Joe checked his watch as he arrived in Ancoats. Ten minutes to seven, right on time. He’d left his suit behind and was in jeans and a shirt, a linen jacket over the top.
He was tense, pacing as he waited, his fingers tapping his thumb. Melissa had made it sound like a date, but Joe wasn’t interested in that. She was Proctor’s sister and he wanted information about him. He had no interest beyond that.
Ancoats was a curious mix. Once the industrial powerhouse of Manchester, when the Rochdale Canal brought cotton to the huge mills and warehouses along its banks, the area had been densely packed with cramped housing and foundries. The residents were either killed by cholera or developed bad lungs from the constant smoke in the air, which made it impossible to see from one side of the district to the other, the high mill chimneys and rows of terraced housing just vague shadows in the dirty distance. It bred poverty and gangs – the world’s first street gang came from Ancoats, the Scuttlers, hoards of young Victorian teenagers identified by their neckerchiefs and haircuts, the fringe slightly longer on the left.
Most of the area was flattened in the sixties, the slums bulldozed into history, but it was only in recent years that something properly habitable was put up in its place, as the mills were either converted into plush flats or razed to allow new apartment buildings to pop up in their stead.
But it seemed like someone had lost interest. The apartment blocks and converted mills overlooked fenced-off wastelands and a small narrowboat marina, the cobbled streets leading to some of the older Ancoats houses. Young men carrying open cans of beer passed professionals in snug suits and sharp shoes, each resenting the other, the area never quite reinventing itself enough. It was history and industry and inner-city blight fused with upward mobility and hipster living.
He checked his watch, debated whether he should leave, that there must be a different way, but then he saw her.
Her hair was down. The streetlight behind her made it glow and silhouetted her elegant stroll. She was in three-quarter-length pants and simple flat shoes, her handbag soft brown leather. When she got close, Joe saw she was wearing glossy lipstick and the fatigue from earlier in the day had been powdered away.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.
‘Is there a pub nearby? I just want to talk.’
‘I was hoping for something nicer.’ Before Joe could respond, she added, ‘I don’t get taken out much. If you want the family history, at least pretend there’s a nice evening ahead.’
‘I know a tapas place in town. Will that do?’
‘Sounds lovely. How do I look?’
He softened. ‘You look nice,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and she smiled, much warmer than it had been earlier.
They hung around the main road, looking for a black cab. Joe kept his hands in his pockets and his concentration on the road, not ready for the small talk. He wanted information but he was unprepared for how to deal with someone so close to Ellie’s killer.
The silence was awkward in the taxi and the restaurant was quiet, not much of a Tuesday-night crowd, even though it was close to Castlefield. Joe had been there one weekend and had queued for a table. Now, they got a table in the window, the waiter trying to make the place look popular. Joe ordered a bottle of Chenin Blanc but Melissa took control of the food ordering.
Joe was about to ask about Mark Proctor when Melissa said, ‘So how long have you been single?’
‘A couple of years now.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘A catch like you?’
That took Joe by surprise.
She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come on to you like that. It’s just, well, I’ve had my fair share of men who lie about their relationships. I hope you’re not one of them.’
‘I’m not,’ he said.
‘So what happened?’
He wondered what he could say. The truth was simple: he’d thrown himself into his work so much that his fiancée looked for affection elsewhere, except she hadn’t looked far. They both worked at the same law firm, Mahones, and when he caught her with one of the partners he walked out and ended up at Honeywells. The break-up was about hurt and self-loathing. The one thing he did remember was the white heat of infidelity, so he promised himself he’d never be with anyone attached, he would never inflict that pain on someone else.
He opted for something simpler. ‘It just didn’t work out.’
The food arrived, nine hot clay bowls containing meatballs and potatoes and seafood and vegetables. It meant he had her as a captive audience for a bit longer but he couldn’t turn the conversation straight to Mark. As Melissa spooned some onto her plate, she asked, ‘So don’t you want to know about me?’
‘It sounds like you’re going to tell me.’
Melissa put down the clay bowl and scowled. ‘You came to me,’ she said. ‘You want to know about my brother but all I’m getting is attitude.’
