Dead Wrong (18 page)

‘Why were you calling on Mr Kearsley?’

‘Kearsal’

‘Kearsal. Was it in connection with a case?’

‘My work is confidential. There isn’t a story, there’s no mystery, you’re wasting your time.’ I tried not to snap. After all, I didn’t want
MYSTERY WOMAN’S VOW OF SILENCE
or
SECRET SLEUTH WHO DARES NOT SPEAK
plastered all over the paper.

‘There’s a lot of interest in private eyes,’ he pressed on. ‘Look at the telly; Morse, Dalziel and Pascoe, The Bill.’

‘They’re police,’ I quibbled.

‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘same difference. Readers may well be interested in a feature about your work. Woman in a Man’s World, Girl Gumshoe – that sort of thing.’

Spare me. I’d have walked away then but I was all too aware of the need to build on my reputation, keep a steady flow of work coming in. If the piece was pitched right, it could be free publicity. ‘Can I think about it?’

He looked impatient.

‘I couldn’t do anything now,’ I explained, ‘I’m in the middle of a job and I wouldn’t want any publicity at the moment.’ Like the stalker having my picture to alert him. ‘I’m not sure about photos anyway. It could be a liability, if I was recognised.’

He sighed. This was going to be hard work.

‘Sal!’ Tom’s voice called from inside, ‘Sal!’

‘Coming,’ I replied.

‘What about Mr Kearsal?’ Mike Courtney persevered, ‘They’ve not had the inquest yet. Will you be a witness?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve already explained the case was confidential.’

‘The guy’s dead,’ he pointed out.

So it’s OK then? To gossip and speculate and use him for a filler in the paper? The little house in the middle of an urban wasteland, the robbery that had made him fearful, escape to his sister’s in Ashton now and then. ‘Yeah, so let him rest in peace, eh?’

He tutted at me reproachfully then drew out his card. ‘So you do all right for yourself?’ He nodded up at the house. ‘Make a decent whack or are you married?’

Oh, per-lease!
‘No,’ I lied, ‘it’s all mine.’ Childish, I know, but he brought that side of me to the fore. And I enjoyed his envy. I marked him out as the type who can spend a whole evening talking about money, everything in Ks, only able to value what had a large price-tag on it. I gave him an insincere smile and a goodbye and went in.

Maddie refused to let me touch the grazes on her knees, so I gave her a little lecture about hygiene and healing, and provided her with cotton wool, boiled water and some clean cotton cloths and strips of sticky plaster.

‘I think Holly and you can sort something out,’ I said. Holly was looking pretty brassed off by now with all the drama and no fun in sight. ‘And if you clear it up I could put some water in the paddling pool.’

‘My knees will get wet,’ Maddie was appalled.

‘Not if you just paddle,’ I said firmly. ‘And we can have a picnic for tea.’

‘You could be the ambulance,’ Maddie said tentatively to her friend.

‘Paramedic,’ Holly corrected.

I left them to it.

I made a pot of Darjeeling for myself and drank it with lemon, out on the patio. A ritual to settle myself. The weather had picked up – blue sky, a fresh breeze, puffy clouds moving fast.

There was so much to do. I emptied the disgusting contents of my slug traps and filled the pots with beer again. Despite the constant supply of fatalities they commanded I still lost countless plants. Half the petunias I’d grown from seed had gone, here and there a single central stalk, sheared to a point and smeared with silver, bore witness. They’d decimated the lobelia too. I reorganised the tubs, putting the survivors together.

The clematis needed tying in again. When I’d done that I got the shears out and went round to the front. The privet there was well out of control. It’s one of my least favourite jobs, but it was beginning to interfere with free passage along the pavement. I chopped at it until it was a decent length, then brushed up the cuttings and stuffed them in the wheelie bin. I felt filthy by the time I’d done, covered in dust and spiders’ webs and insects, my nails full of soil, throat parched, arms aching. On the plus side I no longer felt rattled by the turn that I’d had at the Baths or by the unpleasantness of Zeb’s visit. Working in the garden, the physical graft, the pungent smell and the feel of the earth had grounded me again.

‘It’s for you, Sal,’ Ray called me to the phone.

I muttered my resentment. I’d just sat down to watch some telly.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Sal Kilkenny?’ Mrs Deason.

‘Speaking.’

