I set off back for the bus. Halfway there, I came across a young girl seated in the doorway of a Pool Hall. A small, tattered sign stated she was homeless. Pale face, rats tails hair, cheap, thin clothing. She was plaiting bracelets from brightly coloured wool. The sort that are imported by Traidcraft from Third world countries.
I put a pound in her hat.
‘Ta.’ She glanced up and smiled faintly.
‘Excuse me, have you seen JB?’
‘Huh?’ She squinted against the brightness of the sky. She looked very young.
‘JB Got a dog, flat cap.’
‘Yeah,’ she bit through the wool with her teeth, ‘you just missed him. He’s gone for chips.’
‘Where?’
‘Plaza, by the buses.’
I knew the place. Open all hours, cheap take-away. I ran all the way. I got a stitch and my heart beat too hard for comfort. A couple of women waited to be served. No man, no dog.
‘You just serve a bloke with a dog?’ I called to the guy at the hatch.
‘Don’t do dogs, Miss,’ he grinned, ‘we do hot dogs.’ He cackled at his own joke.
‘Wears a cap,’ I persisted.
‘Dog does?’ More laughter. I gritted my teeth.
He nodded. ‘You just missed him.’
I dodged between buses over the road to the gardens. The benches were full of people lunching in the open air. Formal flower beds were ablaze with wallflowers and pansies.
He was there. The dog lay at his feet. As I approached, the man sitting next to him rolled up his newspaper, picked up his briefcase and left. Great timing. I took his place.
‘JB?’
‘What?’ He swung round to face me, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
‘I’m looking for Martin Hobbs. My name’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m a private investigator. Someone said you knew Martin, you put him up for a while.’
‘What do you want him for?’
‘He’s missing. His mother came to see me. She wants to know if he’s alright.’
‘That it?’
‘What?’
‘You’re not gonna try and take him back or owt?’
‘No.’ I was emphatic. ‘All I’m interested in is finding out if Martin’s okay.’
‘I dunno where he is.’ He threw a chip to the dog, had one himself. He was guarded, but without the hint of aggression I’d felt when talking to Blue Eyes and Giggler. JB had the sort of bone structure that models are made of, attractive features, clear olive skin. Black hair hung down in ringlets at the back of his head. What I could see of the sides had been shaved. He wore an old donkey jacket, white shirt, faded jeans, DM’s.
‘But you did meet him? When did you last see him?’
‘Look,’ he crumpled the chip paper into a ball, ‘I’ve got to get back.’
‘Please.’ I put my hand on his sleeve. ‘I really need to find out, just give me ten minutes.’
‘I dunno,’ he sighed. The dog lifted its head as if concerned. He stroked it.
‘Listen, anything you tell me will remain confidential. I won’t pass on your name or anything that could identify you. I’m not a social worker, I’ve no connection with the police. I’m simply trying to find out where Martin is and if he’s okay, so his mum can stop driving herself crazy with worry. Just a few minutes?’
He thought it over. Smiled, a warm, easy smile.
‘Okay. C’mon, Digger.’ The dog sprang up and walked to heel as we made our way across the Gardens and up one of the side streets off Piccadilly itself.
Martin hadn’t been in Manchester long when JB had seen him begging on Market Street. He’d watched the police caution him then gone over to talk to the boy. Martin had been sleeping rough. He already looked run-down. He had no money, no sleeping bag. JB had offered a place in his squat for a few nights. He made it clear it was to be a temporary arrangement. ‘I like to have the place to myself, now and then.’ Martin was a quiet and reserved guest. He slept most of the day and went out to get money at night. He refused to get any Welfare Advice. ‘He thought they’d send him back. Anyway, you get fuck all at his age unless you’re on a scheme and you can’t do that without an address.’
We’d arrived at the back of old warehouses off Great Ancoats Street. JB moved aside a part of the wooden fencing. I followed him through the gap. The yard was piled high with debris, old pallets, a shopping trolley, mattress, the shell of a car, fridges. Weeds grew waist-high. We clambered over the lot to a set of steps leading down to a cellar door. JB unlocked the door and we stepped into darkness. The stench of damp and mildew caught at my throat. Nobody knew I was here. Could I trust J.B? Wasn’t it a little suspicious, inviting me back to his squat? Buzzing in my ears. A flush of fear burned the nape of my neck. Please, please. Spittle on his lip. I stumbled and yelped.
