You hear stories of inappropriate reactions all the time. They get given catchy tags: road rage, air rage, trolley rage, parking rage. Accounts of people losing all control over tiny slights. Violence erupting at the traffic lights and the ticket office. Punching, stabbing, ramming, beating. Strangers going for each other’s throats. But that sort of over-reaction was spontaneous, unforeseen. This was planned, measured.
One of the people on the list I’d got from Lucy might be able to recall some bad blood or ill-will that Lucy had overlooked. And there was always a chance that one of them might be the letter writer, even though Lucy trusted them. So when I spoke to them I’d be listening not only to what they said but also what they avoided, looking at their body language: the loud gestures of folded arms and tapping feet and the smaller but more specific signs from eye and lip movements. Using my intuition too, relying on gut feelings to pick up on the atmosphere; psychic sonar to detect hostility beneath the surface or anxiety lurking behind their replies.
As for the neighbours, there were four other flats at the Levenshulme house and most of the residents would be out at work during the day. Sitting back I stretched then consulted my diary. The next day, Tuesday, or Wednesday after tea would be a good time to call on them if my housemate, Ray, could look after the children then.
Lucy had asked me to be as discreet as possible when talking to her three colleagues at the hotel. ‘I don’t want the whole place to know,’ she had said. ‘It’s awful for gossip. Could you talk to people after work or on their lunch hour?’
I rang Malcolm Whitlow, security manager at The Quay Mancunia Hotel, and told him I was carrying out a confidential enquiry on behalf of one of his colleagues. Was he free for lunch?
We arranged to meet in the Terrace Bar Cafe at The Lowry. I had a brief prick of worry about money until I remembered the cash. Lunch at the Lowry. I hadn’t eaten out for ages. Okay, it wasn’t going to be three courses and wine but it beat a cheese butty and brinjal pickle hands down.
The Lowry is in Salford, Manchester’s neighbouring city. Walk down from Deansgate and you’ve crossed the border. Manchester is a poor place really. Behind the hype of city centre living, with flats going for a cool million, the glitter of Manchester United and the tacky glam of Coronation Street, there’s a dull, deep seam of deprivation. Struggling schools, crumbling hospitals, early death rates. Top of the pops for all the really heavy stuff like cancer and heart attacks and young male suicides.
Manchester and Salford share much of the same history of wretched poverty and vibrant struggles for social justice. The Chartists and the suffragettes were among their long line of radicals. Salford is the original dirty old town. With destitution and decline off the scale the city flogged off assets, mainly land, declared itself a Free Enterprise zone and secured funding to re-create itself as a vast urban theme park. Down came the slums around the deserted docklands and up went chi-chi gated communities and marina developments. An audacious Lottery bid brought money for the Lowry. I don’t know what happened to all the people who used to live in the warren of terraces that had been swept away. But I don’t think they moved into the smart new apartments.
I drove towards Salford Quays past the huge chain sculpture that stands with its links soaring upwards, defying gravity: a memorial to the docks, and within sight of the Old Trafford stadium, home to Manchester United’s Red Devils. Heavy plant machinery were busy carving out yet more ground for the next big development.
The Lowry is a stunning steel and glass creation, reminiscent of a great ship when viewed from across the water, which has won accolades for its design and for its success as an attraction. I’d seen a couple of shows at the theatre there with my friend Diane. Ray and I had brought the kids to the galleries a few times. Nana Tello, Ray’s mum, had come with us once but she complained that the curving walls, sloping floors and the bright orange and purple decor gave her vertigo. I liked it – the colours were like my office. The centre houses Lowry’s paintings, depicting Salford at the height of the Industrial Revolution: smoking chimneys, blackened brick dwarfing the drab-coated, ant-like figures of the new working class. Here and there a three-legged dog, a child skipping, a moment’s laughter.
After parking in the high rise I crossed the open, cobbled space to the arts centre building. The wind was picking up now, the clouds above were full and round like boulders, the colours of granite and slate.
