Cath Staincliffe: Towers of Silence

“It’s finished now anyway,” she said.

“Would you like a video then?”

They finally agreed on Winnie The Pooh and I went back to the phone and returned the Johnstones’ call.

It was Connie who answered.

“I’ve had a look at the file you left and a chance to think about it. I’m afraid I still agree with the official version of events, going on the evidence available. And if I did do any work for you I’d want that to be understood.”

“Oh,” she said cautiously.

“Mr Dowley suggested I could try and establish more about your mother’s movements during the Thursday. Try to fill in some of the gaps in the police account. There’s quite a lot of time unaccounted for when no one knows where she was, is that right?”

“Yes, nothing after lunchtime. After she left the community centre. The police asked her neighbours if they’d seen her and I think that’s all. I don’t think they spoke to anyone else.”

There was no reason to. Suicide isn’t a crime. And once it was clearly a suicide then there would be no need for the police to look any further.

“They wouldn’t have,” I said. “But if further information about those missing hours is what you want then I can take the case on that basis but only on that basis. You may want to discuss it with the family?”

“No, we all agree. We talked about it last night after we’d seen you. Patrick told us what he’d said.”

“And you’d be happy with that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I have a basic contract which I use and we’ll need to agree on an initial number of hours and fee. And I should make it clear that I can’t guarantee I’ll find any information. All I can do is look and use my professional skills to try and find out where she was, how she got to town and so on but I might not get anywhere. There’s always that risk. I’ll explore all the leads I can but at the end of the day you might not know any more.”

“Yeah, but we’ll have tried and anything would help,” she said flatly.

We agreed that I would call the following evening, when they would all be at home.

Connie and Patrick had a house on one of the streets tucked away behind Wilmslow Road in Rusholme – the famous curry mile. That December evening the place was awash with neon, fragrant with the mouth-watering smell of pungent spices, crammed with traffic and already busy with the first wave of customers, some of them big groups obviously out for the work’s Christmas party; it was the fake antlers and pointy red hats with white trim that gave it away. It would get busier still when the pubs emptied later and the streets would be thronging with revellers after that final part of the night-out ritual – the curry that followed the last drink. After the clubs there would be another influx of people ravenous for Rogan Josh, Chicken Korma and King Prawn Madras.

In amongst the curry houses were the other Asian shops, windows shimmering with saris in vibrant shades: coral, emerald, vermilion and royal blue; displays of glittering gold and silver jewellery, travel shops and banks, video and music outlets, sweet houses with windows piled high with pastel coloured treats like sculptures in coconut, sugar and dough, grocers with tables full of coriander, ladies fingers and sweet potatoes, mangoes and passion fruits.

At each restaurant, a man stood in the doorway, enticing customers in, giving them the low-down on the superiority of the chef, the awards the place had won, the specials on the menu. Smiling, beckoning, talking up the food. Competition was fierce but there always seemed enough customers to go around.

Maddie loved coming here for a curry, enchanted by everything from the glittering lights and the after dinner cachou sweets to the pretty multicoloured rice and the elephant shaped cocktail stirrer in the drinks. She liked the food too.

I found the house but there was no parking space nearby. I drove a little until I found a gap on an adjoining street. The terraced houses were quite large, many had the signs of multiple occupancy – a row of bells, several wheelie bins, neglected gardens, grubby windows with torn or badly hung curtains. In among these were smarter lets where the landlords had kept up the maintenance and a neat plaque advertised the management company and then there were the private family houses not adapted into flats or bedsits, looking settled and usually well looked after.

Connie Johnstone’s home was one of these. The windows weren’t new uPVC but had recently been painted, and a winter window box with conifers, pansies and heathers provided a splash of colour at the bay window.

Patrick let me in. I left my coat on the pegs in the hallway and then went on through to the back room with him. They were all there. Martina and Roland sat on a large russet-coloured sofa opposite the television, Connie at a beech dining table in the first part of the room. I could smell coffee and a sweeter smell – fabric conditioner from a blanket drying on a rack by the radiator. The walls were painted pale terracotta with cream above the picture rail and on the ceiling. Thick curtains in a darker terracotta covered the window at the rear. Pale wood shelves beside the television held large church candles, a large piece of driftwood, some pebbles. A painting hung opposite the door, blocks of cream, gold and apricot, abstract but it made me think of buildings on a hillside. There was an air of tension in the atmosphere and I wondered whether I had interrupted a family row.

I put the folder down along with my own file and took a chair next to Connie.

“You can go do your homework,” she said to the other two. “We’ll call you if we need you.” They seemed glad to escape and the atmosphere certainly lightened once they’d gone.

Over the next hour I worked through all the known facts about Miriam Johnstone: her friends, routines, contacts, the places she visited, where she shopped and worshipped, her doctor, hairdresser and dentist. Connie gave me her mother’s address and phone book and her small appointments diary. I confirmed that the photo of Miriam was dated correctly and that she hadn’t changed her appearance substantially since it was taken. I would need to make copies of it to show to people.

I wrote down a potted history of her life and made a sketch of the known and close family tree; it was quite a small family. Miriam had no brothers or sisters though there were cousins still in Jamaica. She was fifty years old when she died. Mr Johnstone had left them while Miriam was carrying Roland.

Miriam had stopped working at St Mary’s after her last time in psychiatric hospital, two years previously. She led a frugal life. Connie could help out with unforseen expenses. Martina had a Saturday job at British Home Stores. Martina and Roland had moved in with Connie and Patrick the night of their mother’s death.

“It was awful,” Connie closed her eyes at the memory.

I asked them to tell me about their last visit to Miriam.

“There was nothing out of the ordinary,” said Patrick.

“She was fine,” said Connie. “She’d made a big meal and we cleared the plates. We all watched Coronation Street with her and then we left.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Just stuff,” she said, “someone she knew, their son was auditioning for a part in Coronation Street , so she was full of that.”

“And her feet,” Patrick said.

Connie smiled. “In-growing toe nails. She would moan about them but she loved her fancy shoes. She hated flat shoes, anything wide and sensible, reminded her of working at the hospital, she always wanted to look smart and she had a pair of shoes for every outfit.”

“Anything else, any news, any worries?”

“Nothing,” she sighed and ran both hands over the rows in her hair, “we’ve gone over it so many times.”