Authors: Bea Davenport
“No. That takes practice,” said Clare. “It took me three goes to pass my shorthand exam. But I got there in the end.” She flicked through the little book. “You’ve done really well, Amy.”
Amy gave a big grin as she stuffed the book back into her pocket.
Joe nudged his head to one side to indicate that he and Clare should go. “I’ve got enough quotes from people here,” he said. “You can share them for the price of a pint later on.”
“See you, Amy,” Clare said, turning towards her car. “Keep your ear out for any stories for me.”
“I will. And I’ll let you know if anyone finds Jamie’s hat.” Amy wandered off.
Clare stared at her back view for a moment, then turned to look at Joe, bracing herself for what she knew would be a lecture.
“Clare. Don’t you think you’re a bit too involved with that kid? You know you shouldn’t make friends with anyone you’re doing a story about.”
“I know, I know.” Clare got into Joe’s passenger seat and winced again at the heat. “Don’t have a go. She’s just a bit lonely, that’s all.”
“Which is exactly why you should keep your distance. How’s she going to feel when the police arrest someone, the story’s dead and you don’t come back here again? It’s bad enough getting too close to adults, never mind kids.”
“Okay. Get off my back, Joe. I know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah? Only you’ve been weird lately. I’ve never seen you like this before. You sure there isn’t something going on with you?”
“No more than usual. Look, will you give me your quotes? And I’ll buy you that pint tonight.”
Joe flicked open his book and read back from his impeccably neat notes.
“Thanks.” Clare pushed down the car door handle. “I’ll catch you later. The drink’s on me but if you lecture me, I’m leaving.”
She left Joe shaking his head at her and went to sit back in her own car. But she didn’t drive away. Mentally, she went over and over the last exchange with Amy. Then she got back out and walked across the estate. She went up to the fourth storey and tapped on Amy’s door. The dog started its deep bass barking and Clare peered in at the window. Then she called through the letterbox. “Amy? It’s Clare. Are you in there?”
The door opened a little and Amy slid out, pushing the dog back inside. “Hiya! I thought you’d gone away.”
“I’m about to. I just wanted to ask you something.”
“Yeah?”
“You know I said the police were looking for some of Jamie’s clothes?”
“Uh-huh. I haven’t got them.”
“I didn’t think you had. It’s just that I said ‘clothes’. But you said you’d look out for Jamie’s hat. I was wondering, how’d you know it was a hat?”
Amy’s face went a dull pink. “You said hat.”
“No, I don’t think I did. Amy?”
Amy dug her hands in the little side pockets of her school dress and looked at the ground. “Joe did, then.”
“I’m sure he didn’t. It’s important. Please.”
Amy hid her face, like a toddler might.
“Everything all right, pet?” Tina suddenly appeared.
Clare turned round. “Hi, Tina.” She explained about the baby’s sunhat.
“Oh, aye?” Tina gave Amy a prod on the shoulder. “Tell the lady what you know.”
Amy released her hands from her face, which was now streaked with tears. “I knew it would be the hat, ’cause when the men dropped baby Jamie, his hat fell off. I saw it. And then one of them picked it up and put it in his pocket.”
Tina sighed. “Not this rubbish again.” She put a finger to her head and tapped it. “I sometimes think this kid’s not right.”
“But shouldn’t Amy tell this to the police?”
“I telled them already,” Amy said, wiping her nose with her hand.
“She makes things up, I’ve told you,” Tina said. “This stuff about the men is one of her stories. She never saw anything.”
“Are you sure?” Clare wished Tina wouldn’t talk about her daughter as if she wasn’t there.
Amy made a growling noise in the back of her throat, pushed open the door of the flat and went inside. She slammed the door behind her. Clare jumped as the huge dog started barking again.
“See? She’s nuts. I don’t know where I went wrong.” Tina gave a sigh. “Don’t let her waste your time.”
As Clare turned away, she stopped for a moment to blink away one of the many short spells of dizziness that punctuated her day. Maybe she hadn’t taken in what Amy said, or maybe she had said the police were looking for Jamie’s hat. It wasn’t fair to pick on a nine-year-old child when the mistake was likely to be her own.
