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the desolation of the rest of the building, I was surprised at the cleanliness and care shown in this room. It had been painted white. On the floor lay an old floral carpet and against one wall was a huge sofa with a bright green bedspread thrown over it. A guitar leant against the arm. Opposite a television, a shelf with books and mementoes. In the far corner, beyond the sofa, there was a mattress and bedding. The wall nearest to the door was broken up by windows; half-way along was a sink, Calor gas cooker, pots and pans; beyond those, a table and a couple of chairs. Everywhere I looked, pinned up on the white background were pictures, line drawings, sketches. Mostly pen and ink or charcoal; faces, street scenes, landscapes. I walked closer.
    ‘These are brilliant. They yours?’
    ‘Yep.’ He grinned and filled a kettle.
    ‘This is Martin.’ I pointed to the portrait. Head and shoulders. The look he’d captured was one of great sadness. ‘He looks lonely, sad.’
    ‘He was.’ JB lit the stove and came over to the wall.
    ‘Have you studied art?’
    He shook his head. ‘It’s a hobby.’
    ‘You could sell these.’
    ‘I do, now and again. But I make more on the chalkies.’
    ‘Chalkies?’
    ‘Pavement drawings.’
    ‘Mickey Mouse, Madonna.’
    ‘Yeah,’ he laughed. ‘Get the kids and the mums pay.’
    ‘These are signed P.H. So is JB a nickname?’
    ‘Tell you’re a detective. Yeah, short for JCB. Used to like to drive ‘em away in my younger days. Sort of stuck.’ He went over and made mugs of coffee. Brought them over. We sat on the sofa. He began to roll a cigarette.
    ‘So where was Martin going when he left here?’
    ‘Dunno.’
    ‘Didn’t he say anything?’
    ‘Someone had set him up.’
    ‘How d’you mean?’
    He sighed. ‘That second week, Martin had more money. Bought clothes. He was on the streets but it wasn’t just begging any more.’
    ‘He was a rent boy?’
    ‘Yeah. Plenty of lads drift into it. There’s a lot of demand. It’s tempting. Anyway, that last night, he came in, early hours it was, said he’d found a new place, someone was going to see him right. Talked about riding round in an Aston Martin, eating out every night.’
    ‘You mean like a sugar daddy?’
    ‘Yeah,’ he lit his roll-up, ‘or a pimp.’
    ‘Was he happy about it?’
    ‘Oh, yeah. Least on the surface. Excited, like it was his big break. Martin was soft as shit. It wouldn’t take much to con him. Promises of this and that, next thing he knows he’s standing by the bus station every night waiting to jump into cars, giving the dosh to some guy who’d beat him up soon as look at him.’
    ‘But it might not have been a pimp?’
    ‘Who knows.’ The dog came over and draped itself over JB’s feet. ‘Maybe he struck lucky. And I’ve not seen him doing business, not on the streets. Could be working the clubs. His mum’s not gonna like it much, is she?’
    ‘No. But it could be worse, I suppose.’
    He raised an eyebrow.
    ‘Oh, God. Well, if he was on crack or something.’
    ‘He wasn’t.’ His tone was sharp. The dog pricked up its ears. ‘I won’t have it,’ he explained. ‘This place is clean. I was an addict, see, but I’ve been clean for three years now. I won’t have it around.’
    ‘Anyway, I’m not going to tell her anything until I’ve checked it out. It could just be a relationship.’
    ‘Yeah,’ JB nodded his head, ‘and I could be the President of America an’ all.’
    ‘Could you ask around a bit, see if anyone’s heard from him? Heard where he is?’
    I pulled a fiver from my bag. ‘I’d like to give you something for your time.’
    He looked embarrassed, a slight flush to his olive complexion.
    ‘Oh, go on. You’re the only help I’ve had. Get a meal or something. Treat the dog.’
    ‘Alright,’ he grinned. ‘You’ll like that Digger, eh?’ The dog wagged its tail.
    I gave him my card and a photograph of Martin. He pinned them on the noticeboard above