As the tram’s juddering screeches receded into the dusk, the clop-clop of commuters’ footsteps became clearer. The figures streamed both ways along the platform before dispersing in a variety of directions. Forefinger tapping against the spine of the notebook in his hand, Sean hoped a few would be returning to the apartment block he and Magda were standing outside. About a third of the building’s windows were still unlit.
Magda checked her watch. ‘Just after seven. Time we got started.’
They tried two buttons on the intercom before getting an answer. After explaining to the resident who they were, the buzzer went and they stepped into a silent foyer with muted lights. A shiny floor and marble-effect walls added to the sombre atmosphere.
While outside, they’d agreed to start at the top floor of the seven-storey building and work their way down.
‘Lift?’ Magda asked in a quiet voice, stepping towards a pair of metal doors.
‘It’s your funeral,’ Sean quipped.
She looked back. ‘My funeral?’
Sean waved a hand. ‘Crap joke. Lift being the less healthy option and this place feeling like a mausoleum …’ Her face was blank. ‘It’s just a saying. Kind of for when something’s bad.’
‘You want to take the stairs?’
‘No, not that many flights. The lift’s fine.’
Once in the confined space, Magda pressed seven and looked round as the doors closed them in. ‘So it’s my funeral. But you’re also in the coffin.’
Sean glanced at her as the floor jolted. ‘That’s just creepy.’
She widened her eyes and gave him a lunatic stare. ‘Well, I am from Transylvania.’
‘Now you’re scaring me.’
The first person to answer their door was a woman of about thirty. Once she’d examined their identification, they were ushered into a flat that was tidy to the point of obsession.
‘I don’t want to sound heartless,’ she said, reaching for a remote and turning some orchestra music down, ‘but the noise, some nights, can be a bit much, frankly. Not every night. I mean, they need to sleep like the rest of us, don’t they? But occasionally there’s bickering and arguing. During the week, it’s unacceptable.’
‘When that happens, can you see what’s going on?’ Sean asked, heading directly for the main window. A beige leather sofa was to his left. Smooth padding and an unfussy style. A couple of purple corduroy cushions made it look even more ripe for stretching out on. He wondered if it would be acceptable to ask where she’d got it: the apartment he was buying in Ancoats was unfurnished.
‘Not really,’ she replied, appearing beside him. They looked down to the arches. ‘It’s too high up here. I see them coming and going, but not much more than the tops of their heads.’
‘When you say they, does it appear to be the same people?’
She thought for a second or two. ‘Mostly, yes. Four or five, anyway. But they’re sometimes accompanied by others. They’ve lit fires in there, before. I’m sure the council could be more … proactive.’
‘Is it always men?’ Magda asked. ‘Who come and go?’
‘I have heard a female voice, too. If the gathering is a bit larger. I think her name is Frannie. Or Frankie. The man who she seems to be with is very tall. Towers above her.’
‘And last Saturday night, did you notice anything then?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘Was it quieter or louder than normal?’
‘I don’t recall, sorry. Which – I suppose – could suggest it was quieter.’
Responses at the other flats were all very similar until they knocked on the door of a third-floor apartment. The man who answered was, Sean guessed, in his late twenties. Neat side parting, beard that had been allowed to grow bushy, neck tattoo peeking above a collarless white cotton shirt. A look that had become so stereotypical it struck Sean as slightly comical.
As Magda introduced them, he smoothed his moustache with heavily ringed fingers. ‘Yeah – funny you should say. I do a bit of sketching? For my Instagram page. I was that night: the view across to the arches? It can be a bit post-apocalyptic. A bit The Road. Cormac McCarthy?’
‘That slit-your-wrists film?’ Sean asked, without thinking.
The man’s perfectly manicured eyebrows tilted in disapproval.
Sean scrabbled for something else. ‘Yet thought-provoking, too. Good performance by what’s-his-name. The one who played the Ranger in Lord of the Rings.’
‘The film had its faults, but on the whole it was a good rendition of the novel.’
‘Lord of the Rings?’
The man looked even more horrified. ‘No, The Road.’
Sean looked helplessly to Magda. To his relief, she indicated with a hand. ‘Is that where you sit in order to sketch?’
