Looking for Trouble (11 page)

‘Glad to hear it.’

Bedtime was a marathon. To make amends for the day, I treated Maddie to an extra long story about space princesses with secret powers. I didn’t get downstairs till half-past nine. The lounge was a tip. Littered with toys, empty cups, kids’ clothes. I hadn’t the energy to clear it up but I couldn’t stand looking at the clutter.

I went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. Settled into the old armchair by the big windows. Ray had been scanning the small ads; he hunts down auctions, gets tools that way. I flipped to the front page. BOLTON WOMAN BRUTAL MURDER. Photograph. Those large eyes, lit by a smile. I spilt my tea. My eyes raced over the print. I couldn’t make sense of it. Oh, the facts were there; where the body was found, how she’d been killed. But the woman that stared out at me, the woman who’d cried in my office two days ago, was Janice Brookes, a single woman living alone. ‘Miss Brookes leaves a mother and sister.’ No son. No husband. No Mrs Hobbs.

Now what the fuck was going on?

I rang the incident room number listed in the newspaper report and tried to establish whether the woman who’d been battered to death really was Janice Brookes. The man I spoke to was cagey. The police hate to answer questions. Oh, the bobby on the beat will give you the time of day or directions, but anything to do with a case is a no-no. He finally conceded that if the woman was named Janice Brookes then she must have been identified as such.

I told him that I’d recently been hired by her and emphasised that she was using an assumed name. He said he’d pass on the details to the officer in charge, who would probably contact me to arrange an interview. I tried to find out where I could contact her sister or mother, but he ‘wasn’t at liberty to divulge any information’.

I needed to talk to someone. Ray was out having a meal with friends, so I tried Diane. She sounded breathless when she finally answered the phone.

‘Diane, it’s Sal.’

‘Oh, look Sal, this really isn’t a good time...’

Whoops. Sorry. Right...erm...see you tomorrow.’

‘Yeah.’

What had I interrupted, a steamy session or a blazing row?

Harry was my last chance. The babysitter told me they’d gone to the pictures. Did I want to leave a message? No.

I paced around a bit then tried to tackle my confusion with pen and paper. I ended up with a list of banal questions thrown up by Mrs Hobbs’ double identity and her murder. The paper went in the bin. I was hardly going to forget what was on it. I paced around a bit more.

My earlier lack of energy had been replaced by the adrenalin buzz that a shock brings. Whilst I cleared up the lounge, my mind roamed back over my meetings with Mrs Hobbs aka Janice Brookes. Several small details began to make sense. She’d never given me an address. She’d paid in cash too. No cheque, no signature. Her responses to my early questions about what clothes Martin had taken when he left had been vague. And all the lies about reporting him missing to the police and how little they did. She’d never have been to them at all.

Then there were the photos she’d given me; not school photos or holiday snaps but a newspaper cutting and two outdoor shots that could easily have been acquired by a stranger snapping from across the street. She’d said something about that, hadn’t she? I struggled to remember. A fire. That’s right, a fire had destroyed all the family albums. A cover story?

If she wasn’t Martin’s mother, why had she been pursuing him? Some weird obsession? Was she mixed up in illegal goings-on? I couldn’t imagine it. Martin wasn’t her runaway son, so why convince me he was? Because I’d never have taken the case if she’d told me her real reason for wanting to find him.

She’d put on a brilliant act. Tears and all. And I’d found it totally plausible. I’d swallowed it hook, line and sinker. I hated the idea that I’d been conned so completely. Hell, I’d even seen a resemblance in their faces because I expected there to be some similarity.

Perhaps she believed she was the boy’s mother. You hear of people suffering from delusions, but they’re usually a bit more grandiose, aren’t they? Like being Jesus or Boudicca or something.

I re-read the paper. She’d been battered to death. A vicious attack. Her body had been found on rough ground off the M63 motorway, early on Monday morning, by a woman exercising (read toileting) her dog. The police had not yet determined whether there was a link between this murder and the killing of another woman, as yet unsolved, on the same stretch of motorway, the previous year. Women were advised to be vigilant when travelling alone and in the event of a breakdown, to remain in their cars and wait for police assistance. There was nothing about whether her car had been found.

