Looking for Trouble (3 page)

‘Hello.’ I sat down on the chair next to him. ‘I wanted a word about Martin Hobbs.’

‘Yes?’ He loaded the word with caution, sizing me up.

‘Martin’s been reported missing. His family have asked me to make a few enquiries on their behalf.’

‘I see.’ His eyes narrowed slightly and he re-lit his pipe.

‘How long is it since Martin was in school?’

‘Have you any identification? After all,’ he spread his hands, ‘I’ve only your say-so.’ I blushed and fished in my jacket for one of the cards I always carry. I brushed off the fluff and crumbs and handed it over.

‘Mmmm.’ He wasn’t impressed. I know it’s only a simple photocopy job, no colours, no trendy graphics, but it states my name, number and business. He sighed and turned over the card, sighed again. I felt like I’d handed in the wrong homework.

‘You can ring Mrs Hobbs if you want to confirm my identity.’

I was getting rattled by his attitude.

‘It’s okay,’ he smiled. It wasn’t much of an improvement. ‘Just testing. Well, Martin’s not been in for a month or so. I asked the secretary to ring home after a couple of weeks. Family said he’d left. End of story.’

‘Did Martin ever say anything to you, give you any idea?’

He laughed. ‘Martin wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Chronically shy.’

‘Friends?’

He grimaced and sucked on his pipe. ‘Not really. Bit of an odd bod, really. Tended to get left with the other spare parts, you know. Could try Barry Dixon or Max Ainsworth. He usually had to sit next to one or the other of them in his classes.’

‘Where can I find ‘em?’

‘Barry’ll be in the library – back of main building, then ask. Bright as they come and twice as loopy. No social skills, you’ll see what I mean. Don’t know where you’ll find young Ainsworth. Hiding, no doubt. Still, that shouldn’t bother you, eh? Elementary, my dear.’ He gave a wheezy laugh. I smiled but I wasn’t amused.

‘Did Martin have any favourite subjects? Any other teachers he might have confided in?’

‘Nope. He scraped through a couple of his mocks, GCSEs. Didn’t shine at anything. Kept his head down. Could ask Julia over there,’ he waved his pipe. ‘The skinny one. Religious studies, encourages the wall flowers, stands up for the underdog. Bit of a social worker.’

Julia wasn’t much help. She confirmed Martin’s shyness, described him as a loner and rued the fact that he’d never confided in her in or out of the classroom.

I made my way back to the school library. It was pretty full. Exams, I suppose. I was directed to the small cubicles at the back of the room. There I discovered Barry Dixon. When he began to talk, I realised what Russ O’Brien had been getting at. The boy’s speech was spattered with asides, tangents, classical and philosophical references and quotations. He also spoke incredibly fast, like Patrick Moore on speed. He only ever broke eye-contact to blink and he broke all the rules about personal space, so I felt as though he was hemming me up against the wall of the tiny cubicle. I asked Barry if he knew where Martin had gone, if he knew why he was unhappy and if he’d ever talked of a place or people he’d like to visit. I drew three blanks in amongst the barrage of chatter.

Max Ainsworth had everything to attract the bullies. His face was raw with acne, he wore thick glasses and a brace, he was lanky and round-shouldered. He sat alone on a bench in a quieter area of the playground.

I explained why I was there and began my questions. Max thought before replying and seemed to know a great deal more about Martin than Barry Dixon had. It struck me that Barry was oblivious to other people, locked in his academic world. Max had the more common ability to hold a conversation where you take turns speaking.

‘Do you know why he left home?’

‘He was fed up with it. He never said much, just used to say he’d leave home soon as he was sixteen.’

‘Where would he go?’

‘Dunno. Try and get a job, I suppose. Not easy.’

‘No. Did he ever mention other friends, places he might stay?’

‘No, he was very quiet. Fishing. That was his big thing. He’d talk about that. I went with him a few times, Dean Clough, Rumworth. It was alright but I didn’t have all the gear. Bit boring really. He were good at it. Won competitions and that.’

‘Why was he fed up at home? What were his parents like?’

