Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

‘Sal,’ Harry sounded surprised, ‘look at this.’ He came out clutching a printout. ‘These names here,’ he pointed, ‘recognise any of them?’

‘Only Mackinlay. Why?’

‘Kenton, Eddie Kenton. It has to be the same guy. You remember Operation Sadie?’

I shook my head.

‘Four, maybe five years back. Big police operation uncovered a pornography network: Holland, Germany and here. Eddie Kenton was the brains behind the Manchester end of things. He was arrested, along with a few others. Lived out in the sticks, Mottram way, built himself a big house up there. He ran a production company; educational films, training and that; did very well out of it. But he also used it to front the porn movies. Eddie’s case never got to court; police had taken short cuts with the warrants that were used. They couldn’t touch him. Of course, he had to clean his act up, lay low for a bit. They probably still keep an eye on him.’

‘What’s he doing on the list?’

‘He’s a director for one of Mackinlay’s firms, Kincoma Products.’

So, maybe Fraser Mackinlay and Martin Hobbs were mixed up with this Kenton character, producing porn movies? It would explain Fraser’s reluctance to talk or let me see Martin. And if JB had discovered that when he’d been asking round the clubs…

‘Here,’ said Harry. ‘Trading out of an industrial unit in Longsight – might be worth a visit.’

‘What do they do?’

‘Ring ‘em up and see,’ Harry smiled. ‘Tell ‘em Sadie sent you.’

I was scrubbing new potatoes when Clive made his appearance. Only two days late. He poked around in the fridge. I don’t know why. He hadn’t put any food in it for over a week. I was quietly pleased that it was empty – I’d just chopped up everything that was left over, for Sunday tea.

‘What a weekend,’ he groaned, ‘started at a rave and then this house party last night – talk about gross! This girl whose house it was…’

‘Woman.’

‘Yeah, well, she’d got this awful music, really naff. And she thought she could dance…God,’ he snorted with derision.

‘Clive, we were supposed to have a meeting on Friday.’

‘This Friday?’

I didn’t believe that incredulous tone for one moment. I nodded.

‘God. Sorry. You have to remind me of these things. Head like a sieve.’ He foraged in the bread bin. Took out the end of the loaf and began slicing it up.

‘So let’s have it tomorrow,’ I said.

He hummed. Spread jam on the bread. Took a mouthful. Chewed it over.

‘Or Tuesday?’ I persisted.

‘Mmm.’ He nodded. ‘Tuesday’s better. Yeah, Tuesday.’ He turned to go.

‘Clive, can you go and get some bread? – we need it for the kids’ sandwiches.’

‘Oh, trouble is, ‘fraid I haven’t any cash…erm…’ He batted his pockets. Grimaced inanely.

I bit the side of my cheek, walked slowly to my bag and fished a pound coin from my purse. Handed it to him. He winked and wheeled away. I wanted to slap him.

The weather broke during the night. The clouds opened. I woke in the early hours to the steady beat of heavy rain. In the distance, cars whooshed like irregular waves. So that was summer done and dusted.

Wrong. Morning brought deep blue skies and enough sun to dry up the pavements before I got out of the house. More like the continent than England. The world smelt glorious, clean and fragrant.

When I got back from school, I cautiously removed my crepe bandage. The swelling had gone completely. The air felt cool round my ankle and I still favoured my other foot, but I no longer needed the bandage.

I phoned Nina Zaleski. I needed to know if the coast was clear so I could deliver Janice Brookes’ letter. I let it ring twenty-five times. No reply. Having waited this long, there was no point in going over there on the off-chance that Fraser was out and Martin was in. I’d wait for word from Nina. Was she out or just out for the count? If Jack had flown out the previous evening she may well have celebrated. I got the impression she had to restrain her boozing when he was home.

If I couldn’t get to Martin, I’d go after Leanne. Tell her it was bad manners to hang up on someone. If I could find her.

It wasn’t difficult. She was asleep in the squat.

I picked my way through the tall weeds, sending puffs of seed-heads floating through the air, I went down the dark steps and turned the door handle. It wasn’t locked. In the sudden darkness I had a flash of déjà-vu; felt again the ripple of fear I’d had here, the dry warmth of JB’s hand taking hold of mine. It faded. I reached the massive room with its crumbling pillars. Walked with my head tilted, straining to hear. Quiet. The room was baking, dry as tinder. Sunbeams spilt through the broken windows and a host of dust motes whirled and pranced.

Up the final stairs to the dim corridor. The stairs cracked and squeaked as I climbed them.

It took a while to rouse her. Plenty of banging produced an irritated ‘Alright!’ from within.

She’d bleached her hair, cut it too. Before, it’d hung limp and mousy; now it was dried-out, a peculiar colour like egg-yolk. Seeing me, she made a swift movement to shut the door. I shoved back.

‘I just want to talk, Leanne.’

‘You’re off your fucking head, coming here.’ We were both still straining away at the door. I could tell I was stronger but I didn’t want to use force to get in.

‘Oh, come on,’ I said.

“S your funeral.’ She let go suddenly and moved back. I lurched forward but regained my balance. Caught a smirk on her face. She wore an outsize black T-shirt, proclaiming something was Naff-naff. She looked tired, older than her thirteen years.

The room stank of dustbin. It was a tip. The green cover had gone from the sofa, revealing tan plastic. Someone had slashed it and gouts of foam stuck out like fungus. Beer cans, take-away trays and papers, cigarette ends littered the carpet and formed little heaps at either end of the sofa and over round the sink. Several of JB’s pictures had fallen off the wall and lay curling on the floor.

On the mattress in the far corner, I could see someone sleeping. A crown of brown hair above the sleeping bag.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Should we talk somewhere else?’

‘Nah. They won’t be up for hours yet.’

Now she’d said it, I could see there were two people, but just one head visible.

‘Are they friends of…?’

‘Can’t keep your fucking nose out, can you? What’ve you come here for?’

I moved over to the table by the windows, pulled out a chair and sat down. I didn’t want a stand-up fight. Leanne leant against the sink.

‘What did Smiley say?’ I asked.

‘I told you, right; he just wanted to know if you’d been round asking questions and that.’ She crossed to the sofa, rummaged in a bag and came back with her cigarettes. She pulled one out and lit it.

‘Did he know my name?’

‘Dunno.’ She inhaled deeply.

‘Well, think about it. When he asked about me, did he describe me or what?’

She sighed and shifted her weight.

‘It’s important to me – I don’t know how much he knows about me. How he found out about me, anything.’

‘He didn’t say your name; just summat like, has anyone been round asking questions, a bird, let him know.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Well, I’m not going to tell him to piss off, am I? Said I’d let him know, if you came.’

A bluebottle landed on the table and began stroking away at a blob of congealed tomato sauce.

‘You going to tell him I came today?’

She shrugged, sucked on her cigarette and cleared her throat.

‘Depends,’ she coughed. ‘If I think he’ll find out, I’d best tell him anyway. I’ve got to watch out for myself, right.’