Looking for Trouble (9 page)

Finally, she looked across at me. Her face was blotchy, crumpled with defeat. My mother’s face held that look once. The day my father died. Naked with pain. My stomach contracted. I swallowed hard. ‘I’ve drawn up my account,’ I said. ‘This is the balance owing to you.’

She nodded, took the papers and put them in her bag. She stood up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t lie to you...you wouldn’t understand...I’d better go.’ I followed her as she slowly climbed the stairs. At the door, she turned to face me. ‘If I’d known...‘ Her face squeezed shut with grief. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ I didn’t know whether she was talking to me or Martin then. She walked away down the path.

I shut the door and leaned back against it. I felt like bawling, but my eyes were dry. My throat ached and my fists were clenched as I railed against the painful, bloody mess of it all.

I wanted to go into town and try and find the young woman I’d met at JB’s, but I was aware Ray had been doing the lion’s share of childcare and didn’t feel I could ask him to take Maddie that afternoon. I called over the road to Denise; she has a daughter at nursery with Maddie. She was happy to look after Maddie for a couple of hours.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I need a break. If I have to play Princesses once more today I’ll go round the bend.’

She was seated in the same doorway, plaiting her bracelets. She looked very pale, as though she’d never seen the sun. I crouched down at her side.

‘Hello, I met you at JB’s.’ I was surprised at the tremor in my voice. ‘I wanted to...’ I didn’t get a chance to say anything else.

‘You bitch,’ she screamed, as she scrambled to her feet, grabbing her wool and carrier bag. ‘You’ve got a fucking cheek. ‘S your fault he’s dead, you know. Why can’t you just leave us alone? You stupid, fucking bitch.’ She was gone.

Tears started in my eyes, dribbled slowly down my cheeks and dripped off the end of my nose as I walked back to the car. What did she mean? What had I done? How could it be my fault? I’d begun to drive out of town, sniffing occasionally, when a flash of anger interrupted my self-pity. I was the one who’d found the body, for Christ’s sake. I was the one who’d had to go through all the police business. I’d taken Digger. Found out about the funeral. She hadn’t thought about all that.

I drove round the block and fought my way back through the traffic and over to Great Ancoats Street. I waited a few minutes for a parking space while someone loaded bags of shopping into the car and drove off.

The entrance to the warehouse was closed but not locked. In the pitch black of the basement, I waited for my eyes to adjust, then made my way up through the building to JB’s room. The door was shut but I sensed she was in there. I knocked.

‘Hello. It’s me, Sal. Can I come in? I just want to talk.’ Silence. ‘I don’t even know your name, but I know you were a friend of his. I don’t know why you’re mad at me. I didn’t give him drugs; he told me he didn’t touch them, that’s what seemed so crazy. It was such a shock. Please open the door.’ She didn’t. I slid down and sat with my back to it, talking aloud, staring at the flaking plaster in the dim corridor. ‘I found him you know, oh and I took Digger. The police were going to put him down; it didn’t seem right. I wanted to tell you about the funeral. JB’s funeral. It’s on Monday, one o’clock up at Blackley. I’m going. I could give you a lift if you want to come. Could you tell his friends? I don’t even know who they are. Please open the door, this is ridiculous. Shit. It wasn’t my bloody fault, I don’t know why you think it is. I’d just met him, I...’ I got to my feet. ‘I’m going now. I’ll leave my card here; if you want a lift, give me a ring. I still need to talk to you. I want to know what you meant. I want to know what happened. He was a good bloke.’

It’d been a lousy day and I ended up feeling guilty and depressed. The girl’s accusations unsettled me. Had there been a link between my enquiries and JB’s death, is that what she meant? I went through the motions of cooking tea, getting the kids to bed, preoccupied by my own thoughts. There was no sense of relief at finishing the case.

I couldn’t face the thought of mooning round the house, feeling ill at ease. It was a light evening, dry and mild. I pulled on my old clothes and set out for the garden. There’s a patch in the far corner that I’ve never done anything with, in the shade of an old elderberry. That’d do. I got down on my hands and knees and went to work, pulling out weeds, digging out brambles, forking it all over. By the time I was through, it was dark. And the events of the day had shifted into an easier perspective. In time, that little patch of ground would bloom with sweet-scented, shade-loving plants and the trials of today would be far away. Wouldn’t they?

