Dead Wrong (10 page)

‘No. Yeah.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’d had a tab but I remember, I saw them. Going at it they were, screaming at each other. Emma had gone, yeah, it was later, after she’d gone.’ He nodded to himself as if he’d found the correct answer.

‘Why did she leave?’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’ he bristled. ‘That’s got fuck all to do with it.’

I shrugged. ‘OK. You were seen having a go at Joey D. What was that about?’

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said in disgust. ‘I don’t have to listen to this. We’re going to win this one. That guy’s going to pay for Ahktar. You can ask all the questions you like, it won’t change anything. I know what I saw and the police have got all the evidence they need.’

‘After the argument,’ I persisted, ‘did you see Ahktar later?’

‘No.’ He was almost vehement. ‘It was packed. They were still dancing. I went to chill out.’

‘You didn’t see him again?’

He shook his head impatiently.

‘Can you think of anyone else who might have had a grudge against Ahktar?’

‘Look, do you think they’d prosecute if it wasn’t watertight, eh? Dead Paki. It wouldn’t get anywhere near a court if it wasn’t a fucking certainty that Wallace did it. You come round here trying to pick holes in it all, find a way for him to wriggle out. Well, forget it – right? Fucking forget it.’

It was time to go.

I stood up. ‘Does Emma still live in Whalley Range?’

He shrugged.

‘Don’t you see her any…?’

His look stopped me mid-sentence. It was murderous.

I nodded once then turned and walked briskly to the door. My heart squeezed. I could feel his eyes on my back, sense the anger thick as fog.

I’d been here before, other men, other rooms, that same unsteadying realisation of danger. A hair’s breadth from violence.

I thought of Debbie Gosforth. Tidying up, keeping things in order while the threat of violence hovered over her shoulder.

I forced myself not to bolt. At the door I turned and said a short goodbye.

A thin film of sweat slicked my body from head to toe. I sat in the car with the window down and breathed slowly till my heart let go and my skin became cold and clammy.

Mrs Deason, Joey D’s grandmother, welcomed me into her home like a long-lost relative. She was desperate to talk, I think. To anyone who would listen. And Joey was her favourite topic.

The house looked like some colonial villa, with a fancy tiled roof, shuttered windows and palm trees mixing with the conifers and rhododendrons in the driveway.

Inside, the place was cluttered with heavy antique furniture, festooned with carvings, ornaments and pictures from China. There was a smell of snuff and polish and apples.

Joey wasn’t there; he’d run away from home, he’d done it before. She showed me photographs of him, school portraits and holiday snaps, some in the hall, others in the lounge. Her eyes shining with pride as she spoke of him. ‘He is such a charmer, the sweetest disposition. And when you think what he’s been through. But he hasn’t a mean streak in him.’

Yes, I could ask her some questions. She established that I hadn’t had lunch and then prepared what she called a summer brunch for us to eat on the terrace.

There was tons of it; prawn salad, three types of bread, potato and egg salad, coleslaw, mini-quiches, chicken drumsticks and cold cuts of meat. I’d explained I didn’t eat meat.

‘Oh, don’t worry, dear, I will.’ And she did. Thin as a rake, with wispy hair and hands riddled with arthritis, she had munched her way through most of the spread with great relish.

‘I felt I had so much to make up for, with Joey. You see, I didn’t realise about John, my son – Joey’s father, for years. There’d been some trouble in his teens but I’d no idea he was an alcoholic. I blamed the recession when the business sank, but then it happened again. It was Patsy who told me, his wife, she wrote to me. I was up in Cumbria. I didn’t believe her. He was drinking it all away. He owed money everywhere, he’d taken money from friends, business associates, he’d remortgaged the house without even telling her.’ She took a swig from her glass of lemonade and smacked her lips with pleasure.

I had another mouthful of salad and caught the scent of old roses on the breeze.

‘He was never violent, just…completely unreliable, untrustworthy. Patsy left; she was very young, she went back to America. She was going to send for Joey, but…she was very young,’ Mrs Deason said again, looking into the distance. When she caught herself at it she snapped back to attention. ‘Joey stayed here, while his father was in and out of clinics and under various specialists. He had cirrhosis. As time went on, Patsy met someone else – and reading between the lines, I don’t think her new man would have made Joey very welcome. I’d moved in by then. Joey was six. It seemed best to just carry on. ‘Nothing worked for long. John couldn’t stay sober, you see. Then he just gave up. The last I knew of him, he was up in London, living on the streets. He knows he can always come here but I don’t think he could bear it – for Joey, you know. And it sounds – awful but I pray he’ll stay where he is. Have you any experience of alcoholism?’

