Looking for Trouble (18 page)

Because you feel guilty, you feel responsible for Janice and you feel you owe her mother.

I sighed and hit the accelerator. I just wanted to get home.

I walked in on mayhem. Maddie, her face red with rage, was screaming at Ray, who was on his knees trying to mop up a pool of stuff that looked like cooking oil. Tom was standing on a chair at the kitchen table doing something creative with salt, ketchup and milk.

I’d hoped for a little attention myself when I got back. Some idiot had cut straight across me, where the motorways merged, on the way back into Salford and Manchester. One of those get-in-lane-quick spots. I’d practically done an emergency stop to avoid him. If there’d been anyone close behind me...I say ‘him’; I was too busy watching my life pass before my eyes to take note of the driver, or even the make of car, but I assume it was a man. I’ve never yet been in a car with a woman who drives like a maniac.

By the time I reached home, the shakes had subsided and I’d run through my gamut of revenge fantasies. It looked like tea and sympathy was off.

‘For Christ’s sake, Maddie, shut up or go somewhere else and make that noise. I’ve had enough.’ Ray’s outburst was heartfelt. And harsh enough to make me wince and Maddie draw breath. For a split second, I wanted to defend her, criticise Ray for his lousy handling of the situation. The moment passed. I’d been there myself, many times, at the end of my tether, running out of tactics and lashing out with my tongue. But I felt dispirited all the same. Why was it so hard to be the parents we wanted to be? Humane, mature – giving our children respect and dignity. Wasn’t the verbal slap, the belittling comment, part of the same continuum that also dished out beatings and child rape?

I moved over and disengaged Tom from his collage, hoisted him onto my hip, took Maddie by the hand.

‘Come on, you two, let’s go to the shop.’

‘Can we get sweets?’ Maddie’s voice rose in hope. Ray shot me a look.

‘No. We’re going to get a drink for Ray and then we’ll come back and help clean up.’

‘Shoes,’ demanded Tom.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. I carried him piggy-back and took Maddie’s hand. Mr Mohammad at the corner shop knew us well enough to make a joke about the grimy, tear-stained faces of the kids. I bought cheap white wine and lager from the fridge and a bag of Hula-hoops each for them. If it didn’t have sugar in it, it wasn’t really a bribe.

As I waited for my change, a ripple of fatigue washed through me, tangible enough to make me steady myself on the counter. My back ached, not just from the drive or carrying Tom, but my period was due. Self-pity. I went with the flow. Saw myself throwing in the towel, giving in to the pressures. Walking out of the shop, leaving the children there, leaving Ray to his floor, giving up on the case, crawling to my bed. I reined in the fantasy, disturbed at how shaky I felt. The revelations of the afternoon had upset me more than I’d realised and I was shattered. I picked up the shopping, pulled myself together and carried on coping.

I helped myself to beans on toast and tea. Ray had calmed down a lot, but there was still an edge to his voice as he took the children up to get ready for bed. I fought the impulse to make a martyr of myself and offer to do bedtime. I wandered out to the garden, watered the tubs and the window-boxes. Digger was out there, sprawled under the table. He raised an eyelid in answer to my greeting, then lowered it again.

When I could tell the children were out of the bath, I went up to say goodnight and then retreated to the bath myself. I ran it up to the overflow, covered my face with a flannel and steeped. Fragments of the afternoon came and went; Mrs Williams’ face, attractive, mobile, listening, smiling, crumpling with grief. I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to go to bed.

It was nine-thirty when I padded into the kitchen. Ray had started the wine but I made cocoa. I could hear the television on in the lounge and went through to say goodnight to Ray.

‘I’ve fixed up a meeting with Clive,’ he announced. ‘Friday, after the kids are in bed.’

My heart sank.

It took us another hour to sort out our line for the meeting. We kept getting waylaid by exchanging gossip and bits of news about our lives. Ray was furious about rumours that the council were going to start charging for nursery places.

‘They can’t,’ I protested. ‘People only get those places if they really need it. People couldn’t possibly afford to pay...’

He shrugged. ‘It’ll be means-tested, but even so...’

