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More from Cath Staincliffe

Listen to Det. Supt. Patsy Wood and Cath Staincliffe talk to Jenni Murray on BBC Woman's Hour about working together on ITVs Blue Murder series.

In print ... Cath's publication news

The Novels

Missing, the seventh Sal Kilkenny novel, is due for publication in June 2007.

‘Back in June, the same week that I’d just found one person two more went missing. None of them related. The only connection was me; Sal Kilkenny, my job; private investigator. And finding people seemed to be the flavour of the month.’

Hit & Run is out in hardback and will be published in paperback in November 06. This is the second novel from the popular ITV crime drama series starring Caroline Quentin as DCI Janine Lewis.

A corpse in the river. A child mown down. A fugitive slaughtered. Three untimely deaths mean three murder investigations – unless, of course, they are all part of the same case… Life is tough as a cop at the top – and tougher still with a new baby at home – but when tragedy strikes, DCI Janine Lewis is used to bearing the brunt of the fallout and juggling her home life with the challenges of bringing killers to justice.

Blue Murder: Cry Me A River is out in hardback, paperback, large print and audio book. Janine Lewis is Manchester's first female Detective Chief Inspector. She's also single mother to three demanding children, and pregnant with a fourth. Janine has fought hard to get to the top, and she's determined to prove herself, especially on her first murder case. The deputy head of a local high school is left to die face down in the mud of his allotment, his stomach slashed. The prime suspect is on the run and an elderly dying man and a seven-year-old child are the only witnesses. This isn't going to be an easy case to crack for the new DCI…

Bitter Blue, out in hardback will be published in paperback in June 2007.

Sal Kilkenny is hired to find out who is sending elegant hotel receptionist Lucy Barker ugly hate mail. And on the home front young daughter Maddie is refusing to go to school. A bitter cold snap makes everything tougher.

Towers Of Silence
It's the count down to Christmas and Sal takes on two cases. A grieving family want Sal to help them find out about their mother's last hours. Miriam Johnstone had a history of mental illness but even so the coroner's suicide verdict left so many questions unanswered. And a concerned mother wants Sal to uncover the reasons behind her teenage son's truancy. Meanwhile a romantic relationship is in the air for Sal and she's still not done her Christmas shopping. Available in hardback, paperback, large print and audio book.

Stone Cold Red Hot will be re-printed in paperback in March 2007.
Twenty years ago Jennifer Pickering was disinherited, now her mother's dying and brother Roger wants her found. Sal Kilkenny spends her days tracing Jennifer and her nights on one of Manchester's toughest housing estates working for the Neighbour Nuisance Unit. Two cases, each spiralling out of control as events, past and present, collide with deadly impact. Available in hardback, large print and audio book.

Dead Wrong is out of print. The French edition is Tout l'accusait (Librairie Des Champs-Elysees).

Go Not Gently is out of print. The German edition is Kein sanfter Tod (Ullstein).

Looking For Trouble (Crocus) is out of print. Published in Germany as Jägerin, alleinerziehend (Ullstein) and in France as Nuits noires à Manchester (Librairie Des Champs-Elysees), where it won Le Masque de l’annee.

The Stories

Riviera, an original story will be published in the forthcoming BitchLit anthology from Crocus Books.

My ultra short fiction features in several issues of the online anthologies at:
www.the-phone-book.com

On Telly - Cath's (big) small screen news

Blue Murder, ITV’s hit crime drama starring Caroline Quentin, created by Cath is returning for a third series. Filming is completed and it is hoped that transmission of the four stories will be in autumn 2006. Cath’s episode is called Make Believe and deals with the disappearance of a young child.

Meanwhile series 1 & 2, including the episodes Cry Me A River and Hit & Run, written by Cath, are available on DVD

Trio - a new departure - the straight and narrow

'Staincliffe turns part Marge Piercy, part Rosamunde Pilcher … a captivating story filled with tears, tragedy, humour, and happiness' Booklist

Inspired by my own experience I took a break from writing crime to work on a very different book about adoption. Here's an excerpt from the press release:
’Trio tells the story of three young unmarried Catholic women forced to give up their babies for adoption. Megan, lively and in love with sweetheart Brendan; Caroline, a shy nature-loving girl who fell pregnant on her first date; and secretary Joan whose boss has no intentions of divorcing his wife. It's 1960 when the three little girls are born, relinquished and placed with their adoptive families. Trio follows the lives of these mothers and daughters over the ensuing years. Trio explores the relationships of the adoption triangle with honesty, flair and compassion. At a time when society's understanding of the meaning of the family and family ties is undergoing radical change, this topical book explores the issues of identity, blood relations, love and loss - made all the more powerful by the author's own experience.’

There was an incredible amount of interest in the book and fascination with my own adoption story. My birthparents, an Irish couple, had gone on to marry after giving me up, and had seven more children. I had been reunited not only with my birth-mother but also with seven full brothers and sisters. The press release generated coverage in newspapers and magazines here and in Ireland. In January 2003 an Irish television documentary in the Would You Believe series about my adoption and re-union was broadcast amidst keen interest.

Trio is proving popular with readers and was recently selected as a title to read by the Central Manchester Reading Group.

'Poignant and true to life. I couldn't put it down; I really wanted to know what happened to the characters' Maureen Crank MBE, Chief Executive and founder member of After Adoption

Trio is now available in paperback from Fresh Press, my own imprint. For a signed copy at £7.00 (inc. UK p&p) contact me via the website.

A Day In the Life

Like my literary creation, Sal Kilkenny, the day begins with getting the children off to school. Once that's accomplished the first part of the morning is spent checking and replying to e-mails and making phone calls, preparing for workshops or readings and generally clearing the decks. Then it's down to work. If I'm writing a book I retire to the rocking chair with pen and lined paper (has to be narrow feint and margin - we all have our magic rituals) and emerge hours later when my stomach has started eating itself.
It's almost impossible to sum up the creative process and I don't know that I want to try. It involves a lot of energy, intense concentration but also a sense of letting go like hang-gliding into an imaginative space, which is probably why it feels so scary if you haven't done it for a while. There's a playful, child-like quality in the experience which leaves me feeling excited and tired. A school boy asked me at a talk recently if I ever got bored. No way! Once I'm in there it's immensely engaging. After a snatched lunch and essential housework (washing and shopping are the only ones that get a look in) it's back to it until three o' clock and the end of the school day. Then I tear myself away from the characters I've spent the day with, compose myself (after all I may have been in the midst of a devastating case, fighting for my life or sharing someone's grief) and start thinking about tea and homework and the rest of life.
My novel writer's group read the book while it's work in progress so I type up chunks of it every month for them to see. The feedback I get is really helpful, let's me know if I'm on the right track or not. If I'm at the editing stage then I'm glued to the computer instead of the rocking chair and the place becomes a labyrinth of papers scribbled with lists and points I need to research. (I always research last if I can - I hate it.) Once the book's finished I check through for repetition, for references to weather and food, and to make sure the domestic detail is logical (no school runs on a Sunday). Then it's title time. Really tricky. This comes when the book is done because then I finally know what it's about. Quite often themes will have emerged which were never conscious when I began the story. I generally browse the Thesaurus and Dictionary of Phrase and Fable while I cruise the TV channels in an evening. I start with long lists and gradually whittle them down. Any unresolved facts that I need to check send me off on day trips to Manchester Central library. While I'm there I visit the Town Hall, Electoral Records Office with my list of character names - the clerks oblige by letting me know if anyone in the city has the same name and we try alternatives until I can be relatively safe from libel charges. At this stage I'm also likely to seek out friends of friends who might know about dog breeding, yachting, medicine or common names in different cultures.
Once the book is printed and in the post to my agent I take some time out, devote myself to something where I can get my hands dirty; DIY or gardening, and let my head clear. Within a few weeks the urge returns. A phrase or an image pops into my mind and sends me scrabbling for a piece of paper. Time to start writing again. Avanti!

