This Little Piggy (14 page)

“Are you okay, kid?” Stewie started putting his camera back in his canvas bag. “Good job you tipped me off. That just went mad, didn’t it? I’ve got some bloody brilliant shots.”

“Great. Well done, Stewie. Another lead tomorrow, you and me.” Clare felt light-headed. She put a hand on Stewie’s arm for a second, steadying herself.

Someone tapped her on the arm and she swung around to see Amy. “Hiya, Clare.”

“Amy. Did you just get here?”

“Yes, and I’ve got another story for you.”

Tina appeared alongside her daughter, cigarette in hand. “It all kicked off here, then. I knew it would. I wasn’t going to come, but this little pest made me.”

Amy tapped her mother’s arm. “Yes, but tell Clare why we’re late.”

Clare looked from Amy to Tina. “What?”

“The ambulance came,” Amy said. “They took Jamie’s mam away.”

six

Clare stared at Amy, the words not quite sinking in. “Seriously? What happened? Is she all right, do you know?”

Tina gave Clare a meaningful look and shook her head. Clare noticed a small crowd of women were leading Annie Martin away. She couldn’t see Annie’s face.

“She had her head covered up when they put her in the ambulance. That means she’s dead, doesn’t it, Clare?” Amy looked up with interested eyes.

“I’m not sure,” said Clare, carefully. Further along the street, she heard Annie Martin give a loud, heart-breaking howl. She felt tears spring to her eyes and tried to blink them back.

“That’s what me mam said too,” Amy went on, looking over at the women leading Annie away. “That she didn’t know. But on the telly, when someone’s in an ambulance with their face covered up, it definitely means they’re dead.”

“Shut up, you little ghoul,” said Tina, cuffing Amy lightly on the back of the head. “She gets it all off these bloody detective shows. They show all these horrible things, don’t they?”

Don’t let her watch them, then, Clare thought, but didn’t say.

Tina gave Clare a quick nod. “That’s right, though. She was covered up, on the stretcher.”

“Christ.” Clare looked at Stewie. “Come with me, back to Sweetmeadows?”

“I wouldn’t let you go there on your own, not tonight. What do you want to get?”

“Reaction to this demo. And to whatever’s happened to Debs Donnelly.”

But they found the estate was quiet, people closing their doors and drawing their curtains. “Out of respect,” one woman told Clare. “For Annie and Debs. And those poor little bairns.”

Not for Rob, Clare noticed. People never quite knew what to say about Rob. Rob the strike-breaker, the one who cracked and gave in, the one who let the other lads down and who somehow seemed, although no one said it, to have brought all this horror on himself. Clare wondered what it was like to be Rob Donnelly right now, to know that every journey to work needed police protection and involved being shouted and spat at. That was his choice, though. He could have guessed at that. The terrible death of his child was something else, and yet no one could quite find it in themselves to put their hand on his shoulder or look him in the eyes to offer their sympathies. In the dark of the night, when his other children were asleep, Rob Donnelly must surely be asking himself what he’d done.

“In,” Tina told Amy, sharply, pushing her in the back.

“Awww, no!” Amy stamped her foot. But Tina gave her a hard-eyed look and the girl’s shoulders slumped. She turned to Clare. “You coming back tomorrow?”

“Probably.” Clare gave Amy a wink. Amy grinned and turned to go home, Tina walking behind her, shaking her head. Later, a call to the ambulance service confirmed that a neighbour had called them out to Deborah Donnelly’s house but that the young mother was dead when the crews arrived on the scene.

It was after 11 o’clock and Clare was trying to talk herself into going to bed, when Finn rang. Clare picked up the phone on the second ring. “Finn, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

“You know where I’ve been.” Finn’s voice sounded calm. “Thanks for worrying, though.”

“So what happened? Why did the police want to talk to you?”

“They’ve been back out doing door-to-door on the Sweetmeadows estate. Someone told them they remembered getting some flyers about the strike on the day that the baby died. They thought I’d probably delivered them.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, me and a mate. So we were around the estate that afternoon. The cops wanted to know if I’d seen anything, that was all.”

“So?”

“No, as I told the police, I didn’t see a thing.”

“But you must’ve put a leaflet through the Donnellys’ door?”

