Mr Wallace caught me before I’d made my coffee and demanded to know what was happening. He went ballistic when I explained that there’d been a delay in seeing Pitt and threatened to get onto it himself. I emphasised that I had a firm appointment fixed for the following afternoon and that I had been to the police. I managed to fudge the issue of why I couldn’t ambush Pitt today instead of tomorrow by talking crisply about other work and pointing out that he wasn’t my only client.
‘I’m sure Pitt will give me a full hearing tomorrow and things will start to move,’ I promised.
‘What about this hypnotist?’
‘Hypnotherapist.’ Eleanor insists on the distinction. She doesn’t want to be lumped alongside stage shows in which people do daft things in front of an audience. ‘I’m going to ring her soon; she should be back from Golborne by now. I’ll let you know how it went as soon as I have the details.’
The authorities had agreed to Eleanor using one of the private consulting rooms at the Remand Centre for her session with Luke. ‘It’ll be much better if he can relax,’ she had said, ‘and the surroundings can help that a lot.’ Eleanor was a friend of a friend who had given up working for Manchester Housing to retrain as a hypnotherapist. Her skills were used for all sorts: helping people to stop smoking, treating insomnia, teaching women to use hypnosis to ease the pain of childbirth. I had spoken to her, once the appointment had been fixed, to brief her on the background to the Wallace case; I covered the known and alleged events, and explained who the various people were and what the crucial time-frame was.
When I rang her to see how the hypnosis had gone, she had just got back.
‘You beat me to it,’ she said.
‘What happened? Did he remember anything?’
‘No, I’m sorry, Sal. He remembers being in the club dancing and the next thing he’s coming round at the police station. The rest is blank.’
‘Nothing?’ I was disappointed.
‘Nothing.’
‘You said he might be deliberately blocking things out, memories that he couldn’t face.’
‘Yes, but I don’t think that’s happening with Luke. If it was, I would have expected some restlessness, signs of unease when I asked him about that part of the evening but he was quite calm. He only became agitated as we moved on to the time when he was at the police station.’
And that would make sense if he’d been completely out of it beforehand. He comes to, in a cell, blood on his clothes and instead of tea and sympathy he gets unsmiling faces and cold, precise, repetitive questions to answer. The nightmare beginning.
‘It makes it unlikely that he killed Ahktar then, doesn’t it?’ I asked her.
‘I’m no specialist on criminals…’ she began.
‘I know, but in your opinion, if he had done it, you’d have expected a different reaction?’
‘Yes, unless he had actually been in some sort of fugue state or was psychopathic and so lacked the appropriate emotional responses. Of course, the drugs confuse the issue.’
I sighed. ‘Look, I know you’ve got to tread cautiously…’
‘It’s not an exact science.’
‘But what’s your opinion?’ I insisted.
She laughed. ‘OK, Sal. I’d be very surprised if Luke had killed his friend, and there’s nothing to suggest he was even present when the attack took place.’ It was confirmation of what I believed. I was glad of that – after all, it could have been disastrous if the session had revealed Luke as liable for the crime, but still I felt frustrated. We had not a shred more evidence about what had really happened that New Year’s Eve.
I asked Eleanor if anything else had come up that I should know about.
‘Let me check my notes. I tape the session but I jot down key words as we go – it helps in finding things on the tape.’ A pause. ‘Oh, yes. I asked about the other friends like you said, and I asked about any trouble. Now he mentioned Emma, the girlfriend, leaving and then Zeb, the boyfriend, had some sort of run-in with Joey. That’s right – I asked him if it was a fight but he said it was just Zeb throwing his weight around.’
‘Did he say whether he and Ahktar had fallen out?’
‘Denied it, found it amusing so I don’t think he was covering up.’
‘And could you tell when the memory loss began?’
‘Hard to be precise but definitely while he was still inside, before the end of the celebrations.’
‘None of the others passed out,’ I said, ‘and they were all doing drugs.’
‘Luke was drinking quite a lot too,’ she replied. ‘Extra-strong lagers.’
‘Yuk.’
