I spoke to his secretary. Yes, she had passed my message on. No, Mr Pitt had not offered me an appointment time. No, he had not said anything about my suggestion of turning up at the courts. I checked with her which case he was on and which court it was being heard in.
With all I’d heard about Rashid Siddiq from Emma I wasn’t sure whether I’d be taking a risk with my own safety if I pursued an interview with him. Given he was one of the eye-witnesses, possibly the only eye-witness if Sonia Siddiq hadn’t been there, it really was part of the job to talk to him, but I’d been putting it off. I checked my notebook and rang the warehouse. ‘Can I speak to Mr Siddiq, please.’
‘I’ll get him for you.’ The young woman failed to check out who I was and that could only work in my favour.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Siddiq? My name is Sal Kilkenny. I’m ringing about the case against Luke Wallace. I’d like to arrange to talk to you about what you saw the night Ahktar Khan died.’
‘I don’t have to talk to you.’ And he hung up.
He was right, he had no obligation to see me but I was angry at the snub. My cheeks burned. I was aware that I was a stone’s throw from where the Siddiqs lived, if he wouldn’t see me then I’d call on his wife, see what she had to say about the allegations against her.
The white Saab was parked outside as before. I banged the lion’s-mouth knocker. Sonia answered the door with the chain on; at the sight of me, her face widened with dismay.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I’ve said everything I’ve got to say.’
‘Except the truth.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You arrived at Nirvana at ten o’clock. Had tickets in advance, did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which floor did you sit on?’
‘I don’t see what this has to do–’
‘What did you wear? What was the music like? Did you watch the videos? Did you like the decor? Could you describe it?’
Silence. Her face stony.
‘You had a clear recollection of seeing the murder but everything else is very vague. Were you taking drugs?’
‘No!’ Outrage.
‘People do – a lot of people do at these events. It’s part of the culture, really.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘Did you see people taking drugs?’
She shrugged.
‘You see, I don’t think it’s because you can’t quite remember, I think you just don’t have a clue. Because you weren’t there.’
‘Of course I was there,’ she insisted.
‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’
‘That’s rubbish. I was there. Why would I lie about it?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps you were told to.’
‘Who said this?’
‘No one saw you there.’
‘Zeb,’ she said. ‘He saw us. You ask him – Ahktar Khan’s cousin, Zeb Khan.’
‘I will. We can check easily enough anyway. They’d have you on tape, wouldn’t they, coming into the club, those cameras? We could even confirm the exact time. Prove it one way or another.’ I was bluffing. I’d no idea whether they did continuously record the club entrance, though I thought it likely. But how long would they keep the tapes before re-using them? She was completely still, her face blank, every ounce of energy going into hiding her reaction to what I’d just said. I had her scared witless. At last she spoke, her voice bright with bravado. ‘Fine, you do that.’ She shut the door.
Driving away from the courtyard I felt I’d gathered even more to relate to Dermott Pitt; much of it was intuitive rather than concrete, but my meeting with Mrs Siddiq had confirmed for me that she hadn’t been present on New Year’s Eve, and that her testimony was invented for someone else’s benefit.
It was three thirty. I’d no need to collect Maddie and Tom; Ray did the school run on Mondays as he’d no lectures. I parked in the multi-storey car park near the college on Lower Hardman Street, and had to go up eight floors before I found a space. Then I cut through to Crown Square where all the Law Courts are.
Dermott Pitt would be in the Crown Court. I passed through a security arch where my bag was checked. At reception I asked for Court No 2, and learned to my disappointment that they’d adjourned for the day. I walked down there anyway just in case Dermott was still hanging around chewing the fat with his colleagues.
