Looking for Trouble

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mrs Hobbs was waiting on the Dobson’s doorstep when I arrived. That threw me. I’d hoped to gather my thoughts, prepare myself to tackle her.

‘Sorry I’m early,’ she said, ‘I thought the traffic would be worse. I don’t often come in on a Saturday.’ She looked so respectable in her beige lightweight suit, a moss-coloured blouse with one of those old-fashioned cravat collars. Oh, I know abuse happens in every sort of family, but it still seemed incongruous that the plump, middle-aged woman who stood clutching her handbag and smiling nervously at me, had that dark secret.

‘Come in.’ I unlocked the door and led her downstairs. The office still smelt of paint and looked dingy and unwelcoming. I pulled up a chair for her, opposite mine.

‘He’s alright then? Where is he? How did you find him?’ She was grinning through the questions. She had a nice smile; it reminded me of the picture of Martin with the fish. ‘Oh, I was so pleased when you rang, you can’t imagine…’ I wasn’t returning her smile. She noticed. ‘Is something wrong?’ Worry enlarged those brown eyes. ‘I thought you said he was alright. What is it?’

‘Martin’s okay,’ I said. ‘He’s found somewhere to stay in Cheadle.’

‘Yes?’

My mouth was watering, a small muscle tremoring in my knee. ‘Mrs Hobbs, Martin explained to me why he left home. He told me what had been going on.’ I paused. Expecting some reaction. I got bewilderment. ‘I’d never have agreed to take the case if you’d told me the truth. Is that why you lied to me?’

‘What do you mean?’ She was alarmed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, come on, stop pretending.’ I spoke roughly, my cheeks burning. ‘Martin was abused by his father for years. When he tried to tell you about it, you threatened to send him away, called him a liar.’

‘No…No…’ A strangled cry. Her hand flew to her mouth.

‘That’s what happened. Or are you still calling him a liar?’

She began to rock, back and forth, moaning, ‘ Oh my God, oh my God,’ over and over. She seemed genuinely shocked.

‘Don’t you remember? Did you really think Martin had made it up? Children don’t lie about things like that. Did you even ask your husband about it?’ No reply. She continued that disturbing motion. She was a long way away. She’d forgotten I was there.

‘Mrs Hobbs.’ I spoke sharply. She stopped rocking. Her hand still covered her mouth.

‘I can’t explain,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She cried silently then. Shoulders jerking up and down. I waited for her to stop. Perhaps I’d misjudged her. Maybe she, too, had been abused by her husband. Robbed of the ability to protect herself or her child.

Finally, she looked across at me. Her face was blotchy, crumpled with defeat. My mother’s face held that look once. The day my father died. Naked with pain. My stomach contracted. I swallowed hard. ‘I’ve drawn up my account,’ I said. ‘This is the balance owing to you.’

She nodded, took the papers and put them in her bag. She stood up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t lie to you…you wouldn’t understand…I’d better go.’ I followed her as she slowly climbed the stairs. At the door, she turned to face me. ‘If I’d known…‘ Her face squeezed shut with grief. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ I didn’t know whether she was talking to me or Martin then. She walked away down the path.

I shut the door and leaned back against it. I felt like bawling, but my eyes were dry. My throat ached and my fists were clenched as I railed against the painful, bloody mess of it all.

I wanted to go into town and try and find the young woman I’d met at JB’s, but I was aware Ray had been doing the lion’s share of childcare and didn’t feel I could ask him to take Maddie that afternoon. I called over the road to Denise; she has a daughter at nursery with Maddie. She was happy to look after Maddie for a couple of hours.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I need a break. If I have to play Princesses once more today I’ll go round the bend.’

She was seated in the same doorway, plaiting her bracelets. She looked very pale, as though she’d never seen the sun. I crouched down at her side.

‘Hello, I met you at JB’s.’ I was surprised at the tremor in my voice. ‘I wanted to…’ I didn’t get a chance to say anything else.

‘You bitch,’ she screamed, as she scrambled to her feet, grabbing her wool and carrier bag. ‘You’ve got a fucking cheek. ‘S your fault he’s dead, you know. Why can’t you just leave us alone? You stupid, fucking bitch.’ She was gone.

Tears started in my eyes, dribbled slowly down my cheeks and dripped off the end of my nose as I walked back to the car. What did she mean? What had I done? How could it be my fault? I’d begun to drive out of town, sniffing occasionally, when a flash of anger interrupted my self-pity. I was the one who’d found the body, for Christ’s sake. I was the one who’d had to go through all the police business. I’d taken Digger. Found out about the funeral. She hadn’t thought about all that.

I drove round the block and fought my way back through the traffic and over to Great Ancoats Street. I waited a few minutes for a parking space while someone loaded bags of shopping into the car and drove off.

The entrance to the warehouse was closed but not locked. In the pitch black of the basement, I waited for my eyes to adjust, then made my way up through the building to JB’s room. The door was shut but I sensed she was in there. I knocked.

‘Hello. It’s me, Sal. Can I come in? I just want to talk.’ Silence. ‘I don’t even know your name, but I know you were a friend of his. I don’t know why you’re mad at me. I didn’t give him drugs; he told me he didn’t touch them, that’s what seemed so crazy. It was such a shock. Please open the door.’ She didn’t. I slid down and sat with my back to it, talking aloud, staring at the flaking plaster in the dim corridor. ‘I found him you know, oh and I took Digger. The police were going to put him down; it didn’t seem right. I wanted to tell you about the funeral. JB’s funeral. It’s on Monday, one o’clock up at Blackley. I’m going. I could give you a lift if you want to come. Could you tell his friends? I don’t even know who they are. Please open the door, this is ridiculous. Shit. It wasn’t my bloody fault, I don’t know why you think it is. I’d just met him, I…’ I got to my feet. ‘I’m going now. I’ll leave my card here; if you want a lift, give me a ring. I still need to talk to you. I want to know what you meant. I want to know what happened. He was a good bloke.’

It’d been a lousy day and I ended up feeling guilty and depressed. The girl’s accusations unsettled me. Had there been a link between my enquiries and JB’s death, is that what she meant? I went through the motions of cooking tea, getting the kids to bed, preoccupied by my own thoughts. There was no sense of relief at finishing the case.

I couldn’t face the thought of mooning round the house, feeling ill at ease. It was a light evening, dry and mild. I pulled on my old clothes and set out for the garden. There’s a patch in the far corner that I’ve never done anything with, in the shade of an old elderberry. That’d do. I got down on my hands and knees and went to work, pulling out weeds, digging out brambles, forking it all over. By the time I was through, it was dark. And the events of the day had shifted into an easier perspective. In time, that little patch of ground would bloom with sweet-scented, shade-loving plants and the trials of today would be far away. Wouldn’t they?