Authors: Cath Staincliffe
“Something must have happened,” Connie said thickly. “Surely something ...”
“Not necessarily.”
“I don’t believe it,” Connie moved her hand, swung her eyes up to the ceiling. “I don’t believe it,” she repeated slowly for emphasis. She looked across to me and sighed with exasperation her eyes laced with pain.
“You don’t believe Hattie?” I said.
“Yes, no. I don’t know.”
“She’d have no reason to invent something like that.”
“Why didn’t she tell us about it?” Connie demanded. “Or the coroner, or someone?”
“No one ever asked her; she was never contacted by the police or anyone else. And she decided not to tell you about the phone call because she wanted to spare your feelings. At the time she couldn’t see how it would help.”
“Salt in the wounds,” Patrick accepted. “She wrote a lovely letter.”
I realised it wasn’t what Connie had wanted to hear. In spite of all I’d said she was still nursing some hope that the coroner’s verdict had been wrong; that something other than mental disintegration and suicide had caused Miriam’s death.
“It wasn’t what you expected,” I said, “but it fits with all the facts.”
Connie looked gutted, face pinched, harrowed frown, mouth shrunken with misery, an ashy colour to her complexion.
I looked at Martina. She kept quiet; it was hard to know whether she shared her sister’s sentiments or not. I didn’t want to put her on the spot by asking her. Instead I sounded out Patrick. “What do you think?”
He ran a hand over the stubble on his head. “It’s a surprise. Still taking it in. But like you say it fits ...”
“Something happened,” Connie insisted. “She didn’t just leave her craft session and fall to pieces ... something ...”
Whatever she was going to say was lost when Roland barged into the room. I assumed he’d just got up. He wore an outsize t-shirt and jog pants, high top trainers. He took in the tableau, jerked his head and swore softly. “Shit.”
“Roland!” Connie snapped at him.
He turned to leave.
“Roland, wait,” she said.
“Why?” Anger flashed in his eyes. “What is the point?”
Connie flinched at the ferocity of his question.
“We found out more ...”
“So?” He yelled. “She’s gone. Why can’t you just leave it.” The words fell like blows, slow and heavy.
“Roland,” Patrick reasoned.
“It won’t bring her back,” he shouted. “Nothing ...” his face crumpled. “Fuck.” He slammed his fist into the door. Martina jumped at the violence.
I held my breath, watched his back heave, the muscles in his jaw pulsing.
Patrick put his hand on Connie’s arm. She threw it off.
“I know that,” she said hotly, “I know that nothing will bring her back. All I want is to understand what happened.”
Roland continued to face the door, fists clenched.
“Sal’s told us things we didn’t know, Ma rang a friend, we never knew that, and a man had been round to the house, asking for her and the police never even checked the ...”
Roland flung the door open and ran out.
“Roland!” Connie shouted.
The slam of the front door answered.
There was a pause, a beat or two. I took a couple of slow breaths. My heart was galloping.
“Sal, I’m so sorry,” Connie began to apologise.
I waved it away. “Don’t worry. It might not be such a bad thing - getting angry.”
“He doesn’t want all this,” Martina said, sniffing. I wondered whether she did. She had been as adamant for my involvement as Connie when we had first met. Now where did she stand? Was she desperate for any information or just supporting her sister? And if Roland was finding it so difficult, would she want to protect him? Was it really just Connie’s quest? Were the others willing or reluctant travellers?
“We need to talk,” Patrick said to Connie and then looked at me. The implication was clear. Should I continue? Should they back off for Roland’s sake?
I left them to think it over.
Roland’s outburst had made me feel shaky. Was Connie unreasonable? Should she have consulted them all more before coming to see me? But they’d all been there, hadn’t they? Cramped in my office. And Martina had accused me of being like all the rest when I’d hesitated. I had assumed the whole family wanted the investigation. Wrong? Or had Roland only discovered later that probing into his mother’s story would be so disturbing? I felt uneasy and knew that until I heard from the Johnstones I’d be worrying away at it like picking at a scab. I disliked the thought that my actions had added to Roland’s misery. I tried to convince myself that in the long run his explosion would be a good thing - that he’d let out some of the feelings that he had been holding onto so tightly. But doubts chewed away at that logic. Had I let flattery at being sought out or vague liberal intentions get in the way of my professionalism? I usually have one client, in this case Connie who had signed the contract; should I have established more formally the rest of the family’s attitude to hiring me?
