Dead Wrong

Chapter Seven

Luke’s solicitor, Dermott Pitt, had his practice in town off Deansgate, a few minutes’ walk from the Metro station. It was far enough from the centre of the blast to have escaped damage. The renovated townhouses were all shiny wrought-iron railings and brass plaques, but inside there wasn’t room to swing a cat.

Dermott Pitt had been able to fit me in between ten thirty and eleven – or, as his secretary put it, ‘He has a ten-thirty window.’ She’d been watching too many American television imports.

He and I sat either side of a solid dark wood desk with a leather blotter. The desk was far too big for the room. A ceiling fan turned slowly and silently above us.

‘Ms Kilkenny,’ he used the prefix effortlessly, ‘you’ve been retained by Mr Victor Wallace to carry out investigations into the death of Ahktar Khan. Yes?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You realise that I represent Luke Wallace and only Luke Wallace. He is my client, not his friends nor his family nor his next-door neighbour.’ He stretched his lips in a parody of a smile. ‘So?’ he challenged me.

‘Yes, I realise that but I took the trouble to ask Luke for his agreement that I talk to you, and I established that he would be happy for you to disclose any relevant details about the case. In confidence, of course.’

He looked a little sick. ‘We have, as I’m sure you are aware, made our own extensive enquiries,’ he stalled, ‘and I believe we have built up the best possible defence for my client. However…’ he spread his hands. If I wished to waste everyone’s time like this…

‘It would help me,’ I kept my voice even, ‘if you could outline how you intend to defend the case, and in particular tell me what you have discovered regarding the witnesses. Their evidence seems to form the basis for the prosecution’s case.’

Dermott Pitt looked most unhappy. His upper lip curled slightly. ‘We intend to concentrate on the complete lack of motive, of intent, and the fact that there was no shred of evidence of ill-will between the victim and the accused. The accused neither owned nor carried a knife, and he made no attempt to quit the scene. Quite the reverse.’

‘And the witnesses?’

He shifted in his chair, ran a thumb along the edge of his desk. He pursed his lips. ‘In my view and that of my learned colleagues, it is paramount that we introduce a degree of doubt into the veracity and accuracy of the witnesses’ statements. The night was dark,’ he gestured with his hand laying out the points of his argument for me, ‘people may have been drinking or consuming illegal drugs, the witnesses may have confused the meaning of the scene they reported – an over-eager greeting can, for example, be misinterpreted as a violent assault. Then there is the question of their delay in coming forward. Why such a delay? And how would it impact on their recollection of events?’

‘Delay?’

‘They came forward late the following day.’

‘So they didn’t ring for the ambulance?’

‘No,’ he didn’t elaborate.

‘What did they do?’

‘They returned home.’

‘After witnessing a murder?’ I was incredulous.

‘It is an area we intend to probe in great depth.’

‘But presumably the police-’

‘The police are happy with the evidence the prosecution has, but we will be challenging that view.’

‘I’d like to speak to the witnesses,’ I said. ‘I have their names already. Victor Wallace gave me all the information he had about who’d been seen.’

Pitt raised and lowered his eyebrows but kept his own counsel.

‘If you have their addresses?’

He paused. I waited. I resisted the urge to justify my request, to reason and mollify. I sat tight. He switched on the intercom on his desk. ‘Frances, get me the Wallace file, will you?’

‘What about the weapon?’ I asked. ‘Have you any idea where that came from? Luke told me it resembled one that Joey Deason carried.’

‘It did, but the police established that the Deason boy still had his.’

His secretary brought in the file and he took it from her. She closed the door softly behind her when she left. In neat italics he transcribed names and addresses using a fountain pen with blue ink onto thick embossed white paper. He blotted it carefully on his blotter. He’d have been completely at home in a costume drama, Dickens or Austen.

He held the paper between his fingers just out of my reach. A carrot on a stick. ‘Ms Kilkenny, please proceed with the utmost discretion. Any harassment of witnesses or underhand dealings could seriously compromise my client and adversely affect the outcome of his trial. My client has been charged with a heinous crime, and he will be tried under the criminal justice system. I am a qualified solicitor working within that system. I cannot pretend that I am happy that Mr Wallace has seen fit to employ your services.’ There was a ring of malice in his tone of voice. I was rubbish. ‘My experience is that unqualified amateurs, albeit well-intentioned, can rarely contribute anything of value and all too often do harm where they would wish to do good.’

My cheeks were burning. I breathed in and out very slowly and studied a mole to the left of his nose. He passed me the piece of paper.

‘Goodbye, Mr Pitt.’

‘Ms Kilkenny.’

My restraint broke as I barrelled along Deansgate towards the station. ‘Arrogant bastard. Prat. Who the hell does he think he is?’ I muttered and cursed. People gave me a wide berth. I didn’t care. It had taken all my control not to rise to Pitt’s bait, not to argue the toss or try and needle him as he had me, but I couldn’t jeopardise the job like that. He had the power to withhold the information I wanted. Oh, probably not for ever. I could have got Luke to request it in writing, or even found the addresses a more convoluted way, but time was flying by and my pride had to be sacrificed to the urgency of the job in hand.

My mobile rang when I was halfway across town heading for the buses at Piccadilly Gardens. It was Debbie Gosforth. The stalker was back.

There’s a black Hackney-cab stand near the statue of Queen Victoria. I asked the driver to drop me at the bottom of Chorlton Green. From there I could walk along Debbie’s street. I needed a way to loiter without looking suspicious. Nothing occurred during the journey. The driver chatted about the Euro 96 results. I was aware that the Championship was on and that Manchester was full of European football supporters, but I hadn’t joined Ray in watching any of the matches on the television.