I recalled my own teenage experiments with that sort of drink. Strong enough to strip paint and intoxicating enough to have me senseless after two or three and hanging over the toilet bowl. Bad news anyway, but combined with a cocktail of drugs…’
‘How was he?’ I asked. ‘I realise you have to keep things confidential, but…’
‘That’s OK. Luke and I discussed who I might talk to and what I would and wouldn’t divulge. He’s depressed and I’ve encouraged him to see the doctor there again. He’s also experiencing periods of anxiety. It’s not surprising, given the strain he’s been under. I’ve offered to do some more hypnotherapy which could help reduce the stress and give him some techniques to manage the anxiety. He’s keen so I’m going to have a word with his father about it later.’
‘Good.’
I thanked Eleanor for her time. I’d be paying her for this first visit to Luke; it was warranted as part of my investigation. Of course, it would appear on Mr Wallace’s next invoice as one of my expenses. I sorted out with her where to send her cheque and made a note for my own reference of the rate she charged. Just in case, I thought. If I had any more wobblers like the one at the baths that morning, I could consider a few sessions with Eleanor. I liked the notion of learning a bit of self-hypnosis. Could come in handy for lots of things, not just panic attacks. Those nights when the dog down the road keeps me awake, or moments when Maddie and I get locked into a spiral of argument and defiance.
‘And obviously,’ she said, ‘the sooner this can be resolved, trial or release, the better for him. He’s quite ill already and Golborne is no place to try and get better.’
So it was up to me, wasn’t it? To find enough to force them to release Luke. Sooner rather than later. Me – and his lawyer.
Chapter Twenty-One
When the bell went at the front door I waited to see if it would go again. I rarely got cold callers; most people ring and make an appointment. And any friend of the Dobsons would know not to drop in during a weekday. It rang again. I suspected it would be a doorstep seller, offering a great deal on tarmac, potatoes, lawn strimming or the latest fashion catalogue.
But it was Zeb Khan, a look of bravado on his face. My first reaction was to keep him out of the house. I hadn’t forgotten the edge of aggression he’d shown me.
‘Hello, Mr Khan.’
He glanced beyond me into the hall, back at my face. No, I wasn’t going to invite him in. ‘Can I help?’
‘About Ahktar,’ he spoke urgently, ‘I’ve been thinking about it. It’s not right, what you’re doing. Wallace killed him. You just want to whitewash it all.’ As he gained momentum he began to jab his finger at me.
‘The court will decide who’s guilty;’ I said, ‘and what evidence can be relied upon.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he demanded.
‘You saw Luke and Ahktar arguing but no one else did. Strange, that – such good mates, too. You’d think other people would have clocked it, if it had happened. And what about your row with Joey D? What was all that about?’
He glared at me. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘You were shouting at him, grabbed him by the collar. Can’t you remember? Were you so smashed that you don’t recall it? You owe a lot of money, don’t you? Was it to do with that?’
He set his jaw. ‘You should keep y
our fucking nose out, see, or you might get hurt. My cousin’s dead.’
‘Don’t threaten me,’ I said so he could just hear me. ‘You threaten me and I might have to report you.’ I locked onto his eyes. No way was he going to see me cowed. ‘They’d be interested in that, wouldn’t they? A witness nobbling one of the defence investigators. Worth looking into?’
He struggled briefly to contain his anger, lips pressed tight, jaw working away. Then he lost it. ‘You cunt, you fucking–’
I shut the door quickly. Leant back against the wall for a moment, heart kicking at my stomach. The knife-tip at my throat, needing to swallow, spittle on his lips…I concentrated on my breathing. Felt my pulse begin to slow. I looked out through the spy-hole. Saw him kicking the gate open, leaving, thank God.
I was interested in the timing. I’d spoken to Mrs Siddiq the previous afternoon and now here was Zeb Khan warning me off. Must be getting too close for comfort. More evidence for Mr Pitt the brief.
When I left to collect the children I felt edgy. I doubted that Zeb would actually attack me, he seemed more likely to do that in the heat of the moment, but being threatened had made me wary. I had a good look round before I left the Dobsons’ and kept scanning the area on my way to school.
