by Juliet Bell
He followed the doctor through to his consulting room and took the seat normally reserved for the patient.
Dr Sangupta smiled. ‘So what can I do for you today, Mr Lockwood, or would you prefer DCI Lockwood?’
Lockwood waved a hand. ‘I don’t mind. I was hoping to talk to you about Luke Earnshaw.’
The doctor nodded. ‘A sad case.’
‘You signed the death certificate?’
‘I did. Poor boy. Caught in a landslip up on those blue hills. He never had a chance. The boy was asthmatic, I believe.’ The man shook the mouse on his desk to stir the computer into life, and typed quickly with the screen angled away from Lockwood. ‘Yes. Even if he’d had a warning of the landslide, I doubt he would have been able to get away. Severe asthma, although I never treated him for that. He was only transferred to the practice a short time before he died, so I’ve got his records, but I don’t believe I ever met him.’
‘You didn’t see anything suspicious about his death?’
The doctor leaned back in his chair. ‘The body was in pretty bad shape. Those hills are rubble from the mine and he was buried under the slip. Official cause of death was suffocation. There was a postmortem, wasn’t there? And an inquest?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’m not sure there’s anything I can tell you that won’t be covered in there.’
And that was that. He didn’t really have a reason to ask anything else. It wasn’t strictly what he was here for. Asking questions about Luke Earnshaw was one thing, but if he pushed much further he’d end up running into patient confidentiality. ‘Do the review. Dot the “I”s. Cross the “T”s, and then get back for your retirement drinks.’ That’s what he’d been told.‘Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you then.’
Lockwood made it as far as the door before the old doctor piped up again. ‘No. Not much I can tell you about the boy, I’m afraid. But the father was a patient of mine. For a time. I don’t think he’s been into the surgery for years now, though.’
Lockwood allowed himself a tiny smile before he turned back into the room. ‘What about the father?’
Most of it was stuff Lockwood already knew. The kid brought home by Ray Earnshaw. The closeness to Cathy. The family destroyed when Shirley Earnshaw left and Ray Earnshaw died on the picket line.
‘Of course it might still have been different if Mick’s fiancée had lived, and they’d got married. Fran? No. Frances. She was a good woman. She looked after those kids well. Certainly better than her husband did afterwards.’
Lockwood frowned. He knew about Mick’s son, but the records had said nothing about the boy’s mother. ‘What happened to her? Where is she now?’
The doctor dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘It was a bad business. Not my fault, of course. I did what I could, but…’
Lockwood knew from experience when to fill a silence and when to let a person talk. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t the tale the doctor told.
‘I doubt there was anything I could have done,’ the doctor concluded. ‘If the ambulance hadn’t been stopped like that, she might have had a chance. But she was dead when they finally reached her. If anyone was to blame, it was that gang.’
Lockwood had to concede that the man had a fair point. Frances Earnshaw was another death he’d have to look for in the records. It didn’t sound like Heathcliff had been involved, but it was another death. Another life put out with Heathcliff Earnshaw somewhere in the middle of everything. There’d be a report somewhere if what the doctor said about the ambulance was true, but he doubted it’d tell him much. He didn’t want to criticise his colleagues, but he’d be happy to bet that, if the kids on the Heights would stop an ambulance, there weren’t many coppers who’d be haring up there risking their own necks to investigate. He felt a twinge of sympathy. Poor thing. It wasn’t her fault she’d got tangled up with the Earnshaw family.
Chapter Sixteen
August, 1986
The brat was screaming again. The brat always screamed. Mick ignored the noise. There was nowt he could do about it, was there? Kids needed a mam.
‘Cathy! Sort the baby out!’
He flicked the TV on and then off again. The doorbell rang. He almost ignored it. Nobody came to the house any more, not since he’d got back from the funeral. Frances had been buried in Liverpool. He wasn’t her husband so he couldn’t complain. Her mother had bustled in and made all the arrangements to have Frances ‘taken home to her family’ as she’d put it. She’d peered once at baby Harry, pursed her lips and noted that there wasn’t much of Frances about him, and that had been that. Mick could hardly argue. There was nothing of Frances about anything. Frances had been kind and good. There was nowt good here now.
He answered the door. The woman on the doorstep had that do-gooding look about her. Mick remembered it from after his dad died. There were women from the estate who’d brought food over and clothes for the kids, and then there were the women who’d come to ‘check how things were’. He’d let Cathy deal with them. They were just rubbernecking on someone else’s tragedy. This woman, with her limp hair and the bored look on her face, would be one of those.
She held her hand out. ‘Mick Earnshaw?’
He nodded, still not opening the door far enough to let her in and ignoring the extended hand.
‘I’m not sure if you remember me. Ellen Dean. From social services. I phoned.’
He shrugged. She might have phoned. He let Cathy answer the phone these days.
‘I’ve come to check how things are with the baby.’ She took a step forward. ‘The health visitor said you hadn’t let her in.’
Mick shrugged again. How was he supposed to know about some health visitor? ‘I thought they just came to see new mums.’
