Towers of Silence

by Cath Staincliffe

  “The bulletin for December is already out and we don’t do another until late January.”

  He wasn’t going to help. Was he like this with everyone? No matter what he thought of me he should have been bending over backwards to support Connie and her family. “That’s a real shame,” I said crisply. “I’m sure you know how devastated the family have been and this is their way of trying to accept what has happened.” I was hoping to shame him into action but all I got was a grunt. He was a waste of space. “Did Miriam belong to any church groups?”

  “The sewing group,” he said. “Mrs Thomas runs it.”

  “Oh yes, I have her details. Thank you.” I made it sound like an insult.

  Hopefully Mrs Thomas would be a little more accommodating than Reverend Day.

  “She was an angel,” Mrs Thomas proclaimed. “Truly, an angel.”

  Murmurs of agreement rose from the women around. As they spoke about Miriam the older ones slipped in and out of a patois that I couldn’t follow but the overall sentiment was positive. Miriam had been well-liked by her peers.

  “It mek me very sad,” one said, “that she all alone. She can’t call on we to ease her pain.”

  “The family find it very hard,” I said.

  We were seated around two long trestle tables pushed together. There were half-a-dozen women each working on their own sewing projects. Three sewing machines sat along the far side of the table and a cornucopia of scraps, silks and ribbons littered the centre. I could see from the red, green and gold colours and the holly and fir tree patterns that Christmas gifts were amongst the creations.

  “The last time anyone saw Miriam was when she left the Craft Club at the Whitworth Centre.”

  “Melody, you went there,” one of the older women, who’d been introduced to me as Mrs Michaels, addressed a younger one.

  Melody looked guilty. “I don’t go any more,” she said to me hurriedly.

  “She likes the sewing better, don’t you, Melody?”

  Melody nodded. She had a graceful face, large almond shaped eyes, her skin the colour of milky coffee. Her hair was cut close to her head, like a neat black cap. She trembled constantly giving the impression of frailty and ill health. I didn’t want to add to her problems but I did ask her if Miriam had said anything about her plans for that afternoon.

  Melody shook her head, eyes lowered.

  I asked the rest of them if anyone had seen Miriam.

  Nobody had.

  “I have found out that someone from the church called to see her, around lunchtime. An grey haired gentleman, middle-aged or elderly. I’d like to find out who it was. Can you think of anyone who fits that description?”

  “Albert Fanu,” ventured Mrs Thompson.

  “And Mrs Beatty,” said one of the women, “her husband has grey hair.”

  “It’s white,” Mrs Thompson said.

  “Grey.”

  “Mr Beatty,” I said. Writing it down to forestall argument.

  “Who else? Grey hair.” said Mrs Thompson.

  “There’s a lot more ladies in the congregation,” Mrs Michaels said.

  “Nicholas Bell.”

  “And Trudeau.”

  “Trudeau - has he still got some hair? He having it stitched on?” Mrs Michaels said disdainfully.

  “Extensions!” someone hooted.

  The place erupted in laughter. The joke was so hilarious that Mrs Thompson had to wipe her eyes and one of her friends slapped at the table.

  I smiled inanely and waited for the paroxysms to subside.

  With the group’s help I listed the men and their addresses or in one case a description of the house as no one could remember the house number.

  “Were any of them friends of Miriam, likely to visit?”

  Shrugs all round.

  At the doorway Mrs Thompson leant close and put her hand on my arm. “Have you thought that maybe this gentleman caller was a secret?”

  “Yes and I will be very discreet.”

  She nodded solemnly and patted my arm.

  As far as the Johnstones knew, Miriam hadn’t been involved with anyone but maybe she just hadn’t told them. Until I had more information I had to keep an open mind on all counts. The man who’d called for Miriam and missed her could simply have been a friend. If he was her lover and he’d kept the relationship quiet even in the wake of her death the burden must have been horrendous.