I shook my head.

‘It destroys everybody, not just the drinker, everything,’ she sighed. ‘They talk about drugs, but…anyway, it didn’t take me long to see how deeply Joey had been affected. Crying out for attention but a good boy, helpful, eager to please, desperate for praise. You know, he used to look after John when he was drunk – clean him up, put him to bed. What does that do to a small child? Trying to save his father, the same man who would steal his Christmas presents and sell them.’

She offered me a plate of strawberry tarts. I took one and bit into crisp pastry and firm fruit, releasing the tangy, sweet juice.

‘I thought love would be enough, love and a good home, but he began to experiment with drugs. He was only eleven the first time I caught him. He promised it would never happen again,’ she smiled ruefully. ‘I’d heard that often enough before from John. We never argued, Joey and I,’ she said, ‘Joey won’t argue. He just smiles and tells you what you want to hear and goes on in his own sweet way.’

‘And he’s run away before?’

‘Yes, every so often he just goes. He never tells me where he’s been or why he’s gone or what’s happened to him.’

‘How long has he been gone this time?’

‘Since New Year’s Day.’ Just after the murder.

‘Did you report him missing?’

‘No, he left me a note.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘No, just that he had to go away and not to worry and…’ she placed the salt and pepper mills neatly together, ‘and not to go to the police.’

My stomach turned over. ‘Joey carried a knife,’ I said quietly.

‘I hated that,’ she said vehemently. ‘I told him about it countless times. It did no good. He told me it kept the bullies away. Joey’s small for his age.’

‘New Year’s Eve, after the party, did you see him?’

‘No, I was asleep when he got back.’

‘He told you what had happened?’

She delayed her reply while she sipped her lemonade.

I saw Joey. The urchin face smiling from the framed photographs in the hall. Joey with the knife, Joey arguing with Ahktar, Joey losing control.

‘He told me that his friend had been killed. He was shocked, frightened – such a terrible thing.’

‘Did the police come?’

‘On the Tuesday afternoon they wanted to speak to Joey but he’d gone by then. They asked about his knife.’ She paused, then took a steadying breath. ‘I reassured them: Joey had his knife here on New Year’s Day. That’s what we were arguing about, before he left, we had a row. I hated him carrying that thing. I was tired of worrying about that and the drugs, so I took it from his room. Thank God, I was able to show it to them.’

‘You’ve got the knife?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here?’

She got up from the table and went into the house. I watched bees swaying through the lavender and the breeze lifting the petals on the blowsy roses. But something was wrong. I could sense it in the air, tainting the fragrance of the flowers.

This woman came over as completely convincing. She could lie with an unwavering gaze and the authority of money and age, and everyone would believe her, including the police.

She returned with a soft, chamois-leather bundle and unwound it, slowly exposing the knife, its wooden handle and broad, curving blade. The sun caught the metal which shone hot and blinding for a moment.

I looked at her. She wrapped it up.

‘And you’ve no idea where he is?’ Silence. ‘Mrs Deason?’ The sound of a strimmer starting up a little way away. I tried again. ‘Why did Joey run away – the day after the murder?’

‘I don’t know.’ She became flustered. ‘I told you we had a row…’

‘You told me before that Joey never argued.’

‘Joey wasn’t even there. He left before the others, he only heard about the murder later. When we knew the Khan boy had been stabbed I challenged Joey about the foolishness of knives. I demanded that he give me his. He refused. The next chance I had, I took it from his room; he was outraged. Later that day he left.’

‘How did you hear about the murder?’

She looked at me, her face blank, panic in her eyes. A simple question but she had no answer. Joey had told her, Joey had been there. I was sure of it.

‘Do you know where he is?’ I asked now. ‘I’m not out to get Joey, my job is to find any evidence that can support my client’s claim of innocence.’

‘He’s not violent, he’s never…he can’t stand the sight of blood.’

