Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

I grabbed a tea-towel and swept at the suds on my arm. My head swam a little as I walked over to the table. He was just spreading the paper out so I could see. Janice. Who’d killed Janice? I didn’t want to know. Held my breath as I read, still clutching the tea-towel. My eyes stumbled over words as I searched for the names I half expected. Martin wasn’t there, nor Fraser.

No. The man that police now ‘strongly linked to the brutal slaying of Janice Brookes,’ the man that the police were now awaiting forensic reports on, was an eighteen year old black kid called Derek. Five days ago they’d pulled him from the Mersey, a victim of drug related violence; today, the victim was a murderer, near as damn it, and no comment was being made about whether Derek jumped or whether he was pushed.

I breathed out and sat down. I kept going over the article but it still made little sense. I wanted it all to feel neat and tidy. Leanne had talked about this young man as she leant against the sink; a good mate, she’d said. She’d had to stop to swallow tears. Doing his head in, she’d said that as well.

It wasn’t neat, or tidy. There was no sense of justice in it. And there was one big question that wouldn’t stop echoing in my mind. Why? Why? And behind that lurked the realisation that I’d probably never know that; no-one would.

‘Cos dead boys can’t talk.

I rang Mrs Williams. I needed to talk to someone who was involved – to share my sense of shock and the sadness that lurked behind it, now that a picture of Janice’s murder was emerging.

She sounded fine. I told her I’d seen the news in the paper; that it’d been a complete surprise. I asked whether the police had given her any idea how long it would be for the forensics.

There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘What news?’ Dread in her voice.

I felt my cheeks tighten with embarrassment, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought the police would have been in touch before they talked to the press.’ The bastards. ‘They think they’ve got a suspect, a young man. He was found dead himself, in the river, last week. It doesn’t say much more than that, really; just that they are awaiting forensic reports before they can make a definite statement.’

‘Who’s this man?’

‘He’s called Derek Carlton. He’s eighteen.’ I told her what I knew about Derek; it didn’t take long. She asked me to read out the article. When I’d finished, she was quiet for a moment.

When she did speak, the fury tumbled out. ‘Why didn’t they ring me? It’s only common decency. It’s my daughter they’re talking about. The whole of Manchester is reading it and I didn’t even know…’ Rage choked her words. I bristled in sympathy.

‘Ring Miller,’ I said. ‘It’s out of order, it’s atrocious.’ She was all for it. I wouldn’t have relished being on the receiving end of that call.

We talked a bit more, about the details in the paper, about the implications if Derek was guilty.

‘They’ll be able to release the body now,’ she said. ‘It’s been awful waiting for that, not being able to bury her – like she’s not really gone.’

Before ringing off, I checked that she’d someone to call on if she needed company. Asked her to let me know what Miller said.

Later, as I sorted through a jumble of clean clothes that were stiff from drying in the sun, I began to explore the new picture for myself. If Derek had killed Janice, a pretty good bet, given the way it was splashed all over the front page, then Fraser and Martin were off the hook. All my disturbing fantasies about it happening at that Cheadle house were just the product of an overactive imagination. I could forget it all, bar the letter.

I carried a heap of Tom’s clothes upstairs and put them on his shelves. Across in my room, I got the long white envelope out of my bag. Inside was the letter Janice had left to me in trust for her son. I imagined steaming it open but it was pure fantasy. I was nervous about what might be inside, how it might move me. Besides, I felt guilty enough about Janice’s death, without adding to the burden. I slipped it back into my bag and made my way downstairs for the next armful, wondering what had happened to the clothes basket.

What was the situation if the suspected murderer was dead? Would there be a trial or would it be covered in Janice’s inquest? Who would have to be convinced of Derek’s guilt? Or did his death mean that no hearing about his crime could be held?

What of his death? The paper said preliminary autopsy reports showed that Derek had drowned and that a substantial level of crack cocaine had been found in his bloodstream. It read like suicide or accidental death. No mention anymore of the drug war.

I carried Maddie’s pile upstairs. What would forensics be looking for? Samples of his skin under Janice’s fingernails, hairs in her car? Had there been any sexual assault? The details began to chill me. I pushed that line of thought away.

Okay. Suppose Derek did it, say all the evidence led to Derek Carlton…Why didn’t it make me feel any better? Just ‘cos it hadn’t matched up with my own pet theories, was that why? I’d thought Janice’s death and Martin’s new life were bound up together – she was found near Cheadle, he lived there; must be him or Fraser or a crony. Wrong. It was coincidence, not connection. I said it aloud.

I still wasn’t convinced. Too many loose threads went wandering across, making it impossible to pull Derek and Janice out of the basket without tugging on lots of others. Leanne…she knew JB, now dead; Derek, now dead; Martin…and Smiley had known them all. I was getting tangled.

Fingering Derek for the murder released a swarm of questions. One buzzed louder than the rest, making me shake my head. Why? Over and over again, why? Why would Derek batter Janice Brookes to death?

‘You stupid fucking bitch.’ The words spat hoarsely down the phone were so unexpected, that for a split second I thought I’d misheard.

‘It won’t be paint next time, bitch.’ What on earth did he mean? Was this some crank? Paint what?

‘It’ll be blood. Yours, maybe the kiddies’.’ I saw my office, lilac emulsion, crimson splashes. Outrage rose like bile in my throat. How dare he!

‘Now look here…’

‘Shut it,’ he rapped, ‘and keep your fucking nose out, you got that? Keep your fucking nose out, cunt.’

‘Out of what?’ I screamed into the receiver, but already I could hear the drone of the dialling tone. I put the phone down and sat on the bottom step. My right knee was trembling, a spasm I had no control over. My face was burning. I sat and rocked a little, took ten deep breaths, let them out slowly. Then cramps sent me racing for the toilet.

I found Ray in the cellar. He was carving lengths of wood with some new moulding tools that left fancy edges behind. I sat on the high stool and fingered the curls of wood shavings. Ray looked up.

‘I just got a threatening phone call.’ I told him the gist of it. He blanched, then dull spots of colour rose in his cheeks. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He put down the piece of wood he held and moved round the work-bench to me.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes.’ By the time the word was out, I was bawling like a toddler. Ray pulled my head to his chest, hugged me. I could smell the gingery scent of his sweat, feel the grains of sawdust pitting my cheek. I was glad he was there even though there was that stiffness in his embrace, the embarrassment of bodily contact. I was glad he was there but I really wanted someone else to be holding me tight. As the realisation dawned, it set me off afresh. I wanted my Mum.

So Leanne had told Smiley. Willingly? Eagerly, even? Had she gone trotting off as soon as I’d left or had Smiley come asking again, sensed she was keeping something back, shaken it out of her?