Making a Killing

by Bud Craig

  “Good party, wasn’t it?” I said.

  “Yes, apart from one incident, as I’m sure you remember.”

  “Yeah. Adam and Jerry rolling round the floor.”

  “Thanks for separating them by the way. God, that was embarrassing. Jerry’s getting worse.”

  Worse than what? I wondered. She didn’t seem to realise I had no idea what Jerry Duckworth was like before he launched that assault on Adam. Colette took a book down from the middle shelf. I couldn’t make out the title.

  “Well, that’s me done,” she said before I could ask about her literary choices. “Now for a coffee. You wouldn’t like to join me for elevenses, would you?”

  “Good idea.”

  “Super. Oh, you’ve not bought anything yet. Tell you what, if you want to choose your books, I’ll go to the café and bag a table. I’ll save you a place.”

  What was all that about, I asked myself? Probably nothing, she was just being friendly. It took me only a couple of minutes to find two books I hadn’t read, by one of my favourite authors. That made me think it was my lucky day.

  “Let’s see what you’ve bought,” said Colette as I joined her in the Waterstones café a few minutes later.

  I showed her my books. She took a book out of the bag at her feet.

  “Snap,” she said.

  We’d both chosen How it All Began by Penelope Lively. For a couple of minutes Colette and I sang her praises.

  “How it All Began could be a good title for a story about Adam and Jerry’s little imbroglio,” she suggested.

  “Yeah. How did it all begin? Have you any idea?”

  “Not really, though that wasn’t the first time Jerry had claimed Adam was sleeping with Erin, you know.”

  I assumed Erin was Jerry’s wife.

  “Really?”

  “He rang me just before Christmas to tell me. Nice of him, wasn’t it?”

  I topped up my cup of tea while she sipped one of those poncy coffees you get these days. Flat white Americano or caramel cappuccino or some bloody thing.

  “Oh, very.”

  I gave her a half-smile, not sure I’d said the right thing. Had she only sought out my company so she could talk about the incident at Steve’s birthday do and the background to it?

  “What did you say to that?” I asked.

  She drank coffee and looked deep in thought for a moment.

  “I just said I didn’t want to talk about it. Then I put the phone down. Well, it was an invasion of my privacy, wasn’t it?”

  Why are you telling me this? I wanted to ask. After a little thought I decided it would be better to let her talk. I’d be able to think of an excuse to leave as soon as I had finished my tea.

  “Did you think it was true what Jerry was saying?”

  That was the question she wanted me to ask and might speed things up. She shrugged.

  “Who knows? Adam and I lead separate lives to a large extent. He’s away a lot for work and I’m often out. Who knows what he gets up to?”

  She gave me a sly glance, a coy look in her eyes.

  “We all have our secrets, don’t we?”

  “Suppose so.”

  “I certainly do and for all I know Adam does too. People are full of surprises, don’t you find?”

  “Yeah, they can be.”

  She seemed remarkably relaxed at the thought of her bloke’s infidelity.

  “I take it you and Adam don’t see Jerry now.”

  She drank her coffee.

  “That’s right, and am I glad. The guy’s completely paranoid. The booze doesn’t help, of course, though he thinks it does. I first met him when we both worked in Steve’s team. I must admit I really liked him in those days, he was one of those people everybody thought the world of. That was before his problems surfaced.”

  “You think he’s an alcoholic?”

  “Well, I’m not qualified to judge, but Jerry’s real problem is gambling. He’s been on the verge of bankruptcy at least twice.”

  I had come across problem gamblers often, as have all social workers, and knew it was a difficult addiction to deal with.

  “I guess that led him to drink more,” she went on. “Who knows?”

  I finished my tea and looked at my watch.

  “Well, I’d better be going. I’m expecting someone for lunch.”

  With that I made my getaway, hoping I wouldn’t bump into Colette Jennings again. Or Jerry Duckworth for that matter.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Just after nine o’clock on the following Monday morning, my phone rang.

  “Gus? Steve here. You all right? Just a quick call to put a bit of work your way.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Cast your mind back to my sixtieth at The Park Hotel.”

  “OK.”

  “Remember the fight between Jerry Duckworth and Adam Jennings? The one you broke up?”

  A picture of those two idiots rolling around the floor sprang into my mind and nothing I did was able to shift it. Was that coming back to haunt me?

  “Could I ever forget?”

  “Aye, it was pretty memorable. Anyway, Jerry called me yesterday saying he wanted a private investigator. I recommended you, of course.”

  “Thanks.”

  I didn’t know what I was thanking him for. Hadn’t I fervently wished never to see Jerry again after my tête-à-tête with Colette? Still, it might mean paid work.

  “Jerry said he’d text you some time today.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  The text came through at about eleven o’clock.

  Message for Gus Keane GRK Investigations:

  I need you to investigate something for me. Be at Salford Quays tram stop by ten fifteen Wednesday morning. There will be a red taxi waiting there for you. The driver will recognise you by your broken nose. Fare has been paid. You will be taken to Benton Hotel, Sale. Go to meeting room number one. I shall be waiting for you.

