Page 46 of Maybe Tomorrow

ChapterEighteen

Pauline Winstanley dressed in a knee-length blue skirt and a cream jumper. She slipped her feet into heeled shoes to give her a bit of added height and put her comfortable shoes in her bag to wear in the nursing home. Walking along corridors and up and down stairs for hours at a time required comfort. She changed into her uniform at work, as well.

Downstairs, she made sure all the doors and windows were locked, and that nothing had been left plugged in or switched on. As she put her winter coat on, she gave her appearance one last look in the hallway mirror and wiped away a stray eyelash from her cheek. She was ready to go.

As she opened the front door, she jumped back in fright to find Jane Wilkinson standing on the doorstep, arm raised ready to knock.

‘Good grief, Jane, you scared the life out of me,’ Pauline said, a hand slapped to her chest.

‘I’ve tried calling but there was no answer.’

‘That was you? I was in the bath. Is something wrong?’ She took in the pained expression on Jane’s face. ‘It’s not Anthony, is it?’

‘Oh my God, Pauline, I’m so sorry,’ she said on the verge of tears.

‘What is it?’

‘The police have taken Anthony in for questioning.’

‘What?’ she asked, eyes wide in shock. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and saw the woman two doors down, Hilda Meyhew, sweeping her front step, ears straining to listen out for any gossip. Pauline quickly ushered Jane inside and slammed the door closed. ‘What are you talking about? What for?’

‘Two detectives came into the library. They said they wanted Anthony to help them with their enquiries about Alice Patterson’s death. Pauline, you should have seen his face. He looked so scared.’

Pauline wanted to cry. She turned away from Jane and tried to marshal her thoughts. Her mind went straight back to the night of the storm, the night Alice was killed, and Anthony coming home late, soaked to the skin, the tears on his trousers, the stains she thought were blood.

In the background, Pauline could hear Jane talking, but she wasn’t taking any of it in. Blood thundered through her head. She felt hot. She felt sick. There was no way Anthony could go to prison. He wouldn’t survive. He needed to be here, at home, with her. She took a deep breath and turned back to Jane.

‘I have to go. I need to see him,’ she said.

‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Do you want me to take you? I can go back to the library for my car.’

‘No. Thank you. I’ll… I’ll ask Leo.’ She opened the door and they both stepped out into the street.

A gust of wind whipped around them. Jane shivered but Pauline didn’t seem to notice it. She pulled the front door to and locked it with the key. She ignored Jane and headed straight for Leo’s house, taking long strides, her heels clacking on the pavement.

‘What’s going on?’ Hilda Meyhew asked Jane.

Pauline walked off at such a pace that she didn’t hear Jane’s answer. She hoped Jane would have the decency to tell her to mind her own business. But with Anthony being carted off in front of everyone at the library, surely the whole of Whitby would know her son had been taken away by police before too long.

DI Bishop left Anthony alone in the interview room. They didn’t seem to be getting anywhere and, whenever the discussion became heated and he thought he was within a whisker of a confession, Anthony clammed up and said he wanted his mother.

Bishop stormed into the incident room. He went over to his desk and pulled open the drawers, looking for his cigarettes. He found a screwed-up packet of B&H with two left inside. He straightened one out, lit it, and took a long, satisfying drag.

‘Was that true?’ DC Ritter asked.

‘What?’

‘About the woman in Sheffield caught shoplifting?’ he asked, an excited smile in his eyes.

‘Of course it wasn’t fucking true, Eddie. We’re not all like you. I just wanted Anthony to see that helping yourself isn’t something to be ashamed of. Shame he didn’t bite.’

‘Are we charging him?’ Ritter asked.

‘We’ve nothing to go on yet. A couple of hookers saying he perved on them doesn’t make him a killer. We need him to confess. We need to push him.’

‘How?’

There was a knock on his door.