‘I’m glad you came,’ I said. ‘Someone who knew him.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said. She coughed. Pulled a squashed packet of Benson and Hedges from her pocket. Opened it and took out a disposable lighter and a cigarette.
I opened my window. I didn’t know which was worse, the second-hand fag smoke or the wet dog stench steaming off Digger.
‘Why weren’t you going to come?’
She shrugged and looked away out of the window. Her hand was trembling. I don’t think it was just the cold.
‘What did you mean, the other day, about it being my fault?’
‘Nothing. I were just upset, right.’ She was a lousy liar.
‘I don’t know your name.’
‘Leanne.’
‘I’d like to talk, Leanne.’
‘What’s the point?’ She blew a stream of smoke straight ahead.
‘Things I want to know.’
‘I don’t know anything.’ Defensive. ‘I don’t know anything, right?’ Wrong.
‘Let’s get out of here.’ I started the engine. ‘Find somewhere to dry off. I’ll buy you a meal.’
‘Not in town.’
‘What?’
‘Someone might see us.’ She was paranoid. Perhaps with good reason. If JB’s overdose had not been self-administered.
‘Would they know who I was?’ I asked her.
‘Maybe. I dunno. I can’t think right when I’m hungry.’
‘Better get you some food then.’ She grinned, then it was gone. ‘Do you like Indian food?’
‘Yeah. Anything.’
A handful of the curry houses in Rusholme open in the afternoon. The rest don’t bother. Trade is slack in the daytime, brisk at night. The old Shezan was open. Empty, but open. We wouldn’t be hustled to eat up and move 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.’
