I couldn’t stop shaking.
I listened to the local radio all afternoon, my eyes brimming with tears each time they read the headlines. It seemed as though no one had died though there were many people injured. Sunday was Father’s Day and town had been full of children off to get something nice for Daddy. My mind kept turning to the people who’d have to live with the results of today for the rest of their lives. Had Debbie Gosforth been caught up in the blast? I’d leave it over the weekend, try ringing her on Monday.
Mid-afternoon, our lodger Sheila rang; she was visiting friends in Blackburn for the weekend. Were we all right? What was going on? They’d heard about it on Radio 4 news. We exchanged words of shock. She would delay returning home, she told us; apparently there were no trains in or out of Victoria Station.
By the end of the day they were still talking about the injured rather than the dead. The first witnesses were on television; shoppers, medics.
The coverage rolled on all weekend. No one had been killed. It was a miracle. And in the teeth of all the chaos they went ahead with the football at Old Trafford – Germany versus Russia.
On Monday I rang my client.
‘It’s Sal Kilkenny, we were going to meet on Saturday. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I got stopped on the way in. It’s a shock though. Where I work, it’s on Deansgate – it’s in the cordon, you can’t get in. I rang the boss to see what was happening. Even he can’t go in yet. He’s no idea if the shop’s all right or when he’ll open up again. It’s awful. He doesn’t know if the insurance will cover it. He doesn’t even know if he can pay us.’ She sighed.
‘Can we rearrange our meeting?’ I said. ‘I can come to you at home or you can come here if you’d prefer.’
‘You come to me,’ she said.
‘Today? This morning?’
‘Yeah, I’m not going anywhere,’ she said bitterly. The edge in her voice was a change from the resigned depression I’d heard during our last conversation.
I promised to be there in an hour’s time. I walked the three hundred yards round the corner to my office first. I rent a cellar there in the Dobson family home. Grant and Jackie are teachers and during term time I hardly see them. Their four daughters are all at school or sixth form college. The arrangement works well. I can keep my work separate from my home, I can interview clients and store my papers there. The Dobsons seem to enjoy the curiosity value of a private eye in the basement. Not as noisy as a rock band, anyway.
I’d given the room a face-lift that spring: covered the old lilac paint on the walls and ceiling with a sandy yellow, lashed out on a big, rag rug which covered most of the tatty carpet, painted the dining chairs and filing cabinet in bright citrus colours, pinned some filmy yellow muslin over the narrow basement window and stuck up a large, vivid blue silk-screen print that my friend Diane had done. The result was probably not what prospective clients expected from a private investigator’s office, neither lawyerly nor seedy. But I loved it and it seemed to have a relaxing effect on people who were usually pretty tense and upset by the time they got to see me.
I prepared an invoice for Platt, Henderson & Cockfoot for my valiant attempt to serve papers on the late Mr Kearsal, and got it ready to post. I collected my mail and checked my messages. Nothing important.
Debbie lived on Ivygreen Road, a street of terraced houses near busy Chorlton Green. Chorlton is a cosmopolitan district; the mix of housing means it caters for lots of different people. Not far from Manchester town centre and the universities, it has the added attraction of Chorlton Ees, a stretch of open meadows leading down to the River Mersey.
The long rows of identical redbrick terraces would easily look drab in the winter months, but in June the trees were in full leaf and people had placed hanging baskets here and there, and installed chimney pots and tubs in the tiny front gardens.
The Gosforth house was just like its neighbours, net curtains at the windows, neatly painted gate and door. Trim, unremarkable. The variety was in the choice of paint and the style of net. While some of them boasted frothing drapes and ruches like old-fashioned frilly baby pants, others went for sheer nets or the jardinière type with a convenient space in the centre of the windowsill to display a treasured ornament or plant. Debbie had chosen a bowl of dried flowers. The odd window without nets looked naked, shocking in its bravado, parading the life within to the world outside.
I rang the bell.
‘Who is it?’ Her caution in asking before opening the door was the first indication I had of how frightened this woman was.
