‘Whatever it takes,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t want to see Luke’s life ruined for something he didn’t do. I’ll sell the house, the business, whatever.’
Crikey, I wasn’t that expensive.
‘We’d better meet,’ I said, ‘I need more information before I know whether I can help.’
‘This afternoon?’
‘Yes, early afternoon.’ I had to pick up Maddie and Tom from school at three-thirty, It didn’t half eat into my working days.
He gave me an address in Prestwich. I told him I’d be there at half past one.
I was late. Prestwich is the other side of town from Withington and the traffic was all diverted round the bombed area. It was chaos. We edged slowly along Deansgate, where most of the shop fronts were boarded up; nothing was open. When we got to the bottom of Deansgate I peered up towards the Arndale and Marks & Spencers. In spite of seeing the images on television, I was still affected by the extent of the damage. My stomach clenched uneasily and I could feel tears not far away as I caught glimpses of twisted metal and shattered concrete, of Venetian blinds dangling broken from office windows and fractured lamp posts.
They were big houses, detached, each one a little different from its neighbour, with Tudor-style facades and leaded windows. Double-garage-and-gardener territory.
The Wallace house was at the end of the cul-de-sac. Beyond were trees and the sound of running water. The River Irwell came through here. The day was warm, sunny, the birds were in full throat. How nice it would be to just slip away, saunter through the trees to a sunny glade and watch the river flow, lose myself in the glistening reflections. As if.
A woman wearing a stripy butcher’s apron opened the door. Unruly black hair, a bright expression.
‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Wallace, Sal Kilkenny.’
‘Oh, yes. Come on in. He’s in the back.’
I followed her through the house which was furnished like an Ikea showroom, to a large room at the back. One end with desk, shelves and PC obviously served as a study or office while the other half of the room was an open-plan lounge with television and sofas. Floor-length blinds occupied most of the far wall; they were shut but the translucent material allowed plenty of light in. I could see the shadowed outline of patio doors on the blinds. The place was cluttered and untidy but not dirty.
Victor Wallace rose from the desk as we came in, and stretched out his hand. His handshake was warm, firm.
‘Thank you, Megan,’ he said.
‘Will you have tea?’ the woman asked me, ‘or coffee?’
‘Thank you, coffee would be great.’
‘Victor?’
‘No, thanks.’
She left us.
‘Please, sit down.’ He gestured to the sofas, placed at right-angles to each other. I opted for the firmest-looking one; there’s nothing worse than trying to be businesslike while sliding inexorably into a horizontal position on a soggy sofa. He took the other.
He gave off a palpable air of restless energy. Frustration, even. He was a stocky man with small, square hands, a round, shiny face as though someone had polished him, receding hairline, grey hair. He wore jeans, a casual sweatshirt but good quality. Chicago Bears on the front.
‘What I’d like to do,’ I began, ‘is ask you some initial questions, get the overall picture of what’s happened, both about Ahktar Khan’s death and since.’
He nodded briskly.
‘Let’s start with New Year’s Eve.’
He spoke so rapidly it was all I could do to note the essential facts, but that was all right at this stage. I could go over any gaps later if I decided to take the job. What I needed now was the flavour of the case. It would help me to establish whether there was anything that made me uneasy or rang alarm bells, whether there was any point in Mr Wallace paying me, or if I was a last-ditch attempt to do something in a hopeless situation.
Luke and Ahktar and two other friends had gone to Nirvana for the big New Year’s Eve bash. The boys were close friends from school; they had formed a band and used to practise in the Wallaces’ basement.
Victor knew Luke would be home late, so he’d made sure he had plenty of cash for a taxi.
Where was Mrs Wallace in all this? Was there one? I’d ask later.
At five he was woken by a phone call from the duty solicitor at the police station. Luke was being held for questioning in connection with an affray.
They didn’t tell him any more over the phone.
‘I thought it was a mix-up – you know, some horseplay got out of hand – though frankly, even that surprised me.’
