Crikey, I wasn’t that expensive.
‘We’d better meet,’ I said, ‘I need more information before I know whether I can help.’
‘This afternoon?’
‘Yes, early afternoon.’ I had to pick up Maddie and Tom from school at three-thirty, It didn’t half eat into my working days.
He gave me an address in Prestwich. I told him I’d be there at half past one.
I was late. Prestwich is the other side of town from Withington and the traffic was all diverted round the bombed area. It was chaos. We edged slowly along Deansgate, where most of the shop fronts were boarded up; nothing was open. When we got to the bottom of Deansgate I peered up towards the Arndale and Marks & Spencers. In spite of seeing the images on television, I was still affected by the extent of the damage. My stomach clenched uneasily and I could feel tears not far away as I caught glimpses of twisted metal and shattered concrete, of Venetian blinds dangling broken from office windows and fractured lamp posts.
They were big houses, detached, each one a little different from its neighbour, with Tudor-style facades and leaded windows. Double-garage-and-gardener territory.
The Wallace house was at the end of the cul-de-sac. Beyond were trees and the sound of running water. The River Irwell came through here. The day was warm, sunny, the birds were in full throat. How nice it would be to just slip away, saunter through the trees to a sunny glade and watch the river flow, lose myself in the glistening reflections. As if.
A woman wearing a stripy butcher’s apron opened the door. Unruly black hair, a bright expression.
‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Wallace, Sal Kilkenny.’
‘Oh, yes. Come on in. He’s in the back.’
I followed her through the house which was furnished like an Ikea showroom, to a large room at the back. One end with desk, shelves and PC obviously served as a study or office while the other half of the room was an open-plan lounge with television and sofas. Floor-length blinds occupied most of the far wall; they were shut but the translucent material allowed plenty of light in. I could see the shadowed outline of patio doors on the blinds. The place was cluttered and untidy but not dirty.
Victor Wallace rose from the desk as we came in, and stretched out his hand. His handshake was warm, firm.
‘Thank you, Megan,’ he said.
‘Will you have tea?’ the woman asked me, ‘or coffee?’
‘Thank you, coffee would be great.’
‘Victor?’
‘No, thanks.’