Cath Staincliffe's FAQs

Time and again at readings or book launches the same questions come up. Here are ten of them and my answers.

FAQ 1 What made you write crime fiction?

Advice! I'd been writing science fiction that I sent to publishers. An editor at the Women's Press told me it read like crime fiction (a whodunit in another solar system) and advised me to turn to crime. I didn't read much crime fiction at the time but took myself off to the library and got hooked immediately.

FAQ 2 Why did you write a private eye book?

Inspired by other writers, particularly Sue Grafton and Marcia Muller, I wanted to write the same sort of books as those I loved reading but set them in my city (Manchester) and feature a woman P.I. who also had children. I was interested in giving Sal the double shift of both job and childcare to juggle. So many of us have to do it and it's very hard to get the right balance.

FAQ 3 Where do you get your ideas from?

That would be telling! Multiple choice answers for this one.

A) Longsight market

B) They come to me in my dreams

C) I steal them from other writers

D) It's all true and happened to someone I know

E) I make them up

FAQ 4 How do you write?

With a pen and paper on lined file paper - has to be narrow margin. And then it gets typed up onto the computer. I write whenever the house is free of children and now they are older and at school I have long stretches which I never used to have.

FAQ 5 How long does it take to write a book?

Used to be 18 months. Now I've just done one in 6 (see FAQ 4 for explanation).

FAQ 6 Do you work it all out first?

No. I only have the very gist of it to start with and the rest comes in the writing. Every so often I have to stop and jot down ideas for scenes on cards and shuffle them about to work out which order to put them in but new stuff crops up all the time.

FAQ 7 Would you like your books to be on television?

Yes! And it's a dream come true! I wrote a stand alone thriller which was rejected by several publishers and so eventually I sent it to Granada TV as a proposal. Though at that stage I was happy for someone else to write it - I hadn't a clue about writing for telly. Thankfully I was persuaded to change my mind and Granada commissioned me to develop a script. Blue Murder, starring Caroline Quentin, was the result. It has been a fascinating, thrilling and at times terrifying experience. I've learnt a huge amount in a short space of time and it has been immensely enjoyable working with cast and crew to see it brought to life. I've also had to face two massive obstacles which are completely contrary to the way I write my novels: working the story out first (not making it up as I go along) and rewriting, endless rewriting, I hate rewriting and normally I don't have to do much but with telly it's endemic.

FAQ 8 Would you write a different type of book?

Yes. Trio is a real departure - it's not even crime. Rooted in my own experience of being adopted Trio tells the story of three babies given up for adoption in 1960 and the stories of their lives and what happens to their birth and adoptive families. As well as giving me the chance to write about several leading characters (rather than just the one) and to look in depth at issues around adoption, Trio also allowed me to write about the period from 1960 -2000 and to cover the social history of my own lifetime

FAQ 9 Is Sal Kilkenny like you?

Yeah. We moan about the same things and live in the same area. But Sal is braver and bolder than I am. She still rides her bike a lot too and doesn't eat meat. And I'm not a single-parent but we have plenty of similarities. She's my alter ego really.

FAQ 10 Who are your favourite writers?

How long have you got? James Lee Burke, Andrea Badenoch, Dennis Lehane, Sue Grafton, Denise Mina, Gianrico Carofiglio, Roger Jon Ellory, Thomas H. Cook, Minette Walters, Elmore Leonard, Frances Fyefield, George P. Pelecanos, Laura Wilson, Val McDermid, Walter Mosley, Sarah Waters, Ian Rankin, Sarah Paretsky, Ed McBain, Jim Thompson, Robert Wilson, John Harvey, Michael Connelly, Karin Slaughter, Tony Hillerman and then some ... and there are new ones appearing all the time.

Ask your own question? E-mail the website:

A selection of starters - tantalising snippets from the latest novels

Hit & Run (Allison & Busby)

Excerpt from Hit & Run

Chapter One

Promotion! Detective Chief Inspector. Janine Lewis watched The Lemon’s lips move and she savoured every terse, acerbic syllable. Detective Superintendent Leonard Hackett, as he was generally known, hated giving her this but he couldn’t really put it off any longer. Not unless he wanted suing for unequal treatment: she’d got the experience, done all the training, passed the exams. First woman DCI in Greater Manchester! Certainly the first pregnant DCI the force had ever known. Enough to ruffle a few feathers among the old guard. Send the odd Polly toppling from his perch with shock.

“Thank you, sir,” she beamed, when he’d finished. “I’m delighted.”

Janine went straight to the canteen afterwards, where she knew the rest of the team would be gathered. As she went in, conversation died down and people turned her way. She made them wait a moment – though anyone with an ounce of wit could see the excitement that gleamed in her eyes.

“I got it!” she grinned.

Detective Sergeants Shap and Butchers cheered and the rest of the room gave her a round of applause.

“Drink, Detective Chief Inspector?” Shap offered. There was plenty of time to get to the bar and back.

Janine shook her head, smiling. “I want to surprise Pete – champagne breakfast!”

Shap looked at the clock. “At lunchtime?”

“He’s on nights.” Pete did shifts at the airport, air traffic control.

After accepting more congratulations Janine left the police station and picked up a bottle of bubbly on the way home. Home was in Didsbury, a family house that they’d bought years back before the prices became completely silly. Comfortable, roomy, it suited them fine.

She parked in the drive, opened the front door as quietly as she could and tiptoed through to the kitchen for glasses. Stifling the childish urge to giggle, she sneaked upstairs with the bubbly in one hand and the glasses in the other.

She kicked open the bedroom door and shock slapped the grin from her face.

Pete. Pete with Tina, Tina the cleaner for god’s sake. In their bed! Not alone, not asleep and dreaming of her. Oh, no!

“Ah, you’re up already.” Janine managed before she fled downstairs, tears spilling. Tipping the champagne down the sink. Hurt and furious, taking one defiant swig. The bastard!

Janine reared from her sleep. A dream? No, not just a dream, a bloody re-enactment. Yes – she had got promotion, yes – Pete had been found in bed with the cleaner, yes – he had left her even though she offered to take him back (after all, their fourth baby was on the way).

And here she was three months on and the feelings still raw, close to the surface.

“Mum!” Six-year-old Tom burst into the room and leapt on her. “Is it a school day?” He wriggled under the covers with her.

Janine stretched, and smiled. “Nope. It’s Saturday. And we are having a lie-in.” She lay back, arms behind her head, relishing the chance. Tom mimicked her pose and gave his own little sigh of contentment. But he could never stay still for long and his squirming prompted her to play.

“What’s this doing in my bed?” Janine pretended to be shocked and patted at the duvet. “What is it?”

Tom began to giggle.

“It’s very bouncy.” She pushed him with her hands so he bounced up and down.

“I know – it’s a kangaroo!”

“No,” Tom’s giggling grew. “Not a kangaroo, it’s me, Tom.” He turned onto his side facing her.

Janine grabbed his shoulder. “Ah, no! Here’s a bony bit. Maybe it’s a lobster. Is it a lobster?”

Tom shrieked as she tickled him, his legs kicking.

“What’s this – hair! Blimey o’riley, it’s a woolly mammoth!”

“A sabre tooth tiger!” Tom yelled breathlessly.

* * * *

Two miles away in Whalley Range, Matthew Tulley leant his pushbike against the side of his shed and surveyed his allotment. It was a crisp February morning, the sun was bright and low in the sky and mist still clung in the shadiest corners. Above, the sky was a fresh blue, here and there a wisp of cloud and a trail of jet vapour. Perfect weather for a tidy-up and sorting the spring beds, lifting some of the root vegetables and preparing the drills for later crops. Lesley could use baby carrots and turnips for their evening meal. He went into the shed to get his tools.

