Dead Wrong (2 page)

There’s no point in driving into town on a Saturday. Parking’s difficult to find and outrageously expensive into the bargain. I got the bus into Piccadilly Gardens. It was a few minutes’ walk down Market Street to the Corn Exchange.

Traffic was snarling up around the terminus and there seemed to be a lot of police vans around. As I reached the top of Market Street I ran into a crowd of people. I thought there’d been an accident, or maybe a robbery. The police helicopter flew overhead very low down. I turned to ask the man next to me if he knew what was going on.

Before he could answer, there was a great bang. Then nothing. A gust of air. I felt the surge in my stomach. A blast of wind and dust, strong enough to affect my balance. A cloud of smoke plumed into the sky. I thought I could hear screaming, lots of screaming. It was a chorus of alarms, shrilling and screeching.

They’d bombed the Arndale Centre.

Now if you’d asked me which building in Manchester I’d blow up, given the chance, the Arndale Centre would have come out tops (followed closely by the ghastly Piccadilly Plaza complex). Not just because of its ugly facade, like a giant toilet all beige tiles and no windows, but also because of how the place made me feel when I was in there. It was horrible on the outside and terrifying on the inside. I always got lost and could never get out as quickly as I intended. It’d suck you in, just one more bargain, oh, just pop in there, in here, over there. When I finally made it to an exit I’d stagger out into the fresh air, reeling with exhaustion, blinking at natural light, appalled at how far I still was from the bus home. And how little of my list I’d actually bought. Best policy was to steer well clear of the place. Oh, I’d pop into the shops on the outside edge, off Market Street, but I’d be careful to come back out the same way and not get drawn into the back– the never-ending land of artificial lights, fancy tiled floors and piped music.

So it wasn’t my favourite place. But this, this was terrible. My mouth was dry, I kept trying to swallow but I couldn’t. My heart was racing and the rush of adrenalin had made my wrists prickle and the back of my neck burn.

This was real, this was savage. Standing there in the almost silent crowd, realisation dawning. Murmurs, whispers. ‘A bomb.’

Turning to each other, looking into each other’s eyes and finding our own disbelief and horror mirrored there. There was clamour from the sirens and the alarms, the helicopter above, but we were quiet. Quiet and calm.

I stood for ages, bewildered. I was waiting for someone to tell me what to do. The police asked us to leave, to clear the area. It finally sank in that there was no way I’d be meeting up with Debbie Gosforth today. A clutch of German football supporters in Lederhosen and multi-coloured knitted top hats asked me the way to their Princess Street hotel in subdued voices.

At long last I turned and began to walk home. It would be pointless waiting for a bus. As I made my way down Wilmslow Road people were stopping to exchange stories. Strangers in the city talking to each other with ease, united in crisis.

I’d no idea how many people might be dead, dying, hurt. Shocked rigid that this had happened here on a bright Saturday morning in a place always thronging with people.

The news hadn’t reached my household. Ray Costello and his son Tom were in the garden, along with Maddie and Digger. I stood there, waiting for some reaction. Nothing. Ray finally clocked that I was behaving peculiarly.

‘Sal?’ he enquired, throwing the ball to Tom and walking my way.

‘There’s been a bomb,’ I said, ‘in town.’

He paled. ‘Oh, God.’

I was so glad that there was someone at home to tell. It wasn’t always easy living as we did, two single parents, each with a child, but I realised how much of a family the four of us were and how important that was to me. Ray and I don’t have a relationship, not a sexual relationship, though people often assume we do. We started out as co-tenants, sharing the rent and the chores and taking turns to baby-sit, but over time we’ve become good friends and the arrangement has grown into something solid. We’ve built a home together, somewhere we belong, safe and welcoming. A good place to raise our children.

The kids picked up the vibes immediately. Maddie looked over at me anxiously.

‘I’m fine,’ I reassured them. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Ray followed me in. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘The Arndale, I think. It was all blocked off.’ I put the radio on.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

I listened to the local radio all afternoon, my eyes brimming with tears each time they read the headlines. It seemed as though no one had died though there were many people injured. Sunday was Father’s Day and town had been full of children off to get something nice for Daddy. My mind kept turning to the people who’d have to live with the results of today for the rest of their lives. Had Debbie Gosforth been caught up in the blast? I’d leave it over the weekend, try ringing her on Monday.

