Dead Wrong

Chapter Three

‘Mummy,’ Maddie stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips. ‘There’s a gigantic slug in the sandpit.’

‘Is there?’ I emptied the washing machine. Too late to peg it all out now but the forecast for the morning looked promising.

‘Come and get it out now.’

‘And slug poo,’ Tom shouted from outside.

‘It’s nearly bedtime,’ I warned them.

I scooped the brown and orange slug onto a trowel. It shrunk to a glistening lump of muscle and I dropped it into one of the beer traps I’d got dotted round the garden. At Tom’s insistence I removed the slug poo too and put that on the soil.

While Maddie carefully sculpted a mermaid’s house in the sand I wandered round dead-heading the pansies and the petunias, tidying up the tubs and baskets. Tom trundled the toy wheelbarrow round after me. Although there was only a year between Tom who was four, and Maddie, five going on six, he was still very much a little boy, short and stocky, hardly more than a toddler, while Maddie, in the midst of a growth spurt, looked lanky and skinny. Her body had assumed the proportions of a child now and she scorned anything she regarded as babyish.

It took me an hour and a half to get them both bathed, dressed and into bed, stories told and books read.

Ray was out. He’d gone for a drink with some of his fellow students from the computer course he’s doing at Salford University. He earns his living as a joiner but he wants a change. He says he’s had enough of manual labour and lousy working conditions.

It was barely warm enough to sit out but it was light and dry. And after all, this was the only summer we’d get. I put on an old fleecy top, found a blanket and the book I was reading, and fetched a lager from the fridge.

There was a clear sky, blue fading to apricot in the west. I leant my head back and watched the planes climbing out of Manchester Airport. Their trails criss-crossed in the sky, the white lines etched onto the blue, like ink bleeding on wet paper.

I hankered to be up there heading for somewhere hot with dusty roads and the scent of pink trees baking in the sun. I read and sipped my drink. As dusk fell I could no longer read the print. I yawned and stretched, gathered up my things. Weary again. It hadn’t been a particularly gruelling day, but what with work and chores and children, every day was busy enough to tire me out.

I let Digger out in case Ray was late back. As I waited on the doorstep while he sniffed round the front garden I thought of Debbie Gosforth. Afraid to open the door, afraid to look out of the window. Was G stalking her tonight?

First thing Tuesday morning I got a call at the office. The man introduced himself as Victor Wallace; his son Luke was on remand in Golborne Remand Centre. He’d been arrested and charged with the murder of Ahktar Khan. The case had been committed for trial. ‘You probably saw it in the papers. He didn’t do it,’ Mr Wallace said emphatically. ‘They were mates, good friends, there’s no way…I want you to talk to people – someone must have seen something. The place was busy, the club was emptying.’

I’d nothing more than vague recollections of the crime. ‘When was it?’ I stalled.

‘First of January. It was the New Year’s Eve party at Nirvana.’

The club was famous for its dance scene. People travelled from all over Europe for a night in Nirvana.

‘And the police have charged him?’

‘Murder. They’ve made up their minds. It’s all a terrible mistake.’

‘What about Luke’s lawyer?’

‘He knows I’m not happy, I want more doing. They’ve had people looking into it but they’ve not come up with anything very useful, nothing that’ll clear him.’

Fragments of the story surfaced as I listened. There’d been talk of a racial motive. Luke Wallace was white; Ahktar Khan, an Asian Muslim, had been stabbed. And there had been something about Ecstasy. I wanted to know a lot more before I committed myself. I explained to Mr Wallace that he’d have to pay for my time, if I decided to take the case. Legal Aid was available for murder cases, but only to the official defence solicitor and people employed by them.

‘Whatever it takes,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t want to see Luke’s life ruined for something he didn’t do. I’ll sell the house, the business, whatever.’

Crikey, I wasn’t that expensive.

‘We’d better meet,’ I said, ‘I need more information before I know whether I can help.’

‘This afternoon?’

‘Yes, early afternoon.’ I had to pick up Maddie and Tom from school at three-thirty, It didn’t half eat into my working days.

He gave me an address in Prestwich. I told him I’d be there at half past one.

