Dead Wrong (11 page)

OK, I admitted to myself, it’s the knife. Blame the knife. I have a fear of knives. I’d been stabbed once, here in this kitchen, sitting at this very table. Even being shot at hadn’t come close to the terror I’d felt as the man held the blade near my neck and whispered threats.
Spittle on his lips…

I resisted the impulse to jump up and try to run away from the fears. Instead I practised the exercise I’d been taught, playing out the memory, letting it run to the part where he raised his arm, then changing the outcome. I was strong, stronger than him; I grabbed his wrist, wrested the knife from him, broke it in my bare hands, led him away, handed him over to the custodian at the door. I went through it again, and by then I was sleepy enough to return to bed.

I felt a flash of irritation with the dog down the road, who began to bark as soon as I turned off my light. I worked out that it had been eight days since I’d seen Victor Wallace and started to work on the case. All that time for my fears about knives to surface. Not bad, eight days. was making progress.

I was nearly off when a taxi came clattering down the road and there was much slamming of doors and jovial farewells. But soon it was quiet again.

And then it was morning.

Something happens to the clock between getting up and the time we have to leave for school. I never actually see it happen, but instead of ticking neatly round minute by minute, it takes great leaps from one figure on the dial to one across the other side. Even more unnerving is the fact that this erratic behaviour is synchronised with all the digital timepieces in the house.

One moment we’re making toast, the lunches are packed and there’s loads of time, and the next we’re terribly late, Maddie’s lost her shoes and there’s Vimto leaking from Tom’s lunchbox.

Returning from school to my office I took ten minutes to drink a cup of coffee, check my mail and messages, come to terms with Maddie’s parting words: ‘I hate you, pigbum, you always make me late’ – and regain a reasonable pulse-rate.

My rent was due for the office. I wrote a cheque for the Dobsons and left it upstairs on their kitchen table. It was a modest sum; I certainly couldn’t have rented a shoebox for that amount from anyone else.

I rang Rebecca Henderson to check whether she had spoken to Debbie Gosforth as promised. She was out but her secretary Alison remembered typing and posting the letter the previous morning. She’d have got it by now. I’d collected the photos of the stalker and I put them in the folder with my other notes. They were adequate to prove that G had been loitering outside Debbie Gosforth’s house on that occasion. Not an offence as such. Neither was stalking, come to that, only if it could be proved there was intent to cause harm. Most stalking cases were prosecuted for other crimes, like malicious damage or assault. You could keep up a campaign of terror against someone for years and the law could do little about it. That was Rebecca Henderson’s worry, and Debbie’s. Mine was getting the man’s name and address as soon as possible.

I put the Gosforth file away and got out the Wallace one. I made notes on my meetings with Mrs Siddiq, Dr Khan, Zeb Khan and Mrs Deason. I have a system of dividing the page into sections. In the first I’d enter facts or alleged facts – what people said they had seen or done or heard, along with times and dates, that sort of thing. In the second section I’d enter anything I wanted to remember about that person’s attitude and opinions, their reactions and the impression they had made on me. In the final section I’d jot down all my own hunches and suspicions, questions that went unanswered and doubts I had. I’d allow myself to spin wild scenarios about what the truth might be.

Of course, this was for my eyes only; I’d be appalled if anyone else ever saw it. In a clearcut case there’d be little or nothing in the final section, but as I worked on these reports I was struck by how many queries I had and how muddy everything seemed.

The Siddiqs were witnesses but I got a definite sense that they had some stake in the case. Their reactions hinted at some other involvement; they were not just objective observers. Of course, they did work for a relative of Dr Khan…I kept coming back to the fact that they’d left Ahktar to bleed to death. Was their guilt a reason for the extra baggage that they brought to the case? Was that the explanation for all the bad vibes?

Zeb Khan I labelled volatile. He’d reacted aggressively to my visit, even more so when I’d asked about his row with Joey D and when I’d mentioned Emma. He’d been unclear at first about what time in the evening he had seen the two friends arguing. Was that simply the effect of drugs? Had anyone else seen the row? Could he have imagined it, been hallucinating? There was no clue as to what they might have argued about.

Was Zeb a physically violent man? Could he have become embroiled in an argument with his cousin and then, when it ended in tragedy, somehow set Luke up to take the rap?

