He laughed. ‘If only. I’ve not met many of the people yet but the place is sectioned off into cubby-holes; it’ll be like sitting in a wardrobe all day.’
‘Least you can escape into virtual reality.’
‘Only way to cope.’
My phone interrupted us. When I answered there was a moment’s silence as thought the caller was disconcerted to reach me, then she spoke, her voice low.
‘Sal Kilkenny?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Minty, from the party.’
As if I wouldn’t remember her – and it wasn’t the party I thought of but the way she’d stumbled past my car.
‘I’m scared.’ Her voice broke.
A chill crawled down my spine.
‘Please …’
I couldn’t tell whether she was pleading with me or someone else. I couldn’t hear anything. Had she stopped speaking or was there a problem with the connection.
‘Minty? Minty?’ My phone displayed call ended. I pressed to re-dial but it switched to an answering service. Ray had been watching and had picked up on the concern in my voice.
‘She’s gone,’ I said to him, ‘said she was scared then broke off.’
‘A client?’
‘No. The woman I told you about from last week, the one who’d been mugged and I took her home. Turns out she knows Chris, she was at the party.’ I thought about it. ‘Could be a panic attack, I suppose. I think I better call round see if she’s at home.’
‘She might ring back,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should wait?’
I grimaced. Feeling jumpy, I didn’t want to sit and wait. What if the man had come back, maybe he was at her house, what if the first attack he’d simply been disturbed and now he was back, perhaps the beating had been a prelude to rape. My mind swayed around overloaded with possibilities.
‘Give her my mobile if she does. It’ll only take a little while to drive round there.’
He smiled.
‘What?’
‘You,’ he said affectionately, ‘never say no.’ He stopped smiling. ‘If this bloke’s there …’
‘I’ll call the police,’ I promised him.
Chapter Fifteen
I’d lost my gloves. Stupid things hang around cluttering up the place for months and then, when the temperature falls, abracadabra – like a fiver up a magician’s sleeve. My hands ached from the cold bite of the steering wheel and when I stopped at lights I rubbed them together to try and stop the pain.
I parked directly outside Minty’s and left the car door unlocked just in case I had to get away in a hurry. I pushed the bell which rang loud and clear inside. Peering in through the stained glass I couldn’t discern any movement; no sound of footsteps or doors opening. I rang again, three long bursts, enough to wake the dead. The phrase disturbed me, I pushed away the thought – I was not prepared to think like that. One phone call from an anxious woman did not a murder make.
Still no one came. I was loathe to leave but what else could I do. Minty had rung me from a mobile, I didn’t know her home number. I tried Chris but her answerphone was on.
I decided to check the back; her partner Caroline might be in there with the television on loud, though there was no noise audible from where I stood. Or the man who’d hurt Minty might have returned, got into the house and trapped her in one of the back rooms. The house was in a terrace and although these were bigger and more upmarket than most in Manchester they still shared alleyways that separated the row of back gardens from the gardens of the next street.
In the past, night soil carts and coal wagons would have used the alleys, nowadays the residents dragged their wheelie bins along them once a week for the refuse collection. A solitary street lamp lit the passageway, I made my way along counting down to the fifth house. A lot of the windows were lit, paper blinds showed squares of cream, heavier curtains admitted only a strip of light around the edge, one upstairs room with curtains drawn framed the electric-blue flicker of a television set. Minty’s back garden was fenced with larch-lap panels and a traditional wooden gate like a door. I tried the latch and it opened fine, the snick of noise rang loud in the cold, quiet air. I paused on the threshold, there was a faint glow at one of the upstairs windows but no lights visible in the downstairs rooms and from this distance no noise or sign of life. Should I go and peer in the windows?
I heard a sound, felt the movement of air and then the sudden crushing weight of an arm around my neck. He’d got me! Fear flashed along my limbs and slapped at my heart.
‘What d’you think you’re playing at?’ His voice harsh in my ear.
