Stone Cold Red Hot - [6]

“Yes, I can get some photocopies done, give you it back next time we meet.”

I told him I would be in touch after talking to some of the people on the list and let him know what progress I’d made.

After I’d seen him out I made myself a cup of coffee and then got busy on the phone. Mrs Clerkenwell could see me that same afternoon.

There was an answer machine on at Lisa MacNeice’s. I asked her to return my call without going into any details.

Roger hadn’t given me a number for the other neighbours; the Shuttles. However I did find a number for them – when I’d set up the business I’d invested in phone directories for the main northern cities as I expected at times my cases would take me to Leeds or Liverpool and they’d be useful resources. I checked the phone book for Bradford and found just one Shuttle. Felt like my lucky day (though I couldn’t be dead certain it was the same couple). I wrote the number and address in my notebook for future reference. As they were no longer in the area and had moved away years ago I decided to wait before following them up. Jennifer’s friends were much more likely to have heard from her.

I got a call then from Mandy Bellows at the Neighbour Nuisance Unit at Manchester City Council. I’d done a bit of surveillance work for them the previous year, helping to gather evidence that they could use to take an anti-social tenant to court.

“Sal, how are you?”

“Fine, and you?”

“Too busy, half the team’s off ill with some nasty little virus and the rest of us are holding the fort. The reason I rang you,” she continued, “I’ve some clients suffering harassment, general unpleasantness from the neighbours. I want to see if we can gather enough firm evidence to go to court. Can you pop in on Thursday to talk about it?”

“Yes, morning?”

“Good, ten o’clock?”

“Yes, see you then.”

More work, more money. It was rare that I was only working on one case at a time and when I did there were gaps in my working day while I waited to interview people or receive replies to enquiries I made. It was much better when I’d a few things on the go at once and it also meant I was nearer to making a decent living out of the job. (Not good, just decent as in free of debts). It was a state I aspired to and achieved now and again, but never for long.

I glanced at the clock. There was just time to make a note of the areas I wanted to cover with Mrs Clerkenwell and pop home for a sandwich before our appointment. I was looking forward to finding out some more about Jennifer Pickering. I didn’t expect any hot tips as to where she was now but I hoped to learn a little about how she had been back then; a young girl about to fly the nest. What had she been expecting when she’d left for university? Was she anxious about it or eager? Had the Pickerings ever confided in Mrs Clerkenwell about what Jennifer had done or whether she had been in touch? I had no shortage of questions. I hoped that she would be able to answer at least some of them.

Chapter three

Heaton Mersey, the district where the Pickerings lived, isn’t far from Withington so I made the journey on my bicycle. That and swimming are the only regular exercise I get. Now and again I practise sprinting as a very useful skill for a private investigator to possess but I’m afraid I don’t do it as often as I should. Still I guess I could do a reasonable dash in the Mum’s 100 metres at school’s sports day – if they had a sports day.

The houses were good sized Edwardian semis, brick built, with tall, bay windows and sizable front gardens. Each had a driveway and garage. The gardens were well-tended. The neighbourhood looked settled, comfortable. Several windows sported Home Watch stickers.

I rang the bell for Mrs Clerkenwell and there was a burst of barking from inside. While I waited I looked at the adjoining house hoping to catch a glimpse of Mrs Pickering. There were no signs of life.

Mrs Clerkenwell opened her door. I introduced myself.

“Come in, I’ve shut the dogs in the garden, they get delirious over new people. Bring your bike in.”

“I can leave it in the back if you’d rather…”

“No problem. Can you manage?”

I wheeled the bike up the two steps to the front door and into the hall. There was plenty of space. I leant it against the wall, taking care not to scuff the wallpaper. We went along the hall to the back room and sat at a table by the window looking out onto the back garden. The rooms had high ceilings with moulded plaster edges and picture rails around the walls. It was decorated in creamy yellow with a mossy green for the woodwork. The colours lightened the room which could easily have been gloomy.

“Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee?”

“Coffee please, no sugar.”

She was a large-boned woman, in her fifties at a guess with grey shoulder length hair, a sallow complexion and chunky black-framed glasses. She wore dark slacks and a baggy woollen sweater, bottle green with flecks of colour in it, sprinkled with dog hairs.

From the chair I could see the garden, long and wide with a couple of apple trees at one side and a wall at the end. Flower borders ran the length of the lawn which had a wavy path down its centre. Two honey coloured Labradors were sniffing around the lawn and occasionally diving onto each other. An old larch-lap fence divided the garden from its neighbours on either side. I stood up to see what was visible of the Pickering’s garden to the left. I could make out the roof of a garden shed and a circular clothes dryer, the tips of a row of conifers at the far side, nothing more.