Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

‘That was different. You know, I’d think twice about taking on anything dodgy. It started off as a missing person, remember. I’m not trying to solve the murder, am I? I just want to know who she was.’

She shot me her sceptical look. ‘The two things aren’t connected?’

‘How the hell do I know?’ I retorted. She sighed and drained her glass.

‘I’ll be careful, I am careful.’ I said. ‘Another?’

When I returned from the bar, I changed the conversation, asking Diane what I’d interrupted the previous evening.

‘Printing. I’d had this brilliant idea for a silk screen. I was in the middle of putting the first colour on.’

I burst out laughing. ‘I thought you were in the middle of a session with Ben. You were all out of breath.’

‘I get like that when the muse is on me.’

‘And Ben?’

‘Not artistic at all.’

‘Diane!’

‘State of truce. He’s going to the christening, I’m not. We’re having a weekend away in Barcelona.’ She made it sound like a trip to the dentist. Ben was paying for the whole thing, which made her uncomfortable. Diane’s a proud pauper, scraping a subsistence living from her artwork. And she feared that being thrown together would bring to a head all the tensions in the relationship.

‘Think of the culture, though,’ I said.

‘I know, Gaudi, cafe society, music…’

‘Construction sites for the Olympics,’ I cut in. She jabbed me in the ribs. Send me a postcard, bring me some vino back.’

Cycling home, I got a puncture. It was still raining. I felt deflated too. Diane’s words rankled. I’d been defensive about wanting to establish what Janice Brookes had been playing at. Cars swished past me, spraying me with water. I wanted to sleep. Diane was right, I was tired. Work usually gave me energy, a sense of purpose, achievement. But I’d had too many shocks to the system and no time to settle myself.

I fantasised about all the treats I could do with; a weekend away, a massage, even just a few days with the garden and the kids. Just what the Detective Inspector ordered. Sod it. A few more days and I’d have the answer to the mystery, and if I didn’t I’d jack it in anyway.

Wheeling up the street, I saw that the house was ablaze with lights. My heart kicked. Something was wrong. Maddie. Tom. I dropped the bike on the drive and raced in. Into the kitchen. The smell of take-away. Wrappers strewn across the table. Lager cans. An overflowing ashtray.

Clive was back.

I put my bike away, then turned out the lights and crept upstairs to the bathroom. I had a pee, washed my hands and face and brushed my teeth as quietly as possible. I couldn’t face him now. Crawled into bed. The bass on his hi-fi thumped steadily above me. Turn it down, turn it down. It seemed to go on for ever. I lay tense and angry, close to tears. It’s not fair, I whispered, it’s just not fair.

Day-break. I was cold. No matter how I pulled the duvet round me, my insides were shivering. My mouth began to water. I reached the toilet just in time, retched until my stomach was empty. My skin felt raw all over as though I’d been peeled.

I filled a hot water bottle. Went and made a cup of peppermint tea. It was six-thirty. The rain had stopped. Clouds gone. The morning sun streamed into the kitchen. I put the cans and take-away wrappers in the bin, gagging at the smells. Settled in the armchair. Digger came and lay at my feet. I was honoured.

What did I really have to do? Visit the Hobbs’. It could wait a day. At seven, Ray and the kids emerged. Maddie and Tom were amused at us both being there so early. I sat huddled in the chair while they had a lively breakfast. Once they’d left for school, I topped up my water bottle and went back to bed.

I was woken by the doorbell. Ringing persistently. I fumbled for my dressing gown, struggled into it then discovered it was inside out. It’d have to do. I fell down the last stair – my body didn’t work on automatic anymore – and cracked my funny bone on the banister.

When I opened the front door, the light made me wince. Jackie Dobson was on the doorstep.

‘Sal, you look awful.’

‘Bug.’

‘This came yesterday.’ She waved a white envelope. ‘I meant to drop it in, then Jessica fell off the bunks and I forgot all about it till tea-time. Then, what with swimming lessons and…’ The fact that Jackie could deal with a full-time job plus four daughters and still manage to forward a letter, was nothing short of a miracle as far as I was concerned.

“S alright. Thanks. I was in bed.’

‘You get back there,’ she said. ‘There’s a lot of it about at the moment.’

I made myself another herb tea. My belly rumbled, but I wasn’t going to throw any food at it. I slit open the envelope. There was a second one inside, addressed to Martin Hobbs, and a note. ‘Please take this to Martin.’ No name, no signature. I knew who it was from. A dead woman. I couldn’t deal with it. I foraged for my pocket and stuffed it all in there.

‘Lady of leisure,’ Clive brayed. I started and spilt my tea. I hadn’t heard him come downstairs.

‘It’s ‘flu, actually. I’m going back to bed.’

‘I’ve heard that one before. Fancy a day off, did we?’

‘Excuse me.’ I squeezed past him.

‘Hey, Sal,’ he bellowed up the stairs after me, ‘what’s the dog doing here?’

‘He lives here, He’s called Digger. I’ll explain later.’

I slept the day away, waking a couple of times from feverish dreams. Disturbing images melted away before I could grasp them. I surfaced briefly at six o’clock, to make more herb tea and wish the children good night. Ten minutes on my feet and I was ready to collapse. Back to bed, clasping my hot water bottle. I slept the clock round. It was only a twenty-four hour bug. I felt weak, a bit spaced-out, the following day, but well enough to eat. Ready, if not eager, to visit Mr and Mrs Hobbs. I scraped the burnt edges off the toast before Maddie spotted them. Mr Hobbs may well be at work but it’d probably be easier to talk to Martin’s mother alone. The neighbour hadn’t said anything about her working.

‘I don’t want to go to school, Mummy.’

‘You’ve got to, love, everyone goes to school.’

‘But I feel sick.’

‘I feel sick,’ Tom chimed in, beaming.

‘You ate three lots of Krispies, Maddie, no wonder you feel sick.’ Malingering or not? I never knew with Maddie. She tried it on every now and then. The last time I’d kept her off school, she’d bounced round the house like Tigger all day. She didn’t look pale. I felt her forehead. No temperature.

‘Ray’ll tell Mrs Cummings to keep an eye on you. Now get your coat.’

‘Aww.’

‘Come on, Maddie.’ Ray guided her out.

I rang the Coroner’s Court to see if they had any information on the inquest for Janice Brookes. They had. It was scheduled for eleven o’clock Friday, the following morning, Court number one. I’d be there. So would the family. A chance to make contact.

Before I could get back upstairs, the phone rang. It was Pete, Clive’s friend, though he didn’t sound all that chummy. Clive hadn’t been in touch about the money he owed him. Was he back? Yes. Had, I passed on the message? Yes. I began to feel I was to blame. I promised Pete I’d make sure that Clive knew he’d rung. I dutifully wrote a note and left it by the phone.

I felt unclean after my sojourn in bed. I stripped the sheets and made it afresh. Thick, cotton sheets that I’d bought in the old days of regular income. I gathered up towels, sheets, face-flannels, my dressing-gown. Crackle in the pocket. The letter. I prickled with apprehension. The letter to Martin. From a dead woman. A love letter? A warning? The rantings of an obsessed stranger? I’d no way of knowing. Unless I opened it. But I couldn’t do that. It was probably the last thing she’d written. She’d trusted me to deliver it. I would if I could.