‘Sal Kilkenny.’
I heard her release the chain and then unlock the door.
Debbie invited me in and took me through to the living room, previously two rooms which had been knocked together to run the length of the house. The place was immaculate, the air scented with floral pot-pourri.
The two shelves that held books and toys and the school photograph – three smiling faces with well-brushed hair – were the only clues that the place was inhabited by children.
How do people do that? Are they perpetually cleaning? Wiping up sticky finger marks, hoovering up crumbs and crisps, sorting toys…or do they somehow train their children to be neat, tidy, clean and careful – in other words, to behave completely unlike children. How?
I’d long since reached an uneasy truce, accepting, against all the lessons my mother had drummed into me, that a basic level of mess and grime came with the territory. Life was messy, kids were messy, there were more important things than a clean swing bin. Now and then, when I could no longer bear the jumble in the toy boxes or the layers of food particles and felt-pen marks on the doorjamb and the television, I’d have a binge. It would look OK (never pristine, I could never do pristine) for an hour or two until it got lived in again.
Somehow Debbie had got it cracked. I sat opposite her on one of a pair of winged armchairs, drew out my notebook and began my enquiry.
I established her full name, her home situation (divorced, living alone here with three children), her place of work. She was a bit like her house, neat and trim. She was dressed in a fuchsia-pink ribbed sweater and a black skirt. Her hair was dark blonde, pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a little make-up, a silver cross on a chain, silver studs in her ears. ‘Well turned-out’ was the phrase. She looked good but her hands trembled as she spoke and at times she became breathless and stumbled over her words.
I asked her to tell me about the man who had been following her. When had it started?
‘It was about three months ago, just after Easter. I came out of work and he was there across the road. The first couple of times I thought he was waiting to meet someone.’
‘But you noticed him, you were aware of him?’
She played with her chain. ‘He was staring at me longer than you normally do. Then he started to follow me.’
‘From work?’
She nodded. ‘He’d walk behind me, not close but in sight. Follow me to the bus stop. I…it wasn’t…I didn’t like it. One day I went to get Jason’s birthday present,’ she motioned to the photograph, ‘and he was behind me. That’s when it got to me, because I was sure he was actually doing it. There wasn’t any doubt any more.’
‘Was he there every day?’
‘No. Sometimes he’d do two days in a row and then nothing for a few days then he’d turn up again.’
‘No particular pattern?’
She thought for a moment, shook her head.
‘Do you work every day?’
‘No, I do Wednesday, Thursday and Saturdays, sometimes an extra day if one of the girls is sick or there’s stocktaking.’
‘Did you tell anyone at work about it?’
‘Yeah, they all knew. Jean, that’s the manageress, she went and had a word with him a couple of times, asked him to move on. He’d go off but, he’d be there again when I came out, or I’d see him on the way to the bus. It just went on and on.’ Her composure broke. ‘It’s awful,’ she pro
tested, her face crumpling, ‘I keep thinking it must be me, something I’ve said or done. Why is he doing this?’
‘You don’t know him?’
‘No, I’ve no idea who he is.’
‘Does he seem at all familiar? Someone you might have met and forgotten?’
‘No, I’m pretty good with faces. I’ve never seen him, I’m sure.’
‘Has he ever spoken to you, approached you?’
‘Not then but later.’
‘Go on.’
‘About a month after it had all started, I’d had enough. It’s so…’ she paused, finding the right word, running her thumb along the chain and back. ‘It’s creepy, it becomes the most important thing, it gets in the way of everything else.’ She took a breath and exhaled slowly. ‘So, I went up to him, at the bus stop. I told him to leave me alone, to stop following me or I’d report him to the police.’
She swallowed, opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t. She ducked her head. When she did speak, it was a whisper; I strained to catch it. ‘He knew my name.’ She looked up and repeated herself, her voice breaking, high with panic. ‘He knew my name. “Debbie,” he said, that really freaked me out. How did he know my name?’ she cried out.
I waited.
