Page 52 of Maybe Tomorrow

‘And a cup of tea. All you need to do, is tell me you killed Alice Patterson, sign a piece of paper, and that’s it. It’s all over with.’

Anthony thought for a while. ‘All right,’ he said with a smile.

ChapterTwenty-One

Freya Sloan had been offered a cup of tea by the library staff which she accepted. The wind was bitterly cold outside, and the police uniform wasn’t designed to keep her warm. She stood to one side of the counter while the staff continued checking in and out books, chatting to the customers. It looked like a nice job to Freya. It was friendly and polite. There was a real convivial atmosphere to the place.

‘How long has Anthony worked here?’ Freya asked.

‘Ooh, let me think,’ Jane Wilkinson said, looking up as if the answer was written on the ceiling tiles. ‘About five years, give or take. It was me who got him the job. I’ve known his mother for years. He didn’t do too well at school. He’s not what you’d call academic, but he couldn’t spend his life at home. He started here part-time at first, just basic stuff, putting the books back on the shelves, making sure everything was neat and tidy, but he loved it. He enjoyed chatting with the customers and he got on with the staff. When a full-time position came up, I was happy to offer it him.’ She smiled at the memory.

‘Have there been any problems?’

‘No. None at all.’

‘He’s happy here?’

‘Absolutely. He’s not much of a reader. Well, not of books, anyway. He loves his comics, but he’s always interested when people talk about their favourite books. And he helps when we have events. I genuinely believe he’s at his happiest at work.’

‘It isn’t normal, though, is it?’ Carol said as she came to the desk, carrying a stack of hardbacks. She placed them onto the counter with a heavy thud. ‘He’s twenty-eight years old, never had a girlfriend as far as we can tell, lives at home with his mother and spends his days in a dusty old library with five or six middle-aged women.’

‘Speak for yourself, Carol,’ Jane said. ‘Besides, who’s to say what’s normal? I don’t pass judgement on your Brian and his trainspotting. And look at the woman your Phil’s going out with? She’s old enough to be his mother.’

‘She’s sixteen years older than him.’

‘Still old enough to be his mother. Don’t go casting aspersions on people when your own life is open to ridicule.’

Carol, face like thunder, quickly turned away and stormed down the aisle of the history section.

‘I like Carol, don’t get me wrong. She’s never had a sick day in the four years she’s worked here, but my goodness, she’s a gossip and a half.’

‘I like Anthony,’ Laura said, coming out of the back room. She offered Freya an open packet of Bath Oliver, but she politely waved them away. ‘He might not fit in with what we expect people who work in a library to look like, but that doesn’t matter. He’s a good worker. He makes a wonderful cup of tea, and he wouldn’t say boo to a goose. I think it’s rotten the way your lot have treated him over this Alice business.’

‘Not my lot, thank goodness,’ Freya said. ‘Different department. I’m just trying to find out a bit more about Anthony’s background. What he’s like as a person.’

‘He’s kind, he’s funny, he’s sweet, he’s good-natured, and he’s good to his mother,’ Laura said. ‘That’s all you need to know. Am I all right to pop to the shop for some teabags, Jane?’

‘Course you are, love. Bring a receipt back for the petty cash.’ Jane watched her grab her coat and leave the library. ‘She likes Anthony. We all do.’

‘That’s good.’ Freya drained the last of her tea and placed the cup down on the counter.

‘He didn’t do it,’ Jane said. ‘I’ve no proof, obviously. During the storm I was at home with my Malcolm trying to explain to the dog why I couldn’t take him out for his evening walk. But, hand on heart, I know he didn’t kill Alice Patterson.’

‘Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.’ Freya made her way to the exit, putting her hat on as she went.

‘You didn’t tell her about the children’s club,’ Carol said, sneaking up behind her.

‘It’s irrelevant and was blown up out of all proportion.’

‘No smoke without fire, though.’

Freya left the library and walked back to Crescent Avenue where she’d left her car. She didn’t have evidence of Anthony’s guilt or innocence, but she had testimony by the people who knew him the most, who, apart from his mother, were the people who worked with him. If DI Bishop and his team came out here and spoke to his colleagues, they would describe a gentle and kind man beneath the larger-than-life frame. And in the absence of proof, character witnesses may be the only thing that would save Anthony.

She drove the Fiesta back to the station and could hear the commotion inside from the car park. She opened the door to find a woman screaming and crying. Her face was red with rage. A man was struggling to calm her down.

‘What’s going on?’ Freya asked the officer at the front desk.

‘That’s Pauline Winstanley. DI Bishop has just charged her son with Alice Patterson’s murder. As you can see, she’s not taking it very well.’