  Hopefully he was among the four names on my list and would soon be able to tell me himself what the state of affairs had been.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After a quick swim at the baths in Withington I called home for lunch; chunks of courgette, fried with olive oil and garlic, topped with grated cheddar and accompanied by a chunk of home-made bread. Not mine. Sheila, who rented the attic flat, loved to bake. Since she’d joined the household we were regularly treated to the smell of cakes and bread rising from the shared kitchen. I couldn’t get enough of the Greek olive bread she did and added the ingredients to my shopping list so we’d always have them in the next time Sheila got the urge.

  We’d be without her for Christmas; she was travelling in connection with the geology degree course she was doing and going on to visit her student son up at St Andrew’s in Scotland. I’d never had the inclination to bake. Or the time. But Susan Reeve managed, didn’t she? Even with four children and her husband away half the week. Her twins liked it, she’d said. Maybe I’d have summoned up some interest if Maddie had been keen when she was younger. But there’s never been any inkling of it until Sheila moved in and now it had become their particular thing. Fine by me. Meant I could go and play in the garden.

  I consulted the A-Z and reordered my list of churchgoers according to location. Then I began my mission. Albert Fanu, who lived near Brook’s Bar, the big junction in Whalley Range, was my first port of call. A woman answered the door.

  “Good afternoon. I’m a private investigator - my name’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m carrying out some confidential enquiries and I’d like to speak to your husband, is he in?”

  She looked intrigued. “Yes, wait a minute.” She fetched Mr Fanu and then disappeared back into the house.

  “Hello. My name’s Sal Kilkenny, I’m a private investigator. I’m carrying out some confidential enquiries for Miriam Johnstone’s daughter, Constance?” He nodded in recognition. “We’re trying to contact someone who called on Miriam the day she died - a gentleman from the church. I’m calling on people to try and find out who her caller was.”

  He pulled his lips down, a facial shrug. “Not me. Pearl does all our visiting.”

  I had the same sort of response from Trudeau Collins in Old Trafford. (He came across as a right flirt, vain into the bargain, that gave me some notion of why the sewing circle had made him the butt of their jokes). Mr Beatty, who had a flat over the shops on Mauldeth Road, needed me to go over my story twice before asserting that he definitely hadn’t called round on Miriam Johnstone. “I didn’t know her well,” he said. “Don’t know where she lived.”

  And I agreed with Mrs Thompson - his hair was white.

  Nicholas Bell, who lived off Ladybarn Lane was out at work at Ringway. His wife told me he’d be home at four unless there were any delays on the trains from the airport.

  I promised to return later. “About five, I think.”

  And if he said no, too? I could sense the lead turning into a cul-de-sac.

  Chapter Seventeen

  At school Maddie and Tom each had a batch of letters reminding us about the school play, the school Christmas Fair and the holidays timetable. Tom also had a painting of a Christmas Tree, the powder paint layered on in thick green lumps. It must have taken days to dry. I could feel the weight of the paint as I took it from him.

  “That’s lovely, Tom.”

  “It looks like snot,” Maddie observed.

  “Hey,” I shot her a warning glance. She was never at her best after six hours in the classroom.

  “We’ll put it up in the play
room,” I promised Tom.

  “When can we have our real tree?” Maddie said, her voice dripping with impatience.

  “I told you, next weekend.”

  A blast of wind whipped the papers back and forth in my hand.

  “Zip up,” I said, “it’s cold.”

  No reaction.

  Fine. The kids had internal temperature control systems that didn’t seem to bear any relation to external conditions. If they felt cold they’d do their coats up. Tom practically never felt the cold while Maddie veered from one extreme to the other. Boiling or freezing, usually at odds with other people’s responses. She’d once worn a thick Arran sweater all summer, even on the exciting three-day heat wave, insisting she was cold.

  “Come on, then.”