‘But that’s all I want, information about your brother.’
‘And all I want is an evening out.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said, feeling guilty. She was right: he was treating her badly. Whatever her brother had done, it wasn’t her fault. ‘Tell me about you.’
She frowned as she reached out for a squid in tomato sauce. ‘I’m an Ancoats girl who went south for a while. My ex-husband Peter, well, he was different to me. We met at university in London. I was doing an Art History degree but I was self-conscious of my background, a working-class girl, because I was eighteen and trying to broaden my horizons, shake off my past. I didn’t want to be the
northern lass
.’ And she exaggerated her northern accent when she said it. ‘Then I met Peter at an art gallery. A nice guy, good-looking, funny, and for me, an Ancoats girl, he was a guy I’d never find at home.’
‘But you came back to your family,’ Joe said, trying to turn the conversation back to her brother.
‘It wasn’t for them. I was lonely. I couldn’t get a proper job down there, a graduate job, and all my university friends had gone their own way. I was just living Peter’s life, turning into the wife who waited for him to come home. If we went out, it was with his friends, his circle. I became pregnant for something to do, to make my life mean more.’
‘And did it?’
‘Just made me more lonely. So I gave him an ultimatum when Carrie, that’s my daughter, was three: move north with me, or stay in London alone.’
‘Which did he choose?’
‘North, at the start.’
‘But it didn’t work out?’
‘He got a job easily enough – he works for a bank – but settling in the north wasn’t for him. He’s a nice guy but he hadn’t lived anywhere like Manchester, so it was alien to him. Too gritty, too earthy. Too frightening. We bought an apartment in Ancoats. For me, it was coming home. I thought Peter would like it because it was up and coming, everything made new again, but it wasn’t enough. My loneliness was swapped for his. Two years ago, he went home.’
‘And your daughter?’
‘Carrie’s with me. She goes to London once a month, for a weekend. She’s at a friend’s house tonight, staying over. Fourteen now.’ She shook her head. ‘It flies.’
‘But still you didn’t get the graduate job,’ Joe said. ‘Mother Mac’s doesn’t seem the kind of place for an Art History graduate.’
She laughed, spearing a meatball onto her plate. ‘The people in there are honest, they look after each other, and you never get any fights, not like the fancier places in town. Unless City are playing, it’s just somewhere for men to stare into a glass and reflect on their lives. I like it.’
Joe smiled, but then he stopped himself. He’d started to relax into the evening and realised he liked her. No, more than that. He was starting to feel the beginnings of something, a connection, a need. He couldn’t think like that. She was Mark Proctor’s sister, and there were times when he got a flash of him, from the gleam in her eyes to the slight blush to her cheeks. Every time he thought that, anger simmered and took away his smile.
Melissa snapped him from his thoughts when she said, ‘I’m talking too much and you’re doing too much listening. Your turn. Tell me what my brother’s been up to.’
Joe put down his fork and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. ‘I can’t say too much just yet. He’s my client, but I need to know more about him.’
Melissa put down her own cutlery. ‘But why? I can’t just tell you everything about him and get nothing back.’
‘Come on, you know how it is. Client confidentiality.’
‘What sort of lawyer are you?’
‘Criminal.’
‘So he’s in trouble, right?’
More than he realises, Joe thought. ‘I can’t say.’
‘So how can I help you if you won’t tell me what it’s about?’
Joe thought about that and realised he wanted information more than he wanted to protect his client, and Melissa didn’t seem the sort of person who’d sell him out. But family bonds can be tight.
‘Are you close to Mark?’ he said.
Joe got his answer from the flash of anger in her eyes. And there was more than that. Something deeper.
‘You won’t be getting a character reference, if that’s what you’re after,’ she said.
That was the answer he needed.
‘He’s accused of burglary,’ Joe said. ‘His car was seized so he broke into the police compound and stole it back.’
Melissa laughed bitterly. ‘That’s a new one.’
Joe didn’t return the laugh.
