by Bud Craig
CHAPTER THREE
Ten minutes later I put my anorak on, putting the envelope in one of the pockets. Going out of Children’s Services towards the exit I passed Reliable.com on the right as a man in his forties came out of the door.
“All right, Rob,” I said.
“Gus, hi,” he said in a public school drawl, looking up at me and fiddling with the collar of a green polo shirt. “So, your last day today.”
I nodded and smiled.
“All right for some.”
He flicked his fingers through his flop of blonde hair. He looked like a California surfer who had joined the business world.
“Sorry about missing your leaving do,” he said.
“That’s OK.”
“Should be a good night.”
I thought about sidling away.
“You know I’d be there only Emma’s away.”
He proceeded to tell me for the third time – or was it the fourth? – that his wife was flying to Dublin today for someone’s hen night. Though I had never met her I knew his wife was Australian and worked in marketing.
“Hen weekend more like,” he said.
Again.
He was taking the afternoon off to drive her to the airport. Yes, I know, Rob. His weekend would be dedicated to ‘a bit of quality time with the kids.’ I began to move past him before he got into doting father mode. I love my kids but Rob always makes me feel neglectful and inadequate. It struck me for the umpteenth time that even with OK people there are things that irritate you. It was impossible to dislike Rob though. There were worse thing than loving your kids.
He was a bit of a wheeler-dealer of course, always popping into Children’s Services touting for business. The funny thing was nobody minded: he must have made a fortune out of us. Think of all those social workers needing car insurance. The women certainly liked him: he had a subtly flirtatious way with him that even the die-hard feminists lapped up. It was the old story: either you’ve got it or you haven’t. The effortless confidence and the Home Counties charm helped of course. In Salford it tended to stand out more. I couldn’t help wondering how someone from Guildford – or was it Godalming? – felt working on the edge of a council estate.
“Great stuff,” I said. “Better be off. Things to finish off.”
“Yeah. Have a good one anyway.”
By the time I returned to Princess Street, the rain had stopped, but I kept looking suspiciously at the sky. Approaching number 27 I saw a black cab outside the house with its engine running. On the pavement Tanya struggled towards the taxi, carrying her little girl, a folded pushchair and a battered holdall. I quickened my pace when I saw a bloke with long, blonde hair staggering down the path pointing toward Tanya.
“You’re going fucking nowhere,” he shouted, showing bad teeth, “get back here.”
I rushed past Tanya down the path towards the man.
“It’s OK, Mick,” I said, stopping a couple of feet in front of him.
He stopped and looked at me, breathing hard. Behind me I heard a taxi door open and slam shut.
“Who the fuck are you?” he slurred.
I heard the taxi pulling away.
“Gus Keane,” I said. “Social Worker.”
“I might have fucking known,” he said, lunging at me, breathing out stale beer and tobacco fumes.
My stomach turned over. I gulped anxiously, trying to get some moisture into my mouth. This is all I bloody need, I said to myself, wondering what the hell to do. I was buggered if I was gonna let him thump me but landing a left hook on his jaw wouldn’t go down well in the inevitable investigation that would follow. Anyway, I hate violence.
With a sudden inspiration I thought of an old rugby trick. Standing sideways on from Askey, I stuck out my right foot just as he reached me. He sprawled headlong on the path. He clutched his head like a footballer feigning injury and closed his eyes as if in sleep. The last time I’d tried that, my nose had collided with a Featherstone Rovers fist ten seconds later.
His mobile phone clattered to the ground. He swivelled his head round, his eyes spinning. For a few seconds I stood still. That was a close one. I looked down at Askey, whose white t-shirt squeezed his paunch. A serpent tattoo snaked under the sleeves of his donkey jacket.
“I just want to talk to you,” I said, “but I get the idea this isn’t a good time.”
“What?”
I stepped over him, taking an envelope from my jacket pocket. I walked up to the front door and put it through the letterbox.
“It’s all in the letter,” I explained on my way back. “Give me a ring.”
He craned his neck to look at me.
“Fuck you on about?’
Things are still happening, I thought.
“See you, Mick,” I said as I left.
On the way back to the office, I got my phone out of my jeans and dialled. I let the number ring until it went into voice mail.
“Charlotte, it’s Gus. I managed to contact Mick Askey. I wasn’t able to talk to him – he wasn’t in the mood. I’ll ring again over the weekend and explain. Cheers.”
I snatched up my diary, a referral form and notebook from my desk and got up. I ran my hand through my hair. Don walked past on his way out. Karen looked up from her computer screen as I muttered ‘bugger’ under my breath. I walked over to Bill’s office, the legs of my jeans rubbing together, my feet scuffing the lino. I looked at my watch. 4.30. Shit. Giving a peremptory knock, I went in.
“Bill, I…” I said as I heard a female voice shout:
“And you can leave her out of this for a start.”
I saw a short, stocky woman with grey hair standing in the middle of Bill’s office, smoothing down her pleated skirt, tension on her face. Under her raincoat she wore a string of pearls over a beige jumper.
“Oh, sorry.”
