Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

She curled her lip. ‘That’s what it looks like from where I’m standing. He’s nicer to the dog.’

I sighed. ‘I want him to let me help, to talk about it. He’s not very good at that. In fact, he’s totally rubbish.’ I moved aside to let someone past us. ‘We thought Lola was Laura’s baby at one point, that she had dumped her on us for Ray to look after.’

‘I didn’t dump her!’ Leanne was all offence.

‘Left her, then,’ I said steadily.

She grimaced. ‘You thought he might be the dad? Ewww! That is totally gross!’

‘He can’t be as bad as her real dad given everything you’ve told us.’

‘You’re right there,’ she conceded easily enough. Her eyes roamed over the rolls of cloth and she twirled a strand of hair around her fingers. ‘There,’ she nodded, ‘I like that gold one there.’

Material measured and bagged, I drove us to Ikea.

‘Not been here,’ she said, bending to get Lola out.

‘Really?’ I said. ‘Once in a lifetime opportunity – never again. Least I bet that’s what you say when we come out the other end.’

I was wrong. She loved it, and relished the slow parade through the furnished rooms upstairs which always drives me nuts. She wasn’t gushing: she knew what she liked and what she didn’t. ‘That is mingin’,’ she said of one bedroom layout, ‘give you a migraine, them colours.’ But she loved the whole playing house, interior design thing. Of course she would. The local authority care homes Leanne had grown up in had been toxic places, brothels in effect, where she was at the mercy of staff who had managed to infiltrate the system for their own ends and maintained a regime of violence and abuse. No amount of toning colour schemes or cheery duvet covers would have mitigated the effects of that. Home had not been a refuge or a place of safety. The opposite.

I wondered if she had had a place of her own in the years since we last met. How long she remained homeless and on the run before she had found help with the project she mentioned in Leeds. I didn’t ask. It was something I hoped she’d share in the fullness of time.

She chose a bedside lamp and a cot that would later adapt into a child’s bed. I felt a little tingle of anticipation at the thought of the future rolling out before us, Lola growing up alongside Maddie, and hopefully Tom. A more dubious thought followed: was I replacing Ray and Tom with Leanne and Lola? Was that my real motive for offering them a home? An insurance policy for myself. Was it actually a selfish move – was I just using them? No, I told myself. OK there was an element of selfishness in there – I liked the idea of new people in the house, these new people, and the notion that the baby would be staying – but it didn’t go anywhere near making up for the loss of Ray and Tom if it came to that.

‘Meatballs,’ I offered Leanne, feeling weary now we had emerged at the other end of the shopping experience and got through the tills.

She looked puzzled. I nodded to the restaurant. Her expression altered: a grin.

Leanne fed and changed Lola and we ate our meatballs – well she did; I had the herring. In the car park, after we had loaded the car, Leanne smoked a fag while I sang Lola to sleep.

I had managed to forget about work for several hours, then, as we were heading to our last port of call – Curry’s, Leanne said, ‘So who did beat you up, if it wasn’t him?’

I must have flinched because she said, ‘Was it him?’ There was uncertainty and concern in her voice.

‘No!’ I insisted.

‘Right,’ she said disparagingly, as though she didn’t believe me. She wasn’t gonna leave it without an explanation.

‘It’s to do with work. Confidential, really,’ I said. Hoping she would get the hint.

‘Fine,’ she grumbled, indicating my reticence was anything but. She sighed noisily and twiddled with her hair again. Her impatience was tangible. ‘I’m not a kid,’ she said after a couple of minutes.

‘A conman,’ I said, watching the traffic as we approached the big roundabout that I hated navigating. ‘The sort of bloke who rips people off for a living. Really nasty piece of work.’

‘You investigating him?’

‘No.’ I swore as somebody cut in front of me and I waited until we had got round the island and left it in one piece before explaining. ‘No, but there was bad blood between him and someone else: a guy who was killed last year.’

‘Murdered!’ she said, surprised.

‘Yes. They got someone for it but he retracted his confession. That’s what I’m looking into. Anyway, the conman’s name came up, I tried to trace him and he ambushed me outside my office.’

‘Jeez, when?’

‘Before you showed up yesterday,’ I said.

‘The bruises are still coming out,’ she said. ‘They’ll get even worse.’

‘Thanks for that,’ I said.

‘You OK, though?’

‘Still a bit shaken up, really,’ I admitted.

‘You should be more careful,’ she said solicitously.

I tried not to smile. ‘I do self-defence,’ I said. ‘But he trapped me in the car. I couldn’t get at him.’

‘Tosser.’ She shook her head.

Once we were in the car park at the electrical retailers I reminded her again that the television didn’t need to be any bigger than the last one and if we saw a small model we would get it for her room; otherwise we could try Aldi, who often had cheap electronic deals. ‘We’re after a bargain,’ I said.

We were in luck. They were clearing out display items. I found a flat screen for downstairs and a smaller one for Leanne. ‘You can always trade up, once you’re working,’ I said.

It would be a big bite into my meagre savings but I wasn’t going to let that ruin my day.

I was anticipating a full-on row with Ray once he saw what I’d done. Was I angling for it, perhaps? Something to get us exchanging words, even if they were heated, hostile ones.

If so my hopes were thwarted because as soon as we got in the house, he muttered that he was going out. He didn’t say where and didn’t give me chance to ask.

After tea, Leanne helped me set up the television. She was a lot more techno-savvy than I was: while I was still peering at the manual, she had installed the channels and the kids were jostling for positions next to her on the sofa.

‘Remember,’ I told them, ‘any arguments about the telly and you come and get me. And any arguments about anything else, take them out of this room.’

By the time I’d done my promised triple stint of bedtime reading I was worn out but in a much healthier way than the day before. Doing something normal and domestic with Leanne had strengthened our relationship and redoubled my belief that offering her shelter was a good move. I’d proven to myself that life went on, normal humdrum life, and that Nick Dryden’s assault had not taken that away from me. Spending some money was a bit of a boost as well, if I’m honest.

It’s true that when I thought of returning to work the next day, I still felt burdened by it. The case was getting harder, not easier: the options seemed to be narrowing, funnelling me into a dead end. For the first time, I accepted that maybe I’d fail. That perhaps I was never going to find out who killed Charlie. That I’d end up letting down Libby, and Chloe and Damien – not able to get the conviction quashed or the investigation reopened. That would be awful but I had to be realistic. The police and the courts believed Damien Beswick was guilty. I didn’t. But without proof my conviction wouldn’t change anything.

The weather moved in during the night. Winds bringing thunderous clouds and heavy downpours. In the early hours, I woke to the sound of rain scattering like shot on the window. Later, I heard Lola’s muffled cries, from the floor above.