‘But Martin’s the link. They must be connected.’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned. You’ve been under too much pressure, Miss Kilkenny.’ He shook his head to and fro. ‘Dealing with an accidental death and now this. Way out of your league. Can’t be an easy job for a woman, anyway. We know what we’re doing. We take it from here. You need a break; take the kiddies away for a few days. Help you to get things in the right perspective. This sort of hysterical reaction doesn’t help anybody.’ He moved towards the door. Tintin followed. ‘We’ll be doing our level best with the Brookes case, I can assure you of that.’
I was glad I hadn’t offered the bastard a cup of tea.
Well, I’d done my duty. I’d passed on Leanne’s story. If DI Miller thought I was going to sit back and twiddle my thumbs, he’d another think coming. Oh, they could solve the murder, I wouldn’t tread on any toes there, but I would solve the mystery. I had to know why Janice Brookes was willing to spend a grand tracing a runaway schoolboy. And if I hadn’t easy access to the Brookes family, then I’d start with the other side of the family. With the real Mrs Hobbs.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The rain came down like stair rods as I drove over to Bolton. Traffic was bad, with road-works along the M61. I made it to St. Matthew’s just before the end of lunch break.
After a few enquiries, I found Max Ainsworth in the Chemistry Lab. The smell of sulphur took me straight back to interminable Friday afternoons, perched on a high wooden stool, listening to Miss Jackson drone on. We’d given her hell. Turning on unlit Bunsen burners in attempts to gas the class out of existence, competing with each other to see how many test-tubes could be broken during one experiment. At fourteen, we dropped chemistry like a shot.
‘Max, can I have a quick word?’ He followed me out into the corridor.
“S it about Martin?’ He looked concerned.
‘Yeah. He’s okay. I managed to find him. He’s living in Manchester. The thing is, I never got his parents’ address, only the phone number, and the damn thing’s out of order.’
‘It’s Glover Street, twenty-three, I think, twenty-three or twenty-five. ‘S got one of them clipped hedges, shaped like a bird, you know.’
‘Thanks. You never went there?’
‘Just to call for him once, when we went fishing, like.’
‘You ever meet his parents?’
He thought about it, frowning through his thick glasses.
‘Nope.’
‘Martin say anything about them?’
‘No. He wasn’t one for talking. Why?’
‘That’s why he left, his parents.’
‘Oh.’ He reddened slightly. ‘So he’s alright then?’
‘Well, he’s alive, he’s got somewhere to stay, that’s about all I know.’
‘Better go,’ Max grinned. ‘Here comes Tiny.’ A huge man with a small, bald head was steaming towards us down the corridor. I thanked Max and left him to his potions.
It wasn’t far to Glover Street, according to the A– Z, but I wasn’t exactly raring to get there. Lunch first. I don’t know Bolton and didn’t fancy tackling the one-way system in the town centre, so I drove around the outskirts till I found a corner cafe.
That was a mistake. It was a genuine greasy spoon. I don’t eat meat and the only vegetarian options were fried egg on toast or beans on toast. Beans seemed a safer bet. There’s not much you can do to render a bean inedible. Not much, but whatever there was, they’d done it. Mushy, overcooked, crusty round the edges. The colour of the tea matched the beans. Coated my mouth instantly with orange fuzz. In my student days,
I’d survived on meals like that, even enjoyed them. Long time ago.
The house on Glover Street was a large ‘thirties semi. The ridiculous privet chicken marked it out from the rest. The garage was shut, no car in the driveway. There was no response to the bell. I peered through the frosted glass, trying to detect any movement. Then I crouched down and peered through the letter-box.
‘Can I help, dear?’ Startled, I jumped to my feet and whirled round. The woman on the pavement had a small terrier on a lead.
‘I was looking for Mrs Hobbs.’ I walked down the path. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone in.’
‘They’re away, dear. Back tonight. Malta. They go twice a year. I keep an eye on the place. I’m next door.’ She nodded her head to the left. I sensed she required some sort of explanation.
‘I’m a friend of Martin’s.’
Her face creased with concern. She moved nearer and lowered her voice. ‘A terrible business. It put years on Sheila. Is there any improvement?’ The dog snuffled around my ankles.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said carefully.