  Jerry Duckworth

  * * *

  By walking quickly through steady drizzle, I managed to arrive dead on time at the tram stop. The taxi was waiting as promised. The driver turned towards me. The few teeth he had left were cracked and brown, his smile full of menace. He looked me up and down.

  “Mr Keane. Benton Hotel, yeah?”

  “That’s it.”

  The driver didn’t speak on the seven-mile journey. I was glad to be left alone to wonder what on earth Jerry wanted me to do for him. By the time the cab pulled up outside the hotel, I hadn’t come to any conclusion.

  In the hotel, a mock Tudor building outside Sale, I followed the signs, my trainers making damp imprints on the laminated wood flooring. I knocked on the door of meeting room number one and went in. Framed sketches of old Manchester scenes were dotted at random on the slate grey walls. At a table, on which a cafetière, two blue mugs and a copy of the Daily Telegraph open at the racing page had been placed, sat a man in a maroon jumper and dark trousers. I assumed he was Jerry. I had only seen him in fancy dress before. As with Colette, it was the costume I remembered rather than the person wearing it.

  “Good morning, Jerry,” I said as I joined him at the table.

  I took off my anorak and hung it on the back of the chair.

  “Gus, thanks for coming.”

  He had a stronger Lancashire accent than I remembered. While trying to work out what to say, I gave him the once over. I hadn’t registered too much about his appearance on Boxing Day. Today he looked a bit of a wreck, like he didn’t look after himself, and I wondered what medical conditions he might be suffering from. Even sitting down, he had a slight stoop and seemed to find offering me coffee – which I refused – a great effort.

  “I’ve booked this place for an hour,” he said. “We won’t be interrupted.”

  He looked furtively around the room as if searching for recording devices that had been planted to capture our every word for posterity. Or maybe he thought a spy was hiding under the table. More evidence of the drama que
en tendency that had come through in his texts.

  “What is it you want me to do for you, Jerry?”

  I tried to concentrate, though I wasn’t really in the right frame of mind.

  “Follow Adam Jennings.”

  I took a notebook and pen from my coat pocket. I only hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be too complicated. All I’d ever wanted was a quiet life.

  “Right, you’d better explain.”

  He topped up his coffee cup.

  “I’m convinced he’s having an affair with my wife, Erin. A lot’s gone wrong with my life and it’s all down to Jennings.”

  “Surely not.”

  “I’ve been drinking too much, stressed to buggery, I’ve had to retire early. I never wanted to leave my job but I was suffering anxiety attacks and couldn’t function. I just wasn’t reliable anymore. And where was the stress coming from? Adam fucking Jennings.”

  I was sorry for Jerry and found it hard to resist trying to help him analyse his difficulties. His selection of Jennings as a scapegoat wouldn’t help him work things out, but I didn’t have time to go into it. There was a job to be done.

  “If you could tell me why you want him followed.”

  “The way I see it,” he said, “is if they can be spotted together when they’re both supposed to be somewhere else, well, I can confront Jennings.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Jerry, but didn’t you confront him at Steve’s party?”

  He looked shamefaced at this reminder of the drunken brawl.

  “I… well, I went about it the wrong way. I’d had a few and… I believe if we can plan it properly this time…”

  After a sigh or two Jerry went on.

  “I need to get my facts right and having him followed is the best way.”

  He swigged his coffee as if trying to finish it in one mouthful, then put his mug. down. He tapped the tabletop rhythmically for a few seconds.

  “He works away a lot so that makes him elusive. I do know he often gets the early train to London, then comes back a few days later.”

  “Right.”

  Should I take the job? That was the question. I had regular work chairing child protection conferences in the greater Manchester area so financially things weren’t too bad. Plus, I didn’t really fancy this assignment. Then I had an idea.

  “I can’t do it myself, partly because I’m too busy, partly because Adam would recognise me. However, I can put one of my best operatives on it.”

  “Is he OK, this bloke?” Jerry asked anxiously.

  “Oh, yes, every member of my team is hand-picked.”

  I loved telling people about my imaginary team.

  “I’ll need an up-to-date photo of both Adam and Erin.”

  Jerry searched in the pockets of the nondescript anorak draped on the back of his chair. It took a while but he eventually came out with a creased, white envelope.

  “They’re in there along with my contact details and Adam Jennings’ address. I’m pretty sure he’s at home this week.”

  “Great. What about Erin? Is she at home at the moment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does she do?”

  “Manager of Tesco in Bury. She’s working every day this week, or so she told me.”

  Another search of the anorak pockets unearthed a second envelope, which he gave to me.

  “There’s a five hundred pounds deposit. I had a big win on the three-thirty at Haydock Park yesterday.”

  As I left him, I thought of my last flirtation with gambling. I’d had a drunken bet on Manchester United to win the treble in 1999. Sixty-six pounds at sixty-six to one won me over four thousand quid. I hadn’t had a bet since. ‘Quit while you’re ahead’ was my motto.

  * * *

  That evening I was in the living room of my flat, listening to my Cheerful Choice playlist on the iPod and reading The Inimitable Jeeves for the umpteenth time when the phone rang. I saw Louise’s name on the screen and before answering, cut short Dire Straits in the middle of Walk of Life.

