Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

‘Mr Hobbs.’

‘Yes?’

‘Sal Kilkenny. Can I come in a minute? I’d like to have a word with you and your wife.’

‘What’s it about?’ His smile faded.

‘If we could talk inside?’

‘Well, I…’

‘Who is it, Keith?’ She came through from the kitchen, peeling off rubber gloves. She was the real sun-seeker in the family. Her skin a rich ambre-solaire brown, set off nicely by the cream and blue shirt-dress. The tan would last about a week in this climate. She had streaked, permed hair, a small, pointed face, restrained make-up.

‘Wants to talk to us.’ Mr Hobbs said.

‘Market research?’ she asked.

‘No, it’s personal, actually.’

‘You’d better come in,’ she said, ‘in the lounge. I’ll just put these in the kitchen.’ She waved the yellow gloves.

Mr Hobbs sat on one of the winged armchairs, I on the other. Mrs Hobbs settled herself on the sofa, The room was old-fashioned, comfortable, cream and green, muted patterns. Begonias and bizzy-lizzies on the window-sills and the piano.

‘Well, what is it? Don’t keep us in suspense,’ said Mr Hobbs, forcing a laugh.

‘I’m a private detective,’ I said. I fished for the picture of Janice Brookes in my bag. ‘Do either of you know this woman?’ Mr Hobbs studied the clipping, shook his head, passed it to his wife.

‘No,’ she said. She handed it back to me. ‘Should we?’

‘I thought you might,’ I began. ‘She came to me recently. She wanted me to trace a missing person. You’re sure you’ve never met her, seen her locally perhaps?’

‘No,’ they spoke in unison.

‘Why did you think we’d know her?’ asked Mr Hobbs.

I took a breath. ‘She wanted me to find Martin, your son.’ Mrs Hobbs gasped, glanced at her husband. He sat very still.

‘I’m afraid Martin isn’t here,’ he said. He fiddled with the buckle on his watch strap. ‘He’s in hospital. You see, he’s…erm, he’s been diagnosed as schizophrenic.’ He spoke calmly, with just the right impression of restrained grief.

‘No, he isn’t,’ I said. ‘Martin left home. He’s living in Manchester.’

‘Rubbish,’ Mr Hobbs blurted out. He’d gone very pale. His wife blinked rapidly.

‘I talked to him last week.’

‘How is he?’ Mrs Hobbs said. I turned to answer her. She lowered her gaze, as if ashamed of asking.

‘Hard to tell…’

Mr Hobbs interrupted. His voice under control, reasonable. ‘We don’t know who this woman is, so we can’t really help you, I’m afraid.’ He began to rise.

‘What puzzles me,’ I said, ‘is why she was looking for Martin? If she’s not a relative, a family friend?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’ he said.

‘I would. But she’s dead, you see. She was murdered last week. Janice Brookes, her name was. It was in all the papers.’

‘Oh God.’ Mrs Hobbs pressed her knuckles to her mouth. I couldn’t tell whether my bald announcement of the murder had provoked that, or whether the name meant something to her.

‘We were away,’ he said.

‘Does the name mean anything to you?’ I addressed my question to Mrs Hobbs. She didn’t respond.

‘My wife’s upset. I think you’d better go.’ A muscle in his jaw twitched repeatedly.

‘I know why Martin left home,’ I said.

Mr Hobbs gave a wan smile. ‘Do you now? That’s more than either of us know.’ He looked over at Mrs Hobbs. She sat staring at the carpet.

‘Sexual abuse,’ I said baldly. ‘You were abusing him.’

He gave me a look of incredulity. ‘What?’ He looked appalled.

‘You heard.’

‘Of all the…! The boy’s a congenital liar, always was. Living in cloud bloody cuckoo-land. You can’t believe a thing he says. It’s attention-seeking, that’s all. If you believe that claptrap…’

‘Oh, I believe it.’ I looked him in the eye. He sat back in his chair. Shook his head in disbelief.

‘Get out,’ he said. ‘Get out of my house.’

