Changing Patterns

by Judith Barrow

  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?

  Chapter 54

  Barnes Street didn’t look much different from the last time she’d been there. The houses still had that air of prosperity long since departed. One or two of the small walled gardens now sported a shrub or two, some of the old bay windows had been replaced by sash ones that looked out of place against the faded red brick, but the street was still as quiet as she remembered. Unlike Henshaw Street, no children played football on the road, no neighbours gossiped on the doorsteps. Further along a black Ford car was parked outside one of the houses and a man and a young boy, wielding buckets and sponges, were cleaning it despite the cold drizzle of rain.

  There was no van outside Nelly’s house. Mary breathed a sigh of relief but still hesitated. She hadn’t prepared what she wanted to ask and she was nervous. If Nelly wouldn’t help she didn’t know what else to do.

  The corroded metal number four was missing now, only the imprint remained on the door. Red paint barely concealed the burst bubbles and flakes of the black paint that Mary remembered used to be there. She grasped the dull brass knocker and banged it down.

  She heard the soft shuffle of feet and then the door shifted slightly in the frame. A woman’s voice cursed. ‘Bloody thing.’ The door was tugged again. And then, ‘Can you give it a shove?’

  Despite her anxiety Mary grinned and put her shoulder to the door. It opened with a screech.

  Nelly’s blue turban flopped, as usual, over one eye. She squinted at Mary, pushing out her large lips in concentration. The recognition came all at once. ‘Mary, pet,’ she exclaimed. ‘Well, I’m blowed. Mary.’ She brushed floury hands on her apron and engulfed her in large soft arms. ‘Come in, come in.’ She peeped out of the doorway at the overcast sky. ‘Another storm, I shouldn’t wonder. Let’s get in. I’m just doin’ a bit of baking.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Mary smiled, closing the door and surreptitiously wiping the white marks from her sleeves.

  The grey strands of hair that had escaped from the turban were covered in flour and she had a streak across her nose. She waddled along the hall, her bare feet spread at angles. ‘’Scuse, the old trotters,’ she said, over her shoulder, ‘bunions playing up.’ Her backside bounced from side to side with each step. ‘I was sorry to hear about your brother, Mary. You got my letter?’

  ‘I did, Nelly, and thank you, it meant a lot.’ Now was the time to tell her why she was here. But Nelly was talking again.

  ‘Sorry it was a bit crumpled. It got screwed up by mistake and I had to iron it flat again. It’d taken me that long to write it I hadn’t the heart to copy it out again.’

  ‘No, don’t worry, it was a lovely thought. It meant a lot to me,’ Mary said again.

  ‘And I was sorry to hear about your Mam, she was a good woman,’ Nelly carried on. She took a tray of unbaked scones from the kitchen table and, opening the oven door, pushed them carelessly onto a shelf. ‘I liked what I saw of her.’

  ‘Thanks, Nelly.’ Mary left it at that. The feelings hadn’t been reciprocated. Winifred couldn’t stand Nelly, mainly because Frank was her son.

  ‘And loyal to her family.’ Nelly sounded breathless from bending forward. ‘Loyal to you, pet. I respected that.’

  Her words made Mary uncomfortable. ‘How are you keeping?’

  ‘Fair to middling.’ Nelly clapped her hands together and a puff of flour rose around her. She turned and studied Mary for a few moments. Then she sighed and gave a guarded smile. ‘Hope you don’t mind me coming right out with it, pet.’ She put her fists on her hips. ‘This i
sn’t a social call, is it?’

  Straight to the point, Mary thought, deciding to give the old woman the same courtesy. ‘No, Nelly, not totally. Is your George in?’

  ‘George?’ Nelly put her head to one side. ‘No, there’s no need to worry, pet, he’s out. I would have warned you at the door if he was here, knowing what he’s like about you.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I just wanted to make sure. I want to talk to you.’ This was going to be worse than Mary had expected.

  ‘About?’

  ‘It’s awkward, Nelly.’

  ‘About what, Mary?’ Her tone was wary. She folded her arms and leant against the table.

