Towers of Silence

by Cath Staincliffe

  “You don’t mind the kitchen,” she asked, “only it’s warmer in here at this time of day.”

  It was. Warm and cheerful and shabby round the edges. A country feel with lime-washed wooden units, yellow walls with paper peeling in places, and apples and pears on the curtains. I sat at the circular pine table while she made our drinks. The only indication that she was partially sighted was in the fluid movements her hands made as she found and used mugs, coffee and milk. She had biscuits too. Home made.

  “The twins made them,” she said. “Rachel and Rebecca. They’re seven and baking is this month’s fad.”

  “Great.”

  “I think it’s the mess they like,” she said, “plus the chance to eat biscuits all day.”

  “So you’ve three children?”

  “Four. Penny is eleven. We’re a bit cramped. You can only just get a bed in the little bedroom, that’s Adam’s. And Penny gets sick of sharing with the twins. If we could only build an extension but ...” She shrugged.

  I sorted out my pen and paper and told her I’d brought a contract along. Would she be able to read it?

  She had a magnifying glass and scanned the print nodding when she’d finished. It wasn’t a complicated document but it served to establish that someone had hired me and would pay me the set rate. It also included a confidentiality clause and a disclaimer. So no one could start throwing lawsuits my way if my investigations opened up a Pandora’s box. It happens. God, it happens.

  “I sign here?”

  “And here.”

  Formalities over, I turned my attention to her problem.

  She’d told me most of the situation over the phone. I checked further details and established that Adam was at Parrs Wood Sixth Form College taking A levels in Geology, Geography, Spanish and English. His school career had started brightly and he’d been doing well on transfer to High School. He’d attended Burnage Boys but a prolonged bout of bullying had seen him move to Parrs Wood High for his GCSE years. He’d worked hard and achieved respectable grade. Things had deteriorated rapidly in the time he’d been in the Sixth Form.

  “I’ve even asked him if he wants to leave. Get a job instead but he just shook his head.”

  “I can follow him to college.” I was thinking aloud and trying to decide how best to allocate my time. “But presumably they can come and go as they please. I could be waiting there all day.”

  I tried a biscuit. Crunchy and intensely sweet.

  “I was wondering about that last night, about the money,” she said apologetically.” When we went to college about this they looked at his attendance record and the days that he went missing he hadn’t even been into registration.”

  “So if he gets to college he stays there.”

  “Seems so.”

  “That helps. And these times when he’s not come home? Does that happen after skipping college?”

  She nodded. “Yes, he just doesn’t come home for tea. And once or twice he’s gone off after tea. Won’t say where he’s going and stays out all hours.”

  “Are there any problems at home?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Is your husband worried as well?”

  “Oh, yes. He gets wound up about it. He tends to shout but that doesn’t get us anywhere.”

  “He shouts at Adam?”

  “Has done, but don’t get me wrong, he’s a very caring father. He’s tried talking to him but he gets the same response as I do. Of course he’s not here as much as I am so he doesn’t have to deal with it day after day.” Worry pulled her mouth down at the corners and she blinked a couple of times.

  “He works away, you said?”

  “Monday to Thursday, occasional weekends. He’s got an enormous area to cover. He’d like to be home more but it goes with the job.

  “What about the bullying, at Burnage High.”

  “That was awful. There were three of them and they just picked on Adam. We still don’t know why. We were in and out of school, meetings and letters. The school kept telling us it was sorted and then I’d find Adam in tears and they’d have got at him again. It was ridiculous. In the end we got him transferred. We should have done it sooner. Mind you he didn’t tell us for long enough. Him being the eldest, he’s always been very responsible, self-reliant, and I think he was trying to protect me, not that I need protecting.” She gave a sad smile.

  “It must have been awful.” I imagined my Maddie being persecuted by bullies. How fiercely I’d want to protect her and how sick I’d feel if I failed.

  “And now ...” She shook her head. “It really is out of character. I think that’s what makes it so difficult. If it was Penny I could understand it. But Adam.”

