I followed my exercises with a hot shower and felt a great deal better. From the office I rang Eddie Cliff at the Whitworth Centre and asked if I could call in to talk to him.
“I’ve the Craft Club till twelve,” he told me, “and at one I’ve a meeting with funders about monitoring and evaluation. You know I spend more and more time raising the money and justifying the work with targets and weights and measures and performance indicators and less and less actually working with people. Sorry,” he said. “Soapbox. Right ... erm ... best come at twelve. Squeeze you in then.”
“Thanks.”
I checked my emails and sent one to Harry and Bev to tell them we’d be coming to the New Years party. Then I spent more time transferring files from floppy discs I’d brought from home and trying to design a more efficient way of organising my folders.
As I worked my mind circled around my forthcoming appointment with Eddie Cliff, tentatively, never quite reaching out and shaking the thing out to have a good look at it. I prowled round it with eyes shut and face averted hoping that the whole thing was a mistake, an illusion. Not real. Not a lie. A flat, hard, ugly, awkward lie.
“What?” Eddie looked genuinely puzzled. His blue eyes narrowed and shadowed with confusion.
“Someone saw you there,” I repeated. “At Miriam’s, getting in the car with her.”
“They can’t have,” he said. “I wasn’t there.” He looked at me and shook his head in disbelief. “Who said this?” He sounded hurt.
“You don’t know them but they knew Miriam.”
“It’s a mistake,” he said firmly. “Either it was someone else or it was another day and this person’s got them mixed up. That’s the only explanation I can think of. Could that be it?”
“Possibly,” I said guarded.
“You know I was here, at the Centre,” he pointed out, “I told you, we had the visit from Central Grants. I was up to here with it,” he measured the air above his head.
“That finished at two.” Sharon had told me.
He gave a short laugh. “They may have left the building at two but the work didn’t stop there: papers to clear, displays to remove, supporters to thank.” He frowned. “I feel I’m having to defend myself,” he put his hand on his chest. “And I don’t even know who’s told you this. But they’re wrong. I didn’t see Miriam after she left here. I wish I had. Maybe I could have done something ...” He shrugged.
Reverend Day had seen her. Was that why the clergyman had been so awkward? Because he’d seen how distressed she was and he’d failed to help her? Did her agitation frighten him? Was it guilt that had sealed his lips, not wanting it to get out that he done nothing, said nothing and left her to her fate? Crossed on the other side of the road?
“You say it could have been another occasion?” I asked Eddie.
“We went to GRUMPY,” he saw me look quizzical. “It’s a resource centre, for community groups, they collect waste materials and recycle them, lots of arts and craft stuff. It’s very cheap. We’re members. We went to stock up on materials. I took Miriam.”
“When?”
“The day before, the Wednesday. That must be it,” he said. I could sense him waiting for my agreement. And I realised I would have to be as persuasive as he was being. I knew Horace Johnstone was a drinker, but I believed his story. He hadn’t been to Heald Place before Roland invited him. Unless he was manipulative beyond belief he had seen Eddie with Miriam and it had been the day of her suicide. Eddie Cliff was lying but I didn’t want him to know that I didn’t believe him.
“On the Wednesday,” I shook my head, tutted. “God, I am sorry. That fits,” I nodded. “Makes a lot more sense. It wasn’t the most reliable of people but I had to check it out.” I smiled, it made my mouth ache. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“You had me worried there,” Eddie said.
“Don’t. Really. This sort of thing comes up all the time. It’s amazing how muddled people can be ... and asking people to recall things from months ago. Well. Anyway I’m glad that’s cleared up. It really didn’t make sense.” I smiled again. “And now, I’d better be on my way. You look busy?”
I nodded at the piles of Christmas parcels, the table decorations, the crib with its carved figures.
“Christmas Fair. You must come.”
“Yes, I will. Sharon mentioned it.” When she told me about Melody. I could have asked Eddie if he’d heard about Melody but I held back. I wanted to get out of there. Away from him. Eddie Cliff. Liar. I felt sick inside.
I got to the baths at twenty-to-one. The last twenty minutes of adult hour. I ploughed up and down, feeling my heartbeat speed up, my breathing quicken, the blood flow faster round my arms and legs. All the time I chewed over the interchange I’d had with Eddie Cliff. He’d been plausible, concerned, friendly. And he’d maintained his false story. Why?
The question echoed to the rhythm of my strokes. Why, why, why?
He had something to hide. Whatever business he had with Miriam Johnstone that Thursday afternoon he wanted to keep it hidden. He had a secret. A secret I needed to unearth. He was the last person to see Miriam alive. Not at 12.00 when she had left the Whitworth Centre but over two hours later when she was already distraught according to both Mrs Green and Hattie Jacobs.
I don’t remember getting dressed. I was too busy concentrating on my next step, and the best way to unpick the truth.
Chapter Thirty Eight
The Health Food Shop in Withington were selling pricey organic Christmas pudding, vegan mince-pies and carob tree decorations. I could just imagine Maddie’s horror if she opened one of them and found it wasn’t authentic Cadbury’s chocolate. I steered clear of all that and bought a spring roll and a flapjack for my lunch and some mixed nuts, black mustard and sesame seeds, oatmeal and herbal tea for home. I imagined Nana Tello’s reaction: birdfood. I dropped my purchases twice and queried the change before I clocked that I wasn’t functioning properly.
