Looking for Trouble

by Cath Staincliffe

  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?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  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.’

  Harry didn’t reply. Silence is consent.

  I got up and shifted my lounger round, following the sun. Asked Harry about his work and lay, eyes half-closed, as he entertained me with tales of skulduggery in the world of journalism.

  Maddie and I stayed for tea, enjoying a huge mixed salad, chips and veggie-burgers in the open air, It was after seven when I strapped a flagging Maddie onto the bike seat and pedalled home. She nodded off on the way. I woke her for a wee then put her to bed, grime and all.

  I read the Sunday papers then ferreted out my library book. It was overdue. A crime story set on a cruise ship in the ‘thirties. I couldn’t concentrate. The mannered dialogue was too much effort and I found I didn’t really care whodunnit or why. I scanned the television page. ‘Twelve Angry Men.’ I’d seen it twice but it still gripped me.

  On my way to bed, I sorted out clothes for the funeral. My only black clothes were heavy winter ones and the smoke-drenched dress I’d worn to Barney’s. Colour didn’t matter really. It was hardly going to be a big, formal affair. I found some lightweight navy trousers and a green sweatshirt. Casual but clean.

  I’d not heard from JB’s friend. Would I be the only mourner? I’d hardly known him. Surely, he’d have lots of friends? She would let them know, wouldn’t she? He deserved that.

  If they did turn up, would they talk to me? Maybe they all thought I’d been responsible for his death. But why? What had she meant?

  I fell asleep defending myself against a charge of murder, not knowing what the case against me was. Only that I was innocent. Innocent.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘I’ll give you a lift back to town?’

  She hesitated. She’d be bloody daft to refuse. It was pissing down. Her pink cotton jacket and mini skirt were already sodden. Funeral weather. It fitted perfectly with the miserable rite we’d both witnessed. A few generalised platitudes from a cleric and JB laid to rest in the public grave. I still called him JB, though officially we’d just buried Philip Hargreaves. Dead and gone. But not forgotten. Not yet.

  ‘Alright.’

  I bundled Digger into the back seat. Got in the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door. She climbed in. Her bare legs were mottled with cold. Water dripped from the lank strands of hair onto her shoulders. I wanted to towel her dry and put some warm clothes on her.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ I said. ‘Someone who knew him.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said. She coughed. Pulled a squashed packet of Benson and Hedges from her pocket. Opened it and took out a disposable lighter and a cigarette.

  I opened my window. I didn’t know which was worse, the second-hand fag smoke or the wet dog stench steaming off Digger.

  ‘Why weren’t you going to come?’

  She shrugged and looked away out of the window. Her hand was trembling. I don’t think it was just the cold.

  ‘What did you mean, the other day, about it being my fault?’

  ‘Nothing. I were just upset, right.’ She was a lousy liar.

  ‘I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Leanne.’

  ‘I’d like to talk, Leanne.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ She blew a stream of smoke straight ahead.

  ‘Things I want to know.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’ Defensive. ‘I don’t know anything, right?’ Wrong.

  ‘Let’s get out of here.’ I started the engine. ‘Find somewhere to dry off. I’ll buy you a meal.’

  ‘Not in town.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone might see us.’ She was paranoid. Perhaps with good reason. If JB’s overdose had not been self-administered.

  ‘Would they know who I was?’ I asked her.

  ‘Maybe. I dunno. I can’t think right when I’m hungry.’

  ‘Better get you some food then.’ She grinned, then it was gone. ‘Do you like Indian food?’

  ‘Yeah. Anything.’

  A handful of the curry houses in Rusholme open in the afternoon. The rest don’t bother. Trade is slack in the daytime, brisk at night. The old Shezan was open. Empty, but open. We wouldn’t be hustled to eat up and move on.

  ‘There’s a Kentucky Chicken there,’ said Leanne.

  ‘That’s just a take-away. Come on.’

  I held back on the questions till Leanne had got through a plateful of bhajis and samosas and well into her Prawn Dansak.

  ‘About JB,’ I began.

  ‘It’s over, right.’ She glared at me.

  ‘No, it isn’t. I want to know what happened to him. Don’t you?’

  ‘No.’ Vehemently. She set her jaw. Blinked rapidly.

  ‘You’re frightened. He didn’t kill himself, did he? You know that. He told me he didn’t take drugs. I don’t think he lied to me. Was he in trouble?’

  ‘Not till you poked your nose in.’

  ‘I was trying to trace someone, a runaway...’

  ‘Martin Hobbs, he told me. He was playing detective and all, wasn’t he? Next news, he’s dead.’
/>   ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘I dunno...erm...Thursday morning.’ I could see from her eyes that she was working out the right answer. She broke up pieces of naan and dropped them into the remains of her meal.

  ‘Did he use drugs?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, never.’

  ‘Why are you frightened, Leanne, what is it?’ She wriggled in her seat, sighed theatrically and cast her eyes from side to side, looking for escape. She looked tired, unwell. Her skin was a pasty white, she had a cold sore and chapped lips.

  ‘Tell me what you know.’ I raised my voice and the waiter, reading his paper in the corner, glanced over. ‘Please,’ I said quietly. ‘You were his friend, he helped you out didn’t he? Whatever happened may tie up with what he was doing for me. I want to know. He’d want me to know. Don’t you think you owe him that, at least?’

  She poured salt onto the table, pushed it into a little heap, drew a circle in it.

  ‘Just another dead junkie,’ I said, ‘that’s what the police reckon, who gives a fuck? You happy with that, are you?’

  ‘Shut up. Why you so fucking interested anyway? Fancied him, didn’t you?’

  How the hell did she know? My cheeks burned. It wasn’t the curry.

  ‘Don’t change the subject. Stop pissing around,’ I was riled now, ‘and tell me.’

  ‘Can’t fucking make me.’ She was all defiance, chin up, eyes hard.

  I sighed. ‘Please, Leanne.’

  Silence. She traced shapes in the salt. At last, she began to speak, reluctantly, in a slow monotone.

  JB had talked to her about trying to find Martin. She knew him a bit; they’d both been dossing at the squat. JB had hung around outside the clubs on the Wednesday night looking for people he knew. He’d got a couple of strange reactions, people overly nervous about his questions, but no information at all. On the Thursday morning everything had been as usual, though JB slept in after his late night. Leanne was out selling. She returned to the squat about two-thirty. She’d just entered the cellar when she heard footsteps she didn’t recognise on the stairs. She hid. The man passed her and went out of the cellar door, leaving it ajar. She knew who he was, a right bastard. She went up to the flat and found JB He was dead. She ran away, slept out that night. Didn’t return until she heard about JB on the grapevine.