by Bud Craig
“Certainty, that’s the word that’s been plaguing me,” I said, “or something like it.”
Her brow creased in concentration.
“Pardon.”
“Sorry, it’s just this murder.”
“Murder?”
“Yeah, the one I’m investigating. I keep thinking something was wrong when I found the body. And the word ‘certainty’ keeps coming into my mind.”
“How intriguing.”
“The funny thing is, I know it’s not the right word. Something with a similar meaning or that sounds the same. That’s what I’m trying to remember. I feel sure it will give me an insight into the death.”
I looked around the room again while I thought how to explain. It was built for practicality rather than aesthetic appeal. A flip chart stand leant against the wall. The pale green curtains were too close in colour to the paint on the walls, reminding me of those shirt and tie sets that were fashionable in the seventies.
“This word you’re searching for,” said Fiona, “will probably only come when you least expect it.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll see you next time.”
* * *
Later at Ordsall Tower I put a mug of tea on my desk and sat down. Don was walking past just as I unlocked the top right hand drawer.
“Working late again, Gus,” he said.
“It’s a case of having to,” I said. “Anyway, it’s nice and quiet at this time of day. I can concentrate.”
“Too true. I’d better get back to it myself.”
After he left I pulled out a buff file from the drawer. I opened it up and began to read. I was due in court for another interim hearing about Rebecca tomorrow afternoon. I spent half an hour refreshing my memory about the salient points in case I was asked any questions. I put bookmarks in the pages I might want to refer to and made sure my latest report was easily available. With everything else that was happening it would have been all too easy to forget about little Rebecca.
As I read and rehearsed what I was going to say, I thought back to my penultimate counselling session. Talking through everything that had happened had crystallized something in my mind. The murder investigation had got me hooked. Whether this was simply a morbid fascination or a desire to do the right thing I preferred not to think about too deeply. Maybe I just wanted to do a good job. Why change the habit of a lifetime? Or did I actually believe there was something significant waiting to be found out? Did I think it would be me who would find it? I looked at my watch.
“Shit,” I said out loud.
Marti would be arriving for a meal in half an hour. I got up to go with my mind full of conflicting demands but now the main one was to get home and start cooking for Marti, who was arriving at the flat at seven. As I reached the door I nearly bumped into Ania about to drag her vacuum cleaner into the room. After saying hello, I held the door open while she manoeuvred the machine through the narrow space. As she came into the office, I nipped past her into the corridor.
“You in a hurry, Gus?” she asked.
“Yeah, a friend’s coming round for a meal.”
“A friend, eh? A lady, perhaps?”
“Yes,” I smiled.
“Better not keep her waiting,” she smiled.
“No. I’ll see you.”
I turned to go, seeing Don ahead of me.
“Yeah, oh, Gus, I nearly forgot,” said Ania, “you know the guy I saw on the night Bill died?”
“Er, not sure,” I said.
Truth be told, I just wanted to get away. I could hear Don talking to someone at the end of the corridor.
“You know, the man in the leather jacket…”
“What man?”
“At the office. On the day Bill died.”
“Oh, yeah. What about him?”
I looked in Don’s direction as someone raised his voice. There were three other blokes making their way out at the same time.
“I’ve remembered who it was.”
Now this could be interesting, I thought. I turned to look at her as her phone went off. I waited as she spoke to whoever was on the other end. It soon became clear it was going to be a long conversation. I looked at my watch. I couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In the early morning sunshine the following day I was on my usual walk through Salford Quays. I crossed the road in front of the Holiday Inn, following the signs to the Lowry. By then I’d built up a good rhythm and was nicely out of breath and sweaty. Must have done four miles this morning, I thought, as I crossed over the bridge towards the Watersports Centre. Better get home soon. My mobile interrupted my thoughts. I pulled it out of the pocket of my shorts and answered it.
A female voice came down the line.
“Gus Keane?”
“Yes,” I said.
“DI Ellerton. I need to see you right away.”
“At this hour?”
I walked on, keeping up a nice rhythm. I was buggered if I was going let a panicky phone call upset my exercise regime.
“Right away,” she repeated.
“What’s it about?”
“Never mind. Just get over here.”
“Over where?”
“The police station.”
“But…what’s the hurry?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here. I can’t explain over the phone.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“Just get your arse over here now!”
The call came to an abrupt end. DI Ellerton swearing, it must be important. Well, she was gonna have to wait. I would have to have a shower first. I put my phone away and walked quickly back to Palace Apartments. I wondered what the Inspector wanted in such a hurry. She’d sounded pretty pissed off, angry even. As I had only met the woman once I couldn’t for the life of me see why she was summoning me so urgently. There was only one way to find out, I thought, as I let myself into the flat.
Twenty minutes later, showered and changed in record time, I was shown into Sarita Ellerton’s office. Today she was wearing rectangular glasses. She seemed to have got over her cold and her hair was under control. Her suit looked as if it had just been dry-cleaned. Not that she looked happy about any of those things. She gestured to a seat on the other side of the desk from where she was sitting. I sat down. Her jaw was clamped tight shut like she was angry with me and giving me the silent treatment. We looked at one another. She twisted her fingers together and swallowed like someone at a job interview. Finally, with a visible effort, she spoke.