It was a long, slow walk back home, with a stop to buy a lolly for Tom and Maddie and Maddie’s friend, Holly, and a second emergency stop when Maddie tripped and skinned her knees. She would die, she couldn’t walk, all her blood was coming out. I’ve grown used to Maddie’s low pain threshold and incipient hypochondria. I soothed until I’d had enough, then adopted a brisk, no-nonsense tone to steer her home.
There was a red car parked outside our house. A Mondeo. My heart squeezed hard. There was a man in the car. I shepherded the children up the drive. I heard the car door open and close. As I got them inside I turned to see who it was. I didn’t know him.
He came up the drive. ‘Miss Kilkenny?’
Ms actually, but now wasn’t the time. I didn’t commit myself ‘What’s it about?’
‘Mike Courtney – freelance journalist.’ He stuck out a large hand. I caught a whiff of spicy cologne. ‘I believe you were the mystery woman at the Belle Vue suicide scene?’
The drone of flies, that putrid stench. Oh, hell. And he’d tracked me down – a dogged reporter. All I needed. ‘There was no mystery,’ I said coolly. ‘The police have all the details.’
‘Why were you calling on Mr Kearsley?’
‘Kearsal’
‘Kearsal. Was it in connection with a case?’
‘My work is confidential. There isn’t a story, there’s no mystery, you’re wasting your time.’ I tried not to snap. After all, I didn’t want MYSTERY WOMAN’S VOW OF SILENCE or SECRET SLEUTH WHO DARES NOT SPEAK plastered all over the paper.
‘There’s a lot of interest in private eyes,’ he pressed on. ‘Look at the telly; Morse, Dalziel and Pascoe, The Bill.’
‘They’re police,’ I quibbled.
‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘same difference. Readers may well be interested in a feature about your work. Woman in a Man’s World, Girl Gumshoe – that sort of thing.’
Spare me. I’d have walked away then but I was all too aware of the need to build on my reputation, keep a steady flow of work coming in. If the piece was pitched right, it could be free publicity. ‘Can I think about it?’
He looked impatient.
‘I couldn’t do anything now,’ I explained, ‘I’m in the middle of a job and I wouldn’t want any publicity at the moment.’ Like the stalker having my picture to alert him. ‘I’m not sure about photos anyway. It could be a liability, if I was recognised.’
He sighed. This was going to be hard work.
‘Sal!’ Tom’s voice called from inside, ‘Sal!’
‘Coming,’ I replied.
‘What about Mr Kearsal?’ Mike Courtney persevered, ‘They’ve not had the inquest yet. Will you be a witness?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve already explained the case was confidential.’
‘The guy’s dead,’ he pointed out.
So it’s OK then? To gossip and speculate and use him for a filler in the paper? The little house in the middle of an urban wasteland, the robbery that had made him fearful, escape to his sister’s in Ashton now and then. ‘Yeah, so let him rest in peace, eh?’
He tutted at me reproachfully then drew out his card. ‘So you do all right for yourself?’ He nodded up at the house. ‘Make a decent whack or are you married?’
Oh, per-lease! ‘No,’ I lied, ‘it’s all mine.’ Childish, I know, but he brought that side of me to the fore. And I enjoyed his envy. I marked him out as the type who can spend a whole evening talking about money, everything in Ks, only able to value what had a large price-tag on it. I gave him an insincere smile and a goodbye and went in.
Maddie refused to let me touch the grazes on her knees, so I gave her a little lecture about hygiene and healing, and provided her with cotton wool, boiled water and some clean cotton cloths and strips of sticky plaster.
‘I think Holly and you can sort something out,’ I said. Holly was looking pretty brassed off by now with all the drama and no fun in sight. ‘And if you clear it up I could put some water in the paddling pool.’
‘My knees will get wet,’ Maddie was appalled.
‘Not if you just paddle,’ I said firmly. ‘And we can have a picnic for tea.’
‘You could be the ambulance,’ Maddie said tentatively to her friend.
‘Paramedic,’ Holly corrected.
I left them to it.
