Towers of Silence

Chapter Ten

The community centre was on Moss Lane East, near the Rusholme junction and opposite Whitworth Park. It was a new-built single storey block with all the paraphernalia of inner city security; chain link fencing round the car park topped with razor wire and more wire on the roof, steel shutters available to roll over all the windows. A large sign mounted beside the door announced Whitworth Community Centre and gave a phone number. I pulled into a space in the car park and locked the car up.

Just inside the door there was a small vestibule with notice boards cluttered with posters, messages, leaflets and adverts. Everything was there from Tai Chi classes to second-hand baby buggies. One board listed the regular groups: Craft Club, Mums and Tots, Luncheon Club, Yoga and Aerobics and the times they met. The Craft Club that Miriam attended met on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays.

The entrance hall led into a larger hallway with several doors off. A reception booth was in the corner to my left. The place smelt of new carpets, a strong chemical tang. Around the room more posters were displayed along with a patchwork banner, showing the centre’s name and depicting the activities that took place, and two beautiful large ceramic panels made from broken tile and mirror. One showed a tree by a stream and the other a bowl of fruit. There was no one at reception. I peered in through the reinforced glass.

“Hiya,” a voice came from the far end of the hall. A young woman carrying a cup headed towards me. “Just getting a drink, “ she smiled and made her way to her post; there was a small door into the booth which she had to open with a key. “Have to keep it all locked round here,” she said. “When we first opened they’d come in off the street and walk off with stuff. Phones, computer, the lot. Can I help?”

“Eddie Cliff, is he in?”

“I think so. Can I just ask you to sign in?” She swivelled a book with lined paper round my way. I filled in the columns.

“Thanks. You want to go through the bottom door,” she pointed to the right hand side to the lower of two doors. “That’s the craft room. If he’s not there try the Hall,” she gestured over to the left. “They were talking about putting some decorations up in there earlier.”

The craft room was empty. The walls were awash with pictures and models and a central working area had been made by putting tables together. The room was well lit by a run of windows which looked out of the back. Evergreen shrubs grew there and a small cherry tree hung with bird feeders.

I crossed to the Hall door. I looked in. It was a riot of streamers and lanterns in garish reds and golds, silver and green. A large Christmas tree stood at the far end beside the front window and at the back of the room sat a giant Christmas pudding. At the window two women held a tall step ladder as a man stretched up to attach more streamers above the glass. The trio turned as I came in.

“Hello,” I crossed the hall, my boots squeaking on the wooden surface.

“Eddie Cliff?”

“That’s me,” the man replied. “Nearly done.” He grunted as he reached to hammer tack the streamer in place. “There we go.” He came down the ladder.

He looked at me enquiringly, held out his hand. He had a bushy beard and moustache, grey and brown, like his hair which reached his shoulders and didn’t look as though it ever saw a brush. He had a furrowed, friendly face, a patch of broken veins making each cheek rosy, bright seaside blue eyes, a generous smile. With a plaid shirt, denims and cowboy boots he looked like a country and western fan. We shook hands. “Sal Kilkenny. If you could spare few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about someone who used to come to the centre?”

“Sure.” He turned to the women. “Can you start the windows?”

The small dark haired woman nodded quickly. “Yeah.” The girl beside her, dramatically overweight and with a shy demeanour said nothing.

“Spray a border right along the bottom. Up and down, like mountains. About this high,” he showed them. “We can go in the craft room,” he said to me.

Once seated he listened while I explained the reason for my visit. When I mentioned Miriam Johnstone his eyes softened and he nodded in recognition.

“It was completely out of the blue,” he said when I’d finished. “She was here that morning, smiling and joking, next thing…” He stroked his beard. “It’s hard for those left behind,” he had a soft edge to his voice, a west country lilt, like someone from the Archers. “I’ve worked for most of my life with vulnerable people and sometimes there’s no warning, nothing.”

“And Miriam had been well for some time?”

He nodded. “That’s right. Her death didn’t make sense then, still doesn’t now. I don’t think we’ll ever know what prompted her.”

I murmured my agreement. “I’m trying to find out where she went when she left here. Have you any ideas?”

“No. She usually went home for her lunch, she’d stay here on Tuesdays for the luncheon club. That’s a pensioners group, they have a hot meal in the hall. I could ask around at the Craft Club, you could come and talk to them yourself but it might be easier if I broached it first. It upset everybody and there are some people in the group who might find it very difficult to be reminded of it again.”

I asked him to do that and gave him my card. “I can pop back in, if you could ring me and let me know who I can talk to.”

“Will do.”

He accompanied me back into the foyer.

“Lovely ceramics,” I pointed to the still life.

He smiled, creases fanned the outside of each eye. “Craft Club’s own work. We get an artist in every so often for special projects.”

“Connie said you’d got Lottery money.”

“That’s what built this place. Before we had an old prefab. Leaked like a sieve, break-ins twice a week. All the money went into shoring the place up. And it wasn’t very attractive. Now we can concentrate on the activities.”

“You run the centre?”

“In effect but there’s a management committee of users and funders, they’re officially in charge. They employ me and we’ve Sharon half-time.” He nodded at the woman at reception. “This area was crying out for a decent place where people could meet. You can’t talk about community if there’s nowhere for people to gather.”

He was obviously passionate about the place.

“It’s great.”

“Have you signed our petition?”

“No.”

“The council are talking about cutting back on our core funding, just as we’re getting sorted out, we’re asking them to reconsider… if you…”

“Yes.”

He gestured towards Sharon. “Over here.”

I followed him across, read the text of the petition to make sure I agreed and then added my name and address to the list.

“Withington,” he noted. “I was there for a bit when I first moved here. Do you know Lausanne Road?”

“By the library?”

“Yep. But the lads next door were up all hours, drugs I reckon. I’ve got a nice place in Cheadle now.”

“Quieter,” I smiled.

There was a commotion at the entrance.

“That’ll be the Tai Chi group. Villains the lot of them.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” I smiled.

I made my way out against the flow of elderly people who were streaming into the hall and joshing each other in loud voices. Outside I waited while the two minibuses that had brought them turned and left, before I could drive out.

Had Miriam gone home for lunch that day? Her house in Heald Place was a few minutes from the centre. According to the police her neighbours hadn’t seen her that lunchtime but it was part of my job to double check the facts. It wouldn’t be the first time that a second look revealed new information.