The Terrace Bar Cafe is situated in the prow of the building with a vista out across the quay to the new Imperial War Museum North on the opposite bank. Curves and soaring geometric shapes clad in aluminium. Another breath-taking design though I could never quite read it as a globe in shards as the architect, Daniel Libeskind, intended. Arriving a few minutes early, I ordered an orange juice and took a table. A break in the clouds admitted a wide beam of sun which glanced off the choppy water in a thousand quivering diamonds.
It was easy to spot Malcolm Whitlow when he arrived. He had the bulk and stance of an ex-policeman and a suit that screamed bouncer. He was probably only in his early forties but the lamb chop sideburns in iron-grey, receding hairline, a smoker’s creased face and rasping voice all conspired to make him seem older.
Introductions done, we consulted the menu. Malcolm picked the sausage and mash with onion gravy and a pint of Boddingtons, our local beer. I chose a sundried tomato ciabatta and another juice. I ordered the food at the bar and joined him at the table.
‘Thank you for seeing me. Not everyone likes dealing with a private investigator.’
He waved away my comments. ‘Nah! I’ve a couple of mates in the same line. Checked you out.’
I cocked my head, mock bow. Wise man.
‘You said one of our staff was having some bother?’
‘That’s right. I don’t want to go into too many details at this stage.’
He raised his eyebrows; they were nicotine yellow.
‘Are you aware of any tensions among staff?’
‘Can’t say I am. Though you’d be better asking personnel.’ He took a swig of beer which left a drift of foam on his upper lip. ‘Without a name …’ He licked the foam away.
He had a point and his caution worked in his favour.
‘Lucy Barker. I’m trying to find out if anyone has a grudge against her.’
He grunted, thought for a moment. Shrugged. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘Is she well liked?’
‘Yeah. Well, she pulls her weight, turns up on time, she’s pleasant enough. That’s all that matters when you’re working with someone.’
‘Does she manage any other staff, as the receptionist?’
‘The assistant on the desk, trainees. And she has quite a bit to do with other areas: housekeeping, the restaurant. If someone makes a complaint she’ll handle it – front line sort of thing.’
‘What about hiring and firing?’
‘She’d be on the interview panel,’ he agreed, ‘and she’d do the probation report and the appraisals for her staff.’ He hesitated, his eyes brightened. ‘There was one girl ...’ He leant forward.
‘Yes.’
‘While back, two, three months. Hopeless slacker, never made an effort. Took the hump if she was told off.’
‘Miss Barker sacked her?’
‘No. Gave her a warning. But she was caught pilfering, complimentary flowers and bubbly. Instant dismissal.’
‘You remember her name?’
‘Jowett, Carly Jowett.’
‘If she had a grudge who would it be against?’
‘Me, I reckon,’ he laughed.
We were interrupted by our food arriving. Once eating was underway I returned to my questions. I’d a hunch that Malcolm would be in acute need of a nicotine fix once he’d cleaned his plate and eager to get outside.
‘Any other staff who might have resented Lucy Barker?’
‘No,’ he spiked his sausage, ‘can’t think of any.’
‘Guests?’
‘You always get one or t
wo who like a moan but there’s not been anything out of the ordinary.’
‘What about personnel records, how would people get hold of them?’ Thinking that someone had Lucy Barker’s home address.
‘It’s all on computer, admin staff have the password. It’s confidential.’
‘And letters, application forms?’
He nodded as he chewed. ‘Files. They’re kept locked.’
‘Have any other staff come to you recently with concerns, anything at all?’
He shook his head, took a swig of beer. ‘Nope. Not a dickey bird.’ He frowned. I could tell he was dying to know more but I still thought it was prudent to play my cards close to my chest.
‘She all right?’ he asked. ‘Is it something serious?’
‘Not pleasant. She wants to get to the bottom of it.’
He shuffled in his seat. ‘If it affects the hotel – I’m responsible for security.’
‘It happened at home.’ I told him. ‘Obviously if it had been at work you’d be the best person to look into it. If you hear anything, notice anything, you’ll get back to me? Or if you think of anything else?’ I passed him my card.
‘Yep.’ He scooped up mash and gravy.
