Dead Wrong

by Cath Staincliffe

  The Cash and Carry was built with security in mind rather than any aesthetic consideration. It was a large metal cube in a compound of wire netting topped with savage barbed wire. Stanchions sported cameras and lights. The car park was almost full; traders were busy loading crates and drums into vans and cars.

  I went in through the automatic doors and surveyed the warehouse. The huge space was divided into aisles by metal shelving which stretched up towards the ceiling. The place was illuminated by harsh strip lighting which gave everything a washed-out look. It smelt of damp cardboard. A sign pointed the way to an empty enquiries desk placed in front of two long prefabricated sections with frosted windows and doors which I took to be the offices.

  I rang the bell on the counter and after a few moments a young man in a brown suit appeared from the nearest door. I asked for Mr Siddiq and passed over my card. He went back into the prefab and I watched his shadow disappear from view. When he returned he told me that Mr Siddiq was busy in a meeting. This I translated as: ‘Mr Siddiq is in and he’s told me to get rid of you.’

  ‘Will he be long?’ I asked.

  The guy’s face darkened with embarrassment. ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘I could wait?’

  ‘No,’ he coughed. ‘It’d be better if you made an appointment.’

  ‘Can I do that now?’

  He looked even more uncomfortable. ‘You need to see Mr Siddiq? Try ringing.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘can you tell me his official title?’ Apparently not, from the blank look on his face. ‘What does he do here?’ I prompted.

  ‘He’s one of the bosses. He sorts out the deliveries, transfers, transport, that sort of thing…and he’s in charge of security.’ He paused, trying to remember if he’d missed anything.

  ‘And who owns the business.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Well, who’s in charge?’

  ‘Mr Khan.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  It took ten minutes for a man I presumed to be Rashid Siddiq to leave the building and climb into one of the cars park in reserved bays off to my left. I angled my rear mirror until I could see him in it.

  I’d found sunglasses and a baseball hat in the car and put these on just in case Siddiq had taken a peek at me while I’d grilled his employee. I pretended to study an A-Z, head down while my eyes locked onto the mirror.

  I watched as he punched numbers into a mobile phone. I’d a fair idea who he was ringing. From the look on his face and the way he hit the steering wheel with his clenched fist I don’t think he liked what he heard.

  Mr Siddiq finished his call then started his car up and reversed out of his space. I followed, allowing a couple of cars to come between us. He skirted town along Great Ancoats Street, past the old Daily Express building with its glass and Art Deco façade. I was old enough to remember seeing the papers rolling off the presses there – like something out of Citizen Kane. Down past the CIS building, famed for its height rather than its beauty, and over the bridge to the bottom of Cheetham Hill Road. He stopped partway up in a car park adjacent to a large clothing wholesalers.

  It was a brilliant building, or had been in its heyday, like a Georgian country house standing foursquare, with pillars around the front entrance and broad steps down to the street. There were huge windows on both storeys, a real liability for this inner city spot. They were covered with sheets of metal, grilles and wood, no two alike and daubed with graffiti.

  There was a petrol station conveniently placed opposite. I’d time to check my tyres and top up with petrol. I bought a plain Bounty bar and a small bottle of water with a hint of lemon. Well, I meant to get a hint of lemon but I ended up with a peach one which tasted like liquid pot-pourri.

  Huge signs on the front of the building told me it was J.K. Imports and proclaimed International Labels, All Discount Stock, Best Deals in Town and Trade Only. I could hardly go in and browse then. And he showed no sign of coming out. I concluded that Mr. Siddiq was probably now back doing business having spoken to his wife. Luke Wallace had mentioned that the Khan brothers had a place up Cheetham Hill. This was probably it. J.K. – Janghir Khan. I could sit and stare at the building all afternoon and learn nothing.

  Time to go.

  I dropped off the film that had the pictures of the stalker for same-day processing on my way to the office.

  From there I rang Ahktar’s father, Dr L. P. L. Khan. ‘Dr Khan?’