“It’s OK, Gus,” said Bill from behind his desk. He scratched his chest through his Elvis T-shirt. “Have you met my wife?”
“Yes, hi, Jean.”
“Hello, Gus,” said Jean, looking me up and down. “You’ve lost a bit of weight, haven’t you?”
“Your husband’s such a slave driver,” I said, “I never have any bloody time to eat.”
Jean almost laughed.
“I can see you’re busy,” she said, “I’ll get out of your way.”
Sitting down, I picked up a statuette of a footballer from Bill’s desk. I felt the weight of its base as I read the inscription: Salford City Council Fantasy Football League: Winner Bill Copelaw.
“I’m looking forward to your leaving do,” said Jean.
“Yeah, should be a good night,” I said.
“That reminds me,” Bill chipped in, turning to Jean. “You’d better get some cash out. I have none.”
“That’s right, leave everything to me. What would you do with him, Gus?”
I smiled, glancing towards the Jailhouse Rock poster on the wall.
“I’ll see you later.”
With a nod and half smile to me she left.
Bill took a deep breath and slumped back in his seat.
“That’s what I like about married life,” he said, “nowt.”
We exchanged awkward smiles. If he were looking for marital counselling I was no expert, I thought, as I pictured Louise on her round-the-world trip. When last heard from she’d been staying with my sister in Sydney. I put the statuette back on the desk next to this month’s Professional Social Work magazine. I glanced down at the front cover. A coffee stain in the shape of a map of Ireland decorated the words Social Workers Killed at Work: a PSW Investigation.
I held up the referral form.
“Right,” he said, sitting up straight like a schoolboy, “that looks like trouble.”
I shrugged.
“It’s Friday afternoon. What else can you expect?”
His foot tapped out a rapid rhythm on the threadbare carpet.
“Everything’s fucking trouble this week,” he said.
&nb
sp; “What’s up with you lately?”
“Take your pick. Four solid days of pissing rain,” he suggested. “Or thirty years of sodding social work.”
He held his face in his hands.
“What have you got for me?”
I passed him the referral form. He put on his reading glasses. He shook his head as his brown eyes quickly scanned the information.
“Young baby, unexplained injury,” said Bill. “Poor little bugger won’t have done it playing football, will she? Who’s referred this?”
Bill looked over his reading glasses at me.
“It’s one of the lads from TRYS,” I explained, “Paul Winston.”
“I can’t picture him,” he said.
“I don’t know if you’ve met him. Tall, black…”
“Not the lad who knows Viv Richards?”
“His granddad reckons he does. He’s from Antigua.”
“Anyway, go on.”
“Paul wants to do a bit of coaching for us, so he came on that child protection workshop I ran last week.”
Bill nodded.
“I stressed the importance of reporting any concerns you have, you know.”
“And he sees this little girl with a dodgy looking leg,” said Bill, “and rings you.”
“Yeah.”
“And on the day you retire,” he sighed. “It could be ‘I’ve been on a course syndrome’, but you’re gonna have to go and have a look at it, mate.”
“I know. Nothing like going out with a bang.”
“It’s not far, that’s one good thing.”
I nodded.
“Will you be around later,” I asked.
“Should think so,” said Bill. “I’ve got someone coming to see me at half five. And I need to make some inroads into that lot.”
He gestured towards the wobbly pile in his in-tray.
“Not good for your health.”
“It’s only angina.”
“’Only angina,’ he says. I’m surprised you didn’t go for early retirement when they announced this restructuring.”
“Can’t afford it,” he sighed, scratching his head. “A few unexpected expenses.”
“Bugger.”
“I can’t work out how you can afford it,” he added.
“Health wise, I can’t afford not to,” I said.
“But financially? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“No, that’s OK,” I said.
I paused for thought.
“I suppose what swung it was when I inherited some money from my cousin, Vince.”
“He left you money in his will? Nice cousin.”
I shrugged.
“No, it’s just that me and my sister were his closest living relatives. He died intestate.”
“Yeah?”
“Still,” I said, “once they’ve chopped your balls off life’s not worth living anyway.”
He laughed with gusto.
“Who’s gonna cheer me up when you’ve gone?”
“Not my problem, Bill. Still, if you are staying on, it’s good news for everybody.”
“Flatterer.”
“No, I’m serious. Apart from anything else, if you go young Don might take over.”
He looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
“Young Don. That makes him sound like the heir to a Mafia dynasty.”
“The Mafia’d kick him out for being too ambitious.”
“I thought you liked him.”
I pursed my lips.
“Oh, he’s not too bad, a bit humourless, I suppose. And too much of a go-getter. I can imagine him as one of those bankers who ruined the economy.”
“I know what you mean. Tell you what, Gus,” he said, “Don won’t be taking over if I have anything to do with it.”
My eyes opened wide. I let a smile slip out as Bill went on.
“And he knows it.”
“Oh? Was that what he was so upset about this morning?”
“How did you know about that?”
“I heard him.”
“Yeah, he did get quite cross.”
“Anyway,” I said. “I’d better get a move on. I still need to contact the police.”