When he heard footsteps and the rustle of clothing he turned to see who it was, took a step to the shed doorway. A look of confusion altered his face as his visitor approached. As he saw the knife.

“What on earth,” Matthew began to speak. His arms went up instinctively. The blade caught his left arm, the pain sudden and shocking.

“No!” Matthew grasped at his arm. The knife came again. Towards his belly and up. Stumbling forward, Matthew felt the agony explode through him, his fingers clutching across his front, felt slick warmth and weight. Fell forward, down over the threshold, his face in the mud, the sensation of grit and cold on his cheek and the smell of the dark soil in his nostril mingling with the metallic scent of blood. Matthew Tulley lost his sight, then his sense of smell, the last thing he was conscious of was the rustling sound of someone running through the plot, scraping past bushes and fencing, feet rocking the ground on which he lay dying.

* * * *

Seven-year-old Jade crouched beside the fencing prayed that she wouldn’t be seen. She wasn’t allowed to play on the allotments. If her mam knew she’d be in trouble. Big trouble. No one must ever know. The person was getting closer now, just the other side of the fence. She shut her eyes and pressed herself into the wooden slats, holding her breath. Don’t look, don’t look! When she closed her eyes the picture was like a scary movie, it made her feel sick. The footsteps went past and on. Jade waited, counted to fifty and then a hundred. Cautiously she looked about, listened, and then ran herself. Half expecting a hand on her shoulder or a figure jumping out in front of her. Coming after her next. She reached the alley and ran down to her back yard, slipped in the back door and through to the lounge. Lay down in front of the telly, her heart beating fast in her chest, like a chick’s.

* * * *

Janine loaded the washing machine and rubbed at her back where the weight was beginning to pull. Six months and counting. A May baby. Nice time of year for it – no need to bundle them up so much. But the nights! At thirty-eight she really hadn’t expected another child. Three was quite enough, thank you! Michael was fifteen, after all – technically old enough to father a child himself though she and Pete would skin him alive if he did. They’d done the sex talk, ten minutes of excruciating embarrassment for all concerned, and two weeks later Janine had brought home the pregnancy testing kit. Ironic or what? Watching in dismay as the blue spot appeared, her whole life suddenly knocked sideways by the prospect of seeing her feet disappear from view, her waist double in size, of labour, nappies, feeding, toilet training. Another eighteen years at least of full-on parenting.

Turning for the washing powder, Janine saw Tom pouring his cereal into the bowl and over the table. “Tom!” He jerked at the noise managing to spill more flakes then righted the box. Ten-year-old Eleanor wandered in, a cardboard box on her head with a hole cut out to see. She reached for the cereal.

“Eleanor,” Janine said, “take it off while you have your breakfast.”

“Why?” Eleanor said, though it was a bit muffled.

“It’ll get soggy.” Janine rescued the milk from Tom and poured some into his bowl and cup.

Tom picked up a straw and started blowing bubbles in the milk; it frothed over the top of the cup in a big ball of bubbles, like a geodesic dome. Eleanor took off her cardboard box and sat down to eat.

Tom stared fondly at his creation. “An alien world,” he breathed. Janine shot him a warning glance. Any more bubble blowing and the whole thing would collapse, making even more mess.

“What makes wind?” Tom asked thoughtfully.

Was it the moon, or the tides? Janine struggled, her mouth working. She should know this.

“Beans!” Eleanor supplied.

Janine slung two pieces of bread in the toaster and then began to clear up the lunchboxes and PE kits which had been left since the day before. Eleanor was messing about with radio – tuning into different stations. She’d not found anything she liked. Had stopped searching in fact as she’d got more involved in her impromptu mixing. The telly was on too, blaring from the next room. Janine tried to tune it all out. Tom was stalking round the kitchen in carnivore mode, hands shaped like claws, his teeth bared in a fearsome growl.

“Lunchbox.” Janine instructed her daughter like a surgeon requesting forceps.

Eleanor passed it. “Lunchbox.”

Opening it, Janine took out a sodden note. Smoke began to pour from the toaster setting off the manic bleeping of the smoke alarm. Tom dived under the table. Grabbing the brush, Janine shoved it up and hit the re-set button on the detector. She chucked the blackened toast in the overflowing bin without a second glance.

“Get dressed,” she said to Tom. He left the room like a jet fighter. Janine unfolded Eleanor’s note from school. Read the heading. Head Lice Outbreak.

“Great!” Janine said sarcastically, scratching at her own head. “Are you itchy?”

Eleanor nodded. Something else for the weekend list, thought Janine.

Janine had started doing the shopping list when her eldest child Michael surfaced. Still in his pyjamas, with his headphones on, he began to hunt through the cupboards in search of food. Given the chance Michael browsed, like some sort of animal that had to eat its own body weight every day. A teenage thing. But until she’d gone to the supermarket Janine knew there was nothing much for him to find.

“There’s no cereal,” he complained

“I’m doing a list.”

“What?”

Janine gestured to her own ears – take them off!

Michael ignored her. He peered in the fridge. “And there’s no cheese.”

“Any requests?”

“What?”

Janine began to mime, moving her lips and throwing her arms about as though she was telling him a long and dramatic story. Michael fought to hide a grin.

* * * *

Old Eddie Vincent had woken late, barely slept if truth be told, and was drawing back the curtains when he saw the lad coming off the allotments. The lad running, stopping to recce at the alley like a fugitive, breathless and scared. Lad was obviously up to no good. Probably been caught thieving and used the allotments to get away. You could reach the old railway line from here, wasn’t only foxes that made use of that to escape notice. Eddie winced as the pain caught him again. Needed his tablets. He turned away from the window and shuffled across the room. Tired. Always tired now.

* * * *

Dean Hendrix had legged it, straight off. No messing about. He knew they’d come calling, they always came calling. Usually lads his own age with a copper’s sneer on their faces as they asked their questions in some sort of police speak that came out of the ark: on the night in question ... at the time of the aforementioned incident.

Shit. He kicked the settee and paced up and down in front of it, fists balled and his heart skipping too fast for comfort. He grabbed the video and pushed it in the machine. Flung himself down on the leather couch which made a farting sound. The tape started and he watched, frowning and uneasy as he clocked what was going on. He hit the remote, eject.

Swallowing, short of breath, he rubbed his hand round the back of his neck, gathering the hair there into a short ponytail. Should he stay or should he go? The old Clash song sprang to mind, his knee trembling in a spasm as if he was tapping his foot to the remembered beat. Hadn’t any option. They’d bang him up for years. He thought of Paula and pushed the thought away.

He leapt up and ran upstairs. Filled a holdall with clothes, slid the cover off the battery compartment of the cassette radio and pulled out the baggie containing the last of his stash.

Downstairs again he put the video and his flick-knife into a carrier bag and put that in his hold-all. He picked up his house keys, couldn’t take the Datsun, he was waiting for a new starter motor. He’d have to bus it.

Dean checked his wallet and got his passport from the drawer in the kitchen. You never knew. Flicked at the pages. Crap photo, looked like he’d just thrown up, skin the colour of porridge and one eye half-shut and his hair, that was before he grew it, a right mess like a bush stuck on top of his head. How could he have walked around looking like that?

He pushed it in the side pocket of the bag and checked round the room. Morning paper; wouldn’t do to be leaving that here. Blow his alibi. He’d go to Douggie’s. If they found him, he didn’t know if Douggie's word as to his whereabouts at the time in question would be enough but it would have to do for now. ’Cos if he had to sort anything else out his frigging brain’d melt.