  “I may have some work for you,” she said after the usual family chat.

  Her Darlington accent had got stronger since she’d moved back up there.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s someone I used to work with in HR in Altrincham – Helen Witton. Her husband’s missing and I suggested you might be able to help.”

  “Right. What can you tell me about her?”

  “She works for Addison Crabtree, so does her husband.”

  “Addison Crabtree? Who are they when they’re at home?”

  “You must have heard of them. They make outdoor gear for the smart casual community.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  “It’s the sort of thing I wouldn’t be seen dead in, you know, really molly.”

  Before I met Louise, I had no idea what the adjective ‘molly’ meant. Even now I found it hard to come up with an exact definition of this bit of Darlington dialect but thought of it as the opposite of trendy.

  “Does Helen wear this stuff?”

  “I’m afraid she does. You don’t have a no molly clothing policy, do you?”

  “As long as she’s paying, she can be as molly as she likes.”

  “Well, she’s got plenty of money.”

  That sounded good. Now I had two offers of work.

  “She’s in luck as it happens, I have just passed on a case to my assistant so I’m free to take this one.”

  “I didn’t know you had an assistant.”

  I didn’t, really, but I wanted to impress Louise. Pathetic, I know.

  “Oh, yes. He’s coming over shortly for a business meeting. He’s invaluable, is Paul.”

  “Paul? I think I’ve met him. Is he the handsome black guy?”

  “That’s him. He’s had a bit of bad luck lately, got made redundant and his wife’s pregnant.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “He’s put an application into Salford Council IT section so hopefully he’ll be all right. I’m glad I can give him some work in the meantime.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, I’ll give you Helen’s contact details, but you can expect her to be in touch soon.”

  * * *

  “What’s this job you’ve got for me, Gus?” said Paul Winston, later in my kitchen.

  For an expectant father he was remarkably relaxed in stylish jeans and purple crew neck jumper. Even in casual gear he looked dead smart. I could see why Louise had described him as handsome. For far too long, over a beer, we’d talked about rugby league, a shared passion. Now it was time to get down to business. I handed him the photos Jerry had given me.

  “Who are they then?”

  “Adam Jennings and Erin Duckworth. The client is Erin’s husband, Jerry. He reckons Erin and Adam are having an affair.”

  “Right. What’s my brief?”

  “You’re to follow Jennings.”

  I handed him an envelope.

  “There’s a typed sheet with a few details. Read that at your leisure. I’ll sum it up for now: Adam’s probably due to go to London by train one day this week. You’ll need to wait outside his house and follow him when he leaves home. If he goes to the station and gets on the train, keep your eyes open for Erin.”

  “Do I get on the train?”

  “Hard to say. You’ll have to use your judgement.”

  He looked thoughtfully at the papers.

  “I’ll read through this tonight,” he said, getting up. “I’d better go, I don’t like leaving Hannah on her own too long.”

  “She’s OK though, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, yeah, blooming.”

  “Good, give her my love. Send me your reports via e-mail as you go along. I’ll pass on anything relevant. Oh, and the client has made a down payment.”

  I passed the envelope of money over.

  “That should be useful when the baby comes.”

  “Cheers, mate. I’ll get onto it as soon as I can.”

  After he’d left, I thought about how I’d met Paul t
hrough TRYS, a rugby charity I was involved with. We helped get him out of a life of crime. Back then who would have thought he’d become a caring, concerned husband?

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning, I had to leave home early to go to Ordsall Tower, home of Salford Children’s Services, to chair a meeting. I was wearing a blue suit, my third best, with an open neck grey shirt. As I got my papers together in my office – really the spare bedroom with a desk squeezed in a corner – I admired the view, which I never tired of. It took in quite a bit of Salford Quays as well as Old Trafford in the distance. This was the area where I was born and brought up, now much changed. Just looking out of the window brought forth aching nostalgia and confused, almost adolescent longing.

  I thought back to the time I’d moved here, a few months after Louise left me and we sold our house in Worsley. My share of the profits and quite a bit of my savings paid for the flat. I had only been able to afford it because there were too many apartments in Manchester at the time I bought it. Prices had plummeted. The students who’d lived in it before me had left it in a bit of a mess, bringing the price down even further. The old man who owned it had died and the family wanted a quick sale. So, but for a series of accidents, I wouldn’t be here now. I looked at my watch – time to go. I pulled on my waterproof and went on my way.

  At Ordsall Tower I was just coming out of the conference room after the meeting and bumped into Karen Davidson, the boss, whom I’d known since she was a young social worker. In spite of her relative youth she had an air of quiet authority and I’d always thought she’d be in charge sooner or later. She was formally dressed as usual, her brown hair neatly styled. She wasn’t what you’d call trendy, nor was she ‘molly’; she had her own style. I’d always thought Karen had a touch of class.

  “Oh, hi, Gus. How are you?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Good, yeah. I’m glad I caught you. I need to talk to you about foster care training. Can you let Hannah have some dates when you’re free in February and we’ll set something up?”

  With that she dashed off. She was always busy with something. At this rate she’d burn herself out before too long. She wouldn't be the first.