Dead Wrong (3 page)

‘Was it signed?’

‘Just the initial, G. There’ve been others since. I realised I’d better keep them, for evidence.’ She rose and crossed to a wall cupboard and pulled out a large manila envelope. From inside it she took a bundle of letters. Thick, inky script, closely written. I read two and learned nothing other than that the writer G was obsessed with Debbie, was convinced they would eventually be together and live happily ever after. The language was clichéd and sentimental. I also noticed there was no specific references in them, no mention of other people, of Debbie’s children, no places and nothing that gave any clue to the writer’s identity. It was all generalities like a badly written gift card going on for six pages at a time. The paper and envelopes were cheap – the sort sold at bargain discount outlets.

‘Are they all like this?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I keep a couple?’

‘You can have the lot as far as I’m concerned,’ she said bitterly. ‘I can’t stand having them in the house.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I can keep them somewhere safe, they may be useful evidence.’ She passed me the large envelope. ‘Mrs Henderson says he’s been here too.’

‘Yes, just the last three weeks. That’s when I went to the police. They said there was nothing they could do, that there’s no law against it. But they said I could see a lawyer, maybe try getting some evidence of harassment.’

‘When has he been here? Day or night?’

‘Both. The first time, Sunday it was, I was taking the children to church. He was across the road by the alley, leaning on that wall.’

I went over and looked through the nets. Almost directly opposite there was a cobbled alleyway between two terraces leading to the back alleys.

‘I didn’t let on, I didn’t want the children to know. He’d gone when we came back. Then a few days later, the Tuesday it was, my Mum had come round for her tea. I rang for a taxi to take her back, and I kept looking out so we wouldn’t miss it, and he was there. Just staring, watching the house.’ She caught her breath. ‘I asked Mum to stay and I called the police. They sent someone round but he’d gone by the time they arrived.’

‘Was he driving?’

‘I never saw a car.’

‘Describe him to me.’

I made notes as she spoke. Medium height, slim build, dark hair thinning on top, curly round the edges. Clean-shaven. Wears suit, neither flash nor ancient. Slightly out of date, ordinary dark suit, shirt, tie. Carries black umbrella. Age early thirties? Hard to tell.

‘Has he spoken to you again?’

‘Sometimes he calls out after me; sometimes he gets on the bus.’ She chewed on her chain. ‘It’s awful,’ she blurted out, ‘I can’t stand him. I just want him to go away. I’ve never done anything to him – why’s he doing this to me?’

I’d no answers, only more questions. ‘Has he ever threatened you?’

She shook her head. ‘But the whole thing is threatening,’ she complained. ‘It’s as if he’s hunting me, getting closer all the time…’ there was panic in her voice.

Stalking, that’s the word they use. The man pursuing Debbie was a stalker.

‘It must be terrible,’ I agreed quietly, ‘and you’re obviously very frightened. It is a frightening situation. What we need to do now is gather evidence; if we can get some clear proof, it’ll help the police even if it can’t actually go to court. They might be able to scare him off. You’ve already got the letters, now we need to keep a record of everything else, so we can show the level of harassment he’s subjecting you to. The next time you see him, ring me, no matter what time it is. If I can come I will.’ I gave her my card and wrote my home number on the reverse. ‘Try this number if the answerphone’s on or I don’t answer the mobile.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I’ll take photos, maybe even use video, and I’ll follow him – find out where he lives and who he is.’

She saw me to the door. I motioned to the array of locks and bolts. ‘You’ve made the house secure – that’s good. But he’s not likely to hurt you,’ I tried to reassure her. ‘I realise it’s an awful strain but it’s very unlikely he’ll use violence against you.’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘that’s what Mrs Henderson told me. But it doesn’t change what it feels like. I’m really scared; he’s hurting me already, it’s messing my life up.’ I could hear that panic again. Then she whispered: ‘I’m so frightened.’

Yeah, so would I be, I thought, and I would take great satisfaction in running the little creep to ground.

‘Mummy,’ Maddie stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips. ‘There’s a gigantic slug in the sandpit.’

‘Is there?’ I emptied the washing machine. Too late to peg it all out now but the forecast for the morning looked promising.

‘Come and get it out now.’

‘And slug poo,’ Tom shouted from outside.

‘It’s nearly bedtime,’ I warned them.

