Dead Wrong

by Cath Staincliffe

  The buzzer that had sounded when I went into the shop brought a man out from the back. He was small and bespectacled, with black greasy hair and bland, casual clothes.

  He smiled. ‘Can I help?’

  Sometimes it’s best to tell the truth. I showed him one of my cards. ‘I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case involving people in the area. I’m afraid I can’t go into details, but I’m interested in any records you have of knife sales over the Christmas and New Year period.’

  He pulled a face. ‘We don’t have any sort of stock breakdown like that.’

  I tried another tack.

  ‘Do you remember selling a knife to an elderly woman, early in the New Year? She was probably well-dressed, and had a Southern accent.’

  He pursed his lips, shook his head. My theory teetered like a tower of blocks. Shit. I turned to go. ‘Is there anyone else works here?’

  He drew a breath. He didn’t like my persistence but it was laziness rather than obstruction.

  He put his head through the door behind the counter. ‘Carla?’

  Carla emerged – young, plump, apple-cheeked with a set of rings and studs in her nostrils. There was a tension between the two of them which made me slightly embarrassed. Had I interrupted something? It would more than explain his reluctance to indulge me in my search and prolong my stay.

  I described Mrs Deason as best I could to Carla. Did she remember her buying a knife?

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she didn’t hesitate. ‘she had the name written down and everything. A late Christmas present for her nephew, she said.’

  ‘You’ve a good memory,’ I complimented her.

  ‘Well,’ she demurred, ‘she stuck out a bit really. We get mainly lads in or anglers, you know.’

  ‘How did she pay?’

  ‘Cash, I think.’

  ‘Can you remember when it was?’

  ‘First day back after the holiday. Would have been the second of January.’ She glanced at Mr Henson for confirmation.

  He nodded. ‘I was at the suppliers,’ he chipped in. ‘Carla was on her own for the morning.’

  Mrs Deason had made her purchase just in the nick of time. The police had called on her that very same afternoon, to check on Joey’s knife.

  ‘I reckon she was the only person came in,’ said Carla. ‘That’s another reason I remember – it was dead as a graveyard.’

  ‘No one’s ever got any money after Christmas,’ he observed.

  I took down the details of the knife that Mrs Deason had bought and Mr Henson showed me a model. It was bigger than I remembered, with a broad, slightly curved blade and a horn handle.

  I felt a little eddy of giddiness as I imagined the damage it could do. Thought of it slicing through Ahktar’s jacket. One cut, one move, one moment – that was all it had taken.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I contained my sense of excitement until I was back in the car and then I clenched my fists in triumph. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ Things were finally moving.

  I considered all the way home how I would break the news to Mrs Deason. And should I? Was it more or less likely that Joey would agree to see me if I revealed that I knew about the knife? It implicated him full square for Ahktar’s murder. I reasoned that if he had done it, then he was on the run and wouldn’t agree to meet me whatever I said. I remembered Emma’s view, he’d want the publicity, but there were other ways of getting that. He’d run till they trapped him, then enact some final glorious gesture; Bonnie and Clyde, Sid Vicious. Or maybe a guilty conscience would overcome him once the trial got under way, and he’d come riding back and into court with testimony to prevent the wrong man being convicted.

  Emma could have got it wrong. The instinct for self preservation’s strong, and maybe Joey would just sit it out and watch while Luke Wallace was tried.

  Past experience had taught me that once the wheels of the criminal justice system are set in motion, it can be very difficult to call a halt, even with startling new evidence. My information about the knives might not convince people to drop the case against

  Luke, or go off hunting for Joey D, but I was certain it would prove a strong part of Luke’s defence.

  And if Joey D was innocent, why was he hiding? I reminded myself that it was not my responsibility to find out who killed Ahktar Khan, but only to find out whether Luke Wallace could be cleared. And things were looking up.

