Towers of Silence (22 page)

“Thank you for coming.”

“You said he’d lied to you about this woman?”

“Yes.”

“Keep that to yourself,” she said. “Don’t challenge him.”

My stomach twisted.

“He’s not stupid and if he senses he’s going to get rumbled he’ll be planning his way out.”

“I already have.”

“Oh, God.”

“But I accepted his explanation; we agreed it had been a misunderstanding.”

She looked doubtful. “Are you a good liar?”

“Not brilliant.”

“Be careful” she said. “He feeds off people. He’s no qualms. If you corner him he’ll do anything to escape.”

I imagined a rat going for my throat.

“You need a watertight case before you challenge him, you or whoever.”

A trap. But traps need bait. Who was the bait in the trap now? Jane with her endless chatter? Or sulky Pauline, or Sandy with her weight problem?

Who was the special one, seduced by his promises, silenced by his threats. Waiting for his summons, for a kiss, his touch, the breadth of his hand around her head as she knelt before him. Who was it this time?

On the drive back I was reeling from the revelations, my head filled with questions clamouring for answers. Had he abused Miriam? Had it happened before or was that day the first time? It seemed to fit so well with her sudden breakdown but I forced myself not to accept it as fact. It was only supposition.

I was incredulous too. He was such a nice man, with his friendly nature and his apparent care for those he worked with. It was like Jekyll and Hyde, making beautiful things at the same time as he destroyed lives.

I tried to examine the evidence. There had been nothing in the postmortem report about sexual violence or even recent sexual activity. Or had the postmortem been shoddy too? They were supposed to check for those signs as a matter of routine along with looking at the major organs and documenting the appearance of the body, but would they? If the police were telling them it was suicide cut and dried? Would they bother? Would they do it cursorily? Or not at all?

It might never have happened. Just because he had done it at Horizons it didn’t necessarily mean he was doing it to women at The Whitworth Centre. But if (and it was a big if) he had assaulted Miriam then it gave him a very good reason to lie to me about seeing her that afternoon.

Bryony Walker, who was more of an expert than me, was convinced he would be abusing wherever he worked. There were people like that - serial offenders: rapists, paedophiles. If Harry came up with any more information on Eddie Cliff’s previous places of work, there may well be victims there. Perhaps even someone willing to point the finger, a little less in fear of him with the passage of time?

My in-box held a solitary email. From Piatt, Henderson and Cockfoot - the solicitors’ firm whose freelancer was checking the electoral rolls for me. It confirmed what I now knew; Address: 21 Blandford Drive, York. Registered occupants: Mr Kenneth Reeve and Mrs Denise Reeve.

The man who had done the job for me added that the couple had been registered at the same address for the last ten years.

I found it hard to imagine the mindset of someone who could sustain a double life for so long. This wasn’t just a short-lived affair but the man had two fully fledged families. Children being born, starting school, mouths to feed, relatives to visit. What drove someone to do that? And was he the same person in each household? Did he have identical clothes in both places? How did he manage holidays? Christmas? What on earth did he do at Christmas?

I printed a copy of the message out and put it in my file. I planned to see Susan Reeve early afternoon, before her children were due back from school. Enough time to break the news and stay with her as she tried to take it in. I rang to check it was convenient. She sounded subdued but thanked me for bringing Adam back. She had seen my car from the house. I was dreading having to tell her what was really going on.

I needed to find out what the score was for the offence of bigamy. Rebecca Henderson was in court but a colleague gave me a resume. Basically, it was a case for prosecution and the police would go ahead even if none of the wronged individuals chose to press charges. Sentences varied widely; prison was an option but not a matter of course. It would all depend on the circumstances. I put the file in my bag.

I thought about Bryony Walker’s advice. Find allies in social services, and a decent police officer. Who did I know in social services? No one. But I did have a social worker friend, Rachel, who might know who to try. I dug out her number and left her a message to call me.