In the pub, Clare found it hard to lift her mood. Watching the news hadn’t helped: the shooting of twenty-one people at a McDonald’s restaurant in California and speculation that Margaret Thatcher was about to declare a state of emergency because of the miners’ and dockers’ strikes. Clare wasn’t sure what that would mean but it sounded desperate. Joe was rambling about governments abusing people’s civil rights. Clare couldn’t pay attention.
“Bloody hell, that one didn’t touch the sides,” Joe said, as Clare tipped her glass to drain the last mouthful of wine.
“I’m not sure if I can stand another minute in the company of Chris Barber,” Clare said, holding out her glass for Joe to get a refill.
“Understandable. But it’s not just that, is it?”
Clare sighed. “Joe, that little girl…”
“… is not your responsibility,” finished Joe. “What is up with you? Is your biological clock ticking or something?”
“Do you mind?” Clare rapped Joe’s fingers with her pen and laughed when he yelped. “It’s not that. She’s just such a funny little thing. So bright. And that mother of hers doesn’t seem to be remotely interested in her.”
“I really don’t care,” Joe said. “I mean, I am sorry for the kid. Who wouldn’t be? But the mother’s not half as bad as some of them on that estate. And you can’t step in. It’s absolutely not your problem to sort out.”
Clare gave a small groan. “That’s easy to say. But if I see her left on her own for hours on end, sometimes without any food, and I don’t do anything about it, then I’m neglecting her too, aren’t I?”
“If you think it’s that bad, you could call social services. And then she’d probably get whisked off into care, where at least she’d get three square meals a day. And they might make her have the occasional bath. Don’t look at me like that. It’s how things are, that’s all.”
Clare raked her fingers through her hair. “Okay. Let’s change the subject.”
“Hey.” Joe’s eyes lit up. “This strike business. It’s starting to look like the miners have a chance of winning, don’t you think? It might even see off Thatcher. That’d be interesting, wouldn’t it?”
Clare nodded, closing her eyes and allowing her thoughts to drift off. Amy somehow knew it was the baby’s hat that was missing, even though Clare was now sure she hadn’t mentioned it. Surely that meant she really had seen something happen? It made it more likely the girl was telling the truth, Clare thought. Why was she the only one paying Amy’s story any attention?
Thursday 19th July
Clare spent a dull morning at the local magistrates’ court, eking out the sort of stories that were known as ‘fillers’: petty thefts, benefit frauds and burglaries. She’d gone there to get out of escorting Chris Barber round the Sweetmeadows estate, telling Dave Bell that she’d had a tip-off about an interesting case. The way courts worked, it was easy to spend a morning there and then claim that the hot case just hadn’t gone ahead. As long as she came back with a sheaf of smaller stories, the desk wouldn’t complain.
And there was another reason why Clare sought out the local courts that morning. There was always a duty social worker there, in case something came up in one of the cases and they were asked to step in. Thursdays were Geoff Powburn’s days, and he was a friendly sort of guy who always had ten minutes to hang around in the canteen and chat. Around 11.30, when Clare had a handful of copy to take away with her, she found Geoff in the corridor and offered to buy him a coffee. She knew he never said no.
“Well, Miss Jackson, I hope this isn’t an attempt to bribe a council employee into giving away confidential information,” Geoff winked at her and dunked his Bourbon biscuit into his cup.
“Nothing like that,” said Clare, pushing her own biscuit towards him. “But I was wondering if you could give me a bit of advice.”
Geoff wiped sugar from his mouth. “You know I can’t talk about individual cases?”
Clare nodded. “I don’t need you to. I just want to talk about a… a ‘for-instance’ sort of scenario.”
“Go on.”
Clare hesitated over how to word her question. “Suppose a child wasn’t being cared for properly, what would you lot do about it?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On the level of neglect, really. If we thought a child was in imminent danger we might have to take them away and into care. But that’s a last resort. We’d rather kids stayed in their own home and with their parents. We might be able to work with the family to improve things.”
“That’s a lot of ‘might’s.”
“Every case is different.” Geoff gave her a sharp look. “If you have cause for concern about a child I have to officially urge you to tell someone. Me, if you like. In confidence.”
Clare sighed. “That’s the problem. I don’t know if there is anything to be concerned about. I might be getting worried about nothing.”
