Looking for Trouble (14 page)

If Maddie told me Ray was messing with her, how would I react? Disbelief, yes, because I wouldn’t want it to be true. But I’d try to hide that from Maddie. I’d heard enough about abuse to know that children rarely lie about it. And I would act on what she’d told me.

I was still brooding as I waited for Maddie at school. One in ten is the conservative estimate. Three kids in Maddie’s class. I watched them as their names were called and they trotted out, laden with lunch-boxes and art-work. Some of them were tired and maungy, others greeted their parents with smiles and questions. Maddie was maungy. I bent to take her lunch-box and she launched a tantrum. Mouth stretched wide, tears coursing God knows why. I didn’t attempt to find out. It’d only make her worse. We collected Tom. Drove home. I unloaded the shopping. Made a cuppa. Started cooking. The phone rang. It was Harry. ‘Sal, that information you wanted...Smiley?’

‘Yes.’

‘My guy knew of him. He went away back in the ‘seventies, part of a vice bust. Seems they were into a bit of everything – porn, drugs. There was a big undercover operation. The police did very well. Now, your bloke only did two years. Co-operated with the police, as they say.’

‘That’s why he got cut up?’

‘That’s right. Word is he’s a bit of a fixer. Someone wants something, he puts them in touch with the right people. He’s not been back inside since then. Tends to work on his own. The criminal fraternity don’t exactly trust him.’

‘Anything more specific; what he might be involved in at the moment?’

‘No, I did ask. The man reckons it can’t be anything big or he’d have heard about him. You can rule him out of the main drug cartels, anything like that. But he’s likely to be dealing in that sort of area; prostitution, drugs. He hasn’t taken up art-theft or cat-burglary, or so my source tells me.’ Harry dramatised his use of words. I laughed.

‘Any use?’ he asked.

‘Not really. Still, thanks anyway.’

‘Pleasure. Now, I must go. The kids are beating shit out of each other.’

‘Thanks, Harry.’ Nice man.

Martin’s letter was still in my bag. A letter from a dead woman. I wanted rid. Saturday seemed as good a day as any to deliver it. It was with some foreboding that I set off to the house in Cheadle. After all, it could have been the scene of a murder. But, presumably, the police would have made their enquiries by now. Found out whether Janice Brookes had called there the previous Sunday. Whether she’d left there alive. If anyone was a likely suspect. Like Martin. Maybe her connection with him was a threat to his new life. Or maybe she was part of it. Whatever ‘it’ was. Max had talked about Martin losing control, that time in the playground. Dragged away before he beat the guy to death. It made my skin crawl. If not Martin, there was his ‘friend’. The man who’d come looking for him at Barney’s. He’d struck me as cold, domineering – but a killer? There hadn’t been anything in the paper about it. No small paragraph stating that a man was helping police with their enquiries. That helped a bit.

I recognised the place from its position on the winding road. These were big, expensive houses. No two alike. Most, like this one, were well hidden from the road. I parked in front of the beech hedge and made my way up the drive. Rhododendron bushes and lawns on either side. A graceful weeping willow. The house was built to impress. Small pillars framed the doorway. Two storeys with plenty of large windows. To the left of the building, a double garage and, at the other side, a glass conservatory. Gravel crunched underfoot. The neighbouring house to the left was completely screened by tall conifers. I could see the roof of the one on the right and a small stairway window between a pair of sycamores.

The red car was parked in front of the doorway. Someone was home. I rang the bell. The man with the gaunt face and receding hair, answered.

‘Hello,’ I said brightly, ‘is Martin in?’

‘Martin?’ He looked puzzled.

‘Martin Hobbs.’

‘There’s nobody of that name here,’ he said, in his precise clipped Scottish accent. He began to close the door.

‘But he said he was staying here,’ I bluffed. ‘I just want to give him a message.’

‘You’re mistaken.’

‘Wait.’ I pulled a copy of the angling photograph from my bag. ‘This is him.’