As for the police, my dealings with them had often been messy and a little tense due to the nature of my work. I had no tame contact. A very nice PC had attended our last attempted break-in but he would be way down the pecking order. I needed someone with a bit of seniority. I wasn’t even sure whether there was a sexual crimes unit in the city. I mulled it over for a few minutes but rather than go off half-cocked trying to identify someone, I thought it would be better to discuss it with social services first who would be up to speed on who did what and how.

I didn’t know anything about the Management Committee at the Whitworth Centre apart from the fact that Sharon had been on it before she’d gone for the job. If I asked her for a list of members, without explaining why, could I trust her to keep it to herself? Would she be allowed to give out that sort of information? Was it in the public domain somewhere? It should be, if the centre was a charitable body. I was a bit hazy on the details but I was pretty sure the names of the committee would be published with reports and accounts. I could only try. Maybe ask her to fax me an annual report? If she wanted to know more I’d just have to bang on about discretion and confidentiality and apologise a lot.

I dialled the number.

But Eddie Cliff answered my call.

“Is Sharon there, please?”

“No. Is that Sal?”

Shit. “Yes, erm ...” I thought rapidly. “She talked to me about the fair ...”

“Volunteers. Can you help?”

I was taken aback. Why would he want me around, unless it was to keep an eye on me. Work out whether I still suspected him.

“Yes,” I said before thinking it through. Anxious only that I made the right noises. “Just for an hour or so.”

“Excellent. We’ve a couple gone down with the flu so we are really pushed. If you could come midday? Help set up and with the initial rush? And then I think we’ll manage. We usually do one way or another.”

“Fine,” I managed.

“See you then. I’ll let Sharon know.”

“Thanks.”

My mouth was dry and my hand shaking as I replaced the receiver. He doesn’t know you’ve met Bryony Walker, I told myself. He can’t possibly know that. He probably just wants to suss out the lie of the land. A devious bastard, she’d called him.

I sat back, a blizzard of images and questions in my mind.

Had he assaulted Miriam? She arrived at the centre well and happy. No one saw her leave, but by the time she reached her church she was in a state. The whole weight of the world on her shoulders. The Craft Club members had noticed nothing but it had been a chaotic morning. Jane burning her arm with the batik wax, Melody upset. Why? A row at home; Eddie had said that. Another lie? Hiding something worse? Melody and Miriam had to clear up. Had Miriam told Melody? Had Melody seen something? She no longer went to the club. She was suicidal. Melody upset.
If not her then he’s found someone else
... Bryony Walker’s words.

I searched through my notes. Found the jottings I’d made at the sewing circle. Melody Gervase. Unusual name. I looked it up in the phone book. Just one. It had to be it. And the address in Barlow Moor. A few minutes away.

Mrs Gervase didn’t want me to talk to Melody. At first she thought I was a journalist wanting to do a follow-up on the dramatic suicide rescue story that all the local papers had covered.

I showed her my card and explained who I was working for and what the Johnstones had asked me to do.

“I saw Melody at the sewing circle,” I said, “and I realised later she’d spent Thursday morning with Miriam at the Whitworth Centre.”

“She’s not up to talking about all of this.”

“Five minutes,” I asked her. “Please. It could be a real help. I promise I’ll be as careful as I can be.”

I was aware that I was being less than honest with her but I sensed that any mention of my suspicions would earn me a swift exit from the house.

She hesitated.

“Please. The family are desperate to learn anything they can. They lost their mother. You understand. Even the smallest things become important.”

She hesitated.

“Please, Mrs Gervase.”

“She may not talk.”

I gestured ‘so be it’.

We went into the back room where Melody was watching television. A lunchtime confessional show. Pain and betrayal writ large. Just the job. I could never work out the appeal in shows like that; did people like the there-but-for-the-grace-of-God aspect or was it sheer voyeurism, a load of sad losers to gawp at?

Melody had bandages round her wrists, just visible beneath her baggy sweatshirt. She looked younger than I remembered. She wore sports pants and sheepskin slippers. There was a crossword puzzle book on her lap.

Mrs Gervase used the remote control to turn off the television and asked me to sit down.

“Melody, this lady would like to have a word with you about Miriam; Miriam Johnstone.”

