Cath Staincliffe - Towers of Silence

I nodded. “Martina and Roland would have seen her the next day?”

“Yes, before school. Martina’s at sixth form college and Roland’s doing GCSEs. They both left around eight o’ clock.”

“And she was okay then?”

“Yes.”

“No upset, no signs of anxiety?”

Connie shook her head.

“Would she try to hide it from them?”

“Well, yes. If she was a bit down then yes she would. But if it was worse then she wouldn’t have the strength to do that. But she was managing it all fine. It had been two years since her last bad spell and she hadn’t needed tablets for the last six months.”

I made more notes. “So, we know she went to the community centre that morning.”

“Her craft club.”

“Tell me about that.”

“She loved it. They had a project, it was aimed at people who maybe needed a little support, people like Ma or people who were on their own. It was quite a mix, some unemployed, some pensioners. The worker there, Eddie, he’s built it up, got them some Lottery funding so they can do more things. He spoke at the service for her.”

“He was as shocked as we were,” Patrick said.

“Yes, talk to him. He’ll tell you she was perfectly all right.”

“Right. And she left there about midday?”

“Yes.”

“That was the last anyone saw of her?”

Connie nodded. One hand tightened over the other.

I gave them the contract and we agreed I’d do two days work and then prepare a report.

“Before I go, could I have a word with Martina and Roland?”

Connie went to fetch them and Patrick nodded at the mass of papers on the table. “Where will you start?”

“The obvious places, talk to people at the craft club, her neighbours, contact friends and people on the list and in her book. No one at the funeral said they’d seen her?”

“No, we weren’t going round asking people but I think they’d have said, don’t you?”

“We might want to try an advert in the paper; that can sometimes bring people forward.”

“Like Crimestoppers?”

“Yes,” I smiled, “without the crime.”

Martina and Roland came in and hovered by the table.

“I won’t keep you long, your sister’s told me all she can. Is there anything either of you’ve thought of, anything that might be useful for me to know?”

Roland shook his head, blinked at me, looked away, sad.

“No,” said Martina.

“What about the Thursday morning, you both saw her before school?”

They both nodded.

“And she seemed fine then?”

“Yeah,” Martina said, “she was.”

“That day or the days before, was there anything unusual, anything a bit off key?”

Roland shook his head.

“There wasn’t anything like that,” said Martina.

I turned back to Connie. “Your father left. Has there been any contact since?”

I knew he wasn’t on the list they’d given me.

Her face hardened, Patrick stiffened. Roland actually looked shocked as though I’d said something obscene. His eyes widened with alarm and his face blanched. Then he blinked and blanked his expression. I’d obviously put my foot right in it.

“He made her ill,” Connie said, “leaving when he did, leaving like that. We don’t talk about him.”

“And you don’t know where he is?”

“No.”

That was that then. Mr Johnstone was taboo. But their reaction was so hostile I wondered whether there was any more to it? Had he just abandoned them – or was there anything else?

“Okay. Thank you.” I began to gather my notes. Roland ducked out of the room followed by his sister.

Patrick and Connie saw me out. It was freezing, black ice glinted dangerously on the pavement. I walked as briskly as I dared to the car. I couldn’t guess whether I’d find anything or not but I’d do my best. Would anyone remember seeing Miriam? It’s easy to get lost in the city if you want to. Easy to move unnoticed through the crowds. Though I hadn’t said so to the Johnstones I would go there first, put myself at the scene where Miriam died. I’d try to figure out how she got there, imagine the final stages of her bleak journey, the last steps she took before her fall to oblivion. It wasn’t an attractive prospect and I might not learn anything from it but it was part of the job and I wouldn’t be behaving professionally if I only did the easy bits. Being thorough, checking and rechecking, attention to details – it’s often the mundane that brings illumination rather than the dramatic. Some trails start at the beginning and others begin at the end

“Poor woman.” My friend and confidante Diane generally got to hear about my cases and could be trusted never to breathe a word to anyone else. “Imagine jumping. I’d take pills if I ever got to that point.”

“How do you know, though? If you’re so distressed that all you want to do is stop the pain.”

“But you’d do whatever was easier, near at hand.”

Farmers cradling shotguns, men sitting in fume-filled cars, lads hanging by a belt. ‘Time for tea, Gary …’ I shuddered.

She changed the subject. “Stuart?” Reached out and poured herself some more wine.

“Is back from Fuerteventura.”

“Tanned?”

“Mmm. All over.”

She giggled. “Are you going to thank me now, Sal?”

“Thank you? No way! I still haven’t forgiven you. You should have asked before doing your matchmaking number.”

“But it’s obviously a great match.”

“It’s still so new. Strange. It’s nice but who knows…” I took a drink, Tempranillo, savoured the berry rich taste.

“Did you miss him, though?” she probed.

Did I? “He was only gone a week. Sometimes we don’t see each other from one week to the next. He has his kids every weekend and then he has to go into the bar some nights and sort things out, if there’s any problems or staff off. It’s a long slow process. I don’t know if we’re right for each other.”

She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes.

“You can’t rush these things,” I protested. “I like him but…”

“What?”

“Just but… there shouldn’t be a but should there?”

“-but there is.”

“When I work it out I’ll let you know.”

“What are his kids like?”

“Still not met them. Feels too soon. I’ve not told Maddie about him either. We agreed at the start that we’d keep the families to one side until we knew whether things would develop. I can imagine it being quite hard for Maddie, me having a boyfriend, she’s not exactly had to share me before, I didn’t want to involve her when it might just be a short-term thing.”

“You said Tom’s all right with Laura.”

“Tom’s not Maddie.” The children were opposites. In everything from colouring to character. “And I’m not Ray.”

As if on cue we heard Ray come in the front door and peer round into the lounge, his dark curly hair glistened with rain drops. He’d grown a neat goatee in the last few weeks, along with his moustache it made him looked like some spaghetti western bandit. “Hiya, Diane. Everything okay?” he asked me.

“Yep. Your mum rang I told her you’d be late.”

“Ta.”

“And Digger’s been out in the front garden.”

“Oh, great. It’s like a monsoon out there without the heat.” Diane groaned. She’d come on her bike.

“See you later.” Ray left us.

“I’d better make tracks.” She stood up and stretched, filling the space in front of the fireplace. Diane was a big woman with a flamboyant dress sense, an artist who experimented with colour and shape on her clothing and her hair as well as in her work.

“I won’t see you till New Year, will I?” I said.