Go Not Gently (7 page)

In the lounge with a fresh cup of tea I dug out my gardening books and spent an hour gazing at glossy pictures and looking up various species. In the depths of February it was hard to recall the scents and colours of the summer, to remember exactly how it felt when the sun went down four hours later and washing dried on the line. Of course, living in Manchester summer could often feel like February but we did have glimpses of the seasonal changes the rest of the country took as read.

I could hear Ray messing about in the cellar, fitting in a bit of his furniture making. When he’d a building job on everything else got postponed, so if he’d said yes to a few orders he’d soon have impatient customers ringing up wanting to know when the chest, table or chair would be finished.

He popped his face round the door to tell me he was taking Digger out for his walk. I was in bed and fast asleep before they came back.

After leaving the children at school I spent most of the money that Agnes had given me on food. I raced round the discount supermarket plucking cereal boxes and containers of milk and juice, toilet rolls, tins of beans and tomatoes, mini yogurts, crisps, rice, cheap cheese, tea and coffee. In the vegetable shop opposite I picked a selection of vegetables and a bag full of fruit. I unloaded the lot on the kitchen table, stuck the cheese, yoghurts and milk in the fridge. The rest I’d sort out later. It was time for work.

Jimmy rang as requested just as I’d settled at my desk. ‘I’m ringing from work,’ he said. ‘We’re not meant to make private calls. I can’t talk for long.’

In the background I could hear the sound of vans and a Tannoy.

‘I watched Tina yesterday,’ I said. ‘And she didn’t go anywhere but the local shops. Do you want me to try again today?’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK. Ring me again tomorrow, same time.’

I didn’t want to alert Tina by using the old wrong number call again so I just drove over to Levenshulme as soon as I could. After an hour sitting in the car my left buttock had seized up. I was getting hungry too. I’d demolished my apple and banana in the first half-hour. My stomach was growling. A light rain finally made it down from the clutches of the clouds. Fine as a sea fret and bringing with it the scent of sewage, not brine.

Tina came out wearing a check jacket, black skirt and carrying a bag. She looked stylish. Her hair was bound up in a knot on her head and she wore large gold earrings.

I got out of the car and locked it while she walked down the main road. She passed the bus stop and turned left towards the post office and the local train station. I followed her up the ramp and stood behind her while she bought a return to Piccadilly; I did too. She took a seat in the waiting room while I went and stood on the platform. I didn’t want to become too familiar.

When the train arrived I sat in a different coach. I looked out over East Manchester, Beswick, Ardwick, Miles Platting. I could spot the curve of the Velodrome changing the skyline and work going on to complete the large-scale redevelopment of the whole area. Where once there’d been whole estates of terraced houses, established communities, there were now great tracts of raw earth littered with heaps of bricks and huge concrete cylinders. Yellow cranes and earth movers gnawed away at the land.

Where had all the people gone? Would they come back or were homes going to be replaced by industrial estates, superstore complexes and yet more roads?

We were at Piccadilly in ten minutes. The check jacket made it easy to keep Tina in view. She took the escalator down to the Metrolink. Were we just going shopping or would I need a ticket to Bury or Altrincham? Tina didn’t bother with a ticket. I hedged my bets and pressed the buttons to get a ticket for the central zone. Last thing I wanted was to get done for fare dodging.

The first tram was for Bury and she boarded it. But we only went as far as Piccadilly Gardens. We weren’t going shopping, though. She turned in the other direction and I followed her, at a distance, across Portland Street and along a side road to the Worcester Hotel. I waited while she went in, counted to twenty and then as quietly as I could opened the heavy glass door and followed. I was dead lucky, the receptionist wasn’t at her desk. The place looked decent enough, good maroon wool carpet, clean decor, fresh lilies at reception, which made the lobby smell sweet. There was no lift. I took the stairs two at a time and silently as possible, alert to any noises. The corridor on the first floor was empty. I thought I caught a footfall from upstairs. On the second landing I was in time to see a glimpse of Tina’s check jacket disappearing into a room. Bingo!

