Authors: Cath Staincliffe
Any excitement I had felt drained away. “You sure?”
“Yeah. This one, he’s too short, too fat. And this guy looks a lot older. He wasn’t bad-looking, for his age, younger than these. When he first came in I thought maybe he was from the council, arrived a bit early. They were due at half-twelve and they had to be away for two. We’d got sandwiches in so they could work over lunch. I started telling this chap about the lunch and then he says he’s looking for Miriam Johnstone. I should have realised - he wasn’t in a suit or anything.”
I took the photos back and put them in the envelope. “And he never said why he wanted to see Miriam, where he was from, anything like that?”
“No.”
I must have looked brassed off because Sharon asked, “Things not working out?”
“You could say that.”
I had anticipated a resounding yes from Sharon and planned to act on that as the next step for the Johnstones. Now the rug had been pulled from under me. There were still friends and contacts of Miriam that I hadn’t spoken to but I thought I needed to consider where to start. After all people like her dentist, optician and so on weren’t likely to shed much light on the events of that Thursday but it was just about possible she’d rung someone else as well as Hattie.
I cycled back to my office, turned the fire on full, nipped home to fetch some milk and set to work.
I tackled Susan Reeve’s request first. Even in this age of the information superhighway, the law states that electoral rolls are only available for the public to see in written form. The rolls for York would be held by the local authority and probably by main libraries. I couldn’t ring them and ask for information about who lived at 21, Blandford Avenue. They weren’t allowed to tell me. I could go up there and see but the prospect of making that journey was a turn-off. If I only knew someone in York. I racked my brains. Came up empty. Did I know anyone else who might have connections there?
I made a coffee while I mentally crossed off various candidates. As I took the first sip I found inspiration. It’s amazing what a hit of caffeine can do.
I punched the numbers on the phone.
“Platt, Henderson and Cockfoot. Can I help?”
“Please can you put me through to Rebecca Henderson?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Sal Kilkenny.”
A pause and some soothing strings came on the line. I guess most people contacting solicitors need soothing not geeing up.
“Sal?”
“Rebecca, hello. How are you?”
“Fine. Fine. Doing lots of work compliments of The Human Rights Act. You?”
“Fine, yes. Busy.”
“And what can I do for you?”
“Am I right you’ve got another office in York?”
“Wetherby but we do a lot in York and Leeds.”
“Do you have any freelancer investigators up there?”
“Like you, you mean? Is this a tender for work?”
“No, the opposite. I need to check the electoral register up there, I’d like to pay someone else to do it.”
“Got you. Hang on.”
I listened to strings some more.
“I’m going to have to speak to Jeremy in Wetherby, he’s got the info. Save you ringing back you could give me the query and I’ll forward it. Unless you want to negotiate a different rate?”
“No, standard rate. That sounds good.”
“He won’t need any background?”
“No, it’s pretty straightforward.”
I gave her the York address and told her I wanted latest registered occupants. I left my mobile but also my email address.
“Excellent,” Rebecca said. “Probably be a day or two.”
“Great. Thanks a lot.”
It took me an hour to type up a draft report for Susan Reeve detailing with dates and times my trips to Parrs Wood Sixth Form College, The Arndale Centre and York. I saved the file. Once I had the details of the York inhabitants I could complete it and give it to her. I totalled my receipts for expenses and drafted an itemised invoice. My bill would be a knock-back to the household, especially at Christmas. I’d already told Susan Reeve she could pay in instalments; perhaps if I suggested deferring any payments until January it would soften the blow. Would she be able to hide the fact that she was paying me from her husband. How? Using the child benefit money? Getting a loan?
I turned my attention to Miriam Johnstone. Sometimes it helps me to draw out the cases I’m working on like diagrams. Placing the people and the pieces of information here and there, drawing in lines of connection and coincidence, highlighting uncertainty and confusion with large question marks.
I put Miriam in the centre, placed around her the people I had talked to. I began to consider the gist of what I’d learnt, where the queries were.
