‘We’d like to take them away with us.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s round the corner,’ I said, ‘walking distance.’
He stood up. ‘Right, then.’ Sergeant Bell closed her book.
We walked along the road and met Ray, Maddie and Tom coming the other way. I felt embarrassed. Maddie ran to me.
‘Mummy, Mummy. We’ve got chips.’
‘I know. I won’t be long. I’m just popping round to the office for something.’
‘Can I come?’ Maddie clamoured.
‘No, you get the chips ready for me. Sheila’s moving her stuff in.’ I thought she’d throw a tantrum but the news of Sheila defused it and she turned to Ray.
The police followed me downstairs in silence. I retrieved the negatives from the file in the cabinet and handed them over. There was just one strip of shots. ‘There’s a couple of Tina and some of the man.’
Crawshaw held the strip up to the light and squinted, grunted. Slipped them into their envelope and pocketed them.
I walked back home in more awkward silence. It was a relief to say goodbye to the police.
‘We’ll be in touch if there are any further questions,’ Inspector Crawshaw said.
Inside I fielded questions from the children about the police visit, ate my chips and tried to be welcoming to Sheila. What did she think of Manchester?
‘Oh, I love it. I was down in Bury St Edmunds before, small town, so it’s a complete change. I love the theatre and the galleries.’ Flipping heck, when had I last been to either? ‘And there’s some superb concerts. I’ve been to the Royal Northern College a few times. There’s such a lot going on I could spend all my time going out if I’d the money. I never expected it’d be like this.’
‘Still thought we were in clogs and shawls?’
She laughed. ‘Well, not quite. But, the rain, I can’t believe it rains as much as it does, I thought that was part of the myth too.’
‘No, that bit’s true.’ I sorted my remaining chips into edible and not. The ones I rejected were mainly those vicious little sharp bits designed to choke you. ‘People don’t realise. It’s like when they were laying the tram lines. The firm that got the contract were outsiders. About a year after they’d laid it all the lines on Moseley Street started coming unstuck. They had to do it all again. Claimed they’d no idea it would rain so much.’
‘Oh, that’s awful.’
‘And when the Velodrome first went up the roof leaked. Probably be the new Concert Hall next,’ I said.
‘I hope not,’ she said, ‘I intend to be a regular there.’
‘On a student grant?’
‘An occasional regular, then.’
Later I rooted out the evening paper. Tina Achebe was the main story, whole front page. Despite all the ‘Gunchester’ stories a murder is still big news in the city.
There was a photo of the house in Levenshulme, quotes from a neighbour who had heard arguments on the Wednesday night and Thursday morning and had alerted the police when she couldn’t get an answer from the house. The report said there were signs of a violent struggle but there was no detail about the cause of death. There was a grainy photograph of Tina and Jimmy posing formally in front of some blossom trees. Where did they get the photo from? No charges had been brought, the report said, but Mr Achebe was assisting police with their enquiries.
I had a bath, tried to relax. All the while images of Tina and Jimmy churned round my mind. And I struggled to convince myself that whatever had happened I couldn’t be held to blame. I’d just been doing my job. There’d never been any atmosphere of violence around Jimmy. I wouldn’t have taken the work on if I’d sensed anything like that. It was a losing battle. In bed I lay awake far into the night waiting for exhaustion to release me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Birdsong. A note of cheer on a cold March morning. Then I remembered Tina. Dragged myself out of bed and down to breakfast.
Sheila was there, finding her way round the kitchen. I didn’t think it was fair to confide in her. I’d passed off the police call of the previous evening as routine enquiries.
I had promised Agnes we’d call at Kingsfield but I needed to check if Ray could look after Maddie. We often did separate things at the weekends, each of us only responsible for our own child.
Tom and Maddie were glued to Saturday morning television. I asked them where Ray was. After three goes Tom managed to disengage long enough to answer. ‘He’s taken Digger for a walk.’ I’d have to wait.
They arrived back an hour later. Digger, with mud up to his belly, stank to high heaven. Ray shut him in the kitchen.
