Dead Wrong - [28]

I put the Gosforth file away and got out the Wallace one. I made notes on my meetings with Mrs Siddiq, Dr Khan, Zeb Khan and Mrs Deason. I have a system of dividing the page into sections. In the first I’d enter facts or alleged facts – what people said they had seen or done or heard, along with times and dates, that sort of thing. In the second section I’d enter anything I wanted to remember about that person’s attitude and opinions, their reactions and the impression they had made on me. In the final section I’d jot down all my own hunches and suspicions, questions that went unanswered and doubts I had. I’d allow myself to spin wild scenarios about what the truth might be.

Of course, this was for my eyes only; I’d be appalled if anyone else ever saw it. In a clearcut case there’d be little or nothing in the final section, but as I worked on these reports I was struck by how many queries I had and how muddy everything seemed.

The Siddiqs were witnesses but I got a definite sense that they had some stake in the case. Their reactions hinted at some other involvement; they were not just objective observers. Of course, they did work for a relative of Dr Khan…I kept coming back to the fact that they’d left Ahktar to bleed to death. Was their guilt a reason for the extra baggage that they brought to the case? Was that the explanation for all the bad vibes?

Zeb Khan I labelled volatile. He’d reacted aggressively to my visit, even more so when I’d asked about his row with Joey D and when I’d mentioned Emma. He’d been unclear at first about what time in the evening he had seen the two friends arguing. Was that simply the effect of drugs? Had anyone else seen the row? Could he have imagined it, been hallucinating? There was no clue as to what they might have argued about.

Was Zeb a physically violent man? Could he have become embroiled in an argument with his cousin and then, when it ended in tragedy, somehow set Luke up to take the rap?

And if Mr Siddiq was in charge of security at the Cash and Carry, surely Zeb would know him! Even if Zeb was based at the clothing importers up Cheetham Hill Road, he’d still have some passing knowledge of Rashid Siddiq, wouldn’t he? I knew for a fact that Siddiq visited J.K. Imports – I’d followed him there.

As for Joey D, he had seen or heard or done something that night that led him to flee, fearing for his safety. He was known to carry a knife similar to the one that killed Ahktar, and he arrived home shocked and scared. I was surprised the police hadn’t become more suspicious, given the timing of his flight from home.

Mrs Deason would have been completely plausible. He’d already run away twice that year, she’d said, coming back when the money ran out or things got too heavy. She’d told them about his knife, the argument they’d had about it, the fact that she’d taken it from him. She had shown them it. Proof. So there was no reason to connect the knife used on Ahktar to Joey. The police had plenty of evidence pointing to Luke as it was. Mrs Deason’s account fitted the known facts. Their interest in Joey D would have focused on the knife. His weapon could safely be ruled out of the enquiry.

My interest however was more wide-ranging, and I wasn’t satisfied, not by a long chalk. I’d uncovered a more disturbing version of Joey D’s involvement in the events of that night, but I couldn’t go any further without talking to him. There was no point in reporting what I’d learned to the police because I knew Mrs Deason would perjure herself to the hilt to protect her grandson, and she would be totally convincing.

Emma Clegg, Zeb’s ex-girlfriend, worked at a nursery in Whalley Range, near Chorlton where Debbie lived. I could call in on Debbie and then carry on for my lunchtime meeting with Emma. I went home and made myself an olive paste, tomato, basil and lettuce submarine sandwich and a flask of chilled pineapple juice. It was a warm day but dull. Hard to tell whether the cloud would clear or open up and soak us. I took my kagool as a precaution. Debbie Gosforth was taken aback to find me on the doorstep. ‘He’s not here,’ she said, bemused.

‘I know, I just wanted a word. Can I come in?’

We went into the lounge which was as clean and tidy as ever. ‘They’re nice.’ She’d got a bunch of carnations and gypsophila in a vase by the window.

She nodded, arms folded across herself, not keen on small talk.

‘Rebecca Henderson rang me the other day,’ I began. ‘Apparently, you haven’t been very happy with how things are going.’

She looked embarrassed, shook her head, ‘No, I…’

I gave her a chance to carry on but she couldn’t think of what to say.

‘Has Rebecca written to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she’s explained what I’m expected to do?’

She bobbed her head, blushing.

‘Is that all right? Because if you still feel unhappy you can always talk to her about getting someone else in.’

‘No, no,’ she protested, ‘it’s fine.’

And that was it. I couldn’t make sense of her. She clearly didn’t want to be having the discussion at all, and gave me no more idea of what had prompted her complaints.