He rang Paula on his mobile. Call messaging on. He began to speak as he zipped up his bag. “Paula, look, erm I’ve had to go away for a bit. Erm ...” He knew he was messing it up. “I’ll talk to yer later.” He picked up the hold-all, looked about. “Paula,” his throat felt dry, he hesitated then spoke again. “I love you, Paula.” End call.

He pocketed his mobile and made for the front door, pulled it shut, locked the mortise. Adios. He never looked back.

* * * *

The kids were squabbling about the computer again. Janine was trying to referee.

“It’s my go … it’s not fair, “ Eleanor complained.

“Michael …” Janine began, “come on, let Ellie have a go.”

“I’ve only just started,” he protested.

“Phone,” Tom announced.

“See who it is,” Janine sent him to answer it.

“He’s lying,” Eleanor said.

“You’re lying,” Michael retorted.

“Mum!”

Tom wandered back in with the phone. “You’re The Lemon, aren’t you?” he said clear as a bell.

Janine horrified stopped in her tracks.

“Mum,” Tom piped at the top of his voice. “Mum, it’s The Lemon!”

Janine snatched the phone from him, she’d told him about this before. Talk about embarrassing.

“No, no!” she hissed at Tom, “Mr Hackett.”

She stepped into the hall, her face aglow, and tried to sound unruffled. “Sir?”

Ringing her at home, on a Saturday. Her own enquiry at last? A bubble of hope rose in her chest.

“DCI Lewis, can you come in?”

“Yes, sir. Right away sir.”

Try and stop me, she thought. Murder. It must be murder.

Blue Murder: Cry Me A River (Allison & Busby)

Excerpt from Blue Murder

Prologue

Marta was straightening Rosa’s hair. Rosa watched in the mirror, occasionally pulling faces to tease her friend. She’d already helped Marta, who wanted her blonde hair crimping in tiny zigzags, now it was Rosa’s turn. Marta took another length of dark wavy hair and clamped it between ceramic plates. Rosa winced; she could feel the heat on her scalp.

“Steady on,” she spoke to Marta in the mirror. They always spoke Polish when they were alone together. “I want it straight not barbecued.”

“Stop moaning. You have to suffer for your looks.” Marta pulled the tongs the length of the hair then released it. A couple more swipes and she declared it done. Rosa smiled, admiring herself. She hoped it wouldn’t rain or she’d go all frizzy again.

“Going in early?” Marta unplugged the device.

“Bit more cash.” Rosa rubbed her thumb and fingers together.

“See you later then.”

“Sure.”

When Marta left, Rosa let the façade drop. She had butterflies in her stomach already and an unpleasant tightness in her chest. As a child she’d loved to play hide and seek, the thrill of hiding and running, the exquisite shock of being found. But this was no game, she knew that. The chance that it would all work out still lingered but she knew it was a dim hope. Whatever happened she couldn’t afford to be caught.

When she left the house, anyone watching would have seen a lovely young woman walking swiftly. If they had looked a little longer they would have noticed the determination in her face and the set of her shoulders, perhaps a trace of fear in her gaze.

Two girls on bikes found the body, not a dog-walker as is often the case. Barely dawn, the pair had stuck to their pact to cycle to school. Their parents had allowed them to take the scenic route along the riverside with admonitions that they must stay together, take a change of shoes, don’t do anything silly. After all, it was argued, that route was safer than braving the heavy rush hour traffic chugging into Manchester or out to the motorways. And youngsters needed more exercise these days.

The girls were skirting the path beneath the motorway flyover when one of them had glimpsed the log-shaped bundle stuck on the weir, buffeted by other debris that clung on the edge, water streaming around it.

She braked and stood astride her cycle, thinking for a moment it was a manikin, someone’s idea of a joke to put the thing there, like those arms sticking out of letter boxes. Calling to alert her friend, she continued to stare at it; taking in the ribbons of dark hair in the water, the curve of an arm, something bright around the wrist, a plastic bottle perhaps, shreds of black plastic obscuring the rest. It was the colour of that arm, a greyish white, like mould on meat, which finally made her realise what she was looking at. That filled her throat with fear and sent shock stinging into her fingers.

Chapter One

Not late, not yet, just nearly. Janine Lewis steered seven-year-old Tom out of the house and towards the car. Day two back at work and it still felt like a Herculean labour to get the kids sorted and herself to the police station on time. It was bound to get easier, wasn’t it? Please? Somebody?

At least baby Charlotte had behaved well for Connie, the nanny, yesterday - not even crying when Janine, her stomach knotted with that back-to-school feeling, had left. The older two, Eleanor and Michael more or less got themselves ready and out. Eleanor still neat in her new High School uniform, desperately careful to have all the correct books for each day. Still getting used to the transition. And Michael off to sixth form college, enjoying the freedom of wearing his own clothes, a flexible timetable and - if the amount of grooming he was doing was any indication - the attention of girls. Michael had reacted badly to his parent’s separation but he seemed to be over the worse now, he’d settled down to his coursework, stopped seeing the other lads who’d been such a bad influence.

Connie came out on the doorstep holding Charlotte. The nanny wore her long hair in a single plait which helped emphasise her Hong Kong origins. Janine walked back and kissed her baby, nuzzled the fine hair on her head. Charlotte made a little sound, an appreciative murmur.

“Bye-bye, my best girl,” Janine told her. Turning to Connie she added, “Ring me if there are any problems. I should be back by six unless anything new comes in.”

Her first day back had been deskbound: forms and reports to absorb, catching up on the new initiatives that the police force had introduced since she’d gone on maternity leave, updating her ID pass and parking arrangements and reviewing security procedures in the building. She’d needed that space, her head still full fuzzy from lack of sleep, her mind cluttered with all the tasks associated with being a mother of four, one of whom is still an infant.

Now, climbing into the car she looked forward to the delicious luxury of being able to make coffee in her office and drink it while still hot: the novelty of not being interrupted by a cry. Compared to the demands of being at home, work felt like a doddle. After six months up to her ears in nappies she had probably developed cabin fever.

Lunchbox! She clambered out again, grabbed Tom’s lunchbox from the top of the car and put it on the passenger seat. Tom was strapped in, listening to his personal stereo, his head nodding to the music. She gave him the thumbs up, got in and started the car. When she pulled out into the main road the traffic was busy and slow.

She had dreaded and anticipated her return to work in equal measure. Being part-time would have been the ideal but it simply wasn’t an option if she wanted to progress in the force. And she did. She relished the challenges of leading major enquiries, of working with a team. That was the real heart of the job: the detecting, the hard task of uncovering the real story, getting to the truth behind the tragedy and ultimately finding justice for the dead and their loved ones.

It was a bright day; cool but not cold enough to be frosty, with a fresh breeze. The trees had shed almost all their leaves now, an odd one clung on here and there, flapping against the blue sky. A flock of pigeons wheeled overhead as Janine made slow progress through Didsbury village. The street was lined with shops, restaurants and estate agencies. The road edged with parked cars. The property market was still booming and every spare speck of land was being developed into luxury apartments for young professionals.

Janine’s mobile rang and she pressed the hands-free answer button.

“Janine?”

“Richard?”

Her colleague, Detective Inspector Mayne to give him his full title. She gleaned a sense of urgency in his tone. She glanced in the rear-view mirror checking that Tom was still tuned in to his music, anxious he shouldn’t overhear anything that might be inappropriate.

“Suspicious death,” he said bluntly. “Body in the Mersey, Northenden. They’re pulling her out now.”

Janine swallowed, braced herself as she felt the spike of adrenalin kick in. “I’m on my way,” she told him.

Outside the school, Tom pulled away from her to dash through the gates. Janine called him back, holding up his lunchbox. He turned and ran his arms outstretched, plane fashion. Grabbing the box he wheeled away but not before Janine had chance to plant a kiss on his head.

