Cath Staincliffe: Dead Wrong

At long last I got Digger and myself into the car and home. I wondered on the way what the score was with Platt & Co. if I’d failed to serve the paper because the intended recipient was dead. Surely they’d pay me? Flipping heck, I deserved overtime and a bonus, given how long it had taken.

At home I had a shower to try and wash it all away. The sickly smell wouldn’t go. I sprinkled lavender and rose oils round my room to try and disguise it, but I felt dirty still. I’d never known Mr Kearsal, never met him, but the fact that he had taken his own life was a chastening thought. And it was disturbing to think of him hanging there day after day, alone and unmourned.

I’d recently acquired a new answerphone which would let me ring it up and access my messages. This saved me having to traipse into the office just to check the machine. It’s not that the office is far, it’s only round the corner from the house, but some days I don’t need to go in there at all. I called my new machine and it played me a message from Rebecca Henderson. She had a new job for me. How was I getting on with the last one?

I rang and got her, just as she was about to leave for court. I explained quickly about finding Mr Kearsal’s corpse and mentioned how long I’d had to stay over in Belle Vue. I didn’t have the gall to ask if I’d get paid – I was feeling guilty in an obscure sort of way. Perhaps if I hadn’t tried to deliver the papers I wouldn’t have stumbled on a suicide victim. If I’m not there it hasn’t happened. Illogical yes, but sincerely felt.

Thankfully Rebecca is always direct; she comes out with what the rest of us are busy summoning up courage to mention. ‘Sal, you poor thing, how awful. Look, we’ll pay you for a day then. Send back the papers. Now, about this other matter…’

‘Another injunction?’

‘No, at least not at this stage. We’ve a new client who claims she’s being followed. We want you to do some surveillance. Stalk the stalker, if you like. Establish dates and times, photos would be a help and we need to find out who he is.’

‘She doesn’t know him?’ I was surprised. Most of the cases I’d heard about involved jilted lovers or ex-husbands.

‘No, she’s no idea. Can you do it?’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Chorlton. Works in town. He’s turning up at both places.’

My mind flicked rapidly over all the implications, the major one being childcare arrangements.

‘I can’t do round the clock.’

‘Shouldn’t be necessary; we just need to establish what’s actually going on, gather some evidence and see if we’ve enough to take out an injunction or press charges. Look, I must go. I’ve told her we’ll be getting an investigator in so you might as well contact her directly and arrange to meet her.’

Rebecca gave me the name and number. I got through straightaway. ‘Debbie Gosforth? Hello, this is Sal Kilkenny here. I’m a private investigator. Rebecca Henderson asked me to get in touch with you.’ I explained what Rebecca had told me, then asked when we could meet.

‘Not now,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ve one of the children off ill. But I’m at work tomorrow – eleven till three. I could meet you after that? Or Monday – I’m at home Mondays, but I’d rather it was tomorrow if you can.’

I hesitated, reluctant to use up the middle of a Saturday if I could avoid it. ‘Could we do it before you start work?’

‘Yeah, that should be all right.’ She described a cafe near the Corn Exchange where we could meet. She sounded subdued over the phone; maybe she was tired from looking after the child she’d mentioned, or worn down by the experience of being followed by a stranger.

‘How will I know who you are?’ she asked.

‘I’ll wear a red jacket.’

‘Not a pink carnation?’

I appreciated her attempt at humour (even if it wasn’t exactly original) but her tone was too wistful to really pull it off.

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.