The place was light and airy, with a long corridor, marble floors and pillars, and full-length windows all down one side giving a view of the square outside. On the other side were the courtrooms. At intervals there were statues of kings and lawgivers, and up on the wall opposite the windows, a huge colourful coat of arms, done in relief and surrounded by several smaller ones. My trainers squeaked on the floor; there was no other noise. The place was deserted. I poked my head into Court No 2. There was an usher there who told me that they’d all left. ‘He wanted to start fresh tomorrow with the defence witnesses.’ She was referring to the judge.
‘When do they break for lunch?’
‘It’s usually midday. He likes an early lunch, gets a bit rattled if they go on till one.’
‘I’m trying to see one of the briefs, a Mr Pitt, about another case.’
‘Ooh,’ she pursed her lips, ‘I wouldn’t do lunchtime, they’ve often got a lot on then, depending on how the morning’s gone. Need to see their clients and check the witnesses are all ready.’ She shook her head. ‘You’d be best coming at the end of the day.’
I nodded. Except the day might end early, like today. I tried Pitt’s office on my mobile but they were engaged. I was reluctant to leave it at that. Bootle Street, the main city police station, was just across Deansgate. I’d call there – maybe they could get things moving.
Trying to report something – anything – to the police is always a hit and miss affair. It depends on the day, the desk sergeant the weather, the football results, the position of the planets. The response can range from super-efficient: ‘We’ll have someone there within the next ten minutes, madam,’ to the lackadaisical, ‘You could try ringing Collyhurst/Copson Street/St Petersburg, next week, next year, next millennium, if you still want to report it. There should be someone there on a Thursday morning but we’ve a lot off sick today and it’s not really our area.’
It helps if you know who you want to speak to, and which station they are based at.
Dermott Pitt would be more familiar with who to approach and what to tell them, but in his absence I wanted to do something tangible for Luke.
At the desk I asked to talk to someone from the Serious Crimes section. Before I got any further I had to give my name, address and date of birth. I then explained that I had new information that could materially affect the charges against Luke Wallace, on remand for murder. The desk sergeant took it all down and then disappeared through a door.
I waited. Read a wall full of Crime Prevention posters and Wanted posters and waited some more. When he returned he asked me to go with him. We went through the door and into a small room immediately to the left. An interview room? I waited a few more minutes then I was joined by a Detective Sergeant Hatton. He wasn’t familiar with the details of the case so I did a quick résumé and then explained what I’d found out. Namely that the murder weapon belonged to one of the friends who had run away from home and was in hiding, and that there were inconsistencies in the statements given by the witnesses and even a question as to whether one of them had actually been present.
‘Based on?’
‘Well, hearsay at present, but I’m sure it could be proved.’
He grunted and rubbed his close cut beard. Had I informed the brief for the defence?
‘Not yet.’ Trying hard.
He suggested I did so. The brief could then apply through the appropriate channels for the case to be reviewed. ‘Sounds as though there may be some grounds there, the knife particularly, but they may decide to go ahead with the
trial and debate the issues in full court anyway.’
And leave Luke on remand?
‘We could have you in, take a full statement, go through it all with you, but it wouldn’t guarantee a result any quicker than using the legals. That’s your best bet.’
No riding out on a white horse to rescue Luke from Golborne tonight then. I was disappointed. I’d been hoping for more decisive and compassionate action.
I had left a message at Rebecca Henderson’s office on the Friday afternoon after my antics with Debbie Gosport. I wanted to cover my back so I made sure that the firm knew what had transpired, understood how badly Debbie’s health was being affected and what advice I’d given her and her brother. I also informed Rebecca that the harassment now included assault, which would be significant in bringing any court action against G.
I was narked that I hadn’t stuck with the stalker; he’d have received his papers by now if I had, but at the time I’d been convinced that Debbie’s need was paramount.
Ricky rang late on Monday afternoon to let me know that Debbie and the children were staying with a friend in Chorlton. More letters had come to the house and he had intercepted them. Did I want to see them? Not particularly, but I asked him to hold onto them for evidence. The doctor had seen Debbie and changed her medication.
‘Is it helping?’