Janine returned to her car and was just drawing away from the kerb when she saw a blue Mercedes coming, far too fast, down the centre of the road. Near the gaggle of late arrivals waiting to cross, the car braked fiercely with a squealing sound. Janine saw the child flung to one side, the small body flying limp like a puppet, then landing hard. The car shrieked to a halt a few yards ahead. Janine grabbed her phone, her heart thumping hard in her chest. A knot of people gathered round the injured girl. With a sickening feeling, Janine recognised her as a classmate of Tom’s; Ann-Marie Chinley.

Her mother was screaming, kneeling beside the unresponsive child. “Ann-Marie! Ann-Marie. Oh, my god, somebody help me!” A powerful sense of shock was palpable in the atmosphere, Janine could almost taste it, acidic like metal, harsh and electric, galvanising them all.

Janine pressed 999, speaking as soon as the operator answered. “Ambulance. Little girl’s been knocked down. Outside Oak Lane Primary, Didsbury.” One of the women wore a nurse’s uniform, most likely working at one of the nearby hospitals, St Mary’s or Manchester Royal Infirmary, she began checking the girl. “It’s all right, love. Try and make you comfy, eh? Can you hear me Ann-Marie?”

Janine heard an engine rev, watched stunned as the Mercedes set off again at speed. She pulled out after it, sounding her horn and mounting the pavement to pass the onlookers.

Her mind had the bright clarity that comes with stress, she concentrated on the number plate, V384 ZNB, memorising it before the car turned out of her view. Using the police radio she got through immediately: “Attention all units, Detective Chief Inspector Lewis reporting RTA Oak Lane Primary, Didsbury. Driver failed to stop. Pedestrian injured. Blue Mercedes, registration Victor 384, Zulu, November, Bravo. Heading west on School Lane.”

She spotted the Mercedes again, turning right into Wilmslow Road. She activated the emergency sirens and flashers on her own vehicle and increased her speed. The traffic was still heavy; cars and vans and several buses chugging towards the city centre. They responded to the siren, pulling in so she could overtake. At the next junction she followed the Mercedes as it took a sharp right turn and roared away. She kept up with them along Fog Lane, fighting to keep control on the bends and where the road narrowed. The suburban street was a blur of privet hedges, red brick walls and stone gateposts that fronted the family houses. Despite her best efforts she couldn’t get a clear view of the car occupants, the windows were tinted glass.

Traffic lights ahead remained on green as the Mercedes took another right. Round in circles, she thought. She increased her speed again and edged closer. “Vehicle now on Parrswood Road heading south from Fog Lane.” They rode through the Parrswood council estate with its distinctive cream rendered houses, built in rows of four.

In dismay she watched as the car approached the School Lane lights. It didn’t slow even though they were on red. Janine kept close. The Mercedes crossed the junction directly into the path of an oncoming van. The getaway car swerved violently and Janine, on its tail, screamed and rammed her foot on the brake, feeling the slam of the seatbelt as the car bucked and stopped inches from the shocked van driver. The Mercedes disappeared over the hill ahead. Frustrated, Janine hit the steering wheel. Damn, damn, damn.

Her radio crackled with news. “Victor 384, Zulu, November, Bravo. Mercedes reported stolen twenty-two hundred hours Monday 17th November.” Stolen the previous evening. She groaned. The culprits would be even harder to find.

Returning to the school, she found the ambulance just leaving, the little girl was alive but unconscious. She rang Richard and filled him in. The group of witnesses remained, one woman was crying, wiping at her eyes repeatedly, automatically rocking the tall coach built pram she’d been pushing. Others were talking about the accident, their voices hushed but edging now and again into hysteria. When traffic officers arrived shortly afterwards Janine spoke to the man in charge, giving a resume of what had happened.

Finally she got back in her car and set off for Northenden, feeling shaky and hollow and cold.

The car park at the side of the weir, next to the camping suppliers, was already awash with police vehicles. As Janine parked she saw the first news crew arrive, piling out of their van with cameras, flight cases and cables.

A scenic spot. It would make for good visuals - unlike the rows of terrace houses, dull semi- detached frontages or bleak alleyways that were usually the staple setting for local murder stories.

The river, olive brown and swiftly flowing, curved between steep grassy banks. The sweep of the motorway flyover above cast part of it in shadow, making the water there almost black. On the far bank were concrete buttresses that were part of the water management for the area. The land was low here and the Mersey often flooded, submerging the nearby golf course and playing fields along the valley.

The stretch of water behind the weir was pitted with eddies and ripples and patterned with fractured blue reflections from the sky above. Below the weir, the river seethed, a gushing foment of white and silver before regaining its equilibrium.

Fifty yards away, towards the large riverside pub and parallel with the weir, Janine could see the white incident tent that was shielding the corpse. Scene of crime officers, clad in white, were going about their business. She dressed in her own protective suit and locked the car.

At the edge of the car park, she gave her name to the officer keeping a log of entry to the site. She could see Richard near the tent, dark-haired and a head taller than many of the others. Slim in his long, black, winter coat. Attractive looking, if you liked that type, and she did. She’d almost slept with Richard years ago, but her engagement to Pete held her back. There was still a pull between them, apparent in the flirting and teasing they enjoyed. But now, in the aftermath of Pete’s departure and Charlotte’s arrival, she knew she wasn’t ready for a relationship with anyone. Not yet. Never the mind the risks of getting emotionally entangled with someone at work.

He nodded as she reached him, his head tilted in concern. “You okay?”

She sighed. “No, not really.” She paused, took a breath. “She’s only seven, the little girl.”

“How is she?”

She looked away across the water. It was easier than meeting his gaze. Stopped her from getting tearful. “They’ve taken her to hospital. She’s in Tom’s class,” she added.

“Close to home.”

Janine bobbed her head, sniffed hard, swallowed. “So,” she gestured towards the tent, “what’s the story?”

“Female. The Rivers Authority guy reckons the body will have gone in upstream. Flows east to west.”

Which way was east? Janine tried to get her bearings, pointed in one direction, thinking if that way was south …

Richard set her straight. “That’s east; Stockport.”

The river marked the boundary between the city of Manchester and the adjoining town. “We got a time frame?”

“Not yet. But she’s reasonably intact. Day or two.”

The pair of them covered the few yards to the plastic tent. As she stepped inside Janine caught the rank smell of river water and the sweet reek of death. She opened her mouth, breathing that way would cut out the stench that made her gag. She focused on the body. The face was shrouded by long, wet dark hair, tangled with bits of straw, flotsam from the river. Tattered bin-liners covered the torso. Janine glimpsed raw flesh on the face, in-between the hanks of hair, and on one exposed thigh. She noticed straps at the ankles and colourful plastic dumbbells.

The pathologist, Dr Riley, Susan as Janine knew her, was still bent over the body. She looked at Janine.

“Looks like she was strangled; bruising to the neck. The face is very badly damaged.”

“From the water?”

“I don’t think so.”

Janine grimaced. The woman’s face had been spoilt deliberately.

“ID?” Richard asked.

“Nothing. No clothing. There’s a wound to the upper right thigh. The surface skin removed.”

Janine looked back at the body. “A tattoo?”

“Could be.”

“Or a birth mark?” Richard suggested.

The pathologist nodded. “She was weighed down. Gym weight strapped to each foot, one round the neck.”

“But she didn’t stay down?” Janine said.

“Not heavy enough. And as the body filled with gas …”

They needed to identify the woman as soon as possible. Knowing who she was would be the key to the direction the investigation would take.

“If we move fast,” Janine said, “we can get an appeal on the news this afternoon.” She looked at Susan. “Can you give us vital statistics?”

“Twenties, dark hair. Five foot six, slight build.”

Richard entered the details in his daybook.

“Perfect.” Janine told her. “How soon can you do the post mortem?”

