Bitter Blue

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘What I suggest is that I carry out surveillance of the area at various times over the next week; particularly at night and the weekend when any noise is likely to be at its worst. I’ll also talk to residents on either side of your house and opposite and provide you with a written report highlighting any concerns. I can have that ready for you Monday morning. And that would be covered by the standard peace of mind fee.’

  They exchanged a glance. ‘Super,’ she said.

  She produced a fountain pen and wrote me a cheque in neat script, blowing on the paper to dry the ink. We agreed I’d fax the report to them. They could then ring me if they had any queries about it.

  Once I’d seen them off I spent a little time catching up on routine administration and answering my e-mails. I was due to meet Pam Hertz, housekeeping manager, for lunch at 1.30 and after that to see Ian Hoyle, the Hotel Manager.

  Setting off early meant I could visit Severn Road, where the Ecclestones hoped to move, on the way. It was raining lightly, Manchester drizzle; it muted the colours of red brick and the green of the mature sycamore and horse chestnut trees that canopied the road. I parked opposite the house Chestnuts with its For Sale sign and studied it as well as the properties either side.

  They were substantial three storey semi-detached with steeply pitched roofs, bay windows and fancy brickwork on the corners. Each top storey window was arched and had a small balcony. Stone gateposts still stood but the original railings and gates had long gone – probably melted down during the second world war and now replaced by privet hedging or walls. Chestnuts’ other half, ‘Oakview’, on the right, looked as if it was still a family home. No row of bells, cheap tarmac parking bays or mismatched net curtains to suggest multiple occupancy. The door had been freshly painted a racing green and the old sash windows looked in good repair. Conifers and shrubs in the front garden were well tended, the yellow forsythia and the lilac were in flower. And a dicentra, the bleeding heart plant with its graceful foliage, was full of buds in a chimney pot planter by the front door.

  The house to the left of the Chestnuts told a different story. A concrete forecourt replaced any garden and a sign on the wall stated that the property was let and managed by Carver Estates. I made a note of their number. It looked to be a decent conversion, the windows were uPVC and the place seemed in good repair. It was impossible to tell whether it was let to students or professionals. Some places had leases that just ran for the academic year, and the constant turnover would make it hard to predict what the neighbours would be like to live with. If the flats were on long term lease and let to professionals then the population would be more stable and some would argue less disruptive. Whoever lived there, I would still need to find out if they were likely to cause any disturbances. Look behind the labels to the reality. There was no one about at that time of day and no cars parked out front. All out at work?

  On my side of the road sat the properties opposite the Ecclestones’. The house on the left of the pair appeared to be business accommodation. There were two plaques beside the front door – though I couldn’t make out the lettering – and vertical slatted blinds masked the large downstairs window. I got out to get a better look. Severn Insurance and Mannion & Shaw. I walked along to the gateway of the adjoining house. Desolate: a torn yellow curtain was pinned across the bay window and upstairs what looked like sheets had been stretched across the bedroom windows. A rusting car on blocks sat in the driveway and an overgrown garden boasted dock leaves and dandelions with torn carrier bags and crisp packets caught among brambles. An overflow pipe dripped steadily from the gable and along the edge of the roof the guttering sprouted grass and seedling sycamores. The place was an eyesore and would be visible to the Ecclestones every time they looked across the road. I was surprised that in itself hadn’t put them off. Was it empty? Looked like it.

  Driving up and down the length of the road it was clear that most places were being renovated and re-developed for multiple-occupancy or had already been. To Let signs be-decked every other place. One huge detached pile had two skips in front of it, stuffed with rubble. A good time to be a builder, a plumber or plasterer.

