by Bud Craig
“Yeah, sorry, mate, it’s not often I meet a fellow enthusiast. What do you want to know?”
“What did you see that day?”
He thought for a while.
“It was two years ago, a lot has happened since then but I’ll do my best for you.”
“Thanks.”
“You must realise I don’t spend my time looking out the window like an old woman, but you can’t help noticing things, can you?”
“Suppose not.”
“The first thing I remember was Colette going out in her car about ten o’clock. She seemed in a bit of a hurry.”
That confirmed what Colette had told me.
“At quarter past, twenty past ten I saw someone in an anorak with the hood up standing outside Colette and Adam’s house. This person knocked on the door. Adam answered it and let him in.”
Therefore Adam was definitely alive when Colette left.
“Who was Adam’s visitor?”
“I couldn’t say who it was, I only had a partial view from behind and I might not have known them anyway.”
I nodded, trying not to show my disappointment at what he had told me so far.
“Was this someone a man or a woman? You said, ‘him’.”
He shrugged.
“It could have been a woman. I couldn’t tell. I only caught a glimpse.”
“Anything else you noticed?”
He shrugged.
“Nothing much. I wasn’t taking much notice, it never seemed significant at the time.”
“Did you see Adam’s visitor leave?”
He shook his head.
“I went off to get a coffee after this, and worked in my office at the back for a while. I repair laptops and stuff – not that I make much of a living out of it. Then I came back in here around twelve to read the paper. After about twenty minutes I noticed the sexy gardener arriving at Jennings’ place.”
“Yeah, go on.”
“Well, she rang the bell, waited a while then opened the door with her key.”
“Then what?”
“A couple of minutes later Colette came back in her car and the gardener rushed out to her and threw herself into Colette’s arms. Then they went inside the house.”
“Go on.”
“A few minutes later, I heard an ambulance pull up, blue lights flashing, followed by a cop car. Well, the paramedics and cops went into the house. I didn’t see any more after that. I went inside to do some more work. I thought the paramedics might bring somebody out. I don’t like seeing, you know, illness and that.”
“Did Adam have many visitors, Ronnie?”
“No. Not many people came to see him as a general rule, know what I mean?”
“Right. Think about the few days immediately before Adam’s death, did anybody else call at the house?”
He thought for a moment.
“I don’t think so… no, hang on a minute, Jerry called round about two days before the murder.”
“Jerry? Jerry who?”
“I don’t know his second name – when I fix his iPad he always pays in cash, so no credit card receipt.”
“I see.”
“You know, Gus, most people bring their machines to me but I always have to go to his house to collect it. Like he’s a VIP, you know. As long as he pays, why should I worry?”
“What does he look like?”
“White hair, elderly. I think he was a mate of Adam’s.”
It must be Jerry Duckworth. At least that confirmed what Jerry himself told me.
“Did this Jerry go into Jennings’ house?”
“Yeah, he was there about an hour.”
That seemed to be that. No wonder the police had got nowhere with such a paucity of information.
“Right, thanks a lot. I’d better be off,” I said. “Give me a call if you think of anything else. The number’s on the card I gave you.”
“OK, mate, call again if you need any more help.”
On my way down Ronnie’s garden path, I pondered my next move. It was a pointless activity. To put it bluntly, I was stumped.
* * *
The next evening I was watching Have I Got News For You and thinking about nothing in particular when my mobile rang. It was Rachel.
“Hello, love, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Dad. I wondered if you could do me a favour?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“I’ve got Janice with me, she’s a bit upset and, well, there’s something she needs to tell you. Could we come round, like, now?”
“Yeah, OK. What’s it about?”
“We’ll explain when we get there. Expect us in twenty minutes.”
At least I’d have time to watch the programme to the end.
* * *
Half an hour later I opened the door to Janice and Rachel. Janice held a tissue to her nose. She didn’t say anything but her red-rimmed eyes told their story. Something or someone had caused her grief.
“Hiya, come in.”
They followed me into the kitchen, where we sat at the table and faced one another. An uneasy silence followed. Janice had her arms folded tight across her chest.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Tea for me, Dad, I’m driving.”
Janice asked for red wine. I put the kettle on and poured two glasses of Shiraz, then sat down again.
“What’s all this about?” I asked after Janice and I had taken a sip of wine.
“Well,” Rachel began nervously, “it’s about Colette.”
“Fucking cow,” muttered Janice.
“It’s in connection with your investigation,” Rachel added.
Yes, but how? I wanted to ask. No doubt I would find out given time.
“Janice, over to you,” said Rachel.
Janice cleared her throat.
“First I have a confession to make. You remember when me and Rachel came here for lunch a couple of years ago?”
“Vaguely.”
“To make room for the food, I offered to tidy a pile of papers from the table. You told me to take it to your office.”
I had no recollection of this and couldn’t see how it was relevant or important.
