Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

He ignored me. ‘Clive’s taken them to the park; Digger too.’

‘Clive has!’ Clive had never taken the kids anywhere.

‘He’s got a woman with him. I think he’s trying to impress her with his caring male persona.’

‘Bloody typical.’

‘Have you said anything to him?’ Ray asked.

‘No, I haven’t had a chance.’ It came out defensively. ‘Can’t you do it? Just tell him we want a meeting.’

Our conversation was interrupted by the party’s arrival back from the park. Clive disappeared upstairs with his friend. I entertained the kids while Ray cooked. The smell of real minestrone began to permeate the house.

The doorbell rang. The kids ran to get it, chanting ‘Nana Tello, Nana Tello.’ I gritted my teeth. We always seemed to rub each other up the wrong way.

She bustled in, chiding Maddie for shouting and stooping to rub Tom’s face with her hanky.

‘Sal,’ she said, ‘you look tired. You getting enough iron? Liver. You need liver for the blood. When Raymond was little, I ate liver twice a week. You should try it. Now, where is that boy?’ She sailed past me into the kitchen. I trailed after her like a sulky teenager. The woman infuriated me. She was bossy, brusque, insensitive, manipulative. And I felt guilty for feeling so unsisterly.

She regarded me as the major obstacle to Ray settling down with a nice Catholic girl. I don’t think she believed our relationship was platonic. Once in a while, I made a renewed effort to call a truce with her, to find some common ground, to talk to her like I would any other woman. But we always ended up behaving like stereotypes, overbearing mother and bolshie daughter.

I survived the meal without rising to any of the jibes that came my way. I drank lots of red wine. Ray drove her home. I got the kids to bed and opened another bottle of wine. Ray came in and flung himself on the sofa.

‘Mothers,’ I said. ‘More wine? Do you think Tom and Maddie will feel like this about us one day? I’m regarding you as a surrogate mother for the purpose of the discussion.’

‘Don’t they already?’

The phone rang. I heaved myself out of the chair to answer it. It was Mrs Hobbs. The real Mrs Hobbs. She wanted to see me. I had an unnerving flash of déjà-vu. I’d been here before. And I didn’t fancy a re-run.

‘Why did you want to see me?’ My question jerked her attention away from the cup of coffee she was stirring. She darted a glance up at me, blinked rapidly and ducked again. We were sitting in the cafe at the Royal Exchange Theatre. It was all very civilised. We’d already been through the banalities of queuing for coffee, choosing a table, settling in.

‘Martin,’ she said quietly. ‘You said you’d spoken to him. Was he really alright?’

I cut her off, ‘Why?’

‘What?’ Her brow creased.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘He’s my son. I…’ Her eyes filled up. She pressed her mouth shut. Fought to keep control.

‘Martin doesn’t want any contact with you.’

She let her breath out in a shudder. ‘The things you said,’ she faltered. ‘This is very hard for me…I can’t believe…Keith would never. There must have been some terrible misunderstanding.’

‘You still don’t believe Martin.’

She didn’t reply.

‘Whose idea was it to tell the neighbours Martin was ill?’

‘There’d been a terrible scene. I wasn’t there, but Martin, he’d…he’d threatened Keith with a knife. He’d always been a bit moody, shy…but never violent. Keith was very angry, very, very angry. He’s got heart trouble…it could’ve…’ She shook her head at the thought. ‘Martin had stormed off. Said he was never coming back. Keith said it was best to leave it be. No point in dragging the police into it all. It was difficult to know what to say to people…’

‘It could have been rather awkward for your husband if the police had been involved. After all, Martin might have spilled the beans. I think that’s why your husband was so keen on the hospital story.’

She shook her head. I wasn’t giving her the reassurance she wanted. ‘Please, just tell me he’s alright. I’ve been out of my mind with worry. Is he living in Manchester?’

‘I don’t know. I saw him briefly. He was upset, angry. I didn’t find out where he was living.’

‘Did he say anything about me?’ she asked.

I stalled, wondering what to say.

‘What did he say? Tell me. What did he say?’

I took a breath. ‘He thought you’d hired me to find him. He said you’d never cared before.’

‘That’s just not…’ She pressed her lips tight together, but the tears still coursed down her cheeks. ‘It’s not…’ Her voice rose in pitch, then she broke off.

‘Mrs Hobbs, I have to ask you this. The woman I talked about – Janice Brookes…’ But she’d already lurched to her feet, rocking the table, spilling the coffee. I let her go. I could hardly force her to stay, to talk. She pushed her way through the crowd. I lost sight of her.

I felt lousy. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her what Martin had said. It was pretty brutal, after all. But then maybe it would help her to believe Martin’s version of events. Ignoring the curious glances of other patrons, I shook coffee off my jacket, rubbed my trousers with a hanky, stuffed it in my pocket and left.

I walked back to Victoria train station where I’d left the car. The day hadn’t started too well. I ran through the possibilities for the rest of it. Go home and be domestic? Plenty to do, but then Clive might be hanging around. I wanted Ray to be the one to tell Clive we needed to meet. Not just because I shrank from the task, but also because I was sick of being the one to initiate that sort of thing. It was time for Ray to take his turn. Not home then. What else? I could tire myself out, window-shopping in town. Gaze at all the lovely summer clothes that Maddie and I would have to manage without. Yeah, great. End up exhausted and envious.

I got in the Mini and took the road down to Strangeways, past Boddingtons brewery near the prison and through Salford, to join the motorway to Bolton. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I’d already shattered one mother’s day and this would be even trickier. I had a whole heap of questions for Mrs Brookes, Janice’s mother, but the main one concerned Martin. Why had Janice wanted to find him?

Sheila Hobbs had lost her son. Mrs Brookes had lost her daughter. Martin Hobbs had run away. Janice Brookes had run after him. And been killed.

Why? I hadn’t the faintest idea.

The hamlet outside Bolton was shrouded in an unseasonal mist. The sky was grey and leaden. No point in stopping to admire the view. The black Datsun was still there. The woman who’d driven it was probably a neighbour, then.

I mounted the steep steps, in-between walls spilling aubretia and alyssum. I rang the bell.

The black woman who’d accompanied Mrs Brookes to the inquest opened the door. Whoops. Was this her house? Did Mrs Brookes live next door? Up close, she was younger than I’d thought. She wore her hair pulled tightly into a top-knot. Sloppy T-shirt, cycling shorts.

‘Hello, I’m looking for Mrs Brookes.’

She frowned. Suspicion in her eyes. ‘Who?’

‘Mrs Brookes. Janice’s mother.’

I caught a flash of anger. ‘You from the papers?’ She moved towards me, blocking the door.

‘No, no. I knew Janice. I wanted to talk to her mother, if she’s in.’

‘She doesn’t live here.’ She was very cagey. I felt as though I was making a right fool of myself. Admit it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I must have made a stupid mistake. If you could just give me the right address?’ She stared.