“Don’t be like this,” he said, “you know how much you mean to me.”’ She blushed. ‘It was awful. “I love you,” he said. “You know that.” I couldn’t stand it. I just ran then, to the bus. The next day this letter came, pages and pages of stuff about how much I meant to him and how long he’d waited to find me, on and on.’ She shook her head in disbelief.
‘Have you got the letter?’
‘No, it made me feel dirty. I chucked it. There was no address or anything. It was posted in Manchester.’
‘Was it signed?’
‘Just the initial, G. There’ve been others since. I realised I’d better keep them, for evidence.’ She rose and crossed to a wall cupboard and pulled out a large manila envelope. From inside it she took a bundle of letters. Thick, inky script, closely written. I read two and learned nothing other than that the writer G was obsessed with Debbie, was convinced they would eventually be together and live happily ever after. The language was clichéd and sentimental. I also noticed there was no specific references in them, no mention of other people, of Debbie’s children, no places and nothing that gave any clue to the writer’s identity. It was all generalities like a badly written gift card going on for six pages at a time. The paper and envelopes were cheap – the sort sold at bargain discount outlets.
‘Are they all like this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I keep a couple?’
‘You can have the lot as far as I’m concerned,’ she said bitterly. ‘I can’t stand having them in the house.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I can keep them somewhere safe, they may be useful evidence.’ She passed me the large envelope. ‘Mrs Henderson says he’s been here too.’
‘Yes, just the last three weeks. That’s when I went to the police. They said there was nothing they could do, that there’s no law against it. But they said I could see a lawyer, maybe try getting some evidence of harassment.’
‘When has he been here? Day or night?’
‘Both. The first time, Sunday it was, I was taking the children to church. He was across the road by the alley, leaning on that wall.’
I went over and looked through the nets. Almost directly opposite there was a cobbled alleyway between two terraces leading to the back alleys.
‘I didn’t let on, I didn’t want the children to know. He’d gone when we came back. Then a few days later, the Tuesday it was, my Mum had come round for her tea. I rang for a taxi to take her back, and I kept looking out so we wouldn’t miss it, and he was there. Just staring, watching the house.’ She caught her breath. ‘I asked Mum to stay and I called the police. They sent someone round but he’d gone by the time they arrived.’
‘Was he driving?’
‘I never saw a car.’
‘Describe him to me.’
I made notes as she spoke. Medium height, slim build, dark hair thinning on top, curly round the edges. Clean-shaven. Wears suit, neither flash nor ancient. Slightly out of date, ordinary dark suit, shirt, tie. Carries black umbrella. Age early thirties? Hard to tell.
‘Has he spoken to you again?’
‘Sometimes he calls out after me; sometimes he gets on the bus.’ She chewed on her chain. ‘It’s awful,’ she blurted out, ‘I can’t stand him. I just want him to go away. I’ve never done anything to him – why’s he doing this to me?’
I’d no answers, only more questions. ‘Has he ever threatened you?’
She shook her head. ‘But the whole thing is threatening,’ she complained. ‘It’s as if he’s hunting me, getting closer all the time…’ there was panic in her voice.
Stalking, that’s the word they use. The man pursuing Debbie was a stalker.
‘It must be terrible,’ I agreed quietly, ‘and you’re obviously very frightened. It is a frightening situation. What we need to do now is gather evidence; if we can get some clear proof, it’ll help the police even if it can’t actually go to court. They might be able to scare him off. You’ve already got the letters, now we need to keep a record of everything else, so we can show the level of harassment he’s subjecting you to. The next time you see him, ring me, no matter what time it is. If I can come I will.’ I gave her my card and wrote my home number on the reverse. ‘Try this number if the answerphone’s on or I don’t answer the mobile.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I’ll take photos, maybe even use video, and I’ll follow him – find out where he lives and who he is.’