‘Why?’
‘Luke’s not like that. He’s never been in a fight in his life, hates practical jokes,’ he smiled. ‘It wasn’t cool, you see. At that age, it’s all image, isn’t it, and Luke and Ahktar, they were into being grown-up. They’d no time for kids’ stuff.’
He’d waited for two and half hours at the police station before he’d found out that Ahktar was dead as a result of an assault with a knife, and that Luke was being questioned about the incident.
‘I couldn’t believe it,’ he said. ‘He was a lovely boy – bright, friendly – he and my son were inseparable. It seemed ludicrous that he was dead.’ He paused, remembering something else, shifted on the sofa. ‘And I thought: Thank God, it’s not Luke. I hated myself for thinking that.’ He took a deep breath, wiped his hands on his jeans.
‘So, I waited and waited, hours on end. It was so difficult to find out what was happening. They kept telling me to go home, they expected me to walk away and leave him there. I couldn’t understand why they were being so brutal. His friend was dead – surely it wouldn’t take all day to establish what Luke had seen! I thought he was a witness, you see,’ he still spoke quickly, his voice tight with frustration and pent-up energy. ‘In the end I blew up at the guy on the desk. Finally they sent someone to talk to me. He tells me that Luke is a suspect, that they think he may have killed Ahktar. I laughed, it was so preposterous. I told them no way, there was some horrific mistake, they were best friends.’
There was a knock at the door and Megan came in with a tray, coffee in a little cafetière, milk and sugar, shortbread biscuits. She set it down on the table near to me. As Mr Wallace thanked her, something in the way he said it told me that they weren’t friends or relatives but that she worked for him.
‘They said he hadn’t been fit to interview when they’d brought him in and they were waiting to question him in the morning. It must have been mid-morning by then, you lose all track of time. They held him all that day, and the next. They kept going to the magistrates to get another twenty-four hours. I saw him for ten minutes, twice in all that time. Then they charged him.’ He covered his mouth and looked away.
I occupied myself pouring the coffee. The bitter aroma filled the room. I ate a biscuit. He got to his feet and crossed to the blinds, pressed a switch at the side; they glided back.
‘Oh,’ I said softly. Beyond lay a stunning garden, shaped by clumps of bamboo and various conifers. There were two apple trees at one corner, an alpine rockery and a large pool. Old York flagstone paths connected the different areas and the lush grass was dotted with daisies and clover. I got to my feet for a better look. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. It was so unlike the traditional clipped lawns and standard roses I’d seen in the neighbours’ front gardens. Most of the planting was green or architectural, and there was little of the annual colour with which I stuffed my own pots and window-boxes. The colours in the rockery were muted – white, soft pink, here and there a tiny flash of a stronger red or purple, but there was a restraint to it all. Beside the pool a boulder had been placed. It was perfect.
‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ Mr Wallace replied. ‘Do you garden?’
‘A bit,’ I said, overawed by the comparison.
‘Glenda, my wife, designed it. Place was full of hydrangeas and gladioli when we moved in. She died,’ he carried on, ‘six years ago now. We keep it just as she made it.
We could sit outside if you…’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll get the key.’ He strode over to his desk and came back with a bunch of keys. He unlocked the French windows. I gathered up my tray and book and we settled on seats on the patio immediately next to the house.
‘So,’ he resumed his story, ‘I asked to see the person in charge. They made me wait, of course. I told him they’d got the wrong person. I explained how close the boys were, that neither of them got into fights. That Luke would never hurt Ahktar. The man listened, he thanked me, he said nothing. As far as I can see, they’ve got a suspect and they want to make it fit.’
‘But without proof…’
‘Apparently they have two witnesses.’
Bad news. I underlined the word witnesses in my notes.
‘People who saw something that incriminates Luke. How could they?’ he demanded. ‘He didn’t do it; they’ve got him mixed up with someone else.’ His tone was hectoring. In any other situation it would have put me right off, but I made allowances for his desperation.
