Stone Cold Red Hot (12 page)

“From the council,” added Mr Poole.

The boy spoke to his mother. She inclined her head once. Her expression didn’t change.

“The police are here and we hope these people will go to court very soon.” I waited while he passed on my words. “They will be told to leave you alone or they will lose their houses and have to leave the area or maybe go to prison.”

She listened to her son then glanced at me. There was no hope in the look she gave me, just blank indifference. She didn’t believe a word of it, she couldn’t imagine it happening. Words meant nothing. Only actions, only when the victimisation stopped would our promises have meaning.

“I’m staying at Mr Poole’s,” I repeated, “I’ll be there till your husband gets back. If there’s anything I can do let me know.” The boy translated,

An empty offer really but I hoped that she would understand that I would be watching out.

“PC Doyle is going to send the boys home now - he’ll come back if there’s any more trouble. Goodnight.”

The child nodded and shut the door. Doyle smiled at me, angry and boxed in by my statement. If he didn’t do it he’d compromise his authority - we might suspect he couldn’t handle the teenagers. If he refused I was pretty sure I could register an official complaint about his conduct - though it probably wouldn’t be pursued beyond a quiet reprimand.

He strolled down to the gate and spoke quietly to the boys. Eyes flicked my way. There was a burst of laughter and then the lads shambled away. The overwhelming impression was of a bunch of people in cahoots not that of an officer of the law dealing with lawbreakers.

Mr Poole explained it to me as I made a drink in his kitchen. “He’s the one I told you about, bad penny. Agrees with that lot,” he said contemptuously.

“Gave me the creeps. And the policewoman never said a word.”

“Doesn’t dare, he’s the boss. He’s probably giving her a hard time of it already.”

I poured water into my mug, stirred the coffee.

“With tonight as well,” I said “they should have enough to go to court, they must have.”

He moved to a kitchen chair, lowering himself cautiously to sit down. “I suppose they need to have a watertight case” he said, “make sure they’ve dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s, it’s only right that you’ve got to have good grounds to take someone’s home away but even so when you see how they behave...”

“She looked so...hopeless,” I said, “depressed. And there’s two other children?”

“Aye, a baby few months old and a toddler. Little lad’s at school. I see her taking him up there, others in the trolley.”

“What about Mr Ibrahim?”

“He’s quiet, friendly enough considering. He was a teacher before the war - schoolteacher. He speaks a fair bit of English. I showed him the archives,” he gestured towards the back room. “He was interested in that.”

We contemplated their savage change of circumstances. I sipped at my coffee. “I’ll take this up.”

“I doubt that they’ll be back tonight. Pubs shut a while ago and there’s no sign of the men.”

At midnight a van arrived and fixed a sheet of plywood to the broken window. After they’d left the man I’d seen before walked his dog along the Close and waited while it crapped on the pavement. I filmed them just for the hell of it. At one fifteen a cacophony of fire engine sirens rent the air, whooping past on the main road. At two thirty five Mr Ibrahim returned in a taxi. I saw him stop for a moment when he saw the boarded up window then hurry up the drive. Maybe I should have rung him at work and warned him about it but I hadn’t got the number. I thought about going over to ask him for it but all being well this would be my last stint on Canterbury Close. It was late, I was knackered and I was sure the Ibrahims could do without any more callers.

Mr Poole was dozing in the lounge, I didn’t wake him. I pulled the door to behind me. It was cold but at last the drizzle had stopped. The wet had brought out the smells of the gardens, soil and rotting leaves, the tarmac and concrete. I walked down to my car. My stomach did a somersault, my mouth soured. Aw, shit. The bastards had nicked my car.

I reported the theft to the police on my mobile and rang a taxi. I sat on the low wall in front of Mr Poole’s to wait. The wig was driving me mad and I’d a headache starting. I wondered whether to ring Ray but decided against it - there was no point in waking him just to say I’d be half an hour later than expected.

It was quiet on the Close. I could hear occasional traffic from the main road. My eyes felt hot and itchy, my back stiff from the tension and from peering into the viewer in the camera. I was ravenous too. Most nights I went to bed by eleven; my body was confused at being up hours after. It wanted breakfast.

The taxi arrived and hooted loudly as it rolled down the Close, pretty inconsiderate I thought given the time of night.

I waved and he sped to the bottom, circled round and roared back up to where I was waiting. Asian boy racer.

