Read Looking for Trouble for Free Online

wallflowers and pansies.
    He was there. The dog lay at his feet. As I approached, the man sitting next to him rolled up his newspaper, picked up his briefcase and left. Great timing. I took his place.
    ‘JB?’
    ‘What?’ He swung round to face me, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
    ‘I’m looking for Martin Hobbs. My name’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m a private investigator. Someone said you knew Martin, you put him up for a while.’
    ‘What do you want him for?’
    ‘He’s missing. His mother came to see me. She wants to know if he’s alright.’
    ‘That it?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You’re not gonna try and take him back or owt?’
    ‘No.’ I was emphatic. ‘All I’m interested in is finding out if Martin’s okay.’
    ‘I dunno where he is.’ He threw a chip to the dog, had one himself. He was guarded, but without the hint of aggression I’d felt when talking to Blue Eyes and Giggler. JB had the sort of bone structure that models are made of, attractive features, clear olive skin. Black hair hung down in ringlets at the back of his head. What I could see of the sides had been shaved. He wore an old donkey jacket, white shirt, faded jeans, DM’s.
    ‘But you did meet him? When did you last see him?’
    ‘Look,’ he crumpled the chip paper into a ball, ‘I’ve got to get back.’
    ‘Please.’ I put my hand on his sleeve. ‘I really need to find out, just give me ten minutes.’
    ‘I dunno,’ he sighed. The dog lifted its head as if concerned. He stroked it.
    ‘Listen, anything you tell me will remain confidential. I won’t pass on your name or anything that could identify you. I’m not a social worker, I’ve no connection with the police. I’m simply trying to find out where Martin is and if he’s okay, so his mum can stop driving herself crazy with worry. Just a few minutes?’
    He thought it over. Smiled, a warm, easy smile.
    ‘Okay. C’mon, Digger.’ The dog sprang up and walked to heel as we made our way across the Gardens and up one of the side streets off Piccadilly itself.
    Martin hadn’t been in Manchester long when JB had seen him begging on Market Street. He’d watched the police caution him then gone over to talk to the boy. Martin had been sleeping rough. He already looked run-down. He had no money, no sleeping bag. JB had offered a place in his squat for a few nights. He made it clear it was to be a temporary arrangement. ‘I like to have the place to myself, now and then.’ Martin was a quiet and reserved guest. He slept most of the day and went out to get money at night. He refused to get any Welfare Advice. ‘He thought they’d send him back. Anyway, you get fuck all at his age unless you’re on a scheme and you can’t do that without an address.’
    We’d arrived at the back of old warehouses off Great Ancoats Street. JB moved aside a part of the wooden fencing. I followed him through the gap. The yard was piled high with debris, old pallets, a shopping trolley, mattress, the shell of a car, fridges. Weeds grew waist-high. We clambered over the lot to a set of steps leading down to a cellar door. JB unlocked the door and we stepped into darkness. The stench of damp and mildew caught at my throat. Nobody knew I was here. Could I trust J.B? Wasn’t it a little suspicious, inviting me back to his squat? Buzzing in my ears. A flush of fear burned the nape of my neck. Please, please. Spittle on his lip. I stumbled and yelped.
    ‘Take my hand,’ he said. His hand was soft and warm, he gripped mine firmly. The contact reassured me. I shook off my anxiety. He led me through the gloom, then up more stairs and into dim light. We crossed a massive room, pillars lying where they had fallen amidst chunks of plaster, old tea-chests and broken tables. One wall of the room was windows, row upon row, thick with grime. Broken panes gave glimpses of blue sky. Up another set of stairs and along a door-lined corridor.
    ‘This is it.’ He stopped at one of the doors and unlocked it. After