‘Sally has to be kept in the dark for as long as possible,’ insisted Lottie. ‘Happen our so-called husband’ll go back south when he knows we’re on to him.’
In Ivy’s kitchen, Prudence sank into a straight-backed chair, toyed with the cruet set. ‘What’s the answer, Lottie?’ She had to admit that this seemingly ne’er-do-well woman was worldly-wise and fit for any of life’s hurdles.
Lottie scalded the pot, counted out three spoons of tea, made the brew. ‘Well, you and me and our Gert’ll tackle him. Leave the men out of it – they’re not devious enough, most men. They can’t see round corners like women can. I’m telling you now, Mrs S, that my husband and yours is at death’s door. He’s smoking like a chimney and drinking enough to launch a battleship. There’s no way he’s got the strength to be a real threat.’
‘Can we be sure?’
Lottie heaped sugar into her cup. ‘We can make bloody sure, Mrs Spencer.’
‘Use my Christian name, please.’
‘Right, I will. Sugar, Prudence?’
‘No, thank you. We must hurry and put a stop to him.’
Lottie blew on her tea. ‘Leave it to me, Prudence. If nowt else comes to mind, I’ll kill the bastard myself.’
‘Are you sure you know how to go about this, Prudence?’ asked Lottie.
‘Of course I do. I drove into town only last week – I have had lessons, you know. Pru’s better, by the way.’
‘Eh?’
‘Better than Prudence.’
‘Oh.’ Lottie smiled encouragingly at her sister. ‘You all right, our Gert?’
‘Aye. Are you?’
For a woman bent on murder, Lottie was fine and she said so.
All three stared wordlessly up Crompton Way, then the would-be driver riffled through an instruction book that had arrived with the Ford. ‘Open throttle. Ease in choke to halfway. No, no, I think it’s the other way round. Oh, why don’t they write these things in English? Depress clutch, engage first gear while removing handbrake,’ she quoted.
‘Is there any danger of us getting there this week?’ asked Lottie. It was eight o’clock on a Saturday morning in January 1955. A maniac was on the loose, while the heroines of the piece sat and waited for a car to start. ‘We’ll still be here come Ash Wednesday,’ complained Lottie.
‘Shut up,’ advised Pru. Unused to ordering people about in such a brusque fashion, she blushed and returned to the instructions. Of the trio, she was the most terrified when the pride and joy that was her new car bounded forward like a drunken kangaroo. ‘I shall get to grips with this momentarily,’ announced Pru uncertainly. ‘Really, there is nothing to it.’
Shaken and bruised, they arrived on Darwen Road at ten minutes past eight. The several death-defying miles that lay behind them were fading to a blessed blur by the time Lottie inserted her key in the door of the cottage. ‘I’ll do this on me own,’ she advised the other two.
Pru was firm. ‘No. We are all Andrew’s victims.’ She took Gert’s hand and gripped it tightly. ‘We are in this together.’
‘The Three Musketeers,’ quipped Lottie weakly. She was scared, but she didn’t want it to show. ‘Let’s go and find the Scarlet rotten Pimple. More like a bloody boil, he is.’
They walked round the ground floor of the cottage in a huddle, each one clinging to her sister-in-crime as if life itself depended on human contact. ‘He’s not down here,’ said Gert.
Lottie broke free, ran back to the kitchen and peered through the window overlooking the side of the house. ‘Van’s gone,’ she shouted. ‘He always leaves it up the side. We’ve missed him.’
Gert and Pru were in the front living room, their eyes fastened to pages torn from the
Bolton Evening News
. ‘Look,’ said Pru. ‘An admission of guilt, I’d say. He has removed the article about Bert’s death.’
‘I married a bloody murderer,’ commented Lottie.
‘So did I,’ Pru reminded her. ‘But while I was with him, he stuck to killing people’s souls. Now.’ She sank into a chair. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘Back to Crompton Way,’ said Gert, her mouth set in an angry line. ‘If his van’s there, we make sure we get him away from Ivy. If it’s not at Ivy’s, we go and look at Joseph’s house, then—’
‘He’ll be in Paradise,’ said Pru, her tone even, almost cold. ‘He’ll destroy that first.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Gert.
Pru nodded quickly. ‘Oh yes. Property before people, that was his motto. All the same, we’ll go via Crompton Way, just to make sure that Ivy is safe. Then, if Andrew isn’t at the factory, we’ll telephone from there and tell Joseph and Ivy to be watchful. Come along, now, there’s no time to waste.’