‘No. No. Parents generally, and especially…’ Her voice tailed off. ‘Well, in the circumstances…’
Mick didn’t need reminding about his circumstances. He didn’t have to put up with this. He was in charge here. He was the man of the house. He slammed the door shut again.
Ellen Dean retreated to her car, and pulled a folder out of the bag on the passenger seat. She flicked to the back page and noted ‘Refused SW entry’ under the previous line that recorded the health visitor’s two attempted visits. She had two other houses to visit on the Heights that morning and a panel meeting at one o’clock. She glanced at her watch. Nearly eleven already. The Earnshaw file was a thick one, though. Her first visit to the Heights estate had been to this house. She remembered sitting in her car, psyching herself up to ring the doorbell. Well, a lot had changed since then. She’d seen a lot of the Earnshaws. Especially those wild kids. And with a motherless baby in the house, she’d probably see a lot more. She checked the time again and ran through her schedule in her head. Twenty minutes at the Gosthwaites would be more than enough. And she didn’t need a lunch break. Plenty of time to get a foot in Mick Earnshaw’s door.
She was about to climb out of the car again when the Earnshaws’ door opened. She waited. Mick marched out, slamming the door behind him. She watched him stalk away. He was on his own, so the baby must still be in the house. Right.
She rang the doorbell. This time it was opened by the girl, Cathy. ‘Hello, Cathy. I’m sure you know who I am. I’m here to see Mick. Is he in?’
The girl shook her head, one hand still holding on to the door. Ellen wasn’t going to let it slam in her face again. She stepped forward quickly into the hallway. ‘That’s fine. I’ll wait.’
The girl followed her into the living room.
Ellen sat herself down among the discarded cans and unread newspapers. ‘Has he just popped out?’
The girl folded her arms. Ellen could read the distrust on her face. Social workers were barely a step up from the police round here. Social services. The Police. Margaret Thatcher. You could tell a lot about people from the things they chose to hate.
Another face appeared in the doorway. It was that boy. Heathcliff. It was strange. If you didn’t know th
eir history like she did, you’d almost take them for twins. The wild, dark curls. The intense way they looked at everything. But when she looked again they were as different as chalk and cheese. The boy was darker, while the girl’s skin was almost ethereally white.
She told the lie again. ‘I’ve come to see Mick’
Heathcliff snorted with what could have been derision or laughter. ‘He’s not here.’
‘No. Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘First of never, I hope.’
Cathy gave the boy a look that he ignored, but Ellen noted and stored away. ‘Mick’s gone to the shops.’
‘Right.’
‘I don’t know how long he’ll be.’
‘Okay. Well, I need to see the baby as well.’
‘He’s asleep.’
A squawk from upstairs disagreed with her. Ellen stood up. ‘Sounds like he’s waking up. I’ll just have a quick peek.’
Again she was past the girl before any objection could be raised. They followed her up the stairs, Cathy and then Heathcliff, like two matching shadows. ‘Is it this way?’
She followed the sound of the snuffled cries into the back bedroom. The baby was in the crib underneath the window. The walls of the nursery had been painted a soft yellow and a mobile spun above the now-wakeful infant. ‘Well, this is pretty.’
The girl nodded. ‘Frances made him do it, before…’
‘Well, it’s very nice.’
Ellen leaned forward and lifted the baby from the crib. He gurgled at her and stuck out his fist, grabbing at a loose strand of hair.
‘He’s a lovely-looking lad,’ Ellen said brightly. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Harry’
She would add that piece of information to her files later. ‘Do you know when he was fed and changed last?’
‘Just before his nap.’
‘So Mick did it before he went to the shop?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Must have, mustn’t he?’
Ellen wasn’t sure she believed that for a minute, but someone was clearly feeding and dressing the bairn, so she couldn’t say he was being neglected. The clothes looked like hand-me-downs, but that wasn’t a crime, and neither was leaving a fifteen-year-old auntie to babysit. There was something, though. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what. ‘Right. And the baby’s registered with a GP?’
The girl nodded.
‘Right. Well, tell Mick he needs his weight checked.’
Another silent nod.
Ellen popped the baby back in the crib. The baby, so far as she could tell, seemed fine. Whatever else was going on here was not her problem. Well, not today at least.
Cathy closed the door behind the social worker. She’d lied. Of course she’d lied. Social workers weren’t people you told the truth to.
It had barely been a lie anyway. Mick might well go to the shop. Beer was cheaper in cans than from the pub after all.
‘What do you wanna do now?’ Heathcliff grabbed her hand as he asked the question, already leading her towards the back door.
Cathy giggled. ‘Get out of here.’
Heathcliff tipped his head towards the staircase. ‘We can’t.’
Stupid baby. ‘He’ll be asleep anyway. What’s it matter?’
Heathcliff frowned. ‘We can’t leave him on his own.’
Cathy let Heathcliff’s hand drop. It was always going to be like this, wasn’t it? Mick would never do anything and they’d be trapped here together with Harry screaming and neither of them ever going anywhere at all. That wasn’t enough. She stepped towards him. ‘Come on. Just for a little bit.’
‘But the baby…’
‘We won’t be long.’
