Looking for Trouble

CHAPTER SEVEN

On Wednesdays and Thursdays Ray is in charge of the kids: Breakfast, school run, bedtime, the lot. I lay in bed for all of ten minutes, luxuriating in that small sense of freedom. The smell of toast and clinking of pots drifted up from below. In the old days, I’d have burrowed back under the duvet till lunch-time, but Maddie had buggered up my sleep patterns for good. Ray’s mum, Nana Tello (the kids shortened it from Costello), complained bitterly about waking at five o’clock and not being able to get back to sleep. I was heading for the same fate.

Maddie and Tom clattered up the stairs to yell goodbyes.

‘Mummeee,’ Maddie began, ‘I don’t want to go to school.’ Her lower lip trembled.

‘Well, you’ve got to. I’m going to work,’ I slung back the covers and grabbed my dressing-gown, ‘Ray’s going to college and you’re going to school.’ To eliminate further discussion, I picked her up and thundered downstairs, Tom at my heels. She was still giggling as Ray shepherded them out the door. An improvement on most mornings.

Over breakfast, I considered whether to ring Mrs Hobbs. I’d promised to be in touch early in the week. Best to wait until I’d met JB. Hopefully, there’d be more to report.

I got the bus to town. Parking was a nightmare and I didn’t want to push my luck too many times by doing it illegally.

From Piccadilly Gardens it was about five minutes walk to the station. The long curving ramp had nose-to-nose taxis edging up and down and a constant procession of people moving along the broad pavement. I walked up to the station concourse and back a couple of times. No luck. I hovered outside the Blood Donor Clinic for a while, scanning the steady stream of people for a lanky man, of mixed race, with a cap and a dog.

An hour had passed. Maybe I was too early. If JB had somewhere safe and warm to sleep, perhaps he’d stay there well into the afternoon. If yesterday had been a good day, maybe he’d not appear at all today. If I stayed where I was much longer, the Clinic people would take me for a nervous donor and come out to see if I needed a little encouragement to face the needle. I shuffled along a bit to a tool shop. Spent a while looking at the weird and wonderful machines in the window. Ray would be in seventh heaven here. Lathes, saws, chisels. A carpenter’s treasure trove.

My attention was diverted for a while by a cacophony of horns from the taxis. One of the drivers had abandoned his cab, thereby preventing everyone else from moving up closer to the station, and the next fare. The horns blasted out in disharmony for a full three minutes. Passers-by grinned at the scene. It smacked of continental cities. We British rarely use our horns communally. At last, a portly man emerged from nowhere and ran towards the vacant cab. He started it up, the horns fell quiet, the queue resumed its progress up the ramp.

Another walk up to the station. Piccadilly trains run south, down to London, Oxford, Rugby. You can tell. The station’s much more upmarket than Victoria, where all the trains run north, bound for the hills and borders. Piccadilly sports a Tie-Rack, a Sock-Shop, chemist, florist, newsagent, several eateries. A fresh-ground coffee shop. Wooed by the scent of coffee, I ordered an expresso and pastry. It was noon. I was bored.

I set off back for the bus. Halfway there, I came across a young girl seated in the doorway of a Pool Hall. A small, tattered sign stated she was homeless. Pale face, rats tails hair, cheap, thin clothing. She was plaiting bracelets from brightly coloured wool. The sort that are imported by Traidcraft from Third world countries.

I put a pound in her hat.

‘Ta.’ She glanced up and smiled faintly.

‘Excuse me, have you seen JB?’

‘Huh?’ She squinted against the brightness of the sky. She looked very young.

‘JB Got a dog, flat cap.’

‘Yeah,’ she bit through the wool with her teeth, ‘you just missed him. He’s gone for chips.’

‘Where?’

‘Plaza, by the buses.’

I knew the place. Open all hours, cheap take-away. I ran all the way. I got a stitch and my heart beat too hard for comfort. A couple of women waited to be served. No man, no dog.

‘You just serve a bloke with a dog?’ I called to the guy at the hatch.

