Free Looking for Trouble by Cath Staincliffe Page A

to...’ I didn’t get a chance to say anything else.
    ‘You bitch,’ she screamed, as she scrambled to her feet, grabbing her wool and carrier bag. ‘You’ve got a fucking cheek. ‘S your fault he’s dead, you know. Why can’t you just leave us alone? You stupid, fucking bitch.’ She was gone.
    Tears started in my eyes, dribbled slowly down my cheeks and dripped off the end of my nose as I walked back to the car. What did she mean? What had I done? How could it be my fault? I’d begun to drive out of town, sniffing occasionally, when a flash of anger interrupted my self-pity. I was the one who’d found the body, for Christ’s sake. I was the one who’d had to go through all the police business. I’d taken Digger. Found out about the funeral. She hadn’t thought about all that.
    I drove round the block and fought my way back through the traffic and over to Great Ancoats Street. I waited a few minutes for a parking space while someone loaded bags of shopping into the car and drove off.
    The entrance to the warehouse was closed but not locked. In the pitch black of the basement, I waited for my eyes to adjust, then made my way up through the building to JB’s room. The door was shut but I sensed she was in there. I knocked.
    ‘Hello. It’s me, Sal. Can I come in? I just want to talk.’ Silence. ‘I don’t even know your name, but I know you were a friend of his. I don’t know why you’re mad at me. I didn’t give him drugs; he told me he didn’t touch them, that’s what seemed so crazy. It was such a shock. Please open the door.’ She didn’t. I slid down and sat with my back to it, talking aloud, staring at the flaking plaster in the dim corridor. ‘I found him you know, oh and I took Digger. The police were going to put him down; it didn’t seem right. I wanted to tell you about the funeral. JB’s funeral. It’s on Monday, one o’clock up at Blackley. I’m going. I could give you a lift if you want to come. Could you tell his friends? I don’t even know who they are. Please open the door, this is ridiculous. Shit. It wasn’t my bloody fault, I don’t know why you think it is. I’d just met him, I...’ I got to my feet. ‘I’m going now. I’ll leave my card here; if you want a lift, give me a ring. I still need to talk to you. I want to know what you meant. I want to know what happened. He was a good bloke.’
    It’d been a lousy day and I ended up feeling guilty and depressed. The girl’s accusations unsettled me. Had there been a link between my enquiries and JB’s death, is that what she meant? I went through the motions of cooking tea, getting the kids to bed, preoccupied by my own thoughts. There was no sense of relief at finishing the case.
    I couldn’t face the thought of mooning round the house, feeling ill at ease. It was a light evening, dry and mild. I pulled on my old clothes and set out for the garden. There’s a patch in the far corner that I’ve never done anything with, in the shade of an old elderberry. That’d do. I got down on my hands and knees and went to work, pulling out weeds, digging out brambles, forking it all over. By the time I was through, it was dark. And the events of the day had shifted into an easier perspective. In time, that little patch of ground would bloom with sweet-scented, shade-loving plants and the trials of today would be far away. Wouldn’t they?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
     
     
    Sunday morning at the swimming pool. I knew Withington was closed; problems with the roof. Moss Side was open. I rang to check. Whenever staff fall ill at Gorton Tub, the city’s showplace play pool, they pull replacements from the other baths, which have to close.
    The swimming baths are attached to the shopping centre, a forbidding redbrick fortress. The walkway from the car park was strewn with litter, daubed with graffiti; broken glass crunched underfoot. The leisure centre was clean and well-equipped.
    The water in the baby pool was deliciously warm. Tom, in