Towers of Silence

Chapter Twenty Eight

Sharon had no name for the mystery man. She confirmed he was clean shaven and she thought he had glasses but couldn’t swear to it. He wasn’t especially memorable, I could rule out Mr Beatty with his white hair and I thought she would have remembered Trudeau Collins with his mannered style. Albert Fanu, he had worn glasses, as had Nicholas Bell. One courteous to a fault, the other rude. Was it one of them? Or neither?

And did it matter?

Had that man caught up with Miriam? Had he upset her? Done something to trigger her breakdown? Or had he witnessed any of it, perplexed perhaps at her increasing paranoia or her withdrawal?

If I could get hold of photographs perhaps Sharon would be able to identify the man she’d seen. Reverend Day had referred to the ten o’clock service. The church was in Whalley Range. I could take the kids to Chorlton Water Park; Digger too. Call at the church for a few minutes en route. It might be a bit of a wild goose chase and I might be no longer working for the Johnstones but it was worth half-an-hour of my time if it led to identifying the grey-haired man. If I found that Albert Fanu or Nicholas Bell was lying I’d be very keen to talk to them again.

Sunday morning my lie-in stretched till 8.45. I had to get the children ready and get to the church in time to surreptitiously shoot pictures of the gathering congregation.

Maddie and Tom had eaten breakfast; on the kitchen table pools of milk and stray Cheerios bore witness. I sent them to get dressed while I made myself some porridge. My cold morning ritual. Once the temperature goes below freezing, out come the oats. I cooked them with salt and water, Scottish style, and pour on golden syrup and cold milk. Heaven.

I dug out wellies and hats and gloves and found Digger’s lead. Digger went demented, racing to the door and back and making an irritable whine like a faulty buzz saw. I parcelled children and dog in the car, scraped the ice off the windows and turned the heaters on. I needed my woolly gloves to drive – the steering wheel could have generated frostbite. It was a glorious morning. The sun hung low in the sky spreading molten silver rivers the length of the roads. Chorlton is west from Withington so I didn’t have to drive blinded by the glare.

I told the kids I had to take a picture of the street for Diane so she could draw it. I don’t like to give too much away about my work; it involves too many convoluted explanations for an endless sequence of ‘whys’, and often the cases I work on are sordid. They rarely reveal the best in human nature. It’s not a view I want to share with the children.

Churchgoers began arriving in dribs and drabs, dressed in all their finery. I was parked some way down the cul-de-sac and facing the main road so everyone had to come past me. A digital camera was part of my recent upgrade. It was pretty foolproof and had a very good zoom. I could check immediately if the shot was usable.

It went like a dream. Mr Nicholas Bell and his wife drew up in a taxi which stopped nearby. I caught him getting out of the cab, his face clearly visible. To cover my tracks I immediately swung the camera round and snapped the kids in the back seat. No one even glanced my way.

A couple of minutes later I saw Mr Fanu turn in from the junction walking with a group of people, including his wife. I used the zoom and the job was done.

“Fasten your seat belts,” I told the kids. “Time to go.”

A large flock of Canada Geese patrolled the landing stage at the nearest corner of the lake. Anyone with a bag of crisps or a satsuma was fair game. Maddie hung back as the geese waddled our way. Digger copied her, his tail lowered with apprehension.

“They’re only after food,” I reassured her. “Once they see we haven’t got any they’ll leave us alone.”

“I’ve got a biscuit,” Tom announced. And proudly retrieved a doughy mess from his pocket. The geese moved in with alacrity, practically obscuring him.

“Drop it,” I told him. “Now.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him through the gang and up the grassy bank. We set off walking along the sandy path that circled the water park.

Several of the little jetties were occupied by anglers. They’d as much gear with them as Maddie and I take for a week’s camping. Bell tents and umbrellas, flasks and iceboxes, chairs and blankets plus all the poles and maggots and stuff.

Out by one of the islands Tom spotted a swan and I pointed out the moorhens, with their red legs and beaks, nipping around the shallows.

“I’m freezing,” Maddie moaned.

“Walk faster then.”

“I’m tired.”

“Early night.”

“Just tired of walking.” I estimated that we were a sixth of the way round.

“I wish it was hot,” she said, “then we could paddle.”

“Not here, it’s not safe.”

“Why?”

“Sinking sand,” Tom pronounced.

“Yes, and stones, and old fish hooks and rubbish.”

“I’m a dragon,” Tom breathed clouds into the air.

I found a stick and we threw it for Digger. He’s not exactly a retriever. He kept losing the stick and we had to search for a replacement.

The children ran ahead to ambush me. I walked along savouring the fresh air. The bare trees with their branches of brown and cream and grey made patterns against a pure blue sky smudged with wisps of golden cloud. Like a Christmas card scene minus snow. I ought to write my cards. Perhaps I could make a start after tea. I heard a giggle and saw Maddie’s elbow protruding from the tree ahead. I prepared to be startled.

Near the end of the circuit we stopped at the small wooden playground. Tom leapt and swung over everything and made friends with another little boy. Maddie stuck to the swings. I called them away after a while. I had to get Tom back in time to go to Nana Tello’s for Sunday lunch. It’s a sporadic event which seems like a good way to do it to me. More of a treat than an obligation. It was her chance to stuff son and grandson to the gills.

“Men’s food,” Ray said once.

“Meat?”

“You bet, piled high.”

She seemed to worry that my not eating meat and not cooking it for others meant we all lived on grass and that without her intervention severe malnutrition would result. I’d stopped trying to reason with her. I was even woman enough not to rub it in when the BSE scandal was in full spate.

“Chicken feed,” she’d say, when she looked at my plate. Did she know what they actually fed chickens these days?