Dead Wrong (20 page)

‘Depressing.’ I told her a bit about my meeting with Joey, about all the new evidence and the fishy bits, and how shaky the case now seemed against Luke. ‘Though that’s my impression. A lot of what I’ve got could be ignored. They might still want to go to trial, argue about it all there. I just wish it were sorted.’ I told her about the white van. ‘I think I might have been followed there. I’m worried about Joey, if they know he talked to me…Do I sound paranoid?’

‘A bit. It’s hardly surprising though, is it, what with the stalker thing and the fright you had yesterday. You sleep last night?’

‘Not well.’ I thought of Joey’s blood-red eyes.

Eating?’

‘Lots,’ I smiled.

‘OK.’ She was all practical now. ‘You’re going to see the lawyer tomorrow?’

‘Yeah – well, I’m hoping he’ll ring me tonight. If he doesn’t I’ll sit in his court all day if I have to.’

‘So, it’ll soon be over,’ she pointed out.

‘Yes,’ I said with more certainty than I felt, ‘see the brief, do my final report for Mr Wallace, include my invoice and leave them to it.’

I was feeling mellow by the time we left and ready for a decent night’s sleep. Our bikes were locked side by side at the back of the building. We’d released them, sorted out helmets and lights and said our farewells before wheeling round to the road. Parked on the opposite side was a plain white van. I felt dizzy. My mouth went dry.

‘Diane – the van. I think it might be the same one.’

‘Oh God.’

I noted the number plate. There was someone in the driver’s seat. It looked like Rashid Siddiq but it was dark and I could only see a profile. Was it the same van? My intuition was telling me loud and clear to be scared, to be careful.

‘Will you ride back with me? You could get a taxi home.’

‘Come on.’

We mounted up and set off. The van remained at the kerbside. We rode the two miles or so to my house. There was no sign of the van.

Diane came in for a cup of tea and a post mortem. I wanted her to stay the night, anxious that she might be at risk because of me, but she was keen to go home.

‘I’m irrelevant,’ she insisted.

‘Get a taxi then.’

‘Sal!’

‘Please, take your wheel off, get a black cab. I’ll pay. Please.’

She sighed but agreed to my demands. I saw her off in the taxi and made her promise to ring when she got back. In the moments while I waited I imagined her being attacked as she reached her home. Over and over I ran the images. I should never have let her go. I’d once been beaten up practically outside her door. That had been a warning to me to keep my nose out of a case I was working on, too.

When the phone rang I snatched it up. She was fine. We said our goodbyes and she told me several times to take care. Not that I needed the advice.

I was too wired to sleep so I made more tea. I sat in the lounge cruising channels and watching four things at once. Digger lay beside me, peering at me now and again out of one sleepy eye. We don’t have much time for each other, Digger and I, but the dog seems to have a sixth sense when I’m feeling bad and comes to give me some companionship.

The phone rang again. Dermott Pitt?

‘Hello?’

‘Sal Kilkenny?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Mrs Raeburn.’

‘Who?’

‘Debbie’s neighbour. He’s back. You said to ring, and he’s here now. The stalker.’

The perfect end to a perfect day.

‘He’s across the road, just standing there. Debbie’s still away but the lights are on. I said to Ricky, her brother, that I’d pop in now and then, open the curtains, put the lights on, make it look lived in.

‘Thank you,’ I stopped her carrying on, ‘I’ll be right over. I’m hoping to follow him home, so don’t come out or do anything to alert him to the fact, will you?’

‘No, no of course.’

As usual, when I have to work at night, I left details with Ray of where I was going. I felt an extra edge of caution, given the unwelcome presence of a suspicious white van in my life. There was no sign of it on my drive over to Chorlton, however much I checked and rechecked.

I drove along Debbie’s road. G was still there – a slight, still figure in the shadows. I passed him and drove on looking for his blue Fiesta. I found it down the street; luckily there was a space a bit further on where I could park. I’d be facing in the same direction too, which would help when following him. I jotted down his registration number.

The house I parked outside looked to be a student let – several doorbells, grass in the guttering, a plaque with the name of the property management company over the door. It suited me. I was less likely to get quizzed by a member of the local Neighbourhood Watch if I sat waiting outside a house with plenty of tenants.

I reclined my seat and laid back; no point in flaunting myself. My mobile rang, startling me. It was Dermott Pitt. He apologised for the lateness of the hour and said that he had received my message.

