dancing with his mum.
Maureen bent down and tickled James’s waist. ‘Bend your knees, James, and shout, “Ra, ra, ra!”’
James giggled. He loved the party songs and knew most of the actions off by heart.
As the Hokey Cokey came to an end, a drunken Sandra decided it was time for a speech. ‘You see this woman ’ere,’ she said loudly. ‘This woman ’ere is the bestest friend I could ever wish for. I love ’er to death, we all love ’er to death and I think we should sing to her.’
Realising there was a party going on, the police decided to park away from the house. The last thing they wanted was to be seen and give young Tommy time to do a runner. Creeping towards the front door, they awaited their orders from their superior.
‘Right, lads. Go, go, go.’
Sandra was standing on a chair, waving her arms about as if she was conducting an orchestra. All eyes were focused on Maureen.
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, dear Maureen,
Happy—
They never got to chant the last line. The police entering the house spelled the end of the singalong. Maureen Hutton’s birthday party was well and truly over.
‘THOMAS ARTHUR HUTTON, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Terence John Smith. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be put into writing and given in evidence …’
The party fell into a shocked silence as a screaming Tommy was dragged from the room.
Ethel was the first to find her voice. She hated the filth with a passion. As she leaped off the armchair, she laid into the coppers with her fists.
Maureen, who had initially felt her legs buckle underneath her, pulled herself together and followed suit. ‘Leave my boy alone, you no-good bastards,’ she screamed as she chased them into the hallway.
‘He’s only a kid, get your dirty hands off him,’ Sandra yelled, desperate to stick up for her pal.
One of the coppers pushed Sandra out of the way and sent her flying. A free-for-all followed as Sandra’s husband, Pete, went apeshit. Like true cockneys, most of the other guests quickly joined in. The fracas went on for a good ten minutes or so and there were four other arrests made, which included Ethel. The spirited old gran had smacked one officer in the teeth and kicked another in the bollocks.
Finally, some kind of order resumed and an extremely pissed-off DC Perryman re-entered the living room. ‘Tommy needs an adult to accompany him down to the station. The four in the van are no use to him – any other offers?’ he asked sarcastically.
Cuddling a hysterical James, Maureen immediately stood up. ‘I’m his mother. I’ll go with him.’
‘Let me come too, Mum, I wanna see Tommy. Please, Mummy, please,’ James sobbed.
With the police waiting impatiently, Maureen had very little time to soothe her youngest. Assuring him that everything was gonna be OK, she handed him to Sandra. ‘Look after him and keep an eye on Susan for me, mate.’
Sandra nodded. None of the women would leave the house until Maureen returned. They were her friends and would tidy the place up and be there for her when she got home. ‘Good luck, Maur. There’s bound to be some cock-up. Your Tommy might be a little sod, but he’s no fucking killer.’
Maureen wasn’t allowed to travel with her son on the journey. The police had called in reinforcements and she was shoved into a car on her own. She didn’t know where Ethel or the others were, so maybe they were with Tommy. Everything had happened so quickly, she’d had little time to think about the actual accusation. It couldn’t be true. The Old Bill must have been desperate to pull someone in and, knowing her Tommy was a local tear-away, had picked on him. Maybe they thought her son was in the know. Being so streetwise, they probably thought that he’d heard a whisper and would grass up the real killer.
Sandra ordered Susan to put James to bed and then go to bed herself. She needed to discuss the situation with the others and didn’t want to say too much in front of the kids. James was too young to really take in what they were talking about, but Susan had ears like a bat.
Most of the neighbours had gone now. The men had been sent home with the older kids and the other little ’uns were up in the bedroom with Susan and James. There were now just four of them left and they all considered themselves to be Maureen’s best friends. Sandra had been insistent that they didn’t discuss stuff with anyone they didn’t know that well, or trust. Chatting amongst themselves, all the girls were positive that there had been some kind of mix-up. They all knew Mary Smith. Like themselves, she’d had it tough and was one of the old school. None of their kids, including Terry or Tommy, were angels, but none of them were cold-blooded killers. There had to be some mistake.
Tommy sat in the interview room next to his mum, feeling confident. ‘I’ve already told yer, I was round at Lenny Simpson’s all night. I was with Michael Tibbs, Ben Thompson and Dave Taylor. We had a few beers and were listening to David Bowie records. If yer don’t believe me, go and ask ’em,’ he said cockily.
Sitting next to her son, Maureen squeezed his clammy hand. Her Tommy might be a fucker, but he certainly wasn’t capable of what he was being accused of. The pigs had a bloody liberty, trying to put the blame on her son.
Maureen stood up; she’d had enough of this shit for one night. If it wasn’t bad enough that the bastards had ruined her birthday party, they now seemed content on keeping them there till the cows came home. ‘Look, you ain’t got nothing on him, so why the fuck won’t you let us go home?’
DC Perryman smiled at his colleague. He’d given Hutton twenty minutes to stew, wonder and make up stories. Now it was time to show him the real evidence and watch the little bastard crumble.
As the bag of evidence was shown, Maureen’s heart sank, and she let go of Tommy’s hand. Her son’s clothes she recognised immediately. He didn’t have that many and the ones he did have, she’d had to scrimp and save for. For months he’d driven her mad for a pair of flares and here they were, ripped and covered in blood. She stared at the knife – she didn’t recognise that, but he could have got it from anywhere.
‘The clothes aren’t mine. Tell ’em Mum. Tell ’em they ain’t mine,’ Tommy said frantically.
Maureen couldn’t speak. Her voice had disappeared and her mouth wouldn’t open.
As DC Perryman put the school letter on the table, Tommy broke down in tears. ‘I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me, I swear I didn’t do it,’ he sobbed.
DS Arnold tried a different tactic from his colleague. He was always a big believer in the nice and soft approach. ‘Look, son, we know the blood is Terry’s and we know the clothes are yours. All we need to know now is what really happened. Was it a fight that went wrong? An
