It was a new client; once he’d established that he’d got the right number, he asked for an appointment.
‘There’s some work I’d like you to do.’ He had a local accent, a slight lisp.
‘Could I have your name, please.’
‘Barry Smith.’
‘When would be convenient for you?’
He wanted an appointment that afternoon. It suited me. We agreed on two o’clock. I gave him the address and directions to my office.
‘Da-da!’ I pirouetted into the kitchen and bowed.
‘You’re silly,’ pronounced Maddie.
‘Another job,’ I said to Ray. ‘Two cases at once. The big time.’
‘We’ll need it,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’ He passed me the phone bill.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Aw,’ said Maddie, ‘shouldn’t say that.’
‘I know. Sometimes people say things they shouldn’t when they get a nasty shock.’ I turned to Ray. ‘It’s nearly twice as much. And look at these; eight long distance calls. He’ll have to pay half of it.’
Ray nodded. ‘Yep. Do we tell him before or after?’
‘Who?’ Maddie asked.
‘Clive,’ I explained.
‘I like Clive.’ Perverse creature.
‘You don’t,’ I said, ‘you never see him.’
‘I do like him.’
‘Because he gives you chocolates,’ said Ray.
‘And lollies.’
‘Coats on.’ I’d had enough of this. Clive’s habit of giving the kids sweets had been on the list of complaints at our last meeting with him. He thought we were being petty. I ran through the dental health arguments.
‘Well, if they brush their teeth afterwards...’ he said.
‘They don’t, not unless they’re frogmarched upstairs. You buy the sweets and we have to do the frogmarching.’ What irritated me most was that he gave sweets instead of time or attention.
I devoted the morning to housework, ate a salad lunch in the garden and changed into my best work clothes. Blue needlecord pants and a large blue and cream print shirt.
I was surprised to find Jackie and Grant Dobson arriving home as I reached their house. ‘Skiving off?’
‘No chance,’ groaned Jackie, reaching into the back of the car. ‘Marking.’
‘Exams already?’
‘Internal,’ said Grant. ‘GCSEs next month...’
‘Then A’s,’ Jackie added, straightening up, her arms full of folders. ‘We’ve not seen you about much.’
‘Thing’s have been pretty slow,’ I said, ‘but they’re looking up. I’ve one case on the go and someone’s due at two to talk about another.’
I opened the door, while they lugged in piles of books and papers, then went down to my room. I sorted out pen, paper and diary. My watch reached two-fifteen. I picked dead leaves off the geranium on the filing cabinet. Two-thirty. I hadn’t even brought anything to read. I began to sort out my files, but gave up. There wasn’t enough in there to warrant serious sorting. I labelled a new folder ‘Martin Hobbs’ and put in the sheets of paper I’d done. Two forty-five. At three-fifteen I gave up. Thanks a bunch, Barry Smith. Presumably he’d chickened out. If he did dare to get in touch again, I’d charge him for my wasted time.
Clive didn’t appear. No word. Reliable as ever. No word from JB either. I couldn’t make any headway until I heard from him. There didn’t seem much point in pursuing any other direction, like chatting to anglers up at the reservoir at Lostock. Martin was moving in rather different circles now. No. All my eggs were in JB’s basket. If he didn’t ring me, I’d have to go and see him.
I dropped the kids at nursery and drove into town. I knew of a shop where Diane bought some of her art materials, not far from JB’s squat. I bought a large sketchbook, charcoal, a drawing pen and ink. It cost three times as much as I’d expected. I almost put the pen and ink back. Sod it. JB was a gem and he’d never be able to afford this sort of stuff.
I reached the fence surrounding the warehouse. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get into the building. JB wasn’t likely to have a bell and the windows of his room looked out the other side, across the canal to Piccadilly station. If it was locked, I’d have to leave my packages and a note.
The cellar door was ajar. I waited while my eyes adjusted to the dark, then retraced the route up the stairs and across the large room. As I reached the next door, I heard a scuffling sound. Rats? I held my breath and listened. Called out. Whining. Digger.
