Read Online Looking for Trouble by Cath Staincliffe - Free Book Online Page B

just said he was visiting friends.’
    ‘Great,’ he said. Didn’t sound like he meant it. So we weren’t the only ones having money troubles with Clive. And where the hell was he? Surely he could have rung to say he’d be away longer? I jotted the message down and left it with the pile of mail for Clive.
    I made fresh coffee and debated when to ring Mrs Hobbs. Did she work? I could leave it till after tea. What if her husband answered? Did he know she’d hired me? Had he put her up to it, as Martin had suggested? I dallied around, watering plants, tidying corners, sorting newspapers and bottles for a recycling trip. Displacement activities.
    ‘Oh, get on with it, Sal.’ I spoke aloud. Checked the number in my phone book. She was in.
    ‘Mrs Hobbs, Sal Kilkenny here. I’d like to arrange to see you.’
    ‘Have you found him, Martin, have you found him?’ Eager, hopeful.
    ‘Yes, I’ve been in touch with him.’
    ‘Is he alright? What’s happened to him? How’s he managing?’ Her questions tumbled out, edged with relief and excitement. I was angry with her; gripped the receiver tight, spoke formally. ‘He’s alright. I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.’
    ‘Oh, it’s such a relief. If anything had happened...But he’s alright, you say. Thank God.’
    ‘She never cared before.’ Martin’s words.
    I made an appointment with Mrs Hobbs for the following morning. Her effusive thanks rang in my ears as I slammed down the receiver and rubbed at the cramp in my fingers.
    It obviously hadn’t occurred to her that Martin might tell me about the situation at home. Or had she repressed those horrible revelations for so long that they’d ceased to exist? Denial. What did I know? Martin’s leaving might have forced her to face the truth; perhaps she wanted to do all she could to make amends, even prosecute her husband.
    It wasn’t fair to condemn her before I’d confronted her about it. But I don’t always feel fair. And I couldn’t shift the image of that small boy gathering the courage to tell, waiting for the right moment, watching her face contort as she whispered her own threats and denials. Knowing it would happen again and again.
    In the precious time before the school run, I worked in the garden. I cut the grass with our old roller mower, emptying the grass box on the compost heap, savouring the crisp sweet smell. I watered tubs and window boxes. I thought about JB, re-running in my head our meeting, freezing the frame on my favourite moments. Before long those memories of him would be concentrated in one or two images. I’d forget what he actually looked like; those fine cheekbones, warm brown eyes, the olive complexion, the quality of his smile. I wondered if there was a photo or a self-portrait of him in the squat. What would happen to his pictures, his things?
    I tidied up the rampant clematis round the back door. Mourned over the stumps of marigolds that the slugs had got to. The slug traps were brimming. It could have been worse. I’d killed a fair few of the buggers. There was satisfaction in that.
    I hadn’t told Martin about the funeral. Would he like to be there? Would he be allowed to come? He wasn’t a free agent, I’d gathered that much. Though not the whys or hows of it.
    I was eager to wash my hands of the whole affair. I wanted to forget about it. I’d tell Mrs Hobbs what I knew. And what I’d learned. Give her a rollicking for lying to me. Work out my bill and give her the change she was owed. Close my file on Martin Hobbs. Or so I thought. Just shows how wrong you can be.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
     
    Mrs Hobbs was waiting on the Dobson’s doorstep when I arrived. That threw me. I’d hoped to gather my thoughts, prepare myself to tackle her.
    ‘Sorry I’m early,’ she said, ‘I thought the traffic would be worse. I don’t often come in on a Saturday.’ She looked so respectable in her beige lightweight suit, a moss-coloured blouse with one of those old-fashioned