Looking for Trouble

CHAPTER TWO

She was a plump woman, middle-aged, average height. Short dark hair streaked with grey. Sallow complexion, broad face, brown eyes. Large eyes. Eyes full of fear. She was dressed conservatively, neat and tidy. Tan skirt and jacket, cream blouse, court shoes. Tiny studs in her ears. No other jewellery, no make-up. We shook hands; hers were clammy. From nerves I guessed.

‘Come on in.’ I closed the door behind her. ‘My office is downstairs. I’m in the middle of re-decorating – that’s the awful smell.’ She followed me down and sat across from my desk.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.’

‘Hobbs, Mrs Hobbs.’

‘And how can I help?’

‘It’s my son, Martin. He’s missing. I want you to find him.’ I nodded and began to make notes as we talked.

‘How old is Martin?’

‘Sixteen. It was his birthday at the beginning of June.’

‘How long’s he been gone?’

‘A month now.’

‘And he’s not been in touch at all?’ She shook her head.

‘Has he ever done this before?’

‘No.’

‘Any idea why he’s left?’

‘No, that’s why I’m so worried.’ She twisted the straps of her handbag round her fingers. ‘He’d just gone one morning.’

‘Did he take anything with him? Clothes, money?’

‘He’d no money. I think some of his clothes had gone.’ She didn’t seem very certain. Maybe when kids are that age you lose track of their wardrobe.

‘He didn’t leave a note or anything?’

‘No.’

‘Have you been to the police?’

‘Yes, the local police, in Bolton, but they didn’t seem to take it very seriously, with him being sixteen, you know – it’s not like he’s a little boy. They put him on file, made a few enquiries, came round to the house to take more details. That was about it. They said if I hadn’t heard anything in a couple of months, to go back. I’m sure they thought I was making a fuss about nothing.’

‘And you’ve not heard from them?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sure they’ve just filed him away. It happens all the time these days, doesn’t it, kids running away? How can they possibly look for them all?’ She had a point. But surely they could have done a bit more in this case. It wasn’t as if Martin had been in the habit of running away. And he hadn’t even told his mother he was leaving.

‘What about friends, people he spent time with?’

She sighed. ‘He were a loner really, he loved his fishing, there was no-one close. He liked to be on his own.’

‘There must have been someone, a school friend?’

She bit her lip, gave a small shake of her head.

‘Which school does he go to?’

‘St. Matthew’s.’

‘Tell me about Martin.

Her account was sketchy though there was no mistaking the love in her voice. Martin was a quiet boy, doing reasonably well at school. His passion was angling. There’d been no rows or unusual events at home. He’d not talked of leaving. He’d not been in trouble. She told it all slowly, in that thick blurry accent.

‘What about drugs?’

She shook her head.

‘You’re married? How did Martin get on with his father?’

She considered her reply.

‘Okay. They’re both quiet, never that close.’

‘Was Martin lonely, Mrs Hobbs? Was he unhappy?’

Maybe it wasn’t the most sensitive question to ask. But I was trying to fathom out a reason for Martin’s disappearance. He was a loner, not close to anyone except Mum. Adolescence was a terrible time – even when you had close friends; without them it must be intolerable. But why leave home? An attempt to break away from Mum? Had Martin perhaps blamed her for his loneliness?

She covered her mouth with her hands, shook her head from side to side. Tears welled in those brown eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t know.’ Guilt and grief.

I tried to bring her back to the task in hand. ‘Think for a minute. Is there anywhere Martin might have gone – relatives, a place he knew well, friends of the family?’

She pulled a lace-trimmed hanky from her bag, wiped her nose and eyes, took a shaky breath. ‘No, I’ve.racked my brains. We’ve no relatives round here, we’re a small family. I’m so worried, it’s just not like him. Will you look for him?’ Her eyes were pleading.

‘Mrs Hobbs, there’s so little to go on. If Martin wants to stay missing, he will.’

‘But you’ll try?’