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  I told him who I was, what I wanted. I asked to see him. There was a long pause.

  ‘I will be at home tomorrow between half past ten and eleven o’clock,’ he said.

  ‘And Mrs Khan?’

  ‘Mrs Khan is visiting her family in Pakistan. She will be away until September.’

  ‘Right. I’ll see you at half past ten then. Thank you.’

  The phone rang as soon as I put it down. I hate that. It startled me and sent shivers of shock up my arms. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Sal, Rebecca Henderson here. Debbie Gosforth tells me there have been some problems with the surveillance.’

  Oh, great. ‘Just one,’ I defended myself. ‘We assumed he had no car so I was all prepared to tail him on foot, but he was using a car. Parked round the corner.’

  ‘You got the number?’

  ‘Only partial.’

  Silence. If I was paying a solicitor, there’d be endless delays and hiccups to put up with, but turn the tables and I’m expected to produce instant results.

  ‘Listen, I know we said we didn’t need twenty-four hour cover,’ Rebecca resumed finally, ‘but if you don’t feel you can give this one the time…’

  ‘Hang on,’ I interrupted, ‘am I missing something here? I’ve been over there twice as soon as she’s called. The first time he’d already gone when I arrived and the second time he’s driving, which we knew nothing about. I’ve also advised her to get on to the phone company and fix up a new number or go ex-directory. She knows she can ring me anytime, as soon as he shows.’

  ‘Have you met her brother?’

  ‘Eh? No. Why?’

  ‘I’ve had him on the phone ranting about how little we’re doing. He says Debbie is scared to leave the house, that the threats are escalating and that she thinks you’re only going through the motions, can’t wait to get away.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I objected. I thought back to my visits. ‘The first time she called me it was getting dark. I came out, no problem. I even offered to see her at the house when we knew the stalker had gone but she put me off, she was worried it would wake one of the children.’ I was getting riled. ‘The second time when he drove off I did go back to the house to tell her. I offered to come in for a few minutes, asked if there was anything else she wanted me to do.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Rebecca gave a non-committal grunt. ‘And you told her she was being paranoid locking the doors when she was in the house on her own?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I exploded. ‘I don’t know where all this has come from, but I’m doing the job you hired me to do. Now if she’s got problems with me or wants someone else then fine, I’ll send you an invoice but there is no question of shoddy work. Maybe she needs a bodyguard as well.’

  ‘I think the brother’s limbering up for that. I’m sorry, Sal, it sounds as if there’s some manipulation going on here. I thought it didn’t sound like you but I had to ask. Stay with it for now,’ she decided, ‘if you’re prepared to, and I’ll get in touch with her and explain exactly what we are hiring you to do. I’ll put it in writing too so there’s no mistake. I’ll point out the other things she can do like the ex-directory stuff. Let me know if you meet any resistance.’

  I agreed to carry on but came off the phone smarting, not least because I’d failed to pick up on any hint of hostility from Debbie Gosforth. Her complaints were an unexpected slap in the face. I wished that she had given me some indication of her concerns about my work. I suffer from an acute sense of justice and fair-play, and I was out
raged that I’d not had a chance to answer Debbie’s accusations before she’d run off to Rebecca with them, or to this brother. I knew I’d have to put things in perspective before I saw her again, but meanwhile I needed to work off some of the useless indignation that was fizzing round my bloodstream.

  I called home for my swimsuit and towel and cycled down to the baths in Withington. After twenty lengths I’d mentally barracked Debbie Gosforth, and Rebecca Henderson for listening to her. I’d caught the stalker and been rewarded with huge sums of money and I’d even had a go at Dermott Pitt for his patronising attitude.

  The next twenty lengths I used for more positive fantasies. The sun came in through the glass roof and sparkled and dappled the water. I dreamt of swimming in warm seas, of hot sands underfoot and sudden nightfall. As I showered I decided it was time to make holiday plans, something to look forward to. I wasn’t going to get any big rewards no matter what results I got for my clients. There’d be no flights to sun kissed islands dotted with olive groves for Maddie and me. Camping, more like. Somewhere green and damp like Anglesey or the Lleyn Peninsula. Where dry nights or sunny days would be cause for celebration. Kagool territory. It would do. It would have to.

