Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

I asked for the bill. Went and waited at the counter while the waiter added it up. Rummaged in my bag for my purse. Gone. Thirty quid. The little sod. Library tickets, Leisure Pass. Luckily, I keep my cheque book and card in a separate pocket. She’d not got that. I wondered how she’d spend the money. Clothes, food, booze, drugs? It wouldn’t go far. And then she’d be back in the doorways, begging to get by. Oh, well. It was probably a fair price for what she’d told me. Only this wasn’t a case; there was no client paying the expenses. If I wanted the truth, I’d have to pay for it. At that time, I’d no idea how much the whole business was going to cost me.

I was late getting to school. Mortal sin. I found Maddie sitting with her teacher in the empty classroom.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I gushed. ‘The traffic was awful.’ Mrs Cummings looked relieved; Maddie burst into tears. Guilt.

‘Why didn’t you come?’ she repeated time and again in between sobs, as we drove to collect Tom. I’d tried to hug her but she’d shoved me away. She needed more time to be angry, to hate me for abandoning her. My explanations and apologies were irrelevant. The deed had been done.

The nursery stays open till six to cater for working parents, so my being half an hour later than usual was neither here nor there. Tom had been on his Castlefield Museum trip and was full of chatter about trains with smoke coming out of them.

Maddie headed straight for the television and sought comfort in Alvin and the Chipmunks. Tom joined her. I took them in some biscuits and milkshake then got myself a cup of tea.

So now I knew. JB hadn’t been a user. Smiley had killed him. Found some way to stick a needle in his arm and pump him full of heroin. Oh, I was jumping to conclusions, but it wasn’t much of a jump. Now I had a whole new crop of questions. They all began with why. Why was asking after a runaway such a threat to Smiley? After all, I’d seen Martin myself. He wasn’t dead or anything.

Maybe he was mixed up with the drug cartels or starring in porno films. Interest in Martin might turn up information that jeopardised others. Worth killing to keep under wraps. But JB hadn’t found anything out anyway, as far as I knew.

I’d have to go to the police. What’s the point, as Leanne would say? All I had was hearsay. Impossible to prove without Leanne’s co-operation. And running counter to the official version of events. Nevertheless, I’d have to tell them what I’d heard. There was no way I was going to pursue some nutter like Smiley. Way out of my league. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to know a bit more about him. I rang Harry.

‘Sal, you’ve saved me!’

‘From?’

‘Repetitive Strain Injury. I’ve been glued to the screen all bloody day. I forget to take breaks. They’re addictive, you know.’ I didn’t. My funds didn’t stretch to a typewriter, let alone a word-processor. It was high on my list of things I’d get when-my-boat-comes-in.

‘An article?’ I asked.

‘Guardian. Selling off Salford – poorest city in the land. Dockland development for the rich, no-go areas for the poor.’

‘I get the picture.’

‘So, is this a social call?’

‘No, business. I want to find out about someone, well, he’s a gangster by all accounts.’ Harry made a murmur of surprise.

‘He was seen leaving JB’s flat the day he died.’

‘How was the funeral?’

‘Deadly.’

Harry laughed.

Maddie came out of the lounge and thrust her empty cup in my face. I nodded and pointed to the phone. She went off whining.

‘I’m not up to date on the criminal fraternity,’ said Harry, ‘but I know a man who is. What’s this bloke’s name?’

‘Don’t know. Nickname’s Smiley. Got a scar either side of his mouth. He’s done time, into heavy stuff, drugs, pornography. That’s all I know.’

‘See what I can do. No rush, is there?’

‘No. Curiosity really. I’m not about to rustle up a posse.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Bedtime was a marathon. To make amends for the day, I treated Maddie to an extra long story about space princesses with secret powers. I didn’t get downstairs till half-past nine. The lounge was a tip. Littered with toys, empty cups, kids’ clothes. I hadn’t the energy to clear it up but I couldn’t stand looking at the clutter.

I went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. Settled into the old armchair by the big windows. Ray had been scanning the small ads; he hunts down auctions, gets tools that way. I flipped to the front page. BOLTON WOMAN BRUTAL MURDER. Photograph. Those large eyes, lit by a smile. I spilt my tea. My eyes raced over the print. I couldn’t make sense of it. Oh, the facts were there; where the body was found, how she’d been killed. But the woman that stared out at me, the woman who’d cried in my office two days ago, was Janice Brookes, a single woman living alone. ‘Miss Brookes leaves a mother and sister.’ No son. No husband. No Mrs Hobbs.

Now what the fuck was going on?

I rang the incident room number listed in the newspaper report and tried to establish whether the woman who’d been battered to death really was Janice Brookes. The man I spoke to was cagey. The police hate to answer questions. Oh, the bobby on the beat will give you the time of day or directions, but anything to do with a case is a no-no. He finally conceded that if the woman was named Janice Brookes then she must have been identified as such.

I told him that I’d recently been hired by her and emphasised that she was using an assumed name. He said he’d pass on the details to the officer in charge, who would probably contact me to arrange an interview. I tried to find out where I could contact her sister or mother, but he ‘wasn’t at liberty to divulge any information’.

I needed to talk to someone. Ray was out having a meal with friends, so I tried Diane. She sounded breathless when she finally answered the phone.

‘Diane, it’s Sal.’

‘Oh, look Sal, this really isn’t a good time…’

Whoops. Sorry. Right…erm…see you tomorrow.’

‘Yeah.’

What had I interrupted, a steamy session or a blazing row?

Harry was my last chance. The babysitter told me they’d gone to the pictures. Did I want to leave a message? No.

I paced around a bit then tried to tackle my confusion with pen and paper. I ended up with a list of banal questions thrown up by Mrs Hobbs’ double identity and her murder. The paper went in the bin. I was hardly going to forget what was on it. I paced around a bit more.

My earlier lack of energy had been replaced by the adrenalin buzz that a shock brings. Whilst I cleared up the lounge, my mind roamed back over my meetings with Mrs Hobbs aka Janice Brookes. Several small details began to make sense. She’d never given me an address. She’d paid in cash too. No cheque, no signature. Her responses to my early questions about what clothes Martin had taken when he left had been vague. And all the lies about reporting him missing to the police and how little they did. She’d never have been to them at all.

Then there were the photos she’d given me; not school photos or holiday snaps but a newspaper cutting and two outdoor shots that could easily have been acquired by a stranger snapping from across the street. She’d said something about that, hadn’t she? I struggled to remember. A fire. That’s right, a fire had destroyed all the family albums. A cover story?

If she wasn’t Martin’s mother, why had she been pursuing him? Some weird obsession? Was she mixed up in illegal goings-on? I couldn’t imagine it. Martin wasn’t her runaway son, so why convince me he was? Because I’d never have taken the case if she’d told me her real reason for wanting to find him.