This Little Piggy (25 page)

“Amazing. That’s got to be a first for the
Post
. I’m stunned. Thanks, Dave.”

“Only there’s a condition.”

“How do you mean?”

“We want you to spend it on something specific.”

Clare was baffled. The conversation felt surreal. “Such as?”

“A holiday.”

Clare started to laugh. Then she stopped. “I don’t understand. Is this some weird joke?”

“No joke.” Dave couldn’t seem to look Clare in the eye. “We all think you look exhausted. You’ve lost weight. Everyone’s mentioned it. And you never seem to stop working. It’s not good for you. You don’t have anything to prove, Clare, not to me.”

“I don’t remember the
Post
ever being so paternal.”

“I know. But I’d feel very bad if you… I don’t know… had a car accident or something, through sheer exhaustion.”

Clare tried to filter the information. That now-familiar wave of dizziness was washing over her. She couldn’t understand why Dave was looking so uncomfortable. After all, he was giving her good news. Wasn’t he? She rubbed her eyes and blinked to get rid of the shapes floating in front of them. “Umm, okay, thanks. I’ll book something for a couple of weeks’ time when things have quietened down a bit.”

“No, Clare, now. You need to go now.”

“Pardon?”

“The point of this is that you need to have a break right now. Starting this minute.”

Clare felt her head start to throb. “I can’t, Dave. There’s too much going on. There’s a murderer, probably a double-murderer, on the loose in my patch. I don’t want to take a holiday now, I’ll do it when it’s all a bit quieter.”

“Clare, I’m your boss, remember? And I am telling you to take this money and go on holiday, and do it now. Understood?”

“No, I bloody well don’t understand. Sorry,” she added, aware that people in the cafe had turned to look. “I didn’t mean to shout. But what’s this really about?”

Dave sighed hard. “It’s not just that everyone’s worried about your health. Catt thinks your attitude’s a problem. And she says no one’s getting a chance to do any big stories because you keep jumping on them.”

“You mean, I hear about them before our supposed chief reporter, because they’re in the patch that she wanted me to cover? So I go and do stories from my own patch, and that’s somehow a problem?” Clare took a long breath in and out. Her head reeled and she hoped she wouldn’t disgrace herself by fainting.

“She’s trying to give Chris a chance to find his feet. Usually, with something big like a murder, the chief reporter would cover it.”

“Then he should start building up contacts, like I have. And then he’d get some exclusives. Like I do.”

“It’s not just the murders. Apparently last week Chris tried to do some feature relating to the miners’ strike and the men told him they’d only talk to you. On the instructions of their union rep, apparently.”

Clare pressed her lips together to stop herself smiling. Good old Finn. “I didn’t know about that. But again, that’s because I spent time building up trust. Chris will have to be patient.”

“Can’t you try to be a bit nicer to Sharon? Maybe not nicer, but a bit more respectful? That would be a start.”

“It’d have to be mutual, Dave.”

“You’re one difficult woman. If you weren’t such a good reporter you wouldn’t last five minutes. But listen, there is still the health thing.”

“That’s real? Not just an excuse to get rid of me for a couple of weeks to give Chris Barber a piece of the action?”

“No, it’s real. We all agree that you look wrung out. I admit, Sharon wouldn’t be so keen to give you time off if she wasn’t championing Chris right now, but there it is. Jesus Christ, Clare. I bet you’re the only person in the whole company who would find reasons to object to a paid holiday.”

They caught each other’s eyes and laughed.

“I’m not going, Dave. Not right now. Sorry.”

“Don’t make me insist, Clare. I don’t want us to fall out.”

Clare blinked again. She didn’t want to be seen to cry. “You can’t make me.” She knew it sounded childish, even to her own ears.

“I think I can. But I would rather you agreed. At least go home for the afternoon and think about it. We’ll speak again in the morning, eh?”

Clare didn’t trust herself to reply, in case Dave picked up a catch in her voice. So she just nodded.

Back in her office, she called Finn. “I hear you’ve made me the designated strike reporter. Just wanted to say thanks.”

“Like I said. It helps if we have someone we can trust.” Finn paused. “Are you okay? You sound kind of flat.”

Clare told him what had happened.