I scooped the brown and orange slug onto a trowel. It shrunk to a glistening lump of muscle and I dropped it into one of the beer traps I’d got dotted round the garden. At Tom’s insistence I removed the slug poo too and put that on the soil.

While Maddie carefully sculpted a mermaid’s house in the sand I wandered round dead-heading the pansies and the petunias, tidying up the tubs and baskets. Tom trundled the toy wheelbarrow round after me. Although there was only a year between Tom who was four, and Maddie, five going on six, he was still very much a little boy, short and stocky, hardly more than a toddler, while Maddie, in the midst of a growth spurt, looked lanky and skinny. Her body had assumed the proportions of a child now and she scorned anything she regarded as babyish.

It took me an hour and a half to get them both bathed, dressed and into bed, stories told and books read.

Ray was out. He’d gone for a drink with some of his fellow students from the computer course he’s doing at Salford University. He earns his living as a joiner but he wants a change. He says he’s had enough of manual labour and lousy working conditions.

It was barely warm enough to sit out but it was light and dry. And after all, this was the only summer we’d get. I put on an old fleecy top, found a blanket and the book I was reading, and fetched a lager from the fridge.

There was a clear sky, blue fading to apricot in the west. I leant my head back and watched the planes climbing out of Manchester Airport. Their trails criss-crossed in the sky, the white lines etched onto the blue, like ink bleeding on wet paper.

I hankered to be up there heading for somewhere hot with dusty roads and the scent of pink trees baking in the sun. I read and sipped my drink. As dusk fell I could no longer read the print. I yawned and stretched, gathered up my things. Weary again. It hadn’t been a particularly gruelling day, but what with work and chores and children, every day was busy enough to tire me out.

I let Digger out in case Ray was late back. As I waited on the doorstep while he sniffed round the front garden I thought of Debbie Gosforth. Afraid to open the door, afraid to look out of the window. Was G stalking her tonight?

First thing Tuesday morning I got a call at the office. The man introduced himself as Victor Wallace; his son Luke was on remand in Golborne Remand Centre. He’d been arrested and charged with the murder of Ahktar Khan. The case had been committed for trial. ‘You probably saw it in the papers. He didn’t do it,’ Mr Wallace said emphatically. ‘They were mates, good friends, there’s no way…I want you to talk to people – someone must have seen something. The place was busy, the club was emptying.’

I’d nothing more than vague recollections of the crime. ‘When was it?’ I stalled.

‘First of January. It was the New Year’s Eve party at Nirvana.’

The club was famous for its dance scene. People travelled from all over Europe for a night in Nirvana.

‘And the police have charged him?’

‘Murder. They’ve made up their minds. It’s all a terrible mistake.’

‘What about Luke’s lawyer?’

‘He knows I’m not happy, I want more doing. They’ve had people looking into it but they’ve not come up with anything very useful, nothing that’ll clear him.’

Fragments of the story surfaced as I listened. There’d been talk of a racial motive. Luke Wallace was white; Ahktar Khan, an Asian Muslim, had been stabbed. And there had been something about Ecstasy. I wanted to know a lot more before I committed myself. I explained to Mr Wallace that he’d have to pay for my time, if I decided to take the case. Legal Aid was available for murder cases, but only to the official defence solicitor and people employed by them.

‘Whatever it takes,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t want to see Luke’s life ruined for something he didn’t do. I’ll sell the house, the business, whatever.’

Crikey, I wasn’t that expensive.

‘We’d better meet,’ I said, ‘I need more information before I know whether I can help.’

‘This afternoon?’

‘Yes, early afternoon.’ I had to pick up Maddie and Tom from school at three-thirty, It didn’t half eat into my working days.

He gave me an address in Prestwich. I told him I’d be there at half past one.

I was late. Prestwich is the other side of town from Withington and the traffic was all diverted round the bombed area. It was chaos. We edged slowly along Deansgate, where most of the shop fronts were boarded up; nothing was open. When we got to the bottom of Deansgate I peered up towards the Arndale and Marks & Spencers. In spite of seeing the images on television, I was still affected by the extent of the damage. My stomach clenched uneasily and I could feel tears not far away as I caught glimpses of twisted metal and shattered concrete, of Venetian blinds dangling broken from office windows and fractured lamp posts.

