Cath Staincliffe: Towers of Silence

“What’s the point?” Martina repeated.

“You think there could be some racial element?”

“She was a black woman,” Connie said.

“Had anyone been causing her any trouble?”

She shook her head again.

“Nothing? Threats, damage to property, hate mail?”

“No. What I mean is the police, that’s why they didn’t do much, didn’t listen to us. Because she was black.”

I nodded. It was plausible. Senior officers had recently acknowledged that there was institutionalised racism in the force. Black and Asian communities had known it for years and had little faith in the police. They didn’t trust them and there’d been a sorry stream of cases, including that of Stephen Lawrence, which demonstrated police failure and incompetence in serving black citizens.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry about your mother’s death. Maybe the police could have done more but I don’t think it would have changed the verdict. If you could give me any stronger reason for investigating it I’d be happy to help but everything points to suicide.”

Connie rolled her eyes in impatience and inhaled. “She was fine when we last saw her,” she looked straight at me, spoke slowly to emphasise her points, “and she had a phobia of heights, high buildings. She even used to swap her duties with the other orderlies at the hospital so she wouldn’t have to do the higher floors.” She looked away sharply, I could see the tears of frustration glittering in her eyes.

“When she did get depressed, how quickly did it come on?”

“A few days.”

“Is it impossible that she was okay on the Wednesday and became ill on the Thursday?”

“It’s not likely.”

“Had she tried to harm herself before.”

I waited for her reply. “No.”

“We just want to know what happened,” Patrick tried.

“I think the coroner’s verdict is the closest you’re going to get. I’m sorry if that sounds hard but I don’t think I can do anything for you. If there was anything more concrete to go on… but as it is…”

“Think about it,” Patrick said, his face flushing lightly. “Don’t decide now, take a little time, maybe.”

“What’s the point?” Martina stood. I guessed she was about seventeen, tall and skinny. She was like her sister but she wore her hair pulled back in a bun. “She’s only going to say no again.”

Roland rose too, stuffing his large hands into his pockets, staring resolutely at the wall. He wore school uniform and had the awkward look of a boy growing into his body. His hair was twisted into small tufts.

“Look, in all honesty, the police saw nothing suspicious, found nothing. And from what you’ve told me I agree with them.”

“They didn’t even bother. They didn’t care. How did she get there? They never explained that.” Connie blurted out. “She didn’t drive. If she was depressed – and I don’t buy that – then she’d stay home. She’d retreat not go off into town. She wouldn’t have been up to getting on a bus. And she would never, never, never have gone up to the fifth floor of a building and thrown herself off.” Her words reverberated round the small room.

I waited a beat. I wanted to help if I could, but all I was hearing was her insistence that it couldn’t be suicide. She was grieving, maybe in denial. It didn’t make sense, she claimed, she wanted to know why. What if there was no reason? No logical explanation? “Hiring someone like me isn’t necessarily going to answer those questions. I could launch an investigation and find nothing and you’d be wasting your money.”

“It’s not about money,” Connie said, a frown furrowing her brow, “it’s about…” she broke off, wrestling her emotions.

“I want to be straight with you,” I said. “It sounds like you want me to prove something suspicious about your mother’s death but from my point of view there’s really nothing to back that up and I wouldn’t be happy working for you with that expectation there. I’d be just as likely to confirm the inquest verdict. But I don’t think that’s what you want, is it?”

No one spoke.

“I’m sorry. There are other agencies, obviously, but can I suggest if you do approach anyone that you agree on a fixed number of hours and a fixed rate.”

There were plenty of rip-off merchants about who would milk the Johnstones for all they had.

Connie rose, avoiding eye contact. Patrick took the folder from her. The four of them walked up the steps and along the hall to the front door. Their shoulders were set and the air stiff with tension.

The teenagers walked down the path, Connie muttered a goodbye and followed. Patrick hung back. When they were out of earshot he turned to me.

“Will you not think this over, give us an answer tomorrow.”

I opened my mouth to refuse but he barged on.

“Connie had to identify her mother. She had to do it by looking at her hands. Things were that bad.”

Oh God. I didn’t need to hear this.

“Connie can’t accept it. The police did nothing. If we just knew more about those missing hours. Even if all you could do was fill in some of that last day, that would really help. It wouldn’t explain everything but it might tell us something of what Miriam was doing. We’d have a bit more of the picture. Surely, you could do that?”

That wasn’t what Connie had asked. I shook my head slowly.

“Aw, Jesus,” he cried out his voice strained. “Where’s the bloody harm in it?” He pinched the top of his nose near the glasses. Blew out. “Look, we’ll ring tomorrow. Think about it.” He pushed the folder at me. I took it. To refuse that would have been heartless.

“We’ll ring tomorrow,” he said again and turned away. He walked down the path pulling up his collar against the cold, his shoulders rounded, head thrust forward.

“Where’s the bloody harm in it?”

It’s only a few minutes walk home from the office. I rent the basement room from the Dobson family who occupy the rest of the house. When I first set up as a private investigator I wanted to have some separation between home and work; a cheap room to meet my clients in and store my paperwork. When I knocked on doors looking for a space, the Dobsons liked the idea of having a sleuth in the cellar. Not only did I pay them for that, I also regularly used their older daughters for baby-sitting when Ray wasn’t home to look after the children. Selina Dobson was obliging me that night. I found her on the sofa, between Tom and Maddie transfixed by a Pokemon cartoon. I thanked and paid her, once the programme finished, and set about making tea. Tagliatelle and tuna sauce. Just for the three of us; I knew Ray would be late back.

It was a blustery evening, the wind whipping the trees and shrubs about. A clatter from the back garden sent me out to investigate. Light spilt out from the lounge and the kitchen, illuminating an empty plant pot skipping over the grass. I caught it soon enough. A small maple I had in a pot had been blown over too. I moved that to the corner between the house and the fence we share with next door, to give it more shelter.

One or two stars glimmered dimly above but that was it. Starry nights are rare in the city. Not just because of the frequent cloud cover – Manchester aka Rainy City – but also because of the bright lights that illuminate the streets, the clubs and the buildings and drench the heavens. As I headed for the door at the side of the house I could hear more clattering, from above. I peered up at the house. It was hard to tell in the dark, but it seemed to be the wood that ran along the edge of the roof. Another job for the list. The old Victorian semi boasts big rooms, a big garden and big bills. To be fair, the owner who lectures in Australia pays for all the maintenance but it can take several weeks to come through and my overdraft suffers.