Stone Cold Red Hot

Chapter five

I made my way through town to a photocopy shop. They were still re-building the centre, three years after an IRA bomb had gutted the city. Boards sectioned off parts of Cross Street as construction continued on the new Marks and Spencer building. Traffic to and from Victoria Station had to go round by the Cathedral or up Shude Hill. I had three copies done of the photo of Jennifer Pickering and then I walked up to Piccadilly to catch the bus back.

There was more work going on around Piccadilly Gardens. Manchester was in a constant process of change. The flourishing music business and club culture had brought confidence and development to the area. The city was a major tourist destination now. I was standing within spitting distance of Chinatown with its magnificent Chinese arch and plethora of restaurants, of the thriving gay village, host to the largest gay Mardi Gras in Europe, of the huge Greater Manchester Exhibition Centre and the Bridgewater Hall home to the Halle orchestra. A short ride on the Metro Link would get me to Old Trafford cricket ground or Manchester United football club. Not that I’d ever been.

I spent the afternoon in the office, writing up notes and planning how I would use my time over the next few days. Roger Pickering had dropped off his letter for the powers that be at Keele and I wrote one of my own to go with it, outlining again that I wanted to have any forwarding address for Jennifer Pickering believed to have left her course in the autumn term 1976. If they didn’t have a record of that I asked whether they could give me details of Jennifer’s Halls of Residence address while she was at Keele? And could they provide any contact details for students there at the same time who might be able to assist me? I thought the latter was a long shot really and my hopes were resting on them coming up with the address that Jennifer had moved to. Then I’d take it from there.

After a top-up of caffeine I rang and introduced myself to Mr Poole, thanked him for his offer, and asked if I could come to his house that Friday evening to start my surveillance.

“I’ll pretend to be a distant relative,” I said, “my aunt’s in Wythenshawe hospital having tests and I’m visiting from London.”

“If anyone asks,” he said, “I’ll tell them you’re one of Joan’s children. My son Malcolm remarried and moved down south. Joan already had three children from her first marriage. You’d be a step-grand daughter, I reckon. You’d not be expected to know much about this side of the family.”

“That sounds great, and we needn’t have met before. I’ll use my own first name – Sal, Sal Smith will do.”

Mr Poole cleared his throat. “What exactly will it involve? You being here.”

“I’ll have a camcorder, a video, to record anything that goes off. I’ll keep it running whenever there’s any activity outside the Ibrahim’s, so most of the time I’ll be perched in the window filming or watching for something to happen. I hope to leave in the early hours when Mr Ibrahim is back from work. And if anything happens before then will you ring me on this number – have you got a pen?”

I gave him my number and the one for my mobile and said I’d see him Friday. He seemed to be taking the whole set-up in his stride and I was looking forward to meeting him, impressed at how he was prepared to get involved and resist the threat of violence that came with the territory.

I managed half an hour on Ray’s computer searching for an e-mail address for Jennifer Pickering, J. Pickering, Jenny Pickering and J. L. Pickering.

I found three matches in all, two in the United Kingdom and one in Hawaii. I sent messages to all of them asking them to reply and confirm whether they were Jennifer Lesley Pickering formerly of Manchester, U.K. and giving her birthdate. I also left instructions for two search engines to carry on searching and give me the results later.

Of the UK matches there was an J. Pickering in London but that could have been a John or a Julie, and a Jennifer Pickering in Scarborough. This last one seemed to be the most likely – she’d given her full name but not bothered with her middle name. I tried not to get too excited about it but my imagination kept running scenes where I checked my e-mail and found a great big “Yes, that’s me!” message waiting for me. Oh, if only…

Chester is about thirty five miles south west of Manchester towards North Wales. I allowed myself three quarters of an hour to get there which was about right. When Maddie and I have holidays we often go camping in Wales, so the journey reminded me of setting off, desperately trying to remember exactly what I had forgotten to pack.

I played an old Gypsy Kings tape, yelling along to the rousing tunes and crooning to the lovesick ballads. It was a mild night and dark by the time I left the motorway and followed Lisa’s directions. I only took one wrong turning and arrived outside her bungalow at five to eight. The windows were aglow and there was a car in the drive. The estate was open plan, no walls or hedges in the front gardens. Easier to see what the neighbours were up to. I wondered what effect it had on people’s interaction. Did it increase a sense of community, everyone looking out for everyone else or did people draw away from each other, bothered by the lack of privacy?

