‘Max, can I have a quick word?’ He followed me out into the corridor.
“S it about Martin?’ He looked concerned.
‘Yeah. He’s okay. I managed to find him. He’s living in Manchester. The thing is, I never got his parents’ address, only the phone number, and the damn thing’s out of order.’
‘It’s Glover Street, twenty-three, I think, twenty-three or twenty-five. ‘S got one of them clipped hedges, shaped like a bird, you know.’
‘Thanks. You never went there?’
‘Just to call for him once, when we went fishing, like.’
‘You ever meet his parents?’
He thought about it, frowning through his thick glasses.
‘Nope.’
‘Martin say anything about them?’
‘No. He wasn’t one for talking. Why?’
‘That’s why he left, his parents.’
‘Oh.’ He reddened slightly. ‘So he’s alright then?’
‘Well, he’s alive, he’s got somewhere to stay, that’s about all I know.’
‘Better go,’ Max grinned. ‘Here comes Tiny.’ A huge man with a small, bald head was steaming towards us down the corridor. I thanked Max and left him to his potions.
It wasn’t far to Glover Street, according to the A- Z, but I wasn’t exactly raring to get there. Lunch first. I don’t know Bolton and didn’t fancy tackling the one-way system in the town centre, so I drove around the outskirts till I found a corner cafe.
That was a mistake. It was a genuine greasy spoon. I don’t eat meat and the only vegetarian options were fried egg on toast or beans on toast. Beans seemed a safer bet. There’s not much you can do to render a bean inedible. Not much, but whatever there was, they’d done it. Mushy, overcooked, crusty round the edges. The colour of the tea matched the beans. Coated my mouth instantly with orange fuzz. In my student days,
I’d survived on meals like that, even enjoyed them. Long time ago.
The house on Glover Street was a large ‘thirties semi. The ridiculous privet chicken marked it out from the rest. The garage was shut, no car in the driveway. There was no response to the bell. I peered through the frosted glass, trying to detect any movement. Then I crouched down and peered through the letter-box.
‘Can I help, dear?’ Startled, I jumped to my feet and whirled round. The woman on the pavement had a small terrier on a lead.
‘I was looking for Mrs Hobbs.’ I walked down the path. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone in.’
‘They’re away, dear. Back tonight. Malta. They go twice a year. I keep an eye on the place. I’m next door.’ She nodded her head to the left. I sensed she required some sort of explanation.
