She frowned. Suspicion in her eyes. ‘Who?’
‘Mrs Brookes. Janice’s mother.’
I caught a flash of anger. ‘You from the papers?’ She moved towards me, blocking the door.
‘No, no. I knew Janice. I wanted to talk to her mother, if she’s in.’
‘She doesn’t live here.’ She was very cagey. I felt as though I was making a right fool of myself. Admit it.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I must have made a stupid mistake. If you could just give me the right address?’ She stared.
‘Or her sister,’ I carried on. ‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘I’m her sister.’
‘Oh. God.’ That threw me completely. ‘Look, I’m sorry...about Janice. I didn’t realise...’
The look in her eyes told me that she’d been here countless times before. Watching people grapple with the surprise; black woman, white woman – sisters.
‘Half-sister,’ she said. ‘You were at the inquest, weren’t you? What’s this all about? How did you know Janice?’
‘I was working for her before she died.’
‘Working for her?’ It was her turn to be surprised.
‘Yes.’ I decided to be bold. ‘Can I come in and explain?’
She moved aside, by way of reply, and led me along the narrow hallway into the small back room. A young boy lounged on a bean bag, gazing at Sesame Street. ‘Alex,’ the woman said. ‘Upstairs.’
‘But Mama...’
‘Now.’ She didn’t need to raise her voice. He knew she meant it and disappeared.
We sat either side of the table below the window. Through the nets I could see the backyard, neat and tidy, and beyond, the sweep of hills.
‘What d’you mean, you were working for Janice?’
I explained. I didn’t go into much detail. I wanted to see what her reaction was. She didn’t give much away. There was a slight frown creasing her forehead, but her deep brown eyes were sharp. Regarding me steadily.
‘And that’s it,’ I finished. ‘I’ve spoken to the police, told them there may be a connection between Janice’s murder and her search for Martin Hobbs. But I’ve no idea why she wanted to find the boy. Why she pretended to be his mother.’
‘What did the police say?’
‘Not a lot.’ I shrugged. ‘ Said they’d look into it. Thought I had a lively imagination. They also said...’ I hesitated. She tilted her head to one side, waiting, I didn’t want to offend her. ‘Well, they said Janice had been ill, mentally ill. That could have been why she acted like she was someone else.’
‘She did get ill, but she never forgot who she was.’
‘Did she ever talk to you about Martin? Did you know him?’
‘No.’ She got up from the table and went into the tiny kitchen, filled the kettle. Came back and leant on the door jamb. ‘But then I wouldn’t. Janice had left home by the time I was seven. She came back a couple of times. When things got really bad. But we were never close. Tea, coffee?’
‘Tea, please. Was she ever in trouble with the police, with drugs or anything like that?’
‘Janice! Bloody hell, no. You met her, didn’t you?’
I nodded. She was right. It was hard to imagine.
‘She couldn’t even tell lies, Janice.’
‘She lied to me.’
‘Yeah, well.’ She came through with the drinks. ‘So you’re not called Brookes?’ I checked. ‘Nope. Mitchell. Natalie Mitchell. I’m married now. Was Williams. That was my dad’s name.’ He was dead then.
‘And your mother’s?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So,’ she took a sip of coffee, ‘you reckon this Martin Hobbs might have killed Janice?’
‘No, no...’ I lowered my mug with a clunk. ‘It’s just...’ Just what? I had thought of the possibility. But I didn’t like it. The Martin I’d met was messed up, vulnerable, frightened but he wasn’t a murderer, was he? He had been violent though. The time in the playground that Max had told me about. And he’d gone for his father with a knife. If Janice had some hold over Martin, if she posed some threat...
‘Look, I don’t know. I just think there could be a link. When she spoke to me, she was all for chasing after him. The next morning, the place she was found, it’s not far from where he was staying...’ I sighed. Took a drink. ‘Had you seen Janice recently?’
‘Not since Christmas. We all met up at Mum’s. That’s the only time we ever saw each other.’ There was a trace of regret in her voice.
‘I would like to talk to your mother, if you could give me her address.’