I rang the bell and heard it sound inside the house, moments later Lisa MacNeice answered the door. “Sal Kilkenny?”

“Yes,” I handed her my card which she actually looked at before pocketing it and inviting me in.

I could smell onions and the tang of herbs. There were rooms off to either side of the hallway but we passed these and went to the back where a kitchen cum dining room ran the width of the house.

“Do you mind?” she gestured to the plate on the table, “I was just finishing off.”

“No, carry on.” Tagliatelli and pesto by the look of it, tomato and red onion salad. My mouth watered even though I’d had a decent meal already. I pulled out a chair, shrugged off my jacket and sat down. She ate while I admired the decor.

The room was bright, stylish and spacious. Blue kitchen units with that distressed paint finish ran along one wall and on the adjoining side next to the door stood a beautiful pine dresser resplendent with a collection of hens and chickens in all shapes and sizes. The rear wall was mainly French windows with sheer curtains. In the dining area there were shelving and storage units in wood and glass, holding books and objects of interest, many of these were blue or orange. A side table sported a large vase of lilies, I caught their perfume now that I’d got use to the smell of food, and a six foot Yucca stood sentinel in the corner.

“You collect chickens?” I remarked.

“I never meant to,” she swallowed, “one of those things, I had a couple and then all of a sudden rumour flies round that I adore hens and that’s all I get; birthdays, Christmas, the lot. ‘Ooh, there’s a tea caddy with hens on, ooh look, Lisa would love that chicken letter opener.’

I laughed.

“Hard to shake once you get that sort of reputation. You wouldn’t believe some of the ghastly specimens I’ve ended up with – these are the cream of the crop.” She rolled her eyes. She had very pale blue eyes, almost turquoise. She was small and neat, dark hair cut in an elfin shape to frame her face. When she smiled she had matching dimples in her cheeks. She wore deep blue chinos and a brushed cotton shirt in a blue and white check. I think she liked blue. Silver earrings and necklace, no rings. Divorced then?

She stood and cleared her plate and offered me a drink. I asked for a coffee and also if I could use her toilet.

“End of the hall, on your right.”

Other people’s bathrooms. Fascinating. Lisa’s had the feel of a beach hut, without the sand on the floor. Blue, pink and white striped shower curtain, white painted floorboards, shells and marine artifacts dotted about. An old wooden trunk to sit on. I peered on the shelves but there were no male toiletries, no Gillette foam or Lynx deodorant. I guessed that Lisa lived alone.

Over coffee I asked Lisa to tell me about the last time she saw Jennifer.

“It was that summer, ‘76. I got these out after you rang.” She fetched a photograph album from the shelves. I moved my chair round so we could look at the pictures together. She flicked through the first few pages and I caught glimpses of family scenes, babies and toddlers on rugs, school photos.

“Here,” she said, “this was my 16th birthday. The photo showed four young women, arms linked across shoulders, standing outside. They all had long hair and wore high boots, long coats and scarves, plenty of glittery make up. The glam rock look.

“That’s Frances,” she pointed to the one with blonde hair, “Frances Delaney, she didn’t go to school with us but she lived near Jennifer, house at the back of theirs. Jenny,” looking sleek and dark haired, “me, I was a right pudding then.” Her hair was thick and curly and it was true she was a plump teenager. The fourth girl, Caroline, had glasses and long red hair.

“Christmas that year,” she turned the page. More photos followed, all pretty similar, the girls posing for one celebration or another. Lisa and Jennifer pulling faces in one shot, the four of them posing with arms flung skywards in another. Clothes varying but hair always long, faces made up. There was a photo of them in waitress uniforms, the long tresses pulled back into ponytails and buns. “That’s at the Bounty, we worked there weekends, silver service, it was good money really. And we’d usually enough energy to go out and spend some of it afterwards.”

“I met Mrs Clerkenwell, she remembers giving you lifts up there.”

“Oh, yes,” I could hear note of recollection in her voice, “nearly quarter of a century,” she shook her head.

“Were you and Jennifer close?”

She looked at me, considering. “Inseparable,” she said at last, a tone to it though, a faint challenge? I couldn’t read it.

