Towers of Silence (8 page)

I made a noise to show sympathy but I knew he’d do the jobs. It might mean he was down here till the early hours every night but he’d get it done. He only ever completed things under pressure of a deadline and this panic was par for the course. If things didn’t have a deadline he’d work on them for months, constantly refining. Once I’d cottoned onto this I always made a point of telling my friends to give him a completion date. That way they got their stuff.

“I’m off now. Be about half-five when I’m back. Maybe sooner. Don’t wait though. Feed them before.”

“Save you some?”

“What is it?”

“Haven’t a clue, yet.”

“No, don’t bother.” It might be something that didn’t reheat well. I’d rather look forward to something I could rely on and make it myself. Or seeing I’d be in Rusholme, to visit the Johnstones, I could maybe treat myself to a vegetable bhuna or a prawn biriyani. I brightened at the thought and made sure I’d got a bit of money on me.

Connie Johnstone flung open the door, her face divided by a frown, opened her mouth to speak then, seeing me, slumped and shook her head.

“Come in. I thought it might be Roland. He’s not back.”

Martina, coming out of the back room, also looked anxious.

“I could come back tomorrow,” I suggested. “Do you think he’s forgotten?”

“No. He knows you’re coming. I reminded him this morning.” Her brow creased sharply again. “He may have got held up somewhere,” she said feebly and I could tell she didn’t believe it for a moment. So, what was really going on with Roland? I couldn’t work it out.

“If you want to talk to Martina?”

“Okay. It shouldn’t take long.”

We went into the back room and Martina used the remote to turn off the television. She sat down with me at the table, Connie leant against the door.

“I’ve been back to Heald Place,” I told them both, “asking the neighbours if anyone saw your mother come home for lunch. The police had already done that, as you know, and no one saw her. Then I realised that Martina and Roland were the obvious people to double-check with. You’d be able to say if there were signs of your mother being in that afternoon or home for lunch.”

Martina exhaled. “Right,” she said quietly. She closed her eyes. “I can’t remember anything.”

“You can’t remember?” I wasn’t clear what she meant. Was it all lost to her given the trauma that had followed or couldn’t she remember seeing any sign of Miriam’s presence?

“I don’t remember any dishes in the sink. The paper wasn’t there. She usually read the paper with her lunch.”

“What time did you get home?”

“About four,” she smoothed her hair back towards her bun.

“And Roland?”

“Same,” she told me.

“Who was home first?”

“Me.”

“Was it unusual for your mother to be out at that time?”

“Not really. I thought she’d be home soon to start ...” She stopped abruptly, misery making her suck in her cheeks and clamp her lips tight against the quivering.

“Okay,” I said. My heart went out to her as she tried to compose herself. To lose a parent was painful enough. I still mourned the loss of my father who’d been dead for eight years but at least I’d been able to blame a disease for his death, it wasn’t at his own hand. With suicide what did you blame? Mental illness? The person who left you behind? Yourself for not being able to prevent it?

Connie stepped closer and put her hands on Martina’s shoulders, rubbed her upper arms. “Martina rang me at six,” she said, “the police about half an hour later.”

I was relieved I didn’t need to ask Martina anything else. She’d told me all I needed to know; Miriam had stayed out that day and Roland had been home last.

“Thanks, that’s all I need for now.” I said.

Martina took my cue and nodded. Connie released her and she went upstairs.

“I’m sorry - it’s upsetting.”

She sighed and nodded sat in the chair Martina had left.

“Do you have a list anywhere of her possessions, things she had with her, clothes, bag and so on.”

“I don’t remember a list. Why?”

“I thought she might have got the bus to town. If there’d been a ticket, I could try and trace the driver, the passengers.”

Connie nodded her understanding. “They just gave us a plastic bag, with her rings and her handbag,” she swallowed. “We didn’t get her clothes.”

I nodded fast. They’d have been bloodied, torn.

“Her bag?”

“Yes.”

I thought of Miriam Johnstone falling, clutching her bag. There was pathos in the image.

We heard the front door open. Connie sprang up and out of the room. I heard Patrick’s voice mingle with Connie’s. Someone running downstairs.

