Read Unsafe Convictions Online
Authors: Alison Taylor
Gaynor cruised twice past the tenement block which housed Primrose Walk on its middle level, Bluebell Way at ground level, and Daffodil Close up in the sky, before accelerating away towards a secure city centre car-park. She took a taxi back, extracting a receipt from the driver, then made her way up the filthy concrete staircase which linked the three levels of two-storey maisonettes. The walls were daubed with graffiti, some obscene, some merely inane, and stained with the urine of which the whole area stank. Poking out from the rubbish kicked into a corner at the turn of the stairs, she noticed a syringe and shreds of silver foil, and here and there on the surface of the walls, the pock-marked ulceration of concrete cancer. She reached Primrose Walk panting with the effort of holding her breath against the tide of smells.
The
bitter wind swirling about her was dirty with stale exhaust fumes and city pollution, and she was briefly overwhelmed by the terrible thought that anyone, even herself, could end their days in a benighted slum such as this. Glancing as she walked at the plastic numbers screwed to the doors, she found number seventy-seven, and rapped sharply on the glass.
A
fat old woman dragged open the door. ‘Fancy someone your age getting puffed walking up a few stairs,’ she observed, eyeing Gaynor up and down. ‘Wasn’t the lift working? It was yesterday.’
‘
Are you Bunty Smith?’ Gaynor asked.
‘
Who wants to know?’
‘
I’m Gaynor Holbrook.’
‘
Are you really? You’d better come in, then.’ Following her into a meanly proportioned, meagrely furnished, and fuggily overheated shoe box of a room, Gaynor saw another old woman standing by a big electric fire, hopping from one foot to another.
‘
That there’s Bunty Smith,’ she was told. ‘I’m Ida Sheridan, the one that phoned.’
Ignoring
Ida then, and summoning an expansive smile, Gaynor rushed forward, hand outstretched. ‘Mrs Smith! I’m delighted to meet you!’
‘
Are you?’ A frail, claw-like hand brushed hers. ‘Why’s that?’
‘
I’ve heard so much about you, of course!’
Ida
snorted. ‘That’s one way of putting it!’ She circled Gaynor like a dog around a sheep, edging her towards a chair already pulled out from under the small table by the window. ‘Sit down,
Ms
Holbrook, and get your purse and cheque-book out. We’ve got terms to talk, haven’t we?’
Julie’s flat, created out of the old attic nurseries at the rear of the house, consisted of a bedroom, a sitting-room, a tiny bathroom and WC, and a kitchenette, all with dormer windows, their protective bars still in place, that looked vertiginously on to the rear yard and what remained of the grounds. There was not a willow tree in sight, nor a member of staff, McKenna thought, watching a small group of outlandishly dressed residents hack their way with axes through a thicket of dead trees and shrubs. Two supermarket trolleys were parked on the yard’s mossy flagstones, waiting to be filled with twigs and broken branches.
Turning
to take his seat, he looked down on the back of Julie’s head, and thought the back of her neck, with its translucent skin and tendrils of curly brown hair, was perhaps the most tender and lovely thing he had ever seen, inviting his protection, and even his caress.
‘
What happens to the wood they collect?’ he asked her. She wore jeans and a sweater and, perched on an old-fashioned dining-chair, her arms loosely folded, stared gravely at him, evoking in him the ghost of Colin Bowden’s brief enchantment, and what had, years before, beguiled Dugdale into a rashness he now had cause to regret.
‘
They make bundles of firewood. Several local shops have a regular order.’
‘
What about other work?’ Ellen asked. ‘Firewood’s only seasonal.’
‘
The paper mill sends waste to be weighed and packed, and we occasionally get odd jobs from other factories,’ Julie replied. ‘Work’s hard enough to come by for normal people, so we take what’s offered.’ Impatiently, she added: ‘Can we start? I’m on duty later.’
‘
We should wait for your solicitor to arrive,’ McKenna said.
‘
No one’s coming.’
‘
You were advised to have representation,’ he pointed out. ‘This interview will be under caution.’
‘
I know.’ Today, she thought, he resembled a clever fox, whereas when she saw him on Monday, trying to escape from the lane by Trisha’s house, he looked like one pursued by the hounds of hell. The woman with the machinery was like a mouse, scrabbling in the skirting boards for electrical sockets instead of crumbs, and the other woman, painfully thin and gauntly dark, was, to Julie, simply kindred wounded.