‘Look, I can ask around a bit. A lot of youngsters drift into Manchester initially…but after a month…If I don’t get any leads in the first couple of days, I really don’t think it would be worth pursuing. You’d be wasting your money.’

‘Thank you.’ The hanky came out again.

‘I need a recent photo.’

‘Yes.’ She fumbled in her bag. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t any good ones. We had a fire you see, last year. The lounge got the worst of it, the albums…’

She handed me two snapshots and a newspaper clipping. Both photographs were outdoor shots, full-length, taken from a distance. In one, a slight dark-haired boy in school uniform stood by a bus-stop; in the other, the same figure, in a waxed jacket, sat at the edge of some water surrounded by fishing tackle.

‘That’s up at Lostock. Rumworth Reservoir,’ she said. ‘He liked it there.’ It was a better shot of the reservoir than it was of Martin.

The newspaper cutting showed a smiling Martin holding up an eight pound carp. It was faded and grainy but it showed his face more clearly than either of the photos. There was an elfin look to him; pointed chin, slight nose, cap of dark hair. His face seemed lit up by that smile.

‘I’ll get copies done of these, then you can have them back.’

‘I brought some money.’ She fumbled with the clasp of her purse. Drew out an envelope. Cash. A thousand pounds.

‘This is far too much,’ I protested.

We wrangled for a while. She insisted I keep the money and, if I did end up resigning after two or three days, I could send her the difference. Oh, well. It’d be a pleasant surprise for the assistant bank manager, with whom I had such a lively exchange of letters.

I made a note of Mrs Hobbs’ phone number and told her I’d be in touch early the following week, unless I had any news before then. She thanked me about twenty times on the way to the door. I began to wonder whether she might have been Martin’s problem, finding it hard to let him go, not knowing how to give him the space to grow up and away from her. Perhaps. But, for now, my task was to find out where he’d gone, not why he’d left.

I jotted down a few starting points; hostels, his school, the reservoir at Lostock, Manchester. Impressive, eh? I rang my friend Chris, who works in the housing department and, after the usual exchange of pleasantries, asked her to give me a list of the hostels in the city, particularly any popular with young people. And any other places she knew of where a runaway might end up. She was about to start a meeting and promised to pop round after work with the information I wanted.

I rang St. Matthew’s High School to check what time lunch was. It might be tricky trying to book appointments with form teachers, trying to establish over the phone what lessons Martin had liked best. I reckoned the best bet would be to just turn up unannounced, ask around the staff room and the playground. People would give more away if they were caught unawares. No time to provide neat cameos of the truth. It’d be Monday before I could get up there but the hostels would be open all weekend.

I looked bleakly at the drying ceiling. The remaining walls were begging to be given the same treatment but I’d lost my momentum. I’d try and find it again some time next week. There’d be no chance over the weekend. Some activities don’t go with children and decorating’s one of them.

I shut up shop and left a note on the Dobson’s kitchen table apologising for the appalling smell. The fumes seemed to have risen through the house with a vengeance, strong enough to make my eyes water.

After nipping home for a bite to eat, I swapped my Mini for my pushbike and hurried to deposit the money in the bank. I was certain to be mugged before I got there. Couldn’t everyone tell I was carrying a grand in my rucksack? A thousand pounds. When I draw money out, they always trot off to check the computer while I sweat it out, trying not to look worried. This time I expected a little respect and admiration. A smile perhaps, a financial nod and a wink. No such look. Bland indifference. Perhaps they sensed the money wasn’t truly all mine – not yet – probably not ever, if the case was as fruitless as I expected.

I needed photocopies of Martin’s photographs. There was a photocopier at the library. The library was shut. Industrial action. The council had promised to regrade the staff years before; the staff were still waiting. And fed up to the back teeth. So was I.

I cycled over to the newsagent’s that had a photocopier and got five of each of the photos and ten enlargements of the newspaper cutting. It was time to go and collect Maddie from nursery school. My working day was over. Paid work, that is. The second shift was just beginning.