by David Hatton
‘The spirits don’t seem to think so. Your dad isn’t too happy about this affair, Miss Morgan. He doesn’t like your sister’s husband too much either. What a disappointment the men in your lives have come to be. If only you both had jobs he could be proud of.’
A fist slammed down on the table, shooting vibrations up Jackie’s arms. She shot Morgan a look of disbelief.
‘Enough!’
‘I’m right though, aren’t I?’ Jackie winked.
‘Don’t you dare talk about my father. Now listen here, madam, you might have witnesses to take you out of the frame, but whether you killed Suzanne Walker or not, I bet you know who did.’
‘Wow, it’s like you’re psychic.’ Jackie chuckled.
‘Excuse me?’ Morgan probed.
‘You’re absolutely right, Miss Morgan. I do know who killed Suzanne Walker.’
‘Who is it?’
‘All in good time, my dear.’
18.
“If we discover a complete theory, it would be the ultimate triumph of human reason – for then we should know the mind of God.”
- Stephen Hawking (1988)
Oak bookcases lined the walls of the office filled with textbooks written by some of the world’s greatest architects. A blue rug sporting the family coat of arms covered the hardwood flooring. In the centre, a desk lay before a large bay window, providing the studious inhabitant with an alluring view of his pristine garden. Above the desk, a laptop captured the details of his presentation due to be delivered the following week to the shareholders.
The presidential study sat on the first floor of Robert Walker’s Didsbury home. He focused on his career-changing speech while knocking back a glass of his favourite brandy. In the corner of the room, a stereo whispered the soft sounds of Radio 4. Business Talk provided a glimpse into the lives of the most prominent leaders.
His programme ended and the news followed. The softly spoken news reader announced the Olympics Rings had been revealed across London’s Tower Bridge ahead of the games the following month and protesters had stormed through Cairo’s Tahir Square to denounce the country’s ruling generals from seizing power. The third headline caught his attention.
‘Greater Manchester Police have confirmed that the body found in the Rochdale Canal earlier today is that of missing 34-year-old, Suzanne Walker. Mrs Walker, who was a resident nearby the canal, disappeared before Christmas. She was found after a local clairvoyant, Jackie Wallace, informed Mrs Walker’s husband, Michael, of the whereabouts of the body a few days ago. The medium was initially taken in for questioning but has since been released without charge. The family have been informed and have asked that the public respect their privacy during this difficult time.’
Another glass of brandy settled his shakes. He shut the lid of his laptop and sighed. The bleeping of his phone caught his attention. He glanced over and found a text from his brother.
‘They’ve found her.’
Vomit filled his throat but he swallowed it hard, washing it down with the remaining poison in his glass. He clicked reply, hovering over the keypad, but struggled to find the words… any words… to say.
‘It’s all my fault.’ Robert spoke aloud. He stood up and threw the crystal glass, which scattered across the hardwood floor. He banged his fist on the desk.
Downstairs, the humming of his wife’s blissful ignorance towards her sister-in-law’s fate clashed with the patter of plates being stacked into the dishwasher. He rushed back to his desk-chair and opened the lid on his laptop. He brought up an airline website, dug out his frequent flyer number and searched budget offers out of the UK.
He joined her in the kitchen and helped her stack the dishwasher. As he lifted the plate, a delighted gasp escaped Elizabeth’s lips. She smiled and continued, moving items which he’d shoddily stacked.
‘You know how I said we should go to Portugal?’
‘Mmm hmm…’ Elizabeth nodded.
‘Well I’ve booked us flights.’ Robert lifted the folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed his wife the confirmation.
‘That’s fantastic! When are we going?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? That’s so soon!’ She clasped her cheeks between her palms.
‘Great, isn’t it?’
‘But it’s so soon?’ she protested.
‘So? Even better? No waiting around. We can just get out of here.’
‘But there’s so much we need to do. I’ll need to wash our summer clothes. I don’t have anything to wear.’
‘So? We’ll buy new stuff.’ Robert shrugged.
