Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

‘They all were, weren’t they,’ he said bitterly.

‘But there should be plenty of scope to undermine his testimony,’ I persisted. ‘I don’t think there was any argument; I think he made it up afterwards to fit the facts. Nobody else could believe it. He believes Luke killed his cousin, and he wants justice.’

‘It’s not justice if it’s the wrong person,’ Mr Wallace burst out.

‘You don’t need to convince me.’

‘God, I’m sorry. But there is some hope. I was afraid,’ he took a deep breath and sighed, ‘I was afraid you’d come back and tell me there was nothing you could do.’

‘There are chinks. No more than that yet, but it’s a start, something to work away at.’

He paid my invoice and I promised to let him know if anything significant cropped up. Before leaving I asked him for a photo of Luke.

‘There’s this one, it’s the most recent.’ It was the band, the photo that had been in the newspaper. Luke and Ahktar were in the middle, by the drums, the other boys Josh and Simon to right and left. They weren’t smiling, but I suppose they were aiming for one of those moody boy-band poses.

‘They had loads of those made up like postcards with some stuff on the back so people could ring up and book them. They’d played a couple of times at school.’

‘Were they any good?’

He shrugged, smiled ruefully. ‘They thought so, and their friends liked it. I used to play, when I was Luke’s age – guitar.’ He cleared his throat. I thought he was embarrassed that he’d told me but then he carried on: ‘I can’t bear it, you know, him in there, all this. It’s tearing me apart. I feel so…so damn useless.’ His voice rose with frustration. ‘I can’t do anything for him. I can’t look after him. I’m his father and yet I can’t stop it happening. What it’s doing to him, watching him change…Christ, how can I ever make it better?’

His eyes glittered as he held my look. I recalled the moment when Dr Khan had told me about identifying Ahktar’s body. The grief stretching his eyes wide.

There was no answer.

There was something else I wanted to work away at or someone. Mrs Deason’s face changed from polite enquiry to dismay when she saw me on the doorstep. Her shoulders stiffened and for a second I thought she was going to close the door in my face. She didn’t; however, nor did she invite me in. I don’t know whether it was the rain or the worry, but she looked careworn and the brisk energy I’d enjoyed on our first meeting had drained away.

‘Have you asked Joey if he’ll talk to me?’

‘He’s frightened.’

Of what? ‘He can’t hide for ever. Does he know about Luke, about the trial?’

She nodded, her eyes failing to meet mine, wanting to be anywhere but here.

‘Has he told you what he’s frightened of, who he’s frightened of?’

She shook her head, swallowed.

I took the photo from my pocket. ‘This is Ahktar and this is Luke. Did you ever meet them? I know Joey brought friends home sometimes; they had parties here, I believe. Luke’s finding it very hard, being locked up. He’s depressed. His father’s worried sick. Imagine the shock; your best mate is dead and you’re awaiting trial for murder. Can’t even go to his funeral. He’s a nice boy, Luke. He’s had a lot to cope with already, you know. His Mum died when he was twelve, now this.’

She turned her head away, compressed her lips.

‘Please, Mrs Deason, ask Joey again. Remember, I’m not working for the authorities. I can meet him wherever he wants, hear what he has to say. I still won’t know where he is hiding, but I may be able to help Luke.’

No response.

I put the photo away. ‘It won’t be all that long,’ I said, ‘till I have to report my findings to the defence lawyers. They may want to follow things up. It could soon move out of my hands. It might be easier for Joey to see me now than have the police looking for him.’

Her face became cold and blank at the threat.

‘You’ve got my number,’ I said. ‘You can ring any time.’

Some things just fall into place. It doesn’t happen often and there’s nothing quite like it – it makes my blood sing. I don’t know whether it’s luck or destiny, or whether it’s down to me. But it makes up for all the dead ends and the diversions, all the cold leads and the false starts.

On that Friday morning I took a wrong turning as I drove away from Mrs Deason’s house, and instead of heading back towards Manchester I found I was going the other way, bound for Bury.

I wrestled with the glove compartment to find my A-Z and pulled into the roadside so I could plot a route back. I was only five minutes from the well-appointed Deason home but already the territory had changed. This was a much poorer area; the terraces along the road had doors opening straight onto the pavement. The place looked tired and drab and hard-up. Few of the occupants had bothered to clean their windows or wash their nets, though here and there one stood out smart with new paint, glowing white curtains, silk flowers or doll in full Flamenco gear on the windowsill, highlighting the shabbiness of the neighbouring houses.

I took the next side street, intending to go round the block and back to the main road. Some of the houses had been converted into shops. A grocer’s and off-licence on one corner, Betty’s Hair Salon on another. I passed a small row of shops further on – chip shop, bookies, video shop and at the end of the row A.J. Henson’s Knives for Crafts, Sport and Leisure.

I stopped the car and sat there for a few moments. Let my theory filter down like a marble on some complicated run, clunk, clunk, clunk.

Inside the shop, everything was displayed in shiny lock-up cases or chained up on the wall in amongst hunting memorabilia. Dusty stuffed birds perched on plinths and fish that could have been carved out of wood but were probably pickled in lacquer, hung stiff and dull from the ceiling. In pride of place above the counter hung a huge tiger’s head, mouth bared, teeth exposed. I felt a wave of nausea for the mentality that continued to display the trophy while the tiger itself faced extinction. I thought of Maddie’s awkward questions when we watched wildlife programmes. ‘But why do they kill them, Mummy? That’s so mean.’

Why? Because some people enjoy hunting down animals, because some people are starving, because…

The tiger was incongruous too in this backwater of north Manchester. These beasts had never prowled round Collyhurst or roared from the hills in Heaton Park.

The buzzer that had sounded when I went into the shop brought a man out from the back. He was small and bespectacled, with black greasy hair and bland, casual clothes.

He smiled. ‘Can I help?’

Sometimes it’s best to tell the truth. I showed him one of my cards. ‘I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case involving people in the area. I’m afraid I can’t go into details, but I’m interested in any records you have of knife sales over the Christmas and New Year period.’

He pulled a face. ‘We don’t have any sort of stock breakdown like that.’

I tried another tack.

‘Do you remember selling a knife to an elderly woman, early in the New Year? She was probably well-dressed, and had a Southern accent.’

He pursed his lips, shook his head. My theory teetered like a tower of blocks. Shit. I turned to go. ‘Is there anyone else works here?’

He drew a breath. He didn’t like my persistence but it was laziness rather than obstruction.

He put his head through the door behind the counter. ‘Carla?’

Carla emerged – young, plump, apple-cheeked with a set of rings and studs in her nostrils. There was a tension between the two of them which made me slightly embarrassed. Had I interrupted something? It would more than explain his reluctance to indulge me in my search and prolong my stay.