This Little Piggy Read online

  Legend Press Ltd, The Old Fire Station,

  140 Tabernacle Street, London, EC2A 4SD

  [email protected] | www.legendtimesgroup.com

  Contents © Bea Davenport 2014

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  Print ISBN 978-1-9098786-1-7

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-9098786-2-4

  Set in Times. Printed in the United Kingdom by Clays Ltd.

  Cover design by Simon Levy www.simonlevyassociates.co.uk

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Bea Davenport is the writing name of former BBC and newspaper journalist Barbara Henderson. She drew on her experiences as a journalist for This Little Piggy and also for her debut novel, In Too Deep, which was shortlisted for the 2009 Luke Bitmead Bursary and published by Legend Press in 2013.

  Bea has a PhD in Creative Writing from Newcastle University. The children’s novel written as part of the PhD, The Serpent House, was shortlisted for the 2010 Times/Chicken House Award and published by Curious Fox in June 2014. She lives in the Northumberland border town of Berwick-upon-Tweed with her partner and children.

  Visit Bea at beadavenport.com

  Follow her @BeaDavenport1

  one

  Come on, baby, little baby, wake up. Just wake up. Give us a smile. It’s only me. Wake up and we’ll do a game, like we always do. Peep-oh. Who’s there?

  12th July, 1984

  Screams were not uncommon on the Sweetmeadows estate. But the sound that tore through the stifled silence on that hot July afternoon was something more than that. It was a visceral howl, a primal, animalistic wail. It was the sound of a mother whose baby was gone.

  The women on the estate ran out first, barefoot, hopping on the sticky tarmac, blinking in the grey-white glare of the sun bouncing off the concrete buildings. One or two men followed, half-dressed and slow, all dazed by the stagnant heat. On the third-floor balcony of the flats, a young mother leaned over, clutching at her hair, howling, her words too incoherent to make out. But the women knew, as they ran towards her, joining in with the cries. “The bairn. It must be the bairn.”

  *

  Clare Jackson pulled out her dog-eared list of phone numbers. One last round of calls for the day: police, fire, ambulance, coastguard. Then off for an early evening pub crawl along all the seafront bars. She’d kept the thought at the back of her mind all through the deadly-dull Thursday: get to the end and there would be a bucket-sized glass of white wine, so cold the condensation dribbles down the sides, a bowl of olives and all the gossip from head office. All the stuff she’d been missing, stuck out in the newspaper’s cell-like district office, where nothing ever happened. The journalist’s equivalent of house arrest. Still, anything was better than heading home.

  As usual, the calls brought nothing from the cops. It was as if they’d taken a vow of silence when it came to the press. And as for the others: waste of a phone call. Must be the easiest job in the world, being part of any emergency services out here, Clare thought. Nothing ever happens, or that’s what they always say when the Post calls. They must spend all their time with their feet up. In her head, Clare rehearsed this into a gag for later on in the pub.

  She was hoisting her bag over her shoulder and jangling the bunch of office keys, ready to leave and lock up, when the phone rang again. It was Joe Ainsley, from their sister paper. “Clare, am I glad I caught you. Thought you might’ve buggered off for the day. Heard about the murder?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Very funny. Are you going for a drink?”

  “I’m not kidding. Clare, there’s been a murder. It’s a baby.”

  Clare sat back down on the desk and dropped the keys with a crunch like a broken bell. “You’re taking the piss, right?”

  “Wish I was. I was halfway into town. There was a pint with my name on it waiting at the bar. But we can both forget it for now, kiddo.”

  Clare closed her eyes for a second and rubbed her temples. “Where are you?”

  “Heading to the police station now. Come with me and we’ll see if we can squeeze anything out of them.”

  Four minutes later, outside, Joe’s car horn hooted.

  Clare grabbed her bag and clattered down the office stairs. She jumped into Joe’s passenger seat and yelped. “For Christ’s sake, Joe. It’s like an oven. These plastic seats are taking a layer of my skin away.”