Oh, how many times was that phrase used after the event!

‘I’m not accusing him,’ I said, ‘but he was there that night, wasn’t he? He came home in a state, next thing, he’s run away. He’s frightened, he must know something. Please, Mrs Deason: where is he?’

‘He was…’ she was on the brink; she held her hands up cupped close together, a fragile gesture, as though to demonstrate something, but then she let them fall. ‘No,’ she blurted out, ‘no, you’re wrong.’

‘You’ve heard from Joey?’

‘I don’t know where he is,’ she insisted, but that wasn’t what I’d asked.

‘Mrs Deason, whatever Joey knows, whatever he did or didn’t do, we have to find out. There’s a boy his age sat in a cell awaiting trial for murder. He swears he’s innocent. Please, contact him. Ask him if he’ll see me, tell him about Luke Wallace. He can’t hide for ever. Just ask him, please?’

‘I swore that…I promised. I have to keep my promise. His life has been full of broken promises. I’m the only person he can trust. He didn’t do anything,’ she repeated emphatically.

‘I need to hear it from him,’ I said, ‘that’s all I want. He’s scared, he’s run away, he knows something. Please just ask him if he’ll talk to me. He can say no. His friend needs to know the truth. Please ask him.’

I waited, she gave the slightest nod of her head. I gave her my card.

‘I won’t betray him,’ she whispered. ‘He’s all I have left.’ And she looked beyond me to her memories.

Perhaps it was that simple. Joey D had stabbed Ahktar and fled. Luke had been found with his friend and assumed to be guilty. Not what the Siddiqs had seen though.

The police had the murder weapon too and Joey’s knife was safely at his grandma’s.

Whether he was guilty or not, Joey D was scared – so something he’d done or something he knew could get him into trouble. Serious trouble. I groaned with frustration.

I was relieved to find that neither of the other members of the lads’ band were in. Now the exams were over, Simon was camping with his brother in Wales and Josh had started a seasonal job at his uncle’s hotel in Southport. I was feeling overloaded with all the information I’d got that day.

At this stage in the enquiry I’d not much idea how important it would be to see them, and there were some other people I could interview first in the hope it would become clearer.

I collected Maddie and Tom in the car, as we needed to do a supermarket trip. After an initial squabble about who would push the trolley, they were reasonably co-operative. I smoothed the way by letting them each choose a packet of biscuits and by indulging in some chocolate mousse desserts.

I knew we needed just about everything so I stocked the trolley high. At the checkout I had a heart stopping moment when I couldn’t find my cheque card. It was in the other half of my purse. Saved.

Ray was glued to the football, England versus Germany at Wembley. But it was a beautiful evening so I settled myself with wine, an Elmore Leonard book that I hadn’t read and a plate of olives and crackers. Someone down the road was playing
Oasis
with the windows wide open, and from the opposite direction I could hear a power saw. As dusk fell the birds quietened and the whining tool stopped. Oasis was followed by
M People
. They were going to play at Old Trafford on Saturday, supporting
Simply Red
– a concert to raise money for the Emergency Fund. I laid my book down and watched the stars climb up. A dark shape flew above me, twisting as it went. A bat.

Ray came out. ‘We lost, penalty shoot-out.’ He seemed devastated.

I’d only a dim grasp of what that meant. ‘No goals?’ I ventured.

‘No. And the poor sod who missed will be blamed for losing the whole match. Southgate, he’s called. Yup, that’s how he’ll be remembered – as the bloke who lost the penalty shoot-out.’

‘Wine?’ I offered as consolation.

‘I’ve got some lager.’ He re-emerged with a can and we sat together for a while as he came down from the match, swapping bits of news about the children and school, and agreeing what still needed to be done for Tom’s party.

That night, I dreamt about a knife. I’d lost it in the supermarket. Mrs Deason was asking for it: she wanted it back. Then the police burst in. They knew I was guilty. I reared awake in a state of panic. A dream. Just a dream.

I went quietly downstairs and made myself a cup of elderflower tea with honey. I needed to let the images ebb away. I hate it when aspects of the job invade my night’s sleep. It wasn’t as if things had got particularly hairy. Not like previous cases when I’d been threatened, assaulted, even shot at. Stupid dream. Be all right if it revealed any answers, but it didn’t.