And if they asked me to do any more? What would I say then? On what basis would I agree? Was it ethical to make any changes to the agreement we had?
I wiped the condensation from the windscreen and started the engine. The Johnstones weren’t the only ones who had some thinking to do that weekend.
We were queuing up for Santa’s Grotto. Santa was very obviously the caretaker in costume. Bernard was a stick-thin man with eyelashes to die for, bottle glasses and a thick Scouse accent.
“Aright den little fella,” he plumped Tom onto his bony knees. “Whorrayawan’ fer Christmas?”
Tom reeled off the first part of his list.
“Yer jokin’ aren’t yer?” exclaimed Bernard. “‘Ow am I gonna get tha’ lot in my sledge, eh? Think again, pal. I’ll bring you a ball, how ‘bout that, eh? A red, rubber ball?”
Tom squirmed and protested.
“Ey, go on then, lah. Have a lucky dip.”
Tom slid down and rummaged in the sack. Brought out a parcel.
“Next,” yelled Bernard.
Maddie had already been. We collected Tom who had ripped the paper off to find a stamp pad and animal stamps.
“They’re all the same,” Maddie complained. “You either get them or gel pens.”
We had nearly exhausted the delights of the upstairs school hall.
We made our way through the crush and down the stairs. There was a Tombola, a White Elephant stall, a place to make Christmas decorations out of pasta bows; lots of glue and glitter. I bought some hand-made cards at the next stall. Maddie wanted her hair doing. If we queued long enough and paid 50p she could have brightly coloured cotton wound round some strands of hair. “Last thing, then,” I told her.
Tom went into the playground with Jade from over our road. People had set up play equipment and a large trampoline out there. The rain had held off and it worked well to occupy the kids who were less than interested in the stalls.
The woman in the queue ahead of me turned round to survey the scene and we recognised each other.
“It’s Sharon,” I said. The woman from the Whitworth Centre. “Sal.”
“Hello.”
“I’ve not seen you at school before.”
“My niece,” she said, ducking her head towards the child beside her. “Our Julie works Saturdays so I said I’d bring Chantelle.”
“Maddie,” I gestured. “What year’s Chantelle?”
“Year one.”
“Maddie’s year two,” I said.
“It’s our Fair at the centre next Saturday so I’ll have to bring her to that as well. She likes it up there. She goes to all our do’s, don’t you Chantelle?” The child nodded.
“It’s great for me,” Sharon confided. “Working there. I’m only a few minutes away. When we were setting up the centre we all wanted jobs to go to local people. I was on the committee back then, something to do really.” She wrinkled her nose. “I made a mess of school and I was out of work. I got one of these New Deals. Had to go through all the proper procedures and that but it’s great. If we get the extra funding we want there should be another two part-time posts so it’s creating local jobs and all.”
“Eddie’s not local, is he?”
“No, he was in Hull before, place called Horizons, same sort of project. He’s from Bath originally. But that post, there wasn’t really anyone local with the right experience. And it’s not brilliant money, not compared to similar jobs in other places. We did have a couple of applicants from Manchester but no one in Rusholme, and Eddie was head and shoulders above them. You should have seen his references from Hull. Sit down now Chantelle, that’s it.” She bent to discuss what colours her niece wanted, then straightened up.
“You’re working for Miriam Johnstone’s family?” she asked me. I nodded ready to deflect her curiosity by pointing out it was confidential.
“Such a shame,” she said.
I guided Maddie round near to the other chair where a tiny child, probably three years old, was protesting loudly at having to sit still and clearly wanted out. Her mother relented and moved her away. Maddie sat down. “Silver, pink and purple,” she said.
“Did you see Miriam leaving that day?” I asked Sharon.
“No. It was chaos. Eddie had the people from the grants unit at the City Council coming. One of the Craft Club had burnt her fingers and you’d have thought she’d lost an arm all the palaver, there was. And Melody ...” She stopped abruptly. “You won’t have met Melody, will you?”
“Yes, at the church sewing circle.” Shaking, fine-featured, her hair like a close-fitting cap.
