Looking for Trouble (24 page)

I called Stockport Infirmary and found out that Nina Zaleski would be discharged by early afternoon. I asked them to tell her I’d bring clothes and give her a lift home.

I rang Mrs Williams. She was hopping mad, having tried to speak to Miller; she’d been told he was unavailable and had been fobbed off with Sergeant Boyston. ‘He couldn’t tell me a thing,’ she said. ‘He didn’t even seem to understand why I was complaining. I told him I wanted the Inspector to contact me as soon as he’s back.’

As soon as I rang off, the phone bleated at me. I snatched it up, unnerved by the sudden noise. It was work. Bliss. Paid work which would help offset the horrible details in the bank statement that had come that morning.

My client was a worried employer. He ran an electrical goods shop. Someone on the staff was siphoning off stock on a pretty regular basis. I arranged to call and discuss the details on Wednesday afternoon, when the shop was shut.

I spent an hour putting the files from the salvageable pile in order in the cabinet. An old one that I’d created in my first flush of optimism, when I’d started the business on the Enterprise Allowance Scheme, was marked Equipment Guarantees. Inside was my camera warranty, well past the expiry date. I binned that, crossed out the title and wrote VAT in big letters. Surely that would bore the pants off anyone who might come looking? Into it, I put a note of the car numbers I’d copied from my arm, together with a short biography of all the characters connected to the search for Martin Hobbs. For prudence’s sake, I altered names and glossed over details.

Gaunt Man – rich, Gaelic, high-tech empire, cold fish, maybe living with...

Peter Pan – no home of his own, hiding or hidden?

Pudding Bowl – business with gaunt man, ex-‘film’ director, white car.

Kirk Douglas – charity champion, connection to gaunt man? Money?

I bracketed those four together. At the bottom of the page, I added Tinkerbell – light-fingered friend of the Artist (dead) and the Suspect (dead).

Grumpy – rubbed out the Artist? Hooked the Suspect. Frightens Tinkerbell, and me!

I realised that Janice connected to the top via Martin and to the bottom via Derek, the Suspect. And that Martin was still the key to it all – he linked the two groups.

I jotted down a few other questions and observations, including the warning I’d received.

On a fresh sheet of paper, I wrote myself a note in large capitals: THE LETTER – NOTHING ELSE. An admonition to keep on the right track. Like talking to a brick wall.

The sky was full of the promise of thunder. Sulky clouds, tinged violet, moved into place. The air was stifling, a headache lurked at the nape of my neck.

Along Old Hall Lane, the bin-bags crouched in little piles, waiting for the refuse van. A daft idea formed and, without taking time to assess it, I stopped the car at the pile nearest to Fraser’s and Nina’s, nipped out and slung the lot in the boot. Only when I was back in the Mini, did I risk checking to see if anyone had seen me. The street was deserted. My blush faded and I drove on to Nina’s and deposited the rubbish round the far side of the house.

I unlocked the door and went in. Fang roared into action from behind the kitchen door. Upstairs, I searched through drawers and cupboards till I’d found underwear, a stylish turquoise tracksuit and some white leather sports shoes. I paused on the way down to peer out at Fraser’s. No cars there today. I’d go round with the letter once I’d brought Nina back.

Finding the hospital was a doddle, finding a parking space a nightmare. At last I spotted someone leaving, on a side street, and sat patiently while they loaded assorted bags and babies and moved off.

Nina was alone in a dayroom, the television on. She wore a paper hospital gown. Her face was the colour of oatmeal. When she saw me, she looked embarrassed. She covered it quickly with an expression of world-weariness.

‘Sal.’ A brittle smile.

‘Clothes.’ I handed her the pile. ‘I’ve come to give you a lift home.’

She sighed and nodded. She got up slowly and walked to the door. When she’d gone, I turned the television off and turned the chair round to face the windows that looked out onto buildings and, beyond those, fields and trees. The sky glowered darker and a flash illuminated the landscape. I counted four before the thunder broke in a rich growl. Large drops of rain followed, splashing as they hit.

