CHAPTER TWENTY
The inquest was adjourned, pending further enquiries by the police. It was Detective Inspector Miller who made the formal request that the body be held over. The coroner established that a murder enquiry was in progress and explained to the rest of us that he would not be releasing the body for burial.
There were only a handful of us in the Coroner’s Court. An elderly woman, Janice’s mother, sat with a younger black woman; a social worker, perhaps, or a neighbour. No sign of her sister. There were a couple of reporters, notebooks in hand, and Sergeant Boyston hovering at the back.
Miller flashed me a look of impatience. I pretended not to notice. He was impeccably dressed, crisp striped shirt and tie, navy gabardine. Looked more like an executive than a policeman.
The old-fashioned court, with its heavy oak pews and benches, and green and white tiled walls, lurked in the depths of the Old Fire Station on London Road, opposite Piccadilly Station ramp. It created just the right atmosphere for judging sudden and suspicious death.
We were instructed to rise and the Coroner left the court. People filed out. I hung back. I wanted to speak to Mrs Brookes, but not in the court. If I could find out where she lived...As I stepped through the door into bright sunshine, a hand on my arm made me jump. ‘Miss Kilkenny.’ It was Miller. I jerked my arm away. ‘I understood you were taking a break from all this.’
‘I am, it’s just, I wanted...’ Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Mrs Brookes and her companion cross the road to the central reservation, towards the stairs leading up to the train station.
‘We don’t take kindly to interference in police matters.’ He stared through his tinted designer specs. ‘I thought I made that plain.’
‘I’m not interfering.’ The two women disappeared up the stairwell.
‘I hope not. There are charges we can bring; obstruction, for example.’
‘I’ve just come for the inquest, that’s all. There’s no law against that, is there?’
‘As long as we understand each other.’ He moved away abruptly, followed by Boyston. Once they’d turned the corner, I hurried over the road and climbed the steep steps, two at a time. Had Mrs Brookes come by train? I hoped not. I could end up in Milton Keynes for all I knew. At least if they were driving, I could turn back if it looked like a long distance.
I emerged onto the top of the ramp and looked around. There they were, black hair and white hair, walking slowly towards the car park. Bingo. I was also parked there. I fumbled with the locks on the Mini while I watched to see which was their car. Should I go over now? Introduce myself? Just then, I saw Mrs Brookes raise her hands to her face and start to cry. The younger woman put her arms round her. I couldn’t barge in on that. The women parted and got into the black Datsun. I started my engine and followed them out of the car park. The young woman drove quickly. Easy enough to trail through town, but would I lose her later? She led me through Salford, along the M61, and off onto the A666, the road to Bolton.
Road-works slowed the traffic and it was easy to keep the Datsun in view. We left the motorway and took the dual carriageway into Bolton town centre. Round the maze of the one-way system, then out along an arterial road. Farms and moorland in-between the villages.
We entered the next one-street village and the Datsun drew up in front of the terraced row on the left. A little way ahead was a row of shops. I parked outside the chippie and watched in my rear-view mirror as the driver helped Mrs Brookes from the car and supported her up the steep steps into the terrace house. Red gate. I walked back along the road and noted the number. Thought about knocking on the door. The woman had just been to her daughter’s inquest. I’d return another day to ask my questions.
I bought fish and chips in the little shop, wrapped in newspaper (I’m not a real vegetarian – it’s just meat I won’t eat). Found Chorley cakes and a milkshake in the newsagents next door. I drove up the road onto the tops and found a place to stop. It was windy. A clump of thorn bushes grew sideways, showing which way the wind blew. I was on the ridge between two valleys. Behind me lay the town, rows of redbrick terraces, sections of wasteland where they’d been cleared, new industrial estates, old mill chimneys. I could just make out Le Mans Crescent with its ornate public buildings sand-blasted to their former glory.
In the valley ahead nestled a few farms, scattered villages and the moors. I gazed at them while I ate my lunch. The fish and chips were classic: crisp batter, moist flakes of cod, large chips freshly fried. The Chorley cake, all sweet spicy fruit and oily pastry, needed washing down with the milkshake. My blood sugar level and no doubt my cholesterol level soared. I felt sleepy. But I had work to do. I was in the area. I had no excuse. I consulted the A-Z and worked out my route to twenty-three Glover Street.
