Stone Cold Red Hot (6 page)

“That summer?” Not once she’d gone to Keele. “Who was the father?”

She sighed impatiently, the memories irritating even at this distance. “Maxwell, he was the sous-chef at the Bounty. She didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t part of the plan. We were so young. God, it was a nightmare. She was so confused. One minute she was talking about abortion - she reckoned she could use part of her grant to pay for it, or we’d scrape the money together and she’d pay us back once she got her grant through. Then she’d go all weepy and talk about the baby and deferring a year.” She tutted with exasperation.

“What did she do?”

“I don’t know,” she stared at me, “I never heard.” There was a bitter edge to her voice. “One minute she’s round my house every night going over it all and next thing she’s left. I rang her up, Mrs Pickering answered, said she’d gone to Keele. It was another week till Fresher’s week; I didn’t know you could go early. Then I thought maybe she’d gone to get an abortion, have a few days to deal with it. I didn’t know if she’d said anything to her parents, there wasn’t really any point unless she went ahead and kept the baby and they’d have gone barmy, her Dad was a right bigot, he’d hardly be chuffed at a mixed race grandchild. But I had to ask, I was so embarrassed. I didn’t want to drop her in it, I said something like “Has Jenny told you she’s not been feeling all that well?” Talk about euphemisms. There was a pause, I can still remember that because I felt so awkward and I thought she was going to sound off at me but all she said was ‘no, she’s been fine,’ so I assume she hadn’t told them.”

“After that I got really cross. The little shit had gone off without a goodbye or anything. It wasn’t my fault she’d got caught out but it felt like she was lumping me in with everyone else, wanting to leave us all behind. I called her all the names under the sun.”

“Then I went off to Newcastle and I was so busy that Jennifer didn’t seem all that important anymore. But I didn’t just leave it. I rang her family later that term to ask how she was getting on and to check her address - I’d written a note to the Halls of Residence at Keele but I never got a reply. Anyway her Mum said she’d left the course and they’d no idea where she was. I said maybe they should report her missing and she said ‘she’s not missing, she’s just being very silly, throwing it all away, we’ll have to wait till she comes to her senses’. She said she’d no idea why Jenny had jacked it in. I wondered if she was keeping the baby, but she didn’t want to tell them yet or maybe she was going to have it adopted and felt that the less people that knew about it the better, sort of thing. But I was worried and I still couldn’t understand why she hadn’t written to me or phoned me, or left a message. Her parents, yes - but me, we’d been best friends.”

She turned the bracelets round on her wrist, worrying at them. “I did actually go to the police you know, that first Christmas. I was back home, she wasn’t, no card had come. I’d this vision of her six months pregnant, squatting in London or something. So I smartened myself up and went to the police station. They listened for a bit but when I said the family weren’t particularly concerned they lost interest. They let me fill a form in but that was it. I didn’t know half the answers anyway, I wasn’t sure of her last address so I just put Halls of Residence Keele University, I didn’t know when she’d last been seen or what she’d been wearing - all those things.”

“And she never wrote?”

She shook her head. “I still don’t understand that. I think,” she hesitated, her assurance slipping for a moment, “I think maybe something happened to prevent her getting in touch.”

“What sort of thing?”

“An accident or...if she ended up broke in London, the options for earning money aren’t very safe, or problems with the baby...I don’t know, a breakdown?”

“You’ve mentioned London a couple of times, did she talk of going there?”

“Not particularly, Paris was our dream. London’s just where people went to escape - still do I suppose.”

The big smoke, I thought, pig enough to get lost in, stay lost in.

“If she had been hurt, if she’d died,” she spoke the unthinkable quickly,” could you find that out?”

“If that had happened, her parents would have been informed,” I pointed out.

“But what if she’d changed her name or they couldn’t identify her, something like that?”

“Then she wouldn’t be on any records that I could find. There are General Records, you know, births, deaths and marriages but they won’t record people who haven’t been identified.”

“And she might be happily married and living in Crewe,” Lisa replied.

“Could be. If I don’t get a lead I may well be able to check out the records for marriages as a way of tracing her but before that I’m talking to people who knew her and checking with the university. Can you think of anywhere else Jennifer might have gone after she left Keele, anyone she’d ask for help?”

