Cath Staincliffe: Stone Cold Red Hot

One young woman, a fundamental Christian, cornered me later. “Sal, have you really thought about what you’re doing?”

I was too shocked at her audacity to stop her before she launched into a speech about children needing fathers, and how there were places that could support someone in my position until I had the baby. When she got to the part about how many couples desperately wanted a baby and couldn’t have one, I turned on my heels and walked away. I was shaking and horrified to find myself so upset. I blamed it on my hormones. I was also angry that I hadn’t challenged her opinions on the spot and my mind went round and round working out succinct arguments and powerful statements that I should have flung back at her.

In the intervening years there had been occasional echoes of that disapproval from people I’d met and now and again the tabloid press or the government of the day would start demonising single-parents for reasons best known to themselves. How much worse might it have been for Jennifer two decades earlier?

Had she had the baby? Had she kept it? So many possibilities. I could feel my curiosity intensifying. I smiled to myself as I wiped down the sink. Some cases draw you in: others, I do well, competently, professionally but they don’t reach out in the same way. Already I was intrigued by Jennifer Pickering. I wanted to know her story. If I could unravel it there would be personal satisfaction along with the sense of a job well done. I couldn’t wait to hear from Roger Pickering. I was hooked.

He came with a printed list of names, addresses, phone numbers and notes. His initial awkwardness evaporated as we began working through the list. Two of the people were neighbours; Mrs Clerkenwell, who still lived in the adjoining semi, “she always had dogs, we used to walk them”, and Mr and Mrs Shuttle who had lived at the other side and had moved away, to Bradford. He didn’t have a forwarding address for them.

“I’ve not had a chance to check if they are still in Bradford,” he said, “I don’t know if they’ll be able to tell you very much but they knew her as well as any of the other neighbours.”

There were three friends listed, “Lisa Monroe, she lived at the old vicarage on the corner and her parents are still there. They gave me this number for her in Chester. She’s Lisa MacNeice now. The other two, Caroline Cunningham and Frances Delaney, the Monroes told me their names. Frances Delaney they think she’s still in Manchester but they don’t know where Caroline is now, Lisa might.”

“Do you remember them?”

“Vaguely, more as a gang than individually. Like I said they didn’t come round to our house very often. But I think I was at school with one of Caroline’s brothers, there was a Mick Cunningham in my year.”

Roger had added the number of Jennifer’s old school. Had the girls been at school together?

“Not Frances, she went to the Catholic school – St Anne’s.”

He’d brought a photograph of Jennifer as well. All dressed up to go out by the look of it; purple maxi skirt, black skinny rib sweater. She had long brown hair, parted in the centre, it gave her a sleek look. She was smiling. I studied her face; it was quite delicate, thin nose, small mouth, her eyes seemed large but that could have been the effect of the dark make-up. I tried to imagine how she would look now she’d aged twenty odd years. Difficult. So much would depend on how she dressed, how she wore her hair, if she wore glasses, jewellery, make-up.

Roger cleared his throat, “Could you get this copied? There aren’t many decent photos of her.” He shrugged, a little embarrassed, “well, this is the only one I’ve got.”

“Yes, I can get some photocopies done, give you it back next time we meet.”

I told him I would be in touch after talking to some of the people on the list and let him know what progress I’d made.

After I’d seen him out I made myself a cup of coffee and then got busy on the phone. Mrs Clerkenwell could see me that same afternoon.

There was an answer machine on at Lisa MacNeice’s. I asked her to return my call without going into any details.

Roger hadn’t given me a number for the other neighbours; the Shuttles. However I did find a number for them – when I’d set up the business I’d invested in phone directories for the main northern cities as I expected at times my cases would take me to Leeds or Liverpool and they’d be useful resources. I checked the phone book for Bradford and found just one Shuttle. Felt like my lucky day (though I couldn’t be dead certain it was the same couple). I wrote the number and address in my notebook for future reference. As they were no longer in the area and had moved away years ago I decided to wait before following them up. Jennifer’s friends were much more likely to have heard from her.

I got a call then from Mandy Bellows at the Neighbour Nuisance Unit at Manchester City Council. I’d done a bit of surveillance work for them the previous year, helping to gather evidence that they could use to take an anti-social tenant to court.

“Sal, how are you?”

“Fine, and you?”

“Too busy, half the team’s off ill with some nasty little virus and the rest of us are holding the fort. The reason I rang you,” she continued, “I’ve some clients suffering harassment, general unpleasantness from the neighbours. I want to see if we can gather enough firm evidence to go to court. Can you pop in on Thursday to talk about it?”

“Yes, morning?”

“Good, ten o’clock?”

“Yes, see you then.”

More work, more money. It was rare that I was only working on one case at a time and when I did there were gaps in my working day while I waited to interview people or receive replies to enquiries I made. It was much better when I’d a few things on the go at once and it also meant I was nearer to making a decent living out of the job. (Not good, just decent as in free of debts). It was a state I aspired to and achieved now and again, but never for long.

I glanced at the clock. There was just time to make a note of the areas I wanted to cover with Mrs Clerkenwell and pop home for a sandwich before our appointment. I was looking forward to finding out some more about Jennifer Pickering. I didn’t expect any hot tips as to where she was now but I hoped to learn a little about how she had been back then; a young girl about to fly the nest. What had she been expecting when she’d left for university? Was she anxious about it or eager? Had the Pickerings ever confided in Mrs Clerkenwell about what Jennifer had done or whether she had been in touch? I had no shortage of questions. I hoped that she would be able to answer at least some of them.

Heaton Mersey, the district where the Pickerings lived, isn’t far from Withington so I made the journey on my bicycle. That and swimming are the only regular exercise I get. Now and again I practise sprinting as a very useful skill for a private investigator to possess but I’m afraid I don’t do it as often as I should. Still I guess I could do a reasonable dash in the Mum’s 100 metres at school’s sports day – if they had a sports day.

The houses were good sized Edwardian semis, brick built, with tall, bay windows and sizable front gardens. Each had a driveway and garage. The gardens were well-tended. The neighbourhood looked settled, comfortable. Several windows sported Home Watch stickers.

I rang the bell for Mrs Clerkenwell and there was a burst of barking from inside. While I waited I looked at the adjoining house hoping to catch a glimpse of Mrs Pickering. There were no signs of life.

Mrs Clerkenwell opened her door. I introduced myself.

“Come in, I’ve shut the dogs in the garden, they get delirious over new people. Bring your bike in.”