I was shocked that Eddie Cliff was lying to me. And apprehensive about what the lie might conceal. He was so convincing though. There’d been nothing obvious in his body language or the tone of his voice to betray him. He was a good liar. Skilled. If he’d lied about Miriam, what else had he lied about?
Inamong my distaste and anxiety I was completely keyed up, adrenalin buzzing along my spine, mind racing about. The weather was changing, a storm was forecast and I could feel the pressure in the air. The sky had darkened to a moody blue and the first tugs of wind were starting. I hurried back and devoured my lunch, chose strong coffee over herbal tea and had a most uncharacteristic (after so many years) craving for a cigarette. Then I got on the phone.
Eddie had worked in Hull, Sharon had said, at a similar project called Horizons. I started with the local authority. Like all councils it seemed to have only one phone line which was either engaged or unattended. On my sixth try I got through and was transferred to social services. I told the man at the other end I wanted the number for Horizons, a drop-in centre I’d heard of where they did arts activities.
“Not a day-centre?” he asked.
“Don’t think so, open to anyone.”
“Just a minute.” I could hear him relaying my query to his colleagues. One of whom knew exactly where I meant.
He came back on the line. “Horizons,” he said. He gave me the address and phone number.
Bingo.
I flexed my shoulders and stretched my arms.
When I got through to Horizons I asked for the manager.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
I told her.
A pause, then, “Bryony Walker speaking.”
“Hello, my name’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m ringing in connection with a Mr Eddie Cliff who used to work there.”
“Sorry?”
“Eddie Cliff.”
“No. No one of that name.”
“It would be about three years ago, more or less.”
“No,” she said directly. “I’ve been here
since we started and there’s never been a Eddie Cliff.”
Another lie. He’d made up the job?
“He had a reference from you,” I said.
“There’s obviously been a mistake. We’re a small place; if there had been anyone called that I’d remember the name.”
So he’d written his own reference. I’d heard it was common for applicants to embellish their CVs but a non-existent position and false references was pushing it. And could get him the sack.
“Sorry to bother you, then, thanks.” I was about to ring off when I heard myself talking again. “This man, he’s got a beard, long hair, dresses like a cowboy.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“Oh, God,” she said. “Who are you again?”
“Sal Kilkenny. I’m a private investigator.”
“Oh, God.”
“You recognise the description?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. “We had someone like that here. Clive Edmonds he was called.” She sounded breathless.
Yes!
She cleared her throat. “Listen, I just need a few minutes. Erm ... can I ring you back?”
“Yes.” I gave her my number and paced the room waiting for the phone. When it rang I pounced.
“Sal Kilkenny speaking.”
“Bryony Walker. Listen do you have any proof of your identity? Something you could fax me?” It was a reasonable request. I could have been anybody. I was dying to know what lay behind her stunned reaction.
“Driving licence?”
“Fine, yes.”
“And is there anyone who can vouch for you?” she asked. “Someone who knows you professionally?”
I thought. “There are a firm of solicitors I work for.”
“Good.”
I gave her Rebecca Henderson’s number. She was certainly being very cautious.
“I’ll give these people a call. Meanwhile if you can send me the copy of your driving licence.”
“Yep.”
“If that’s all okay I need to make absolutely sure that we’re talking about the same man before I say anything else. I’ll fax you a photograph and can you confirm it is the right person?”
“Yes, of course.”
We exchanged fax numbers and I set my machine to receive a fax. I was practically dancing with anticipation.
Eddie Cliff had changed his name. Got a job under false pretences and more important to me he’d lied about Miriam Johnstone. The woman at Horizons knew the man and what she knew was certainly not good.
I was wired with curiosity. What had he done? What could she tell me? And as I waited for the fax to arrive the fingers of dread stroked at my neck.
Chapter Thirty Nine
It was him. I looked at the grainy copy, a shot with a group of people beside a statue. Even with the poor quality there was no doubt in my mind.
I gave it two minutes, then I rang Bryony Walker.
“That’s him.”
“You said you were a private investigator. Do you mind telling me are you working for the local authority? Is this an official enquiry?”
“No. I’m working for someone privately,” I said. “Their mother attended a club run by Mr Edmonds, Mr Cliff as I know him.”
She groaned. “So he’s working again.”
What did she mean?
“And he claims to have a reference from here?”
“Yes.”
She exhaled sharply. “Look I’d really like to help but I can’t talk about this over the phone. There’s a lot at stake and much of it is sensitive or confidential.”
“Could I come to you?”
“Where are you?”
“Manchester.”
There was a pause. “I’m travelling down to Birmingham first thing tomorrow, for the Christmas break. Maybe we can meet up somewhere?”
“Yes. I take it you never gave him a reference?”
“No.”
“And he left under a cloud of some sort?”
“Yes.”
She wasn’t giving much away. I would die of suspense if I had to spend all night speculating. Had he run off with the funds or been drinking on the job or had he forged his last references?
