Stone Cold Red Hot

by Cath Staincliffe

  “He’d had a bed there, perennials, a lovely show but that heat killed them. I think he gave up. Decided to call it quits. It’s a merciless spot there, there’s never any shade. He might have got away with roses,” she shrugged, returned from her reverie. “That any help?”

  “Yes.” Now I could explain how Jennifer, atop the dividing wall, had discovered her father’s adultery. What she glimpsed sent her scrambling in the other direction, appalled and inarticulate. What she saw had triggered the confrontation that followed.

  And now I knew where Jennifer was. I tried to swallow, my throat was tight and a twist of panic played in my stomach.

  “I know it’s a long time ago,” I said, “but can you remember any disturbances from next door, early autumn 1976, just before Jennifer left home? Any rows, raised voices, that sort of thing?”

  “No. I’ve not got that sort of recall. I know I’m good on names but dates, when things happen...” she shook her head.

  “You said before that you heard raised voices sometimes?”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t say when, exactly. And it wasn’t that often. The walls here are quite thick, and I was out and about a lot with the business. I mean, they did have words now and then, I’d hear it if I was in the garden and they’d left the window open but there’s no particular time I recall.”

  “And you would hear Mr Pickering shouting or Jennifer?”

  “Yes. He had a temper and Jennifer, well at that age they are prone to flare up, aren’t they?”

  “Thanks,” I finished the interview.

  “I’ll be awake all night wondering what’s behind these questions,” her eyes twinkled.

  Me too. I tried to act normally while I bade farewell to Mrs Clerkenwell and not to let my eyes ricochet wildly about like my thoughts were.

  My hands were trembling as I unlocked my bike. I had an overwhelming urge to run away, as though I was the guilty one. Knowing what I did made me feel dirty. What was I going to do about it? The police? They’d show me the door straightaway, surely. Everything I had was circumstantial. There were no eye-witnesses to any wrong doing. There was no shred of evidence that anything untoward had befallen Jennifer Pickering - I didn’t think an abandoned troll would count for much. She was missing, that’s all. A statistic.

  I was sure though, gut sure, that Jennifer had never left home. Her body lay in the garden, under the shed that her father had built around her, a mausoleum for a murder. Soon his breaking heart and guilty conscience had made him sick and driven him to despair and death. She had lain there and festered, a macabre secret that would never have been uncovered had Roger not longed to see his sister again.

  What would I tell him? I reeled away from the prospect and the bike lurched unsteadily. Before I told anything to a soul I had to talk to Mrs Pickering again and confront her with the lies she had told. She must have known, she must have done. It was she who said Jennifer had gone to Keele and later dropped out. She must have helped him hide the body, hide the truth from Roger. No wonder the garden had gone to rack and ruin. Could either of them have stepped outside without recalling what was buried there? Had any of them ever used the shed? Had Roger played in it as a den? I had a wave of revulsion. How could she sleep at night?

  My concentration was shot when I got home. I went to make a cup of tea but forgot to switch the kettle on; it helps the water to boil if you include electricity in the equation. When I got that sorted I found myself making two cups one after the other.

  I tried to piece together the correct sequence of events. Jennifer had seen her father and Mrs Shuttle from the wall. She’d run off. Later she had spoken to Lisa and called her father a hypocrite. Had she told her mother? Or maybe she had threatened her father with her knowledge first or tried to make a trade-off; I’ll keep quiet if you support me and my baby; I’m pregnant you see. There was no deal made. Jennifer was silenced. Jennifer disappeared.

  I checked the number and dialled the Bradford number.

  “Hello, can I speak to Mrs Shuttle please? It’s Mrs Kenny from Italian.”

  She came on the line her voice taut with suspicion. “What is it?”

  “Just one question, when Frank Pickering told you it was over, that Jennifer had found out, did he say whether Jennifer had told Barbara or whether he had to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I think,” she lowered her voice, “I think he just said that Barbara knew and when I asked him how, he said Jennifer had found out.”

