Towers of Silence

by Cath Staincliffe

  And if they asked me to do any more? What would I say then? On what basis would I agree? Was it ethical to make any changes to the agreement we had?

  I wiped the condensation from the windscreen and started the engine. The Johnstones weren’t the only ones who had some thinking to do that weekend.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  We were queuing up for Santa’s Grotto. Santa was very obviously the caretaker in costume. Bernard was a stick-thin man with eyelashes to die for, bottle glasses and a thick Scouse accent.

  “Aright den little fella,” he plumped Tom onto his bony knees. “Whorrayawan’ fer Christmas?”

  Tom reeled off the first part of his list.

  “Yer jokin’ aren’t yer?” exclaimed Bernard. “‘Ow am I gonna get tha’ lot in my sledge, eh? Think again, pal. I’ll bring you a ball, how ‘bout that, eh? A red, rubber ball?”

  Tom squirmed and protested.

  “Ey, go on then, lah. Have a lucky dip.”

  Tom slid down and rummaged in the sack. Brought out a parcel.

  “Next,” yelled Bernard.

  Maddie had already been. We collected Tom who had ripped the paper off to find a stamp pad and animal stamps.

  “They’re all the same,” Maddie complained. “You either get them or gel pens.”

  We had nearly exhausted the delights of the upstairs school hall.

  We made our way through the crush and down the stairs. There was a Tombola, a White Elephant stall, a place to make Christmas decorations out of pasta bows; lots of glue and glitter. I bought some hand-made cards at the next stall. Maddie wanted her hair doing. If we queued long enough and paid 50p she could have brightly coloured cotton wound round some strands of hair. “Last thing, then,” I told her.

  Tom went into the playground with Jade from over our road. People had set up play equipment and a large trampoline out there. The rain had held off and it worked well to occupy the kids who were less than interested in the stalls.

  The woman in the queue ahead of me turned round to survey the scene and we recognised each other.

  “It’s Sharon,” I said. The woman from the Whitworth Centre. “Sal.”

  “Hello.”

  “I’ve not seen you at school before.”

  “My niece,” she said, ducking her head towards the child beside her. “Our Julie works Saturdays so I said I’d bring Chantelle.”

  “Maddie,” I gestured. “What year’s Chantelle?”

  “Year one.”

  “Maddie’s year two,” I said.

  “It’s our Fair at the centre next Saturday so I’ll have to bring her to that as well. She likes it up there. She goes to all our do’s, don’t you Chantelle?” The child nodded.

  “It’s great for me,” Sharon confided. “Working there. I’m only a few minutes away. When we were setting up the centre we all wanted jobs to go to local people. I was on the committee back then, something to do really.” She wrinkled her nose. “I made a mess of school and I was out of work. I got one of these New Deals. Had to go through all the proper procedures and that but it’s great. If we get the extra funding we want there should be another two part-time posts so it’s creating local jobs and all.”

  “Eddie’s not local, is he?”

  “No, he was in Hull before, place called Horizons, same sort of project. He’s from Bath originally. But that post, there wasn’t really anyone local with the right experience. And it’s not brilliant money, not compared to similar jobs in other places. We did have a couple of applicants from Manchester but no one in Rusholme, and Eddie was head and shoulders above them. You should have seen his references from Hull. Sit down now Chantelle, that’s it.” She bent to discuss what colours her niece wanted, then straightened up.

  “You’re working for Miriam Johnstone’s family?” she asked me. I nodded ready to deflect her curiosity by pointing out it was confidential.

  “Such a shame,” she said.

  I guided Maddie round near to the other chair where a tiny child, probably three years old, was protesting loudly at having to sit still and clearly wanted out. Her mother relented and moved her away. Maddie sat down. “Silver, pink and purple,” she said.

  “Did you see Miriam leaving that day?” I asked Sharon.

  “No. It was chaos. Eddie had the people from the grants unit at the City Council coming. One of the Craft Club had burnt her fingers and you’d have thought she’d lost an arm all the palaver, there was. And Melody ...” She stopped abruptly. “You won’t have met Melody, will you?”

  “Yes, at the church sewing circle.” Shaking, fine-featured, her hair like a close-fitting cap.

  “Did you hear about her?”

  I shook my head.

  “Suicide attempt. It was in the paper last night. Cut her wrists. She’s all right, but ...” Sharon tutted.

  “Oh, God,” I murmured.

  “It’s not the first time,” said Sharon. “But still.”

  “How come it was in the paper?” Overdoses weren’t routinely reported. Only if they were successful and had an angle to them; a particularly young person, a double suicide, that sort of thing.

  “Fire brigade had to break in. She’d locked herself in the house. Her mother knew straight away. Good job and all. Can you imagine ...” She shook her head sadly. “Anyway, about Miriam. I saw her leave but not where she went. And she can’t have been gone long when this chap comes in looking for her.”

  I felt my heart squeeze. “Who?”

  “Middle-aged, grey hair. I told him if he hurried he might catch her. He can’t have done, can he. More’s the pity,” she shrugged.

  A cold chill slithered the length of my spine.