The pathologist smiled. “You queue jumping?”

“Moi!?”

“See what I can do.”

“And the report?”

Susan raised her eyebrows, folded her arms.

“One’s no good without the other,” Janine studied her.

“Early afternoon – if I skip lunch,” she said dryly.

“Very overrated, lunch,” Janine countered as she made to leave the tent.

Bitter Blue (Allison and Busby)

Excerpt from Bitter Blue

Chapter One
I ran like mad to reach my office: legs aching, lungs bursting, cheeks aflame, my bag banging against my hip. Hoping that my new client would still be there, that she'd hang on when no one answered the door at the Dobson's house. That she'd been delayed too.
Why today? School re-opening after the Easter holidays and Maddie, my seven-year-old, had mutinied. She'd refused breakfast saying she had tummy ache. When I told her that a lot of people felt the same the first day back she began to cry. I sent Tom to get dressed and tried to find out why Maddie suddenly thought school was the worst place in the whole world. Was it the work, her teacher; had something happened? She wouldn't elaborate.
"We'll have to go, love. Go brush your teeth. We'll think of something nice to do later, something to look forward to?"
She shot me a filthy look.
"I can write Miss Dent a note; tell her you're a bit upset."
"No," she blurted out, horrified at the idea.
"Maddie, you need to go in. You'll be fine once you get there."
"You don't know ..."
I glanced at the clock. Late. "So tell me?"
She shook her head, gave a sob and turned to leave the room. I moved to hug her and she pushed me away.
She also refused to hold my hand on the walk there. Six-year-old Tom ran ahead, stopping to kick anything unattached and practising scissor jumps. When we got to the school gates there were a couple of other stragglers but the place had that deserted look. Everyone in registration. I handed them both their lunch boxes, gym kits and book bags. Tom gave a wave and ran through.
"Do you want me to come in with you?" Hoping she'd say no.
She shook her head.
"You'll be okay," I reassured her.
"Can you see I've been crying?" She rubbed at her face.
"No." It was true the red eyes and streaked cheeks had vanished though she didn't look happy.
"We could invite Katy for tea," I said. Katy was her best friend; she'd joined the class at the beginning of the year.
She shrugged. I resisted the temptation to sigh. I kissed her head. "Off you go."
As soon as she was out of sight I turned and pelted along the pavement. Arriving late and flustered was not how I wanted to present myself to a new client. I really needed the business. I turned into the side road and slowed to a quick march. It wasn't raining yet, though more was forecast, and it wasn't all that cold. Please let her be there. Please, please.
I wonder now how long she would have given me? Another five minutes? Ten? If I'd walked instead of run, if Tom had forgotten his lunch box or Maddie begged me to chaperone her, if it had been raining, if I'd slipped and broken my ankle ... if, if, if. Then maybe none of it would have happened like it did. None of the whole, stupid, bloody mess of it.

As I neared the house I could see her, back to the door, scanning the street. I gave a wave and turned into the drive.
"Miss Barker?" I said as I reached her.
A slight inclination of the head.
"Sal Kilkenny. I'm so sorry, I got delayed. Have you been here long?"
"Quarter of an hour." Her tone was cool, her lips a thin, red line.
But she'd stayed, she hadn't given up and gone home in a huff. I could soothe the waters, win her round.
I unlocked the door, my breath still laboured, hands trembling a little from the run but immensely relieved.
My office is situated in the basement of the Dobson's family home, near where I live. They don't need it and so for a modest sum I have dedicated space away from home which, so the theory goes, I can lock up and walk away from when my working day is done.
I led my new client downstairs and into the room. It was cooler in there and I switched on the convector heater, hung up our coats and offered her a drink.
"Coffee would be nice." Her manner softened a little. "Just milk please."
"I forgot to ask you on the phone, how did you hear about me?" It's useful to find out how clients arrive.
"Yellow Pages, you were the nearest to me."
Word of mouth counted for the bulk of my enquiries, the rest came via the phone book as this one had.
"Where are you?"
"Levenshulme," she smiled.
I guessed she was in her late twenties. She was slightly built with glossy brown hair which she had drawn back and clasped in a leather barrette. She wore small gold teardrop earrings and an engagement ring on her left hand. Her eyes were almond shaped, blue like faded denim, her mouth small, the lips coloured a high gloss carmine shade. She wore a tailored red suit and court shoes, that, along with the polished make-up, made me think of an air-stewardess or a beautician. Someone whose job description included the words well-groomed. Elegant not flash.
I handed her coffee and sat down opposite her at my desk. As yet I'd no idea why she required the services of a private investigator. She had booked an appointment without disclosing her problem. A lot of people do that; they prefer to speak face to face.
Blowing on my coffee I took a cautious sip. Then pulled pen and paper towards me. "What can I do for you?"
"It's this." She opened the black leather handbag on her knee and drew out a sheet of paper. "Came through my door." It was folded in half. Plain paper, A4. She slid it across to me. Nodded that I should open it.
I did.
YoU arE DEAd BITch
I flinched: an instinctive reaction. A death threat.
Four words. The letters taken from different sources, newsprint, magazines, stuck side by side.
I met her gaze.
She pulled a face, her shoulders joining in the shrug. "I want you to find out who sent it."
Looking back at the note it was clear that the sender had done all they could to preserve anonymity. No handwriting and not enough text to give any clues away. It hadn't been an impulsive gesture, a scrawl of pen, posted in the heat of the moment. No. Whoever had sent it had assembled newspapers, magazines, scissors and glue, they'd selected, cut and pasted, stewing in their hatred and then they'd gone to Lucy Barker's and delivered it. Two questions: who and why? The answer to one would lead to the other.
YoU arE DEAd BITch
Not whore or slag but bitch. Redolent of anger, of someone done wrong but perhaps not specifically of sexual jealousy. Bitch. You are dead. With one intent: to frighten.
"When did you get it?"
"Last week. Wednesday, when I got in from work. Just there."
"No envelope?"
"No."
That meant no postmark, even less easy to trace.
"Have you any idea who might have sent it?"
"No. There was one before, exactly the same but it just said bitch. I threw it away."
"How long ago?"
"About a week earlier."
"Have you had any disputes with neighbours, problems at work, boyfriend trouble?"
"No." She shook her head, the tiny earrings jiggled.
"Anything else odd - phone calls, feelings of being watched, anyone hanging around, acting suspicious? Anything at all?"
She stared at me, an element of surprise on her face. "Yes. One day, I thought there was someone round the back of the flats, I just saw this movement. I thought perhaps someone was putting their rubbish out but no one came back in."
"Have you reported this to the police?"
"I don't want to," she said quickly.
"I think you should consider it. A threat like this."
She held my gaze. Blinked. "I want you to look into it."
I took a breath. "It will be very difficult for me to trace. If not impossible. They've made sure that there's nothing here to give them away. There are no clues," I explained. "No handwriting, no postmark. Nothing - unless someone saw them posting it at your house. And I'm not equipped to check for fingerprints, anything like that."
"Can't you do anything?"
Thinking for a moment, I stared at the note. "If I took the case I'd approach it from the other end."
She frowned.
"Rather than spend time looking at that," I tapped the letter, "I'd concentrate on investigating among your friends and acquaintances to establish if there's anyone with a grudge. Something like this, there's usually some history there. It comes down to finding the connection between you and this person. You'll see from the contract that I guarantee a set amount of time but I can't guarantee a result. It could be intrusive too. It would mean talking to people at work, to family and friends."
She took that in, indicated that I should carry on.
I took her details. Her name was Lucy Loveday Barker. She gave a shrug explaining Loveday was an old family name. I'd guessed right about her age, she was twenty-nine. She worked as a receptionist at the Quay Mancunia Hotel in neighbouring Salford. Five star. Hence the grooming - or maybe she was that sort of woman anyway. She had a flat in a Victorian detached in Levenshulme near the Alma Park estate. Her parents had emigrated to Australia some years after her only brother went out there. She had trained in hotel management and worked in Leicester and before that in Kent.
When I pressed her on the issue of enemies she couldn't think of anyone who bore her ill-will.
"What about the past? Relationships gone sour, disputes at work, financial problems, old family feuds?"
She shook her head.
"And your friends, have you told them about this?"
She shook her head. "I didn't like to," she said quietly, "I just wanted to forget about it, I suppose but ... I began to get a bit frightened." Her hands tightened on the bag. "I rang you."
"Your fiancé- "
"There's no one," she interrupted.
"Just the ring, I thought ..."
"Oh," she gave a little gasp. "No," her cheeks flushed. "I was engaged, that is ..." Her eyes filled.
"I'm sorry," I felt clumsy at my mistake. But why wear a ring that misleads?
"Benjamin died," her voice faltered.
I murmured more apologies but she shook her head and carried on. "It was a long time ago. Sudden. A car crash. I don't always wear the ring but sometimes I want to remember him. I'm sure it sounds stupid but it makes me feel closer to him."
She took a drink, became calmer.
"The note was hand-delivered," I said. "Do you have separate letterboxes at the flats?"
"Yes, at the front door. There are five apartments and we have one each."
"And that's where you found this?"
She nodded.
"It could be a case of mistaken identity. A grudge against one of the other residents?"
She frowned. I noticed her eyebrows, thin dark brown arcs, more pencil than hair. "I hadn't thought of that. But our names are on letterboxes. And this is the second one."
Yes. If you went to all this trouble, you'd make sure your nasty little message reached its target.
Drinking some coffee, I considered my response. I wanted the work but I don't do the hard sell. It's better all round if my clients hire me with their eyes wide open.
"As I see it, you've three choices."
She swallowed, replaced her mug, gazed at me with total attention.
"You can do nothing, ignore the notes and hope they lose interest, perhaps come back if they persist."
Her eyes told me exactly what she thought about that for starters.
"You can report it to the police and see what they suggest ..."
A crisp shake of the head.
"... or you can hire me. If you do that I'll put my energy into trying to shed some light on who's behind it."
"Yes. I want you to do that."
"And if I can't come up with an answer?"
"I'd still feel reassured, I think. Like a sort of insurance."
"Okay. We need to make a list of all the people in the different circles in your life and pull out a few who you really trust, people I can talk to."
The names she came up with were other managers at the hotel. She explained that work had been demanding since her move to Manchester a year before and if she did socialise it tended to be with colleagues. As for her neighbours she knew them all in passing but no better.
"And there's not been any aggravation at home? No noise disturbance or quarrels about parking?"
"Nothing at all."
We agreed that I would speak to her colleagues first, the ones she trusted completely, and enlist their help, but without revealing all the details of Lucy's problem. The neighbours would be next. In a perfect world they would have seen the note being delivered and have photographic recall of the person carrying it. Their description would fit a person named by the hotel as having a vendetta against Lucy. I'd confront them, threaten police and they would apologise and desist. Case solved. In a perfect world … I'd be out of a job.
Lucy Barker opened her handbag. "You said you'd need paying in advance. Is cash all right?"
I smiled. "Cash is great." And I felt my own sweet sense of relief as I drew out a contract. Work equals money. I wouldn't have to increase my overdraft. Everything was going to work out fine. As Tina Turner sang to Ike. Before she turned and ran.

