It was awful. The questions went on interminably, repeated over and over again until her head ached and Patsy could no longer think clearly. What had she told them? Was there something else, something nudging the back of her mind? Something significant that she should tell them about? Her mind was buzzing, failing to focus properly.
‘Didn’t you break into the Bertalone’s house via the back window?’
‘No!’
‘Didn’t you break their display case and steal the Madonna statuette?’
‘No, I never touched it. I wouldn’t do such a thing.’
‘Yet you are a thief. Doesn’t your record, your list of previous convictions and misdemeanours, prove this simple fact? You apparently even stole from a fellow pupil. Isn’t it true you once took another girl’s coat, and your parents were called to the school by the local constabulary?’
‘My coat no longer fitted me and I was cold, so I borrowed it, that’s all, for a school outing. I meant to put it back but I forgot. The teacher spotted it in my locker before I got the chance.’
The policeman snorted. ‘Your reputation was evidently well known by then. It seems to me that you consider everyone to be at fault, but yourself. And I cannot believe that your parents could afford to send you away to a fancy boarding school and not buy you a decent coat.’
‘Well, that just shows how much you know.’
Mr Fairbrother tut-tutted, once more begging for a short respite, so that his client might calm herself. A mug of tea was brought for Patsy, although her stomach heaved at the mere sight of it, and as she attempted to sip the sludgy brown liquid, the solicitor whispered further warnings in her ear.
‘This attitude of yours isn’t helping. Try to remain calm and cooperative at all times. That is absolutely essential if we are successfully to avoid your being charged.’
Moments later, the questioning began again.
Patsy was close to despair. Mr Fairbrother had finally gained the recess he’d been asking for, but only because the police were anxious to make further enquiries before proceeding with the case.
In the meantime Patsy was banged up in a police cell, seated on a hard slab of wood they laughingly called a bed, with nothing but a tiny barred window breaking the monotonous yellow walls set far too high for her to see out of. Beside her lay a folded grey blanket that smelled of stale urine, a tin tray on which stood a plate of beans on toast, and yet another mug of dark brown, over-brewed tea.
Patsy put her face in her hands and wept, the tears sliding down between her fingers and dripping off the end of her chin. She was done for. This was what she’d always dreaded; that one day she’d go too far with her difficult, obstreperous behaviour, exactly as her foster parents had predicted.
The annoying thing was that she hadn’t! She’d been behaving herself magnificently lately, was innocent of this blasted crime, hadn’t touched the flipping statuette. Where was the fairness in being charged for something you didn’t do? It was a wicked lie, dreamed up by that Quinn.
But those final telling questions replayed themselves now in her mind, and Patsy had to admit she’d messed up there.
‘Can you account for your movements at this party, Miss Bowman? Where were you, say, at around nine o’clock?’
‘At the party.’
‘Flippancy will not assist you.’
Mr Fairbrother jabbed her in the ribs as the police constable calmly suggested she do her best to remember.
‘I danced with Marc.’
‘That would be Marc Bertalone, the son of the household you robbed?’
The solicitor interrupted. ‘Allegedly robbed.’
‘My mistake.’ A thin smile.
‘Yes, it would. But it was an excuse-me and Fran – Fran Poulson butted in, so I danced with Alec Hall instead.’
‘And you were annoyed at having your nose pushed out of joint?’
‘No, I couldn’t give a . . .’
‘It was only an excuse-me dance,’ the solicitor interposed. ‘Hardly motivation to burgle his family dwelling.’
‘Who knows what these teenagers might take it into their heads to do?’ The police sergeant scribbled something on his pad before instructing Patsy to continue. ‘What happened next?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t see Marc again.’
‘Why not? What time did you leave?’
‘I left with Clara and Annie around ten. I was in bed by half past.’
‘So what were you doing in the intervening period, between the excuse-me dance around nine and the time you left to go home?’