‘What did Luke say?’
He sighed. ‘Luke can’t remember anything.’ I could hear the despair in his voice. ‘He was pissed, he says he’d taken some tablets, he can’t remember anything. He doesn’t know what happened. Just a blank. He was devastated when they told him Ahktar was dead but he can’t remember a thing.’
My heart sank. With witnesses for the prosecution and a suspect who was out of his head on drugs, it wouldn’t be hard to secure a conviction. Obviously it would depend on what the witnesses actually saw and whether there was any other interpretation of that. But all Mr Wallace could offer in Luke’s defence was his trust, his faith that his son hadn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t have killed his friend. And I’m sure most parents faced with that accusation would say the same.
‘Mr Wallace—’ My uncertainty must have come through because he interrupted me before I could say more.
‘Please,’ he said, gripping the edge of the seat. ‘Please.’ He implored me but there was strength, not weakness in his plea.
Objections leapfrogged over each other in my mind. A hopeless case, I’d be going over the same old ground, I can’t do anything your lawyer can’t do, the trail will be stone cold, it’s months ago, they’ve got a witness, he may be guilty, these tragedies happen. But I couldn’t turn him down. His conviction, his passion about his son’s innocence was too powerful.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘but these are my terms.’
Chapter Four
Driving back through the city centre was even slower than getting there. I felt exhausted by meeting Mr Wallace and the intensity of his emotional state. I had an image I couldn’t shift of the knife in Ahktar’s chest. I don’t like knives. I was stabbed once. Please don‘t, I’d begged. He raised his arm…the knife shining…No. I shook the memories away.
My shoulder was stiff and aching. I rolled it back round and round as I queued up to get onto Princess Street. We inched forward a couple of cars at a time when the lights changed, but the traffic ahead was hardly moving. There’d been a crash. I crawled past wanting to avert my eyes, needing to look. A woman in one of the cars had a neck brace on. She was being lifted out by two ambulance men. I sighed with relief; no blood, no dead bodies or worse, no decapitated driver or twitching limbs imprinted on my mind for the rest of my life.
If Ahktar had been stabbed outside the club as everyone was coming out, surely there would have been more than two witnesses? There’d have been blood, a skirmish; people would have glanced, looked, stared. There would have been the unmistakable atmosphere of violence, the scent of danger and death that we all recognise instinctively, that speeds up our heartbeat and raises the hairs on the back of our neck. I needed to find some of those witnesses. Six months after the event it wouldn’t be easy, and acting for the defence we could hardly get a slot on Crimewatch to pull people in. I’d start with the list Mr Wallace had given me, but from what he’d said none of the witnesses had come up with anything substantial the defence could use. Before I talked to anyone though, I’d book a visit to Golborne and meet Luke, assess for myself whether I thought he was wrongly accused. As an independent operator I had the freedom to choose who I worked for and what the terms were, and I’d said to Mr Wallace that I would only take the case if I felt comfortable working for Luke’s release.
Sheila rang. They were reopening Victoria Station so she hoped to travel home the following day. The news continued to be dominated by the bomb. Television and newspapers featured devastating pictures of the Arndale Centre and surrounding buildings; the gaping windows, twisted metal and fragments of concrete. It still made my stomach churn. Much was made of the bridge that linked Marks & Spencers with the Arndale Centre. It had literally jumped several feet in the air with the force of the blast, yet had fallen back into place in one piece – albeit unsafe. And a red pillar box close to the centre of the blast had inexplicably survived while everything about it was smashed to smithereens.
There were tales of folly and bravery, of interrupted weddings and miraculous escapes. Hundreds of people were still unable to get to work, to visit their businesses, retrieve their cars, return to their homes. I read it all.
On page eight a headline caught my eye. MYSTERY WOMAN AT BELLE VUE SUICIDE SCENE. I recalled the look of shock on Mrs Grady’s face, the ominous sound of flies busy at the corpse.