‘Dunno, never went round. He came to mine a few times.’

I reckon Max was the nearest thing to a friend Martin had. I gave him one of my cards and asked him to get in touch if he thought of anything else, or if he heard from Martin.

‘Like telly,’ he flashed a smile. Then his voice filled with concern. ‘Do you think he’s alright?’

‘Yes.’ Reassurance came automatically. I hadn’t really considered whether Martin could be in trouble, he’d not shown any leaning towards crime before...and teenage suicides don’t usually leave home to escape. ‘Do you?’

Max shifted on the bench. ‘S’pose so, it’s just...’ he paused. ‘There was this one time...he was getting really riled...they were giving him a hard time,’ he nodded towards the kids in the playground, ‘and he just went mad, lost it completely. He nearly killed this guy. Had his head, banging it against the floor, there was blood everywhere. We had to drag him off. He was in a daze, like he didn’t know what he’d done. They laid off him after that. Passed it round he was a bit of a nutter.’

‘Do you think he was?’

‘No. It was just that once. Rest of the time he was just quiet. Scared the shit out of me, I can tell you, seeing him like that.’

‘Wasn’t he disciplined?’

Max shook his head. ‘No-one reported it. Gibson went to hospital, his mates took him, said he’d fallen off a wall or summat like that. Martin was back the next day like it had never happened.’

I got caught in heavy traffic driving back to Manchester. I always come in through Salford, our neighbouring city, and there was only one lane open due to repair work.

The sun shone and it was hot in the car. I wound the window down and mentally crossed off my list as we edged slowly forward. It wasn’t a long list. I could ask around up at Martin’s old fishing haunt, though I suspected that anglers were a solitary breed. And I could wander the streets of Manchester, in search of other young runaways. See if anyone recognised Martin’s photo. It was a long shot but I didn’t have much option. I didn’t exactly relish the prospect of trawling round town for the young homeless, so I decided to get it over and done with as soon as possible. I hadn’t time to fit it in before picking the kids up but I’d do it first thing the following morning. And on Wednesday I’d go fishing...

It was a June morning, just like the good old days. Not a cloud in sight, warm sun, blossom. But nobody relied on it. As I drove into town, I noticed everyone sported rolled up umbrellas. And most of the old folk were still in winter coats and hats. It was going to take more than this to convince them that summer was on its way.

I parked in a side street off Piccadilly Gardens, more of a back alley than a street. I hoped it was small enough to miss regular visits from the traffic wardens. I threaded my way through the debris that littered the alley. Rubbish from the clothing wholesalers who occupied most of the old buildings. Here and there, a pile of ripped bin-bags spilt out bones and vegetable peelings, marking the back entrance to the occasional restaurant. Tuesday must be bin-day.

I wandered through the gardens to Piccadilly Plaza. The row of shops faced the bus terminus. It was one of the busiest parts of town but had always had a seedy, run-down feel. Most of the shops were discount stores, selling tacky goods at give-away prices. Or charity shops, Oxfam and Humana. Above the parade rose the ugly Piccadilly complex; hotel, radio station, electronic billboards. It was an area I shopped in regularly, buying second-hand clothes rather than new tat and I’d often seen youngsters begging here.

I was in luck, or so I thought at the time. A couple of lads were sitting quietly in the entrance to one of the empty shops. A cardboard sign announced they were hungry and homeless. In an old Kentucky Fried Chicken carton they’d collected a handful of coins. Hardly enough for a chicken drumstick, let alone a decent meal.

‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’

The boy on the left sniggered, dug his fingers deeper into his anorak pockets.

‘What about?’ I judged the boy who spoke to be older, eighteen or so. He had a savage crew-cut and baby-blue eyes. ‘You making a documentary or summat?’

His friend erupted into childish giggles.

‘No, I’m looking for a friend of mine. He’s missing. I wondered if you’d seen him?’ I pulled out the photo of Martin with the carp. I’d cropped off most of the fish. Blue Eyes barely glanced at it and shook his head. He passed it to Giggler who seemed to find it hilarious.