  “But not that Jennifer had told her?”

  “It’s a long time ago.”

  “So after he broke it off how did you feel when you next saw Jennifer?”

  “I didn’t see her again, she’d gone off to university”

  Thank you.

  I drank my tea too quickly, scalding my throat. I was late for school. I couldn’t find my keys anywhere. I checked my pockets, the table, the shelf, the worktops. They’d gone. In the end I decided I would have to leave the door on the latch, I set the snib, went out and pulled it to behind me. My keys were there, dangling from the lock.

  Ray mistook my preoccupation with work for an extended sulk. He’s the sulky one usually, I’m more apt to lay the cards on the table or just lose my temper. He matched my silence with his own but I barely registered until Tom piped up. “Why’s everybody all grumpy?”

  “I’m not,” Maddie said.

  “Just tired,” Ray lied.

  “I’m thinking about work,” I said, “and that’s making me grumpy.”

  “Think about something happy, then,” Maddie suggested.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Think about Christmas presents.”

  “And sweets.”

  I cleared the table as the two of them invented outrageous wish lists based on all the television adverts they’d been watching.

  Ray called Digger and they went off for walkies.

  I had other creatures to attend to. “Maddie, Tom, we need to check your hair.”

  They groaned in unison.

  It was a regular palaver. I smothered their hair with conditioner then combed it through several times with a nit comb.

  Time was we’d had to use a range of chemical treatments that filled the room with fumes and made our eyes water, but Manchester lice had become immune and the authorities feared we were in danger of poisoning our children; like sheep that were dipped too often they might end up twitching and collapsing, nerves and immune systems shot at, hence the conditioner and comb.

  I found nothing on Tom.

  “Don’t tell me, Mummy,” Maddie instructed me as she bent over the basin so I kept it to myself, tapped the two adult-size beasties into the sink and rinsed them away. I then applied herbal shampoo designed to deter lice to each scalp and put them in the bath for quarter of an hour while the lotion did its stuff. My head itched. I would do myself later.

  While Ray was out I rehearsed what I would say when he got back. By the time I’d washed up, tidied the kitchen and swept the floor I was word perfect.

  I heard the door open then Digger ambled into the kitchen followed by Ray. I didn’t even give him time to take his jacket off.

  “I think we should have a talk, Ray. Can we fix a time?”

  He sighed theatrically. “If this is all about yesterday...” he began.

  “It’s not just that, there are other things and I’d rather we discussed them when we’ve got time to do it properly. One evening perhaps?”

  “I can’t do this weekend,” he said quickly.

  “Next week sometime, Monday, Tuesday?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “After they’re in bed.”

  He nodded and wandered out. I let go of the tea-towel that I’d been gripping so firmly and rubbed at the cramp in my hand.

  Chapter eighteen

  I was restless that evening. I wanted, more than anything, to pamper myself, to relax. I went through the motions; opened a bottle of red wine, g
ot my book and a snack ready, tidied my room, had scented candles in my bath. It was all very pleasant but my mind was locked on Jennifer Pickering. I even tried day-dreaming about Stuart Bowker but he kept sliding away to be replaced by other visions: Jennifer shouting at her father, Frank feverishly building the shed, Barbara clearing out her daughter’s room. There was a constant churning in my guts.

  Finally I slept. In my dream I was yelling at Mrs Pickering who was forcing soil into my mouth. Ray stood beside her watching. Then he began to call my name.

  “Sal, Sal.”

  I woke with a muggy headache and a furry mouth. Ray stood in my doorway. I felt a irrational surge of anger at how he had betrayed me in the dream.

  “Phone for you.”

  I reached the phone expecting Diane, who, not having children, doesn’t know the meaning of an early night.

  “Sal, it’s Mr Poole, there’s trouble again - they’re back outside the house, calling names and that, a big gang of them.”

  “Right, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I stumbled around getting my bag with the video camera, disguise, phone, keys. I washed two paracetamol down with a glass of water. I knew I shouldn’t mix them with alcohol but if my headache got much worse I’d barely be able to function.