I was late. Prestwich is the other side of town from Withington and the traffic was all diverted round the bombed area. It was chaos. We edged slowly along Deansgate, where most of the shop fronts were boarded up; nothing was open. When we got to the bottom of Deansgate I peered up towards the Arndale and Marks & Spencers. In spite of seeing the images on television, I was still affected by the extent of the damage. My stomach clenched uneasily and I could feel tears not far away as I caught glimpses of twisted metal and shattered concrete, of Venetian blinds dangling broken from office windows and fractured lamp posts.

They were big houses, detached, each one a little different from its neighbour, with Tudor-style facades and leaded windows. Double-garage-and-gardener territory.

The Wallace house was at the end of the cul-de-sac. Beyond were trees and the sound of running water. The River Irwell came through here. The day was warm, sunny, the birds were in full throat. How nice it would be to just slip away, saunter through the trees to a sunny glade and watch the river flow, lose myself in the glistening reflections. As if.

A woman wearing a stripy butcher’s apron opened the door. Unruly black hair, a bright expression.

‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Wallace, Sal Kilkenny.’

‘Oh, yes. Come on in. He’s in the back.’

I followed her through the house which was furnished like an Ikea showroom, to a large room at the back. One end with desk, shelves and PC obviously served as a study or office while the other half of the room was an open-plan lounge with television and sofas. Floor-length blinds occupied most of the far wall; they were shut but the translucent material allowed plenty of light in. I could see the shadowed outline of patio doors on the blinds. The place was cluttered and untidy but not dirty.

Victor Wallace rose from the desk as we came in, and stretched out his hand. His handshake was warm, firm.

‘Thank you, Megan,’ he said.

‘Will you have tea?’ the woman asked me, ‘or coffee?’

‘Thank you, coffee would be great.’

‘Victor?’

‘No, thanks.’

She left us.

‘Please, sit down.’ He gestured to the sofas, placed at right-angles to each other. I opted for the firmest-looking one; there’s nothing worse than trying to be businesslike while sliding inexorably into a horizontal position on a soggy sofa. He took the other.

He gave off a palpable air of restless energy. Frustration, even. He was a stocky man with small, square hands, a round, shiny face as though someone had polished him, receding hairline, grey hair. He wore jeans, a casual sweatshirt but good quality. Chicago Bears on the front.

‘What I’d like to do,’ I began, ‘is ask you some initial questions, get the overall picture of what’s happened, both about Ahktar Khan’s death and since.’

He nodded briskly.

‘Let’s start with New Year’s Eve.’

He spoke so rapidly it was all I could do to note the essential facts, but that was all right at this stage. I could go over any gaps later if I decided to take the job. What I needed now was the flavour of the case. It would help me to establish whether there was anything that made me uneasy or rang alarm bells, whether there was any point in Mr Wallace paying me, or if I was a last-ditch attempt to do something in a hopeless situation.

Luke and Ahktar and two other friends had gone to Nirvana for the big New Year’s Eve bash. The boys were close friends from school; they had formed a band and used to practise in the Wallaces’ basement.

Victor knew Luke would be home late, so he’d made sure he had plenty of cash for a taxi.

Where was Mrs Wallace in all this? Was there one? I’d ask later.

At five he was woken by a phone call from the duty solicitor at the police station. Luke was being held for questioning in connection with an affray.

They didn’t tell him any more over the phone.

‘I thought it was a mix-up – you know, some horseplay got out of hand – though frankly, even that surprised me.’

‘Why?’

‘Luke’s not like that. He’s never been in a fight in his life, hates practical jokes,’ he smiled. ‘It wasn’t cool, you see. At that age, it’s all image, isn’t it, and Luke and Ahktar, they were into being grown-up. They’d no time for kids’ stuff.’

He’d waited for two and half hours at the police station before he’d found out that Ahktar was dead as a result of an assault with a knife, and that Luke was being questioned about the incident.

‘I couldn’t believe it,’ he said. ‘He was a lovely boy – bright, friendly – he and my son were inseparable. It seemed ludicrous that he was dead.’ He paused, remembering something else, shifted on the sofa. ‘And I thought: Thank God, it’s not Luke. I hated myself for thinking that.’ He took a deep breath, wiped his hands on his jeans.

