I asked Eleanor if anything else had come up that I should know about.
‘Let me check my notes. I tape the session but I jot down key words as we go – it helps in finding things on the tape.’ A pause. ‘Oh, yes. I asked about the other friends like you said, and I asked about any trouble. Now he mentioned Emma, the girlfriend, leaving and then Zeb, the boyfriend, had some sort of run-in with Joey. That’s right – I asked him if it was a fight but he said it was just Zeb throwing his weight around.’
‘Did he say whether he and Ahktar had fallen out?’
‘Denied it, found it amusing so I don’t think he was covering up.’
‘And could you tell when the memory loss began?’
‘Hard to be precise but definitely while he was still inside, before the end of the celebrations.’
‘None of the others passed out,’ I said, ‘and they were all doing drugs.’
‘Luke was drinking quite a lot too,’ she replied. ‘Extra-strong lagers.’
‘Yuk.’
I recalled my own teenage experiments with that sort of drink. Strong enough to strip paint and intoxicating enough to have me senseless after two or three and hanging over the toilet bowl. Bad news anyway, but combined with a cocktail of drugs…’
‘How was he?’ I asked. ‘I realise you have to keep things confidential, but…’
‘That’s OK. Luke and I discussed who I might talk to and what I would and wouldn’t divulge. He’s depressed and I’ve encouraged him to see the doctor there again. He’s also experiencing periods of anxiety. It’s not surprising, given the strain he’s been under. I’ve offered to do some more hypnotherapy which could help reduce the stress and give him some techniques to manage the anxiety. He’s keen so I’m going to have a word with his father about it later.’
‘Good.’
I thanked Eleanor for her time. I’d be paying her for this first visit to Luke; it was warranted as part of my investigation. Of course, it would appear on Mr Wallace’s next invoice as one of my expenses. I sorted out with her where to send her cheque and made a note for my own reference of the rate she charged. Just in case, I thought. If I had any more wobblers like the one at the baths that morning, I could consider a few sessions with Eleanor. I liked the notion of learning a bit of self-hypnosis. Could come in handy for lots of things, not just panic attacks. Those nights when the dog down the road keeps me awake, or moments when Maddie and I get locked into a spiral of argument and defiance.
‘And obviously,’ she said, ‘the sooner this can be resolved, trial or release, the better for him. He’s quite ill already and Golborne is no place to try and get better.’
So it was up to me, wasn’t it? To find enough to force them to release Luke. Sooner rather than later. Me – and his lawyer.
Chapter Twenty-One
When the bell went at the front door I waited to see if it would go again. I rarely got cold callers; most people ring and make an appointment. And any friend of the Dobsons would know not to drop in during a weekday. It rang again. I suspected it would be a doorstep seller, offering a great deal on tarmac, potatoes, lawn strimming or the latest fashion catalogue.
But it was Zeb Khan, a look of bravado on his face. My first reaction was to keep him out of the house. I hadn’t forgotten the edge of aggression he’d shown me.
‘Hello, Mr Khan.’
He glanced beyond me into the hall, back at my face. No, I wasn’t going to invite him in. ‘Can I help?’
‘About Ahktar,’ he spoke urgently, ‘I’ve been thinking about it. It’s not right, what you’re doing. Wallace killed him. You just want to whitewash it all.’ As he gained momentum he began to jab his finger at me.
‘The court will decide who’s guilty;’ I said, ‘and what evidence can be relied upon.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he demanded.
‘You saw Luke and Ahktar arguing but no one else did. Strange, that – such good mates, too. You’d think other people would have clocked it, if it had happened. And what about your row with Joey D? What was all that about?’
He glared at me. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘You were shouting at him, grabbed him by the collar. Can’t you remember? Were you so smashed that you don’t recall it? You owe a lot of money, don’t you? Was it to do with that?’
He set his jaw. ‘You should keep your fucking nose out, see, or you might get hurt. My cousin’s dead.’
‘Don’t threaten me,’ I said so he could just hear me. ‘You threaten me and I might have to report you.’ I locked onto his eyes. No way was he going to see me cowed. ‘They’d be interested in that, wouldn’t they? A witness nobbling one of the defence investigators. Worth looking into?’
He struggled briefly to contain his anger, lips pressed tight, jaw working away. Then he lost it. ‘You cunt, you fucking-’
I shut the door quickly. Leant back against the wall for a moment, heart kicking at my stomach. The knife-tip at my throat, needing to swallow, spittle on his lips…I concentrated on my breathing. Felt my pulse begin to slow. I looked out through the spy-hole. Saw him kicking the gate open, leaving, thank God.
I was interested in the timing. I’d spoken to Mrs Siddiq the previous afternoon and now here was Zeb Khan warning me off. Must be getting too close for comfort. More evidence for Mr Pitt the brief.
When I left to collect the children I felt edgy. I doubted that Zeb would actually attack me, he seemed more likely to do that in the heat of the moment, but being threatened had made me wary. I had a good look round before I left the Dobsons’ and kept scanning the area on my way to school.
It was a long, slow walk back home, with a stop to buy a lolly for Tom and Maddie and Maddie’s friend, Holly, and a second emergency stop when Maddie tripped and skinned her knees. She would die, she couldn’t walk, all her blood was coming out. I’ve grown used to Maddie’s low pain threshold and incipient hypochondria. I soothed until I’d had enough, then adopted a brisk, no-nonsense tone to steer her home.
There was a red car parked outside our house. A Mondeo. My heart squeezed hard. There was a man in the car. I shepherded the children up the drive. I heard the car door open and close. As I got them inside I turned to see who it was. I didn’t know him.
He came up the drive. ‘Miss Kilkenny?’
Ms actually, but now wasn’t the time. I didn’t commit myself ‘What’s it about?’
‘Mike Courtney – freelance journalist.’ He stuck out a large hand. I caught a whiff of spicy cologne. ‘I believe you were the mystery woman at the Belle Vue suicide scene?’
The drone of flies, that putrid stench. Oh, hell. And he’d tracked me down – a dogged reporter. All I needed. ‘There was no mystery,’ I said coolly. ‘The police have all the details.’
‘Why were you calling on Mr Kearsley?’
‘Kearsal’
‘Kearsal. Was it in connection with a case?’
‘My work is confidential. There isn’t a story, there’s no mystery, you’re wasting your time.’ I tried not to snap. After all, I didn’t want MYSTERY WOMAN’S VOW OF SILENCE or SECRET SLEUTH WHO DARES NOT SPEAK plastered all over the paper.
‘There’s a lot of interest in private eyes,’ he pressed on. ‘Look at the telly; Morse, Dalziel and Pascoe, The Bill.’
‘They’re police,’ I quibbled.
‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘same difference. Readers may well be interested in a feature about your work. Woman in a Man’s World, Girl Gumshoe – that sort of thing.’
Spare me. I’d have walked away then but I was all too aware of the need to build on my reputation, keep a steady flow of work coming in. If the piece was pitched right, it could be free publicity. ‘Can I think about it?’