‘I don’t know.’ Patsy was again growing confused, and feeling desperately tired. She longed to lie down and sleep, for these persistent, endless questions to stop. Why didn’t someone help her? Why was there no one ready to ride to her rescue as she had done for Fran and Amy? ‘I’ve told you, I went home early. The party was still in full swing when I went to bed. Oh, I had a bit of a walk, to get some air and a bit of peace, then talked to Big Molly and Ozzy for a while. They weren’t very happy, bless them, something to do with . . .’
‘Where did you walk?’
’I don’t remember.’
‘Then try harder. How long were you away from the market on this walk of yours?’
‘I don’t know. Not long.’
‘Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Half an hour?’
‘About that, yes. I remember now, I went down Gartside Street, back up Lower Byrom Street by the New Queen’s Theatre. Just around the block, you might say. Then I talked to Big Molly and . . .’
‘Ample time in that half an hour to pop across the road, break in through the back kitchen window of the Bertalones’ house, steal the Madonna and slip it into your wardrobe at number twenty-two.’
‘I didn’t. That’s not what happened. Why would I do such a thing? I like the Bertalones.’
‘Because you were angry with Marc Bertalone for dancing with another girl. Isn’t he supposed to be your boy friend? Has he cheated on you before with this girl?’
Patsy didn’t answer.
‘Has he?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. He’s not my boy friend, anyway.’
The policeman smirked. ‘And weren’t the windows of the Georges’ house broken just the other week? Did you do that too?’
Patsy had stood up then, all pink cheeked, and refused to answer another single question. ‘That’s it, I’ve had enough!’
‘What my client means,’ put in the placatory Mr Fairbrother, ‘is that she would like a meal and a proper rest, before this investigation goes any further.’
And so here she was, stuck in a stinking prison cell while the police went round the market asking all manner of questions, determined to prove her guilt.
But guilty or not, she would never be able to show her face there again. People would walk past her in the street without speaking, even those, like Winnie Watkins and Sam Beckett whom she’d come to look upon almost as friends, who’d certainly appeared friendly enough to her. They would cut her dead after this. They’d be certain to take the side of the Bertalones. Why would they not? Why would they take her word?
And why would they believe that she’d been set up by Quinn? The police certainly didn’t, for all the Irishman was known for his sharp dealings, and for operating on the wrong side of the law. She’d mentioned his possible role in this mess more than once, and each time her tale had been dismissed as nonsense. If only she hadn’t burned that stupid note which might have helped to incriminate him. But there was nothing they could find to pin this on him, so where was the proof?
As for the Higginson sisters, they’d feel betrayed. Annie might rant and rave at the ham-handedness of the police, but they would have heard the worst about her by this time. Patsy had lied, told them the pie incident was a one-off. Now they knew that was not the case. They knew she was a thief and a liar. Why wouldn’t they believe she was also a burglar?
Why would anyone ever trust her again?
Patsy felt more of an outsi
der than ever.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Winnie Watkins was the first to come. She turned up at the police station in her woolly cardigan and bob cap, lips set tight as if challenging anyone not to take her seriously. She knocked on the counter with her knuckles, and demanded to speak to the sergeant.
‘He’s busy.’
‘It may be none of my business but I have information regarding that burglary the other night in Champion Street. I saw something fishy and I reckon he ought to know about it, because he’s got a friend of mine locked up for the offence and I’m not leaving this spot till I’ve had my say.’
The sergeant came, an expression of weary resignation on his lugubrious features.
Winnie told how she’d seen two figures slinking into the shadows down the alley that led to the back of the Bertalones’ place. ‘I remember at the time thinking it was strange, and happen I should have investigated what they were up to, but I was waiting for my fried onions, to go with my hamburger. Eeh, it were right good, worth waiting for. Have you tasted Jimmy Ramsay’s prime beef?’ Seeing the officer’s expression, she hurried on, ‘Anyroad, there were so many people about, so much going on, I put it out of my mind.
‘Now I remember them quite clearly. They were two big bruisers, the sort you might expect to act as bouncers at one of them night clubs. Certainly not our Patsy. She’s nobbut size of two pennyworth of copper.’