I pushed the door. The dog barked and bared its teeth. Startled, I stood still, began talking in a low voice. ‘Easy Digger, good dog. Where’s JB?’
The dog dropped its aggressive pose quickly enough and followed me along the corridor to JB’s. The door was ajar. I knocked and called out. No answer.
He lay on the sofa, on his side. Jeans and T-shirt. ‘JB?’
Digger went and lay on the floor in front of the sofa. Whining.
JB’s face was slack and pale, mouth open. Conker brown eyes filmed over, staring. I touched his arm and flinched at the cold. I began to shake. There was a damp patch on his jeans around the crotch. The smell of ammonia. Streaks of yellow mucus from his mouth on his lower arm. A piece of cloth tied round it. An armband.
Whimpering. The sound came from a long way away. It was swamped by the beat of blood in my ears. I looked at the dog. He wasn’t whimpering. I was.
I was still clutching the packages as I ran to find a phone. I found a policeman first. I tugged at his sleeve, trying to explain through chattering teeth that he must come with me, that someone was dead. I couldn’t give him an address. Getting my own name out was hard enough. He had nice eyes, crinkles at the corners. He smelt of Palmolive soap. He talked into his walkie-talkie. I don’t remember getting back to JB’s room.
Soon it was filled with people. Two uniformed officers, the one I’d met and a woman who sat beside me on the mattress. Two others in plain-clothes. One with a tan, glasses and a moustache; the other plump and florid.
I went over everything I knew about JB, what I was doing here, what I knew about him, first with the uniformed officer, then again with the florid plain-clothes one. He had a fine network of red and purple capillaries across his face. Answering questions helped. Gave me something to concentrate on. Every so often I blanked out, lost track of everything.
Someone arrived with a camera and took photographs with a flash. Then another man arrived with a large bag and knelt down next to the sofa. Began looking over JB.
‘I think you can go now, Miss,’ said the plump detective. ‘We’ll need to get in touch again.’ I nodded. The policewoman helped me to my feet. ‘We’ve got a car to take you home.’
‘No.’ My voice echoed round the room. ‘No. There’s no-one there.’
‘To a friend perhaps?’ he suggested.
Diane. Please be in. ‘Yes, yes.’ I turned towards the door, then back again. ‘What happened?’ I was bewildered.
‘Looks like an overdose, Miss. There was a syringe next to the sofa.’
‘But he didn’t take drugs. He told me. He’d been clean for years.’
‘We’ll have to wait for the post-mortem of course but it looks pretty straightforward. Now...’ he held out his arm to usher me towards the door.
‘You’re wrong,’ I protested. ‘He told me...’
‘Addicts often lie, I’m afraid,’ the man with the tan spoke up. ‘And you didn’t know him particularly well, did you?’
‘But I’m sure...’
‘We’ll have to wait for lab reports, to be sure,’ he continued, ‘but he was known to us and we’re not expecting any surprises.’ His tone was sharp, final.
I shook my head. ‘He wouldn’t...’ I insisted. But I couldn’t say anymore. My mouth began to stretch with tears. No-one said anything.
‘This yours, Miss?’ The uniformed man held out the sketchbook. I nodded.
‘Can someone move this bloody dog?’ the man by the sofa snapped. Digg
er growled as the policeman stooped to shift him.
‘What’ll happen to him?’ I said.
‘We’ll take him to the morgue from here,’ the florid man answered. ‘The pathologist will prepare a report establishing probable cause of death...’
‘No,’ I interrupted and began to giggle, ‘I mean the dog.’ I didn’t know whether I was laughing or crying. The policewoman put her hand on my arm.
‘We’ll take care of that,’ said the man with the moustache. ‘He’ll go to the pound...’
‘Can I take him?’ I don’t even like dogs much. But he’d be put down unless someone rescued him. I had to rescue something from the situation. Glances were exchanged.
‘Yes, Miss.’
In the car over to Diane’s, my memories of JB, our meeting, that phone call, were intercut with the image of his corpse. I clutched the sketchbook to me. Remembered the smile he’d given me when I praised his work.