“Did you hear about her?”
I shook my head.
“Suicide attempt. It was in the paper last night. Cut her wrists. She’s all right, but ...” Sharon tutted.
“Oh, God,” I murmured.
“It’s not the first time,” said Sharon. “But still.”
“How come it was in the paper?” Overdoses weren’t routinely reported. Only if they were successful and had an angle to them; a particularly young person, a double suicide, that sort of thing.
“Fire brigade had to break in. She’d locked herself in the house. Her mother knew straight away. Good job and all. Can you imagine ...” She shook her head sadly. “Anyway, about Miriam. I saw her leave but not where she went. And she can’t have been gone long when this chap comes in looking for her.”
I felt my heart squeeze. “Who?”
“Middle-aged, grey hair. I told him if he hurried he might catch her. He can’t have done, can he. More’s the pity,” she shrugged.
A cold chill slithered the length of my spine.
Sharon bent to Chantelle. “That is drop dead gorgeous.”
Sharon had no name for the mystery man. She confirmed he was clean shaven and she thought he had glasses but couldn’t swear to it. He wasn’t especially memorable, I could rule out Mr Beatty with his white hair and I thought she would have remembered Trudeau Collins with his mannered style. Albert Fanu, he had worn glasses, as had Nicholas Bell. One courteous to a fault, the other rude. Was it one of them? Or neither?
And did it matter?
Had that man caught up with Miriam? Had he upset her? Done something to trigger her breakdown? Or had he witnessed any of it, perplexed perhaps at her increasing paranoia or her withdrawal?
If I could get hold of photographs perhaps Sharon would be able to identify the man she’d seen. Reverend Day had referred to the ten o’clock service. The church was in Whalley Range. I could take the kids to Chorlton Water Park; Digger too. Call at the church for a few minutes en route. It might be a bit of a wild goose chase and I might be no longer working for the Johnstones but it was worth half-an-hour of my time if it led to identifying the grey-haired man. If I found that Albert Fanu or Nicholas Bell was lying I’d be very keen to talk to them again.
Sunday morning my lie-in stretched till 8.45. I had to get the children ready and get to the church in time to surreptitiously shoot pictures of the gathering congregation.
Maddie and Tom had eaten breakfast; on the kitchen table pools of milk and stray Cheerios bore witness. I sent them to get dressed while I made myself some porridge. My cold morning ritual. Once the temperature goes below freezing, out come the oats. I cooked them with salt and water, Scottish style, and pour on golden syrup and cold milk. Heaven.
I dug out wellies and hats and gloves and found Digger’s lead. Digger went demented, racing to the door and back and making an irritable whine like a faulty buzz saw. I parcelled children and dog in the car, scraped the ice off the windows and turned the heaters on. I needed my woolly gloves to drive - the steering wheel could have generated frostbite. It was a glorious morning. The sun hung low in the sky spreading molten silver rivers the length of the roads. Chorlton is west from Withington so I didn’t have to drive blinded by the glare.
I told the kids I had to take a picture of the street for Diane so she could draw it. I don’t like to give too much away about my work; it involves too many convoluted explanations for an endless sequence of ‘whys’, and often the cases I work on are sordid. They rarely reveal the best in human nature. It’s not a view I want to share with the children.
Churchgoers began arriving in dribs and drabs, dressed in all their finery. I was parked some way down the cul-de-sac and facing the main road so everyone had to come past me. A digital camera was part of my recent upgrade. It was pretty foolproof and had a very good zoom. I could check immediately if the shot was usable.
It went like a dream. Mr Nicholas Bell and his wife drew up in a taxi which stopped nearby. I caught him getting out of the cab, his face clearly visible. To cover my tracks I immediately swung the camera round and snapped the kids in the back seat. No one even glanced my way.
A couple of minutes later I saw Mr Fanu turn in from the junction walking with a group of people, including his wife. I used the zoom and the job was done.
“Fasten your seat belts,” I told the kids. “Time to go.”
A large flock of Canada Geese patrolled the landing stage at the nearest corner of the lake. Anyone with a bag of crisps or a satsuma was fair game. Maddie hung back as the geese waddled our way. Digger copied her, his tail lowered with apprehension.