SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  “If anything does occur to you perhaps you could give me a call.”

  “Of course.”

  As she got up to go, I remembered something else.

  “Oh, the condoms.”

  “What?”

  I explained about finding the noddies.

  “It was funny at the time,” I said.

  I picture myself walking into that room, about to take the piss out of Bill.

  “Not funny now,” I added.

  She shook her head.

  “Life’s a bitch.”

  I nodded in agreement. She smiled half-heartedly.

  “Well, that’s it. You can get yourself home.”

  That’s where you should be, I almost said.

  I left the building accompanied by the uncomfortable thought that the Inspector must be viewing anyone who knew Bill with suspicion.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  An hour later I was home in my third floor apartment, feeling more human after a quick shower and shave. I looked out of the window of my new, state of the art kitchen at the science fiction world of Salford Quays. Like stage lights, balloon bulbs on black lampposts lit up a couple walking hand in hand into the Holiday Inn. Swans glided on a section of the old Ship Canal, cordoned off with blue and white locks and bridges. Benches with wooden slats in black metal frames sat by the water. Beside them rubbish bins with ‘Salford’ written in gold on their sides stood ready to receive the city’s litter. In the distance Old Trafford with ‘Manchester United’ lit up in red dominated the skyline.

  “Past, present and future in one package, Gus,” I said to myself.

  I remembered when Salford Quays was Manchester Docks and got that ache of longing in the guts for things I would never get back. I closed the blinds and took my mug of tea to the kitchen table. I put it down by a three quarters full bottle of Chilean Merlot.

  Looking round the room I noticed for the first time how tidy it was. Just as Ania had promised. There was still a smell of paint – her boyfriend had done a good job too. May as well read the paper while waiting for Rachel, I thought. Maybe I’d have time to read the bloody thing properly from next week. After a bit of a search, I located the Guardian on the bookshelf where the PG Wodehouse autograph edition and the complete works of Delia Smith took pride of place. My eyes focused on the headline at the bottom of the front page:

  Kylie’s Mother: ‘I have not given up hope’.

  Elaine Anderson believes she will one day be re-united with her daughter, Kylie. The forty-one-year-old was speaking last night at a press conference to mark Kylie’s 18th birthday. Kylie was abducted at the age of 4 months, and has not been seen since.

  I looked at a blurred photograph of a blue-eyed baby girl next to one of what she would look like now. Allegedly. Beneath it were ‘Then and Now’ pictures of her glamorous mother. With a sad shake of the head, I read on:

  The distraught mother recalled the rainy day eighteen years ago when she was looking forward to a night out with friends in Chorley, her home town. Planning to leave Kylie with her mother, she set off with her in her pushchair. She stopped at First News, just a matter of yards from her mother’s place. In the shop she bought Woman’s Weekly and a packet of cigarettes. People were calling into the shop on their way home from work. Elaine left the pushchair outside because the inside of the shop was so crowded. When she came out the pushchair and Kylie had gone. There were conflicting reports at the time of either an overweight woman or a middle-aged couple pushing a pushchair away from the shop. Several vehicles were sighted and a camper van was seen moving away at speed a couple of streets away.

  Today there would probably be CCTV footage, I thought. Before I could read any more my mobile rang and I took it out of my jeans pocket.

  “Hiya, is that Gus,” said a woman’s voice struggling to be heard over what sounded like pub noises.

  “Yes.”

  It wasn’t one of those cold callers who wanted to lend me money, was it? They didn’t usually sound pissed.

  “It’s me, Tanya.”

  “Tanya?”

  I didn’t know any Tanya.

  “You know, from Princess Street.”

  Bloody hell, that Tanya. So much had happened since then.

  “You all right,” I asked half-heartedly.

  “Hey, it was dead funny, what happened this morning, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can laugh about it now,” she went on. “Any road, I just wanted to thank you for helping me, you know what I mean?”

  “That’s OK, Tanya.”

  “I’ve finally got away from that bastard.”

  “Good, I’m glad,” I said, wondering whether to tell her he had killed my boss.

  “If I can ever do owt for you, just call me, know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  “Gotta go, see you.”

  As the call ended, I wondered what circumstances could possibly lead me to ring her. I saved her number anyway, just in case. I was a ‘just in case kind of guy’ according to my counsellor. She was right, of course. It was truer than ever now: recent events proved you never knew what was round the corner. And child protection social work had strengthened my natural caution. As I went back to the Guardian I heard the sound of someone calling:

  “You there, Dad?”

  Rachel walked into the flat, her flat, black shoes squeaking on the laminate flooring, her hands protectively on her bump. She took off her anorak, revealing cotton trousers and a Beatles hoodie. Putting the coat and her handbag on a chair, she joined me at the table. She put her arm round me and kissed me on the cheek. Pregnancy had darkened her long, brown hair so that it was now almost black. Faint lines around her blue eyes showed the end of week strain of teaching special needs kids. Guilt about worrying my pregnant daughter added to my anxiety. A few seconds later a black woman, even taller than Rachel, strolled in after her on trendy walking shoes.

