by Bud Craig
“Try.”
I did my best to tell him about the blue shoes, the coat and the limp.
“A limp, you say? Which leg?”
A fair question, I thought, but already the memory was fading.
“He seemed to be dragging his right leg, but I can’t be certain. I was out for the count for about fifteen minutes. When I came to, I saw Ronnie’s body again and phoned you.”
I took a deep breath then a flashback of my assailant hitting me on the head almost blinded me. I closed my eyes then waited for a few seconds before I could continue. The detective looked at me expectantly. Archibald had been busy writing in his notebook while I talked. I couldn’t tell him any more, so he moved onto something else.
“You said you’d come here about ‘a business matter’. What sort of business are we talking about?”
I coughed, partly to clear my throat, partly to give myself time to get my thoughts in order.
“I’m a private investigator and I had to see Ronnie Bracken about an investigation I’m involved in.”
He looked askance at me.
“And what are you investigating?”
Suddenly tired, I sat back for a few seconds.
“I’m afraid client confidentiality forbids me to tell you.”
He shook his head as if he were disappointed in me.
“This is a murder inquiry and may I remind you it is an offence to withhold information in such a case?”
So, policemen really did say ‘this is a murder inquiry’.
“I’ll tell you what I could do. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll give my client a call and ask if it’s OK to talk to you.”
He took a deep breath, tutted and tapped his foot on the carpet.
“Are you pissing me about?”
“No, I’m trying to help you and make sure my client is happy. I promise you it’ll save time in the long run,” I said.
“Go on then and be quick about it.”
I took my phone from the pocket of my jeans and got out of the car. I waited until I had walked twenty yards or so down the street before dialling Tess Weekes’ number.
“Hi, Tess, it’s Gus.”
“Hello, Gus, how’s it going?”
“OK, early days yet but there’s a bit of a snag.”
“Oh, dear.”
I explained about Ronnie then told her Detective Archibald wanted to ask about my investigation.
“What do you think, Gus?”
“To be honest, I think I’m gonna have to tell him why I was seeing Ronnie, but I’d feel better if you OK’d it first.”
“All right then, go ahead. I trust your judgement.”
“Could you talk to this Archibald character? They might be a bit sniffy about me looking into a case the police have already investigated.”
“I suppose they might.”
“It would be a good idea for you to tell him you only called me in because the cops were so useless and if they make life difficult for me you would make sure it was all over the papers the next day.”
“Mmm, I shall enjoy that. When do you want me to do it?”
“No time like the present.”
I walked back to Archibald’s car, told him my client wanted a word and gave him my phone. He listened for a while.
“I see, oh, quite,” he said like a nervous schoolboy.
The sergeant was, if I were any judge, intimidated by Tess’s accent and the need to fend off a complaint from the partner of a murder victim. That would have given her words added clout. He ended the call with effusive thanks to Tess. After he’d handed my phone back, I told him all about my interview with Ronnie Bracken. At that point three people dressed in crime scene suits walked past. Archibald opened the car door and shouted towards them.
“Oh, Doc…”
A youngish woman turned to Archibald.
“…could you have a look at Mr Keane here? He’s got a nasty bruise on his forehead.”
Having been given a clean bill of health and advice about concussion, I was then asked to give the police everything I’d been wearing and put on protective clothing. A uniformed policeman gave me a lift home. First off, I had a shower. When I was dry and dressed, I put the kettle on. As I swallowed the first mouthful of tea, I swore to give up private investigation.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning when I woke up at half ten, the good news was my headache had gone; the bad news was all my motivation had drained away. Lethargy pinned me to the mattress for half an hour before my bladder forced me to summon up enough energy to drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. Then, without even getting dressed, I sat in the living room in my pyjamas and read Jeeves in the Offing. I didn’t fancy doing anything, certainly not investigating a murder. For one thing, the idea of getting bashed on the head again didn’t appeal. Give yourself a chance to recover, time to think things over and rebuild your confidence, I advised. Yet despite my determination to turn my back on investigating, I began to think about the case once more. I struggled to turn vague memories into hard facts.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Ronnie Bracken’s body. It had been the third time I’d seen a dead person, the first being my mother. I knew I had never got over finding my mam and probably never would. Now, remembering what happened in Ronnie’s house actually hurt physically. It all happened so quickly for one thing, making it impossible to have any clear recall of significant incidents.
The way the murderer moved rang a bell in the recesses of my mind. I had met somebody with a limp fairly recently but, no doubt because of the shock of being hit over the head and seeing a dead body, I couldn’t remember who it was. The idea that something else about my assailant was important wouldn’t go away. This was in spite of my not having seen him or her clearly. Oh, to hell with it, I’d just forget the whole thing.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I said after a while. “At least have a shower and get dressed. Then go out and get some fresh air.”
I managed a half hour walk round Salford Quays then came back to PG Wodehouse.