We drew up outside Diane’s terraced house. Digger followed me out of the car. The policewoman guided me up to the door and rang the bell. Diane opened the door. ‘Sal!’ She glanced from me to the policewoman, at the dog and back to me. Concern.
‘What’s the matter, what on earth’s happened? Are you alright?’ The gentle tone of her question did it.
I dropped the packages and covered my face with my hands. Tears spilled through my fingers. I was definitely not alright.
CHAPTER TEN
‘I still can’t accept it, Ray. He was adamant that he didn’t use drugs.’
In the four days since JB’s death I’d made countless phone calls to the C.I.D. to find out what was happening. I’d finally established that a post-mortem had confirmed death due to a heroin overdose and that there was no reason for any further enquiries. JB would be cremated by the state. He’d no relatives and had grown up in care. I’d had to ring Social Services to get the details. The funeral would be at one o’clock the following Monday at Blackley, up in North Manchester. I wanted to go and to take Digger. Were dogs allowed?
‘Sal, you’d only just met the guy.’
‘I can usually tell when people are lying.’
‘Good judge of character?’
‘I think I am.’
‘What about Clive?’ he said.
‘You bastard.’ Clive was still missing, presumed alive.
‘Sorry. But the guy took an overdose. The gear was there; the post-mortem confirmed it.’
‘It confirmed the cause of death. That’s all.’
‘What are you getting at?’ Ray was getting irritated.
‘Maybe someone made him take it.’
‘Oh, come on. You think he was murdered? He was a known addict, wasn’t he?’
‘A long time ago...oh, never mind.’ I sighed and began to clear the table.
‘What now?’ Ray asked.
‘Well, I’m still looking for Martin Hobbs. I’ll take over where JB left off. He was going to ask round the clubs. I don’t know if he did that or not.’
‘Sounds like a bit of a wild goose chase,’ he said, as he left for college.
I also wanted to seek out the young girl I’d seen at JB’s. I wanted to know from her whether JB had lied to me. If anything had happened on that Thursday that might have sent him out looking for a fix. And if he’d any enemies.
I wasn’t familiar with the club scene in Manchester, though I knew it was thriving. I bought a copy of City Life and studied the descriptions of the various night spots. A rough guide to music, clientele, dress-sense. I tried to imagine Martin and his ‘partner’. The images I came up with were sophisticated or seedy. ‘Riding round in an Aston Martin, eating out every night.’ JB’s words, Martin’s originally, came back to me. There were loads of pubs and clubs that seemed possible. Too many for me to tramp round.
I rang Harry, my journalist friend. He’s a mine of information; his freelance career depends on it. I explained my problem.
‘Try Natterjacks. Everybody goes there now and again. It’s a good mixture – some rent scene, tie and shirt brigade too. Barney’s is just down the road – that’s worth checking out; quite a few prostitutes use it, male and female. If you want somewhere more upmarket, try The Galaxy Club.’
I tried them all that night. I got the lay of the land and even plucked up enough courage to ask a group of teenagers at Barney’s if they’d seen Martin, producing
his photograph. No response. I decided I’d try them all again the following night and then consider my duty done.
Thursday night. Eleven-thirty. I’d already looked in at The Galaxy Club and driven down to Princess Street where both the other places were. After half an hour in Natterjacks, seedy but popular; I crossed the road and walked down to Barney’s. Small pillars framed the doorway, which was lit by large brass carriage-lamps. Inside, it was a mix of regency stripes in red and cream and lots of long, rectangular mirrors. And it was heaving.
I ordered an expensive orange juice and, when the man behind the bar brought it over, I showed him Martin’s photograph.
‘I couldn’t tell you dear,’ he said, ‘I never remember a face. But I’ll tell you this,’ he paused for dramatic effect and leant nearer, ‘you’re the second person in here flashing photos at me.’
‘Same photo?’
‘Don’t know, as I said, I never remember a face.’
‘When was it?’