I knew I wouldn’t sleep well but I had to go through the motions. Wriggling away inside was a small maggot of guilt. I’d spoken to Janice Brookes on Sunday and done little to ease her distress. I’d laid into her the previous day about her betrayal of Martin, when he’d turned to her for help. But if she wasn’t Mrs Hobbs, she hadn’t betrayed him. Yet she’d sat there and rocked with grief. Why hadn’t she denied it, told me who she really was? On Sunday, she’d been desperate to get his address. Was someone else putting pressure on her? Did she think Martin was in danger? How did she even know him?

There was one thing that I was certain of. It was no coincidence that she was dead. The M63 is a long way from Bolton. It’s within spitting distance of Cheadle. She’d threatened to go after Martin. She had. And someone had killed her. Just like they had JB If I’d dealt more sympathetically with Sunday’s phone call, she might still be alive.

It was a long time till morning.

I had a flash of inspiration as I brushed my teeth, first thing on Tuesday. Janice Brookes had a sister. Maybe they looked alike. Very alike. Like twins. Some families are like that, aren’t they? The same genes coming to the fore. Janice Brookes was the victim, Mrs Hobbs would turn out to be her bereaved sister. I got very excited following this train of thought. Ignoring the strange coincidences it implied, like Mrs Hobbs’ sister getting killed near Cheadle. The theory relieved me of the guilt and paranoia that had mushroomed around me. I rang Mrs Hobbs. No reply. She’d probably be busy helping with the funeral arrangements. I was clutching at straws. Sometimes, there’s nothing else to clutch at.

The police knocked that one on the head straightaway. They arrived, unannounced, just as I’d got the kids into the car. It was the man with the suntan, moustache and glasses who’d sat in the background while I was questioned at JB’s. With him a young sandy-haired bloke with sticky-out ears, reminiscent of Tintin. I asked them to wait a moment and fled inside to rouse Ray so he could do the school run.

The two men followed me into the kitchen. We all sat down round the oval table.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Miller and this is Sergeant Boyston. You are Sal Kilkenny?’

‘Yes, We met last week, actually.’

‘Busy, aren’t we?’ Said without a trace of humour. ‘Now, you contacted us regarding the murder of Miss Janice Brookes.’ Tintin made notes, while Miller did the talking.

‘Yes, well, if it is her.’ I had an unnerving flash of déjà-vu. The last time the police had sat in my kitchen I’d just had a brick through the window, a prelude to a knife through the shoulder.

Miller looked puzzled. I dragged my brain back to the present.

‘I thought it might be her sister. You see, I knew her as Mrs Hobbs. The woman I met, she looks like this one,’ I pointed to the paper, ‘but the wrong name. I thought if they were alike, her and her sister, then...’

The Sergeant sniggered.

‘I can assure you,’ said Miller, ‘that they do not look alike. Perhaps if we start at the beginning.’ He smiled, but his flecked brown eyes held no warmth.

I told them about Mrs Hobbs and the job she’d asked me to do. I related that I’d found Martin and that he’d wanted no contact with his family. I left out the details of his abuse; after all, that had nothing to do with Janice Brookes. I described how upset she’d been when I told her Martin didn’t want to see her.

‘She rang me again on Sunday.’

‘What time was that?’

‘About two-thirty. She wanted to go and see Martin. talk to him. I persuaded her not to. Well, I thought I had. She was going to write instead, send the letter to me to deliver.’

‘Have you received it?’

‘No.’

‘I think she went after him,’ I said, ‘where she was found, the M63, it’s not far from Cheadle. You should check out the house. She could have been killed there, then moved. Was she killed where they found her?’

Miller didn’t acknowledge questions.

‘I’d be careful about making wild accusations like that,’ he said. ‘After all, as I understand it you don’t know that Martin Hobbs lived there.’

‘No. but...’

‘Or who else lived there.’

‘I know, but you must at least...’

