Dead Wrong (23 page)

‘Your nose, you’d been thumped.’

And drugged and kidnapped. But my nose wore the visible damage. ‘He was like that then. He thinks I’m taking unnecessary risks, and maybe the violence freaks him out.’

‘He can’t protect you,’ she said. ‘It’s your job and you obviously love it, but sometimes you get hurt and he can’t do anything about it.’

I looked at her. ‘We’ve never had that sort of relationship. I don’t need protecting.’

‘Precisely,’ she stood up and began to clear the cups, ‘and he just has to stand by and watch.’

I washed up. Outside, sunshine streamed in oil-painting rays from beneath clouds dark as bruises. Rain on the way. I gave Maddie another dose of medicine and got her ready for bed. She had some colour in her cheeks and she no longer complained about her ear. Tom was happy to get ready too. I plugged in Maddie’s cassette player and put on a tape she’d picked from the library.
Magnus Powermouse
was about a giant baby mouse. It was full of jokes and puns in Latin which I could barely understand and were way above her head, but it still worked as a great story. It was also long enough to last until they fell asleep.

A bath, that was what I needed. It had been a long, pig of a day, the triumphs of completing the stalker case and convincing Pitt to act, soured by the subsequent events. Yes, a bath. Deep, hot, scented. Followed by cocoa, something soothing on the radio, a few pages reading in bed and sleep. Eight hours. I held it out like a carrot on a stick while I dialled Mrs Deason’s.

I heard Ray return from his walk, go upstairs.

When she answered, her voice was breathy, almost a whisper. Had I woken her? Was she ill?

‘Mrs Deason, it’s Sal Kilkenny here. I promised to ring you after I’d seen Joey. I did try earlier but there was no answer.’

She made a noise. Peculiar. It made my neck prickle.

‘Mrs Deason. Are you all right?’

‘He’s dead.’

A punch to my gut. ‘What?’

‘My grandson. He’s dead.’

Oh, God. They’d killed him. I’d led them to Joey and they’d killed him.

‘No!’ I protested. ‘What happened?’

‘I had to go to Chester, this morning, to identify him. That’s where he was living. He would never tell me, you know, I always had to wait for him to ring me. But now…excuse me, I can’t talk anymore.’ Her voice was flat. I remembered the love for him brimming in her eyes as we’d talked that first time.

‘I’m so sorry. Please, Mrs Deason, how did he…? Did the police say?’ I had to know. ‘Was it an accident?’ It was my fault. My face felt cold. Gooseflesh crawled along my limbs.

‘An overdose,’ she said.

The relief buckled my knees. He hadn’t been murdered. One trip too many, that’s all. I wasn’t to blame. Disgusted then at my selfish response.

‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Yes,’ she said. And hung up.

I shivered. Tried to adjust to a new picture of Joey D, still, silent, dead. I heard the first spatter of rain against the window panes and went and ran my bath.

Cocoa. Milky, rich, just a smidgeon of sugar to take the edge off the bitterness. Always too hot to drink at first. I’d scalded my tongue countless times with my impatience. The phone went. My mobile – in my bag. It was in the corner of the kitchen, underneath Digger. I shook him awake and pushed him out of the way.

‘Hello?’

‘Miss Kilkenny?’ A woman’s voice but I didn’t recognise it at first.

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should ring or–’ Debbie Gosforth.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s Ricky,’ she cried. ‘He’s gone. I shouldn’t have told him. I never should have told him.’

‘What? Gone where?’

‘He’s gone after him. He said he’s gonna kill him,’ her rising voice reached shrieking pitch.

Oh, God.

‘Debbie,’ I said sharply, ‘stay there. I’ll try and stop him. When did he leave?’

‘Just now,’ she sobbed.

I tipped half my cocoa down the sink, filled the cup with cold water and gulped it down. Sacrilege.

I scribbled the Ayres Road address on a piece of paper and took it in to Ray, who was in his room, at his computer.

‘I’ve got to go out,’ I said.

He looked at me as if I needed my head examining.

‘A different case,’ I said pointedly. ‘This is where I’m going. I may be a while but I’ll ring when I’ve an idea of how long. I’m taking my mobile.’

‘What’s the big hurry?’ he asked coldly.

‘Some guy playing vigilante. I’ve got my personal alarm, too. If he’s there I’ll call the police. I’ll be careful.’

He nodded, turned back to the screen.

‘Ray?’ What did I need? His benediction?