‘She might not want to see you. She’s still very upset. She’s had the police round, and the papers. I’d have to ask her first.’
‘Okay.’ I was hoping she might ring there and then but she made no move. ‘When will you be able to let me know?’
‘I’ll ring her tonight. See what she says.’ She stood up. I fished out a card and gave it to her.
‘Did she owe you any money?’
The question startled me. Then I blushed. ‘No. We settled it the last time she called.’
‘I just don’t want Mum worried with stuff like that.’ She led me out of the room and into the hallway.
‘I don’t work like that,’ I said, angry that she suspected me of chasing unpaid bills. ‘No-one’s paying me to do this – I just want to know what was going on.’
‘Yeah. So do I.’
It was like a game of May-I. There I was getting fairy steps, when what I really needed was a couple of giant leaps. Least I seemed to be heading in the right direction. Away from deception and towards the truth. I’d traced Janice’s sister – someone who actually knew her, though she’d not been much help in solving the mystery. It was over three weeks since her half-sister had sat in my office, asking me to look for her runaway child. June had rolled into July. Janice Brookes hadn’t made it that far. I hoped her mother would agree to talk to me.
At home, the post was on the table. Top of the pile, a bill for me, a prancing logo, final reminder from British Telecom. Shit.
I’d just slammed it down, when Clive strolled in. ‘Greetings.’
‘Clive, have you seen this bill? Final reminder. We’ve got to pay it now.’ I tried to keep my voice level and practical.
‘Aahh,’ Clive said. ‘I should be getting some cash next week.’
‘They’ll have cut us off by then.’
He tutted. ‘How much is it? My share, I mean.’
‘Yours is the lion’s share.’
‘How come?’
‘Long distance calls, eight of them. You owe about sixty quid.’
‘Sixty! I can’t pay that.’
‘Well, you should have thought of that before you made the calls.’ I was beginning to sound frayed.
‘I didn’t make those calls.’ I could see the lie in the set of his mouth.
‘Oh, come on.’
‘I didn’t, really Sal.’ He was blinking a lot. Did he think that implied honesty or something? ‘They’ve made a mistake. You should ring them up and tell them.’
‘You ring them up. And what about when you called your father in Milan and that friend in Washington?’
‘That’s only two. I never made eight calls. Maybe it’s the kids, messing with it.’ I wanted to brain him.
‘Why the hell should I pay your bills? You already owe the rent and the gas, which we’ve had to pay. I’ve got an overdraft too, you know. I don’t earn much more then you.’
‘God,’ he sneered, ‘you’re so materialistic. It’s all you care about, isn’t it, money?’ And he bounded upstairs.
Someone would have to pay the bill. Re-connection charges were punitive and the thought of being cut off made me anxious. It was the phone that had alerted people when I’d been attacked here. I hadn’t answered it. He wouldn’t let me. And that had caused enough alarm to bring help.
I’d pay the bill.
I wrote the cheque then and there, knowing I’d be well overdr
awn once it was cleared. I could post it first thing. I’d tackled Clive over that – one credit to me. So Ray
could set up the meeting with Clive. It was his turn.
Materialistic indeed!
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
I didn’t hear from Natalie Mitchell till late the following day. I thought it was her when the phone rang mid-morning. I was wrong. But it was work. The sort of
straight-forward request that puts food on the table or helps pay the phone bill. Another erring spouse. A woman this time. The husband asked if I’d furnish
proof. He wanted photos. I was happy to snap the odd shot of people meeting, people in public, but I made it clear I wouldn’t be peering through keyholes or bursting
into bedrooms. I don’t mind seedy but I draw the line at sordid.
The woman claimed to be going to aerobics that evening, then on for a drink with the girls. My client suspected otherwise. I got the details I needed and arranged to call with any evidence the following morning. I drew up a few doors down from their
new-built semi, at the appointed time. Within an hour, I’d established that she was indeed lying to him and, to prove it, I’d taken several shots of her getting into the white Fiesta.