Towers Of Silence (Allison & Busby)

Excerpt from Towers Of Silence

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, to 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?"

Stone Cold Red Hot (Allison & Busby)

Excerpt from Stone Cold Red Hot

CHAPTER ONE
My first impression of Roger Pickering was of nervous tension. He stood on the doorstep, hiding behind his fringe of light brown hair, eyes cast anywhere but at me.
"Sal Kilkenny?" He managed to get my name out.
"Yes, Mr Pickering. Please come in."
I led him along the hall and downstairs to my office in the cellar. With the self-absorption of the painfully shy, he made no small talk, no comment on our location, and politely refused coffee.
I had told him about the Missing Person's Helpline, when he had first rung me. He'd tried that, he said, a year ago when it became obvious his mother wouldn't get better. Nothing had come of it. No word. Just a resounding silence. Like the silence that had echoed through their home for the past twenty three years. Since the day his sister left.
"We never talk about it," he said. "Like it never happened."
"Do you know whether she ever got in touch?"
He shook his head, shrugged. "I don't think so but I've no idea really. Something happened but they'd never talk about it, wouldn't even mention her name." His forehead creased as he fished for accurate recollections. "I think at first they told me she'd gone to university but later they said she'd left her course. They said she wouldn't be coming back. She was a disgrace. I remember my mother using those words, a disgrace. But I never knew why.""How old were you?"
"Eight," he blinked rapidly, "my parents were always strict. They were getting on in years when they had Jennifer and when I arrived, ten years later, they were even older. They never..." he searched for the right words, "..they didn't talk about things. Everything was proper and if it wasn't then you certainly didn't dwell on it. And you didn't tell the children. Old fashioned really. Stiff upper lip and all that," he smiled.
"Have you asked them? Recently?"
He perched on the edge of his seat as we talked, his face never still. He had a pleasant face, boyish, though he was in his early thirties by my reckoning, hazel eyes with dark lashes, pale skin which emphasised the red of his lips.
"Last year," he glanced up at me from beneath his fringe, "well - I tried. It was awful. It was my mother I asked. My father's dead now. She, she just acted like I hadn't spoken. Completely ignored me. And when I repeated myself, asked her to tell me why Jennifer had never been home then she got really angry. She lost her temper and started talking about how I'd promised never to mention that name in this house again and had I no respect for her feelings and then she started crying. She never cries," his face told me how uncomfortable he'd been. "I had to leave it alone."
"So, what does she think of you hiring a private detective to find your sister?"
"She doesn't know"
Heigh ho. "She may have to."
His eyes widened.
"It might be impossible to trace your sister without talking to your mother. She's going to have a lot more information about where Jennifer may have gone, who her friends were, all that. Missing persons can be very hard to trace without good leads. Where would I start? Do you know what university she went to?"
"No."
"Can you remember who her friends were?"
"There was one I remember, Lisa, she lived at the old vicarage. The others...there was a Carol, I think."
"But your mother would know where she lived and what her surname was, wouldn't she?"
"I don't want you to talk to her," assertive in spite of his nervousness.
"Sometimes people will open up more easily to a stranger, you know. They're not losing face in the same way, there's no shared history of how things have to be."
"No, not yet. If it becomes impossible, like you say then maybe...but can't you just try first? I'm sure there are some things I can find out - names of people you could talk to, that sort of thing."
"OK. You see, I really do need an idea of whereabouts to look - I can try electoral rolls for example but do I start in Manchester or London or Edinburgh? Without an area to focus on it's a waste of time, to be honest."
"But if I got you the names of her old friends, people who might know where she could have gone..."
"Yes, that would help. However from what you've said, it sounds as though your mother wouldn't want to see Jennifer even if we did trace her.""I know," he stared at the floor, "but it's not just that. It's true, I think Jennifer has a right to know that Mother's dying and she should be able to try and make contact if she wants, to write or call, before it's too late. But there's the house as well, you see. Jennifer will be entitled to half of it, and there's money left from Father's estate."
"You want her to get her share of the inheritance?" Not all siblings were so generous.
"Yes. And I want to find her. Whatever went on, all those years ago, it had nothing to do with me. I was eight years old, I lost my sister. But I'm not a child anymore, I want to know where she is and how she's getting on. I can remember feeling scared. I thought that maybe I'd done something to make her leave. And then I was cross, for a long time: she didn't care about me, never even sent a note. After that I suppose I got used to the idea, forgot about it more or less. But this last couple of years I've been wondering about her, it's become important. Not just because of mother but for me." His eyes flicked up at me and away. "We don't need to carry on as we have been. She's all the family I have - once Mother's gone." He reddened as he concluded. There was no self-pity in his tone instead I could hear determination, bravery too.
"OK. I need as many facts and figures, names and addresses as you can dredge up. Neighbours, friends, teachers, relatives, boyfriends. Get a photo as well- that's very important. When I've got all that I'll start by talking to her old friends, try and establish which university it was, try doing a document search there. They may have a record of where she went once she left. Sometimes an ad in the local paper is all it needs."
He grinned, delighted at the prospect of hope.
"But then after twenty-three years, she may well have moved around.. If you come back in, what ... two days time with those details? For now I need her full name."
"Jennifer Lesley Pickering."
"Date of Birth?"
"Same day as mine; 4th March 1958."
"You had the same birthday?"
"Yes. And after she'd gone it felt so weird. I'd be opening my presents and it was so obvious that she was missing but no-one referred to it."
"She never sent a card?"
"No," his shoulders slumped slightly.
That seemed cruel. Or had his parents intercepted mail?
"Had you been close?"
"Not really. It was such a big age gap. She played with me when I was little but then she was busy with school and friends and I suppose I had my own friends."
"Tell me about her - what was she like?"
He sat back in the chair for the first time since he'd arrived. "I can't remember a lot. She was lively, noisy I suppose. I can remember her arguing with my father at the tea table, getting sent to her room, going on about what a mess the world was in, teenage stuff like that. She was full of energy. That was why it felt so quiet when she'd gone. If she was in a good mood she'd let me sit in her room while she got ready to go out or if she was just messing about. She always had the radio on. Radio Caroline," he smiled suddenly, "she told me it was a pirate station and I'd this image of Captain Pugwash and Long John Silver playing music. I couldn't figure it out. She had friends round sometimes but she went out more, I think their places were probably more easygoing."
