CHAPTER TWELVE
Diane was settled with a drink in our favourite corner when I arrived at the pub. It’d been our watering hole for years and to date the brewery had resisted the temptation to turn a perfectly pleasant local boozer into some theme pub for the younger end of the market. Consequently it was quiet enough for us to have a good chat and you could always get a seat. The beer was good too. Creamy Boddies kept just cool enough by the landlord.
I bought a pint and joined Diane.
‘You look brighter than you sounded,’ I remarked.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Good news.’
‘What?’
She grinned.
‘Go on!’
‘I’ve got a show,’ she beamed.
‘What! Where?’
‘The Cornerhouse.’
‘Oh, Diane.’
‘Three weeks, first-floor gallery.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘And…’ She put her glass down.
‘There’s more?’
‘A tour of the North West after.’
‘Oh, wow! When did you hear?’ I squirmed with pleasure.
‘This morning. The woman from The Cornerhouse rang. They want it up in October.’
‘Fame and fortune.’
‘Well, fame maybe. I won’t make anything unless it sells.’
‘Course it will. They’ll be falling over each other to buy you. Trendy or what?’
‘I’ll have to get a serious haircut.’
‘What?’
‘Well, they all have haircuts, don’t they, very stylish.’
‘It’s your prints they’re after. Besides, what do you call that?’ I signalled in the direction of Diane’s blatant strawberry-coloured wedge.
‘Go on!’ she said.
‘Well, it’s hardly natural, is it? I’d say it was a pretty definite hairstyle.’
She giggled.
I shared her delight at the news. She deserved some recognition. I loved her prints – silk screen and batik – but she barely made a living out of them. We talked some more about the exhibition and the work it would involve before the conversation turned to me.
‘I’m fairly busy,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know how long it will last. It could just fizzle out.’ I explained in general the job Agnes was asking me to do. I always confide in Diane; I never name names and I trust her not to go blabbing about what she’s heard.
‘There are a few weird things about it all, her rapid decline and this business with the pills, but it may all be perfectly innocent.’
‘And why anyway?’ said Diane.
‘Why what?’
‘Why would anyone want to make this woman ill? Who benefits? Hey, maybe you should check the will – has she recently changed it in favour of the nursing home? Does her family know? That could be it. Sign on the dotted line and bingo – soon as she pops her clogs they get their hands .on the money.’
I laughed. It was a preposterous idea. Nevertheless I would find out who were the beneficiaries if Lily died.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘if you wanted to kill someone there’s quicker ways, aren’t there? More certain too. Especially someone frail. A serious fall when she’s alone in her room, perhaps.’
‘Ah, but sudden death,’ said Diane. ‘They’d have to do a post mortem.’
‘On an eighty-five-year-old? They’d probably get away with it as long as the GP was satisfied it was natural cause of death. Besides she’s not dead and as I said, it could all be above board and I’ll be filling in the Housing Benefit forms again next week if something else doesn’t turn up.’
We carried on till closing time, then parted company, riding our bikes away in different directions. The snow had turned to watery brown fudge along the pavements and most of the roads were clear. As I put my bike away I noticed the snowman was still there though the grass was no longer white.
The dog down the road was barking steadily on, liking the sound of its own voice. Didn’t its owners ever get sick of the noise? ‘Shut up!’ I yelled as I put my key in the lock. It never even paused for breath.
I think it was only the fact that I’d been there before that prevented Mrs Knight, the matron at Homelea, from telling me to bog off.
I knocked on her office door and she called for me to come in.
‘I’d just like a word about Mrs Palmer,’ I said, closing the door behind me. ‘I was so sorry to hear about her transfer. I’ve been to see her and she doesn’t seem at all well. What happened?’
She opened her mouth and half rose. Then thought better of it. ‘Please sit down.’ She gestured to the spare chair.
‘As you know, Mrs Valley-Brown was happy to have Mrs Palmer here as long as there was no adverse effect on our other residents. But I’m afraid we were getting quite a lot of wandering, she was increasingly restless and then she was suffering with night incontinence much more frequently. Things became very difficult on Sunday night. Mrs Palmer was extremely distressed and failed to respond at all to the medication we gave her. She became aggressive and was obviously suffering from delusions.’ She spoke calmly and quietly, using the sort of soothing tones reserved for bad news. And she never smiled.
‘What sort of delusions?’
‘Paranoid fantasies. She was being poisoned, someone was stealing all her things. These aren’t uncommon. We felt she was a danger to herself if not to others. Dr Goulden was called out and he had her admitted to Kingsfield,’
‘Couldn’t she have gone into a residential nursing home instead?’
‘Dr Goulden felt Kingsfield was the most appropriate alternative. There she’ll get a full assessment and a detailed care plan. The psycho-geriatrician may recommend a private nursing home if her behaviour can be managed with medication. After all, it was her failure to respond to the drug treatment we were using that was most worrying and the doctor didn’t want to prescribe anything else on top of that in case of side effects.’
‘That was the thioridazine?’
Mrs Knight nodded. ‘Yes, and we’d tried a sedative as well but nothing worked.’
‘It was the thioridazine that went missing?’ I asked.
