Towers of Silence

by Cath Staincliffe

  In amongst the curry houses were the other Asian shops, windows shimmering with saris in vibrant shades: coral, emerald, vermilion and royal blue; displays of glittering gold and silver jewellery, travel shops and banks, video and music outlets, sweet houses with windows piled high with pastel coloured treats like sculptures in coconut, sugar and dough, grocers with tables full of coriander, ladies fingers and sweet potatoes, mangoes and passion fruits.

  At each restaurant, a man stood in the doorway, enticing customers in, giving them the low-down on the superiority of the chef, the awards the place had won, the specials on the menu. Smiling, beckoning, talking up the food. Competition was fierce but there always seemed enough customers to go around.

  Maddie loved coming here for a curry, enchanted by everything from the glittering lights and the after dinner cachou sweets to the pretty multicoloured rice and the elephant shaped cocktail stirrer in the drinks. She liked the food too.

  I found the house but there was no parking space nearby. I drove a little until I found a gap on an adjoining street. The terraced houses were quite large, many had the signs of multiple occupancy - a row of bells, several wheelie bins, neglected gardens, grubby windows with torn or badly hung curtains. In among these were smarter lets where the landlords had kept up the maintenance and a neat plaque advertised the management company and then there were the private family houses not adapted into flats or bedsits, looking settled and usually well looked after.

  Connie Johnstone’s home was one of these. The windows weren’t new uPVC but had recently been painted, and a winter window box with conifers, pansies and heathers provided a splash of colour at the bay window.

  Patrick let me in. I left my coat on the pegs in the hallway and then went on through to the back room with him. They were all there. Martina and Roland sat on a large russet-coloured sofa opposite the television, Connie at a beech dining table in the first part of the room. I could smell coffee and a sweeter smell - fabric conditioner from a blanket drying on a rack by the radiator. The walls were painted pale terracotta with cream above the picture rail and on the ceiling. Thick curtains in a darker terracotta covered the window at the rear. Pale wood shelves beside the television held large church candles, a large piece of driftwood, some pebbles. A painting hung opposite the door, blocks of cream, gold and apricot, abstract but it made me think of buildings on a hillside. There was an air of tension in the atmosphere and I wondered whether I had interrupted a family row.

  I put the folder down along with my own file and took a chair next to Connie.

  “You can go do your homework,” she said to the other two. “We’ll call you if we need you.” They seemed glad to escape and the atmosphere certainly lightened once they’d gone.

  Over the next hour I worked through all the known facts about Miriam Johnstone: her friends, routines, contacts, the places she visited, where she shopped and worshipped, her doctor, hairdresser and dentist. Connie gave me her mother’s address and phone book and her small appointments diary. I confirmed that the photo of Miriam was dated correctly and that she hadn’t changed her appearance substantially since it was taken. I would need to make copies of it to show to people.

  I wrote down a potted history of her life and made a sketch of the known and close family tree; it was quite a small family. Miriam had no brothers or sisters though there were cousins still in Jamaica. She was fifty years old when she died. Mr Johnstone had left them while Miriam was carrying Roland.

  Miriam had stopped working at St Mary’s after her last time in psychiatric hospital, two years previously. She led a frugal life. Connie could help out with unforseen expenses. Martina had a Saturday job at British Home Stores. Martina and Roland had moved in with Connie and Patrick the night of their mother’s death.

  “It was awful,” Connie closed her eyes at the memory.

  I asked them to tell me about their last visit to Miriam.

  “There was nothing out of the ordinary,” said Patrick.

  “She was fine,” said Connie. “She’d made a big meal and we cleared the plates. We all watched Coronation Street with her and then we left.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Just stuff,” she said, “someone she knew, their son was auditioning for a part in Coronation Street, so she was full of that.”

  “And her feet,” Patrick said.