‘Don’t do dogs, Miss,’ he grinned, ‘we do hot dogs.’ He cackled at his own joke.

‘Wears a cap,’ I persisted.

‘Dog does?’ More laughter. I gritted my teeth.

He nodded. ‘You just missed him.’

I dodged between buses over the road to the gardens. The benches were full of people lunching in the open air. Formal flower beds were ablaze with wallflowers and pansies.

He was there. The dog lay at his feet. As I approached, the man sitting next to him rolled up his newspaper, picked up his briefcase and left. Great timing. I took his place.

‘JB?’

‘What?’ He swung round to face me, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

‘I’m looking for Martin Hobbs. My name’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m a private investigator. Someone said you knew Martin, you put him up for a while.’

‘What do you want him for?’

‘He’s missing. His mother came to see me. She wants to know if he’s alright.’

‘That it?’

‘What?’

‘You’re not gonna try and take him back or owt?’

‘No.’ I was emphatic. ‘All I’m interested in is finding out if Martin’s okay.’

‘I dunno where he is.’ He threw a chip to the dog, had one himself. He was guarded, but without the hint of aggression I’d felt when talking to Blue Eyes and Giggler. JB had the sort of bone structure that models are made of, attractive features, clear olive skin. Black hair hung down in ringlets at the back of his head. What I could see of the sides had been shaved. He wore an old donkey jacket, white shirt, faded jeans, DM’s.

‘But you did meet him? When did you last see him?’

‘Look,’ he crumpled the chip paper into a ball, ‘I’ve got to get back.’

‘Please.’ I put my hand on his sleeve. ‘I really need to find out, just give me ten minutes.’

‘I dunno,’ he sighed. The dog lifted its head as if concerned. He stroked it.

‘Listen, anything you tell me will remain confidential. I won’t pass on your name or anything that could identify you. I’m not a social worker, I’ve no connection with the police. I’m simply trying to find out where Martin is and if he’s okay, so his mum can stop driving herself crazy with worry. Just a few minutes?’

He thought it over. Smiled, a warm, easy smile.

‘Okay. C’mon, Digger.’ The dog sprang up and walked to heel as we made our way across the Gardens and up one of the side streets off Piccadilly itself.

Martin hadn’t been in Manchester long when JB had seen him begging on Market Street. He’d watched the police caution him then gone over to talk to the boy. Martin had been sleeping rough. He already looked run-down. He had no money, no sleeping bag. JB had offered a place in his squat for a few nights. He made it clear it was to be a temporary arrangement. ‘I like to have the place to myself, now and then.’ Martin was a quiet and reserved guest. He slept most of the day and went out to get money at night. He refused to get any Welfare Advice. ‘He thought they’d send him back. Anyway, you get fuck all at his age unless you’re on a scheme and you can’t do that without an address.’

We’d arrived at the back of old warehouses off Great Ancoats Street. JB moved aside a part of the wooden fencing. I followed him through the gap. The yard was piled high with debris, old pallets, a shopping trolley, mattress, the shell of a car, fridges. Weeds grew waist-high. We clambered over the lot to a set of steps leading down to a cellar door. JB unlocked the door and we stepped into darkness. The stench of damp and mildew caught at my throat. Nobody knew I was here. Could I trust J.B? Wasn’t it a little suspicious, inviting me back to his squat? Buzzing in my ears. A flush of fear burned the nape of my neck. Please, please. Spittle on his lip. I stumbled and yelped.

‘Take my hand,’ he said. His hand was soft and warm, he gripped mine firmly. The contact reassured me. I shook off my anxiety. He led me through the gloom, then up more stairs and into dim light. We crossed a massive room, pillars lying where they had fallen amidst chunks of plaster, old tea-chests and broken tables. One wall of the room was windows, row upon row, thick with grime. Broken panes gave glimpses of blue sky. Up another set of stairs and along a door-lined corridor.

