by Bud Craig
Later that morning Steve called me, saying he fancied a trip to Salford. Since his split with Jackie I’d seen a lot more of him. Before his marriage break-up, he’d only paid me a visit when he was on his way to a game of golf, but not now. He’d got into the habit of calling to see me at regular intervals. Not that I minded. What are friends for? We arranged for him to arrive the next day.
That night the whole Jennings story was extensively covered on the six o’clock news. Anyone who missed the programme would be able to read it in the papers in a few hours.
* * *
“I still can’t get over this carry-on with Adam Jennings, can you?” asked Steve the next day in The Park Hotel.
We’d gone off for a lunchtime pint as soon as he’d arrived and, on the way, I had filled him in on my part in the saga and Sarita’s visit.
“I’m gobsmacked. I haven’t had time to read the paper this morning. What’s the latest?”
We both had a mouthful of Red Devil bitter before continuing the conversation.
“Well,” said Steve, “the police investigation has changed direction. To sum it up, they’re proceeding on the assumption that Adam Jennings and Peter Goodall were one and the same person.”
“That’s what I thought, but it still seems unbelievable.”
“I know what you mean, but the cops have conducted DNA tests and fingerprint checks in Adam and Colette’s house as well as the place Mr Goodall had shared with his girlfriend in the Isle of Man for the past five years. My contacts tell me the findings were pretty conclusive.”
“It’ll be like two investigations.”
“Aye, and there’s the media to deal with too. They’ll have a field day.”
“Not half. From being a local story, it’s taken off round the world. You've got the murder of the boss of a firm that had gone bust, leaving government contracts unfinished just for starters.”
“That would have been enough on its own,” said Steve. “Add ‘Ancarner chief led double life’ and you have the perfect scandal.”
He picked up my empty glass.
“We need another pint. While I’m at the bar I’ll ask Arthur to get a move on with our food.”
As he went to the bar, I wondered when I had last had a drink and was pretty sure it was the last time I had seen Steve. Most of the time I kept off the booze – I couldn’t handle it like I used to.
“Have you talked to Sarita about the Jennings case?” I asked when he came back with the beer.
“Tried to, but she couldn’t tell me anything except what I already knew from the telly. She’s been taken off this case.”
“That sounds like something that happens on the telly. You know, where the maverick cop is taken off the case and solves it anyway.”
“Nothing so exciting, Gus. She’s been given a major project to lead.”
“Oh. What I can’t work out,” I said, “is how the hell Jennings or Goodall got away with it all this time.”
“This sort of thing happens a lot. A bloke who lived next door but one to me in Didsbury twenty years ago turned out to be a bigamist.”
“Amazing. Though Goodall wasn’t married to his partner in Douglas, was he?”
Steve shrugged.
“Not as far as I know.”
At that moment Arthur arrived with two plates of fish and chips with mushy peas. I could have sworn he’d lost a bit more weight in the three weeks since I had last seen him.
“You talking about that Goodall, the Ancarner guy?” he asked, plonking the plates and cutlery on our table with a flourish.
“We are indeed, Arthur. You know him as Jennings of course.”
“You what?”
“He was at Steve’s birthday party, being attacked by Jerry Duckworth.”
“He never was.”
“It’s true, Arthur,” said Steve. “Mr Jennings’ girlfriend used to work for me.”
“Well, there’s a turn up.”
“What do you reckon’s behind it, Arthur? The murder, I mean.”
“Money. Bound to be. The super-rich types are driven by it.”
With those words of wisdom, he left us.
* * *
Steve returned to his house in Wales the following day. I was working in the afternoon and wouldn’t have too many days off for a while. The number of times I was called upon by Children’s Services in the Greater Manchester area was on the increase. I put this down to that so-called festival of family life known as Christmas. All the crises that blew up over the holiday period had now got to the stage where a multi-agency meeting had to be convened.
The lunchtime TV news updated the great British public about the murder investigation. Not that the BBC told us much. They kept someone standing outside Adam Jennings’ house in Whitefield and Goodall’s mansion in Douglas, as if expecting a sudden revelation. However, they ended all reports by saying something or other remained to be seen. I switched off the telly and got ready to go to Ordsall Tower, but before I could leave, I got a call from Helen Witton. She told me there was still no sign of Keith.
“I’m resigned, perhaps resigned isn’t the right word, but I believe he’s gone for good.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Helen.”
“Thank you. Anyway, I’m ringing about this Adam Jennings business.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, when I saw the photos of Adam Jennings, or Peter Goodall, well, something rang a bell.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you know I told you we spent some time on the Isle of Man in December?”
“Yes.”
“One day we were walking through Douglas and Keith said hello to this man, well, ‘Hi, Adam,’ was what he said.”
“Yeah?”
“Keith thought it was Adam Jennings, but whoever it was, he hotly denied it.”
It must have been Goodall. Of course, that meant it was Jennings as well. Which of the two names was his real one? It might be interesting to find out one day.