‘Take my hand,’ he said. His hand was soft and warm, he gripped mine firmly. The contact reassured me. I shook off my anxiety. He led me through the gloom, then up more stairs and into dim light. We crossed a massive room, pillars lying where they had fallen amidst chunks of plaster, old tea-chests and broken tables. One wall of the room was windows, row upon row, thick with grime. Broken panes gave glimpses of blue sky. Up another set of stairs and along a door-lined corridor.
‘This is it.’ He stopped at one of the doors and unlocked it. After the desolation of the rest of the building, I was surprised at the cleanliness and care shown in this room. It had been painted white. On the floor lay an old floral carpet and against one wall was a huge sofa with a bright green bedspread thrown over it. A guitar leant against the arm. Opposite a television, a shelf with books and mementoes. In the far corner, beyond the sofa, there was a mattress and bedding. The wall nearest to the door was broken up by windows; half-way along was a sink, Calor gas cooker, pots and pans; beyond those, a table and a couple of chairs. Everywhere I looked, pinned up on the white background were pictures, line drawings, sketches. Mostly pen and ink or charcoal; faces, street scenes, landscapes. I walked closer.
‘These are brilliant. They yours?’
‘Yep.’ He grinned and filled a kettle.
‘This is Martin.’ I pointed to the portrait. Head and shoulders. The look he’d captured was one of great sadness. ‘He looks lonely, sad.’
‘He was.’ JB lit the stove and came over to the wall.
‘Have you studied art?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a hobby.’
‘You could sell these.’
‘I do, now and again. But I make more on the chalkies.’
‘Chalkies?’
‘Pavement drawings.’
‘Mickey Mouse, Madonna.’
‘Yeah,’ he laughed. ‘Get the kids and the mums pay.’
‘These are signed P.H. So is JB a nickname?’
‘Tell you’re a detective. Yeah, short for JCB. Used to like to drive ‘em away in my younger days. Sort of stuck.’ He went over and made mugs of coffee. Brought them over. We sat on the sofa. He began to roll a cigarette.
‘So where was Martin going when he left here?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Didn’t he say anything?’
‘Someone had set him up.’
‘How d’you mean?’
He sighed. ‘That second week, Martin had more money. Bought clothes. He was on the streets but it wasn’t just begging any more.’
‘He was a rent boy?’
‘Yeah. Plenty of lads drift into it. There’s a lot of demand. It’s tempting. Anyway, that last night, he came in, early hours it was, said he’d found a new place, someone was going to see him right. Talked about riding round in an Aston Martin, eating out every night.’
‘You mean like a sugar daddy?’
‘Yeah,’ he lit his roll-up, ‘or a pimp.’
‘Was he happy about it?’
‘Oh, yeah. Least on the surface. Excited, like it was his big break. Martin was soft as shit. It wouldn’t take much to con him. Promises of this and that, next thing he knows he’s st
anding by the bus station every night waiting to jump into cars, giving the dosh to some guy who’d beat him up soon as look at him.’
‘But it might not have been a pimp?’
‘Who knows.’ The dog came over and draped itself over JB’s feet. ‘Maybe he struck lucky. And I’ve not seen him doing business, not on the streets. Could be working the clubs. His mum’s not gonna like it much, is she?’
‘No. But it could be worse, I suppose.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, God. Well, if he was on crack or something.’
‘He wasn’t.’ His tone was sharp. The dog pricked up its ears. ‘I won’t have it,’ he explained. ‘This place is clean. I was an addict, see, but I’ve been clean for three years now. I won’t have it around.’
‘Anyway, I’m not going to tell her anything until I’ve checked it out. It could just be a relationship.’
‘Yeah,’ JB nodded his head, ‘and I could be the President of America an’ all.’
‘Could you ask around a bit, see if anyone’s heard from him? Heard where he is?’
