Cath Staincliffe - Towers of Silence

“I can’t agree with you,” he said. “And I don’t think wild allegations about the conduct of the enquiry will help you get a fair hearing. As for this new information I’ll discuss it with my colleagues in the unit and a decision will be made as to whether any further enquiries need to be made.” His eyes were glazing over; he’d heard all he wanted to and now he wanted rid of me.

“And they might not be?”

“Hard to say. What you’ve got is pretty shaky. To be frank there is always a question of priorities and resources.”

“Murder must be a pretty high priority.”

“Oh, yes. But what you’ve got is barely grounds for reopening a case. If it was in my hands I’d want a word with this Mr Cliff again, particularly if he’s been giving false information. But it doesn’t follow that there’d be a fresh investigation launched. It may be that there’s more of a case to make on the sexual abuse allegations. I suggest you discuss it with social services as you planned and meanwhile I’ll have a word at this end.”

“When?”

His jaw tightened a fraction. “As soon as someone from the initial investigation is back from leave.”

“When will that be?”

“I’ll have to check.”

“Will you ring me, let me know what they say?” I was determined to hound them until I had a response.

He considered this.

“I’ll need to know if I’m talking to social services, won’t I?”

“You can ring here,” he said. “But I suggest you leave it till near the end of the week.”

“And who should I ask for?”

“You can ask for me,” he said crisply.

And that was it.

The clock would creep round slowly, the world would keep turning, Eddie Cliff would go about his business and at some point the police would consider their response. I’d wanted action, swift and decisive, vindication, recognition. But it doesn’t work like that. Not in those circumstances. And I was haunted by the notion that he might just get away with it all. That he could go on because he was too clever and those he hurt too afraid to stop him.

From the car I called Connie Johnstone.

“I was going to ring you,” she said. “I’d not heard anything.”

“Yes. I need to see you. Can you do it tomorrow, can you come to the office?”

“When?”

Laura and I were taking the kids out at some point. We’d promised. I’d been neglecting them at weekends. If we were to go anywhere the morning would be better for that. It would be dark early.

“About two?”

“Yes, Martina has a dance class so it would be just me and Patrick.”

“That would be better actually.”

“Have you managed to find out any more?” I heard the anticipation in her voice.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” It was impossible to say anything else without launching into a full blown account.

I rang Roland on his mobile and told him I’d be seeing Connie and Patrick the following afternoon.

“And you’re gonna tell them about my dad?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet.,

“It’ll be okay,” I said, “There’s a lot of other stuff going on, Roland. The thing with your dad, it’s not going to be that important really.”

I finished the call and sat for a few moments, my heart leaden in my chest. I thought of Miriam getting into Eddie’s car, the drive to Cannon Street. Why there? Driving up the ramps to the top floor. Miriam beside him, quiet or crying or talking, perhaps trying to make sense of it all. Eddie opening the car door, her door, pulling her, lifting her, Miriam clutching her handbag, rendered senseless by her crippling fear of heights, twisting to get away but not enough strength, like a dream, running in sand…

I rubbed at my face, shook my head in an effort to clear the images. I took a couple of slow breaths and then started the car and drove to my office. Harry had sent me an email and a pile of attachments. I opened these in turn and speed-read them. They were cuttings from newspapers, most of them. References to a Cliff Edwards, manager of a residential home in Exeter, and a Clive Edmonds, project worker at a new arts centre for people with learning difficulties in Shrewsbury, a picture showed ‘Clive’ and three clients holding pottery they had made. There were also several items on Eddie Cliff, who was a minor golfing celebrity in the eighties and bore no resemblance to the man I knew and lastly a feature on Clifford Eddy receiving a civic award for work in the community from Bristol City Council. The same man, variations on a name, a list of jobs each giving him access to vulnerable girls and women, putting him in a position of trust and of power.

If the police did nothing and social services were willing to begin an inquiry I could give them this lot to start with.

While Ray went shopping I got the Christmas decorations and the cast iron tree stand out from the cellar. The children helped me sort through what we had, we threw away some broken ornaments. The fairy lights still worked. I cleared a space for the tree in the corner of the lounge.

My mobile began to tweet.

“Sal Kilkenny.”

“This is Mrs Wood. You wished to talk to me.”

My pulse quickened. “Yes. In confidence.”

“Of course. You mentioned a complaint?” She didn’t sound happy about it.

“Yes.”

“Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin’s run away…”

“Shush,” I hissed at the children and pointed to the play room.

“Sorry,” I went on, “I’m afraid it’s very serious and I don’t want to speak out of turn but it involves Eddie Cliff. I’ve actually been to the police about it this afternoon though it might also be an issue for social services. I wanted to get your details, as chair of the management, so that I can pass them on to the authorities. It’s out of my hands now.”

“Good grief,” she said. “What’s going on?”

I took a deep breath. “There may have been some incidents of sexual abuse.”

“Surely not,” she said sharply. “Eddie! Have you any proof?”

“It’s hearsay at the moment,” I admitted. “I’m convinced there’s substance behind it and I realise how important it is that it’s dealt with properly. There have been allegations in the past.”

“In the past?”

“There were similar incidents at Horizons in Hull where he worked.”

“But they gave us references.”

“He forged them.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“I’ve spoken to his former employer. Yes.”

“This is awful,” she said.

“I know. And there’s more… other… suspicions that I’ve asked the police to look into.”

“What?”

“Eddie Cliff lied to the police when they were investigating Miriam Johnstone’s death.”

“The lady who committed suicide?”

“That’s right. The police may want to speak to him again. They haven’t decided yet.”

“Why would he lie? Exactly what are you suggesting?” she demanded.

“Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer,” the kids began, their voices carrying and becoming louder; they were out of sight so I couldn’t gesture to them to shut up. I bent down trying to shield the phone with my body.

“He may have had some involvement. It’s possible.”

“What sort of involvement?”

I didn’t want to spell it out. Until there was solid evidence against him I sensed she would be protective of him. “I think he may know more about what happened than he is saying. He was the last person to see Miriam alive.”

“You think he was a witness?”

Worse. “Yes,” I said.

“I can’t believe it,” she said, “any of it. Of all the people I’ve worked with in my time… there’s never been any concerns expressed. Quite the reverse and then this.”