Dead Wrong

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?

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.