  Chapter Eleven

  With some equilibrium restored I considered how to spend the rest of the afternoon. It would take me too long to get up to North Manchester to interview any of Luke’s friends and be back in time for school. I wanted to speak to Debbie but I’d wait until she’d heard from Rebecca. I promised myself I’d pack lots of visits into the following day. I was up in North Manchester seeing Dr Khan then anyway so it would make sense to call on other people on my list. No work till tomorrow, then.

  With a grin I decided that there was only one thing to do. The garden.

  It was a glorious afternoon and hot enough to change into shorts and T-shirt and slap on some sun cream. I brought in the washing, stiff from the line, and heaped it in a corner for sorting later. I cut the grass with the old roller mower, grunting with the effort and feeling the pull on my stomach muscles. The cuttings went in the compost heap. The sweet peas needed tying in and then I dead-headed the tubs and baskets. I thought again about the beauty and simplicity of the Wallaces’ garden. Could I ever do anything like that here? I surveyed the garden. It wouldn’t be me really though, would it? And there was more to it than just vision; Mrs Wallace had spent serious money to realise her plans. Even the grass was in a different league, like velvet compared to our rough hessian.

  I’d some nasturtiums to plant out but no real room for them. In the end I decided to get rid of a patch of carnations which were past their best. They’d only managed three blooms the previous year. I loved the sweet milk and clove scent of them but the nasturtiums would give much more colour.

  I hate throwing plants away so to soften the blow I took some small stem cuttings from the carnations and potted them up. I knew they were probably not worth the effort but it made me feel better. Earlier I had got the sun-lounger out. Faint hope. It was already school-time and I hadn’t paused. I washed my hands and wandered down the road to collect Maddie and Tom.

  Someone in the Khan household had a love of antique furniture. The place looked like something out of a stately home; exquisite inlaid bureaux, corner cupboards and a collection of miniatures and cameos on one wall. The air was fragrant with scent from a vase of lilies. A grandfather clock tick-tocked crisply.

  At first Dr Khan was impeccably polite and cold as ice. He offered me tea and when I accepted he asked the young woman I’d seen at the end of the hall to bring it for us.

  ‘My daughter,’ he explained, ‘she has just finished her Finals.’

  ‘What’s she doing?’

  He indicated a chair, Regency I think, stripy anyway. ‘Optometry.’

  Oh. I couldn’t think of any useful small talk to make about that; I wasn’t even certain what it was, though I knew it had to do with eyes. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I said. ‘I’ve been employed by Mr Wallace, as I explained.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s convinced of his son’s innocence and, as you know, Luke is pleading not guilty.’

  ‘There were witnesses,’ he said sharply. The light reflected off his glasses as he straightened in his chair

  “Witnesses can make mistakes.’

  ‘That will be for the jury to decide. This is not pleasant for me. If you will come to the point.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I realise it must be difficult having to go over it again. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was important. I’m trying to establish exactly what happened. I’ll be talking to everybody I can find, if you can tell me the sequence of events that night?’

  He cleared his throat softly. Leant forward, arms resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. ‘Ahktar and his friends went to the party at the nightclub.’

  ‘You knew he was going?’

  ‘Yes, he was a good boy, he’d been working hard, we were happy to see him have fun too.’ He swallowed.

  ‘You knew his friends?’

  ‘Yes, they came here sometimes, they seemed nice enough.’

  Our drinks arrived. I’d been half-expecting cups and saucers with all the threat of slops in the saucer and the problem of how to write whilst needing two hands for the crockery, but she’d brought mugs. I took mine thankfully. As she closed the door Dr Khan resumed his story.