And if Mr Siddiq was in charge of security at the Cash and Carry, surely Zeb would know him! Even if Zeb was based at the clothing importers up Cheetham Hill Road, he’d still have some passing knowledge of Rashid Siddiq, wouldn’t he? I knew for a fact that Siddiq visited J.K. Imports – I’d followed him there.

As for Joey D, he had seen or heard or done something that night that led him to flee, fearing for his safety. He was known to carry a knife similar to the one that killed Ahktar, and he arrived home shocked and scared. I was surprised the police hadn’t become more suspicious, given the timing of his flight from home.

Mrs Deason would have been completely plausible. He’d already run away twice that year, she’d said, coming back when the money ran out or things got too heavy. She’d told them about his knife, the argument they’d had about it, the fact that she’d taken it from him. She had shown them it. Proof. So there was no reason to connect the knife used on Ahktar to Joey. The police had plenty of evidence pointing to Luke as it was. Mrs Deason’s account fitted the known facts. Their interest in Joey D would have focused on the knife. His weapon could safely be ruled out of the enquiry.

My interest however was more wide-ranging, and I wasn’t satisfied, not by a long chalk. I’d uncovered a more disturbing version of Joey D’s involvement in the events of that night, but I couldn’t go any further without talking to him. There was no point in reporting what I’d learned to the police because I knew Mrs Deason would perjure herself to the hilt to protect her grandson, and she would be totally convincing.

Emma Clegg, Zeb’s ex-girlfriend, worked at a nursery in Whalley Range, near Chorlton where Debbie lived. I could call in on Debbie and then carry on for my lunchtime meeting with Emma. I went home and made myself an olive paste, tomato, basil and lettuce submarine sandwich and a flask of chilled pineapple juice. It was a warm day but dull. Hard to tell whether the cloud would clear or open up and soak us. I took my kagool as a precaution. Debbie Gosforth was taken aback to find me on the doorstep. ‘He’s not here,’ she said, bemused.

‘I know, I just wanted a word. Can I come in?’

We went into the lounge which was as clean and tidy as ever. ‘They’re nice.’ She’d got a bunch of carnations and gypsophila in a vase by the window.

She nodded, arms folded across herself, not keen on small talk.

‘Rebecca Henderson rang me the other day,’ I began. ‘Apparently, you haven’t been very happy with how things are going.’

She looked embarrassed, shook her head, ‘No, I…’

I gave her a chance to carry on but she couldn’t think of what to say.

‘Has Rebecca written to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she’s explained what I’m expected to do?’

She bobbed her head, blushing.

‘Is that all right? Because if you still feel unhappy you can always talk to her about getting someone else in.’

‘No, no,’ she protested, ‘it’s fine.’

And that was it. I couldn’t make sense of her. She clearly didn’t want to be having the discussion at all, and gave me no more idea of what had prompted her complaints.

I asked her to talk to me first if anything else bothered her and we could see if we could sort it out between ourselves.

‘Yes,’ she said.

In my dreams.

‘Have there been any more calls?’

‘Last night. He said I’d betrayed him, called me all these names – swearing, awful things.’ Her mouth twisted with disgust. ‘Names from the Bible, too – Salome, Jezebel, Delilah.’ I had a mental picture of Tom Jones crooning, the silhouette of a woman, the knife, the stabbing from the video that had accompanied the song. Tom’s throaty Welsh bellow: ‘Deli-ilah!’

I concentrated on Debbie. ‘Have you rung BT?’

‘Yes, well, Ricky did, this morning, after I told him. They said to stay calm and not to talk, put the phone down for a while and then replace the receiver. If it carries on they said they might trace the call, like you said.’

‘What about changing your number? Would you rather do that?’

She didn’t get a chance to reply as the front doorbell rang. She went to answer it. I heard a man’s voice then Debbie’s, low and urgent.

‘Lost him again, have you?’ He came into the room and stood there with his feet apart, legs braced, chin out. He had very short hair, wore stonewashed chinos, a green vest, Doc Martens.

‘Ricky,’ she said weakly.