Sunday morning at the swimming pool. I knew Withington was closed; problems with the roof. Moss Side was open. I rang to check. Whenever staff fall ill at Gorton Tub, the city’s showplace play pool, they pull replacements from the other baths, which have to close.

The swimming baths are attached to the shopping centre, a forbidding redbrick fortress. The walkway from the car park was strewn with litter, daubed with graffiti; broken glass crunched underfoot. The leisure centre was clean and well-equipped.

The water in the baby pool was deliciously warm. Tom, in his armbands and rubber ring, splashed and wriggled like a baby seal, his curls shining like black corkscrews. Maddie was going through a fearful phase, detested water on her face and rooted herself on the broad steps at the shallow end. I divided my time between the two of them, flailing around and chasing Tom to keep warm, then gently coaxing Maddie to try a little doggy paddle near the steps.

Ray had made lunch and the four of us ate together. ‘Fancy a walk?’ Ray asked. ‘Thought I’d take Digger out for a run.’ The idea appealed; it was ages since I’d sampled real fresh air, but I was itching to do more in the garden.

‘I don’t want to,’ Maddie protested. I raised my eyes to heaven, tried a little half-hearted encouragement. She wouldn’t budge.

‘Okay. Stay and help me in the garden.’

‘Yuck.’

‘Well, that’s what I’m doing.’

‘It’s not fair.’ She flounced out of the door, her voice rising. ‘You never do what I want.’

I cleared up the kitchen. Changed into my gardening clothes. I could hear Maddie in her room, burbling away to herself. I called out to tell her where I’d be.

It was glorious out there. The honey scent of alyssum mingled with the sharp smell of warm pine baking in the sun. I hunted down slugs, winkling them out of dark, damp corners. Emptied and refilled the traps. Began some weeding. Maddie appeared at the back door. Watched me for a while.

‘Phone,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Phone.’ Through clenched teeth.

I raced inside, hoping that she hadn’t left it too long before deigning to inform me.

‘Hello?’ Silence. ‘Hello?’ I heard breathing. Unsteady, shuddering. A prickle of fear stroked the back of my neck.
The knife trembled, white knuckles.
He was coming after me. The man who’d stabbed me. They’d let him out. My stomach balled like a fist.
Please, please. My voice weak, creaking.
They’d let him out and he was coming to get me.

‘Who is this?’

‘Please.’ It was a woman’s voice, ‘Where is he? You didn’t tell me where. I’ve got to see him. Please...please...’ she cried. Mrs Hobbs.

Relief released my body. I trembled and sat on the chair. ‘Mrs Hobbs, I don’t know exactly where Martin is and he doesn’t want to see you.’

‘You said he was in Cheadle. He’s my son, you said he was, he’s my son, you said, you said...’ She was freaking out and I’d no idea how to handle it.

‘He doesn’t want to see you after all he’s been through and...’

‘Don’t lie to me.’ Fury spat the words. ‘He’s my son.’

‘I don’t know where he is.’

‘You found him, my baby, my baby...’ she repeated her song of grief. I waited. What the fuck could I say? She fell quiet. I could hear her breath, rapid, shallow. When she spoke again she sounded bright, practical. ‘I’ll write to him, yes. Just give me the address, I’ll write. Yes, yes.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t have Martin’s address.’

‘Liar,’ she screeched. ‘Liar.’

I lost my temper, shouted back. ‘I don’t know, for Christ’s sake! All I know is it’s Old Hall Lane, I followed the bloody car, Aston Martin. I didn’t get the address.’

‘I’ll go there...Old Hall Lane. You said Cheadle. Aston Martin and Martin Hobbs. Two Martins. Martin Hobbs. That’s his name now.’

‘Don’t go, listen.’ She wasn’t in a fit state to go to the post-box, let alone try tracking down Martin. ‘I’ll take the letter. Write and send it to me. I’ll try and find the house. I’ll give the letter to Martin.’