  “Okay. Time and money. I’ll leave you my mobile number and you ring me if Adam goes off after tea. In addition I’ll arrange my schedule so I can follow him from home some mornings and see if he goes into college. We’ll take it from there and we’ve agreed a ceiling of eight hours for now.”

  She winced. Obviously the money was going to be hard to find.

  “You can pay in weekly instalments if that helps.”

  “It might,” she acknowledged, “thank you. I realise you might find out things that are ... awkward for us, but at least now I feel I’m doing something about it instead of driving myself mad with worry.”

  “He may be just testing you, taking risks, pushing the limits, trying to break away a bit. Being a teenager.”

  “Yes. And I can deal with that, if that’s all it is. It’d be easier if he was slamming doors and coming in plastered and refusing to clean his room but...” she broke off and turned to me again, her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s the secrecy I can’t bear, the secrecy and the silence.”

  Chapter Eight

  On October 6th at five o’ clock at the start of the rush hour Miriam Johnstone had flung herself from the top level of the Arndale Centre car park and fallen to her death.

  I peered down, looking at the traffic on Cannon Street and the pedestrians dotted along the pavements. She had landed on the road side. It had been busy but she had not hit anyone or anything - only the ground. Connie had to identify her mother. She had to do it by looking at her hands.

  I swallowed. Tried to imagine the strength of purpose or the level of desolation that drove her to come here, to pull herself up the concrete wall, to climb over the railings, lean forward, release her grip. Did she look down that moment before she plummeted? Or up to the skies? Did she think of her children? Of her God? Did she cry out or was she mute? I shuddered, felt dizzy, a swirl of unease circled in my stomach. She had to do it by looking at her hands. Things were that bad.

  I took a step back, tightened my scarf against the wind, there was a churlish sky threatening more bad weather. I looked carefully at the structure. There wasn’t that much space between the top of the railings and the low concrete ceiling. Enough for the average person to climb through but it would have been an awkward manoeuvre.

  Why here? Did this place have some significance for Miriam? It was near the bus station so perhaps that’s how she had travelled to town. Had they found a bus ticket in her coat or handbag?

  I turned and surveyed the car park. It was full of vehicles but there was a feeling of desertion here. The low concrete roof, the smell of oil, the dim light, the ranks of cars, silent, waiting. Not a place to linger. In one corner I spotted the CCTV camera. Had that been checked? Surely the police would have looked at it. I couldn’t recall any reference to it in the papers I’d had from Connie. Wasn’t it likely that at that time of day the place would be busier, people returning to their cars after work? But no one had seen her jump. Had she been controlled enough to wait until the coast was clear? Determined that no one should try and stop her?

  I moved close to the parapet again. Leant on the railings and looked down, watched the people sliding past each other without contact. Strangers in the city. My mouth was dry. I stared at the ground, five storeys below, my head swam. When Miriam had l
et go, on the cusp of her descent, had she felt a flicker of relief? Felt peace approaching or terror thrilling in her veins? Or nothing? Save the wind on her face and the pulse in her ears?

  A shout and a whoop of laughter made my nerves start and my heart leap. Down on Cannon Street two young women clutched each other giggling helplessly. All the world to live for. I turned away.

  Chapter Nine

  The man in the booth at the car park entrance pulled a face when I asked about CCTV footage.

  “Hang on,” he rasped, he struggled to his feet and gestured to the side of the booth. “Come in,” he said irritably. He opened the door and waved me into the room. An ashtray full of fag ends sat on the table beside the console of screens. He sat and leant forward, pressed the switch for the microphone, his fingers were the colour of mustard. “Tony, to the office please.”

  He twisted round to me. “Tony has more to do with the cameras.”

  I nodded, leant back against the door of the boxy little office and prayed that Tony would arrive before I contracted lung cancer.

  “Alright?” Tony opened the door and introduced himself in a Mancunian swagger: part question, part greeting. I moved to let him in.