‘But there’s things I need to sort. We’ll need to give them our advanced passenger information. You can’t just fly off these days.’
‘It’s fine. I’ve checked. They’ll do it at the airport tomorrow.’
‘But… but….’
‘Look, if you don’t want to go, just forget it,’ Robert snapped. He opened the rubbish bin and placed the printed confirmation on top of the trash. ‘I’m sorry for trying to do something nice.’
He stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. Elizabeth collected the stained printout from the pedal bin and ran after him.
‘Rob! Rob! Please come back! I’m sorry. Of course I want to go.’
He turned around. ‘You do?’
‘Yes, yes I really do. Let’s go to Portugal.’
They embraced. Robert gripped her tightly. He breathed in her reassurance and they kissed beneath the crystal chandelier in the grand hallway. He pulled back and held her head in his hands.
‘In twenty-four hours, we’ll be far away from here,’ Robert whispered before grabbing his wife’s hand and leading her up the stairs.
A sharp wisp of sunlight burst through the crack of the curtains, the morning sunrise pouring its rays into the Castlefield apartment. The light burned the corneas of Michael’s hungover eyes. He’d remained static on the couch for the past four hours, only moving to lift the gin bottle closer to his lips.
Booze and exhaustion formed a nauseating cocktail, but the chaos in his skull prevented him from snoozing the discomfort off. Thousands of questions bounced across his cranium. The person who was responsible for his wife’s demise and his brother’s whereabouts tortured him the most.
The phone endlessly rang. The machine picked up the calls; the press pestering him for an interview and relatives checking in. He’d attempted to call Jackie, who’d become dubiously absent since she was released by the police the previous day.
He switched on the television. The twenty-four-hour news channel covered the finding of Suzanne. A statement from his own solicitor was read out asking the public to allow him to grieve in peace.
Switching channels to avoid further misery, he came across a breakfast chat show. The Morning Show delivered a morning of cookery, health advice and celebrity gossip. The hosts, Phil McIntyre and Francesca Dumont, sat on a lime green couch in a white studio. Behind, a window gave viewers a glimpse into the rustic maritime heritage of the Albert Dock where fans of the show frantically waved towards the camera as the ships docked into the Liverpool shore.
Phil had presented since the show’s debut twenty years before. His silver hair clashed with his tanned skin and his television status provided him an excuse to dress in eccentric multi-coloured shirts. His co-host, Francesca, was thirty years his junior. With her blonde hair, sleek figure and bronze skin, she won Sexiest Presenter of the Year in the first month of her new role, a position she’d achieved straight out of university after a public affair with the studio director. She wore a plain black dress supplied by a sponsor to gain publicity for their high-street brand.
‘Coming up shortly, Leonard will be showing us how to cook the perfect seafood pasta dish, but first…’ Phil opened the show. His recently whitened teeth almost blinded Michael who watched at home from his couch. ‘Our next guest became the centre of a murder investigation when she used her powers as a psychic medium to detect the locatio
n of a missing woman.’
Michael breathed in and held on to his stomach. The camera zoomed into Jackie, dressed in a yellow two-piece and a black blouse mirroring a colossal bumble-bee. A black fedora with a yellow brim covered her freshly dyed blue hair.
‘Jackie Wallace had recurring dreams that the body of a missing woman from Manchester was at the bottom of a canal. Well that body was found yesterday, exactly where the clairvoyant claimed it to be! Jackie, tell us all about it.’
The camera zoomed in on Jackie’s radiant smile. She jollily retold the story of how she’d uncovered the remains of Michael’s wife. Across the bottom of the screen, a link to her website appeared alongside a telephone number to arrange a private booking. Phil held up a copy of a national newspaper with Jackie’s image taking up the entire front page.
‘Well, Phil, I’ve had visions since I was very young. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in the headlines. I found the Mayor of Bolton’s lost photograph of his daughter once. I’d never found a body before but there’s a first time for everything!’
‘I believe you’ve manage to transform the beliefs of an atheist too?’
