Dead Wrong (9 page)

‘Hmmm.’ Rebecca gave a non-committal grunt. ‘And you told her she was being paranoid locking the doors when she was in the house on her own?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I exploded. ‘I don’t know where all this has come from, but I’m doing the job you hired me to do. Now if she’s got problems with me or wants someone else then fine, I’ll send you an invoice but there is no question of shoddy work. Maybe she needs a bodyguard as well.’

‘I think the brother’s limbering up for that. I’m sorry, Sal, it sounds as if there’s some manipulation going on here. I thought it didn’t sound like you but I had to ask. Stay with it for now,’ she decided, ‘if you’re prepared to, and I’ll get in touch with her and explain exactly what we are hiring you to do. I’ll put it in writing too so there’s no mistake. I’ll point out the other things she can do like the ex-directory stuff. Let me know if you meet any resistance.’

I agreed to carry on but came off the phone smarting, not least because I’d failed to pick up on any hint of hostility from Debbie Gosforth. Her complaints were an unexpected slap in the face. I wished that she had given me some indication of her concerns about my work. I suffer from an acute sense of justice and fair-play, and I was outraged that I’d not had a chance to answer Debbie’s accusations before she’d run off to Rebecca with them, or to this brother. I knew I’d have to put things in perspective before I saw her again, but meanwhile I needed to work off some of the useless indignation that was fizzing round my bloodstream.

I called home for my swimsuit and towel and cycled down to the baths in Withington. After twenty lengths I’d mentally barracked Debbie Gosforth, and Rebecca Henderson for listening to her. I’d caught the stalker and been rewarded with huge sums of money and I’d even had a go at Dermott Pitt for his patronising attitude.

The next twenty lengths I used for more positive fantasies. The sun came in through the glass roof and sparkled and dappled the water. I dreamt of swimming in warm seas, of hot sands underfoot and sudden nightfall. As I showered I decided it was time to make holiday plans, something to look forward to. I wasn’t going to get any big rewards no matter what results I got for my clients. There’d be no flights to sun kissed islands dotted with olive groves for Maddie and me. Camping, more like. Somewhere green and damp like Anglesey or the Lleyn Peninsula. Where dry nights or sunny days would be cause for celebration. Kagool territory. It would do. It would have to.

With some equilibrium restored I considered how to spend the rest of the afternoon. It would take me too long to get up to North Manchester to interview any of Luke’s friends and be back in time for school. I wanted to speak to Debbie but I’d wait until she’d heard from Rebecca. I promised myself I’d pack lots of visits into the following day. I was up in North Manchester seeing Dr Khan then anyway so it would make sense to call on other people on my list. No work till tomorrow, then.

With a grin I decided that there was only one thing to do. The garden.

It was a glorious afternoon and hot enough to change into shorts and T-shirt and slap on some sun cream. I brought in the washing, stiff from the line, and heaped it in a corner for sorting later. I cut the grass with the old roller mower, grunting with the effort and feeling the pull on my stomach muscles. The cuttings went in the compost heap. The sweet peas needed tying in and then I dead-headed the tubs and baskets. I thought again about the beauty and simplicity of the Wallaces’ garden. Could I ever do anything like that here? I surveyed the garden. It wouldn’t be me really though, would it? And there was more to it than just vision; Mrs Wallace had spent serious money to realise her plans. Even the grass was in a different league, like velvet compared to our rough hessian.

I’d some nasturtiums to plant out but no real room for them. In the end I decided to get rid of a patch of carnations which were past their best. They’d only managed three blooms the previous year. I loved the sweet milk and clove scent of them but the nasturtiums would give much more colour.

I hate throwing plants away so to soften the blow I took some small stem cuttings from the carnations and potted them up. I knew they were probably not worth the effort but it made me feel better. Earlier I had got the sun-lounger out. Faint hope. It was already school-time and I hadn’t paused. I washed my hands and wandered down the road to collect Maddie and Tom.

Someone in the Khan household had a love of antique furniture. The place looked like something out of a stately home; exquisite inlaid bureaux, corner cupboards and a collection of miniatures and cameos on one wall. The air was fragrant with scent from a vase of lilies. A grandfather clock tick-tocked crisply.