I pulled a fiver from my bag. ‘I’d like to give you something for your time.’
He looked embarrassed, a slight flush to his olive complexion.
‘Oh, go on. You’re the only help I’ve had. Get a meal or something. Treat the dog.’
‘Alright,’ he grinned. ‘You’ll like that Digger, eh?’ The dog wagged its tail.
I gave him my card and a photograph of Martin. He pinned them on the noticeboard above the sink, amongst a collage of other bits of paper. He led me back down through the gloom of the building and out into the yard. I thanked him again. As we reached the fence, it was pushed back and the young girl I’d spoken to earlier climbed through.
‘Hiya.’ She bent to pat the dog. His girlfriend? Or another waif he was helping out?
‘Bye then, and thanks.’
Another smile. The two of them set off towards the steps and I clambered back onto the street. JB had given me a lot to go on. I hoped with all my heart that he’d got it wrong.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My half-painted office cried out for completion. Its pleas fell on deaf ears. I rang Mrs Hobbs instead. She wasn’t in. Did she work? It was only three o’clock. Not much point in trying again till after five. I wrote out some notes about the investigation so far; added up time and expenses.
I gazed at the narrow window. A fern and a couple of sturdy dandelions cut out most of the meagre light, but they couldn’t obscure the fact that it was sunny out there. The walls needed painting. My garden needed attention. No contest. Walls would keep, bedding plants wouldn’t.
It was a good decision. I weeded and trimmed, staked and tidied. Dug over a bed for planting, chatted to my perennials, filled an old chimney pot with verbena, pansies and lobelia. I even changed the slug traps, gagging at the stench as I carried each one gingerly to the cellar toilet and flushed the slimy contents away. The rhythm of the work, the scent of the earth, the sun on my back left me feeling pleasantly tired and relaxed.
It was nearly six when I put the tools away and rang Mrs Hobbs.
‘Mrs Hobbs, Sal Kilkenny here.’
‘Yes,’ she spoke quickly, ‘have you found him?’
‘No, I’m sorry. But I do know he came to Manchester and I’ve met someone who put him up for a while. Another...’ I groped for a label; homeless person, runaway, boy, young man, ‘...lad. He hasn’t seen Martin for a couple of weeks but he’s going to ask around and get back to me. So far, that’s all I’ve been able to find out.’
Silence.
‘Mrs Hobbs?’
Snuffling. ‘I’m sorry. I thought, I hoped...’
I spent a couple of minutes blathering on about how hopeful I was, how lucky we were to get any lead at all, reassuring her that Martin had been fine when last seen, etc. I’d be in touch as soon as I heard anything more. All the time I was wondering how I was going to tell her the truth, if it was the truth, that Martin was alive and well and on the game, or shacked up with a sugar daddy, at best. If that ever happened to Maddie...
Now what?
I played pirates with the kids for a while and when Ray gathered them up for bed, I went and sat in the garden. Surveyed my handiwork. Ray joined me there. He handed me a glass. ‘Cocktail?’
‘What’s this in aid of?’
‘Nothing.’
I sipped it. ‘Mmm. What is it?’
‘Daiquiri. Rum, ice, lime, sugar.’
‘Nice. So?’ I turned to him.
‘So?’ He was a lousy dissembler. Eyes shifted like jumping beans and even his moustache couldn’t hide a twitch of embarrassment round the mouth. Ray’s of Italian descent but, unlike your Italian stereotype, he’s not prone to extravagant displays of emotions or outbursts of generosity. Cocktails were more than a friendly gesture.
‘C’mon Ray, I know you. The cocktail has a deeper meaning. Now, as far as I’m aware you’re not about to move out or have a baby or get married, so what is it?’
‘It’s Clive.’
‘Oh, no,’ I groaned theatrically.
‘He’s back tomorrow. We’ve got to sort out what we’re going to say.’
‘Maybe we should just give it a bit longer.’
‘It’s been four months and it’s getting worse. The guy’s a total prat.’
‘We could change the locks,’ I giggled. ‘Oh, I don’t know, he did make an effort after the last meeting.’