“There was a report on top of the file about some guy following Adam Jennings to the airport. Once I started reading, I couldn’t stop.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Oh, my God, I thought when Janice had finished. No wonder she was interested in Paul’s report. After reading a few paragraphs she would have learned that Adam Jennings and Peter Goodall were the same man. I made a mental note to be more careful in future. More importantly this showed Janice knew about the double life before Adam was killed.
“I told Colette about this the next time I saw her. Her reaction was surprising to say the least.”
“What did she say?”
“Colette told me she met Peter Goodall at a party in London. They got on well from the start. Goodall had found out somehow that Colette was in witness protection and he asked her if she could get him a new identity. He refused to say why, but promised her he’d reward her well.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Colette was tempted. She wanted to get out of the police and set up as a yoga teacher but couldn’t afford it. Anyway, she thought about it for a couple of days and eventually said yes.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, they moved in together in Whitefield. Adam passed himself off as Colette’s boyfriend. I assumed Colette got him false papers. She didn’t go into detail about any of that.”
“Colette told me the police couldn’t find any documents for Adam Jennings,” I said.
She shrugged aside my intervention.
“Like I said, I know nowt about that stuff.”
“Let me get this straight, Janice,” I said, getting back to the point. “You’re saying Colette knew all about Jennings’ double life long before he died?”
“That’s right.”
“Her relationship with Jenni
ngs was…?”
“A marriage of convenience.”
Everything I had been assuming about Peter Goodall and his alter ego was now called into question. My assistant, Paul Winston, hadn’t been the first person to find out about the double life.
“You’ve known this for more than two years. Why are you telling me now?”
Now that she had started telling her story, Janice had calmed down and was more in control.
“Because I don’t owe Colette anything anymore.”
She averted her eyes for a moment.
“You’ll have to explain.”
She twiddled her fingers for a while before looking up at me.
“Since the day we met, me and Colette have been… in a relationship, as they say, or we were until the other day.”
She paused to stem the flow of more tears.
“The thing is, Gus… oh, God I can’t believe it. I haven’t been to work since it happened. I’ve hardly eaten…”
With a great effort, she sat up and chucked the tissue down on the settee. She sucked in air.
“I’ve had lots of relationships but none of them was long-term, I never wanted them to be, but Colette, she was different.”
“In what way?”
“I loved her. Love her. Don’t ask me why. She’s not drop dead gorgeous, she’s not charismatic, she’s just… ordinary.”
She sniffed again but had stopped crying.
“What ended it?”
“I wanted to get married, she didn’t. She wants to stay in the closet. Can you believe it in this day and age? She couldn’t tell her mother she’s gay. God, she’s such a selfish bastard… I told her if we weren’t going to be a proper couple, I’d rather finish it.”
“That must have been tough.”
She nodded, looking resigned.
“I’d been working on Colette ever since your sister’s wedding, Gus. To see two women expressing their love, well, it was inspiring. Still, there’s no point in dwelling on it.”
Rachel took her friend’s hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze.
“What did you mean when you said you didn’t owe Colette anything now?” I asked.
“When Adam died, she made me promise not to tell the police about our relationship or the way she set up Adam’s dual identity. Now I can tell the truth.”
Ideas flicked through my mind so fast it was hard to keep track of them. I had the feeling Janice had more to say.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
She scratched her chin.
“Well, something happened not long before Adam died…”
“What?”
More chin scratching.
“I overheard an argument between Adam and Colette. He said something like, ‘you told me you’d sort it out, but you still haven’t done it. If you cross me, you’ll be sorry, I promise you. I know stuff about you and don’t you forget it.’”
“What did he mean?”
Janice shrugged.
“He was probably threatening to tell people she was gay. Colette said, ‘you breath one word and I’ll kill you.’”
The three of us looked at one another in tense silence.
“Adam must have known about you and Colette then?”
“Course he did.”
* * *
After they had left, I knew there was another point I could have raised. Janice told me a while ago she was owed money by Ancarner. She suggested that gave her a motive to kill Adam, but only if she knew he was also Peter Goodall. I had hesitated to follow it up today. I reckoned Rachel wouldn’t be too pleased if I had virtually accused her friend of murder. It might be worth going into later, that was for sure. The more I knew about this case the more baffling it became.
I still hadn’t decided on my next step. I could go to see Colette in a couple of days when I’d had time to think about it, but I had no idea what I was going to say. From not knowing enough when I started out, I had gone to being overwhelmed by all the information I had. I needed time to plan. I still hadn’t worked out the significance of Colette and Janice’s relationship. Was Colette lying when she told Janice she set up Goodall’s double life for the money? Was she sleeping with Goodall? Was it him she really loved, regardless of her affair with Janice? If that were the case, when she found out he had another woman, she could have been consumed by jealousy. Too many ifs and buts, Gus.