‘Can you look after Maddie for a couple of hours?’
‘Sure, when? I said I’d take Tom over to my mother’s.’
‘Nowish. I just need to ring this woman up and check.’ I got through to Agnes. She was ill.
‘Some sort of flu, I think,’ she said. ‘I’m really not up to it.’
‘Shall we leave it till next week?’
Oh, no. You go,’ she urged me on, ‘please; See how she is.’
Flu? Funny how things kept cropping up to prevent Agnes from going to visit Lily.
The snow had gone completely now, leaving a residue of grime where it had trapped the city muck. The sky had a blank, bleak cast. Traffic was thick with Saturday shoppers and visitors.
At the hospital I had trouble parking. By the time I reached the Marion Unit I was feeling as grim as the weather.
Lily was in the dayroom pacing round. She was agitated, rubbing and wringing her hands and muttering to herself. She was smaller than I remembered, the curve in her spine emphasising her short stature. Her permed hair was dishevelled, a flat patch near the crown showing a glimpse of scalp. She wore a plain blue long-sleeved dress and slippers.
The room was busy, fifteen or twenty people, perhaps some visitors. I could only see one nurse in the room, mopping up a spill in the far corner. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round. The man had wiry grey hair sprouting from head, nostrils and ears. Enormous eyebrows. Grand with age. His face was leathery, dotted with liver spots. He took my hand and beamed at me. His whole face alight. A cracking smile. I smiled back. He crushed me to him in a sudden bear hug. I smelt menthol and zinc and the starchy smell of unwashed hair. Just as swiftly he released me and walked away.
Lily had reached the far end of the room, near the bedrooms. I caught up with her and touched her on the arm. ‘Lily, it’s Sal Kilkenny, I came the other day. Agnes asked me to visit, see how you are.’
She glanced at me, her round face flushed. There were tiny beads of perspiration on her nose and her forehead. She pushed her glasses up her nose, looked all about her then took my arm and led me to her room. She stopped beside her bed. I stood awkwardly at her side.
‘How are you?’ Would she talk to me or not?
‘I can’t find George. I don’t know what they’ve done with him.’
‘George?’
‘He’s a good man. Mother says he’s a good man. With prospects. Do you know,’ she leant towards me conspiratorially, ‘the Wetherbys have got a half-share in a pig.’
Her husband, George, he’d gone missing in action in the Second World War, the Far East. I tried to bring her back to the present.
‘Charles came to see you yesterday, from Exeter.’
‘Charles. What Charles?’
‘Your son Charles.’
She gasped. ‘I haven’t got a son. I’m not married yet. What sort of a girl do you take me for? Cheek of it!’ A look of impudence stole across her face. She hadn’t taken offence at my mistake.
I went on the offensive. ‘Who’s Nora?’
‘Nora? Nora Donlan. Poor do.’ Her mouth puckered. The same surname as Agnes. Mother or sister?
‘Is Nora related to Agnes then?’
‘Sister. We don’t talk about Nora.’
‘What happened to Nora?’ I persisted.
She mouthe
d carefully in a whisper, ‘They put her in Kingsfield. Terrible business.’
The penny dropped. And Agnes’ flu made some sort of sense.
‘Is she here now?’ And what would ‘now’ mean to Lily? Were we still in the war, or before that, during her courtship?
‘No, she’s not here, she’s in the asylum.’
Oh, help. ‘Lily, what’s the date today?’
‘It’s August the fifteenth.’
‘What year?’
A look of terror descended on her. Her eyes grew wide, her mouth split in a grimace of fear. ‘Where’s George? I can’t find George? What have they done with him? George? George?’ She resumed her pacing, beating her fists against her thighs. Gasping for air.
I went in search of a nurse. There were two in the dayroom. The nearest was helping a patient with a drink.
‘I’ve come to visit Mrs Palmer,’ I said. ‘She’s getting quite upset.’
‘I’ll see to her just as soon as I can.’
‘You don’t know if her son made it yesterday?’