  ‘Can I sit down?’

  The woman nodded but when Mary sat at the table she didn’t follow suit.

  ‘We’ve been friends for a long time.’ Mary put her palms flat on the worn surface, rubbing them back and forth, covering her fingers with a dusting of flour that she barely noticed. ‘And what I want to ask you isn’t easy. I …’ She stopped.

  ‘Go on.’

  Her words came out in a rush. ‘The night Tom was killed, I saw the van.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve seen the van again, here, in Ashford. It’s white with orange markings on the side. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I’m not thick. But I still don’t know where you’re going with this.’

  It was obvious to Mary. Nelly knew exactly what she was saying. ‘Please don’t be like this.’ Mary’s eyes prickled with hot tears. ‘This is as awful for me.’

  ‘Just spit it out.’ The words were harsh but the fear was unmistakeable.

  ‘You gave him an alibi. You know it was George…’

  ‘One son.’ Nelly pleaded. ‘That’s all I have now.’

  The two women stared at each other. Nelly was the first to blink.

  ‘What do you want me to do, Mary?’

  ‘You know what I want you to do. Tell the truth.’ The agony in Nelly’s eyes was painful to see but still Mary urged, ‘Please Nelly. I just want you to tell the police the truth.’

  ‘I can’t help you, pet.’ Nelly’s voice was weary. ‘You know I would if I could … but I can’t.’

  Mary caught her lower lip between her teeth. She had one thing she could bargain with, but Ellen would be furious with her if – when she found out. ‘I need to tell you something else, Nelly.’ She rushed on before she could change her mind. ‘But you must promise to keep it a secret, for now anyway.’

  ‘What is it?’ There was relief in Nelly’s voice, as though she thought Mary was changing the subject.

  ‘Please, promise me.’

  Nelly closed her eyes slowly in agreement.

  ‘We, you and me, are more than friends. In a way we’re related.’ Mary waited. Nelly looked baffled. ‘My sister, Ellen, has a little girl, she’s beautiful.’ She spoke quickly. ‘She’s Frank’s child too – your granddaughter.’

  ‘Frank’s?’ Nelly’s ruddy face drained of colour. ‘How?’ She flopped down on the chair nearest Mary.

  ‘They were together … once. It was a mistake on Ellen’s part. No.’ She saw Nelly close her eyes in despair. She held up her hand. ‘Please, don’t fret. It wasn’t like what happened to me.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Ellen was as much to blame as Frank. I’ll tell you all about it some other time. For now I just want you to know.’ Mary reached over and took Nelly’s hand. ‘I wanted you to know because I’m frightened what George will do next. I want to protect my family, my niece, your granddaughter.’

  Nelly pulled her hand away. ‘I don’t understand why you haven’t told me this before? Frank’s? What’s she called? How old?’ She moved from side to side in bewilderment, tears brimmed. ‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered.

  ‘She’s called Linda. She’ll be six next May.’ Mary could hear her voice tremble. It was a big risk she was taking, one she wasn’t entitled to, but she carried on. ‘If you stop George, if you tell the police the truth, I’ll try to persuade Ellen to let you see Linda, get to know her. Eventually.’

  She waited. The only sound was Nelly laboured breathing.

  ‘Nelly?’

  The older woman lifted her hand. ‘I can’t.’ She looked at Mary, despair in her eyes. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I need you to go now. Please.’

  The door slammed behind Mary almost before she left the step. Aware that the net curtain shifted to one side in the sash window, she lifted her chin and walked purposefully towards the gate and along the street. She’d just made things worse.

  Nelly watched her walk away. Her hand trembled as she let go of the curtain. ‘Linda.’ She tested the name on her tongue. ‘Linda.’ There was a strange feeling inside her. She put her hands to her throat. ‘I’ve got a granddaughter,’ she breathed.

  Chapter 55

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘Why?’ George ran his fingers through his hair, fastened the top button of his shirt and straightened his tie. ‘I told you I was going to the pub.’

