Cath Staincliffe: Towers of Silence

I tried a biscuit. Crunchy and intensely sweet.

“I was wondering about that last night, about the money,” she said apologetically.” When we went to college about this they looked at his attendance record and the days that he went missing he hadn’t even been into registration.”

“So if he gets to college he stays there.”

“Seems so.”

“That helps. And these times when he’s not come home? Does that happen after skipping college?”

She nodded. “Yes, he just doesn’t come home for tea. And once or twice he’s gone off after tea. Won’t say where he’s going and stays out all hours.”

“Are there any problems at home?”

“No,” she said.

“Is your husband worried as well?”

“Oh, yes. He gets wound up about it. He tends to shout but that doesn’t get us anywhere.”

“He shouts at Adam?”

“Has done, but don’t get me wrong, he’s a very caring father. He’s tried talking to him but he gets the same response as I do. Of course he’s not here as much as I am so he doesn’t have to deal with it day after day.” Worry pulled her mouth down at the corners and she blinked a couple of times.

“He works away, you said?”

“Monday to Thursday, occasional weekends. He’s got an enormous area to cover. He’d like to be home more but it goes with the job.

“What about the bullying, at Burnage High.”

“That was awful. There were three of them and they just picked on Adam. We still don’t know why. We were in and out of school, meetings and letters. The school kept telling us it was sorted and then I’d find Adam in tears and they’d have got at him again. It was ridiculous. In the end we got him transferred. We should have done it sooner. Mind you he didn’t tell us for long enough. Him being the eldest, he’s always been very responsible, self-reliant, and I think he was trying to protect me, not that I need protecting.” She gave a sad smile.

“It must have been awful.” I imagined my Maddie being persecuted by bullies. How fiercely I’d want to protect her and how sick I’d feel if I failed.

“And now…” She shook her head. “It really is out of character. I think that’s what makes it so difficult. If it was Penny I could understand it. But Adam.”

“Okay. Time and money. I’ll leave you my mobile number and you ring me if Adam goes off after tea. In addition I’ll arrange my schedule so I can follow him from home some mornings and see if he goes into college. We’ll take it from there and we’ve agreed a ceiling of eight hours for now.”

She winced. Obviously the money was going to be hard to find.

“You can pay in weekly instalments if that helps.”

“It might,” she acknowledged, “thank you. I realise you might find out things that are… awkward for us, but at least now I feel I’m doing something about it instead of driving myself mad with worry.”

“He may be just testing you, taking risks, pushing the limits, trying to break away a bit. Being a teenager.”

“Yes. And I can deal with that, if that’s all it is. It’d be easier if he was slamming doors and coming in plastered and refusing to clean his room but…” she broke off and turned to me again, her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s the secrecy I can’t bear, the secrecy and the silence.”

On October 6th at five o’ clock at the start of the rush hour Miriam Johnstone had flung herself from the top level of the Arndale Centre car park and fallen to her death.

I peered down, looking at the traffic on Cannon Street and the pedestrians dotted along the pavements. She had landed on the road side. It had been busy but she had not hit anyone or anything – only the ground. Connie had to identify her mother. She had to do it by looking at her hands .

I swallowed. Tried to imagine the strength of purpose or the level of desolation that drove her to come here, to pull herself up the concrete wall, to climb over the railings, lean forward, release her grip. Did she look down that moment before she plummeted? Or up to the skies? Did she think of her children? Of her God? Did she cry out or was she mute? I shuddered, felt dizzy, a swirl of unease circled in my stomach. She had to do it by looking at her hands. Things were that bad .

I took a step back, tightened my scarf against the wind, there was a churlish sky threatening more bad weather. I looked carefully at the structure. There wasn’t that much space between the top of the railings and the low concrete ceiling. Enough for the average person to climb through but it would have been an awkward manoeuvre.

Why here? Did this place have some significance for Miriam? It was near the bus station so perhaps that’s how she had travelled to town. Had they found a bus ticket in her coat or handbag?

I turned and surveyed the car park. It was full of vehicles but there was a feeling of desertion here. The low concrete roof, the smell of oil, the dim light, the ranks of cars, silent, waiting. Not a place to linger. In one corner I spotted the CCTV camera. Had that been checked? Surely the police would have looked at it. I couldn’t recall any reference to it in the papers I’d had from Connie. Wasn’t it likely that at that time of day the place would be busier, people returning to their cars after work? But no one had seen her jump. Had she been controlled enough to wait until the coast was clear? Determined that no one should try and stop her?

I moved close to the parapet again. Leant on the railings and looked down, watched the people sliding past each other without contact. Strangers in the city. My mouth was dry. I stared at the ground, five storeys below, my head swam. When Miriam had let go, on the cusp of her descent, had she felt a flicker of relief? Felt peace approaching or terror thrilling in her veins? Or nothing? Save the wind on her face and the pulse in her ears?

A shout and a whoop of laughter made my nerves start and my heart leap. Down on Cannon Street two young women clutched each other giggling helplessly. All the world to live for. I turned away.

The man in the booth at the car park entrance pulled a face when I asked about CCTV footage.

“Hang on,” he rasped, he struggled to his feet and gestured to the side of the booth. “Come in,” he said irritably. He opened the door and waved me into the room. An ashtray full of fag ends sat on the table beside the console of screens. He sat and leant forward, pressed the switch for the microphone, his fingers were the colour of mustard. “Tony, to the office please.”

He twisted round to me. “Tony has more to do with the cameras.”

I nodded, leant back against the door of the boxy little office and prayed that Tony would arrive before I contracted lung cancer.

“Alright?” Tony opened the door and introduced himself in a Mancunian swagger: part question, part greeting. I moved to let him in.

“Young lady’s got some questions about CCTV tapes,” his colleague wheezed.

Tony tutted. “Confidential love, can’t help you.” He was a barrel of a man with a bald head.

“She’s a private detective,” the other said.

“Are you? Well, you’d know all about that then, wouldn’t you? Electronic surveillance, rules they have.”

“I’m working for the family of the woman who jumped from here back in October.”

His face flattened, eyes hardened. He didn’t enjoy the recollection.

“Horrible that was,” Wheezy chipped in.

“Doing what exactly?” Tony stared at me folded his arms defensively.

“The family have found it very hard to come to terms with what happened. They’ve asked me to try and find out what Mrs Johnstone was doing here, trace her last hours, that’s all. But I realised there’s nothing in the coroner’s report as far as I can see about the CCTV. There is a camera up there.”