Looking for Trouble Read online

  Cath Staincliffe is the author of the acclaimed Sal Kilkenny mysteries as well as being creator of ITV’s hit police series, Blue Murder, starring Caroline Quentin as DCI Janine Lewis. Cath was shortlisted for the CWA Dagger in the Library award in 2006. She lives in Manchester with her family.

  Also by Cath Staincliffe

  Witness

  The Kindest Thing

  Split Second

  The Sal Kilkenny Mysteries

  Looking For Trouble

  Go Not Gently

  Dead Wrong

  Stone Cold Red Hot

  Towers of Silence

  Short stories

  In the Heart of the City

  Violation

  Looking For Trouble

  Cath Staincliffe

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in 1994 by Crocus

  This ebook edition published in the UK by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012

  Copyright © Cath Staincliffe, 1994

  The right of Cath Staincliffe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 9781780339979 (ebook)

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Dedication

  For Tim

  Acknowledgment

  Thank you to all the people who helped me write this book: to Annie who was there from the beginning and shared all the ups and downs along the way; to Mo, who kept telling me I could do it; to Brenda, for great chunks of free child-care; to the novel writers’ group past and present, Ailsa, Christina, Jay, Livi and Maggie for encouragement, support and the pleasure of learning together; and to my children, Daniel and Ellen, for their sweet inspiration.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  CHAPTER ONE

  I get a kick out of following people. There’s a childish excitement in trailing the unwitting suspect, in not being caught doing something shady. It’s rarely easy. Fate conspires to fix the traffic lights, spirit up needy strangers seeking directions, wayward dogs and road-works. Actually, I can’t blame fate for the road-works; that’s down to the city council. They’d only just finished digging up the whole of Manchester, to replace the rotting sewers, when they started digging it up all over again to lay the tram lines.

  Of course, in between the thrill of the chase there’s the stifling boredom of waiting. Waiting for the woman to emerge from having her hair permed, for the couple leaving the hotel, together or separately, or for the bloke to finish his stint at the pub.

  But that Friday morning back in June, I was lucky. Vernon Wainwright, supposedly off on a business trip to Amsterdam, left the airport ten minutes after his wife dropped him and took a cab to the Trust House Forte hotel in nearby Northenden. There he was joined in the foyer by a young woman. They booked in and took the lift up to their weekend of bliss. The Trust House Forte hotel would hardly be my idea of the perfect setting for a weekend of forbidden passion (couldn’t he at least have taken her to Amsterdam?) but then it’s so long since I had any passion, forbidden or otherwise, that I’m hardly au fait with these matters.

  With my adrenalin buzz fading, I drove my old Mini back to face the less than pleasant task of telling Mrs Wainwright that her suspicions were well founded.

  I’ve found they usually are. Women know. They spend an inordinate amount of time blaming themselves for being paranoid or insecure, giving hubby the benefit of the doubt just one more time – then, at their wit’s end and fearful for their sanity, they approach someone like me. It’s my job to prove to them that they’re not going loopy.

  Mrs Wainwright took the news in her stride. Politely, even. She thanked me for doing the job. I was relieved. I’ve been on the end of a whole heap of anger and bitterness before now. Don’t shoot the messenger.

  I sat back and tilted my chair at a dangerous angle. What now? My desk was clear. No work in the pipeline. Should I struggle on as a private eye or launch myself on another career? I’d never actually had a career. I’d had a broad and fairly useless university education, a stint as a desk-potato in a tax office, a baby (now a four year old) and eighteen months as a self-employed investigator. ‘Women returners’ screamed the ads in the local paper, but what had I got to return to? Being re-educated didn’t appeal. And my fantasies of an alternative career ran along the lines of jazz-singer, investigative journalist, film star. None of which featured on the summer school syllabus at what was left of the adult education college.

  I sighed, righted my chair and took a turn round my office. It’s a cellar room I rent from a family who live round the corner from my house. Well, not my house – I rent that too. From a brain-drain lecturer who’s over in Australia.

  The office looked decidedly jaded eighteen months in. The leak from upstairs the previous winter had left ugly water stains over most of the ceiling. Two corners sported an interesting variety of fungus. Random coffee stains and what looked like bits of old food peppered the walls. I’ve no idea how they got there. I have no recollection of ever throwing food and drink around. Faced with no useful employment and time on my hands, I decided to do something practical. I’d redecorate. There would be paint left over from the kids’ room. Pale lilac. It would be an improvement on what I was looking at.

  An hour later, clad in dungarees, I was back in the Dobson’s cellar with step-ladder, roller and tray, paint and dustsheet. I shoved the furniture into the middle of the room, rolled the edges of the carpet in and covered the lot with the dustsheet.