“No.”

“And she never contacted any other friends?”

“Not that I heard. I haven’t seen the others for a few years now.”

“Have you got a number for Caroline Cunningham?”

“Yes, if she’s still there. Hang on.” She moved across to the shelves and flicked through a large leather bound book. Found what she was looking for and gave me the number.

“What about Maxwell, do you think she ever got in touch with him?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I doubt it. He’s still around, has a fancy restaurant in Sale, The Grove - I only know because they reviewed it in the Guardian. He’s done very well for himself.”

“Did Jennifer tell him she was pregnant?”

“No, it was awful, he’d broken it off just before she found out. He was playing the field, no intention of settling down. She wouldn’t have married him anyway, he was, childish really, very self-centred. She’d enough on her plate without him as well.”

“What’s his surname?”

“Jones, Maxwell Jones.”

I thanked Lisa and stood up. She picked up the photograph album and hugged it to her. “I still dream about Jenny sometimes, even after all these years,” she shook her head as if that were a failing.

“If you think of anything else, you’ve got my card.”

“And if you find her, give her my number, I’d like to hear from her. I bet we’d get on just as well as ever.”

As she saw me out I realised Lisa had made no mention of the press attention that she’d alluded to on the phone. I felt it would be crass to ask her about it at that point. It wasn’t any of my business. My business was to trace Jennifer Pickering and I wasn’t exactly hot on the trail.

The journey home was straightforward. The towns and villages either side of the motorway were clusters of lights. The major roads defined by ribbons of light like strings of beads spilt across the black fields.

I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere fast talking to Jennifer’s old friends. OK I had established that she’d been pregnant but that brought me no nearer knowing how to contact her. I reckoned my best bet lay with anything that Keele University could tell me. I’d still go ahead and see the remaining people on my list, it wouldn’t hurt to talk to them see if they could shed any more light on the mystery. She’d left home before the induction week at Keele, had she been to a clinic to have an abortion during that gap? Had she confided in any of her friends? Lisa claimed she and Jennifer were very close, if she’d not told Lisa would she have told Frances Delaney or Caroline Cunningham? Could there be any other reason for leaving home sooner than expected? I rolled my shoulders back, becoming stiff from the driving, noticed my hands were gripping the wheel a touch too tight for comfort, I made an effort to relax them. I pushed a tape into the cassette player, Ladies of Jazz, sang along to the smouldering lyrics, let the smoky voices lead me home.

The next morning was glorious. Sky like fresh paint, sun full of warmth. The sort of day for walking up hills, climbing on top of the world and marvelling. I made it to school, Tescos and the Health Food Shop in Withington. And spent most of the rest of it at the office connecting up with people who could tell me more about Jennifer Pickering circa 1976.

I got through to Caroline Cunningham who sounded to be lost in a heavy cold. I explained who I was, how I’d got her number and what I wanted to talk to her about.

“Honestly?” Her voice rose to a squeak.

“Yes, I’m talking to all her old friends and neighbours. Whereabouts are you?”

“Sheffield, are you coming from Manchester?” She began to cough.

I waited for her to stop before I replied and used the time to calculate whether I could make the journey there and back and be certain of being able to pick up Maddie and Tom. It was too tight, I didn’t need to kill myself over a visit to Caroline. “Yes, it would have to be Monday though, if you’d be at home.”

“Yes, there’s no way I’m goid in like this,” she coughed again to prove her point, “the doctor said take a week minimum. Bordig?”

It took me a second to translate. “Morning would be fine. I’ll aim to get to you about eleven.”

“OK.”

The phone was engaged at Frances Delaney’s house. I put a cross on my list, I’d try her again later.

I made a coffee and had it with the vegetable samosas and the tomato that constituted lunch. I washed the grease off my hands upstairs; the Dobsons let me use their bathroom. The shelves bulged with bathstuffs and cosmetics and towels were stuffed onto rails and hooks any old how. Four girls lived here and the array of bottles bore witness. I’d this to look forward to with Maddie - and teenage rebellion. I knew that the Dobsons had an easy time with their eldest - she was eager to travel and had been too busy earning cash for her adventure to be out clubbing it or in slumming around. It was different with their second girl. They were in the throes of teenage hell. The fact that both parents were teachers and had masses of experience working with youngsters hadn’t seemed to help at all.

