Looking for Trouble

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘Same difference, isn’t it, really?’ She dropped the cigarette into a styrofoam cup. It hissed. The bluebottle flew a lazy circle back to its breakfast,

  ‘Is Smiley dealing drugs?’

  Her face closed in on itself, pinched. ‘I dunno. I don’t know anything about him.’ Wary now.

  ‘Cut the crap, Leanne. We both know he’s a pimp, we both know he’s done time, that he got carved up for grassing on his mates. You know if he’s involved in any other business?’

  ‘I mind my own; you ought to, an’ all. He’s bad news.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘What?’ She was aghast.

  ‘If I can’t find out any other way, I’ll have to go straight to him.’

  ‘Yer cracked. He’d kill you. You haven’t got a clue, have you?’

  ‘Why are you protecting him?’

  ‘I’m not. I’m looking out for myself, right.’ She leant forward, yelling at me. ‘JB’s dead, Derek’s dead; you think I’m going to have a slack mouth?’

  ‘Who’s Derek?’

  She averted her face, stared at the windows. There was no view out there; they were encrusted with decades of grime.

  ‘Just a mate of mine.’

  ‘He knew Smiley?’

  She nodded, addressed the windows as she talked. ‘He did a bit of running around for him, got paid in kind. He couldn’t see it was doing his head in. Said it made him feel good. There’s not much makes you feel good round here.’

  My eyes flicked to her bare arms; no sign of tracks, bruises. She noticed.

  ‘People smoke it nowadays. Don’t you watch the documentaries on telly?’ She gave a short laugh.

  ‘What happened to Derek?’

  ‘They fished him out of the Mersey, didn’t they...’

  ‘This last week? The paper said it was to do with the drug gangs.’

  ‘Don’t know what they said that for. Load of crap.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘How should I know? He was a good mate, Derek. We was in care together. He always...’ Emotion got the better of her and her mouth formed a small o shape. She breathed slowly. I watched the bluebottle for a minute or so.

  Leanne lit another cigarette.

  ‘Do you think Smiley had anything to do with it?’

  She shrugged. Feigned indifference. ‘He kept giving him the stuff. It was just a matter of time.’

  I sensed she was hiding again. From me, or the truth that she feared?

  One of the bodies stirred and turned, pulling the cover from the other. A young boy; grubby T-shirt and shorts. Leanne’s age or maybe a bit older. And this was home. Did his mother know where he was?

  Leanne walked over and tugged the cover over him again. ‘You better go.’ She flashed me a look of defiance.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come, anyway.’

  I got the message. Stood up and pulled a tenner from my purse. Handed it over. She took it with the same sullen look. I kept my other hand firmly on my purse.

  ‘I found out where Martin’s staying,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t want to know.’

  At the door, I turned back. ‘Leanne, thanks for the warning.’ I glanced at the room, the rubbish. ‘If there’s anything I can do...’

  Her shrug said it all.

  As I picked my way back through chunks of plaster and broken furniture, I thought back to when I was thirteen. I longed to be sixteen and grown up. I could never get enough to eat. I played in the school netball team. My friend and I whispered about periods, neither of us having experienced them yet, and both had a crush on our history teacher. We had uncontrollable giggling fits and invented our own secret code.

  What had changed? Were there kids like Leanne around back then, surviving on the edge, underage and worldly-wise? Or were they a new breed, emerging from the weakened Welfare State at a time when hope and help were measured in terms of cost-effectiveness?

  I paused at the fence. Peeped through to make sure all was quiet, before swinging aside the loose section and clambering through. Leanne might tell Smiley; she might not. At least I could be vigilant.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  What was Smiley worried about? That I knew something about his involvement in JB’s ‘overdose’? JB was dead and buried. Three weeks had passed since his death. Without witnesses, evidence or even a motive, I wasn’t in any position to pursue it, even if I wanted to.

  Perhaps he thought that JB had passed on information to me before he’d been silenced and Smiley was anxious to know if I was acting on it. Something to do with drugs? But what? Surely it’d be common knowledge on the streets that Smiley was supplying? How did Martin Hobbs fit into the picture? Had the two things got mixed up? Whilst looking for leads on Martin, had JB stumbled on something else?

