Towers of Silence

Chapter Three

It’s only a few minutes walk home from the office. I rent the basement room from the Dobson family who occupy the rest of the house. When I first set up as a private investigator I wanted to have some separation between home and work; a cheap room to meet my clients in and store my paperwork. When I knocked on doors looking for a space, the Dobsons liked the idea of having a sleuth in the cellar. Not only did I pay them for that, I also regularly used their older daughters for baby-sitting when Ray wasn’t home to look after the children. Selina Dobson was obliging me that night. I found her on the sofa, between Tom and Maddie transfixed by a Pokemon cartoon. I thanked and paid her, once the programme finished, and set about making tea. Tagliatelle and tuna sauce. Just for the three of us; I knew Ray would be late back.

It was a blustery evening, the wind whipping the trees and shrubs about. A clatter from the back garden sent me out to investigate. Light spilt out from the lounge and the kitchen, illuminating an empty plant pot skipping over the grass. I caught it soon enough. A small maple I had in a pot had been blown over too. I moved that to the corner between the house and the fence we share with next door, to give it more shelter.

One or two stars glimmered dimly above but that was it. Starry nights are rare in the city. Not just because of the frequent cloud cover – Manchester aka Rainy City – but also because of the bright lights that illuminate the streets, the clubs and the buildings and drench the heavens. As I headed for the door at the side of the house I could hear more clattering, from above. I peered up at the house. It was hard to tell in the dark, but it seemed to be the wood that ran along the edge of the roof. Another job for the list. The old Victorian semi boasts big rooms, a big garden and big bills. To be fair, the owner who lectures in Australia pays for all the maintenance but it can take several weeks to come through and my overdraft suffers.

Ray and I have shared the house since Maddie was a toddler. Ray was a single-parent trying to find accommodation for himself and baby Tom, and I’d just got the tenancy of the house and needed someone to help fill it. We’ve become a sort of alternative family over time and people often mistakenly assume that Ray and I are living together in the Biblical rather than the practical sense. We sublet the attic flat and we’ve had a series of lodgers. Sheila, a mature student and divorcee, has been with us for a couple of years and we all get on very well. Ray’s mum, Nana Costello, a small, fierce Italian woman, lives nearby and is a frequent visitor to the house. She is a vociferous critic of some of our lifestyle choices. I’ve learnt to take her in my stride – just about.

During tea, Maddie and Tom re-enacted for me all the adverts for absolutely brilliant, must-have toys that were dominating the telly.

“And you can cut her hair off and make it grow,” Maddie said. For £29.99,I thought sourly. And then what? It hardly seemed the basis for hours of creative play.

“I want to do another list,” said Maddie.

“And me,” Tom echoed her.

“I’ll get you pens and paper.”

“You have to help us, though, with the spelling.”

“Or you could do a picture list – draw what you want.”

“Nah,” she said.

“You might only get one thing on the list,” I reminded them later. We were sat on the floor in their playroom, the fabulous gluttonous lists before us. “Or even nothing.”

“Or for my birthday,” Tom ever the optimist. “When I’m six. Like Maddie.”

“I’ll be seven by then, Dumbo.”

“Maddie,” I complained.

“Will Laura buy us presents?” She asked, still in infant school but already a fervent materialist.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“She is,” Tom said. “She told me.” Tom was passionately fond of his dad’s new girlfriend.

“When are we getting the tree?” Maddie demanded. “You said soon.”

“Maybe next weekend. We’ll have it up for a couple of weeks before.”

“Why can’t we get it now?”

“We don’t want it up too long.”

“Yes we do,” she said.

“I don’t – it feels more special if it’s only up for a couple of weeks. If we get it sooner it’ll be bald for Christmas.” I knew you could get trees that didn’t drop as much but they didn’t smell the same. And for my money the tree was the best bit of all.

After they were in bed I soaked in the bath then watched ER on the telly. They had Christmas every couple of months. Plenty of drama, families forced together or apart, nativity scenes, snow and loneliness. Families.

I looked briefly at the folder Patrick Dowley had left with me. It included official documents, the death certificate, the bill for the funeral, papers from the coroner’s office. There was a cutting from the Manchester Evening News – the announcement in the paper.

Johnstone, Miriam. Suddenly on 6th October. Beloved mother of Constance, Martina and Roland. She has gone home, bathed in love, rocked in the warm and gentle waters, and her soul is bright with joy. Arrangements to follow.

A further clipping gave the funeral announcement and asked for family flowers only and donations to MIND, the mental health charity. The rest of the papers were notes that the Johnstones must have made. Names and addresses of people to notify, questions to ask the coroner, practical lists for the funeral. There was a photograph too, Miriam Johnstone, head and shoulders, smiling, her eyes bright, crinkles at the corners. Holding a glass. A party? A happy attractive woman. A fuller face than her children but a clear resemblance. I turned it over. It was dated the previous year. The picture was a million miles away from the image I had formed of a scared, depressed woman climbing the stairs to her death.

If she’d been like this on the Wednesday when her family last saw her I could understand more easily their refusal to accept the suicide verdict. Though it was the only plausible explanation. I’d sleep on it. Decide in the morning. This would be their first Christmas without her. A matter of endurance rather than celebration. Every aspect made poignant by her absence. One of the milestones of the grieving process. And would it be any easier to bear if I could tell them more about how she had passed her last day?