“Jesus, Clare, I’ve just come to the end of one interrogation, so don’t start. Yes, we would have put something through Rob’s door, but to be honest, I can’t even remember whether the pram was there or not. I suppose it was, but I didn’t notice it. We leafleted a couple of hundred houses that afternoon and then we were so hot and knackered that we went to the pub.”

Clare sighed. “It’s a shame. I bet the police thought you might’ve seen the killer.”

Finn gave a short laugh. “You mean, they had a great excuse to bring me down to the station and leave me locked up for a few hours, for nothing. They’re playing with me, that’s all. I reckon I can expect a lot more of this, the longer the strike goes on.”

“I’m sorry. I thought it was awful, the way they turned up at the pub like that. It did seem like they were out to humiliate you.”

“They’ll have to work harder than that, then.” Finn paused. “Thanks for being on my side, though. It means a lot.”

“Take care. See you soon, yeah?”

“I’ll call you,” Finn promised.

Clare was surprised at how relieved she was to hear from him and know that he was in the clear. Suddenly, she felt that she could go to sleep.

Monday 23rd July
Clare and Joe were outside Chief Inspector Seaton’s office before nine on Monday morning. “You were actually there last night,” Joe said. “Everyone in the office is singing your praises this morning. This might be a good time to ask for a little bonus or a week off, or whatever else that journalist’s apology for a heart desires.”

“Chris Barber’s bollocks on a dish? To feed to the birds, obviously.”

They were sniggering together when Seaton stamped along the corridor and waved them into his room. “I haven’t had the greatest start to my week already. Seeing you two is no improvement.”

Clare gave him her most practised smile.

“Let’s have it, then.” Seaton sat down heavily and glared at them.

Joe nodded to Clare. “Ladies first. Or eye witnesses, anyway.”

Clare took a breath. “Bob. Last night. What the hell happened?”

Seaton gave a grunt of a laugh. “Don’t beat about the bush, Miss Jackson, say what you mean.” He breathed out a long sigh. “We were happy for the residents of Sweetmeadows to register their concerns. But when it started to get out of hand, for the safety of all concerned, we decided to break the demonstration up.”

Clare raised her eyebrows. “Why do you think it got out of hand? I mean, at what stage, exactly, do you think the mood turned?”

Seaton knew what she was implying. “Off the record, and I mean that, we expected trouble from the start. The folks from Sweetmeadows don’t do peaceful protest.”

“But it was all women and children.”

“With a gang of men round the corner, waiting for the slightest reason to get involved. Doesn’t matter what the police do at the moment, they’re in the wrong. Everything gets mis-reported and misrepresented.”

“Funny,” said Joe. “That’s how the miners feel too.”

“That’s true. And what’s the common factor? You lot. The press. Stirring up trouble in every quarter, under the guise of reporting the facts.”

“That’s not like you, Bob,” said Clare, sitting back suddenly. “We usually have a good working relationship, don’t we?”

“Like I said, Miss Jackson, I am not having a good day. There’s an internal inquiry going on into last night’s events. My role and that of all of the officers involved will be very carefully scrutinised, I can tell you.”

Clare paused for a moment. “Do you have any sympathy with the mothers from Sweetmeadows, though? It’s more than a week since Jamie Donnelly died. It does feel as if you’re no further forward. Can you appreciate their anxiety?”

“I can, Miss Jackson, yes. I too am anxious to find Jamie’s killer, I promise. It would certainly help, though, if the people on the estate weren’t quite so reluctant to talk to the police.”

“You see,” Clare put down her pen. “I think that’s what changed the mood of the protest last night. When you suggested that people were knowingly hiding the killer, just because they don’t like the police. I think that’s what sparked…”

“Perhaps you’d like to give evidence to our inquiry,” Seaton cut in, dryly. “Anyway, it’s a fair point, isn’t it? They all seem more than happy to chat to you, at length, and read it all back in the evening paper. But if a copper asks them a question they’re struck dumb.” He sighed. “Perhaps we should take you with us when we go round trying to eke information out of the people round there.”

“To be fair, that little girl tried to tell you that she’d seen it happen, and you wouldn’t take her seriously.”

“Amy Hedley? I’ve warned you about her. She’s not a credible witness to anything. Anyway, we double-checked her story. There were some union men around the estate, dropping leaflets through doors. We think she may have seen them and assumed they were responsible for the baby’s death.”