  “Young lady’s got some questions about CCTV tapes,” his colleague wheezed.

  Tony tutted. “Confidential love, can’t help you.” He was a barrel of a man with a bald head.

  “She’s a private detective,” the other said.

  “Are you? Well, you’d know all about that then, wouldn’t you? Electronic surveillance, rules they have.”

  “I’m working for the family of the woman who jumped from here back in October.”

  His face flattened, eyes hardened. He didn’t enjoy the recollection.

  “Horrible that was,” Wheezy chipped in.

  “Doing what exactly?” Tony stared at me folded his arms defensively.

  “The family have found it very hard to come to terms with what happened. They’ve asked me to try and find out what Mrs Johnstone was doing here, trace her last hours, that’s all. But I realised there’s nothing in the coroner’s report as far as I can see about the CCTV. There is a camera up there.”

  Irritation flared in Tony’s eyes then he let it go, sighed. “Wasn’t working,” he said flatly.

  “It was broken?”

  “We’d no idea. Screens here looked fine, course no one here saw anything but you’re not watching every single minute. You’ve problems with the barrier, or people can’t remember where they were parked, out of petrol, always some crisis or other. The police asked to view the tape and then they find the camera’s faulty, or the tape was.”

  “Head office weren’t best pleased,” Wheezy observed.

  “They get the cheapest bloody equipment and then expect perfect bloody results.” It was obviously a bone of contention. Had Tony had an earful because of it? Not checking the cameras adequately?

  Whatever, it meant there was no record of Level 5 for that day. I pictured Miriam arriving, had she used the lift, the stairs?

  “I think maybe she came here on the bus. She hadn’t got a car, she didn’t drive. You’ve a camera at the pedestrian entrance, too.” I could see it on the screens and people queuing to pay before claiming their cars.

  “Yeah,” Tony said.

  “But they didn’t find anything on that?”

  Tony shot an uncomfortable glance at Wheezy who promptly lit a cigarette and began to cough ferociously. Tony sighed, shook his head slightly.

  “What?” I said.

  “They never asked,” Tony replied.

  “What?”

  “They only asked us about the tape from Level 5.”

  “But,” it was my turn to sigh. “Didn’t anyone think ...” It seemed so obvious to me. Why on earth hadn’t the police asked to see all the tapes? “Didn’t you ...”

  It was the wrong thing to say. “What?” Tony challenged. “Not down to me, was it?”

  A pause. I felt uncomfortable. “How long do you keep the tapes?”

  “Four weeks and then we record over them.”

  That was that then. I exhaled.

  A loud squawk blurted from the intercom, making me jump. I caught a trace of amusement in Tony’s eyes. Someone with a faulty ticket. Wheezy looked at the screen, flicked a switch and lifted the barrier.

  “Were you here, that day?”

  Both men nodded.

  “Can you tell me the sequence of events after it had happened?”

  Tony shifted, shirty still at my implied criticism.

  Wheezy coughed. “First we knew, a police officer comes in and tells us not to let anyone else in and they want to talk to all cars leaving the place. Was him that told us, that she’d jumped, like. By then the ambulance had come and there were police all over, looking round the place. They found her shoe, that’s how they knew it was level 5, because no one had actually seen her jump.” He blew smoke into the fuggy air. I tried to breathe as shallowly as possible.

  “Place was shut for a couple of hours. They took the CCTV tape away, see if it would playback on their machines.” Tony shrugged. “That was more or less it.”

  Wheezy cleared his throat in agreement.

  End of story. Closed for two hours then business as usual.

  “Horrible way to go,” Tony shook his head.

  “Makes you wonder,” Wheezy added, “what she was thinking of. If you’re going to top yourself least you could keep it clean. For the family and that.”

  Tony pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Cue my exit.