Mid-afternoon, our lodger Sheila rang; she was visiting friends in Blackburn for the weekend. Were we all right? What was going on? They’d heard about it on Radio 4 news. We exchanged words of shock. She would delay returning home, she told us; apparently there were no trains in or out of Victoria Station.

By the end of the day they were still talking about the injured rather than the dead. The first witnesses were on television; shoppers, medics.

The coverage rolled on all weekend. No one had been killed. It was a miracle. And in the teeth of all the chaos they went ahead with the football at Old Trafford – Germany versus Russia.

On Monday I rang my client.

‘It’s Sal Kilkenny, we were going to meet on Saturday. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I got stopped on the way in. It’s a shock though. Where I work, it’s on Deansgate – it’s in the cordon, you can’t get in. I rang the boss to see what was happening. Even he can’t go in yet. He’s no idea if the shop’s all right or when he’ll open up again. It’s awful. He doesn’t know if the insurance will cover it. He doesn’t even know if he can pay us.’ She sighed.

‘Can we rearrange our meeting?’ I said. ‘I can come to you at home or you can come here if you’d prefer.’

‘You come to me,’ she said.

‘Today? This morning?’

‘Yeah, I’m not going anywhere,’ she said bitterly. The edge in her voice was a change from the resigned depression I’d heard during our last conversation.

I promised to be there in an hour’s time. I walked the three hundred yards round the corner to my office first. I rent a cellar there in the Dobson family home. Grant and Jackie are teachers and during term time I hardly see them. Their four daughters are all at school or sixth form college. The arrangement works well. I can keep my work separate from my home, I can interview clients and store my papers there. The Dobsons seem to enjoy the curiosity value of a private eye in the basement. Not as noisy as a rock band, anyway.

I’d given the room a face-lift that spring: covered the old lilac paint on the walls and ceiling with a sandy yellow, lashed out on a big, rag rug which covered most of the tatty carpet, painted the dining chairs and filing cabinet in bright citrus colours, pinned some filmy yellow muslin over the narrow basement window and stuck up a large, vivid blue silk-screen print that my friend Diane had done. The result was probably not what prospective clients expected from a private investigator’s office, neither lawyerly nor seedy. But I loved it and it seemed to have a relaxing effect on people who were usually pretty tense and upset by the time they got to see me.

I prepared an invoice for Platt, Henderson & Cockfoot for my valiant attempt to serve papers on the late Mr Kearsal, and got it ready to post. I collected my mail and checked my messages. Nothing important.

Debbie lived on Ivygreen Road, a street of terraced houses near busy Chorlton Green. Chorlton is a cosmopolitan district; the mix of housing means it caters for lots of different people. Not far from Manchester town centre and the universities, it has the added attraction of Chorlton Ees, a stretch of open meadows leading down to the River Mersey.

The long rows of identical redbrick terraces would easily look drab in the winter months, but in June the trees were in full leaf and people had placed hanging baskets here and there, and installed chimney pots and tubs in the tiny front gardens.

The Gosforth house was just like its neighbours, net curtains at the windows, neatly painted gate and door. Trim, unremarkable. The variety was in the choice of paint and the style of net. While some of them boasted frothing drapes and ruches like old-fashioned frilly baby pants, others went for sheer nets or the jardinière type with a convenient space in the centre of the windowsill to display a treasured ornament or plant. Debbie had chosen a bowl of dried flowers. The odd window without nets looked naked, shocking in its bravado, parading the life within to the world outside.

I rang the bell.

‘Who is it?’ Her caution in asking before opening the door was the first indication I had of how frightened this woman was.

‘Sal Kilkenny.’

I heard her release the chain and then unlock the door.

Debbie invited me in and took me through to the living room, previously two rooms which had been knocked together to run the length of the house. The place was immaculate, the air scented with floral pot-pourri.