‘These things take time, don’t they? So young.’ She shook her head and sighed too. The dog made interested grunting sounds. I kept quiet, hoping desperately for a clue. ‘Still, they can do a lot these days, can’t they? Not like it used to be. I knew a lady worked up at Prestwich – the stories she used to tell. Poor things stuck in strait-jackets, given electric shocks.’ She touched my arm. ‘If you ask me, people got better in spite of all that, not because of it.’
‘Yes.’ I smiled and nodded. The dog mounted my right leg and made disconcerting movements. I tried to edge away. ‘Well, I’d better be going,’ I said. ‘I’ll call some other time.’
‘Okey-dokey. Come on, Millie.’ She tugged the terrier away. It nearly choked; straining to return to my feet.
So, the neighbours had been told that Martin was in a mental institution. A funny sort of explanation for his sudden disappearance. Would admitting he’d run away be more embarrassing? Possibly. People would’ve expected them to be making every effort to find him, enquiring about their efforts. This way, the issue could be avoided. A simple ‘no improvement’ would solicit sympathy and a change of conversation.
‘But that’s awful,’ Diane said.
I shrugged. ‘Stops people asking too many questions.’
‘Do you think they knew this woman, then?’
‘No idea. She could have been a friend of the family, but that doesn’t really tell me why she was so keen to find Martin.’
We were on our second pint and I’d taken Diane through the whole caboodle, eliciting just the right exclamations as I related seeing the photo in the paper, Leanne’s story, the attitude of the police.
‘You look tired, Sal.’
‘Don’t you start. I’m always tired anyway, comes with motherhood, you know.’
‘It’s not just that,’ said Diane. ‘This job, it’s such a mess. No-one’s paying you any more. Why bother?’
‘I want to know who she was, why she was after him.’
‘Why?’ Diane was pushing me. I didn’t like it.
‘Curiosity, loose ends.’ I took a long drink. Diane started to speak, then thought better of it.
‘What?’ I demanded.
‘Nothing.’
‘What?’
She sighed. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’
‘Diane! That’s pathetic. Anyway, I’m not a cat.’
‘Sorry. I just worry about you. There has been a murder after all...after last year...’
‘Don’t,’ I interrupted. Diane had been my confidante throughout the case which had ended with me getting knifed. She also knew how close I’d come to falling apart in the months afterwards. I thought she’d understood my decision to carry on in my line of work. How it was all tied up with wanting to be strong again, asserting my right to earn my living this way, not wanting to spend the rest of my life ruled by fears of what might happen. Maybe she just thought I was being pig-headed.
‘That was different. You know, I’d think twice about taking on anything dodgy. It started off as a missing person, remember. I’m not trying to solve the murder, am I? I just want to know who she was.’
She shot me her sceptical look. ‘The two things aren’t connected?’
‘How the hell do I know?’ I retorted. She sighed and drain
ed her glass.
‘I’ll be careful, I am careful.’ I said. ‘Another?’
When I returned from the bar, I changed the conversation, asking Diane what I’d interrupted the previous evening.
‘Printing. I’d had this brilliant idea for a silk screen. I was in the middle of putting the first colour on.’
I burst out laughing. ‘I thought you were in the middle of a session with Ben. You were all out of breath.’
‘I get like that when the muse is on me.’
‘And Ben?’
‘Not artistic at all.’
‘Diane!’
‘State of truce. He’s going to the christening, I’m not. We’re having a weekend away in Barcelona.’ She made it sound like a trip to the dentist. Ben was paying for the whole thing, which made her uncomfortable. Diane’s a proud pauper, scraping a subsistence living from her artwork. And she feared that being thrown together would bring to a head all the tensions in the relationship.
‘Think of the culture, though,’ I said.
‘I know, Gaudi, cafe society, music...’
‘Construction sites for the Olympics,’ I cut in. She jabbed me in the ribs. Send me a postcard, bring me some vino back.’
Cycling home, I got a puncture. It was still raining. I felt deflated too. Diane’s words rankled. I’d been defensive about wanting to establish what Janice Brookes had been playing at. Cars swished past me, spraying me with water. I wanted to sleep. Diane was right, I was tired. Work usually gave me energy, a sense of purpose, achievement. But I’d had too many shocks to the system and no time to settle myself.
