Stone Cold Red Hot

by Cath Staincliffe

  I put on my cycling helmet and my jacket and got my bike out of the shed at the end of the drive. I knew I’d be having a couple of drinks and I didn’t want to drink and drive. Drinking and cycling I felt OK with; I didn’t regard my bike in the same league as a car when it came to capacity to inflict damage. I knew it was technically possible to be drunk in charge of bicycle but I never got to that stage. My front light seemed a bit dim, I couldn’t believe how fast they devoured batteries and broke bulbs. Super built-in obscelescence like torches, irons and toasters, but tons quicker.

  It’s only a mile or so to Didsbury, more upmarket than Withington with some very expensive properties. The last couple of years had seen lots of development, new supermarkets, a plethora of restaurants and cafe bars and of course lots of new houses crammed into the old Waterfords Dairy site to bring in some customers for all the leisure outlets.

  It took me longer to get all my clobber on and then off and lock up the bike and remove the lights than it did to make the journey.

  The bar Diane had chosen was already heaving. One look at it and I wanted to leave but she’d already bought me a drink and managed to find a table in a corner by the toilets. Most of the clientele preferred to stand, presumably to show off their designer gear and to spot the talent. Most of them were fresh-faced and full of life, I don’t know how many of them were old enough to drink legally.

  “I thought it’d only be like this at weekends,” Diane apologised. We had to lean close to each other to talk, the noise was tremendous.

  “So, how was it?”

  She smiled but it was hard for me to read it. At least she wasn’t crying. Which is what I remember her doing a lot of the last time Ben had been in the picture.

  “Good,” she nodded. “I’d forgotten how much he made me laugh. We had a wonderful Thai meal the first night and the next day I did some galleries. Oh, and I met this buyer, very interested in my work. I promised I’d send her some slides. Ben had a meeting in the morning but we met for lunch and then he took me shopping.”

  I studied her. Had some alien invaded Diane’s body (apart from Ben)? Since when did anybody ‘take’ Diane shopping? She sounded like a Stepford wife. “He wanted to treat me,” she went on, “it was like one of those 40’s films, you know, with Gary Grant waiting for the dame in the posh ladies dress emporium.”

  I envisaged the scene. All peach drapes and soft carpets and huge mirrors. Diane, surrounded by starlet sylphs in silk camisoles. Diane with her inky fingers, her wild hair-styles, her Doc Martens and her size 20 frame.

  “What did you get?”

  “These.” She turned her ankle to show me an electric blue Doc Marten. Phew.

  “And a gorgeous chenille top and a full length dress, indigo crushed velvet.”

  “Go well with the Docs.”

  She grinned and leant closer, “And some very sexy underwear.” She rolled her eyes.

  “So you slept with him,” I said bluntly.

  “Yes. And it was great.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s getting married. We haven’t made any plans.” She seemed blase about it but I felt uncomfortable.

  “So it was just a final fling?”

  “It wasn’t just anything,” her eyes flashed. “Stop being so bloody uptight. We met, we talked, there was a lot of unfinished business. It was good to have a chance to talk it over. And, yes, we went to bed together. He’s not married yet, you know.”

  “Diane, how would you feel if you were getting married to someone and they went off in search of an ex-lover for a last screw?”

  She looked at me steadily. “She’ll never know. We’re all grown up, Sal.”

  Doesn’t mean you always act like it, though. “Will you see him again?”

  She shrugged.

  “And that’s OK?”

  Even with the racket all around us, I could hear her silence; loud like an alarm. She wanted him, she’d lost him but now she would settle for this, the odd visit every year or so. I couldn’t bear it. She’d be like the mistresses featured in documentaries; never having the important times, never the whole night, the holiday, always a secret, always waiting. I wanted her to be strong and independent, like she usually was, not to compromise one iota. I thought of Mrs Shuttle and her miserable affair with Frank Pickering. Secrecy. Didn’t seem to bring much happiness.

  I swerved the conversation away, told her about my bust-up with Ray. We agreed that all I could do was ask him directly for a time to talk, about the house, about the future.

  We had finished our drinks. I struggled to the bar, waited impatiently to be served and did a double-take at the cost.

  I put the drinks down. “And I had my car nicked.”

  “Oh, no. From home?”

  “No, this place in Hulme, where I’m working. I was there on Monday night. There was lots of trouble and we had to call the police but the guy that came was a right waste of space, worse really. You could tell he sympathised with the racists and he didn’t give a shit for the family being hounded.” I told her about the events that night. “Then, I’m finally ready to go home and my car’s gone. I haven’t heard anything yet.”

  “So do you reckon they’ll be able to kick them out now?”

  “I hope so. I’ve sent the tape in so I’ll find out what they think tomorrow. I mean, even if there’s a wait while they prepare the court case, they need to get the victims out of there or give them protection or something. It’s so savage. I was watching these lads and thinking where does all that hate come from? How do you change people like that?”

  “I don’t think you can,” she took a drink. “What about that other thing, the girl who disappeared in the 70’s?”

  “Oh, don’t ask,” I groaned.

  “That bad?”