The pair of them came in followed by Martina.

“And he’s run off?” Patrick asked, unzipping his jacket.

“Run off? Is this because I was coming?” I asked Connie.

“I think so,” her face was drawn. “He’s only fifteen. When Ma died ... he couldn’t talk about it, still can’t really. The only way he could cope was to retreat.” She paused. Her caramel eyes glistened. I could tell she was on the verge of tears but determined to hold them back while she explained. “He didn’t want to know. He never asked a single thing, not one question. He was like a block of wood at the funeral. Never spoke to anyone, never said a word ... I don’t know how to help him. He’s a child really. I think this, asking him to talk to you, maybe it was too much. Pushing him too far.” Guilt clouded her eyes and she turned to Patrick.

I wished she had said something sooner. I recalled his silence when they had come to my office; he hadn’t said a thing.

“Where is he?” Patrick said. “Where will he have gone?”

“Maybe Wayne’s,” Martina said, “or Jordan’s?”

“I’ll ring them.” Connie used the phone but Roland wasn’t at either place.

“Has this happened before?” I asked, conscious of the atmosphere of crisis that prickled in the room.

“The day of the inquest,” Connie said. “Roland didn’t come, that was fine, it was his choice. But we came home and ... no Roland. He came in later, went straight upstairs. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t even want to hear the verdict.” Her face was twisted with confusion.

“Connie, it’s hard,” said Patrick, “at his age, at any age. Men don’t find it easy to show their feelings.”

“I don’t need him to be a man,” she said fiercely. “If that’s what being a man is. I need him to be my little ...” she pressed a hand to her mouth.

“This isn’t about what you need,” Patrick said softly.

Martina studied her knees, sat very still on the sofa.

“If Roland’s avoiding me,” I said, “then he’ll probably be back in a little while. He won’t expect me to stay all evening. Martina’s answered the questions I had. I won’t have to trouble him.”

“He’ll be back,” Patrick reassured Connie.

“Will you do me a favour?” I said. “Ring and let me know when he gets in. If I’d realised he was so upset ...”

“We think he’s upset,” Connie said, “but even that’s guesswork.”

“Of course he’s upset,” Patrick chided her, “he can’t handle it, Con, this is his way of telling us.”

“Yeah,” she rubbed at her face. “I know.”

“I’d better go now.” I stood up. “Do let me know, won’t you. I hope he’s all right.”

Mrs Boscoe must have mixed her days up. And as I thought about it more I decided that if Roland had skipped school he’d have picked a day when he was unlikely to run into his mother who, from what I’d heard about her, would have been less than happy at him playing truant.

It was just after five and I was early for my last doorstep call so I walked through to Wilmslow Road and treated myself to a vegetable biriyani with naan bread and all the trimmings. It was warm in the restaurant and pretty quiet. I watched the world go by through the plate glass windows strung with fairy light and lanterns. People were coming home from work, traffic heavy from the direction of town. Buses chugged past, plastered with advertising slogans. I watched two students window-shop, arms wrapped about each other. Both had startling hairstyles; his was closely shaved and striped black and white, while she had hair to her waist, cobalt blue. I smiled. Diane would approve. A man selling the
Big Issue
got rid of his last copy and walked off.

I paid my bill, accepted some scented cachou sweets to suck and drove back to Ladybarn. Mrs Bell answered the door. She remembered me and called out, “Nicholas, it’s the lady I told you about.”

He came downstairs slowly as though age was stiffening his joints. I waited for his wife to withdraw before I made my enquiry. “Hello. I’m Sal Kilkenny, I’m a private investigator working for Miriam Johnstone’s family. We’re trying to trace someone who called on Miriam the day she died - a gentleman from the church. I wonder whether you can help?”

He glared through his spectacles at my question and unceremoniously shut the door in my face.