Shock sizzled through my veins and I fought for breath. I’d no image of the man who had hurt Minty but Benjamin Vernay’s face sprang to mind. It couldn’t be him, could it?
‘Get off me,’ I managed.
To my surprise he let go and I almost fell over. He was a large man, tall and broad with a tonsured head. He smelt of onions. He stared at me. My pulse was rocketing, my throat tightened. I couldn’t remember my ABC from self-defence. I wanted to run and I wanted to hit the guy. I did neither. He was blocking the gate. Could he smell my fear? Did it give him a kick?
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what do you think you’re doing?’
It took me a moment to answer. How could we be talking like this when he was about to beat me up? Part of the game?
‘I couldn’t get a reply at the front, I thought I’d try here.’
He sneered. ‘You were hanging about the other night,’ he said.
My mouth was dry. He thought I’d seen the attack, thought I was a witness. He’d try to shut me up. I said nothing.
‘Severn Road, I saw you then, so what do you do, eh? You the look-out? They didn’t get in – your mates. I think the police would like to talk to you. I’m making a citizen’s arrest. Oh, yes.’ He gripped my upper arm. ‘Bit of explaining to do, haven’t you?’
‘Wait!’ It was the man I’d seen in his dressing gown on his front porch, the man whose alarm had gone off while I’d been working for the Ecclestones. His house was in the terraced row that backed onto these. Not Minty’s attacker, not some vicious rapist. ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ I pulled away. ‘I’m not a thief, I’m a private investigator. Look.’ I pulled a card from my pocket and he looked at it.
‘You can print this sort of thing off at home if you want to,’ he said suspiciously.
‘Constable Tootall, Elizabeth Slinger police station. He knows me, ring them, check.’
He paused. Handed back my card. He looked disappointed. ‘So what you investigating?’
I still felt unsteady so I answered him. ‘I got a call from a friend, she was in trouble but we got cut off. She lives here, I came round to see if she was home. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in.’
‘And the other night?’
‘Assessing the neighbourhood for a client. They’re thinking of buying property round here, wanted to know what it was like.’
‘And what did you tell them?’
‘Rash of attempted break-ins at present, not for the first time, occasional mugging.’ I thought of Minty. This bastard had scared me witless and now I was justifying myself to him. Terror was turning into anger.
‘Neighbourhood Watch,’ he introduced himself, finally satisfied with my account.
‘Not a good idea to launch yourself at people like that.’
He gave a pompous smile.
‘That could be classed as assault,’ I said. Too late to add over-enthusiastic vigilante to the Ecclestones’ list.
His face flushed and he looked mutinous.
‘Besides I might have retaliated.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes. Kick-boxing.’ OK. I was fibbing but it sounded better than self-defence. ‘Could have broken your leg, smashed your knee-cap,’ I said sharply. ‘You carry on like that with some kid wired up on drugs, or after a fix, he’s carrying a knife …’ I let him imagine the consequences.
He didn’t like my attitude b
ut then I hadn’t liked being attacked by a stranger and nearly having a heart attack. I reckoned we were quits.
‘I have a job to do.’
He stood aside and I stepped through the gate pulling it shut after me. I felt his eyes on me as I walked away but I resisted the urge to look back or make any childish gesture. Neighbourhood Watch was all well and good but the guy really needed some training in appropriate action. I bet the starter kit didn’t advocate sneaking up on lone women in the dark and grabbing them in an arm-lock.
I was shaking. I sat in the car and leant back against the seat, my head against the rest. All my senses felt stretched, everything larger than life, the pear-drops taste in my mouth, the smell of plastic in the car, the sound of my breath, the feel in my windpipe as though it had been scoured. And there was a giddy sense of relief and abandon. I was alive, I was fine, I was safe.
Chapter Sixteen
When I’d calmed down enough I tried Minty’s number again. Still no answer. I fumbled putting the key in the ignition, my co-ordination off-kilter. I drove slowly not trusting my reflexes. My route home took me back down Severn Road. Perhaps I’d run over Mr Neighbourhood Watch on the way. The thought made me giggle.
