SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  “Wasn’t me,” said Liam.

  “Could you turn Rebecca on her tummy?”

  Again Sharon obeyed.

  “There’s quite a few bruises on her back as well,” I said, “how did they get there?”

  They shrugged in unison. Fingertip bruising, I thought, that familiar sick, helpless panic attacking my stomach. I’d rather be anywhere but here right now, I admitted to myself. Thank fuck for procedures. At least I knew what I had to do without agonising about it.

  “If you could get her dressed,” I said, “We’ll talk about it downstairs.”

  “We need to get Rebecca checked out at hospital,” I said a few minutes later in the living room.

  Liam stabbed his finger at me.

  “You’re not taking my fucking baby away,” he shouted, dropping the can and cigarette. He reached across and snatched Rebecca from Sharon’s arms. He held her against his chest. As lager spilled out on the carpet, Rebecca let out a howl, her screams increasing in volume the longer her father had hold of her. Where were the police when you needed them, I thought. They should have been here by now.

  “Liam, you’re not helping. Whatever you think of me, Rebecca needs proper treatment. And we need time to find out what happened to her.”

  Liam squared up to me before, with a petulant pout, he shoved the baby roughly into Sharon’s arms.

  “You won’t get away with this,” he said.

  “Liam” I said, “right now we need to concentrate on your little girl. I’ll take you all to hospital in my car.”

  “Fuck that. Tell him, Sharon. Tell him you’re not going to no hospital.”

  She looked from me to him and back again while trying to comfort Rebecca, whose sobs were slowly dying down.

  “It can’t do any harm to get her checked out, Liam.”

  “Right! You’re on your own then.”

  He grabbed the leather jacket and ran out of the room. Rebecca flinched in her mother’s arms as the front door slammed.

  Things are still happening, I thought, as I heard a motor bike start up outside.

  * * *

  At the front steps of Ordsall Tower I stepped back to let two teenage girls pass. Smoke from their fags made me want to sneeze. I approached the main door and punched in the security number. I entered the building. I breathed in the salt and vinegar tang of somebody’s fish and chips. My stomach rumbled, reminding me how long it had been since I had eaten. Going into the office, I removed my waterproof, watching it drip water past my jeans onto the floor. I looked at my watch. Six thirty. Stifling a yawn I stretched my arms over my head. One good thing, Rebecca was safe for now. Sharon was staying with her in hospital. Someone else could pick up the pieces on Monday morning.

  The deserted office smelt of damp and stale air. It had an air of abandonment, matching the way I felt. The only sounds were a background hum of traffic and my footsteps pattering along. I gave a start as a vacuum cleaner burst into life on the first floor. I noticed a light under the door of Bill’s room. As I approached my desk my mobile beeped and I pulled it from my jeans pocket. I opened the text:

  Hi, Dad, train has still not left London. Nobody seems to know why. Will let you know when I’m on my way. See you soon. Danny.

  Shit! The party would be over by the time he got here at this rate. Hanging my waterproof on the back of my chair I flopped down and dumped my briefcase on the desk. Logging on to the computer I began to update my case notes. No good leaving it until Monday. Ten minutes later I sat back in my chair and looked out of the window. Rain clouds accentuated the darkness of the sky and the gloom that surrounded me.

  My usual logic was no comfort. You’ve got early retirement, I kept telling myself. An ambition fulfilled. By eight o’clock tonight you’ll be in the Park Hotel sinking your first pint. It didn’t work. Thinking I ought to make sure there was nothing in my desk when I left tonight, I opened one of the drawers. I pulled out a packet of fig rolls with two biscuits left in; a brand new notebook never used and a PG Wodehouse paperback: Very Good, Jeeves!, this week’s lunchtime reading. I opened the flyleaf, reading Gus Keane 167 West Park Street Salford 5. How long must I have had it for God’s sake and how many times had I read it? Looking through the yellowing pages I read the title of the first short story: Jeeves and the Impending Doom. A suitable title, I couldn’t help thinking. What was the matter with me? In the interval between the vacuum cleaner being switched on and off there was an unnatural quiet. Goose bumps ran up and down my spine. No sound at all seemed to come from Bill’s office. Whatever he was doing, he wasn’t making much noise.