"Friends from school?"
"Yes. Oh, and there was a big place, I can't remember the name, I'll check it for you, it was a banqueting place, they did conferences and dinner dances and weddings. Jennifer used to waitress, there was a whole crowd of them did it at the weekends."
"What was she studying at university?"
"English, I think."
That hardly narrowed it down.
"And she left home in the autumn?"
"This time of year," he agreed, "For the new term, I suppose. I don't know if it was September or October. I was back at school. I wanted to go see her off on the train but one day I got in from school and my Mother said she'd left for university. I felt so disappointed. Mainly about the train," he said ruefully.
"And it was sometime after that they told you she'd left the university?"
"Yes, I think I must have kept asking about her and that's when they told me that and said she was a disgrace."
"What do you think happened?"
He took a breath. Looked across at the large, blue abstract painting on my wall. "I think she got pregnant. I can't think of anything else that would have made them cut her off like that."
Oh, I don't know - coming out as a lesbian maybe or moving in with a boyfriend might have had a similar effect on the narrow minded - we were talking nearly a quarter of a century ago. Pregnancy seemed a pretty good bet though, good as any at this stage.
He carried on. "My mother still has a bee in her bonnet about marriage. I've friends at work who aren't married and have children and she thinks it's appalling."
"Is she very religious?"
"Yes. She doesn't get to church anymore but she keeps in touch. Her father was a lay-preacher. Very puritanical. Their church was connected to the Methodists but they were much stricter. All about rules and the proper conduct of a respectable life. 'The right and proper way'," he quoted. "They had a hill-farm up in the Yorkshire Dales, I think most of the surrounding farms joined the church. Like a separate community in a way."
"And your father?"
"That's how they met. He'd been to university and studied accountancy. Then the war broke out and he joined up. He was an officer. He returned to one of the army camps up in Yorkshire and got involved with the church, met my mother there. After he left the army he set up as an accountant in Manchester and they got married. They established a congregation here, he became the leader. He was very conservative. He thought we should still have National Service, wanted to bring back hanging and preserve the Empire." He laughed nervously. Speaking ill of the dead? "It wasn't all stern lectures though. He loved to garden. We'd help him. It was the one time we all seemed to be happy together."
My heart softened pathetically. I was a fellow gardener. I resisted the temptation to start blethering on about planting schemes and pests and diseases and carried on making notes.
"So he had his own business?"
"A firm, yes. They did very well. He prided himself on their reputation."
"And your mother looked after the house and the two of you?"
"Oh, yes. A woman's place was definitely in the home."
"Did they encourage Jennifer to go to university?"
"Yes, I think so. That would have been something to be proud of, a good education, qualifications."
"But she let them down. And you?"
"Made up for it." He grinned self-deprecatingly. I reckoned he was more perceptive than his nervous manner belied.
"I did computer sciences back when it was a new field. Had my own business for a while but now I work on a consultancy basis. Work on new programmes, look at IT packages for industry and commerce, do a bit of research as well - mainly artificial intelligence."
His shyness evaporated as he talked work - he still avoided eye contact but there was a confidence in his voice and the emotional intensity in the atmosphere waned.
We talked a bit longer and he arranged to come back in two days time with as many starting points as he could find. He mentioned a neighbour he thought would be happy to help him recall the names of Jennifer' friends.
I'd already outlined my fees to him and we agreed that I would do the equivalent of three days work and then report back to him. At that stage he could decide whether to retain me.
It was almost lunch time and my stomach had begun to growl but I decided to complete my notes at the office before walking home. Office may give the wrong impression; it's a room in a cellar that I rent from a family who live nearby. When I first set up shop as a private investigator I knew commercially rented accommodation was way beyond my means. But Withington, where I live, has a mix of houses and as well as the council estate, the terraced rows and the estate of Hartley semis there are quite a few big Victorian and Edwardian semis like the one we live in. I thought someone might have a spare room going so I went door-knocking in the neighbourhood and the Dobson's were happy to give me a try. Several years on I'm still there, the detective in the cellar. The rent's unchanged and apart from the time when some suspects on a case of mine trashed the place it's been a trouble free arrangement.
I read through everything I'd written during my meeting with Roger. I had a much clearer view of his parents than I did of his sister. Only to be expected. He'd been eight when she'd left home - his memories would be little more than a series of snapshots, particularly as he'd not have had the opportunity to share anecdotes and stories of her with the family in the intervening years.
Working a missing person's case I like to build up a picture of the person; a feel for them. A character sketch to accompany the facts and figures. Their interests, likes and dislikes can be just as significant in determining where to look as their last reported sighting or hair colour. I once had to trace a man who had a passion for breeding fancy mice. His wife told me all about the new strain he had developed. On the strength of that I managed to track him down to Wolverhampton where he was living bigamously with a second spouse and was prominent in the fancy mouse community. He'd changed his name, moved town and severed his roots but he couldn't give up his obsession and it was his downfall.
I opened a new file, labelled it and enclosed my notes. I didn't intend to do anymore until Roger returned with the list of friends and acquaintances.
I must admit my first feelings about the case weren't all that hopeful. Jennifer Pickering had been gone twenty three years. The trail would be cold as stone. She'd been estranged from the family for longer than she'd been part of it. If there really had been no contact in all those years then somewhere along the line Jennifer must have decided to stay lost: not to attempt a reconciliation, not to try building bridges. She'd cut her losses and got on with a new life and I couldn't imagine she'd be all that pleased to be invited to her mother's deathbed. Especially as her mother didn't want her there.
I couldn't second-guess her reactions to her brother's desire for a reunion and her share of the inheritance. Pleasure, I'd hope. But people act in strange ways: guilt, regret or bitterness skewing their responses. It was all speculation anyway. I had to find her yet. And deep down, in my bones, I didn't think I would.