‘Oh, trouble is, ‘fraid I haven’t any cash…erm…’ He batted his pockets. Grimaced inanely.
I bit the side of my cheek, walked slowly to my bag and fished a pound coin from my purse. Handed it to him. He winked and wheeled away. I wanted to slap him.
The weather broke during the night. The clouds opened. I woke in the early hours to the steady beat of heavy rain. In the distance, cars whooshed like irregular waves. So that was summer done and dusted.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Wrong. Morning brought deep blue skies and enough sun to dry up the pavements before I got out of the house. More like the continent than England. The world smelt glorious, clean and fragrant.
When I got back from school, I cautiously removed my crepe bandage. The swelling had gone completely. The air felt cool round my ankle and I still favoured my other foot, but I no longer needed the bandage.
I phoned Nina Zaleski. I needed to know if the coast was clear so I could deliver Janice Brookes’ letter. I let it ring twenty-five times. No reply. Having waited this long, there was no point in going over there on the off-chance that Fraser was out and Martin was in. I’d wait for word from Nina. Was she out or just out for the count? If Jack had flown out the previous evening she may well have celebrated. I got the impression she had to restrain her boozing when he was home.
If I couldn’t get to Martin, I’d go after Leanne. Tell her it was bad manners to hang up on someone. If I could find her.
It wasn’t difficult. She was asleep in the squat.
I picked my way through the tall weeds, sending puffs of seed-heads floating through the air, I went down the dark steps and turned the door handle. It wasn’t locked. In the sudden darkness I had a flash of déjà-vu; felt again the ripple of fear I’d had here, the dry warmth of JB’s hand taking hold of mine. It faded. I reached the massive room with its crumbling pillars. Walked with my head tilted, straining to hear. Quiet. The room was baking, dry as tinder. Sunbeams spilt through the broken windows and a host of dust motes whirled and pranced.
Up the final stairs to the dim corridor. The stairs cracked and squeaked as I climbed them.
It took a while to rouse her. Plenty of banging produced an irritated ‘Alright!’ from within.
She’d bleached her hair, cut it too. Before, it’d hung limp and mousy; now it was dried-out, a peculiar colour like egg-yolk. Seeing me, she made a swift movement to shut the door. I shoved back.
‘I just want to talk, Leanne.’
‘You’re off your fucking head, coming here.’ We were both still straining away at the door. I could tell I was stronger but I didn’t want to use force to get in.
‘Oh, come on,’ I said.
“S your funeral.’ She let go suddenly and moved back. I lurched forward but regained my balance. Caught a smirk on her face. She wore an outsize black T-shirt, proclaiming something was Naff-naff. She looked tired, older than her thirteen years.
The room stank of dustbin. It was a tip. The green cover had gone from the sofa, revealing tan plastic. Someone had slashed it and gouts of foam stuck out like fungus. Beer cans, take-away trays and papers, cigarette ends littered the carpet and formed little heaps at either end of the sofa and over round the sink. Several of JB’s pictures had fallen off the wall and lay curling on the floor.
On the mattress in the far corner, I could see someone sleeping. A crown of brown hair above the sleeping bag.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Should we talk somewhere else?’
‘Nah. They won’t be up for hours yet.’
Now she’d said it, I could see there were two people, but just one head visible.
‘Are they friends of…?’
‘Can’t keep your fucking nose out, can you? What’ve you come here for?’
I moved over to the table by the windows, pulled out a chair and sat down. I didn’t want a stand-up fight. Leanne leant against the sink.
‘What did Smiley say?’ I asked.
‘I told you, right; he just wanted to know if you’d been round asking questions and that.’ She crossed to the sofa, rummaged in a bag and came back with her cigarettes. She pulled one out and lit it.
‘Did he know my name?’
‘Dunno.’ She inhaled deeply.
‘Well, think about it. When he asked about me, did he describe me or what?’
She sighed and shifted her weight.
‘It’s important to me – I don’t know how much he knows about me. How he found out about me, anything.’
‘He didn’t say your name; just summat like, has anyone been round asking questions, a bird, let him know.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Well, I’m not going to tell him to piss off, am I? Said I’d let him know, if you came.’
A bluebottle landed on the table and began stroking away at a blob of congealed tomato sauce.
‘You going to tell him I came today?’
She shrugged, sucked on her cigarette and cleared her throat.
‘Depends,’ she coughed. ‘If I think he’ll find out, I’d best tell him anyway. I’ve got to watch out for myself, right.’
‘Did he tell you to ring me?’
‘What?’
‘Why did you ring me? Did he tell you to do that too?’
‘No, he fucking didn’t.’ Realisation dawned on her face. ‘You thought I was doing it for him, to frighten you off? I don’t work for him, you know, right. Well clear, I stay well clear. He wants me to – and I’m not talking about telephone work, neither.’ Leanne stopped abruptly; she’d said more than she’d wanted to.
‘I had to find out whether it was you warning me, or him threatening.’
‘Same difference, isn’t it, really?’ She dropped the cigarette into a styrofoam cup. It hissed. The bluebottle flew a lazy circle back to its breakfast,
‘Is Smiley dealing drugs?’
Her face closed in on itself, pinched. ‘I dunno. I don’t know anything about him.’ Wary now.
‘Cut the crap, Leanne. We both know he’s a pimp, we both know he’s done time, that he got carved up for grassing on his mates. You know if he’s involved in any other business?’
‘I mind my own; you ought to, an’ all. He’s bad news.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘What?’ She was aghast.
‘If I can’t find out any other way, I’ll have to go straight to him.’
‘Yer cracked. He’d kill you. You haven’t got a clue, have you?’
‘Why are you protecting him?’
‘I’m not. I’m looking out for myself, right.’ She leant forward, yelling at me. ‘JB’s dead, Derek’s dead; you think I’m going to have a slack mouth?’
‘Who’s Derek?’
She averted her face, stared at the windows. There was no view out there; they were encrusted with decades of grime.
‘Just a mate of mine.’
‘He knew Smiley?’
She nodded, addressed the windows as she talked. ‘He did a bit of running around for him, got paid in kind. He couldn’t see it was doing his head in. Said it made him feel good. There’s not much makes you feel good round here.’
My eyes flicked to her bare arms; no sign of tracks, bruises. She noticed.
‘People smoke it nowadays. Don’t you watch the documentaries on telly?’ She gave a short laugh.
‘What happened to Derek?’
‘They fished him out of the Mersey, didn’t they…’
‘This last week? The paper said it was to do with the drug gangs.’
‘Don’t know what they said that for. Load of crap.’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘How should I know? He was a good mate, Derek. We was in care together. He always…’ Emotion got the better of her and her mouth formed a small o shape. She breathed slowly. I watched the bluebottle for a minute or so.
Leanne lit another cigarette.
‘Do you think Smiley had anything to do with it?’
She shrugged. Feigned indifference. ‘He kept giving him the stuff. It was just a matter of time.’