  I stopped in Withington on the way to my office and deposited the cheque from Victor Wallace in my account. It was all already spoken for – rent, bills, birthday present for Tom, new trainers for Maddie. My own treat was limited to a modest takeaway lunch from the Health Food shop. Spinach bhaji and chocolate flapjack. ‘Go on,’ a voice whispered in my head, ‘get yourself some perfume. You need some new clothes, too, and a bit of bath essence won’t break the bank,’ but I resisted. Next pay cheque, I told myself. Maybe then. I resisted all the way back to the car. I’d even got the key in the lock. Then I turned, retraced my steps and splashed out on a pair of earrings, a velvet leopard-print scarf and some Vanilla body cream. I grinned all the way to work.

  A proper coffee machine would have improved my modest working conditions but I hadn’t got there yet; I had to make do with instant coffee instead. Once back in the office I put the kettle on and wolfed down my food.

  Did the plants need a drink, too?

  I gave the cactus garden on top of the filing cabinet a small amount of water.. I’d tried keeping plants in the office before but even geraniums mutinied and died; just not enough regular loving care. I reckoned cacti were a good bet; after all, it is quite hard to tell when a cactus has perished – a good year or so to realise that they’re not growing…

  The phone rang. ‘He’s gonna kill me! Help me, I know he is! He’s gonna kill me!’ She was hysterical.

  ‘Debbie!’ I spoke sharply, trying to interrupt her whirl of panic. ‘Are you at home?’

  ‘Yeah, and he’s…he’s…’ The note of hysteria began to rise again.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Outside. I can’t go out, the kids, I’ve got to get the kids. I can’t go out, he’s waiting,’ she whimpered.

  ‘Which school?’

  ‘St John’s.’

  ‘What road is it on?’

  ‘Chepstow, off Longford Road.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll ring them, I’ll tell the school that you’ll be late. Stay there, wait for me, I’m coming now. Do you understand? I’ll make sure they keep the kids at school. They’ll be OK. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ She began to cry. I put the phone down.

  Oh hell. What about Maddie and Tom? I rang Nana Tello, Ray’s mother, no reply. None of the Dobsons were in, I nipped upstairs to double-check. I sometimes asked Vicky, the eldest daughter to baby-sit.

  I locked up and drove round the corner to home. Ran over the road. Denise was in and yes, she could collect Maddie and Tom when she went for her daughter. I thanked her with feeling. I wasn’t sure when I’d be back, but Ray would be home by six. No problem. Back home I scribbled a note for Ray explaining what I’d arranged. I found the number for St John’s in the phone book and when I got through I told them that Debbie Gosforth had been delayed and would be late picking up Connor, Jason and their sister.

  ‘I’ll be collecting her in the car and giving her a lift to school so we shouldn’t be all that late.’

  I was relieved that the secretary didn’t press for more details. I didn’t want to reveal that Debbie was being stalked before checking with her.

  Ten past three and half of Manchester clambers into cars to go and fetch the children. They were all going from Withington to Chorlton that day. Maybe more than usual in the face of the soft rain that continued to seep endlessly from the bright, blank skies.

  I worked hard to relax on the journey over. Being strung out wouldn’t get me there any quicker, wouldn’t help Debbie.

  He was there. I parked right outside her house in Ivygreen Road and looked over at
him. He was still, as before, his hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed on the house. I was tempted to go over and ask him outright what the hell he thought he was doing, but my priority at that moment was to make sure Debbie was safe.

  I hammered on the door then called through the letter box. ‘Debbie, it’s me, Sal. Open the door.’

  I couldn’t hear anything. ‘Debbie, open the door! Deb-bie!’ I bawled. It was impossible to see through the letter box; little brushes lined the opening to keep out dust and draughts and prying eyes. I peered in through the lounge window but the nets obscured any view of the room within. I ran back to the car and used my mobile to ring her number. It rang and rang. No one answered it.

  My chest tightened. Where was she? Had she done something stupid? He stood across the road. Watching. I walked along to the next alleyway between the rows of houses and went down it to the rear of her house. The back gate to Debbie’s place was ajar; the back door open. I didn’t like it, I didn’t like it at all.

  I hurried inside. No sign in the kitchen.

  ‘Debbie!’ I kept calling her name. The lounge was deserted. I didn’t want to go upstairs. My throat was dry. I couldn’t hear any sounds – no crying, no breathing. Only the chatter of sparrows outside and the ebb and flow of traffic. I climbed the stairs.