‘I’d like to keep this quiet.’
He nodded his agreement.
I finished my sandwich and drained my glass. Malcolm polished off the last of his meal. We talked for a minute or two about the security world: how technical it was becoming, the impact of computers and electronics, the gadgets available. Then I thanked him for his time and left.
Carly Jowett, warned by Lucy then sacked by Malcolm Whitlow. What would Lucy say about her? Two months or more seemed like a long time to wait but then it’s in the nature of grudges to grow with nursing.
Chapter Three
There was a message waiting for me on my voice-mail. A couple called Ecclestone were considering buying a house but had some concerns about the area and wanted to know more about the neighbours. I returned their call and arranged for them to come and see me the next day.
Walking down to school I had a prick of anxiety about Maddie but they’d have rung if she’d had any major trauma. I waited in the playground; the sky was a dismal grey, a quilt of cloud. I nodded to other parents I knew and watched a pair of toddlers shove at each other until one of them fell over and began to wail. Tom came out first of his class, his teacher with him.
‘Are you Tom’s mum?’ She was fairly new and hadn’t yet got to know everyone.
‘No, I’m Sal. I live with Tom and his dad. My daughter Maddie is in Year Two.’
Her eyes had a glazed look. She dipped her head in a little gesture that suggested she wasn’t going to try and follow all that. ‘Well, he’s had a bump.’
He had too. He brushed back the black curls from his forehead to show me a shiny egg-sized lump. ‘It doesn’t hurt,’ he said.
The teacher gave me the standard concussion letter. We wouldn’t need to worry. Tom bounces back from falls and tumbles like a kelly in a budgie cage.
We crossed to the other door where Maddie’s class came out. She emerged, one of the last, on her own, trailing her gym kit and looking glum.
‘How’s it been?’
She shrugged.
‘Did you ask Katy for tea?’
She shook her head.
‘Maybe another day, then?’
Another shrug.
‘I could have a word with her Mum now?’
‘Can’t we just go home?’ she snapped.
‘Fine,’ I sighed.
Tom chattered to me on the walk back while Maddie stayed silent. I knew from past experience that probing wouldn’t help. She’d tell me when she was good and ready. Maybe there wasn’t anything specific, she could be sickening for something (please no!). She was a fairly moody child, sensitive to slights and quick to lose confidence. I often wished she’d more of Tom’s resilience.
The two of them were like brother and sister, or maybe step-brother and sister. They were growing up together. Tom’s dad, Ray Costello, is a single parent like I am and we share the tenancy of the house. It’s always been a platonic arrangement and we’d never blown it by falling into bed together on the rare occasions when one of us has had a sudden, foolish craving for intimacy.
That April, Ray was firmly ensconced with girlfriend Laura, and I was single after a short-lived romance.
Digger the dog greeted us rapturously at home but only Tom paid him any attention. I left them rolling on the hall floor playing wolves and took the lunch boxes and book bags into the kitchen. Maddie went into the lounge and put the telly on. Maybe she just needed to chill out a bit.
I put potatoes in the oven to bake and began to tidy the kitchen. If Carly Jowett was the poison pen letter writer how had she got Lucy Barker’s address? I put the plates down and went into the hall for the phone book, sat on the stairs and leafed through it. No listing. How easy would it be to sneak a look at personnel files? Or to find out where someone lived by listening to the chit-chat? Idle talk about districts and house prices, routes to work, landlords, could all have given clues.
When Ray got in at half past five we all sat down to eat together. Maddie picked at her food, rearranged it on her plate, but I didn’t spot her actually swallow anything. Was she getting ill?
Ray looked incredibly smart. He had a charcoal wool suit on, crisp white shirt, his black hair and moustache trimmed. He’s got Italian blood and when he dresses up he looks like something out of a De Niro movie. He’d been for a job interview with an IT company. He wanted regular work; furniture making is his real passion but never makes him much money.
‘How’d it go?’
‘Good. Yep. They’ll let me know by the end of the week.’ He grinned obviously pleased with his performance. ‘Told them I wanted half-time, flexible if possible.’ Ray was committed to his share of childcare. Over the years we’d worked out a system that suited all four of us.