  I kept coming back to the missing hours between JB’s phone call, when he’d sounded chirpy and relaxed, about to go off asking round the clubs, and the following afternoon, when Leanne had seen Smiley hurrying away from the squat and had found JB dead. In those few hours he’d found out something serious enough to invite murder. Maybe I needed to retrace his footsteps – go round the clubs asking about him. I shuddered. Who wants to step into dead men’s shoes?

  On the way to the car, I used a call-box to ring Nina Zaleski. Still no reply. My mole had gone AWOL.

  My stomach was growling. It knew it was lunchtime.

  I queued in a town centre sandwich bar and bought a cheese and chutney barmcake and a piece of flapjack. I ate in the car. The barmcake was middle-of-the-road but the flapjack was wicked; hundred per cent syrup, tacky as toffee. Great exercise for the old jaw muscles.

  It took only ten minutes to get to Longsight. The industrial estate I wanted crouched behind the back of a large redbrick mill, surrounded by waste-ground. Some attempt at landscaping had been made, with mounds of grass here and there and the odd sickly sapling in its little cage. There were ten identical units – breeze block and corrugated iron. Unit 9 was Kincoma Products. I sat in the car for a few minutes. Somebody was in; the mesh security screen was ajar, though there were no other cars parked in front.

  I rang the bell. The woman who answered was in her mid-twenties. She had a neat, triangular face and permed hair. She wore a tan cotton-knit short-sleeved top and an orange mini skirt with orange slingbacks. She had a gold cross round her neck.

  ‘Is it about the heating?’ she had a rich Irish accent.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Market Research.’

  ‘You want to talk to me?’ She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Whoever’s here.’

  ‘I’m on my own right now, but if I’ll do...’ She didn’t ask for identification. I followed her. Her heels made a slapping sound on the concrete floor. ‘I thought you was the heating. It’s frigging perishing in here. I rang ‘em first thing.’

  She was right. Inside, there was no hint of the warm weather. We were in a vast corrugated box. Dexion shelving supported racks of cardboard boxes. A narrow aisle ran down the centre of the building. The plastic corrugated skylights let in some daylight, but not enough to lift the gloom. She led me to a partitioned room, reception-cum-kitchen.

  ‘Sit down.’ She nodded at a scuffed bucket seat. ‘You’ll have a drink?’

  ‘Tea, please.’

  She filled an electric kettle, spooned instant tea into matching red mugs. ‘I’ve had to have the oven on, try and thaw out a bit. It’s not just me. The stock needs to be kept at a reasonable temperature. Doesn’t like extremes, apparently.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Tapes, computer software, video training programmes. All high tech. Moderate temperatures, keep the dust down. Sugar?’

  I shook my head. She handed me a mug, sat on another of the plastic seats – red to match the mugs, no doubt – and cradled her own drink. I got out my notepad and pen.

  ‘What’s this research, then?’

  ‘I’m doing a profile of small businesses; work patterns, effe
cts of the recession, that sort of thing.’ Pretty vague, but she didn’t seem bothered.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘You deal in videos?’

  ‘A little bit. They’re training things, most of ‘em. But that’s only a little part, really. I’d say ninety per cent of the business was the computer software stuff.’

  ‘And how many staff work here?’

  ‘Well, just me,’

  I marked my paper. ‘What sort of market are you catering for?’

  She screwed up her nose. ‘I don’t know, really.’

  ‘Entertainment, adults only, educational?’

  She burst out laughing. ‘They’re not that sort of video – good God, I wish they were. Give us something to watch when it’s slack. Look, I’ll show you.’ She went out of a door at the end of the long narrow kitchen and re-emerged with a couple of magazines. Computer magazines. She pointed out a couple of the small ads for training packages and software. The titles didn’t even use words I’d heard of. They certainly weren’t the porno movies I’d been expecting. That didn’t mean that everything here was all it seemed but, judging by her mirth, I reckoned this was all she knew about the business.

