‘Are you tired?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you up late?’
‘No. But Tom had that stupid mouse story on.’
‘‘S’not stupid.’
‘Go get your shoes,’ I told them both.
It was a bitterly cold day. The April wind was coming from the north and the sky was heavy with moody clouds, dark grey and tinged with sulphuric yellow. I decided it would make sense to wait to hear from Lucy Barker about Ian Hoyle before attempting to talk to Carly Jowett.
The nearest police station is Elizabeth Slinger, on the far side of West Didsbury near to Princess Parkway and Southern Cemetery. I called in there and waited for a while in the tiny reception area. Eventually I was invited through to a small, characterless interview room where young PC Tootall, with badly bitten nails and severe dandruff, heard me out. He took some notes but said he wasn’t sure whether there’d be enough information especially without the victim’s details to issue a crime number. He made a clumsy but well-intentioned speech about the police needing the co-operation of the public in order to do their job.
‘Have there been any similar cases in the area?’ I asked him.
‘I’ve not heard of anything.’
That didn’t really answer my question. ‘Would it be possible to find out?’
‘I’ll check up on it if I get a chance later,’ he said.
‘Because people ought to be warned.’
He was noncommittal and we parted with a shared sense that my visit had probably been a waste of time.
Back at Severn Road the street felt different. The events of the previous night had tainted the place so I now felt the possibility of danger which I hadn’t done before. The weather didn’t help. I had to narrow my eyes against the wind and the gusts through the trees made it hard to hear.
At Oakview, next door to Chestnuts, the people carrier was parked in the drive. The Asian woman who answered the door was cautious at first. I had to explain to her twice why I wanted to ask her about the area then she studied my card closely. Finally satisfied, she invited me in. I was relieved I didn’t have to do the interview shivering on the doorstep. She made tea and we sat in the front room which was obviously used as a study. It was very warm and I shed a layer of clothing. There was a desk and computer, books lined the walls and the place was peppered with art objects: several different puppets, musical instruments, sculptures and models made of metal, some blocky woodcuts.
They had lived in the house for twelve years. ‘I work from home,’ Mrs Mistry told me. ‘I translate books so I’m here much of the time. It’s not a bad area but you have to have good security. There are quite a lot of break-ins but that’s true everywhere these days, isn’t it? And I wouldn’t walk around at night.’
My ears pricked up. ‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s not safe. Every week there’s a mugging in the paper. I use the car.’
A depressingly familiar view. The world wasn’t safe, the streets weren’t safe. Strangers were a threat. The fear made us stop our children playing out, isolated us in our homes and cars. Never mind that unprovoked attacks like the one the night before were relatively rare, never mind that those most at risk from street violence were young men. Fear fed on itself, distorting our perception of risk.
‘Have there been any incidents that you recall like that?’
‘I’m sure there have but I can’t remember all the ins and outs.’
‘Anything recently?’
She shrugged.
‘Have you had any problem with noise or anything else?’
‘Not really.’
‘What about the houses opposite? One’s used for business.’
‘Yes, people come and go in the daytime but there’s no inconvenience. But next door to that, what an eyesore, isn’t it?’
‘Is it empty?’
‘No, there’s an old couple. We don’t see them from one month to the next. I think they rent it. It really lets the area down.’
‘Do you know who owns it?’
She shook her head.
‘What about the flats on your side, next door but one? Are they let to students?’
‘No, professional people. Nice people. There’s a Resident’s Association for West Didsbury,’ she added. ‘They organise things to try and improve the area. They work with the traders on Burton Road. It might be worth you talking to them. I’ve not heard of this before,’ her tone became inquisitive, ‘investigating somewhere for house buyers?’
‘It’s becoming more common. I think especially if someone has already had problems with noisy neighbours. The last thing they want to do is end up in the same situation again.’
‘Well, tell them we’re fine. My husband’s at hospital all day, he’s a cardiologist, and the children have homes of their own now. We’re nice and quiet,’ she smiled. ‘Further down the road you might find it different.’
She began to tell me about her children and her new grandson. And eventually I had to interrupt her to get away. After leaving Mrs Mistry I went round to the flats but it looked like everyone was out at work. No cars about. And no answer when I tried the three bells.
I crossed to the offices that housed Severn Insurance and Mannion and Shaw and spoke to a secretary there who seemed delighted to have her work interrupted. The two companies were linked, Mannion and Shaw were loss adjusters, and her boss spent much of the time visiting clients. She told me about a spate of burglaries they had suffered a couple of years previously.
‘I blame the druggies,’ she said.
She was probably right. Feeding a habit accounted for a good proportion of housebreaking in the city and the turf wars accounted for most of the shootings.
Their offices now had a comprehensive security system with sensors on doors and windows and the alarm was routed through to a security firm and the local police station. When I asked her if they still had problems she admitted things were much better. ‘They know it’s too much hassle here. The security firm are round like a shot.’
What about the run-down house next door? Did she know who owned it?
‘Absentee landlords. They’re based in London,’ she said. ‘We’ve been on at them for years to sort the place out, complained to the council, but nothing ever happens. There’s a chimney up there and it’s a miracle it hasn’t come down and killed someone.’