“I’ll ring them for you; get someone to meet you there. And any problems, ring me.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“Just think, in a few hours we’ll be at the Park Hotel, having a pint at your party. I hope you’ve got some decent music lined up.”
“Fifties band, A Lop Bam Boom. My daughter’s in it.”
“Oh, aye? You must have brought her up right.”
“Marti Pym’s the lead singer.’
“Marti? The solicitor?”
I nodded.
“She kept that quiet.”
“The band put an advert in the paper for a vocalist and got Marti. Brilliant voice. Looks good on stage.”
We looked at one another, each knowing what the other was thinking.
“Looks good anywhere,” he grinned.
Ten minutes later I dashed outside into the rain, struggling with my briefcase and a baby-seat. Automatically pulling my hood over my head I scurried across the road to the car park. Opening the boot of my red Peugeot I flung the baby-seat in and slammed it shut. I got in the car and chucked the briefcase onto the passenger seat. I turned the engine on and eased the car through the potholes. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw Jean Copelaw in a posh car with a much younger woman.
That made me think of what Bill had said about his financial troubles. How could he be short of money? He and Jean had well-paid jobs; their daughter was independent. Not that it was any of my business, I acknowledged, as I thought of my own financial situation. Louise and I had made a big profit on the house in Worsley we’d lived in for 30 years. With my share I had bought the flat in Salford Quays, with enough left over to pay for the improvements. My pension wouldn’t be great but with the lump sum and Vince’s money I’d be OK for a while. I’d need some part time work eventually but I’d worry about that some other time.
I switched off from monetary matters to more immediate concerns as I reached the address I was looking for. I’d had to pass Tanya’s place, where there was no sign of life. I could have walked but I had a feeling I’d need the car. I pulled up outside the house and got out clutching my briefcase. The rain pelted down as I walked past a flash motorbike parked outside. I approached the front door and knocked hard, taking my wallet out in readiness.
“Come on, you bugger,” I muttered, “I’m drowning out here.”
After what seemed like a long time a girl with a fading black eye opened the door.
“Sharon Winters?”
“Yeah.”
“Gus Keane. Social worker from Children’s Services at Ordsall Tower,” I said, showing my ID.
Sharon stood staring at me.
“I wonder if I could come in and have a word about Rebecca.”
Sharon gawped a few moments longer then stood aside to let me in. I put my wallet back in my jeans and pulled my hood down. As we walked along the hallway, I took my notebook from the briefcase. In the sitting room a fair-haired young man sat on the sofa watching The Weakest Link and swigging from a can of Special Brew. Without waiting to be asked I sat on a wooden chair with a biker’s jacket thrown over the back. Sharon balanced on the edge of an armchair.
“You must be Liam…Bentley,” I said, looking down at my notebook.
“Social Services,” said Sharon.
“What do you want?” he asked without taking his eyes off the screen.
He spilled lager on his grubby white T-shirt. He took a long drag on his cigarette, squinting his brown eyes against the smoke. I told them why I was there: report expressing concern about a swelling on Rebecca’s knee. Sharon stood impassive with a dead look on her face, her faded jeans and pink top hanging off her bones. Smells of dried sweat and fried food fought for supremacy.
“We haven’t done anything to her if that’s what you’re saying,” she said.
I went through my well-rehearsed explanation: I wasn’t accusing them of anything; I would need to have a look at Rebecca and if I were concerned about her we would have to take her to hospital to be examined. Liam got up and began to pace the room. He looked at me, moving closer, invading my personal space, before turning to his girlfriend.
“You know what he’s trying to do, don’t you Sharon,” he said, blowing out smoke. “He wants to fit us up for hurting the baby.”
“Liam, please,” said Sharon, crossing her legs as if bursting for a slash.
“Why not sit down again? Let’s talk this through properly,” I said.
“He wants our kid in care, you know, Sharon,” Liam said, waving the beer can in the air. “They have monthly targets.”
He sat back down on the settee.
“It really would be best if you both co-operate,” I said, trying to take control. “If you could just let me have a look at her before we go any further. Where is she?”
“She’s upstairs asleep,” said Sharon. “I’ve only just got her off.”
“I’m sorry. It’s got to be done.”
“It’s the only way to get rid of you, I suppose,’ said Liam, scowling.
Muttering from Liam accompanied us as they took me upstairs to Rebecca’s bedroom. I took in the bare walls and lack of toys or any other evidence of whose room it was. Going over to the cot, I pulled back the cover and looked at a baby with hardly any hair in a pink sleeping suit. I smiled at her. Rebecca opened her blue eyes.
“Hello, Rebecca,” I said, “aren’t you lovely? Sorry to disturb you.”
“She can’t understand you,” said Liam, “stupid twat.”
“Could one of you get her out of the cot, please,” I asked.
Sharon picked her up.
“Could you undress her, please?”
Sighing, she lay her daughter on a changing mat on the floor and did as I’d asked. I knelt down and continued talking gently to the baby.
“There’s quite a swelling round the right knee,” I said. “Any idea what might have caused it?”
Sharon shook her head, her mouth open wide.