  Sharon bent to Chantelle. “That is drop dead gorgeous.”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Sharon had no name for the mystery man. She confirmed he was clean shaven and she thought he had glasses but couldn’t swear to it. He wasn’t especially memorable, I could rule out Mr Beatty with his white hair and I thought she would have remembered Trudeau Collins with his mannered style. Albert Fanu, he had worn glasses, as had Nicholas Bell. One courteous to a fault, the other rude. Was it one of them? Or neither?

  And did it matter?

  Had that man caught up with Miriam? Had he upset her? Done something to trigger her breakdown? Or had he witnessed any of it, perplexed perhaps at her increasing paranoia or her withdrawal?

  If I could get hold of photographs perhaps Sharon would be able to identify the man she’d seen. Reverend Day had referred to the ten o’clock service. The church was in Whalley Range. I could take the kids to Chorlton Water Park; Digger too. Call at the church for a few minutes en route. It might be a bit of a wild goose chase and I might be no longer working for the Johnstones but it was worth half-an-hour of my time if it led to identifying the grey-haired man. If I found that Albert Fanu or Nicholas Bell was lying I’d be very keen to talk to them again.

  Sunday morning my lie-in stretched till 8.45. I had to get the children ready and get to the church in time to surreptitiously shoot pictures of the gathering congregation.

  Maddie and Tom had eaten breakfast; on the kitchen table pools of milk and stray Cheerios bore witness. I sent them to get dressed while I made myself some porridge. My cold morning ritual. Once the temperature goes below freezing, out come the oats. I cooked them with salt and water, Scottish style, and pour on golden syrup and cold milk. Heaven.

  I dug out wellies and hats and gloves and found Digger’s lead. Digger went demented, racing to the door and back and making an irritable whine like a faulty buzz saw. I parcelled children and dog in the car, scraped the ice off the windows and turned the heaters on. I needed my woolly gloves to drive - the steering wheel could have generated frostbite. It was a glorious morning. The sun hung low in the sky spreading molten silver rivers the length of the roads. Chorlton is west from Withington so I didn’t have to drive blinded by the glare.

  I told the kids I had to take a picture of the street for Diane s
o she could draw it. I don’t like to give too much away about my work; it involves too many convoluted explanations for an endless sequence of ‘whys’, and often the cases I work on are sordid. They rarely reveal the best in human nature. It’s not a view I want to share with the children.

  Churchgoers began arriving in dribs and drabs, dressed in all their finery. I was parked some way down the cul-de-sac and facing the main road so everyone had to come past me. A digital camera was part of my recent upgrade. It was pretty foolproof and had a very good zoom. I could check immediately if the shot was usable.

  It went like a dream. Mr Nicholas Bell and his wife drew up in a taxi which stopped nearby. I caught him getting out of the cab, his face clearly visible. To cover my tracks I immediately swung the camera round and snapped the kids in the back seat. No one even glanced my way.

  A couple of minutes later I saw Mr Fanu turn in from the junction walking with a group of people, including his wife. I used the zoom and the job was done.

  “Fasten your seat belts,” I told the kids. “Time to go.”

  A large flock of Canada Geese patrolled the landing stage at the nearest corner of the lake. Anyone with a bag of crisps or a satsuma was fair game. Maddie hung back as the geese waddled our way. Digger copied her, his tail lowered with apprehension.

  “They’re only after food,” I reassured her. “Once they see we haven’t got any they’ll leave us alone.”

  “I’ve got a biscuit,” Tom announced. And proudly retrieved a doughy mess from his pocket. The geese moved in with alacrity, practically obscuring him.

  “Drop it,” I told him. “Now.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him through the gang and up the grassy bank. We set off walking along the sandy path that circled the water park.

  Several of the little jetties were occupied by anglers. They’d as much gear with them as Maddie and I take for a week’s camping. Bell tents and umbrellas, flasks and iceboxes, chairs and blankets plus all the poles and maggots and stuff.

  Out by one of the islands Tom spotted a swan and I pointed out the moorhens, with their red legs and beaks, nipping around the shallows.

  “I’m freezing,” Maddie moaned.

  “Walk faster then.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Early night.”

  “Just tired of walking.” I estimated that we were a sixth of the way round.

  “I wish it was hot,” she said, “then we could paddle.”

  “Not here, it’s not safe.”

  “Why?”

  “Sinking sand,” Tom pronounced.

  “Yes, and stones, and old fish hooks and rubbish.”

  “I’m a dragon,” Tom breathed clouds into the air.

  I found a stick and we threw it for Digger. He’s not exactly a retriever. He kept losing the stick and we had to search for a replacement.

  The children ran ahead to ambush me. I walked along savouring the fresh air. The bare trees with their branches of brown and cream and grey made patterns against a pure blue sky smudged with wisps of golden cloud. Like a Christmas card scene minus snow. I ought to write my cards. Perhaps I could make a start after tea. I heard a giggle and saw Maddie’s elbow protruding from the tree ahead. I prepared to be startled.