“We were best friends. It was strange that summer. We were both off to university, so excited but there was this,” she fumbled for a word, “sense of something coming to an end, I suppose. That sounds dramatic but we’d been so wrapped up in each other’s lives I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel without Jenny. Oh, we’d promised to write and visit each other for weekends, I think we even talked about trying to get jobs in the same place once we’d graduated, and sharing a flat,” she smiled and her dimples re-appeared, “never any thought that we might lose touch.”

“Anyway we were both working that summer, Jenny had got more hours at the Bounty and I was working in Kendal’s in town.” She turned the page. “When we got time off we went to Knebworth – brilliant, Lynnyrd Skynnyrd, 10cc, the Stones,” she pointed to a picture of the two girls beside a small, drooping tent, their hair was plaited and they had hearts and stars painted on their cheeks. “Just look at us, and those trousers, flapping around like bedsheets, came back in fashion last year, skinny rib sweaters. God, when I think of what we got up to, we’d no fear,” she shook her head. “That’s when we saw Bob Marley. That was incredible – just after the Handsworth riots and everyone was saying Moss Side would be next, police everywhere – but it was fine.”

She looked across at me. “She couldn’t wait to leave home. Her parents,” she paused, swung her aquamarine gaze away from me, considered a while, “looking back I just don’t think they’d a clue about how to raise a family. There was no love or affection. They weren’t cruel or anything- there was just this absence of any warmth. Jennifer and Roger were their duty, that’s all. Of course they were very strict as well, religious and set in their ways. They hated the way Jenny dressed and all the make-up, they didn’t like her going off to concerts and parties. They couldn’t see she was just having fun, doing normal teenage things. I know at that age we all think our parents are the pits and I had a good few runins with mine but Jenny’s were in a different league really. Her mother was so distant, quiet. Maybe she was depressed. And her father was all stiff upper lip stuff, really formal. Very sad, really. I’m amazed Jenny was as sane as she was. You say Roger’s still at home?”

“Yes.”

She shuddered. “Poor bloke.” She closed the book. “It was brilliant that summer and then,” she flicked her eyes at me as if weighing something up, she decided to tell, “Jenny got pregnant.”

“That summer?” Not once she’d gone to Keele. “Who was the father?”

She sighed impatiently, the memories irritating even at this distance. “Maxwell, he was the sous-chef at the Bounty. She didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t part of the plan. We were so young. God, it was a nightmare. She was so confused. One minute she was talking about abortion – she reckoned she could use part of her grant to pay for it, or we’d scrape the money together and she’d pay us back once she got her grant through. Then she’d go all weepy and talk about the baby and deferring a year.” She tutted with exasperation.

“What did she do?”

“I don’t know,” she stared at me, “I never heard.” There was a bitter edge to her voice. “One minute she’s round my house every night going over it all and next thing she’s left. I rang her up, Mrs Pickering answered, said she’d gone to Keele. It was another week till Fresher’s week; I didn’t know you could go early. Then I thought maybe she’d gone to get an abortion, have a few days to deal with it. I didn’t know if she’d said anything to her parents, there wasn’t really any point unless she went ahead and kept the baby and they’d have gone barmy, her Dad was a right bigot, he’d hardly be chuffed at a mixed race grandchild. But I had to ask, I was so embarrassed. I didn’t want to drop her in it, I said something like “Has Jenny told you she’s not been feeling all that well?” Talk about euphemisms. There was a pause, I can still remember that because I felt so awkward and I thought she was going to sound off at me but all she said was ‘no, she’s been fine,’ so I assume she hadn’t told them.”

“After that I got really cross. The little shit had gone off without a goodbye or anything. It wasn’t my fault she’d got caught out but it felt like she was lumping me in with everyone else, wanting to leave us all behind. I called her all the names under the sun.”

“Then I went off to Newcastle and I was so busy that Jennifer didn’t seem all that important anymore. But I didn’t just leave it. I rang her family later that term to ask how she was getting on and to check her address – I’d written a note to the Halls of Residence at Keele but I never got a reply. Anyway her Mum said she’d left the course and they’d no idea where she was. I said maybe they should report her missing and she said ‘she’s not missing, she’s just being very silly, throwing it all away, we’ll have to wait till she comes to her senses’. She said she’d no idea why Jenny had jacked it in. I wondered if she was keeping the baby, but she didn’t want to tell them yet or maybe she was going to have it adopted and felt that the less people that knew about it the better, sort of thing. But I was worried and I still couldn’t understand why she hadn’t written to me or phoned me, or left a message. Her parents, yes – but me, we’d been best friends.”