Once inside I gave him my address in Withington. “Go down the Parkway, yeah?”

“Fine.” The dual carriageway had a higher speed limit which would suit his driving style and get me home quicker.

I settled back into my seat, leopard print suedette covers, a pair of pink fun fur elephants dangling from the rear-view mirror along with his i.d., V. Chowdury. Did he choose to have the car tarted up like this? Was it meant to be ironic?

We drove through the New Hulme; a huge development initiative that had replaced the massive Crescents, curving high rises and the nearby deck-access blocks with human-sized housing. I could see the graceful line of the Hulme Arch, over Princess Road, a symbol of optimism. Like Pauline had said this was the second attempt to renovate the area. Would it work? The houses looked nice enough, there had been a huge consultation exercise with the communities in the area as part of the project. They’d knocked down the old buildings but how would they get rid of the poverty, nestling like mould, spores ready to bloom and start the process of disintegration all over again?

I pulled the wig off, delighted to be rid of it. I rubbed at my head and the back of my neck. The driver did a double take in the mirror. Opened his mouth and shut it again.

A bit later. “Been waiting long?”

“No, my car’s been nicked.”

“Left it round there?”

“Yeah.”

“Have the shirt off your back round there, you know. You see that documentary the other night? Car crime capital of Europe, Manchester is. They ship some of them across to Russia, Lada’s and that. Others they do a make-over drive them down to Brum or over to Liverpool. Lot of money in it. A mate of mine, he’s parked outside the Palace, on Oxford Street, right, got a cab like...”

I switched off and gripped the edge of my seat as he cornered the junction onto Princess Parkway. I grunted now and then while he regaled me with stories of autotheft. The narrative was seamless, one anecdote rolling into the next. When I did tune in again I noticed he’d an amazing eye for detail. “So she says, ‘it’s OK, I left the shopping in the boot,’ Marks and Sparks were doing a special offer on ready meals for one and she’d stocked up like. Now, she doesn’t eat meat but she’s mad on fish so there’s all these heat-and-eat dinners going off and the police thought they’s got a body in the boot...”

Home at last.

“So what do you do?” he asked as I fished out my purse.

“I’m a private investigator.”

He laughed.

I looked at him.

“What, you’re not winding me up?”

I pulled out one of my cards and passed it to him.

“Bloody ‘ell,” he said.

I gave him a tenner.

“So what do you do, missing persons and that?” He rummaged for change in a little bag.

I thought of Jennifer Pickering. “Yeah, that sort of thing.”

“Not missing cars though, eh?” he cackled.

“Ha, ha.” Rapier-like wit.

“Security and that, CCTV, bugs?”

“No, I don’t do much of the high tech stuff.”

He handed me my change and I tipped him.

“Ta. See, I’ve got a mate who might be interested in this,” he waved my card. “His old man’s done a bunk. That the sort of thing you do?”

“Yes.” He still seemed to doubt me, his eyes flicked me up and down. “What’s with the wig then?”

I leant forward. “I’m in disguise,” I confided and removed the specs. “I don’t usually dress like this.”

He laughed with relief. “Had me worried then,” he shook his head, “those glasses.”

Those seat covers.

We said goodnight. I could imagine I would become a new addition to his stock of city tales. “I picked up this woman right, grey hair, painful glasses...”

Digger the dog greeted me at the door, had a sniff of my mac and sloped off, tail wagging slowly, back to sleep in the kitchen.

What would happen to Digger if Ray moved out? I felt a rush of panic. Ray adored the dog although I’d actually brought him home in a fit of guilt after his owner had died while helping me on a case. I’d quickly realised I was not a doggy person but Ray came to the rescue. It would be awful if Ray left Digger here with me, the dog would pine away. And if he took Digger, Maddie would lose a beloved pet as well as Tom and Ray. I couldn’t think it through then, I was bone tired. I needed something to eat or I’d sleep badly. I made some quick porridge, smothered it in golden syrup and stirred in some thick Greek yoghurt. Perfect.

I was upstairs in the bathroom, brushing my teeth when Maddie cried out. I went in to her.

“There was a thing, Mummy, in my dream.” She was sitting bolt upright, her face crinkled with anxiety. I sat beside her and put my arm around her.

“What sort of a thing?”

“Horrible.” Her voice wobbled.

“Do you want to tell me your dream?”