‘Will you?’

‘Yes, I promise.’

‘He’s my son.’

‘Yes.’

She rang off.

Maddie was sitting at the end of the hall, clasping her doll.

‘Why did you shout?’

‘Oh,’ I sighed and went to reassure her. ‘Someone wasn’t listening to me. I got cross, that’s all. It’s alright now.’ I hugged her, craving one for myself. She squirmed away. The phone rang.

‘Oh, no.’ I couldn’t face any more. Mrs Hobbs’ distress had disturbed me, awakening memories of my own pain in the months after the stabbing.

Maddie moved towards the phone.

‘No, I’ll get it.’

‘Aww.’

‘Hello?’

‘Sal? Harry.’

Phew.

‘How you doing?’

‘Fine.’

‘Do you want to come over? Bev’s gone off with the car but the rest of us are here.’

‘Yeah, we’d love to. I’ve just got Maddie today.’

‘Okay. See you soon.’

It was a relief to get out of the house and away from the phone. I cycled over to Harry and Bev’s terraced house in Levenshulme. Their two boys were playing some version of goodies and baddies in the street, when we arrived. Maddie begged for my bicycle pump and ran to join them. The front door was open and I found Harry in the yard out at the back. He and Bev had transformed the small brick box into a riot of greenery, with climbers in pots, hanging baskets, even a tiny pergola complete with vine.

‘Lager?’ offered Harry. The deckchair creaked as he heaved himself out of it. Harry’s built like a rugby player and looks like a farmhand; thatched hair and hands like hams.

‘Mmm.’ He fetched me a cold can and opened a sun lounger for me. Bliss.

Harry was eager to hear how I’d got on at the clubs. I described my sorties into Manchester night-life and sketched in the unpleasant facts I’d heard from Martin.

‘I felt so stupid.’

‘I can imagine. So it’s over?’

‘Well...’ I told him about the phone call from Mrs Hobbs.

‘In the end I agreed to take the letter. I had to stop her barging in. She needs help.’ I sighed.

‘You never met the father?’

‘No, thank God. So instead of it all being done and dusted, now I’ve got to play postman.’

‘Woman.’

‘Okay,’ I pretended to kick him. ‘Plus, there’s the funeral.’

‘The guy you found?’

I told Harry all about JB, confessing my doubts about the official version of his death. He heard me out. Harry’s a good listener, he’s not averse to using a little imagination and I can trust him to keep confidences. When I’d finished, he sat quietly for a moment, chewing his lip. ‘Who’d want to get rid of him?’

‘I dunno. It’s full of holes, I know. Everyone else thinks it’s cut and dried.’ I drained my can. ‘You couldn’t really attack someone with a loaded syringe, could you?’

‘Not easy to find a vein. No, it’s pretty unlikely. But just suppose someone did want him out the way, why choose to do it like that? There are simpler ways of killing someone.’

‘That’s obvious,’ I replied. ‘No-one would suspect foul play. Once a junkie, always a junkie. They wouldn’t expect a murder enquiry; no questions, no trouble. They were right about that.’

Harry chewed his lip again.

‘You think I’m wrong, don’t you?’

He grimaced. ‘It’s a bit thin.’

I sighed. Crumpled the empty can.

I loved Harry. It wasn’t physical; he was too big and beefy for my liking. But I was drawn to him and sometimes wondered what it would be like to sleep with him; whether we might have an affair if anything happened to end his relationship with Bev. Strictly fantasy. They were a happy pair. Still...

‘I’m all for hunches, Sal. But that’s all you’ve got. No motive, no evidence, nothing. You’re going to have to fill in the picture a bit more to convince anyone.’

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I’ve no intention of reopening the case or whatever they call it. I guess all I need is to hear from someone who knew JB well that he really was clean, that he didn’t lie to me, or...’

‘And if your hunch is right, if it looks less and less like an overdose, you’re just going to leave it at that?’ Harry was sceptical.

‘What else can I do? I’ve no illusions about the British system of justice. Yes, if I got names and numbers, witnesses, whatever – I’d feel bound to pass that on, but it’s pretty bloody unlikely.’