They bundled themselves back into the vehicle, lurched down the moor and into the road where Prudence and Ivy’s houses sat. No van was parked, so they rattled on through the centre of Bolton, up Wigan Road, turning left up Spencer Street, then right into Paradise Lane. His empty van was near the lane’s junction with Worthington Street.
‘I feel sick,’ whispered Gert.
‘Stop here, then,’ advised Lottie. ‘Me and Pru’ll see to him.’
Gert shook her head. ‘No. It were my husband he killed, Lottie. I want to look in that bugger’s horrible eyes and tell him I know all about what’s happened.’ Her head drooped for a second. She didn’t really want to look at him, didn’t really want to remember how Worthington had used her. In a way, he had murdered her, too, because she’d never been near a man since that night. Even Bert had stood no chance of touching her. ‘Let’s get him,’ she said softly.
Pru heard something in Gert’s voice. ‘Don’t descend to his level,’ she advised Gert. To Lottie, she said, ‘As for what you said about killing him – I hope you weren’t serious. Sally must be kept secure. If she had a mother and an aunt in prison, she really would be a troubled girl.’
The two sisters looked at one another. ‘For Sal,’ breathed Lottie. ‘For her, we keep our tempers.’
‘I’ll do me best,’ agreed Gert.
As they alighted from the car, a man ran across the yard. ‘A bloke’s just gone in,’ he said breathlessly. ‘He didn’t see me. I think he’s carrying something – it looked like a gun. Then in his other hand, there was a can.’
‘Paraffin.’ Pru studied Nutty Clarke’s scarred face. ‘Wait,’ she told him gently.
‘What?’ Nutty’s head turned this way and that. ‘I’m going into my office to call the coppers and—’
‘No.’ Although Pru’s tone was low, it carried meaning. ‘The police must be kept out of this if at all possible. It is, in effect, a family matter.’
‘Oh.’ Nutty knew Mrs Spencer well, had seen her at many a meeting. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘I am,’ Pru told him. ‘For the moment, at least.’ She turned away from him, almost lost her composure when she saw Gert and Lottie disappearing through one of the entrances and into the dormant factory called Paradise. Had this been a weekday, the coward she had divorced would not have set foot in what he still considered to be his realm. She could not shout after them, could not warn them. Surely they had heard Nutty talking about the possibility of a gun? She made a swift, irrevocable decision, whispered an instruction to Nutty, watched him walk away.
Inside, Gert and Lottie had a whispered conference, then separated, each woman starting to climb one of the twin stairways that flanked the main, central flight. When they reached the first floor, they stopped, peered into the showroom, saw him sitting on a Paradise Look sofa in front of a Paradise Look curtain that was draped over a sham window frame. Lottie shook her head at Gert, withdrew to the landing. Gert also stepped back onto her set of stairs. He had not seen them, she thought.
Westford took a swig from his silver hip flask and rolled whisky over his tongue before allowing its warmth to descend to his stomach. When had he last eaten? he wondered. In a minute or so, he would set fire to this bloody place. He would do a proper job. That rat Simpson couldn’t have lit a fire in hell, because he’d been stupid, too scared of shadows. He gazed at the Paradise empire, saw moulded pillars supporting elegant arches where a dark corridor had once existed. They had opened the place up, but had kept the three separate stairways. Here, opposite the middle door, he could cover all possibilities.
At the base of the third, central stairway, Prudence Spencer waited and listened. When Nutty Clarke appeared at her side, she placed a finger to her lips, then beckoned. Stealthily, they climbed the steps. Nutty had done as ordered. ‘Police are on their way,’ he whispered.
Prudence bit down on her lip. There had been no alternative, really. Poor Sally would have to be told about Andrew’s wickedness, because the girl’s mother and aunt were in a building where a madman lurked with a gun, paraffin and a temper fit to cause spontaneous human combustion. With Nutty just behind her, Prudence ascended stealthily, her mind occupied by something she had read about people bursting into flames for no apparent reason.
Flames. Prudence paused, glanced over her shoulder into a face whose contours had already been remoulded by fire. ‘Wait in the yard if you wish,’ she mumbled.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he told her.
How had it felt to be locked in a burning cockpit? Prudence wondered. Perhaps she would find out soon enough; perhaps they would all become closely acquainted with fire within the next few moments.
On the landing, they stopped and listened. Prudence held a restraining hand against her companion before pulling at the door handle. When she peered inside, she found herself looking into the face of Andrew Worthington and into the barrel of a pistol.