Local resident, Mrs Grady, 62, claimed she’d been alerted by a mystery caller ‘She wouldn’t say who she was or what she was doing there. She wouldn’t have her photograph taken. I thought that was a bit odd at the time. I’d no idea who she was. She left as soon as she could.’ I groaned. They’d had to put a spin on it. Rather than just relate the facts of Mr Kearsal’s death they’d spiced it up with a whiff of intrigue.
Mr Kearsal, 68, was found hanging at his Belle Vue home on the evening of Thursday June 13th He had not been seen since the previous Thursday. Mr Kearsal, who lived alone, leaves a sister in Harrogate. At this stage police do not suspect foul play; a note was found at the scene.
It was a non-story. Of course the police knew who I was, and a call to them from the reporter would have established that immediately, unless the police were being awkward about it. I groaned again. All I needed was some bright, bored reporter determined to uncover my identity, and the whole thing could blow out of all proportion. Local notoriety would be disastrous for my business. I needed my anonymity.
I could see it now. PRIVATE EYE HOUNDS BROKEN MAN. IS THIS WOMAN ON YOUR TAIL?
I hoped to God it would fade away.
I’d just topped up the bath for myself when I heard the phone. I let Ray answer it, hoping it would be for him. Wrong.
‘It’s Debbie Gosforth,’ her voice said, high with strain. ‘He’s here now, across the street.’
Shit.
‘Can you come?’ She was breathless.
‘Yes. Listen, I won’t come to the house –that might alert him – but I’ll wait down the street and try to follow him when he goes. What’s he wearing?’
‘His suit. He’s by the alley, where I showed you.’
‘How long’s he been there?’
‘I don’t know. I only saw him just now when I went to close the curtains upstairs. He wasn’t there earlier.’
‘I’ve got a mobile phone,’ I said. ‘I can ring you to let you know when he leaves. Stay inside. Try and keep your phone clear.’
I hate working evenings and nights but it can’t be avoided when surveillance is involved. The call can come anytime. And apart from my personal reluctance, nights are actually easier to arrange than earlier in the day because I can usually rely on Ray being there for the children.
After school can be very tricky, and on more than one occasion I’ve had to take the children with me. They’re good camouflage for short periods. Who suspects a woman with two children of being an investigator? But they are definitely time-limited as far as eating crisps and playing I-Spy in a stationary car goes.
I pulled the plug on the bath then checked with Ray and left details of where I was going.
‘Nothing risky, is it?’ he asked.
‘No. Someone else is being stalked; all I need to do is tail him home when he’s had enough. Long as I make sure he doesn’t cotton on, I’ll be fine.’
It was almost dark now, the streetlights turning from red to orange. I could feel excitement building as I drove west towards Chorlton. Surveillance is mind-numbing, utterly, crunchingly boring, but the prospect of seeing this guy, of hiding from him and tailing him sent shivers of anticipation through me. Like a kid playing hide-and-seek.
I was there in quarter of an hour. I wasn’t sure where my best vantage point would be, and as he was on foot he could walk off in either direction. I cruised slowly down Debbie’s road. Both sides were lined with cars which could be a help or a hindrance. I looked quickly at the alley as I passed but couldn’t see him. I drove round the block and passed again. No man in a suit. I parked round the corner and rang Debbie’s.
‘Debbie, it’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m round the corner but I can’t see him by the alley. Have a look out, will you?’
There was a clatter as she put the phone down and a pause before she returned.
‘He’s gone,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, you were right to call me.’
‘He was there,’ she sounded upset, ‘he was, I didn’t imagine it.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘I believe you. This sort of thing happens all the time. You weren’t to know how long he’d be there. Does he ever come back? Come and go, sort of thing?’
‘No.’
‘He’s not likely to come back tonight, then?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Dead Wrong Page 3
