Towers of Silence

Chapter Sixteen

After a quick swim at the baths in Withington I called home for lunch; chunks of courgette, fried with olive oil and garlic, topped with grated cheddar and accompanied by a chunk of home-made bread. Not mine. Sheila, who rented the attic flat, loved to bake. Since she’d joined the household we were regularly treated to the smell of cakes and bread rising from the shared kitchen. I couldn’t get enough of the Greek olive bread she did and added the ingredients to my shopping list so we’d always have them in the next time Sheila got the urge.

We’d be without her for Christmas; she was travelling in connection with the geology degree course she was doing and going on to visit her student son up at St Andrew’s in Scotland. I’d never had the inclination to bake. Or the time. But Susan Reeve managed, didn’t she? Even with four children and her husband away half the week. Her twins liked it, she’d said. Maybe I’d have summoned up some interest if Maddie had been keen when she was younger. But there’s never been any inkling of it until Sheila moved in and now it had become their particular thing. Fine by me. Meant I could go and play in the garden.

I consulted the A-Z and reordered my list of churchgoers according to location. Then I began my mission. Albert Fanu, who lived near Brook’s Bar, the big junction in Whalley Range, was my first port of call. A woman answered the door.

“Good afternoon. I’m a private investigator – my name’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m carrying out some confidential enquiries and I’d like to speak to your husband, is he in?”

She looked intrigued. “Yes, wait a minute.” She fetched Mr Fanu and then disappeared back into the house.

“Hello. My name’s Sal Kilkenny, I’m a private investigator. I’m carrying out some confidential enquiries for Miriam Johnstone’s daughter, Constance?” He nodded in recognition. “We’re trying to contact someone who called on Miriam the day she died – a gentleman from the church. I’m calling on people to try and find out who her caller was.”

He pulled his lips down, a facial shrug. “Not me. Pearl does all our visiting.”

I had the same sort of response from Trudeau Collins in Old Trafford. (He came across as a right flirt, vain into the bargain, that gave me some notion of why the sewing circle had made him the butt of their jokes). Mr Beatty, who had a flat over the shops on Mauldeth Road, needed me to go over my story twice before asserting that he definitely hadn’t called round on Miriam Johnstone. “I didn’t know her well,” he said. “Don’t know where she lived.”

And I agreed with Mrs Thompson – his hair was white.

Nicholas Bell, who lived off Ladybarn Lane was out at work at Ringway. His wife told me he’d be home at four unless there were any delays on the trains from the airport.

I promised to return later. “About five, I think.”

And if he said no, too? I could sense the lead turning into a cul-de-sac.