Back home, I rang Nina Zaleski. Had there been any sign of Martin? Nothing. She would keep on looking. I wondered how I’d get the letter to him if he’d left Manchester altogether.
I pottered round the garden. It had been a true summer’s day and even now the air was warm and still. It was nine o’clock and the sun was only just dipping behind the roofs of the houses at the back.
Scent from next door’s mock orange blossom hung in the air and mingled with the smell of pine and earth that rose as I watered tubs and borders. We hadn’t had rain for a week and the heavy clay soil was starting to crack and split apart, fired hard by the hot sun of the day.
I made myself a glass of fresh orange juice and took the paper outside. I automatically flicked through, looking for any news about the murder of Janice Brookes. There was nothing there. But a photograph in the Business section caught my eye. There was a page full of posed photographs, showing people handing over giant-sized cheques to various good causes. One of the faces looked familiar. I peered closer. It was one of the men I’d seen with Martin at Barney’s nightclub. The one I’d likened to Kirk Douglas; deep cleft chin and craggy features.
I took it into the kitchen where the light was better. The man was called Bruce Sharrocks. He was pictured with Mrs Nancy Sharrocks, receiving a generous donation from local businessman Stanley Gleaver (and Mrs Gleaver) on behalf of the Dandelion Trust, an organisation for children in need. Mr Sharrocks was a director of the Trust.
I was sure I’d heard of the Dandelion Trust but I wasn’t sure exactly what it did. I looked it up in the local Thomson’s directory. It was listed. An address in Chorlton-cum-Hardy. It was too late to ring now, but I could try in the morning. Do a little digging around, make use of Harry’s press card and try to interview Mr Sharrocks. I wondered how he knew Fraser Mackinlay. Was he another generous benefactor? After all, someone who drives an Aston Martin isn’t exactly strapped for cash. Would Bruce Sharrocks deny knowing Martin Hobbs, like Fraser had?
The shrilling phone made me jump. It was Natalie Mitchell. Her mother had agreed to talk to me. She passed on the phone number. I didn’t recognise the code. Where was it? Lancaster, she said. I groaned inwardly. An hour and a half up the motorway, an hour and a half back. A tankful of petrol. C’est la vie. I could hardly conduct the interview over the phone. After all, it wasn’t market research. I was going to talk to a woman whose daughter had been beaten to death a few hours after I’d spoken to her. Lancaster it would be.
In the early morning post was a card from the local Victim Support scheme, offering a sympathetic ear should I wish to talk to anyone about my recent experience. I didn’t take them up on it, but I liked the thought that there was someone out there for those of us on the receiving end.
Ray set off for school with the kids and I cycled round to the one-hour photo-processing shop. Back home, I rang Mrs Williams. Having seen her at the inquest, I’d formed an image of a frail, elderly woman but the voice on the other end of the line was firm and clear, edged with a twangy Liverpool accent. Mrs Williams made it clear that she was as eager to talk to me as I was to talk to her.
‘I want to know what happened to Janice,’ she said.
I hoped she wouldn’t expect me to have all the answers. I told her I was free to travel up then and there, if she’d no other arrangements. That suited her. She gave me the address.
‘Don’t ask me for directions,’ she said. ‘I don’t drive. But once you get into town, I’m near the hospital – it’s the road at the back.’
Before leaving home, I gathered together my library books. I would dutifully call and return them and report the loss of my ticket.
I collected the incriminating photos, woman with white Fiesta, and delivered them to my client. He paid in cash.
The library was shut. A notice informed me that, due to cut-backs, it would be closed every Wednesday. Wonderful. I was tempted to leave the books in the doorway with a note attached: ‘Sorry, can’t look after them any longer, besides the fine’s mounting up.’ I didn’t.
Preston’s about halfway to Lancaster and, beyond Preston, I got the impression of leaving behind all the great northern cities: Leeds, Liverpool, Manchester. This was the rural north. All signs led to Carlisle, The Lakes and The North.
Lancaster, with its wide river, castle and creamy stone buildings, had all the neat bustle of a market town. No dusty red-brick backstreets here. I missed all the signs for the hospital, asked directions several times and eventually drew up outside the house, an Edwardian terrace. Mrs Williams had the ground floor flat.