‘I’ve got a tape I’d like you to hear, from Joey D – Joey Deason,’ I told him. ‘He actually saw the murder take place. His knife was used, taken from him when he tried to defend Ahktar. His grandmother replaced the knife after Joey had run away. He’s described the killer and it sounds like Rashid Siddiq,’ I paused for breath. Then:

‘I’ve also got some information about the Siddiqs which would fit with Joey’s version of events. I’ve spoken to someone at Bootle Street about some of this, before I saw Joey. They advised me to take it to you.’

‘Eight o’clock?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I can do eight a.m. I’m in court from nine thirty.’

‘Yes.’ Even if I had to take the kids in with me. ‘I’ll be there.’

I felt a surge of relief after the call. Pitt was taking it seriously; it would soon be over.

I considered calling Mrs Deason but it was so late. I’d do it first chance I got in the morning, see if there was any way she could contact Joey and warn him about the white van.

I switched on the radio for company. It was very quiet now and most of the lights in the houses had gone out. Cats claimed the street, slipping under gates and over fences, stalking prey. I shifted in my seat; already my buttocks were getting numb and I wanted to wee.

How long would we be here? What did he do all the time, standing there? Was he thinking about Debbie? Did it excite him? Was that how he got his kicks? Why had he picked on Debbie for the focus of his obsession?

I was tired, my eyes felt gritty and my teeth felt furry, but there was no danger of me dozing off, I was far too uncomfortable. To occupy myself I rehearsed what I would tell Dermott Pitt when we met tomorrow. I’d start with the tape. Then explain how the knife had been replaced. I’d tell him about my suspicion that Sonia Siddiq had been pressed to be a witness for the prosecution, and my anonymous tip-off that she hadn’t even been at the club. Describe her reactions to my questions, and point out that Zeb’s story of the two lads arguing could have been invented to increase the plausibility of Luke being the killer. I’d put it to him that Zeb Khan and the Siddiqs had conspired to frame Luke Wallace for the murder of his best friend.

I was convinced. Admittedly, there were a few aspects that were still a mystery to me. I didn’t know exactly how they’d engineered it so that Luke was found as he was. I didn’t understand why they’d framed him, rather than lying low and leaving the police to try and figure out whodunit. After all, there were no witnesses apart from Joey, who had easily been silenced. And I still couldn’t get my head round why Ahktar Khan had needed a warning in the first place, or who the warning was from. Jay employed Rashid Siddiq, so it was pretty likely to be his instruction that Siddiq and his accomplice were carrying out. But why? What had Ahktar done or not done? Had he found out about the drugs operation and threatened to tell? Tell who? Family? Police? If that had been the case, would he have seemed so comfortable and carefree that evening? The image of a whistle-blower didn’t suit the impression I’d built up of Ahktar. Yes, he worked hard at his studies, but he was well-liked, popular. And not averse to dropping a tab or taking speed to get high with his mates.

I was trying to predict Mr Pitt’s response when I saw the stalker, in my rear view mirror, returning to his car. It was one-thirty. As he got into the Fiesta I righted my seat, rubbed my eyes and breathed deeply a few times to wake myself up.

I waited until he’d pulled out and reached the junction with the main road before following. I wasn’t likely to lose him at that time of night unless he burned rubber. If he was paying any attention he would soon notice I was on his tail, but his mind was probably still occupied with his fantasies about Debbie Gosforth, and I reckon if people aren’t expecting to be pursued they can drive for miles before the penny drops and they realise the car behind isn’t going their way by chance.

We went along Upper Chorlton Road towards the city. The streets were mostly deserted though there were a couple in a clinch waiting for an all-night bus at the stop near the huge Whalley Hotel Pub. We stopped at the lights there. I yawned a couple of times but underneath my exhaustion there was a tremor of excitement building as I realised I was on course, trailing him back to his lair so I could establish his identity. We turned left into Ayres Road where he parked. I drove past him reducing my speed to a crawl. I parked in the next side road, got out quickly and doubled back in time to see him open the door of one of the terrace houses and go in. Lights came on in the hall. I walked along to the house and noted the number.

The quiet in the street was interrupted by the clatter of a black cab coming from the main road. It drew up nearby and after a few seconds the back door swung open and two young women giggling hysterically fell out onto the pavement.