He opened the door. Dark hair dashed with grey; holiday tan. A pleasant face, square jaw, laughter lines. Marks and Sparks cardigan and slacks.
‘Mr Hobbs.’
‘Yes?’
‘Sal Kilkenny. Can I come in a minute? I’d like to have a word with you and your wife.’
‘What’s it about?’ His smile faded.
‘If we could talk inside?’
‘Well, I...’
‘Who is it, Keith?’ She came through from the kitchen, peeling off rubber gloves. She was the real sun-seeker in the family. Her skin a rich ambre-solaire brown, set off nicely by the cream and blue shirt-dress. The tan would last about a week in this climate. She had streaked, permed hair, a small, pointed face, restrained make-up.
‘Wants to talk to us.’ Mr Hobbs said.
‘Market research?’ she asked.
‘No, it’s personal, actually.’
‘You’d better come in,’ she said, ‘in the lounge. I’ll just put these in the kitchen.’ She waved the yellow gloves.
Mr Hobbs sat on one of the winged armchairs, I on the other. Mrs Hobbs settled herself on the sofa, The room was old-fashioned, comfortable, cream and green, muted patterns. Begonias and bizzy-lizzies on the window-sills and the piano.
‘Well, what is it? Don’t keep us in suspense,’ said Mr Hobbs, forcing a laugh.
‘I’m a private detective,’ I said. I fished for the picture of Janice Brookes in my bag. ‘Do either of you know this woman?’ Mr Hobbs studied the clipping, shook his head, passed it to his wife.
‘No,’ she said. She handed it back to me. ‘Should we?’
‘I thought you might,’ I began. ‘She came to me recently. She wanted me to trace a missing person. You’re sure you’ve never met her, seen her locally perhaps?’
‘No,’ they spoke in unison.
‘Why did you think we’d know her?’ asked Mr Hobbs.
I took a breath. ‘She wanted me to find Martin, your son.’ Mrs Hobbs gasped, glanced at her husband. He sat very still.
‘I’m afraid Martin isn’t here,’ he said. He fiddled with the buckle on his watch strap. ‘He’s in hospital. You see, he’s...erm, he’s been diagnosed as schizophrenic.’ He spoke calmly, with just the right impression of restrained grief.
‘No, he isn’t,’ I said. ‘Martin left home. He’s living in Manchester.’
‘Rubbish,’ Mr Hobbs blurted out. He’d gone very pale. His wife blinked rapidly.
‘I talked to him last week.’
‘How is he?’ Mrs Hobbs said. I turned to answer her. She lowered her gaze, as if ashamed of asking.
‘Hard to tell...’
Mr Hobbs interrupted. His voice under control, reasonable. ‘We don’t know who this woman is, so we can’t really help you, I’m afraid.’ He began to rise.
‘What puzzles me,’ I said, ‘is why she was looking for Martin? If she’s not a relative, a family friend?’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’ he said.
‘I would. But she’s dead, you see. She was murdered last week. Janice Brookes, her name was. It was in all the papers.’
‘Oh God.’ Mrs Hobbs pressed her knuckles to her mouth. I couldn’t tell whether my bald announcem
ent of the murder had provoked that, or whether the name meant something to her.
‘We were away,’ he said.
‘Does the name mean anything to you?’ I addressed my question to Mrs Hobbs. She didn’t respond.
‘My wife’s upset. I think you’d better go.’ A muscle in his jaw twitched repeatedly.
‘I know why Martin left home,’ I said.
Mr Hobbs gave a wan smile. ‘Do you now? That’s more than either of us know.’ He looked over at Mrs Hobbs. She sat staring at the carpet.
‘Sexual abuse,’ I said baldly. ‘You were abusing him.’
He gave me a look of incredulity. ‘What?’ He looked appalled.
‘You heard.’
‘Of all the...! The boy’s a congenital liar, always was. Living in cloud bloody cuckoo-land. You can’t believe a thing he says. It’s attention-seeking, that’s all. If you believe that claptrap...’
