Clive didn’t appear. No word. Reliable as ever. No word from JB either. I couldn’t make any headway until I heard from him. There didn’t seem much point in pursuing any other direction, like chatting to anglers up at the reservoir at Lostock. Martin was moving in rather different circles now. No. All my eggs were in JB’s basket. 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.
