Dead Wrong (4 page)

There was a knock at the door and Megan came in with a tray, coffee in a little cafetière, milk and sugar, shortbread biscuits. She set it down on the table near to me. As Mr Wallace thanked her, something in the way he said it told me that they weren’t friends or relatives but that she worked for him.

‘They said he hadn’t been fit to interview when they’d brought him in and they were waiting to question him in the morning. It must have been mid-morning by then, you lose all track of time. They held him all that day, and the next. They kept going to the magistrates to get another twenty-four hours. I saw him for ten minutes, twice in all that time. Then they charged him.’ He covered his mouth and looked away.

I occupied myself pouring the coffee. The bitter aroma filled the room. I ate a biscuit. He got to his feet and crossed to the blinds, pressed a switch at the side; they glided back.

‘Oh,’ I said softly. Beyond lay a stunning garden, shaped by clumps of bamboo and various conifers. There were two apple trees at one corner, an alpine rockery and a large pool. Old York flagstone paths connected the different areas and the lush grass was dotted with daisies and clover. I got to my feet for a better look. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. It was so unlike the traditional clipped lawns and standard roses I’d seen in the neighbours’ front gardens. Most of the planting was green or architectural, and there was little of the annual colour with which I stuffed my own pots and window-boxes. The colours in the rockery were muted – white, soft pink, here and there a tiny flash of a stronger red or purple, but there was a restraint to it all. Beside the pool a boulder had been placed. It was perfect.

‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ Mr Wallace replied. ‘Do you garden?’

‘A bit,’ I said, overawed by the comparison.

‘Glenda, my wife, designed it. Place was full of hydrangeas and gladioli when we moved in. She died,’ he carried on, ‘six years ago now. We keep it just as she made it. We could sit outside if you…’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll get the key.’ He strode over to his desk and came back with a bunch of keys. He unlocked the French windows. I gathered up my tray and book and we settled on seats on the patio immediately next to the house.

‘So,’ he resumed his story, ‘I asked to see the person in charge. They made me wait, of course. I told him they’d got the wrong person. I explained how close the boys were, that neither of them got into fights. That Luke would never hurt Ahktar. The man listened, he thanked me, he said nothing. As far as I can see, they’ve got a suspect and they want to make it fit.’

‘But without proof…’

‘Apparently they have two witnesses.’

Bad news. I underlined the word witnesses in my notes.

‘People who saw something that incriminates Luke. How could they?’ he demanded. ‘He didn’t do it; they’ve got him mixed up with someone else.’ His tone was hectoring. In any other situation it would have put me right off, but I made allowances for his desperation.

‘What did Luke say?’

He sighed. ‘Luke can’t remember anything.’ I could hear the despair in his voice. ‘He was pissed, he says he’d taken some tablets, he can’t remember anything. He doesn’t know what happened. Just a blank. He was devastated when they told him Ahktar was dead but he can’t remember a thing.’

My heart sank. With witnesses for the prosecution and a suspect who was out of his head on drugs, it wouldn’t be hard to secure a conviction. Obviously it would depend on what the witnesses actually saw and whether there was any other interpretation of that. But all Mr Wallace could offer in Luke’s defence was his trust, his faith that his son hadn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t have killed his friend. And I’m sure most parents faced with that accusation would say the same.

‘Mr Wallace—’ My uncertainty must have come through because he interrupted me before I could say more.

‘Please,’ he said, gripping the edge of the seat. ‘Please.’ He implored me but there was strength, not weakness in his plea.

Objections leapfrogged over each other in my mind. A hopeless case, I’d be going over the same old ground, I can’t do anything your lawyer can’t do, the trail will be stone cold, it’s months ago, they’ve got a witness, he may be guilty, these tragedies happen. But I couldn’t turn him down. His conviction, his passion about his son’s innocence was too powerful.

‘All right,’ I said, ‘but these are my terms.’

Driving back through the city centre was even slower than getting there. I felt exhausted by meeting Mr Wallace and the intensity of his emotional state. I had an image I couldn’t shift of the knife in Ahktar’s chest. I don’t like knives. I was stabbed once.
Please don‘t
, I’d begged.
He raised his arm…the knife shining…
No. I shook the memories away.

