Looking for Trouble (27 page)

Friday was Manchester weather. Endless soaking rain that fell from thick, steely skies. I’d slept well till nine, waking refreshed, and the sight from my window didn’t have me diving back to bed.

I was ravenous but I wanted a treat for breakfast. Something to welcome myself back to the world. There was a fiver in my purse. I drove to the health food shop and bought a Greek-style Bio yoghurt and some nuts. In the greengrocers next door I bought a selection of fruit and a bunch of lilies. Back home, I stuck the lilies in water and put them on the kitchen table. Then I sliced up some banana, apple and grapes, mixed them with the thick, creamy yoghurt, poured honey over that and a sprinkling of nuts. The final touch was a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Serious pleasure.

As I finished, the phone rang. I gave the number.

‘Is that Sal?’

‘Yes, who is it?’

‘It’s Leanne, right, I wanted to...’

‘You’ve got a bloody nerve.’ My stomach clenched, my face got hot.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. What are you doing, ringing to see if I’ve got the message? Well, I have, loud and clear, and you can tell Smiley his fucking goons put me in hospital and you can also tell him that the phone call would have done the job. There was no need to send in the clowns...so,’ I was running out of words and breath, ‘so you can just fuck off, Leanne.’

‘It’s not my fault, is it?’ Surly innocence.

‘I don’t give a toss whether you went running or he came asking, all I know is, within hours of me leaving you, he’s threatening me, and my child, on the phone and next thing I know I’m beaten senseless.’ I was screeching by then, shaking with renewed outrage. ‘So you can just go and fuck yourself.’ Eloquent. I hung up.

I wanted to break something, lash out. Digger slunk past. Clive couldn’t have timed it worse. I was sorting out the cutlery, crashing handfuls of metal around, when he bounded into the kitchen.

‘God,’ he said, ‘what happened to you?’

‘I got beaten up.’ I could see from his eyes he was weighing up whether to make some clever dick remark. He didn’t get chance.

‘Clive, we want you to move out. I’m giving you notice now, a month, but if you can find somewhere sooner, we’d be delighted. And we’d like you to settle the rent and the bills – I think it’s about eight hundred pounds so far. Ray’s got the exact figures.’

‘You can’t throw me out, I haven’t done anything.’

‘Precisely. You’ve done sweet f.a. for as long as possible, you haven’t contributed anything to the running of the house and we’re sick of it.’

‘You can’t make me leave.’ His chin came up. ‘I’ve got rights, you know.’

‘I doubt it. Tenants pay rent. You seem to have stopped. I think you’ve forfeited any rights.’

‘Look, look.’ He waved his hands up near his ears – it was all too much, man. ‘Okay, I got a bit behind and I missed a meeting, but this is way over the top. We can work something out. I’ll pay it off a bit at a time.’

‘It’s too late, Clive. You’ve blown it. I can’t trust you anymore. You’ll have to leave.’

‘Where can I go? It’s impossible renting these days. I’ll end up on the streets.’

‘Oh, I don’t think Daddy would let that happen, do you?’ Below the belt maybe. Clive couldn’t help having a rich father he never saw.

‘You’ll be sorry for this,’ he began to shout, pointing his index finger at me, ‘just wait and see.’ He moved closer. ‘I’ll get you back for this, you cow, you just wait, you cunt.’

The prickle of fear hadn’t a chance. I was still boiling from Leanne and here was the red rag.

In a trice, I had Clive by the collar. I pushed my face up against his, smelt sweet aftershave and stale tobacco. ‘Don’t you dare threaten me, you little shit.’ Even I was impressed at how scary I sounded. ‘Don’t you ever speak to me like that. Now, get out.’ I shoved him away.

‘Dearie me, what’s the matter?’ Neither of us had heard Nana Tello come in. She stood, aghast, a bag of shopping in each hand.

‘Clive’s just going,’ I said. ‘He’s off to find somewhere else to live.’

‘Oh,’ she said to me coldly. She turned to Clive. ‘You could try the shop windows,’ she offered brightly.

‘Aw, piss off Grandma,’ he said, as he made his exit.