‘
You’re entitled to free legal representation in such circumstances,’ McKenna added.
‘
I know. I don’t want anyone.’
‘
Are you sure?’
‘
I’m quite sure! I only
work
with retarded people.’ She fidgeted when he began the caution. ‘I know the procedure. You’ve no doubt heard.’
‘
That’s one of the issues I want to discuss,’ McKenna said. ‘It’s possible that your previous experiences made you less than forthcoming during the investigation of Trisha Smith’s death. It’s been suggested you were “holding back”.’
‘
Who said? Wendy Lewis?’
‘
I’m not at liberty to comment.’
‘
It must have been her. The man she brought with her never opened his mouth, but she was like a dog with a bone. She really upset some of the residents.’
‘
How?’
‘
She kept insisting they’d seen something. She put them under a lot of pressure.’
‘
Some of them may well have had relevant information.’
‘
They may,’ Julie conceded, ‘but you’d need someone with much better skills than Lewis to find out.
‘
Point taken.’
‘
Has Cyril Bennett said anything to you?’ she asked suddenly.
‘
Why d’you ask?’ Her eyes were truly remarkable, he thought.
After
a small silence, she said: ‘Unless you intend to waste your time and mine, stop treating me like something that got on your shoe. Lewis looked so far down her nose at me she must have gone cross-eyed. Bennett’s already muttering about suspension, and whatever you might think to the contrary, even somebody like me has rights.’
‘
No one’s denying your rights, Miss Broadbent.’
‘
He just needs setting straight. He’s not a bully, and he’s not unfair, but he’s scared he’ll be accused of taking risks with resident welfare, because that’s how it looks when the police start cautioning the staff.’
‘
I’ve already told him this interview has no connection with your work, but that’s the only assurance I can give at present,’ McKenna said. ‘I’m here to discuss Barry Dugdale.’
Her
smile was incredibly sweet. ‘You
are
wasting your time.’
‘
You were close once.’
‘
Almost twenty years ago. Did Ryman snitch on us?’ When he failed to respond, she sighed. ‘I know. You can’t comment.’
‘
What was your relationship with Trisha Smith?’ Janet asked.
‘
I knew her.’
Julie
crossed her legs, easing the creased denim around her knee, while Janet, compelled to assess the length and symmetry of the legs, asked herself why someone of such mongrel ancestry should be blessed with such aristocratic proportions. Surreptitiously, she peered at the small areas of exposed flesh for signs of the blistering injury it had suffered, but saw nothing. ‘How well did you know her?’ she added.
‘
Like I know Linda. We all grew up in the same place, we all went to Haughton Comprehensive.’
‘
What was Trisha like?’
‘
Nice. Ordinary. She wanted peace and quiet.’
‘
She was hoping for a job here, wasn’t she?’
‘
She’d have done well.’
‘
Does the management committee employ non-Catholics?’ McKenna asked.
‘
Idiots come from both denominations, so staff persuasions have to show a balance.’
‘
I thought terms like “idiot” were forbidden,’ he commented.
‘
Which euphemism d’you prefer?’ Her eyes were challenging.
‘
I’m not going to be side-tracked into a discussion on semantics,’ he said. ‘You’re evading the issue of your relationship with Dugdale.’
‘
We spent one summer together. We had a lovely spring and summer that particular year. I thought it would never end. Afterwards, we’d get together now and then.’ She smiled, as if to herself. ‘We went for walks in the park, mostly. There’s a gorgeous rose garden, and a tiny pet cemetery.’
‘
And your relationship was sexual.’
‘
Among other things.’
‘
When did you last speak to him?’
‘
Apart from saying “hello” if we met in the street? A couple of weeks before he married Susan Harrop.’
‘
Did you have
any
contact during the murder investigation?’
‘
No.’
‘
D’you know Smith?’ Ellen asked.
Julie
nodded.
‘
How well?’
‘
Enough to know he’s a shit. Why?’
‘
Is that based on your own experience?’
‘
He once told me I’d no right to sully the church with my disgusting presence.’
Ellen
raised her eyebrows. ‘What did you say?’
‘
Like any good Christian, I turned the other cheek. I’m very good at cheek-turning, as you might imagine.’
‘
Did Trisha ever tell you he was assaulting her?’
‘
She didn’t need to. It was written all over her face. You could tell by the way she looked at him, or rather,
didn’t
look at him. She was always afraid, always desperately trying to please, like a dog that knows another whipping’s just around the corner.’
