by Bud Craig
“Maybe the point is there was more to Peter Goodall, because he was real. He was a successful entrepreneur, had loads of money, all the trappings of success.”
“I see what you’re saying, Jerry,” said Steve, “but we have to remember Goodall was just using the Jennings persona. He was an invention, created to pave the way for Goodall’s escape from his life in the Isle of Man.”
“But where was he going to escape to?” I asked.
That stumped us. After a short silence, Steve responded.
“Who knows? He never got the chance, did he? Whoever killed him might have wanted to stop him getting away with running Ancarner into the ground and taking millions of pounds with him.”
I wrote a couple of notes and moved things on.
“If we’re focusing on the double life aspect, we must have a look at Tess and Colette again. One objection to this is that Tess is paying me to find out who killed the man she loved.”
“Good point, Gus,” said Jerry, “but you know what they say, ‘there’s nowt so queer as folk.’”
“What about the blackmail angle?” I asked. “Both Colette and Tess had money to pay Ronnie. He had to pick someone well off to make it worthwhile.”
“That makes me think he must have been able to identify whoever went to Jennings’ house on the day he died,” said Steve. “That means he was blackmailing Jennings’ murderer.”
I took a mouthful of tea.
“I’ve also been thinking about what happened when I went to Ronnie Bracken’s house and found him dead. I didn’t see much but I couldn’t help thinking some of it was important.”
“So you did see something, then?” asked Jerry.
“Yeah, bits, that’s all.”
I mulled over what I had told Sarita when she ‘hypnotised’ me before going through it all for Steve and Jerry’s benefit.
“Right. Interesting,” said Steve.
“I’ve got an idea in my head that the coat’s important. It had a tear in the back, just below the right shoulder and I know I’ve seen it or one like it somewhere else.”
My two companions looked expectantly at me. My next words must have come as a disappointment.
“The trouble is I can’t remember where. But I’ve been thinking more generally about Jennings’ death. A lot of people have suggested it was all to do with the Ancarner collapse.”
“Yeah, well, it’s as good a theory as any,” suggested Jerry.
“If we follow that idea,” said Steve, “we’re back to person or persons unknown finding out by chance that Jennings and Goodall were the same bloke. You could argue that whoever killed him wanted us to believe the motive was to do with Jennings.”
We could go on forever thinking of solutions but I couldn’t help believing Steve had made a good point.
“Where does that leave us, Steve?” I asked.
“I reckon we’re back with the number one suspect in any murder.”
The three of us looked at one another for a moment. I asked the obvious question.
“Who’s that?”
“The wife of course. Or wives in this case. Or, knowing how pedantic you are, Gus, common law wives.”
Jerry sipped his tea and put in his two penn’orth.
“He’s right, Gus. The partner’s always in the frame from the start. The killer is nearly always known to the victim.”
All this was true, but it was surely more complicated than that. There were two women fulfilling the wifely role at the same time.
“Spell it out for us, Steve. Are you saying Tess and Colette were in it together?”
“In a word, yes.”
We left it at that, and I said I would talk to Colette again.
“Right, who’s for a pint?” said Steve.
Jerry responded with enthusiasm, but I didn’t.
“No, I won’t, thanks, I’m going to see Colette now. I can’t leave it. I want it sorted out. I’ll join you in The Park Hotel later.”
* * *
Five minutes later, I was driving along the M60 towards Whitefield. As I watched the traffic whiz along, I couldn’t help envying Louise, living in a place where there was lots of open space. I sometimes thought Greater Manchester was just one long motorway held together by bewildering intersections. Deep down I knew I could never leave Salford and I was only thinking about the North East countryside to take my mind off what I might find at the end of my journey. I had decided to go and see Colette without letting her know I was on my way. I had put aside my fear of going anywhere near Ronnie’s house. It would no doubt return at some point.