  There was an oyster sky, the setting sun licking clouds salmon and silver and grey. The street lights were coming on as we reached home. The dark and the wind setting off the warm glow of windows and the pretty twinkle of fairy lights. One particularly brash display that we passed had ribbons of lights in several colours including some very bright white ones which flashed around the windows like strobes spelling out NOEL and a neon centrepiece of a sleigh and Father Xmas.

  “Wow!” Tom breathed.

  “Sick,” Maddie said. It was the latest slang for approval. No longer bad or wicked or cool, this year everything was sick. And really ‘sick’ things were psychosomatic. I ask you.

  As we reached home I could hear the board on the roof clattering again and once I was inside I scribbled a reminder on a post-it note, to tell Ray.

  The house was warm and I didn’t feel much like setting out again but Rusholme wasn’t far and I’d be driving against the early rush hour traffic.

  Ray was in the cellar. The place smelt delicious, the tang of wood and sawdust. He’d taken on three Christmas orders; two chests of drawers and a set of dining chairs. He was planing the drawers and a pile of curly shavings covered his feet. There was a fine wood dust over everything including Ray. It made him look older.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, don’t ask.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’ll be a bloody miracle if I get any of this finished by Christmas.”

  I made a noise to show sympathy but I knew he’d do the jobs. It might mean he was down here till the early hours every night but he’d get it done. He only ever completed things under pressure of a deadline and this panic was par for the course. If things didn’t have a deadline he’d work on them for months, constantly refining. Once I’d cottoned onto this I always made a point of telling my friends to give him a completion date. That way they got their stuff.

  “I’m off now. Be about half-five when I’m back. Maybe sooner. Don’t wait though. Feed them before.”

  “Save you some?”

  “What is it?”

  “Haven’t a clue, yet.”

  “No, don’t bother.” It might be something that didn’t reheat well. I’d rather look forward to something I could rely on and make it myself. Or seeing I’d be in Rusholme, to visit the Johnstones, I could maybe treat myself to a vegetable bhuna or a prawn biriyani. I brightened at the thought and made sure I’d got a bit of money on me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Connie Johnstone flung open the door, her face divided by a frown, opened her mouth to speak then, seeing me, slumped and shook her head.

  “Come in. I thought it might be Roland. He’s not back.”

  Martina, coming out of the back room, also looked anxious.

  “I could come back tomorrow,” I suggested. “Do you think he’s forgotten?”

  “No. He knows you’re coming. I reminded him this morning.” Her brow creased sharply again. “He may have got held up somewhere,” she said feebly and I could tell she didn’t believe it for a moment. So, what was really going on with Roland? I couldn’t work it out.

  “If you want to talk to Martina?”

  “Okay. It shouldn’t take long.”

  We went into the back room and Martina used the remote to turn off the television. She sat down with me at the table, Connie leant against the door.

  “I’ve been back to Heald Place,” I told them both, “asking the neighbours if anyone saw your mother come home for lunch. The police had already done that, as you know, and no one saw her. Then I realised that Martina and Roland were the obvious people to double-check with. You’d be able to say if there were signs of your mother being in that afternoon or home for lunch.”

  Martina exhaled. “Right,” she said quietly. She closed her eyes. “I can’t remember anything.”

  “You can’t remember?” I wasn’t clear what she meant. Was it all lost to her given the trauma that had followed or couldn’t she remember seeing any sign of Miriam’s presence?

  “I don’t remember any dishes in the sink. The paper wasn’t there. She usually read the paper with her lunch.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “About four,” she smoothed her hair back towards her bun.

  “And Roland?”

  “Same,” she told me.

  “Who was home first?”

  “Me.”

  “Was it unusual for your mother to be out at that time?”

  “Not really. I thought she’d be home soon to start ...” She stopped abruptly, misery making her suck in her cheeks and clamp her lips tight against the quivering.

  “Okay,” I said. My heart went out to her as she tried to compose herself. To lose a parent was painful enough. I still mourned the loss of my father who’d been dead for eight years but at least I’d been able to blame a disease for his death, it wasn’t at his own hand. With suicide what did you blame? Mental illness? The person who left you behind? Yourself for not being able to prevent it?

