Maybe he was mixed up with the drug cartels or starring in porno films. Interest in Martin might turn up information that jeopardised others. Worth killing to keep under wraps. But JB hadn’t found anything out anyway, as far as I knew.
I’d have to go to the police. What’s the point, as Leanne would say? All I had was hearsay. Impossible to prove without Leanne’s co-operation. And running counter to the official version of events. Nevertheless, I’d have to tell them what I’d heard. There was no way I was going to pursue some nutter like Smiley. Way out of my league. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to know a bit more about him. I rang Harry.
‘Sal, you’ve saved me!’
‘From?’
‘Repetitive Strain Injury. I’ve been glued to the screen all bloody day. I forget to take breaks. They’re addictive, you know.’ I didn’t. My funds didn’t stretch to a typewriter, let alone a word-processor. It was high on my list of things I’d get when-my-boat-comes-in.
‘An article?’ I asked.
‘Guardian. Selling off Salford – poorest city in the land. Dockland development for the rich, no-go areas for the poor.’
‘I get the picture.’
‘So, is this a social call?’
‘No, business. I want to find out about someone, well, he’s a gangster by all accounts.’ Harry made a murmur of surprise.
‘He was seen leaving JB’s flat the day he died.’
‘How was the funeral?’
‘Deadly.’
Harry laughed.
Maddie came out of the lounge and thrust her empty cup in my face. I nodded and pointed to the phone. She went off whining.
‘I’m not up to date on the criminal fraternity,’ said Harry, ‘but I know a man who is. What’s this bloke’s name?’
‘Don’t know. Nickname’s Smiley. Got a scar either side of his mouth. He’s done time, into heavy stuff, drugs, pornography. That’s all I know.’
‘See what I can do. No rush, is there?’
‘No. Curiosity really. I’m not about to rustle up a posse.’
‘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?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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.