I fantasised about all the treats I could do with; a weekend away, a massage, even just a few days with the garden and the kids. Just what the Detective Inspector ordered. Sod it. A few more days and I’d have the answer to the mystery, and if I didn’t I’d jack it in anyway.
Wheeling up the street, I saw that the house was ablaze with lights. My heart kicked. Something was wrong. Maddie. Tom. I dropped the bike on the drive and raced in. Into the kitchen. The smell of take-away. Wrappers strewn across the table. Lager cans. An overflowing ashtray.
Clive was back.
I put my bike away, then turned out the lights and crept upstairs to the bathroom. I had a pee, washed my hands and face and brushed my teeth as quietly as possible. I couldn’t face him now. Crawled into bed. The bass on his hi-fi thumped steadily above me. Turn it down, turn it down. It seemed to go on for ever. I lay tense and angry, close to tears. It’s not fair, I whispered, it’s just not fair.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Day-break. I was cold. No matter how I pulled the duvet round me, my insides were shivering. My mouth began to water. I reached the toilet just in time, retched until my stomach was empty. My skin felt raw all over as though I’d been peeled.
I filled a hot water bottle. Went and made a cup of peppermint tea. It was six-thirty. The rain had stopped. Clouds gone. The morning sun streamed into the kitchen. I put the cans and take-away wrappers in the bin, gagging at the smells. Settled in the armchair. Digger came and lay at my feet. I was honoured.
What did I really have to do? Visit the Hobbs’. It could wait a day. At seven, Ray and the kids emerged. Maddie and Tom were amused at us both being there so early. I sat huddled in the chair while they had a lively breakfast. Once they’d left for school, I topped up my water bottle and went back to bed.
I was woken by the doorbell. Ringing persistently. I fumbled for my dressing gown, struggled into it then discovered it was inside out. It’d have to do. I fell down the last stair – my body didn’t work on automatic anymore – and cracked my funny bone on the banister.
When I opened the front door, the light made me wince. Jackie Dobson was on the doorstep.
‘Sal, you look awful.’
‘Bug.’
‘This came yesterday.’ She waved a white envelope. ‘I meant to drop it in, then Jessica fell off the bunks and I forgot all about it till tea-time. Then, what with swimming lessons and...’ The fact that Jackie could deal with a full-time job plus four daughters and still manage to forward a letter, was nothing short of a miracle as far as I was concerned.
“S alright. Thanks. I was in bed.’
‘You get back there,’ she said. ‘There’s a lot of it about at the moment.’
I made myself another herb tea. My belly rumbled, but I wasn’t going to throw any food at it. I slit open the envelope. There was a second one inside, addressed to Martin Hobbs, and a note. ‘Please take this to Martin.’ No name, no signature. I knew who it was from. A dead woman. I couldn’t deal with it. I foraged for my pocket and stuffed it all in there.
‘Lady of leisure,’ Clive brayed. I started and spilt my tea. I hadn’t heard him come downstairs.
‘It’s ‘flu, actually. I’m going back to bed.’
‘I’ve heard that one before. Fancy a day off, did we?’
‘Excuse me.’ I squeezed past him.
‘Hey, Sal,’ he bellowed up the stairs after me, ‘what’s the dog doing here?’
‘He lives here, He’s called Digger. I’ll explain later.’
I slept the day away, waking a couple of times from feverish dreams. Disturbing images melted away before I could grasp them. I surfaced briefly at six o’clock, to make more herb tea and wish the children good night. Ten minutes on my feet and I was ready to collapse. Back to bed, clasping my hot water bottle. I slept the clock round. It was only a twenty-four hour bug. I felt weak, a bit spaced-out, the following day, but well enough to eat. Ready, if not eager, to visit Mr and Mrs Hobbs. I scraped the burnt edges off the toast before Maddie spotted them. Mr Hobbs may well be at work but it’d probably be easier to talk to Martin’s mother alone. The neighbour hadn’t said anything about her working.
‘I don’t want to go to school, Mummy.’
