THE NEXT DAY was blowy, and by late afternoon the wind was picking up, pushing through the trees and rattling the gutters. Annie was startled when Paul Fleming’s face appeared at the kitchen window. He smiled and waved and she rushed to open the back door.
‘I did ring the bell at the front,’ he said, ‘but there was no answer.’
‘I didn’t hear it,’ said Annie. ‘The wind’s making such a racket. Are you looking for William?’
‘No, no, I know he’s in London. I was looking for you.’
‘Well, you’ve found me. Do you fancy a brew?’
‘All right, go on then,’ said Paul, ‘if you twist my arm.’
He put his briefcase and a heavy-duty plastic bag down on the flagstoned floor and pulled out a chair.
‘I saw Janine yesterday,’ Annie said as she made the tea.
‘Yes, she told me you had a good chat.’
‘She’s tired – with the baby and everything. I remember how she feels. It can all be a bit over-whelming.’
‘I’m going to take some time off as soon as I can; we’ll have a week with Jan’s mum in Southport. Only nobody’s allowed any leave at the moment. There’s too much going on.’
‘Is there any news about the murder?’
‘Not yet. But what do you reckon to this?’
He took a sheet of paper out of the plastic bag and laid it on the table. Annie picked it up. It was a poster. On the top it said: Do you recognise this woman? and beneath the words was an artist’s impression of a woman’s face. The woman was staring straight out of the image, her face expressionless. It looked like a badly drawn picture of Annie.
‘It’s our lady of the moors,’ Paul explained. ‘We’re stepping up our efforts to identify her.’
‘Wouldn’t someone have come forward by now if she was local?’
‘She might have been passing through. We hope someone will recognise her.’
Annie shook some digestives onto a small plate. Then she poured the tea into cups and stirred milk into them. She sat down opposite Paul.
He took a biscuit and dipped it into his tea.
‘So what did you want me for?’ she asked.
‘Hmm?’
‘You said you came here to see me?’
‘Oh, nothing really. I promised William I’d keep an eye on you while he was away. He worries about you.’
‘I know he does. But he doesn’t need to. I’m fine.’
‘You’re remote out here though, in this big house, on your own. You’re vulnerable.’
‘I suppose.’ Annie looked about her. She had always felt safe in the big old house, but then she’d never had a reason not to feel secure before. ‘There is an alarm. We don’t use it very often but William says it’s a good deterrent.’
‘Is it linked to the station?’
‘Probably. You know how efficient William is.’
‘I’ll check. It shouldn’t be difficult.’
‘Honestly, Paul, I’m sure there’s no need. We’re fine here. If the worst came to the worst, there’s always William’s gun.’
‘Do you know how to use it?’
‘I could hit someone over the head with it.’
Paul smiled. ‘I’ll have a squad car drive past once or twice a day, just to be on the safe side. And if you’re worried about anything, call the station.’
‘OK,’ Annie said. ‘I will.’
When Paul had left, Annie went into the lobby. She rattled the handle to the gun cabinet but it was locked. She had a quick search around the lobby for the key, but it wasn’t in any of the obvious places. She thought she would ask William how to open the cabinet when he came back, just in case – just to be on the safe side, like Paul had said.
She took a bag of potatoes from the store cupboard back into the kitchen to peel them, and was almost done when Johnnie arrived. He took off his motorbike gloves and helmet and put them on the table, and Annie went to greet him. His cheek, when she kissed it, was icy cold.
‘It’s rough out there,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
‘You shouldn’t be out on your bike in this weather.’
‘I’m all right. Is there one in the pot for me?’
‘There should be. Help yourself to a biscuit. Oh, you already have.’
Johnnie grinned at her through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked. He was looking at the poster Paul had left on the table.
‘It’s the woman who was murdered.’
‘She looks like you. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a coincidence,’ Annie said, ‘that’s all. There must be a million women in the world who look like me. How’s your eye?’
‘Better now.’ He leaned over the table so she could look closely at his face.
‘You’re still a bit yellow round the edges.’
‘That’s just dirt. Have you got any more biscuits?’
‘Johnnie Jackson, you’ve got hollow legs. Shall I make you a sandwich?’
‘You can, but that’s not what I came for.’
Annie paused and looked at her brother. His cheeks were flushed with colour.
‘What did you come for then?’ she asked.
‘I wanted to give you this.’
He put his hand inside his jacket pocket and took out a plastic carrier bag wrapped round something the size of a small brick. He put it on the table.
‘What’s in there?’
‘Look inside. You’ll see.’
Annie unwrapped the plastic. She reached into the bag and took out a bundle of letters, secured by an elastic band. The letters were addressed to Miss Annie Jackson at the Rotherham Road address and she recognised the writing; it was as familiar to her as her own.
‘My God,’ she said.
She sat down, unsnapped the elastic band and spread the letters about the table top. Each letter had the same HMP stamp. The oldest had been sent in January 1975, the same month Tom had been sent to prison.
‘Do you know who these are from, Johnnie?’ Annie asked.
He nodded.
‘Where did you find them?’
‘In the back of Mum’s cupboard, behind all her knitting stuff. She must’ve forgotten they were there.’
‘Mum had hidden them?’
‘Yes.’
‘She kept these from me all this time? Why would she do that?’ Annie stood up and paced around the kitchen. ‘God!’ she cried and she banged her hand flat on the table and then pulled out the chair and sat down again. ‘If she’d given them to me when I was meant to get them everything would have been different.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘How could she?’ she cried. ‘How could she do that?’
Johnnie frowned. ‘I wasn’t going to say owt,’ he said. ‘I thought Mum knew best. Then I heard you sticking up for me the other day and I thought I should do the same for you. Besides, it was wrong, wasn’t it, keeping them from you.’
‘Yes, it was wrong.’
Annie pushed back her hair. ‘Tom told me he’d written to me and I didn’t believe him. I wouldn’t listen. I thought he was lying.’
Johnnie looked anxious.
‘Did I do right, Annie? Was it right to bring them to you?’
She reached across the table and laid her hand on Johnnie’s forearm.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, you did right.’
Annie waited until evening, until Ethel and Lizzie were in bed, and then she read the letters.
The first ones were long and rambling. They were a combination of expressions of love and devotion, followed by angry sections in which Tom claimed, time and again, that he was innocent of killing Mrs Wallace, that he would never have harmed a hair on her head, that she was the only person, Annie aside, whom he had loved.
I thought at first I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I told them I couldn’t cope with being locked up but they didn’t listen, they wouldn’t believe me. They don’t know what it’s like when you feel the walls closing in on you, when you can’t breathe. Why don’t you write to me, Annie? Just a postcard would do. Anything. Just let me know that you’re still thinking of me. Just a word.
As the months rolled by, the letters became shorter.
I tell the others about you, Annie. I tell them how lovely you are, how strong you are, how funny, how you fight with your mum. I don’t think they believe me. I think they reckon I’m making you up. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s true. Did I just imagine you, Annie? Are you all in my mind?
And then:
One of the warders here, he told me you’re going to marry the Detective Superintendent. That’s not true, is it, Annie? You wouldn’t do that, would you?
Annie put the letters down. She poked at the fire until a flame caught. She didn’t know what was true, and what was not true. All she knew for sure was that her own mother had kept Tom’s letters from her.
Annie did not know if she would ever be able to forgive her.