Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

‘A bit. It’s hardly surprising though, is it, what with the stalker thing and the fright you had yesterday. You sleep last night?’

‘Not well.’ I thought of Joey’s blood-red eyes.

Eating?’

‘Lots,’ I smiled.

‘OK.’ She was all practical now. ‘You’re going to see the lawyer tomorrow?’

‘Yeah – well, I’m hoping he’ll ring me tonight. If he doesn’t I’ll sit in his court all day if I have to.’

‘So, it’ll soon be over,’ she pointed out.

‘Yes,’ I said with more certainty than I felt, ‘see the brief, do my final report for Mr Wallace, include my invoice and leave them to it.’

I was feeling mellow by the time we left and ready for a decent night’s sleep. Our bikes were locked side by side at the back of the building. We’d released them, sorted out helmets and lights and said our farewells before wheeling round to the road. Parked on the opposite side was a plain white van. I felt dizzy. My mouth went dry.

‘Diane – the van. I think it might be the same one.’

‘Oh God.’

I noted the number plate. There was someone in the driver’s seat. It looked like Rashid Siddiq but it was dark and I could only see a profile. Was it the same van? My intuition was telling me loud and clear to be scared, to be careful.

‘Will you ride back with me? You could get a taxi home.’

‘Come on.’

We mounted up and set off. The van remained at the kerbside. We rode the two miles or so to my house. There was no sign of the van.

Diane came in for a cup of tea and a post mortem. I wanted her to stay the night, anxious that she might be at risk because of me, but she was keen to go home.

‘I’m irrelevant,’ she insisted.

‘Get a taxi then.’

‘Sal!’

‘Please, take your wheel off, get a black cab. I’ll pay. Please.’

She sighed but agreed to my demands. I saw her off in the taxi and made her promise to ring when she got back. In the moments while I waited I imagined her being attacked as she reached her home. Over and over I ran the images. I should never have let her go. I’d once been beaten up practically outside her door. That had been a warning to me to keep my nose out of a case I was working on, too.

When the phone rang I snatched it up. She was fine. We said our goodbyes and she told me several times to take care. Not that I needed the advice.

I was too wired to sleep so I made more tea. I sat in the lounge cruising channels and watching four things at once. Digger lay beside me, peering at me now and again out of one sleepy eye. We don’t have much time for each other, Digger and I, but the dog seems to have a sixth sense when I’m feeling bad and comes to give me some companionship.

The phone rang again. Dermott Pitt?

‘Hello?’

‘Sal Kilkenny?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Mrs Raeburn.’

‘Who?’

‘Debbie’s neighbour. He’s back. You said to ring, and he’s here now. The stalker.’

The perfect end to a perfect day.

‘He’s across the road, just standing there. Debbie’s still away but the lights are on. I said to Ricky, her brother, that I’d pop in now and then, open the curtains, put the lights on, make it look lived in.

‘Thank you,’ I stopped her carrying on, ‘I’ll be right over. I’m hoping to follow him home, so don’t come out or do anything to alert him to the fact, will you?’

‘No, no of course.’

As usual, when I have to work at night, I left details with Ray of where I was going. I felt an extra edge of caution, given the unwelcome presence of a suspicious white van in my life. There was no sign of it on my drive over to Chorlton, however much I checked and rechecked.

I drove along Debbie’s road. G was still there – a slight, still figure in the shadows. I passed him and drove on looking for his blue Fiesta. I found it down the street; luckily there was a space a bit further on where I could park. I’d be facing in the same direction too, which would help when following him. I jotted down his registration number.

The house I parked outside looked to be a student let – several doorbells, grass in the guttering, a plaque with the name of the property management company over the door. It suited me. I was less likely to get quizzed by a member of the local Neighbourhood Watch if I sat waiting outside a house with plenty of tenants.

I reclined my seat and laid back; no point in flaunting myself. My mobile rang, startling me. It was Dermott Pitt. He apologised for the lateness of the hour and said that he had received my message.

‘I’ve got a tape I’d like you to hear, from Joey D – Joey Deason,’ I told him. ‘He actually saw the murder take place. His knife was used, taken from him when he tried to defend Ahktar. His grandmother replaced the knife after Joey had run away. He’s described the killer and it sounds like Rashid Siddiq,’ I paused for breath. Then:

‘I’ve also got some information about the Siddiqs which would fit with Joey’s version of events. I’ve spoken to someone at Bootle Street about some of this, before I saw Joey. They advised me to take it to you.’

‘Eight o’clock?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I can do eight a.m. I’m in court from nine thirty.’

‘Yes.’ Even if I had to take the kids in with me. ‘I’ll be there.’

I felt a surge of relief after the call. Pitt was taking it seriously; it would soon be over.

I considered calling Mrs Deason but it was so late. I’d do it first chance I got in the morning, see if there was any way she could contact Joey and warn him about the white van.

I switched on the radio for company. It was very quiet now and most of the lights in the houses had gone out. Cats claimed the street, slipping under gates and over fences, stalking prey. I shifted in my seat; already my buttocks were getting numb and I wanted to wee.

How long would we be here? What did he do all the time, standing there? Was he thinking about Debbie? Did it excite him? Was that how he got his kicks? Why had he picked on Debbie for the focus of his obsession?

I was tired, my eyes felt gritty and my teeth felt furry, but there was no danger of me dozing off, I was far too uncomfortable. To occupy myself I rehearsed what I would tell Dermott Pitt when we met tomorrow. I’d start with the tape. Then explain how the knife had been replaced. I’d tell him about my suspicion that Sonia Siddiq had been pressed to be a witness for the prosecution, and my anonymous tip-off that she hadn’t even been at the club. Describe her reactions to my questions, and point out that Zeb’s story of the two lads arguing could have been invented to increase the plausibility of Luke being the killer. I’d put it to him that Zeb Khan and the Siddiqs had conspired to frame Luke Wallace for the murder of his best friend.

I was convinced. Admittedly, there were a few aspects that were still a mystery to me. I didn’t know exactly how they’d engineered it so that Luke was found as he was. I didn’t understand why they’d framed him, rather than lying low and leaving the police to try and figure out whodunit. After all, there were no witnesses apart from Joey, who had easily been silenced. And I still couldn’t get my head round why Ahktar Khan had needed a warning in the first place, or who the warning was from. Jay employed Rashid Siddiq, so it was pretty likely to be his instruction that Siddiq and his accomplice were carrying out. But why? What had Ahktar done or not done? Had he found out about the drugs operation and threatened to tell? Tell who? Family? Police? If that had been the case, would he have seemed so comfortable and carefree that evening? The image of a whistle-blower didn’t suit the impression I’d built up of Ahktar. Yes, he worked hard at his studies, but he was well-liked, popular. And not averse to dropping a tab or taking speed to get high with his mates.