  “Tell me about it. I swear these company cars breach some kind of health and safety laws. I’ve been driving round in a mobile furnace all day.”

  On the way, Joe filled Clare in on everything he knew – not much, but bad enough. A baby’s body had been found on the Sweetmeadows estate. Word was the kid had actually been thrown over a balcony. From about the third floor up.

  “Seriously?” Clare leaned her head out of the car window, trying to catch some cool air, wiping her hair out of her eyes. “That’s a new low even for Sweetmeadows.”

  “It’s what I was told. I only heard because I stopped in the corner shop for a cold drink. Everyone’s talking about it. Rumour is it was the mother.”

  “Not a bloody word from the police,” Clare grumbled. “I was halfway to the pub when you called. If I’d left thirty seconds earlier, I’d have been safely at the bar.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Joe steered into the police station car park and pulled on his handbrake with a crunch that made Clare wince.

  They made their way to the front desk and asked for Chief Inspector Bob Seaton. After a few moments they were shown through the maze of airless, narrow corridors to his office.

  “Not much to tell, at this stage,” said Seaton, leaning back in his office chair. He gave Clare a wink and clicked his tongue in the side of his ruddy-toned cheek. Clare gave a quick smile and held her pen, ready to write.

  “Whatever you’ve got, mate,” said Joe. “Anything you can tell us. Baby’s name?”

  “Jamie Donnelly. Aged nine months.” Seaton read from the papers on his desk. “Mother called the police to her home at Jasmine Walk, Sweetmeadows, in a distressed state, reporting that the baby was missing from his pram. A short search by the neighbours in the meantime found the body of a child in the rubbish bin area of the flats. It would appear he somehow fell from the balcony and died from his injuries. That’s about as much as we’ve got for you right now.”

  “And you’ve charged the mother?”

  “Not charged. Not yet. We’re talking to the mother. She says she left the pram out on the balcony because it was a warm afternoon. Came back outside to find the baby gone.” Seaton paused. “She says.”

  Clare chewed her pen. “Those balconies at the Sweetmeadows flats. Anyone can walk around them, right?”

  “That’s right,” said Seaton. “But I wouldn’t run with any rubbish about a killer on the loose. I think we’ll charge the mother before the evening’s out.”

  Clare glanced at Joe and gave a slight curl of her lip. If they charged the mother, the paper could only print the barest details. If no one was charged, they could speculate as much as they liked. “You couldn’t wait until
this time tomorrow before you officially charge anyone?”

  Seaton gave a short laugh and shook his head. “Not even for you, bonny lass.”

  “Is the dad around?” Joe asked.

  “Yes. One of Sweetmeadows’ rare two-parent families, the Donnellys. He was picking the other kids up from their grandma’s house when it happened. Lots of people saw them. Looks like Dad’s in the clear.”

  Clare and Joe scribbled down the names of the rest of the family. Mum, Deborah, 26. Dad, Robert, also 26, worked at the Sweetmeadows Colliery, which gave the estate its name. Two other kids: Becca, five, and Bobbie, three. Joe tried to draw the conversation out, but Seaton wasn’t giving anything else away.

  They got up to go. “Just a question,” Clare said. “Probably a stupid thing to ask. But is their flat just above the bins?”

  Seaton smiled at her as if she was his prize pupil. “I haven’t been out there myself. Why would you ask that?”

  “It’s just... it seems like a funny place for the kid to land. That’s all.”

  Seaton’s smile widened. “Well spotted. You’re quite right. The baby couldn’t have fallen from the walkway directly on to the spot where his body was found. Someone moved the little lad after he’d fallen and dumped him there among the bins.”

  Clare raised her eyebrows. Seaton held up his hand. “Forget it, Miss Jackson. There’s no psycho out there. It looks like a very poor attempt at hiding the body. Probably made by someone in a disturbed state of mind. Such as an overstressed mother who’d lost all idea of what she was doing.”