Before the various complications started driving me mad, I tried to look at the investigation from another angle. Did the Ancarner collapse lead to Goodall’s murder? It had affected so many people throughout the UK, some in Greater Manchester, others much further afield. I kept coming back to the double life: if whoever killed Adam Jennings was motivated by the Ancarner crash, he or she must have known Adam was also Goodall. In that case you’d have to choose from thousands, if not millions of suspects.
* * *
My phone rang while I was in the middle of a dream about swimming the channel. Was this a symbol of how difficult the investigation was? That idea sounded suspiciously like bollocks. A glance at my alarm clock told me it was just after half eight. A bit bloody early for a Sunday morning, I thought. As I reached over to answer it, the mobile stopped ringing. I lay down and wondered who it was. Then I heard a beep that told me I had a text.
Now then, Gus
I’ve got some more information to pass on. Can you come and see me tomorrow morning about eleven?
Cheers Ronnie Bracken
I texted back to say I’d be there and settled down to enjoy my day of rest.
* * *
I reached Ronnie’s house a few minutes early in drizzling rain. For the first time in ages I was wearing a waterproof jacket. There was no answer to my knock. I tried again with the same result. I pushed gently at the front door. That was enough to open it. I entered with great care, then looked down the eerily quiet hallway. The living room door was ajar. I stood still, suddenly overcome with anxiety for no reason I could explain. Something was up, I was convinced of it. I crept forward inch by inch. Once I was inside the room, I looked round. I gasped at what I saw.
“Bloody hell.”
A bloke lay on his back on the floor. I noticed first a bruise on his forehead. His eyes stared, full of fear, at the ceiling. A random pattern of blood had spread over his Led Zeppelin t-shirt. It was the knife in his chest that really attracted my attention. From these observations I deduced two unmistakeable facts: one, the man was Ronnie Bracken; two, he was dead.
“Bloody hell,” I said again.
What the hell should I do? Before I could think of an answer to my own question, I heard a movement behind me. I tried to look round but before I could, somebody gave me an almighty whack on the back of my head. As I hit the carpet, I rolled over onto my back. I slid out of and into consciousness, my eye lids closing, then opening. I got a hazy impression of blue shoes; a coat with a hood and a tear in the back; someone dragging his right leg as he hurried out of the room. Then I slept.
* * *
I woke up slowly, feeling distinctly woozy and wondering why I was lying on a brown carpet. A headache pulsed pain from the neck upwards. I stared at a poster of the Beatles’ Abbey Road cover on the wall opposite. Would the picture of the fab four walking across that famous zebra crossing give me a clue? No, it wouldn’t. I shut my eyes for a moment, then opened them again. I looked at my watch. I’d been out cold for a quarter of an hour. I was too old for this lark, that was for sure. What the hell did I think I was playing at, for God’s sake?
I thought I’d better try and get up. With a strong mental effort, I staggered to my feet, hoping the dizzy sensation would soon fade. It was then I saw Ronnie’s body again and it all came back to me in a rush. Maybe if I could make my way round to the front of the settee and sit down I’d be more able to think straight. I carried out this plan successfully. Now I knew what to do and took out my phone.
* * *
“You Keane?” asked a stocky, thirty-something man fift
een minutes later.
He had swaggered in, looking flustered beneath a thin layer of arrogance, and had not bothered with any kind of greeting. I nodded and instantly regretted it.
“You’ll have to get out of here,” he instructed.
After an acquaintance of less than a minute he was already getting on my nerves. I was tempted to defy him for the hell of it or treat him like a child, say something like, ‘only if you ask nicely’.
“If you could tell me who you are and maybe rephrase your request, then we can take it from there.”
“You what?”
“Who are you?”
“DS Archibald.”
“Right, what does DS stand for? Dominic Simon? David Sebastian?”
Sighing histrionically, he deigned to answer.
“Detective Sergeant.”
I nodded again and again regretted it.
“Oh, you’re the police. Aren’t you supposed to show me ID?”
Another sigh was followed by a not quite inaudible tut.
“This is it here,” he said, holding out the card that was attached to a kind of ribbon round his neck.
“Now what was it you wanted me to do?”
He looked at me for a little while, presumably weighing up his options.
“If you wouldn’t mind, sir, I shall have to ask you to come outside with me as this room, the whole house in fact, is a crime scene.”
“Fine.”
It was only then I noticed the plastic covers on his shoes.
“The paramedics and scene of crime officers need to get in.”
He took me out to his car and got out his notebook. He sat in the driver’s seat and invited me to sit next to him. I slumped back, longing to go to sleep.
“Now then, tell me what happened.”
I could have asked him what he meant, pedantry being one of my major faults, especially when someone was niggling me. Charitably, I decided he had suffered enough. I told him I was visiting Ronnie on a business matter and when he didn’t answer the door I came in and went into the living room.
“I saw Ronnie’s body. Then someone attacked me.”
“Go on,” he said.
I went through the details of the assault on me.
“As I hit the deck and before I passed out, I had a vague impression of something… it’s hard to describe.”