‘Bitch,’ spat the seated man. He waved the gun. ‘Come in and close the door, Prudence.’ He grinned, stretching sagging and drink-reddened flesh into a smile that was hideous.
She swallowed, heard the clumsy gulp that accompanied this involuntary reaction. ‘The police are coming,’ she told him, her voice made husky by a fear-dried throat.
‘For me?’ he asked. ‘Are they coming for me, dear wife?’
‘Yes.’
He laughed loudly, almost uncontrollably. ‘Then I do hope they bring an ambulance, Prudence. Somebody will have to tidy away your remains.’
Nutty stepped into the room. ‘Put the gun down, sir,’ he advised calmly. ‘Just leave it on the floor.’ He positioned himself in front of Prudence. ‘Lay it down,’ he repeated.
Worthington rose to his feet. Yes, he was Worthington. This was his factory, had been his father’s factory. The mill chimney no longer bore his name, yet Paradise was still his property. ‘What happened to your face?’ he asked.
‘Burnt,’ snapped Nutty. ‘In a plane. What happened to yours?’ He nodded quickly. ‘I recognize you. A dial like yours isn’t easily forgotten. You were hanging round looking for your sister – or so you said. I’ve seen you a few times, lurking about like a criminal.’
Worthington watched while the caretaker continued to shield Prudence. There were six bullets in the gun, enough ammunition to blow away this scarred airman and several Prudences. Then a movement caught his eye. He glanced sideways, saw Lottie standing in a corner. ‘Ah. Wife the second,’ he announced. ‘Come in, Charlotte and enjoy the party.’
‘Kill me first,’ cried a voice from the other end of the showroom. ‘You did for Bert, so you might as well finish me and all.’
Worthington stepped back to give himself enough space to cover everyone in the room. If he fired the gun, he might get one or two, but not all of them, because they would surely run for cover. And the police would be here shortly. Which one should he choose, then? Lottie? Lottie who had returned from America to reclaim her daughter? Lottie who had failed him so miserably, so completely?
He moved his head slowly and looked at Gert. Gert and Bert Simpson – what marvellous names for a music hall act. Gert had turned out to be a wet weekend, hadn’t she? Tormenting him with her frivolous clothes then screaming rape – a bloody madwoman, she was.
But no. Again, he fixed his attention on Prudence. Prudence, a woman who had given him years of hell, was now struggling physically with a mere caretaker. The shy and agoraphobic woman was suddenly strong, powerful, capable of helping to build a business whose name was displayed in every city store. The Paradise Look? There would be nothing heavenly about her face once he had shot the life out of it.
Prudence pushed Nutty Clarke. ‘This is not your fight,’ she told him breathlessly. Nutty was not a big man, but she couldn’t manage to move him. ‘Go down to the yard and meet the police,’ she ordered, the words still starved of oxygen. ‘This is my business, Mr Clarke.’
‘And mine,’ replied Nutty. ‘I’ve shares in it.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Keep bloody still!’ roared Worthington. His peripheral vision marked the progress of Lottie and Gert as they crept closer to him and further away from the safety of the stairwells. ‘And you two,’ he shouted. ‘Stay where you are.’ He waved the gun about until the sisters were still.
With one last tremendous effort, Prudence Spencer drove an elbow into the caretaker’s gut. When he collapsed, she bent over to apologize, stopped herself when she saw the look of triumph on her ex-husband’s face. Slowly, she straightened, her eyes riveted to his. He was, she thought, Satan incarnate.
‘Yes, you’ll be the first.’ He raised the gun, saw that Nutty Clarke was struggling to raise himself. ‘You first, Prudence, then the other two mares,’ spat Worthington. ‘If I’m to hang for Simpson, I’ll take the rest of you with me.’
Prudence froze. She felt Nutty’s hands as he gripped her waist, knew that the caretaker was almost upright. The removal of a safety catch caused a loud click that echoed round the showroom. She continued to stare at Worthington, almost felt the bullet as it whizzed past her head.
Worthington steadied himself, cursed the whisky, aimed again. His vision was becoming blurred, while a weakness in his limbs made the pistol heavier. Breathing needed thinking about, was no longer an automatic process. When his knees buckled, he went down, pulled at the trigger, noticed that Nutty Clarke was upright again.
Gert ran and hid behind a bale of cloth, but Lottie simply walked in a straight, slow line towards the man who had tried to hurt her daughter. As she moved, it occurred to Lottie that she actually loved Sally, and that knowledge seemed to strengthen her resolve. If necessary, she would die to save Pru, because Pru had minded Sal, had sheltered the child, Gert and Ivy.