I was mesmerised by the time she returned. I didn’t hear her come in. She touched me lightly on the shoulder and I started.

‘You need to sign out or anything?’ I asked her.

She shook her head.

I hadn’t brought her a coat. That made two of us. By the time we reached the car, the rain had mottled our clothes and drenched our hair.

‘I suppose I should thank you – for last night,’ she said dryly, as she fastened the seat belt.

‘It’s not compulsory,’ I said. ‘How do you feel?’

‘As though they put lye in the bottle. And pretty stupid. I’d appreciate it if we could just forget the whole thing.’ Tough lady talking but out of the corner of my eye I caught a twitching jaw muscle that told me she was hurting.

The rain was so heavy, it was hard to see the way.

‘I have a confession to make,’ I said. ‘Well, two, actually.’

‘Go on.’

‘I smashed a window to break into your house last night and I left Fang shut up in the kitchen without any dinner.’

‘Best place for him. He’d have ripped your throat out if you’d tried anything else.’

When we reached the ranch, I showed Nina the damage. She told me to wait in the lounge while she sorted Fang out. After a few minutes she called me through. She’d cleared up the mess he’d made but even the disinfectant couldn’t hide the smell. He was just finishing some food. A large, dirty-white animal with thick fur and a solid body. He growled softly at me while he finished his meal.

‘Is upstairs a mess?’ Nina asked.

With a rush of embarrassment, I realised I’d just left the bedroom after the ambulance had gone and I hadn’t done anything to clear up this morning.

‘I don’t know.’

It wasn’t too bad. A puddle of dried vomit, the fruity smell of spilt alcohol. But I felt it would be tactful if I went, left her to clear up herself.

‘I’d better go,’ I said. She followed me onto the landing.

‘What about next door? Do you still want to know about Fraser’s movements?’

‘Yes. I was going to try going round now. Does he usually park the car in view?’

She moved past me and looked out of the window. ‘Not always. He has a garage round the far side. He could well be at work now.’

I thought about it. ‘I don’t want to be recognised,’ I said, ‘if he is there.’

Nina stood back and screwed her eyes up, examining me. ‘I have just the thing,’ she said. ‘This way.’

I followed her through to the second bedroom, which was used as a dressing room. Walk-in wardrobes lined one wall and full-length mirrors covered the one opposite. She crossed to a chest of drawers and pulled out a bleached blonde frizzy perm wig. A red pvc zip-up minidress was next. Nina insisted on the pillar-box red lipstick and the long lash mascara. While she finished me off, back-combing the wig, she told me how she’d trained as a beautician. But all her training couldn’t mask the fact that her hands were shaking too badly to do the make-up.

I surveyed myself in the mirror. Shoes were a problem. My tatty trainers hardly fit the image and Nina’s feet were two sizes smaller than mine. She was all for me teetering in strappy mules, with my heels hanging off the back, but I needed to be able to run.

‘Shame you ain’t got bigger boobies,’ she said. ‘Draw attention away from those feet.’

The final touch was a soft gold leather bum-bag, into which I folded the letter from Janice Brookes to Martin. It was still raining. Nina found me a red brolly.

Feeling like a right nerd, I made my way down Nina’s drive, along the road a few yards and into Fraser’s, taking the route through the bushes to avoid rattling the gravel. I tiptoed round the side to the garage. It had a steel door – not even a keyhole to peer through. But, round the back, there was a small meshed window. I jumped up to see in. No car.

Back round to the front. I pushed open the golden letter box and peeped in. Palatial entrance hall, rich rug on the floor, vase of lilies, doors off, nothing moving. I turned so my ear was at the slot. Faint murmur; a telly, radio? I waited. Running water started then stopped. Someone was home. I straightened up, wincing a bit as I renewed acquaintance with my torn muscles.

I rang the bell loud and long, heard it trilling through the house. Waited, rang again, waited. After the third attempt, I listened again. The radio had been turned off. Quiet. I moved away a few yards so I could look up at the house for any sign of life. Gave the bell one last try.

I didn’t hear the car. Not until it swept round the last bend into the turning circle. It swerved to a halt, spraying gravel. Fraser Mackinlay jumped out.

