Looking for Trouble - [3]

‘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.

CHAPTER THREE

Home is a large, slightly shabby Victorian semi in Withington, south Manchester. Solid red brick with crumbling stained glass, high ceilings, big rooms and a wonderful garden. Withington houses a mix of people; families, students, workers from Christie’s hospital. The area has an old-fashioned swimming pool, a library, a health-food shop and its very own fleapit style cinema.