  I nodded. “It’s like this Pandora’s box of secrets. I went to the Records Office yesterday and it turns out the girl was illegitimate and yet she’s being brought up in this really strict household where they are all leading highly moral lives, setting an example for the flock, ‘cos Daddy’s a preacher. Only it turns out he’s having a fling with the next door neighbour.”

  “And she was pregnant herself wasn’t she, the girl?” asked Diane.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she know her mother had been in the same position?”

  “I don’t think so. She’d have said something to her mates, don’t you reckon? None of them mentioned it.” I took a drink. “And everyone thought she’d gone to university and then dropped out but it turns out she never made it.”

  “Sound like a real mess.”

  “It is and what worries me most...”

  “Diane?” There was a man bending over our table. No-one I knew but Diane seemed pleased to see him.

  “Hiya, Stuart. How ya doing?” Maybe one of her lonely-hearts dates. She’d been on plenty. That’s how she’d met Desmond. What would she tell him about her reunion with Ben? Anything?

  Stuart glanced my way a few times. He was attractive but I observed him dispassionately. I’d got out of the habit of clocking the talent, or of acting on it. Pretty men were like beautiful gardens; something I noted as I walked on by.

  Well, they were usually.

  “This is Sal,” Diane said, “Stuart Bowker.”

  He gave me a smile and asked me a question, looking intently at me as though I was the most interesting thing in the universe. I can’t remember what it was or how I replied, I was too mortified trying to control the blush that was colour-washing my whole body. So humiliating.

  He had good teeth, even, with a slight gap in the middle, a large mouth. I couldn’t tell whether his eyes were blue or brown, a mix perhaps. His hair was grey, cut extremely short. He laughed at something I said. Or maybe he was laughing at me. At last he turned back to Diane. I tried to compose myself.

  “Catch you later,” he said.

  I felt sick. As he moved away the volume of noise from the punters at the bar seeme
d to mushroom. Another crowd came in, the girls wore what passed for underwear in my day and the boys looked ready for the ski slopes, all thick fleeces and puffer jackets. They clustered by our table. We were hemmed in.

  “So, what do you think?” Diane asked.

  “I prefer our usual. It’s too loud and it’s hardly relaxing. I’m ready for off.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “What?”

  “Stuart. What do you think of Stuart.”

  So that was it. She’d lured me here to weigh up a new conquest of hers - or someone she’d got her eye on.

  “Don’t you think you’ve got enough on your plate?” I pulled my jacket on.

  “Not me. You.”

  It was my turn to glare. “Diane! What do you think you were...” raising my voice above the racket made me cough as the smoke caught in my throat.

  I fought my way out and she followed. We went round to the car-park where our bikes were.

  “What did you tell him?” I was all outrage.

  “Nothing, give me some credit. But if you’re interested I can always invite him to something.”

  “I don’t need a matchmaker. I’m not looking for a match. I’m perfectly happy as I am. Just because you want...”

  “Go on,” she said dangerously.

  “I’m not you,” I pointed out. “You want a relationship, you’ve done the ads, you’ve met Desmond. That’s great but don’t assume I want the same.”

  “You don’t want a relationship? Not ever?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “They don’t fall from the skies you know, you have to go looking. You fancied him, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” I muttered, trying to get my key in the bike lock.

  “He’s a lovely man,” she said.

  “So how come he’s available then?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Oh,” I groaned.

  “And over it,” she insisted. “Good relationship with his ex. They share the kids, all very amicable.”

  He had children.

  I got the lock sorted out and put my helmet on.

  “Think about it,” she said.

  He might not fancy me, though.

  “Anyway, if he’s such a lovely man, what’s he doing in a place like this? It wasn’t just coincidence. Did you tell him to come?” I got all agitated again.

  She laughed. “No. There was a pretty good chance he’d be here, anyway. He’s the boss. This is his place.”

  Later I was still a bit peeved that Diane had engineered the meeting without asking me about it first but there was also a positive side to it. My mind got sidetracked into weaving fantasies about Stuart Bowker and that left me no room to dwell on the fate of Jennifer Pickering, my row with Ray or the plight of the Ibrahim family.

  Bedtime was more fun than usual.

  Chapter seventeen

  Next morning there was a message from Roger on the ansaphone at the office. He was eager to know what I’d found out. I wasn’t ready to give him a full report yet. I wanted to talk again to Mrs Clerkenwell. I needed to try and fix as much as I could about the last known movements of Jennifer and something was niggling at me. I was sure there was some significance behind the incident when Jennifer had turned and run from Frances’s. Once I had checked that out I would tackle Mrs Pickering and see if she had anything to say that would disprove my theory. Then I’d go to Roger.

  In the meantime the least I could do was give him the bald facts about my research. No baby, no marriage, no death and tell him I was making a few final enquiries to verify everything before I gave him my complete report.

  When he answered the phone I proceeded to flatten the hope in his voice.

  “Isn’t there anything else you can try?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I’m sorry,” I concluded. “Can we meet next Monday perhaps, lunchtime, say twelve-thirty? That’ll give me time to write up all the details for you.”

  “So it’s just a dead-end?” He asked.