He hesitated before he followed, but he did follow, out of the back door, along the lane, and down the path to the blue hills. They sat on the hills where they always sat. And then they lay down, Cathy with her head on his belly, listening to his body and to the wind and whirr of the town a long way away. This was freedom.
‘We should get back.’
She didn’t want to go back. ‘Why do we have to?’
‘The baby. And Mick’ll get back, and he’ll be tanked up and…’
She didn’t need him to finish the sentence. If Mick got back and they weren’t there, then there’d be fists flying when they did come home. ‘We could stay here.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you can’t live on a hill.’
‘Well, not here then. But somewhere. We could go somewhere.’ Even as she said it, Cathy knew it was ridiculous. Everything she knew was here. And they didn’t have any money or anywhere to go.
‘All right.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s go somewhere. Where do you want to go?’
Cathy pulled herself up to sitting and then standing. ‘Now who’s being stupid? You can’t take me anywhere.’
She saw the shadow that crossed his face, but she walked away, back towards home and Mick and the baby and life.
They walked the long way round the front door instead of straight in the back. She might have to go home but she could at least extend the moment a little bit longer. At the end of the street she stopped. There was a car – an unfamiliar car – parked right outside number 37. It wasn’t the sort of car anyone around here drove. This car was shiny-red and new-looking. What if it was another social worker? Or what if she’d gone off and got the police? Cathy froze. Mick would almost certainly still be at the pub. Her and Heathcliff were supposed to be looking after the baby. They were going to be in so much trouble.
The car door opened. It wasn’t a social worker. It wasn’t the police. It was Edward.
‘What’s he doing here?’
Cathy ignored Heathcliff’s question and charged forward. ‘When did you get a car?’
She knew he was watching her as she ran her hand over the bonnet. A car. A car could take you anywhere. ‘It’s not mine. It’s Mum’s, but she hardly drives it.’
She leaned forward and gripped his hand.
‘I came to tell you I passed my driving test, and you know, see if you wanted to go somewhere.’
Cathy nodded. She could picture herself being driven around by Edward in his shiny red car.
‘She don’t wanna go anywhere.’ Heathcliff stepped towards them, glaring at her hand still linked with Edward’s.
‘You don’t decide what I want.’
‘Well, you can’t. You’ve got to look after the baby.’
Cathy stared into Heathcliff’s eyes. Heathcliff knew. Heathcliff had always understood. She didn’t even think he’d be surprised at what she said next. She smiled. ‘You can look after him, can’t you?’
‘I’m not staying here while you go out with him.’
Heathcliff was ridiculous sometimes. He had to understand. He couldn’t be like this and expect her to stay around the whole time. She shook her head. ‘Well, I’m going.’
She climbed in the passenger seat and slammed the door.
Outside she could hear Edward making his polite noises and getting no response. She wound down the window. ‘Come on, Edward. You said you were going to take me for a ride.’
Chapter Seventeen
September, 1986
Edward flicked through the prospectus and tried to look interested. School went back next week and it was the start of his last year at sixth form, his A-level year. Every morning a new stack of university brochures arrived, addressed to him but ordered by his mother, for his parents to ooh and aah over while Edward tried not to choke on his cereal. He knew what was expected. He was supposed to go to a good university. His father had been to university and now he had a nice house and a good job. Edward was supposed to do the same
That was his parents’ plan. Not his. It was getting to the time for filling in the applications. He was going to have to say something soon.
‘What about Newcastle?’ His mother leaned towards Father. ‘Is Newcastle good now?’
/>
‘Durham would be better.’
His mother nodded. ‘Well, yes. Of course, Durham. And St Andrews.’
Edward swallowed. ‘Actually…’
His parents continued their conversation.
‘Although Marjorie Ellis’s son went to St Andrews and apparently some of the accommodation is rather Spartan.’
‘Actually…’ Edward tried again. ‘I thought I might take a year out.’
He almost fancied he could feel the weight of the silence that descended. The scraping of the butter knife against his father’s toast cut through the air. Then he took a bite and chewed, before having a sip of tea. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Edward.’
‘But…’
His father shook his head. ‘But nothing. A year out is a fancy way of saying you’ll do nothing.’
‘Not necessarily.’
Another bite and chew and sip. ‘Then what would you propose to do with the time?’
Edward had thought about this. He’d thought about what was the best thing to say, and he’d thought about what was the truth, and he’d come up with a compromise between the two. ‘Well, you know I was going to study history of art.’ That had been a battle in itself. His father was all in favour of university, but history of art hadn’t been a popular choice of subject.
His father opened his mouth, but Edward’s mother’s hand on his sleeve shut it again.
‘Well, I thought what would be really useful would be to spend some time developing my own skills first. Drawing, painting. I could do that locally, so I’d be at home for another year.’ That might appeal to his mother at least. ‘And I could get a part-time job. Really learn to manage my own money before university.’ That part was for his father.
His parents exchanged a glance.
‘And Isabelle will be starting sixth form, so that’ll be a lot of change for her. Surely it would be more stability if I was still here.’ That was meaningless. Isabelle had plenty of friends in her own year. She wouldn’t want him around any more than he wanted to be around her, but the image of the protective older brother might appeal to his parents.