The sun was hot but there was a light breeze, just enough to stir the branches of the trees on the main road. There was no one about on Debbie’s street and I felt conspicuous as I walked along.

He was there. My heart kicked in my chest. I stopped to tie my lace before I got too close. Debbie’s description had been accurate. Slim, dark hair, probably late thirties or early forties. In his suit he looked like a displaced bank clerk or estate agent. Presumably he didn’t have a regular job if he turned up at all times of the day and night.

I straightened up and carried on purposefully, past Debbie’s house to the crossroads at the corner. I looked up and down the side street for some inspiration, something to do, somewhere to wait where I could keep an eye on him without drawing too much attention to myself. Nothing. No phone box, no bench, no shops. Certainly no convenient vantage point. I turned left and walked along until I was sure he couldn’t see me then I rang Debbie’s number.

‘Debbie, it’s Sal. I’m round the corner on Royal Avenue. I’ve just walked past him. There’s nowhere here I can wait, I’m not in the car. Can I get to yours the back way?’

‘Yes, down the alley.’

‘What’s your gate like?’

‘Green – look for the climbing frame.’

‘OK, see you in a minute.’

It was easy to find. The small back yard held the climbing frame on a patch of parched grass and a wheelie bin. Debbie was on the back doorstep.

‘Thanks.’ She looked completely washed out. ‘You can watch him from the front room,’ she said.

‘Are you all right?’

She didn’t speak for a minute. ‘Not really, no. Last night, he kept ringing. Every few minutes, on and on. I’m so tired. I left the phone off the hook in the end. I hate doing that. If my Mum needed anything…’ She was close to tears.

‘We can report it,’ I said, ‘was it a payphone? Have you tried 1471?’

She shook her head.

‘Can I? Has anyone rung you since?’

‘No.’

I dialled the call-back facility. The recorded voice told me that a call had been made at 3.43 and that the caller had chosen to withhold their number. Great.

‘Have you got a phone book…the ordinary one?’ She went to the cupboard where she’d kept the letters and returned with the one book. I showed her the section in the front where the number was given for malicious calls.

‘Ring them,’ I said, ‘explain that the calls are from someone who is following you and harassing you, and that you’ve already been to see a solicitor. I’m sure they’ll be able to help. They can monitor your calls or they might give you a new number. You could go ex-directory.’

‘Yes.’ She didn’t seem exactly galvanised by my suggestion. For a moment I wanted to shake her, encourage her to show some of her anger instead of this depressed resignation, then reminded myself that she’d hardly slept and that it probably felt to her as though things were just getting worse in spite of outside involvement.

‘We will sort it out, you know,’ I said, ‘though it might feel hopeless at the moment. What did he say on the phone?’

‘At first he was just going on like the letters. I kept hanging up. He got angry. He said…’ she swallowed and her hand pulled at the gold chain around her neck. ‘He said I was betraying him and I’d pay for it.’ Her voice squeaked and she turned away. ‘Would you like some tea?’ She needed to cry but she didn’t want company.

‘Yes, please. No sugar.’

I sat on the arm of the chair in the front room. From there I’d a clear view of the man opposite. I carry a small camera with a zoom lens whenever can. One of the tools of the trade. I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t taken it out of my bag when I’d gone to town. I set it up, moved the vase of dried flowers from the windowsill, which left a clear section beneath the scalloped nets, and focused on the stalker. He was almost immobile, only shifting occasionally from foot to foot. He stood like someone at a formal service, a funeral or a wedding, arms hanging down in front, hands together, fingers laced. He waited slightly inside the alleyway so he was only easily visible from across the road. I snapped half a dozen shots of the man. Had any of Debbie’s neighbours noticed him yet?

She came back with my tea. Her hand was shaking as I took it from her. I was parched; I blew the steam to cool it down enough to drink.

‘Is there any news about work?’

‘No, it’s complete chaos. Jack, he’s the owner, he’s been into the Town Hall and got his pass but he couldn’t even get in to see the place till yesterday. He says it’s a right mess, the stock’s ruined. There’s loads of water damage with the sprinklers going off. The insurance company won’t give him a straight answer yet. I’m laid off, officially. Unofficially…’

‘He’s moving,’ and I hadn’t even had my tea. Talk about inconsiderate. I jumped to my feet. The man had set off towards the main road. ‘I’ll ring you later. Watch and tell me when he’s out of sight, I don’t want him to see me coming out of here.’

She moved up to the net curtains as I went through to the front door.

‘Debbie,’ I called, ‘is the door locked?’

‘Oh, yes.’

She ran through with the keys.

‘You’re best with just the Yale on when you’re in,’ I said, ‘and the chain. If there was a fire…’

She looked at me, her mouth tight. ‘I feel safer.’

And if anyone broke in the back way she’d be trapped.

She ran back into the lounge. ‘He’s gone.’

I opened the door and walked briskly out to the pavement. My stomach was tightening in excitement. He was up ahead. Now I’d got him. Trail him home, get the address, a word with the neighbours or the local shop and I’d have his identity. Get it to Rebecca along with details of the harassment and she could start the proceedings. In the distance he’d reached one of the side roads to the left. He turned into it. I was puzzled. Why wasn’t he heading for the bus stops on the main road at the end? Did he live locally, perhaps? I ran to the corner, slowing as I reached it. There he was, fifty yards down on the left. He’d stopped. Hands in his pockets.

I watched him turn, stoop, open the car door, get in and drive away. A blue car, a Ford – a Fiesta, perhaps. I got part of the number plate. Then he was gone.

Shit, shit, shit.