Page 74 of Maybe Tomorrow

‘Mum, please, don’t say anything. He’s the main man in charge here. Everyone’s scared of him. Even the other officers.’

‘Look, I know this is a nightmare for us all right now, but we need to keep calm, keep our heads down, and get through this together,’ Leo said, trying to be the voice of reason.

‘Leo’s right,’ Anthony said, struggling to smile. ‘I know what I have to do in here to survive. I’ll be fine. You should see the breakfasts we get. I’ve been having hash browns every morning.’

‘I haven’t had a hash brown for years,’ Leo said.

‘In the evenings, we get to go in the games room. Have you ever played snooker, Leo?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘What’s your highest break?’

‘Probably only about twenty-something.’

‘I got a break of thirty-seven last night,’ he said, genuinely pleased with his achievements.

Pauline blew her nose. She tried to smile, but the tears were winning, and her face looked ugly as it fought with two emotions.

‘Have you… have you made any friends?’ she asked.

‘Yes, a couple. There’s Peter over there.’ Anthony pointed. ‘And Scott. I can’t see him,’ he said, straining his neck. ‘And one of the officers, Jill, she was born in Whitby like me,’ he said, an excitable smile on his face.

Leo reached across to Pauline and took her hand. They made eye contact. Leo nodded, telling her everything was going to be all right. She looked back to her son.

‘I’m pleased you’re settling in,’ she struggled to say.

Once again, Pauline spent the journey home in tears. She couldn’t get over how damaged and broken her son looked, yet when he spoke, he seemed to be enjoying himself playing snooker, eating hash browns for breakfast, and making friends. Why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he screaming and full of rage like she was? This was going to be a long and hard fight for his freedom, and she didn’t think she had the strength to win it by herself. She kept stealing glances at Leo while they were on the motorway and thanked God for bringing him into her life. Without him, she’d be a complete basket case.

They pulled up on Crescent Avenue outside Pauline’s house. It was starting to go dark. The street was empty of people and a stiff wind blew. She took her key from her bag, opened the door and looked down before stepping inside. As expected, another mound of dog shit had been posted through the letterbox. Thankfully, it had landed on the newspaper she’d put down and not the carpet.

Pauline sighed, stepped over the mess, and went into the kitchen for a bin liner. This was her life now.

ChapterTwenty-Nine

Freya Sloan had wasted many break times, lunch times, and days off in pursuit of Jennifer Ripley. She never seemed to be able to find her when she was on her own. The obvious solution was to make an appointment at Inglethorpe and Bryce, but that would leave an official paper trail and that was the last thing Freya wanted.

In the days since Anthony Winstanley’s arrest, Freya had kept an eye on the case. DI Bishop was very guarded after he had caught Freya in the CID incident room. She had lied and said she wanted a word with one of the DCs, but as he wasn’t in the room, there was no reason for Freya to be hanging around. Since then, he’d kept a close watch on her. The only way Freya could find outthe latest in the Alice Patterson case was either by earwigging in the canteen or by reading the tabloids. From them, she’d gleaned that Jennifer Ripley was Anthony’s solicitor, the case was going to full trial before a jury and that, according to a press release issued by Inglethorpe and Bryce, they believed the investigation was highly flawed, that their client was innocent of all charges and were hopeful of an acquittal.

If Freya had been a regular member of the public reading these stories over her cornflakes, she would have believed them and thought Anthony Winstanley was a monster. However, she had inside knowledge of the depths DI Bishop and his team were prepared to sink to in order to secure an arrest and confession. The guilt of the suspect didn’t seem to matter.

Freya knew what she was doing was wrong. She knew that, if caught, she could very well lose her job. She was willing to pay that price if it meant an innocent man was set free.

She watched as Jennifer and who she presumed to be her husband left the house on Upgang Lane at the same time. It was a bitterly cold morning, and a low mist was hanging over Whitby. Freya sunk in the driver’s seat of her Fiesta, though she didn’t need to as Jennifer had no idea who she was. The Ripleys chatted for a while on the driveway. They were smiling and animated. Jennifer gave her husband a kiss and watched as he climbed behind the wheel of his Sierra, reversed out of the drive and turned left towards town. Jennifer went in the opposite direction in her Volvo and Freya followed.

Freya assumed Jennifer was on her way to the office. Her only opportunity to catch her would be when she was pulling into her parking space, which would give Freya a window of less than a minute to confront Jennifer and tell her what she knew.

It was a fifteen-minute journey to the offices of Inglethorpe and Bryce. Jennifer parked in her usual space and Freya simply pulled up where she could. She was out of the car before Jennifer had even taken off her seat belt. She couldn’t waste this chance.

‘Mrs Ripley?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry to approach you like this,’ Freya said, suddenly feeling self-conscious in front of a woman in a designer suit, perfectly styled hair and a hint of a subtle perfume. Today was Freya’s day off so she was wearing jeans and a jumper with a cagoule over the top. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she only ever wore make-up and perfume on the rare occasion she had a night out. ‘I was wondering if I could have a talk with you. In private.’

‘Are you in need of a solicitor?’ Jennifer asked, looking her up and down.

‘No. It’s nothing like that. I’m…’ Freya looked away. She swallowed her fear. ‘I’m a policewoman with North East Police. I have some information for you. It’s about Anthony Winstanley. I’ve read in the paper you’re his solicitor. The thing is, what I need to tell you needs to be in private. Nobody can know I’ve been to see you.’