‘And there’s an old couple living there?’
‘The Smiths. You hardly ever see them about. Like recluses really. They ought to be in a home, somewhere they can be looked after properly. They can’t manage. You’d know that if you met them.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘The smell,’ she pulled a face, ‘I don’t reckon they’ve had a change of clothes or seen a bar of soap for years. It’s not right.’
I had a daft impulse to defend the Smiths; to point out their right to live as they pleased but I didn’t know enough about their situation. Perhaps they did need help, would welcome it.
‘Do they get any visitors? Social worker or anything?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed. So, what’s it like being a private detective? Do you follow people? Film them in secret?’
‘Sometimes … there’s a lot of hanging about.’
‘Humphrey Bogart – what was the guy he played?’
‘Philip Marlowe.’
‘I like them. Old black and white. My kids won’t watch anything if it’s black and white. Don’t know what they’re missing.’
Next door at the Smiths’ the weeds were high, even on the old driveway. A rough trail through them to the door. Presumably for the mail that everyone got regardless: junk advertising and free papers. I knocked at the front door. Nobody answered. I picked my way round to the door at the side of the house. The whole thing had been boarded up so they must just have used the front entrance. At the back of the building an old garage had collapsed in on itself, sections of the roof timbers exposed and piles of brick smothered by creepers. Two sycamore trees on the boundary towered over the house, c
reating deep shade. They had spawned dozens of seedlings – many now taller than me. The rest of the ground was a jungle of brambles and couch grass. Someone had used the garden to dump rubbish. I could see the springs of an iron bedstead, a rotting mattress, a rusting supermarket trolley, old cans and bottles.
The windows at the back of the house were covered, some by curtains and one with sheets of yellowing newspaper. Moss and slime gave a green sheen to the red bricks. Depressing. If it was like this outside what would it be like inside? Living there wouldn’t be good for the spirit, let alone what the body might suffer.
I tried again at the front, knocking loudly and calling through the letter box. ‘Hello, Mr Smith, Mrs Smith, can I talk to you please? It won’t take long.’
Nothing.
I looked in the letterbox but it had bristles to keep the draughts out so I couldn’t see a thing. I put my ear to it and listened. The wind was still rattling through the trees so it was difficult. Pressing my fingers against one ear to block out the noise, I concentrated on the silence inside. I was sure they were in there. I could sense them. It was as if the house was holding its breath.
I took a diversion on my way back to the office retracing my route from the night before, past the spot where I’d seen the blonde woman fall, and on to her house. I stopped the engine and sat there looking at the place. What was I doing? Looking for some sort of tidying up of loose ends, hoping she’d choose that moment to re-appear ready to report a crime and with a much clearer memory of what her assailant was like? But life’s not neat. It doesn’t come in tidy, easy-to-process chunks. Was she all right? Had the man attacked anyone else? Did he live round there? I took a deep breath, rolled my shoulders back and got on with my day.
Once I’d warmed up the office I typed up the bones of my report for the Ecclestones. Immediate neighbours seemed settled and on good terms. There were no disputes between them. There had been break-ins to houses on Severn Road but these had been more prevalent in previous years. Nevertheless residents had stressed the importance of good security. Referring to the assault I pointed out that details were sketchy and there was no evidence to suggest this was other than an isolated incident. The scruffy state of the house opposite may be cause for concern. I would make a couple more visits to Severn Road, to see what the neighbourhood was like on a weekend night.
I was hungry and was just clearing up before going home to eat when I got a call from Lucy Barker.
‘I’ve seen Ian, straightened things out.’
Relief. I’d continued to worry that Lucy might be endangered as a result of tackling him.
‘What did you say?’ I sat down to listen.
‘I started off gently, said I was sorry things were so difficult for him, with the baby and all. And how much I valued his friendship. I told him I was sorry that there’d been any misunderstanding between us.
‘He brushed it off. He was much happier, they’d had a scan yesterday and apparently things look a lot better, much more hopeful. That must have been why he was so uptight when you met him, big day and all that.’
I wondered exactly what was wrong with the Hoyle’s’ baby.
‘Anyway, Ian was much more relaxed and I told him then how worried I was about the mail I’d had—’
‘You told him there’d been letters?’
We’d agreed from the outset to keep the precise nature of the trouble under wraps.
‘Well, I had to. And he was really concerned for me. I said the worst thing was waiting to see if there’ll be any more; that dread of something else arriving, and I got quite upset. I know he’d have said then if he’d done it. He said was there anything he could do to help and had you got any ideas? He was very worried.’
Try as I might I couldn’t imagine the man who’d seethed at me yesterday speaking these lines but if he was carrying a torch for Lucy and had good news about his child then maybe he’d undergone a personality change when she pressed the right buttons. I still thought she was naive to think his concern meant he was innocent. Expressing sympathy and offering help didn’t guarantee his innocence. Whoever had delivered that malicious death threat would be prepared to lie and play games to avoid detection.
‘He even suggested I stay at the hotel for a bit if it would help.’
Very convenient.