I scanned the road. Minty might be around here if her assailant had jumped her like before, close to home. Or maybe she’d seen him and was hiding. Why not call me again? Because he might hear? Each time I passed a gateway or ginnel where she might be I slowed. But I didn’t see anyone.
When I reached the gloomy Smiths’ house I saw the front door was ajar. I closed my eyes and swore softly. It was a perishing night, the cold would be unbearable with the door open. Had someone broken in? I couldn’t ignore it so I tried to focus on my choices. Just thinking clearly seemed such an effort. And of course I wasn’t thinking clearly; I was tired and shaken-up and all over the place. What could I do – phone the police or check it out myself? How long would it take the police to come? It would depend on what else was kicking off in Manchester. An open door wasn’t exactly a serious crime, it would probably mean waiting for them. So – sit and freeze and worry or act and likely be home drinking hot cocoa in quarter of an hour?
What if there were burglars in there? Stealing what exactly? It was hardly a prime target. More likely to be a rough sleeper, I told myself, someone desperate for shelter, or even more simply the door hadn’t closed properly the last time someone had been out, the wood might have warped with the change in weather, the latch might be broken. I reassured myself with these thoughts but if I’m honest there was also a need to regain some ground – to be brave and face down the demons.
Taking my torch from the back seat, I tucked my mobile in my pocket and made my way through the weeds past the rusting car and up the two broad stone steps to the doorway. I shone the light inside, it illuminated a drab hallway. Piles of circulars and free newspapers were scattered about.
I called out loudly, ‘Hello, hello.’ If there were prowlers I didn’t want to sneak up and surprise them. And I didn’t want to frighten Mr and Mrs Smith. ‘Hello, the door’s open, hello?’
Silence. Deep, dull silence. I must have listened for two minutes and there wasn’t a breath of noise.
I looked at the door. The lock was broken but it was impossible to tell whether that was recent. I took a couple of steps inside still calling out, feeling a little foolish but still keen not to surprise anyone. The place reeked of damp and rotten wood, a mouldy, mushroom smell that reminded me of grubbing in the woods as a child. I pointed the torch up the stairway. A swirl of fear. I didn’t want to go up there. Mrs Smith wouldn’t manage those stairs, would she? I bargained with myself – if they weren’t downstairs then I would definitely let the police handle it.
I swung the beam round and picked out three doorways on the ground floor, the front room nearest to me and two others at the back; kitchen and dining room I guessed.
I stood and listened some more. My hands were getting numb. I could see an old light switch, the round sort dating from decades before, they’d long since been replaced in most homes. Probably illegal now. There was a bulb above at the end of curly brown cables. I tried it but nothing happened.
When I knocked on the lounge door it swung open. No bulb in the ceiling fitting here. The room was deserted, a lumpen sofa and a rickety Formica table the only furniture. The walls were decorated with a faded floral pattern, bunches of wisteria. There were blooms of mildew in patches and spongy fungus sprouting in one corner of the ceiling. Yellow curtains were nailed across the big front window. The fireplace was open and the grate full of rubbish. I could hear something rattle in the chimney, then silence.
I followed the torch beam down the hall to the door at the back. I knocked and called out again. ‘Mrs Smith, hello?’ They might be asleep, hard of hearing
In the kitchen the back door was broken in, wood splintered and torn back, just enough to gain entry. So someone had broken in. And then what …found nothing and left by the front door? Who’d be desperate enough to burgle here? Junkies?
There were scraps of food rotting on the table and bags of rubbish which something, rats I thought, had torn open and scattered. The room smelt stale. A pre-war gas cooker stood beside an original deep Belfast sink. I shone my torch in the sink. It was bone dry, the bottom dusty as though it hadn’t seen any water in years. I turned the tap. Nothing. How did they cope without water? The squalor was appalling but my revulsion was tempered with anger. How could they live like this and no one care, no one help? First thing in the morning I’d be onto Rachel again – if the Smiths weren’t known to Social Services they should be.
