Looking for Trouble

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

I didn’t hear from Natalie Mitchell till late the following day. I thought it was her when the phone rang mid-morning. I was wrong. But it was work. The sort of

straight-forward request that puts food on the table or helps pay the phone bill. Another erring spouse. A woman this time. The husband asked if I’d furnish

proof. He wanted photos. I was happy to snap the odd shot of people meeting, people in public, but I made it clear I wouldn’t be peering through keyholes or bursting

into bedrooms. I don’t mind seedy but I draw the line at sordid.

The woman claimed to be going to aerobics that evening, then on for a drink with the girls. My client suspected otherwise. I got the details I needed and arranged to call with any evidence the following morning. I drew up a few doors down from their

new-built semi, at the appointed time. Within an hour, I’d established that she was indeed lying to him and, to prove it, I’d taken several shots of her getting into the white Fiesta.

Back home, I rang Nina Zaleski. Had there been any sign of Martin? Nothing. She would keep on looking. I wondered how I’d get the letter to him if he’d left Manchester altogether.

I pottered round the garden. It had been a true summer’s day and even now the air was warm and still. It was nine o’clock and the sun was only just dipping behind the roofs of the houses at the back.

Scent from next door’s mock orange blossom hung in the air and mingled with the smell of pine and earth that rose as I watered tubs and borders. We hadn’t had rain for a week and the heavy clay soil was starting to crack and split apart, fired hard by the hot sun of the day.

I made myself a glass of fresh orange juice and took the paper outside. I automatically flicked through, looking for any news about the murder of Janice Brookes. There was nothing there. But a photograph in the Business section caught my eye. There was a page full of posed photographs, showing people handing over giant-sized cheques to various good causes. One of the faces looked familiar. I peered closer. It was one of the men I’d seen with Martin at Barney’s nightclub. The one I’d likened to Kirk Douglas; deep cleft chin and craggy features.

I took it into the kitchen where the light was better. The man was called Bruce Sharrocks. He was pictured with Mrs Nancy Sharrocks, receiving a generous donation from local businessman Stanley Gleaver (and Mrs Gleaver) on behalf of the Dandelion Trust, an organisation for children in need. Mr Sharrocks was a director of the Trust.

I was sure I’d heard of the Dandelion Trust but I wasn’t sure exactly what it did. I looked it up in the local Thomson’s directory. It was listed. An address in Chorlton-cum-Hardy. It was too late to ring now, but I could try in the morning. Do a little digging around, make use of Harry’s press card and try to interview Mr Sharrocks. I wondered how he knew Fraser Mackinlay. Was he another generous benefactor? After all, someone who drives an Aston Martin isn’t exactly strapped for cash. Would Bruce Sharrocks deny knowing Martin Hobbs, like Fraser had?

The shrilling phone made me jump. It was Natalie Mitchell. Her mother had agreed to talk to me. She passed on the phone number. I didn’t recognise the code. Where was it? Lancaster, she said. I groaned inwardly. An hour and a half up the motorway, an hour and a half back. A tankful of petrol. C’est la vie. I could hardly conduct the interview over the phone. After all, it wasn’t market research. I was going to talk to a woman whose daughter had been beaten to death a few hours after I’d spoken to her. Lancaster it would be.

In the early morning post was a card from the local Victim Support scheme, offering a sympathetic ear should I wish to talk to anyone about my recent experience. I didn’t take them up on it, but I liked the thought that there was someone out there for those of us on the receiving end.

Ray set off for school with the kids and I cycled round to the one-hour photo-processing shop. Back home, I rang Mrs Williams. Having seen her at the inquest, I’d formed an image of a frail, elderly woman but the voice on the other end of the line was firm and clear, edged with a twangy Liverpool accent. Mrs Williams made it clear that she was as eager to talk to me as I was to talk to her.

‘I want to know what happened to Janice,’ she said.

I hoped she wouldn’t expect me to have all the answers. I told her I was free to travel up then and there, if she’d no other arrangements. That suited her. She gave me the address.