She saw me to the door. I motioned to the array of locks and bolts. ‘You’ve made the house secure – that’s good. But he’s not likely to hurt you,’ I tried to reassure her. ‘I realise it’s an awful strain but it’s very unlikely he’ll use violence against you.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘that’s what Mrs Henderson told me. But it doesn’t change what it feels like. I’m really scared; he’s hurting me already, it’s messing my life up.’ I could hear that panic again. Then she whispered: ‘I’m so frightened.’
Yeah, so would I be, I thought, and I would take great satisfaction in running the little creep to ground.
Chapter Three
‘Mummy,’ Maddie stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips. ‘There’s a gigantic slug in the sandpit.’
‘Is there?’ I emptied the washing machine. Too late to peg it all out now but the forecast for the morning looked promising.
‘Come and get it out now.’
‘And slug poo,’ Tom shouted from outside.
‘It’s nearly bedtime,’ I warned them.
I scooped the brown and orange slug onto a trowel. It shrunk to a glistening lump of muscle and I dropped it into one of the beer traps I’d got dotted round the garden. At Tom’s insistence I removed the slug poo too and put that on the soil.
While Maddie carefully sculpted a mermaid’s house in the sand I wandered round dead-heading the pansies and the petunias, tidying up the tubs and baskets. Tom trundled the toy wheelbarrow round after me. Although there was only a year between Tom who was four, and Maddie, five going on six, he was still very much a little boy, short and stocky, hardly more than a toddler, while Maddie, in the midst of a growth spurt, looked lanky and skinny. Her body had assumed the proportions of a child now and she scorned anything she regarded as babyish.
It took me an hour and a half to get them both bathed, dressed and into bed, stories told and books read.
Ray was out. He’d gone for a drink with some of his fellow students from the computer course he’s doing at Salford University. He earns his living as a joiner but he wants a change. He says he’s had enough of manual labour and lousy working conditions.
It was barely warm enough to sit out but it was light and dry. And after all, this was the only summer we’d get. I put on an old fle
ecy top, found a blanket and the book I was reading, and fetched a lager from the fridge.
There was a clear sky, blue fading to apricot in the west. I leant my head back and watched the planes climbing out of Manchester Airport. Their trails criss-crossed in the sky, the white lines etched onto the blue, like ink bleeding on wet paper.
I hankered to be up there heading for somewhere hot with dusty roads and the scent of pink trees baking in the sun. I read and sipped my drink. As dusk fell I could no longer read the print. I yawned and stretched, gathered up my things. Weary again. It hadn’t been a particularly gruelling day, but what with work and chores and children, every day was busy enough to tire me out.
I let Digger out in case Ray was late back. As I waited on the doorstep while he sniffed round the front garden I thought of Debbie Gosforth. Afraid to open the door, afraid to look out of the window. Was G stalking her tonight?
First thing Tuesday morning I got a call at the office. The man introduced himself as Victor Wallace; his son Luke was on remand in Golborne Remand Centre. He’d been arrested and charged with the murder of Ahktar Khan. The case had been committed for trial. ‘You probably saw it in the papers. He didn’t do it,’ Mr Wallace said emphatically. ‘They were mates, good friends, there’s no way…I want you to talk to people – someone must have seen something. The place was busy, the club was emptying.’
I’d nothing more than vague recollections of the crime. ‘When was it?’ I stalled.
‘First of January. It was the New Year’s Eve party at Nirvana.’
The club was famous for its dance scene. People travelled from all over Europe for a night in Nirvana.
‘And the police have charged him?’
‘Murder. They’ve made up their minds. It’s all a terrible mistake.’
‘What about Luke’s lawyer?’
‘He knows I’m not happy, I want more doing. They’ve had people looking into it but they’ve not come up with anything very useful, nothing that’ll clear him.’
Fragments of the story surfaced as I listened. There’d been talk of a racial motive. Luke Wallace was white; Ahktar Khan, an Asian Muslim, had been stabbed. And there had been something about Ecstasy. I wanted to know a lot more before I committed myself. I explained to Mr Wallace that he’d have to pay for my time, if I decided to take the case. Legal Aid was available for murder cases, but only to the official defence solicitor and people employed by them.
Dead Wrong Page 2