  I paint fast and messy. The ceiling was done in twent
y minutes and I was speckled lilac like some rare bird’s egg. The phone rang just as I was scraping the excess paint off the roller. I dived under the dust-sheet to find it.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that Sal Kilkenny?’ The woman’s voice was soft, a glottal Bolton accent.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘I got your name from a friend of mine, Audrey Johnson.’

  ‘Yes.’ I remembered Audrey Johnson. She’d been less than civil when I’d told her what Mr Johnson was up to.

  ‘Could I come and see you...if you’re able...you see...oh...’ She was floundering.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I tried to put her at her ease, sounding confident and reassuring. ‘When would be convenient?’

  ‘Well...now. You see, I’m in town, I thought...’

  ‘Fine.’ I was getting horribly hot under the dustsheet and why not seize the moment? ‘The office is in a bit of a mess,’ I apologised, ‘but I’m sure we can manage.’ I gave her my address and directions from the city centre.

  I ran round like a blue-arsed fly, clearing up and replacing furniture. I left the door ajar to let some of the overpowering ammonia fumes escape. I hadn’t time to go and change my clothes. I managed to get most of the lilac spots off my face but my hair bore witness. Hopefully, Mrs Forgot-to-ask-her-name would be more concerned with the business in hand than my appearance.

  The bell rang. I clattered upstairs. I might have been lucky with Vernon Wainwright but all that was about to change. It was a Friday in June. Given what I know now, it should have been Friday 13th. It wasn’t but it should have been.

  CHAPTER TWO

  She was a plump woman, middle-aged, average height. Short dark hair streaked with grey. Sallow complexion, broad face, brown eyes. Large eyes. Eyes full of fear. She was dressed conservatively, neat and tidy. Tan skirt and jacket, cream blouse, court shoes. Tiny studs in her ears. No other jewellery, no make-up. We shook hands; hers were clammy. From nerves I guessed.

  ‘Come on in.’ I closed the door behind her. ‘My office is downstairs. I’m in the middle of re-decorating – that’s the awful smell.’ She followed me down and sat across from my desk.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.’

  ‘Hobbs, Mrs Hobbs.’

  ‘And how can I help?’

  ‘It’s my son, Martin. He’s missing. I want you to find him.’ I nodded and began to make notes as we talked.

  ‘How old is Martin?’

  ‘Sixteen. It was his birthday at the beginning of June.’

  ‘How long’s he been gone?’

  ‘A month now.’

  ‘And he’s not been in touch at all?’ She shook her head.

  ‘Has he ever done this before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any idea why he’s left?’

  ‘No, that’s why I’m so worried.’ She twisted the straps of her handbag round her fingers. ‘He’d just gone one morning.’

  ‘Did he take anything with him? Clothes, money?’

  ‘He’d no money. I think some of his clothes had gone.’ She didn’t seem very certain. Maybe when kids are that age you lose track of their wardrobe.

  ‘He didn’t leave a note or anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you been to the police?’

  ‘Yes, the local police, in Bolton, but they didn’t seem to take it very seriously, with him being sixteen, you know – it’s not like he’s a little boy. They put him on file, made a few enquiries, came round to the house to take more details. That was about it. They said if I hadn’t heard anything in a couple of months, to go back. I’m sure they thought I was making a fuss about nothing.’

  ‘And you’ve not heard from them?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sure they’ve just filed him away. It happens all the time these days, doesn’t it, kids running away? How can they possibly look for them all?’ She had a point. But surely they could have done a bit more in this case. It wasn’t as if Martin had been in the habit of running away. And he hadn’t even told his mother he was leaving.

  ‘What about friends, people he spent time with?’

  She sighed. ‘He were a loner really, he loved his fishing, there was no-one close. He liked to be on his own.’

  ‘There must have been someone, a school friend?’

  She bit her lip, gave a small shake of her head.

  ‘Which school does he go to?’

  ‘St. Matthew’s.’

  ‘Tell me about Martin.

  Her account was sketchy though there was no mistaking the love in her voice. Martin was a quiet boy, doing reasonably well at school. His passion was angling. There’d been no rows or unusual events at home. He’d not talked of leaving. He’d not been in trouble. She told it all slowly, in that thick blurry accent.

  ‘What about drugs?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’re married? How did Martin get on with his father?’

  She considered her reply.

  ‘Okay. They’re both quiet, never that close.’

  ‘Was Martin lonely, Mrs Hobbs? Was he unhappy?’

