On that Friday morning I took a wrong turning as I drove away from Mrs Deason’s house, and instead of heading back towards Manchester I found I was going the other way, bound for Bury.
I wrestled with the glove compartment to find my A-Z and pulled into the roadside so I could plot a route back. I was only five minutes from the well-appointed Deason home but already the territory had changed. This was a much poorer area; the terraces along the road had doors opening straight onto the pavement. The place looked tired and drab and hard-up. Few of the occupants had bothered to clean their windows or wash their nets, though here and there one stood out smart with new paint, glowing white curtains, silk flowers or doll in full Flamenco gear on the windowsill, highlighting the shabbiness of the neighbouring houses.
I took the next side street, intending to go round the block and back to the main road. Some of the houses had been converted into shops. A grocer’s and off-licence on one corner, Betty’s Hair Salon on another. I passed a small row of shops further on – chip shop, bookies, video shop and at the end of the row A.J. Henson’s Knives for Crafts, Sport and Leisure.
I stopped the car and sat there for a few moments. Let my theory filter down like a marble on some complicated run, clunk, clunk, clunk.
Inside the shop, everything was displayed in shiny lock-up cases or chained up on the wall in amongst hunting memorabilia. Dusty stuffed birds perched on plinths and fish that could have been carved out of wood but were probably pickled in lacquer, hung stiff and dull from the ceiling. In pride of place above the counter hung a huge tiger’s head, mouth bared, teeth exposed. I felt a wave of nausea for the mentality that continued to display the trophy while the tiger itself faced extinction. I thought of Maddie’s awkward questions when we watched wildlife programmes. ‘But why do they kill them, Mummy? That’s so mean.’
Why? Because some people enjoy hunting down animals, because some people are starving, because…
The tiger was incongruous too in this backwater of north Manchester. These beasts had never prowled round Collyhurst or roared from the hills in Heaton Park.
The buzzer that had sounded when I went into the shop brought a man out from the back. He was small and bespectacled, with black greasy hair and bland, casual clothes.
He smiled. ‘Can I help?’
Sometimes it’s best to tell the truth. I showed him one of my cards. ‘I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case involving people in the area. I’m afraid I can’t go into details, but I’m interested in any records you have of knife sales over the Christmas and New Year period.’
He pulled a face. ‘We don’t have any sort of stock breakdown like that.’
I tried another tack.
‘Do you remember selling a knife to an elderly woman, early in the New Year? She was probably well-dressed, and had a Southern accent.’
He pursed his lips, shook his head. My theory teetered like a tower of blocks. Shit. I turned to go. ‘Is there anyone else works here?’
He drew a breath. He didn’t like my persistence but it was laziness rather than obstruction.
He put his head through the door behind the counter. ‘Carla?’
Carla emerged – young, plump, apple-cheeked with a set of rings and studs in her nostrils. There was a tension between the two of them which made me slightly embarrassed. Had I interrupted something? It would more than explain his reluctance to indulge me in my search and prolong my stay.
I described Mrs Deason as best I could to Carla. Did she remember her buying a knife?
‘Oh, yeah,’ she didn’t hesitate. ‘she had the name written down and everything. A late Christmas present for her nephew, she said.’
‘You’ve a good memory,’ I complimented her.
‘Well,’ she demurred, ‘she stuck out a bit really. We get mainly lads in or anglers, you know.’
‘How did she pay?’
‘Cash, I think.’
‘Can you remember when it was?’
‘First day back after the holiday. Would have been the second of January.’ She glanced at Mr Henson for confirmation.