She shook her head emphatically.

“OK, lie down then.”

She began to protest.

“It won’t come back,” I said, “it’s only a dream, a picture in your sleep.” She wasn’t having it, her mouth pulled ready for tears.

“Maybe you could put your tape on,” I suggested.

She paused, considering. “Will you stay?”

I sighed.

“Just a bit Mummy and then leave the tape on?”

“Alright. I’ll just get changed.”

She leapt out of bed. No way was she going to stay alone in the room after that thing had been in her dream. She shadowed me to my room and back.

I settled her in, stuck the story tape in the machine and sat back in the rocking chair. Tom in the other bed slept undisturbed. Maddie mouthed the words to the story. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again she was asleep and the tape had finished. I padded across the landing and fell into bed. And then it was time to get up again.

When I don’t get enough sleep my concentration goes to pot. I knew I was going to spend the whole of Tuesday in a fuzzy state. I had a big breakfast to compensate; half a grapefruit, mushrooms and scrambled egg, toast and honey. I dragged Maddie and Tom away from the telly and got them to school, went to my office straight from there. I made a coffee and drank it with my eyes closed and feet up before I attempted any work. I made a list of things I had to do in the course of the day. Then I considered my appointments. I’d a meeting with Frances Delaney at ten thirty and I was seeing Roger Pickering later to give him the lowdown on what I’d discovered. That would take all of five minutes, I thought in my disgruntled mood. I pulled out the report I’d started and glanced over it. Alright, I reasoned with myself, maybe you haven’t found Jennifer yet but you’ve established some facts that Roger wasn’t sure of. I counted them off on my fingers. One - she was pregnant, two - Maxwell was the father, three - she left for university a week before the starting date, four - her friends were surprised at her sudden departure...

I was interrupted by the sound of footsteps up the path. I stood and craned my neck - caught sight of a Royal Mail uniform through the narrow basement window. I heard the clang of the letterbox and went up to check the mail. Most of it was for the Dobson’s, I left it on the hall table, but there was also something for me. Brown, window envelope postmarked Keele. Yes! I hurried back downstairs, opening it as I went.

‘Dear Ms Kilkenny,

Further to your recent enquiry concerning Jennifer Louise Pickering, 4.3.58, I have checked university records for the academic year 1976-77. Miss Pickering accepted a place for that year, conditional on her A-level grades, but she did not register for admittance. She was not a student of the English Faculty, or of any other University department, during that period.

Yours faithfully,

M
RS
V.H
ALLIDAY
(Administrator)’

What?

I read it twice. Then I rang Mrs Halliday.

I introduced myself and thanked her for the letter. “I wanted to ask, registering for admittance - is that what students do when they actually arrive, during Fresher’s Week?”

She expelled air quickly, sounding frustrated with my question. “Yes,” she said brusquely, “we have to keep track of numbers obviously, and if someone had been through admissions and joined the Faculty they would be on the general register.”

“What if she’d been admitted but dropped out of the course early on?”

“Then there would be a record of admission.”

“Do you know if Jennifer contacted the university to say she wasn’t going to take the place?”

I heard her tut in exasperation. “No. And that sort of documentation wouldn’t have been kept as a matter of course. Our records weren’t computerised until the mid-eighties, space was at a premium, official records were all we could find room for and there are boxes full of those, I can tell you.”

“And you checked for other departments as well?”

“According to the formal admissions records Jennifer Pickering did not attend this university at all.”

I was stunned. Everything had been resting on Keele. Jennifer’s last known residence. Except it hadn’t been. I’d hoped to find a firm lead there, a forwarding address, perhaps the names of course mates who might still be in touch. I made another coffee and tried to work out what this meant. Jennifer never went to Keele. Everyone assumed that she had. There was more to it than that. I dug out my earlier notes and went back over them. Both Roger and Mrs Clerkenwell had spoken about Jennifer dropping out of her course, so had Lisa MacNeice. And who had told them that Jennifer had left Keele? Mrs Pickering - Jennifer’s mother. And who had told Mrs Pickering? Had Jennifer pretended to be at Keele when she was really elsewhere? Or had the Pickerings invented the story for reasons of their own? I had to talk to her. She must be able to tell me more about where Jennifer went at the end of that hot, dry summer. When I saw Roger later that day I would insist on meeting Mrs Pickering as a condition of carrying on with the case.