a tiny town square, a group of youths sitting at the base of a statue watched through hooded eyes as Lockwood drove past. He remembered that statue. It was of the town hero, a footballer who had made it good in the first division, back when the first division really was first. It said a lot about Gimmerton that Lockwood had never heard of the town’s most famous son. There were more people standing near the pub. Men leaning against the walls, smoking as they waited for the doors to open. There was nothing else for them to do.
It hadn’t always been like this.
Lockwood parked his car outside the church. It had beautiful arches over ornate, stained-glass windows and a wide staircase leading to dark wooden doors. It was newly painted, perhaps to prove that God hadn’t entirely forsaken Gimmerton. Across the road from the church was a magnificent gothic edifice, no doubt built when the mine was flourishing. The stone was stained with soot. Three storeys above the ground, ornate Victorian gables towered over windows that were dark and empty. Above the door, a carving announced that this was the Workingman’s Institute.
Or rather it had been, when there was work.
Much of the strike had been planned and run from this building. Until the union had been kicked out. And ten years later, when the pit finally closed, so too had the Institute. It was open again, but served a very different role. The men and women who walked up those steps now were going to the job centre to sign on, hoping to avoid the interest of the social workers who occupied the floor above. But this morning, that was exactly where Lockwood was heading.
The cavernous hallway echoed slightly as he made his way to the stairwell. At the top of the steps, a young mother and two small children sat on orange plastic chairs in the waiting area. Their clothes looked as if they had come from one of the charity shops on the high street. The reception desk was at the back of the large, unloved room. Behind it stood a woman about Lockwood’s own age. She had the look of a someone who’d left her better days behind some years ago and her grey hair was cut in a short, severe fashion that did nothing to flatter her lined face. She glanced up as he entered and frowned.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m looking for Ellen Dean.’
The shifting of her eyes told him he had found the woman he was looking for.
‘And you are?’
‘DCI Lockwood. I have an appointment.’ He pulled his warrant card from his pocket and held it up for her to see.
‘This way.’
She led him to a small office. She took a seat behind the cheap wooden desk while Lockwood helped himself to another orange plastic chair. Miss Dean sat primly, her mouth firmly shut, waiting for Lockwood to begin.
‘As I mentioned in my email,’ he said, ‘I’m following up on a couple of incidents recently that may shed light on an unsolved case dating back some time.’
‘What case?’ Her eyes narrowed.
Lockwood sensed she was going on the defensive.
‘It goes back to the strike,’ he said, hoping to reassure her she wasn’t his target. Not now, at least.
‘That’s long gone. People don’t talk about those times much around here.’
‘I’m not so much interested in the strike, as in some of the people who were here back then. The Earnshaws and the Lintons.’
He waited for her to say something, but she simply sat there, her eyes narrowing and her mouth fixed in that firm, defensive line.
‘I believe you had dealings with both families in your role back then with social services.’
‘In this place, most people had dealings with social services.’
Lockwood nodded. ‘I’d like to start with the Earnshaws. In particular the youngest boy. Heathcliff.’
A shadow crossed her face. He could almost feel her defences rising. Was it guilt, he wondered. He’d been in plenty of meetings with plenty of social workers over the years. He’d sat through child protection conferences, and even gone out as muscle when they took the kids away. He’d seen the good ones, the ones that cared too much, the ones that didn’t care at all, and the ones that got worn down by the job. Now, here was Ellen Dean. He wasn’t sure which type she was. He reminded himself that he was here to do a job. However personal this investigation was, he was a professional. He would do what the job demanded. He arranged his face into a more sympathetic expression.
‘I’ve read the file,’ he said. ‘There’s not much detail there. The child apparently just turned up.’
‘Old Mr Earnshaw brought him back from a trip. Liverpool.’
‘And you never thought too much about it? You didn’t question where the boy came from or how Earnshaw got hold of him?’
The woman across the table bristled. ‘It was a private fostering arrangement.’
‘Really?’ Lockwood’s eyebrow inched upwards.
She nodded. ‘Perfectly legal. There was a note from the mother.’
‘That’s not in the file.’
She shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago. Things were different then. He were never reported missing. And besides…’ Her voice trailed off.
Lockwood felt a glimmer of hope. He was beginning to understand Ellen Dean now. He knew how to get what he wanted from her. ‘Please, Miss Dean…’ He leaned forward, hoping to suggest to her that they were co-conspirators in some secret endeavour. ‘Anything you could tell me about the family will help.’
The woman pursed her lips. ‘I’m a professional. I don’t engage in gossip.’
There it was. Lockwood forced himself to resist the smile that was dragging at his lips. She knew something. And in his experience, anyone who professed not to be a gossip usually was. He nodded seriously. ‘Of course not. But if there were things you think I ought to know.’ He paused for a second as she leaned slightly towards him. ‘In your professional opinion, of course. And to help with the old case. It would be good to get rid of the paperwork on it.’
‘Well…’ The woman glanced around as if checking no one could overhear. ‘There was them that said the boy was his.’
That was interesting. ‘Was he?’
‘Don’t know. He looked like a gypsy. All dark eyes and wild hair. Talked Irish an’ all.’
‘And the mother?’
‘She never came looking for him. Back then, I had my hands full. It was desperate round here. The winter of discontent and all that. There were families what needed my help.’ She straightened her back. ‘I had important things to do. More important than wondering about one brat. He was fed and housed. He was safe. There were plenty who weren’t.’
‘Of course.’ He smiled at her.
A sudden crash outside the room was followed by the sound of a woman yelling at her child. A few seconds later, the child started screaming. That was his cue.
‘I