  “Becoming a bit of a habit,” Ray said when I reached the kitchen.

  “Yes, I’ll be glad when this job’s over.” And the other one, I thought. I’d solved the mystery of Jennifer’s disappearance but I’d yet to disclose it to anyone and I wasn’t looking forward to the response I’d get. Truth or not I felt like a pariah.

  I rang for a cab. I watched out of the window for it to arrive. The wind had got up and was blowing hard at the trees. Carrier bags went careering down the street. Dark clouds were moving swiftly against a darker sky and across a creamy, full moon.

  I climbed into the taxi and V. Chowdury greeted me.

  “I got the call,” he said, “recognised the address. You on a job then?”

  I felt a rush of confusion. I didn’t want to endanger the guy by asking him to drive me to the Close where the bully boys were out in force but would it be right to refuse to ride with him because of his race? How could I explain?

  “This might not be a very good idea.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going back to Canterbury Close, in Hulme, where you picked me up before.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The reason I’m going is there’s some racists, kicking up trouble, they’re harassing a family on the Close and I’m filming it for evidence. They could just as easily turn on you.”

  “I can look after myself,” he said coolly.

  “Maybe,” I said, “but I don’t want to put anyone else at risk. Isn’t there someone else, another driver who could take me?”

  I meant a white driver but couldn’t quite bring myself to state it.

  “No.”

  “I could ring another firm.” I was thinking aloud.

  “Look, I’ll drop you nearby,” he said. “That do you?”

  There wasn’t time to quibble and I thought he’d probably be alright doing that. The trouble would be down the Close and we could stop up on the main road.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not the one who’s bothered. I told you; I can look after myself.”

  “OK, thanks.”

  He roared off and got us there in just over seven minutes. He pulled up a few yards from the junction. “They’ve blocked it off,” he said.

  “Oh, God.”

  A row of wheelie bins, an old mattress, scrap metal, the shell of a car (not mine), and the remains of a fridge freezer were strewn across the road.

  I opened the car door to see more clearly. Three boys, maybe nine or ten years old, peered from behind the bins. “Fuck off,” one of them shouted.

  I got out and went closer, “What’s going on?”

  “Mind your own fuckin’ business.”

  “I need to get through.”

  “What for?”

  “See my uncle.”

  “Who’s he then?”

  “Mr Poole.”

  “He’s a grass he is, old farty arse.”

  I was sure they’d resist any attempt I made to clear the junk away. I walked back towards the taxi; maybe we could drive round and find the alleyway that led into the bottom of the Close.

  A police siren grew closer and soon the flashing lights appeared round the bend. The car slewed to a halt by the barricade. I got my bag out of the taxi and retraced my steps. The taxi-driver got out and followed me.

  “Come on, lads,” it was PC Doyle, the bigot. “Clear this lot out of the way.” He made it sound like a weary request.

  “We never done it,” one of the lads piped up.

  “Shift it,” he barked.

  The kids ran off, one of them hurled a load of abuse as he went.

  The copper glanced at me and the cabbie.

  “You best be off,” he said.

  “I need to get through,” I said.

  “You don’t live round here,” he challenged.

  “My uncle, Mr Poole, I’m staying there.”

  He looked at me, eyes heavy with mistrust. Then he flicked his glance to the taxi-driver.

  “Well, you can be on your way, Abdul,” he said. He began to pull one of the wheelie bins aside.

  “The name’s Johnny,” said the cabbie. I could hear the effort of control in his voice.

  “I don’t care if it’s Mahatma bleeding Ghandi,” he yanked another bin to the kerb, “get on your flying carpet and piss off.” He stooped to pull at a length of rusted metal and hurled it across to the pavement. He grimaced, his hands were filthy from the rust.

  “What’s your problem?” Johnny demanded.

  “Hang on a minute, “I protested to Doyle, “you can’t...”