  “Probably,” said Clare, putting her notebook in her pocket.

  “I mean it,” said Seaton. “We’ll be charging. Imminently. That means reporting restrictions are about to kick in. Don’t you two go out to Sweetmeadows whipping up panic, you hear?”

  “As if we would,” said Joe, as they closed the office door behind them.

  Outside, they opened the car doors and stood for a few moments, trying and failing to waft in some air.

  “He doesn’t half fancy you, that Seaton,” Joe said.

  Clare shook her head. “He’s a middle-aged bloke. It’s his default response to any female in the room, whatever they look like.”

  Joe sighed. “If I made that tongue-clicking noise at you, you’d smack me in the face.”

  “I know. Life’s unfair, isn’t it?” Clare slid onto the car seat, wincing again at the feel of the hot faux-leather. “So.” She looked at Joe. “It’s off to Sweetmeadows, to whip up some panic, yes?”

  The Sweetmeadows estate was one of those places where Clare felt glad to have Joe alongside her. It was a joyless collection of Sixties-built, flat-roofed, box-shaped flats, up to four storeys high. The local council had paper plans for knocking down the whole estate and rebuilding, but they’d been gathering dust in someone’s office drawer for the last five years. There was no money. And while all the half-decent council houses in the borough were being bought up fast and cheap by the tenants, no one wanted the damp, mould-ridden properties at Sweetmeadows. Dozens of the flats were empty and boarded up. Most of the tenants that were left were among the most desperate on the council’s list.

  “If I had a proper car, I’d never leave it here,” said Joe, pulling up and peering out of the window to read the street names on the concrete walkways. “But this thing’s not even worth nicking. I live in hope.”

  Clare jumped out of the car. “Why is it that the more rural-sounding the name, the nastier the estate actually is?”

  “Bucolic,” said Joe. “Sweetmeadows sounds bucolic. But it ain’t.”

  “Good word,” said Clare. “You could’ve been a writer.” She squinted in the late afternoon sun. “Look. That’s Jasmine Walk, over there.”

  The area underneath and around Jasmine Walk was taped off and a team of police officers was scouring the ground, watched by a small crowd of people. It wasn’t difficult to get the residents’ reactions, although some weren’t waiting for the formal police procedures. Amongst themselves, they had already charged and convicted Debs Donnelly of throwing her baby over the balcony, then panicking and trying to hide the body in the bin sheds.

  What was Debs like? Did she have problems? Was Jamie a difficult baby? No one really knew. It wasn’t the kind of estate where people knocked on each other’s doors and popped in for morning coffee.

  What about the balconies? That was an easy call. Word a question in the right way and you always get the answer you want. Of course everyone told Clare they wanted the balconies made more secure. In her head, she wrote her ‘Safety plea on baby death balconies’ copy in a few short minutes. It might pad the story out, especially if Debs Donnelly was charged, ruining the chance of a front page lead.

  “Hey, missus, are you a reporter?” A child’s voice called over and Clare turned. There was a little group of four or five kids, hanging around next to Joe’s car.

  “Here we go,” said Joe, under his breath. “Wait for it: Are we gonna be in the paper?”

  “Are we gonna be in the paper?” one of the kids asked straight away. Clare answered all their questions and told them to buy the Post the next day.

  “We need to get all this news sent over now,” she told them. “Don’t suppose there’s a working phone box anywhere near here?”

  The kids all shook their heads.

  “You can use our phone if you like, missus,” said a stringy little girl of around nine or ten, dressed in a tiny vest and shorts. Joe and Clare looked at each other. It would certainly save a car trip back to the office. They followed the girl up the concrete steps, Clare wrinkling her nose at the smells of mould and urine.

  On the fourth floor, the little girl pushed open the door. There was a loud bark and a huge dog – a sort of cross-breed, but with definite German Shepherd in there somewhere – lolloped over towards them.