‘Oh, I believe it.’ I looked him in the eye. He sat back in his chair. Shook his head in disbelief.
‘Get out,’ he said. ‘Get out of my house.’
I stood up. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Hobbs.’ She didn’t respond. I left her frozen in position, her eyes unfocused, knuckles pressed tight against her mouth. If she didn’t react to or acknowledge the situation, maybe it wasn’t happening. Like someone in shock.
I was shaking. Took a few deep breaths in the car. My palms were clammy, my shoulder ached. I’d half-expected the outright denial I’d got. What was odd was that they didn’t seem to have an inkling of curiosity about why Janice Brookes was looking for Martin. Was that just indifference, not wanting to have anything to do with Martin, or did they know something I didn’t? I was pretty sure they were genuine about not recognising the photograph, but what about the name? Maybe Martin had talked about her, perhaps she’d rung the house.
I called at Tesco’s on the way to collect Maddie from school. I’d not made a list, but I knew we needed virtually everything. I couldn’t shake the picture of Mrs Hobbs from my mind, as I loaded the trolley. Beans, tomatoes, kidney beans. She was his mother. She instinctively asked how he was. She loved him. Vermicelli, pizza bases, rice. Yet she thought him a liar, all those years ago, when he’d tried to tell her what Dad was doing to him. Weetabix, Krispies. Then I come crashing in, a stranger, and I believe Martin. Was she still sitting now, petrified? Was he talking her round, swearing to his innocence?
If Maddie told me Ray was messing with her, how would I react? Disbelief, yes, because I wouldn’t want it to be true. But I’d try to hide that from Maddie. I’d heard enough about abuse to know that children rarely lie about it. And I would act on what she’d told me.
I was still brooding as I waited for Maddie at school. One in ten is the conservative estimate. Three kids in Maddie’s class. I watched them as their names were called and they trotted out, laden with lunch-boxes and art-work. Some of them were tired and maungy, others greeted their parents with smiles and questions. Maddie was maungy. I bent to take her lunch-box and she launched a tantrum. Mouth stretched wide, tears coursing God knows why. I didn’t attempt to find out. It’d only make her worse. We collected Tom. Drove home. I unloaded the shopping. Made a cuppa. Started cooking. The phone rang. It was Harry. ‘Sal, that information you wanted...Smiley?’
‘Yes.’
‘My guy knew of him. He went away back in the ‘seventies, part of a vice bust. Seems they were into a bit of everything – porn, drugs. There was a big undercover operation. The police did very well. Now, your bloke only did two years. Co-operated with the police, as they say.’
‘That’s why he got cut up?’
‘That’s right. Word is he’s a bit of a fixer. Someone wants something, he puts them in touch with the right people. He’s not been back inside since then. Tends to work on his own. The criminal fraternity don’t exactly trust him.’
‘Anything more specific; what he might be involved in at the moment?’
‘No, I did ask. The man reckons it can’t be anything big or he’d have heard about him. You can rule him out of the main drug cartels, anything like that. But he’s likely to be dealing in that sort of area; prostitution, drugs. He hasn’t taken up art-theft or cat-burglary, or so my source tells me.’ Harry dramatised his use of words. I laughed.
‘Any use?’ he asked.
‘Not really. Still, thanks anyway.’
‘Pleasure. Now, I must go. The kids are beating shit out of each other.’
‘Thanks, Harry.’ Nice man.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Martin’s letter was still in my bag. A letter from a dead woman. I wanted rid. Saturday seemed as good a day as any to deliver it. It was with some foreboding that I set off to the house in Cheadle. After all, it could have been the scene of a murder. But, presumably, the police would have made their enquiries by now. Found out whether Janice Brookes had called there the previous Sunday. Whether she’d left there alive. If anyone was a likely suspect. Like Martin. Maybe her connection with him was a threat to his new life. Or maybe she was part of it. Whatever ‘it’ was. Max had talked about Martin losing control, that time in the playground. Dragged away before he beat the guy to death. It made my skin crawl. If not Martin, there was his ‘friend’. The man who’d come looking for him at Barney’s. He’d struck me as cold, domineering – but a killer? There hadn’t been anything in the paper about it. No small paragraph stating that a man was helping police with their enquiries. That helped a bit.
