This Little Piggy (27 page)

“And do they really think this Craig lad killed baby Jamie? Why would he do that?”

“Seaton says he could have been off his head on some sort of drugs. But he’s going to have trouble making that stick.”

“It fits with Amy’s story, that’s for sure. But it just doesn’t seem like enough of a reason. What did he say about all the trouble on the estate?”

“It was a policy. Contain the trouble, don’t confront it. So they decided to let it burn itself out, literally. Risky, I think. Questions are being asked.”

“Yes, by me, apart from anyone else.”

Joe stood up. “I have to go, but I’ll call later to see how you are. Try to stop thinking about work. If they do let you out, I can come and give you a lift home.”

“That won’t be necessary, thanks.”

As soon as she was sure Joe had gone, Clare slipped out of bed and hobbled slowly along the corridor to the payphone. She called the paper and sweet-talked the receptionist into accepting the charges, then asked to be put straight through to a copytaker. She dictated the story of the night before, with Seaton’s comments added on, courtesy of Joe.

“If you wouldn’t mind just dashing all that along to the sub-editor, so they can get it in the first edition, that’d be great,” Clare said, crossing her fingers. The copytaker said she would and Clare hoped that, with luck, the sub would just lay the piece out for that day’s paper, without it having to be okayed first by Dave Bell or Sharon Catt.

Later the doctor told Clare that they wanted to X-ray her jaw to be absolutely certain that there were no fractures. “We can’t do that until mid-afternoon, I’m afraid. So if I were you I should settle down with a magazine and try to rest. Don’t worry, it really looks like you’ve got away with it. But we just want to be sure we’re not missing anything.”

Clare dozed for a while, but only minutes after she woke up she felt she would go mad with boredom. Just after two, Finn arrived, with some roses wrapped in paper.

“You shouldn’t have bought flowers,” Clare said. “They’re a waste of money.”

“They’re from my mother’s garden,” Finn said, sheepishly. “She said you’d like them anyway.”

“I like them better, then.”

Finn gave Clare a light kiss on the top of her head. “How’re you doing?”

“I just want to get out. Hey, you could drive me back?”

“Not until we’re happy,” said the nurse’s voice behind her. “You know, I was sure that you were here before and the reason I remember it is because you discharged yourself. Against advice. Are you sure…”

“Really, that wasn’t me. It must’ve been my evil twin.”

The nurse laughed. “If you insist.” She turned to Finn. “Don’t take her anywhere until the doctor says she can go.”

Behind the nurse’s back, Clare made a stabbing motion with her hands.

“I feel responsible for last night,” Finn said. “I shouldn’t have left you on Sweetmeadows on your own, not when things were so tense. It could have been so much worse.”

“Stop beating yourself up, it was my decision.” Clare squeezed his hand.

“My mother’s the one doing the beating-up now. She actually cuffed me across the head when I told her what happened. Called me an idiot for not looking after you.”

“I like your mum, so much.”

Finn grinned. “Call me when you can escape. Promise?”

Clare nodded.

Finn turned to go, then fished in his pocket. “Oh,” he said, as an afterthought. “You dropped these.” He put Clare’s keys on the bedside table.

After the X-ray, Clare decided not to wait for the results. She was heading down the corridor away from the ward when she spotted Dave Bell walking towards her. She swore under her breath and tried to duck into a side ward, but it was too late. He’d seen her. He waved a rolled-up copy of the
Post
at her.

“I should hit you with this,” he said. “What do you think you’re playing at?”

Clare widened her eyes. “What?”

“I had no idea you’d written this story about last night’s riots, or whatever you want to call them. And nor had anyone else, until we opened the first edition.”

“I sent something over to the copytakers. Didn’t they show it to you?”

“No, because you told them to take it straight for subbing. You’re a sneaky cow.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the copy. It’s great, as always. You write better with concussion than most of the reporters do when they’re fully
compos mentis
. That’s not the point, as well you know.”

“I haven’t got concussion. Look at me, I’m fine. I’m being set free.”

“Remember the conversation we had yesterday? And that was before you hit your head. I haven’t changed my mind. I want you to take a break.”

“But…”

Dave brandished the rolled-up newspaper again. “Go home, Clare. Don’t come back for at least a week. That’s an order.”

Clare went out into the hospital car park and for a few moments wondered why she couldn’t remember where she’d left her car. Then, cursing, she recalled being brought here by ambulance and that she hadn’t asked anyone to give her a lift home. She hailed a taxi.

Inside her front door was an official-looking letter, a folded-up piece of notepaper and a small, crumpled paper bag. Inside the bag were some grubby-looking sweets: a slightly squashed Anglo Bubbly gum and a candy banana with a distinct thumbprint on it. The folded paper was a makeshift card from Amy. It had a drawing of what was clearly meant to be Clare lying on the ground next to an ambulance and it said
Get Well Soon! Come Back! Love Amy!!!
in multicoloured felt-tip pen across the front. Inside there was a message written in Amy’s attempt at Teeline. It read: ‘Git well son. There is a fat man going round pretending do be a reporter. I’ve telled no one to tack to him. Amy.’

Clare couldn’t help giggling. She enjoyed imagining Chris Barber trying to persuade people on Sweetmeadows to talk to him, his sports car parked up somewhere out of sight of the local kids, wondering why he was getting what Joe liked to call the bum’s rush. She sniffed at the bubble gum, its synthetic, chemo-sugary smell coming through the wrapper on to her fingers. She remembered how, to a child of Amy’s age, sweets were such important currency. Giving someone one of your sweets, with nothing like-for-like in return, was a big deal.

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 imperceptibly, before he resumed his usual impassive expression. Something is definitely up, she thought.