‘She’s half-asleep,’ he said, ‘but at least she’s not wired up like she was. She was up all night after you went, rabbiting on. Doin’ my head in an’ all.’
‘I’m glad she’s out of there, and that someone’s with her.’
‘Don’t know how long she’ll stay,’ he said. ‘She likes her own place, everything just so – you seen it.’
‘Yeah. Ricky, there’s a chance that the stalker will find out where she is and follow her again. Don’t frighten Debbie, but tell her friend to keep an eye out and ring me if there’s any sign. Make sure she’s got my number.’
‘She has. But how would he do that, find out where she is?’
‘Not difficult. Wait at school, see where she goes…’
An intake of breath. ‘Bastard.’
‘It might not happen. Next time he surfaces I’ll follow him home.’
‘Next time,’ he sneered.
I kept my voice even. ‘Ricky, I’ve not done it yet but that’s not because I’m no good at my job and it’s not because he’s particularly clever. It’s just been a run of unfortunate circumstances.’ And your sister’s vanishing act hadn’t exactly helped.
He grunted. Not convinced.
I didn’t waste any more breath.
The day had been exhausting and little fragments from my meeting with Luke, my encounter with Mrs Siddiq and my visit to the police kept floating into my mind. I didn’t want to be thinking about work. After tea I got a big map of Wales out and some old camping guides. I showed Maddie some of the places we could go.
‘We haven’t even got a tent, Mummy,’ she said scornfully.
‘We can borrow one. Harry and Bev have got one.’
‘Ring them now, ask if we can.’
‘Of course,’ said Harry, to my delight, ‘we’re not using it.’
‘Given up the outdoor life?’ I joked.
‘No, just prefer the warmer climes.’
I tutted. ‘All right for those who can afford it.’
Harry and Bev had struggled financially for years, both working part-time so they could share raising their two boys. Then Harry had got bitten by the investigative journalist bug, which meant long hours and not much more money. He’d begun to use computers as a tool for accessing commercial and business information; then he discovered the Internet and never looked back. Bev meanwhile had an unexpected pregnancy, and a third son came along. She never went back to her job and Harry began to rake it in, helping businesses get on the Net.
Sometimes they still seemed bemused by the radical change in their circumstances and their bank balance.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘You’re bound to let it slip when I’m least expecting it.’
‘Saint Lucia, for three weeks.’
I groaned. ‘So, the tent?’
‘I’ll ferret it out and all its bits for you, and drop them over some time next week.’
‘Thanks.’
Maddie was delighted. Though, worryingly for me, her view of what we were heading for was coloured by romantic notions from her books and videos.
‘We can catch fish, Mummy,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘and make a fire and cook them.’
‘We’ll see.’ The classic get-out.
Chapter Twenty
Tuesday. I hadn’t had a swim for a week so went along to the early bird session as Ray could take the children to school. It was crowded and I couldn’t build up the pace I wanted because I had to do so much dodging and weaving to avoid kicking someone in the groin or getting raked by a full set of toenails.
They cleared the pool, just before nine, ready for the schools to use. I could hear the whine of a drill and someone whistling. They were having some building work done at the baths, taking down an old outhouse at the back and strengthening the roof and back wall. The drill stopped and silence descended. In my cubicle I took off my goggles and got out my towel.
Boom! The vibrations of the almighty thump that followed the explosion went right through me. I put my arms up to shelter my head, using my towel for extra protection. Not here, not now, I prayed. They can’t bomb here! My neck burned, there were spasms in my stomach. I held my breath and waited for the fallout, shivering, clammy with chlorine and sweat which prickled my armpits and broke onto my arms and sides. I was literally frozen with fear.
It was maybe a minute before intellect kicked in. No screams, no alarms, no bomb. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Demolition, not a bomb. Relief brought a new wave of sweat and shivering, I found my shower gel and walked unsteadily to the shower. My knees felt weak. I lathered and rinsed, lathered and rinsed, rubbing my legs, arms, stomach and shoulders vigorously, trying to take the gooseflesh away. By the time I was dressed, a crocodile of children were already filing into the place, chattering away, excitement breaking like bubbles and echoing round the room.
