‘We have Preston Carmichael’s ex-wife’s home address,’ said Danni.
‘Let’s hope she’s in,’ said Seawoll.
Our GMP liaison was waiting for us on the concourse. She was a dark-haired white woman with sharp features, blue eyes and narrow shoulders which she hunched forwards when at rest. She was instantly recognisable from her smart but dull black trouser suit, her sensible shoes and her look of narrow-eyed suspicion. She might as well have been wearing her warrant card on a lanyard around her neck.
She’d obviously been given a good description of Seawoll, because she had him spotted before he cleared the ticket barrier and marched over to introduce herself.
‘DC Eileen Monkfish,’ she said.
We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and Monkfish led us to where her car was waiting illegally in the taxi drop-off area. It was raining hard and we all dashed to climb into what turned out to be yet another battered Hyundai. Judging from the state of the interior and the fact that the heater had stopped working, this was probably Greater Manchester Police’s least loved pool car.
‘We followed up your query,’ said Monkfish, aggressively pulling out in front of a black cab, which honked. ‘Seeing as our last known for Samantha Carmichael was from all the way back in the eighties, I’ve got to say we weren’t hopeful.’
So imagine their surprise when it turned out that, according to the electoral register, Sam Carmichael was still living at that address thirty years later.
‘That’s a long time to live in Fallowfield,’ said Monkfish.
Once we were away from the station, Manchester became a city of wide straight roads with low-rise terraces, urban parks and shopping arcades sweeping past us in the rain. It could have been an inner city suburb anywhere in Britain, except that it was much flatter – even than South London.
The address was a two-storey plus an attic conversion on a street running back from the high street. One of a row of late Victorian red-brick terraces with orthogonal bay windows and vestigial front gardens given over to recycling bins and rusty un-stealable bicycles. Our address was neat and well maintained in contrast with the scruffy frontages and neglected front doors of the rest of the terrace. The area had the unmistakable signs of multiple-occupancy rented accommodation. Short-term tenancies at that.
‘Students,’ said Monkfish.
‘Hasn’t changed, then,’ said Seawoll and, ignoring the doorbell, he banged on the front door.
A small slim white man dressed in a pair of green tracksuit bottoms opened the door and immediately took a shocked step backwards. Having four police turn up unexpectedly can have that effect – Seawoll can have that effect all on his own.
‘Hallo,’ Seawoll said brightly. ‘I’m looking for Samantha Carmichael.’
‘What for?’ said the man, recovering a bit of his Englishman’s castle and straightening up.
Seawoll showed his warrant card.
‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Alexander Seawoll from the Metropolitan Police,’ he said. ‘And why we’re here is her business. Is she still living at this address?’
‘Yeah,’ said the man and chuckled. ‘Samantha is my dead name. I haven’t used it for twenty years.’
‘In that case, we’d like to ask you some questions about your ex-husband,’ said Seawoll.
‘Which one?’ he asked.
‘How many have you had?’ asked Seawoll.
The rain was definitely trickling down the back of my neck, but Seawoll’s stance was relaxed but implacable. It indicated that he was willing to stand there forever if need be – whatever the weather.
The man hesitated and then shrugged.
‘Just the one, actually,’ he said, and eyed the four of us looming in his doorstep. ‘Some of you better come in.’
We left Danni and Monkfish in the car, although we could certainly all have fitted in what was definitely not a multi-occupancy home. Instead, the whole ground floor had been knocked out so that the living room segued into a dining room, which became a big kitchen conservatory complete with breakfast bar and ceramic island hob. Yellow and red covers were thrown over a big and slightly saggy sofa and armchairs, and the flat surfaces not covered in knick-knacks and framed photographs supported potted plants. This was not a room that had been decorated; rather it had accumulated over time around someone with a yen for comfort and a wicked sense for colour.
Instant coffee arrived in a set of rainbow-coloured mugs.
Seawoll did the notification. Like many large men, Seawoll can come across as sympathy itself when he exerts himself. He sat on the edge of the sofa, leaning forwards to make himself a comforting bulk as he notified Sam Carmichael of his ex-husband’s death.
‘I’m a bit shocked by my response,’ said Sam, after he’d blown his nose. ‘It was a fair time ago.’
‘We never truly put our loved ones behind us,’ said Seawoll. ‘We think we move on, but we carry our baggage with us.’
Sam bustled off to make a second cup of coffee, despite the fact that we’d barely touched the first, and I took the opportunity to look at the photographs scattered around the room. They looked like holiday snaps, groups or individuals set against foreign backgrounds – beaches, palm trees, ancient ruins and a handful with snow and mountains. Sam only appeared in a few of the pictures – perhaps because he’d been behind the camera for the others. It was hard to tell what decade they were from. Some were definitely old-fashioned printed film images, while others had the 4K sheen of modern hard copy.
Nobody stood out as being a partner or significant other.
Sam returned with more rainbow-coloured mugs and noticed the originals still sitting fussily on their coasters on the glass coffee table.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’m getting senile.’
He scooped up the old cups and took them away.
‘You obviously like to go on holiday,’ I said when he came back.
‘As much as possible,’ said Sam. ‘I’m trying to visit every country in the world.’
‘Even the war zones?’ asked Seawoll.
‘Nowhere stays a war zone forever,’ said Sam primly.
Seawoll cued me and I extracted my tablet and showed him the group picture. Sam sighed.
‘He was a good-looking bloke,’ he said.
We asked after the other figures in the photograph but Sam claimed that he’d never met them.
‘We were drifting apart by then,’ he said. ‘We got on fine, but it’s difficult when one of you has a passion the other doesn’t share. To be honest, I was never what you would call an enthusiastic spouse – I’m not very romantic, you see. Or religious.’
Seawoll asked when Preston had become more interested in religion.
‘Preston had always been very spiritual,’ said Sam. ‘We were both raised as Catholics, and you know what they say – once you’re a Catholic you stay a Catholic no matter what you actually believe in.’
But Sam and Preston had very much been lapsed Catholics when they bought the house in Fallowfield. Sam was teaching at a local comprehensive and had met Preston when he came in as a supply teacher.
I asked what he taught.
‘Any subject that needed cover,’ said Sam. ‘He had a degree in theology.’
Our information on Preston Carmichael had remained maddeningly scarce, and so we took a couple of minutes to establish that Preston had read theology at Durham University and had, in fact, gone on to Ushaw College, a Roman Catholic seminary, but had left before taking any vows.
‘He always said that priest was really too limited a role to appeal,’ said Sam. ‘He was very eclectic in his interests, read widely and was extremely popular as a supply teacher.’