Making a Killing

by Bud Craig

  “Go on.”

  “Well, he threatened to make it widely known that I was gay. I have never felt ready to come out.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She let out a long sigh.

  “Generally, I’m just not ready. More specifically I don’t think my parents could deal with it. That was one of the reasons I moved in with Adam. Mum and Dad were so pleased I had finally found someone. Even though I hadn’t.”

  That line about weaving a web of deception sprang to mind. Colette’s life must be at least fifty per cent deception.

  “Is that why you threatened to kill Adam? Because he might expose you?”

  She shook her head sadly.

  “I said that because he made me bloody angry. I had no intention of killing him. As I think I told you before, I didn’t kill Adam.”

  * * *

  When Colette left I had a vague idea that one or maybe both of us had said something significant, but I couldn’t think what it might be. Whatever it was, I was stuck with the same old dilemma. Should I carry on with the Peter Goodall case or not? I could walk away now and have done with the private eye lark. If I did continue with it, I’d have to follow up the murder of Ronnie Bracken too, even though it may have nothing to do with the case. I knew almost nothing about Ronnie and had no idea how to find out more. It might be best to leave it alone for now. Plus, it might be dangerous.

  I thought about the danger inherent in a murder investigation. Since the bash on the head, I’d been nervy and hesitant. Did I want to stay like that or do something about it? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got that some toe rag thought it was all right to kill someone and beat me up into the bargain. I wanted to find who did it and make sure they didn’t do it again. Because of the way I looked, too many people thought I was all macho. I didn’t like the idea of throwing my weight about to prove how tough I was, but sometimes it was necessary to stop the bad guy with something stronger than mere persuasion. Fair enough, Gus, I said to myself, but at the end of that period of cogitation, I was nowhere near a solution.

  Where did it leave me? Up shit creek without a paddle was as good an answer as any. To make myself feel better I went into my office to write some notes but first I e-mailed Tess in the Isle of Man to say I was making progress and would get back to her as soon as I had anything positive to report about Peter’s death.

  I wondered about those last two words: Peter’s death. It wasn’t Peter who had died, it was Adam. They were the same person, but at the time of the murder he was in his Adam Jennings character. Did it matter? Probably not. To develop my thoughts a bit more I listed all the suspects:

  JERRY DUCKWORTH

  He had threatened Jennings and blamed him for his problems. However, he had an alibi for the time of Adam’s death. The alibi had been thoroughly checked by the police.

  JANICE LOLBERN

  She was at the scene of the crime at the right time and she had a reason to kill Adam: she was owed money by Ancarner.

  COLETTE WYCHERLEY

  Jennings had threatened to tell the world she was gay. She had threatened to kill him, but she was miles away at the time of his death.

  WES, KAREN’S DAD

  He felt bitter about the way Ancarner had treated him. I have no idea where he was when Jennings was killed. He had an alibi for the time Ronnie was killed.

  NELSON SETTERS

  He was bitter about Goodall getting more money than him, but killing him would not change that. He says he was in Devon when Goodall was killed. I assume the police checked this. He was in California when Ronnie was murdered.

  TESS WEEKES

  If what she said to me was anything to go by, she was passionately in love with Peter Goodall. If she had known about his life with Colette, would that have been a strong enough motive to kill him? Probably. She said she was in London for a few days when he was murdered and could have got to Manchester and back easily. Where was she when Ronnie was killed?

  All this was based on the assumption that Ronnie Bracken and Jennings were killed by the same person.

  * * *

  A week passed and Steve rang me again, inviting himself to stay.

  “I’ve arranged a game of golf with Jerry Duckworth for the day after tomorrow, thought I’d come and stay at yours the night before.”

  “That should be OK.”

  Steve arrived the next day, muttering about his car having an oil leak.

  “I need to get it fixed before I drive back. I’ve booked it into the garage for tomorrow. I’m going to have to postpone the golf with Jerry.”

  “No need to do that. I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Thanks, Gus, that’d be handy. It’ll save me letting Jerry down. He doesn’t get out much.”

  * * *

  The following morning at nine o’clock we arrived at Jerry’s house. He greeted us with a big grin, shaking Steve warmly by the hand then doing the same to me.

  “Good to see you, lads,” he said, inviting us in.

  I thought of my first visit to the gambling addict in 2016. Back then his unhappiness stood out for all to see. I’d have described Jerry as obsessive and/or paranoid, but his cheerful chappie act gave the lie to this.

  “Sit down. You’ve got time for a cuppa, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, course we have,” said Steve. “Two teas, please, if you’d be so kind.”

  “I’ll just put the kettle on.”

  “You’re moving well, Jerry,” said Steve.

  “Oh, yeah, right as rain now. I’m like a new man.”

  He sounded even more chirpy as he went out of the room. I got up.

  “Which way’s the toilet, Steve?”

  “Straight up the stairs, the door facing you.”

