Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

I asked her whether she knew who the father was.

‘Yes. Edward Mullins.’ She screwed her face up into a grimace. ‘Right waste of space, he was. Janice was working in his shop. He flattered her – he could turn on the charm. She caught first time. She never told him. Tell me about Martin.’

The question took me by surprise. Though he was her grandson…I described the shy schoolboy, with his love of fishing, and the distraught young man I’d talked to at the nightclub. It wasn’t a particularly rosy portrait. I showed her the pictures that Janice had left with me.

‘She never showed me these; probably thought I wouldn’t approve,’ she said regretfully. ‘He’s got a look of her, in the smile.’

‘Why didn’t she tell me what her real relationship to Martin was?’ I asked. ‘Why all the pretence? After all, she’d used a private eye to trace him before.’

‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘Maybe the fact that she wanted to make contact this time. It is illegal, isn’t it?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Janice probably thought it was. You still have the letter she wrote him?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to find out if Martin is still staying in Cheadle. If he is, I’ll try and deliver it. The man who owns the house denies ever having met him.’

‘If Janice told Martin who she really was, if he was upset anyway…you say he had these outbursts…’

The question, though unspoken, was clear. ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t a violent boy; there’s only been the odd occasion. It’s not…’

‘It would explain why he’s missing,’ she insisted.

I didn’t reply. She needed to consider the worst possible version of events, a sort of protection policy. Nothing could be worse, could it, than discovering that Martin had murdered his mother?

‘You’ll ask him, won’t you, if you find him?’

‘The police have made it clear I’m not…’

‘I don’t give a damn about the police.’ She reined in her anger, keeping her voice low, but her eyes flashed. ‘My daughter’s dead and there’s some sort of connection with Martin Hobbs. He must know something. Even if she never got to the house, that tells us something…’

I wasn’t going to start asking about Janice’s murder. I just wanted to find Martin and give him the letter. Finish. Anything else was beyond me. ‘I’ve told the police most of this; they’ll have interviewed anyone…’

‘I’m not asking the police’ she was exasperated with me, stood up and marched over to the fireplace, ‘I’m asking you. If it’s a question of money, I’ll pay whatever it takes.’

‘It’s not, it’s not money…’ What could I say? I’m scared. I’m a coward. Someone killed your daughter and they might do the same to me. I sighed and looked

over at Mrs Williams. She stood, head up, waiting for my answer. It was a foregone conclusion. ‘Alright, if I find Martin and if I get the chance, I’ll see whether he knows anything about Janice. And if other information comes my way, I’ll let you know; but that’s it. I haven’t the resources or the authority to take it as far as the police can. And if they hear about this – you’ve employed me. It wasn’t my idea.’

‘Fair enough.’ I saw her shoulders relax. The clock on the mantelpiece had traced the afternoon round. I had to go. She saw me to the door.

‘When you find him…’

‘If I find him.’

‘Yes, if it’s alright, if you don’t think he’s…’ she paused, searching for a word other than guilty ‘…involved, will you tell him I’m here, if he ever needs anybody, if he wants to know about her?’

I nodded, struggling again with sudden tears, impressed by her dignity and generosity.

Mrs Williams stood on the doorstep, watching, while I got in the car. She waved once and disappeared into the house.

I started back for Manchester.

I’d agreed to do more than I wanted and that promise sat like a stone in my stomach. Why couldn’t I have said no? Admitted my fears and inadequacies? Just said no.

Because you feel guilty, you feel responsible for Janice and you feel you owe her mother.

I sighed and hit the accelerator. I just wanted to get home.

I walked in on mayhem. Maddie, her face red with rage, was screaming at Ray, who was on his knees trying to mop up a pool of stuff that looked like cooking oil. Tom was standing on a chair at the kitchen table doing something creative with salt, ketchup and milk.

I’d hoped for a little attention myself when I got back. Some idiot had cut straight across me, where the motorways merged, on the way back into Salford and Manchester. One of those get-in-lane-quick spots. I’d practically done an emergency stop to avoid him. If there’d been anyone close behind me…I say ‘him’; I was too busy watching my life pass before my eyes to take note of the driver, or even the make of car, but I assume it was a man. I’ve never yet been in a car with a woman who drives like a maniac.

By the time I reached home, the shakes had subsided and I’d run through my gamut of revenge fantasies. It looked like tea and sympathy was off.

‘For Christ’s sake, Maddie, shut up or go somewhere else and make that noise. I’ve had enough.’ Ray’s outburst was heartfelt. And harsh enough to make me wince and Maddie draw breath. For a split second, I wanted to defend her, criticise Ray for his lousy handling of the situation. The moment passed. I’d been there myself, many times, at the end of my tether, running out of tactics and lashing out with my tongue. But I felt dispirited all the same. Why was it so hard to be the parents we wanted to be? Humane, mature – giving our children respect and dignity. Wasn’t the verbal slap, the belittling comment, part of the same continuum that also dished out beatings and child rape?

I moved over and disengaged Tom from his collage, hoisted him onto my hip, took Maddie by the hand.

‘Come on, you two, let’s go to the shop.’

‘Can we get sweets?’ Maddie’s voice rose in hope. Ray shot me a look.

‘No. We’re going to get a drink for Ray and then we’ll come back and help clean up.’

‘Shoes,’ demanded Tom.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. I carried him piggy-back and took Maddie’s hand. Mr Mohammad at the corner shop knew us well enough to make a joke about the grimy, tear-stained faces of the kids. I bought cheap white wine and lager from the fridge and a bag of Hula-hoops each for them. If it didn’t have sugar in it, it wasn’t really a bribe.

As I waited for my change, a ripple of fatigue washed through me, tangible enough to make me steady myself on the counter. My back ached, not just from the drive or carrying Tom, but my period was due. Self-pity. I went with the flow. Saw myself throwing in the towel, giving in to the pressures. Walking out of the shop, leaving the children there, leaving Ray to his floor, giving up on the case, crawling to my bed. I reined in the fantasy, disturbed at how shaky I felt. The revelations of the afternoon had upset me more than I’d realised and I was shattered. I picked up the shopping, pulled myself together and carried on coping.

I helped myself to beans on toast and tea. Ray had calmed down a lot, but there was still an edge to his voice as he took the children up to get ready for bed. I fought the impulse to make a martyr of myself and offer to do bedtime. I wandered out to the garden, watered the tubs and the window-boxes. Digger was out there, sprawled under the table. He raised an eyelid in answer to my greeting, then lowered it again.

When I could tell the children were out of the bath, I went up to say goodnight and then retreated to the bath myself. I ran it up to the overflow, covered my face with a flannel and steeped. Fragments of the afternoon came and went; Mrs Williams’ face, attractive, mobile, listening, smiling, crumpling with grief. I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to go to bed.