‘I’m sorry miss, we’ve investigated your allegation and the man you think you saw…’
‘The man I saw,’ Mary interrupted.
‘The man you think you saw driving the van that killed your brother has denied being in Wales on that day.’ The police sergeant rose up and down on his heels in front of the tiled fireplace, his hands behind his back as he looked at Mary over the top of his glasses. ‘And he has an alibi.’
A plump woman sitting at a long wooden table jabbed rhythmically at the keys of a large typewriter. She stared, unwavering, at Mary as a small bell pinged and the carriage skidded back before she carried on hitting the keys.
Mary discounted her and looked to a young police officer who was standing by a four drawer metal cabinet balancing a large pile of folders under one arm. ‘He can’t have an alibi. I told you, I saw him, I saw the van.’
‘You saw a van,’ the sergeant stressed.
‘It was his van, white with orange on the side … like the orange had been painted on to cover something up.’
His eyebrows rose.
‘Like it was covering up words. Oh, that’s not important…’ Mary flushed, the anger rising quickly. ‘It was the same van. I saw the driver and I recognised him. I know it was him.’ Her voice was hard. It was impossible George Shuttleworth could get away with killing Tom. The police had to believe her. ‘He’s someone I know.’
‘So I understand, miss.’ The sergeant cocked his head to one side. ‘We found the report of a previous altercation between your families.’
Oh no! Mary swallowed hard against the sickening lurch of her stomach. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn’t she realised their investigations would uncover all the stuff from before? Stupid woman, she told herself. She gripped the edge of the counter. Pull yourself together, she thought. There was nothing else to do but brazen it out. ‘Altercation, sergeant? If you’ve read the report, you will know full well what kind of altercation it was.’
His face mottled.
‘This man’s brother assaulted me.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
‘And was subsequently murdered, according to records.’
‘Nothing to do with me or any of my family,’ Mary said. She went cold, a wave of uncertainty flooding through her. Now was the time to tell him that it was Peter who’d killed Frank Shuttleworth. But she couldn’t. Why? Confused thoughts raced around in her head. Her bitterness that he’d let her think it was Tom was still there but, right now, standing in front of this policeman, something held her back from blurting out the truth.
‘Hmmm. That’s as maybe. The case was not solved.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘But neither was it closed.’
Oh God. Mary stayed as still as she could and maintained eye contact with him. Stay calm, stay calm. She was here to persuade them that it was George Shuttleworth driving the van that killed Tom. Nothing else mattered.
‘However …’ He stopped rocking on his heels and clapped his hands. ‘That’s for another time, perhaps.’ He glared at the young policeman. ‘Find the file on Miss Howarth’s complaint, Roberts,’ he said bluntly. ‘Read out the results of our investigations.’
The officer pulled out a file from the top drawer and, giving Mary an apologetic smile, placed it on the large table.
The typist twisted the end wheel of the carriage with a flourish and removed the paper. She rose, adjusted the hem of her black cardigan and went through an opaque-glass partition in one corner of the charge room. Mary heard the click of metal covers on the switchboard, the slide of extension plugs and the low voice of a man but she kept her eyes on the young officer.
He coughed slightly before reading. ‘According to this, there is a witness to say he was at home that day.’ He paused. His gaze on Mary was almost sympathetic before, lowering his head, he read the next sentence. ‘There was no chance he could have travelled to Wales and then back to Manchester on the day the victim was killed.’
‘And those are your investigations? After only three weeks you’re giving up?’ Mary couldn’t help herself. ‘A witness? Who? Who said he was home on that day?’
‘We’re not at liberty to tell you that, miss.’ The sergeant walked across the room.
Mary spoke slowly. ‘You said the witness said George Shuttleworth was at home. There’s only one other person who lives in that house with him as far as I know and that’s his mother, Nelly. Was it Nelly Shuttleworth?’ She looked past the sergeant to the other man, who cleared his throat again and coloured but didn’t answer her.
Behind her the door of the vestibule opened and a man was pushed against the counter next to Mary. The smell of alcohol filled the air as he blinked slowly at her before being shoved again by a constable holding him up.
‘I suggest you leave the investigations to us, miss.’ The sergeant turned to pick up a large leather-bound book from the table and placed it on the counter. He studied the drunken man. ‘Right Lewis,’ he said to the constable, ‘charge?’ Without looking at Mary, he added, ‘And you’d better think twice, miss, before making any more false accusations.’
Without another word Mary left of the police station, shaking with fear and anger.
Standing on the steps outside, she glanced up at the stone letters engraved above the door. BRADLOW STATION. Alongside it, the blue lamp flickered. A black car drew up and an officer in full uniform crossed the pavement and got into the back.
She was unable to move. A few people passed by, looking up at her with curiosity but she was indifferent to them. Her only thoughts were, The man has an alibi.
It was a lie. Nelly, because it had to be her, had lied. Why? After everything Frank did? Mary knew the answer even as she formed the question. Nelly would do anything to protect the one son she had left.
And then she thought of the other thing the sergeant said. ‘The case was not solved … but neither was it closed.’
Mary put her hand to her stomach. If there was a life beginning inside, however much the thought terrified her, how could she tell the police what she knew? Peter might even own up if confronted. She’d made it clear she would never go back to him. Knowing she hated him, knowing there was little to go back to in Germany, would he care what happened to him?
If she was having his baby, whether she ever saw him again or not, she couldn’t be the one to tell the authorities. How would she ever tell his child it was her fault its father was hanged?