‘You’ve got to, love, everyone goes to school.’
‘But I feel sick.’
‘I feel sick,’ Tom chimed in, beaming.
‘You ate three lots of Krispies, Maddie, no wonder you feel sick.’ Malingering or not? I never knew with Maddie. She tried it on every now and then. The last time I’d kept her off school, she’d bounced round the house like Tigger all day. She didn’t look pale. I felt her forehead. No temperature.
‘Ray’ll tell Mrs Cummings to keep an eye on you. Now get your coat.’
‘Aww.’
‘Come on, Maddie.’ Ray guided her out.
I rang the Coroner’s Court to see if they had any information on the inquest for Janice Brookes. They had. It was scheduled for eleven o’clock Friday, the following morning, Court number one. I’d be there. So would the family. A chance to make contact.
Before I could get back upstairs, the phone rang. It was Pete, Clive’s friend, though he didn’t sound all that chummy. Clive hadn’t been in touch about the money he owed him. Was he back? Yes. Had, I passed on the message? Yes. I began to feel I was to blame. I promised Pete I’d make sure that Clive knew he’d rung. I dutifully wrote a note and left it by the phone.
I felt unclean after my sojourn in bed. I stripped the sheets and made it afresh. Thick, cotton sheets that I’d bought in the old days of regular income. I gathered up towels, sheets, face-flannels, my dressing-gown. Crackle in the pocket. The letter. I prickled with apprehension. The letter to Martin. From a dead woman. A love letter? A warning? The rantings of an obsessed stranger? I’d no way of knowing. Unless I opened it. But I couldn’t do that. It was probably the last thing she’d written. She’d trusted me to deliver it. I would if I could.
I put the letter in my bag, put the load in the washer, put myself in the bath.
Something was worrying me as I lay there. I ticked off in my mind all the things that I knew were worrying me: JB’s death; Janice Brookes’ murder; having to visit Martin’s parents; having to deliver the letter; money – no-one was paying me any, would have to apply for Family Credit again. Still something else. I fished around. Diane? Maddie? Ray? Clive. Yes, it was Cliv
e.
‘You’re pathetic,’ I told myself, as I pulled the plug. But there it was. An unpleasant task waiting to be tackled. And all the worse because it didn’t belong to the big, bad world out there. I couldn’t face it, then come home, safe, and shut the door on it. It was here, in my home. I hated that.
I got ready to leave for Bolton, ignoring the enquiring glances from the dog. Walk? No chance. The phone rang. Maddie had been sick. Would I go and fetch her. Shit. Guilt.
On the way there, I worked out the options. There were two. Stay home with Maddie and put my visit to Bolton off another day, or ask Nana Tello, Ray’s mum, to mind Maddie for a couple of hours. I’d psyched myself up to visit Mr and Mrs Hobbs, but it was hardly urgent. Was it worth grovelling to Nana Tello, who I usually reserved for dire emergencies? She always sent me double messages about minding the kids. She’d hum and haw when asked and complain about their behaviour afterwards, then throw a fit if she heard we’d asked anyone else to mind them. ‘Why don’t you ask me? I’m a grandmother. I never see them.’
I collected Maddie, her face paper-white, dressed in ill-matched spare clothes. Made my apologies. The smell of vomit and disinfectant still lingered in the air. Poor kid.
On the way home, she solemnly related the saga. She’d thrown up three times: in the home corner, by the paints and in the toilet. Now she was tired.
I rang Nana Tello to sound her out. She wasn’t home. Hah! Probably at the bookie’s. She had a passion for the horses and a little flutter made her day. She’d spend hours pouring over the odds and selecting the winners.
Maddie’s not the easiest invalid in the world. Petulant and full of self-pity. Still, I summoned up loads of patience and nursed her through the day. Got plenty of water down her. Resisted her tears when I forbade any biscuits. I heard Clive stirring in the early afternoon. Clattering round the kitchen. Maddie was asleep. I sat quietly in the lounge beside her. The door slammed. He’d left. I wondered whether Ray had said anything to him about the bills, his rent or having a meeting. I doubted it, somehow. I’d have to take the initiative. Later.
Looking for Trouble Page 9