Jennifer had been a typical teenager, eager to become independent, desperate to leave home. Her parents had disliked her clothes and the lifestyle she enjoyed but didn’t that just come with the territory? I was becoming more convinced that I would have to speak to Mrs Pickering eventually. If anyone could tell me the essential facts it had to be her: exactly when Jennifer had left her course at Keele, whether she’d given any indication whatsoever of where she was going, whether she talked about having a baby. After all at that point Mrs Pickering had deemed her daughter a disgrace. Hardly a term for someone who’d dropped out of an English degree. If I didn’t get any joy from Keele I would have to persuade Roger to let me approach his mother.

The neighbours who had lived on the other side of the Pickerings had moved to Bradford. I dialled their number. “Hello?”

“Is that Mrs Shuttle?”

“Yes.”

“You used to live in Heaton Mersey?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Sal Kilkenny,” I began, “I’m trying to trace a missing person, Jennifer Pickering, I know you and your husband lived next door to the Pickerings while Jennifer was still at home.”

“I don’t know anything about all that,” her voice was glacial, “I can’t help you.” She hung up on me.

I sat there for a moment stunned by her abrupt dismissal. I toyed with the notion of ringing her back to press the issue but I realised it would be a futile thing to do. The woman obviously didn’t want to have anything to do with me. Why? It happens that people shut the door in my face. It happens quite a lot actually, especially when I’m serving injunctions. But in other cases there’s generally a little more interaction before people choose not to get involved, not to answer questions, not to waste their time. The speed of her decision and the frostiness of her response got me thinking that there must be some history there, some reason for Mrs Shuttle to turn arctic at the mention of the Pickerings. It was the only untoward reaction I’d had and it intrigued me, made me want to start burrowing away to find out what lay behind it. Oh, it was probably something innocent like the two families had fallen out over a border dispute or the Shuttles’ cat had persisted in fouling the Pickerings’ garden, maybe Jennifer had been a bit lippy to the neighbours. Whatever it was I didn’t know whether it would bring me any closer to finding Jennifer and I wasn’t sure that I should pursue it. I thought it was probably a red herring albeit an interesting one. I know better, now.

I finally got through to Frances Delaney and explained why I was calling.

“Can it wait till after the weekend?” she asked. “It’s just that I’ve had one of them off with chicken pox and my husband’s parents are visiting, arriving tomorrow. I’ve not even done the shopping...”

“That’s fine,” I interrupted. I didn’t need any more persuasion. “I’ve already got things booked for Monday, some time on Tuesday perhaps?”

“Erm...About ten thirty? The baby usually has a nap then and Gemma will be at playgroup. How long will it take?”

“An hour at the most, probably less.”

“OK. I’ll give you the address.”

I wrote it down and said goodbye. So I couldn’t see either of Jennifer’s remaining friends until the following week. I’d still a couple of hours until school finished and that evening I began my surveillance for the Ibrahims. I could usefully prepare for that.

Coming back from school we looked for conkers. There are two huge horse chestnut trees on the way. Tom charged around lamming bits of stick enthusiastically into the trees while Maddie systematically combed the area looking for conkers on the ground.

After ten minutes we had a reasonable haul and at home we set about conducting an experiment. Two conkers each went into vinegar to soak, two each in the oven to bake. We would see which turned out toughest. Meanwhile I took a handful down to the cellar where Ray has his woodwork shop and drilled holes in them. We threaded them on bits of string and bootlaces. Tom and I played the first game. Taking turns to bash each other’s conker with our own. After half a dozen strikes my conker split in half much to Tom’s delight. Seeing this Maddie decided she wanted to keep hers to look at ‘not ruin them like that’ and she took them up to her room to a place of safety. After one more match which Tom also won, he went to watch telly and I started making tea. While I peeled vegetables and boiled rice, my mind turned to work and I wondered what awaited me later that day. My stomach fluttered with anticipation–and not the pleasant sort.