He looked at me then swung his eyes away. ‘I don’t have to like it.’

‘No. But you could wish me luck.’

A pause. He looked back, his eyes softening. ‘Yeah.’ A small, rueful smile. ‘Good luck.’

Of course I checked for the white van before leaving the house. Nothing. I drove as fast as I could, breaking the speed limit when it looked safe to do so but retaining control of the car. It was twilight. The rain was steady – a summer downpour that would make mud puddles on parched lawns and bruise the petals of large flowers. The wind had dropped and it was quite warm.

Adrenalin had me completely wired. Everything was clearer, brighter. The vermilion of the street-lamps, the patterns of headlights fractured by raindrops on the windscreen. I could smell the faint fruity scent of the sewers as they rose with the deluge.

As soon as I drew near the house in Ayres Road I knew Ricky had beaten me to it. Light spilled from the open front door. I ran from the car into the house. There were thumps and a scream from the room to my left.

‘Ricky!’ I yelled. ‘Ricky!’

I thrust the door open. The atmosphere of violence ran along my nerves, gripped my stomach.

The man was on his knees, his back to me. Above him, staggering and panting hard stood Ricky. He had bloody fists and blood on his T-shirt.

‘Ricky, stop it!’ I shouted.

He kicked out. There was a crunch, the man yelped and keeled over onto his side. Curled up into a ball. He was crying. I felt bile in my throat and a flame of rage leaping through me.

‘Stop it, you stupid prat, stop it,’ the anger in my voice was hard as granite. Primal. I had no fear. Ricky swayed, drunk on bloodlust, looked at me. ‘You stupid, fucking idiot!’ I bawled. ‘That’s not him. Do you understand? You stupid bastard, that’s not even Gary Crowther. It’s the wrong man. You’ve got the wrong man. Are you proud of yourself now?’

He blinked.

There was a noise behind me. It was Jules, the neighbour, without her silver lamé.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ she demanded. She peered round me to see the carnage. ‘Friggin’ ‘ell.’

‘Ring an ambulance and the police,’ I instructed her. She blinked at me. ‘Now!’ I barked.

‘All right, keep yer hair on!’ she retorted and went out.

Ricky stood there. No idea what to do. I was still shaking with fury. ‘Sit down,’ I said sharply.

‘But Debbie said—’

‘Sit down and shut up. You can tell it to the police.’

I knelt beside the man called Chris McPherson. His face was awash with blood, it bubbled from his nose. His eyes were shut, swollen – one of his eyelids was split. He held his hands clasped together against his mouth. He was still trembling and crying softly. I spoke to him quietly, trying to reassure him. ‘It’s over now. It’s all right. The ambulance is coming. You’re going to hospital. You’re going to be all right.’ I put my hand lightly on his shoulder and repeated the words over and over, blanking out everything else. Blanking out the awful thought that I was culpable. If I hadn’t told Debbie where Crowther lived, this wouldn’t have happened, would it? Not now, not tonight, not like this.

‘They’re on the way,’ said Jules, ‘what happened then?’

I was silent.

Within seconds I heard the sound of the siren followed by the pulse of blue light. I moved aside to let the ambulance men past.

They checked Chris, exchanged some words with each other and one of them went back out to the ambulance.

‘What happened here then?’ asked the other.

A beat or two. No one spoke then I said, ‘He was attacked.’ I nodded towards Ricky. ‘Beaten up. We called the police as well.’ I looked at Chris McPherson. ‘Will he be all right?’

‘I think so. He’s got cracked ribs, a broken nose, and his eye’s a mess. They’ll need to look at that. They’ll keep him in, check for concussion, internal damage. He’s still conscious, that’s a good sign. You a relative?’

‘No.’

He looked at Jules; she shook her head. He didn’t bother asking Ricky. His mate returned with a stretcher. They lifted Chris onto it and covered him with a cellular blanket. ‘Going on his own then?’

‘Nah, I’ll go with him,’ said Jules. ‘Can’t leave him by himself. There might be people he wants to tell. Poor sod. I’ll get me bag. And you,’ she paused on her way out, looked at Ricky, ‘yer sad bastard, I hope they send you down for a good stretch.’

The police arrived and talked with one of the ambulance men in the hallway. They came into the room.

‘Bit of a mess,’ commented one of them, referring to Chris.

‘Come on, son,’ said his mate in a thick scouse accent. ‘You come along with us now.’