At first Dr Khan was impeccably polite and cold as ice. He offered me tea and when I accepted he asked the young woman I’d seen at the end of the hall to bring it for us.

‘My daughter,’ he explained, ‘she has just finished her Finals.’

‘What’s she doing?’

He indicated a chair, Regency I think, stripy anyway. ‘Optometry.’

Oh. I couldn’t think of any useful small talk to make about that; I wasn’t even certain what it was, though I knew it had to do with eyes. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I said. ‘I’ve been employed by Mr Wallace, as I explained.’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s convinced of his son’s innocence and, as you know, Luke is pleading not guilty.’

‘There were witnesses,’ he said sharply. The light reflected off his glasses as he straightened in his chair

“Witnesses can make mistakes.’

‘That will be for the jury to decide. This is not pleasant for me. If you will come to the point.’

‘I’m sorry, I realise it must be difficult having to go over it again. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was important. I’m trying to establish exactly what happened. I’ll be talking to everybody I can find, if you can tell me the sequence of events that night?’

He cleared his throat softly. Leant forward, arms resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. ‘Ahktar and his friends went to the party at the nightclub.’

‘You knew he was going?’

‘Yes, he was a good boy, he’d been working hard, we were happy to see him have fun too.’ He swallowed.

‘You knew his friends?’

‘Yes, they came here sometimes, they seemed nice enough.’

Our drinks arrived. I’d been half-expecting cups and saucers with all the threat of slops in the saucer and the problem of how to write whilst needing two hands for the crockery, but she’d brought mugs. I took mine thankfully. As she closed the door Dr Khan resumed his story.

‘The hospital rang about half past three. They wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone, they just said Ahktar had been hurt. I imagined that there had been a car crash. I don’t know why, it was my first thought – the taxi home…’ He took a deep breath, pressed his fist to his mouth, released the air slowly through his knuckles.

‘At the hospital I was taken into an anteroom. I knew as soon as I saw the doctor’s face. He was so young, he looked as if he had some guilty secret. “I’m very sorry,” he said, “Ahktar was admitted here earlier this morning, we tried to revive him but we weren’t able to. I’m sorry.” I asked then if it had been a car crash. He told me Ahktar had been stabbed – a single blow. They had no other details but the police had been involved; they wanted to see me after I’d—’ Dr Khan jumped to his feet; he took a couple of steps away, his back to me, and stood facing the gallery of miniatures on the wall.

I concentrated on my notepad. He removed his glasses and wiped at them with a large white handkerchief. When he began to speak again he continued to face the paintings. ‘I must have been over it a hundred times,’ his voice was husky, ‘but still…I had to identify him, my son.’ His voice shrank to a whisper, he pressed the handkerchief to his mouth.

I swallowed hard.

‘The police asked me lots of questions but I have little recollection of them now. They did ask me about Luke Wallace, and I wondered whether he had been hurt too, but they never answered me.’ He turned towards me then, his eyes damp, wide with pain. ‘And then I had to come home and tell my wife,’ he said bitterly, ‘our only son.’ He paused. ‘He was going to study law, you know. Ironic, isn’t it?’

I kept quiet.

‘He wanted justice. Well, now I want justice.’

‘You wouldn’t want the wrong person convicted though?’

He looked at me quizzically.

‘Luke Wallace asked me to tell you that he didn’t hurt Ahktar. He’s devastated by his death.’

‘The court will decide.’

‘But you seem to have made up your mind already.’

‘People saw him do it. The police have statements. There was an argument. What am I supposed to think?’ He raised his voice, anger flashing in his eyes.

‘Luke had no reason—’ I began.

‘Ahktar’s death is senseless!’ he shouted. ‘There can be no reason, it is beyond reason.’ Silence stretched in the wake of his outburst. ‘We may never discover why Ahktar was killed,’ he said, ‘but I will learn how. The facts become terribly important, I’ve noticed this in my own practice, with accidental death, with suicides. The details, the time, the place, the sequence; it helps to know. Please, Miss Kilkenny, I have nothing else to say.’

I put down my mug and got to my feet. ‘You said something about an argument?’

