Annie wasn’t sure whether she was looking forward to Lizzie’s release or dreading it. She’d left behind the social embarrassment of Lizzie’s imprisonment months ago. That no longer worried her. The court case had been in the papers and everyone had known about it. The only time Sam ever said anything positive about selling the restaurant was that he was glad they weren’t living in Kimmerston when the news came out. ‘I couldn’t bear it. Customers talking about it and falling quiet every time we got close. The pity.’
Of course their friends in Valley Farm had known that Lizzie was inside, that she’d been charged with grievous bodily harm, but they’d never really mentioned it. Not in front of Sam. They understood that he was a private man. Jan and Lorraine had come to her separately, saying much the same thing: ‘I’m really sorry. It must be a dreadful time for you. If ever you want to talk…’ But the last thing Annie wanted to talk about was Lizzie’s behaviour. She was happy to have everyone there when she needed some company, people to share a bottle of wine with, a bit of a party on a Friday night. Even Sam had appreciated that. But she didn’t want a heavy conversation or advice. They’d been through all that since Lizzie was tiny – with teachers, psychologists and social workers. None of it had helped. She thought Lizzie was damaged in some way, had been since she was a baby, and nobody could help her.
Occasionally Annie saw a mother with a grown-up daughter walking through the town. They’d have linked arms or be sharing a joke. Then she experienced a moment of intense jealousy, just as she supposed women who couldn’t have children felt when they saw a newborn in a pram. The pain of wanting something that would probably always be denied to them.
The great thing about having Lizzie in prison had been that they could stop worrying about her for a while. The relief of that had been immense. Like the bliss of chronic pain suddenly disappearing. Annie knew about chronic pain because of the arthritis in her knees. In prison their daughter was the authorities’ responsibility. Annie could go to bed at night knowing that Lizzie was safe, that there would be no frantic phone calls in the early hours demanding action. No mad dashes to A&E. But soon Lizzie would be out, and Annie’s deepest fear was that the stress and anxiety would return and they wouldn’t be able to handle them this time. They were too old. They’d become used to contentment, a wonderful boredom, and a return to the old way of surviving might break them.
The phone rang again just after Sam had driven away on his routine trip to the village to collect his paper.
‘Hello.’ Annie hadn’t recognized the number and her voice was sharp. It would be someone trying to sell insurance, a new boiler, loft insulation.
‘Mrs Redhead? This is Shirley Hewarth. I work for a charity called Hope North-East. It’s about your daughter.’
For a moment Annie didn’t answer. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just a chat.’ The woman’s voice was warm and calm. She sounded like all the other professionals who’d thought they could make a difference. ‘About Lizzie’s future. I saw her yesterday. Just a short prerelease visit. I can come to you, if you like. Later this morning.’
‘No!’ Annie didn’t want another stranger in the house, and Sam saw any visitor as an intruder. ‘I’ll come to you. Where are you?’ When the woman started describing the office and the pit-village where it was based, Annie interrupted her. ‘Yes, I know where that is.’ Because it was where she came from. She’d lived with her parents not very far from the charity’s office.
Annie didn’t tell Sam about the phone call or the appointment. They were both thinking that Lizzie would soon be out, but they hadn’t discussed it. Perhaps they were hoping some miracle had happened in the Victorian monstrosity where their daughter had been living for the last few months. That she’d emerge from the big wrought-iron gates gentler and more considerate.
When he walked into the kitchen with his newspaper under his arm, she was already dressed to go out.
‘You don’t mind, love, do you? I really need to escape the valley for a while.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ He put down the newspaper.
‘Nah, I might meet up with Jill. Have coffee. Lunch even. Do a bit of shopping.’ He nodded and didn’t ask any more questions. It felt strange lying to him. She didn’t think she’d ever done that before.
It was weird going back to Bebington. Weird because nothing had really changed. It had been a kind of ghost town since the pits had closed, and she hadn’t known it as very much different; there were still rows of houses with peeling paint and occasional boarded-up windows, the bony men sitting on doorsteps, listless, seeming only to wait for their next fix. In other parts of the country, and the county, the economy had peaked and troughed, but here there’d been nothing but depression. She’d have understood Lizzie’s anger and frustration if her daughter had been brought up in this town, but she’d been born when they were living at the farm. Her playground had been the valley. And even when Sam had given up the tenancy and they’d moved to Kimmerston, Lizzie had been loved and given everything she could possibly need.
Annie stood for a moment outside the Hope North-East office and tried to remember what used to be in the building. Suddenly she remembered: a little cafe. An old-fashioned greasy spoon, serving bacon stotties and strong tea. Her grandfather had come here sometimes to meet his pals. She pushed open the door and climbed the stairs to the office.
Three people were sitting at one of the small desks, having some sort of meeting. They had mugs of coffee in front of them. There was a skinny woman who looked middle-aged, but was probably in her early thirties. Lank hair and troubled eyes. A big guy with huge hands and tattoos. And Shirley. From first glance, Annie had realized this must be Shirley. It was the way she dressed and the way she was speaking. She was clearly the person in charge. She stood up. Seeing her close up, Annie thought she was older than she’d first guessed. Late fifties, early sixties. The make-up was discreet, but skilfully applied.
‘You must be Annie.’ Shirley held out her hand. ‘Just give me a moment to finish up here and we’ll find somewhere private to talk.’
There was a brief conversation with her colleagues about diary dates and fund-raising. The big man wandered off downstairs and the little woman returned to her own desk.
‘There’s an interview room downstairs,’ Shirley said. ‘We won’t be disturbed there. I’ll make us some coffee, shall I?’ She switched on the kettle, which stood on a tray on the floor, and spooned ground coffee into a cafetière. Annie had been expecting horrible supermarket own-brand instant and was surprised.
The interview room made Annie think of a prison cell. It was small and square with one high window giving very little light. It was comfortable enough – carpet on the floor, two armchairs, a light-wood coffee table between them – but it made Annie uneasy. It was a place where confessions, or confidences at least, would be expected.
Shirley poured coffee in silence, as if she had all the time in the world, and it was Annie who spoke first. ‘How was Lizzie when you saw her yesterday?’
‘Fine!’ That reassuring voice used by social workers everywhere. ‘Looking forward to seeing you both soon.’ A pause. ‘When I went, she’d just had a visit from a police officer. A detective sergeant. He was asking about the murders in Gilswick.’