Towers of Silence Read online

  Cath Staincliffe is the author of the acclaimed Sal Kilkenny mysteries as well as being creator of ITV’s hit police series, Blue Murder, starring Caroline Quentin as DCI Janine Lewis. Cath was shortlisted for the CWA Dagger in the Library award in 2006. She lives in Manchester with her family.

  Also by Cath Staincliffe

  Witness

  The Kindest Thing

  Split Second

  The Sal Kilkenny Mysteries

  Looking For Trouble

  Go Not Gently

  Dead Wrong

  Stone Cold Red Hot

  Towers of Silence

  Short stories

  In the Heart of the City

  Violation

  Towers of Silence

  Cath Staincliffe

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published Allison & Busby, 2003

  This ebook edition published in the UK by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012

  Copyright © Cath Staincliffe, 2002

  The right of Cath Staincliffe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 9781780339931 (ebook)

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Towers of silence:

  the small towers on which the Parsees and Zoroastrians place their dead to be consumed by birds of prey.

  Brewer’s Concise Dictionary of Phrase and Fable

  Dedication

  For Fay, Julia, Maggie and Polly – partners in crime.

  Chapter One

  It was the festive season. Less than three weeks till Christmas but we’d all been smothered with tinsel, fake snow, holly and Santa Claus since they’d whipped the Hallowe’en stuff away at the beginning of November. We were on the home run. Three weeks and counting, nineteen shopping days. Well, every day was a shopping day and half the nights an’ all. The Manchester stores were busy, tills-a-bleeping in the steady chant of commerce, shop windows ablaze with all the sparkling ingredients for that magical celebration, the city festooned with luxury. Samaritans signing up for extra duty on the phone lines. Festive season, restive season.

  I had three bags full of stuff and a creeping headache from the combination of over warm shops, desperate concentration and the noxious fumes of the perfume departments which were strategically placed inside the entrances to most of the big shops. I’d still got nothing for Ray, my housemate, nor Laura, his girlfriend. What did you get a thirty-something of Italian ancestry whose sole interests are carpentry and computing? A chisel? A mouse mat? On a par with treating your mother to a duster, I reckon.

  I knew it was time to cut my losses and get the bus back. If I spent any more money it would be ill spent on poor choices. I knew; I’d been here before.

  I clambered onto the bus, got my ticket and sat down easing the bags onto my knees with a sigh of relief. I rubbed at the deep welts the carriers had carved in my fingers. The bus trundled along Cross Street and swung round by Albert Square. I craned my neck to look at the inflatable Santa suspended halfway up the Town Hall. The comic blow-up doll hardly complemented the Victorian splendour of the building. The place boasted a clock tower and a soaring style that celebrated the civic pride of nineteenth century Manchester; it was a testament to the time when Manchester ruled the world, and not just in football and music.

  You’d think they could have got someone to design a Victorian-style Father Christmas, like in the old picture books, chubby cheeks, curling beard and moustache, twinkling eyes instead of this paddling pool monstrosity. Maddie, Tom and presumably all the other children thought it was great but I reckon it was the idea they liked (as did I) rather than the thing itself.

  Barring hold-ups I would just have time to get the two of them back from school and get round the corner to the office for my four o’ clock appointment with the Johnstones. Transforming myself from Sal Kilkenny, single-parent, to Sal Kilkenny, private eye. New clients and I’d yet to find out what they wanted from me. But whatever it was, the money would come in handy for Christmas. I didn’t know then that I was going to turn them away. I didn’t know a lot of things then. Let’s just say I’ve had better Christmases.

  Chapter Two

  “Everybody had decided it was suicide but it just didn’t make sense.”

  “You weren’t happy with the coroner’s verdict?”

  She assessed me. “No.” Connie Johnstone, a black woman in her mid-twenties, was doing the talking. Her teenage sister, Martina, nodded in agreement now and again or scowled at my questions, their brother Roland, the youngest of the three at fourteen, kept his arms folded and his eyes averted. Connie’s boyfriend, a white man who had introduced himself in a strong Irish accent as Patrick Dowley, watched me silently.

  I’d not expected four of them and had to bring down chairs from the kitchen to the cellar so they could all sit down.

  “What weren’t you happy about?”

  She held my gaze for a moment, eyes the colour of hazelnut shells, her skin a shade or two darker. Her black hair was braided in corn rows. There was an edge of pain in her expression then she blinked slowly and took a breath.

  “Ma was scared of heights. Petrified. She would never have gone up there. Not in a million years.”

  “Even if she were distressed?”

  “Particularly then. Like I said she had periods of depression and at times she’d get anxious, start getting paranoid about things but she wasn’t mad,” she snapped the word defiantly, “she never lost it completely. If she had started feeling down she would never have gone there, she’d not have gone out.”

  Martina nodded slowly. Patrick shifted his weight on the chair. Roland swallowed.

  “You told the coroner this?”