She drew in a sharp breath. Lifted the carriers onto the table. ‘You’ve upset him,’ she accused me.

‘Yes,’ and then I felt the bubbles rising, a ridiculous giggle that took me over completely. ‘Yes,’ I gasped, doubled up as the laughter shook my ribs, ‘yes, I suppose you could say that.’

In the late post, I had another note from the Victim Support Scheme. I wondered if they’d noticed it was the same person they’d written to just the week before. I was impressed with their efficiency. I’d heard rumours that they were going to have their funding cut. Was nothing safe?

Bev rang to see about meeting up for a swim on Sunday morning and going back to their house for lunch. I told her about my injuries. I didn’t really want to bare all my bruises at the baths.

‘Bit of gentle stretching might be good for you,’ she said. I wasn’t sure, nor were my ribs. I accepted lunch and said I’d confirm the swim on Sunday morning. I asked if Harry was there. I wanted to tell him what Smiley had put me through.

‘He’s out,’ said Bev. ‘Another shooting in Moss Side, last night.’

‘Oh, no. What happened?’

‘Some little girl got caught in the crossfire, she’s in intensive care. One of the youths involved is dead. Harry’s been there since first light.’ Bev sounded pissed off. With the situation or with Harry?

‘It just gets worse,’ I said. ‘Kids with guns.’

‘They reckon you can pick one up for fifty quid, less than a pair of trainers.’

I made the sort of noises expected and rang off.

Ordsall and now Moss Side. Just down the road, but it still felt unreal – as though it were all happening in someone else’s city.

I fished out my cagoule, found my bag, made a sandwich and filled a flask. Nana Tello was in the lounge, pouring over the racing papers, ringing hopefuls with a stubby pencil. I told her I was off to the office. I’d have to talk to Ray about her staying – if I tried to tell her that I could manage fine now, she’d take umbrage.

Within an hour of getting to the office, I’d had two calls in response to my ad in the paper. A solicitor wanted three lots of papers serving on people and would pay nicely to get them off her hands and a woman wanted me to check whether her husband was really working late so many nights. The solicitor would have the papers ready first thing Monday morning and I arranged to visit the worried wife the same afternoon.

I opened two new files with the relevant details and allowed myself a cocky grin as I dropped them in the drawer of the filing cabinet.

I played with figures for a while; working out how much rent I owed the Dobson’s; ringing to check on insurance rates for minimum contents cover (two plastic chairs, a phone and a distressed filing cabinet); checking back with my invoices to tot up what I’d earned over the last couple of months. I tried not to let it get me down. It convinced me to call at the post office for a Family Credit form as soon as possible.

I took the letter addressed to Martin out of my bag and propped it up by the phone. Then I unpacked my lunch and ate it, gazing all the while at the letter.

It was proving impossible to deliver by hand. If I sent it by registered delivery, it could always be intercepted and signed for by Fraser Mackinlay. Fraser had consistently denied me access to Martin, denied he even knew him. I opened my Blue Riband, bit off a chunk, took a sip of coffee and thought. My mind went to the group who I’d seen with Martin at the night-club. I could hardly go back and ask Eddie Kenton to confirm whether Martin was staying at the house in Cheadle. But what about Bruce Sharrocks? I’d still not found anything to connect him to the others. If I asked him straight out, played the innocent, pretended I knew Fraser too, perhaps? But not over the phone. Easier to weigh up his responses face to face.

I rang his secretary to confirm that Mr Sharrocks would be in his office today. She was expecting him back from lunch at one-thirty. No, I didn’t want to leave a message.

I got to town a little early. I had a credit card in my pocket. The bank, obviously enjoying the draconian charges, hadn’t repossessed it. Feeling poor made me glum, spending a bit would cheer me up. The sales were on – they always are. I picked up a baggy cotton-knit top in cornflower-blue for myself, a pair of shorts each for Tom and Maddie and a pair of pyjamas for Maddie – all her other ones had shrunk while she’d grown. They no longer met at the waist or covered ankles and wrists.