I ended up with a rash of question marks. I got a fresh sheet of paper and listed these alongside my thoughts and comments. In some cases I was playing devil’s advocate. When I’d finished I read it over.
1. Police failure to examine car park pedestrian entrance videos (at pay station). Laziness or something nastier? Minimal enquiries made - no attempt to establish how Miriam got to the scene. No appeal for witnesses etc. Police never knew about phone call or grey-haired visitor.
2. Why a multi-storey car park?
Miriam couldn’t drive. Afraid of heights - vertigo. Would this fear increase or not under stress? Surely former is most likely.
3. How did she get there?
Bus ticket? No record of ...
4. Grey-haired man - who?
Could be irrelevant?
Why was Nicholas Bell so rude? (get over it Sal!)
5. Where was M. Between 12 & 4?
This is what I’m being paid for!
(rang Hattie J. at 2.00)
6. Roland’s music/Mrs Boscoe.
Who is right?
7. If R is lying sheds new light on refusal to talk/attitude to Connie’s quest
Why would he lie?
I studied my list. The discrepancy between Mrs Boscoe and Roland rankled but Martina had backed up, without any apparent pressure, her brother’s story of coming in after she did. The school would keep attendance records but they would probably only divulge the information to a parent or carer. Connie could check but that would mean alerting her to the vague and unfounded suspicions I had about Roland.
Where to go next?
I decided to ring round the remaining friends to see if anyone had heard from Miriam on the afternoon of October 6
th
.
The calls took a long time. Miriam had died a sudden, violent death. People needed space to react to my opening comments and some of her friends wanted to share their regrets with me and even to reminisce about her. Only when we’d been through that could I focus on the direct questions I had.
There were a couple of people I couldn’t reach but of the others there were no reported phone calls.
“No, she didn’t ring. But I saw her.” I gripped the receiver tightly and leant forward. “When was this?”
“About one o’ clock,” Mrs Green said. “I was going into church as she was coming out. I could tell she was troubled, then. Usually we’d have a bit of a chat but she just passed me by. She looked like she’d got the whole weight of the world on her shoulders. It was plain for all to see. Deeply troubled.”
“She was on her own?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anyone else in church?”
“Only Reverend Day. People don’t call in as often these days.”
I felt a rush of indignation. Reverend Day, who had been so unhelpful when I’d called him, had actually seen Miriam himself. Now why hadn’t he told me?
As soon as I’d finished talking to Mrs Green I rang Reverend Day.
“Miriam Johnstone came to your church the afternoon that she died.”
“Mmm,” he grunted assent.
“You saw her?”
“Yes.” Coldly.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You knew I was working for the Johnstones when I rang before. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You were asking about a grey-haired caller, I believe,” he said pedantically.
“And I told you we were trying to retrace Miriam’s movements that afternoon.”
“I don’t recall that. You certainly didn’t make yourself very clear.”
Bloody liar.
“What colour is your hair Reverend?”
“What!” That had him riled.
He will punish me
. God or his representative? I felt a flush of apprehension in my guts.
“Were you intentionally keeping it from me? Would you ever have mentioned it? As their minister I would have thought you’d do everything you could to support Miriam’s children.”
“My ministry is a matter for me, my God and my congregation. If you failed to make yourself clear when you first approached me I can hardly be held to blame. You call yourself a private investigator, am I right?”
“I am a private investigator.”
“But you have no authority as such.”
“Pardon?”
“Anyone can set themselves up in your business. There’s no regulation or anything.”
If he was trying to throw me off the scent he had another think coming. “That’s right,” I said, “like churches, anyone can set themselves up as a minister. But if you wish someone to vouch for me before you answer any more questions I can ask Connie Johnstone to contact you.”
He sighed. “I am rather busy,” he said evasively.
“I’ll be brief then. How long was Miriam there?” I said icily.
“Half an hour, a little more.”
“And she left about one o’ clock?”
“About then.”
“How did she seem?”
“She was praying. I left her in peace.”
“She didn’t seem upset?”
A pause. Was it a tricky question?
