Towers of Silence (19 page)

“Sorry?”

“Eddie Cliff.”

“No. No one of that name.”

“It would be about three years ago, more or less.”

“No,” she said directly. “I’ve been here since we started and there’s never been a Eddie Cliff.”

Another lie. He’d made up the job?

“He had a reference from you,” I said.

“There’s obviously been a mistake. We’re a small place; if there had been anyone called that I’d remember the name.”

So he’d written his own reference. I’d heard it was common for applicants to embellish their CVs but a non-existent position and false references was pushing it. And could get him the sack.

“Sorry to bother you, then, thanks.” I was about to ring off when I heard myself talking again. “This man, he’s got a beard, long hair, dresses like a cowboy.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

“Oh, God,” she said. “Who are you again?”

“Sal Kilkenny. I’m a private investigator.”

“Oh, God.”

“You recognise the description?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. “We had someone like that here. Clive Edmonds he was called.” She sounded breathless.

Yes!

She cleared her throat. “Listen, I just need a few minutes. Erm ... can I ring you back?”

“Yes.” I gave her my number and paced the room waiting for the phone. When it rang I pounced.

“Sal Kilkenny speaking.”

“Bryony Walker. Listen do you have any proof of your identity? Something you could fax me?” It was a reasonable request. I could have been anybody. I was dying to know what lay behind her stunned reaction.

“Driving licence?”

“Fine, yes.”

“And is there anyone who can vouch for you?” she asked. “Someone who knows you professionally?”

I thought. “There are a firm of solicitors I work for.”

“Good.”

I gave her Rebecca Henderson’s number. She was certainly being very cautious.

“I’ll give these people a call. Meanwhile if you can send me the copy of your driving licence.”

“Yep.”

“If that’s all okay I need to make absolutely sure that we’re talking about the same man before I say anything else. I’ll fax you a photograph and can you confirm it is the right person?”

“Yes, of course.”

We exchanged fax numbers and I set my machine to receive a fax. I was practically dancing with anticipation.

Eddie Cliff had changed his name. Got a job under false pretences and more important to me he’d lied about Miriam Johnstone. The woman at Horizons knew the man and what she knew was certainly not good.

I was wired with curiosity. What had he done? What could she tell me? And as I waited for the fax to arrive the fingers of dread stroked at my neck.

It was him. I looked at the grainy copy, a shot with a group of people beside a statue. Even with the poor quality there was no doubt in my mind.

I gave it two minutes, then I rang Bryony Walker.

“That’s him.”

“You said you were a private investigator. Do you mind telling me are you working for the local authority? Is this an official enquiry?”

“No. I’m working for someone privately,” I said. “Their mother attended a club run by Mr Edmonds, Mr Cliff as I know him.”

She groaned. “So he’s working again.”

What did she mean?

“And he claims to have a reference from here?”

“Yes.”

She exhaled sharply. “Look I’d really like to help but I can’t talk about this over the phone. There’s a lot at stake and much of it is sensitive or confidential.”

“Could I come to you?”

“Where are you?”

“Manchester.”

There was a pause. “I’m travelling down to Birmingham first thing tomorrow, for the Christmas break. Maybe we can meet up somewhere?”

“Yes. I take it you never gave him a reference?”

“No.”

“And he left under a cloud of some sort?”

“Yes.”

She wasn’t giving much away. I would die of suspense if I had to spend all night speculating. Had he run off with the funds or been drinking on the job or had he forged his last references?

“Could you give me any idea of what happened?”

“I’d rather wait till tomorrow, talk about it face to face. The club you mentioned, it’s similar to our set-up here?” She checked. “Caters for vulnerable people, mental health survivors, people with learning disabilities?”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “Where can we meet?”

“Are you driving?”

“Yes.”

We established her route and arranged to rendezvous at a services on the M62. I told her I’d be wearing a grey coat with a red beret and I’d wait in the cafe.

“I take it he doesn’t know you’ve contacted me?” she asked.

“No.”

“Good. Keep it that way. He mustn’t know.”

I felt shaken by her tone. Whatever he had done was heavy enough for her to insist on secrecy and to refuse to tell me about it over the phone. I was buzzing with curiosity, and tension settled in the pit of my stomach.

