Dead Wrong - [29]

I asked her to talk to me first if anything else bothered her and we could see if we could sort it out between ourselves.

‘Yes,’ she said.

In my dreams.

‘Have there been any more calls?’

‘Last night. He said I’d betrayed him, called me all these names – swearing, awful things.’ Her mouth twisted with disgust. ‘Names from the Bible, too – Salome, Jezebel, Delilah.’ I had a mental picture of Tom Jones crooning, the silhouette of a woman, the knife, the stabbing from the video that had accompanied the song. Tom’s throaty Welsh bellow: ‘Deli-ilah!’

I concentrated on Debbie. ‘Have you rung BT?’

‘Yes, well, Ricky did, this morning, after I told him. They said to stay calm and not to talk, put the phone down for a while and then replace the receiver. If it carries on they said they might trace the call, like you said.’

‘What about changing your number? Would you rather do that?’

She didn’t get a chance to reply as the front doorbell rang. She went to answer it. I heard a man’s voice then Debbie’s, low and urgent.

‘Lost him again, have you?’ He came into the room and stood there with his feet apart, legs braced, chin out. He had very short hair, wore stonewashed chinos, a green vest, Doc Martens.

‘Ricky,’ she said weakly.

‘Have you any idea what it’s doing to her?’ the man blustered. ‘He wants putting away, bloody pervert. What’s his game, eh? Frightening women? She’s scared to look out of the window or answer the phone.’ It had to be the brother. Rebecca Henderson had mentioned him. It couldn’t be anyone else.

‘I know,’ I interrupted him, ‘and as soon as we find out who he is and where he lives, we can apply for the injunction.’

‘Oh, great – and what if he ignores it, what then? He wants locking up now before it goes any further. She’s gonna end up in Cheadle Royal if it goes on like this.’

‘Ricky, please.’

‘Sit down,’ he ordered her. She sat. ‘She’s already on tablets, you know. She should sue him, screw the bastard, what he’s done to her nerves. You’ll never get him like this,’ he pronounced. ‘You need to be here all the time. I told her she should get a proper security firm. Lot of them are ex-coppers, they know how to play it. Soon get it sorted.’

‘Of course, you could do that,’ I spoke directly to Debbie, determined not to exclude her from the conversation. ‘But you’d have to pay for it.’

‘No, it’s not what-’

‘Comes down to money, dunnit?’ he demanded.

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘And she gets you, cut-price, part-time,’ he sneered. He craved a reaction but he didn’t get one.

I spoke to Debbie again. ‘The firm are employing me and you know what I’m paid to do. You’ve got a right to do anything else you want on top of that. If you do decide to hire security, there are several reputable firms I can put you in touch with. I’m sorry we’ve not been able to identify him yet, but I’m confident that the next time he’s here I’ll be able to trace him.’

Ricky snorted.

‘I’d better go now,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Goodbye.’

Debbie got up to see me out, avoiding my eyes and mumbling goodbye. Ricky remained in Action Man pose, stony-faced.

Christ, I thought as I climbed into the car. If Debbie had to put up with his hectoring on top of being stalked, no wonder she was on tablets. Big brother, big help. I shuddered. And in his blustering attempts to protect her he was undermining any chance she had to hold onto her self-esteem.

Chapter Fourteen

The nursery where Emma Clegg worked was housed in a conversion of one of the grand Victorian villas in Whalley Range. When it was first built, the area was an upmarket suburb for the merchants of Manchester – those doing well in the cotton trade and associated industries. It boasted spacious family housing, tree-lined streets and a grand park nearby.

Nowadays many of the villas are crumbling though the trees are still thriving. I could see the poverty of the area reflected in the dismal row of shops I passed; half of them were boarded up, littered with posters and daubed with graffiti, the others were shabby with neglect, roofs pitted with holes, paint peeling. There was a young prostitute on the corner where I turned; she looked bored and ill-tempered.

Emma was waiting for me at the door. We walked along to the park and found a bench with enough wood left on it to support us. There were squirrels and magpies busy chasing each other in the trees, and across the field a group of boys on mountain bikes swooped and wove around each other. The day was turning cooler but it hadn’t started to rain. They’d just mown the grass and the smell was intoxicating.

Emma was convinced that Luke Wallace had been wrongly accused. It was refreshing to talk to someone who was keen to help defend him. Nobody had bothered to interview her. Understandable, as she had left the club early on the night of the murder and had no close connection with any of the parties involved.

‘They were such good mates, I couldn’t believe it when I heard.’

‘You can’t think of any reason why Luke might attack Ahktar?’

‘He wouldn’t,’ she insisted. ‘They never fell out. They were cool. Never a bad word between them. I mean, there’s some people always taking the hump or losing their rag, like Zeb, say, foul temper. There’s times I had to pull him away from fights.’ She shook her head at the memory. ‘But Luke and Ahktar, they were as soft as sh-’ She blushed. I grinned to reassure her.