‘Yes?’ he barked. ‘What do you want?’

‘Good afternoon, sir.’ I pulled my lips apart to show my teeth. ‘I’m in the area looking for clients.’ I tried for a broad accent, all Coronation Street. ‘Home beauty treatments, facials, extensions, waxing...’ I don’t know whether it was the trainers that blew it, but Fraser’s eyes raked me up and down, then he lunged.

I dropped the umbrella and ran, kicking up gravel as I went. I skidded as I rounded the corner and one leg went scooting out to the side. I dug in with the other, to regain my balance, and felt the sickening wrench of my weak ankle. Fraser had gained on me. He could move fast. As I took off again, I knew I wouldn’t make it. He was at my heels and my windpipe was hurting with the exertion and the punishment from last night’s cycle ride. He was right behind me now. He grabbed for me, his fingers tightening in the coarse hair of the wig. He held tight, stopped, expecting me to jerk to a halt. I sailed on. I heard him shout in dismay.

I had the advantage now and didn’t dare relax my pace. Thank God for the trainers. I ignored the pain in my ankle. I reached the gates and turned onto the pavement, ran on past Nina’s. I sensed Fraser had stopped. When I judged I’d created enough distance, I looked back. Just in time to see him fling the wig to the ground and wheel away from the road.

I trotted another mile before I found anywhere with a public phone. A big theme pub, Tudor beams and microwave dinners. I’d no money, but I begged some ten pences off a party of office workers who were pissed enough to be feeling generous. I got Nina’s number from Directory Enquiries. ‘It’s me, Sal. I’m at the Black Bull Tavern on Middlewich Road. Can you come and get me?’ I felt awkward calling for help from someone who’d near enough poisoned herself within the last twenty-four hours – she must be feeling lousy – but there was no-one else I could ask.

‘What are you doing there? What happened?’

‘Fraser chased me.’

She thought it was funny. ‘Didn’t catch you, then.’

I described the drama on the drive back. Nina hooted with laughter. She was still pale but seemed to have some of her old sparkle back. She was sucking mints, her hands were steady. I assumed she’d been back at the booze.

I ducked down as we neared the house, only emerging once we were at her front door. Back in the dressing room, I wriggled out of the red sheath and into my damp jeans and sweatshirt.

‘Do you think he knew who you were?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know – hope he doesn’t treat all his callers like that. I suppose once the wig was off he got a pretty good look. And if he’s that paranoid, he’ll remember me from the other day. I’m sorry about the wig.’

‘No problem. It always gave me one helluva headache.’

It was after three; I’d be late for Maddie. I pulled the letter from the bum-bag.

‘What do you want me to do about Fraser?’ Nina asked.

‘Nothing. He’ll be on red alert now,’ I said. ‘Don’t even bother watching, unless you happen to be passing the window.’

The green lights were on my side for a change. I reached school just in time. I limped through the playground and drew a lot of sidelong glances from other parents. Maddie was in her surly mood. I let her be and we drove over to Tom’s nursery. I was gasping for a drink and almost faint with hunger. I felt smelly, too, after all that exercise and the fear. I craved a pot of tea, beans on toast (had we any bread?), a fierce shower.

Tom was in the home corner. He burst into tears as I moved towards him. I knelt down at his side. ‘Tom, what’s the matter?’

He shrank away from me, clung to the nursery nurse. What was it? Anxiety clawed at my stomach. I looked at her over his head. She pointed at my face, mouthed the words.

Oh God. No wonder they’d stared in the playground. I was still tarted up to the nines.

The storm really got going around tea-time. Digger set up a whine that grated on my nerves. Gusts of strong wind joined heavy rain. Out of the kitchen window, I could see the plants taking a battering, whipped this way and that, heads bowed with the weight. Maddie’s trike and Tom’s car scudded round with the strongest blasts. I pulled on my cagoule, slipped a pair of scissors in the pocket and went out there. I put the toys away in the shed and weighted the sandpit cover down with stones. Then I cut a handful of pinks and snipped off every sweet-pea in sight. Cut and come again.