  At nearby Burton Road, the main street, there was a bohemian feel to the range of outlets: Thai, Korean and Indian restaurants, designer clothes outlets with titchy clothes at gigantic prices, handmade furniture and crafts places, kitsch gift shops. And alongside them the places found in every Manchester high street: hairdresser, sun salon, ironmonger, junk shop, mini market, video store and charity shop. All a little scruffy round the edges. Would it suit the Ecclestones? They seemed more upmarket, more Cheshire than Manchester, but I was making assumptions. She might design zinc pots, teach T’ai Chi and love browsing for bargains for all I knew. Or perhaps they’d zip off in their four wheel drive to shop out of town and ignore the uneven retail opportunities on their doorstep.

  I took Princess Parkway, the big dual carriageway, into town and made my way again to the Lowry. This time my lunch guest joined me in a ciabatta and coffee.

  Pam Hertz, in charge of housekeeping at the Quay Mancunia Hotel, had something of the schoolmistress about her; perhaps it came from the brisk, no nonsense replies to my questions, her habit of referring to her staff as ‘the girls’ and the clipped, slightly too-loud voice she used. She wore a suit in the same style as Lucy Barker’s but she had plumped for navy. I’d been very cagey when I’d set up our meeting and she began by asking me briskly what on earth it was all about.

  I explained I was working for a colleague who had been involved in an unpleasant incident. She tutted and snorted.

  ‘How can I possibly help you if I don’t know who we’re talking about. Besides you might be up to no good, I’d need to know the person involved was happy for me to talk to you.’

  I gritted my teeth, dialled Lucy’s number at the hotel and asked her to give Pam Hertz the all-clear. Pam Hertz listened. I saw she was surprised that it was Lucy and nodded. She handed me back my phone.

  ‘Poor girl.’

  When I began my questions she mentioned Carly Jowett. ‘A nasty piece of work.’ But she couldn’t recall any other feuds or fallings out between Lucy Barker and her work mates.

  As we were concluding our meeting I sensed a moment’s unease. Pam Hertz made to speak but hesitated. It was out of keeping with her general manner and I picked up on it.

  ‘There’s something else?’

  ‘I don’t for a minute think that this is relevant ...’

  ‘Go on please.’

  ‘Really ...’ She began to dissemble.

  I smiled to reassure her. ‘It all helps me to get a rounded picture. And I don’t go leaping to conclusions.’

  She nodded. ‘Nicky Prince, she was on reception with Lucy until recently, well ... Nicky asked for a move, to my department. She found Lucy a little ... intense. Nicky’s getting married soon and Lucy, she lost her fiancé.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Lucy wanted to know all about Nicky’s plans and apparently she’d keep comparing them to what hers had been, the flowers, the reception – everything. It made Nicky uncomfortable, that’s all. As I say there’s absolutely no question of it being any part of this ...’

  ‘No, I see. But it is helpful to know about.’

  ‘Nicky’s a sensible girl. And I don’t think Lucy had any notion of what was behind the transfer. You won’t say anything?’

  ‘No.’ My responsibility was foremost to my client but there was a degree of tact and diplomacy in deciding what I reported back. I operated on a need to know basis. But perhaps I should talk to Nicky Prince.

  ‘Is Nicky working today?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, she’s still on honeymoon. A fortnight in the Maldives.’ We shared an envious glance. ‘Not back till the weekend.’

  Which effectively ruled her out as a suspect. She’d been basking in tropical bliss when Lucy’s letter was delivered.

  Before we left I asked Pam Hertz to be discreet about my enquiry too
, Lucy knew I was meeting her but the rest of the hotel didn’t need to.

  ‘Of course. Will you be speaking to Ian Hoyle?’

  ‘Yes, this afternoon.’

  ‘He’s the one with the overview and he runs personnel. He really ought to know there’s something going on.’

  ‘We don’t know yet whether someone from the hotel is involved.’

  ‘Oh, I see. All the same, if it involves Lucy then—’

  I nodded. Thanked her for seeing me.

  I freshened up in the Ladies before leaving the Lowry for the hotel. The drizzle blurred the light on the canal and swathed the buildings in a wreath of grey. It brought out the smell of wet concrete and the sewagey scent of river water. A forlorn ice cream van was parked beside the turning circle used by coach parties. People were heading for the arts centre in a steady stream but they ducked their heads against the soft mist and didn’t linger to appreciate the architecture.