‘So, I waited and waited, hours on end. It was so difficult to find out what was happening. They kept telling me to go home, they expected me to walk away and leave him there. I couldn’t understand why they were being so brutal. His friend was dead – surely it wouldn’t take all day to establish what Luke had seen! I thought he was a witness, you see,’ he still spoke quickly, his voice tight with frustration and pent-up energy. ‘In the end I blew up at the guy on the desk. Finally they sent someone to talk to me. He tells me that Luke is a suspect, that they think he may have killed Ahktar. I laughed, it was so preposterous. I told them no way, there was some horrific mistake, they were best friends.’

There was a knock at the door and Megan came in with a tray, coffee in a little cafetière, milk and sugar, shortbread biscuits. She set it down on the table near to me. As Mr Wallace thanked her, something in the way he said it told me that they weren’t friends or relatives but that she worked for him.

‘They said he hadn’t been fit to interview when they’d brought him in and they were waiting to question him in the morning. It must have been mid-morning by then, you lose all track of time. They held him all that day, and the next. They kept going to the magistrates to get another twenty-four hours. I saw him for ten minutes, twice in all that time. Then they charged him.’ He covered his mouth and looked away.

I occupied myself pouring the coffee. The bitter aroma filled the room. I ate a biscuit. He got to his feet and crossed to the blinds, pressed a switch at the side; they glided back.

‘Oh,’ I said softly. Beyond lay a stunning garden, shaped by clumps of bamboo and various conifers. There were two apple trees at one corner, an alpine rockery and a large pool. Old York flagstone paths connected the different areas and the lush grass was dotted with daisies and clover. I got to my feet for a better look. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. It was so unlike the traditional clipped lawns and standard roses I’d seen in the neighbours’ front gardens. Most of the planting was green or architectural, and there was little of the annual colour with which I stuffed my own pots and window-boxes. The colours in the rockery were muted – white, soft pink, here and there a tiny flash of a stronger red or purple, but there was a restraint to it all. Beside the pool a boulder had been placed. It was perfect.

‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ Mr Wallace replied. ‘Do you garden?’

‘A bit,’ I said, overawed by the comparison.

‘Glenda, my wife, designed it. Place was full of hydrangeas and gladioli when we moved in. She died,’ he carried on, ‘six years ago now. We keep it just as she made it. We could sit outside if you…’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll get the key.’ He strode over to his desk and came back with a bunch of keys. He unlocked the French windows. I gathered up my tray and book and we settled on seats on the patio immediately next to the house.

‘So,’ he resumed his story, ‘I asked to see the person in charge. They made me wait, of course. I told him they’d got the wrong person. I explained how close the boys were, that neither of them got into fights. That Luke would never hurt Ahktar. The man listened, he thanked me, he said nothing. As far as I can see, they’ve got a suspect and they want to make it fit.’

‘But without proof…’

‘Apparently they have two witnesses.’

Bad news. I underlined the word witnesses in my notes.

‘People who saw something that incriminates Luke. How could they?’ he demanded. ‘He didn’t do it; they’ve got him mixed up with someone else.’ His tone was hectoring. In any other situation it would have put me right off, but I made allowances for his desperation.

‘What did Luke say?’

He sighed. ‘Luke can’t remember anything.’ I could hear the despair in his voice. ‘He was pissed, he says he’d taken some tablets, he can’t remember anything. He doesn’t know what happened. Just a blank. He was devastated when they told him Ahktar was dead but he can’t remember a thing.’

My heart sank. With witnesses for the prosecution and a suspect who was out of his head on drugs, it wouldn’t be hard to secure a conviction. Obviously it would depend on what the witnesses actually saw and whether there was any other interpretation of that. But all Mr Wallace could offer in Luke’s defence was his trust, his faith that his son hadn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t have killed his friend. And I’m sure most parents faced with that accusation would say the same.

‘Mr Wallace-’ My uncertainty must have come through because he interrupted me before I could say more.

‘Please,’ he said, gripping the edge of the seat. ‘Please.’ He implored me but there was strength, not weakness in his plea.

Objections leapfrogged over each other in my mind. A hopeless case, I’d be going over the same old ground, I can’t do anything your lawyer can’t do, the trail will be stone cold, it’s months ago, they’ve got a witness, he may be guilty, these tragedies happen. But I couldn’t turn him down. His conviction, his passion about his son’s innocence was too powerful.

‘All right,’ I said, ‘but these are my terms.’