‘Joey wants to meet you. He’s given me the details. You won’t tell the police?’ She sounded desperate with worry. ‘I promised to make sure you would go on your own, that you wouldn’t bring anyone else. You won’t try to trap him, will you? Nor force him to come back? I can’t give you the details until I have your word.’

‘I promise. All I want is to hear what Joey has to say.’

‘He said to make sure you’re not followed.’

‘I will.’

A pause during which she must have checked that she’d asked all the salient questions. It stretched on.

‘Mrs Deason?’

‘He sounded dreadful,’ she said abruptly, ‘if only he’d just come home.’ Her voice broke. ‘When you see him,’ she faltered, ‘will you tell him that whatever happens he’s still my grandson. I’ll always…’ she didn’t need to finish.

‘I’ll tell him. Where have I to meet him?’

‘He’s not staying there,’ she rushed to explain, ‘you couldn’t find him afterwards.’

‘OK.’

‘It’s Prestatyn, in Wales. You’re to meet at the railway station, Twelve o’clock, midday.’ High Noon in Prestatyn: Joey’s liking for the dramatic. I knew the Welsh seaside town; I’d been to Prestatyn years ago. Remembered sitting on the concrete steps by the promenade waiting for the tide to give us back the beach. A long straight seafront, car parks, amusement place, couple of cafes. Its main attraction had been its proximity to Manchester; you could get there in a couple of hours. Not much else going for it apart from the sea, of course – ever-magical even in that setting.

‘Thank you.’

‘Will you let me know how he is?’ She wasn’t asking me to tell her what he’d said. If he had done it, she didn’t want to know.

I promised. I was pretty sure I’d recognise Joey from the photos I’d seen at her house so I didn’t need to ask for a description.

I reckoned on two and a half hours to get there, allowing for hold-ups. It didn’t matter if I was early but it would be disastrous if I was late. I’d be able to take the kids to school but I didn’t know if I’d be back in time to pick them up. I asked Ray and he was able to rearrange his day so he could collect them.

Would I be back in time to see Mr Pitt at four, though? Possibly. I didn’t want to ring and cancel now that I’d started putting pressure on him to see me. I would wait and see how the time played out, I decided. If I was delayed I could use my mobile and get a message to his secretary. Preserve my professional image.

I couldn’t help speculating about Joey’s reasons for agreeing to see me. To explain his innocence or defend his guilt? To protect his grandmother now that I’d uncovered her involvement in replacing the murder weapon? Was it a trap for me? My stomach lurched. Zeb had warned me off and that hadn’t worked so now they were using Joey as a lure? No. I reassured myself. Joey was in hiding, not in cahoots with anyone. It was me who’d put the pressure on for a meeting. Was he hiding from Zeb? What had their argument been about?

I didn’t sleep much that night. It was stuffy and I had the windows wide open. It felt as if the whole street was in my bedroom with me; the yappy dog, cars and taxis, a car alarm. When I did drop off my dreams were fretful. I was at school but I’d left Maddie at home. I got in the car but the steering wheel had gone. I was late; I was horribly late. I was so late that they’d all gone and left me. I was standing in the rubble and all the alarms were screaming but my legs wouldn’t move. I reared awake and felt a wave of relief–just a dream. It was six o’clock. I lay there until the dream had faded then I started my day.

I was careful enough to leave details of where I was going with Ray. I’d keep my mobile phone with me, and if anything seemed dodgy I’d get out of the situation as fast as possible. I hoped that I wouldn’t get a call from Debbie Gosforth or her neighbours when I was halfway to Wales. Underneath my caution I was running with excited anticipation; things were on the move now. I had the buzz of making headway, the hunger to find out more. So I could finally make sense of the events of that fateful New Year’s Eve.

After depositing the children at school I topped up the car with petrol and checked my oil, tyres and water. It was hardly a mammoth journey but I didn’t want car trouble cocking it up.

It was a beautiful day for a trip to the seaside, sunny and still. The route into North Wales runs down around the outskirts of Chester, past Port Sunlight, home of soap and a host of chemical factories, and then along the coast.

There was an unmarked white transit van that had been a few cars behind me for some miles. Was I being followed? I watched it for the next few minutes. It was too far distant to see the occupants. Paranoia? After all, if the van was going to Rhyl or Llandudno this was the only route. Nevertheless I needed to set my mind at ease. There was a lay-by ahead with a Greasy Joe flying a Confederate flag. I pulled in and watched as the van passed me by. I got a glimpse of two people but couldn’t tell anything more; it was going too fast. I sat for a while; the knot in my stomach gradually relaxed and then I drove on.

