‘Why did she leave?’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ he bristled. ‘That’s got fuck all to do with it.’
I shrugged. ‘OK. You were seen having a go at Joey D. What was that about?’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said in disgust. ‘I don’t have to listen to this. We’re going to win this one. That guy’s going to pay for Ahktar. You can ask all the questions you like, it won’t change anything. I know what I saw and the police have got all the evidence they need.’
‘After the argument,’ I persisted, ‘did you see Ahktar later?’
‘No.’ He was almost vehement. ‘It was packed. They were still dancing. I went to chill out.’
‘You didn’t see him again?’
He shook his head impatiently.
‘Can you think of anyone else who might have had a grudge against Ahktar?’
‘Look, do you think they’d prosecute if it wasn’t watertight, eh? Dead Paki. It wouldn’t get anywhere near a court if it wasn’t a fucking certainty that Wallace did it. You come round here trying to pick holes in it all, find a way for him to wriggle out. Well, forget it – right? Fucking forget it.’
It was time to go.
I stood up. ‘Does Emma still live in Whalley Range?’
He shrugged.
‘Don’t you see her any…?’
His look stopped me mid-sentence. It was murderous.
I nodded once then turned and walked briskly to the door. My heart squeezed. I could feel his eyes on my back, sense the anger thick as fog.
I’d been here before, other men, other rooms, that same unsteadying realisation of danger. A hair’s breadth from violence.
I thought of Debbie Gosforth. Tidying up, keeping things in order while the threat of violence hovered over her shoulder.
I forced myself not to bolt. At the door I turned and said a short goodbye.
A thin film of sweat slicked my body from head to toe. I sat in the car with the window down and breathed slowly till my heart let go and my skin became cold and clammy.
Mrs Deason, Joey D’s grandmother, welcomed me into her home like a long-lost relative. She was desperate to talk, I think. To anyone who would listen. And Joey was her favourite topic.
The house looked like some colonial villa, with a fancy tiled roof, shuttered windows and palm trees mixing with the conifers and rhododendrons in the driveway.
Inside, the place was cluttered with heavy antique furniture, festooned with carvings, ornaments and pictures from China. There was a smell of snuff and polish and apples.
Joey wasn’t there; he’d run away from home, he’d done it before. She showed me photographs of him, school portraits and holiday snaps, some in the hall, others in the lounge. Her eyes shining with pride as she spoke of him. ‘He is such a charmer, the sweetest disposition. And when you think what he’s been through. But he hasn’t a mean streak in him.’
Yes, I could ask her some questions. She established that I hadn’t had lunch and then prepared what she called a summer brunch for us to eat on the terrace.
There was tons of it; prawn salad, three types of bread, potato and egg salad, coleslaw, mini-quiches, chicken drumsticks and cold cuts of meat. I’d explained I didn’t eat meat.
‘Oh, don’t worry, dear, I will.’ And she did. Thin as a rake, with wispy hair and hands riddled with arthritis, she had munched her way through most of the spread with great relish.
‘I felt I had so much to make up for, with Joey. You see, I didn’t realise about John, my son – Joey’s father, for years. There’d been some trouble in his teens but I’d no idea he was an alcoholic. I blamed the recession when the business sank, but then it happened again. It was Patsy who told me, his wife, she wrote to me. I was up in Cumbria. I didn’t believe her. He was drinking it all away. He owed money everywhere, he’d taken money from friends, business associates, he’d remortgaged the house without even telling her.’ She took a swig from her glass of lemonade and smacked her lips with pleasure.
I had another mouthful of salad and caught the scent of old roses on the breeze.
‘He was never violent, just…completely unreliable, untrustworthy. Patsy left; she was very young, she went back to America. She was going to send for Joey, but…she was very young,’ Mrs Deason said again, looking into the distance. When she caught herself at it she snapped back to attention. ‘Joey stayed here, while his father was in and out of clinics and under various specialists. He had cirrhosis. As time went on, Patsy met someone else – and reading between the lines, I don’t think her new man would have made Joey very welcome. I’d moved in by then. Joey was six. It seemed best to just carry on. ‘Nothing worked for long. John couldn’t stay sober, you see. Then he just gave up. The last I knew of him, he was up in London, living on the streets. He knows he can always come here but I don’t think he could bear it – for Joey, you know. And it sounds – awful but I pray he’ll stay where he is. Have you any experience of alcoholism?’