  Getting up, I strolled to the other end of the office again, accompanied by the sound of the Hoover above me. Arriving at the door of Bill’s office I noticed it was slightly ajar. Pushing it open I saw a small packet on the floor, and picked it up. Durex Fetherlite, I read. For customers of Maxwell’s Hotel, York. So that’s what he got up to on that course last week. Wasn’t our new director a keynote speaker? Smiling, I pushed the door wider and went into the room.

  “You must have dropped these…” I began, holding out the packet with a grin.

  An abrupt silence hit me as the vacuum was switched off. On the floor I saw an overturned chair, a chipped Salford City Reds coffee mug and a sheet of white paper with typing on it. A letter? I stared straight ahead and a shiver trembled through me.

  I felt a sudden dizziness, clutching at the wall for support. My eyes flitted at breakneck speed from one spot to the next round the room. I took in the Swiss cheese plant knocked sideways so that it leant gently against the window, like a drunk pausing on his way home. A buff file hung precariously over the edge of the desk, its papers hanging loose. The studio portrait of Bill’s wife standing to attention. In all this my eyes avoided him, seeing him but not seeing.

  “Bill,” I called out, walking over to the desk, “you OK?”

  No response. I walked round to the other side of the desk towards the window. Bill lay crazily across his chair, his right hand hanging limply, head down on the carpeted floor, grey hair dishevelled, denim jacket hanging open, T-shirt riding up to reveal his beer belly. On the desk in front of him lay a Manchester Evening News, an open wallet bulging with banknotes and a half-eaten Mars bar.

  Averting my eyes for a moment I looked out. Rain whooshed against the window. A clapped out yellow camper van farted blue exhaust fumes past the Park Hotel. Come on, I instructed myself, you’ve got to look at him. Really focus on his face. Take it in properly. The mouth gaping open as if in amazement, the brown eyes protruding alarmingly. I forced myself to examine the bruise on his forehead, the congealed blood. On the carpet I saw the statuette from Bill’s desk, the football trophy, with blood spots on the player’s head.

  “You were so proud of that thing. Poor Bill.”

  Catching a hint of aftershave, I walked over to him and shook him by the shoulders. Nothing. I sniffed, feeling tears run down my cheeks. I licked my lips, tasting the salt. I’d been prone to tears these past few months. Vulnerable, that’s how my counsellor described it, a mild case of post-traumatic disorder. A bit dramatic, that, I thought. The expression ‘blood drained from his face’ came to mind as I passed a clammy hand over my forehead. The cold made me long to huddle up to a hot water bottle; at the same time I wanted to wipe the sweat from my brow. Momentarily, I closed my eyes. Quickly I opened them again to drive away an image of my mother’s dead body on the kitchen floor all those years ago. About to pick up Bill’s phone, I realised I still had the condoms in my hand. Dropping them on the desk, I dialled 999. My bottom lip trembled as I tried to speak. I had the same constriction in the throat I had had the day my mam died. I tried again and succeeded in giving my name and location and telling the operator someone had been attacked. Then, in response to a question, I said:

  “His name’s Bill Copelaw. I think he might be dead.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Hi, Gus, you still here?”

  I looked up from my desk, where I had
sat staring into space for maybe three minutes, wondering who the young woman with the foreign accent was. The cleaner, of course. I had forgotten there was anyone else in the building.

  “I did your apartment,” she said, “it’s as good as new.”

  “Ania,” I said, “sit down, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  She bent down to plug in the vacuum cleaner.

  “I need to get on.”

  “No, this is important.”

  She walked towards me, stuffing a yellow duster into the pocket of her navy blue overall.

  “What is it, Gus, you don’t look too good.”

