Dead Wrong

Chapter Four

Driving back through the city centre was even slower than getting there. I felt exhausted by meeting Mr Wallace and the intensity of his emotional state. I had an image I couldn’t shift of the knife in Ahktar’s chest. I don’t like knives. I was stabbed once. Please don‘t, I’d begged. He raised his arm…the knife shining…No. I shook the memories away.

My shoulder was stiff and aching. I rolled it back round and round as I queued up to get onto Princess Street. We inched forward a couple of cars at a time when the lights changed, but the traffic ahead was hardly moving. There’d been a crash. I crawled past wanting to avert my eyes, needing to look. A woman in one of the cars had a neck brace on. She was being lifted out by two ambulance men. I sighed with relief; no blood, no dead bodies or worse, no decapitated driver or twitching limbs imprinted on my mind for the rest of my life.

If Ahktar had been stabbed outside the club as everyone was coming out, surely there would have been more than two witnesses? There’d have been blood, a skirmish; people would have glanced, looked, stared. There would have been the unmistakable atmosphere of violence, the scent of danger and death that we all recognise instinctively, that speeds up our heartbeat and raises the hairs on the back of our neck. I needed to find some of those witnesses. Six months after the event it wouldn’t be easy, and acting for the defence we could hardly get a slot on Crimewatch to pull people in. I’d start with the list Mr Wallace had given me, but from what he’d said none of the witnesses had come up with anything substantial the defence could use. Before I talked to anyone though, I’d book a visit to Golborne and meet Luke, assess for myself whether I thought he was wrongly accused. As an independent operator I had the freedom to choose who I worked for and what the terms were, and I’d said to Mr Wallace that I would only take the case if I felt comfortable working for Luke’s release.

Sheila rang. They were reopening Victoria Station so she hoped to travel home the following day. The news continued to be dominated by the bomb. Television and newspapers featured devastating pictures of the Arndale Centre and surrounding buildings; the gaping windows, twisted metal and fragments of concrete. It still made my stomach churn. Much was made of the bridge that linked Marks & Spencers with the Arndale Centre. It had literally jumped several feet in the air with the force of the blast, yet had fallen back into place in one piece – albeit unsafe. And a red pillar box close to the centre of the blast had inexplicably survived while everything about it was smashed to smithereens.

There were tales of folly and bravery, of interrupted weddings and miraculous escapes. Hundreds of people were still unable to get to work, to visit their businesses, retrieve their cars, return to their homes. I read it all.

On page eight a headline caught my eye. MYSTERY WOMAN AT BELLE VUE SUICIDE SCENE. I recalled the look of shock on Mrs Grady’s face, the ominous sound of flies busy at the corpse.

Local resident, Mrs Grady, 62, claimed she’d been alerted by a mystery caller ‘She wouldn’t say who she was or what she was doing there. She wouldn’t have her photograph taken. I thought that was a bit odd at the time. I’d no idea who she was. She left as soon as she could.’ I groaned. They’d had to put a spin on it. Rather than just relate the facts of Mr Kearsal’s death they’d spiced it up with a whiff of intrigue.

Mr Kearsal, 68, was found hanging at his Belle Vue home on the evening of Thursday June 13th He had not been seen since the previous Thursday. Mr Kearsal, who lived alone, leaves a sister in Harrogate. At this stage police do not suspect foul play; a note was found at the scene.

It was a non-story. Of course the police knew who I was, and a call to them from the reporter would have established that immediately, unless the police were being awkward about it. I groaned again. All I needed was some bright, bored reporter determined to uncover my identity, and the whole thing could blow out of all proportion. Local notoriety would be disastrous for my business. I needed my anonymity.

I could see it now. PRIVATE EYE HOUNDS BROKEN MAN. IS THIS WOMAN ON YOUR TAIL?

I hoped to God it would fade away.

I’d just topped up the bath for myself when I heard the phone. I let Ray answer it, hoping it would be for him. Wrong.

‘It’s Debbie Gosforth,’ her voice said, high with strain. ‘He’s here now, across the street.’

Shit.

‘Can you come?’ She was breathless.

‘Yes. Listen, I won’t come to the house -that might alert him – but I’ll wait down the street and try to follow him when he goes. What’s he wearing?’

‘His suit. He’s by the alley, where I showed you.’

‘How long’s he been there?’

‘I don’t know. I only saw him just now when I went to close the curtains upstairs. He wasn’t there earlier.’

‘I’ve got a mobile phone,’ I said. ‘I can ring you to let you know when he leaves. Stay inside. Try and keep your phone clear.’

I hate working evenings and nights but it can’t be avoided when surveillance is involved. The call can come anytime. And apart from my personal reluctance, nights are actually easier to arrange than earlier in the day because I can usually rely on Ray being there for the children.

After school can be very tricky, and on more than one occasion I’ve had to take the children with me. They’re good camouflage for short periods. Who suspects a woman with two children of being an investigator? But they are definitely time-limited as far as eating crisps and playing I-Spy in a stationary car goes.

I pulled the plug on the bath then checked with Ray and left details of where I was going.

‘Nothing risky, is it?’ he asked.

‘No. Someone else is being stalked; all I need to do is tail him home when he’s had enough. Long as I make sure he doesn’t cotton on, I’ll be fine.’

It was almost dark now, the streetlights turning from red to orange. I could feel excitement building as I drove west towards Chorlton. Surveillance is mind-numbing, utterly, crunchingly boring, but the prospect of seeing this guy, of hiding from him and tailing him sent shivers of anticipation through me. Like a kid playing hide-and-seek.

I was there in quarter of an hour. I wasn’t sure where my best vantage point would be, and as he was on foot he could walk off in either direction. I cruised slowly down Debbie’s road. Both sides were lined with cars which could be a help or a hindrance. I looked quickly at the alley as I passed but couldn’t see him. I drove round the block and passed again. No man in a suit. I parked round the corner and rang Debbie’s.

‘Debbie, it’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m round the corner but I can’t see him by the alley. Have a look out, will you?’

There was a clatter as she put the phone down and a pause before she returned.

‘He’s gone,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, you were right to call me.’

‘He was there,’ she sounded upset, ‘he was, I didn’t imagine it.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘I believe you. This sort of thing happens all the time. You weren’t to know how long he’d be there. Does he ever come back? Come and go, sort of thing?’

‘No.’

‘He’s not likely to come back tonight, then?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Ring me if he does. Are you OK? I could pop in for a few minutes?’ -

‘No, I’m fine. I’ve only just got Connor to sleep, his asthma’s bad. He’d be up again if he heard the door.’

‘Well, ring me as soon as you see him again, day or night.’

‘Yeah. OK. G’night.’

I felt deflated. The prospect of bed rather than hours getting cramp in the car was welcome but it was as if I’d been cheated My adrenalin had kicked in and had no part to play. I’d need a good hour to let it subside. At home I prowled around. There was nothing on television (again), I tried reading but found I’d reached the bottom of the page with questions about the stalker weaving through my mind.

I wandered into the kitchen to make a drink. I could hear the murmur of the radio from the cellar below where Ray has his carpentry workshop. He makes furniture with great love and skill and absolutely no commercial acumen. For money he works as a joiner for some local builders. They contact him when they get a big job on and he works like mad for a month or so, and then has to catch up on his computer course. But the carpentry is where his soul is.

The hob was filthy. I ran hot water and picked up the pan scrub and the cream cleaner.

An hour later the hob, oven, work surface and kettle were gleaming. The rest of the room was still cluttered but as I said I don’t do pristine. Besides, I’d unwound enough to go to bed.