He stepped back. ‘Yes. Come in.’
They entered a flat that, at first glance, appeared shabby. But Sean soon realized the distressed look was a careful construction. A conscious choice in design. Too many age-mottled surfaces and chipped corners. On the wall was a large circular mirror with an intricately carved frame. Wicker baskets formed a row on the floor. A bunch of enormous rusty keys hung from a hook on the wall.
The man approached a squat seat that looked like it had come from the cockpit of an old aeroplane. ‘So I sit here with the lights on low. Just this tiny reading lamp trained on my sketch pad. Often, I like to draw late on.’
‘How late?’ Sean asked, taking in an oval-shaped low table painted a shade of clotted cream. Where did he get this stuff? Maybe something like that would look alright in the apartment he was …
‘Oh, two, three, sometimes four. Depending on the image.’ He placed a fingertip on the back of the seat and, with the tiniest of movements, sent it spinning round and round.
‘And Saturday night,’ Magda said. ‘What did you notice?’
‘Right.’ He pressed his palms together and gestured in the direction of the window. ‘Good view across, no? I came through at about one in the morning and saw they had a little fire going. It was casting some amazing shadows against the back wall. Five or six people circled round it. Not doing much, drinking and chatting. A guy rocks up at maybe one thirty? Stumbling a bit. Marches in and I could tell he’s talking to them as a group. Arms waving and that? They go from sitting down to standing up. Then it gets into a bit of a stand-off, like the group want him gone and he’s not backing down.’
‘Did this group include any females?’ Sean asked.
‘Yeah, there was one with them. It soon gets a bit shouty: stuff starts getting chucked at him. I think he was hit by something because he comes back out, even more unsteady on his feet. He heads away, like he was off to try his luck elsewhere.’
‘You think,’ Magda asked, ‘he was looking for somewhere to sleep?’
‘No.’ The man frowned. ‘He didn’t have any bag or rucksack with him. The way he went in to start with, it was like he had a purpose. I’d say he was after something. Trying to score, probably.’
Magda didn’t comment.
‘But why chase off someone looking to give you business?’ Sean responded, gazing across to the dark and empty arch.
‘Maybe they had enough of him. It certainly looked like he was firing questions at them and they got pissed off.’
‘Interesting. Did anyone follow him?’
‘Nope.’
‘Can you give us an idea of this person’s appearance?’
‘I’ve got my sketch of him. When they drove him off, the situation was a bit Neanderthal?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Magda’s eyebrows were raised.
‘Cavemen?’
‘Oh, I see.’
He took a cloth-bound A4-size book from the small table. After a quick flick through, he presented them with an image. ‘See what I mean?’
Wavering lines of ink were interwoven into dense knots. Sean had to squint before he realized that the tiny patch of untouched paper at the centre must have represented the fire. The arch did look like a cave, spectral forms half-swallowed by the darkness within. There, at the edge of the picture, stood a lone figure. Male, perhaps. ‘Nice,’ Sean said, dismayed at the total lack of detail. ‘Do you remember what he was wearing?’
‘It looked like one of those coats you get from an army surplus shop. Big, heavy-looking thing. Not sure about the trousers.’
‘You thought, when they started throwing stuff at him, he was struck by something?’
‘Yeah.’
Sean was thinking about the cut above the eye of the man who’d claimed he was on his way to do some fishing with a friend. ‘And his hair?’
‘If he had any, it was cut short.’
‘Could he have been bald?’
‘Perhaps. He moved well; even though he was stumbling a bit, he was able to regain his footing.’
‘Height?’
‘Five-ten. Six foot. Something like that.’
‘And which direction did he leave in?’
‘Deansgate.’
‘Did anything else happen after that?’
‘If it did, I wouldn’t know. I crashed out at about two.’
Sean waited until they were heading down the stairwell to the second floor before he spoke. ‘I realize it’s vague, but that description fits the man who came past this morning.’
‘Army coat and short hair?’
‘Not just that. Our sketching hipster said he carried himself well. And he had a cut above his eye, which maybe came from something being thrown at him.’
‘OK, let’s assume it was him that night. And him again this morning. Is he searching for something?’
‘Something, or someone?’