MARIE AND ANNIE went outside. The police officer walked over to them.
‘Who’s this then?’ Marie asked.
‘He’s my minder. He’s supposed to accompany me wherever I go,’ Annie said, ‘to keep an eye on me.’
‘Oh,’ said Marie. She looked the officer up and down. ‘Well, you can stand down now, young man, because I’m with Madam here and I’m not going to let her out of my sight.’
The officer protested and Marie leaned in closer.
‘Listen, Sonny Jim, Mr Howarth fetched me himself to look after my daughter. He entrusted her into my care. He knows she’s with me and he’s perfectly happy with that arrangement. Call him if you don’t believe me. Go on, call him on your radio!’
The officer looked uncomfortable but he backed away and while his back was turned Marie grabbed Annie’s arm and pulled her into her car.
‘Bloody cheek,’ she muttered. ‘Him still wet behind the ears thinking he can tell me what’s what.’
As they drove away from Everwell, Annie watched the officer and his colleague arguing from her wing mirror. She reached out her hand and touched her mother’s arm.
‘What?’ said Marie.
‘You,’ said Annie. ‘Sometimes you’re just amazing.’
‘Don’t be soft.’
They picked up Johnnie from Rotherham Road and then drove to Burnley, Johnnie sitting next to Annie in the front of the car and Marie in the back. Annie still felt woozy so she drove very slowly and carefully; Marie kept up a constant stream of criticism about her driving from the back seat until Annie told her to shut up or get out.
At the scrapyard they piled out and gave the dog on the chain a wide berth as they walked around to the cabin. The same man with the huge belly and the rock-star moustache came out and he nodded when he saw Annie.
‘Brought the family this time, have you?’ he asked.
‘It was my bike,’ said Johnnie, and the man looked at him, looked at the place where his arm used to be and said: ‘Sorry, mate. It’s over here.’
They followed him round the back of the cabin, and there was Johnnie’s bike, propped up against the side of an old campervan.
‘It’s in a bit of a state,’ said the man.
‘You can say that again,’ said Marie. ‘What happened to it?’
‘The lads who brought it in said they’d found it dumped on the moor at the back of the colliery. It was hidden in undergrowth off the path.’
Johnnie dusted the mud from the exhaust pipe with his hand. ‘It doesn’t look too bad,’ he said. ‘I mean, it doesn’t look much worse than it did before.’
‘Oh Johnnie,’ said Marie. ‘Is this what happened when you fell off? All this damage?’
‘The front’s had it. The forks are wrecked. And there’s a huge dent in the fuel tank.’
‘Did the lads who brought it here want money for it?’ Annie asked the man.
‘I gave them the scrap value. I’m getting all sorts brought in these days – garden railings, copper tubing – you name it. If it’s metal, people will bring it in. They need cash. You’re welcome to buy it back off me if you want.’
Annie looked at her brother. He was crouched down, smoothing the rear wheel lovingly.
‘Let’s have a word with your dad first,’ Marie said. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the man. ‘We’ll let you know.’
‘Aye, well don’t take too long about it. It’s fit for nowt but the crusher, that one.’
Marie, Johnnie and Annie got back into the car and Annie reversed it carefully back out through the archway.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she said. ‘I know that two men took the bike from the lane on a trailer the same day Johnnie crashed. Why would they do that if they were just going to dump it?’
‘Perhaps they thought they could fix it and then found they couldn’t.’
‘They were trying to hide it,’ said Marie.
Annie stopped the car. Then she took it out of reverse and drove forward again.
‘Let’s have another look at it,’ she said to Johnnie.
In the scrapyard she got out, waved to the man, and they all trooped round again to where the bike was parked.
‘That front fork, see how it’s twisted,’ Annie said.
‘It must have been when it was pushed into the undergrowth.’
‘Would that have happened? They’d have had to push it pretty hard to bend it like that. And that dent in the fuel tank …’
The scrapyard man bent down. He ran his fingers down the metal.
‘That was a vehicle as did that,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen plenty of these in my time. This bike has been under a car or summat.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Johnnie.
‘You crashed your bike into a car, didn’t you? Or a car crashed into you? Or a van, maybe? A truck?’
‘No. I skidded on the lane and came off. There was no other vehicle involved.’
‘You remember this, do you?’
‘I don’t remember anything.’