I walked down to the room, number 203. I paused outside, stilling my breath and straining to catch any sound. Nothing. Just my pulse pounding, that sweet way it does when I’m scared of being caught.

There was nowhere in the corridor to wait. There were three doors on either side and a fire door at the far end. More than likely that would lead out to a fire escape. No good waiting out there, I wanted to see if anyone came up to join Tina.

I went back down to the first floor, prepared to act as if I were just leaving my room if anyone spotted me. Ten minutes crawled by. Then I heard footsteps, the clink of coins or keys. A man crossed the landing and carried on up. I followed him. He knocked sharply on a door and cast a glance my way as I appeared from the stairs. Room 203. The door opened and he went in. Full house.

I went down to the lobby. The receptionist was back, and she seemed surprised to see me.

‘Can I help you?’ she said. 

I weighed her up. Young, lots of make-up, expensive clothes. It couldn’t be very exciting working here. Maybe I could brighten her day.  ‘You might be able to,’ I said. ‘I’m a private detective.’ I pulled out one of my cards and showed her. She took it, read it, handed it back. Cool. Sceptical. Weighing me up too.

‘Room 203,’ I said, ‘can you tell me who’s registered there?’

‘I don’t think I could do that,’ she said, a neutral tone. ‘Confidentiality and all that.’

‘I thought that was doctors and priests,’ I said.

‘And lawyers,’ she was enjoying this, ‘and banks.’ I missed the hint.

‘You could just check the mail,’ I gestured towards the pigeonholes, ‘or tidy the information board. And I could just glance at the visitors’ book.’

She sighed. ‘Rotten wages,’ she said, ‘hotel and catering trade. Time they agreed a minimum wage.’

It took me a moment to cotton on. I nodded. Took a fiver from my purse, put it on the desk.

She smiled. ‘Then there’s inflation, the recession, negative equity. You know my house is worth less now than it was in 1989.’ I placed a second fiver on the desk. ‘Just look at those letters, what a mess.’

She turned away, pocketing the fivers, and began to shuffle the envelopes. I swivelled the ledger round my way. I found room 203, in the name of Mrs Peters. A flick back through the pages revealed another eight occasions. Mrs Peters checked in for days not nights. I made a note of the dates.

‘Does Mr Peters always join her?’ I asked.

The receptionist put the letters back and turned round.

Before she could answer the door opened and a woman swept in carrying an umbrella and pulling a scarf from her neck.

‘Sorry I’m late, Lynn.’ She lifted the counter top up and joined her colleague. ‘Flipping plumbers. Plonkers more like.’

‘I’m sorry we can’t help you,’ said Lynn very firmly. ‘We don’t use outside caterers.’ End of conversation.

I’d done my job, bar the photos. I hadn’t promised Jimmy Achebe photographic proof of what I discovered but it always helped to have hard evidence to back up the facts.

I loitered near the hotel for another hour watching people come and go and feeling faint from hunger before the man I’d seen emerged. He was in his forties, I guessed. Tall and slim. He wore an expensive camel coat and his brown hair was swept back from his face. He had a creamy complexion, clean-shaven. I got a shot of him in profile and another, full length, facing me. I swung the camera around and clicked the skyline just in case.

I soaked up nearly another hour of steady drizzle. My bladder began to ache, and my shoulder, too, a gnawing pain, a reaction to the tension. Tina came out. I snapped her twice then put my camera away. I stuck with her until she reached the platform at Piccadilly from where the train for Levenshulme left, then I called it a day. I had a blissful pee in the ladies’ at the station, bought a huge sandwich, a rich chocolate bun and a large fresh coffee. Only when I’d eaten my fill and warmed through did I get the train myself. It was an old model, shabby and seedy. People were returning from work. I sat crushed in with the smell of wet wool and hair, and the windows grey with condensation. The train lurched to Levenshulme. I walked back and got my car.  I didn’t relish telling Jimmy what I’d found out. If Tina’s meeting had been with a man at a café, a pub or a restaurant there may well have been an innocent explanation. But a hotel?  A private room with a bed?