‘Sorry. I wasn’t here, I’m on the bank. I cover if they’ve a lot off sick.’
I went back to say goodbye to Lily. At first I thought she’d left the room. I heard a snuffle from the corner. She was crouched there behind the bed. Hiding.
‘Lily, are you all right?’
She looked up and across at me. ‘They’re taking it all,’ she said, ‘everything. Thieving from me. They want my soul, you know. And poison. They give me poison.’
‘Lily…’ I wanted to comfort her but the step I took made her flinch.
‘Go away!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you touch me!’
I swallowed, my throat tight. ‘Bye-bye, Lily. I’ll get the nurse. I’ll try and bring Agnes next time.’
She hid her face in the crook of her arm.
In the dayroom the nurse was just wiping the patient’s face ‘I’ve not forgotten,’ she said cheerily. I waited till she went through to the bedroom.
‘Now, Lily…’
I left her to it.
Preoccupied, I reversed out of the parking space. A loud horn blasted. I slammed my foot on the brake, narrowly missing the Audi behind me. The driver glared at me. I shrugged, though my heart was batting and a sheen of sweat had erupted all over my body. I moved back in and let him go past.
Driving home I let my thoughts clatter against each other, not trying to concentrate on anything in particular.
Nora was Agnes’ sister and she’d been taken into Kingsfield. Was she still there? Didn’t Agnes ever visit? Was guilt the reason for her aversion to going to the hospital? Or had Nora gone long ago? Was it simply memories of bad times that made Kingsfield such a daunting prospect? ‘We don’t talk about Nora,’ Lily had said, ‘terrible business.’ What had she done? Was Lily referring to the stigma of mental illness or was there something else?
Lily herself was in a bad way: fearful and anxious, and muttering all that stuff about poison – common delusion Mrs Knight had said. Like the stealing. ‘They’re taking it all,’ she’d said. Diane thought I should check her will, must ask Agnes about that. What had Charles found out about her assessment? How were they treating her? Would she stay there?
The road was snarled up with traffic heading up Princess Parkway towards the city. Half the cars sported blue and white scarves. Football. City were playing at home. Diane could watch the match from her bedroom window if she’d wanted to. Her neighbours round the corner were less fortunate, the massive new stand the club had bought not only deprived them of any view but cut off their TV reception for most of the year and rendered their homes impossible to sell. The whole street were seeking compensation.
What was I doing? Saturday afternoon in a traffic jam, shaken up by a visit to a stranger with Alzheimer’s. I was here for the money, yes, but the case was becoming absurd. My client was lying to me, and there probably was no case, just an unfortunate set of circumstances.
I felt a surge of anger towards Agnes. I couldn’t do a good job without her co-operation. I didn’t need excuses and half-truths. By the time I reached my office I’d rehearsed what I wanted to say to Agnes. First, I knew her sister, Nora, had been a patient at Kingsfield. If that meant she couldn’t bring herself to visit her friend Lily then so be it. As for me, I was a private investigator not a hospital visitor.
Secondly, as far as I could see Lily was pretty ill and Agnes would have to work with Charles, next of kin and all that, to press for the best available care.
Third and finally, there was little else I could usefully do other than report back on the analysis of the tablets. Once we’d got the results we’d know if there had been any malpractice by Goulden or Homelea. But for the present Agnes needed to concentrate on making Lily’s remaining time as comfortable as possible. The case was practically over.
In the office I intended to jot it all down and work out a provisional bill. It was possible there’d be bad feeling between us and I wanted to make sure Agnes had a report of exactly what work I’d done and my conclusions. Formal and professional in case things got messy.
Best laid plans .
The answerphone was blinking. I realised I’d not taken any messages for a while. I hadn’t been in the office since Wednesday, apart from calling in for the negatives with the police, and I hadn’t been in a position then to attend to the mundane.
I found pen and pad and pressed play.
