Unsafe Convictions by Alison Taylor Page A

Unconsciously chewing the inside of her cheek, because her new teeth had not yet made themselves at home in her mouth, her thoughts returned involuntarily to the newspaper she had read over breakfast and, for all the iciness of the day, her blood threatened to come to the boil once more.
    On her way home last night, she had called in at the newsagent’s and arranged to have that particular paper delivered for the rest of the week. While McKenna and the others were out seeing Barry Dugdale yesterday afternoon, she had read the newspapers left in an untidy pile on the dining-room table, wondering who this Gaynor Holbrook thought she was. This morning, reading the latest batch of lies, Rene could hardly believe her eyes, and she almost choked on her scrambled egg and toast. She had washed the dishes, put the parlour gas fire on low to keep the room warm, and checked the central heating thermostat, still mulling over the article. More than once, she had to make sure her eyes had not deceived her, but there it was, in black and white for all the world to see. She considered contacting Linda, but decided to bide her time, even though her mind seethed with the pictures Gaynor Holbrook evoked. Thinking sourly that if God had chiselled Smith’s features, he must have used a very blunt tool, she set off again, her mind’s eye filled with the photograph which accompanied the article. Smith’s face was brutally coarse, hard as a granite outcrop on Bleak Moor, his eyes stone cold, his lips thin, and she decided then that, like the rooks, he should be shot for the vermin he was.
    The backs of the Church Street houses had little sun even at the height of summer, and always smelled of damp earth. Had she not showered the alleyway cobbles and the garden path with salt last night, they would be like an ice rink. Compelled to glance at the camera above her head, she latched the back gate and walked crabwise to the back door, wondering if her bug-eyed image was being watched inside the house. Still wary of falling and perhaps being cut off from the excitement of life with a broken leg or hip, she grabbed the door handle. The kitchen should have been dark and empty, awaiting her attentions, but it was warm and brightly lit, smelling of breakfast. McKenna had eaten, and was washing his dishes, while Jack, the newspaper she had already read propped against the milk jug, was spooning cornflakes into his mouth, a little drop of milk trickling down his chin.
    Wiping away the milk with a napkin, he smiled at her. ‘I was expecting to see snow by now.’
    ‘ It’ll come,’ she muttered.
    ‘ How are you today?’ McKenna too had a smile for her. ‘Your shepherd’s pie was lovely, by the way.’
    ‘ Glad you liked it,’ Rene said. She took off her coat, and went to the hall, where she put the coat on a hook, then removed the hat, and fluffed out her hair. She would change her boots for house shoes later, when her feet and the house were warmer.
    Tea towel in hand, McKenna came to the kitchen door. ‘Is something wrong?’ Advancing into the hall, he added: ‘Please don’t think we’re trying to make you redundant. I’m programmed to clear up after myself, and Mr Tuttle’s just programmed to find food. We had breakfast early because I have to be in Manchester for nine.’
    ‘ Oh.’ She stared at the floor.
    ‘ So, if you were thinking…’ McKenna began, then saw tears shimmering in her eyes. ‘What is it, Rene? What’s wrong?’
    ‘ Have you seen the paper?’ she demanded, fists clenched. ‘ Have you?’
    He leaned against the wall, running the tea towel through his hands. ‘Yes.’
    ‘ It’s not true! That woman’s writing horrible lies!’
    ‘ If she is, it’s only because Smith’s telling them.’
    ‘ What d’you mean? If ? Nobody touched Trisha. I’d know. And Linda, well, she’d’ve killed anybody if they so much as tried to lay a finger on her.’ Rene paused, breathing noisily. ‘And she’d’ve done the