“Did he?”
“Quite cross he got. ‘My name is not Adam’, he said. ‘Don’t bother me again.’”
“I didn’t realise Keith knew Adam Jennings.”
That made it interesting.
“Yes, Keith came across him in the golf club bar apparently and took the opportunity to consult him about our investments over a drink.”
“Sounds very matey.”
“I don’t think they were friends. As far as I know they never socialised anywhere else. Keith said he wasn’t impressed with Mr Jennings’ advice. All a bit vague, he said.”
“Which golf club was this?”
“Altrincham, it’s actually in Timperley.”
Adam lived in Whitefield so what was he doing in Timperley? Well, in his other incarnation he lived in the Isle of Man so a trip across Greater Manchester was scarcely a hardship. As a financial advisor he would have clients all over.
“The question is, Gus, what should I do about it? I mean, I don’t want to go to the police with this information and make a fool of myself. I thought I’d get your advice first.”
What good would my opinion be? I knew no more about these things than anybody else. What I did know was the police always said to pass on any information, no matter how trivial.
“I think it would be best if you told the police about this, Helen. You never know, it might be important.”
“Well…”
She sounded doubtful.
“And I’m sure it would make them look a bit harder for Keith.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Oh, definitely,” I said, putting a bit of welly into it, “if they thought for one moment he had evidence in a murder case, finding him would become top priority.”
That got rid of Helen. For a few seconds I was worried I was being sucked into the Jennings case. When she rang off with a promise to call the cops straight away, I breathed a sigh of relief.
* * *
She must have worked fast because the n
ext day Keith Witton’s picture appeared on the front page of the Manchester Evening News alongside an article:
Manchester Police made an urgent appeal today to Keith Witton, 58, a sales manager at Addison Crabtree in Timperley, asking him to contact them as a matter of urgency. It is believed he may have vital evidence in connection with the murder of Ancarner boss, Peter Goodall. Mr Witton left his home in Timperley on the morning of 5th January and has not been seen since. He took a taxi to Manchester Airport and caught a flight to the Isle of Man, where Mr Goodall lived. He was accompanied by Rosie Yardley, a former colleague at Addison Crabtree. The couple could not be traced on the island and police are keen to talk to him.
“We must stress that Keith Witton is not a suspect,” said Detective Chief Inspector Sarita Ellerton, “but we would like to hear from him for two very important reasons: his wife, Helen, is frantic with worry about him and just wants to know he is OK; and he may have information pertinent to an ongoing inquiry.”
* * *
Two days later, Louise came round to my flat in time for lunch. Having spent the night with Rachel and her family, she was on her way to Danny’s house in Macclesfield. She greeted me with great enthusiasm and plonked a kiss on my lips, a sign of how well we were getting on these days. Later, as we ate my home-made burgers washed down with cans of Thwaites bitter, I updated her on the Witton case.
“I had a call from your friend Helen the other day.”
“She’s hardly my friend, except on Facebook. We worked together about fifteen years ago and I haven’t seen her since. What did she want? Your body?”
“If she did, she was too shy to say so. She was asking my advice about the Adam Jennings case.”
“Really?”
I explained what Helen had said.
“You’re not leading a double life are you, Gus?” she said with a wink.
“One life is complicated enough for me, thank you.”
“I’ll take that as a no then.”
“Although if I did have another existence in the Isle of Man or wherever, I wouldn’t admit it, would I? The whole point about a double life is to keep the two parts secret and separate. Or so I would imagine.”
“Suppose so. If you were seeing someone else, other than me, I mean, would that constitute a double life?”
We were getting into deep water.
“I think that’s stretching it a bit.”
“But are you?”
“Am I what?”
She sighed as if to say, are you thick or what?
“Seeing somebody else?”
“I could say it’s none of your business as we are no longer married.”
“Fair point but nearly every time we’ve met since, you know, that business with Brad, we’ve made love.”
She took my hand and smiled. It was true, what she said about our current sex-life, but if we saw one another now as often as we did when we first met, I’d have run out of stamina long ago.
“And if I’ve got anything to do with it, we’ll make love before I leave,” said Louise.
“Taking me for granted, eh?”
“Absolutely.”
“Are you trying to make a point?”
She leant towards me and gave me a kiss. Then she sat back for a moment, scrutinising me.
“I’m trying to work out what exactly our relationship is.”
That was one of many things I preferred not to think about. Given what had happened between us in recent years, there seemed little point in looking too far ahead. Yet here was Louise going on from where she left off last time we got together. Why did she need to analyse things in this way?
“What do you think it is?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Do you… do you want us to get back together again?”
“We’re together now.”
“I mean together properly, living together.”
“I don’t want to do that.”
I was quite clear about that.
“Right.”
The silence that followed could be described as awkward.
“Right,” she said again, “is that because we’ve already, you know, split up once before and…?”
“Well, I should think you leaving me for another bloke who was not only bald but a complete shit may be relevant, but there’s more to it than that.”