  The bathroom was empty. Towels folded neatly on the radiator, bath toys held in a bright red net bag slung over the taps. The top was on the toothpaste tube.

  There were three other doors. All closed.

  ‘Debbie?’ It was almost a whisper. I cleared my throat and spoke up. ‘Debbie?’ Silence.

  I opened the first door. Bunk beds, pink curtains, Spice Girls posters. No Debbie.

  The second. Apricot walls, white cover on the bed, built-in wardrobe. Could she be hiding in there? ‘Debbie?’ I braced myself, slid back the door. Skirts, blouses, suits all neatly hung. Shoes paired. Jumpers folded.

  One more door. The boys’ room.

  I heard knocking, downstairs, the front door. My heart tried to get out. I ran to the window and peered out. He’d moved, was no longer standing sentinel across the street. Shit.

  Go and answer it then, you twerp. My thumping heart wouldn’t quite knuckle under. I took a couple of deep breaths then walked downstairs quite normally.

  ‘Hello?’ I spoke to the door. ‘Who is it?’ No reply. I turned the Yale but couldn’t open it. Of course, she kept it locked.

  I heard a sound then – tiny, from the back. Oh God, he was coming in the back! The kitchen door was shut. I couldn’t see through it. I didn’t want to be trapped upstairs. I moved as quietly as I could into the lounge. Stood right behind the door, pressed against the wall. I heard the squeak of the kitchen door-handle, the door being pulled open. There was silence as he listened and I listened, and my knee tremored uncontrollably. He was trying to work out where I was. Did he know that he was stalking the wrong woman? Would I be all right if I showed myself? My mind whipped through the options while the seconds stretched and the silence grew louder:

  Wait to be found? Hope he’ll give up and go? Jump out wailing like a banshee and hope he’ll flee? Yes. I raised my hands ready to shove the door and leap.

  Then a child’s voice cracked the silence. ‘Uncle Ricky, hiya.’

  Footsteps, hubbub. Clattering sounds, voices.

  I let my hands fall. Stepped from behind the door and out of the lounge to find Ricky and Debbie’s daughter in the hall. He looked at me in astonishment. Behind him, in the kitchen, I saw Debbie and the boys, laden with bags and lunchboxes.

  I took a couple of paces forward, stared at her.

  ‘Oh, hiya,’ she looked pale and shaky but she smiled and laughed nervously.

  ‘Debbie,’ I said ‘I asked you to wait here. I didn’t know where you’d gone.’

  Ricky frowned, glanced from me to his sister.

  ‘I got here and the back door was wide open and he was still there across the street.’

  Ricky moved towards the front door.

  ‘He’s gone now,’ I snapped, ‘and I didn’t get a chance to go after him because you called me and I thought you needed my help, and when I get here it’s like the Marie Celeste and you’re nowhere to be found.’

  ‘I had to get the children,’ she chewed on her chain.

  ‘I rang the school,’ I said ‘as I promised I would. I asked you to wait, said we’d go together. I didn’t know what had happened to you. You left the door wide open, you know, anyone could have walked in.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she giggled again breathlessly and smiled at me. But her eyes were bright with fear. ‘I’m fine now.’

  Much as I admired the reserves of strength she must have summoned to get herself out of the house in that state and collect her kids, I still had one overwhelming impulse towards Debbie Gosforth.

  I wanted to slap her face.

  I had a look round the nearby streets in case I could see the stalker’s car, but had no joy.

  Back at Debbie’s the children were watching television and Debbie and Ricky were in the kitchen. I sat down and accepted a cup of tea. Then I collected some more details from her.

  The phone calls had continued. She was following the phone company’s advice; they would monitor the situation, see if he got tired of the lack of reaction. There had been another letter. She handed it to me with trembling fingers. The spiky, black writing added an edge to the venomous sentiments expressed. At times he’d pressed so hard that the paper was torn. G quoted some Biblical passages about harlots and vengeance, and went on to claim that Debbie had betrayed their love and tried to destroy him. I will get you, he had written, the words underlined several times for effect. Slag, whore, sister of Jezebel. I will cut off your breasts, rip out your tongue.

