Stone Cold Red Hot - страница 4

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.

I walked home briskly. My cheeks were glowing from the crisp bite in the air. It was a sharp, sunny autumn day. The distant sky was a dark, moody blue heralding rain and contrasting perfectly with the sand, copper and ruby coloured leaves.

Our house is a big Victorian semi in the south of the city. Manchester is a large sprawling conurbation, laying on the plain between the Pennine foothills to the north and the rich Cheshire farmlands to the south. Its history as a centre of trade, industry and commerce brought successive waves of immigrants to live and work here. Manchester was now home to a myriad of cultures. There are large, long established communities from the Caribbean, from India, from Bangladesh and Pakistan, from China and Ireland.

The city is cross-hatched by the old canals and railways that transported the goods back in the days of the industrial revolution. The Manchester ship canal provided a thoroughfare to bring cargo all the way from the coast to the docks. In Manchester they would meet each day to set the price of cotton for the world. Whoever first lived in our house probably made his money in that trade.

I made myself a cheese and pickle sandwich and a mug of tea. Sat to eat at the big kitchen table. The house was quiet: kids at school, Ray at college, Sheila, our lodger, at the library working on her project for university.

Ray was in love. I should have been pleased for him but I was anxious. If it became serious he and his son Tom might move out. They might decide to buy a place instead of renting. Ray and I had set up home together for mutual convenience. Two single parents, a child apiece, a big house we could rent indefinitely. He’d answered my advert, and we’d given it a trial. It worked. It worked really well. My daughter Maddie had a surrogate brother in Tom and Ray and I benefited from sharing out the relentless routine of childcare and chores. We’d become a family of sorts. If Ray and Tom went I’d have to try and replace them – and they felt irreplaceable. It would be such a wrench. Or maybe Laura would move in? Could that work? Would she want to move into a set-up like ours? It was hard to share a house, hard enough for families and for couples but for people who hadn’t got those roles allocated there was so much to negotiate. Ray and I had done hours of that along the way. And we’d had our very own lodger from hell, too, as well as some people who just didn’t want to share a home with others in the long run.