I made a pot of Darjeeling for myself and drank it with lemon, out on the patio. A ritual to settle myself. The weather had picked up – blue sky, a fresh breeze, puffy clouds moving fast.
There was so much to do. I emptied the disgusting contents of my slug traps and filled the pots with beer again. Despite the constant supply of fatalities they commanded I still lost countless plants. Half the petunias I’d grown from seed had gone, here and there a single central stalk, sheared to a point and smeared with silver, bore witness. They’d decimated the lobelia too. I reorganised the tubs, putting the survivors together.
The clematis needed tying in again. When I’d done that I got the shears out and went round to the front. The privet there was well out of control. It’s one of my least favourite jobs, but it was beginning to interfere with free passage along the pavement. I chopped at it until it was a decent length, then brushed up the cuttings and stuffed them in the wheelie bin. I felt filthy by the time I’d done, covered in dust and spiders’ webs and insects, my nails full of soil, throat parched, arms aching. On the plus side I no longer felt rattled by the turn that I’d had at the Baths or by the unpleasantness of Zeb’s visit. Working in the garden, the physical graft, the pungent smell and the feel of the earth had grounded me again.
‘It’s for you, Sal,’ Ray called me to the phone.
I muttered my resentment. I’d just sat down to watch some telly.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Sal Kilkenny?’ Mrs Deason.
‘Speaking.’
‘Joey wants to meet you. He’s given me the details. You won’t tell the police?’ She sounded desperate with worry. ‘I promised to make sure you would go on your own, that you wouldn’t bring anyone else. You won’t try to trap him, will you? Nor force him to come back? I can’t give you the details until I have your word.’
‘I promise. All I want is to hear what Joey has to say.’
‘He said to make sure you’re not followed.’
‘I will.’
A pause during which she must have checked that she’d asked all the salient questions. It stretched on.
‘Mrs Deason?’
‘He sounded dreadful,’ she said abruptly, ‘if only he’d just come home.’ Her voice broke. ‘When you see him,’ she faltered, ‘will you tell him that whatever happens he’s still my grandson. I’ll always…’ she didn’t need to finish.
‘I’ll tell him. Where hav
e I to meet him?’
‘He’s not staying there,’ she rushed to explain, ‘you couldn’t find him afterwards.’
‘OK.’
‘It’s Prestatyn, in Wales. You’re to meet at the railway station, Twelve o’clock, midday.’ High Noon in Prestatyn: Joey’s liking for the dramatic. I knew the Welsh seaside town; I’d been to Prestatyn years ago. Remembered sitting on the concrete steps by the promenade waiting for the tide to give us back the beach. A long straight seafront, car parks, amusement place, couple of cafes. Its main attraction had been its proximity to Manchester; you could get there in a couple of hours. Not much else going for it apart from the sea, of course – ever-magical even in that setting.
‘Thank you.’
‘Will you let me know how he is?’ She wasn’t asking me to tell her what he’d said. If he had done it, she didn’t want to know.
I promised. I was pretty sure I’d recognise Joey from the photos I’d seen at her house so I didn’t need to ask for a description.
I reckoned on two and a half hours to get there, allowing for hold-ups. It didn’t matter if I was early but it would be disastrous if I was late. I’d be able to take the kids to school but I didn’t know if I’d be back in time to pick them up. I asked Ray and he was able to rearrange his day so he could collect them.
Would I be back in time to see Mr Pitt at four, though? Possibly. I didn’t want to ring and cancel now that I’d started putting pressure on him to see me. I would wait and see how the time played out, I decided. If I was delayed I could use my mobile and get a message to his secretary. Preserve my professional image.
I couldn’t help speculating about Joey’s reasons for agreeing to see me. To explain his innocence or defend his guilt? To protect his grandmother now that I’d uncovered her involvement in replacing the murder weapon? Was it a trap for me? My stomach lurched. Zeb had warned me off and that hadn’t worked so now they were using Joey as a lure? No. I reassured myself. Joey was in hiding, not in cahoots with anyone. It was me who’d put the pressure on for a meeting. Was he hiding from Zeb? What had their argument been about?
Dead Wrong Page 14
