it.’ He turned and took a step away.
Westford clapped a hand on the shoulder of his cohort. ‘There’s money in it for you. If you come with me now, I’ll pay you fifty pounds. Think what you could do with fifty pounds.’
‘Nowt is what I could do,’ snapped Bert as he swung round to face his tormentor. ‘The sleep I’ve lost over Maureen Mason’s hands . . . well . . . you’d not be interested in that, would you? Fifty quid’s no good to me without Gert. Fifty thousand’s no good, come to that. And from what you’ve said, there’s no way she’ll come back. Not while she’s having such a good time, like.’
Westford cursed himself inwardly. He should never have taken that tack, should not have tried to discredit Gert. He had wanted Bert to forget all about his wife, to forsake any misguided loyalty towards the woman. But in damning Gert, he had removed Simpson’s reason for staying alive. ‘Look, I was wrong. I made all that up so that you would stay away from your wife. After all, you know some of my little secrets, don’t you? And if you were to return to Gert, you might just tell her my new name and address.’ He paused, rooted round for further comment. ‘And Gert’s loyal to Ivy Crumpsall. She might have ruined any chance I might have of . . . of . . .’
‘Of destroying Paradise?’ Bert nodded slowly, pensively. ‘Aye, Gert’s a loyal woman. Salt of the earth, she is, the sort who’d stick with anybody who treated her right. And summat else and all, Mr Worthington—’
‘Westford—’
‘Please your bloody self about that, ’cos I know who you are and what you are.’ Bert suddenly felt very cold – chilled to the bone, but stronger, almost brave. ‘My Gert’s on the right side. Yon Crumpsall woman worked hard well past retirement age, ’cos she believed in Paradise. Ivy Crumpsall’d make ten of you, me and half a dozen others. So bugger off, I’m done with you.’
A dart of pure fear shot through Westford’s body, seeming to hit the spot where Ollie Blunt had impaled him years earlier. Simpson was walking away, would put the word about that Worthington was back and looking for revenge. He groped for his wallet, hailed Bert. ‘Take your wages. At least let me pay you for what you’ve done so far.’
Bert Simpson stopped dead in his tracks, frozen not by the promise of money, but by something far more important. Slowly, he pivoted and walked back along the tiny passageway. ‘You . . . you forced her, didn’t you?’
Westford took a small step back.
This slight movement and a certain look in Westford’s eyes was enough for Bert. ‘You bloody bastard. You raped my girl, didn’t you? I know it, I can tell by that smirk on your rotten face.’ Bert paused, inhaled, took another pace. ‘That’s it, then. I’m going through Kippax’s yard and I’m going to tell every bugger I meet that you’re back and looking for trouble. Tom Marchant’ll have your card marked before teatime, I’m telling you. It’s over, Worthington. And you can tell your mate Westford that he’s finished and all—’ The sentence died suddenly when pain flooded Bert’s chest. Was he the one having the heart attack? Shouldn’t it have been the other fellow?
‘Go to hell,’ snarled the man who called himself Westford.
It was then that Bert understood what was happening to him. Too late, he realized that Worthington was upon him, that a knife was slipping into his chest for the second time. Or was it the third?
‘Die, you whining coward,’ spat the assailant.
Bert fell against the wall, saw that the sky had darkened. Rain? he wondered. No, no, it was his eyes. He was slipping down the wall and into the next life. ‘You’ll not get away . . .’ The words bubbled wetly on his tongue before spilling colour down his chin. ‘You . . . finished . . . Worthing . . . ton.’ He slumped, tried to breathe, gave up the unequal fight.
Westford straightened, wiped the all-purpose army knife on a handkerchief, spat on his hands and cleaned them. There was not much blood, he thought. There was less blood here than had come out of his own nose the night he had conquered Gert Simpson. He looked over his shoulder, saw no-one, knew that he was relatively safe.
When his pulse slowed, Westford dragged the body across the dirt track and covered it in rubbish. When what remained of Bert Simpson was hidden, the murderer turned his face towards Wigan Road and the place known as Paradise.