‘And?’
‘Bit of throat-clearing, odd raised eyebrow but they’ve a whole new department to staff. And they were very specific about whether I’d be free to start in May.’
‘A good sign. Hope you get it.’ I passed round seconds of coleslaw and tzatziki. ‘Tom banged his head.’
‘Look.’ Tom showed him.
‘How did you do that?’
‘Ran into the wall.’ He gave a little sigh.
‘Didn’t you see it?’ Ray joked.
‘I had my eyes shut. I was a zombie.’
At this point Maddie would usually have cast doubt on Tom’s intellect or rolled out the latest slang insult but she seemed detached from the conversation.
‘Are you in tomorrow after school?’ I asked Ray.
‘Here all day,’ Ray replied, ‘I can take and collect, too.’
Great.
I rang Lucy Barker to warn her I’d be talking to her neighbours the following evening. I would call on her then as well; things had come up I needed to ask her about. And I wanted to visit the flats so I could see where she lived and picture someone delivering the letter.
I could fit the remaining two Quay Mancunia staff in on the same day if I planned it right: Pam Hertz, the housekeeping manager for lunch and the general manager of the hotel, a man called Ian Hoyle, after that during working hours. One visit to the hotel itself wouldn’t alert anyone to my enquiry. I’d ring them all first thing. And if Maddie was ill Ray would be home to look after her. Sorted.
I was at the office with time to spare before house hunters Zoe and Frank Ecclestone arrived. Middle-aged, middle-class, they wore matching polar fleece jackets. His with cords and Timberland boots, hers with suede trousers, ankle boots and a paisley neckerchief. He was bald and had grown a large beard to compensate. She had carefully streaked blonde hair down to her shoulders. She wore an Alice band. I could imagine her on a horse.
I’d tidied up the place a bit. It doesn’t take long; there’s only a filing cabinet, a few shelves, chairs and my desk there. The
dirty cups I washed upstairs in the Dobson’s kitchen. I’d dusted the large blue painting that my friend Diane had done for me and straightened the blue rug that practically covers the floor.
The Ecclestones sat side by side opposite me and explained what they wanted.
‘We love the house.’ Zoe Ecclestone gave me a copy of the estate agent’s leaflet. ‘And the area’s very definitely on the up ...’
‘Buoyant,’ Frank added.
I glanced at the address; Severn Road, West Didsbury. One of the priciest parts of Manchester. Anything in Didsbury (East, West or the village) is highly sought after. The area is favoured by celebrities, media-types and property investors; it’s only a few miles from the town centre and handy for the airport and motorways south of the city. For many Mancunians, Didsbury is the posh end. But the Ecclestones were right to proceed with caution. Didsbury had its fair share of car thieves and drug dealers. In Manchester the other side of the tracks is never more than a stone’s throw away.
‘... but a lot of the properties have been divided into flats, some are student houses. If it’s going to be parties every night ...’
‘… drunks in the street ...’
‘... then we’d rather keep looking.’
I studied the photo. The house, ‘Chestnuts’, was an impressive Edwardian semi which boasted lots of original features. Mature gardens, four bedrooms, master ensuite, cellars. The fashionable West Didsbury location had pushed the price up to a cool £289,000.
‘Is it occupied at present?’
‘No. The owner died. She was in her eighties.’
‘And have you met any of the neighbours?’
‘No,’ she looked a little shamefaced.
‘We thought you ...’ He left the sentence dangling.
‘Of course.’
A peace of mind report. The phrase is most often used in the trade as a euphemism for spying on suspected adulterers. People either get peace of mind or their worst fears confirmed and the whole world blows up in their faces. However, for the Ecclestones, instead of lurking outside hotel bedrooms or eavesdropping on lunchtime liaisons, I’d be sizing up the street, establishing whether anyone nearby was running a brothel, dealing drugs, feuding noisily with the neighbours, breeding rottweilers, bashing cars about all night or re-creating the headiest Ibizan raves in their front room.
Bitter Blue Page 2