  ‘Oh God, this is horrible.’ I handed the first page to Ricky.

  G ended with a plea for reconciliation. I can forgive you, Debbie, and destiny can find its way and our true love shine. Don’t let them poison your mind any more. Don’t let them strangle our love. You know in your heart that what you are doing is wrong. Debbie, my love is a flame that will never die. Now that I have found you I will never let you go. WE WILL BE TOGETHER. G

  I sighed and passed Ricky page two.

  I had to push and prompt to get Debbie to talk. She had noticed him watching the house as she returned from shopping early that afternoon. He’d approached her. As she got to that part of her story, she began to tremble violently, almost unable to speak. Ricky shifted in his seat, tried to take her hand but her hands flew here and there touching the studs in her ears, grazing the chain, patting her hair.

  She laughed incongruously. ‘He said he’d been waiting. He—’ She stopped abruptly, and her face went blank. ‘Are you staying for tea, Ricky?’ Her brother was as nonplussed as me. ‘I’ve got lasagne in the freezer.’

  ‘Debbie,’ I said gently, ‘did he touch you?’

  She looked at me crossly. I was an irritation.

  ‘What did he do? I need to write it down, for evidence.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I know. You haven’t done anything wrong. This man is frightening you, that’s why I’m here. What he is doing is wrong. We want to stop him. What did he do?’

  Her hands lighted on her hair, her chain again, then she crossed them round her neck. ‘He held me.’

  ‘Like, that round your neck?’

  ‘He kissed me.’ She began to cry.

  ‘Jesuschrist,’ Ricky swore and stood up abruptly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she wailed.

  ‘Debbie, it’s all right. He shouldn’t have done that; it’s an assault. it’s not your fault. Debbie?’ She looked up at me. ‘Did he do anything else?’ She shook her head.

  ‘What he did, that’s a criminal offence, he can be charged.’

  ‘Mum.’ A child’s voice from the lounge.

  She stood quickly, wiped her face roughly with her hands, and went through to the lounge.

  ‘
Ricky?’ He stood with his back to me, arms braced on the edge of the sink looking out to the backyard. ‘Your sister needs to see her doctor. She can’t take this.’

  ‘Bastard!’ He banged his fist on the edge of the sink.

  ‘I know. Look, she shouldn’t be on her own. Can you stay with her? Is there anyone else?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll be here.’ He turned to face me. ‘If he comes within a mile of this place I’ll smash his fucking face in. I’ll do for him, I will.’

  ‘I can see how you feel but that’s not what Debbie needs at the moment,’ I told him. ‘She needs to feel safer, calmer. Maybe there’s somewhere else she could stay, her and the kids. She needs to get out of here till we’ve sorted this guy out. She’s cracking up.’ I emphasized it.

  ‘What d’you expect?’ He rounded on me. ‘First she’s in the bomb, that does her head in, then this pervert.’

  ‘I know,’ I retorted, ‘but the best you can do is to just get her some help. Take her to a doctor, get her out of here. Don’t keep ranting on about the stalker and what you’ll do to him. Concentrate on her. Ring me when you’ve sorted something out.’

  He glared at me for a moment then nodded. ‘What about…?’

  He jerked his head towards the front of the house.

  ‘If there’s any sign, ring me. I’m going to brief the neighbours, ask them to look out too.’

  ‘If you’d followed him today…’ he began sulkily.

  ‘I couldn’t. I had Debbie in hysterics on the phone and when I found that door open I didn’t know what to expect, what she might have done to herself.’

  He looked at me. The prospect of suicide appalled him. ‘Nah.’ He shook his head then laughed dismissively. ‘Nah, Debbie would never do anything like that.’

  ‘Maybe not, but she’s ill. She’s cracking up, Ricky.’

  Debbie came in then. I told her I’d be asking the neighbours to look out for the stalker and let me know when he returned. I said that Ricky had promised to stay with her for the time being. I left it up to him to discuss moving out for a while. Then I asked her where her tablets were.

  She looked confused, went out and returned with a bottle. I read the label. ‘Have you had any today?’