  Connie smiled. “In-growing toe nails. She would moan about them but she loved her fancy shoes. She hated flat shoes, anything wide and sensible, reminded her of working at the hospital, she always wanted to look smart and she had a pair of shoes for every outfit.”

  “Anything else, any news, any worries?”

  “Nothing,” she sighed and ran both hands over the rows in her hair, “we’ve gone over it so many times.”

  I nodded. “Martina and Roland would have seen her the next day?”

  “Yes, before school. Martina’s at sixth form college and Roland’s doing GCSEs. They both left around eight o’ clock.”

  “And she was okay then?”

  “Yes.”

  “No upset, no signs of anxiety?”

  Connie shook her head.

  “Would she try to hide it from them?”

  “Well, yes. If she was a bit down then yes she would. But if it was worse then she wouldn’t have the strength to do that. But she was managing it all fine. It had been two years since her last bad spell and she hadn’t needed tablets for the last six months.”

  I made more notes. “So, we know she went to the community centre that morning.”

  “Her craft club.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “She loved it. They had a project, it was aimed at people who maybe needed a little support, people like Ma or people who were on their own. It was quite a mix, some unemployed, some pensioners. The worker there, Eddie, he’s built it up, got them some Lottery funding so they can do more things. He spoke at the service for her.”

  “He was as shocked as we were,” Patrick said.

  “Yes, talk to him. He’ll tell you she was perfectly all right.”

  “Right. And she left there about midday?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was the last anyone saw of her?”

  Connie nodded. One hand tightened over the other.

  I gave them the contract and we agreed I’d do two days work and then prepare a report.

  “Before I go, could I have a word with Martina and Roland?”

  Connie went to fetch them and Patrick nodded at the mass of papers on the table. “Where will you start?”

  “The obvious places, talk to people at the craft club, her neighbours, contact friends and people on the list and in her book. No one at the funeral said they’d seen her?”

  “No, we weren’t going round asking people but I think they’d have said, don’t you?”

  “We might want to try an advert in the paper; that can sometimes bring people forward.”

  “Like Crimestoppers?”

  “Yes,” I smiled, “without the crime.”

  Martina and Roland came in and hovered by the table.

  “I won’t keep you long, your sister’s told me all she can. Is there anything either of you’ve thought of, anything that might be useful for me to know?”

  Roland shook his head, blinked at me, looked away, sad.

  “No,” said Martina.

  “What about the Thursday morning, you both saw her before school?”

  They both nodded.

  “And she seemed fine then?”

  “Yeah,” Martina said, “she was.”

  “That day or the days before, was there anything unusual, anything a bit off key?”

  Roland shook his head.

  “There wasn’t anything like that,” said Martina.

  I turned back to Connie. “Your father left. Has there been any contact since?”

  I knew he wasn’t on the list they’d given me.

  Her face hardened, Patrick stiffened. Roland actu
ally looked shocked as though I’d said something obscene. His eyes widened with alarm and his face blanched. Then he blinked and blanked his expression. I’d obviously put my foot right in it.

  “He made her ill,” Connie said, “leaving when he did, leaving like that. We don’t talk about him.”

  “And you don’t know where he is?”

  “No.”

  That was that then. Mr Johnstone was taboo. But their reaction was so hostile I wondered whether there was any more to it? Had he just abandoned them - or was there anything else?

  “Okay. Thank you.” I began to gather my notes. Roland ducked out of the room followed by his sister.

  Patrick and Connie saw me out. It was freezing, black ice glinted dangerously on the pavement. I walked as briskly as I dared to the car. I couldn’t guess whether I’d find anything or not but I’d do my best. Would anyone remember seeing Miriam? It’s easy to get lost in the city if you want to. Easy to move unnoticed through the crowds. Though I hadn’t said so to the Johnstones I would go there first, put myself at the scene where Miriam died. I’d try to figure out how she got there, imagine the final stages of her bleak journey, the last steps she took before her fall to oblivion. It wasn’t an attractive prospect and I might not learn anything from it but it was part of the job and I wouldn’t be behaving professionally if I only did the easy bits. Being thorough, checking and rechecking, attention to details - it’s often the mundane that brings illumination rather than the dramatic. Some trails start at the beginning and others begin at the end

  Chapter Six

  “Poor woman.” My friend and confidante Diane generally got to hear about my cases and could be trusted never to breathe a word to anyone else. “Imagine jumping. I’d take pills if I ever got to that point.”