I knocked on the dining room door, called out and went in. The smell made me gag, saliva flooded my mouth and my throat convulsed. They must have been using it as a toilet. I was right. My torch lit upon an old pan and a bucket, brimful. I jerked the beam away, across to the window at the back, a mattress below, old clothes piled on it in bin liners, torn with streaks of something showing. A head. Fingers. The hand swollen, the colour of aubergine. The cheek, skin splitting, exposing mottled lumps, jagged edges, white shapes. Ohgodno. Not bin liners. A man. A corpse. Mr Smith, curled on his side, his face torn open.
I dropped the torch, gasped in the sudden dark and breathed in the foul air again. It stuck in my throat like powder, bitter and rank. I scrabbled for the torch and as I raised it the torchlight picked out the heel of Mrs Smith, the broken shoe, she lay face down in all the clothes I’d seen her in. Vomit rose in my throat. I clenched my teeth tight, pressed my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth.
‘Mrs Smith?’ My voice was squeaky. I took a step closer. The smell was unbearable. I pulled my fleece up over my nose, breathing in the smell of my clothes and deodorant. I didn’t want to touch her but if she was still alive … I squatted down, I put out my hand, trembling uncontrollably and touched hers. It was stone cold and without moving it I could feel the dense weight, the solidity of rigor mortis. I stumbled up and turned away and was sick, hot and sour, all over the floor.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand I hurried to the front door. My legs didn’t work properly, like running in soft sand. My teeth were chattering and my bowels burned. I got in the car and locked the doors, terrified that I’d be next. A hand on my shoulder, breath on my cheek. My heart hammered hard. I whirled round to check there was no one hiding in the back seat.
I drew out my phone, had to stab at it twice to release the keypad lock, my fingers seemed bigger than normal. Pressed 999.
They came quickly. Uniforms and an ambulance then detectives from the serious crime squad. A stream of people asked me the same questions which I answered as best as I could. But I was cold and empty and deeply shocked by the violent scene I’d walked into and it was so hard to keep track of what they were asking and to find the right words to answer them.
Every time I closed my eyes there was a sequence running, the cone of light rippling over the darkened corpse, Mr Smith’s face, Mrs Smith’s dirty heel, her
clumps of hair. And I could smell them on me, rotting meat and shit. To die like that. The images blurred when tears finally found me. Who were the tears for – them or me?
At last they let me go. One of them explained to me that they couldn’t tell yet what had happened to the Smiths.
‘It’s not clear yet whether anyone else was involved.’
‘Someone broke in.’
‘Yes, but there are no obvious signs of violence.’
I struggled with that. Wasn’t the whole place redolent with violence? I shook my head.
‘No wounds, no blood loss.’
The images spooled round in my head. I ran the loop. Stopped at the frame, the moment before I’d dropped my torch. ‘His face, his cheek …’ Torn, glimpses of jaw, teeth.
‘Animals …’
Rats.
‘They go for the soft tissue. Could have happened … after.’
I grimaced.
‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
They believed me when I said I was safe to drive. I left them sealing off the premises with stripy tape and unloading equipment from a van. I crept home, driving like a learner, checking the mirror all the time, signalling carefully even though there was scarcely any traffic about. My breath coming in misty clouds, my nose numb, my fingers rigid. Expecting to crash at any moment.
Chapter Seventeen
The first thing I did at home was brush my teeth and wash my face, trying to get rid of the taste and the smell. I had a raging thirst and drank a large glass of water.
Television sound came from the lounge, Ray was still up, watching a movie.
‘Hiya,’ he said without looking back, ‘you took your time. Steve Buscemi – he’s brilliant in this …’ he nodded to the screen.
‘Ray,’ a little squeak, I sounded about six years old.
He turned round, alarm shot across his face, he began to get up. ‘What’s up?’ He took a step towards me.
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