‘I’m aware of how to conduct a murder enquiry, Miss Kilkenny.’ He spoke sharply. ‘You have a note of the street name, Sergeant?’

‘Old Hall Lane, Sir, Aston Martin, red.’

‘Where were you on Sunday night?’

‘Me?’ My face burned with indignation. ‘I was here.’

‘All evening?’

‘Yes.’ I sounded defensive, Guilty for no good cause. ‘There are children in the house.’

‘And you had no further contact with Janice Brookes after that phone call?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I think that will do for now. We’ll get in touch if we need to talk to you again.’

‘Did anyone else know her as Mrs Hobbs? Was she leading a double life?’

‘I can’t say, Miss. We do know she had a history of mental instability.’

I wondered what you had to do to qualify for that label. Go to a therapist, as I had? Take tranquillisers? Be hospitalised? I could think of precious few people who didn’t have some history of mental instability. Sergeant Boyston closed his notebook.

‘I’d like to speak to her family,’ I said.

‘I think they’ve got quite enough on their plate at the moment.’

‘But they might know why she was pretending to be…’

‘Frankly, that’s no longer any of your concern. Your client is dead. I’ve a murder to solve and I don’t want any interference. In fact, I’d regard any further activity by you as obstruction. Is that clear?’

I sent laser death rays with my glare. The two of them got to their feet.

‘There’s something else,’ I said. ‘About JB, I mean, Philip Hargreaves.’ Miller waited for me to continue. ‘Someone was seen leaving his place the day he was killed.’

‘Philip Hargreaves died of a self-induced drug over dose.’ He was impatient, spoke with contempt.

‘Well, that’s what everyone thought. But this man, he’s a known criminal, he was seen leaving on the Thursday afternoon. The person who saw him found JB’s body. He was already dead then. Twenty-four hours before I got there. But they were too scared to say anything.’

Miller stared at me until I felt uncomfortable. When he spoke it was to ridicule me. ‘Philip Hargreaves was a junkie. The doctor and the coroner were both satisfied as to cause of death. There was no evidence of foul play. If this anonymous witness had seen a handful of serial killers in the vicinity, it wouldn’t alter...’

‘In the building. He’s known as Smiley. He’s got a scar...’

Miller held up his hand. ‘This isn’t a bloody gangster movie.’ He leant towards me. ‘No crime has been committed.’

‘It has,’ I insisted. ‘Murder.’

‘Wrong.’ He stabbed his finger at me. ‘The facts speak for themselves. There’s only one murder, that of Janice Brookes.’

‘But Martin’s the link. They must be connected.’

‘Not as far as I’m concerned. You’ve been under too much pressure, Miss Kilkenny.’ He shook his head to and fro. ‘Dealing with an accidental death and now this. Way out of your league. Can’t be an easy job for a woman, anyway. We know what we’re doing. We take it from here. You need a break; take the kiddies away for a few days. Help you to get things in the right perspective. This sort of hysterical reaction doesn’t help anybody.’ He moved towards the door. Tintin followed. ‘We’ll be doing our level best with the Brookes case, I can assure you of that.’

I was glad I hadn’t offered the bastard a cup of tea.

Well, I’d done my duty. I’d passed on Leanne’s story. If DI Miller thought I was going to sit back and twiddle my thumbs, he’d another think coming. Oh, they could solve the murder, I wouldn’t tread on any toes there, but I would solve the mystery. I had to know why Janice Brookes was willing to spend a grand tracing a runaway schoolboy. And if I hadn’t easy access to the Brookes family, then I’d start with the other side of the family. With the real Mrs Hobbs.

The rain came down like stair rods as I drove over to Bolton. Traffic was bad, with road-works along the M61. I made it to St. Matthew’s just before the end of lunch break.

After a few enquiries, I found Max Ainsworth in the Chemistry Lab. The smell of sulphur took me straight back to interminable Friday afternoons, perched on a high wooden stool, listening to Miss Jackson drone on. We’d given her hell. Turning on unlit Bunsen burners in attempts to gas the class out of existence, competing with each other to see how many test-tubes could be broken during one experiment. At fourteen, we dropped chemistry like a shot.