The police sergeant asked her to go through her story time and time again, but it was unvarying. Winnie was absolutely certain about what she’d seen. He couldn’t budge her. ‘I’ve told you once and I’ll say it again, I’ll tell the judge himself, them were two big bouncers, the sort that hang around with that Billy Quinn character. They were hovering about up that alley, clearly up to no good.’
The second person to turn up was Big Molly, who told some convoluted tale about recalcitrant daughters, anonymous letters, broken windows, and misguided attempts to involve Quinn in these affairs of the heart. The woman wept out her confession, claiming she couldn’t stand by and see an innocent girl, particularly one who’d tried to help, be locked up for something which was none of her doing.
The sergeant warned Big Molly that she was cutting her own throat. ‘Don’t say any more, love. You’re hanging yourself while you try to save her.’
‘Well, I deserve to be,’ Big Molly said, all wet eyed and snotty nosed, wringing her podgy hands as she beseeched him to let poor Patsy go.
He sent her away with a sharp warning not to get up to any of that sort of mischief ever again. ‘Leave your girls to make their own mistakes in life, don’t add to them with more of your own.’
‘Oh, I won’t, I won’t. And Patsy?’
The sergeant sniffed. ‘She hasn’t been charged yet. We’re still investigating. Go home, lady, for God’s sake, before I have to charge you with something instead.’
These two were followed by Alec Hall, who claimed to have been dancing with Patsy for several dances; Sam Beckett, who apparently saw her talking to Big Molly and Ozzy; and the Higginson sisters who bored the pants off him by giving him the girl’s entire life history, or at least as much as they knew of it.
Annie Higginson was adamant that the back kitchen window latch had been broken, even went so far as to demand fingerprints be taken, unheard of in anything but a murder enquiry, the procedure being fairly new and very expensive.
Even Papa Bertalone came, insisting Patsy would never do such a terrible thing. ‘Mama Bertalone, my sons and my daughters, they all love her. She is the good girl, not the criminal you say she is. And my son Marc, he is potty about her, though he is getting nowhere, I’m sorry to say. She very private, very cautious. Someone hasa hurt that poor girl very badly in the past, I think. Do not hurt her again. She not the nasty thief, you say she is, understand? I take my Madonna back and we put no charges. Okay?’
Go home,’ the sergeant told them all, wishing he’d never started down this road. ‘Please go home. We’ll give the matter our serious consideration.’
Last, but by no means least, came Marc himself, marching up to the sergeant’s desk and demanding to see Patsy. ‘And don’t let her dare refuse to speak to me. I love her, tell her that. It’s not Fran Poulson I want, it’s her. I mean to marry that girl. You can tell her that too. I don’t believe she’s guilty of this heinous crime, not for a minute, but if you insist on banging her up, tell her I’ll be waiting for her when she gets out, no matter how long it takes.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t expect me to do your courting for you. I’m not a go-between for lovelorn swains,’ the sergeant protested. ‘Take her home. Constable, go and tell that lass she’s free to go, before I quite lose my mind. I can take no more.’
They simply couldn’t stop kissing. They did try to do a bit of talking in between, words of apology and explanation tumbling out of their mouths, and all at the same time so that neither quite heard what the other was saying: Marc struggling to say how, despite appearances to the contrary, he’d always meant to resist Fran Poulson and had succeeded; Patsy at pains to apologise for being so self-absorbed, saying she’d learned to be more patient with other people, and to understand that everyone has problems.
But really, their kisses said so much more. Happiness was bubbling through her. To be free, and held in Marc’s arms was all that mattered. It was intoxicating, magical. Words were superfluous.
‘I’ve been absolutely frantic to get you released . . . racing round the market, getting everyone to come into the police station and make a statement.’
‘That was your doing?’
‘Mine and Annie’s. She’s worked hard too. Even got a piece in the local paper about rough justice and the police jumping to conclusions. She’s marvellous, that woman.’
Patsy laughed, feeling joy and love flared through her veins, then she grabbed him to kiss him some more.