  Near the end of the circuit we stopped at the small wooden playground. Tom leapt and swung over everything and made friends with another little boy. Maddie stuck to the swings. I called them away after a while. I had to get Tom back in time to go to Nana Tello’s for Sunday lunch. It’s a sporadic event which seems like a good way to do it to me. More of a treat than an obligation. It was her chance to stuff son and grandson to the gills.

  “Men’s food,” Ray said once.

  “Meat?”

  “You bet, piled high.”

  She seemed to worry that my not eating meat and not cooking it for others meant we all lived on grass and that without her intervention severe malnutrition would result. I’d stopped trying to reason with her. I was even woman enough not to rub it in when the BSE scandal was in full spate.

  “Chicken feed,” she’d say, when she looked at my plate. Did she know what they actually fed chickens these days?

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Monday I went to York.

  With Adam Reeve.

  We took the bus to town again and there was an interlude of about an hour spent wandering round Lewis’s and Debenhams and the top of Market Street. Susan Reeve rang; the college had called to check whether Adam had cause to be absent. I told her I was in town following her son and would keep her informed.

  Adam set off for the coach station. He didn’t go in the information office this time but to one of the stops. I watched from the news-stand. I bought a copy of The Guardian to hide behind. After a few minutes the coach came swinging round and drew up and disgorged its passengers. Adam got on followed by other travellers. When they were all on I went across and climbed up the steps. Asked for a return to York, which was the final destination. I was fairly sure he’d not recognised me but I had a different coat on due to the colder weather and a woolly hat in my bag that might come in handy to alter my appearance if I felt a little exposed.

  I sat several seats in front of Adam and never looked back.

  It was a three hour journey. The coach headed up the Oldham Road through the centre of the East Manchester redevelopment; a major site for the Commonwealth Games. We took the M62 towards Leeds. As we climbed away from the cities and up into the Pennines the view was spectacular; moors and hills rippled buff against a rich blue sky with a burnished sun. I could see for miles. Those parts of the ground where the sun hadn’t reached were still dusted white. I enjoyed the landscape for a while but eventually I wanted distracting and turned to the book I’d brought with me.

  We had to change in Leeds. A forty-five minute wait. I found a cafe a few minutes from the station, got a cup of tea which looked like washing-up liquid and tasted similar, and huddled in a corner with my book.

  When it was time to go I got on the coach and sat near the front again. Adam was already on further back. I looked out as we swung through the streets. Leeds wasn’t a city I knew well, though work has taken me there now and again. It has a similar Victorian feel to Manchester with some resplendent city centre buildings and arcades. The same sort of terraced streets that had sprung up to house the mill-workers and factory-hands spread outwards from the centre, but here they were mainly stone built instead of brick. And Leeds is hilly, unlike Manchester which sits on a plain surrounded by hills.

  As we drove north the land became flatter. The vale of York. The buildings fell away to be replaced by grazing land, dotted with sheep and cows and enclosed by ancient dry stone walls.

  Fields grew winter crops or were shorn, bare stubble glistening with frost. The coach drove on, low easy-listening music faint on the tannoy. We passed a farmhouse with a huge tree in the yard strung with outdoor lights. Further along two barns were being converted, bright new sandstone walls and solar panels.

  Where were we headed? Was Adam meeting someone? Perhaps there was a simple, utterly banal reason for our journey. A job interview, research for a college assignment. York was full of museums wasn’t it? Dripping with history. As we got closer to the town there was much evidence of the dominant role of tourism here. Coach routes and stops were sign posted, as well as scenic tours and heritage trails . Every other house had a B&B sign up. Presumably some people came up here in the winter. When the coach came to a halt I got off before Adam and walked across and into a phone box where I would still be able to see him alight.

  He hesitated on the edge of the pavement as if he might change his mind and get back on. He certainly didn’t look excited or happy to have arrived. Whatever awaited him here it was not something he was looking forward to.

  He went into the Gents and then over to an inspector who was leaning against the information booth. Adam spoke and the inspector nodded and gestured across the bus station. A man came and waited outside the phone box.

>   I replaced the receiver and came out.

  Adam went and sat on a seat at one of the bus stops. I consulted the schedule hanging on the wall and worked out that the buses there went to Ripon and the next would be in twenty minutes.

  Adam had settled to wait. I took the chance to go to the Ladies and then got myself a tea and a cheese salad sandwich at the station shop. The tea tasted of melting plastic. I’d have been better with a cold drink but at least it served to warm my fingers up.

  As we got further away from York and into unchartered territory it was more likely that Adam would recognise that I was the same woman who had got on the bus at home. Okay, at this particular point he didn’t seem to know me from a hole in the ground but I must be pushing it. I had to stick with him but not stick out. I hovered in the shop as long as I felt comfortable and then went to the Ladies again. Wherever we were going it was not likely I’d be home to collect the children. I rang the Dobson’s and spoke to Vicky. Yes, she’d take them home and stay until either Ray or I got back.

  I also rang and told Adam’s mother that I was still following him and that I would ring her later. I told her to try not to worry.

  I put on my woolly hat. Mistress of disguise. I had some sunglasses in my bag but they only made me look deranged with the hat in the middle of winter.