‘But the principle, as well; free childcare, provision for under-fives...’ We rumbled on about that for a while, too.

In bed, I nestled round the slow groping pains of my period and soon sank into a thick, heavy sleep.

There was a child crying. It was my fault. I’d locked her in the coffin and there wasn’t enough air. She’d die. It was a mistake. I lurched awake and placed the crying. Tom. I went through to him. In the dim light, his face was shiny with tears. His hair formed damp whorls on his forehead.

I lifted him up, murmuring reassurance. He burrowed into my neck, sharp little breaths jolting his body. I walked round the room, patting him on the bottom and whispering lullabies. Longing for him to settle. When I felt his body slacken, I did a couple more circuits, then lowered him gently down, trying not to tense myself and so alert him to the change.

I stole back to my room. So heavy, so tired. Craving sleep. Tom was bawling again. My stomach lurched with dismay. Anger and resentment surged through me. I need to sleep, I need to fucking sleep. Stop it. Be quiet. Leave me alone. I reached their bedroom door, ready to seize him too swiftly, stalk round batting his bottom a little too hard, the ache of frustration ringing my throat. I checked myself, knocked on Ray’s door. ‘Tom’s awake, I’ve put him down once but he won’t settle.’

‘Shit!’

I escaped, dived back to my dreamless sleep.

The next day I felt spacey. Pains came and went, blood seeped. I felt fizzy with fatigue. Over breakfast, I speculated how civilised it would be if I could withdraw from the world for the duration. Go off and commune with myself, while other people cared for the kids and cleaned the house. Fat chance.

I’d lain in bed till the kids had gone and I was trying to cut through the fog in my brain, to sort out what I was meant to be doing. I couldn’t focus on anything. I wanted to go in the garden and play with the plants. I made another cup of tea.

Maybe I’d do better at the office. Aw, shit. The office. I’d managed to forget about the office over the last three days. Sigh. I hated to think what the Dobsons would be saying about me if I didn’t sort it out soon. Oh, well, maybe sorting it out would have a knock-on effect on my thought processes. Let a little light into my clouded mind.

I gathered together cleaning stuff, bin-bags, rubber gloves and a stanley knife to cut up the carpet. Made a flask and a sandwich.

The Dobsons were all out at school. I went down the cellar stairs, bracing myself for the shock. I got a surprise. Someone had cleared up. More than that, they’d sorted the room out. The carpet had gone, a faded but serviceable patterned rug in its place. All the walls and the ceiling had been painted white, faintly pink, one of those hint-of-a-touch numbers. Two collapsible garden chairs and a small plain desk had been set to one side of the room. Opposite, stood my filing cabinet, still streaked with lilac splashes. Beside it on the floor, two stacks of files, one lot smothered in paint, the other relatively unscathed.

Gratitude and guilt fought for the upper hand. There was a note on the desk next to the (clean) phone.
‘Sal – raided the attic, plus car-boot sale. You owe us a tenner! Girls displayed cringe-making propensity for nest-building. Jackie.’

I laughed. Jackie was terrified that her four daughters would all opt for marriage and children at an early age and rebel against her hopes that they would go on to further education and economic independence.

Now I had no excuse, I fished out some paper from the clean files and sat with pen poised. My head still buzzed with nothing. In the end, I resorted to talking aloud and making a list of things I needed to do. I still needed to establish whether Martin was at Fraser Mackinlay’s and, to do that, I needed to see whether Nina Zaleski had seen him.

RING NINA.

If he was there, I needed to find a time when Fraser was out, in order to see him. After my last visit, I knew Fraser wouldn’t let me see Martin and I wouldn’t trust him with the letter.

CLEAR COAST? DELIVER LETTER. I knew now that it was from his birth mother. How the hell was I to tell him she was dead, worse, murdered? I’m not a fucking social worker.

Plus, I’d promised Mrs Williams that I’d ask if Martin knew anything about Janice; if she had visited the house. There was something obscene about it. Shit, it was heavy enough going to see the lad and revealing that he was adopted. Then what would I say? ‘Oh and, by the way, your mother was murdered. Could even have happened here; she was headed this way. Ring any bells?’ I got to my feet, appalled at the scenes running through my head. I just couldn’t do this.

