Cath Staincliffe: Towers of Silence

I consulted the A-Z and reordered my list of churchgoers according to location. Then I began my mission. Albert Fanu, who lived near Brook’s Bar, the big junction in Whalley Range, was my first port of call. A woman answered the door.

“Good afternoon. I’m a private investigator – my name’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m carrying out some confidential enquiries and I’d like to speak to your husband, is he in?”

She looked intrigued. “Yes, wait a minute.” She fetched Mr Fanu and then disappeared back into the house.

“Hello. My name’s Sal Kilkenny, I’m a private investigator. I’m carrying out some confidential enquiries for Miriam Johnstone’s daughter, Constance?” He nodded in recognition. “We’re trying to contact someone who called on Miriam the day she died – a gentleman from the church. I’m calling on people to try and find out who her caller was.”

He pulled his lips down, a facial shrug. “Not me. Pearl does all our visiting.”

I had the same sort of response from Trudeau Collins in Old Trafford. (He came across as a right flirt, vain into the bargain, that gave me some notion of why the sewing circle had made him the butt of their jokes). Mr Beatty, who had a flat over the shops on Mauldeth Road, needed me to go over my story twice before asserting that he definitely hadn’t called round on Miriam Johnstone. “I didn’t know her well,” he said. “Don’t know where she lived.”

And I agreed with Mrs Thompson – his hair was white.

Nicholas Bell, who lived off Ladybarn Lane was out at work at Ringway. His wife told me he’d be home at four unless there were any delays on the trains from the airport.

I promised to return later. “About five, I think.”

And if he said no, too? I could sense the lead turning into a cul-de-sac.

At school Maddie and Tom each had a batch of letters reminding us about the school play, the school Christmas Fair and the holidays timetable. Tom also had a painting of a Christmas Tree, the powder paint layered on in thick green lumps. It must have taken days to dry. I could feel the weight of the paint as I took it from him.

“That’s lovely, Tom.”

“It looks like snot,” Maddie observed.

“Hey,” I shot her a warning glance. She was never at her best after six hours in the classroom.

“We’ll put it up in the playroom,” I promised Tom.

“When can we have our real tree?” Maddie said, her voice dripping with impatience.

“I told you, next weekend.”

A blast of wind whipped the papers back and forth in my hand.

“Zip up,” I said, “it’s cold.”

No reaction.

Fine. The kids had internal temperature control systems that didn’t seem to bear any relation to external conditions. If they felt cold they’d do their coats up. Tom practically never felt the cold while Maddie veered from one extreme to the other. Boiling or freezing, usually at odds with other people’s responses. She’d once worn a thick Arran sweater all summer, even on the exciting three-day heat wave, insisting she was cold.

“Come on, then.”

There was an oyster sky, the setting sun licking clouds salmon and silver and grey. The street lights were coming on as we reached home. The dark and the wind setting off the warm glow of windows and the pretty twinkle of fairy lights. One particularly brash display that we passed had ribbons of lights in several colours including some very bright white ones which flashed around the windows like strobes spelling out NOEL and a neon centrepiece of a sleigh and Father Xmas.

“Wow!” Tom breathed.

“Sick,” Maddie said. It was the latest slang for approval. No longer bad or wicked or cool, this year everything was sick. And really ‘sick’ things were psychosomatic. I ask you.

As we reached home I could hear the board on the roof clattering again and once I was inside I scribbled a reminder on a post-it note, to tell Ray.

The house was warm and I didn’t feel much like setting out again but Rusholme wasn’t far and I’d be driving against the early rush hour traffic.

Ray was in the cellar. The place smelt delicious, the tang of wood and sawdust. He’d taken on three Christmas orders; two chests of drawers and a set of dining chairs. He was planing the drawers and a pile of curly shavings covered his feet. There was a fine wood dust over everything including Ray. It made him look older.

“How’s it going?”

“Oh, don’t ask.”

“Ah.”

“It’ll be a bloody miracle if I get any of this finished by Christmas.”

I made a noise to show sympathy but I knew he’d do the jobs. It might mean he was down here till the early hours every night but he’d get it done. He only ever completed things under pressure of a deadline and this panic was par for the course. If things didn’t have a deadline he’d work on them for months, constantly refining. Once I’d cottoned onto this I always made a point of telling my friends to give him a completion date. That way they got their stuff.

“I’m off now. Be about half-five when I’m back. Maybe sooner. Don’t wait though. Feed them before.”

“Save you some?”

“What is it?”

“Haven’t a clue, yet.”

“No, don’t bother.” It might be something that didn’t reheat well. I’d rather look forward to something I could rely on and make it myself. Or seeing I’d be in Rusholme, to visit the Johnstones, I could maybe treat myself to a vegetable bhuna or a prawn biriyani. I brightened at the thought and made sure I’d got a bit of money on me.

Connie Johnstone flung open the door, her face divided by a frown, opened her mouth to speak then, seeing me, slumped and shook her head.

“Come in. I thought it might be Roland. He’s not back.”

Martina, coming out of the back room, also looked anxious.

“I could come back tomorrow,” I suggested. “Do you think he’s forgotten?”

“No. He knows you’re coming. I reminded him this morning.” Her brow creased sharply again. “He may have got held up somewhere,” she said feebly and I could tell she didn’t believe it for a moment. So, what was really going on with Roland? I couldn’t work it out.

“If you want to talk to Martina?”

“Okay. It shouldn’t take long.”

We went into the back room and Martina used the remote to turn off the television. She sat down with me at the table, Connie leant against the door.

“I’ve been back to Heald Place,” I told them both, “asking the neighbours if anyone saw your mother come home for lunch. The police had already done that, as you know, and no one saw her. Then I realised that Martina and Roland were the obvious people to double-check with. You’d be able to say if there were signs of your mother being in that afternoon or home for lunch.”

Martina exhaled. “Right,” she said quietly. She closed her eyes. “I can’t remember anything.”

“You can’t remember?” I wasn’t clear what she meant. Was it all lost to her given the trauma that had followed or couldn’t she remember seeing any sign of Miriam’s presence?

“I don’t remember any dishes in the sink. The paper wasn’t there. She usually read the paper with her lunch.”

“What time did you get home?”

“About four,” she smoothed her hair back towards her bun.

“And Roland?”

“Same,” she told me.

“Who was home first?”

“Me.”

“Was it unusual for your mother to be out at that time?”

“Not really. I thought she’d be home soon to start…” She stopped abruptly, misery making her suck in her cheeks and clamp her lips tight against the quivering.

“Okay,” I said. My heart went out to her as she tried to compose herself. To lose a parent was painful enough. I still mourned the loss of my father who’d been dead for eight years but at least I’d been able to blame a disease for his death, it wasn’t at his own hand. With suicide what did you blame? Mental illness? The person who left you behind? Yourself for not being able to prevent it?