Witness (19 page)

Cheryl blinked. ‘I’m glad it’s over. They were so mean, really tight.’ She felt drained, hollow.

‘That’s what they do, they have to try and discredit the witnesses to save their clients. But you did good. Think what it means to the Macateers.’

He was right, that was something, that was important. Despite her exhaustion she felt a surge of pride. A lift in her mood. She’d done it! Been bold. Stood up to Carlton, borne witness for Danny. Oh, if only Nana knew – though she could never tell her – how proud that would make her.

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ Joe said, ‘but you know how to reach me if you need anything.’

‘Like getting rid of benefit investigators?’

Joe laughed. He pulled up outside the main entrance. ‘I hope your grandma’s better soon. And good luck with the baby,’ he said.

Cheryl nodded. He was the only person who knew. She’d tell Nana as soon as she could. It’d be something to look forward to. When Cheryl had found out she was carrying Milo she had been so anxious about Nana’s reaction, even wondered about an abortion. But when Cheryl, in tears, told her, Nana just said to dry her eyes. ‘A child is a blessing—’ she’d touched Cheryl’s cheek – ‘a gift.’

Milo was drowsy but not asleep; she put him in his buggy and waved as Joe drove off. She felt a sweep of fatigue. The day had gone on forever. If Nana was okay maybe she’d take Milo home, they could both have a nap then come back to visit after tea.

When she reached the ward, the nurse she’d seen before was at the desk. ‘Miss Williamson,’ she said, ‘we were about to ring you. Doctor would like a word.’ She pointed the way.

Cheryl wheeled Milo into the small room and parked him beside her. There was a woman there in a white coat.

‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news,’ the doctor said. ‘Your grandmother suffered a second cranial bleed just over an hour ago. We did all we could but attempts to revive her failed and she died.’

Cheryl’s heart tore, the pain ripping through her like an electric shock, taking her breath. No! Her eyes swam. Nana died without her, she should have been here, and she should never have left her. Now she was dead. No! Please God, no! Nana was dead. Cheryl placed her hands over her eyes, leaned her elbows on her knees.

‘Peepo!’ Milo said.

Cheryl burst into tears. 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Mike

D
ANNY MACATEER TRIAL OPENS
. It was on the front page of the
Manchester Evening News
, with pictures of the boy’s family arriving at court. Decked out smart but sober. Mike bought a copy on his way to the tram after he’d finished work.

The story carried over on page two with more background to the case and the pictures of the lad they’d used before. On the tram Mike counted maybe a third of the people reading the paper, and this time tomorrow it’d be in again and it’d be Mike they were reading about; Witness B. It made him feel good, a glow inside.

The new place he was working was a temporary contract – three months, minimum wage, £5.80 an hour. A fulfilment centre for a batch of online shopping outfits. The work itself wasn’t exactly fulfilling: matching orders from the stacks in the warehouses, wheeling them through to Despatch. Seven hours a day. But the other staff were okay, a right mix: Polish, Latvian, African, couple of Somalis and a lad from Congo, a Scouser, the rest Mancunians of all creeds and colours. Mike liked Jan, the Polish lad. He was into chess and soon had most of them playing to pass the lunch break. Mike hadn’t won a game yet but he was getting better at it. Mike had met up with Jan a couple of times after work for a pint. Jan was thinking about going back home now the bottom had dropped out of the employment market in the UK. They were all on temporary contracts, made it easier for the company to respond to fluctuations in demand – they just let them go when orders dropped off.

Mike had got a text from Joe confirming that he would still be needed Tuesday. Mike had replied and then deleted it. He had booked a day’s leave and told work it was a family wedding. He hadn’t told Vicky anything and that’s the way it would stay.

Tuesday he left the house as usual at seven fifteen. Then he had to hang about in town until ten when he could get into court, the back way like before. This volunteer Benny showed him into the waiting room. There were a group of lads there already and pretty soon the place filled up. Seven trials on, Benny told him, a couple due to finish today.

Mike read his witness statement through. There were bits he’d forgotten, like the dog barking at the house at the edge of the rec, and there were other bits that were bigger in his head than they were just written down. Like the shooting – in Mike’s head it was almost slow motion, the man stepping out of the car, raising his arm, Mike seeing the lad walking over the grass, his back to the shooter, the way the lad jerked and spun round before falling. It must have been quick but in Mike’s head it took forever.

After he’d got to the end, he read a magazine for a bit, aware of the tension in the place. Each time one of the volunteers came in to call someone, everyone was on pins, swapping glances, on the verge of wishing each other good luck though they were all strangers. Mike wondered if he should feel more sense of worry or dread about it. He didn’t share Vicky’s paranoia and believed Joe when he said there was no link between the bother they’d had and the gang. But should he be more wary about being in court?