“Well, er,” she said, her Scottish accent stronger than usual, “we’ve done the DNA test on Charlotte Stephens.”
There was an atmosphere in the room but I could not have said what it was. Sarita looked at the notes on the desk before continuing.
“And we’ve found a match.”
“Is Askey Charlotte’s father?”
Sarita looked down at the papers on her desk again though she must have known the answer to the question.
“No,” she said, untangling her fingers, “Charlotte Stephens is Kylie Anderson.”
A silence descended from the ceiling, filling every corner, seeming to suffocate the two people in the room.
“What?”
My cry broke through the tension. Sarita took up the narrative again. “Charlotte Stephens’ DNA matches exactly the DNA of Kylie Anderson.”
I opened my mouth to speak.
“Before you ask,” Sarita said quickly, “we are sure. It’s been double checked and triple checked.”
“Right.”
“Octuple fucking checked,” she added.
“Bloody hell. It can’t be true can it? I mean, Kylie’s been missing for…how long?”
“Nearly eighteen years.”
I breathed out and shook my head.
“How the bloody hell did it happen?”
“We don’t know,” said Sarita, “we’ve checked Charlotte’s records. She was born in Salford Royal Hospital. Her birth was registered. The hospital rec
ords confirm it. Her date of birth is two weeks before Kylie’s.”
“But she is Kylie,” I said, completing the crazy story. “Well, this leaves a few unanswered questions.”
Well spotted, Gus, I said to myself. Sarita pointed at me as though pronouncing me guilty of some heinous crime.
“That’s the last time I do any favours for Steve Yarnitzky, and you can tell him that when you see him.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Where can I start? The main thing is how the fuck we’re going to explain this. Any thoughts, Gus?”
“What do we have to explain?’
Sarita gave an exasperated sigh. Before she could speak I put in another point.
“Won’t everyone be so pleased to have found Kylie that they won’t care how it was done?”
“Not unless we can answer a few questions. Like how we came to be testing this girl’s DNA for no apparent reason? And how come she turned out to be Kylie bloody Anderson?”
“Oh, is that all,” I said, “write this down.”
Sarita picked up a pen and prepared to write.
“I had a hunch she might be Kylie,” I said, thinking on my feet. “She looked a bit like the picture in the paper, you know, the one of what she would look like now.”
Sarita scribbled notes and looked up at me.
“With you so far.”
“I spoke to Steve and he came to you and you agreed to help. You thought I was probably wrong but didn’t want to take the chance.”
“OK.”
“You didn’t want to say anything beforehand, it would only start rumours.”
She nodded, writing furiously.
“And build up hopes,” I added.
“Gus, you’re a genius.”
“I know. So when it hits the press you and Steve get the credit.”
She smiled.
“Now all we have to do is tell Charlotte,” I said.
“And Elaine Anderson,” said Sarita, burying her head in her hands, “and the fucking media.”
Without warning she got up clutching her stomach with one hand while the other covered her mouth. Her ‘excuse me’ was barely audible as she rushed out of the room. I sat for a couple of minutes. I was wondering whether I too should just leave when a deathly pale Inspector returned, murmuring apologies. I looked at her with some concern. Was all this getting to her?
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“Fine,” she smiled. “I’ve never been so happy in my life.”
After lunch I got back to the office just in time to accompany Marti to court for an interim hearing in the Rebecca Winters case. I only hoped I wouldn’t be too distracted by the news about the DNA test.
“It shouldn’t take long,” she explained as we made our way to the car park, “but it’s a good idea for you to show your face.”
“Right.”
“At least the court will know we’ve appointed an experienced social worker.”
As we got to Marti’s car, I saw Rob coming towards us and said hello to him.
“Have you met Marti,” I said.
He shook his head.
“Sadly, no,” he purred.
“This is Rob,” I said.
He held his hand out and shook Marti’s. He held onto it longer than was strictly necessary, making sure he made eye contact.
“What are you doing with this reprobate, Marti?”
“I’m the solicitor on one of Gus’ cases,” she replied, letting go of his hand.
“I couldn’t do your job,” he said, “not in a million years. I’d get too emotional, I know I would.”
Marti nodded.
“That’s why I sell insurance,” he went on. “It’s more predictable. But I mustn’t keep you.”
“So that was the famous Rob,” she said as we got into the Mercedes.
I would have been quite happy to walk but Marti had insisted on driving. She claimed it made a better impression. And, I couldn’t help thinking, she could show off her flash motor. Still, nobody was perfect.
“Famous?”
“Yeah,” she said, switching on the engine, “the have a go hero.”
I looked towards her as the car went out of the car park.
“What are you on about?”
“You can’t have forgotten the time he fought off a burglar in his office.”
“First I’ve heard of it. When was this?”
“Ooh, a few months ago. October, I think. Around then.”