My shoulder was stiff and aching. I rolled it back round and round as I queued up to get onto Princess Street. We inched forward a couple of cars at a time when the lights changed, but the traffic ahead was hardly moving. There’d been a crash. I crawled past wanting to avert my eyes, needing to look. A woman in one of the cars had a neck brace on. She was being lifted out by two ambulance men. I sighed with relief; no blood, no dead bodies or worse, no decapitated driver or twitching limbs imprinted on my mind for the rest of my life.

If Ahktar had been stabbed outside the club as everyone was coming out, surely there would have been more than two witnesses? There’d have been blood, a skirmish; people would have glanced, looked, stared. There would have been the unmistakable atmosphere of violence, the scent of danger and death that we all recognise instinctively, that speeds up our heartbeat and raises the hairs on the back of our neck. I needed to find some of those witnesses. Six months after the event it wouldn’t be easy, and acting for the defence we could hardly get a slot on Crimewatch to pull people in. I’d start with the list Mr Wallace had given me, but from what he’d said none of the witnesses had come up with anything substantial the defence could use. Before I talked to anyone though, I’d book a visit to Golborne and meet Luke, assess for myself whether I thought he was wrongly accused. As an independent operator I had the freedom to choose who I worked for and what the terms were, and I’d said to Mr Wallace that I would only take the case if I felt comfortable working for Luke’s release.

Sheila rang. They were reopening Victoria Station so she hoped to travel home the following day. The news continued to be dominated by the bomb. Television and newspapers featured devastating pictures of the Arndale Centre and surrounding buildings; the gaping windows, twisted metal and fragments of concrete. It still made my stomach churn. Much was made of the bridge that linked Marks & Spencers with the Arndale Centre. It had literally jumped several feet in the air with the force of the blast, yet had fallen back into place in one piece – albeit unsafe. And a red pillar box close to the centre of the blast had inexplicably survived while everything about it was smashed to smithereens.

There were tales of folly and bravery, of interrupted weddings and miraculous escapes. Hundreds of people were still unable to get to work, to visit their businesses, retrieve their cars, return to their homes. I read it all.

On page eight a headline caught my eye.
MYSTERY WOMAN AT BELLE VUE SUICIDE SCENE
. I recalled the look of shock on Mrs Grady’s face, the ominous sound of flies busy at the corpse.

Local resident, Mrs Grady, 62, claimed she’d been alerted by a mystery caller ‘She wouldn’t say who she was or what she was doing there. She wouldn’t have her photograph taken. I thought that was a bit odd at the time. I’d no idea who she was. She left as soon as she could.’
I groaned. They’d had to put a spin on it. Rather than just relate the facts of Mr Kearsal’s death they’d spiced it up with a whiff of intrigue.

Mr Kearsal, 68, was found hanging at his Belle Vue home on the evening of Thursday June 13th He had not been seen since the previous Thursday. Mr Kearsal, who lived alone, leaves a sister in Harrogate. At this stage police do not suspect foul play; a note was found at the scene.

It was a non-story. Of course the police knew who I was, and a call to them from the reporter would have established that immediately, unless the police were being awkward about it. I groaned again. All I needed was some bright, bored reporter determined to uncover my identity, and the whole thing could blow out of all proportion. Local notoriety would be disastrous for my business. I needed my anonymity.

I could see it now.
PRIVATE EYE HOUNDS BROKEN MAN. IS THIS WOMAN ON YOUR TAIL?

I hoped to God it would fade away.

I’d just topped up the bath for myself when I heard the phone. I let Ray answer it, hoping it would be for him. Wrong.

‘It’s Debbie Gosforth,’ her voice said, high with strain. ‘He’s here now, across the street.’

Shit.

‘Can you come?’ She was breathless.

‘Yes. Listen, I won’t come to the house –that might alert him – but I’ll wait down the street and try to follow him when he goes. What’s he wearing?’

‘His suit. He’s by the alley, where I showed you.’

‘How long’s he been there?’

‘I don’t know. I only saw him just now when I went to close the curtains upstairs. He wasn’t there earlier.’