“I don’t remember.”
But Mrs Green did. It was plain for all to see, she said.
“You didn’t speak to her?”
Comfort the sick.
“I left her to her prayers.”
A friend in need, eh? Father to the flock. Couldn’t he have found a kind word for her? Or sat beside her and lent his presence? Why had he done nothing? “If you remember anything else Reverend, I’d very much appreciate a call. It’s Sal Kilkenny and I’m in the book, under Kilkenny and under Private Investigators. I know Connie Johnstone and the family would be very grateful too.”
I put the phone down and did a little jig of annoyance round the office.
What was his game? I’d met people like that before, too many of them. They have some power, a bit of influence, some authority or status in the community and they adopt an arrogant, supercilious stance as though normal co-operative ways of interacting are somehow beneath them. They are so insecure in their position that any approach is filtered first as a threat. Was that why he led me such a merry dance? Was there any more to it? Miriam had been fine at midday when she’d left the Craft Centre. An hour later Mrs Green saw her leaving church in a terrible state. Reverend Day was the only person I knew had seen her in that crucial hour. Was he hiding something? Had he threatened to punish her? What on earth for? Or was it simply his own inadequacy that led to his churlish behaviour? Had he been discomfited by her distress? Fearful even? I wondered if he had conducted the service for Miriam. And what Connie thought of him. And what colour was his hair?
I’d run out of time but at last I had found something concrete out about Miriam’s whereabouts that day. She had gone straight from the Whitworth Centre to the church and remained there till one o’ clock. And then?
“Mummeeee!”
Pandemonium from the kitchen. I ran in and found Tom bawling his head off and Maddie looking worried.
“What on earth’s the matter?”
Tom doesn’t cry much so we always know it’s something big when he does.
He was incoherent.
I ran my eyes over him searching for signs of injury and saw nothing. I scooped him onto my knee.
“What’s the matter?”
He was red-faced and tears were squirting out of him like mini fountains. “Tell me, Tom.”
He fought for a breath. “My tooth,” he wailed. “I ate my tooth.”
I peered. His loose tooth had gone.
“He was eating his sandwich,” Maddie said.
“It’s gone,” he sobbed.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “You’ll still get the money.”
“The tooth fairy won’t come.”
“You’ll still get some money, Tom,” I was not going to get into philosophical debate about the rules and regulations of an imaginary fairy. “It’s all right.”
I gave him a tissue. “Wipe your nose.”
He did.
Maddie moved closer and put her hand on his shoulders. “Think of something nice,” she said gently.
“Will it bite me?” he said in panic and his face creased up again.
“No, no. It’ll probably melt away because your tummy’s got really strong stuff in to melt all the food.”
“Or it’ll come out in your poo,” Maddie added.
Tom beamed at such a naughty idea and looked at me for confirmation. I nodded. “It could do. But it definitely can’t hurt you whether it stays in your tummy or comes out the other end.”
He sighed.
“Let’s think of something nice,” Maddie said again. “Like presents.”
“Stockings,” I said. “Where do you want to hang your stockings.”
“By my bed,” said Tom.
“Have we still got them?”
“Yes. You know when I was little we used real stockings like women wear, not ones with nice pictures on.” And how strange they had looked hanging in the dawn light, distorted, detached legs with angular shapes straining against the nylon.
“Mine’s a snowman,” Tom reminded me.
“And what do you think there’ll be in it?”
“Chocolate money,” they chorused.
“Yes.”
“And an orange,” said Tom.
“Satsuma,” Maddie corrected him.
I nodded.
“And toys.”
“I got a Slinky last year,” Tom said brightly. He had been virtually inseparable from the coiled metal toy, wearing it as a bracelet when he wasn’t watching it flip over and over down the stairs.
“I got a mouth organ. How many things will we get, Mummy?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
“And we can open them straightaway, Tom, and eat all the money, can’t we?”
Crisis over, we chatted for a while longer about their stockings and by the time Ray came in Tom was proudly showing off the gap where his tooth had been.