‘I’m Sal Kilkenny.’
‘Eleanor Williams.’ She shook my hand. Up close, she was attractive, broad cheekbones, a generous mouth. Her white hair was thick, styled simply like Doris Day, no perm. There wasn’t much resemblance to Janice except for the eyes, large and brown. Mrs Williams wore spectacles on a chain round her neck, a navy leisure suit. When she smiled, she had dimples in her cheeks. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please. No sugar. Could I use the toilet?’
‘Through there.’ She pointed with the teaspoon. ‘Second right.’
The bathroom had a simple feel to it. Plain, painted walls, pink and green mats and towels, a huge loofah, an ancient set of scales, no frills. I washed my hands and examined myself in the mirror. I realised I was holding my breath. My shoulder ached and a taste of acetate rose in my mouth. I took a couple of deep breaths and went back.
We sat on the cottage suite in the living room. Tea in mugs. Framed photographs covered the top of a small sideboard. Three oil paintings hung on the cream walls. A ship, a dockside scene, a woman holding an umbrella. Mrs Williams saw me looking at them.
‘Martin did them, my second husband. He loved to paint.’
‘That was Natalie’s father?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. Leant forward and removed her glasses, placed them and her mug on the coffee table. I followed suit. It was time to talk.
‘I’m sorry about Janice,’ I began. ‘As I said on the phone, I was working for her, that’s how I met her. She asked me to trace a teenager, a boy who’d run away from home.’ I looked across at her. Did this sound bizarre? How much had Natalie told her? I couldn’t read anything in her face.
‘He was called Martin Hobbs,’ I said. ‘The strange thing is, Janice claimed to be his mother – I knew her as Mrs Hobbs. I thought I was looking for her son. I did trace him eventually. He didn’t want anything to do with his family; he claimed his father had abused him.’ Mrs Williams regarded me steadily; only a slight nod indicated that I should continue.
‘Well, I told Janice, Mrs Hobbs as I thought she was, what I’d found out. End of case. She was very upset.’ I sighed. ‘That was the Saturday. On the Sunday she rang me. She was very distr
essed, not making sense really, except it was clear she wanted to see Martin.’ My chest tightened as I remembered the phone call. When I spoke again, I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice. ‘I didn’t know the address. I knew which street Martin was staying in and I knew what sort of car to look out for. That came out during the phone call. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I gave enough away. I didn’t think she should pursue him. She said she’d write, and would I deliver a letter? I agreed to that, mainly to keep her away...’ But it hadn’t worked. I swallowed saliva. Mrs Williams still said nothing.
I spoke again. ‘The place where they found her, it’s not far from where Martin was staying. I think she went there. I don’t know if that’s why she was killed, or whether that was some awful coincidence. And I still don’t know why she wanted to find Martin, how she knew him, why she pretended that he was her son.’
‘He was.’
I only just caught the words. ‘But he can’t be. I’ve met his real mother and...’
‘Janice was his real mother. She gave him up for adoption when he was born. He was her son.’
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
‘I even offered to raise the child myself, but Janice wasn’t having it. Social worker didn’t like the idea either...’ She stopped, caught by a memory, then just as suddenly resumed her story. ‘I never knew whether she made the right choice. All I could do was stand by her. It wasn’t easy for her, but it was the child she was thinking of. She said it wouldn’t be fair on the baby if she got ill again. And she couldn’t bear the thought of growing close and then losing the child.’
‘But surely with treatment, with support...’ I protested.
‘I don’t know.’ She ran her hands through the thick white hair. ‘Janice had plenty of treatment. Never seemed to make much difference. She was in hospital again within the year. That was her third time. Who can say whether it would have been the same if she’d kept him? I really don’t know. She was hurt, over the adoption.’ She sighed. ‘There’s no easy way to lose a child.’ Her mouth pulled and I remembered her own loss. She rummaged in her pocket and drew out a large white hanky. Wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
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