‘This is it.’ He stopped at one of the doors and unlocked it. After the desolation of the rest of the building, I was surprised at the cleanliness and care shown in this room. It had been painted white. On the floor lay an old floral carpet and against one wall was a huge sofa with a bright green bedspread thrown over it. A guitar leant against the arm. Opposite a television, a shelf with books and mementoes. In the far corner, beyond the sofa, there was a mattress and bedding. The wall nearest to the door was broken up by windows; half-way along was a sink, Calor gas cooker, pots and pans; beyond those, a table and a couple of chairs. Everywhere I looked, pinned up on the white background were pictures, line drawings, sketches. Mostly pen and ink or charcoal; faces, street scenes, landscapes. I walked closer.

‘These are brilliant. They yours?’

‘Yep.’ He grinned and filled a kettle.

‘This is Martin.’ I pointed to the portrait. Head and shoulders. The look he’d captured was one of great sadness. ‘He looks lonely, sad.’

‘He was.’ JB lit the stove and came over to the wall.

‘Have you studied art?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s a hobby.’

‘You could sell these.’

‘I do, now and again. But I make more on the chalkies.’

‘Chalkies?’

‘Pavement drawings.’

‘Mickey Mouse, Madonna.’

‘Yeah,’ he laughed. ‘Get the kids and the mums pay.’

‘These are signed P.H. So is JB a nickname?’

‘Tell you’re a detective. Yeah, short for JCB. Used to like to drive ‘em away in my younger days. Sort of stuck.’ He went over and made mugs of coffee. Brought them over. We sat on the sofa. He began to roll a cigarette.

‘So where was Martin going when he left here?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Didn’t he say anything?’

‘Someone had set him up.’

‘How d’you mean?’

He sighed. ‘That second week, Martin had more money. Bought clothes. He was on the streets but it wasn’t just begging any more.’

‘He was a rent boy?’

‘Yeah. Plenty of lads drift into it. There’s a lot of demand. It’s tempting. Anyway, that last night, he came in, early hours it was, said he’d found a new place, someone was going to see him right. Talked about riding round in an Aston Martin, eating out every night.’

‘You mean like a sugar daddy?’

‘Yeah,’ he lit his roll-up, ‘or a pimp.’

‘Was he happy about it?’

‘Oh, yeah. Least on the surface. Excited, like it was his big break. Martin was soft as shit. It wouldn’t take much to con him. Promises of this and that, next thing he knows he’s standing by the bus station every night waiting to jump into cars, giving the dosh to some guy who’d beat him up soon as look at him.’

‘But it might not have been a pimp?’

‘Who knows.’ The dog came over and draped itself over JB’s feet. ‘Maybe he struck lucky. And I’ve not seen him doing business, not on the streets. Could be working the clubs. His mum’s not gonna like it much, is she?’

‘No. But it could be worse, I suppose.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, God. Well, if he was on crack or something.’

‘He wasn’t.’ His tone was sharp. The dog pricked up its ears. ‘I won’t have it,’ he explained. ‘This place is clean. I was an addict, see, but I’ve been clean for three years now. I won’t have it around.’

‘Anyway, I’m not going to tell her anything until I’ve checked it out. It could just be a relationship.’

‘Yeah,’ JB nodded his head, ‘and I could be the President of America an’ all.’

‘Could you ask around a bit, see if anyone’s heard from him? Heard where he is?’

I pulled a fiver from my bag. ‘I’d like to give you something for your time.’

He looked embarrassed, a slight flush to his olive complexion.

‘Oh, go on. You’re the only help I’ve had. Get a meal or something. Treat the dog.’

‘Alright,’ he grinned. ‘You’ll like that Digger, eh?’ The dog wagged its tail.

I gave him my card and a photograph of Martin. He pinned them on the noticeboard above the sink, amongst a collage of other bits of paper. He led me back down through the gloom of the building and out into the yard. I thanked him again. As we reached the fence, it was pushed back and the young girl I’d spoken to earlier climbed through.

‘Hiya.’ She bent to pat the dog. His girlfriend? Or another waif he was helping out?

‘Bye then, and thanks.’

Another smile. The two of them set off towards the steps and I clambered back onto the street. JB had given me a lot to go on. I hoped with all my heart that he’d got it wrong.