Minutes later, she wondered how Amy had got to her flat to drop the things through the letterbox. Without a car, Amy would have had to walk a few miles or else get two buses. Clare gently touched the top of her head and gave out a small moan. Her brain felt fogged: this should have been her first thought, not something that occurred to her quite so slowly. She really needed to know that the little girl was okay.
Idly, Clare tore open the brown envelope. Usually, she would have thrown it on top of her growing pile of unopened mail, but she couldn’t, for the moment, see where that was. The place seemed half-empty. It was from her electricity company, saying that her supply would be cut off within twenty-four hours, due to non-payment of her bills. She read it a couple of times, rubbing her temples, wishing that she could trust her brain to work properly. Then she sighed and picked up the phone.
When she got through to the right department, Clare started a rambling story about forgetting to pay because of problems at work.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Miss Jackson,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “The bill’s been paid in full. You don’t owe us a penny.”
“No, I really haven’t paid it,” said Clare. “I’m behind with all sorts of things. I haven’t got round to paying any bills lately. You must be looking at the wrong account.”
The voice read out Clare’s address and account number. “That bill was paid in cash, at one of our branches this morning.” The voice paused and Clare sensed the operator was smiling. “I wouldn’t argue about it, if I were you.”
“Right. No, I guess not.”
As soon as Clare put the handset down, the phone rang again. Clare shuddered at the noise. She had more of a headache than she wanted to admit. But she was delighted to hear Amy’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Wow, Amy. You must be telepathic.”
“Telly what?”
“I was just thinking about you. Thanks for the sweets and the card. That was thoughtful.”
“I’ve got a story for you. I know what happened to Craigy.”
“The lad who died in the police cell? Go on.”
“The police sent him doo-lally. So he hung himself with his shoelaces.”
“What do you mean, the police sent him doo-lally? And how do you know this, anyway?”
“You know his friend, well, I know his little brother, and he told me…”
“Slow down. I’ve got a sore head, remember? Who’s his friend?”
“His friend is Stevie Simpson. He got nicked along with Craigy. Stevie’s brother Liam’s in my class at school.”
“Right. And Stevie’s back home now?”
“Yeah, they let him out. And he told Liam… well, he told his mam, and Liam was listening, that the police did this awful thing and Craigy went ballistic.”
“What exactly did the police do?”
Amy took in a deep breath. “They threw a baby down on the floor in front of him. To make him remember what he’d done.”
“Amy. That doesn’t sound right. The police wouldn’t do something like that.”
“Liam says they did. He says it was all wrapped up in a blanket and they threw it down at him from the stairs at the police station. And blood came out. He says Craigy went off like a bomb and it took three coppers to hold him down and get him back in a cell.”
“It couldn’t have been a baby, Amy. I think your friend Liam is making this up.”
“He’s not. He’s not very nice but he doesn’t tell fibs like that, he’s too dumb to even make them up. He says Stevie keeps crying and shaking and his mam’s had to have the doctor out to give him a pill.”
Clare tried to imagine how something like this could happen. “Could it have been a baby doll, do you think?”
“Nuh-uh, because it had blood, remember? Stevie said there was a big puddle of blood on the floor.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure I’m buying it. And Liam just told you all this? Maybe Liam was trying to scare you?”
“No, I had to pay him. Well, I had to give him a Twix. So I haven’t got any sweets left, by the way.”
“You shouldn’t give people sweets or money for stories.” Clare stored the phrase ‘choc-book journalism’ for her next conversation with Joe. “You see, it might make them ramp up their stories, so they feel they deserve the payment.”
“Oh.” Amy paused for a moment. “But is it a good story?”
Clare sighed. “Sort of. It’s a good story if I can stand it up. I mean, if I can get someone to tell me, for sure, that it really happened. Someone other than Liam, obviously. But that might be a problem.”
“What about Liam’s mam?”
“She wasn’t there. And it just sounds so… far-fetched.”
“Right.”
Clare could almost hear the waves of Amy’s disappointment surging down the phone line. “Listen, though, you did an amazing job for getting the story. A Twix is a good price. Newspapers sometimes pay thousands of pounds for stories. And if your story is true, it’s a cracker. You around tomorrow?”
“I’m not going anywhere. You have to be a miner’s kid to get a day trip out round here.”
“Okay. I promise to come round and bring some sweets, how about that?”
“Yessss.”
Wednesday 1st August
Clare woke up after a night on the sofa, every limb still pulsating with pain and every movement making her groan out loud. She couldn’t even remember falling asleep, but it was sometime after fielding phone calls from Finn, Joe, Nicki and Dave Bell. She’d promised all of them in turn to go straight to bed, to call if she needed anything and definitely not to go to work the next day. In the shower, the extent of her bruises took her by surprise, as did the tenderness of her scalp as she washed her hair. She was trembling so hard as she put on her clothes, it felt as if they were all that were holding her together.
Over a coffee, she tried to work out how best to spend the day. It would have to be with people who weren’t aware that she’d been barred from working: the police, for a start, and maybe the women of the strike group. She could get an update on how things were going.