Click. ‘Sal, it’s Rachel. I’ve lost my diary with your home number in. It is such a drag, I hate losing my diary. So that’s why I’m ringing you at work. It’s nine o’clock now and I should be in the rest of the morning if you can ring me back. It’s about someone I know who’s looking for a place to stay. She’s just started in our office and she’s kipping at her cousin’s in Sale at the moment. I thought of you, don’t know if you’ve got anyone yet. Anyway, give me a ring. Bye.’ Click. Beep.
Click. ‘It’s Jimmy Achebe.’ I felt the hairs lift on the nape of my neck, the skin on my face tighten. ‘I know I still owe you for the job. I haven’t forgotten. Erm…I’ll try and drop it in later this week. Erm…right then. That’s it.’ Click. Beep.’ I pressed pause. My head buzzing with confusion. When had he rung? When had Rachel rung? I was pretty sure I’d cleared my messages on Wednesday. Had the light been blinking when I’d come here with the police on Friday? Tina had been found on Thursday. Surely the last thing a murderer would do would be to ring round settling outstanding bills. Or was that exemplary psychopathic behaviour? No, he must have rung before it all happened. Or maybe the machine had had one of its funny turns and had not shown there were messages waiting on Wednesday.
I pressed play.
Click. ‘Sal, Rachel again. Sorry, something’s just come up and I’ve got to go out It’s what…half-nine nearly and this will probably take me a couple of hours at least so you can try me after twelve, I should be back then. Bye.’ Click. Beep.
Click. Beep. Whirr. Someone who didn’t like leaving messages. Click. Beep. Whirr. And another.
I reset the machine and cleared my desk.
I’d told Jimmy about Tina on Thursday, the twenty-fourth of February. Exactly a week later she’d died. In the time between had Jimmy been wound up to breaking point, his fury and rage growing till it erupted in such terrible violence, or had he planned her death with ice-cold vengeance?
His message seemed utterly trivial now set against the tragedy he was involved in. I didn’t expect I’d ever hear from him again.
I thought back to our last meeting. His hands trembling as he took the photo, the tension in his body, eyes bright with anger. Was there anything I could have said that would have made a difference?
At home I made myself an omelette and ate it while Maddie talked me through her latest set of drawings. I put off ringing Agnes. Tomorrow.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Maddie and I got ready for a trip to the park. There was a nip in the air and the clouds were scudding along at a fair old rate so I gathered up
gloves, scarves and hats. Maddie got her bike out. I stuffed crisps and apples into my duffel bag. Digger followed me about, desperate to be included. I don’t often take him out, there’s not a lot of love lost between us and Ray is happy to do all the dog chores, but I’d no excuse for not letting him join our jaunt. First, though, I let him out into the front garden where he could relieve himself shielded from view by thick privet hedges. Since Digger had moved in the front garden had become his toilet area. We never used it for anything else anyway, too gloomy.
We picked our way round dog dirt all the way to the park, me cursing all the thoughtless dog owners and shouting warnings to Maddie. I let Digger off on the football pitch and he chased demons for all he was worth. Tearing here and there, swerving and changing direction. Maddie pedalled along the path ringing her bell.
We progressed slowly round the park, taking in the dilapidated duck pond with its flooded shores and crumpled railings, the children’s play area, the bowling green, the rose garden and the bit we call the wild wood. Here we stopped by a bench and had our picnic, throwing titbits to the squirrels. One was brave enough to take food from our hands. We made it home without an argument.
Sheila was baking. The smell! I was five and begging to lick the bowl, my tongue curling round the metal whisk dripping with sweet yellow goo, nose at table height watching floury hands pat pastry.
‘It smells wonderful. Do you do this often?’
‘Hardly ever,’ she laughed. ‘I used to bake twice a week when the boys were little. But not for years. I think it must be a nesting activity.’
‘Making the place your own?’
‘Yes.’ She opened the oven, removed a tray of scones and put in a cake tin. ‘It was totally on impulse. I was in the supermarket and I saw the flour and those little bottles of food colouring. I even bought cake tins. Didn’t know if you’d have them.’
‘Neither do I. If we do they’ll be up there in the cupboard – things we never use.’
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