  Connie stepped closer and put her hands on Martina’s shoulders, rubbed her upper arms. “Martina rang me at six,” she said, “the police about half an hour later.”

  I was relieved I didn’t need to ask Martina anything else. She’d told me all I needed to know; Miriam had stayed out that day and Roland had been home last.

  “Thanks, that’s all I need for now.” I said.

  Martina took my cue and nodded. Connie released her and she went upstairs.

  “I’m sorry - it’s upsetting.”

  She sighed and nodded sat in the chair Martina had left.

  “Do you have a list anywhere of her possessions, things she had with her, clothes, bag and so on.”

  “I don’t remember a list. Why?”

  “I thought she might have got the bus to town. If there’d been a ticket, I could try and trace the driver, the passengers.”

  Connie nodded her understanding. “They just gave us a plastic bag, with her rings and her handbag,” she swallowed. “We didn’t get her clothes.”

  I nodded fast. They’d have been bloodied, torn.

  “Her bag?”

  “Yes.”

  I thought of Miriam Johnstone falling, clutching her bag. There was pathos in the image.

  We heard the front door open. Connie sprang up and out of the room. I heard Patrick’s voice mingle with Connie’s. Someone running downstairs.

  The pair of them came in followed by Martina.

  “And he’s run off?” Patrick asked, unzipping his jacket.

  “Run off? Is this because I was coming?” I asked Connie.

  “I think so,” her face was drawn. “He’s only fifteen. When Ma died ... he couldn’t talk about it, still can’t really. The only way he could cope was to retreat.” She paused. Her caramel eyes glistened. I could tell she was on the verge of tears but determined to hold them back while she explained. “He didn’t want to know. He never asked a single thing, not one question. He was like a block of wood at the funeral. Never spoke to anyone, never said a word ... I don’t know how to help him. He’s a child really. I think this, asking him to talk to you, maybe it was too much. Pushing him too far.” Guilt clouded her eyes and she turned to Patrick.

&nb
sp; I wished she had said something sooner. I recalled his silence when they had come to my office; he hadn’t said a thing.

  “Where is he?” Patrick said. “Where will he have gone?”

  “Maybe Wayne’s,” Martina said, “or Jordan’s?”

  “I’ll ring them.” Connie used the phone but Roland wasn’t at either place.

  “Has this happened before?” I asked, conscious of the atmosphere of crisis that prickled in the room.

  “The day of the inquest,” Connie said. “Roland didn’t come, that was fine, it was his choice. But we came home and ... no Roland. He came in later, went straight upstairs. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t even want to hear the verdict.” Her face was twisted with confusion.

  “Connie, it’s hard,” said Patrick, “at his age, at any age. Men don’t find it easy to show their feelings.”

  “I don’t need him to be a man,” she said fiercely. “If that’s what being a man is. I need him to be my little ...” she pressed a hand to her mouth.

  “This isn’t about what you need,” Patrick said softly.

  Martina studied her knees, sat very still on the sofa.

  “If Roland’s avoiding me,” I said, “then he’ll probably be back in a little while. He won’t expect me to stay all evening. Martina’s answered the questions I had. I won’t have to trouble him.”

  “He’ll be back,” Patrick reassured Connie.

  “Will you do me a favour?” I said. “Ring and let me know when he gets in. If I’d realised he was so upset ...”

  “We think he’s upset,” Connie said, “but even that’s guesswork.”

  “Of course he’s upset,” Patrick chided her, “he can’t handle it, Con, this is his way of telling us.”

  “Yeah,” she rubbed at her face. “I know.”

  “I’d better go now.” I stood up. “Do let me know, won’t you. I hope he’s all right.”

  Mrs Boscoe must have mixed her days up. And as I thought about it more I decided that if Roland had skipped school he’d have picked a day when he was unlikely to run into his mother who, from what I’d heard about her, would have been less than happy at him playing truant.