Who was Martin Hobbs? I was chasing a chimera. First, I’m looking for a runaway who doesn’t want finding. I find him and he turns into an incest survivor. Next thing I know, he’s a foundling, a precious child given up, a chosen child betrayed. Now he’s an orphan, maybe even a matricide. And I have a letter, with his name on, a message to Martin...

I walked back over to the desk. Looked down at my list. Concentrate on the job, I told myself. Don’t think about how he might or might not react. Just do it. I rang Nina Zaleski, but there was no reply. My frustration was tinged with relief.

I ate lunch, then decided to fish around a bit after Bruce Sharrocks, the man who’d accompanied Martin and Fraser to Barney’s; the leading light of the Dandelion Trust. A perky voice answered. When I asked to speak to Mr Sharrocks, she told me he wasn’t in the office. Could she help? I trotted out my cover story; I was doing a feature on local children’s charities, and the people behind them, for City Life. I wanted to interview Mr Sharrocks. The prospect of publicity did the trick. She explained that he worked elsewhere but she was sure I could contact him there. It was a Town Hall number, Social Services department.

I rang my friend and ex-lodger, Chris, and asked her if she could find anything out about Bruce Sharrocks; if she knew anyone in Social Services. I persuaded her I was just after general impressions – nothing dodgy about the request. She said she’d see what she could do, but I could tell that she didn’t really like being asked.

I sorted through the pile of paint-free files and put them back in the filing cabinet. The file on Martin wasn’t among them. My stomach tightened. If it wasn’t here, if it had been removed, then I couldn’t really go on acting as though the paint-job was just the work of local youths. I began to prise apart the files that were congealed with paint. It was there, drenched with lilac vinyl silk like the rest of them. I made sure the skeletal notes I’d had were actually inside, if illegible, and sighed with relief. Then I chucked the whole stack.

I drafted a small ad for the local weekly free-sheet, advertising my services. If I was back in business, it was about time I generated some. Discreet service, reasonable rates. On my way to deliver it, I called at the library. The newly-introduced computer system informed me that I owed three pounds and ninety-five pence, and charged me another fifty pence for a replacement ticket. I restricted myself to two books. A Loren D. Estleman crime thriller and the latest in the Sue Grafton Alphabet series. Least they were still buying books.

I cycled round to the Reporter office and dropped in my advert. A week on Saturday, they’d be beating a path to my door. I lived in hope.

Things were hotting up. Temperatures were in the eighties. Trouble in the air. The evening paper was full of it. ‘Heatwave – Crimewave,’ screamed the headline. ‘Brutal Violence Erupts In Night Of Terror.’ There’d been riots in Salford. Youths circling the police station, setting fire to the flats and shops. In Cheetham Hill, two teenagers had died in a gunfight and, further south, a young black man had been fished from the Mersey. Police were treating both these cases as part of the on-going drugs war, with rival teenage gangs competing for a share of the lucrative and expanding crack market.

I folded up the paper and chucked it on the grass. It was hot, wonderfully hot, though I didn’t think three days really rated as a heatwave. I relished every sweaty moment, every airless night. It couldn’t last.

Tom sat in the paddling pool, chortling and gasping for air, as Maddie doused him with buckets of water. I closed my eyes, seeing amber through my eyelids. Thoughts drifted past. What did Sharrocks, a married man and doer of good works, have in common with Fraser Mackinlay, who could afford an Aston Martin and had taken up with a homeless sixteen year old working as a rent boy? Did Fraser hand cash out to the Dandelion Trust? If Sharrocks was working to help children in need, wouldn’t the relationship between the wealthy Mackinlay and the poor teenager trouble his scruples just a little? Was I completely misreading it? Perhaps Fraser was a philanthropist, giving Martin the shelter he needed. But why deny knowing him, when I’d shown the photo? And if they were simply lovers, what about Martin’s fearful reaction at the nightclub?