Stone Cold Red Hot - [21]

I was tired now, just a couple of hours to go until Mr Ibrahim was due back. Precious little happening. A couple more dog walkers. I yawned a lot and did some more stretching.

At twenty past two a private hire cab arrived and stopped outside the house opposite. A man got out; dark coat and hat, moustache. Mr Ibrahim, I presumed. He knocked on the door. I realised they probably used bolts as well as locks so she’d have to let him in. The door opened and he slipped through. I caught no glimpse of her. The taxi drove away.

Time for home.

I packed up the camcorder and cleared the bits into my bag. Downstairs I looked in on Mr Poole. He was still at his table but sitting back in the large, upholstered chair. Eyes closed, mouth open, snoring softly. With each snore the loose skin around his chin shivered. I went across and touched his shoulder.

“Mr Poole? I’m going now.”

He blinked a few times and shut his mouth; rubbed his face with his hand.

“I’ll see myself out. Don’t forget to ring me whenever there’s any bother. Goodnight.”

The roads were quiet driving home. Once I’d gone a little way I took the wig and glasses off. I wondered whether the footage I’d got would be enough for Mandy Bellows to take the troublemakers to court. Surely it would.

Verbal abuse – overtly racist, threatening behaviour, attacking property. I noted that the men had watched and spurred on the youths but neither Brennan nor Whittaker had actually gone up to the Ibrahims house. Intentionally – so they couldn’t be accused? But my recollection was that injunctions could apply to tenants and to their families, so even though the teenagers were minors they could still be the subject of a court order. And if they carried on with the anti-social behaviour the property could be re-possessed.

I reckoned there was plenty to go on but it would be up to the solicitors at the Town Hall.

Home was still, quiet. Laura was there, I could always tell from the smell of her perfume. Overpowering, she must chuck bucketfuls of it on. Acted on me like nerve gas. Must have stripped the linings of her nostrils so she couldn’t even smell how strong it was. Left the rest of us reeling. I was being uncharitable, I was tired.

Bed felt blissful. I closed my eyes. Images from the evening flickered through my mind; the faces of the group, drunk and giddy with cruelty, Whittaker shivering in his denims, Darren beaming as they all applauded. Mr Poole’s voice, raw with emotion. “What, on god’s earth, makes them do this?”

Chapter eight

The weekend was a blur of domesticity. Saturday afternoon I took the kids to Castlefield. The Museum of Science and Industry were hosting a dinosaur exhibition. Tom was beside himself with excitement. Maddie kept trying to act cool about it, “dinosaurs are for babies, Mum,” but when we entered the Jurrasic environment her face said it all. The place was done out like a swamp complete with soundtrack of blood-curdling roars. The animatronic dinosaurs had both Tom and Maddie enthralled. And when one particularly nasty one actually spit at Tom I thought he’d wet himself with glee. After a trip to the shop we visited our old favourites; the steam hall with its massive engines complete with life-size T. Rex this time and the interactive section upstairs where the kids played with magnets and mirrors and shadows and sounds. By then I was too tired to take them to the Air and Space building, Appollo and the Daleks would have to wait for another day.

I had done a little bit of work that morning. I watched the video – it was blurry at times and the light wasn’t brilliant but it was adequate in terms of seeing what was actually going on. The sound was muffled, I might need to tell people what the youths had been shouting, but even without the words the pictures said it all. Reviewing the behaviour of the gang made me tense with anger again. The cruelty of their taunts and the ugliness of their behaviour revolted me. I tried to work out how they must feel about themselves to be so ready to attack others?

I dispatched a courier with the videotape for Mandy Bellows. I included a note asking her to let me know as soon as possible whether the tape was all they needed. I could then return the camcorder.

I also checked the e-mail for answers from potential Jennifer Pickerings; everyone I’d contacted had replied and none of them was the right person. The woman in Scarborough even referred to the fact that she’d been contacted before, by a member of the family. Roger, I presumed. Of course he’d have checked for her online – it was his field of work but I consoled myself that at least I was being thorough.

On the Saturday night it was dry enough to have a bonfire and burn the debris from the garden along with some scraps of wood from the cellar that Ray had no use for. There was also an old wooden cupboard, riddled with woodworm, that had been rotting in the shed. The kids took great delight in helping to break it up.

There’s an old paved area at the bottom of the garden, in one corner. I’m not sure why it was laid there as it’s no suntrap but it works fine for the children to ride bikes on and it’s ideal for bonfires. I used a couple of rows of broken flagstones to form a small circular fireplace and then I built a pyramid of scrunched up paper, kindling and sticks. I lit the fire. It was smoky at first until it burnt off the moisture then the twigs crackled and hissed and I gradually added larger pieces of wood.