The Case of the Four Fingers by Liz Hedgecock

Author:Liz Hedgecock [Hedgecock, Liz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: White Rhino Books
Published: 2022-10-29T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

‘Nora, where are you?’ I went from room to room, fighting the urge to call more loudly, but I didn’t want to bring the superintendent back. Apart from him being unpleasant, that would definitely stop Nora returning. So I prowled, peeping behind curtains and under tables, but there was no sign of her.

‘You can come out now, Nora,’ I muttered. ‘Superintendent Hicks left. I’m speaking the truth. If I wasn’t, you’d know soon enough.’

Why was she so scared of him, anyway? Obviously he was very much senior to her, but Nora’s reaction wasn’t the awed respect of a junior member of staff. She genuinely seemed frightened of what he might do if he got hold of her.

Can he get hold of her, even? I remembered how Nora had tried to grip Jack’s shoulders: her hands had gone straight through him. That made it more peculiar. I sighed, looked about me once more, and considered what to do.

What had we been discussing before the superintendent came? That was the worst of dealing with Nora. There were always interruptions: things to explain, or an obstacle or diversion, like the superintendent, or the horses, or – something.

A street directory. That was it. We’d been wondering what sort of businesses were in the area, and which might have used paper like that of the anonymous letter. I didn’t need Nora to work on that.

‘I don’t know if you can hear me,’ I said, feeling very silly indeed, ‘but I’m going to the file room to look for a street directory. Maybe I’ll see you there.’

Silence.

A minute later I was on my way, keeping my eyes open for any ghostly presences, but the place seemed deserted.

What did the superintendent do when he wasn’t visiting the file room or terrorising Nora? And why was he at the Bridewell at all? What bothered him so much that he couldn’t leave and enjoy whatever afterlife there was?

I reached the staircase which led to the basement and switched on my phone torch. It was much easier this time. I even remembered the hole when I got to the bottom of the stairs. I’m getting to know the place, I thought, and felt rather pleased. Then I remembered the police station was being sold off in less than a fortnight.

Much good that’ll do you. I produced my ring of keys and opened the door. Now, where to begin?

I scanned the room and noticed a row of books propped on one of the filing cabinets. I walked over and switched my torch on again to read their spines. Finally I spied a Liverpool street directory from 1964.

I eased it out and riffled through it until I found Prescot Street. There was the police station, and next to it a greengrocer. A butcher’s was there, too: presumably the one Tom Tinsley had worked at. But I found no sign of the Tinsleys’ drapers shop and no chandler’s belonging to Bill Cracknell.

Could the shops have been further away? I looked for them in adjacent streets, flicking back and forth in the directory, but neither showed up.

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