  Chapter Four

  Quay Mancunia, five minutes walk away, oozed modernist luxury. The main entrance of curved glass doors opened onto a circular foyer with white walls, a carpet like a painting, abstract shapes in earthy tones, and enormous pieces of rock and driftwood sculpture set around the place among drifts of pebbles. At the far side of the foyer was the reception area, lifts and doors through to the administration offices.

  If Pam Hertz and Malcolm Whitlow had been appropriately guarded but personable and co-operative I found Ian Hoyle a prize pain in the neck. How he’d ever got the job of manager was beyond me as he exhibited none of the people skills which I thought were essential in modern management.

  We got off to a bad start.

  ‘I must say that I’m not exactly happy to find a member of staff has chosen to spend their money hiring a private detective when we already have an excellent in-house security team.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Malcolm Whitlow; he’s fully aware of the situation.’ And he didn’t have a problem with it.

  But Hoyle looked exasperated. His nostrils slightly flared and the edge of his lips were white with tension. He had moody good looks, a tall, slim frame and sported day-old designer stubble.

  I explained to him as succinctly as I could mentioning Lucy by name and told him what information I wanted.

  ‘What makes you think it’s someone here?’ He played with the hole punch on his desk, pushing it to and fro.

  ‘It may not be. I’m trying to eliminate people as well as identify anyone who might have a score to settle.’

  ‘Can’t think of anyone.’

  ‘How easy would it be to get hold of staff addresses?’

  ‘They’re locked in there,’ he nodded at the filing cabinets, ‘the computer entries are password protected. You think whoever it is might try and find out where Lucy lives?’

  Innocent or clever? Devious, I know – but twisted thought processes are a tool of the trade.

  ‘Do people know each other’s passwords?’

  He reddened a little. Was that a yes?

  ‘I’ll change them.’

  He looked at his watch. Stood abruptly and moved to open the door. ‘I really must get on.’

  My cheeks flushed with indignation. What was his problem? Had he sent the notes? Surely he’d want to keep his head down, deflect suspicion if he was behind it? So why the waspish attitude? The sudden end to the meeting?

  I remained seated. ‘How is your working relationship with Lucy Barker?’

  He glared at me, a twitch rippled across his right cheekbone. ‘Fine.’ He made it sound like a curse.

  He opened the door giving me no option but to leave. I was baffled at his manner and decided to be direct.

  ‘Mr Hoyle, have I missed something? You seem to resent answering my questions but I’m only trying to protect one of your colleagues. You were one of three names she gave me – people she trusted? Is there something I need to know?’

  He closed his eyes momentarily and sighed. He glanced at me and made an ineffective flapping movement with his arms. ‘No, sorry.’ He sounded exhausted now. ‘Pressure, problems at home, nothing to do with this. Sorry.’ But he made no move to resume our talk.

  ‘If you think of anything else, will you get in touch?’

  He nodded. Exhaled noisily. He ought to be off on sick leave if things were so bad.

  ‘I’ll leave my card.’ I put it on his desk and gathered up my coat and bag, relieved to come away. When Lucy had given me his name she’d made no mention that he was going through a difficult patch but maybe he’d been hiding it from them all? And now the facade was cracking. Perhaps I’d been the first to witness it. How long before he started bawling out the staff, drinking from his desk drawer or letting his work slide? Lying about reports and hiding his in-tray in the filing cabinet? Whatever the trouble at home was he needed to deal with it or take time off to weather it.

  Maddie seemed perkier at tea time. She talked a bit about their school topic and the Roman Temple they were making and she ate most of her spaghetti. She was on the brink of reading to herself but still enjoyed being read to. We spent a peaceful quarter of an hour on the couch, with Roddy Doyle’s The Giggler Treatment.