I recognised the place from its position on the winding road. These were big, expensive houses. No two alike. Most, like this one, were well hidden from the road. I parked in front of the beech hedge and made my way up the drive. Rhododendron bushes and lawns on either side. A graceful weeping willow. The house was built to impress. Small pillars framed the doorway. Two storeys with plenty of large windows. To the left of the building, a double garage and, at the other side, a glass conservatory. Gravel crunched underfoot. The neighbouring house to the left was completely screened by tall conifers. I could see the roof of the one on the right and a small stairway window between a pair of sycamores.
The red car was parked in front of the doorway. Someone was home. I rang the bell. The man with the gaunt face and receding hair, answered.
‘Hello,’ I said brightly, ‘is Martin in?’
‘Martin?’ He looked puzzled.
‘Martin Hobbs.’
‘There’s nobody of that name here,’ he said, in his precise clipped Scottish accent. He began to close the door.
‘But he said he was staying here,’ I bluffed. ‘I just want to give him a message.’
‘You’re mistaken.’
‘Wait.’ I pulled a copy of the angling photograph from my bag. ‘This is him.’
He gave it a cursory glance. ‘Sorry. I can’t help you. I’ve never seen the boy before.’ He shut the door. I had to step back to keep my balance.
I walked back down the drive; turned back to look at the house. The man stood in one of the upstairs windows, watching me. He made no attempt to disguise the fact. Gave me the creeps.
Although the Mini couldn’t be seen from the house, I wanted to give the impression, if anyone was interested, that I’d gone. I got in and drove round the corner a quarter of a mile and parked on one of the side roads. I took off my red jacket, put on an outsized baseball cap of Tom’s and walked back to the neighbour’s house. If there’d been a corner shop, I could have flashed Martin’s photo around, but this wasn’t corner shop country. Strictly residential.
The neighbour’s house was Spanish ranch style. A wooden veranda ran round the base, balconies jutting out above. There was plenty of black and white wrought-iron and shutters all over the place. Pampas grass grew in the garden, along with spiky cordylines. A series of terracotta urns spilt a riot of pink and orange geraniums and fuchsias against the white plaster walls.
I couldn’t find a bell, just a huge door-knocker shaped like a horseshoe. I banged. Frenzied barking erupted within. A woman’s voice sile
nced the dog. I heard chains and locks being drawn back. The door opened. The woman who stood there was in her late thirties. She wore a loose flowing housecoat, in colours to match the floral display outside. A bandanna round her tawny hair. Sun-glasses. ‘Yes?’ she snapped.
‘I wonder if I could talk to you?’
‘What are you selling?’ She had a transatlantic twang, a rude delivery.
‘Nothing.’
‘So, what do you want to talk to me about?’ She stressed the me.
‘Your neighbours.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me more.’ She waved me through into a huge living room that ran from the front of the house through to the back. All in white. Splashes of colour provided by scatter-cushions and large abstract paintings. I prayed my shoes were clean.
I sank into a creaking white leather Chesterfield. She settled in a white reclining chair.
‘I’m a private detective,’ I began, ‘I’ve been trying to find a missing boy, sixteen years old. I heard he was staying next door,’ I pointed the direction, ‘but when I asked there, I didn’t get much co-operation.’
‘Fraser’s a pain in the ass,’ she replied. ‘I thought the English were snotty, but God, he makes it into an art-form.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Barely. I think we’ve met three times in as many years. Usually if the mail gets dropped in the wrong box. He’s always made it plain that he values his privacy.’
‘Does Mr Fraser live on his own?’
She laughed. ‘Not Mr Fraser. Fraser’s his first name; Fraser Mackinlay. Yeah, he’s on his own.’
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘Business. Communications, computers, video, that sort of thing. Jack managed to embarrass him into coming over for drinks, when we first moved in. They talked business. All evening. Fascinating.’ She stretched the word out, dripping with sarcasm. ‘Fraser couldn’t wait to get away, but Jack’s not too hot reading the old body language.’
Looking for Trouble Page 10
