Looking for Trouble - [12]

‘Anyway, I’m not going to tell her anything until I’ve checked it out. It could just be a relationship.’

‘Yeah,’ JB nodded his head, ‘and I could be the President of America an’ all.’

‘Could you ask around a bit, see if anyone’s heard from him? Heard where he is?’

I pulled a fiver from my bag. ‘I’d like to give you something for your time.’

He looked embarrassed, a slight flush to his olive complexion.

‘Oh, go on. You’re the only help I’ve had. Get a meal or something. Treat the dog.’

‘Alright,’ he grinned. ‘You’ll like that Digger, eh?’ The dog wagged its tail.

I gave him my card and a photograph of Martin. He pinned them on the noticeboard above the sink, amongst a collage of other bits of paper. He led me back down through the gloom of the building and out into the yard. I thanked him again. As we reached the fence, it was pushed back and the young girl I’d spoken to earlier climbed through.

‘Hiya.’ She bent to pat the dog. His girlfriend? Or another waif he was helping out?

‘Bye then, and thanks.’

Another smile. The two of them set off towards the steps and I clambered back onto the street. JB had given me a lot to go on. I hoped with all my heart that he’d got it wrong.

CHAPTER EIGHT

My half-painted office cried out for completion. Its pleas fell on deaf ears. I rang Mrs Hobbs instead. She wasn’t in. Did she work? It was only three o’clock. Not much point in trying again till after five. I wrote out some notes about the investigation so far; added up time and expenses.

I gazed at the narrow window. A fern and a couple of sturdy dandelions cut out most of the meagre light, but they couldn’t obscure the fact that it was sunny out there. The walls needed painting. My garden needed attention. No contest. Walls would keep, bedding plants wouldn’t.

It was a good decision. I weeded and trimmed, staked and tidied. Dug over a bed for planting, chatted to my perennials, filled an old chimney pot with verbena, pansies and lobelia. I even changed the slug traps, gagging at the stench as I carried each one gingerly to the cellar toilet and flushed the slimy contents away. The rhythm of the work, the scent of the earth, the sun on my back left me feeling pleasantly tired and relaxed.

It was nearly six when I put the tools away and rang Mrs Hobbs.

‘Mrs Hobbs, Sal Kilkenny here.’

‘Yes,’ she spoke quickly, ‘have you found him?’

‘No, I’m sorry. But I do know he came to Manchester and I’ve met someone who put him up for a while. Another…’ I groped for a label; homeless person, runaway, boy, young man, ‘…lad. He hasn’t seen Martin for a couple of weeks but he’s going to ask around and get back to me. So far, that’s all I’ve been able to find out.’

Silence.

‘Mrs Hobbs?’

Snuffling. ‘I’m sorry. I thought, I hoped…’

I spent a couple of minutes blathering on about how hopeful I was, how lucky we were to get any lead at all, reassuring her that Martin had been fine when last seen, etc. I’d be in touch as soon as I heard anything more. All the time I was wondering how I was going to tell her the truth, if it was the truth, that Martin was alive and well and on the game, or shacked up with a sugar daddy, at best. If that ever happened to Maddie…

Now what?

I played pirates with the kids for a while and when Ray gathered them up for bed, I went and sat in the garden. Surveyed my handiwork. Ray joined me there. He handed me a glass. ‘Cocktail?’

‘What’s this in aid of?’

‘Nothing.’

I sipped it. ‘Mmm. What is it?’

‘Daiquiri. Rum, ice, lime, sugar.’

‘Nice. So?’ I turned to him.

‘So?’ He was a lousy dissembler. Eyes shifted like jumping beans and even his moustache couldn’t hide a twitch of embarrassment round the mouth. Ray’s of Italian descent but, unlike your Italian stereotype, he’s not prone to extravagant displays of emotions or outbursts of generosity. Cocktails were more than a friendly gesture.

‘C’mon Ray, I know you. The cocktail has a deeper meaning. Now, as far as I’m aware you’re not about to move out or have a baby or get married, so what is it?’

‘It’s Clive.’

‘Oh, no,’ I groaned theatrically.

‘He’s back tomorrow. We’ve got to sort out what we’re going to say.’

‘Maybe we should just give it a bit longer.’

‘It’s been four months and it’s getting worse. The guy’s a total prat.’

‘We could change the locks,’ I giggled. ‘Oh, I don’t know, he did make an effort after the last meeting.’

‘Yeah, for all of twenty-four hours.’

‘It’s not just the practical things though, is it?’ I turned to Ray.

‘Nope.’ He sipped his drink.

‘I mean, even if he remembered to clear up after himself and keep the music down…’

‘…and stop drinking all the milk, and treat the kids like human beings…’

‘…and pay the rent on time,’

‘He’d still be a prat,’ Ray concluded.

‘What is it though?’ I asked. ‘What defines his pratness?’

‘Pseudy, unreliable, doesn’t like women for starters.’

‘He seemed so nice when he came round about the advert.’

‘And he was the only person we’d seen,’ Ray reminded me, ‘and you were panicking about the rent.’

I squirmed. ‘He gives me the creeps. You know, he can’t talk about anyone without putting them down. It’s horrible.’ I drained my glass. ‘What are we going to say? Sorry Clive, we want you to move out. We think you’re a prat.’