  Nelly made herself concentrate. She was keeping the knowledge that she had a granddaughter to herself for now. She’d had too many disappointments in her life and trusting Mary to keep her promise didn’t mean she would ever be able to talk to Linda. She gave herself a shake and said, ‘Mary Howarth’s been here.’

  His mouth tightened. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I think you know.’ He was perfectly capable of doing what Mary had said. He had his father’s temper. How had she raised such a monster? With a sickening jolt she remembered that it was the same thought she’d had about Frank, all those years ago.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’ Watching the man, her son, it was as though she’d never seen him properly before. ‘When you asked me to tell the police you were home that night, when you went missing those couple of days, you said you’d just been moving stuff for that wide boy mate of yours.’ She waited for him to answer.

  He lifted his shoulders.

  The cold inside Nelly unfolded and grew. ‘She said you killed her brother. She saw the van. She saw it then and she saw it again here with you in it. She said you ran him down.’

  His expression was all the confirmation she needed. He twisted his head, running his finger round his collar. ‘You don’t want to believe everything you hear, Ma.’

  She looked into his eyes, saw the strange mixture of contempt and barely concealed fear. She didn’t know she was going to voice her next words until she heard herself. ‘You’ll hang.’ Oh God. The horrific image made her scalp crawl. She lurched towards the sink and retched.

  In the long hiatus that followed, she listened to George’s shallow breathing, the slight clearing of the throat he did when he was agitated.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘I want you to leave.’ Her throat was raw, the words hoarse. He had to go. She couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore. Her legs shook so violently she thought they wouldn’t hold her much longer. Blindly she felt around behind her for a chair.

  He caught hold of her hand. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  She pulled away, furious. ‘Get off.’

  ‘Ma? Please?’

  Nelly fell onto the kitchen chair, banging her elbow on the table. She moaned, almost glad of the physical pain instead of the searing agony that tore at her insides.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  She hated the pleading whine. She’d heard it too many times in his lifetime.

  ‘Tom Howarth murdered our Frank, Ma.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Nobody knows who did it.’

  ‘I do. I was told. Her own bloody mother’s old boyfriend told me when I was in the Crown.’ George knelt down at the side of her. ‘That’s why they moved to Wales. They ran away to save that coward’s skin, to stop the coppers getting him.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Nelly looked him full in the face. The fear was openly there for her to see now. ‘Tom Howarth was a conscientious obje
ctor, he went to prison for it. We talked once, Mary and me. She told me all about him. He didn’t believe in killing anyone. He didn’t kill our Frank.’ Nelly couldn’t prevent the cold hostility. ‘But I do believe you ran him down.’ She spoke slowly, firmly. ‘I want you to leave.’

  He changed then. He challenged her. ‘Or what, Ma?’

  ‘I’ll go to the police.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’ He moved quickly, standing over her.

  ‘I will.’ Nelly waited for the blow. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Instead he leaned closer to her. ‘I’m telling you – Tom Howarth murdered our Frank. You have to believe me.’

  Nelly turned her head, shifted in the chair until she couldn’t feel his warm breath on her ear. ‘I don’t. Just go, George. I don’t want you here anymore.’

  He gave a short laugh and straightened up but still crowded over her. ‘Fine. I don’t know why I moved to this godforsaken hole in the first place.’

  ‘You’d lost your job and you’d nowhere else to go. No one else to sponge off,’ Nelly said softly. ‘You’re a murderer. You’re no better than your brother was. Now get out.’

  ‘You’ll give me time to pack my things though, Ma?’ he jeered even as he stumbled backwards towards the door. ‘You’ll do me that favour, like?’

  ‘I’m not your mother. You’re not my son. Not anymore.’

  She saw the shock register on his face. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I do. Now leave me alone.’

  The scones had burned. The kitchen filled with swirling blue smoke that stung her eyes. Taking them from the oven and ignoring their scorching heat she crumbled them one by one at the back door and chucked them into the yard. She took off her turban and wiped her hands on it. A pigeon swooped down and snatched at the scattered crumbs, now melting in the puddles on the flags. Breathing in the fresh air, she watched the last threads of smoke float over her head from the kitchen.

  Chapter 56