Stone Cold Red Hot - [12]

After a top-up of caffeine I rang and introduced myself to Mr Poole, thanked him for his offer, and asked if I could come to his house that Friday evening to start my surveillance.

“I’ll pretend to be a distant relative,” I said, “my aunt’s in Wythenshawe hospital having tests and I’m visiting from London.”

“If anyone asks,” he said, “I’ll tell them you’re one of Joan’s children. My son Malcolm remarried and moved down south. Joan already had three children from her first marriage. You’d be a step-grand daughter, I reckon. You’d not be expected to know much about this side of the family.”

“That sounds great, and we needn’t have met before. I’ll use my own first name – Sal, Sal Smith will do.”

Mr Poole cleared his throat. “What exactly will it involve? You being here.”

“I’ll have a camcorder, a video, to record anything that goes off. I’ll keep it running whenever there’s any activity outside the Ibrahim’s, so most of the time I’ll be perched in the window filming or watching for something to happen. I hope to leave in the early hours when Mr Ibrahim is back from work. And if anything happens before then will you ring me on this number – have you got a pen?”

I gave him my number and the one for my mobile and said I’d see him Friday. He seemed to be taking the whole set-up in his stride and I was looking forward to meeting him, impressed at how he was prepared to get involved and resist the threat of violence that came with the territory.

I managed half an hour on Ray’s computer searching for an e-mail address for Jennifer Pickering, J. Pickering, Jenny Pickering and J. L. Pickering.

I found three matches in all, two in the United Kingdom and one in Hawaii. I sent messages to all of them asking them to reply and confirm whether they were Jennifer Lesley Pickering formerly of Manchester, U.K. and giving her birthdate. I also left instructions for two search engines to carry on searching and give me the results later.

Of the UK matches there was an J. Pickering in London but that could have been a John or a Julie, and a Jennifer Pickering in Scarborough. This last one seemed to be the most likely – she’d given her full name but not bothered with her middle name. I tried not to get too excited about it but my imagination kept running scenes where I checked my e-mail and found a great big “Yes, that’s me!” message waiting for me. Oh, if only…

Chester is about thirty five miles south west of Manchester towards North Wales. I allowed myself three quarters of an hour to get there which was about right. When Maddie and I have holidays we often go camping in Wales, so the journey reminded me of setting off, desperately trying to remember exactly what I had forgotten to pack.

I played an old Gypsy Kings tape, yelling along to the rousing tunes and crooning to the lovesick ballads. It was a mild night and dark by the time I left the motorway and followed Lisa’s directions. I only took one wrong turning and arrived outside her bungalow at five to eight. The windows were aglow and there was a car in the drive. The estate was open plan, no walls or hedges in the front gardens. Easier to see what the neighbours were up to. I wondered what effect it had on people’s interaction. Did it increase a sense of community, everyone looking out for everyone else or did people draw away from each other, bothered by the lack of privacy?

I rang the bell and heard it sound inside the house, moments later Lisa MacNeice answered the door. “Sal Kilkenny?”

“Yes,” I handed her my card which she actually looked at before pocketing it and inviting me in.

I could smell onions and the tang of herbs. There were rooms off to either side of the hallway but we passed these and went to the back where a kitchen cum dining room ran the width of the house.

“Do you mind?” she gestured to the plate on the table, “I was just finishing off.”

“No, carry on.” Tagliatelli and pesto by the look of it, tomato and red onion salad. My mouth watered even though I’d had a decent meal already. I pulled out a chair, shrugged off my jacket and sat down. She ate while I admired the decor.

The room was bright, stylish and spacious. Blue kitchen units with that distressed paint finish ran along one wall and on the adjoining side next to the door stood a beautiful pine dresser resplendent with a collection of hens and chickens in all shapes and sizes. The rear wall was mainly French windows with sheer curtains. In the dining area there were shelving and storage units in wood and glass, holding books and objects of interest, many of these were blue or orange. A side table sported a large vase of lilies, I caught their perfume now that I’d got use to the smell of food, and a six foot Yucca stood sentinel in the corner.

“You collect chickens?” I remarked.

“I never meant to,” she swallowed, “one of those things, I had a couple and then all of a sudden rumour flies round that I adore hens and that’s all I get; birthdays, Christmas, the lot. ‘Ooh, there’s a tea caddy with hens on, ooh look, Lisa would love that chicken letter opener.’