Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

I’d been hoping to hear from Inspector Miller. Surely he’d take my allegations a bit more seriously, now I’d been duffed up? I suppose he was busy making the case against Derek Carlton; a minor assault like mine would be low on the list. And it wasn’t actually Smiley who’d jumped me. It still seemed grossly unfair that Smiley had sent his dog-men after me without even waiting to see if I’d heeded his warning. I guess I expected even villains to play by some sort of rules. Naive.

My mind turned from work to money. The lack of it. If Ray was right about Clive’s debts, then I needed to up my production level. Get more work. My stomach lurched. Work. I should’ve been at the electrical goods shop, seeing the man about suspected pilfering. Shit. I tried to ring and got the ansaphone. Left a grovelling apology and begged him to contact me again if he thought we could do business. Kept it vague enough so it wouldn’t alert any potential pilferers to the nature of my job. Pilfering always smacks of missing biros and envelopes, but this bloke’s losses were running into hundreds a month; microwaves and VCRs going walkies.

Oh, well. My advert would be in at the end of the week. Maybe now was a good time to reapply for Housing Benefit. Given the paltry level of income over the last few weeks, I’d probably qualify again. Or should I go for family credit? I couldn’t get both, and family credit meant free prescriptions and dental care. I didn’t want to wallow in my poverty. It was time to start thinking positive and looking ahead. I could follow up the ad in the paper with a few cards in shop windows.

The trouble was, I was still holding onto the letter to Martin Hobbs, an obligation hanging round my neck like an albatross. What could I do now? He hadn’t come to the door when I’d called last time. There’d definitely been someone there, radio playing, water running. I needed some proof he was there, then perhaps I could send the letter by recorded delivery. Make a copy for safekeeping? It was time to do some muck-raking.

I rang Nina.

‘What’s with the garbage, Sal?’

‘Sorry. I thought if I went through it I might be able to tell if Martin was staying there. You know, different cigarette packets, frozen dinners for two, maybe even correspondence to Martin. If you could just hang on to it for a while?’

‘How long is a while? If the weather gets any warmer it is not going to be very pleasant.’

‘I know. It’s just that I’ve had…’ what would Ray have said ‘…a bit of bad luck.’

‘So I hear. Your husband said you were mugged.’

‘He’s not my husband.’

‘Well, that’s stupid. If he dies, you have a whole heap of legal trouble to prove you should get the house and…’

‘No, you don’t understand. We just live together, we’re not having a relationship.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. So, are you hurt?’

‘Bit shaken up, cuts and bruises.’

‘Mmm.’ I knew she wanted the bin-bags shifting, but no way was I going off to oblige until I was capable.

‘Actually, half the rubbish is yours. I just grabbed everything near the gates. So you could work out which is which and chuck that.’

‘And go through the rest, while I’m at it?’

‘No, I wasn’t suggesting…’

‘But that would be quicker than waiting for you to do it.’

‘Well,’ she was right, ‘yes.’

‘Right. So what you want is anything that points to who is living next door, particularly anything suggesting our missing teenager?’

‘Yeah. If you can bear it.’

‘I’ll let you know,’ she said dryly and rang off.

Diane came round that evening with a litre of red wine and a bag of black olives, done Provencal-style with herbs. She was sporting a lovely midnight-blue tunic with a meandering cream and gold print on it (one of hers) and had earrings to match, but she looked tense round the eyes and her laughter was a mite too hearty. We adjourned to my room, away from interruptions, and settled into the easy chairs by the bay window. With the curtain open, we could see the sunset ripple day-glo colours in and out of the scattered clouds.

I told Diane the gist of what had happened before she found me on the pavement and recounted to her my recent escapades trying to reach Martin Hobbs. She liked the bit about the wig. She was convinced that Fraser and Eddie Kenton were probably using Martin to make porno movies.

‘Well, that would explain why they were both so hostile to my visits,’ I said. ‘I know Kenton’s walked that way before but Fraser doesn’t strike me as a porno merchant. He’s no need of the money and he’s so…starchy.’

‘Maybe that’s how he relaxes.’ She raised her eyebrows at me.

‘Well, it’s all supposition and it’s nothing to do with me, especially now they’ve got someone for Janice’s death. I need work I’ll get paid for.’

I didn’t want to talk about me all night. ‘Barcelona,’ I said.

She screwed up her face and puffed out her cheeks.

‘Come on, all the grisly details.’

‘Oh, Sal, it was a disaster from start to finish. I had my bag nicked the first afternoon and Ben went on about how careless I’d been with it, then I started with cystitis, awful, I was pissing blood…’

‘Wait,’ I shrieked. ‘Start at the very beginning, don’t miss anything out. The airport…’

‘Okay,’ she filled our glasses and took a swig, ‘the airport.’

The practical cock-ups of the holiday had become funnier with the passing of time but when she got to the part where she and Ben discussed ending the relationship, she came over all tearful and I could see how raw the wounds still were. I went and put my arms round her. When she’d finished crying, I passed her the box of tissues and refilled her glass.

‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ I said, ‘not turning up and not phoning. It honestly just went right out of my head. You’re really important to me, you know. I don’t want to mess you about.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ she said. ‘You’ll set me off again.’

I grinned, chewed on an olive.

‘Has my mascara run?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

She stood up and went over to the mirror, used tissue and cream to wipe away the navy streaks. ‘The trouble is,’ she said, ‘it’s always the same. The relationship starts off brilliantly and goes downhill from there on in. And they always want more, they want to take over, they want me cooking tea every night, they want marriage or babies. I thought men were supposed to be scared of commitment. I just keep thinking it’s always going to be like this, always.’ Her voice started getting squeaky. ‘And I don’t think I can bear it.’ She crumpled again. I went and hugged her again. Tears tickled my own nose in sympathy.

We drank more wine, ate more olives. I told Diane about my clashes with Nana Tello. She told me about her work – her latest commission was going well. Her eyes sparkled as she talked about it and she waved her arms about in big sweeping gestures. By the time we’d emptied the bottle, our friendship was back on line.

I saw her out and waited on the back steps while she unlocked her bike.

‘And remember,’ she said, as she snapped on her lights, ‘next time, there’s no need to go battering your head on the pavement – an apology will do fine. Talk about attention-seeking!’

Friday was Manchester weather. Endless soaking rain that fell from thick, steely skies. I’d slept well till nine, waking refreshed, and the sight from my window didn’t have me diving back to bed.

I was ravenous but I wanted a treat for breakfast. Something to welcome myself back to the world. There was a fiver in my purse. I drove to the health food shop and bought a Greek-style Bio yoghurt and some nuts. In the greengrocers next door I bought a selection of fruit and a bunch of lilies. Back home, I stuck the lilies in water and put them on the kitchen table. Then I sliced up some banana, apple and grapes, mixed them with the thick, creamy yoghurt, poured honey over that and a sprinkling of nuts. The final touch was a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Serious pleasure.