She dries her eyes. She sits up. She says: ‘Not going to bring him back, is it? Carrying on like this. But what can you do?’
‘Depends what you want?’
She looks at you. She says: ‘The truth, John. That’s all.’
You look down at your notes. You close your eyes -
You open your eyes. You look back up. You nod -
She puts her mug down on the chipped fireplace in front of her. She reaches into the front pocket of her apron. She takes out a piece of paper. She looks at it. She whispers: ‘It says he hung himself by his belt until he was dead. Suicide.’
You nod.
‘You’ve seen it then?’
You nod again.
Mrs Ashworth gets up. She walks over to the table. She picks up a single studded black leather belt. She turns to you. She holds out the belt. She says: ‘You’ve seen this, have you?’
You look away. You shake your head. You swallow. You ask: ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s Jimmy’s belt,’ she nods.
‘They let you have his stuff back then?’
She shakes her head -
You look at the belt again. You look at her. You ask: ‘So how did you get it?’
She looks up at the ceiling. She says: ‘I went upstairs. I opened his wardrobe door and there it was, in his other jeans.’
You look at her.
She is crying.
You swallow. You say: ‘But -’
She shakes her head.
You look at the belt. You say again: ‘But -’
She shakes her head again. She says: ‘He only had the one belt.’
You look at her. You say: ‘You’re certain?’
She nods, the tears everywhere.
At the door, Mary Ashworth takes your hand in hers.
You look down at the doorstep.
‘Thank you,’ she says.
You shake your head.
She squeezes your hand in hers: ‘Thank you.’
You nod.
She pats your hand twice. She squeezes it one last time. She lets it go.
You turn. You look down the street. You turn back to Mrs Ashworth -
She is looking at you. She is watching you.
You say: ‘Do you think Michael Myshkin killed Clare Kemplay?’
She stares at you. She swallows. She looks away.
You ask again: ‘Do you?’
She looks at you. She shakes her head. She shuts the door.
You walk down Newstead View -
Through the plastic bags and the dog shit.
You go up the path. You knock on number 54 -
There’s no answer.
You knock again.
‘She’s out.’
‘On her broomstick.’
You turn around -
There are a group of four young boys on enormous bicycles at the gate. They have small pointed faces and cold blue eyes. They are dressed in grey and burgundy. They are wearing boxing boots.
‘She’s gone to prison.’
‘Gone to see her son.’
‘He’s in loony bin.’
‘Michael Myshkin, that’s her son.’
You nod. You walk back down the path towards the boys.
They rock backwards and forwards on their bicycles. They lean over their handlebars. They spit.
‘He’s one that killed them little girls.’
‘Had it off with them.’
‘Stuck birds’ wings on them.’
‘Cut their hearts out and ate them.’
You push through the boys and their bicycles.
They don’t move.
‘My dad says they should have hung him.’
‘My mum says they will do, minute he gets out.’
‘My dad says they’ll kill her and all then.’
‘My mum says she’s an evil fucking witch, his mum.’
You spin round. You slap the nearest boy hard across his face.
He falls off his bicycle into a fence and a thin hedge.
He is cut. His small pointed face is bleeding. His cold blue eyes smarting.
The other three boys start to turn the bicycles around.
‘Fuck you do that for fatty?’
‘You fat bastard.’
‘I’m fucking getting my dad on you.’
‘My dad’s going to fucking kill you.’
You walk to the car. You unlock the door.
‘He’ll fucking murder you!’
You get in. You lock the doors.
They are banging on the car:
‘You’re fucking dead, you are, you fat fucking bastard.’
On the radio on the way into Leeds they are playing that record about ghosts again. You pull over just past the Redbeck. You switch off the radio. You take deep breaths. You dry your eyes.
‘I’d like to see the Duty Sergeant who was on the night James Ashworth killed himself.’
‘And you are?’
‘John Piggott, the solicitor.’
The policeman on the desk nods at the plastic chairs behind you. He says: ‘Have a seat please, sir.’
You walk over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights that still blink on and off, on and off, the faded poster still warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -
Still not Christmas.
The policeman on the front desk is making his calls.
You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and chair marks. The smell of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables is gone, pine disinfectant in its place -
They have been cleaning.
‘Mr Piggott?’
You stand back up and go over to the front desk.