I dealt with my hot sense of rejection by speculating on the reasons for his action. Was he the grey-haired caller panicking at being traced? Or simply outraged at the implication that he, or another churchgoer, may have visited Miriam with less than platonic intentions. But I hadn’t said anything like that, I’d kept it innocent enough. Suppose he was seeing Miriam - wouldn’t slamming the door on me have aroused his wife’s curiosity? A discrete denial, or even admission, would have been a cannier response. Mind you, sudden discovery doesn’t always lead to logical or considered reactions. Then again, maybe one of the amenable denials of the other three men concealed a secret relationship. I was getting nowhere fast with the identity of that caller and it may have been completely insignificant. The man hadn’t found Miriam at home, and there was nothing to suggest that he’d seen her later that day. I wasn’t sure that there was much point in pursuing that line of enquiry at this stage. I could always come back to it.

And I did.

Oh, boy, I did.

I’d been home an hour when Patrick rang to tell me Roland was back. They had not pressed him for an explanation of his absence but told him Martina had answered all my questions.

“Have you thought about bereavement counselling for him?”

“We’re working on it,” he said. “There’s a teacher at school who Roland gets on really well with. He knows someone who’s done a lot of work with teenagers. Roland’s not taken him up on it yet but there’s also a book he’s recommended. Connie’s got it on order. I think Roland might find it easier to read something first of all. Talking to people ... well ...”

“Yes. Thanks for letting me know anyway. I’ll be in touch.”

I was glad that the lad had come back and was okay but a small crumb of doubt tickled away at me. Was it just grief that drove him away at the prospect of talking to me or was there anything else? I needed that edge of scepticism to do my work but I hated the taste it left in my mouth. I wanted to think the best of people, to find the good in them, to see that triumph. But I’d learnt enough to know that life wasn’t like a fairy tale, that people go wrong - some people. They make mistakes and mess things up; they hide and cheat and choke themselves with secrets and guilt. Suddenly, like missing a step in a dream, their world changes. And it can happen to anyone. It had happened to Miriam through her illness. That lunge for destruction, annihilation. Her act, her loss had created a tidal wave of change for her children. I wasn’t sure how Martina was dealing with it, though her tears seemed healthy enough. Connie was searching for facts, a schedule, sightings, details, anything to throw into the yawning ‘why’? She was still at the stage of anger, disbelief, almost denial.

And Roland? Was Roland drowning? I would leave him be for now but I wouldn’t forget that sliver of uncertainty I had. I’d learnt to trust my intuition; it is a skill I use in the work, it’s imprecise, shadowy even, but when I get that tug in my gut and the tightening sensation on my skin then I know something’s going on. I hadn’t felt it when I’d been so rudely banished from Nicholas Bell’s doorstep but I had when Roland Johnstone stood me up.

File under pending.

My world seemed full of teenage boys. Unhappy teenage boys. On the second morning that I trailed Adam Reeve he wagged college. He set off in the same direction as before but as soon as he reached Kingsway he crossed the road and walked to the bus stop that was served by buses running into town.

I followed on. There was a cluster of people waiting and although I didn’t expect Adam to notice me, the extra numbers would help. I watched him now and again out of the corner of my eye. He had a sleepy look, created in part by the way his eyes turned down at the corners. A crop of spots had erupted over his nose. He was slightly stooped and his hands in pocket and head down stance made it clear to all that he was not up for any idle chit chat.

The two women next to me were. They talked in a desultory way about the appalling bus service and tried to cap each other’s stories of nightmare journeys. I was glad it wasn’t raining. The wind had dropped and the temperature too. The sky was airbrushed with touches of breathy cloud. A nip of frost threatened. Gloves and hat weather. I had both. Adam had neither. Was he hunched partly against the cold?

At long last two buses careered into view. We all piled onto the first as the second swooped past. Playing leapfrog all the way to town. Adam went upstairs and I sat down, the better to maintain my status as the invisible woman.

The journey to town was excruciating. Road works were a permanent feature of life in Manchester. The place had mushroomed in Victorian times, the centre of the cotton trade and a mercantile capital. Now a hundred and fifty years on things were crumbling, repairs went hand in hand with renovation to create a constantly changing city. The sewers had been dug up and shored up, new Metro Link lines installed for the successful light rapid transport system, old warehouses were converted into swanky apartments overlooking tarted up canals, city living was in vogue. Cafe bars and restaurants sprang up along the canal sides and under the railway arches where once goods had been lifted on and off the barges, carts had been repaired, paint mixed or candles made.