Joe arrived and asked him how he was, if everything was okay, and Mike said fine. Then Benny said it was his turn and Mike’s nerves kicked in, but nothing too heavy.

They went down through the building. Mike reckoned he’d a good sense of direction but he’d lost his bearings by the time they got to court. It all speeded up then, he went into the witness box and Benny sat behind him. There were curtains round the box, just the front open, and he felt like a horse with blinkers on. He’d a daft urge to whip ’em back and eyeball the guys in the dock. He swore the oath then the prosecution barrister asked him to tell the jury what he’d seen.

He laid it out, driving up Princess Road, seeing the man step out of the car, the shot, Mike slamming on his brakes and pulling over. He remembered The Clash was playing but he left that out. Then running to help, the nurse already with the boy, Mike calling the ambulance. Mike felt his heart pick up pace as he talked but he thought he sounded calm enough.

The barrister asked what else he could remember and he mentioned the dog because that was in his statement, and the ambulance coming, then the churchgoers, the boy’s family, arriving. Mike’s chest was tight then, remembering the woman crying over her son, and the older one, the grandma, on her knees on the grass. Mike was thinking what it would be like if they lost Kieran or Megan. Massive.

Next, the woman who was defending Derek Carlton questioned him. Had he been able to identify the man who’d fired the gun?

‘No,’ Mike replied. ‘He was a black guy but I couldn’t make his face out.’

‘You were some distance away. How far do you think?’

‘Thirty yards?’

‘More like fifty,’ she corrected him, a glint in her eye like she’d scored a point. ‘So, it could have been anyone firing that gun.’

‘I suppose,’ said Mike. ‘He was a big bloke though and I remember his clothes. A yellow top, and dark shorts.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes.’ Was she messing with him?

‘Not a red top?’

Mike was sure. Was he sure? ‘Yellow,’ he said.

‘But you couldn’t see his face?’

‘I could see it, just not very well. Not enough to describe him.’

‘Do you recall his hair?’

‘No.’

‘You were driving at the time, yes?’

‘That’s right.’ He’d probably still be doing it, if it hadn’t been for the murder.

‘So any sighting of this man would have been fleeting, a second, perhaps less?’

Mike hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Presumably you were also watching the road, negotiating traffic and so on?’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘Your attention was divided?’

Mike felt like his story was slipping away from him. ‘Yeah, but I saw him shoot the gun.’

‘Which hand did he have the gun in?’ the woman asked.

‘You what?’

‘Don’t you understand the question?’ Patronizing.

‘The right hand,’ Mike said tightly.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ He saw what she was doing; trying to trip him up, make him muddled. Best not to think too much about the answers. But had he blown it? What if the guy was left-handed and Mike had just delivered him a get-out-of-jail-free card? Shit.

‘And the car – can you describe that?’

‘Silver BMW, X5. I couldn’t see the plates though, it was side on.’

The woman looked a bit unsure of herself at that and Mike loosened his fists.

‘You know your cars!’ she said drily. Some of the jurors smiled at that. Mike thought back to the other Beemer he’d seen, the one that distracted him and led to the bump and him losing the driving job. Had that been the same car? The police had never said anything about finding the car. The wise move would have been to get rid of it straight after the murder. Ship it abroad or break it up for parts. Or maybe it had been a stolen car, though the witness in the paper yesterday had identified it as belonging to one of the defendants – but she hadn’t seen the reg plate either.

‘What about the gun, what sort was that?’

‘No idea.’

‘Any detail at all, colour, size?’

‘I couldn’t see, really, not at that distance.’

‘So it might not have been a gun?’

Was she serious? ‘He shot it, he shot the lad.’

‘You assumed that from what you saw—’

‘More than an assumption,’ Mike argued. ‘He had his arm up like this and then the lad was hit, fell down, that’s common sense, that’s not an assumption.’

‘I beg to differ,’ she said stiffly. ‘Did you make other assumptions too?’

‘Like what?’ Mike was getting ratty, all this nit-picking.

‘You couldn’t see the man’s face but you assumed he was black.’

Mike bridled. ‘No way. I could see his face – just not clearly. And he was black. I could see his arms too, and his legs. They were black an’ all, they matched.’ Someone began to giggle and the judge raised his head and looked daggers. ‘I didn’t need to assume anything,’ Mike went on. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make out his face, I wish I had but that’s how it is.’ He didn’t think she liked his answer, she went all pinched mouth then handed him over to the other defence bloke.

He had only one question for Mike. ‘Did you see the driver of the car?’

‘No,’ said Mike.

And that was it.

Mike had the rest of the day to kill. Vicky would be suspicious if he got in early. He was ravenous and found a little cafe off Deansgate that served all day breakfast for £3.99. He got that – no mushrooms – and a cup of tea to wash it down. As he ate he considered the morning. In one way it had been an anticlimax, like Mike was just one in a long line of people saying their ten penn’orth and the exciting bit would be at the end when the verdict came in. And Mike’s contribution hadn’t amounted to much. He hoped to God they had someone who was there and could describe the men, both of them, someone more reliable than yesterday’s witness who sounded like she was in it for a fast buck. It wouldn’t have gone to trial if they hadn’t got enough evidence, surely?