  ‘It’s mail order, see.’ She pointed to the advert. ‘I get these in and send the stock out by post. Everything’s entered on a computer and it tells me when to re-order stuff.’

  ‘So how about the recession; have there been any lay-offs, redundancies, short-time?’

  ‘Hell, no. There’s only me here, anyway.’

  ‘But it’s not your business?’

  She snorted and kicked up her feet. ‘You kidding, or what? The boss comes in most days to check things out. He deals with the suppliers, any changes to the ads and that. I’m just the office girl. If he sacked me, he’d have to do all the work himself and I don’t think he’d be over the moon about that.’

  Sounds at the front door interrupted our cosy chat. ‘Now, maybe that’s the heating.’ She flip-flopped briskly out to see.

  There wasn’t much point in pursuing my ‘research’. It all seemed above-board. Anything that wasn’t was well hidden. If Kincoma Products was being used as a cover for some porn merchandising, the evidence could be anywhere in those huge stacks of boxes.

  I put my pen and paper away as I heard her coming back from the main door. She came into the room, followed by a man. A man I’d seen before. Short, thickset, hair cut like a pudding bowl. The man I’d seen with the others at Barney’s. The third man. My heart kick-started. ‘Now, here’s the one you want to talk to,’ trilled the woman. ‘The man himself. It’s market research she’s doing. I didn’t get your name. This is Mr Kenton.’

  He made a slight bowing motion. My mouth went dry and my palms clammy.

  ‘Janice,’ I heard myself saying. Why pick that? Of all the stupid bloody...‘Smith,’ I added.

  If he’d any inkling, his rounded eyes didn’t betray it. But his fingers clutched his car keys so hard that the flesh strained white.

  ‘And who are you doing this research for, Janice?’ He had the husky voice of a heavy smoker. He’d brought the peppery smell of nicotine, mingled with some sweet aftershave, into the room.

  ‘Myself, really.’ I laughed and shifted in the chair. ‘For college – it’s part of my course. Business studies; we’re doing marketing and research. We have to go round and talk to small businesses.’

  ‘And what brings you to this neck of the woods?’ He adjusted his pristine shirt cuffs as I began to answer. Even on a summer’s day like today, he wore a business suit. An expensive one. The gold chunks on his fingers and the sickly aftershave undermined the effect a bit.

  ‘Chance,’ I said. ‘It was the first industrial estate I passed. Thought I’d start here.’ I smiled. I was damned if I was going to give away my real interest.

  ‘Tea, Eddie?’ the woman asked, blissfully unaware of the prickly atmosphere between us. He gave a faint nod in response.

  ‘Bit risky isn’t it? Sending students off on their own like that? Could get into some nasty situations, couldn’t you, Janice?’ It was a threat delivered in a tone of concern.

  I said nothing. If he knew I was an impostor, there wasn’t much point in carrying on the charade. And if he didn’t, he was behaving like a shit and I wanted out. I stood up, clasped my bag in front of me.

  ‘I’ll see Miss Smith out, Moya.’

  I walked quickly ahead of him to the front door, turned the Yale and stepped out. The brilliant sunshine was blinding. I fumbled for my car keys. I sensed he was right behind me. I stooped to unlock the car door.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at, girlie,’ he murmured, ‘but you’re gonna land yourself in big trouble.’

  The key finally turned. I slid in and shoved it into the ignition. The plastic seat burnt the back of my legs. There was a weight pressing on my chest, buzzing in my ears; it was hard to get my breath.

  I reversed out of my parking space and swung the Mini round. I allowed myself a brief revenge fantasy ploughing into the white Mercedes that Eddie Kenton stood next to. As I drove off, I saw him in my rearview mirror. Summer suit and crisp, white shirt; that boyish haircut. He was smiling. Least I think that’s what it was.

  I got home with reeking armpits and a knot the size of an apple in my shoulder. I stripped off and stood under the shower, letting the water smooth away the worst of the tension and rinse away all of that sharp smell.