  Maybe it wasn’t the most sensitive question to ask. But I was trying to fathom out a reason for Martin’s disappearance. He was a loner, not close to anyone except Mum. Adolescence was a terrible time – even when you had close friends; without them it must be intolerable. But why leave home? An attempt to break away from Mum? Had Martin perhaps blamed her for his loneliness?

  She covered her mouth with her hands, shook her head from side to side. Tears welled in those brown eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t know.’ Guilt and grief.

  I tried to bring her back to the task in hand. ‘Think for a minute. Is there anywhere Martin might have gone – relatives, a place he knew well, friends of the family?’

  She pulled a lace-trimmed hanky from her bag, wiped her nose and eyes, took a shaky breath. ‘No, I’ve .racked my brains. We’ve no relatives round here, we’re a small family. I’m so worried, it’s just not like him. Will you look for him?’ Her eyes were pleading.

  ‘Mrs Hobbs, there’s so little to go on. If Martin wants to stay missing, he will.’

  ‘But you’ll try?’

  ‘Look, I can ask around a bit. A lot of youngsters drift into Manchester initially...but after a month...If I don’t get any leads in the first couple of days, I really don’t think it would be worth pursuing. You’d be wasting your money.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The hanky came out again.

  ‘I need a recent photo.’

  ‘Yes.’ She fumbled in her bag. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t any good ones. We had a fire you see, last year. The lounge got the worst of it, the albums...’

  She handed me two snapshots and a newspaper clipping. Both photographs were outdoor shots, full-length, taken from a distance. In one, a slight dark-haired boy in school uniform stood by a bus-stop; in the other, the same figure, in a waxed jacket, sat at the edge of some water surrounded by fishing tackle.

  ‘That’s up at Lostock. Rumworth Reservoir,’ she said. ‘He liked it there.’ It was a better shot of the reservoir than it was of Martin.

  The newspaper cutting showed a smiling Martin holding up an eight pound carp. It was faded and grainy but it showed his face more clearly than either of the photos. There was an elfin look to him; pointed chin, slight nose, cap of dark hair. His face seemed lit up by that smile.

  ‘I’ll get copies done of these, then you can have them back.’

  ‘I brought some money.’ She fumbled with the clasp of her purse. Drew out an envelope. Cash. A thousand pounds.

  ‘This is far too much,’ I protested.

  We wrangled for a while. She insisted I keep the money and, if I did end up resigning after two or three days, I could send her the difference. Oh, well. It’d be a pleasant surprise for the assistant bank manager, with whom I had such a lively exchange of letters.

  I made a note of Mrs Hobbs’ phone number and told her I’d be in touch early the fo
llowing week, unless I had any news before then. She thanked me about twenty times on the way to the door. I began to wonder whether she might have been Martin’s problem, finding it hard to let him go, not knowing how to give him the space to grow up and away from her. Perhaps. But, for now, my task was to find out where he’d gone, not why he’d left.

  I jotted down a few starting points; hostels, his school, the reservoir at Lostock, Manchester. Impressive, eh? I rang my friend Chris, who works in the housing department and, after the usual exchange of pleasantries, asked her to give me a list of the hostels in the city, particularly any popular with young people. And any other places she knew of where a runaway might end up. She was about to start a meeting and promised to pop round after work with the information I wanted.

  I rang St. Matthew’s High School to check what time lunch was. It might be tricky trying to book appointments with form teachers, trying to establish over the phone what lessons Martin had liked best. I reckoned the best bet would be to just turn up unannounced, ask around the staff room and the playground. People would give more away if they were caught unawares. No time to provide neat cameos of the truth. It’d be Monday before I could get up there but the hostels would be open all weekend.

  I looked bleakly at the drying ceiling. The remaining walls were begging to be given the same treatment but I’d lost my momentum. I’d try and find it again some time next week. There’d be no chance over the weekend. Some activities don’t go with children and decorating’s one of them.

  I shut up shop and left a note on the Dobson’s kitchen table apologising for the appalling smell. The fumes seemed to have risen through the house with a vengeance, strong enough to make my eyes water.

  After nipping home for a bite to eat, I swapped my Mini for my pushbike and hurried to deposit the money in the bank. I was certain to be mugged before I got there. Couldn’t everyone tell I was carrying a grand in my rucksack? A thousand pounds. When I draw money out, they always trot off to check the computer while I sweat it out, trying not to look worried. This time I expected a little respect and admiration. A smile perhaps, a financial nod and a wink. No such look. Bland indifference. Perhaps they sensed the money wasn’t truly all mine – not yet – probably not ever, if the case was as fruitless as I expected.