Where had he worked before Horizons? Digging around in his past had brought me Bryony Walker; might there be more to uncover out there? I wondered if I could find out. It wouldn’t do any harm to try and might ease my sense of suspended animation while I waited to hear what his former employer had to say.

My old friend Harry was the best person for the job. I rang and gave him the details: aliases Eddie might use, locations, timescale. I asked him to find any press coverage or maybe references from Local Authority or Social Services public information. He said he’d do his best though it might be a day or two before he got back to me. I knew my enquiry was in competent hands.

Once it got to four o’ clock I rang Roland Johnstone on his mobile, assuming that they’d be banned during school hours. I wanted to reassure him.

“Roland, it’s Sal Kilkenny. I got to see your father, I wanted to tell you what he said.”

‘“kay.”

“He never met Miriam. When he got to the house she was out. He tried the Whitworth Centre but she’d gone. She never saw him that day.”

“Oh.” That was all he said.

“It had nothing to do with your father.”

An intake of breath. “You going to tell my sisters?”

“Eventually,” I said. “But things are completely hectic at the moment, it’s going to be a couple of days at least before I get round there.” And I wanted to go back with a fuller picture. I was making progress but I needed to tread carefully. What I could tell them at the moment begged more questions than it answered. “I’ll let you know separately when I’m coming,” I said, “then you can decide if you want to be there.”

“Right, yeah.”

“Are you all right?”

He sounded a bit stunned. He’d spent two months blaming himself for his mother’s suicide and now his reasoning had been stripped away. Would he go easier on himself now the facts had absolved him? Guilt’s a hard burden to relinquish.

Then Stuart rang. I’d been so preoccupied with work that I’d not had time to dwell on my irritation but as soon as I heard his voice my pulse quickened and I became short of breath as unpleasant things happened to my diaphragm.

“I rang last night,” I said.

“Oh, I was out.”

“Were you?”

“Sal?” Least he had the grace to notice the sharp tone.

“A woman answered. She hung up on me.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned. “Sal, I’m so sorry ...”

“Someone new?” After all we’d never sworn to be monogamous or anything - he had a right.

“Christ, no,” he exclaimed. “You didn’t think ...”

Obviously I did.

“It was Natalie. The kids were staying at mine because Nat had an early start this morning.” Natalie, his ex, did something in wardrobe for Granada TV. “I was working all evening so she had to babysit.”

“I thought things were sorted out between the two of you.” He’d always claimed they had a very civilised relationship. I wouldn’t have gone out with him if there’d been a messy marriage break-up festering away.

“They are. Sal, I’m sorry. I think, well, Nat - she finds it hard. It’s the first time ...” He dried up, suddenly inarticulate. “I’d like to see you,” he added.

“We need to talk,” I replied noncommittally.

Once I’d put a question mark over the future of our relationship I realised I couldn’t delete it. Self-fulfilling prophesy. Was I using Natalie’s hostility as an excuse? Was I just being stubborn? Cutting off my nose to spite my face?

“Tomorrow?”

“Haven’t you got the kids?”

“Grandma’s all weekend.”

But I had self-defence.

“Saturday would be better.”

“Fine.”

Where should I suggest? Not here. If I ended the relationship, which was a possibility, I wanted to be able to walk away. Stuart’s? Or somewhere neutral? Thing is neutral would mean public which could make it all the more awkward.

“I’ll come to you,” I said, “about eight?”

“See you then and erm ... if you’d like to stay?”

Ah! I winced. Lousy timing. “Right. Erm ... don’t know.”

The invitation seemed poignant. There he was thinking about the possibility of waking up in the same bed and there I was thinking of dumping him just in time for Christmas. Shouldn’t I give him, give us, a second chance?

Ray was supposed to be making tea but there was no sign of him by five o’ clock and the children were starting to whine. I didn’t even know what he was planning. There wasn’t much potential in the kitchen cupboards or the fridge, even the freezer was low. I discarded some out-of-date Thomas the Tank Engine yoghurts and several little foil wrapped bundles which I vaguely remembered saving from meals gone by but which didn’t warrant further inspection. Dinner was decided by default. Spaghetti hoops on toast.