  So, no tapes. One broken, the other taped over. The police hadn’t even bothered to watch it. Why not? I knew there was no reason for extensive enquiries but surely establishing when Miriam Johnstone arrived at the car park and determining what state she was in would have been pertinent to the inquest. Those observations could have helped the coroner rule on the cause of death and help Miriam’s family comprehend her suicide. I thought it was reasonable to expect the investigation to include attempts to find out the state of mind of the deceased especially in a suspected suicide. And now I’d seen the physical layout of the place I could see that the possibility of accidental death was a non-starter. No way could anyone slip and fall from up there. She hadn’t slipped, she’d jumped. It had been intentional.

  I understood some of Connie Johnstone’s grievances now; the police had barely done the basics. An approach to the police complaints authority might be on the cards if I found more evidence of sloppy work or corners cut. Was it just par for the course? A matter of too few resources stretched far too thinly coupled with the pressure to improve the clear-up rates for crime in general? Would any suicide get the same half-hearted attention? Or was there indeed a racial element? Had Miriam Johnstone received less than equal treatment because she was black?

  Chapter Ten

  The community centre was on Moss Lane East, near the Rusholme junction and opposite Whitworth Park. It was a new-built single storey block with all the paraphernalia of inner city security; chain link fencing round the car park topped with razor wire and more wire on the roof, steel shutters available to roll over all the windows. A large sign mounted beside the door announced Whitworth Community Centre and gave a phone number. I pulled into a space in the car park and locked the car up.

  Just inside the door there was a small vestibule with notice boards cluttered with posters, messages, leaflets and adverts. Everything was there from Tai Chi classes to second-hand baby buggies. One board listed the regular groups: Craft Club, Mums and Tots, Luncheon Club, Yoga and Aerobics and the times they met. The Craft Club that Miriam attended met on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays.

  The entrance hall led into a larger hallway with several doors off. A reception booth was in the corner to my left. The place smelt of new carpets, a strong chemical tang. Around the room more posters were displayed along with a patchwork banner, showing the centre’s name and depicting the activities that took place, and two beautiful large ceramic p
anels made from broken tile and mirror. One showed a tree by a stream and the other a bowl of fruit. There was no one at reception. I peered in through the reinforced glass.

  “Hiya,” a voice came from the far end of the hall. A young woman carrying a cup headed towards me. “Just getting a drink, “ she smiled and made her way to her post; there was a small door into the booth which she had to open with a key. “Have to keep it all locked round here,” she said. “When we first opened they’d come in off the street and walk off with stuff. Phones, computer, the lot. Can I help?”

  “Eddie Cliff, is he in?”

  “I think so. Can I just ask you to sign in?” She swivelled a book with lined paper round my way. I filled in the columns.

  “Thanks. You want to go through the bottom door,” she pointed to the right hand side to the lower of two doors. “That’s the craft room. If he’s not there try the Hall,” she gestured over to the left. “They were talking about putting some decorations up in there earlier.”

  The craft room was empty. The walls were awash with pictures and models and a central working area had been made by putting tables together. The room was well lit by a run of windows which looked out of the back. Evergreen shrubs grew there and a small cherry tree hung with bird feeders.

  I crossed to the Hall door. I looked in. It was a riot of streamers and lanterns in garish reds and golds, silver and green. A large Christmas tree stood at the far end beside the front window and at the back of the room sat a giant Christmas pudding. At the window two women held a tall step ladder as a man stretched up to attach more streamers above the glass. The trio turned as I came in.

  “Hello,” I crossed the hall, my boots squeaking on the wooden surface.

  “Eddie Cliff?”

  “That’s me,” the man replied. “Nearly done.” He grunted as he reached to hammer tack the streamer in place. “There we go.” He came down the ladder.

  He looked at me enquiringly, held out his hand. He had a bushy beard and moustache, grey and brown, like his hair which reached his shoulders and didn’t look as though it ever saw a brush. He had a furrowed, friendly face, a patch of broken veins making each cheek rosy, bright seaside blue eyes, a generous smile. With a plaid shirt, denims and cowboy boots he looked like a country and western fan. We shook hands. “Sal Kilkenny. If you could spare few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about someone who used to come to the centre?”