Ricky still looked dazed. ‘But Debbie said he lived here.’ As if it would all have been hunky dory if only he’d battered the right guy. ‘I thought—’

‘No, you didn’t,’ I said. ‘You didn’t think at all. You just…’ I couldn’t continue.

They’d all gone. I sat on the bottom stair, my arms wrapped tight around my knees. Trying to warm up inside where my guts were iced with rage and fatigue and fear. The front door was still open and I could hear the noises of the city; a plane climbing steeply, the squeal of a bus braking, the sibilance of cars on wet tarmac. I could see the drizzle floating down beneath the street-lamp.

Where was Gary Crowther tonight? Round at Debbie’s again, keeping vigil, watching, waiting? Thrilled by his obsession. Mentally composing more fevered letters of spite and sexual hatred to write on his return? Or off on some mundane business, working shifts, visiting family, catching a late-night movie?

I sat and let my mind meander. Recalled the sound of crying, my own voice screaming at Ricky:
‘It’s the wrong man!’
Joey D, dead now, Joey with his shades and his knife. Joey watching, yelling:
‘Ahktar! Ahktar! He needs an ambulance.’
Siddiq’s sidekick shrieking;
‘You done wrong, man.’
The wrong man…wrong man. Zeb and Ahktar, side by side, by the dance floor, matching jackets. Not wrong man…
the
wrong man. And then I knew.

So tired. I ought to leave the house in Ayres Road but the effort of getting up seemed beyond me. In a minute, I promised myself. In a minute.

It took five. Before I left I dialled Ray. Told him I wouldn’t be long.

I put my face up to the sky, charcoal-grey now, and let the mist fall on my skin. My throat was raw from roaring at Ricky. I moved to the car but he caught me by the arm.

I turned, sudden anger flaring again. I was ready to shake him off. Tell him about the injunction, tell him about Chris McPherson. No longer frightened of the sad man in the old suit and his cruel infatuation.

I turned and Rashid Siddiq said, ‘We’ll take my car. There’s somebody wants to see you.’

He kept my arm bent up behind my back to steer me towards a dark car, a Volvo, parked nearby. Of course, they wouldn’t just have the white van, they could use that to spook me but they had plenty of cars to choose from. It hadn’t even occurred to me; I’d only been looking for the transit. Stupid.

I debated whether to try getting out of his grip. The knowledge that he was in charge of security for Jay, that he had been used to send a little warning when required made me hesitate. I didn’t think my limited self-defence moves would be adequate to escape.

When we reached the car he clasped both my wrists together behind me in one of his huge hands and frisked me with the other. He removed my mobile phone, purse and personal alarm and pocketed them.

‘Hey,’ I started to protest.

Swiftly he grabbed my hair and slammed my face against the car. The wave of pain made me retch.

‘Shit.’ He moved back a little, freaked at the prospect of vomit on his shoes. My nose began to bleed; I couldn’t wipe it. He held onto my wrists and tied them together with what felt like nylon rope.

‘Quiet,’ he admonished in a whisper. ‘In the car.’

He opened the back door and steered me in. He sat beside me. Zeb Khan was at the wheel.

Neither man spoke. We drove north skirting Hulme where the infamous crescents had been demolished ready for rebuilding. Thirty years earlier the slum terraces had gone to make way for the shiny new walkways in the sky. Broken concrete, broken dreams. Cracked by poverty.

Siddiq used his own phone to make a call. ‘We’re on our way.’ Short and sweet.

We followed the diversions through town. Lights were rigged up to enable the crews to continue to clear the debris from the bomb and prepare for demolition. The Marks & Spencer building would go; there were rumours about the Corn Exchange and the Royal Assurance building. Surveyors were still assessing the structural safety of the Arndale Centre.

Blood dripped onto my coat. It pooled above my lip and I licked some of it away I did not allow myself to wonder where they were taking me or what they would do. I knew it would unmake me and I needed all my wit and wariness, every ounce of sense and intuition. Whenever my mind veered towards the questions, I blocked it.

On Cheetham Hill Road, Zeb took the car round the back of the J.K. Imports building opposite the petrol station, where I’d once trailed Siddiq. It felt like months ago.

We went into a compound fenced round with chain link. There were two Portakabins along one edge, illuminated by harsh security lights.

Siddiq escorted me from the car. Gripping the top of my arm, he pulled me towards one of the Portakabins. Zeb passed us, mounted the two wooden steps and knocked on the door.