‘You got any change?’ Blue Eyes nodded at the carton. With a rush of embarrassment, I realised I hadn’t any money on me. I knew a cheque wouldn’t be any good to them.

‘I’m sorry. I came out without any money.’

‘Great,’ he sneered. The younger boy was beginning to roll the photo into a tube. I held out my hand and took it back.

‘He went missing about a month ago. His name’s Martin, Martin Hobbs. I heard he was in Manchester.’

‘Big place,’ said Blue Eyes aggressively.

An old woman stopped beside us and fumbled in her purse for change. She dropped some silver into the box then hurried away.

‘Is there anywhere else you know I could look? Any squats you know about?’ Blank stares. ‘Look, there’d be a reward for useful information.’

‘How much?’ Blue Eyes was interested, if sceptical.

‘Well, it’d depend on what it was...’ I faltered.

‘Fuck this. C’mon.’ He scooped up the tray and leapt to his feet. Giggler followed suit.

‘Twenty quid for a definite lead, if I could talk to someone who’d seen him.’ Blue Eyes nodded. ‘Here’s my card, just ring...’

‘Yeah, right...“just ring”,’ he mimicked my voice.

They began to walk briskly away.

‘And the photo,’ I screeched. People turned to look. I ran after them and thrust it towards them.

‘You might need it...’ I tailed off. I felt embarrassed. I hadn’t a clue whether they’d met Martin Hobbs or not, whether twenty quid was too little or too much to offer, whether they thought I was a plain-clothes police officer or a social worker. But I recognised the look of contempt on the face of the older one. He took the photo and slid it into his back pocket.

With burning cheeks, I scurried back to the car. I gathered my thoughts and reined in my emotions for a few minutes before setting off. When it came down to it, I didn’t like hostility. I wanted everyone to be nice and friendly, especially to me. The people I’d just met had plenty to feel hostile about; they were hardly going to warm to a middle-class nosy-parker who hadn’t even the common decency to contribute to the day’s takings. My ears burned afresh. I cursed a bit. Eased my shoulders down from my ears and started the engine.

I called at Tesco’s on my way back, filled a trolley and wrote out a cheque which cleared out any money I’d made on the case so far. I just had time to unpack the shopping, put on a load of washing and tidy the kitchen before collecting Maddie from Nursery School. She was tired and bad-tempered. We argued about who would fetch her coat, then about who would carry her lunch box and the letter notifying me of another outbreak of head-lice. I began to itch. I pulled her, sobbing, to the car. A couple of other parents flashed me sympathetic smiles.

It’s not far to the Social Services nursery where Tom goes. The places are like gold dust, but Tom qualified as Ray is a single parent on low-income. It’s a lovely place and Tom thrives on the contact with other children. He wandered out to meet me, clutching a thickly-daubed painting.

‘Mrs Costello?’ The woman who addressed me was new on the staff and hadn’t worked out the relationships yet. Maddie sneered.

‘Hello, I’m Sal Kilkenny, I share a house with Tom and his Dad.’

‘Right.’ She didn’t let it throw her. ‘We’ve a trip planned next week, to the museum at Castlefield, if you could fill in the slip and return it.’ She handed me the form letter.

‘Thanks.’

Once home, Maddie headed straight for the television. Tom followed and within seconds the squabbling started.

‘Be quiet!’ Maddie’s voice was loud enough to wake the dead. ‘I can’t hear, be quiet.’

I rushed into the lounge.

‘He’s brumming too much,’ she complained, her face pure outrage.

‘Come on Tom.’ I scooped up his cars and took them into the kitchen. Tom followed, dragging the battered Fisher Price garage after him. He brummed happily away. I watched him for a while. At what age do kids get labelled? When does a quiet child become chronically shy? Had Martin Hobbs played happily like Tom, absorbed in an imaginary world? Had he hated school, shrinking from other children? And what about Barry Dixon? When had he developed his strange quirks and mannerisms? Had his mother noticed? Had she encouraged his clever ways with words, or feared them? Would Tom and Maddie turn out happy, at ease with other people, leave home when the time was right, or were either of them already heading for troubled times, loneliness, rebellion?