‘I have indeed!’ Jackie chuckled. ‘Suzanne, the lady who I found, her husband, Michael was a little sceptical to say the least when I first met him. But he soon believed me and it’s paid off. He was losing his mind wondering where she was. Now he’s at peace.’
‘With stories like this, the focus of the blame can often lead to the person who discovered the body. How do you defend yourself against this type of accusation?’ Francesca stepped in to continue the interview.
‘Well they do say whoever smelt it, dealt it.’ Jackie chuckled and the hosts rolled back giggling. ‘I was taken in for questioning yesterday but I was released. They were happy with my alibi. The night Suzanne died, I was on stage. My gift and my gift alone took me to Suzanne, nothing more.’
‘So what’s next for you?’
‘Who knows?’ Jackie shrugged. ‘The world is my oyster. But now Suzanne has been found, I’m a free agent to help other people.’
‘The sceptics amongst our viewers will want some form of proof of your talent. Do you have any messages for us today?’ Phil enquired.
‘I thought you’d never ask.’ Jackie smiled and gripped on to the hosts’ hands. ‘Phil, I have a woman here called Patricia. I believe she’s your mother. She’s so proud of you and she’s at peace now the cancer is over.’
‘That’s right! My mother did have cancer! Thank you, Jackie!’
A raspberry blew from Michael’s lips. Who didn’t know about Phil’s dead mother? He’d exploited it for months to promote his autobiography. And nobody could avoid the poor woman’s funeral; he welcomed a celebrity gossip magazine to photograph it.
‘What about me?’ Francesca said, pulling Phil out of view like a frustrated child awaiting her turn.
‘Francesca, I’m seeing a car crash. A teenage girl died. Somebody called Katie?’
‘Yes! She’s my cousin. Wow, you’re really good!’ Francesca bounced with excitement.
‘Were you in the car?’ Jackie asked.
‘Yeah, I was. I’ve felt guilty ever since. I didn’t wear my seatbelt and she was in the front passenger seat. When the car crashed, I was thrust forward into the back of her seat.’
‘Listen to me, Francesca.’ Jackie let go of Phil’s hand and grabbed his co-host’s arms. ‘You must forgive yourself. You were not to know and you have saved others through your charity work, all because of that crash. Katie needed to go so that you could save many others and that’s a wonderful gift. You wouldn’t have even thought to have done that had Katie not left us. She forgives you.’
‘Thank you.’ Francesca wiped a tear and smiled.
‘Well that’s all we have time for…’ Phil intervened. ‘Now for a commercial break…’
‘Wait!’ Jackie yelled, rising up and holding her hands in the air. ‘I’m getting another message.’
‘We need to go to the break,’ Phil reiterated.
‘It’s important. It’s from the woman they found in the canal yesterday… Suzanne!’
Michael jumped up. He dropped the bottle of gin on the ground, which smashed into several pieces and poured a sticky liquid over his hardwood flooring. He stepped barefoot on the glass but the events unfolding on the television numbed any pain.
‘She’s giving me a sign… she’s telling me who killed her!’
The camera cut to Phil and Francesca, who held their hands over their foreheads, and their jaws hung lower than Francesca’s top. The screen broke into two, displaying the adverts on one half, silencing the voiceovers to give Suzanne a national stage.
‘Who is it, Suzanne?’ Jackie cried. ‘Who was it that killed you?’
‘Oh my God, who is it?’ Francesca clutched on to her chest and Phil placed his hand on hers.
‘It’s her brother-in-law… Robert Walker!’
The medium began to shake like a leaf. She paused and faced towards the camera with vacant eyes.
‘He ran over my son and then he came for me!’ Jackie’s spoke with a high-pitched English brogue. ‘He thought I knew! Robert Walker is the man you want!’
A groan from the clairvoyant was followed by a thump of her weight hitting the couch. The sweaty psychic passed out and Francesca leaned over her, fanning her with her script. Phil urged the cameras to switch off, leading to the adverts which the public had been promised minutes earlier.