‘I’ve got a mobile phone,’ I said. ‘I can ring you to let you know when he leaves. Stay inside. Try and keep your phone clear.’

I hate working evenings and nights but it can’t be avoided when surveillance is involved. The call can come anytime. And apart from my personal reluctance, nights are actually easier to arrange than earlier in the day because I can usually rely on Ray being there for the children.

After school can be very tricky, and on more than one occasion I’ve had to take the children with me. They’re good camouflage for short periods. Who suspects a woman with two children of being an investigator? But they are definitely time-limited as far as eating crisps and playing I-Spy in a stationary car goes.

I pulled the plug on the bath then checked with Ray and left details of where I was going.

‘Nothing risky, is it?’ he asked.

‘No. Someone else is being stalked; all I need to do is tail him home when he’s had enough. Long as I make sure he doesn’t cotton on, I’ll be fine.’

It was almost dark now, the streetlights turning from red to orange. I could feel excitement building as I drove west towards Chorlton. Surveillance is mind-numbing, utterly, crunchingly boring, but the prospect of seeing this guy, of hiding from him and tailing him sent shivers of anticipation through me. Like a kid playing hide-and-seek.

I was there in quarter of an hour. I wasn’t sure where my best vantage point would be, and as he was on foot he could walk off in either direction. I cruised slowly down Debbie’s road. Both sides were lined with cars which could be a help or a hindrance. I looked quickly at the alley as I passed but couldn’t see him. I drove round the block and passed again. No man in a suit. I parked round the corner and rang Debbie’s.

‘Debbie, it’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m round the corner but I can’t see him by the alley. Have a look out, will you?’

There was a clatter as she put the phone down and a pause before she returned.

‘He’s gone,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, you were right to call me.’

‘He was there,’ she sounded upset, ‘he was, I didn’t imagine it.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘I believe you. This sort of thing happens all the time. You weren’t to know how long he’d be there. Does he ever come back? Come and go, sort of thing?’

‘No.’

‘He’s not likely to come back tonight, then?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Ring me if he does. Are you OK? I could pop in for a few minutes?’ -

‘No, I’m fine. I’ve only just got Connor to sleep, his asthma’s bad. He’d be up again if he heard the door.’

‘Well, ring me as soon as you see him again, day or night.’

‘Yeah. OK. G’night.’

I felt deflated. The prospect of bed rather than hours getting cramp in the car was welcome but it was as if I’d been cheated My adrenalin had kicked in and had no part to play. I’d need a good hour to let it subside. At home I prowled around. There was nothing on television (again), I tried reading but found I’d reached the bottom of the page with questions about the stalker weaving through my mind.

I wandered into the kitchen to make a drink. I could hear the murmur of the radio from the cellar below where Ray has his carpentry workshop. He makes furniture with great love and skill and absolutely no commercial acumen. For money he works as a joiner for some local builders. They contact him when they get a big job on and he works like mad for a month or so, and then has to catch up on his computer course. But the carpentry is where his soul is.

The hob was filthy. I ran hot water and picked up the pan scrub and the cream cleaner.

An hour later the hob, oven, work surface and kettle were gleaming. The rest of the room was still cluttered but as I said I don’t do pristine. Besides, I’d unwound enough to go to bed.

I’d come away from Victor Wallace’s with the names and addresses of Luke’s friends, including the Khan family, the lawyer’s details and a sketchy list of who had been visited and interviewed by the defence solicitor or people acting for him.

I’d also got the visiting details for Golborne, the place in East Lancashire where Luke was being held. It made sense to start by seeing him first and then the others who’d been interviewed. I’d rung and arranged a visit as soon as I’d got home on the Tuesday after seeing Mr Wallace. They’d booked me in for the Friday morning.

I duly reported to the visitor’s centre adjacent to the remand centre the following afternoon.

Golborne Remand Centre is newer than either Risley or Hindley and boasts a better safety record – fewer suicides. It was one of the first places to be run by Group 4 Security, and when it opened there was a blaze of publicity, mostly about the adjoining Young Offender’s Institution which was to be run like a boot camp along American lines. Never mind that all the statistics show such regimes fail to turn around most young offenders.