I reached Albert Square at one-thirty precisely. The Town Hall is a great building; lovely creamy stone, carvings, clock tower. Inside, it’s all Victorian gothic, pillars and inner courtyards, marble floors. Any possible beauty is overridden by heaps of heraldic mural and fresco work and truckloads of gloomy portraits of local aldermen.

I asked the porter, in his ornate wooden den, the way to Social Services. With one eye on his crossword, he directed me to the fifth floor in the Town Hall Extension. I crossed the small side street and found my way in and to a lift. No marble pillars and brooding oils here.

I knocked on a couple of office doors as though I’d every right to and was soon told which belonged to Sharrocks. I knocked and went in. He was there, behind an imposing hardwood desk. There was a painting of a sailing ship on one wall and a display cabinet full of model ships on another.

He half rose from his chair. ‘Can I help you?’ I saw the hint of curiosity as he saw my bruised face, but he rapidly hid it.

He was larger than I’d remembered, broad-shouldered, a thick neck. His hair was thick, the colour of mustard, leonine around the craggy face. His chin was comic-book square, with a dimple just like Kirk Douglas. And his voice was familiar.

‘I’m looking for a friend of mine.’ I paused deliberately, uncertain about revealing too much.

‘Yes, well, I think you’ve come to the wrong place.’ A slight lisp, Mancunian accent. ‘As you can see, there’s no-one here but me.’

I couldn’t place it, but I’d heard that voice recently; not over the last few days, more like weeks. Think.

‘I’ll try next door,’ I bluffed. ‘I know she said Social Services.’

‘Ask at reception,’ he smiled. ‘They’ll be able to help.’

I forced a smile in return. ‘Thanks.’ My mind stumbled on towards placing the voice. It hadn’t been in person. A phone call. That faint sibilance, the light timbre. I opened the door and closed it again behind me.

Barry Smith. Barry Smith, that was it. He’d rung to arrange an appointment. He never showed up. I’d sat waiting in my office. Waiting. And there was something else...

I made my way back out onto the cobbled square. That day, when he’d rung, it was the day before I’d found JB’s body, it was the day that Leanne had seen Smiley rushing away. The day of his death. And I’d been safely out of the picture. Twiddling my thumbs and waiting for a bogus client. Barry Smith aka Bruce Sharrocks,

Oh, shit. I broke into a run. My ribs hurt. I was forced to walk quickly instead. I stood at the bus-stop, feeling like a target. When I got off the bus near home, I felt a sweep of relief that no-one else had followed me. I paused at the front door, looked up and down the street. No parked cars with men reading tabloids in them, no funny characters leaning on lamp-posts.

And no-one home. There was a note from Nana Tello saying she’d gone home, that Nina had rung and that Ray would be getting the kids. My armpits stank. I stood under the shower until the smell, and some of my paranoia, had washed away.

When I heard the doorbell go, it came flooding back. I put the chain on and called through the glass panels. ‘Who is it?’

‘Pete. Is Clive in?’

‘No.’ I left the chain on and opened the door, stuck my face through the crack ‘Was it you that rang before?’

He nodded.

‘I’m sorry, I did pass on your message.’

He gave a big sigh. Tossed his long hair back away from his face. ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

‘No. He’s hoping to be moving out. He might not be here much longer. I’ll tell him you came.’

I tore a piece out of Maddie’s scrapbook and printed the message in huge letters: PETE CAME ROUND – HE WANTS HIS MONEY. I pinned it to Clive’s door. I didn’t think Pete could hold out much hope, but at least I’d done my duty.

Nina was in when I tried her.

‘Garbage report,’ she said. ‘Hang on, I wrote it all out.’

‘Was it disgusting? Where did you do it?’

‘In the garage.’ She stretched the word out with her American drawl. ‘With a scarf tied round my face, rubber gloves and a can of air freshener.’

‘And?’

‘Disappointing.’

‘Oh no.’ My heart sank. I’d really hoped this inventive line of enquiry would give me the proof I wanted.

‘Nothing in the way of letters to Martin,’ she said. ‘Forms, nothing like that. Just garbage really. Except the condoms.’