Stone Cold Red Hot - [3]

My heart softened pathetically. I was a fellow gardener. I resisted the temptation to start blethering on about planting schemes and pests and diseases and carried on making notes.

“So he had his own business?”

“A firm, yes. They did very well. He prided himself on their reputation.”

“And your mother looked after the house and the two of you?”

“Oh, yes. A woman’s place was definitely in the home.”

“Did they encourage Jennifer to go to university?”

“Yes, I think so. That would have been something to be proud of, a good education, qualifications.”

“But she let them down. And you?”

“Made up for it.” He grinned self-deprecatingly. I reckoned he was more perceptive than his nervous manner belied.

“I did computer sciences back when it was a new field. Had my own business for a while but now I work on a consultancy basis. Work on new programmes, look at IT packages for industry and commerce, do a bit of research as well – mainly artificial intelligence.”

His shyness evaporated as he talked work – he still avoided eye contact but there was a confidence in his voice and the emotional intensity in the atmosphere waned.

We talked a bit longer and he arranged to come back in two days time with as many starting points as he could find. He mentioned a neighbour he thought would be happy to help him recall the names of Jennifer’s friends.

I’d already outlined my fees to him and we agreed that I would do the equivalent of three days work and then report back to him. At that stage he could decide whether to retain me.

It was almost lunch time and my stomach had begun to growl but I decided to complete my notes at the office before walking home. Office may give the wrong impression; it’s a room in a cellar that I rent from a family who live nearby. When I first set up shop as a private investigator I knew commercially rented accommodation was way beyond my means. But Withington, where I live, has a mix of houses and as well as the council estate, the terraced rows and the estate of Hartley semis there are quite a few big Victorian and Edwardian semis like the one we live in. I thought someone might have a spare room going so I went door-knocking in the neighbourhood and the Dobson’s were happy to give me a try. Several years on I’m still there, the detective in the cellar. The rent’s unchanged and apart from the time when some suspects on a case of mine trashed the place it’s been a trouble free arrangement.

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.

Chapter two

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.