‘Yeah, for all of twenty-four hours.’
‘It’s not just the practical things though, is it?’ I turned to Ray.
‘Nope.’ He sipped his drink.
‘I mean, even if he remembered to clear up after himself and keep the music down...’
‘...and stop drinking all the milk, and treat the kids like human beings...’
‘...and pay the rent on time,’
‘He’d still be a prat,’ Ray concluded.
‘What is it though?’ I asked. ‘What defines his pratness?’
‘Pseudy, unreliable, doesn’t like women for starters.’
‘He seemed so nice when he came round about the advert.’
‘And he was the only person we’d seen,’ Ray reminded me, ‘and you were panicking about the rent.’
I squirmed. ‘He gives me the creeps. You know, he can’t talk about anyone without putting them down. It’s horrible.’ I drained my glass. ‘What are we going to say? Sorry Clive, we want you to move out. We think you’re a prat.’
‘We could say we don’t like his attitude,’ said Ray.
‘I’d rather not have to give any reasons. It could just become a horrible slanging match. It’d be so embarrassing, Ray, and hurtful to him. We should simply ask him to leave.’
‘What if he won’t? I can imagine him digging his heels in.’
We carried on the conversation over dinner, bitching and worrying. The upshot was that we agreed to tackle Clive some time over the coming weekend. Give him a month’s notice, be vague about reasons but, if pressed, explain we wanted someone more suited to communal living.
Ray went out that evening. Quiz night at the local. I’d gone along once to see what the attraction was. It was a dead loss for me, as nearly half the questions were about sport, an activity I loathe.
I ran a hot bath and chucked in some scented oil. My shoulder was aching and my back stiff from honest toil. I rubbed olive oil into the scar above my left breast. I’d been stabbed. My one and only murder investigation. I’d unwittingly stumbled close to solving it and the murderer had tried to silence me. The memory still panicked me. I was jumpier these days. I avoided violent plays and films. For a while, even the sight of knives in the kitchen had brought me out in a sweat.
I slipped into the steaming water, goose-pimples erupting in surprise at the heat.
After the stabbing, Diane and Ray had tried very hard to persuade me to change my job. I was tempted. Why go looking for trouble? On the other hand, I knew that if I gave it all up i
t would be like giving in to the threat of violence. And how many other things would I stop doing in order to feel safe? Stop going out at night, visiting new places, answering the door? In the end, I got some counselling to help with the panic and to decide on my future. It helped. I’d chosen to work even if that meant being scared some of the time. I wanted to be a survivor, not a victim.
JB rang as I was getting dry. ‘Look, I’ve been asking around. Talked to a couple of the lads. Martin’s not on the patch. They’d know if he was doing business round here. Then one guy I ask, he clams up. Big silence. He was scared, shit scared.’
‘Why?’
‘Search me. Couldn’t get shut of me fast enough. Kept saying he didn’t know nothing and I’d better leave it alone. Now, he’s a user...’
‘You think it might be something to do with drugs?’
‘Possible. There’s some heavy stuff going down.’
‘I know.’ Guns were the new addition to the so-called drugs war in the city. People had been shot. Killed. Including two little boys. Whole estates had been labelled no-go areas, to the anger of the local residents.
‘I’m gonna see who’s going into the clubs tonight, see if anyone’s heard anything. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’
‘Right.’ Why was JB being so helpful? ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’
‘I know,’ he said, ‘but you got me thinking about Martin. He couldn’t look out for himself; I’d like to know he was okay. Besides, I’m curious now,’ he laughed. ‘Gives me summat to do.’
‘Keeps you off the streets?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thanks JB’
‘See ya.’
He was a nice guy. I wanted to get him something to show my thanks. Not just money, though I’d pay him for his time; he was doing the legwork twice as effectively as I could have done. No, something personal. Of course. A sketchbook, some charcoal or maybe a drawing pen. He’d like that.
CHAPTER NINE
JB didn’t call that Thursday. I thought it was him when the phone rang at eight-thirty in the morning. I’d got a mouthful of toast and honey. I sluiced it down with tea.
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