Nor did the flowers and the bushes much alarm her in their coasting state. They would look after themselves. The grimy greenhouse, which every spring she swore she would use productively, peeked accusingly from behind the garage. There definitely wasn’t anything to be done there, however. Maybe next spring. Everything could wait.
Except that the patio furniture—at the end of the yard so as to be out of the house’s shadow—was dirty and increasingly covered in fallen leaves. ‘That’s a job.’ It became the sole thing on her mental checklist as though she might show the list to Andrius later in proof that she had followed his instructions. Beyond the patio was the wood panel fence which might need repainting. Maybe? Much too messy work. Better left to summer.
Beyond that the railway bank ramped high up behind the house. She still panged with nostalgic jealously when she saw kids up on the bank. They might be going somewhere. Maybe to the countryside she and Sunny never reached.
The iron clicked in the silence, heating and cooling to its own idle rhythm. Something flitted through the bushes up on the railway bank. A person? Obviously, it had to be. They were alone too, definitely alone, and kids didn’t go up there alone. The figure which passed from behind one bush to another was tall enough to be an adult. Too tall to be a child, definitely.
She unplugged the iron and walked nearer to the patio doors. Still as possible she watched the figure. It was certainly an adult, and a man. And he wasn’t walking. He had taken up position behind the bushes.
Do adults go up there? She couldn’t remember. For all the times she had watched the railway bank, she couldn’t remember. Surely it was only kids that walked up there? Maybe dogwalkers?
A deep breath came with remembrance of Andrius’s words. She moved away to the sink and restacked the dirty plates. Washing up, another job. She ran the water. Then she stepped back, glanced through the patio doors, and immediately respied the man atop the railway bank.
Calm down. It’s nothing. Just keep calm.
Edith left the kitchen and entered the hall. Reversing her earlier practice, she climbed the stairs funereally slow. By the time she looked again the man would be gone. It was certain.
She paused on the landing. Her reflection breathed unsteadily. In the back bedroom she opened the blind to reveal that the man had gone. Nothing to worry about. Nothing.
Couldn’t he be hidden behind one of the bushes? He could be perfectly hidden, spying invisibly.
A flash of panic struck her. This was them, whoever they were. They had just cased the front of her house and now they were casing the back. Soon they would have a complete outline of the property, enough for whatever they planned. This is how they worked, she was sure of it. She had to stop them. Confront them. Let them know they were being watched as much as they were watching.
She sprang downstairs and into the kitchen. She rammed her feet into the nearest boots and tore open the patio doors. Half outside she darted back and to the hall. From under the stairs she grabbed a rounders bat and headed once more toward the rear fence.
As she neared the bank, the fence and the bushes conspired to hide her from above. The wooden fence panel slid up smoothly and was deftly propped with the bat. The first foot through sank into the soft weedy mud beyond. She ducked her body under gracefully and pulled the through. This is how they had done it when they were kids. She was surprised she could still exit so smoothly despite being much taller.
Her sight lingered on the bat. She hadn’t intended to confront him with it. Suddenly it came into consideration. It could be useful, it could be trouble. If she swung it in anger a neighbour might call the police. She silently shook her head against taking it.
The soft earth of the bank slipped underfoot. The branches thickened as she climbed and plucked at her body and clothes. Was it more overgrown now than in years before? Maybe not everything was as easy now she had grown.
She gained the top of the bank at a crouch and steadied herself with bare hands in the cold soil. A moment brought her up to standing straight. The mad had gone. She looked to her left, toward the centre of Timperley, along an empty path. To her right, heading along the track in the same direction her and Sunny had wandered years ago, the man strolled casually. Alone, without even a dog.
She jogged forward for a few seconds then broke into a run. “Hey!” She screamed. The man took no notice. He was not tall; the same height as Edith. He wore a pair of well–fitting jeans and a green padded jacket. His hair was short and reddish brown. He blended well, apart from his behaviour. It would have been impossible to tell what he was up to. Yet as she neared he still ignored her shouts.
“Hey!” She cried a last time before grabbing man by the upper arm. He turned, either finally reacting to the shout or to her touch. Face to face, she saw he was young, maybe not even thirty. Earphones trailed into his jacket. His expression was pure puzzlement.
She yanked the earphones from his ears. “Why aren’t you listening to me?” She thrust her hands toward him. “I’ve been calling and you’re just ignoring me.”
“What? I had my earphones in! You can see that, you just pulled them out!” The man’s anger rose alongside his confusion. “What do you want?”
“Don’t be so obnoxious, you know what I want! Why were you looking at my house?”
“What? I wasn’t I’m just walking.”
“You were stopped down there, I saw you looking at my house!” She pointed to the bushes and then to her house.
“I was taking a piss, for Christ’s sake.”
“Outside my house? You were looking in the fucking windows, I saw you.” She took a step back, unsure of where to take her accusation. “You just stood there for ages. You were spying. I saw you!”
