Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

I heard the ambulance approach at the same time as its headlights swept across the ceiling. I ran down to open the door.

The man at the door was young and bearded. He followed me upstairs, knelt by Nina, took her pulse, raised an eyelid and went back down to relay instructions to his mate. I hovered, waiting for them to come back upstairs. They brought a stretcher and blanket. While the older man sorted out the equipment, the bearded one talked to me.

‘We’ll take her into Detox. She done it before?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Will she be alright?’

He nodded. ‘She’ll be alright – more than I can say for her liver. She not taken pills or ‘owt?’

‘I don’t think so.’ I glanced round. I hadn’t seen any small tablet bottles. ‘Which hospital?’

‘The Infirmary. You her next of kin?’

‘No.’

‘Neighbour?’

‘No, I just met her.’

‘Tonight?’ He was puzzled.

‘Recently. She rang me tonight.’

The other man grunted gently as he eased Nina onto the stretcher.

‘You coming to the hospital? We could do with a few details and that.’

‘No, I can’t.’ I found a pen and tore a blank page from my diary. Wrote down Nina’s name, my own and my phone number.

‘You won’t know her N.H.S. number then?’ said the man, adjusting the buckles on the stretcher.

‘No.’ Stupid question.

‘She’s probably BUPA, furious when she wakes up on the ward.’ He cackled.

When they’d gone, I stood in the hallway. I wanted to go home. I wanted a stiff drink, a long sleep, to give in to the fatigue. But there was a broken window to sort out. I rummaged round the storeroom itself but there weren’t any tools there. I’d noticed another door tucked under the stairs, so I tried that. It was unlocked. Stairs led down to a basement room. It was kitted out like a DIY. catalogue. Shiny tools hung neatly in rows. Nails and screws were stacked in boxes, graded by size. Sheets and lengths of wood stood to attention in one corner. No off-cuts, no sawdust. I doubt whether any of it had been touched since they’d bought it. Well, dusted maybe.

I found a bit of plywood that I thought was about the right size, selected nails and hammer. It didn’t take long to hammer it over the frame outside. I hurried, in my anxiety to get away. It was a bodged job but at least the hole was covered up. Back inside, I wrote a note in case there were any callers (cleaner, close friends or even Jack back sooner than expected). I left it by the hall phone. There were a bunch of keys there and they fit the front door. I went out and locked up. Stood for a moment, just breathing in the warm night air, a faint trace of night scented stock in it. Heard a tawny owl ‘kerwic’.

Fang was still barking intermittently. He might need food and water but I wasn’t going to go anywhere near the animal. Bloody dogs.

I got in the Mini and drove to the bottom of Nina’s drive. There I stopped. I hadn’t planned it but it seemed the right thing to do. I slipped a felt pen in my pocket and slid out of the car. Walked quickly round to Fraser’s gates and through them into the shrubberies at the side of the drive. I wove through the rhododendrons and camellias till I reached the lawn that surrounded the forecourt. There were four cars and a minibus parked there. I wrote down the registration numbers on my forearm with the pen. Then I retraced my steps. Who was calling on Fraser tonight? Unfortunately, I don’t have a direct line to the police computer but there was one name I could fill in anyway. One of the four cars was a white Mercedes. So, was Eddie Kenton there for business or pleasure?

I had a rush of elation once I was homeward-bound. I fished out an Otis Redding tape and stuck it on. Joined in with a vengeance. All the fears I’d been sitting on since Nina had rung could be faced now. Nina was alive. She hadn’t been attacked. There was no big conspiracy; I hadn’t had to find another corpse, just a dead drunk, and I was so grateful to her. I sang along to ‘Try A Little Tenderness’.

Half-way home, I remembered Diane. My stomach plummeted. I should have been there hours ago.

‘Diane, it’s Sal, I’m so sorry. I got a phone call from this woman. She’d drunk herself unconscious – not when she rang me, but nearly – and…’

‘Sal, spare me the sordid details. You could have bloody well rung me.’

‘But…yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t think.’

‘I know.’

I squirmed at the chill in her voice.

‘I don’t need this, Sal, not on top of everything else. It’s not fair. If you can’t make the time, I’d rather you came out and said so. I need someone I can rely on.’

‘I could come now.’

‘And regale me with stories about your adventures tonight? No thanks.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what else I can say.’ Silence. ‘Diane?’

‘Goodnight.’ She rang off.

I smarted with the injustice of it. Did she really think I was so shallow? Was it just her depression talking? My fists were clenched. I couldn’t keep still. No way was I going to sleep, in this state. I wanted to run, to hit something, to dance myself senseless. I was full of energy again, dizzy with adrenalin.

I pulled my cycle from the shed and set off down the backstreets. Turned into the park and pedalled fast round the outer paths. I passed a couple of dog-walkers, spotted a huddle of teenagers under the climbing frame in the playground. Caught a whiff of sweet smoke.

At the far side of the park, I joined Platt Lane, a long straight road, not too busy. I pedalled hard, pushing myself as fast as I could. When I reached the end, I took a right. It didn’t much matter where I went. It was the speed I wanted. I kept up the pace. My calves and buttocks clenched with the effort. My chest burned.

I was red, gasping and bathed in sweat when I walked unsteadily into the kitchen.

‘Well,’ said Clive, straightening up from the fridge, ‘just look…’

I was beside him in a trice. ‘Don’t say it, Clive,’ I jabbed my finger at him in warning, ‘just don’t say a fucking word.’

‘What makes wind, Mummy?’

Six-thirty. A host of worries swarmed in on me like parasites. Diane, Nina, Fang. That voice on the phone. Getting out of bed, I felt as though I’d been fed through a mangle. When I tried to bend to put my socks on, the muscles across my lower back screeched in pain. It was a day of picking up pieces. I dropped the kids off and walked round to the Dobson’s. It was ages since I’d been to the office – its new cheap and cheerful look still felt unfamiliar.

I called Stockport Infirmary and found out that Nina Zaleski would be discharged by early afternoon. I asked them to tell her I’d bring clothes and give her a lift home.

I rang Mrs Williams. She was hopping mad, having tried to speak to Miller; she’d been told he was unavailable and had been fobbed off with Sergeant Boyston. ‘He couldn’t tell me a thing,’ she said. ‘He didn’t even seem to understand why I was complaining. I told him I wanted the Inspector to contact me as soon as he’s back.’

As soon as I rang off, the phone bleated at me. I snatched it up, unnerved by the sudden noise. It was work. Bliss. Paid work which would help offset the horrible details in the bank statement that had come that morning.

My client was a worried employer. He ran an electrical goods shop. Someone on the staff was siphoning off stock on a pretty regular basis. I arranged to call and discuss the details on Wednesday afternoon, when the shop was shut.

I spent an hour putting the files from the salvageable pile in order in the cabinet. An old one that I’d created in my first flush of optimism, when I’d started the business on the Enterprise Allowance Scheme, was marked Equipment Guarantees. Inside was my camera warranty, well past the expiry date. I binned that, crossed out the title and wrote VAT in big letters. Surely that would bore the pants off anyone who might come looking? Into it, I put a note of the car numbers I’d copied from my arm, together with a short biography of all the characters connected to the search for Martin Hobbs. For prudence’s sake, I altered names and glossed over details.