  “Yes. But it didn’t make any difference. He’d made up his mind, they all had. Once they knew she’d been treated for depression, that she’d spent time in hospital, then that was it. Case closed. Mentally ill - chucks herself off a building,” she said harshly. “That explained it for them but not for us. It didn’t make sense. If she had wanted to kill herself she’d have done it some other way.”

  “She wasn’t even depressed,” Patrick put in quickly. His hair was cropped close to his skull, he wore small wire glasses. He was thin-faced and blue veins showed through his milky complexion. “We saw her on the Wednesday and she was okay then. She hadn’t been bad for months.”

  Connie nodded. “She was fine,” she said to me.

  “And you told the coroner that as well?”

  “Yes.”

  What were they saying? If Miriam Johnstone hadn’t jumped then what? She’d been pushed? My stomach tightened and I asked her outright.

  “You think her death was suspicious? That someone else was involved?”

  She drew in her cheeks, nodded.

  “Or maybe an accident,” Patrick added, catching my frown.

  “Is there anything, anything at all, t
o suggest that someone else was there?”

  No one spoke for a moment.

  “That’s what we want you to find out,” Connie said.

  A tall order. I sighed. “Were there any witnesses?”

  “No,” she said quietly.

  “Any forensic evidence, anything at the inquest to suggest she was with someone?”

  “No.”

  “Any evidence of a struggle or an attack?”

  “No.”

  “Do you suspect somebody?”

  “No,” even quieter.

  I could sense the mist of despair seep into the atmosphere.

  “Couldn’t you just make some enquiries though? The police hardly talked to anybody,” Connie said urgently.

  Because there was no need to, I thought. I carried on trying to establish whether there were any grounds for an enquiry. I could do with the work but I need to believe that there’s something I can usefully do for my clients.

  “Did Miriam have any enemies?”

  “No,” Connie said.

  “Feuds?” A shake of the head. “Was she involved in any business dealings?”

  “No.”

  “Did she have any money or property that someone outside the family stood to inherit?”

  “No.” A sullen burn in her eyes. She knew my game.

  “Any insurance policies payable on her death?”

  “No.”

  “Was she seeing anyone, romantically?”

  Roland wriggled with resentment.

  “No.”

  I sighed. No reason for anyone to harm her. I didn’t need to say it aloud.

  “I told you it would be a waste of time,” Martina burst out. “She’s just like the rest of them.”

  Connie looked down at her hands resting on the folder on her knees. Her head bowing. Patrick put out his hand and clasped her arm.

  Martina sighed theatrically and glared at me sidelong, Roland studied his shoes.

  “We read about you in the paper,” Patrick told me. “About the racial harassment case. We thought you’d ... have an open mind.”

  “What’s the point?” Martina repeated.

  “You think there could be some racial element?”

  “She was a black woman,” Connie said.

  “Had anyone been causing her any trouble?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Nothing? Threats, damage to property, hate mail?”

  “No. What I mean is the police, that’s why they didn’t do much, didn’t listen to us. Because she was black.”

  I nodded. It was plausible. Senior officers had recently acknowledged that there was institutionalised racism in the force. Black and Asian communities had known it for years and had little faith in the police. They didn’t trust them and there’d been a sorry stream of cases, including that of Stephen Lawrence, which demonstrated police failure and incompetence in serving black citizens.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry about your mother’s death. Maybe the police could have done more but I don’t think it would have changed the verdict. If you could give me any stronger reason for investigating it I’d be happy to help but everything points to suicide.”

  Connie rolled her eyes in impatience and inhaled. “She was fine when we last saw her,” she looked straight at me, spoke slowly to emphasise her points, “and she had a phobia of heights, high buildings. She even used to swap her duties with the other orderlies at the hospital so she wouldn’t have to do the higher floors.” She looked away sharply, I could see the tears of frustration glittering in her eyes.

  “When she did get depressed, how quickly did it come on?”

  “A few days.”

  “Is it impossible that she was okay on the Wednesday and became ill on the Thursday?”

  “It’s not likely.”

  “Had she tried to harm herself before.”

  I waited for her reply. “No.”

  “We just want to know what happened,” Patrick tried.

  “I think the coroner’s verdict is the closest you’re going to get. I’m sorry if that sounds hard but I don’t think I can do anything for you. If there was anything more concrete to go on ... but as it is ...”

  “Think about it,” Patrick said, his face flushing lightly. “Don’t decide now, take a little time, maybe.”

  “What’s the point?” Martina stood. I guessed she was about seventeen, tall and skinny. She was like her sister but she wore her hair pulled back in a bun. “She’s only going to say no again.”

  Roland rose too, stuffing his large hands into his pockets, staring resolutely at the wall. He wore school uniform and had the awkward look of a boy growing into his body. His hair was twisted into small tufts.

  “Look, in all honesty, the police saw nothing suspicious, found nothing. And from what you’ve told me I agree with them.”