It was hard to know what the jury had thought but he hoped they’d be able to tell that Mike was being straight in spite of the way the defence woman had rubbished what he’d said.

It was nearly one o’clock. Three hours till he could get the tram. He’d do a bit of window shopping. He was thinking of getting a bike for work, cost a bit upfront but he’d save on the fares and cycling an hour a day would keep him in shape. Day like today, fair and bright, nothing better. Different story on a dark winter’s morning in the pissing rain. Still, others managed: waterproof clothes and the lot. Mike was disheartened when he saw the cost of bikes. He could go for something bottom of the range but would it take the welly?

Wandering round the Arndale Mike realized that the reason it felt like a let-down was that he’d no one to share it with. No one waiting for him after it was done to pat him on the back. Couldn’t sit with someone and pick it over, brag about the bits when he’d got the upper hand, complain about the things the woman said. Then he felt guilty for thinking like that – it wasn’t about him, was it? It was about a lad being murdered and trying to get justice. Mike’d go through the rest of his life carrying this secret. Just like the other one. One at each side, like scales. Or maybe not. It didn’t work like that; the good didn’t balance the bad. What he’d done today made no odds to Stuart’s family, couldn’t change what had happened back then: the child coming home from school, humiliated again, going to his room, changing his clothes, not able to face another day, another hour. Tying the knot and slipping the home-made noose round his neck. Mike groaned. There was no penance would right that wrong, remove his guilt.
You were a child
, Vicky had said. But that wasn’t enough of an excuse. All he could do was be a better man, a good man.

Mike browsed the music shops up on Oldham Street. Drew up lists in his head of what he’d get when he could afford it. Jan downloaded stuff and had an MP3 player on his phone. Mike told him all about the Manchester Greats: bands he had to listen to, Joy Division, The Smiths and Happy Mondays. The music still as powerful as it had been all those years ago.

Finally it was home time.

Vicky was waiting for him, face like frost, when he got in. ‘Where’ve you been?’

Mike’s pulse went stratospheric. How the hell did she know?

‘Work,’ he managed.

Vicky shook her head, a sneer twisting her lip. ‘Good wedding, was it? Anyone I know?’

What the fuck?

Vicky pressed the answer machine. An accented voice, male:
Mike, it’s Jan. Your phone’s off. They
offer overtime tomorrow, extra four hours, thought
you like to stay on. Hope wedding was good. Bye
.

Mike’s brain was scrambled; he studied the carpet, helpless.

‘Well?’

Hole in the ground. And he was in it, right down the bottom. There was a noise from the kitchen, Megan ran in, grabbed her doll’s pram and dragged it after her back outside.

‘You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?’

‘What!’ She was off her head. He felt a laugh blistering inside him but knew he had to be very careful. ‘You know I’m not, I’d never.’

‘So what else is it? You’ve blobbed work, lied to them, lied to me. You’re always sliding off with your phone.’

Twice! He’d done it twice, maybe three times tops. When Joe got in touch and Vicky was there, she had a knack of always being there, spooky bad timing. And she was nosy, always had to know who was texting him. Mike had to sneak off for some privacy and to come up with an alias for who sent the text. ‘I’m not sleeping with anyone, I swear.’

‘Where were you?’

‘An interview.’ Mike coughed. ‘A new job. I couldn’t let work know – they’d be brassed off, so I fed them the line about a family wedding.’

‘What job?’ She wasn’t buying it but it was all he had to sell. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Didn’t know if I’d get it, didn’t know if you’d like the idea.’

‘Why?’

Mike’s brain was doing a Basil Fawlty, John Cleese lurching around in blind panic. He tried to find something suitably disgusting. Gross. ‘Abattoir.’

‘Is this bullshit, Mike?’

How could she tell? ‘No!’

‘You can’t stand blood and guts.’

‘I know. More money though. Didn’t get it,’ he added. ‘It was horrible, nearly chucked up.’

She stared at him. ‘Is this the truth?’

He tried not to blink. ‘Yeah, honest.’

‘Give me your phone.’

‘What?’ He wondered if he could pretend it was missing, that Kieran had squirrelled it away somewhere.

‘Something to hide?’ Her lip curled.

‘No, just be nice to be trusted, seeing as I haven’t done owt wrong.’ He was sinking.

‘We’ll see, shall we?’

‘Vicky—’

‘Give it here.’ She’d got her face on, hard as stone, eyes all glittering.

He handed it over. He’d deleted all his messages, made a habit of it, and his call register. She was going through his contacts.