Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

Anything did. Ahktar died.

‘You didn’t ring for an ambulance?’

‘I wish I could say different.’ She lowered her voice, ‘Rashid said someone else would get an ambulance or call the police. I think maybe the shock…’ She broke off. There could be no justification.

‘But you did contact the police?’

‘The next day, the day after. We heard that he’d died and-’

‘Ahktar?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you know him?’ I asked.

She stared at me. ‘No, no.’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘I didn’t know him. We never knew him.’

‘I thought perhaps from the club…?’

‘No, I’m sure. Neither of us knew him.’ She was rattled. Understandable. Bad enough to walk on by while someone bleeds to death; even worse to think you might have known them.

‘How did you hear?’ I asked her.

‘Sorry?’

‘About the death. There weren’t any papers on New Year’s Day.’

She paused. ‘The radio, there was something on the radio.’

‘OK. So you went to the police on New Year’s Day?’

‘Yes.’ She took another long drag on the cigarette. ‘We told them what we’d seen and they arranged an identity parade.’

‘And you both picked the same suspect?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had you seen him before?’

‘No, only that night.’

They’d been very reluctant to get involved. So reluctant that they didn’t even phone for an ambulance or alert the security staff at the club, but the next day they were contacting the police like model citizens. ‘What made you go to the police?’

She shrugged. ‘We’d seen what happened. We felt obliged…’ She tasted filter and grimaced, ground out the cigarette in a large glass ashtray. ‘Is there anything else?’ She tried to be dismissive but there was no conviction behind the phrase.

‘Just a few points,’ I said. ‘What time did you get to the club?’

‘About ten o’clock.’

Luke and friends had gone early knowing it would sell out.

‘Did you meet friends?’

She looked perplexed. ‘No.’

‘Just the two of you?’ I sounded surprised.

‘Yes, just the two of us.’

‘And you didn’t bump into anybody by chance, no acquaintances, friends?’

‘No,’ she insisted. ‘It’s not somewhere we usually go; we don’t know those people.’

‘So why were you there?’

‘I don’t see what this has to do with anything.’ She stood up ‘I’ve helped you all I can, now please…’

‘You didn’t drink. Did Rashid?’

‘A little.’ She shook her head impatiently.

‘I’d like to see Mr Siddiq,’ I said, ‘when’s a good time to catch him?’

‘Why?’ She looked appalled.

‘To hear his version of events.’

‘It’s the same as mine,’ she said urgently.

‘There are always differences in what people notice, what they remember.’

Unless they’re rehearsing a story.

‘We identified the same man,’ she said, ‘we both saw what he did. The police believe us. You’d better go.’

‘OK. Thank you for your time. When can I call on Mr Siddiq?’

‘I don’t know, he’s very busy.’

‘Where does he work? I could call in, perhaps?’

She hesitated. She was behaving like a suspect, not a witness. What the hell was going on? ‘Or I could come back here one evening?’ She paled.

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No. No,’ she blinked. ‘He’s just…very busy.’

I smiled. ‘It shouldn’t take too long. Where does he work?’

I could see her trying to decide whether she should tell me. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?’ I pushed her.

‘No.’ She gave a little laugh, brittle. ‘Just he’s busy, you know.’ She gave up. ‘The Asian Cash and Carry on Upper Brook Street.’

‘Thank you.’

She was quiet as she saw me out. Muttered goodbye at the door. If the prosecution were going to use her as a witness she’d need plenty of coaching. I’d found her responses puzzling, veering from guilt to indignation.

Why was she so anxious about my intention to interview her husband? What was she so frightened of? Him? What he might say? What also intrigued me was that some of the seemingly innocuous questions about the evening itself had riled her as much as those about the murder and their inhumane response. Questions about why they were there, who’d driven and who they’d met. Now why would those upset her so?

It would be interesting to see if Rashid Siddiq was as defensive as his wife had been.

I’d no doubt that Mrs Siddiq would alert her husband to my interest, and the longer I left it the more time they would have to confer. I was 99 per cent sure that she’d been lying to me, but I still ran through other explanations for her manner; guilt at not reporting the attack, previous unpleasant dealings with the police, or maybe emotional problems that had nothing to do with the case itself. Had I just caught her on a bad day? She’d certainly been mercurial, her reactions running the gamut from hostility to anxiety.

The Cash and Carry was built with security in mind rather than any aesthetic consideration. It was a large metal cube in a compound of wire netting topped with savage barbed wire. Stanchions sported cameras and lights. The car park was almost full; traders were busy loading crates and drums into vans and cars.

I went in through the automatic doors and surveyed the warehouse. The huge space was divided into aisles by metal shelving which stretched up towards the ceiling. The place was illuminated by harsh strip lighting which gave everything a washed-out look. It smelt of damp cardboard. A sign pointed the way to an empty enquiries desk placed in front of two long prefabricated sections with frosted windows and doors which I took to be the offices.

I rang the bell on the counter and after a few moments a young man in a brown suit appeared from the nearest door. I asked for Mr Siddiq and passed over my card. He went back into the prefab and I watched his shadow disappear from view. When he returned he told me that Mr Siddiq was busy in a meeting. This I translated as: ‘Mr Siddiq is in and he’s told me to get rid of you.’

‘Will he be long?’ I asked.

The guy’s face darkened with embarrassment. ‘He didn’t say.’

‘I could wait?’

‘No,’ he coughed. ‘It’d be better if you made an appointment.’

‘Can I do that now?’

He looked even more uncomfortable. ‘You need to see Mr Siddiq? Try ringing.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘can you tell me his official title?’ Apparently not, from the blank look on his face. ‘What does he do here?’ I prompted.

‘He’s one of the bosses. He sorts out the deliveries, transfers, transport, that sort of thing…and he’s in charge of security.’ He paused, trying to remember if he’d missed anything.

‘And who owns the business.’

He shrugged.

‘Well, who’s in charge?’

‘Mr Khan.’

‘Thanks.’

It took ten minutes for a man I presumed to be Rashid Siddiq to leave the building and climb into one of the cars park in reserved bays off to my left. I angled my rear mirror until I could see him in it.

I’d found sunglasses and a baseball hat in the car and put these on just in case Siddiq had taken a peek at me while I’d grilled his employee. I pretended to study an A-Z, head down while my eyes locked onto the mirror.

I watched as he punched numbers into a mobile phone. I’d a fair idea who he was ringing. From the look on his face and the way he hit the steering wheel with his clenched fist I don’t think he liked what he heard.

Mr Siddiq finished his call then started his car up and reversed out of his space. I followed, allowing a couple of cars to come between us. He skirted town along Great Ancoats Street, past the old Daily Express building with its glass and Art Deco façade. I was old enough to remember seeing the papers rolling off the presses there – like something out of Citizen Kane . Down past the CIS building, famed for its height rather than its beauty, and over the bridge to the bottom of Cheetham Hill Road. He stopped partway up in a car park adjacent to a large clothing wholesalers.