She started by asking for a meeting with Bob Seaton. As soon as she went into the police station, she could sense an atmosphere. The desk sergeant kept his eyes lowered when she chatted to him and gave one-word answers. It wasn’t how things usually were. Clare noticed that everyone she passed in the corridors, from officers to secretaries, wore grim expressions. And none were as grim as the look on Bob Seaton’s face.
“You look tired,” Clare commented as she sat down. “I suppose all this stuff is really taking its toll. Everyone seems to be… I don’t know… tense.”
Seaton rubbed his hands across his face. “It’s my fifty-eighth birthday today, Miss Jackson, and I don’t need to be reminded of how much I’m ageing, thank you.”
Clare smiled uncertainly, not sure how much of that was intended as a joke. “Happy birthday, then. I’d have brought a card if I’d known.”
Seaton sighed. “You’ve been in the wars yourself. Those bruises look nasty.”
“I’m absolutely fine.”
“Those toe-rags at Sweetmeadows didn’t do too much damage then? I was furious when I heard about it. I mean, hitting a woman like that. And the size of you. You’re barely worth hitting.”
Clare smiled again. “Thanks, I think. No, not much damage, bumps and bruises, that’s all. And they were girls too. I might have asked for it.”
“Do you want to press charges?”
“Definitely not.”
Seaton nodded. “Understood. Anyway, you’ll have to be quick-sharp today. There’s so much going on round here that I hardly have a minute.”
“Oh.” Clare wasn’t sure how to approach the subject in a quick or direct way. “It’s about Jason Craig. The thing is, I’ve been hearing these wild stories about why he killed himself in custody. I just thought I’d run them past you.” As Clare spoke, she noticed Seaton’s face flinch, almost impe
rceptibly, before he resumed his usual impassive expression. Something is definitely up, she thought.
Seaton put on his formal voice. “As you know there is to be both an inquest and a full internal inquiry into Mr Craig’s death and what may or may not have led up to it. So I couldn’t possibly say anything about it at this stage.”
Clare chewed her top lip for a second. “Yes, I realise all that, but I just wanted a bit of a steer, to make sure I’m not chasing a lot of nonsense. Off the record, obviously.”
“You’ll have to tell me what you’ve heard.”
“It does sound very odd, so bear with me here. I’m just repeating what I’ve been told.”
“Go on, then.” Seaton folded his arms.
“The rumour is that when the young lads were in the police station, some of your officers dropped something in front of them. Something that looked like a baby. And that this sent Jason Craig over the edge. Mentally speaking, I mean.”
Seaton stared at her for a moment. If he knows about this, Clare thought, he’s a very good actor.
“Say all that again,” Seaton said, slowly. “Something that looked like a baby? Such as what? A doll or a dummy of some kind?”
“No. Something that seemed to bleed when it hit the floor. I know, it sounds…”
Seaton had put his face in his hands.
“Are you okay?” Clare leaned forward a little.
He looked up. “Miss Jackson, everything I am about to say is off the record. It is as far off the record as it is possible to be. Understood?”
Clare nodded.
“I was not on duty here on the night Jason Craig and Steven Simpson were interviewed and when Mr Craig died. I was away at a meeting at another force. You’ll know we’re all very stretched at the moment, what with the strike and everything, so we’d drafted in a couple of officers from down south. I know there was some sort of funny business around what happened to Mr Craig, and I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of it. I’m meeting nothing but silence, even amongst my own men.”
Clare opened her mouth and closed it again. “You mean something like that could have happened?”
Seaton rubbed his eyes. “Whatever this stunt involved, it won’t have been a living thing. But if they did something – anything – along the lines you’re suggesting, then it could well have sent a volatile teenager over the edge. And don’t even ask me why he was allowed to keep his shoelaces when he went in the cell. I’ve asked that one until I’m blue in the face. Apart from anything else, they were supposed to be testing the kid’s clothes. This station is falling apart, Miss Jackson, and my sanity is going the same way.” Seaton sat back heavily in his chair. “Off the record.”
For just a moment they both looked at each other, as if neither could quite believe the conversation they’d just had.
“I can’t report any of this, then, can I?” Clare said.
Seaton half-smiled. “It’s a bugger. For you, anyway. But no, you can’t.”
Clare’s mind ticked over, more slowly than she wanted. There had to be some way to get some of this story out into the open. “If I find someone to accuse the police of mishandling Jason Craig to the point where he killed himself, would you comment?”
“I’d say I couldn’t comment until the inquiry and the inquest had both reached a conclusion.”
They stared at each other again, Seaton twisting his pen round and round in his fingers.
“Who’s saying that, anyway?” Seaton looked as if he might be about to snap the pen in two. “Steven Simpson?”
“Have to protect my sources,” Clare said, with a shrug. She certainly wasn’t going to admit that the information was second-hand and extracted from a ten-year-old boy for the price of a Twix.
“Must’ve been him.” Seaton stared out of the window for a moment at the grey-white sky. “Or someone close to him.”
“I couldn’t comment.”
There was a light knock at the door and a secretary put her head around it. “Joe Ainsley, also wanting to see you.”