  I closed my eyes at the irony. “It looks that way.”

  Mandy Bellows was off sick. When I asked if anyone was covering her work-load I got laughed at. “She should be in next week though.” And until she was, nothing was going to move forward for the Ibrahims.

  Mr Poole was dismayed when I called him. “I’m going to have a word with the councillor about this. One person’s off and the whole thing grinds to a stand-still.”

  “Hopefully, she’ll be in on Monday and I’ll ring her first thing, tell her to make it a priority. I’ve still got the camera so if anything happens meanwhile let me know.”

  “What’s this I hear about your car?”

  “It went on Monday, just as I was ready for home and there was no sign of it.”

  “How did you get back?”

  “I got a taxi.”

  “You should have woken me, you could have rung from here.”

  “No. I had my mobile. Anyway, how did you hear about it?”

  “The Brennans,” he said, “making cracks about it. Took me a while to cotton on.”

  “They probably took it but I can’t prove anything.”

  “Have they found it yet? They could fingerprint it.”

  “No. No word. Besides I’d rather see them lose the tenancies or get bound over to keep the peace than done for nicking my car. Least I’m insured.”

  My last call was to Mrs Clerkenwell. I arranged an appointment with her that afternoon.

  The hire car was due back but I made use of it to get some shopping from the greengrocers and the small supermarket in Withington. I stocked up on some of the basics and bulky items as I didn’t know how long I’d be without a car and they were awkward to carry on the bike. I left the lot at home and took the car in. I walked back to the office enjoying the colours of the leaves which were brilliant in the sunshine. Frost still edged the foliage in shady corners and covered puddles with sheets of ice.

  I had a cup of coffee and then worked solidly on my notes from the Records Office and my summary of the case so far. When I document a job I usually include a section which no-one ever sees where I jot down all the wild, implausible, outrageous notions that I have as to what may have happened. Now and then I hit on something and it’s a useful way for me to see things from another angle. It’s also a good way of getting any pet theories out of my system and of exposing them to the light. Once they are written down I find I can discount some of them. But I was reluctant to go through this process with Jennifer Pickering. There was some superstitious side of me that feared that if I committed my imaginings to paper they might come true. And I wanted to be wrong this time.

  I collected my bike from home and cycled up to the baths to do my regular twenty lengths. One of the other swimmers reminded me of Stuart Bowker and I had a fierce impulse to run and hide. A second look told me it wasn’t him. I felt a flutter of embarrassment. I swam away from it. Did I want a relationship? My gut reaction was no. It all seemed too complicated, too much trouble. How could I start something like that without disrupting my life? How would Maddie take it? Did I want to meet Stuart again. Yes. Yes, I did. And the thought brought bubbles to my insides and made me kick my legs harder and spread my arms wider and swim that bit faster.

  Mrs Clerkenwell put the dogs out before she let me in. She’d obviously been working; her hair was covered by a scarf and she wore a large calico smock which she removed to reveal the same dark trousers and woolly jumper as on my first visit.

  “Any news?” She asked me once we had sat down.

  “No, I’m afraid not. But I wanted to ask you about a couple of things, to try and make sense of what other people have told me. I can’t go into details, confidentiality, you see. And the questions may seem a bit strange.”

  “I’m intrigued. Fire away.”

  I thought back to Frances’s account of her last time with Jennifer. That moment when Jennifer had become so distressed. “OK. From your garden you can see a fair bit of
the house behind and vice-versa.”

  She bobbed up to refresh her memory. “Yes.”

  “If you were out in the garden you’d have a clear view of the upstairs but not of the ground floor, because of the wall?”

  “That’s right. If you wanted to see into their garden or their kitchen or whatever you’d have to be upstairs here.”

  “Or on the wall.”

  “Erm...yes.” She smiled enjoying the game we were playing.

  “Now, suppose someone was on the wall at the bottom of the Pickerings garden. They’d have a good view across here but they wouldn’t see much of the Pickering’s or of the house on the other side.”

  “The Kennedy’s,” she said.

  “Yes, with the trees along the bottom and the big hedge down the side.”

  “Hedge!” she snorted. “They’re a liability, those things, grow like Triffids. I said to Mr Kennedy when they planted them that they’d be up and down ladders trimming them every five minutes.”

  My neck prickled. “They weren’t there when the Shuttles had the house?”

  “Oh, no. They just had an ordinary fence and the sycamores at the end so they weren’t overlooked from the back anyway, not like I am.”

  I walked over to the French windows and looked out.

  She carried on talking. “Those things must be eight foot high. You could have seen over before.”

  Bingo! I pictured Jennifer astride the wall, her father and Mrs Shuttle seen from her vantage point. “But the shed would have blocked the view.”

  “Well, that wasn’t always there either. Frank put that up.”

  I looked at her. “When?” My mouth was dry.

  She screwed up her face. “Let’s see. It must have been before he got ill, he did it all himself. Yes, it was. I remember they thought that had brought on the angina, too much for him. So that must have been...” she calculated.

  I knew what was coming.

  “...in the autumn, 1976. The ground was like concrete.”

  The blood in my veins stopped moving.