‘Don’t ask me for directions,’ she said. ‘I don’t drive. But once you get into town, I’m near the hospital – it’s the road at the back.’

Before leaving home, I gathered together my library books. I would dutifully call and return them and report the loss of my ticket.

I collected the incriminating photos, woman with white Fiesta, and delivered them to my client. He paid in cash.

The library was shut. A notice informed me that, due to cut-backs, it would be closed every Wednesday. Wonderful. I was tempted to leave the books in the doorway with a note attached: ‘Sorry, can’t look after them any longer, besides the fine’s mounting up.’ I didn’t.

Preston’s about halfway to Lancaster and, beyond Preston, I got the impression of leaving behind all the great northern cities: Leeds, Liverpool, Manchester. This was the rural north. All signs led to Carlisle, The Lakes and The North.

Lancaster, with its wide river, castle and creamy stone buildings, had all the neat bustle of a market town. No dusty red-brick backstreets here. I missed all the signs for the hospital, asked directions several times and eventually drew up outside the house, an Edwardian terrace. Mrs Williams had the ground floor flat.

‘I’m Sal Kilkenny.’

‘Eleanor Williams.’ She shook my hand. Up close, she was attractive, broad cheekbones, a generous mouth. Her white hair was thick, styled simply like Doris Day, no perm. There wasn’t much resemblance to Janice except for the eyes, large and brown. Mrs Williams wore spectacles on a chain round her neck, a navy leisure suit. When she smiled, she had dimples in her cheeks. ‘Tea?’

‘Yes, please. No sugar. Could I use the toilet?’

‘Through there.’ She pointed with the teaspoon. ‘Second right.’

The bathroom had a simple feel to it. Plain, painted walls, pink and green mats and towels, a huge loofah, an ancient set of scales, no frills. I washed my hands and examined myself in the mirror. I realised I was holding my breath. My shoulder ached and a taste of acetate rose in my mouth. I took a couple of deep breaths and went back.

We sat on the cottage suite in the living room. Tea in mugs. Framed photographs covered the top of a small sideboard. Three oil paintings hung on the cream walls. A ship, a dockside scene, a woman holding an umbrella. Mrs Williams saw me looking at them.

‘Martin did them, my second husband. He loved to paint.’

‘That was Natalie’s father?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. Leant forward and removed her glasses, placed them and her mug on the coffee table. I followed suit. It was time to talk.

‘I’m sorry about Janice,’ I began. ‘As I said on the phone, I was working for her, that’s how I met her. She asked me to trace a teenager, a boy who’d run away from home.’ I looked across at her. Did this sound bizarre? How much had Natalie told her? I couldn’t read anything in her face.

‘He was called Martin Hobbs,’ I said. ‘The strange thing is, Janice claimed to be his mother – I knew her as Mrs Hobbs. I thought I was looking for her son. I did trace him eventually. He didn’t want anything to do with his family; he claimed his father had abused him.’ Mrs Williams regarded me steadily; only a slight nod indicated that I should continue.

‘Well, I told Janice, Mrs Hobbs as I thought she was, what I’d found out. End of case. She was very upset.’ I sighed. ‘That was the Saturday. On the Sunday she rang me. She was very distressed, not making sense really, except it was clear she wanted to see Martin.’ My chest tightened as I remembered the phone call. When I spoke again, I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice. ‘I didn’t know the address. I knew which street Martin was staying in and I knew what sort of car to look out for. That came out during the phone call. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I gave enough away. I didn’t think she should pursue him. She said she’d write, and would I deliver a letter? I agreed to that, mainly to keep her away…’ But it hadn’t worked. I swallowed saliva. Mrs Williams still said nothing.

I spoke again. ‘The place where they found her, it’s not far from where Martin was staying. I think she went there. I don’t know if that’s why she was killed, or whether that was some awful coincidence. And I still don’t know why she wanted to find Martin, how she knew him, why she pretended that he was her son.’

‘He was.’

I only just caught the words. ‘But he can’t be. I’ve met his real mother and…’

‘Janice was his real mother. She gave him up for adoption when he was born. He was her son.’