  He wheeled round, confronting Johnny. “You are getting in my way and if you don’t move it, now, I’m charging you with obstruction, got that?” He stood, hands on hip, a grin of irritation on his face.

  “This is crazy,” I began.

  “You too, girlie,” he snapped. Then turning back to Johnny, “Move it, paki, now.”

  Johnny stared back, face set, eyes blazing.

  “Right,” the policeman lunged, span him round and rammed his right arm up his back hard.

  “Let him go,” I shouted.

  “Get in the car,” yelled Doyle, pushing Johnny towards the white saloon. “I’m arresting you on charges of obstruction and assaulting a police officer. You do not have to say anything but should you fail to mention,” he rattled off the long caution without pausing for breath as I ran after them. At the car Johnny stiffened. Doyle threw open the door. “Get in the car, get in the car,” he roared, “get in the fucking car.”

  “Get off my arm,” Johnny shouted back.

  “Get in the fucking car, now.”

  He bundled Johnny in. There were wolf whistles and cheers from the smaller kids, I couldn’t see them but they were watching the whole shebang.

  “What are you messing about with him for?” I demanded of Doyle. “He’s done nothing. There’s that lot down there to worry about. There’s a mother and three kids in that house, it’s them you should be thinking about.”

  What was he planning to do with Johnny? Take him back to the police station, stopping on the way to ‘teach him a lesson’, hitting him where the bruises wouldn’t show? Or claiming that any marks were down to Johnny’s own violence when Doyle tried to arrest him? Anything could happen. What if Doyle let the Brennans get at Johnny? I felt sick to my stomach. I’d watch him like a hawk. And I could always get the camera out if Doyle tried anything stupid. He wouldn’t like his ‘community policing approach’ recorded on film, I was sure of that.

  Doyle stalked off and began dragging things out of the way.

  I bent down and spoke through the window so Johnny could hear me. “I’m sorry. Look, we’ll sort it out, we’ll sort something out. Are y
ou OK?”

  He glared at me. I suppose it was a daft question.

  As soon as I could, I would register an official complaint against PC Doyle but before then I had to get through and do my job. The quickest way to do that was to help clear the road. I went over to the other side of the road from Doyle and began shifting stuff to the roadside; a greasy bike frame, a heavy car door, its metal squealing as I scraped it along the tarmac. We’d soon cleared the way.

  PC Doyle returned to his car and drove through. I picked up my bag and followed them down the Close. As soon as we had passed I heard the noise of the junk as the kids returned to rebuild their barricade.

  There was an ugly atmosphere on the street. The police car had stopped directly outside the Ibrahims and a crowd were milling round it. I picked out the familiar faces of the trouble-makers I knew from among the many that I’d not seen before. Where had they all come from? They were singing an obscene song and clapping in time. They kept it up as PC Doyle got out of his car. Mr Poole stood in his front garden. I went over to greet him.

  “You called the police?” I asked quietly.

  “Yes, straight after I rang you. They were pouring stuff on the door, chanting like mad things.”

  “Come along now,” Doyle shouted, “let’s break it up.”

  “Who’s that in yer car?” someone yelled.

  “You’ll have to fumigate it after he gets out, stink like fuck won’t it?”

  “What’s he done then, eh?”

  “Vindaloo, vindaloo, vindaloo, vindaloo,” they chanted.

  Doyle pulled a megaphone from the boot of his car and tried again. “Come on now, lads. You’ve had your fun.”

  “Fun,” I muttered to Mr Poole.

  “Why should we go home? Why can’t they go home? This is our country.” It was Mr Whittaker speaking, his thin face etched with lines and rigid with hatred. “We never asked them to come here. Fuckin’ wogs. They get an house and they put their kids in our schools and they take our jobs.” The crowd mumbled agreement. “Send them back. Dirty niggers. We don’t want them round here.” A ragged, angry cheer erupted. I could see Johnny, tense and still in the car. I felt a wobble of guilt. I should have refused to let him drive me.