She turned the bracelets round on her wrist, worrying at them. “I did actually go to the police you know, that first Christmas. I was back home, she wasn’t, no card had come. I’d this vision of her six months pregnant, squatting in London or something. So I smartened myself up and went to the police station. They listened for a bit but when I said the family weren’t particularly concerned they lost interest. They let me fill a form in but that was it. I didn’t know half the answers anyway, I wasn’t sure of her last address so I just put Halls of Residence Keele University, I didn’t know when she’d last been seen or what she’d been wearing – all those things.”

“And she never wrote?”

She shook her head. “I still don’t understand that. I think,” she hesitated, her assurance slipping for a moment, “I think maybe something happened to prevent her getting in touch.”

“What sort of thing?”

“An accident or…if she ended up broke in London, the options for earning money aren’t very safe, or problems with the baby…I don’t know, a breakdown?”

“You’ve mentioned London a couple of times, did she talk of going there?”

“Not particularly, Paris was our dream. London’s just where people went to escape – still do I suppose.”

The big smoke, I thought, pig enough to get lost in, stay lost in.

“If she had been hurt, if she’d died,” she spoke the unthinkable quickly,” could you find that out?”

“If that had happened, her parents would have been informed,” I pointed out.

“But what if she’d changed her name or they couldn’t identify her, something like that?”

“Then she wouldn’t be on any records that I could find. There are General Records, you know, births, deaths and marriages but they won’t record people who haven’t been identified.”

“And she might be happily married and living in Crewe,” Lisa replied.

“Could be. If I don’t get a lead I may well be able to check out the records for marriages as a way of tracing her but before that I’m talking to people who knew her and checking with the university. Can you think of anywhere else Jennifer might have gone after she left Keele, anyone she’d ask for help?”

“No.”

“And she never contacted any other friends?”

“Not that I heard. I haven’t seen the others for a few years now.”

“Have you got a number for Caroline Cunningham?”

“Yes, if she’s still there. Hang on.” She moved across to the shelves and flicked through a large leather bound book. Found what she was looking for and gave me the number.

“What about Maxwell, do you think she ever got in touch with him?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I doubt it. He’s still around, has a fancy restaurant in Sale, The Grove – I only know because they reviewed it in the Guardian. He’s done very well for himself.”

“Did Jennifer tell him she was pregnant?”

“No, it was awful, he’d broken it off just before she found out. He was playing the field, no intention of settling down. She wouldn’t have married him anyway, he was, childish really, very self-centred. She’d enough on her plate without him as well.”

“What’s his surname?”

“Jones, Maxwell Jones.”

I thanked Lisa and stood up. She picked up the photograph album and hugged it to her. “I still dream about Jenny sometimes, even after all these years,” she shook her head as if that were a failing.

“If you think of anything else, you’ve got my card.”

“And if you find her, give her my number, I’d like to hear from her. I bet we’d get on just as well as ever.”

As she saw me out I realised Lisa had made no mention of the press attention that she’d alluded to on the phone. I felt it would be crass to ask her about it at that point. It wasn’t any of my business. My business was to trace Jennifer Pickering and I wasn’t exactly hot on the trail.

The journey home was straightforward. The towns and villages either side of the motorway were clusters of lights. The major roads defined by ribbons of light like strings of beads spilt across the black fields.

I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere fast talking to Jennifer’s old friends. OK I had established that she’d been pregnant but that brought me no nearer knowing how to contact her. I reckoned my best bet lay with anything that Keele University could tell me. I’d still go ahead and see the remaining people on my list, it wouldn’t hurt to talk to them see if they could shed any more light on the mystery. She’d left home before the induction week at Keele, had she been to a clinic to have an abortion during that gap? Had she confided in any of her friends? Lisa claimed she and Jennifer were very close, if she’d not told Lisa would she have told Frances Delaney or Caroline Cunningham? Could there be any other reason for leaving home sooner than expected? I rolled my shoulders back, becoming stiff from the driving, noticed my hands were gripping the wheel a touch too tight for comfort, I made an effort to relax them. I pushed a tape into the cassette player, Ladies of Jazz, sang along to the smouldering lyrics, let the smoky voices lead me home.