“Can you give me a name? We might already be aware of the case.”
Clare shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t want to name names in case I’m way off the mark.”
“There’s our problem, these days. No one wants to get involved in case they’re wrong. That’s how everyone feels, right up until the point when a kiddie’s found dead.”
Clare inspected her nails. “I’ll think about it, I promise. I just don’t want to cause a lot of trouble. I’d be mortified if I was wrong.”
“I’ll say it again though. That’s what everyone thinks, Clare. If this is a real child you have in mind, possibly being neglected or abused, you ought to tell us what’s going on.”
“Hey,” said Clare, deciding to change the subject, at least a little. “You must do a lot of work up on the Sweetmeadows estate. What did you think about the baby murder?”
“Don’t seem to be any issues with the Donnelly family. We’d never been made aware of them before.”
“Right. But the police don’t seem to have much of a clue, do they?”
“On that estate? I can’t blame them. It could’ve been almost anyone. Except for the Donnellys themselves, I’d say. Although no one has any time for Rob, of course. Not since he broke the strike.”
“I know, I pick that up when I’m chatting to people. Even now, they say how sorry they are for Annie and Debs and the kids. It’s like Rob isn’t part of it. Or that he doesn’t deserve their sympathy.”
Clare was about to leave the court when a friendly usher lifted his hand and beckoned her over. “I’d stick around for about another half-hour, if I were you.”
Clare scanned the list of cases and pursed her lips. “What would I be waiting for?”
“It’s not listed. But you’ll be interested. Court One.”
“A clue?” Clare gave the usher a hopeful smile.
“This morning’s picket line. That’s all I can say.”
“Thank you!” Clare noticed there was a flurry of activity among the duty solicitors. She wondered what had happened. As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait long before the magistrates’ clerk came back in. He looked over to the press bench. “News travels fast this morning, eh, Miss Jackson?”
“That’s right,” Clare smiled back, trying to look better informed than she was. And then a police officer came in with a troupe of striking miners. And Finn McKenna. They were all pointed towards the dock. She couldn’t help her mouth opening just a little. Whatever you’ve done, Mr McKenna, it’s a story now, she thought. Even if you’ve just dodged your TV licence.
McKenna looked over towards her and gave a brief nod. Everyone got to their feet as the magistrates came back into the court.
“The court session has been resumed in order to deal quickly with a number of related cases that occurred earlier today,” said the magistrates’ clerk. The Crown Prosecution Service solicitor stood up. He told the court that all the men were involved in trying to stop a coach taking miners across the picket line into the Sweetmeadows Colliery. Stones had been thrown at the coach and the picketing men had got into a brawl with the police as they tried to hold them back.
“The police, however, are happy for all of these men to be bound over to keep the peace. All, that is, with the exception of Mr Finn McKenna, against whom the charges are more serious.”
The five other miners in the dock all agreed to be bound over to keep the peace, which meant that they walked away from the court without a fine or a prison sentence. As they filed out, they all clapped McKenna on the back. McKenna nodded at them and stood facing the magistrates’ bench.
Clare scribbled fast as the court heard that McKenna was to be charged with assaulting a police officer, leaving him with a broken nose. When asked how he pleaded, McKenna replied: “Not guilty”.
After a few moments, the court agreed to set a date for a trial and that McKenna should be granted bail on the condition that he didnt go to the picket lines. McKenna spoke into the ear of the duty lawyer, who asked the court if that condition could be waived, given McKenna’s position with the miners’ union. His request was turned down.
Once the magistrates had left, McKenna made his way across to Clare. “I suppose all of that has to go into the paper,” he said.
“It does,” Clare replied. They looked at each other. “It doesn’t stop me from doing that profile piece on you, if you’re still up for that. Any chance we could do it in the next day or so?”
“Now’s as good a time as any.” He had a purpling bruise across his upper cheek and, Clare noticed, cuts across his knuckles. There was no denying he’d been in some sort of a scrap. Finn noticed Clare looking at him and grinned. “The pig came off much worse. But you can’t quote me on that.”
He suggested the pub across the road from the court and they were making their way across the car park when Clare spotted Chris Barber, jumping out of his red car and half-running towards the court. He spotted her and groaned. “Don’t say I’ve missed the miners.”