  “How do you know, though? If you’re so distressed that all you want to do is stop the pain.”

  “But you’d do whatever was easier, near at hand.”

  Farmers cradling shotguns, men sitting in fume-filled cars, lads hanging by a belt. ‘Time for tea, Gary ...’ I shuddered.

  She changed the subject. “Stuart?” Reached out and poured herself some more wine.

  “Is back from Fuerteventura.”

  “Tanned?”

  “Mmm. All over.”

  She giggled. “Are you going to thank me now, Sal?”

  “Thank you? No way! I still haven’t forgiven you. You should have asked before doing your matchmaking number.”

  “But it’s obviously a great match.”

  “It’s still so new. Strange. It’s nice but who knows ...” I took a drink, Tempranillo, savoured the berry rich taste.

  “Did you miss him, though?” she probed.

  Did I? “He was only gone a week. Sometimes we don’t see each other from one week to the next. He has his kids every weekend and then he has to go into the bar some nights and sort things out, if there’s any problems or staff off. It’s a long slow process. I don’t know if we’re right for each other.”

  She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes.

  “You can’t rush these things,” I protested. “I like him but ...”

  “What?”

  “Just but... there shouldn’t be a but should there?”

  “-but there is.”

  “When I work it out I’ll let you know.”

  “What are his kids like?”

  “Still not met them. Feels too soon. I’ve not told Maddie about him either. We agreed at the start that we’d keep the families to one side until we knew whether things would develop. I can imagine it being quite hard for Maddie, me having a boyfriend, she’s not exactly had to share me before, I didn’t want to involve her when it might just be a short-term thing.”

  “You said Tom’s all right with Laura.”

  “Tom’s not Maddie.” The children were opposites. In everything from colouring to character. “And I’m not Ray.”

  As if on cue we heard Ray come in the front door and peer round into the lounge, his dark curly hair glistened with rain drops. He’d grown a neat goatee in the last few weeks, along with his moustache it made him looked like some spaghetti western bandit. “Hiya, Diane. Everything okay?” he asked me.

  “Yep. Your mum rang I told her you’d be late.”

  “Ta.”

  “And Digger’s been out in the front garden.”

  “Oh, great. It’s like a monsoon out there without the heat.” Diane groaned. She’d come on her bike.

  “See you later.” Ray left us.

  “I’d better make tracks.” She stood up and stretched, filling the space in front of the fireplace. Diane was a big woman with a flamboyant dress sense, an artist who experimented with colour and shape on her clothing and her hair as well as in her work.

  “I won’t see you till New Year, will I?” I said.

  “That’s ages.”

  “Well, you’re off to Ireland tomorrow ...”

  “Back Thursday, then Bristol, there’s a couple of nights after that, I don’t go to Iceland till the 20th.”

  She survived by combining her own art work with commissions and running workshops and courses. She’d had a burst of success in the last eighteen months and was enjoying the chance to exhibit more widely and to develop new projects. The Iceland work sounded wonderful, a winter school entitled Ice, Glass and Ink. People were to spend Christmas week in the land of reindeers working on sculptures, stained and etched glass, print and paint with several European tutors. Diane was the Ink woman. In between classes there’d be the northern lights, skating and sleigh rides, and a traditional Icelandic feast for Christmas. Certainly sounded more fun than turkey and tinsel.

  “I’ll ring you,” she said, “we’ll do one of those nights.”

