Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

Silence.

‘Mrs Hobbs?’

Snuffling. ‘I’m sorry. I thought, I hoped…’

I spent a couple of minutes blathering on about how hopeful I was, how lucky we were to get any lead at all, reassuring her that Martin had been fine when last seen, etc. I’d be in touch as soon as I heard anything more. All the time I was wondering how I was going to tell her the truth, if it was the truth, that Martin was alive and well and on the game, or shacked up with a sugar daddy, at best. If that ever happened to Maddie…

Now what?

I played pirates with the kids for a while and when Ray gathered them up for bed, I went and sat in the garden. Surveyed my handiwork. Ray joined me there. He handed me a glass. ‘Cocktail?’

‘What’s this in aid of?’

‘Nothing.’

I sipped it. ‘Mmm. What is it?’

‘Daiquiri. Rum, ice, lime, sugar.’

‘Nice. So?’ I turned to him.

‘So?’ He was a lousy dissembler. Eyes shifted like jumping beans and even his moustache couldn’t hide a twitch of embarrassment round the mouth. Ray’s of Italian descent but, unlike your Italian stereotype, he’s not prone to extravagant displays of emotions or outbursts of generosity. Cocktails were more than a friendly gesture.

‘C’mon Ray, I know you. The cocktail has a deeper meaning. Now, as far as I’m aware you’re not about to move out or have a baby or get married, so what is it?’

‘It’s Clive.’

‘Oh, no,’ I groaned theatrically.

‘He’s back tomorrow. We’ve got to sort out what we’re going to say.’

‘Maybe we should just give it a bit longer.’

‘It’s been four months and it’s getting worse. The guy’s a total prat.’

‘We could change the locks,’ I giggled. ‘Oh, I don’t know, he did make an effort after the last meeting.’

‘Yeah, for all of twenty-four hours.’

‘It’s not just the practical things though, is it?’ I turned to Ray.

‘Nope.’ He sipped his drink.

‘I mean, even if he remembered to clear up after himself and keep the music down…’

‘…and stop drinking all the milk, and treat the kids like human beings…’

‘…and pay the rent on time,’

‘He’d still be a prat,’ Ray concluded.

‘What is it though?’ I asked. ‘What defines his pratness?’

‘Pseudy, unreliable, doesn’t like women for starters.’

‘He seemed so nice when he came round about the advert.’

‘And he was the only person we’d seen,’ Ray reminded me, ‘and you were panicking about the rent.’

I squirmed. ‘He gives me the creeps. You know, he can’t talk about anyone without putting them down. It’s horrible.’ I drained my glass. ‘What are we going to say? Sorry Clive, we want you to move out. We think you’re a prat.’

‘We could say we don’t like his attitude,’ said Ray.

‘I’d rather not have to give any reasons. It could just become a horrible slanging match. It’d be so embarrassing, Ray, and hurtful to him. We should simply ask him to leave.’

‘What if he won’t? I can imagine him digging his heels in.’

We carried on the conversation over dinner, bitching and worrying. The upshot was that we agreed to tackle Clive some time over the coming weekend. Give him a month’s notice, be vague about reasons but, if pressed, explain we wanted someone more suited to communal living.

Ray went out that evening. Quiz night at the local. I’d gone along once to see what the attraction was. It was a dead loss for me, as nearly half the questions were about sport, an activity I loathe.

I ran a hot bath and chucked in some scented oil. My shoulder was aching and my back stiff from honest toil. I rubbed olive oil into the scar above my left breast. I’d been stabbed. My one and only murder investigation. I’d unwittingly stumbled close to solving it and the murderer had tried to silence me. The memory still panicked me. I was jumpier these days. I avoided violent plays and films. For a while, even the sight of knives in the kitchen had brought me out in a sweat.

I slipped into the steaming water, goose-pimples erupting in surprise at the heat.

After the stabbing, Diane and Ray had tried very hard to persuade me to change my job. I was tempted. Why go looking for trouble? On the other hand, I knew that if I gave it all up it would be like giving in to the threat of violence. And how many other things would I stop doing in order to feel safe? Stop going out at night, visiting new places, answering the door? In the end, I got some counselling to help with the panic and to decide on my future. It helped. I’d chosen to work even if that meant being scared some of the time. I wanted to be a survivor, not a victim.

JB rang as I was getting dry. ‘Look, I’ve been asking around. Talked to a couple of the lads. Martin’s not on the patch. They’d know if he was doing business round here. Then one guy I ask, he clams up. Big silence. He was scared, shit scared.’

‘Why?’

‘Search me. Couldn’t get shut of me fast enough. Kept saying he didn’t know nothing and I’d better leave it alone. Now, he’s a user…’

‘You think it might be something to do with drugs?’

‘Possible. There’s some heavy stuff going down.’

‘I know.’ Guns were the new addition to the so-called drugs war in the city. People had been shot. Killed. Including two little boys. Whole estates had been labelled no-go areas, to the anger of the local residents.

‘I’m gonna see who’s going into the clubs tonight, see if anyone’s heard anything. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

‘Right.’ Why was JB being so helpful? ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’

‘I know,’ he said, ‘but you got me thinking about Martin. He couldn’t look out for himself; I’d like to know he was okay. Besides, I’m curious now,’ he laughed. ‘Gives me summat to do.’

‘Keeps you off the streets?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Thanks JB’

‘See ya.’

He was a nice guy. I wanted to get him something to show my thanks. Not just money, though I’d pay him for his time; he was doing the legwork twice as effectively as I could have done. No, something personal. Of course. A sketchbook, some charcoal or maybe a drawing pen. He’d like that.

JB didn’t call that Thursday. I thought it was him when the phone rang at eight-thirty in the morning. I’d got a mouthful of toast and honey. I sluiced it down with tea.

It was a new client; once he’d established that he’d got the right number, he asked for an appointment.

‘There’s some work I’d like you to do.’ He had a local accent, a slight lisp.

‘Could I have your name, please.’

‘Barry Smith.’

‘When would be convenient for you?’

He wanted an appointment that afternoon. It suited me. We agreed on two o’clock. I gave him the address and directions to my office.

‘Da-da!’ I pirouetted into the kitchen and bowed.

‘You’re silly,’ pronounced Maddie.

‘Another job,’ I said to Ray. ‘Two cases at once. The big time.’

‘We’ll need it,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’ He passed me the phone bill.

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Aw,’ said Maddie, ‘shouldn’t say that.’

‘I know. Sometimes people say things they shouldn’t when they get a nasty shock.’ I turned to Ray. ‘It’s nearly twice as much. And look at these; eight long distance calls. He’ll have to pay half of it.’

Ray nodded. ‘Yep. Do we tell him before or after?’

‘Who?’ Maddie asked.

‘Clive,’ I explained.

‘I like Clive.’ Perverse creature.

‘You don’t,’ I said, ‘you never see him.’

‘I do like him.’

‘Because he gives you chocolates,’ said Ray.