‘Sorry?’ She looked shocked.
‘Miss Donlan said there’s been a row about missing tablets. Dr Goulden as good as accused her of stealing them.’
‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding,’ she said. ‘Dr Goulden was a little brusque. We have to account carefully for all the drugs here and he felt there’d been some laxity. Neither of us realised it at the time but they’d been returned by one of the care assistants.’
She was a lousy liar. A muscle twitched in her cheek and she couldn’t meet my eye.
‘Then why couldn’t Dr Goulden find them on the Tuesday when Miss Donlan was here?’
‘The silly girl had put them on the wrong shelf,’ she replied.
‘Is it common practice to allow all the staff access to the medicine store?’
She swallowed. ‘No, but there are occasions when we may have to do that, When other priorities take precedence.’
Before I could quiz her any more there was a tapping sound at the door and it opened.
‘Mrs Valley-Brown,’ said Mrs Knight, ‘this is…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?’
‘Kilkenny,’ I said, ‘Sal Kilkenny.’
‘We’ve been having a chat about Mrs Palmer.’
‘Hello.’ She came further into the room. She wore a cherry-red wool suit, matching lipstick and piles of jewellery. Her hair was streaked a dozen different shades and gently curled. She was probably in her fifties though it was hard to tell. Her face was plastered with thick orange foundation though she wore only a trace of eye make-up. No one on earth had ever had skin that colour. It looked like jaundice mixed with sunburn. ‘How is Mrs Palmer?’ She smiled. The red lipstick gave her teeth a yellow cast.
‘Quite subdued,’ I said.
‘They’ll do their very best for her there,’ she said. ‘Dr Montgomery is excellent, isn
’t he, Gail?’
Mrs Knight nodded.
‘It was all so quick,’ I began. Hoping to plant a few doubts in one of their minds.
‘It may seem like that,’ said Mrs Knight, ‘but the dementia may have been developing for many months before she came to us.’
I’d been here before. ‘It was more sudden than most, though, wasn’t it? She was only here a few weeks and now she’s in hospital.’
‘We are dealing with people here,’ said Mrs Valley-Brown, ‘such a variety. You know yourself how a common cold can lay one person low but only give another a sniffle. I think in a case like this we must remember to look at the individual, not just the illness.’ She smiled, tilting her head on one side in an attempt to look sympathetic, I think. So where did the platitudes get me? Yes, it was a bit quick but c’est la vie!
Before I could say anything else she turned back to the matron. ‘Now, Gail, about Mrs Jarvis, I can come back later if you…’
‘No, we’re finished.’ Mrs Knight stood up, a signal for me to leave.
As I left, my hands curled round the bottle of drugs in my pocket. The bottle that Mrs Knight claimed had been put back. Mrs Knight the liar.
I drove to Moira’s that afternoon, on spec. I’d done a steady thirty lengths at the baths and it wasn’t far from there to her house in Fallowfield. I knew she sometimes got a break in between morning and afternoon surgery if she didn’t have too many home visits.
Her car was in the drive.
‘Yes?’ she barked before the door was fully open. ‘Sal! Come in, kettle’s boiled.’
‘I’ve brought the books back,’ I said.
‘Any use?’
‘Yeah, gave me the background.’
‘Tea, coffee, herbals?’
‘Coffee, please.’
She spooned coffee into mugs, poured in water. ‘Was it acute – the confusion?’
‘No, well, apparently not. Just pretty quick. But the woman’s even worse now. Been transferred to Kingsfield.’
‘Case over? Milk, sugar?’
‘Yes, no. Yes milk, no sugar. Case not over, not quite. The client still wants further enquiries. That’s the other reason I called.’
Moira handed me a mug. Cradled her own in her hand, leaning against the work surface.
I put the coffee down, pulled the bottle from my pocket. ‘My client thinks there may be some problem with these.’ I handed it to Moira. She read the label.
‘They don’t look the same as her own,’ I explained. ‘I told her different companies probably used different packaging.’
‘Can do,’ Moira agreed.
‘But if I could get them analysed. We think there could be some mistake; it would explain a lot.’ I paused. Would Moira offer or would I have to beg? I sipped coffee.
‘Take a few days,’ she said, ‘even if you did have access to a lab.’ Only the way she chewed her lip gave away the wind-up.
‘Moira!’
‘All right. Just don’t make a habit of it.’
Ray was collecting the children so I had the whole afternoon to play with. I drove up to Rusholme and bought some authentic ingredients for a good curry. Lady’s fingers and a whole bouquet of coriander – a far cry from the sprigs on sale at the supermarket. I stocked up on spices too, and a selection of pickles, chutneys and ready-made sauces.
I drove along to Longsight Market. Open-air stalls selling cheap clothes, household goods, gadgets and fabric. I bought some woolly tights and a corduroy pinafore dress for Maddie, and some cheap videotapes. I spent ten minutes hovering over a printed silk blouse before putting it back. I’d never get the chance to wear it. It was nightclub gear really, or the sort of thing for balmy nights on foreign holidays. Fat chance.
I dropped things off at home and gathered up my library books.