“I don’t think he can force you to take a holiday when you don’t want to. I’d challenge it, if that’s how you feel. You in a union?”

“Yes. But the rep isn’t exactly Arthur Scargill. Or you. I’m not sure how much support I’d get.”

“Go and see him anyway and get your concerns written down. If they start victimising you, it’s best to have a record from the start. Shall I come round tonight?”

“I’ll be rotten company.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. See you later.”

By the time Finn turned up, at around eight o’clock, Clare was even more on edge. She’d called round to see Amy, but there’d been no answer at the flat. She’d spoken to her union rep, who glumly said that it sounded as if she was being offered a very good deal and that he would be happy to swap places with her. And then she’d had a row with Joe, who’d also said he thought she should take a break.

“But by the time I get back, the killer could’ve been caught and there’ll be no story. The miners’ strike could be sorted out. I could be reporting school day trips and teddy bears’ picnics for the rest of the summer.”

“It doesn’t matter. Stories come and go. You should take a step back, it’ll be good for you,” Joe said.

“I can’t believe you’re saying this. I thought you were on my side.”

“I am. That’s why I’m saying it.”

Clare put the phone down without another word.

So when she answered the door to Finn, her first words were: “I hope that’s a bottle of wine.”

“No, I’m just pleased to see you.”

Clare forced a smile. “I’ve had a horrible day.”

She put her arms around his waist and leaned her head on him, breathing in his smell and the solidity of his body. Then Finn filled her glass and listened as Clare recounted the last few hours.

“Not joining me?”

“I have to drive back tonight, I’ve got an early start in the morning. But I’m happy to watch you drink it.”

“Cheers, then.” Clare took a deep swallow of wine and screwed up her face as the taste hit the back of her throat. “That’s really nice. It tastes expensive. You shouldn’t be spending your money on me.”

“I want to.”

“So what’ve you been up to?”

“Manning the new soup kitchen.”

“Oh.” Heat washed through Clare’s whole body. “Shit. I’m sorry. All my stuff is nothing compared to what’s happening with the strike.”

Finn shrugged. “It’s important, if it matters to you.”

“Yes, but… a soup kitchen. That’s so…” She took another drink. “Hey, can I come and do a piece on it?”

“From a beach somewhere?”

“Hah. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve decided.”

“Is that official?”

“It’s official. They’ll have to change the office locks and frogmarch me to the airport.”

Clare’s phone rang. When she picked up, Joe was on the line.

“Don’t hang up, listen. The rumour is that the police have made an arrest and they’re looking to charge someone tomorrow for the murder of baby Jamie.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Seaton won’t confirm it yet. But more important, he won’t deny it either. So it must be right. As of tomorrow, there’ll be bugger all left to say about Sweetmeadows, until the trial. I think you can safely pack your swimsuit and get going.”

“I don’t know, Joe…”

“Think about it. You take them up on their very generous offer and head for the Med. And just as you do, the story dries up, so Chris Barber won’t get a sniff at it. He’ll be furious. You’ll win, Clare.”

In the kitchen, Finn made a point of clattering the glasses.

Clare gave him a wave. “I have to go. Thanks for the tip.”

“But what’re you going to do?”

“I’ll decide in the morning. See you, Joe.” Clare hung up the phone.

“He’s quite fond of you, that Joe Ainsley,” Finn commented.

“You know what? Every man I speak to alleges someone else is interested in me. I don’t know what it is with men. Do you just see all women as some kind of Helen of Troy?”

“Just protective, I guess. You do have that sort of face. Makes people want to look after you.”

“It’s pathetic.” Clare fidgeted for a moment with the end of her watch strap and then checked the time. “Actually I might just make a quick call. And check out what Joe’s been saying.”

Finn closed his eyes. “Can’t you just leave it?”

Clare gave an apologetic shrug and picked up the phone.

The desk sergeant was someone Clare knew. “Jack, hi. I know it’s late. Is your chief inspector still around?”

“He is. But he’s very tied up.”

“That’s fine. Can you just confirm for me – off the record, if you like – whether someone’s been arrested for the Jamie Donnelly murder?”

“Off the record?”

“Promise.”

“It’s more complicated than that. We did make two arrests. But something went a bit wrong. I can’t say what, not right now. But there’s trouble on Sweetmeadows estate again, as a result. We’re about to go in to try to calm the situation down.”