Diane was in the veg shop. Timing. ‘Come back for coffee?’
She opened her mouth to say no but I interrupted. ‘Please, there’s something I need to talk to you about, and I really don’t want to wait till tomorrow.’ We were going for a drink the following evening.
‘OK.’
She had to call at the Health Food shop on the way and I watched while she bought dried fruit, balsamic vinegar, apricot nectar and glycerine soap and geranium essential oil.
‘Money?’ I remarked.
‘Just got paid,’ grinned. ‘The Corkscrews.’
The Corkscrews was her name for a series of prints she’d done in metallic colours with Mediterranean blue and burnt orange for a swanky new Tapas bar in town. There were lots of spirals in them, hence the nickname. The bar liked them so much they were using her design as a logo for the menu and were having a wrought-iron and neon version done for the frontage.
At home I made coffee and we sat at the kitchen table. Digger muscled in on Diane who gave him a tickle behind the ear as she waited for me to explain.
I told her about my experience at the Baths. She let me get to the end and then waited a while before commenting. ‘It must be happening to lots of people. A sudden noise, flashbacks.’
‘But I was nowhere near it. I was up the other end of Market Street, up near Piccadilly.’
‘Near enough,’ she retorted. ‘You were there, you were in town, you heard it – probably felt it, didn’t you? It was strong enough to shake my windows.’
I nodded. ‘You don’t think I’m going mad then?’
She smiled. ‘Do you?’
‘No. It shook me up though. It was so unexpected, this instant reaction. So strong.’
‘It makes sense, Sal. Don’t beat yourself up about it.’
‘Least I didn
’t run out into the street in my cossie or do anything else horribly embarrassing.’
‘It’s not happened before?’
‘No. That’s why it was such a surprise. God, I hope it doesn’t happen again. What if it starts happening all the time?’
Diane laughed. ‘That’s it, think positive. Look – suppose it does, then you go and see someone, get help. There’s counsellors and all that. But it’s probably a one-off.’
I nodded. ‘It was just that sensation. It was so…oh, I can’t even explain it.’
By the time Diane left I felt I’d recovered enough to get on with my day. Just voicing my fears took the teeth out of them.
I made myself a sandwich and got some milk then walked round to my office. The Dobsons were out. There was only one piece of mail for me on the hall table. It was from the bank, who were trying to sell me a pension. Like something lurking to get me. Or not lurking actually. My erratic, often pathetic income puts me well out of the private pension league. The last time I read a breakdown of figures and returns in the paper I worked out I’d have to stop paying the rent or stop eating in order to pay contributions. No contest.
Downstairs there were no messages on the answerphone. I opened the window to air the room a bit, stuck the kettle on and made a list of the calls I wanted to make.
I’d been advised against trying to collar Dermott Pitt at lunchtime so I’d have to try and get in late afternoon, the worst time for me as I’d have to sort something out for the children. I couldn’t do it today anyway, as Maddie had a friend coming for tea. Tomorrow then. I rang Dermott Pitt’s office and asked his secretary to make sure Mr Pitt knew I would be waiting to see him tomorrow when the court finished its business for the day – say at four o’clock. I would go to his office if they had already adjourned.
‘I don’t know whether Mr Pitt will be free then,’ she began.
‘He’d better be,’ I said, ‘I’ve already been to the police and I’m sure he will want to know all the details so that he can represent his client properly.’
She hesitated, uncertain whether this was a threat or an insult. I carried on. ‘I’ll be there as I say, and if I’m not able to speak to Mr Pitt then I would feel duty bound to inform his client of his unavailability.’ Duty bound? Why did I end up speaking their language?
Dead Wrong Page 13
