Looking for Trouble - страница 2

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 twenty 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.

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.’