Looking for Trouble

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

‘Why did you want to see me?’ My question jerked her attention away from the cup of coffee she was stirring. She darted a glance up at me, blinked rapidly and ducked again. We were sitting in the cafe at the Royal Exchange Theatre. It was all very civilised. We’d already been through the banalities of queuing for coffee, choosing a table, settling in.

‘Martin,’ she said quietly. ‘You said you’d spoken to him. Was he really alright?’

I cut her off, ‘Why?’

‘What?’ Her brow creased.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘He’s my son. I…’ Her eyes filled up. She pressed her mouth shut. Fought to keep control.

‘Martin doesn’t want any contact with you.’

She let her breath out in a shudder. ‘The things you said,’ she faltered. ‘This is very hard for me…I can’t believe…Keith would never. There must have been some terrible misunderstanding.’

‘You still don’t believe Martin.’

She didn’t reply.

‘Whose idea was it to tell the neighbours Martin was ill?’

‘There’d been a terrible scene. I wasn’t there, but Martin, he’d…he’d threatened Keith with a knife. He’d always been a bit moody, shy…but never violent. Keith was very angry, very, very angry. He’s got heart trouble…it could’ve…’ She shook her head at the thought. ‘Martin had stormed off. Said he was never coming back. Keith said it was best to leave it be. No point in dragging the police into it all. It was difficult to know what to say to people…’

‘It could have been rather awkward for your husband if the police had been involved. After all, Martin might have spilled the beans. I think that’s why your husband was so keen on the hospital story.’

She shook her head. I wasn’t giving her the reassurance she wanted. ‘Please, just tell me he’s alright. I’ve been out of my mind with worry. Is he living in Manchester?’

‘I don’t know. I saw him briefly. He was upset, angry. I didn’t find out where he was living.’

‘Did he say anything about me?’ she asked.

I stalled, wondering what to say.

‘What did he say? Tell me. What did he say?’

I took a breath. ‘He thought you’d hired me to find him. He said you’d never cared before.’

‘That’s just not…’ She pressed her lips tight together, but the tears still coursed down her cheeks. ‘It’s not…’ Her voice rose in pitch, then she broke off.

‘Mrs Hobbs, I have to ask you this. The woman I talked about – Janice Brookes…’ But she’d already lurched to her feet, rocking the table, spilling the coffee. I let her go. I could hardly force her to stay, to talk. She pushed her way through the crowd. I lost sight of her.

I felt lousy. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her what Martin had said. It was pretty brutal, after all. But then maybe it would help her to believe Martin’s version of events. Ignoring the curious glances of other patrons, I shook coffee off my jacket, rubbed my trousers with a hanky, stuffed it in my pocket and left.

I walked back to Victoria train station where I’d left the car. The day hadn’t started too well. I ran through the possibilities for the rest of it. Go home and be domestic? Plenty to do, but then Clive might be hanging around. I wanted Ray to be the one to tell Clive we needed to meet. Not just because I shrank from the task, but also because I was sick of being the one to initiate that sort of thing. It was time for Ray to take his turn. Not home then. What else? I could tire myself out, window-shopping in town. Gaze at all the lovely summer clothes that Maddie and I would have to manage without. Yeah, great. End up exhausted and envious.

I got in the Mini and took the road down to Strangeways, past Boddingtons brewery near the prison and through Salford, to join the motorway to Bolton. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I’d already shattered one mother’s day and this would be even trickier. I had a whole heap of questions for Mrs Brookes, Janice’s mother, but the main one concerned Martin. Why had Janice wanted to find him?

Sheila Hobbs had lost her son. Mrs Brookes had lost her daughter. Martin Hobbs had run away. Janice Brookes had run after him. And been killed.

Why? I hadn’t the faintest idea.

The hamlet outside Bolton was shrouded in an unseasonal mist. The sky was grey and leaden. No point in stopping to admire the view. The black Datsun was still there. The woman who’d driven it was probably a neighbour, then.

I mounted the steep steps, in-between walls spilling aubretia and alyssum. I rang the bell.

The black woman who’d accompanied Mrs Brookes to the inquest opened the door. Whoops. Was this her house? Did Mrs Brookes live next door? Up close, she was younger than I’d thought. She wore her hair pulled tightly into a top-knot. Sloppy T-shirt, cycling shorts.

‘Hello, I’m looking for Mrs Brookes.’

She frowned. Suspicion in her eyes. ‘Who?’

‘Mrs Brookes. Janice’s mother.’

I caught a flash of anger. ‘You from the papers?’ She moved towards me, blocking the door.

‘No, no. I knew Janice. I wanted to talk to her mother, if she’s in.’

‘She doesn’t live here.’ She was very cagey. I felt as though I was making a right fool of myself. Admit it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I must have made a stupid mistake. If you could just give me the right address?’ She stared.

‘Or her sister,’ I carried on. ‘Do you know where she lives?’

‘I’m her sister.’

‘Oh. God.’ That threw me completely. ‘Look, I’m sorry…about Janice. I didn’t realise…’

The look in her eyes told me that she’d been here countless times before. Watching people grapple with the surprise; black woman, white woman – sisters.

‘Half-sister,’ she said. ‘You were at the inquest, weren’t you? What’s this all about? How did you know Janice?’

‘I was working for her before she died.’

‘Working for her?’ It was her turn to be surprised.

‘Yes.’ I decided to be bold. ‘Can I come in and explain?’

She moved aside, by way of reply, and led me along the narrow hallway into the small back room. A young boy lounged on a bean bag, gazing at Sesame Street. ‘Alex,’ the woman said. ‘Upstairs.’

‘But Mama…’

‘Now.’ She didn’t need to raise her voice. He knew she meant it and disappeared.