  She tucked her brown hair behind her ears as if to tidy herself up in readiness for something. She sat down.

  “Listen, Ania,” I said, struggling to find the right words. “Something terrible has happened.”

  “What do…”

  “I went into Bill’s office a few minutes ago and…”

  After a pause for breath, I told her Bill was dead. I explained the circumstances. She sat with her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the tears welling up in her brown eyes.

  “I’m just waiting for the police,” I said. “They’ll want to talk to you. And the other cleaners.”

  “It was that guy, I know it was.”

  “What guy’s this?”

  She took a deep breath.

  “About an hour ago it was. He barged in just as I opened the front door. I never had a chance to stop him. I am sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  She fished a tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes. She probably wishes she were back in Warsaw, I thought. I knew she had come over last year to do an English degree at Manchester University. The cleaning helped pay for her studies.

  “He was waving a piece of paper in his hand. He was looking for you, Gus.”

  “Me?”

  “‘Where’s Keane’, he said. ‘I’m gonna kill him.’ He used the F word.”

  I sat up and watched as she took a deep breath.

  “I told him the office was closed,” she went on. “‘He sent me a letter,’ he said, ‘something about my daughter. Well, I haven’t got an effing daughter.’”

  “I think I know who it is,” I said.

  “I said he’d have to come back on Monday.”

  “What happened next?”

  She gripped the arms of the chair.

  “Bill came out and said he’d deal with it. He said to the man, ‘Calm down, Mick, come into my office and we’ll talk about it.”

  Mick Askey. I knew it.

  “And that was the last I saw of either of them.”

  We spent the next couple of minutes getting the other two cleaners together then sat down again near my desk to wait. I took my mobile out of my pocket and dialled.

  “Hiya, Rachel,” I said when she answered, “there’s a bit of a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re gonna have to cancel the leaving do.”

  “What? You can’t do that. We’ve only just arrived…”

  “No, listen, Rachel. It’s just that…”

  How to put this?

  “Well, Bill Copelaw, the boss, you know, has been found dead at his desk.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Yes, I got back from a late visit and…”

  I struggled to find the right words.

  “It looks like someone assaulted him.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “I’m with the cleaners now. We have to wait for the police and everything.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah, fine. It just wouldn’t be…appropriate to go ahead with the party now.”

  “Of course. I’ll tell the rest of the band. And the landlord.”

  I wouldn’t be popular with Arthur.

  “Thanks. You can go home and have an early night.”

  “No way. I’m coming to see you,” she insisted.

  “Let me finish off here, love. Why not come round to the flat in an hour or so? Say eight o’clock.”

  Ten minutes later a uniformed constable arrived. He said he’d been in the area when he got the call. After having a look in Bill’s office he asked a few questions and got our names and addresses. He parked himself outside Bill’s office and asked us to wait for CID to arrive.

  Ten minutes after that, I had just made a pot of tea in the kitchen. I took mugs out of the cupboard and put them on the table. The sound of someone sniffing made me look towards the open door. A woman of Asian background with a leather handbag slung over her shoulder was just coming in.

  “Mr. Keane?” she asked.

  I nodded. She sniffed again, holding up an ID badge.

  “Detective Inspector Ellerton.”

  I noticed she had a Scottish accent and a husky voice. We shook hands and she sat on a hardback chair opposite me. She plucked a tissue from a box on the table and wiped her nose. She used this movement to stifle a yawn. Her business suit had a few more creases than it had started out with that morning, I guessed. She had her dark hair up but stray wisps had escaped. She’d had a long, hard day, I surmised, as she coughed and cleared her throat, and it wasn’t over yet.

  “You OK to answer a few questions,” she said.

  “Sure. I’ve just made tea,” I said, “you sound as if you need one.”

  “Please,” she said.

