Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

I could hear Ray messing about in the cellar, fitting in a bit of his furniture making. When he’d a building job on everything else got postponed, so if he’d said yes to a few orders he’d soon have impatient customers ringing up wanting to know when the chest, table or chair would be finished.

He popped his face round the door to tell me he was taking Digger out for his walk. I was in bed and fast asleep before they came back.

After leaving the children at school I spent most of the money that Agnes had given me on food. I raced round the discount supermarket plucking cereal boxes and containers of milk and juice, toilet rolls, tins of beans and tomatoes, mini yogurts, crisps, rice, cheap cheese, tea and coffee. In the vegetable shop opposite I picked a selection of vegetables and a bag full of fruit. I unloaded the lot on the kitchen table, stuck the cheese, yoghurts and milk in the fridge. The rest I’d sort out later. It was time for work.

Jimmy rang as requested just as I’d settled at my desk. ‘I’m ringing from work,’ he said. ‘We’re not meant to make private calls. I can’t talk for long.’

In the background I could hear the sound of vans and a Tannoy.

‘I watched Tina yesterday,’ I said. ‘And she didn’t go anywhere but the local shops. Do you want me to try again today?’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK. Ring me again tomorrow, same time.’

I didn’t want to alert Tina by using the old wrong number call again so I just drove over to Levenshulme as soon as I could. After an hour sitting in the car my left buttock had seized up. I was getting hungry too. I’d demolished my apple and banana in the first half-hour. My stomach was growling. A light rain finally made it down from the clutches of the clouds. Fine as a sea fret and bringing with it the scent of sewage, not brine.

Tina came out wearing a check jacket, black skirt and carrying a bag. She looked stylish. Her hair was bound up in a knot on her head and she wore large gold earrings.

I got out of the car and locked it while she walked down the main road. She passed the bus stop and turned left towards the post office and the local train station. I followed her up the ramp and stood behind her while she bought a return to Piccadilly; I did too. She took a seat in the waiting room while I went and stood on the platform. I didn’t want to become too familiar.

When the train arrived I sat in a different coach. I looked out over East Manchester, Beswick, Ardwick, Miles Platting. I could spot the curve of the Velodrome changing the skyline and work going on to complete the large-scale redevelopment of the whole area. Where once there’d been whole estates of terraced houses, established communities, there were now great tracts of raw earth littered with heaps of bricks and huge concrete cylinders. Yellow cranes and earth movers gnawed away at the land.

Where had all the people gone? Would they come back or were homes going to be replaced by industrial estates, superstore complexes and yet more roads?

We were at Piccadilly in ten minutes. The check jacket made it easy to keep Tina in view. She took the escalator down to the Metrolink. Were we just going shopping or would I need a ticket to Bury or Altrincham? Tina didn’t bother with a ticket. I hedged my bets and pressed the buttons to get a ticket for the central zone. Last thing I wanted was to get done for fare dodging.

The first tram was for Bury and she boarded it. But we only went as far as Piccadilly Gardens. We weren’t going shopping, though. She turned in the other direction and I followed her, at a distance, across Portland Street and along a side road to the Worcester Hotel. I waited while she went in, counted to twenty and then as quietly as I could opened the heavy glass door and followed. I was dead lucky, the receptionist wasn’t at her desk. The place looked decent enough, good maroon wool carpet, clean decor, fresh lilies at reception, which made the lobby smell sweet. There was no lift. I took the stairs two at a time and silently as possible, alert to any noises. The corridor on the first floor was empty. I thought I caught a footfall from upstairs. On the second landing I was in time to see a glimpse of Tina’s check jacket disappearing into a room. Bingo!

I walked down to the room, number 203. I paused outside, stilling my breath and straining to catch any sound. Nothing. Just my pulse pounding, that sweet way it does when I’m scared of being caught.

There was nowhere in the corridor to wait. There were three doors on either side and a fire door at the far end. More than likely that would lead out to a fire escape. No good waiting out there, I wanted to see if anyone came up to join Tina.

I went back down to the first floor, prepared to act as if I were just leaving my room if anyone spotted me. Ten minutes crawled by. Then I heard footsteps, the clink of coins or keys. A man crossed the landing and carried on up. I followed him. He knocked sharply on a door and cast a glance my way as I appeared from the stairs. Room 203. The door opened and he went in. Full house.

I went down to the lobby. The receptionist was back, and she seemed surprised to see me.

‘Can I help you?’ she said.

I weighed her up. Young, lots of make-up, expensive clothes. It couldn’t be very exciting working here. Maybe I could brighten her day. ‘You might be able to,’ I said. ‘I’m a private detective.’ I pulled out one of my cards and showed her. She took it, read it, handed it back. Cool. Sceptical. Weighing me up too.

‘Room 203,’ I said, ‘can you tell me who’s registered there?’

‘I don’t think I could do that,’ she said, a neutral tone. ‘Confidentiality and all that.’

‘I thought that was doctors and priests,’ I said.

‘And lawyers,’ she was enjoying this, ‘and banks.’ I missed the hint.

‘You could just check the mail,’ I gestured towards the pigeonholes, ‘or tidy the information board. And I could just glance at the visitors’ book.’

She sighed. ‘Rotten wages,’ she said, ‘hotel and catering trade. Time they agreed a minimum wage.’

It took me a moment to cotton on. I nodded. Took a fiver from my purse, put it on the desk.

She smiled. ‘Then there’s inflation, the recession, negative equity. You know my house is worth less now than it was in 1989.’ I placed a second fiver on the desk. ‘Just look at those letters, what a mess.’

She turned away, pocketing the fivers, and began to shuffle the envelopes. I swivelled the ledger round my way. I found room 203, in the name of Mrs Peters. A flick back through the pages revealed another eight occasions. Mrs Peters checked in for days not nights. I made a note of the dates.

‘Does Mr Peters always join her?’ I asked.

The receptionist put the letters back and turned round.

Before she could answer the door opened and a woman swept in carrying an umbrella and pulling a scarf from her neck.

‘Sorry I’m late, Lynn.’ She lifted the counter top up and joined her colleague. ‘Flipping plumbers. Plonkers more like.’

‘I’m sorry we can’t help you,’ said Lynn very firmly. ‘We don’t use outside caterers.’ End of conversation.

I’d done my job, bar the photos. I hadn’t promised Jimmy Achebe photographic proof of what I discovered but it always helped to have hard evidence to back up the facts.

I loitered near the hotel for another hour watching people come and go and feeling faint from hunger before the man I’d seen emerged. He was in his forties, I guessed. Tall and slim. He wore an expensive camel coat and his brown hair was swept back from his face. He had a creamy complexion, clean-shaven. I got a shot of him in profile and another, full length, facing me. I swung the camera around and clicked the skyline just in case.