We’d just cleared our plates when Ray and Laura breezed in complete with a bag of Indian takeaway.

“We just had tea,” Tom yelled, delighted at this example of adult folly.

“Oh, great,” Ray retorted giving me a moody glare.

“They were starving,” I protested. “I’d no idea when you’d be back.”

“You can have two teas,” Laura told Tom, trying to improve the atmosphere.

“It’s only twenty past,” Ray continued.

“Sorry,” I said without sounding it. “If you’d let me know you were getting takeaway I wouldn’t have done anything.”

“It was going to be a surprise,” he muttered.

“I love takeaways.”

Thanks, Maddie.

Ray stomped about a bit getting fresh plates and cutlery and then we all sat down again. The kids didn’t manage much, and Ray had bought more than necessary. I ate a samosa, a small portion of aloo saag which was so hot I couldn’t taste either the potato or the spinach, and half an onion bhaji.

Seeing as things were already strained I took the opportunity to push it a bit further; preferable to having to wait for him to stop sulking which could take ages. “We need a big shop,” I said. “And lots of frozen stuff.”

“Yep,” he said curtly.

“We could get the Christmas stuff at the same time.”

“I’m getting the turkey tomorrow.”

“But we need other stuff too.”

“Right,” short and crisp.

I saw Laura’s mouth twitch ever so slightly, just the smallest suggestion that she found his attitude risible. I was getting to like Laura more. At first I thought she was a bit too accommodating but I’d come to see that she decided when and where she’d get drawn into things. I also used to worry she’d be the downfall of our house whisking Ray off to nuclear bliss in a Hartley semi. It was still possible but they seemed quite content for now and she kept her flat on. I’d even reached the point where I could see her joining our household and it working. Though whether she’d ever countenance that I didn’t know. The kids were both very comfortable with her. A few days before she had suggested a trip out once school was finished, somewhere they could climb trees and play hide and seek. Ray had protested that he’d no time until he’d finished his furniture so Laura and I had agreed we’d take them anyway. It would be the first time we’d done something without Ray; a chance to get to know each other better.

I left Ray and Laura clearing up. Spent some time helping Maddie with her reading and then a delightful hour delousing her head. Bed time followed and I made up the latest instalment of our home-made saga about Smokey, the baby dragon and Silver Moon, the orphaned Indian girl. Maddie or Tom, depending on whose turn it was, detailed the elements they wanted in the story and I joined the dots. Some surreal adventures ensued. But they all ended happily ever after in a world where people showered in waterfalls, rode on dragons and where sweets grew on trees.

I really had to write some Christmas cards. I found my address book, the stack of cards, a pen and began a list of people to send them to. Progress was slow, I found it hard to concentrate as my mind kept sliding off to speculate about the morning, what my meeting with Bryony Walker would bring. Eddie Cliff had taken me in, just like he had everyone else. I still found it hard to credit.

My mobile began to chirrup. It was Susan Reeve.

“I’m sorry to ring you this late,” she said breathlessly, “but it’s Adam. He’s had a row with Ken and he’s just stormed off. He hasn’t even got a coat on and it’s horrendous out there. Ken’s out looking for him now but I thought if you could, if you wouldn’t mind ...”

Oh, great. Just the ticket. There are times when my job loses its appeal.

“Okay,” I put her out of her misery. “You’ve no idea where he’s gone?”

“No, but he hasn’t any money so he won’t have been able to get the bus or anything.”

“What was the row about?”

She gave a sigh. “His attitude; he never said a word at tea time, wouldn’t eat his food. It was driving Ken up the wall. I thought it’d all calmed down after that but Ken went up to try and talk some sense into him and he just blew up. Yelling and shouting. The girls got that upset. It was bedlam. Then he ran off. Ken’s gone out in the car.”

“What if I find him?”

“Please, bring him home, if he’ll come.”

“He still doesn’t know about me?”

“No.”

“And your husband?”

“No. But I’ll tell him if it comes to that.”

I knew my time was pretty much used up but I wasn’t going to be picky about it. I didn’t like to think of the poor lad out on such an awful night. I told her that I’d drive around for a bit, and to ring me again if she heard anything.