Looking for Trouble - страница 18

Soon it was filled with people. Two uniformed officers, the one I’d met and a woman who sat beside me on the mattress. Two others in plain-clothes. One with a tan, glasses and a moustache; the other plump and florid.

I went over everything I knew about JB, what I was doing here, what I knew about him, first with the uniformed officer, then again with the florid plain-clothes one. He had a fine network of red and purple capillaries across his face. Answering questions helped. Gave me something to concentrate on. Every so often I blanked out, lost track of everything.

Someone arrived with a camera and took photographs with a flash. Then another man arrived with a large bag and knelt down next to the sofa. Began looking over JB.

‘I think you can go now, Miss,’ said the plump detective. ‘We’ll need to get in touch again.’ I nodded. The policewoman helped me to my feet. ‘We’ve got a car to take you home.’

‘No.’ My voice echoed round the room. ‘No. There’s no-one there.’

‘To a friend perhaps?’ he suggested.

Diane. Please be in. ‘Yes, yes.’ I turned towards the door, then back again. ‘What happened?’ I was bewildered.

‘Looks like an overdose, Miss. There was a syringe next to the sofa.’

‘But he didn’t take drugs. He told me. He’d been clean for years.’

‘We’ll have to wait for the post-mortem of course but it looks pretty straightforward. Now…’ he held out his arm to usher me towards the door.

‘You’re wrong,’ I protested. ‘He told me…’

‘Addicts often lie, I’m afraid,’ the man with the tan spoke up. ‘And you didn’t know him particularly well, did you?’

‘But I’m sure…’

‘We’ll have to wait for lab reports, to be sure,’ he continued, ‘but he was known to us and we’re not expecting any surprises.’ His tone was sharp, final.

I shook my head. ‘He wouldn’t…’ I insisted. But I couldn’t say anymore. My mouth began to stretch with tears. No-one said anything.

‘This yours, Miss?’ The uniformed man held out the sketchbook. I nodded.

‘Can someone move this bloody dog?’ the man by the sofa snapped. Digger growled as the policeman stooped to shift him.

‘What’ll happen to him?’ I said.

‘We’ll take him to the morgue from here,’ the florid man answered. ‘The pathologist will prepare a report establishing probable cause of death…’

‘No,’ I interrupted and began to giggle, ‘I mean the dog.’ I didn’t know whether I was laughing or crying. The policewoman put her hand on my arm.

‘We’ll take care of that,’ said the man with the moustache. ‘He’ll go to the pound…’

‘Can I take him?’ I don’t even like dogs much. But he’d be put down unless someone rescued him. I had to rescue something from the situation. Glances were exchanged.

‘Yes, Miss.’

In the car over to Diane’s, my memories of JB, our meeting, that phone call, were intercut with the image of his corpse. I clutched the sketchbook to me. Remembered the smile he’d given me when I praised his work.

We drew up outside Diane’s terraced house. Digger followed me out of the car. The policewoman guided me up to the door and rang the bell. Diane opened the door. ‘Sal!’ She glanced from me to the policewoman, at the dog and back to me. Concern.

‘What’s the matter, what on earth’s happened? Are you alright?’ The gentle tone of her question did it.

I dropped the packages and covered my face with my hands. Tears spilled through my fingers. I was definitely not alright.

‘I still can’t accept it, Ray. He was adamant that he didn’t use drugs.’

In the four days since JB’s death I’d made countless phone calls to the C.I.D. to find out what was happening. I’d finally established that a post-mortem had confirmed death due to a heroin overdose and that there was no reason for any further enquiries. JB would be cremated by the state. He’d no relatives and had grown up in care. I’d had to ring Social Services to get the details. The funeral would be at one o’clock the following Monday at Blackley, up in North Manchester. I wanted to go and to take Digger. Were dogs allowed?

‘Sal, you’d only just met the guy.’

‘I can usually tell when people are lying.’