  Clare breathed deeply and braced herself to pat the thing. She wasn’t much of a dog person, but pretending to like people’s pets was part of a journalist’s skill. The inside of the place didn’t smell too good either, but none of these flats ever did. “Where’s your mum then? Or dad?”

  “Me mam’s out,” said the kid, holding the huge dog back by hanging onto the fur at the back of its neck. “But you can use the phone anyway, she’ll not mind. It’s just there.” The phone sat on the bare floor just next to the door, its wires trailing back into the living room.

  “If you’re sure.” Joe dialled first and told the late duty photographer to come out and get some pictures of the estate.

  Clare called her own newsdesk and got the late reporter to type in her copy. She put a pound on the little table next to the phone. “Tell your mam thank you.”

  The girl watched all this carefully. “Will you put me in the paper then?” she asked.

  “Er, what for?” Joe fondled the huge dog behind the ears. Clare winced and tried to smile at it.

  “Letting you use me phone. Me name’s Amy.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Clare said. The girl pouted. She was a strange-looking little thing, with shiny eyes the colour of tea and hair that was thick and fuzzy on top, but trailed into rats-tails down the back of her head.

  “Tell you what, though,” Clare went on. “We’ll be back tomorrow, doing some more stuff about this poor little baby. Does your mum know the Donnelly family? I see you live just about above their flat.”

  “Yeah, me mam knows Debs. So do I. And I knew the baby.” Amy cocked her head in the direction of the floor below.

  “Righto,” Clare said. “Tell your mum we’ll give her a knock tomorrow because we’ll want to talk to people who knew the baby’s family.”

  “You can talk to me. I knew Jamie,” said Amy. “He was dead cute. Like a Cabbage Patch doll. I love babies, me. I used to play with Jamie, and Becca and Bobbie.”

  “How old are you, Amy?” Clare asked.

  “Nine. Nearly ten.”

  “Well, we can’t do a proper interview with you, not without your
mum being around. We’re not allowed. So you ask if we can come and see her tomorrow. Then we can talk to you and put you in the paper. Maybe with a picture.”

  “Yeah?” Amy’s pale face split into a grin. “You promise?”

  “I promise.” Clare propped her business card onto the dial of Amy’s phone.

  Outside, the chimes of an ice cream van plinked out a warped version of Greensleeves. “Here,” Joe said, pulling cash out of his pocket. “Get an ice cream.”

  “Ta.” Amy’s eyes gleamed as she shoved the pound coin into the pocket of her shorts.

  Clare and Joe clattered down the steps. “Jesus. That place stank,” Joe said. “The kid wasn’t much better.”

  Clare stopped on the next level down. “We could just give the Donnellys a knock? I guess they’ll tell us to bugger off, but at least we’ve tried.”

  A female uniformed police officer stood guard on the balcony. “Reporters?” she asked them. Then she moved her feet wider apart to block their way a little more. “I’m not letting you past. Sorry. The family doesn’t want to talk.”

  Clare tried not to show her irritation. “Can we just ask them ourselves? We’re only the local papers, not the red-tops. Sometimes people like to...”

  The officer’s expression didn’t change. “No chance,” she said. “And I’m here all night, or at least one of us will be. So don’t bother coming back. I’ve been told to tell you there’s a press conference in the morning. You’ll get everything you need then.”

  Clare and Joe turned to leave. And just as Clare was shoving her notebook into her bag, a voice called out. “She didn’t do it! Print that, will you? She didn’t hurt him!”

  Clare turned to see a man with a toddler in his arms, standing behind the policewoman. His face was red and blotched with crying.

  “Mr Donnelly?” Clare asked, getting out the notebook again.

  The young PC interrupted. “Mr Donnelly, I’d advise you to go back inside. The reporters are leaving now.”

  Clare deliberately moved her head to the side to look past the officer. “It’s okay, Mr Donnelly, you’re entitled to talk to us if you want. I’m Clare Jackson from the Post. You’re saying your wife has been wrongly accused?”