Looking for Trouble

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Martin’s letter was still in my bag. A letter from a dead woman. I wanted rid. Saturday seemed as good a day as any to deliver it. It was with some foreboding that I set off to the house in Cheadle. After all, it could have been the scene of a murder. But, presumably, the police would have made their enquiries by now. Found out whether Janice Brookes had called there the previous Sunday. Whether she’d left there alive. If anyone was a likely suspect. Like Martin. Maybe her connection with him was a threat to his new life. Or maybe she was part of it. Whatever ‘it’ was. Max had talked about Martin losing control, that time in the playground. Dragged away before he beat the guy to death. It made my skin crawl. If not Martin, there was his ‘friend’. The man who’d come looking for him at Barney’s. He’d struck me as cold, domineering – but a killer? There hadn’t been anything in the paper about it. No small paragraph stating that a man was helping police with their enquiries. That helped a bit.

I recognised the place from its position on the winding road. These were big, expensive houses. No two alike. Most, like this one, were well hidden from the road. I parked in front of the beech hedge and made my way up the drive. Rhododendron bushes and lawns on either side. A graceful weeping willow. The house was built to impress. Small pillars framed the doorway. Two storeys with plenty of large windows. To the left of the building, a double garage and, at the other side, a glass conservatory. Gravel crunched underfoot. The neighbouring house to the left was completely screened by tall conifers. I could see the roof of the one on the right and a small stairway window between a pair of sycamores.

The red car was parked in front of the doorway. Someone was home. I rang the bell. The man with the gaunt face and receding hair, answered.

‘Hello,’ I said brightly, ‘is Martin in?’

‘Martin?’ He looked puzzled.

‘Martin Hobbs.’

‘There’s nobody of that name here,’ he said, in his precise clipped Scottish accent. He began to close the door.

‘But he said he was staying here,’ I bluffed. ‘I just want to give him a message.’

‘You’re mistaken.’

‘Wait.’ I pulled a copy of the angling photograph from my bag. ‘This is him.’

He gave it a cursory glance. ‘Sorry. I can’t help you. I’ve never seen the boy before.’ He shut the door. I had to step back to keep my balance.

I walked back down the drive; turned back to look at the house. The man stood in one of the upstairs windows, watching me. He made no attempt to disguise the fact. Gave me the creeps.

Although the Mini couldn’t be seen from the house, I wanted to give the impression, if anyone was interested, that I’d gone. I got in and drove round the corner a quarter of a mile and parked on one of the side roads. I took off my red jacket, put on an outsized baseball cap of Tom’s and walked back to the neighbour’s house. If there’d been a corner shop, I could have flashed Martin’s photo around, but this wasn’t corner shop country. Strictly residential.

The neighbour’s house was Spanish ranch style. A wooden veranda ran round the base, balconies jutting out above. There was plenty of black and white wrought-iron and shutters all over the place. Pampas grass grew in the garden, along with spiky cordylines. A series of terracotta urns spilt a riot of pink and orange geraniums and fuchsias against the white plaster walls.

I couldn’t find a bell, just a huge door-knocker shaped like a horseshoe. I banged. Frenzied barking erupted within. A woman’s voice silenced the dog. I heard chains and locks being drawn back. The door opened. The woman who stood there was in her late thirties. She wore a loose flowing housecoat, in colours to match the floral display outside. A bandanna round her tawny hair. Sun-glasses. ‘Yes?’ she snapped.

‘I wonder if I could talk to you?’

‘What are you selling?’ She had a transatlantic twang, a rude delivery.

‘Nothing.’

‘So, what do you want to talk to me about?’ She stressed the me.

‘Your neighbours.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me more.’ She waved me through into a huge living room that ran from the front of the house through to the back. All in white. Splashes of colour provided by scatter-cushions and large abstract paintings. I prayed my shoes were clean.

I sank into a creaking white leather Chesterfield. She settled in a white reclining chair.

‘I’m a private detective,’ I began, ‘I’ve been trying to find a missing boy, sixteen years old. I heard he was staying next door,’ I pointed the direction, ‘but when I asked there, I didn’t get much co-operation.’

‘Fraser’s a pain in the ass,’ she replied. ‘I thought the English were snotty, but God, he makes it into an art-form.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Barely. I think we’ve met three times in as many years. Usually if the mail gets dropped in the wrong box. He’s always made it plain that he values his privacy.’

‘Does Mr Fraser live on his own?’

She laughed. ‘Not Mr Fraser. Fraser’s his first name; Fraser Mackinlay. Yeah, he’s on his own.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘Business. Communications, computers, video, that sort of thing. Jack managed to embarrass him into coming over for drinks, when we first moved in. They talked business. All evening. Fascinating.’ She stretched the word out, dripping with sarcasm. ‘Fraser couldn’t wait to get away, but Jack’s not too hot reading the old body language.’

‘Do you remember the name of his company?’

‘Nope. Jack may. Say, isn’t this rather un-English, prying into folks’ affairs…?’

I must have looked worried.

She grinned. ‘No problem. I love it. Drink?’ She opened a white wicker cabinet and removed a bottle.

‘No thanks.’

‘Too early? I hope you’re not the moralising type. Jack hates to see me drink before noon. Not that he does, he’s hardly ever here.’ She clunked ice-cubes into a glass, pointed the bottle at me. ‘Never marry an entrepreneur. They fly home every couple of months to get the dry-cleaning done, then off they go. Money’s no problem,’ she nodded at the room, ‘but the company stinks.’ She poured her drink and took a good swig.

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Sal, Sal Kilkenny.’

‘Irish. I like the Irish. I have a quarter lrish blood, you know, most of it Bushmills.’ She laughed and raised her glass in a salute. ‘I’m Zaleski, Nina. Jack’s Polish stock. So, you guess Fraser’s seen this boy?’

I told her about following the car the night I’d found Martin at Barney’s, and Fraser’s outright denial.

‘So, Fraser’s telling lies.’ She drained her glass. ‘Tut, tut. Maybe he’s something to hide. Like a penchant for sixteen year old boys. That’s illegal here, isn’t it? Good enough reason to fib a little.’

‘That did occur to me,’ I said, ‘but all I want is to get in touch with Martin. I’m not going to feed what I find to the tabloids.’ I showed her Martin’s photo. Asked if she’d seen him around.

‘No, but these places aren’t exactly built for talking over the garden fence.’

‘I don’t even know if he is living there; he could have just gone back that one night. It’s none of my business what the relationship is, but I need to find out where Martin is; that’s the job I’ve been hired to do.’

‘Miss Kilkenny! Are you asking me to spy on my neighbour?’

‘No, not at…’

“Cos I’d just love to. Life is dull. A little project like that might add some interest. If I keep my beady little eye on all the comings and goings, I’ll see your Martin, sooner or later. That is, if he is staying there.’

‘I don’t know. If Fraser wants to keep Martin a secret, if he thought you were spying on him…’

‘I’ll be the soul of discretion.’ She put her hand on her heart. ‘I have some excellent binoculars and a pair of ghastly net curtains, When in Rome…1 shall also develop a sudden interest in walking Fang.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘The dog,’ she explained. ‘And I’ll create a new flower garden at the bottom of the drive. Fraser knows I have a fondness for the bottle and that I’m an American. My eccentric behaviour will confirm his prejudices.’ She winked. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

I had acquired a mole. I left her my card and strict instructions to be careful. I returned home with Martin’s letter still in my bag. Address to be confirmed.