Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

I described Mrs Deason as best I could to Carla. Did she remember her buying a knife?

‘Oh, yeah,’ she didn’t hesitate. ‘she had the name written down and everything. A late Christmas present for her nephew, she said.’

‘You’ve a good memory,’ I complimented her.

‘Well,’ she demurred, ‘she stuck out a bit really. We get mainly lads in or anglers, you know.’

‘How did she pay?’

‘Cash, I think.’

‘Can you remember when it was?’

‘First day back after the holiday. Would have been the second of January.’ She glanced at Mr Henson for confirmation.

He nodded. ‘I was at the suppliers,’ he chipped in. ‘Carla was on her own for the morning.’

Mrs Deason had made her purchase just in the nick of time. The police had called on her that very same afternoon, to check on Joey’s knife.

‘I reckon she was the only person came in,’ said Carla. ‘That’s another reason I remember – it was dead as a graveyard.’

‘No one’s ever got any money after Christmas,’ he observed.

I took down the details of the knife that Mrs Deason had bought and Mr Henson showed me a model. It was bigger than I remembered, with a broad, slightly curved blade and a horn handle.

I felt a little eddy of giddiness as I imagined the damage it could do. Thought of it slicing through Ahktar’s jacket. One cut, one move, one moment – that was all it had taken.

I contained my sense of excitement until I was back in the car and then I clenched my fists in triumph. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ Things were finally moving.

I considered all the way home how I would break the news to Mrs Deason. And should I? Was it more or less likely that Joey would agree to see me if I revealed that I knew about the knife? It implicated him full square for Ahktar’s murder. I reasoned that if he had done it, then he was on the run and wouldn’t agree to meet me whatever I said. I remembered Emma’s view, he’d want the publicity, but there were other ways of getting that. He’d run till they trapped him, then enact some final glorious gesture; Bonnie and Clyde, Sid Vicious. Or maybe a guilty conscience would overcome him once the trial got under way, and he’d come riding back and into court with testimony to prevent the wrong man being convicted.

Emma could have got it wrong. The instinct for self preservation’s strong, and maybe Joey would just sit it out and watch while Luke Wallace was tried.

Past experience had taught me that once the wheels of the criminal justice system are set in motion, it can be very difficult to call a halt, even with startling new evidence. My information about the knives might not convince people to drop the case against

Luke, or go off hunting for Joey D, but I was certain it would prove a strong part of Luke’s defence.

And if Joey D was innocent, why was he hiding? I reminded myself that it was not my responsibility to find out who killed Ahktar Khan, but only to find out whether Luke Wallace could be cleared. And things were looking up.

I stopped in Withington on the way to my office and deposited the cheque from Victor Wallace in my account. It was all already spoken for – rent, bills, birthday present for Tom, new trainers for Maddie. My own treat was limited to a modest takeaway lunch from the Health Food shop. Spinach bhaji and chocolate flapjack. ‘Go on,’ a voice whispered in my head, ‘get yourself some perfume. You need some new clothes, too, and a bit of bath essence won’t break the bank,’ but I resisted. Next pay cheque, I told myself. Maybe then. I resisted all the way back to the car. I’d even got the key in the lock. Then I turned, retraced my steps and splashed out on a pair of earrings, a velvet leopard-print scarf and some Vanilla body cream. I grinned all the way to work.

A proper coffee machine would have improved my modest working conditions but I hadn’t got there yet; I had to make do with instant coffee instead. Once back in the office I put the kettle on and wolfed down my food.

Did the plants need a drink, too?

I gave the cactus garden on top of the filing cabinet a small amount of water… I’d tried keeping plants in the office before but even geraniums mutinied and died; just not enough regular loving care. I reckoned cacti were a good bet; after all, it is quite hard to tell when a cactus has perished – a good year or so to realise that they’re not growing…

The phone rang. ‘He’s gonna kill me! Help me, I know he is! He’s gonna kill me!’ She was hysterical.

‘Debbie!’ I spoke sharply, trying to interrupt her whirl of panic. ‘Are you at home?’

‘Yeah, and he’s…he’s…’ The note of hysteria began to rise again.

‘Where is he?’

‘Outside. I can’t go out, the kids, I’ve got to get the kids. I can’t go out, he’s waiting,’ she whimpered.

‘Which school?’

‘St John’s.’

‘What road is it on?’

‘Chepstow, off Longford Road.’

‘Listen, I’ll ring them, I’ll tell the school that you’ll be late. Stay there, wait for me, I’m coming now. Do you understand? I’ll make sure they keep the kids at school. They’ll be OK. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ She began to cry. I put the phone down.

Oh hell. What about Maddie and Tom? I rang Nana Tello, Ray’s mother, no reply. None of the Dobsons were in, I nipped upstairs to double-check. I sometimes asked Vicky, the eldest daughter to baby-sit.

I locked up and drove round the corner to home. Ran over the road. Denise was in and yes, she could collect Maddie and Tom when she went for her daughter. I thanked her with feeling. I wasn’t sure when I’d be back, but Ray would be home by six. No problem. Back home I scribbled a note for Ray explaining what I’d arranged. I found the number for St John’s in the phone book and when I got through I told them that Debbie Gosforth had been delayed and would be late picking up Connor, Jason and their sister.

‘I’ll be collecting her in the car and giving her a lift to school so we shouldn’t be all that late.’

I was relieved that the secretary didn’t press for more details. I didn’t want to reveal that Debbie was being stalked before checking with her.

Ten past three and half of Manchester clambers into cars to go and fetch the children. They were all going from Withington to Chorlton that day. Maybe more than usual in the face of the soft rain that continued to seep endlessly from the bright, blank skies.

I worked hard to relax on the journey over. Being strung out wouldn’t get me there any quicker, wouldn’t help Debbie.

He was there. I parked right outside her house in Ivygreen Road and looked over at him. He was still, as before, his hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed on the house. I was tempted to go over and ask him outright what the hell he thought he was doing, but my priority at that moment was to make sure Debbie was safe.

I hammered on the door then called through the letter box. ‘Debbie, it’s me, Sal. Open the door.’

I couldn’t hear anything. ‘Debbie, open the door! Deb-bie!’ I bawled. It was impossible to see through the letter box; little brushes lined the opening to keep out dust and draughts and prying eyes. I peered in through the lounge window but the nets obscured any view of the room within. I ran back to the car and used my mobile to ring her number. It rang and rang. No one answered it.

My chest tightened. Where was she? Had she done something stupid? He stood across the road. Watching. I walked along to the next alleyway between the rows of houses and went down it to the rear of her house. The back gate to Debbie’s place was ajar; the back door open. I didn’t like it, I didn’t like it at all.