“Could you give me any idea of what happened?”
“I’d rather wait till tomorrow, talk about it face to face. The club you mentioned, it’s similar to our set-up here?” She checked. “Caters for vulnerable people, mental health survivors, people with learning disabilities?”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “Where can we meet?”
“Are you driving?”
“Yes.”
We established her route and arranged to rendezvous at a services on the M62. I told her I’d be wearing a grey coat with a red beret and I’d wait in the cafe.
“I take it he doesn’t know you’ve contacted me?” she asked.
“No.”
“Good. Keep it that way. He mustn’t know.”
I felt shaken by her tone. Whatever he had done was heavy enough for her to insist on secrecy and to refuse to tell me about it over the phone. I was buzzing with curiosity, and tension settled in the pit of my stomach.
Where had he worked before Horizons? Digging around in his past had brought me Bryony Walker; might there be more to uncover out there? I wondered if I could find out. It wouldn’t do any harm to try and might ease my sense of suspended animation while I waited to hear what his former employer had to say.
My old friend Harry was the best person for the job. I rang and gave him the details: aliases Eddie might use, locations, timescale. I asked him to find any press coverage or maybe references from Local Authority or Social Services public information. He said he’d do his best though it might be a day or two before he got back to me. I knew my enquiry was in competent hands.
Once it got to four o’ clock I rang Roland Johnstone on his mobile, assuming that they’d be banned during school hours. I wanted to reassure him.
“Roland, it’s Sal Kilkenny. I got to see your father, I wanted to tell you what he said.”
‘“kay.”
“He never met Miriam. When he got to the house she was out. He tried the Whitworth Centre but she’d gone. She never saw him that day.”
“Oh.” That was all he said.
“It had nothing to do with your father.”
An intake of breath. “You going to tell my sisters?”
“Eventually,” I said. “But things are completely hectic at the moment, it’s going to be a couple of days at least before I get round there.” And I wanted to go back with a fuller picture. I was making progress but I needed to tread carefully. What I could tell them at the moment begged more questions than it answered. “I’ll let you know separately when I’m coming,” I said, “then you can decide if you want to be there.”
“Right, yeah.”
“Are you all right?”
He sounded a bit stunned. He’d spent two months blaming himself for his mother’s suicide and now his reasoning had been stripped away. Would he go easier on himself now the facts had absolved him? Guilt’s a hard burden to relinquish.
Then Stuart rang. I’d been so preoccupied with work that I’d not had time to dwell on my irritation but as soon as I heard his voice my pulse quickened and I became short of breath as unpleasant things happened to my diaphragm.
“I rang last night,” I said.
“Oh, I was out.”
“Were you?”
“Sal?” Least he had the grace to notice the sharp tone.
“A woman answered. She hung up on me.”
“Oh, God,” he groaned. “Sal, I’m so sorry ...”
“Someone new?” After all we’d never sworn to be monogamous or anything - he had a right.
“Christ, no,” he exclaimed. “You didn’t think ...”
Obviously I did.
“It was Natalie. The kids were staying at mine because Nat had an early start this morning.” Natalie, his ex, did somethin
g in wardrobe for Granada TV. “I was working all evening so she had to babysit.”
“I thought things were sorted out between the two of you.” He’d always claimed they had a very civilised relationship. I wouldn’t have gone out with him if there’d been a messy marriage break-up festering away.
“They are. Sal, I’m sorry. I think, well, Nat - she finds it hard. It’s the first time ...” He dried up, suddenly inarticulate. “I’d like to see you,” he added.
“We need to talk,” I replied noncommittally.
Once I’d put a question mark over the future of our relationship I realised I couldn’t delete it. Self-fulfilling prophesy. Was I using Natalie’s hostility as an excuse? Was I just being stubborn? Cutting off my nose to spite my face?
“Tomorrow?”
“Haven’t you got the kids?”
“Grandma’s all weekend.”
But I had self-defence.
“Saturday would be better.”
“Fine.”
Where should I suggest? Not here. If I ended the relationship, which was a possibility, I wanted to be able to walk away. Stuart’s? Or somewhere neutral? Thing is neutral would mean public which could make it all the more awkward.
“I’ll come to you,” I said, “about eight?”
“See you then and erm ... if you’d like to stay?”
Ah! I winced. Lousy timing. “Right. Erm ... don’t know.”
The invitation seemed poignant. There he was thinking about the possibility of waking up in the same bed and there I was thinking of dumping him just in time for Christmas. Shouldn’t I give him, give us, a second chance?
Ray was supposed to be making tea but there was no sign of him by five o’ clock and the children were starting to whine. I didn’t even know what he was planning. There wasn’t much potential in the kitchen cupboards or the fridge, even the freezer was low. I discarded some out-of-date Thomas the Tank Engine yoghurts and several little foil wrapped bundles which I vaguely remembered saving from meals gone by but which didn’t warrant further inspection. Dinner was decided by default. Spaghetti hoops on toast.
We’d just cleared our plates when Ray and Laura breezed in complete with a bag of Indian takeaway.
Towers of Silence Page 15