  At the top of the stairs I noticed Jerry had hung up some washing over the bannister. I couldn’t help thinking the two t-shirts that had been washed several times and a tatty, threadbare waterproof would have dried quicker in the back garden. In my usual, clumsy manner, I nearly knocked the anorak down the stairs, but managed to catch it in time. I put it back on the bannister, thinking it was time he got a new coat. To my keen detective brain, it showed how hard up Jerry was – probably because of his gambling problem.

  As I got back to the living room, Jerry brought three mugs in. We indulged in idle chat for a few minutes, while we drank.

  “Great. Well, I’d better get you to the golf club, lads,” I said, finishing my tea.

  “You’re not joining us, Gus?” asked Jerry.

  “No, I’m not a golfer. Anyway, I’ve got to get home and read some reports for a child protection conference.”

  Much preferable to golf, I didn’t say.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Two days later, at about half ten in the morning, there was a knock at my door. At first I didn’t recognise the woman standing on the threshold wearing linen trousers and a dark blue sleeveless top. In spite of the heat she gave off an air of cool composure.

  “Hi, Gus, any chance of a cup of tea?”

  “Oh, it’s you, Sarita, come in.”

  She followed me into the kitchen and sat at the table.

  “What brings you out this way?” I asked as I filled the kettle.

  “I’ve got a rare day off. I thought I might hit the shops later.”

  “Right.”

  I joined her at the table.

  “How are you?” she said. “I heard you got a clout on the head.”

  “I’m recovering slowly, but I don’t feel right. I keep getting flashbacks.”

  “God, that’s bad. It’ll take time. Make sure you look after yourself.”

  I was grateful for her sympathy and understanding.

  “I will. You’re looking well,” I said.

  “Appearances can be deceptive.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s up then, Sarita?”

  She let out a long, eloquent sigh.

  “Make the tea first.”

&nb
sp; When we were taking our first sip and crunching dark chocolate digestives, she began her tale of woe. It wouldn’t be good news, I thought. I had never been able to work out how it had happened, but for years I had been listening to the troubles of family, friends, colleagues, uncle Tom Cobley and all. Why people should choose me to talk to about whatever was bothering them was still a mystery to me.

  “Well, I’ve got a bit of a problem,” she said.

  “I’ve gathered that. Tell me more.”

  “It’s the Jennings/Goodall case. I’m under pressure to get a result. You see, when he was killed back in 2016, I was taken off the case within days to lead a big drugs bust in Miles Platting.”

  “You get all the glamorous jobs, don’t you, Sarita?”

  “Quite. Anyway, since Ronnie Bracken was killed, we’ve re-opened the Goodall case.”

  “You think the two are connected?”

  “It certainly seems likely. Anyway, the powers that be, under pressure from the media, put me in charge. The trail has gone cold as far as the first murder is concerned, so it might be more productive to focus on Ronnie.”

  That may or may not be true but I wondered what Sarita wanted me to do about it. I was as keen as ever to get whoever killed Ronnie and Adam and see them locked up, as well as paying them back for the blow on the head I’d suffered.

  “Tell me how I can help.”

  “We know Ronnie was interviewed at the time of the Jennings murder. The trouble is the notes of what he said have gone missing. There’s not even anything on the computer.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Bloody hell indeed. Well, one thing we are fairly sure of is that Bracken was blackmailing someone,” said Sarita.

  “Blackmail?”

  That was a shock.

  “Yeah, he had loads of cash secreted about the house. More than he could hope to accumulate from people paying him cash. We know he hardly got any business.”

  “You think the blackmail is linked to Jennings’ murder?”

  She shrugged.

  “I reckon so. Because of where he lives, he could have seen the murderer arrive at Adam Jennings’ house. Maybe he came to an arrangement with him or her – you know, I’ll keep quiet but it’ll cost you.”

  It sounded feasible.

  “Another interesting point is that Tess Weekes was visiting Colette Wycherley on the day Ronnie was killed,” said Sarita.

  “Neither of them told me that. I phoned Tess the day I found Ronnie’s body to check if it was OK to talk to the police about my investigation.”

  “That makes it even more interesting.”

  “They’ve become firm friends since Jennings died.”

  “So I hear,” said Sarita, “but what if they met before he died? I’m thinking it wouldn’t take long to get from Colette’s house to Ronnie’s place across the road.”

  I was already ahead of her. Were Tess and Colette in it together?

  “OK, where do I come in?”

  “Well, not only are you investigating the Goodall case, you also found Bracken’s body.”

  “And?”

  “Generally, I’d like an idea of what your thoughts are. Specifically, I need you to go through what you saw and heard on the day Ronnie died.”

  “Again?”

  She shrugged and smiled, then took a notebook and pen from her handbag.

  “Yes, sorry. I’d like to try something.”

  Why did this make me uneasy?

  “Try something?”

  “Yeah, the idea is you get yourself into a dreamlike state.”

  “Dreamlike st… you mean you’re going to hypnotise me?”

  She shook her head vehemently.

  “Nothing like that. I wouldn’t know how, you have to be properly trained.”

  “Then what, if anything, are you on about?”

  She came over to me and put her hands on my shoulders.

  “Just lean back.”

