Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

‘Or her sister,’ I carried on. ‘Do you know where she lives?’

‘I’m her sister.’

‘Oh. God.’ That threw me completely. ‘Look, I’m sorry…about Janice. I didn’t realise…’

The look in her eyes told me that she’d been here countless times before. Watching people grapple with the surprise; black woman, white woman – sisters.

‘Half-sister,’ she said. ‘You were at the inquest, weren’t you? What’s this all about? How did you know Janice?’

‘I was working for her before she died.’

‘Working for her?’ It was her turn to be surprised.

‘Yes.’ I decided to be bold. ‘Can I come in and explain?’

She moved aside, by way of reply, and led me along the narrow hallway into the small back room. A young boy lounged on a bean bag, gazing at Sesame Street. ‘Alex,’ the woman said. ‘Upstairs.’

‘But Mama…’

‘Now.’ She didn’t need to raise her voice. He knew she meant it and disappeared.

We sat either side of the table below the window. Through the nets I could see the backyard, neat and tidy, and beyond, the sweep of hills.

‘What d’you mean, you were working for Janice?’

I explained. I didn’t go into much detail. I wanted to see what her reaction was. She didn’t give much away. There was a slight frown creasing her forehead, but her deep brown eyes were sharp. Regarding me steadily.

‘And that’s it,’ I finished. ‘I’ve spoken to the police, told them there may be a connection between Janice’s murder and her search for Martin Hobbs. But I’ve no idea why she wanted to find the boy. Why she pretended to be his mother.’

‘What did the police say?’

‘Not a lot.’ I shrugged. ‘ Said they’d look into it. Thought I had a lively imagination. They also said…’ I hesitated. She tilted her head to one side, waiting, I didn’t want to offend her. ‘Well, they said Janice had been ill, mentally ill. That could have been why she acted like she was someone else.’

‘She did get ill, but she never forgot who she was.’

‘Did she ever talk to you about Martin? Did you know him?’

‘No.’ She got up from the table and went into the tiny kitchen, filled the kettle. Came back and leant on the door jamb. ‘But then I wouldn’t. Janice had left home by the time I was seven. She came back a couple of times. When things got really bad. But we were never close. Tea, coffee?’

‘Tea, please. Was she ever in trouble with the police, with drugs or anything like that?’

‘Janice! Bloody hell, no. You met her, didn’t you?’

I nodded. She was right. It was hard to imagine.

‘She couldn’t even tell lies, Janice.’

‘She lied to me.’

‘Yeah, well.’ She came through with the drinks. ‘So you’re not called Brookes?’ I checked. ‘Nope. Mitchell. Natalie Mitchell. I’m married now. Was Williams. That was my dad’s name.’ He was dead then.

‘And your mother’s?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So,’ she took a sip of coffee, ‘you reckon this Martin Hobbs might have killed Janice?’

‘No, no…’ I lowered my mug with a clunk. ‘It’s just…’ Just what? I had thought of the possibility. But I didn’t like it. The Martin I’d met was messed up, vulnerable, frightened but he wasn’t a murderer, was he? He had been violent though. The time in the playground that Max had told me about. And he’d gone for his father with a knife. If Janice had some hold over Martin, if she posed some threat…

‘Look, I don’t know. I just think there could be a link. When she spoke to me, she was all for chasing after him. The next morning, the place she was found, it’s not far from where he was staying…’ I sighed. Took a drink. ‘Had you seen Janice recently?’

‘Not since Christmas. We all met up at Mum’s. That’s the only time we ever saw each other.’ There was a trace of regret in her voice.

‘I would like to talk to your mother, if you could give me her address.’

‘She might not want to see you. She’s still very upset. She’s had the police round, and the papers. I’d have to ask her first.’

‘Okay.’ I was hoping she might ring there and then but she made no move. ‘When will you be able to let me know?’

‘I’ll ring her tonight. See what she says.’ She stood up. I fished out a card and gave it to her.

‘Did she owe you any money?’

The question startled me. Then I blushed. ‘No. We settled it the last time she called.’

‘I just don’t want Mum worried with stuff like that.’ She led me out of the room and into the hallway.

‘I don’t work like that,’ I said, angry that she suspected me of chasing unpaid bills. ‘No-one’s paying me to do this – I just want to know what was going on.’

‘Yeah. So do I.’

It was like a game of May-I. There I was getting fairy steps, when what I really needed was a couple of giant leaps. Least I seemed to be heading in the right direction. Away from deception and towards the truth. I’d traced Janice’s sister – someone who actually knew her, though she’d not been much help in solving the mystery. It was over three weeks since her half-sister had sat in my office, asking me to look for her runaway child. June had rolled into July. Janice Brookes hadn’t made it that far. I hoped her mother would agree to talk to me.

At home, the post was on the table. Top of the pile, a bill for me, a prancing logo, final reminder from British Telecom. Shit.

I’d just slammed it down, when Clive strolled in. ‘Greetings.’

‘Clive, have you seen this bill? Final reminder. We’ve got to pay it now.’ I tried to keep my voice level and practical.

‘Aahh,’ Clive said. ‘I should be getting some cash next week.’

‘They’ll have cut us off by then.’

He tutted. ‘How much is it? My share, I mean.’

‘Yours is the lion’s share.’

‘How come?’

‘Long distance calls, eight of them. You owe about sixty quid.’

‘Sixty! I can’t pay that.’

‘Well, you should have thought of that before you made the calls.’ I was beginning to sound frayed.

‘I didn’t make those calls.’ I could see the lie in the set of his mouth.

‘Oh, come on.’

‘I didn’t, really Sal.’ He was blinking a lot. Did he think that implied honesty or something? ‘They’ve made a mistake. You should ring them up and tell them.’

‘You ring them up. And what about when you called your father in Milan and that friend in Washington?’

‘That’s only two. I never made eight calls. Maybe it’s the kids, messing with it.’ I wanted to brain him.

‘Why the hell should I pay your bills? You already owe the rent and the gas, which we’ve had to pay. I’ve got an overdraft too, you know. I don’t earn much more then you.’

‘God,’ he sneered, ‘you’re so materialistic. It’s all you care about, isn’t it, money?’ And he bounded upstairs.

Someone would have to pay the bill. Re-connection charges were punitive and the thought of being cut off made me anxious. It was the phone that had alerted people when I’d been attacked here. I hadn’t answered it. He wouldn’t let me. And that had caused enough alarm to bring help.

I’d pay the bill.

I wrote the cheque then and there, knowing I’d be well overdrawn once it was cleared. I could post it first thing. I’d tackled Clive over that – one credit to me. So Ray

could set up the meeting with Clive. It was his turn.

Materialistic indeed!

I didn’t hear from Natalie Mitchell till late the following day. I thought it was her when the phone rang mid-morning. I was wrong. But it was work. The sort of

straight-forward request that puts food on the table or helps pay the phone bill. Another erring spouse. A woman this time. The husband asked if I’d furnish