The two shelves that held books and toys and the school photograph – three smiling faces with well-brushed hair – were the only clues that the place was inhabited by children.

How do people do that? Are they perpetually cleaning? Wiping up sticky finger marks, hoovering up crumbs and crisps, sorting toys…or do they somehow train their children to be neat, tidy, clean and careful – in other words, to behave completely unlike children. How?

I’d long since reached an uneasy truce, accepting, against all the lessons my mother had drummed into me, that a basic level of mess and grime came with the territory. Life was messy, kids were messy, there were more important things than a clean swing bin. Now and then, when I could no longer bear the jumble in the toy boxes or the layers of food particles and felt-pen marks on the doorjamb and the television, I’d have a binge. It would look OK (never pristine, I could never do pristine) for an hour or two until it got lived in again.

Somehow Debbie had got it cracked. I sat opposite her on one of a pair of winged armchairs, drew out my notebook and began my enquiry.

I established her full name, her home situation (divorced, living alone here with three children), her place of work. She was a bit like her house, neat and trim. She was dressed in a fuchsia-pink ribbed sweater and a black skirt. Her hair was dark blonde, pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a little make-up, a silver cross on a chain, silver studs in her ears. ‘Well turned-out’ was the phrase. She looked good but her hands trembled as she spoke and at times she became breathless and stumbled over her words.

I asked her to tell me about the man who had been following her. When had it started?

‘It was about three months ago, just after Easter. I came out of work and he was there across the road. The first couple of times I thought he was waiting to meet someone.’

‘But you noticed him, you were aware of him?’

She played with her chain. ‘He was staring at me longer than you normally do. Then he started to follow me.’

‘From work?’

She nodded. ‘He’d walk behind me, not close but in sight. Follow me to the bus stop. I…it wasn’t…I didn’t like it. One day I went to get Jason’s birthday present,’ she motioned to the photograph, ‘and he was behind me. That’s when it got to me, because I was sure he was actually doing it. There wasn’t any doubt any more.’

‘Was he there every day?’

‘No. Sometimes he’d do two days in a row and then nothing for a few days then he’d turn up again.’

‘No particular pattern?’

She thought for a moment, shook her head.

‘Do you work every day?’

‘No, I do Wednesday, Thursday and Saturdays, sometimes an extra day if one of the girls is sick or there’s stocktaking.’

‘Did you tell anyone at work about it?’

‘Yeah, they all knew. Jean, that’s the manageress, she went and had a word with him a couple of times, asked him to move on. He’d go off but, he’d be there again when I came out, or I’d see him on the way to the bus. It just went on and on.’ Her composure broke. ‘It’s awful,’ she protested, her face crumpling, ‘I keep thinking it must be me, something I’ve said or done. Why is he doing this?’

‘You don’t know him?’

‘No, I’ve no idea who he is.’

‘Does he seem at all familiar? Someone you might have met and forgotten?’

‘No, I’m pretty good with faces. I’ve never seen him, I’m sure.’

‘Has he ever spoken to you, approached you?’

‘Not then but later.’

‘Go on.’

‘About a month after it had all started, I’d had enough. It’s so…’ she paused, finding the right word, running her thumb along the chain and back. ‘It’s creepy, it becomes the most important thing, it gets in the way of everything else.’ She took a breath and exhaled slowly. ‘So, I went up to him, at the bus stop. I told him to leave me alone, to stop following me or I’d report him to the police.’

She swallowed, opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t. She ducked her head. When she did speak, it was a whisper; I strained to catch it. ‘He knew my name.’ She looked up and repeated herself, her voice breaking, high with panic. ‘He knew my name. “Debbie,” he said, that really freaked me out. How did he know my name?’ she cried out.

I waited.

“Don’t be like this,” he said, “you know how much you mean to me.”’ She blushed. ‘It was awful. “I love you,” he said. “You know that.” I couldn’t stand it. I just ran then, to the bus. The next day this letter came, pages and pages of stuff about how much I meant to him and how long he’d waited to find me, on and on.’ She shook her head in disbelief.

‘Have you got the letter?’

‘No, it made me feel dirty. I chucked it. There was no address or anything. It was posted in Manchester.’