No conclusive evidence had been found to connect her to the crime, other than the figurine in her wardrobe. And in view of the fact that other characters had been seen in the neighbourhood acting suspiciously at around the time of the break in, the back window of number twenty-two had clearly been tampered with, and no real motivation could be found for the alleged crime, it was decided to drop the case. No charges would be made.
‘I’m never going to let you go again,’ Marc vowed.
‘And if that Fran Poulson ever comes near you, I’ll bat her one.’
‘You aren’t going to go on about leaving again, are you? Because if you do ever leave Champion Street, I’m coming with you.’
Patsy giggled as she kissed the tip of Marc’s nose. ‘I sincerely hope not. I mean to talk to Clara and Annie, just as soon as I get back home. Hopefully they’ll let me stay on long enough to sort myself out, till I can find alternative accommodation, another job, whatever I need to stay.’
‘Or marry me?’
Patsy became very still, but before she had chance to speak, Marc rushed on. ‘Don’t say “over my dead body” or one of your other choice put-downs. And don’t think I’m asking you out of pity or sympathy or any of those other daft things you’ve accused me of. I love you, I want you to be my wife. I can’t imagine life without you. Is that plain enough for you?’
His kisses certainly were. They seemed to provide all the assurance Patsy needed to say yes.
She was welcomed back to Champion Street Market like a returning hero. People actually cheered as she made her way between the stalls. Many slapped her on the back, Winnie rushed up to hug her, and Jimmy Ramsay produced a string of sausages for her to enjoy for her tea. What a triumph! Patsy glowed with pride, surprised and touched by their reception.
She hadn’t realised they even cared, and it came to her in that moment, with a sense of blinding joy, that she wasn’t an outsider any longer. She was one of them.
Amy rushed over to hug her too, and excitedly tell Patsy how just that morning her father-in-law had come to see them and offered Chris a job in the family firm.
>
‘Chris had told him the other day that we were thinking of leaving. And then my brother Robert went round to pay off the money Mr George lent to Mam, and for the first time in years they sat down and talked. They’ve agreed to call an end to this dreadful feud, to leave it in the past. Robert hopes to win Mam round to this point of view in time. At the moment she’s more concerned about our Fran, who seems to have done another of her disappearing acts, but we won’t talk about that on your special day.’
Patsy couldn’t agree more. ‘Oh, Amy, I’m so pleased for you, I am really.’
‘Best of all, we’ve heard of a house to rent in Hardman Street, which will be handy for the market. Chris has gone to see the landlord this morning. We hope one day to buy a place of our own, perhaps one of the new houses they’re building, and then start a family. Everything is turning out right for us, at last. I hope it does for you too, Patsy.’
‘Don’t you worry about me, I’ll be fine.’
Having delivered her safely to the door of number twenty-two, Marc had to hurry back to work as he’d already overrun his lunch hour, but they promised to meet up again later that evening. They parted with a lingering kiss, Marc assuring her that all would be well and she was not to worry.
‘We’ll tell them our news tonight, together. Now I’ve got to go, or they’ll be giving me the sack.’ He blew her a kiss and ran.
Patsy watched with pride and love as his long legs carried him across the market, away from her. But he’d be back. He’d come to her rescue after all. He did everything he could to get her out of that place. He wasn’t ashamed of her, he loved her. Oh, and she loved him!. She really must remember to tell him so later.
Clara rushed about putting the kettle on, and Annie, having given Patsy what, for her, was a warm welcome, had to rush back to work too, to open up the stall again after lunch. Even on this red letter day, they couldn’t afford to lose business. But before she left, she said a surprising thing.
‘I wish you to know, Patsy, that however things stood between us when you first came here, you are an essential part of our lives now. Arrangements can be made for you to attend a proper course in hat making, if that is your wish. You could set up a little business, in association with our stall or on your own, whichever you prefer, to produce custom made hats for clients, as you have already proved yourself capable of doing. You will have our full support, whatever you decide.
Fools Fall in Love Page 39