In the heat the farms and fields looked their best: luminous yellow rapeseed and green sugar beet stretching away to the distance, cows browsing. Now and then I caught the stench of fertiliser. I was sticking to the seat but I was only three miles from Prestatyn.

The resort was pretty much as I remembered it. I pulled into the car park next to the promenade. There was a large leisure centre to one side and behind me across a small road, a café and games room. I’d plenty of time to spare, as the station was only a few minutes’ walk away. Good – I could fit in a paddle. I took my socks and shoes off in the car.

On the beach, the tide was out and the sand was still damp and hard-packed. My feet made little impression on its surface. I took a big breath of the briny smell and stretched my arms, then walked down to the sea’s edge. The water was very cold. I dug my toes into the sand again and again, relishing the sensation, neither solid nor liquid.

There were a few families on the beach, though it was still term time, and a handful of individuals walking dogs. In a couple of months the place would be heaving, full of the ingredients of the great British seaside holiday: the smell of hot fat and vinegar and candy floss, shouts of children and sudden outbursts from harassed parents, rows of windbreaks and vacuum flasks, buckets and spades. And as often as not, rain or wind or jellyfish to round it all off.

I paddled along the shore for a while then made my way back up the beach looking for shells. There were a few cockles, small white and orange ones. The sand was littered with small dead crabs, pale green and brown, almost translucent.
Oh God – the flies…Mr Kearsal…
I shook the thoughts away and ran back to the car.

I made sure I was exactly on time. Joey D was waiting as he’d said by the ticket office. He wore a long-sleeved, outsize Adidas top and shiny black Adidas joggers. The baggy clothes seemed to emphasise his small frame. If I hadn’t known better I’d have guessed he was thirteen or fourteen. He had short wavy blond hair and was very pale. Awfully pale – as though he’d been indoors all year or was malnourished. He wore black shades so I couldn’t see his eyes. I introduced myself and he nodded, then looked around, beyond me. Was I being followed?

‘I parked down at the beach and walked up here. Where do you want to go? Get a coffee?’

He shook his head. ‘This way, there’s some gardens.’

I didn’t try to talk to Joey as we walked. I was busy assessing his mood. He was tense, twitchy and he kept coughing – a raw, painful sound.

We turned into a small formal park resplendent with municipal bedding plants; busy lizzies, brick-red geranium and silvery cinerama, its leaves like thick felt. There were benches around a bowling green, the grass smooth as peach skin. A party was playing, elderly men and women, joking with each other as they took their turns. The place felt tranquil and the atmosphere cheery. I wondered what they made of us; we were hardly here for the sport but no one paid any attention. How did he know this place? Had he been here before? I had a sudden image of Mrs Deason in full throttle playing for the away team, Joey on the sidelines. As if! I was sure he wasn’t hiding in Prestatyn, but if he’d gone to ground in Liverpool or Warrington or Wigan he could have got here easily enough by train.

We sat side by side. He bit at his fingers, kept his face averted. Hard enough to read anyway behind his black glasses.

‘Joey, you understand who I am and that I’m working for Luke Wallace’s father?’

‘Yeah.’

Now I’d got Joey D I didn’t want to pussyfoot around. As far as I was concerned, the fact that he was here meant he’d talk to me, and I didn’t want to have to drag it out syllable by syllable.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I’m not going back,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to be a witness – right? No police, no lawyers. Nothing.’

I felt a flash of anger at all his conditions.

‘Why did you agree to see me, Joey?’

‘I didn’t do it – Ahktar,’ he spoke rapidly. ‘It was my knife but I didn’t kill him. They could charge me, if you tell them about the knife. They’ll think it’s me then. They set Luke up, they can set me up too.’

‘Hang on.’ I rifled in my bag and brought out a small Dictaphone.

‘Oh Christ.’ He shook his head. ‘No way.’

‘Listen,’ I made my voice hard, ‘you telling me that you didn’t do it is not enough. I need an account of what happened and I need it on the record. Especially if you intend to disappear later. If I go back with just your word and no proof to back it up, they’ll be pulling your grandma in for questioning before the week’s out. I need your statement. You say Luke was set up, I need proof. And if you haven’t got the guts to come back and tell–’