Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

I was trying to predict Mr Pitt’s response when I saw the stalker, in my rear view mirror, returning to his car. It was one-thirty. As he got into the Fiesta I righted my seat, rubbed my eyes and breathed deeply a few times to wake myself up.

I waited until he’d pulled out and reached the junction with the main road before following. I wasn’t likely to lose him at that time of night unless he burned rubber. If he was paying any attention he would soon notice I was on his tail, but his mind was probably still occupied with his fantasies about Debbie Gosforth, and I reckon if people aren’t expecting to be pursued they can drive for miles before the penny drops and they realise the car behind isn’t going their way by chance.

We went along Upper Chorlton Road towards the city. The streets were mostly deserted though there were a couple in a clinch waiting for an all-night bus at the stop near the huge Whalley Hotel Pub. We stopped at the lights there. I yawned a couple of times but underneath my exhaustion there was a tremor of excitement building as I realised I was on course, trailing him back to his lair so I could establish his identity. We turned left into Ayres Road where he parked. I drove past him reducing my speed to a crawl. I parked in the next side road, got out quickly and doubled back in time to see him open the door of one of the terrace houses and go in. Lights came on in the hall. I walked along to the house and noted the number.

The quiet in the street was interrupted by the clatter of a black cab coming from the main road. It drew up nearby and after a few seconds the back door swung open and two young women giggling hysterically fell out onto the pavement.

‘Gerroff, yer divvy, yer breaking me arm.’

‘You get off.’

‘I can’t move, you bloody great lump.’

One of them kicked the door shut with a large silver platform shoe. Amidst much cursing and cackling the pair disentangled themselves and stood up, more or less, on teetering heels. They’d been out on the razz and were still having fun.

The taxi pulled away. The silver platforms belonged to a woman in silver lycra boob-tube and shorts. She began to snigger again.

‘Shut up, Jules,’ her friend protested, ‘I’ve already wet myself.’

‘Ha ha ha ha.’ It was infectious and I found myself smiling. ‘Ha ha ha ha.’

‘You got any fags left? Jules, got any fags?’ She wore a black sheath dress and had glitter in her hair. ‘Where’s the bleeding key?’ She rummaged around in a clutch bag.

‘Some fags inside, Mel,’ said Jules. ‘Think there’s some left.’

‘There better be, I’m gagging.’

They turned and swayed towards the doorway of the house.

‘Excuse me,’ I said.

‘Why, what yer done?’ quipped Jules and the pair dissolved in giggles.

When the racket had died down a bit I carried on. ‘Do you know the bloke next door but one?’ I pointed.

‘Which one?’ asked Black Dress.

‘Mr Upstairs or Mr Downstairs?’ More snickers.

‘Oh, I thought…there’s only one bell.’

‘Landlord’s too bloody tight to give ‘em a bell each.’

Her friend staggered and the two lurched towards me reeking of heavy-duty perfume and cigarette smoke.

‘Is it flats then?’ I asked the woman in black who seemed less prone to hilarity.

She shrugged. ‘Not really, there’s only one bathroom but he sticks a Baby Belling on each floor and lets ‘em out like flats. Same as ours.’ Jules knocked her again and she dropped her bag. The contents scattered; lipstick, perfume and eye-pencil, cigarette lighter, tissues and purse, keys. I helped them gather everything up. ‘Here’s your key.’

‘Ta. So, what do you want?’

‘I need to find out the name of one of the people living there.’

‘Why, you from the social?’ Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

‘No, no,’ I smiled. ‘He helped me out. I just broke down,’ I waved towards the main road, ‘and he spent ages on my car, got it going again. I’d like to send a card or something, thank him.’

‘Ooohh!’ remarked Jules, lips pursed, all innuendo. I rolled my eyes at her. ‘Do you know their names?’

‘Gary, innit,’ Jules volunteered, ‘Gary Crowther and upstairs is Chris, whass Chris’s name, Mel, something Irish innit?’

‘Scottish, not Irish – McPherson.’

‘I thought he was Irish.’ Jules shook her head. ‘I could’ve sworn he was Irish, innit.’

‘He’s a Geordie, yer div.’

‘You just said he was Scottish.’

‘His name! Scottish name. But he’s from Newcastle.’

‘Can you describe them?’ I interrupted the debate. I kept looking over to the stalker’s house, hoping that the commotion that Mel and Jules were making was a regular occurrence and wouldn’t attract his attention.

‘Gary’s dark hair, Chris’s brown, light brown.’ Mel looked to Jules for confirmation.

‘Yeah, Chris is the good-looking one.’

‘He is not,’ she contradicted, ‘he’s got small eyes. Gary’s better-looking.’

‘What about size?’ I asked, regretting the words even as they left my lips.

‘Size is not important,’ cackled Jules.

Mel snorted with laughter but recovered quickly. ‘Don’t mind her,’ she said, ‘she’s got a one-track mind.’

‘You must be interested in him, aren’t yer? Your knight of the road,’ teased Jules.

‘Shurrup.’ Mel shoved her. “Bout the same, they are. Medium height, medium weight.’

I needed something more definite. The man I’d followed had dark hair, almost black, but hair colour alone wasn’t enough to confirm his identity:

‘Does either of them wear a suit? The bloke who helped me wore a dark suit.’

‘Gary,’ they said in unison.

‘Probably sleeps in it,’ said Mel, ‘had it for years, by the look of it, be back in fashion soon. I said to him the other day, “get some shorts on, kid, let yer knees out”.’

‘You know him then?’

‘She is interested, innit,’ commented Jules.

Mel elbowed her in the ribs. ‘Don’t know him well. Just neighbours, same bleeding landlord. He’s shy, Gary. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Goes red as beetroot every time I say hello.’

I smiled. ‘Well, thanks for your help,’ I said, ‘goodnight then.’

‘Will you get this door open,’ complained Jules. ‘I need a fag, innit.’

Once they’d gone in I looked back at Gary Crowther’s house.

Gotcha! Name, address and number plate. I turned on my heel and walked briskly to my car.

I drove carefully home, aware of how tired I was and how easy it would be to make one fatal mistake. I was pleased I could now get things rolling on Gary Crowther, but the pleasure was muted by my overriding need to sleep.

I’d had maybe two and a half hours when Maddie woke me, complaining of earache. I stumbled about sorting her out with Calpol and let her into my bed. She fretted and whined and wriggled about for ages before falling asleep. I hoped she’d be better by morning. I couldn’t take time off to nurse her. I dozed for another hour and woke at half six and gave up on sleep.

Maddie was still in pain when she woke up at seven. It was too early to ring the GP. I had to be in town to meet Dermott Pitt at eight. I knew Ray would be leaving for work at eight so I had to find someone to take Tom into school and someone to mind Maddie till I’d had my meeting. I rang Nana Tello, Ray’s mother, who sounded decidedly grumpy though she always claimed she couldn’t sleep in the mornings. She agreed to look after Maddie for me. I called over the road to Denise, apologised for the short notice and asked if she could take Tom in with her daughter Jade. No problem. Ray would bring Tom across at eight.