For several minutes, Alan Westford remained in the alley. He positioned himself about halfway between Bert Simpson’s body and the passageway’s junction with Wigan Road. He had done it. He had killed a man, so nothing mattered from now on. Whatever happened, no single occurrence could possibly result in anything as marrow chilling as those moments of terror while Bert Simpson had hung between life and death.
The Town Hall clock struck the quarter. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes ago, Simpson had been alive, speaking, moaning, threatening. The way was clear now, because Westford was finally alone and completely responsible for his own destiny. Bert had been an obstacle, he told himself by way of reassurance. The man had been besotted with the cheap slut he had married, might easily have told her everything. Now, Simpson would talk no more.
He checked his hands and clothing for blood spots, combed his hair, straightened the new tie. For some inexplicable reason, he found himself to be calm and steady. With his confidence swollen by this morning’s uneventful walk through the centre of Bolton, he stepped firmly out of the ginnel and onto Wigan Road. Nobody would know him. When he had looked in a mirror of late, he had scarcely recognized himself. Also, he simply couldn’t seem to worry any more. It was as if any barrier in his path could be moved or destroyed. After this morning’s event, he was unable to fret about something as insignificant as being recognized. From now, his time was borrowed; from now, he would always be a murderer. Yet this knowledge did not trouble him unduly.
In the bottom of the H, where the Recreation Ground had once sat doing nothing apart from incubating weeds, a new building showed off its smug facia of red Accrington brick. Westford looked right and left, saw no movement on Paradise Lane, knew that everyone was at Rosie Blunt’s funeral. He stepped through a gateway, noticed that the word
paradise
would have been formed had the wrought iron gates stood closed.
He strolled up a path to the main doorway, rattled a knob, was not surprised to learn that the place was locked. As he wandered around the structure, he found his mouth gaping when the size of Marchant’s gamble finally hit home. There was a huge hall with chairs stacked to one side and gymnastic equipment stored along walls. Doors at one side of the large room were labelled
baths, medical, library
. Library? What did this lot round here want with books? At the rear of the building, another locked entrance plainly led to a staircase. A notice read,
THIS WAY TO CLASSROOMS AND APPRENTICES’ TUTORIALS
. An arrow pointing upward verified the functions of the upper storey.
Westford’s need for a cigarette was great. Had he been carrying tobacco and the means to light a smoke, he could have tossed the match into the workers’ co-operative’s dream world. No. It was too big for him. There was city money here too, so any damage would be closely investigated then righted by insurers. And, of course, he might get caught. So what? he asked himself. Wasn’t he already in trouble? With surprise, he realized that he had not given a thought to Bert Simpson for several minutes.
‘Can I help you?’
Westford swung round, his heart beating loudly in his ears. ‘Just looking,’ he replied. The man wore a flat cap and gloves, had scars on his face.
‘You shut’n be here.’
Westford heard the now familiar Cockney accent. Grateful for his ability to mimic, he smiled tentatively. ‘You from the East End?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wotcher doing up here, then?’ The job at Billingsgate was paying off. After years as a listener, Westford had picked up the accent. ‘I’m just visiting, meself. Gotta sister on Wigan Road, but she ain’t in. Left me bags in her yard and came to the mill, thought she might work here.’
‘What’s her name?’
Westford covered the pause with a cough. ‘Too much bleeding smoke round here. Gets to me chest. Hilda. Hilda Dobson. Married a weaver.’
Nutty Clarke nodded. ‘They’ve all gone to a funeral. I been meself to the service. One of the founders died. Nice old girl, she was.’ Nutty ran his eyes over the intruder. ‘Dobson, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
The caretaker, who had left the funeral service to check on security, took a key from his pocket. ‘Follow me, sir. The workers are all listed in the office.’
Westford followed Nutty Clarke across Paradise Lane and into the mill yard. As he entered what he still considered to be his own domain, Westford was suddenly Worthington again. This was his family’s business. It had been built and run on Worthington sweat and blood, had been handed down from father to son, only to be snatched by a jumped-up ex-lord from Hampshire. He simmered, tried not to think about Heilberg. Marchant annoyed him, but Heilberg was the leading light here now, was probably using the Worthington office, the Worthington desk and chair.