‘No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ It could be a trap. As yet I hadn’t figured out what else I could do to investigate Ian Hoyle but I didn’t want Lucy in his clutches out of office hours. The lack of progress was frustrating. I’d known it would be hard when I took the case but that didn’t lessen my desire to give it my best shot.
‘I’m still planning to talk to Carly Jowett.’
‘You still think she might be behind it?’ She was surprised.
‘I don’t know. But it’d be silly to ignore the possibility. I need her contact details.’
‘They’re meant to be confidential.’
‘Someone got yours.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. I felt ashamed of my comment. This woman had been frightened, she hardly needed such a harsh reminder. Maybe it was my low blood sugar making me irritable. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll explain the situation to Malcolm Whitlow – see if he can give me Carly’s number.’
‘Okay,’ she said quietly.
Malcolm Whitlow hesitated for a moment but decided in my favour and gave me the phone number. ‘If anyone asks,’ he added, ‘you didn’t get it from me.’
‘Fine,’ I agreed. After all, I could always have found it by working my way through the Manchester telephone directory. This was simply a short-cut.
I sloped off home and made myself cheese and tomato on toast and cut a slab of Sheila’s fruitcake. She’s a great baker, from a generation who made cakes, biscuits, pies and scones once a week. Once we’d discovered she could do it we quickly came to an arrangement that we’d get supplies in and she, often assisted by Maddie, would do her stuff.
Being self-employed I don’t need to sit at my desk and watch the clock. I’m my own boss and I love the flexibility (even though the downside is financial instability). So I decided not to go back to the office that afternoon; not enough to do. Instead I went to the supermarket. The weather affected my purchases. I managed to buy most of the basics we needed but also crumpets, muffins, tins of rice-pudding and tomato soup, ingredients for pies and stews. What I think of as the warming winter foods. I unloaded the boxes at home and put stuff away.
The freezer was icing up, the borders around each drawer were framed with dense curving edges of ice; moving them in and out led to small avalanches of crunchy snow from one level to the next. I could only just stuff the food in. It needed defrosting but it was such a tedious and messy job I always hung on until it was critical: when the door would no longer shut and the ice threatened to move, glacier-like, into the kitchen.
And while I pretended to ignore it, Ray was genuinely oblivious. He’d have to be suffering from frostbite before he realised that there was a polar ice cap emerging from the big white box where the burgers and chips were. He’s like that: there are some household tasks that his brain just doesn’t compute. Some of them I nag him about, determined to share responsibility but others are a trade-off for the things he does that I avoid. Like all the dog related stuff and fixing things that break or drop off or explode. I can change plugs, paint walls, strip floors and handle anything in the garden but I’m less confident when it comes to anything with rawl plugs and T-squares.
Katy, Maddie’s classmate, came back from school with us. The two girls disappeared into the playroom when we got home and Tom went to play on the computer. I cleared up and transferred washing to the dryer and dry clothes to my bed for sorting out. Katy sought me out and asked to watch a video.
‘Yes, which one?’
‘Winnie The Pooh.’
‘Fine. Maddie’ll put it on for you.’
‘She doesn’t want to watch it.’
‘Does she want something el
se?’
‘Don’t know.’
I went downstairs. No Maddie in the lounge. Nor in the playroom.
‘Maddie,’ I called out.
A pause, then, ‘What?’
She was upstairs.
‘Aren’t you going to watch Winnie the Pooh with Katy?’ I called.
‘S’rubbish.’
For heaven’s sake! What was she playing at now?
‘I’ll put it on for you,’ I told Katy. She seemed happy enough.
Once I’d fast-forwarded past the adverts I left it running and went back upstairs, told myself to think of the exercise I was getting. Maddie was lying on her bed with a couple of soft toys. She and Katy got on so well usually. I sat on the edge of her bed. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I didn’t say anything was wrong.’
‘I know you didn’t. Why don’t you want to play with Katy?’
A shrug. ‘I’ve got tummy ache.’
Give me strength! Maddie was a budding hypochondriac and it was treacherous trying to determine when she was genuinely ill and needed some treatment and when she just wanted attention. ‘Sip some water.’ I held out the cup from her bedside. She took a sip. I put my palms against her forehead and the back of her neck. No temperature.
‘How’s school?’
Another shrug.
‘Any problems?’
Shrug.
If she was like this now, what fun would we have when she became a teenager? Maybe that was it! Maddie was entering adolescence several years early. We’d have grunts and shrugs, stormy looks and sudden tantrums for a few years and then she’d emerge fully mature and human again. Maybe.
‘How about the pictures?’ I said. She’d been wanting to go for ages. ‘We could go on Saturday, invite Katy?’
‘What’s on?’
‘I’ll have to look in the paper. You coming down?’
She shrugged.
Maddie picked at her tea but had no problem with the chocolate mousse that followed. At half six Katy’s mum Fiona arrived. I explained that Maddie had been a bit under the weather and mentioned the idea of a cinema trip. Katy was keen.
When Maddie was ready for bed we read some more from her library book. Tom listened too. I settled an argument about which tape to have by choosing one for them. An old favourite: Flat Stanley.
Bitter Blue Page 5
