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

If he didn’t ring me, I’d have to go and see him.
    I dropped the kids at nursery and drove into town. I knew of a shop where Diane bought some of her art materials, not far from JB’s squat. I bought a large sketchbook, charcoal, a drawing pen and ink. It cost three times as much as I’d expected. I almost put the pen and ink back. Sod it. JB was a gem and he’d never be able to afford this sort of stuff.
    I reached the fence surrounding the warehouse. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get into the building. JB wasn’t likely to have a bell and the windows of his room looked out the other side, across the canal to Piccadilly station. If it was locked, I’d have to leave my packages and a note.
    The cellar door was ajar. I waited while my eyes adjusted to the dark, then retraced the route up the stairs and across the large room. As I reached the next door, I heard a scuffling sound. Rats? I held my breath and listened. Called out. Whining. Digger.
    I pushed the door. The dog barked and bared its teeth. Startled, I stood still, began talking in a low voice. ‘Easy Digger, good dog. Where’s JB?’
    The dog dropped its aggressive pose quickly enough and followed me along the corridor to JB’s. The door was ajar. I knocked and called out. No answer.
    He lay on the sofa, on his side. Jeans and T-shirt. ‘JB?’
    Digger went and lay on the floor in front of the sofa. Whining.
    JB’s face was slack and pale, mouth open. Conker brown eyes filmed over, staring. I touched his arm and flinched at the cold. I began to shake. There was a damp patch on his jeans around the crotch. The smell of ammonia. Streaks of yellow mucus from his mouth on his lower arm. A piece of cloth tied round it. An armband.
    Whimpering. The sound came from a long way away. It was swamped by the beat of blood in my ears. I looked at the dog. He wasn’t whimpering. I was.
    I was still clutching the packages as I ran to find a phone. I found a policeman first. I tugged at his sleeve, trying to explain through chattering teeth that he must come with me, that someone was dead. I couldn’t give him an address. Getting my own name out was hard enough. He had nice eyes, crinkles at the corners. He smelt of Palmolive soap. He talked into his walkie-talkie. I don’t remember getting back to JB’s room.
    Soon it was filled with people. Two uniformed officers, the one I’d met and a woman who sat beside me on the mattress. Two others in plain-clothes. One with a tan, glasses and a moustache; the other plump and florid.
    I went over everything I knew about JB, what I was doing here, what I knew about him, first with the uniformed officer, then again with the florid plain-clothes one. He had a fine network of red and purple capillaries across his face. Answering questions helped. Gave me something to concentrate on. Every so often I blanked out, lost track of everything.
    Someone arrived with a camera and took photographs with a flash. Then another man arrived with a large bag and knelt down next to the sofa. Began looking over JB.
    ‘I think you can go now, Miss,’ said the plump detective. ‘We’ll need to get in touch again.’ I nodded. The policewoman helped me to my feet. ‘We’ve got a car to take you home.’
    ‘No.’ My voice echoed round the room. ‘No. There’s no-one there.’
    ‘To a friend perhaps?’ he suggested.
    Diane. Please be in. ‘Yes, yes.’ I turned towards the door, then back again. ‘What happened?’ I was bewildered.
    ‘Looks like an overdose, Miss. There was a syringe next to the sofa.’
    ‘But he didn’t take drugs. He told me. He’d been clean for years.’
    ‘We’ll have to wait for the post-mortem of course but it looks pretty straightforward. Now...’ he held out his arm to usher me towards the door.
    ‘You’re wrong,’ I protested. ‘He told me...’
    ‘Addicts often lie, I’m afraid,’ the man with the tan spoke up. ‘And you didn’t know him particularly well, did you?’
    ‘But I’m