  We sat at the table with our tea. She took out a pen and notebook from her handbag. She was probably thirty-five or less but right now she looked older. Poor sod, I thought, feeling quite fatherly. She gave what I took to be an oft-repeated spiel: the death of a colleague in such circumstances must have been a shock but it was important to gather whatever information I could provide as soon as possible. Like a keen pupil she opened her book at a clean page and straightened her shoulders. She asked me if I’d seen anyone or anything suspicious in the vicinity of Ordsall Tower.

  “No,” I replied, “but do you know about Mick Askey?”

  “Mick Askey?”

  She wrote the name down. I explained my connection with Askey and what Ania had said.

  “One of my colleagues is talking to the cleaners at the moment, but thanks for mentioning it. Now perhaps you could tell me how you came to find Mr. Copelaw.”

  I told her about coming back after a late visit and finding the body. She was careful to check the times.

  “I see. When and where did you last see Mr. Copelaw alive?”

  That last word reinforced the finality of Bill’s death.

  “About half four or so in his office. I had to see him about an urgent case.”

  “Was anybody else around at the time? Colleagues perhaps?”

  “Well, he was talking to his wife, Jean, when I went into his office.”

  “His wife? A bit unusual surely?”

  She wrote more notes and looked expectantly at me. It was probably my imagination but I sensed a heightened interest.

  “Not that unusual,” I said. “She occasionally pops in to see him.”

  “Really? Doesn’t she work?”

  “She’s the manager of Marks and Spencer somewhere, Wigan, I think. I presume today was her day off.”

  Was anxiety making me say too much? What was she getting at? Whatever it was I couldn’t think of anything more to say about Jean’s visit to the office. The Inspector looked at me with intense concentration. A sudden sneeze and a grab for another tissue rather spoiled the effect. She apologised.

  “What other family did he have?”

  I thought for a second, sipping tea.

  “There’s a daughter. I can’t think of her name, sorry. I think she lives down south somewhere.”

  Inspector Ellerton scribbled away in her book. I wondered why Bill hardly ever talked about his daughter. On reflection it seemed strange. Rob, the insurance bloke, talked of little else and I often referred to Danny and Rachel in everyday conversation. Most parents did. But not Bill.

  “Who else was in the office
this afternoon,” she asked.

  I shrugged.

  “We were pretty thin on the ground,” I said. “There’s quite a few taking their last few days of annual leave. And people tend to come and go in any case. What time are you talking about?”

  “Say from lunchtime onwards.”

  I tried to list the people I had seen that afternoon: Don and Karen, a couple of typists, a bloke from IT who was doing an inventory of computers. ‘Infantry’, he’d said in his e-mail. What was the point of all this, I asked myself.

  “What about when you last saw Mr. Copelaw? Who was around then?”

  “Well, it was past home time. Nearly everybody had gone home.”

  “I have to ask you, can you think of anyone who would want to kill Mr. Copelaw or attack him?”

  “Nobody,” I said, “though I can imagine Mick Askey lashing out in anger at anyone who happened to be around.”

  “How did you get on with Mr. Copelaw?”

  “OK.”

  “Just OK?”

  “Yeah, we weren’t close friends but we got on fine.”

  “I see. Did everybody else get on with him?”

  “Yeah,” I said, thinking momentarily of Don. “As far as I know. Bill has …had only been here about nine months and for a large part of that I was on the sick.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “I had a stroke last year. I only got back to work in January,” I added. Is this relevant, I said to myself. I wasn’t going to argue. The whole thing was a bloody nightmare – for once not a misuse of that word – and I wanted to get it over with and go home.

  “This won’t help,” she said.

  I nodded, wanting to say ‘I am aware of that’ through clenched teeth.

  “It’s OK,” I said, “I’m retiring today.”

  “You don’t look old enough.”

  “I feel it.”

  “I bet you don’t feel much like celebrating though.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I’ll let you go then,” she said, trying to smile. “If I could have your full name, address and phone number.”

  I recited the details to her, feeling like a lost child, then remembered I’d already told the constable where I lived. She handed me a card from her bag.