‘
And where were you on the afternoon of her death?’ McKenna asked quietly.
‘
You’re supposed to be finding out what happened with Smith, not who killed Trisha,’ Julie replied. ‘So I don’t think you’ve got the right to ask me where I was that day.’
‘
You told Sergeant Lewis you were here, asleep.’
‘
You’ll have to make do with that, then. Won’t you?’
‘
Can you tell us about your accident?’ Janet asked.
‘
What about it?’ Julie’s voice was as raw as her skin must feel.
‘
How did it happen?’
‘
A chip pan fell on me.’
‘
Chip pans don’t
fall
,’ Janet countered. ‘Not without help. Who knocked it over?’
Again,
Julie shrugged. ‘It was an accident.’
‘
It happened at primary school, didn’t it? Did you have counselling afterwards? And did you get compensation?’
‘
The church looked after me.’
‘
But did they pay damages?’ Janet persisted. ‘You were entitled, accident or not.’
‘
That’s my business!’ snapped Julie. ‘And it’s nothing to do with Trisha.’
‘
I think we’ve gone as far as we can for now,’ McKenna intervened.
‘
Who told you?’ Julie demanded, glaring at Janet.
‘
Father Barclay mentioned it to Superintendent McKenna,’ Janet replied. ‘Dugdale never said a word, although maybe he should have done.’
‘
He obviously thought he should respect my privacy,’ Julie said. ‘Unlike Ryman.’
‘
How has Superintendent Ryman compromised your privacy?’ asked McKenna.
‘
Why don’t you ask him?’ Julie suggested, her mouth tight.
‘They certainly leave you with the donkey work, don’t they?’ Rene remarked, putting a mug of coffee and a plate of fresh cream cakes by Jack’s elbow. ‘Mind you, a married man’s better off having nothing to do with the likes of that Julie Broadbent.’ Smiling a little to herself when he said no more than ‘thank you’, she added: ‘By the way, Fred Jarvis is wondering when you’re going to see him. He’s well enough now.’
‘
I’m not sure when we’ll have time,’ Jack said. ‘But tell him we’ll do our best to fit him in as soon as possible.’
‘
He’s not got anything new to say, you know. He just wants to let you know how he feels.’
‘
That’s perfectly understandable,’ Jack agreed.
‘
I mean,’ Rene went on, ‘there’s been so much rubbish in the paper these last few days, Fred thinks he’s a right to give his side of the story.’
Jack
selected a luscious-looking chocolate eclair, oozing with cream. ‘He must feel very bitter.’
‘
He’s angry,’ said Rene. ‘I know that. He’s livid, in fact, but I’m not sure he’s actually bitter. He’s not the sort to let a feeling like that get the better of him, because he knows he’d be the one to get eaten up by it.’
‘
Bitterness
is
corrosive,’ Jack commented, swallowing the last airy mouthful of the eclair, and choosing a wedge of more substantial-looking jam-and-cream sponge to follow.
‘
Now Susan Dugdale’s a different kettle of fish altogether,’ Rene asserted, folding her arms. ‘She’s coming back, I hear, but I wouldn’t give that marriage more than another couple of years. She’s the jealous type, and she’ll throw things in Barry’s face every time he so much as looks sideways at her, even though what he did and who he did it with before they met is spilled milk, isn’t it?’
‘
How d’you know she’s coming back?’
‘
Linda heard. She’s quite pally with her.’
Cream
cake half-way to his mouth, Jack looked up at this latter-day Greek chorus-girl, once again onstage to prod the action. ‘When did you speak to Linda?’
‘
When I went home at dinner-time.’
‘
Did she discuss her interview with us?’
‘
Of course she did!’ Rene’s eyes snapped. ‘You don’t think you can stop people talking, do you?’
‘
You’re not supposed to talk, Rene. You know that.’
‘
Don’t get uppity with me! I just listen.’ She was breathing heavily. ‘And for what it’s worth, I think Linda’s been very stupid about those letters, even though I didn’t say it to her.’ She scratched her cheek fretfully. ‘She’s worried sick. She thinks she could go to prison. And she doesn’t know
how
she’s going to tell her dad.’
‘
I won’t discuss it,’ Jack insisted, returning to his cake and coffee.
‘
I don’t expect you to!’ Her voice stung. ‘But you can do what I do, can’t you, and listen?’