  ‘The hospital rang about half past three. They wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone, they just said Ahktar had been hurt. I imagined that there had been a car crash. I don’t know why, it was my first thought – the taxi home…’ He took a deep breath, pressed his fist to his mouth, released the air slowly through his knuckles.

  ‘At the hospital I was taken into an anteroom. I knew as soon as I saw the doctor’s face. He was so young, he looked as if he had some guilty secret. “I’m very sorry,” he said, “Ahktar was admitted here earlier this morning, we tried to revive him but we weren’t able to. I’m sorry.” I asked then if it had been a car crash. He told me Ahktar had been stabbed – a single blow. They had no other details but the police had been involved; they wanted to see me after I’d—’ Dr Khan jumped to his feet; he took a couple of steps away, his back to me, and stood facing the gallery of miniatures on the wall.

  I concentrated on my notepad. He removed his glasses and wiped at them with a large white handkerchief. When he began to speak again he continued to face the paintings. ‘I must have been over it a hundred times,’ his voice was husky, ‘but still…I had to identify him, my son.’ His voice shrank to a whisper, he pressed the handkerchief to his mouth.

  I swallowed hard.

  ‘The police asked me lots of questions but I have little recollection of them now. They did ask me about Luke Wallace, and I wondered whether he had been hurt too, but they never answered me.’ He turned towards me then, his eyes damp, wide with pain. ‘And then I had to come home and tell my wife,’ he said bitterly, ‘our only son.’ He paused. ‘He was going to study law, you know. Ironic, isn’t it?’

  I kept quiet.

  ‘He wanted justice. Well, now I want justice.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want the wrong person convicted though?’

  He looked at me quizzically.

  ‘Luke Wallace asked me to tell you that he didn’t hurt Ahktar. He’s devastated by his death.’

  ‘The court will decide.’

  ‘But you seem to have made up your mind already.’

  ‘People saw him do it. The police have statements. There was an argument. What am I supposed to think?’ He raised his voice, anger flashing in his eyes.

  ‘Luke had no reason—’ I began.

  ‘Ahktar’s death is senseless!’ he shouted. ‘There can be no reason, it is beyond reason.’ Silence stretched in the wake of his outburst. ‘We may never discover why Ahktar was killed,’ he said, ‘but I will learn how. The facts become terribly important, I’ve noticed this in my own practice, with accidental death, with suicides.
The details, the time, the place, the sequence; it helps to know. Please, Miss Kilkenny, I have nothing else to say.’

  I put down my mug and got to my feet. ‘You said something about an argument?’

  He sighed. Pinched at the bridge of his nose. ‘Zeb, Rangzeb, Ahktar’s cousin was there that night. He saw them arguing. It came out at the committal hearing.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Speak to Zeb.’

  Chapter Twelve

  There are many reasons why people agree to talk to private investigators. A lot of them simply like the attention; they like to be listened to, to have a new audience for their account. It may be that there aren’t very many people they can tell, or those they have told don’t want to hear it again. Someone like me comes along who is passionately interested in what they have to say, and they feel validated, important, responsible again.

  If the circumstances were upsetting, the visit from an investigator can be a chance to get it all out in the open once more. Other people don’t realise they have a choice, and some would consider it ill-mannered to refuse.

  In Zeb’s case, as I later discovered, he had good reasons for wanting to appear co-operative, since he had something to hide. Like the Siddiqs. Trouble was, he couldn’t quite carry it off. His personality got the better of him.

  I’d rung the bell twice and was about to give up when the intercom crackled. I put my face close to the speaker.

  ‘Sal Kilkenny. I’d like to speak to Zeb Khan.’

  The buzzer sounded and I pushed the door and went into the lobby. I was glad to find him awake – if he’d been playing the tables the previous night he might not have got to bed till after sunrise.

  The flats, a block of eight, were set in landscaped gardens with parking at the back. Each flat occupied a corner position with picture windows on either side.

  Zeb’s flat was on the first floor. He opened his door but didn’t invite me in, ‘What is it?’