She put her plate to one side. ‘Something is troubling you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know much about lawyers, but I can’t think many would come out for dinner with a client’s sister, one he hasn’t spoken to for years, in connection with a burglary. What do you really want to know?’
‘What’s he like?’ Joe said. ‘As simple as that. I want to know about the real Mark Proctor.’
‘But why? There’s something you’re not telling me.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘This is something personal.’
‘Very.’
Melissa thought about that. ‘He’s dangerous,’ she said eventually.
Joe closed his eyes as he felt a rush of adrenalin. There it was: the answer, a sign that he’d been right.
‘Is he still doing all that grief counselling stuff?’ Melissa said.
‘Grief counselling?’
‘Didn’t he tell you? He used to be a volunteer for a victims’ charity, but he was getting too involved. That’s why we fell out.’
‘Explain.’
‘He gets off on misery, that’s what.’
‘When was the last time you saw your brother?’
Melissa’s frown turned to a scowl. ‘Nine, ten years ago. Maybe more. Carrie was only a toddler. I didn’t even go to his wedding.’
‘That’s a long time. What happened?’
She took a drink and looked round for their waiter. When she caught his attention, she held up the empty wine bottle to indicate she wanted another. Then she turned back to Joe. ‘He killed my cat. It sounds stupid when I say it like that, but that’s what he did.’
Joe’s eyes widened but Melissa shook her head.
‘Don’t start thinking that it’s a psychopathic thing, the early stages of a monster,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t about the cruelty. It was about me.’ She took a deep breath and then wiped her eyes. ‘Look at me, for Christ’s sake. It was more than twenty years ago when it happened. Our parents bought it for me when I turned sixteen. Barney. A lovely ginger tabby. He’d sleep with me, wait for me, sit on my lap when I watched television. He was just over a year old when I found him at the bottom of the garden. His neck had been broken. I was heartbroken, devastated.’ Melissa stopped to wipe away another tear. ‘This is anger, because Mark was so protective of me. He bought me things to make up for it. He sat with me, was everything a big brother should be, but then, years later, we argued. Peter and I had moved back to Manchester and he was doing his grief-thing. But he didn’t have a proper job. I used to ask him about it, because he was still living at home then and my parents wanted him to leave. He was turning thirty and I suppose I was trying to help them, showing him how sad he looked, but he freaked out, became angry, really angry.’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘Just that it was time for Mum and Dad to be on their own. He went on about family, how we have to look after each other, that he was good for my parents, and that he’d been good to me. He said he’d been such a comforting hand when Barney was found, and he was. He comforted me, fussed around me, and then he said…’ Melissa paused again to wipe her eye. ‘He said that he’d been so good that I hadn’t even noticed the scratches and red marks on his hand.’
‘Did he actually admit to killing Barney?’ Joe said, surprised.
‘Not in so many words, but it was easy to work out. I asked him what he meant by that, and his reply gave me the answer.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He said that sometimes it’s good to enjoy the ripples more than the splash.’
Joe thought about that for a few seconds before he asked, ‘What do you think he meant?’
‘That he gets off on being the comforter, the wonderful and sensitive Mark Proctor, so sometimes he has to create the splash so that he can enjoy the ripples, be the one people turn to.’
Joe put his cutlery down. ‘Do you think he could go one stage further?’
‘A stage further?’
‘Kill a person.’
‘What, for the attention?’ She blew out. ‘I don’t know. For all his charm, there’s coldness in there. He killed my cat because he wanted to enjoy my distress. Anyone who can do that is capable of anything.’ Melissa frowned. ‘You said this was personal and now you’re talking about my brother killing someone. Is there something you should tell me?’
Joe wanted to spill out the words – that her brother had killed his sister – but he held back. He’d spent his adult life holding back. ‘Client confidentiality,’ he said.
Melissa nodded but she seemed suspicious. It made the rest of the meal pass more quietly, more awkwardly, so that when they finished their food Melissa said she was tired.
They went outside.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ she said. A taxi crawled along the street. Melissa held her hand in the air and went towards it, pausing only to reach for a scrap of paper and a pen in her handbag. She scribbled down a telephone number. ‘Call me, if you want. Or text.’