Spent a delicious hour browsing. Came away with a Frances Fyfield, a Walter Mosley, a James Lee Burke and the latest Minette Walters – well, the latest to reach the library shelves. Bliss. It was five when I got back home.
The police were waiting to see me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I felt guilty. They knew I’d taken the tablets. Homelea had complained about me.
I took the police officers into the kitchen. Ray made himself scarce and went to join the children in the lounge.
There were two of them, plainclothes. A thick-set man with blue-black hair and very white skin, and a younger woman with a dark brown ponytail and a horsy face.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Crawshaw,’ said the man, ‘and this is Detective Sergeant Bell.’
She flipped open her notepad. He established my name, address and occupation. Not a twitch when I said I was a private investigator.
‘What’s it all about?’ I asked.
‘We’re investigating a serious crime and we think you may be able to help us with our enquiries. We’d like to ask you a few questions.’
He’d obviously done the public relations training. Lots of eye contact, a direct approach yet still managing to ignore my question.
‘Do you know a Mr James Achebe?’
Oh, no. My guts clenched. Something was terribly wrong. A serious crime, they’d said.
‘Yes, he’s.. . he was a client.’
‘When was this?’
‘I finished that job last week.’
‘And what was the nature of the work you did for him?’
‘I guarantee confidentiality to my clients.’
‘Yes, but in this situation,’ he snapped, momentarily losing it. Then he reeled back in the modern management style. ‘I’m sure you appreciate that there are certain situations where the right of client confidentiality no longer takes precedence.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but seeing as I don’t know what this situation is, what this serious crime is or who might have committed it I’m hardly in a position to judge really, am I?’
He sighed briskly. Tried another approach. ‘When did you last see Mr Achebe?’
I thought back. ‘Thursday last week.’
‘A week yesterday,’ he glanced at his watch and did the arithmetic, ‘the twenty-fourth?’ I could never do that. I hadn’t got a watch with a date on for a start.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve not seen him since?’
‘No.’
‘Nor spoken to him on the phone?’
‘No.’
‘Has he communicated with you in any way? Sent letters, left messages?’
‘No, nothing.’ I tried to keep the defensive note from my voice but I was beginning to feel under suspicion myself.
Ray appeared at the kitchen door, the kids leaning close to him. Eyes agog at the police in the kitchen.
‘We’re going for chips,’ said Ray. ‘You?’ I nodded.
‘He’s not a policeman,’ said Tom scornfully, ‘he hasn’t got a hat.’ Ray ushered them out.
‘We need to know the nature of the job you did for Mr Achebe.’
‘But I’ve already–’
He interrupted. ‘You should be aware that Mr Achebe is being held in connection with enquiries into the death of his wife, Tina Achebe.’
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Tina, slight and smart in the check jacket. Jimmy, his whole body tense as he heard about her rendezvous at the hotel. ‘Oh, no. When did this happen? How did she..?’ A gunshot wound to the head? Or maybe suicide? Devastated by Jimmy’s newfound knowledge, wrists emptying in the bath, tablets by the bed, feet dangling.
‘Why did James Achebe hire you?’
I took a deep breath. ‘He was worried about his wife, about Tina. He thought she was keeping something from him.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She wasn’t at home when he thought she would be. She lied about whether she’d been in or out. That sort of thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘I watched the house. One day I followed her. She went to town. To a hotel. She booked into a room. A man joined her there.’
‘And?’
I shrugged. ‘They were there for an hour or so then he left. A while later she left as well. Went home.’
‘When was this?’
‘Wednesday, the day before I saw Jimmy, Wednesday the twenty-third.’
The doorbell rang. I jerked in my seat with the shock of it. Feeling ridiculous I excused myself for a minute.
It was Sheila, complete with a blue Manchester Van Hire van stuffed full of gear.
‘Sheila, I’m sorry,’ I blurted, ‘I’m in the middle of something. I’ll have to leave you to it. Ray should be back soon, he’s just gone for chips.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she grinned. ‘Malcolm’s giving me a hand. We’ll just get on with it.’ Said Malcolm emerged from the far side of the van and gave a friendly wave.
Back in the kitchen Sergeant Bell had obviously been checking her notes. She riffled through her notebook to find her place. Inspector Crawshaw took up where we’d left off.
‘You last saw Mr Achebe on the Thursday, the day after you’d followed his wife to this hotel?’
‘Yes. I had to tell him what I’d found out.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘Like anybody would. He was hurt, upset.’
‘Did he give any indication of what he was going to do about it?’
‘No.’ Jimmy hadn’t threatened to kill her. Something I’d heard so many times in marital work. ‘He was hurt, like I say. She was very important to him. When he came to see me, I got the impression he really wanted the marriage to work. Not like some people who’ve already had enough and just want proof for ending the relationship. When did she die? Was she killed or was it suicide?’
‘We’re not in possession of all the facts yet. Mrs Achebe’s body was discovered yesterday morning. Suicide is most unlikely. The man you saw meet Mrs Achebe, can you describe him?’
Murder then. ‘I’ve got a photograph – well, I gave the prints to Jimmy…to Mr Achebe.’
‘And the negatives?’
‘I’ve got them at the office.’
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