“Damn,” said Clare, without meaning to.
Seaton raised his eyebrows. “Something wrong, Miss Jackson? I thought you and that Ainsley fellow came as a set.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a way I could get out of here without actually passing Joe in the corridor?”
“There could be. I’d like to know more about what this source of yours is alleging, though.”
“I’ll see what I can do, if we agree that as far as Joe’s concerned, I wasn’t actually here today. And anything I tell you is also off the record, chief inspector. Much as I hate that phrase.”
Seaton gave a dry chuckle. “Agreed.”
He instructed his secretary to get Clare out to the police staff car park at the back of the building before letting Joe up to his office.
Outside, Clare sat in her car and massaged her temples. Her head still pounded and there were moments – no more than seconds here and there – when she felt so light it was as if she was floating, like the moments before falling asleep, and she had to pinch herself to bring herself back round. She hoped it was the unrelenting heat and not anything related to her injuries. The next stop was the newsagents. As Clare filled her bag with chocolate bars, gum and the sort of pastel-coloured, penny-priced sweets that went into kids’ mix-up bags, Jai laughed at her. “Is it someone’s birthday?”
“Not exactly. Don’t ask,” said Clare, scanning the shelves. “What’s the most popular thing with the kids these days, Jai? I’m out of touch.”
“No contest. These.” Jai pointed to some packets of crisps that looked as if they were fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. “That’s why I keep them on the counter. Anywhere else and they all get pinched when I’m not looking.”
“Okay, give me a couple of bags of those too,” Clare said.
Jai handed her change. “You might have to have to find a new office soon, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, no. Why?”
“I don’t want to be here anymore, Clare. My cousin’s shop at Sweetmeadows was burned out. He’s been left with nothing. His family are broken-hearted. And I don’t think it’s worth it any more. People are cancelling their papers and their magazines because they have no money. All the little things they don’t need, they’re cutting them out. And it’s only a matter of time before someone trashes my shop too. I don’t want to be here when it happens.”
“So what will you do?”
“I’ll put it up for sale. It may take a while. But then I will join my brother in London. Things are not so bad there, I think.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll miss you.”
“And I you, Miss Beautiful.”
Clare went out with a heavy carrier bag full of sweets and put it on the floor of the car, blasting on the fan to keep the chocolate as cool as possible. So I’m about to bribe some vulnerable kids into telling me an anonymous story about someone who was probably a criminal, she thought. And I might trade the info to a police officer who’s involved in the death of a prisoner. It’s about as unethical as I can possibly get. She took a deep breath and started driving.
Amy appeared immediately as the car pulled up and Clare guessed the girl had been watching out for the red Mini.
“Did you bring sweets?”
Clare laughed. “That’s why you were so keen to see me. Yes, don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. But listen, Amy. Is there any chance I could talk to your friend?”
Amy looked blank. “Friend?”
“Steve Simpson’s brother. Did you say his name was Liam?”
“He’s not my friend.” Amy stuck out her tongue in disgust. “He says I stink. But you should see him. He…”
“Okay, not your friend. But he’s the lad who told you about Jason Craig and what happened to him? I’ve brought some extra sweets if he’ll agree to talk to me. On the Q-T, you understand. I don’t want to get him into trouble.” Even as the words came out, Clare thought she must sound like a child predator. “Could you find him
and ask him?”
“I s’pose.” Amy scratched her head and scanned the estate. “His mam went out before and she had Stevie with her. I think she was taking him to the doctor’s, because Liam said he was going to have to get more pills to calm him down. That means Liam might be in the house on his own.”
“Will you show me?”
Amy beckoned and Clare followed to a third-floor flat. It wasn’t too far from the Donnellys’, Clare noticed. Maybe there was bad blood between the families.
Amy banged on the door and a plump, fair-haired boy opened it. “What do you want? Me mam’s not here.”
“This is my friend Clare. She wants to hear your story about what happened to Stevie.”
Liam folded his arms and put his head on one side. I bet that’s what his mother does, Clare thought.
“Why should I? Me mam says I should keep me gob shut about it till she’s talked to a s’liss-it-er.”
“She’s got sweets.” Amy pointed to the bag.
Liam pouted but Clare could see he was thinking about it. “What you got?”
Clare pulled out the fish-and-chips crisps. Liam’s face changed. “Aye, all right. Come in, but you’ll have to be quick.”
Liam made Clare hand over the crisps, chocolate and gum before he said a word. Amy’s eyes became wider and wider, the more Clare pulled out of the bag. “Don’t worry, there’s some for you in the car,” Clare promised.
Liam retold his brother’s tale, cramming the crisps into his mouth as he talked and getting his T-shirt covered in a dusting of salty, powdery coating. It was more or less as Amy had said.
“Stevie says they made them stand in the yard at the back of the police station and then this thing came crashing down. It landed on the ground right in front of them. And all this blood came out. He says Craigy went mental, shoutin’ and runnin’ about and cryin’. And a couple of big coppers jumped on him and held him down. And then they took him off to the cells to calm down.”
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