‘Gerroff, yer divvy, yer breaking me arm.’

‘You get off.’

‘I can’t move, you bloody great lump.’

One of them kicked the door shut with a large silver platform shoe. Amidst much cursing and cackling the pair disentangled themselves and stood up, more or less, on teetering heels. They’d been out on the razz and were still having fun.

The taxi pulled away. The silver platforms belonged to a woman in silver lycra boob-tube and shorts. She began to snigger again.

‘Shut up, Jules,’ her friend protested, ‘I’ve already wet myself.’

‘Ha ha ha ha.’ It was infectious and I found myself smiling. ‘Ha ha ha ha.’

‘You got any fags left? Jules, got any fags?’ She wore a black sheath dress and had glitter in her hair. ‘Where’s the bleeding key?’ She rummaged around in a clutch bag.

‘Some fags inside, Mel,’ said Jules. ‘Think there’s some left.’

‘There better be, I’m gagging.’

They turned and swayed towards the doorway of the house.

‘Excuse me,’ I said.

‘Why, what yer done?’ quipped Jules and the pair dissolved in giggles.

When the racket had died down a bit I carried on. ‘Do you know the bloke next door but one?’ I pointed.

‘Which one?’ asked Black Dress.

‘Mr Upstairs or Mr Downstairs?’ More snickers.

‘Oh, I thought…there’s only one bell.’

‘Landlord’s too bloody tight to give ‘em a bell each.’

Her friend staggered and the two lurched towards me reeking of heavy-duty perfume and cigarette smoke.

‘Is it flats then?’ I asked the woman in black who seemed less prone to hilarity.

She shrugged. ‘Not really, there’s only one bathroom but he sticks a Baby Belling on each floor and lets ‘em out like flats. Same as ours.’ Jules knocked her again and she dropped her bag. The contents scattered; lipstick, perfume and eye-pencil, cigarette lighter, tissues and purse, keys. I helped them gather everything up. ‘Here’s your key.’

‘Ta. So, what do you want?’

‘I need to find out the name of one of the people living there.’

‘Why, you from the social?’ Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

‘No, no,’ I smiled. ‘He helped me out. I just broke down,’ I waved towards the main road, ‘and he spent ages on my car, got it going again. I’d like to send a card or something, thank him.’

‘Ooohh!’ remarked Jules, lips pursed, all innuendo. I rolled my eyes at her. ‘Do you know their names?’

‘Gary, innit,’ Jules volunteered, ‘Gary Crowther and upstairs is Chris, whass Chris’s name, Mel, something Irish innit?’

‘Scottish, not Irish – McPherson.’

‘I thought he was Irish.’ Jules shook her head. ‘I could’ve sworn he was Irish, innit.’

‘He’s a Geordie, yer div.’

‘You just said he was Scottish.’

‘His name! Scottish name. But he’s from Newcastle.’

‘Can you describe them?’ I interrupted the debate. I kept looking over to the stalker’s house, hoping that the commotion that Mel and Jules were making was a regular occurrence and wouldn’t attract his attention.

‘Gary’s dark hair, Chris’s brown, light brown.’ Mel looked to Jules for confirmation.

‘Yeah, Chris is the good-looking one.’

‘He is not,’ she contradicted, ‘he’s got small eyes. Gary’s better-looking.’

‘What about size?’ I asked, regretting the words even as they left my lips.

‘Size is not important,’ cackled Jules.

Mel snorted with laughter but recovered quickly. ‘Don’t mind her,’ she said, ‘she’s got a one-track mind.’

‘You must be interested in him, aren’t yer? Your knight of the road,’ teased Jules.

‘Shurrup.’ Mel shoved her. “Bout the same, they are. Medium height, medium weight.’

I needed something more definite. The man I’d followed had dark hair, almost black, but hair colour alone wasn’t enough to confirm his identity:

‘Does either of them wear a suit? The bloke who helped me wore a dark suit.’

‘Gary,’ they said in unison.

‘Probably sleeps in it,’ said Mel, ‘had it for years, by the look of it, be back in fashion soon. I said to him the other day, “get some shorts on, kid, let yer knees out”.’

‘You know him then?’

‘She is interested, innit,’ commented Jules.

Mel elbowed her in the ribs. ‘Don’t know him well. Just neighbours, same bleeding landlord. He’s shy, Gary. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Goes red as beetroot every time I say hello.’