A brown leather designer tote bag rolled down the staircase. Jewellery and sun-cream scattered across the hallway ejecting from the open pocket of the tumbling luggage. Behind, Elizabeth appeared, dressed in a white slip-dress and a large-brimmed wicker sun-hat. Butterfly sunglasses covered her eyes and in each hand she held matching brown leather suitcases.
She walked into the living room where her husband sat cross-legged, stroking his chin. He sported a Hawaiian shirt and beige shorts. His colourful attire struggled to match the frown which struck his face.
‘Are you OK, love?’ Elizabeth tilted her head. ‘I’m sorry I took so long. Trying to pack at the last minute isn’t the easiest. There’s so much to consider.’
‘What have you done?’ Robert said between gritted teeth.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That medium is on TV blaming me for Suzanne’s death… and Jason’s. What have you said?’
‘I haven’t…’ Elizabeth shook her head back and forth between her husband and the television. The adverts continued to play.
‘You’ve been going to see her and I know she turned up the other night. You’ve been gossiping again, haven’t you? You just can’t keep your mouth shut.’
‘Robert… please…’
‘And you’ve thrown me under the bus.’
‘No, Robert, wait…’ Elizabeth pleaded.
‘You really are a useless bitch.’
Her bottom lip trembled.
‘I do everything for you. Everything. I give you this life, I protect you. You want for nothing. But what do you give? Nothing. You can’t even give me a child. Even when you do manage to get pregnant, you lose it. And now this? Well if you think I’m going to be with you any longer, you can forget it. You can stay here and clean up your own mess. I’m going to Portugal.’
He slapped her and she fell to the ground, clasping on to the burn which radiated from her cheek. A knock at the door brought a smile to Robert’s face.
‘My taxi’s here. Goodbye, Elizabeth.’
He grabbed his suitcase and opened the door. Outside there was no sign of a taxi. Instead a blue and white car flashed in the distance.
‘Mr Walker… I’m Detective Morgan. Please can I come in?’
Michael collapsed onto the couch. He took out his mobile phone and dialled his brother’s number. As he hit the last digit, he paused. What could he say? He deleted it and redialled Jackie’s number. After three rings, she answered.
‘Jackie?’
‘Oh hello, Michael,’ sh
e cheerfully muttered. ‘How are you?’
‘A little down in the dumps as you can probably imagine.’
‘Oh of course. I’m sorry, my love. Did you see me on the TV?’
‘Who didn’t? What the hell were you thinking? Did you have any consideration for my feelings at all?’
‘Of course I did, my love. I was going to ask you but I couldn’t get through to you last night and they needed an immediate answer.’
‘What about all that stuff about my brother? Couldn’t you tell me in person rather than shouting it all over national television?’
‘Michael…’ Jackie said with a stern tone. ‘I can’t choose when the spirits are going to come forward. Suzanne must have wanted the world to know at that moment.’
‘Oh shut up,’ Michael barked. ‘Just forget it, Jackie. Do what the hell you want but stay away from me. I’ve found my wife, I don’t need you anymore. So just stay away!’
‘Michael!’
But he hung up. Taking one last glance at his brother’s number, he decided whatever was to be said needed to be done in person. He escaped the apartment, leaving the rubble of his binge-fest behind. Stepping into his car, he felt a dizziness after a night of consumption wobbled his sight. He sat down and took three deep breaths before starting his engine and revving out of the car park.
Swerving from the chaos of Princess Street, he ignored the flurry of car horns onto Barlow Moore Road, before taking a sharp left onto the usually tranquil Landsdowne Road. The sandstone semi-detached house reflected the flashing beams of blue and red. Outside, a collage of white, yellow and blue vehicles guarded the entrance of his brother’s grand abode.
The screeching of wheels brought Michael’s car to a halt. He breathed on his hand and sniffed it, squinting as he breathed in the ethanol. He held back and stared at the action unfolding from the driver’s seat.
The red door of 48C opened and out stepped his brother, handcuffed to the officer beside him. Behind, his wife shook her head, following her husband out the door. She sat down on the step, removed her sunglasses and sobbed. In the hallway, the luggage for their trip lay dormant.