  “Hello, Marti,” I said.

  Marti smiled and said ‘Hi’.

  “Marti offered to come with me,” explained Rachel.

  “I hope that’s OK,” Marti added in a scouse accent.

  “Course it is. Nice to see you. Sit down.”

  Dumping a canvas shoulder bag on the table, she took her leather jacket off and put it on the back of her chair. I glanced at Marti craftily as she sat down. Rachel had told me Marti was nearly fifty though I would have put her at late thirties, forty at the most. Whatever her age she looked well on it in her tight jeans and white T-shirt. Slim but not too slim, I thought to myself. Understated make-up except for perfectly applied red lipstick that made her mouth even sexier. Intricate dreadlocks – at least I thought they were dreadlocks – framed a face with too much character to be called pretty. You’d look twice though. A smile that would light up the world. Skin as smooth as deep brown velvet. Fantastic bum. Not that I was really looking. Or was I? Was this my long-lost libido making a comeback? Another box ticked in the recovery checklist?

  “Tea,” she said, pulling up a chair, “I thought you’d have been on the Scotch by now.”

  “I can’t stand whisky,” I explained.

  Before I could offer drinks, Rachel demanded information. I explained in a bit more detail about finding Bill. As I gave my account, images of Bill lying dead invaded my mind. These were followed, for some reason, by pictures of me running out of the office in a confused state the day I’d had a stroke. What would my counsellor make of that?

  “Oh, my God,” said Marti, while Rachel sat in horrified silence. “Poor guy. And poor you, Gus.”

  I’d like to have bottled the loving sympathy in her voice. Pity she’s out of my league, I thought.

  “So what happened after you found him,” asked Rachel.

  “Just what you’d expect,” I said. “I rang the police and had to wait for them, not touch anything and all that.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “They’re looking for a suspect, an angry client.
”

  “Well, that’s something,” said Marti.

  “I can’t believe this. You actually found…” said Rachel.

  “Yeah, but it’s over now. Let’s talk about something else.”

  I really didn’t want Rachel thinking about any of this. She had enough on her plate. I decided to try and lighten the mood.

  “I reckon Bill would have wanted me to celebrate my retirement somehow. We can start by finishing that.”

  I pointed at the bottle on the table. I went over to the dishwasher and got out three clean glasses.

  “Just a small one for me,” said Rachel.

  “Large one for me, Gus,” said Marti, “I’m not pregnant and I’m not driving.”

  When the glasses were filled and we’d clinked glasses, I noticed Rachel yawn.

  “You look tired, love.”

  “I am a bit,” she said.

  I took another mouthful of wine in the pause that followed.

  “You should get yourself home early.”

  “I don’t like to leave you.”

  “Rachel, I’m OK, just had a bit of a shock. You should go home and rest. Kev will be waiting to look after you.”

  I thought of the handsome Frenchman my daughter had married last year. Knowing Kevin – pronounced in the French way though his dad was Irish – was a Rugby League fan was a source of great comfort to me. More importantly, he was a good bloke – bon type in French, he assured me. Pity he was always so bloody cheerful.

  “You sure you’ll be OK?”

  “Rachel, worry about yourself. And about George or Georgia.”

  “Who,” asked Marti.

  “If it’s a girl it’ll be Georgia. George if it’s a boy,” I explained. “Whatever it’s called, you need to go home and rest. Marti, tell her.”

  “Listen to your father, Rachel,” said Marti, wagging her finger.

  Rachel smiled.

  “Now you’re ganging up on me.”

  “Because we care about you. And you know we’re right.”

  “I can’t win,” said Rachel but I could see she was weakening.

  “I’ll keep an eye on your dad for a while,” Marti said.

  Rachel and her friend looked at one another for a few seconds.

  “Oh, I see,” said Rachel eventually. “Right. OK.”

  Marti swallowed another gulp of wine and exchanged another smile with Rachel before looking away.

  “You’d better keep an eye on her as well, Dad.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure,” I said.

  I was vaguely aware of being in the middle of a private joke I didn’t fully understand.

  “Don’t worry, Gus, I won’t stay too long,” said Marti.

  “Stay as long as you like,” I said, hoping she would realise I wasn’t just being polite.

  “I’m due in Liverpool at ten tomorrow morning. I’m taking Mum to Chester for her birthday.”

  After more conversation about nothing in particular – I hate long good-byes – Rachel finished her wine and got up.

  “Oh, by the way, Dad, Danny’s train has only just left Euston,” she added as a parting shot. “I told him to come straight to my place. I’ll ring tomorrow about meeting up.”

  She left and I was alone in my flat with Marti. After dark.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I thought of what I knew about Marti Pym. After 25 years as a solicitor in London she’d moved to Manchester a few months back to be nearer her mother. She and a friend from University days had opened their own business on Salford Quays. She’d popped round for coffee a few times when I was on the sick – at Rachel’s instigation, I couldn’t help but think. Sometimes she’d suggest going to Tony and Dino’s for a change. Rachel again, I reckoned – ‘don’t let him stay indoors all the time, he’ll get depressed’.

  I felt my stomach rumble.

