Looking for Trouble by Cath Staincliffe Page B

on.
    ‘There’s a Kentucky Chicken there,’ said Leanne.
    ‘That’s just a take-away. Come on.’
     
    I held back on the questions till Leanne had got through a plateful of bhajis and samosas and well into her Prawn Dansak.
    ‘About JB,’ I began.
    ‘It’s over, right.’ She glared at me.
    ‘No, it isn’t. I want to know what happened to him. Don’t you?’
    ‘No.’ Vehemently. She set her jaw. Blinked rapidly.
    ‘You’re frightened. He didn’t kill himself, did he? You know that. He told me he didn’t take drugs. I don’t think he lied to me. Was he in trouble?’
    ‘Not till you poked your nose in.’
    ‘I was trying to trace someone, a runaway...’
    ‘Martin Hobbs, he told me. He was playing detective and all, wasn’t he? Next news, he’s dead.’
    ‘When did you see him last?’
    ‘I dunno...erm...Thursday morning.’ I could see from her eyes that she was working out the right answer. She broke up pieces of naan and dropped them into the remains of her meal.
    ‘Did he use drugs?’
    She shook her head. ‘No, never.’
    ‘Why are you frightened, Leanne, what is it?’ She wriggled in her seat, sighed theatrically and cast her eyes from side to side, looking for escape. She looked tired, unwell. Her skin was a pasty white, she had a cold sore and chapped lips.
    ‘Tell me what you know.’ I raised my voice and the waiter, reading his paper in the corner, glanced over. ‘Please,’ I said quietly. ‘You were his friend, he helped you out didn’t he? Whatever happened may tie up with what he was doing for me. I want to know. He’d want me to know. Don’t you think you owe him that, at least?’
    She poured salt onto the table, pushed it into a little heap, drew a circle in it.
    ‘Just another dead junkie,’ I said, ‘that’s what the police reckon, who gives a fuck? You happy with that, are you?’
    ‘Shut up. Why you so fucking interested anyway? Fancied him, didn’t you?’
    How the hell did she know? My cheeks burned. It wasn’t the curry.
    ‘Don’t change the subject. Stop pissing around,’ I was riled now, ‘and tell me.’
    ‘Can’t fucking make me.’ She was all defiance, chin up, eyes hard.
    I sighed. ‘Please, Leanne.’
    Silence. She traced shapes in the salt. At last, she began to speak, reluctantly, in a slow monotone.
    JB had talked to her about trying to find Martin. She knew him a bit; they’d both been dossing at the squat. JB had hung around outside the clubs on the Wednesday night looking for people he knew. He’d got a couple of strange reactions, people overly nervous about his questions, but no information at all. On the Thursday morning everything had been as usual, though JB slept in after his late night. Leanne was out selling. She returned to the squat about two-thirty. She’d just entered the cellar when she heard footsteps she didn’t recognise on the stairs. She hid. The man passed her and went out of the cellar door, leaving it ajar. She knew who he was, a right bastard. She went up to the flat and found JB He was dead. She ran away, slept out that night. Didn’t return until she heard about JB on the grapevine.
    ‘Why? Why on earth didn’t you report it?’
    ‘He was dead, wasn’t he? What’s the point?’ Defensive.
    ‘This man?’ I asked.
    That look of fear. ‘He’s bad news. Smiley, dunno his real name. He’s a right bastard. JB knew him, told me to keep well clear of him. He’s done a lot of time in Strangeways.’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘You name it – drugs, porno stuff. I’m not gonna grass him up, no way.’
    ‘But he probably did it. The police would protect you.’
    ‘No they fucking wouldn’t.’ She leant forward, spoke urgently. ‘They’ll put me back in care, that’s what they’d do, right?’
    ‘You’re not sixteen? How old? Fourteen, fifteen?’
    ‘Thirteen, but it doesn’t matter see, I’m not doing another day in care, not for you, not for anyone.’ She leant back, searched for her cigarettes. Lit