Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

‘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.

‘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.

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 spoke 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.