Melody gave me a guarded look, bent to pick at her nails.

“Melody, I met you at the sewing circle. Do you remember?”

Brief nod.

“I’m trying to find out everything I can about that Thursday, back in October when you were all doing batik at the Craft Club. I think someone or something upset Miriam, something that happened at the centre. If you can tell me what you remember it would be a real help.”

Melody continued to pick at her nails.

Her mother shook her head at me.

“Did you like Miriam?”

A nod. “She died.” She spoke quietly and began to rock backwards and forwards.

“Melody,” her mother said anxiously.

“Yes,” I said. “Was Miriam upset?”

“You better go,” Mrs Gervase said.

“It’s a sign,” Melody said, her breathing speeded up, she looked at me her dark eyes wide with panic.

“A sign?”

“That’s enough.” Her mother stood. “I can’t let her get upset like this.”

“Melody?” I made a last attempt.

“She promised to help. She died. Don’t say anything.” She implored but whether she was talking to me or to Miriam I couldn’t say. “Don’t say anything, please. Please don’t. You mustn’t tell.” She was becoming frantic. Her mother moved to hold her, shushing at her till the ‘please’ quietened and the rocking slowed. I slipped into the hall and waited there.

Her mother came out, lips tight and marched to the door.

“Mrs Gervase, there have been rumours about one of the workers at the Whitworth centre. About abuse. I think that’s what Melody was saying in there ...”

“She’s ill.”

“This man,” I began, “I’ve found out ...”

“You better go. I need to see to my daughter.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She stared at me, unspeaking. Silence is consent.

“Has Melody told you?”

“No, nothing,” she said quickly.

“And you don’t want to find out what really went on?”

She shook her head impatiently, her face creased with distaste.

“Why? Because he threatened her?”

“She has to recover. She has a life ahead. This ...” she had no word for it, “dwelling on it can only damage her more. I will not have that,” she said fiercely.

“So you pretend it never happened?”

“I will not sacrifice her.”

She opened the door. The message was clear. Her look implacable.

I walked slowly to the car, breathing in the cold, misty air, fiddling with my gloves, feeling angry and sad about the whole bloody mess.

I unlocked the car and got in. Closed my eyes and thought. The new version: Eddie Cliff had been abusing Melody, Miriam had found out. I didn’t know whether Melody had said something or she’d found out some other way. She’d been upset. Gone to church then home. Rung Hattie, panicking and talking about punishment and whether to say anything. A moral dilemma, fearful of her own safety. At what point had Eddie Cliff realised that Miriam knew? He comes to the house and she gets in his car. Why? If she knew what he was up to why on earth go anywhere near him? I didn’t understand. And then what? Where did he take her? What did he do to her? Miriam at the car park. Had she been alone. I shuddered. Told myself not to be ridiculous. Was it that ridiculous?

I had information but none of it was any practical use in prosecuting Eddie Cliff. Melody wouldn’t testify. Even if her health improved, her mother would never give her the support to stand up and bear witness. Would she heal? If there was no acknowledgement of the violence that had been done to her?

What would I do, if it was Maddie? Force her to give evidence? Make her speak out and so prevent others suffering? Or would I protect her? Spare her the pain of reliving the ordeal, the trauma of going over the abuse? Allow her the refuge of silence knowing that it gave space for others’ cries to go unheard?

The day had turned out overcast, the light bleak. No wind or rain, a thin mist suspended still and grey. A briny smell hung in the air. The world was littered with broken twigs and branches, torn fences, stray rubbish; the legacy of the previous night’s storm.

At home I ate a bowl of soup and began a shopping list for Ray. If I left it to him he always forgot essentials like sunflower oil or soap. I sometimes forgot to take the list but still remembered most of the stuff. Something to do with women’s brain architecture. We also needed things like Crackers for Christmas and it was nice to have traditional snacks about, like dates and nuts. I finally ran out of steam.

“I don’t want to go, Digger.” The dog pricked up his ears at the mention of his name and slid his eyes my way. I procrastinated for another ten minutes, shoved a load in the washing machine and left.