Then there were the photos she’d given me; not school photos or holiday snaps but a newspaper cutting and two outdoor shots that could easily have been acquired by a stranger snapping from across the street. She’d said something about that, hadn’t she? I struggled to remember. A fire. That’s right, a fire had destroyed all the family albums. A cover story?
If she wasn’t Martin’s mother, why had she been pursuing him? Some weird obsession? Was she mixed up in illegal goings-on? I couldn’t imagine it. Martin wasn’t her runaway son, so why convince me he was? Because I’d never have taken the case if she’d told me her real reason for wanting to find him.
She’d put on a brilliant act. Tears and all. And I’d found it totally plausible. I’d swallowed it hook, line and sinker. I hated the idea that I’d been conned so completely. Hell, I’d even seen a resemblance in their faces because I expected there to be some similarity.
Perhaps she believed she was the boy’s mother. You hear of people suffering from delusions, but they’re usually a bit more grandiose, aren’t they? Like being Jesus or Boudicca or something.
I re-read the paper. She’d been battered to death. A vicious attack. Her body had been found on rough ground off the M63 motorway, early on Monday morning, by a woman exercising (read toileting) her dog. The police had not yet determined whether there was a link between this murder and the killing of another woman, as yet unsolved, on the same stretch of motorway, the previous year. Women were advised to be vigilant when travelling alone and in the event of a breakdown, to remain in their cars and wait for police assistance. There was nothing about whether her car had been found.
I knew I wouldn’t sleep well but I had to go through the motions. Wriggling away inside was a small maggot of guilt. I’d spoken to Janice Brookes on Sunday and done little to ease her distress. I’d laid into her the previous day about her betrayal of Martin, when he’d turned to her for help. But if she wasn’t Mrs Hobbs, she hadn’t betrayed him. Yet she’d sat there and rocked with grief. Why hadn’t she denied it, told me who she really was? On Sunday, she’d been desperate to get his address. Was someone else putting pressure on her? Did she think Martin was in danger? How did she even know him?
There was one thing that I was certain of. It was no coincidence that she was dead. The M63 is a long way from Bolton. It’s within spitting distance of Cheadle. She’d threatened to go after Martin. She had. And someone had killed her. Just like they had JB If I’d dealt more sympathetically with Sunday’s phone call, she might still be alive.