  Levenshulme, the neighbourhood where Lucy lived, sprawls either side of the A6 road to Stockport. Most of the area is terraced housing with tiny backyards. Home to a large Irish community and more recently a sizeable Asian one. Near the railway station and towards Burnage were bigger places, built for the professionals and the managers rather than the workers from the biscuit factory or the nearby mills. The big villas came substantially cheaper than equivalent properties in Didsbury. Levenshulme was not a fashionable area and there were many more signs of neglect, although Stockport Road itself had undergone a thorough facelift and a regeneration scheme was ongoing.

  Lucy Barker’s detached house was on a corner plot and there was enough land around it for residents’ parking and some landscaped garden. The house had no immediate neighbours. There was a small park to one side and a disused chapel to the other with boards over its windows and padlocked doors. Five garish yellow burglar alarms clung to the house’s brick walls – rather spoiling the Victorian period details. A border of shrubs softened the iron railings that ran around the perimeter and to either side of the front door steps were box trees trimmed to cone shapes. Once I got close I could see they were chained to bolts set low in the walls.

  The building had cellars, and narrow basement windows ran just above ground level, protected by wrought iron bars. The ground floor was in fact several feet above the ground and broad stone steps led up to the blue front door.

  I examined the letter boxes at the left. As Lucy had said they were each labelled with the number of the flat and the surname of the occupants. I tried the door, which was firmly locked. The intercom system at the right featured a row of bell pushes, again with names attached. I pressed Lucy’s, identified myself when she answered and pushed the door when the buzzer sounded.

  The lobby was pure Victorian; black and white floor tiles, dark green and sage walls, the lighter shade above the dado rails, a broad staircase straight ahead with a large stained glass window on the landing above featuring tulips.

  Lucy opened the door to her flat. She still wore her scarlet suit though she’d taken off her shoes.

  ‘You said you had some questions?’ She looked a little anxious.

  ‘Yes, a couple of things people have mentioned. I’ll go over it when I’ve had a word with everyone else.’ I pointed up the stairs.

  Half an hour later I had spoken to Adam Chan, a teacher, who answered the door with a kitten clasped in his arms; Mr and Mrs Conroy, NHS staff, who spoke rapidly in such rich Belfast accents that I had to ask them to repeat things; and Maria Creasy, a violinist with the Halle orchestra who had gone mad with the citrus air freshener to try and mask the cannabis smell in her lounge. And all I’d got for my trouble was a whole heap of noes. No one was aware of any tensions between residents, no one had received threatening mail or abusive
phone calls, no one had seen anything untoward, no suspicious visitors. I watched their reactions carefully and didn’t detect any hint of subterfuge.

  They all expressed some concern for their neighbour, though none of them knew her as anything more than a passing acquaintance. They promised to keep their eyes and ears open.

  The students, R. Osunde and D. Abacha, were out and, given they’d only moved in a month or so previously, they weren’t high on my list of people to talk to.

  At Lucy’s I accepted coffee and settled in an armchair. The room was a horrible mixture of styles: rag-rolled walls in blue with stencilled borders and matching curtains were dated while the furniture, which I assumed to be Lucy’s, was floral and fussy; cottage prints in green, pink and white which clashed with the blue. I was surprised, I’d expected her flat to mirror her dress sense; crisp lines, clear colours, objects artfully placed. Lucy didn’t look as though she belonged there.

  I told her about my fruitless trek round the neighbours and she nodded, a trace of disappointment in her eyes.

  ‘Tell me about Carly Jowett.’

  ‘Carly?’ She looked puzzled.

  ‘The girl who was sacked for stealing.’

  ‘Oh, that was ages ago ... must have been ... early February. Just before Valentine’s Day. That’s why I remember: Benjamin and I, we wanted to ... we were going to get married on Valentine’s Day.’ Thankfully she didn’t get all upset again but I recognised the intensity that Pam Hertz had mentioned, the dwelling on her own lost marriage plans and the death of her fiancé which had discomfited her co-worker.