Telling Tales by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online

turned up on the doorstep of the bungalow wanting to talk about Jeanie.
    It had been a while ago now, but Michael still remembered the encounter with great clarity. He had gone over it many times in his mind. It was like one of those fairy tales about giants and monsters that children return to: frightening, but comforting in its familiarity. And it stopped him from thinking of worse things. Jeanie hanging in her cell by a bit of torn sheet. Him being wrong about his only daughter.
    ; So, Winter had turned up on his doorstep. It would have been January or February almost a year ago. Michael had only gone to answer it because he’d thought it would be the lad from the Co-op with his groceries. Normally he didn’t bother answering the door. He had no time for people selling things or collecting for charities. But there was this man. Winter. Michael hadn’t recognized him. He’d been dressed in a brown duffel coat, the sort naval officers used to wear in the war, but Winter had had the hood up, pulled right down over his forehead, so Michael had been reminded more of a monk.
    “Mr. Long,” he’d said. “I wonder if I might come in for a minute.”
    Michael had been about to slam the door on him, to mutter something about it not being convenient, but the man had put his face very close, so Michael felt he couldn’t breathe, and he’d said in a quiet, preachy voice, “It’s about Jeanie.”
    And it was the last thing he’d been expecting, so he’d stepped back in surprise, and Winter had taken that as an invitation to come in.
    “Perhaps I could make us both some tea,” he’d said. And Michael had been so affronted by the cheek of the man that he couldn’t speak. And again Winter had taken the shocked silence as an invitation. He’d walked into the kitchen as if it were his own and filled the kettle right to the top with no thought for the extra electricity that might use.
    They’d sat in the little front room. It was filled with the few bits of furniture Michael had brought with him from the house on the Point and they’d had to sit almost knee to knee in the big armchairs.
    “What’s Jeanie to you?” Michael had demanded. He still remembered that. He’d thrust his face towards Winter’s hoping to cause the same panic he’d felt on the doorstep. “What’s Jeanie to you?”
    “I’m her probation officer,” Winter had said. “I have to prepare a report.”
    “She didn’t get probation. She got life. And there were reports enough done at the time.”
    Too many reports. All of them prying. All of them wanting to find someone else to blame for what Jeanie had done. Him and Peg had never been given copies of the reports of course. They’d been excluded in that process too. But he guessed that they’d featured. It was always the parents’ fault, wasn’t it? The reports would have said that they’d never understood Jeanie, never given her what she’d needed. He could figure out that much from what had been said in court.
    “This is different,” Winter had said. He’d had one of those voices stuck-up teachers use with daft children. Patient, but as if it’s a real strain being patient. As if he was a saint to be able to manage it. “Jeanie will soon be eligible for parole. If she’s released back into the community, it’ll be my job to supervise her on licence.”
    “They’re not thinking of letting her out?”
    “Don’t you think she should be?”
    “It just seems like she’s been in no time. And after what she did to that lass…”
    “She still says she’s innocent, you know…” He’d paused as if he expected a response from Michael. Michael had been staring at the little window which was shrouded in net so he couldn’t see out, unable to take in the notion that his daughter might soon be released. “It won’t help her case for parole, I’m afraid, insisting she didn’t commit the murder. Prisoners are supposed to confront their offending behaviour and show remorse for