He sighed. Pinched at the bridge of his nose. ‘Zeb, Rangzeb, Ahktar’s cousin was there that night. He saw them arguing. It came out at the committal hearing.’

‘What was it about?’

‘I’ve no idea. Speak to Zeb.’

There are many reasons why people agree to talk to private investigators. A lot of them simply like the attention; they like to be listened to, to have a new audience for their account. It may be that there aren’t very many people they can tell, or those they have told don’t want to hear it again. Someone like me comes along who is passionately interested in what they have to say, and they feel validated, important, responsible again.

If the circumstances were upsetting, the visit from an investigator can be a chance to get it all out in the open once more. Other people don’t realise they have a choice, and some would consider it ill-mannered to refuse.

In Zeb’s case, as I later discovered, he had good reasons for wanting to appear co-operative, since he had something to hide. Like the Siddiqs. Trouble was, he couldn’t quite carry it off. His personality got the better of him.

I’d rung the bell twice and was about to give up when the intercom crackled. I put my face close to the speaker.

‘Sal Kilkenny. I’d like to speak to Zeb Khan.’

The buzzer sounded and I pushed the door and went into the lobby. I was glad to find him awake – if he’d been playing the tables the previous night he might not have got to bed till after sunrise.

The flats, a block of eight, were set in landscaped gardens with parking at the back. Each flat occupied a corner position with picture windows on either side.

Zeb’s flat was on the first floor. He opened his door but didn’t invite me in, ‘What is it?’

‘I’m investigating Ahktar’s death,’ I said, ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

His expression shifted but I couldn’t read it. Embarrassment? Discomfort? Ahktar had been his cousin, after all.

He stood back and let me in. The living room smelt of stale cigarette smoke and fresh coffee. The space was bland; neutral shades for everything, no pictures or ornaments, no plants. Comfortable, clean but impersonal. Zeb obviously didn’t bother making statements with his interior decoration but his clothes were another matter. He wore the latest designer styles, an Armani T shirt and Calvin Klein jeans. It was easy to tell – the labels were on the outside, writ large.

He had the sort of sulky good looks that fill the magazines and are found in boys’ pop groups; slightly pouting lips, dark eyes, squared-off jaw and matching cheekbones, tousled hair and perfect skin.

We sat down and I explained why I was involved in the investigation and apologised for asking him to go over it all again.

‘Were you close to Ahktar?’ I began. ‘I know you were cousins. Did you spend much time together?’

He shook his head. ‘I was working and he was studying for his exams, to get into university.’

‘He wanted to do law.’

‘Yeah, we’re not all shopkeepers, you know.’

And we’re not all bigots. His belligerence shocked me.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ he said bluntly.

‘What makes you say that?’

“Cos they know who did it – Luke Wallace. They’ve got witnesses and everything.’

‘Do you know the Siddiqs?’

‘What?’ He was thrown by the question. I repeated it.

‘No – well, I know who they are, ‘cos of all this, but why?’

‘Rashid Siddiq works for your brother, at the Cash and Carry. You don’t know him?’

‘No. It’s a big company, I can’t keep track of all the people there.’ There was an aggressive edge to his manner that kept me alert, ready to leave if I needed to.

I tried again, ‘What do you think happened?’

‘Wallace stabbed him. He was out of his head – it happens, doesn’t it? Some people take something and it sends them crazy. He probably didn’t know what he was doing. They reckon he can’t remember any of it.’

‘So you don’t think Luke intended to hurt him, he just lost control?’

‘No,’ he contradicted himself, ‘they’d been arguing, earlier on.’

I waited for him to continue but he didn’t.

‘You saw them?’ I prompted.

‘They were just arguing, mouthing off at each other,’ he said irritably.

‘Do you know what it was about?’

‘No, I couldn’t hear.’

‘When was this?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What time did you get there?’

‘’Bout eight.’

‘So when you saw them arguing was it soon after that?’

‘No.’

‘Before Emma left?’

He frowned, sat forward in his seat then back again. He wasn’t sure. I was perplexed by his reactions but then I thought of an explanation.

‘You’d taken drugs as well?’ I said. ‘It makes it harder to remember exactly when everything happened?’