Cath Staincliffe: Dead Wrong

While Maddie carefully sculpted a mermaid’s house in the sand I wandered round dead-heading the pansies and the petunias, tidying up the tubs and baskets. Tom trundled the toy wheelbarrow round after me. Although there was only a year between Tom who was four, and Maddie, five going on six, he was still very much a little boy, short and stocky, hardly more than a toddler, while Maddie, in the midst of a growth spurt, looked lanky and skinny. Her body had assumed the proportions of a child now and she scorned anything she regarded as babyish.

It took me an hour and a half to get them both bathed, dressed and into bed, stories told and books read.

Ray was out. He’d gone for a drink with some of his fellow students from the computer course he’s doing at Salford University. He earns his living as a joiner but he wants a change. He says he’s had enough of manual labour and lousy working conditions.

It was barely warm enough to sit out but it was light and dry. And after all, this was the only summer we’d get. I put on an old fleecy top, found a blanket and the book I was reading, and fetched a lager from the fridge.

There was a clear sky, blue fading to apricot in the west. I leant my head back and watched the planes climbing out of Manchester Airport. Their trails criss-crossed in the sky, the white lines etched onto the blue, like ink bleeding on wet paper.

I hankered to be up there heading for somewhere hot with dusty roads and the scent of pink trees baking in the sun. I read and sipped my drink. As dusk fell I could no longer read the print. I yawned and stretched, gathered up my things. Weary again. It hadn’t been a particularly gruelling day, but what with work and chores and children, every day was busy enough to tire me out.

I let Digger out in case Ray was late back. As I waited on the doorstep while he sniffed round the front garden I thought of Debbie Gosforth. Afraid to open the door, afraid to look out of the window. Was G stalking her tonight?

First thing Tuesday morning I got a call at the office. The man introduced himself as Victor Wallace; his son Luke was on remand in Golborne Remand Centre. He’d been arrested and charged with the murder of Ahktar Khan. The case had been committed for trial. ‘You probably saw it in the papers. He didn’t do it,’ Mr Wallace said emphatically. ‘They were mates, good friends, there’s no way…I want you to talk to people – someone must have seen something. The place was busy, the club was emptying.’

I’d nothing more than vague recollections of the crime. ‘When was it?’ I stalled.

‘First of January. It was the New Year’s Eve party at Nirvana.’

The club was famous for its dance scene. People travelled from all over Europe for a night in Nirvana.

‘And the police have charged him?’

‘Murder. They’ve made up their minds. It’s all a terrible mistake.’

‘What about Luke’s lawyer?’

‘He knows I’m not happy, I want more doing. They’ve had people looking into it but they’ve not come up with anything very useful, nothing that’ll clear him.’

Fragments of the story surfaced as I listened. There’d been talk of a racial motive. Luke Wallace was white; Ahktar Khan, an Asian Muslim, had been stabbed. And there had been something about Ecstasy. I wanted to know a lot more before I committed myself. I explained to Mr Wallace that he’d have to pay for my time, if I decided to take the case. Legal Aid was available for murder cases, but only to the official defence solicitor and people employed by them.

‘Whatever it takes,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t want to see Luke’s life ruined for something he didn’t do. I’ll sell the house, the business, whatever.’

Crikey, I wasn’t that expensive.

‘We’d better meet,’ I said, ‘I need more information before I know whether I can help.’

‘This afternoon?’

‘Yes, early afternoon.’ I had to pick up Maddie and Tom from school at three-thirty, It didn’t half eat into my working days.

He gave me an address in Prestwich. I told him I’d be there at half past one.

I was late. Prestwich is the other side of town from Withington and the traffic was all diverted round the bombed area. It was chaos. We edged slowly along Deansgate, where most of the shop fronts were boarded up; nothing was open. When we got to the bottom of Deansgate I peered up towards the Arndale and Marks & Spencers. In spite of seeing the images on television, I was still affected by the extent of the damage. My stomach clenched uneasily and I could feel tears not far away as I caught glimpses of twisted metal and shattered concrete, of Venetian blinds dangling broken from office windows and fractured lamp posts.

They were big houses, detached, each one a little different from its neighbour, with Tudor-style facades and leaded windows. Double-garage-and-gardener territory.

The Wallace house was at the end of the cul-de-sac. Beyond were trees and the sound of running water. The River Irwell came through here. The day was warm, sunny, the birds were in full throat. How nice it would be to just slip away, saunter through the trees to a sunny glade and watch the river flow, lose myself in the glistening reflections. As if.

A woman wearing a stripy butcher’s apron opened the door. Unruly black hair, a bright expression.

‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Wallace, Sal Kilkenny.’

‘Oh, yes. Come on in. He’s in the back.’

I followed her through the house which was furnished like an Ikea showroom, to a large room at the back. One end with desk, shelves and PC obviously served as a study or office while the other half of the room was an open-plan lounge with television and sofas. Floor-length blinds occupied most of the far wall; they were shut but the translucent material allowed plenty of light in. I could see the shadowed outline of patio doors on the blinds. The place was cluttered and untidy but not dirty.

Victor Wallace rose from the desk as we came in, and stretched out his hand. His handshake was warm, firm.

‘Thank you, Megan,’ he said.

‘Will you have tea?’ the woman asked me, ‘or coffee?’

‘Thank you, coffee would be great.’

‘Victor?’

‘No, thanks.’

She left us.

‘Please, sit down.’ He gestured to the sofas, placed at right-angles to each other. I opted for the firmest-looking one; there’s nothing worse than trying to be businesslike while sliding inexorably into a horizontal position on a soggy sofa. He took the other.

He gave off a palpable air of restless energy. Frustration, even. He was a stocky man with small, square hands, a round, shiny face as though someone had polished him, receding hairline, grey hair. He wore jeans, a casual sweatshirt but good quality. Chicago Bears on the front.

‘What I’d like to do,’ I began, ‘is ask you some initial questions, get the overall picture of what’s happened, both about Ahktar Khan’s death and since.’

He nodded briskly.

‘Let’s start with New Year’s Eve.’

He spoke so rapidly it was all I could do to note the essential facts, but that was all right at this stage. I could go over any gaps later if I decided to take the job. What I needed now was the flavour of the case. It would help me to establish whether there was anything that made me uneasy or rang alarm bells, whether there was any point in Mr Wallace paying me, or if I was a last-ditch attempt to do something in a hopeless situation.

Luke and Ahktar and two other friends had gone to Nirvana for the big New Year’s Eve bash. The boys were close friends from school; they had formed a band and used to practise in the Wallaces’ basement.

Victor knew Luke would be home late, so he’d made sure he had plenty of cash for a taxi.