  Eddie Kenton had sussed out I wasn’t a student, but did he know who I was? Was there any reason he should? He’d not seen me at Barney’s and, although I’d called on his friend Fraser Mackinlay, I hadn’t given my name or my profession away. As far as I knew, Fraser thought I was a friend of Martin’s, so it was hardly likely he’d mention me to Kenton. The more I dwelt on it, the more certain I became that Kenton couldn’t know who I was and that his hostility was more general; he was suspicious of my research story. He’d probably notched me up as an investigative journalist or a media hack – someone in the know about his past record, digging for dirt.

  I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and set off early enough to walk to school. Do my bit for the planet. Maddie was churlish at the prospect of walking but soon brightened up as we played don’t-step-on-the-cracks. Once we’d collected Tom, we made a detour to the shops for ice-creams. There was still a shadow of anxiety in my stomach but playing happy families helped to take my mind off it.

  I was aware that I still hadn’t heard from Nina, but there was little point in ringing her now. It was too late to go round there and, even if Fraser had been at work, he’d be heading back for his tea anytime. I’d ring Nina tomorrow.

  I was washing up when Ray arrived back from his Mum’s. He’d been helping her put up some new kitchen units. ‘I see they’ve got someone for that murder, then,’ he said.

  ‘What? Which murder?’

  ‘The woman that came to you – Janice Brookes. Haven’t you seen the paper? Front page. Here.’

  I grabbed a tea-towel and swept at the suds on my arm. My head swam a little as I walked over to the table. He was just spreading the paper out so I could see. Janice. Who’d killed Janice? I didn’t want to know. Held my breath as I read, still clutching the tea-towel. My eyes stumbled over words as I searched for the names I half expected. Martin wasn’t there, nor Fraser.

  No. The man that police now ‘strongly linked to the brutal slaying of Janice Brookes,’ the man that the police were now awaiting forensic reports on, was an eighteen year old black kid called Derek. Five days ago they’d pulled him from the Mersey, a victim of drug related violence; today, the victim was a murderer, near as damn it, and no comment was being made about whether Derek jumped or whether he was pushed.

  I breathed out and sat down. I kept going over the article but it still made little sense. I wanted it all to feel neat and tidy. Leanne had talked about this young man as she leant against the sink; a good mate, she’d said. She’d had to stop to swallow tears. Doing his head in, she’d said t
hat as well.

  It wasn’t neat, or tidy. There was no sense of justice in it. And there was one big question that wouldn’t stop echoing in my mind. Why? Why? And behind that lurked the realisation that I’d probably never know that; no-one would.

  ‘Cos dead boys can’t talk.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  I rang Mrs Williams. I needed to talk to someone who was involved – to share my sense of shock and the sadness that lurked behind it, now that a picture of Janice’s murder was emerging.

  She sounded fine. I told her I’d seen the news in the paper; that it’d been a complete surprise. I asked whether the police had given her any idea how long it would be for the forensics.

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘What news?’ Dread in her voice.

  I felt my cheeks tighten with embarrassment, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought the police would have been in touch before they talked to the press.’ The bastards. ‘They think they’ve got a suspect, a young man. He was found dead himself, in the river, last week. It doesn’t say much more than that, really; just that they are awaiting forensic reports before they can make a definite statement.’

  ‘Who’s this man?’

  ‘He’s called Derek Carlton. He’s eighteen.’ I told her what I knew about Derek; it didn’t take long. She asked me to read out the article. When I’d finished, she was quiet for a moment.

  When she did speak, the fury tumbled out. ‘Why didn’t they ring me? It’s only common decency. It’s my daughter they’re talking about. The whole of Manchester is reading it and I didn’t even know...’ Rage choked her words. I bristled in sympathy.

  ‘Ring Miller,’ I said. ‘It’s out of order, it’s atrocious.’ She was all for it. I wouldn’t have relished being on the receiving end of that call.

  We talked a bit more, about the details in the paper, about the implications if Derek was guilty.

  ‘They’ll be able to release the body now,’ she said. ‘It’s been awful waiting for that, not being able to bury her – like she’s not really gone.’