“Like what?”
“I’m happy with the way things are. I like living on my own, I like seeing you and…”
And what? I’d run out of things to say.
Louise broke the silence.
“I do love you, you know?”
“I love you too,” I replied.
“Care to show me?”
* * *
Even after she had gone, Louise was still with me. It was just like when we first met and I thought about her all the time. The way things were between us would do me. Life had been worse, I thought, remembering the day I had a stroke which left me lying in a hospital bed barely able to speak or move my right arm. That was a week after Louise left.
Since then, I’d done some things I couldn’t have done when I was married, like getting my own flat. I didn’t go to university until I signed up for the social work course at Salford. As I was married with children by then, I missed out on the student lifestyle. I tried to convince myself having a place of my own was just as good.
Maybe this feeling of dissatisfaction that Louise had talked about was the reason for Keith Witton’s escape. Was it also a factor behind Adam Jennings’ double life?
* * *
Later that day Helen Witton phoned. Was there no escape?
“I wonder if you could come and see me again,” she said.
“I’m a bit busy at the moment.”
“It is important. You see, I’ve heard from Keith.”
So, the missing husband had resurfaced.
“Is he OK?”
“Oh, yes, but he’s… it’s a bit complicated; hard to explain now. It would be better to talk face to face.”
I didn’t have the heart to turn her down. I was having lunch with Danny and Natalie the next day, but I could go to Timperley first.
“I need to be in Macclesfield tomorrow around midday so could I come to you about half ten?”
* * *
When I arrived in Timperley, Helen again insisted on producing tea in a pot and there was the added treat of delicious, home-made scones, which would keep me going nicely until my Sunday lunch. Only when we were tucking in did she get to the point.
“It’s all rather mysterious, Gus,” she began. “The thing is, well, I had a call from Keith a few days ago. Very brief, it was.”
I bit into my scone, trying not to spill damson jam, and nodded.
“He said he’d seen an English newspaper and realised the police were looking for him. Not so much as a ‘how are you?’ or ‘sorry to worry you, love.’”
She shook her head in sorrowful disbelief.
“You think you know somebody… anyway, he said he’d written me a letter, which would explain everything.”
I drank my tea and waited.
“It arrived yesterday.”
She passed me an envelope. The stamp was from Fiji but the postmark was too smudged to make out the date it had been sent. I took out the two pages and began to read the hand-written letter, noticing the lack of an address at the top of the first page.
Dear Helen
How are you? You must feel lost with nobody to nag. Has that son of yours pulled himself together yet? It’s time he learned to stand on his own two feet, but that’s unlikely to happen when he’s got you to mollycoddle him.
However, that’s not the reason I’m writing to you. I’ve decided to go travelling. I’ll be away for some time. Wherever I end up, I won’t be coming back to you.
I understand from a copy of the Daily Mail I picked up in a bar that the police want to talk to me about Adam Jennings’ murder. I don’t see the point as there’s nothing I can tell them that would be the sli
ghtest use. However, I will write down what little information I have and let you decide whether or not to pass it on.
You may remember last summer I thought I saw Adam Jennings in Douglas. I know now it really was Adam, but he was in his other persona at the time and denied he was called Adam. What you didn’t know was he approached me in a bar the next day, introducing himself as Peter Goodall, CEO of Ancarner. He apologised for his behaviour and asked me not to tell anybody about it. He said he’d give me shares in Ancarner as a ‘thank you’. ‘They’ll take off soon,’ he said. Before I could say anything he said he had some advice for me: ‘If you’ve got any spare cash to invest, you should buy Ancarner shares. Put every penny you can into them. You won’t regret it.’ I said OK and he promised to tell me the best time to sell.
I did some research into Goodall and the firm he managed. (I wasn’t bothered about him taking on the Adam Jennings persona, no doubt he had his reasons.) Both Goodall and Ancarner seemed sound, so, for once in my life, I took a chance and bought the shares. When we were on the Isle of Man just before Christmas, he followed me to the same bar and, true to his word, said ‘Sell now.’ Once I had done that I was set up for life. I could afford to walk away from my pointless and tedious job and my equally pointless and tedious marriage. By the way, perhaps you could tell them at Addison Crabtree I won’t be back.
While we were together in the bar, I asked Goodall to help me escape when the time came. On the day I left you, I caught a plane to the Isle of Man with my new partner. Peter took me to Liverpool in his yacht. I caught a flight from John Lennon airport and so my great adventure began.
Yours sincerely,
K.J. Witton
I couldn’t help thinking Witton had written the letter partly to brag about how clever he’d been. The part formal, part off-hand tone showed a callous quality. So much for the cosy bloke who liked nothing better than to get home from work and settle down in front of the telly. Helen obviously hadn’t known him at all or hadn’t told me the whole truth. Maybe she’d believed what she wanted to believe or didn’t want to tell me the truth about life with Keith. I handed the letter back to her.
“What do you think I should do, Gus?”
