Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

‘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. Digger 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.