“I was still off work then,” I explained, “in recovery mode and not taking a great deal of interest in things.”
I preferred not to think about that time in my life.
“He was quite the local hero for a while. On the telly and everything.”
“Rob on the telly?”
“Yeah, local news. I’ve got to say he was a natural.”
She changed down as we turned left onto the A57.
“A natural?”
“Oh, yeah. I thought he would have been offered a contract to present a documentary on urban crime.”
I could see him doing it.
“What did you think of him,” I couldn’t resist asking.
“Well, good-looking obviously,” she said. “Though he knows it.”
“Does he?”
She put the car into gear.
“Oh yes.”
We turned right into Oldfield Road. I thought momentarily of what this and many other streets had looked like when I was a kid. Anyone who left Salford at that time and came back today would be hopelessly lost.
“I can’t help wondering why he’s selling insurance in Salford.”
“Nothing wrong with Salford,” I said.
“I’m not saying there is,” she replied, patting my knee. “But you’d hardly say he fits in, would you?”
“No, suppose not.”
“He’s obviously from a fairly privileged background. You’d expect him to be a Chief Executive somewhere.”
“Yeah, he certainly seems like one of the poshocracy who think they have the right to rule us.”
“Oh, God, if I’d known this was going to lead to a left wing rant I’d have kept my mouth shut.”
* * *
“Can we get you anything, Charlotte?’ asked Sarita later that afternoon. She had rung me after speaking to her superiors. They had insisted we get Charlotte over to the station as soon as I had finished in court and tell her the news. I had to be there because I was a social worker and knew Charlotte. Sarita was there because her bosses thought a woman would be suitable. Or to put it another way they were offloading their responsibility onto somebody else.
The inspector was the image of polite efficiency and looked a lot healthier than the last time we had met. There was even a hint of a smile though what she had to smile about was a mystery to me. Not that it mattered.
“A cup of coffee perhaps.”
Sarita sipped from a bottle of water. She looked pleased with herself, which was hard to fathom given the task we had to perform.
“No,” said Charlotte, nibbling her bottom lip, “let’s get on with it.”
She sat facing Sarita Ellerton and me in her office. Three comfy chairs were in a casual circle. Charlotte brushed her fingers through her purple fringe, then put her hands on her lap. Then she was back on the fringe again. Her feet shuffled around with a will of their own. In the silence of the room I could hear someone down the corridor giving an off-key but word-perfect rendition of REM’s Losing My Religion.
“Sarita and I decided to see you together,” I said, tugging at the neck of my t-shirt, “because the result of the DNA test is…complicated.”
Charlotte gripped her thighs through her black jeans and swallowed nervously.
“Mick Askey, right,” she said, as though staying quiet any longer would cause spontaneous combustion, “is he my dad or not?”
“No, he’s not.”
A modicum of relief ran through me at being able to answer a straightforward question.
How the bloody hell were we going to get through this? Nobody spoke for a little while as the singing continued.
“Shit. So you didn’t find a match for my DNA.”
“We did find a match, Charlotte.” Sarita said, before hesitating and touching her chin with her right hand. “The DNA proves conclusively that you are Kylie Anderson.”
For a few seconds Charlotte sat motionless, her eyes blinking rapidly.
“You must be, like, taking the piss,” she finally said, gulping hard. “If this is a fucking wind-up it’s not funny.”
“It’s true, Charlotte.”
“How can it be true? This is so fucking…oh, my God!”
Abject horror covered Charlotte’s face.
“That means Elaine Anderson is my mum. No way, no fucking way.”
Charlotte’s firmly in the anti-Elaine camp, I thought. Wouldn’t you know it?
“She is so not a nice person. God I hate her. She’s exploited her own kid disappearing to make herself, like, rich and famous. She went on that Crimewatch when it first happened and thought, ‘Oh, I like this’.”
I looked at Sarita as Charlotte breathed in deeply then blew air back out.
“Well, if this is true, I’m glad I got snatched. Saved me from being called fucking Kylie. What sort of low life calls their kid Kylie for fuck’s sake?”
Sarita and I looked helplessly on. We had, it seemed, come to an unspoken agreement to let Charlotte rip.
“And another thing, what did she think she was playing at leaving me outside a fucking shop. Going for fags, wasn’t she? Couldn’t wait for a smoke until she got me to her mum’s house.”
What could I say? Nothing, that’s what, Gus, I told myself, just leave her to it.
“Where I would have been fucking safe.”
Charlotte, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands, paused for breath.
“Sorry about that. I never fucking swear normally.”
She tried to smile.
“It’s OK, Charlotte,” Sarita reassured her.
“So, did… was it…” Charlotte stammered, “what the hell happened?”
“We don’t really know.”
“But I’ve got a birth certificate for Charlotte Stephens. Properly registered and everything. I mean, what the hell…”
Sarita leant forward.
“We checked on that,” said Sarita. “Charlotte was registered just a week after her birth at a time when Kylie Anderson was definitely in the care of her mother.”