‘You all right?’ asked Nutty.
‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Just hoping we find me sister, that’s all.’ Dobson, he told himself firmly. He must remember that his non-existent sister’s name was Hilda Dobson.
Inside the building, Worthington stopped abruptly, all the breath seeming to leave his body in one long sigh. The mill had been rearranged; he and the caretaker were standing in a room, a proper drawing room with furniture, curtains, a carpet. ‘What’s this?’ he asked before giving himself time to think.
‘This is where buyers sit,’ replied Nutty. ‘It gives them an idea of what The Paradise Look can do for their customers. We put these arrangements in department stores all over the country. It’s one of the services we provide.’
The ‘we’ did not pass unnoticed. Paradise belonged to everyone, from the management right down to the fellow who swept the floors. Shares, of course, would be an optional extra, a perk to be picked up in lieu of bonus. Worthington knew the folk round here very well. They were a canny lot, so they probably carried the forty-nine per cent between them for a rainy day. ‘Lovely,’ he managed. ‘I remember seeing a shop down in the West End – The Paradise Look, it was called. So the stuff made here goes off down to London?’
Nutty shrugged. ‘London, Birmingham – anywhere and everywhere. We make three-piece suites, odd sofas and armchairs, curtains, bed linens, tablecloths, cushions—’
‘Where’s the employees’ list?’ snapped Worthington. He was suddenly furious. The anger was usually deep inside, in a part of him that stayed cold and dark no matter what the weather, no matter what his mood. But now, it bubbled like lava under a too-thin crust of mock-indifference. ‘I need to find me sister.’
Nutty scrutinized the stranger. ‘You’re a funny bugger,’ he commented casually. ‘Half and half, eh? Bit of London, bit of Lancashire—’
‘I was born up here,’ said Worthington hastily. ‘Then we moved, came back, moved again. My sister married and stayed in Bolton.’
‘Come upstairs,’ said Nutty. ‘Mr Heilberg must have taken the lists and left them in his desk.’
They entered the office. On the desk that had belonged to Worthington Senior, a photograph of Ruth Heilberg sat in a silver frame. The chair was still there. The chair from which Worthington had ruled the roost was here for the use of . . . Joseph Heilberg.
‘You ill or something?’
‘No, no. I’m just tired from all the travelling.’
Nutty pored through the pages. ‘Well, she’s not a spinner or a weaver. And the only women in the carpentry department are cleaners . . . no, she’s not a cleaner . . . not an upholsterer . . . and I can’t find her name among the sewing machinists. Sorry.’
‘Never mind. She must be in some other mill.’
The caretaker put away the book, went to the door. ‘You coming?’
He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay, wanted to shout for the lad from the general office. Except that the general office was now a sort of fairyland of tastefully draped fabrics where customers could, no doubt, browse at leisure while drinking tea and choosing their lines for next spring. ‘Yes, I’m coming.’
They strolled across the yard together. ‘Is it a happy ship, then?’ Worthington kept his tone light.
Nutty guffawed. ‘You could say that, mate. Anything would be an improvement on the bastard who used to own this place. No love lost there, from what I’ve heard.’
‘Really?’
Nutty laughed again. ‘I think he ran himself out of town, you know. Turned up in Hampshire, tried to grab one of his kids, a girl called Sally Crumpsall. Seems he had children left, right and centre, thought nothing of troubling a young woman. But Sally’s very highly thought of in these parts. She’ll come into this pile one day – mark my words. I mean, Mr Heilberg’s got money in it, and so have some others, but Tom Marchant’s is the lion’s share. He’s no children of his own, so his share’ll fall to Sally. He’s got an orphanage now, you know. Used to be a lord, but he gave the house away. Brought his sister back from abroad, told her she could run the orphanage and be a missionary in her own country.’ He locked a door, pocketed the bunch of keys. ‘Still, Sally Crumpsall’s the light of Mr Marchant’s life, so she’ll be the boss here one day, I reckon. A woman in charge, eh?’