  “They didn’t even bother. They didn’t care. How did she get there? They never explained that.” Connie blurted out. “She didn’t drive. If she was depressed - and I don’t buy that - then she’d stay home. She’d retreat not go off into town. She wouldn’t have been up to getting on a bus. And she would never, never, never have gone up to the fifth floor of a building and thrown herself off.” Her words reverberated round the small room.

  I waited a beat. I wanted to help if I could, but all I was hearing was her insistence that it couldn’t be suicide. She was grieving, maybe in denial. It didn’t make sense, she claimed, she wanted to know why. What if there was no reason? No logical explanation? “Hiring someone like me isn’t necessarily going to answer those questions. I could launch an investigation and find nothing and you’d be wasting your money.”

  “It’s not about money,” Connie said, a frown furrowing her brow, “it’s about ...” she broke off, wrestling her emotions.

  “I want to be straight with you,” I said. “It sounds like you want me to prove something suspicious about your mother’s death but from my point of view there’s really nothing to back that up and I wouldn’t be happy working for you with that expectation there. I’d be just as likely to confirm the inquest verdict. But I don’t think that’s what you want, is it?”

  No one spoke.

  “I’m sorry. There are other agencies, obviously, but can I suggest if you do approach anyone that you agree on a fixed number of hours and a fixed rate.”

  There were plenty of rip-off merchants about who would milk the Johnstones for all they had.

  Connie rose, avoiding eye contact. Patrick took the folder from her. The four of them walked up the steps and along the hall to the front door. Their shoulders were set and the air stiff with tension.

  The teenagers walked down the path, Connie muttered a goodbye and followed. Patrick hung back. When they were out of earshot he turned to me.

  “Will you not think this over, give us an answer tomorrow.”

  I opened my mouth to refuse but he barged on.

  “Connie had to identify her mother. She had to do it by looking at her hands. Things were that bad.”

  Oh God. I didn’t need to hear this.

  “Connie can’t accept it. The police did nothing. If we just knew more about those missing hours. Even if all you could do was fill in some of that last day, that would really help. It wouldn’t explain everything but it might tell us something of what Miriam was doing. We’d have a bit more of the picture. Surely, you could do that?”

  That wasn’t what Connie had asked. I shook my head slowly.

  “Aw, Jesus,” he cried out his voice strained. “Where’s the bloody harm in it?” He pinched the top of his nose near the glasses. Blew out. “Look, we’ll ring tomorrow. Think about it.” He pushed the folder at me. I took it. To refuse that would have been heartless.

  “We’ll ring tomorrow,” he said again and turned away. He walked down the path pulling up his collar against the cold, his shoulders rounded, head thrust forward.

  “Where’s the bloody harm in it?”

  Chapter Threer />
  It’s only a few minutes walk home from the office. I rent the basement room from the Dobson family who occupy the rest of the house. When I first set up as a private investigator I wanted to have some separation between home and work; a cheap room to meet my clients in and store my paperwork. When I knocked on doors looking for a space, the Dobsons liked the idea of having a sleuth in the cellar. Not only did I pay them for that, I also regularly used their older daughters for baby-sitting when Ray wasn’t home to look after the children. Selina Dobson was obliging me that night. I found her on the sofa, between Tom and Maddie transfixed by a Pokemon cartoon. I thanked and paid her, once the programme finished, and set about making tea. Tagliatelle and tuna sauce. Just for the three of us; I knew Ray would be late back.

  It was a blustery evening, the wind whipping the trees and shrubs about. A clatter from the back garden sent me out to investigate. Light spilt out from the lounge and the kitchen, illuminating an empty plant pot skipping over the grass. I caught it soon enough. A small maple I had in a pot had been blown over too. I moved that to the corner between the house and the fence we share with next door, to give it more shelter.

  One or two stars glimmered dimly above but that was it. Starry nights are rare in the city. Not just because of the frequent cloud cover - Manchester aka Rainy City - but also because of the bright lights that illuminate the streets, the clubs and the buildings and drench the heavens. As I headed for the door at the side of the house I could hear more clattering, from above. I peered up at the house. It was hard to tell in the dark, but it seemed to be the wood that ran along the edge of the roof. Another job for the list. The old Victorian semi boasts big rooms, a big garden and big bills. To be fair, the owner who lectures in Australia pays for all the maintenance but it can take several weeks to come through and my overdraft suffers.

  Ray and I have shared the house since Maddie was a toddler. Ray was a single-parent trying to find accommodation for himself and baby Tom, and I’d just got the tenancy of the house and needed someone to help fill it. We’ve become a sort of alternative family over time and people often mistakenly assume that Ray and I are living together in the Biblical rather than the practical sense. We sublet the attic flat and we’ve had a series of lodgers. Sheila, a mature student and divorcee, has been with us for a couple of years and we all get on very well. Ray’s mum, Nana Costello, a small, fierce Italian woman, lives nearby and is a frequent visitor to the house. She is a vociferous critic of some of our lifestyle choices. I’ve learnt to take her in my stride - just about.