“But you arrested Finn McKenna at the weekend and kept him in overnight,” Clare said.

Seaton raised his eyebrows and Joe turned to look at Clare. She avoided his eyes.

“You’re very well informed,” Seaton said. “We talked to Mr McKenna, yes, because he certainly was in the area, around the time that Jamie died.”

“And?” Clare persisted.

“He’s out on police bail. That’s all I can say.”

Clare blinked. “So you might talk to him again?”

“I am not going to get drawn into a discussion about Finn McKenna, Miss Jackson. We can draw that subject to a close.”

Clare frowned down at her notes. Seaton made it sound as if the police were still questioning Finn’s story. That wasn’t the way Finn put it across the night before. She was relieved when Joe moved the conversation on.

“Are you saying, then, that someone may know more than they’re telling the police about what happened?” Joe said. “I mean, are you actually saying someone on Sweetmeadows is deliberately hiding the killer?”

“I’m afraid I am saying that, yes, Mr Ainsley. And that’s on the record.”

Clare and Joe darted a quick look at each other. It was their ‘He-just-Said-a-Headline’ look.
Who is hiding Jamie’s killer? Police chief slams Sweetmeadows silence.
They asked a few more questions and learned that an inquest into Debs Donnelly’s death would be opened the next day.

“Does it look as if she killed herself?”

Seaton hesitated. “That’s one line of inquiry. She had some very strong prescription tranquillisers from her GP. But we can’t rule out a link with whoever killed her son. We’re still in the early stages here. That’s also not for publication yet. But you can say that the police send their condolences to the family.”

“Right.” Clare moistened her lips, which were getting dry in the airless office. “Do you think Debs might’ve coped better if Jamie’s killer had been found by now?”

Seaton looked as if Clare had just slapped his hand. “That’s not something I can speculate on, Miss Jackson. Now I’m sure you understand that I have better things to do than chat to you all day.” He stood up and held an arm out towards the door.

Back at the office, Clare added Seaton’s comments to the two pieces: one about last night’s affray and a sidebar about Debs Donnelly. It didn’t take long and she told Dave Bell she’d drive to head office with the copy. “You’ll have the updated version for the late edition,” she promised.

“Bloody good work last night, Clare. And today.”

“Thanks, Dave. Joe said I should ask you for a bonus.”

Dave Bell laughed. “Clare, if I had control of the budget, I’d send you on a Caribbean cruise. Well, once this baby story’s done and dusted, anyway.”

As soon as she put the phone down, it rang again. This time it was Amy. “Are you coming over today, Clare?”

“Not today, Amy, sorry.”

“I thought you would?”

“I can never promise. It depends on what else is happening and whether there are any more stories.”

“You have to come today, Clare. Promise you will.”

“Why today?”

There was a short silence on the line. “It’s my birthday.”

“It is? Wow. You should’ve told me before. Double figures?”

“Ten.”

“Then I’ll make sure I get over at some point, I promise. You having a party or anything?”

“Nah.”

“So, have you had any good presents?”

“Not yet. Me mam’s out. I really, really want a Sony Walkman. But she says they’re too expensive, so I won’t be getting one of those.”

In the newsroom, Clare dumped a sheaf of copy paper onto Dave Bell’s desk. “So this is the Sweetmeadows latest?” Bell handed it to Sharon Catt. “Take this straight to subs, would you?”

Clare waited as he leafed through the other stories, including some of the ones she’d written at the weekend. “Jesus, Clare. You’re not a reporter, you’re a machine. How do you get all this done in half a day?”

“You know me, Dave. Superwoman.”

“And modest with it,” Catt snapped. “We’re going to have to rename the paper the
Clare Jackson Post
, at this rate.” Her tone of voice wasn’t complimentary.

“I’ll tell you something else,” Dave Bell went on. “I had a few phone calls actually praising your piece about the miners’ benefit. I can’t remember the last time someone called to say something nice about the paper. You’re a star, Clare.”

Clare shrugged, but stole a look at Chris Barber, whose face was hidden by the early edition of the paper. Inside, she smiled.

“Look, you’ve done more than enough stories for today. I seem to be making a habit of it, but go on, go home. You’ve earned a half-day off.”