“For fuck’s sake, I was taking a piss. You crazy bitch, nobody’s interested in your fucking house.” With a flick of his hand he dismissed her.
She lunged forward. She held out her hand, then her forefinger. She jabbed it into his chest. “Tell whoever you work for that I’ve got eyes in the back of my head, right? I’ve seen you. Don’t think I won’t see anybody else you send!”
“What?” The man spat out his disbelief. He glanced down at her finger, then around him in the vain hope that somebody else was present to witness her madness.
“You heard what I said,” she paused. She wanted to draw back, to replay the confrontation and keep cool, accuse less. There was no way she could do that now, “...just take note, yeah, I’m not going to be your victim. I’m not going down without a fight.”
The man failed to find a reasonable reply. In the end he shook his head. “You crazy, crazy bitch.”
He retreated from her madness, one step at a time. At last he felt safe enough to turn his back to her.
She stepped forward and grabbed his arm once more and span him round to face her. There was more she wanted to say. Something. It couldn’t end with him walking away. It never came.
The man stepped nearer of his own will. Without warning the heel of his hand flashed forward and struck her between her breasts. She lurched backward, her body off balance. His foot was lodged behind her own. Before she could steady herself she fell, arse–first, into the mud.
He stood over her for a moment in silence then withdrew a dozen steps. With a half turn her could walk normally but keep an eye on her. At length he turned fully and hurried away, glancing now and again over his shoulder to check he was not being followed.
She was not following. She wallowed in the mud, cold and wet seeping through her jeans. There were no tears, only shame. He had done little more than push her and she was on the floor in seconds. Not even a fight.
She didn’t stand a chance when they came for her properly.
Day 16: Thursday 16 November
“That bent cop got back to me.” Edith slumped against the wall in her father’s darkened room.
“You shouldn’t call him that.”
“You would.” She thought about asking her father what he had done to co
mpromise a police officer. It was irrelevant but it would make him uncomfortable.
“But you shouldn’t. It’s disrespectful. He’s a valuable colleague.”
Colleague? He was a cop. Her father was...she didn’t know any more. ‘Investigator’ must have covered more than she ever knew.
“Anyway,” she sighed, “he texted me the information about the car. But it isn’t what I expected. I don’t know what to do next.” Her head rested in her hand. “I can’t think straight, Dad.”
“What did you expect?” Ben thought that having the name of the person who tried to kill her would give his daughter a crystal clear plan of action.
“I thought your compromised colleague would give me a name.”
“I told you not to disrespect him.”
“Why are we arguing over this? What does it matter?”
“You get what you pay for.”
“Sorry?” She thumped the dresser next to her.
“You shouldn’t complain. Mike did that as a favour for you.”
“For you, maybe. But then only because you fucked him over in past, right?”
“Don’t you accuse me of anything like that.” He jabbed a finger in the dark. “You know less than you think.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Are you going to help me or not?”
“Of course, you’re my daughter. But please have some manners.”
“I swear you’re going fucking nuts in this room. A bit of daylight would do you some good.” She spat out the last line with deepest irony and laughed. Right there, in front of him. Was he always like this? Or is it only since his accident? She shook her head.
“Dad, I just need some advice. The car which tried to run me off the road isn’t registered to a person. It’s registered to a company which rents cars.”
“It’s just another step, that’s all. No big deal.” He smiled to himself. “Another step which can easily be overcome. They’ll have records about who rented each car.”
“How do I find out what’s in those records. Even a bent cop can’t get me those.”
“You can get them yourself.”
“How?”
She virtually felt her father’s whole body shrug. “Just break in.”
“But...,” Her moral objection to burglary evaporated on her tongue. They had tried to kill her. A more serious objection took its place. “I’ve never done anything like that. I would screw it up.”
“You need some help, that’s true. But it should be an easy job.” He weighed up how much to admit. “Trust me. It won’t be hard.”
“Dad? Trust you? About burglary?” The wads of cash that Sunny had sought to foist on her flashed into her mind. There was too much she didn’t know.
“I mean, I can’t say that all my methods have always been above board. But I think you’re beginning to learn that.” He knew how much it shocked his daughter.
“Oh. Okay.” She integrated the admission quicker than she might have done a week ago. “So what should I do? I don’t know where to start. Is there somebody I can go to? People who do this for hire?”
There was a gaping silence. Ben thought, groping for a solution which would get Edith the information she needed but took account of her skills. Her lack of skills. There were people who would do it for money. She had fifteen grand which was more than enough. Yet most of them would baulk at the information that they were investigating the Establishment. They would back out of breaking into a company run by the police, or the security services, or whoever was running the operation. It would take more time and money to find somebody willing to do it with no questions asked. They needed the answer quicker than that if they wanted to strike back effectively.
She heard his fingers rap upon the arm of his chair. “Hmm.” There was no such thing as a problem without an answer. Even when the answer was violence it was still an answer. Yet the rental company who owned the car was likely just another layer. Extracting the information from them through force would be too much even if she could do it. They couldn’t afford to make a scene yet.