We sat either side of the table below the window. Through the nets I could see the backyard, neat and tidy, and beyond, the sweep of hills.

‘What d’you mean, you were working for Janice?’

I explained. I didn’t go into much detail. I wanted to see what her reaction was. She didn’t give much away. There was a slight frown creasing her forehead, but her deep brown eyes were sharp. Regarding me steadily.

‘And that’s it,’ I finished. ‘I’ve spoken to the police, told them there may be a connection between Janice’s murder and her search for Martin Hobbs. But I’ve no idea why she wanted to find the boy. Why she pretended to be his mother.’

‘What did the police say?’

‘Not a lot.’ I shrugged. ‘ Said they’d look into it. Thought I had a lively imagination. They also said…’ I hesitated. She tilted her head to one side, waiting, I didn’t want to offend her. ‘Well, they said Janice had been ill, mentally ill. That could have been why she acted like she was someone else.’

‘She did get ill, but she never forgot who she was.’

‘Did she ever talk to you about Martin? Did you know him?’

‘No.’ She got up from the table and went into the tiny kitchen, filled the kettle. Came back and leant on the door jamb. ‘But then I wouldn’t. Janice had left home by the time I was seven. She came back a couple of times. When things got really bad. But we were never close. Tea, coffee?’

‘Tea, please. Was she ever in trouble with the police, with drugs or anything like that?’

‘Janice! Bloody hell, no. You met her, didn’t you?’

I nodded. She was right. It was hard to imagine.

‘She couldn’t even tell lies, Janice.’

‘She lied to me.’

‘Yeah, well.’ She came through with the drinks. ‘So you’re not called Brookes?’ I checked. ‘Nope. Mitchell. Natalie Mitchell. I’m married now. Was Williams. That was my dad’s name.’ He was dead then.

‘And your mother’s?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So,’ she took a sip of coffee, ‘you reckon this Martin Hobbs might have killed Janice?’

‘No, no…’ I lowered my mug with a clunk. ‘It’s just…’ Just what? I had thought of the possibility. But I didn’t like it. The Martin I’d met was messed up, vulnerable, frightened but he wasn’t a murderer, was he? He had been violent though. The time in the playground that Max had told me about. And he’d gone for his father with a knife. If Janice had some hold over Martin, if she posed some threat…

‘Look, I don’t know. I just think there could be a link. When she spoke to me, she was all for chasing after him. The next morning, the place she was found, it’s not far from where he was staying…’ I sighed. Took a drink. ‘Had you seen Janice recently?’

‘Not since Christmas. We all met up at Mum’s. That’s the only time we ever saw each other.’ There was a trace of regret in her voice.

‘I would like to talk to your mother, if you could give me her address.’

‘She might not want to see you. She’s still very upset. She’s had the police round, and the papers. I’d have to ask her first.’

‘Okay.’ I was hoping she might ring there and then but she made no move. ‘When will you be able to let me know?’

‘I’ll ring her tonight. See what she says.’ She stood up. I fished out a card and gave it to her.

‘Did she owe you any money?’

The question startled me. Then I blushed. ‘No. We settled it the last time she called.’

‘I just don’t want Mum worried with stuff like that.’ She led me out of the room and into the hallway.

‘I don’t work like that,’ I said, angry that she suspected me of chasing unpaid bills. ‘No-one’s paying me to do this – I just want to know what was going on.’

‘Yeah. So do I.’

It was like a game of May-I. There I was getting fairy steps, when what I really needed was a couple of giant leaps. Least I seemed to be heading in the right direction. Away from deception and towards the truth. I’d traced Janice’s sister – someone who actually knew her, though she’d not been much help in solving the mystery. It was over three weeks since her half-sister had sat in my office, asking me to look for her runaway child. June had rolled into July. Janice Brookes hadn’t made it that far. I hoped her mother would agree to talk to me.

At home, the post was on the table. Top of the pile, a bill for me, a prancing logo, final reminder from British Telecom. Shit.

I’d just slammed it down, when Clive strolled in. ‘Greetings.’

‘Clive, have you seen this bill? Final reminder. We’ve got to pay it now.’ I tried to keep my voice level and practical.

‘Aahh,’ Clive said. ‘I should be getting some cash next week.’

‘They’ll have cut us off by then.’

He tutted. ‘How much is it? My share, I mean.’

‘Yours is the lion’s share.’

‘How come?’

‘Long distance calls, eight of them. You owe about sixty quid.’

‘Sixty! I can’t pay that.’

‘Well, you should have thought of that before you made the calls.’ I was beginning to sound frayed.

‘I didn’t make those calls.’ I could see the lie in the set of his mouth.

‘Oh, come on.’

‘I didn’t, really Sal.’ He was blinking a lot. Did he think that implied honesty or something? ‘They’ve made a mistake. You should ring them up and tell them.’

‘You ring them up. And what about when you called your father in Milan and that friend in Washington?’

‘That’s only two. I never made eight calls. Maybe it’s the kids, messing with it.’ I wanted to brain him.

‘Why the hell should I pay your bills? You already owe the rent and the gas, which we’ve had to pay. I’ve got an overdraft too, you know. I don’t earn much more then you.’

‘God,’ he sneered, ‘you’re so materialistic. It’s all you care about, isn’t it, money?’ And he bounded upstairs.

Someone would have to pay the bill. Re-connection charges were punitive and the thought of being cut off made me anxious. It was the phone that had alerted people when I’d been attacked here. I hadn’t answered it. He wouldn’t let me. And that had caused enough alarm to bring help.

I’d pay the bill.

I wrote the cheque then and there, knowing I’d be well overdrawn once it was cleared. I could post it first thing. I’d tackled Clive over that – one credit to me. So Ray

could set up the meeting with Clive. It was his turn.

Materialistic indeed!