He gave it a cursory glance. ‘Sorry. I can’t help you. I’ve never seen the boy before.’ He shut the door. I had to step back to keep my balance.

I walked back down the drive; turned back to look at the house. The man stood in one of the upstairs windows, watching me. He made no attempt to disguise the fact. Gave me the creeps.

Although the Mini couldn’t be seen from the house, I wanted to give the impression, if anyone was interested, that I’d gone. I got in and drove round the corner a quarter of a mile and parked on one of the side roads. I took off my red jacket, put on an outsized baseball cap of Tom’s and walked back to the neighbour’s house. If there’d been a corner shop, I could have flashed Martin’s photo around, but this wasn’t corner shop country. Strictly residential.

The neighbour’s house was Spanish ranch style. A wooden veranda ran round the base, balconies jutting out above. There was plenty of black and white wrought-iron and shutters all over the place. Pampas grass grew in the garden, along with spiky cordylines. A series of terracotta urns spilt a riot of pink and orange geraniums and fuchsias against the white plaster walls.

I couldn’t find a bell, just a huge door-knocker shaped like a horseshoe. I banged. Frenzied barking erupted within. A woman’s voice silenced the dog. I heard chains and locks being drawn back. The door opened. The woman who stood there was in her late thirties. She wore a loose flowing housecoat, in colours to match the floral display outside. A bandanna round her tawny hair. Sun-glasses. ‘Yes?’ she snapped.

‘I wonder if I could talk to you?’

‘What are you selling?’ She had a transatlantic twang, a rude delivery.

‘Nothing.’

‘So, what do you want to talk to me about?’ She stressed the me.

‘Your neighbours.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me more.’ She waved me through into a huge living room that ran from the front of the house through to the back. All in white. Splashes of colour provided by scatter-cushions and large abstract paintings. I prayed my shoes were clean.

I sank into a creaking white leather Chesterfield. She settled in a white reclining chair.

‘I’m a private detective,’ I began, ‘I’ve been trying to find a missing boy, sixteen years old. I heard he was staying next door,’ I pointed the direction, ‘but when I asked there, I didn’t get much co-operation.’

‘Fraser’s a pain in the ass,’ she replied. ‘I thought the English were snotty, but God, he makes it into an art-form.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Barely. I think we’ve met three times in as many years. Usually if the mail gets dropped in the wrong box. He’s always made it plain that he values his privacy.’

‘Does Mr Fraser live on his own?’

She laughed. ‘Not Mr Fraser. Fraser’s his first name; Fraser Mackinlay. Yeah, he’s on his own.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘Business. Communications, computers, video, that sort of thing. Jack managed to embarrass him into coming over for drinks, when we first moved in. They talked business. All evening. Fascinating.’ She stretched the word out, dripping with sarcasm. ‘Fraser couldn’t wait to get away, but Jack’s not too hot reading the old body language.’

‘Do you remember the name of his company?’

‘Nope. Jack may. Say, isn’t this rather un-English, prying into folks’ affairs...?’

I must have looked worried.

She grinned. ‘No problem. I love it. Drink?’ She opened a white wicker cabinet and removed a bottle.

‘No thanks.’

‘Too early? I hope you’re not the moralising type. Jack hates to see me drink before noon. Not that he does, he’s hardly ever here.’ She clunked ice-cubes into a glass, pointed the bottle at me. ‘Never marry an entrepreneur. They fly home every couple of months to get the dry-cleaning done, then off they go. Money’s no problem,’ she nodded at the room, ‘but the company stinks.’ She poured her drink and took a good swig.

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Sal, Sal Kilkenny.’

‘Irish. I like the Irish. I have a quarter lrish blood, you know, most of it Bushmills.’ She laughed and raised her glass in a salute. ‘I’m Zaleski, Nina. Jack’s Polish stock. So, you guess Fraser’s seen this boy?’

I told her about following the car the night I’d found Martin at Barney’s, and Fraser’s outright denial.

‘So, Fraser’s telling lies.’ She drained her glass. ‘Tut, tut. Maybe he’s something to hide. Like a penchant for sixteen year old boys. That’s illegal here, isn’t it? Good enough reason to fib a little.’