Their enemy was potentially far more powerful than them. Surprise was one of the few strengths she had left. Though she was now known to them, taking the initiative by tracking down one of their operatives would put them on the back foot. She must have already shaken them enough with her investigation into Thomas Faircote’s death to have reacted the way they did. They must have thought that his death was done and covered up, that everybody believed he had driven himself off the road.
“That’s it!” He clapped his hands once, staggeringly loud.
“What’s it?”
“You’re not the first person these shady fuckers have tried to kill, are you?”
“Well, no, Dad, that’s the whole point. That’s how I ended up here.” She sighed.
“No! Listen to what I’m trying to say.” He stood in excitement. “The guys who tried to run you off the road did so because you’re too near the truth regarding the murder of the Faircotes.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re not the first one they tried to run off the road. Samuel came to us asking for an investigation into his cousin Thomas Faircote. And that Thomas was run off the road, yeah?”
“That’s what I’ve established. Or at least that what I think is the case.”
“So when we’re looking for the guys who tried to kill you, we’re also looking for the guys who killed Thomas. Thomas’s friends are therefore—QE–bloody–D—going to help you find out who was driving the car which rammed you.” He jabbed in finger into the dark air before sitting back in his chair.
“I guess. I mean, I hope. But what if they don’t?” A plan was hastily assembling itself in her mind.
“Don’t tell them the whole lot. Feed them a little lie and say that you’ve tracked down the car which was used to attack Thomas. They’ll feel duty–bound if you put it that way, and it’s not going to hurt them. You don’t have a moral problem with that, do you Princess?”
“No. Not at all.” She shrugged. The truth had been shaded enough in her own investigation that once more hardly seemed a problem.
“Now, the question is, did Thomas have any friends who were dodgy enough, or loyal enough, to help you burgle a business?”
She chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, he did. He must have had scores of them. But I can think of one straight away.”
Rain teemed down onto the brown setts and cracked flagstones of Market Street. The day’s drizzle had grown heavier, shifting in seconds to a heavy burst. The busiest shopping street in Manchester was half cleared within the minute. A few brollies braved the rain as they ran from shop to shop. Knots of shoppers caught unprepared huddled in doorways hoping the rain would soon pass.
Edith watched from the first floor of a shop as runnels of water snaked along both sides of the street. Even the Jehovah’s Witnesses, with their impeccable clothing and quiet demeanour, were ruffled as they struggled to pack up their leaflets and retreat into the dry. The street vendors wrestled with lengths of plastic sheeting and bungee cords, trying to keep their carts, brimful with tat, from a soaking. It was odd how grown men could be so worked up about plastic phone cases and inflatable toys.
She turned away from the windows and back to the clothes. An hour’s shopping was meant to be a distraction while she waited. Thursday at the Arndale Centre was quiet enough already. If the rain kept up it would be almost dead. Perfect conditions for aimless browsing. Though maybe another day. A new dress was still needed, but she couldn’t bring herself to look more than half–heartedly. Saturday would come soon enough, and she hoped that Sunny would be better at shopping.
Edith peeked at her phone. It was twenty to two. It was best to arrive at the cafe after two. Nobody would have time for her during the dinner hour rush. There was no reason to risk pissing off people from whom she needed to ask a huge favour. It was also pointless moping around the shops any longer. She headed for the Arndale’s exit intending to stroll vaguely east toward the cafe. The
journey might take fifteen minutes if she dawdled. Maybe more if she lost her way.
Along the grey and white marble halls of the shopping centre, past the hoardings for new shops desperate to open before Christmas, and out the east entrance she strolled. It had stopped raining as quickly as it had begun. High Street was a mass of taxis and trams to navigate. Look right, look left, don’t catch your foot in the rail. If you try to cut in front of an oncoming tram you’ll be shamed with a honk from the driver.
At the secondhand bookseller on the corner of Church Street she slowed to look. She remembered that he never put the books in alphabetical order, or any order known to man. It might make for a serendipitous discovery for some browsers. For others it was disastrously frustrating.
Keeping to the south side of Church Street she dodged the homeless, afraid that they would ask for money she wasn’t willing to give directly to them. They crowded round Tib Street car park which was itself a blight on the townscape, sitting as an unwanted guest right on the edge of the Northern Quarter. It must make its owners millions, though she doubted they lived in Manchester. Soon she drifted by the door of Affleck’s Palace and found herself suddenly tempted. Samuel had given her plenty of money and it no longer mattered if everything was overpriced and faddish. She made a mental note to donate to one of the homeless charities instead.
She didn’t need any more things, she had enough. What she needed was time to sort out the problem she faced before it was too late. She chilled at the reality of her situation. Her chest emptied of breath and heartbeats. The void ached. Her mind flared with a sudden anger. She knew nothing until it happened, and by then it would either be the right time to act or too late to worry. The only thing that mattered was the next step. She was the one with the plan, wherever it took her.
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