Free Towers of Silence by Cath Staincliffe Page A

something sooner. I recalled his silence when they had come to my office; he hadn’t said a thing.
    “Where is he?” Patrick said. “Where will he have gone?”
    “Maybe Wayne’s,” Martina said, “or Jordan’s?”
    “I’ll ring them.” Connie used the phone but Roland wasn’t at either place.
    “Has this happened before?” I asked, conscious of the atmosphere of crisis that prickled in the room.
    “The day of the inquest,” Connie said. “Roland didn’t come, that was fine, it was his choice. But we came home and ... no Roland. He came in later, went straight upstairs. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t even want to hear the verdict.” Her face was twisted with confusion.
    “Connie, it’s hard,” said Patrick, “at his age, at any age. Men don’t find it easy to show their feelings.”
    “I don’t need him to be a man,” she said fiercely. “If that’s what being a man is. I need him to be my little ...” she pressed a hand to her mouth.
    “This isn’t about what you need,” Patrick said softly.
    Martina studied her knees, sat very still on the sofa.
    “If Roland’s avoiding me,” I said, “then he’ll probably be back in a little while. He won’t expect me to stay all evening. Martina’s answered the questions I had. I won’t have to trouble him.”
    “He’ll be back,” Patrick reassured Connie.
    “Will you do me a favour?” I said. “Ring and let me know when he gets in. If I’d realised he was so upset ...”
    “We think he’s upset,” Connie said, “but even that’s guesswork.”
    “Of course he’s upset,” Patrick chided her, “he can’t handle it, Con, this is his way of telling us.”
    “Yeah,” she rubbed at her face. “I know.”
    “I’d better go now.” I stood up. “Do let me know, won’t you. I hope he’s all right.”
    Mrs Boscoe must have mixed her days up. And as I thought about it more I decided that if Roland had skipped school he’d have picked a day when he was unlikely to run into his mother who, from what I’d heard about her, would have been less than happy at him playing truant.
    It was just after five and I was early for my last doorstep call so I walked through to Wilmslow Road and treated myself to a vegetable biriyani with naan bread and all the trimmings. It was warm in the restaurant and pretty quiet. I watched the world go by through the plate glass windows strung with fairy light and lanterns. People were coming home from work, traffic heavy from the direction of town. Buses chugged past, plastered with advertising slogans. I watched two students window-shop, arms wrapped about each other. Both had startling hairstyles; his was closely shaved and striped black and white, while she had hair to her waist, cobalt blue. I smiled. Diane would approve. A man selling the
Big Issue
got rid of his last copy and walked off.
    I paid my bill, accepted some scented cachou sweets to suck and drove back to Ladybarn. Mrs Bell answered the door. She remembered me and called out, “Nicholas, it’s the lady I told you about.”
    He came downstairs slowly as though age was stiffening his joints. I waited for his wife to withdraw before I made my enquiry. “Hello. I’m Sal Kilkenny, I’m a private investigator working for Miriam Johnstone’s family. We’re trying to trace someone who called on Miriam the day she died - a gentleman from the church. I wonder whether you can help?”
    He glared through his spectacles at my question and unceremoniously shut the door in my face.
    I dealt with my hot sense of rejection by speculating on the reasons for his action. Was he the grey-haired caller panicking at being traced? Or simply outraged at the implication that he, or another churchgoer, may have visited Miriam with less than platonic intentions. But I hadn’t said anything like that, I’d kept it innocent enough. Suppose he was seeing Miriam - wouldn’t slamming the door on me have aroused his wife’s curiosity? A discrete denial, or