My job was done. Their troubles were just beginning.

I’d arranged for the kids to go hom

e with school friends. On the way to get them I dropped the film in at a photo shop I know where they boast processing within the hour. I didn’t need it that urgently. I’d collect it in the morning.

I reached the children at five.

‘I could’ve given them tea, you know,’ said Jean.

‘We want tea, stay for tea,’ Maddie began to chant and the others joined in.

‘No, not tonight. Maybe some other time,’ I said. I thanked Jean for offering, wishing she’d not mentioned it in front of the children. Now I was the mean, horrible Mummy who wouldn’t let them.

After ten minutes of gathering up paintings, coats, lunch boxes and shoes I managed to remove Maddie and Tom, ignoring the protests and complaints.

It only took fifteen minutes to get tea on the table: three-minute macaroni and cheese sauce, tomato salad and bread and butter. Once fed the children crawled off to play puppies with Digger. The dog treated the whole thing with detached caution, poised to remove himself if any indignities were committed.

Ray got back from work and went for a shower. I warmed through his pasta and washed up the rest of the dishes. ‘Your mother would have a fit,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘It’s three-minute macaroni,’ I said.

‘What? You haven’t made fresh?’

‘Nope.’

‘Neither does she,’ he said. ‘Well, only to impress. She’s a cupboard full of tinned spaghetti hoops, you know.’

‘She hasn’t!’

‘Yeah. She’s not stupid,’ he said. ‘She might not admit it but she’s discovered there’s more to life than home cooking.’

‘Like the bookies.’

‘Definitely the bookies.’

Nana Tello – her real name is Costello but Tom’s baby version had stuck – had a penchant for the horses. Ray spent a lot of time worrying about whether she was getting into debt or betting within her means. She refused point-blank to discuss it with him and denied it a lot of the time, like addicts do.

I liked her gambling. It proved she had weaknesses like the rest of us. Whenever she started on about how a good cook or a good mother or a good homemaker should do things I could conjure up an image of her entering her bets in a smoke-filled office.

As far as she was concerned our silly set-up was a diversion from Ray’s (Raymundo, as she called him) real need to find a pretty young mother for his poor motherless child. She couldn’t accept that our arrangement was platonic and equitable. She veered between casting me as a hussy, a landlady or a housekeeper. Ours wasn’t an easy relationship.

Once the children were settled I claimed the sofa. I flicked the channels hoping against hope that they’d got the listings wrong in the paper: football, darts, a TV movie (all big hair and heroism in the face of fatal illness) and a documentary. I watched this latter for a few minutes. They were uncovering abuse in private old people’s homes. Everything from verbal cruelty and petty bullying to systematic physical and sexual abuse. I kept seeing Agnes and Lily in place of the brave faces on the screen. I recalled the savagery of Dr Goulden’s face in the mirror. He’d been livid at our enquiries. Again I wondered why he’d reacted so strongly.

I zapped the TV. What would Agnes do now? She’d been so certain that something was awry and we’d found nothing. She had to face the inevitability of her friend’s illness and eventual death, though she could go on for years. In the books I’d read there were examples of people who had lost all sense of who they were, who no longer recognised family or friends, who’d lost all personality and needed constant care and reassurance. It would be hard for Lily but it’d probably be harder for Agnes to watch her friend disappear.

It was too depressing. I sought out my library book. A bit of Patricia Cornwell, forensic sleuthing, stateside – just the ticket.

I made sure I was in my office in plenty of time the next morning for Jimmy Achebe’s call. He rang a little after ten. I’d already decided to ask him to come in and see me; I didn’t want to go into details over the phone.

‘Hello, Jimmy. I’ve got some information for you. I ought to say it doesn’t look very good.’

‘Oh, right.’ He sounded uncertain, very young.