“Something went wrong? What, exactly?”

“That’s all I can say. I shouldn’t even be saying that. You’ll find out soon enough without me risking my job.”

“So what’s happening out on the estate?” Clare thought of Amy and hoped she wasn’t alone.

“It’s a repeat of the other night. Cars are being torched, the fire bobbies are being lobbed with bricks when they try to get near. Kids roaming around, out of their heads and looking for trouble.”

“And this is because of the arrests?”

“That’s the excuse. But you know that place. It’s a tinderbox. It’s a riot waiting to happen.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Don’t quote me. And I wouldn’t go out there tonight. It’ll be bad. Let things simmer down.”

Not likely, Clare thought.

Finn was drumming his fingers on the edge of the sofa. “Sorted out?”

“Sorry, Finn. There’s more trouble on Sweetmeadows. I think I’m going to have to go out there.”

“Now?”

“Sorry.”

“You’ve had a drink.”

Clare swore. “I’ll have to get a taxi then. Unless…” She gave Finn a hopeful look.

“Jesus. Yes, I can drive you. And keep an eye on you at the same time.”

Clare gave Finn a quick hug. “You’re a star.”

Finn took a back route to the estate. The night sky looked as if it was on fire itself, the rust-coloured glow was so vivid. The hellish smell of burning made them both cough before they’d even opened the car door. There were sounds of bikes buzzing around. And shouting.

“There are no lights on in any of the flats,” Clare said. “Why’s that, do you think?”

A man was running towards them. “Finn, man,” he said, holding out a hand for Finn to shake. “How did you know?”

“Know what, mate?”

“George Armstrong’s having an asthma attack. We can’t get an ambulance to him.”

“How come?”

“The bastards have taken out the sub-station. No one’s got any leccy. Can you run us to the hospital, Finn, mate?”

“Jesus Christ.” Finn looked at Clare.

“Take him,” she said. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

Finn’s friend seemed to notice Clare for the first time. “Don’t stay here on your own, pet. It’s bad, bad stuff.” He pointed to the concrete balconies behind them. The words
PIGS MURDERERS
were sprayed across them in red.

“What’s that about?”

“Some young lad got arrested. And now he’s dead. Managed to top himself in the police cell. At least that’s what they’re saying, the pigs.” The man’s words came out so fast Clare could only just make them out.

“Jason Craig?” Clare asked.

“Aye, Craigy, they call him. They’re saying the police wanted to lay the baby murder on him. But he’s no more than a bairn himself. Sixteen, seventeen, something like that.”

“So that’s what this is all about?” Clare looked around. The doors to the little mini mart on the outside edge of the estate were wide open, all its windows were smashed and, although it was in darkness, she could see the shelves had been stripped. A couple of young lads were kicking around inside, trying to see if anything was left. Where the hell are the police? Clare thought. It’s complete anarchy.

“Finn, mate, we need to go.” The man was panting and sweat was running down his face.

Finn turned to Clare. “I’ll get George to the hospital and I’ll be straight back. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Off you go.” Clare waved Finn away and watched as he ran towards a ground-floor flat, along with his friend.

Clare stared around. The fires, the stripped-out shop and the way all the flats were blacked out made the place look like a scene from some far-off war zone. The dark air was thick with the smell of smoke and chemicals. The lightless windows all around made it look as if the whole estate was closing its eyes to what was happening. She walked towards a small group of teenagers hanging around the edge of the square.

“It’s you again,” a girl said. “You following us?”

Clare shook her head. “I just heard there was trouble. Can you tell me what’s happening?”

Some of the lads turned away. One pulled a cap low over his eyes. “Craig’s dead. The police killed Craigy.”

“I heard he killed himself in the police cell. What did you hear?”

The girl stood close to Clare, right in front of her face. She was a little taller than Clare, with fierce, furious eyes. Clare smelled alcoholic sweetness on her breath. “They wanted to fit him up for the baby murder. So they’ve done him in, that’s what’s happened. Or they’ve sent him mental. So now he can’t talk back.”

“You’re saying the police killed Craigy? But why did they think he’d killed the baby?”

“They don’t, not really. They can’t. They just wanted someone to blame.”