Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

It was a long, slow walk back home, with a stop to buy a lolly for Tom and Maddie and Maddie’s friend, Holly, and a second emergency stop when Maddie tripped and skinned her knees. She would die, she couldn’t walk, all her blood was coming out. I’ve grown used to Maddie’s low pain threshold and incipient hypochondria. I soothed until I’d had enough, then adopted a brisk, no-nonsense tone to steer her home.

There was a red car parked outside our house. A Mondeo. My heart squeezed hard. There was a man in the car. I shepherded the children up the drive. I heard the car door open and close. As I got them inside I turned to see who it was. I didn’t know him.

He came up the drive. ‘Miss Kilkenny?’

Ms actually, but now wasn’t the time. I didn’t commit myself ‘What’s it about?’

‘Mike Courtney – freelance journalist.’ He stuck out a large hand. I caught a whiff of spicy cologne. ‘I believe you were the mystery woman at the Belle Vue suicide scene?’

The drone of flies, that putrid stench. Oh, hell. And he’d tracked me down – a dogged reporter. All I needed. ‘There was no mystery,’ I said coolly. ‘The police have all the details.’

‘Why were you calling on Mr Kearsley?’

‘Kearsal’

‘Kearsal. Was it in connection with a case?’

‘My work is confidential. There isn’t a story, there’s no mystery, you’re wasting your time.’ I tried not to snap. After all, I didn’t want MYSTERY WOMAN’S VOW OF SILENCE or SECRET SLEUTH WHO DARES NOT SPEAK plastered all over the paper.

‘There’s a lot of interest in private eyes,’ he pressed on. ‘Look at the telly; Morse, Dalziel and Pascoe, The Bill.’

‘They’re police,’ I quibbled.

‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘same difference. Readers may well be interested in a feature about your work. Woman in a Man’s World, Girl Gumshoe – that sort of thing.’

Spare me. I’d have walked away then but I was all too aware of the need to build on my reputation, keep a steady flow of work coming in. If the piece was pitched right, it could be free publicity. ‘Can I think about it?’

He looked impatient.

‘I couldn’t do anything now,’ I explained, ‘I’m in the middle of a job and I wouldn’t want any publicity at the moment.’ Like the stalker having my picture to alert him. ‘I’m not sure about photos anyway. It could be a liability, if I was recognised.’

He sighed. This was going to be hard work.

‘Sal!’ Tom’s voice called from inside, ‘Sal!’

‘Coming,’ I replied.

‘What about Mr Kearsal?’ Mike Courtney persevered, ‘They’ve not had the inquest yet. Will you be a witness?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve already explained the case was confidential.’

‘The guy’s dead,’ he pointed out.

So it’s OK then? To gossip and speculate and use him for a filler in the paper? The little house in the middle of an urban wasteland, the robbery that had made him fearful, escape to his sister’s in Ashton now and then. ‘Yeah, so let him rest in peace, eh?’

He tutted at me reproachfully then drew out his card. ‘So you do all right for yourself?’ He nodded up at the house. ‘Make a decent whack or are you married?’

Oh, per-lease! ‘No,’ I lied, ‘it’s all mine.’ Childish, I know, but he brought that side of me to the fore. And I enjoyed his envy. I marked him out as the type who can spend a whole evening talking about money, everything in Ks, only able to value what had a large price-tag on it. I gave him an insincere smile and a goodbye and went in.

Maddie refused to let me touch the grazes on her knees, so I gave her a little lecture about hygiene and healing, and provided her with cotton wool, boiled water and some clean cotton cloths and strips of sticky plaster.

‘I think Holly and you can sort something out,’ I said. Holly was looking pretty brassed off by now with all the drama and no fun in sight. ‘And if you clear it up I could put some water in the paddling pool.’

‘My knees will get wet,’ Maddie was appalled.

‘Not if you just paddle,’ I said firmly. ‘And we can have a picnic for tea.’

‘You could be the ambulance,’ Maddie said tentatively to her friend.

‘Paramedic,’ Holly corrected.

I left them to it.

I made a pot of Darjeeling for myself and drank it with lemon, out on the patio. A ritual to settle myself. The weather had picked up – blue sky, a fresh breeze, puffy clouds moving fast.

There was so much to do. I emptied the disgusting contents of my slug traps and filled the pots with beer again. Despite the constant supply of fatalities they commanded I still lost countless plants. Half the petunias I’d grown from seed had gone, here and there a single central stalk, sheared to a point and smeared with silver, bore witness. They’d decimated the lobelia too. I reorganised the tubs, putting the survivors together.

The clematis needed tying in again. When I’d done that I got the shears out and went round to the front. The privet there was well out of control. It’s one of my least favourite jobs, but it was beginning to interfere with free passage along the pavement. I chopped at it until it was a decent length, then brushed up the cuttings and stuffed them in the wheelie bin. I felt filthy by the time I’d done, covered in dust and spiders’ webs and insects, my nails full of soil, throat parched, arms aching. On the plus side I no longer felt rattled by the turn that I’d had at the Baths or by the unpleasantness of Zeb’s visit. Working in the garden, the physical graft, the pungent smell and the feel of the earth had grounded me again.

‘It’s for you, Sal,’ Ray called me to the phone.

I muttered my resentment. I’d just sat down to watch some telly.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Sal Kilkenny?’ Mrs Deason.

‘Speaking.’

‘Joey wants to meet you. He’s given me the details. You won’t tell the police?’ She sounded desperate with worry. ‘I promised to make sure you would go on your own, that you wouldn’t bring anyone else. You won’t try to trap him, will you? Nor force him to come back? I can’t give you the details until I have your word.’

‘I promise. All I want is to hear what Joey has to say.’

‘He said to make sure you’re not followed.’

‘I will.’

A pause during which she must have checked that she’d asked all the salient questions. It stretched on.

‘Mrs Deason?’

‘He sounded dreadful,’ she said abruptly, ‘if only he’d just come home.’ Her voice broke. ‘When you see him,’ she faltered, ‘will you tell him that whatever happens he’s still my grandson. I’ll always…’ she didn’t need to finish.

‘I’ll tell him. Where have I to meet him?’

‘He’s not staying there,’ she rushed to explain, ‘you couldn’t find him afterwards.’

‘OK.’

‘It’s Prestatyn, in Wales. You’re to meet at the railway station, Twelve o’clock, midday.’ High Noon in Prestatyn: Joey’s liking for the dramatic. I knew the Welsh seaside town; I’d been to Prestatyn years ago. Remembered sitting on the concrete steps by the promenade waiting for the tide to give us back the beach. A long straight seafront, car parks, amusement place, couple of cafes. Its main attraction had been its proximity to Manchester; you could get there in a couple of hours. Not much else going for it apart from the sea, of course – ever-magical even in that setting.

‘Thank you.’

‘Will you let me know how he is?’ She wasn’t asking me to tell her what he’d said. If he had done it, she didn’t want to know.

I promised. I was pretty sure I’d recognise Joey from the photos I’d seen at her house so I didn’t need to ask for a description.