‘Now,’ he said, ‘days I’m very good at. Wednesday, last Wednesday.’
It had to be JB.
I wandered round the place to check the dance floor, which was out of sight of the main bar, before I found a perch in a corner of the room where I could see the entrance. I tried to look occupied, as though I was expecting someone at any moment. No-one bothered me. The music in the club was loud and fast, pulsing from the dance floor at the back. By twelve-thirty, it felt as if all the air had been used up. The place was heaving, hot and noisy. The smell of expensive aftershave mingled with the pall of smoke. And I had a crashing headache. My temple pulsed with each beat of the hi-energy music. Everyone else was having a whale of a time.
I queued at the bar, trying not to gawp at the transvestites at my side. All false fingernails, cascading curls and feather boas. The Joan Collins look. I finally got served and sat nursing my orange juice, as my watch crept slowly round the dial.
Half-past one and I’d had enough. It was a relief to breathe cool fresh air. As I walked towards the car, a group was coming round the corner. Four men. One of them must have said something funny and there was an explosion of laughter as they reached the door. I glanced back. They were illuminated by the light from the coloured carriage lamps. The man nearest to me turned back to his companions and I caught a glimpse of his face. It was Martin Hobbs.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The door opened and closed behind them. I ran back. Heat, smoke and noise hit me like a wall. I craned my neck, looking for Martin. I spotted him at the other side of the room. The group were squeezing into seats, while one of them set off for drinks. Martin was by far the youngest in the party. The other three men were in their fifties, I guessed. At Martin’s side sat a man with craggy features; he looked like Kirk Douglas with grey hair. Next to him was a gaunt man with sunken eyes, thinning hair, a long face. And returning from the bar with a tray of drinks was a short, stocky man with a pudding-bowl haircut and lots of jewellery. I studied them for a while, wondering which was Martin’s partner, or pimp. Mind you, if they’d only just arrived it seemed unlikely that Martin was working here. Just a group of friends relaxing? Maybe. Even so, I wanted to approach Martin on his own.
I found a free high stool at one end of the bar. From there I could watch them easily enough. The conversation mainly involved the three older men. Occasionally Martin joined in, usually in short energetic bursts, waving his arms around a lot and laughing. At one point, the gaunt man leant over and slapped his arms down. It wasn’t a violent act. Just as if he was restraining an unruly child. A little later, the gaunt man leant over and sp
oke to Martin, passed him a ten pound note. Martin nodded, got up and made his way to the bar. My heart began to putter in my chest. My head thumped in response. People were queuing two-deep at the bar, shouting conversations above the din from the disco. I slipped off my stool and edged along till I was standing next to Martin.
‘Martin.’
He turned to face me, a puzzled look on his face. His eyes were bloodshot. He struggled to focus.
‘I’m Sal. J.B, said I might find you here.’
‘What d’you want?’ he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder towards his friends.
‘To talk. It might be a bit difficult in front of your friends.’
He was suspicious. ‘What’s it about?’
‘It’s a private matter. Get your drinks and I’ll wait for you on the dance floor.’ I moved away before he had the chance to ask any more questions.
The next ten minutes crawled by as I leant against the wall. The dance floor was bouncing like a trampoline as the bodies leapt and flailed in the harsh, flashing lights. At last, I saw him come through the narrow passageway that led from the main bar.
He was none too steady on his feet. His clothes were casual, well made. Slacks and sweat shirt.
‘What’s all this about?’
‘I’m a private detective...’
We had to lean close and shout above the music, to be heard.
‘Shit.’ He glanced back towards the bar. He was about to bolt.
‘Wait – just hear me out. Your mother asked me to find you; she was worried sick. When you left, she...’
‘What?’ Incredulity distorted his elfin features.
‘She wants to know if you’re alright.’
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell.’ He grimaced. ‘Tell her to go frig herself.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘Martin, she cares about you. She’s desperate.’
He began to giggle. Stopped abruptly and rounded on me. ‘He put her up to it. The bastard.’ He rubbed his eyes.
Looking for Trouble Page 5
