Towers of Silence - [13]

End of story. Closed for two hours then business as usual.

“Horrible way to go,” Tony shook his head.

“Makes you wonder,” Wheezy added, “what she was thinking of. If you’re going to top yourself least you could keep it clean. For the family and that.”

Tony pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Cue my exit.

So, no tapes. One broken, the other taped over. The police hadn’t even bothered to watch it. Why not? I knew there was no reason for extensive enquiries but surely establishing when Miriam Johnstone arrived at the car park and determining what state she was in would have been pertinent to the inquest. Those observations could have helped the coroner rule on the cause of death and help Miriam’s family comprehend her suicide. I thought it was reasonable to expect the investigation to include attempts to find out the state of mind of the deceased especially in a suspected suicide. And now I’d seen the physical layout of the place I could see that the possibility of accidental death was a non-starter. No way could anyone slip and fall from up there. She hadn’t slipped, she’d jumped. It had been intentional.

I understood some of Connie Johnstone’s grievances now; the police had barely done the basics. An approach to the police complaints authority might be on the cards if I found more evidence of sloppy work or corners cut. Was it just par for the course? A matter of too few resources stretched far too thinly coupled with the pressure to improve the clear-up rates for crime in general? Would any suicide get the same half-hearted attention? Or was there indeed a racial element? Had Miriam Johnstone received less than equal treatment because she was black?

Chapter Ten

The community centre was on Moss Lane East, near the Rusholme junction and opposite Whitworth Park. It was a new-built single storey block with all the paraphernalia of inner city security; chain link fencing round the car park topped with razor wire and more wire on the roof, steel shutters available to roll over all the windows. A large sign mounted beside the door announced Whitworth Community Centre and gave a phone number. I pulled into a space in the car park and locked the car up.

Just inside the door there was a small vestibule with notice boards cluttered with posters, messages, leaflets and adverts. Everything was there from Tai Chi classes to second-hand baby buggies. One board listed the regular groups: Craft Club, Mums and Tots, Luncheon Club, Yoga and Aerobics and the times they met. The Craft Club that Miriam attended met on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays.

The entrance hall led into a larger hallway with several doors off. A reception booth was in the corner to my left. The place smelt of new carpets, a strong chemical tang. Around the room more posters were displayed along with a patchwork banner, showing the centre’s name and depicting the activities that took place, and two beautiful large ceramic panels made from broken tile and mirror. One showed a tree by a stream and the other a bowl of fruit. There was no one at reception. I peered in through the reinforced glass.

“Hiya,” a voice came from the far end of the hall. A young woman carrying a cup headed towards me. “Just getting a drink, “ she smiled and made her way to her post; there was a small door into the booth which she had to open with a key. “Have to keep it all locked round here,” she said. “When we first opened they’d come in off the street and walk off with stuff. Phones, computer, the lot. Can I help?”

“Eddie Cliff, is he in?”

“I think so. Can I just ask you to sign in?” She swivelled a book with lined paper round my way. I filled in the columns.

“Thanks. You want to go through the bottom door,” she pointed to the right hand side to the lower of two doors. “That’s the craft room. If he’s not there try the Hall,” she gestured over to the left. “They were talking about putting some decorations up in there earlier.”

The craft room was empty. The walls were awash with pictures and models and a central working area had been made by putting tables together. The room was well lit by a run of windows which looked out of the back. Evergreen shrubs grew there and a small cherry tree hung with bird feeders.

I crossed to the Hall door. I looked in. It was a riot of streamers and lanterns in garish reds and golds, silver and green. A large Christmas tree stood at the far end beside the front window and at the back of the room sat a giant Christmas pudding. At the window two women held a tall step ladder as a man stretched up to attach more streamers above the glass. The trio turned as I came in.

“Hello,” I crossed the hall, my boots squeaking on the wooden surface.

“Eddie Cliff?”

“That’s me,” the man replied. “Nearly done.” He grunted as he reached to hammer tack the streamer in place. “There we go.” He came down the ladder.

He looked at me enquiringly, held out his hand. He had a bushy beard and moustache, grey and brown, like his hair which reached his shoulders and didn’t look as though it ever saw a brush. He had a furrowed, friendly face, a patch of broken veins making each cheek rosy, bright seaside blue eyes, a generous smile. With a plaid shirt, denims and cowboy boots he looked like a country and western fan. We shook hands. “Sal Kilkenny. If you could spare few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about someone who used to come to the centre?”