I stood up. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Hobbs.’ She didn’t respond. I left her frozen in position, her eyes unfocused, knuckles pressed tight against her mouth. If she didn’t react to or acknowledge the situation, maybe it wasn’t happening. Like someone in shock.

I was shaking. Took a few deep breaths in the car. My palms were clammy, my shoulder ached. I’d half-expected the outright denial I’d got. What was odd was that they didn’t seem to have an inkling of curiosity about why Janice Brookes was looking for Martin. Was that just indifference, not wanting to have anything to do with Martin, or did they know something I didn’t? I was pretty sure they were genuine about not recognising the photograph, but what about the name? Maybe Martin had talked about her, perhaps she’d rung the house.

I called at Tesco’s on the way to collect Maddie from school. I’d not made a list, but I knew we needed virtually everything. I couldn’t shake the picture of Mrs Hobbs from my mind, as I loaded the trolley. Beans, tomatoes, kidney beans. She was his mother. She instinctively asked how he was. She loved him. Vermicelli, pizza bases, rice. Yet she thought him a liar, all those years ago, when he’d tried to tell her what Dad was doing to him. Weetabix, Krispies. Then I come crashing in, a stranger, and I believe Martin. Was she still sitting now, petrified? Was he talking her round, swearing to his innocence?

If Maddie told me Ray was messing with her, how would I react? Disbelief, yes, because I wouldn’t want it to be true. But I’d try to hide that from Maddie. I’d heard enough about abuse to know that children rarely lie about it. And I would act on what she’d told me.

I was still brooding as I waited for Maddie at school. One in ten is the conservative estimate. Three kids in Maddie’s class. I watched them as their names were called and they trotted out, laden with lunch-boxes and art-work. Some of them were tired and maungy, others greeted their parents with smiles and questions. Maddie was maungy. I bent to take her lunch-box and she launched a tantrum. Mouth stretched wide, tears coursing God knows why. I didn’t attempt to find out. It’d only make her worse. We collected Tom. Drove home. I unloaded the shopping. Made a cuppa. Started cooking. The phone rang. It was Harry. ‘Sal, that information you wanted…Smiley?’

‘Yes.’

‘My guy knew of him. He went away back in the ‘seventies, part of a vice bust. Seems they were into a bit of everything – porn, drugs. There was a big undercover operation. The police did very well. Now, your bloke only did two years. Co-operated with the police, as they say.’

‘That’s why he got cut up?’

‘That’s right. Word is he’s a bit of a fixer. Someone wants something, he puts them in touch with the right people. He’s not been back inside since then. Tends to work on his own. The criminal fraternity don’t exactly trust him.’

‘Anything more specific; what he might be involved in at the moment?’

‘No, I did ask. The man reckons it can’t be anything big or he’d have heard about him. You can rule him out of the main drug cartels, anything like that. But he’s likely to be dealing in that sort of area; prostitution, drugs. He hasn’t taken up art-theft or cat-burglary, or so my source tells me.’ Harry dramatised his use of words. I laughed.

‘Any use?’ he asked.

‘Not really. Still, thanks anyway.’

‘Pleasure. Now, I must go. The kids are beating shit out of each other.’

‘Thanks, Harry.’ Nice man.

Martin’s letter was still in my bag. A letter from a dead woman. I wanted rid. Saturday seemed as good a day as any to deliver it. It was with some foreboding that I set off to the house in Cheadle. After all, it could have been the scene of a murder. But, presumably, the police would have made their enquiries by now. Found out whether Janice Brookes had called there the previous Sunday. Whether she’d left there alive. If anyone was a likely suspect. Like Martin. Maybe her connection with him was a threat to his new life. Or maybe she was part of it. Whatever ‘it’ was. Max had talked about Martin losing control, that time in the playground. Dragged away before he beat the guy to death. It made my skin crawl. If not Martin, there was his ‘friend’. The man who’d come looking for him at Barney’s. He’d struck me as cold, domineering – but a killer? There hadn’t been anything in the paper about it. No small paragraph stating that a man was helping police with their enquiries. That helped a bit.