  After initial resistance, I did as she asked and let myself relax. Sarita sat down again.

  “Now, close your eyes and cast your mind back to the day in question.”

  “OK.”

  I was beginning to enjoy the experience.

  “Now tell me all about it.”

  “I had a text from Ronnie a few days after I had been to see him. The message said he had remembered something else. I arranged to see him the next day.”

  I drifted towards sleep and saw myself standing outside Ronnie’s house, then knocking on the door.

  “What are you doing now?” said Sarita.

  “I’m pushing open the front door and walking down the hallway. I can hear very faint sounds like the footsteps of someone trying not to make a noise.”

  “Then what?”

  I saw myself opening the door of the lounge and taking a couple of cautious steps into the room. I saw Ronnie on the floor with a knife in his chest. After I had told Sarita this, she spoke again.

  “Could you hear anything?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not at first. Then I heard a sound behind me, someone moving, I think. I turned my head a little, then felt the pain. Something hit me on the back of the head.”

  “And then?”

  “I fell down. One minute I was conscious, the next I wasn’t. Then conscious again. I saw or was aware of blue shoes; a coat with a hood and a tear in the back; someone running away, limping, dragging his right leg. Then I was asleep. When I woke, I dialled 999. The next thing I knew, the arsehole had turned up.”

  “The arsehole?”

  I opened my eyes.

  “Yeah, one of your lot, detective sergeant somebody.”

  She grinned.

  “Oh, you mean Archie? DS Archibald.”

  “That’s the one. I won’t have to work with that arsehole, will I?”

  “No, you won’t. And I wouldn't say he was an arsehole.”

  I smiled.

  “No, but you’d think it, wouldn’t you?”

  She nodded. We drank tea in silence for a moment.

  “What now?” I asked.

  She finished writing her notes.

  “You think about it.”

  “Think about it?”

  She nodded.

  “Think deeply about what you’ve just described, what you have just seen in your mind’s eye.”

  I shook my head in puzzlement.

  “Close your eyes again.”

  That helped, I had to admit. I allowed the events surrounding the death of Ronnie Bracken pass through my mind.

  “Let me know if you notice anything significant.”

  I focused on the few moments during which the killer knocked me out and made his getaway. There was something there. What the bloody hell was it?

  “There’s nothing too definite. It may come to me later.”

  “Right. Let’s leave it there for now. I’ll go now. Contact me as soon as you have got something to report.”

  “OK,” I said as she left.

  One thing was certain, I needed to talk to someone else to get my thoughts in proper order. There was only one person who could play that role. I got my phone out and dialled.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Two days later, at about half eight in the morning, I was about to step into the shower when my mobile rang. I tutted. Bloody hell, can’t I do anything without being interrupted? I flung on my dressing gown and dashed into the bedroom. I managed to fish the phone out of my jeans just in time.

  “Gus, it’s Steve.”

  “Oh, hiya, we still all right for today?”

  Steve had agreed to help me go through the Jennings case.

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll be leaving in five minutes.”

  With Steve five minutes meant five minutes. He’d always been very disciplined, even making a habit of getting up early when we were teenagers. Unlike me: in those days I could have slept for England.

  “Grand.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Jerry Duckworth
to join us.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I always found it useful to use him as a sounding board in the old days.”

  As ever, Steve spoke with an air of authority. Here was a bloke who knew what he was talking about, you thought.

  “And it’s a way of making him feel useful.”

  That was a nice friendly gesture on Steve’s part and if I was hoping to solve the mystery of who killed Adam Jennings and Ronnie Bracken, I needed all the help I could get.

  “Fine. The more the merrier.”

  “Right, I’ll pick him up on the way. See you when I see you.”

  * * *

  At twenty past eleven I heard a loud rap on the door and went to let Steve and Jerry in. At half eleven we were seated round the kitchen table working away at the case. Each of us had a pen and notebook at the ready, but had not written a word yet. In his usual chinos and polo shirt, Steve looked the same as ever – he never seemed to age – while Jerry’s old jeans and t-shirt went perfectly with his wrinkly features and tousled white hair.

  After we had talked round the subject for a few minutes, I went through what I knew so far. Both men took notes while I talked. When I stopped talking, I gave them typed copies of what I’d said.

  “That’s interesting about Tess and Colette being together the day Ronnie died,” said Steve, “but overall there’s too much information.”

  “Yeah, but that’s par for the course, isn’t it,” Jerry put in. “It’s our job to sift through what we’ve got and pick out what’s really important.”

  “Jerry,” I said, “let’s hear from you first. You gave me some good advice earlier. Let’s have some more.”

  He grinned with pleasure at this bit of praise.

  “Happy to help, Gus. When I’m sitting at home, sometimes I feel like a spare prick at a wedding. Now then, let’s see. What strikes me is nobody knows much about Adam Jennings. I mean, what was he, what did he ever do? I feel stupid now for letting him get to me. He didn’t amount to much: no career, no family, no money. At least I had a decent job and a wife.”

  That was an interesting way of looking at it.