  In the hall she wriggled into a cycling cape and switched her bike lights on. Digger hovered nearby on the off-chance that a walk was coming. Futile hope. I could see he knew this too by the half-hearted thump of his tail. Ray equalled walkies, no one else. I held him back while Diane manoeuvred her bike out and down the steps. It was truly wet. Manchester does rain in a thousand varieties; this was the heavy sort, large, fat, plopping drops, drenching everything. Filling the potholes in the road, the gutters and the drains, saturating the grass and the gardens, drumming incessantly on the roofs and windows, making the red brick and slate slick and shiny, raising the level in the canals, swelling the banks of the River Mersey.

  You can’t live in Manchester and not know rain.

  I listened to it in bed. Heard the board by the roof rattling too. Tried to imagine living somewhere dry; East Anglia, the Sierra Madre, Nevada. Parched. Day after day. Clear skies. Wind and sand and dust, cracking and bleaching and desiccating everything. Wouldn’t you long for rain, crave a sky of leaden cloud, the deluge, the fresh scents after the rain had been? The cleansing power. Wouldn’t you pray for rain? Well, maybe.

  Chapter Seven

  First thing Monday morning my potential client, worried mother, rang back.

  “I’ve tried to talk to him,” she said. “It was hopeless. ‘I’m all right’, that’s all he would say, ‘don’t worry’.” She sighed. “How can I not worry? I just can’t get through to him. I want you to find out what he’s up to.”

  “Fine. I’ll need some more details.” I remembered she didn’t drive. “Is it easier if I come to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “This morning? Tomorrow?”

  “This morning, yes.” Relief in her reply

  “I didn’t take your name before.”

  “Susan, Susan Reeve.”

  “And the address?”

  I recognised the street name. It was in Burnage, only a few minutes’ drive away. We agreed to meet in an hour’s time.

  I packed my bag so I could go from my meeting with Mrs Reeve on into town. To the car park where Miriam had died. As well as paper, pens, copies of a contract, money and keys, I put in my mobile, the photograph of Miriam Johnstone, a camera and a small cassette recorder. I checked that
I had plenty of my business cards on me too.

  I drove up the road to the centre of Withington where my local shops are, parked behind Somerfield and went to get photocopies done of the picture. Every window shouted Christmas and even the pet shop was in on the act with a display of gifts for dogs, cats, rabbits and hamsters. The shops teeter on the edge of survival, partly due to the plethora of big supermarkets within a couple of miles but Withington, though it has its share of students who come and go, is a long-established community and there always seems to be just enough trade to keep the modest high street from closing down completely. The library sits at one end of the main drag and what used to be the local cinema at the other - until competition from the multi-screen complexes put it out of business. There’s a popular swimming baths nearby which the council are always trying to rationalise by shutting one of the pools and which the people of the area fight for fiercely. With a couple of parks in the neighbourhood and reasonable schools Withington has enough basic facilities to make it a good place to be with small children. Not much going for the older ones though and consequently there was always a lot of youth crime reported on the Old Moat estate, near to the village.

  Adam Reeve’s home was in Burnage, another area with a rough reputation and the place where Oasis brothers Noel and Liam Gallagher grew up. A half a mile or so west of Withington and across Kingsway, the large dual carriageway, most of Burnage is a large traditional council house estate with pockets of privately built semis. Burnside Drive was private housing, the houses were an unusual design, chalet style roofs reminiscent of gingerbread cottages swept right down to either side of the ground floor bay window. The bottom half of the house was brick, the top rendered in cream and black, the roof red tiles. I parked outside the house and rang the bell. It echoed ding-dong inside.

  Susan Reeve answered the door. Short and slim, long brown hair streaked with grey. She wore thick glasses which magnified her grey eyes. She had a long face, a sharp nose, a thin mouth with a cold sore on her upper lip.

  “Come in. Would you like a drink?”

  “Coffee, please. No sugar.”