‘That did occur to me,’ I said, ‘but all I want is to get in touch with Martin. I’m not going to feed what I find to the tabloids.’ I showed her Martin’s photo. Asked if she’d seen him around.

‘No, but these places aren’t exactly built for talking over the garden fence.’

‘I don’t even know if he is living there; he could have just gone back that one night. It’s none of my business what the relationship is, but I need to find out where Martin is; that’s the job I’ve been hired to do.’

‘Miss Kilkenny! Are you asking me to spy on my neighbour?’

‘No, not at...’

“Cos I’d just love to. Life is dull. A little project like that might add some interest. If I keep my beady little eye on all the comings and goings, I’ll see your Martin, sooner or later. That is, if he is staying there.’

‘I don’t know. If Fraser wants to keep Martin a secret, if he thought you were spying on him...’

‘I’ll be the soul of discretion.’ She put her hand on her heart. ‘I have some excellent binoculars and a pair of ghastly net curtains, When in Rome...1 shall also develop a sudden interest in walking Fang.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘The dog,’ she explained. ‘And I’ll create a new flower garden at the bottom of the drive. Fraser knows I have a fondness for the bottle and that I’m an American. My eccentric behaviour will confirm his prejudices.’ She winked. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

I had acquired a mole. I left her my card and strict instructions to be careful. I returned home with Martin’s letter still in my bag. Address to be confirmed.

‘Sal, it’s Jackie. I think you’d better come over. We’ve had a break-in in the cellar. I’m afraid your office is in a right mess.’

I arrived at the Dobson’s at the same time as the young policewoman. No-one I recognised. Jackie showed us the side door, which had been forced open, the wood shattered, the frame split. The door had been locked and bolted but the intruders had simply battered their way in.

‘Didn’t you hear anything?’ I asked.

‘We were all out. Once in a blue moon. The twins had a party, Grant and I went to the pictures, the other two were in town. We got back just after eleven and went straight to bed. We didn’t even check the door – stupid, I know, but it’d been locked when we left and everything was the same as usual. I noticed the smell of paint, though.’ Jackie led us along the hall to the door leading down to the cellar. ‘I thought you’d had a sudden burst of DIY again,’ she added. ‘Sal, it’s a bit of a mess.’

Mess. It was an abomination. Paint had been poured and daubed over everything; my desk, telephone, the carpet, filing cabinets. Pictures from the wall, my dead geranium in its pot, had been smashed and mixed in. The two old dining chairs had been broken and scattered around.

I drew breath in sharply and clutched Jackie’s arm, memories again.
Knife glinting, spittle on his lips, wetting my pants with fear.
‘Oh, God.’

‘Bit of a mess,’ ventured the W.P.C. ‘Can you tell if anything’s missing?’ Her mundane practicality brought me back to the present.

‘I don’t think so, I didn’t have much here. Nothing valuable.’

‘Looks like kids,’ she said. ‘We’ve had a lot of this recently.’

‘Come on upstairs,’ said Jackie.

While Jackie provided cups of tea, the young policewoman listened to me speculating about whether it was a random break-in or whether I was the target of something more sinister. I explained that the woman I’d been working for had been murdered. Could it have been to keep her quiet? Maybe they thought she’d told me something I shouldn’t know. I could tell I sounded paranoid. She didn’t even bother to make notes. She asked if I was still working on the case. I denied it. After all, so my silent rationalisations went, no-one was paying me, I wasn’t trying to solve Janice Brookes’ murder or even JB’s overdose. I was simply trying to deliver a letter and find out a bit more about a woman who’d hired me under false pretences. Besides, I didn’t want Detective Inspector Miller hearing that I was still nosing around. I shut up when the tea arrived.

She repeated her assertion that it looked like the work of kids, that there’d been a lot of mindless destruction of property over the last few months and advised Jackie to think about fitting an alarm and an outside sensor light. Jackie saw her out and returned to the kitchen.