* * *
The following afternoon, just after one o’clock, I was walking across Salford Quays towards the tram stop. The warm weather continued unabated. In the distance I saw Karen Davidson with an older man. It took me a while to work out he was her dad. Wes, was it? His name didn’t matter, there was something much more interesting about him. He was walking with a limp. I caught up with them and we stopped to chat.
“You’re in your Sunday best, I see, Gus,” said Karen.
I was wearing my best suit, a dark grey number I’d bought two years ago for Terri’s wedding.
“Yes, it’s a bit warm for a suit, but I’m on my way to visit my mam’s grave in Weaste Cemetery. She would have expected me to look smart. One of the many things she never got used to was casual clothes. She died in 1974 when flared jeans and t-shirts were everyday wear for young, long-haired men.”
“Before my time, I’m afraid.”
“Not before mine,” said Wes. “My mother was just the same as yours, Gus. ‘Fellers looking like women, I never thought I’d see the day’, was one of the more polite things she said about seventies fashion.”
“Have you hurt your leg, Wes?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual manner.
“No, I’ve got arthritis, it flares up from time to time. I’ve spent too much time on damp building sites.”
“I keep telling him he should retire, take it easy,” said his concerned daughter. “That leg even got him in trouble with the police the other day.”
“What?”
“You might have heard about Ronnie Bracken, the guy who was murdered.”
“It rings a bell.”
“Anyway, it seems somebody saw a man with a limp making his getaway at the time it happened.”
“So, the cops came round,” Wes put in. “I had to give fingerprints, DNA sample, the lot.”
“Really?”
“Oh, aye, I told them I was at work
in Bolton that day. They even checked that out. Anyway, the boys in blue decided they had eliminated me from their inquiries.”
That showed me how difficult it was to solve Ronnie’s murder. As if I didn’t know.
* * *
Half an hour later I was standing in front of my mother’s grave after a two-mile tram ride. It was just round the corner from my Dad’s flat, so I’d call and see him before going home. He’d always been reluctant to come with me to the cemetery.
“Well, Mam,” I said, “here I am again. It’s a nice day, if you’re interested. It’s been a good summer so far. I’m OK, so are the rest of the family. I’m still gutted that you never met Rachel and Danny. You would have liked them. They’ve got kids of their own now. I’ve got to say having grandkids is really great.”
Even now, forty years later, the pointless cruelty of her death hurt like a blow and brought tears to my eyes. What had she done to deserve being struck down so young and never see her grandchildren and great-grandchildren?
“Theresa missed out on all that. What would you have said about women marrying women, eh? Especially if one of them was your daughter? We’ll never know. Anyway, I’ve been trying to find out who killed this bloke, Jennings or Goodall,” I said. “He lived two lives under different names. I reckon he could have won the devious bugger of the year award any time. Not jonnek, as you would say. I remember you telling me jonnek meant genuine. It could be an example of Lancashire dialect but I only ever heard you use it. I think you and dad made words up. Like Shakespeare. Sorry, I’m rambling.”
I broke off for a while then told her about the bloke who thumped me. I left a pause long enough for her to respond. She couldn’t speak, but I knew what she would have said.
“You’re right, Mam, I should know better at my age. I’m in my sixties, for God’s sake. I should pack in private investigation, but I’ve made a commitment to Tess Weekes and she’s paying me. I can’t afford to stop working altogether and there may come a time when I’m too old and frail to work, so why not make money while I can? I could stick to social work but that can be dangerous. The people social workers deal with have been damaged by life. A fair percentage of them want to damage someone else.”
* * *
I woke up the next morning after a troubled night’s sleep, punctuated by vivid dreams and flashbacks of being attacked by a man in blue suede shoes. This made me more determined than ever to put the investigation on hold for a while if not permanently. To add to the confusion, I had remembered the name of the man with a limp I’d met in the course of the investigation. I really ought to follow this up but couldn’t face it. Instead, when I phoned Steve that night to arrange a trip to his house in North Wales, I brought him up to date with the case and asked him for a favour.
“Whoever killed Ronnie had a limp. Let’s assume Ronnie’s murder is linked with Adam’s. Well, Nelson Setters, the Ancarner executive I interviewed is the only person I have come across who limps. I wondered if you could get in touch with one of your police contacts and ask if they have followed up on the limper and, if so, what they found out.”
“Consider it done. Rumour has it that my protégée, Sarita, or DCI Ellerton to use her full title, is back on the case. I’ll give her a call and let you know what she says when I see you.”
* * *
The following evening Steve met me at Barmouth railway station. In the car park he lifted the boot of his Jaguar so I could put my case in. His walking boots were there as ever. They had bits of plastic stuffed inside them for some reason.
“What are those blue things?” I asked.
“They are covers to put over your shoes when you’re in a crime scene.”
I couldn’t imagine what an ex-superintendent would want them for. Was Steve getting eccentric in his old age?
“You what?”
He slammed the boot shut and we got into the car.
“When I retired, I nicked a few of them along with some plastic gloves.”
“Ex-copper on glove theft charge, I can see the headlines now. But why did you do it? Was it a cry for help?”