‘Maybe something ran into the bike after Johnnie was in the ambulance,’ Marie said.
‘No, the police got there first. They moved the bike onto the verge.’
‘Can you tell us owt else?’ Marie asked the man.
‘It looks like white paint on the bike. Can’t really say more than that.’
‘A white car then?’
‘Maybe.’
‘If it was a car as hit our Johnnie, would the car have been damaged too?’
‘I’d say so. Look at the state of the bike. The bike would have come off worse, but you’d know the car had been in the wars too.’
Annie felt a rush of adrenalin. She could tell the others felt it too. ‘Will you keep the bike here for us for a few days? I need to have a word with my husband. He’s a policeman.’
The man stood up and dusted down his hands. ‘No problem,’ he said.
‘You reckon someone knocked me off the bike?’ Johnnie asked slowly.
‘Yes.’ Annie’s voice was grim. ‘And then they tried to hide the evidence.’
Annie dropped Johnnie and Marie back in Matlow and then she drove to the police station. The female officer at the desk welcomed her.
‘How are you, Mrs Howarth?’ she asked.
‘Fine, thanks. Is my husband here? I need to talk to him,’ said Annie.
‘He’s around somewhere. Would you like to come into the office to wait?’
‘Thank you,’ said Annie.
She followed the woman along a carpeted corridor. She could see, up ahead, the main office, hear the ringing of telephones and the buzz of talk, but she didn’t go that far. Instead, she was shown into an empty interview room.
While she waited, Annie paced the room. It was grubby, with just one small, barred window, was painted an ugly green colour and had an institutional smell. Apart from a table, two wooden chairs and a clock on the wall, the room was empty. Annie wondered if Tom had been in this room when he was arrested the first time, if he had been questioned here. It was a small room, no more than three paces square. If he’d been locked in here, Tom would have panicked. Annie began to feel anxious herself. She went to the door, tried the handle, thought for a moment it was locked and tugged at it. The door opened suddenly and she stumbled out into the corridor and almost bumped into a man hurrying past.
‘Sorry,’ she said, and he muttered: ‘No harm done,’ and carried on walking. Annie stared after him. She was looking at his back, but she was almost certain that it was the same man she’d seen in the telephone box, the bald-headed, thickset man who had, at one time, seemed to be shadowing her every movement. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up and he had a tattoo on his forearm. He went out of a door marked FIRE EXIT and the door slammed shut behind him. Annie leaned against the wall. Hung on the wall opposite was a pin-board covered with notices: rotas and lists, a map of the area, the telephone numbers for the site managers of different collieries. She looked more closely at the map. Everwell was marked out. Somebody had circled it in red marker.
The door to the offices opened and the female officer came back out. She looked apologetic.
‘Detective Superintendent Howarth’s in a meeting,’ she said. ‘He might be a while. You’re welcome to wait. It’s up to you.’
‘I’ll give him five more minutes,’ said Annie.
She went back into the room and sat on a chair with her head in her arms on the table. A few moments later she heard a door slam shut and from the room next door came the sound of raised voices. One she did not recognise, the other belonged to Paul Fleming.
‘I can’t give him these!’ Paul cried. ‘Look at them, they’re a shambles. Are your officers illiterate? Don’t they know how to write reports?’
The other man mumbled something.
‘It’s not good enough! I told you before that the statements have to be clear and concise, and they have to tell the same story about what happened. For fuck’s sake, don’t you think we’ve got enough problems as it is? Bloody press breathing down our necks, miners making accusations left, right and centre. And you think it’s acceptable to present a load of contradictory reports?’
‘What do you want me to do then?’
‘I want you to have a word with your officers and get them to write their statements again. Go through the confrontation minute by minute. Get your story straight.’
‘You’re asking us to falsify the statements?’
‘No!’ There was a bang, like the sound of a fist hitting a table. ‘I’m telling you to decide what happened and make sure everyone agrees on what happened, and then make sure all the accounts agree. I’m trying to protect you, don’t you realise? I’m trying to bloody help!’
Annie pushed back the chair and stood up. She walked quietly down the corridor, and back into the front reception.
‘I have to go,’ she said to the policewoman.
‘Very well,’ said the woman. ‘Do you want me to give Mr Howarth a message?’
‘No,’ said Annie. ‘No, you’re all right.’