Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

I walked up the stairs to the Social Sciences library and headed for the microfiche newspaper archives. The local papers along with the national dailies were all there. I sought out issues from just after New Year. There were no local papers until 2nd of January. Coverage of the murder of Ahktar Khan dominated the headlines. NEW YEAR STABBING TRAGEDY . Ahktar in a classic school-photo pose took up most of the front page. I read the reports, which were sketchy and speculative. I scrolled forward, winding the film on to the next front page. KHAN KILLING – POLICE DENY RACIAL MOTIVE and the next: SCHOOLBOYKILLING – SUSPECT HELD . Later in the week they proclaimed: KHAN MURDER – POLICE CHARGE SCHOOLFRIEND .

There was a picture of the two boys next to a drum kit with two friends. Their band.

I made photocopies of the relevant stories to take away. The papers had covered the murder for most of that week, but the speed with which they had charged Luke Wallace with the crime put an end to the press interest.

My mobile rang just as I got back to the car. I answered it and paced back around the car park, ducking and weaving in an effort to improve the reception. The phone crackled. ‘Hello,’ I shouted. ‘Can you bear me?’

More static, then a couple of words. ‘Sal…here.’ Enough for me to recognise the voice of my best friend, Diane.

‘Diane!’ I yelled, hoping she could hear me. ‘I’ll ring you back.’

I walked round the corner and stood next to a wall; my mobile seemed to like walls. Diane answered, clear as a bell. ‘I thought you meant later,’ she said. ‘Look, I can’t make tomorrow, can we change it to Monday?’

I cast around for problems. Ray hadn’t mentioned anything; he should be in. ‘Fine.’

‘Come for a meal?’

‘What’s the big occasion?’ We usually met at a pub halfway between her house in Rusholme and mine in Withington.

‘I fancy a good meal, I can’t stretch to a restaurant, next best thing. What do you reckon?’

‘Yes, love to.’

‘Seven thirty?’

‘Great.’

Teatime at home was a disaster. Maddie burst into tears and refused to eat a morsel. Something to do with the layout of the food on the plate. Tom had been fine until he knocked his blackcurrant juice all over his plate and the rest of the table. I struggled hard to force food down into my stomach which was tense with irritation. Maddie continued to howl until I told her to go off and do it somewhere else. She stormed off. Ray cast me a questioning look.

‘I’m not in the mood,’ I said. ‘It drives me up the wall when she does this, when she won’t explain what’s wrong. God, if I knew she wanted the flipping peas in the middle I’d put them in the middle. I’m not telepathic.’

‘You should be,’ Ray said. ‘It’s a prerequisite of motherhood.’

The door flew open and Maddie flounced in. ‘Mummy.’ She’d stopped crying now and she was all outrage. ‘You didn’t give me any tea and I’ll starve and I’ll die and then you’ll be really sorry and I’ll be glad.’ She wheeled round and pulled the door to behind her hard. She was trying for a satisfying slam. Unfortunately a well-placed stuffed dinosaur was in the way and the door merely bounced back open again.

I covered my mouth to stifle the giggles. It wasn’t the first time she’d threatened me this way, but I reckoned her mouthing off her anger at me was probably healthier than swallowing it all and storing it up for adult life.

Of course by bedtime peace had been restored. We’d talked about my need to know about her constantly shifting requirements – not that I thought it would make one iota of difference. I hugged her, told her I loved her and read a long story. I even managed to bite my tongue when she complained of feeling hungry and brought her warm milk and an apple. Perfect mother or what?

I needed to make some sense of my notes while Luke’s voice was still fresh in my mind. It was half past nine before I got a chance to sit down and work through them. Dusk was only just falling. Midsummer, 21st of June, the longest day of the year. I sat on the sofa with the curtains open and the small table-lamp on. I could see the back garden as I worked, and watch the night steal across from behind the trees at the end, the sky turning purple then navy.

It would save me a lot of time and Victor Wallace a lot of money if I could find out exactly what information Luke’s solicitor had already gathered. I made a list of people to contact the following day and put them at the top. I’d got some names and addresses from both Victor Wallace and Luke – mainly the friends who had gone with them to the club on New Year’s Eve.

‘Tea?’ Ray poked his head round the door.

‘Yes, love one.’

He returned shortly with a mug for each of us and eased himself into the armchair.

‘Work?’

‘Yes.’ I set aside my papers. ‘I needed to get it down before it became lost among all the other rubbish floating round in here.’ I tapped my head. ‘I’ve done now.’

‘Aah!’ He started. ‘Jonathan.’

‘Eh?’

‘Jonathan can come so that’s eight.’

‘Oh.’ He was talking about Tom’s birthday party – eight five-year-olds in hyper drive for two hours. ‘We can do it all outside if it’s dry.’

‘Yep, less jelly ground into the carpet.’

‘Did you order a cake?’

‘Sheila’s offered to do one.’

‘Brilliant.’ Sheila, a mature student, rented our attic flat and so helped to keep the household solvent. She had moved to Manchester after her divorce. Her family had grown up and left home. Prior to her arrival, baking cakes had been accorded the status of a quaint historic tradition, like using the mangle or embroidering pillow cases. Interesting to know about, but not the sort of thing anybody did in real life any more. Birthday cakes were small round sponges from the local bakery with pastel icing in one of three designs – football shirt, clown or teddy. Reliable, dull, uninspired. And pricey.

‘What will she do?’

‘She thought about a dinosaur.’

‘Oh, he’d love that.’

I heard the stairs creak and a small cough. ‘Maddie?’

‘I can’t sleep, there’s a thing in my room.’

‘Come here.’

She came in looking miserable. ‘And my head hurts.’

‘That’s probably because you’re very tired.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Come on, we’ll take you up, sort out this thing.’

The thing turned out to be a Blu-Tack mark which Maddie claimed looked like a witch. Not content with logical explanations, I ended up covering it with one of her paintings. I tucked her in and sang several verses of ‘ There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza ’.

‘I’ll come up and check on you in a few minutes.’

‘But it’s still there, Mummy, under the picture.’

‘I know, but you can’t see it, can you?’

‘I can in my thinking voice.’

‘Oh, yes.’ And short of repainting the whole flipping room there’s nothing I can do about it. It’ll be there for years so you’d better just get used to the idea. ‘Now I’m going downstairs and I’ll come up and check on you soon.’ I tried not to snap.

‘When?’

‘In a few minutes.’

‘How many?’

Count to ten. ‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘Fifteen minutes?’ Horrified. ‘That’s ages!’

‘OK, five.’ There was no clock in her room so she’d not catch me out. I half-expected her to reappear but she didn’t, and gradually I relaxed again as Ray and I continued to discuss the party plans. When I went up an hour later she was fast asleep on the floor beside her bed. Presumably Blu-Tack witches have less power at floor level.