Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

Before I could say anything else she turned back to the matron. ‘Now, Gail, about Mrs Jarvis, I can come back later if you…’

‘No, we’re finished.’ Mrs Knight stood up, a signal for me to leave.

As I left, my hands curled round the bottle of drugs in my pocket. The bottle that Mrs Knight claimed had been put back. Mrs Knight the liar.

I drove to Moira’s that afternoon, on spec. I’d done a steady thirty lengths at the baths and it wasn’t far from there to her house in Fallowfield. I knew she sometimes got a break in between morning and afternoon surgery if she didn’t have too many home visits.

Her car was in the drive.

‘Yes?’ she barked before the door was fully open. ‘Sal! Come in, kettle’s boiled.’

‘I’ve brought the books back,’ I said.

‘Any use?’

‘Yeah, gave me the background.’

‘Tea, coffee, herbals?’

‘Coffee, please.’

She spooned coffee into mugs, poured in water. ‘Was it acute – the confusion?’

‘No, well, apparently not. Just pretty quick. But the woman’s even worse now. Been transferred to Kingsfield.’

‘Case over? Milk, sugar?’

‘Yes, no. Yes milk, no sugar. Case not over, not quite. The client still wants further enquiries. That’s the other reason I called.’

Moira handed me a mug. Cradled her own in her hand, leaning against the work surface.

I put the coffee down, pulled the bottle from my pocket. ‘My client thinks there may be some problem with these.’ I handed it to Moira. She read the label.

‘They don’t look the same as her own,’ I explained. ‘I told her different companies probably used different packaging.’

‘Can do,’ Moira agreed.

‘But if I could get them analysed. We think there could be some mistake; it would explain a lot.’ I paused. Would Moira offer or would I have to beg? I sipped coffee.

‘Take a few days,’ she said, ‘even if you did have access to a lab.’ Only the way she chewed her lip gave away the wind-up.

‘Moira!’

‘All right. Just don’t make a habit of it.’

Ray was collecting the children so I had the whole afternoon to play with. I drove up to Rusholme and bought some authentic ingredients for a good curry. Lady’s fingers and a whole bouquet of coriander – a far cry from the sprigs on sale at the supermarket. I stocked up on spices too, and a selection of pickles, chutneys and ready-made sauces.

I drove along to Longsight Market. Open-air stalls selling cheap clothes, household goods, gadgets and fabric. I bought some woolly tights and a corduroy pinafore dress for Maddie, and some cheap videotapes. I spent ten minutes hovering over a printed silk blouse before putting it back. I’d never get the chance to wear it. It was nightclub gear really, or the sort of thing for balmy nights on foreign holidays. Fat chance.

I dropped things off at home and gathered up my library books.

Spent a delicious hour browsing. Came away with a Frances Fyfield, a Walter Mosley, a James Lee Burke and the latest Minette Walters – well, the latest to reach the library shelves. Bliss. It was five when I got back home.

The police were waiting to see me.

I felt guilty. They knew I’d taken the tablets. Homelea had complained about me.

I took the police officers into the kitchen. Ray made himself scarce and went to join the children in the lounge.

There were two of them, plainclothes. A thick-set man with blue-black hair and very white skin, and a younger woman with a dark brown ponytail and a horsy face.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Crawshaw,’ said the man, ‘and this is Detective Sergeant Bell.’

She flipped open her notepad. He established my name, address and occupation. Not a twitch when I said I was a private investigator.

‘What’s it all about?’ I asked.

‘We’re investigating a serious crime and we think you may be able to help us with our enquiries. We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

He’d obviously done the public relations training. Lots of eye contact, a direct approach yet still managing to ignore my question.

‘Do you know a Mr James Achebe?’

Oh, no. My guts clenched. Something was terribly wrong. A serious crime, they’d said.

‘Yes, he’s… he was a client.’

‘When was this?’

‘I finished that job last week.’

‘And what was the nature of the work you did for him?’

‘I guarantee confidentiality to my clients.’

‘Yes, but in this situation,’ he snapped, momentarily losing it. Then he reeled back in the modern management style. ‘I’m sure you appreciate that there are certain situations where the right of client confidentiality no longer takes precedence.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but seeing as I don’t know what this situation is, what this serious crime is or who might have committed it I’m hardly in a position to judge really, am I?’

He sighed briskly. Tried another approach. ‘When did you last see Mr Achebe?’

I thought back. ‘Thursday last week.’

‘A week yesterday,’ he glanced at his watch and did the arithmetic, ‘the twenty-fourth?’ I could never do that. I hadn’t got a watch with a date on for a start.

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve not seen him since?’

‘No.’

‘Nor spoken to him on the phone?’

‘No.’

‘Has he communicated with you in any way? Sent letters, left messages?’

‘No, nothing.’ I tried to keep the defensive note from my voice but I was beginning to feel under suspicion myself.

Ray appeared at the kitchen door, the kids leaning close to him. Eyes agog at the police in the kitchen.

‘We’re going for chips,’ said Ray. ‘You?’ I nodded.

‘He’s not a policeman,’ said Tom scornfully, ‘he hasn’t got a hat.’ Ray ushered them out.

‘We need to know the nature of the job you did for Mr Achebe.’

‘But I’ve already-’

He interrupted. ‘You should be aware that Mr Achebe is being held in connection with enquiries into the death of his wife, Tina Achebe.’

‘Oh, Jesus!’ Tina, slight and smart in the check jacket. Jimmy, his whole body tense as he heard about her rendezvous at the hotel. ‘Oh, no. When did this happen? How did she…?’ A gunshot wound to the head? Or maybe suicide? Devastated by Jimmy’s newfound knowledge, wrists emptying in the bath, tablets by the bed, feet dangling.

‘Why did James Achebe hire you?’

I took a deep breath. ‘He was worried about his wife, about Tina. He thought she was keeping something from him.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘She wasn’t at home when he thought she would be. She lied about whether she’d been in or out. That sort of thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘I watched the house. One day I followed her. She went to town. To a hotel. She booked into a room. A man joined her there.’

‘And?’

I shrugged. ‘They were there for an hour or so then he left. A while later she left as well. Went home.’

‘When was this?’

‘Wednesday, the day before I saw Jimmy, Wednesday the twenty-third.’

The doorbell rang. I jerked in my seat with the shock of it. Feeling ridiculous I excused myself for a minute.

It was Sheila, complete with a blue Manchester Van Hire van stuffed full of gear.

‘Sheila, I’m sorry,’ I blurted, ‘I’m in the middle of something. I’ll have to leave you to it. Ray should be back soon, he’s just gone for chips.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she grinned. ‘Malcolm’s giving me a hand. We’ll just get on with it.’ Said Malcolm emerged from the far side of the van and gave a friendly wave.

Back in the kitchen Sergeant Bell had obviously been checking her notes. She riffled through her notebook to find her place. Inspector Crawshaw took up where we’d left off.