“No,” he laughed. “The shoe protectors are useful if I’m working in the garden, you know, if it’s muddy and I want to go back in the house without taking my boots off. I just slip the protectors off and Bob’s your uncle.”
You learn something new every day, I thought.
“I spoke to Sarita about Nelson Setters,” Steve told me as he drove me towards Dolgellau. “She said it was a dead end.”
“A dead end? How come?”
“Setters has a watertight alibi. He was in California on the day Ronnie Bracken was killed.”
“That’s that, then. Bugger. Still, at least Mr Setters can afford to go to California in spite of losing his job. I’d hate to think he was short of money. Ah, well, I’ll just forget about it and relax.”
I had planned this trip as something of a rest cure. Walking in the countryside, maybe a train journey down the magnificent North Wales coast to Harlech and the odd pint would do me the world of good.
* * *
Over an Indian take-away later that evening we talked about a variety of subjects, concentrating on anything but murder. We had our usual argument about Brexit – Steve in favour, me against. I still reacted with disbelief at someone with the surname Yarnitzky being so anti-immigrant. As ever in our political discussions, we failed to reach agreement.
To lighten the atmosphere, we moved onto sport. Steve slagged off Jose Mourinho, the manager of Manchester United, saying they would get nowhere unless they sacked him. I was no more optimistic about Salford Red Devils rugby league team. Somehow having a moan about a subject that deep down didn’t really matter cheered me up. I went to bed that night feeling much better and looking forward to a walk the next day.
* * *
The next morning, I walked with Steve along the Mawddach trail. The path along a disused railway line was suitably flat for two men in their sixties. In any case, it was too hot for anything strenuous. We’d slapped on loads of sun cream before we went out. With our wide-brimmed sun hats and sunglasses we might have been on the French Riviera.
We’d covered about a mile and a half when my phone rang.
“Hiya, Gus, how are you?”
“Fine, I’m in Wales with Steve.”
“Give him my love.”
I covered the receiver with my hand.
“It’s Louise, she sends her love.”
“Send her mine too.”
I spent a few minutes in idle chat with my ex-wife. When I had finished, Steve asked me the exact nature of my current relationship with her. I gave him an edited version.
“I bet you two end up getting married again,” he said.
* * *
A new, relaxed Gus Keane got back from Wales. I’d only just unpacked my case when my phone rang. Was this something designed to get me tense again?
“Hello.”
“Hi, Gus, it’s Colette.”
Now what? Did I really want to hear from her?
“Hiya, Colette. This is a surprise.”
“I dare say. I take it you’ve heard from Janice.”
“Well,” I said, wondering whether I should tell her.
“I’ll take that hesitation for a yes. She said she’d talk to you. If you want to come round, I can give you a fuller picture.”
It was only fair to hear what she had to say. She might even have some useful information. I didn’t fancy going near Ronnie’s house though.
“OK, but I’d prefer it if you came here. Shall we say an hour’s time?”
* * *
Colette arrived bang on time at three fifteen. Once again she was wearing shorts, making the most of the weather. As she walked into the kitchen a book fell out of her bag. I picked it up for her and glanced at the front cover. How It All Began by Penelope Lively. I had it in my collection.
“Good book, that,” I said, as I handed it to Colette.
“Yes, isn’t i
t? I’m re-reading it actually.”
“I’ve just remembered, we both bought it that day we met in Waterstones.”
She smiled.
“I think you’re right. I wonder if it’s an omen. Will we find out how it all began?”
Later, we sat at the kitchen table, sharing a pot of coffee. I would have preferred tea, but I’ve always been the perfect host.
“Janice spilled the beans, did she, Gus? A woman scorned and all that.”
“She did tell me about the end of your relationship.”
“Did she mention that Peter Goodall asked me to set up a new identity for him?”
“Yes. Only you didn’t. You told me the police found no documents for Adam Jennings.”
She smiled.
“That’s because there were none.”
“I would have thought that was the whole point, so he could make his getaway when Ancarner collapsed.”
“Peter was expecting me to come up with false documents but I kept putting him off. I told him it was best to wait until he really needed them. In the meantime he could go around telling people he was Adam Jennings.”
“I don’t suppose anybody would accuse him of giving a false name.”
“Precisely. Anyway, Adam had enough confidence for anything.”
“And of course you can be known by any name you want.”
“Yeah. If the police started making inquiries, they’d soon find out I’d worked in witness protection,” she said. “Any false papers would have been traced back to me.”
“What would you have done when Adam really needed the documents?”
“Put him in touch with my contact in the criminal community. And kept my name out of it.”
“What was the row you had with Adam all about?”
“What row was that?”
She had done her best to sound innocent but I wasn’t convinced. I told her what Janice had said.
“My God, she really has got it in for me. She was marvellous in bed but rather over-involved emotionally. Too lovey-dovey for my taste.”
“Tell me about the row.”
She shrugged.
“Adam was getting stroppy about the documents he needed. He accused me of stalling or trying to con him.”
She hesitated but I was determined to get to the bottom of it.
