‘Physically.’
‘Didn’t worry you then, them two being friendly?’
‘No,’ she shrugs. ‘He was harmless, leastways that’s what folk thought.’
You nod.
‘And,’ she continues. ‘Wasn’t like it was just them two. There were others.’
‘Others?’
‘Four or five of them.’
‘They still about?’
She sits back. She scratches her nose.
You push: ‘Remember who?’
‘Kevin Madeley, he would have been one of them. Little Leonard, but he was a bit younger and maybe they’d moved by then. It’s such a long time ago. The Hinchcliffes’ lad, Stuart maybe. There were others and all, you know how kids are?’
The bells ringing: ‘They still about?’
‘Kevin Madeley, he moved over Stanley way. I think the Hinchcliffe lad went down South. Birmingham somewhere.’
Distant bells: ‘Their parents? They still live local?’
‘The Madeleys do,’ she says. ‘Mrs Madeley, she worked with his mother.’
‘Mrs Myshkin?’
‘Aye,’ she nods.
‘Dinner lady?’
She nods. She finishes her tea. She keeps hold of her mug on her lap.
You pull your notebook from your pocket. You find your pen. You start to write down some of the names and dates.
She says: ‘What about your brother?’
You stop writing. You look up. You say: ‘What about him?’
‘Always lived round here, hasn’t he?’
You shrug.
‘Not close these days?’ she smiles. ‘You and your Pete?’
You shake your head: ‘Not really, no.’
‘He blame you, does he?’ she asks. ‘Business with your father, then your mother?’
‘Mrs Ashworth, I -’
‘Mr Ashworth does,’ she says, dabbing at her eyes with the ends of her apron. ‘Blames me, I know he does. See it written all over his face every time he looks at me.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ you lie again.
She sniffs. She tries to smile. She says: ‘He might know something, mightn’t he?’
‘Who?’
‘Your Pete.’
You shake your head. You think about your brother -
Your father -
You say: ‘I want to talk to you about Clare Kemplay.’
She stares at you. She says: ‘Is this for my Jimmy or her down road?’
‘I need to ask you -’
‘Not again,’ she sighs.
‘It’s important -’
‘It’s so bloody long ago -’
‘But -’
‘What’s the point in -’
‘Please -’
‘Raking over -’
‘Mrs Ashworth, please I -’
‘Not going to bring him back -’
‘Look,’ you shout. ‘Clare Kemplay is the bloody reason they picked Jimmy up.’
She stops speaking. She closes her eyes. She clutches the mug tight in her hands. She opens her eyes. She looks at you. She says: ‘He had nothing to do with that and he had nothing to do with this.’
‘He knew Clare Kemplay.’
‘He didn’t
‘He said she was beautiful.’
‘Who did?’
‘Your Jimmy.’
‘No.’
‘To Michael.’
She shakes her head.
‘He knew her. He found her.’
‘The wrong place -’
‘What about Hazel Atkins?’
She shakes her head again.
‘He was in Morley one week later, the exact time she’d gone missing.’
‘The wrong time -’
‘But why?’
She closes her eyes again.
You tell her: ‘Tessa says he was there to meet her.’
She shakes her head. She opens her eyes. She says: ‘He didn’t…’
‘What?’
‘He didn’t do it,’ she says.
‘Didn’t do what?’
‘He didn’t kill Clare Kemplay. He didn’t take this Hazel Atkins. And he didn’t bloody kill himself.’
‘But -’ you stop.
She looks at you now. She says: ‘Go on, say it.’
‘Say what?’
‘What you want to say. What you really think.’
You shake your head.
‘I’ll say it for you then,’ she snorts. ‘You think he killed Clare Kemplay and he took this other girl and then he hung himself with guilt of it all. That’s what you think, isn’t it?’
‘I -’
‘No,
‘Mrs Ashworth -’
‘Not in a month of bloody Sundays would he do that to me. Never.’
Now you close your eyes. You wait. You open them. You say: ‘I’m sorry.’
She takes a deep breath. She nods.
You shake your head. You think of your father -
Your brother -