They were big houses, detached, each one a little different from its neighbour, with Tudor-style facades and leaded windows. Double-garage-and-gardener territory.

The Wallace house was at the end of the cul-de-sac. Beyond were trees and the sound of running water. The River Irwell came through here. The day was warm, sunny, the birds were in full throat. How nice it would be to just slip away, saunter through the trees to a sunny glade and watch the river flow, lose myself in the glistening reflections. As if.

A woman wearing a stripy butcher’s apron opened the door. Unruly black hair, a bright expression.

‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Wallace, Sal Kilkenny.’

‘Oh, yes. Come on in. He’s in the back.’

I followed her through the house which was furnished like an Ikea showroom, to a large room at the back. One end with desk, shelves and PC obviously served as a study or office while the other half of the room was an open-plan lounge with television and sofas. Floor-length blinds occupied most of the far wall; they were shut but the translucent material allowed plenty of light in. I could see the shadowed outline of patio doors on the blinds. The place was cluttered and untidy but not dirty.

Victor Wallace rose from the desk as we came in, and stretched out his hand. His handshake was warm, firm.

‘Thank you, Megan,’ he said.

‘Will you have tea?’ the woman asked me, ‘or coffee?’

‘Thank you, coffee would be great.’

‘Victor?’

‘No, thanks.’

She left us.

‘Please, sit down.’ He gestured to the sofas, placed at right-angles to each other. I opted for the firmest-looking one; there’s nothing worse than trying to be businesslike while sliding inexorably into a horizontal position on a soggy sofa. He took the other.

He gave off a palpable air of restless energy. Frustration, even. He was a stocky man with small, square hands, a round, shiny face as though someone had polished him, receding hairline, grey hair. He wore jeans, a casual sweatshirt but good quality. Chicago Bears on the front.

‘What I’d like to do,’ I began, ‘is ask you some initial questions, get the overall picture of what’s happened, both about Ahktar Khan’s death and since.’

He nodded briskly.

‘Let’s start with New Year’s Eve.’

He spoke so rapidly it was all I could do to note the essential facts, but that was all right at this stage. I could go over any gaps later if I decided to take the job. What I needed now was the flavour of the case. It would help me to establish whether there was anything that made me uneasy or rang alarm bells, whether there was any point in Mr Wallace paying me, or if I was a last-ditch attempt to do something in a hopeless situation.

Luke and Ahktar and two other friends had gone to Nirvana for the big New Year’s Eve bash. The boys were close friends from school; they had formed a band and used to practise in the Wallaces’ basement.

Victor knew Luke would be home late, so he’d made sure he had plenty of cash for a taxi.

Where was Mrs Wallace in all this? Was there one? I’d ask later.

At five he was woken by a phone call from the duty solicitor at the police station. Luke was being held for questioning in connection with an affray.

They didn’t tell him any more over the phone.

‘I thought it was a mix-up – you know, some horseplay got out of hand – though frankly, even that surprised me.’

‘Why?’

‘Luke’s not like that. He’s never been in a fight in his life, hates practical jokes,’ he smiled. ‘It wasn’t cool, you see. At that age, it’s all image, isn’t it, and Luke and Ahktar, they were into being grown-up. They’d no time for kids’ stuff.’

He’d waited for two and half hours at the police station before he’d found out that Ahktar was dead as a result of an assault with a knife, and that Luke was being questioned about the incident.

‘I couldn’t believe it,’ he said. ‘He was a lovely boy – bright, friendly – he and my son were inseparable. It seemed ludicrous that he was dead.’ He paused, remembering something else, shifted on the sofa. ‘And I thought: Thank God, it’s not Luke. I hated myself for thinking that.’ He took a deep breath, wiped his hands on his jeans.

‘So, I waited and waited, hours on end. It was so difficult to find out what was happening. They kept telling me to go home, they expected me to walk away and leave him there. I couldn’t understand why they were being so brutal. His friend was dead – surely it wouldn’t take all day to establish what Luke had seen! I thought he was a witness, you see,’ he still spoke quickly, his voice tight with frustration and pent-up energy. ‘In the end I blew up at the guy on the desk. Finally they sent someone to talk to me. He tells me that Luke is a suspect, that they think he may have killed Ahktar. I laughed, it was so preposterous. I told them no way, there was some horrific mistake, they were best friends.’