  “I’ve just realised I’m bloody Hank Marvin,” I said, after a bit of chat about Rachel, the new baby and my excitement and anxiety about becoming a grandfather. “Do you fancy something to eat?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Fifteen minutes later we sat down to Venison steak with red wine and dark chocolate sauce with stir-fried veg. During the cooking, we’d talked about music, the evils of the Tory government and her visit to Bruges at Christmas.

  She took her first mouthful, swallowed and murmured with pleasure.

  “My God, this is gorgeous,” she said.

  “Glad you like it,” I replied with suitable modesty.

  “Rachel told me you were a good cook but she didn’t tell me you were this good.”

  I recalled someone telling me years ago that being able to cook added to your pulling power.

  “So,” she said, cutting up another bit of meat, “tell me about this murder.”

  I wondered whether I could handle this. Maybe if I steered clear of dead bodies and just told her the rest of what happened it would be OK. Anyway, people were going to be interested. I had to admit I would be if someone else had found the body. Most importantly I wanted to keep Marti here as long as possible.

  “After I’d phoned the police I spoke to one of the cleaners.”

  “Right.”

  “She told me a bloke called Mick Askey had been in the office about an hour before I found the body.”

  “Who is he, this…”

  “Askey. He’s the angry client I told you about. Effing and blinding, he was apparently, threatening all sorts.”

  “And?”

  “Bill took Askey into his office to try and calm him down.”

  “Shit! What was his problem, do you know?”

  “Don’t tell Rachel but he was after me.”

  “God. What did he have against you?”

  “Well, I am – was – the social worker for a girl who’s been in foster care most of her life. She’s 18 now.”

  “And?”

  “She thinks Askey’s probably her father. I went to his house to tell him she wanted to see him.”

  I explained about Tanya’s escape in the taxi and my tripping Askey on the front path.

  “I ended up sticking a note through his door. He had it with him when he came to the office.”

  “And?”

  We exchanged glances.

  “He was saying he didn’t have an expletive deleted daughter. Seemed pissed off I had even suggested such a thing.”

  “I presume you told the police this?”

  “When I could get a word in edgeways,” I said. “Before I had a chance to mention Askey, I was given a grilling by a Detective Inspector. Not much older than Rachel, she was.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Oh, what’s her name? Elliott, I think it was. No, Ellerton. Asian, Scottish accent.”

  “That’ll be Sarita. Married to Jake Ellerton, he’s a copper too. Yorkshireman. They’re trying for a baby.”

  I laughed.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “All part of the job. I have to deal with the police so it’s a good idea to befriend them.”

  For a moment I wondered what Marti had found out about me without my realising. She went on with her questioning.

  “What did Sarita have to say for herself?”

  She picked up the wine glass in her right hand, twirling the stem with her left. Telling myself not to stare, I watched her long fingers, the plain gold ring on her right hand. As she sipped her wine, I noticed a cluster of freckles above her top lip.

  “First I had to account for my movements. Next it was, ‘And how did you get on with Mr Copelaw?’ She asked that one with just a slight inflection in her voice. You know, as if that would induce a confession.”

  “Nightmare.”

  She looked in my direction, intense concentration on her face. I thought back to the office and the young policewoman sitting across the desk from me.

  “‘Who was in the office when I last saw Bill - I couldn’t remember all that well.”

  I leant forward, puttin
g my elbows on the table.

  “She got interested when I told her Bill’s wife had popped in to see him.”

  She looked at me with raised eyebrows. I went on with my story.

  “I didn’t tell the Inspector but they were in the middle of a row.”

  “Who, Bill and his wife?”

  “Yeah. She said, ‘leave her out of it’ or words to that effect. I’ve no idea who she was talking about.”

  “Oh, it’ll be one of Bill’s women,” said Marti. “He liked them young apparently.”

  “What?”

  Marti sipped her wine before going on.

  “That’s what people say.”

  “People?”

  “Social workers,” she said, “you can’t beat them for a good gossip. It helps to pass the time while we’re hanging around the family courts.”

  I thought about this while we drank our wine, wondering, not for the first time, why I was always the last person to hear any gossip.

  “I suppose the spouse is always the main suspect,” I said, “but that doesn’t seem relevant in this case.”

  “No, although…”

  “What?”

  “Well, if it was you he was angry with,” she said, “why attack someone else?”

  “Well,” I shrugged, “To Askey me and Bill both represent the same thing. Officialdom, authority, whatever. I’ve had people threaten me for something somebody else has done plenty of times.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I remember one bloke who took a swing at me because his benefits hadn’t been paid. And I was trying to help him.”

  “It’s a dangerous job, yours.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “more social workers than police are killed at work.”

  “God.”

  There was a thoughtful silence.

  “You know, Marti,” I said, “when I found Bill...”

  “Yeah?”

  “There was...well, it was like those things you see in the paper: what are the differences between these two pictures?”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “Well, I had been in Bill’s office earlier and when I went back – the time I found his body…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, this is going to sound stupid, but it’s as if something was there that shouldn’t have been or something wasn’t there that should have been.”