‘Have you any idea what it’s doing to her?’ the man blustered. ‘He wants putting away, bloody pervert. What’s his game, eh? Frightening women? She’s scared to look out of the window or answer the phone.’ It had to be the brother. Rebecca Henderson had mentioned him. It couldn’t be anyone else.

‘I know,’ I interrupted him, ‘and as soon as we find out who he is and where he lives, we can apply for the injunction.’

‘Oh, great – and what if he ignores it, what then? He wants locking up now before it goes any further. She’s gonna end up in Cheadle Royal if it goes on like this.’

‘Ricky, please.’

‘Sit down,’ he ordered her. She sat. ‘She’s already on tablets, you know. She should sue him, screw the bastard, what he’s done to her nerves. You’ll never get him like this,’ he pronounced. ‘You need to be here all the time. I told her she should get a proper security firm. Lot of them are ex-coppers, they know how to play it. Soon get it sorted.’

‘Of course, you could do that,’ I spoke directly to Debbie, determined not to exclude her from the conversation. ‘But you’d have to pay for it.’

‘No, it’s not what—’

‘Comes down to money, dunnit?’ he demanded.

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘And she gets you, cut-price, part-time,’ he sneered. He craved a reaction but he didn’t get one.

I spoke to Debbie again. ‘The firm are employing me and you know what I’m paid to do. You’ve got a right to do anything else you want on top of that. If you do decide to hire security, there are several reputable firms I can put you in touch with. I’m sorry we’ve not been able to identify him yet, but I’m confident that the next time he’s here I’ll be able to trace him.’

Ricky snorted.

‘I’d better go now,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Goodbye.’

Debbie got up to see me out, avoiding my eyes and mumbling goodbye. Ricky remained in Action Man pose, stony-faced.

Christ, I thought as I climbed into the car. If Debbie had to put up with his hectoring on top of being stalked, no wonder she was on tablets. Big brother, big help. I shuddered. And in his blustering attempts to protect her he was undermining any chance she had to hold onto her self-esteem.

The nursery where Emma Clegg worked was housed in a conversion of one of the grand Victorian villas in Whalley Range. When it was first built, the area was an upmarket suburb for the merchants of Manchester – those doing well in the cotton trade and associated industries. It boasted spacious family housing, tree-lined streets and a grand park nearby.

Nowadays many of the villas are crumbling though the trees are still thriving. I could see the poverty of the area reflected in the dismal row of shops I passed; half of them were boarded up, littered with posters and daubed with graffiti, the others were shabby with neglect, roofs pitted with holes, paint peeling. There was a young prostitute on the corner where I turned; she looked bored and ill-tempered.

Emma was waiting for me at the door. We walked along to the park and found a bench with enough wood left on it to support us. There were squirrels and magpies busy chasing each other in the trees, and across the field a group of boys on mountain bikes swooped and wove around each other. The day was turning cooler but it hadn’t started to rain. They’d just mown the grass and the smell was intoxicating.

Emma was convinced that Luke Wallace had been wrongly accused. It was refreshing to talk to someone who was keen to help defend him. Nobody had bothered to interview her. Understandable, as she had left the club early on the night of the murder and had no close connection with any of the parties involved.

‘They were such good mates, I couldn’t believe it when I heard.’

‘You can’t think of any reason why Luke might attack Ahktar?’

‘He wouldn’t,’ she insisted. ‘They never fell out. They were cool. Never a bad word between them. I mean, there’s some people always taking the hump or losing their rag, like Zeb, say, foul temper. There’s times I had to pull him away from fights.’ She shook her head at the memory. ‘But Luke and Ahktar, they were as soft as sh—’ She blushed. I grinned to reassure her.

She opened her Tupperware lunchbox. Inside were two crisp-breads, a tiny pot of cottage cheese, a spoon and an apple. She took out the cottage cheese and, spooning it onto the crispbread, took a bite. ‘You seen Luke?’

‘Yes, I went to Golborne.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Not really,’ I admitted, ‘it’s not easy for him.’

She nodded, took another bite. I was starving. Should I leave my lunch till later – show solidarity with her diet? Sod it. I unwrapped my sandwich. Was it my fault half the population counted calories?

‘Ahktar was stabbed,’ I said through my first mouthful, ‘but Luke never carried a knife.’

‘That’s right. And they check for people carrying on the door, run the wand over you.’