When I parked outside Colette’s house I tried to work out what on earth I was going to say to her. I rang the bell and waited for a minute before ringing it again. Still nobody came to the door. Nobody in. Was I frustrated or relieved? I looked up at the sun blazing away in a clear, blue sky. Just the day to sit in the garden. I walked round to the back of the house and found her sitting on a wrought iron chair. She put the book she’d been reading on the table and poured a glass of chilled, white wine. She put the bottle back in a bucket of ice. I waved to her; she waved back.
“Hello,” she smiled. “Chardonnay?”
“No, thanks,” I said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “I’m driving.”
“I’ve almost finished the book by the way.”
“What book?”
“The Penelope Lively one we both bought in Waterstones. I think I told you last time we met I was re-reading it.”
“How it All Began, yeah. I might read it again. Anyway, I’ve got a few more questions if that’s OK.”
She took a long drink then put her glass on the table.
“I was expecting you before now, given what happened to Ronnie Bracken. The police were here about him.”
Colette had forsaken her shorts for three quarter length trousers. More interesting to me was her footwear: blue trainers. Were they the shoes of Ronnie’s murderer? It would take more than that to prove anything.
“Talking about Ronnie, I understand you and Tess were together on the day he was killed.”
She shrugged and topped up her glass.
“Yeah. What of it?”
I stretched my legs out to get more comfortable in the belief that it would help me think. It didn’t.
“At the risk of stating the obvious, this case is complicated. Peter Goodall was the head of a firm that hit the headlines by going bust in spectacular fashion. Half of the time he was somebody else, the mysterious Adam, who didn’t amount to much.”
I recalled Jerry’s words to describe Jennings.
“Go on, I’m listening,” she said.
“There were two identities and two women, who, according to the official version, knew nothing about one another until the death of Goodall or whatever his name was.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve been a social worker for more than twenty years and one thing I’ve learned is people don’t always tell the truth.”
The expression on her face was half a smile, half a sneer.
“You must have known that long before you took up social work.”
I nodded.
“Fair point, but I was never so aware of it before. The sort of work I’ve been involved in makes me constantly consider whether people are lying.”
She gave me a knowing look.
“And you think I am lying?”
“Let’s say I have to consider the possibility. After all, much of what you told me about meeting Adam for the first time wasn’t true, was it?”
“I’m not with you, Gus.”
“You made it sound as if you had got off with one another, but you hadn’t.”
She sipped more wine but made no reply.
“What I’m suggesting, before we get completely off the point, is that you and Tess actually met before Adam died.”
“We didn’t, end of story. Do you expect me to crack under your ruthless questioning and admit Tess and I bumped him off for some reason?”
“There’s no need to overdramatise, Colette. You wanted to stop him telling anybody you were gay…”
She laughed scornfully.
“Think about it, Gus. Would Adam really have gone through with his threat?”
I looked at her, trying to see if or how she was trying to trick me.
“I don’t see why not?”
“One,” she said, “he had nothing to gain from divulging my secret as I’d be less inclined to help him; two, he would have to admit his plan to take on another identity; three, if he didn’t admit he was Peter Goodall, I’d make sure it became public knowledge in no time.”
I felt a gormless expression creeping onto my face. She was right. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Anyway, if that’s all…” she said.
She picked up her book and began to read. I left her to it and drove home. I parked my car and walked to The Park Hotel. I was in need of a pint.
* * *
When I got home I was convinced there was something I was missing, a feeling I was familiar with. Rather than agonise about what it might be, I decided to do some menial tasks to take my mind off the case. In my bedroom I began to put clothes away in the wardrobe. At the back of a shelf I noticed a supermarket bag and took it out. Inside was a pile of protective clothes the police had given me on the day Ronnie was killed. I had meant to return them but forgot. Now I wondered why they couldn’t have sent someone round to pick them up. I could have asked Sarita to take them back the last time she was here but maybe that was beneath the dignity of a DCI. Too late now.
If I went for a walk, that might help my mental processes. I was in need of some exercise. The heat meant it didn’t take long to get ready. I just had to slap on a bit of sun cream, put on pair of trainers and a hat and I was set. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had to wear a coat. Why did that thought seem relevant? It might come back to me. Or it wouldn’t and I’d be back where it started.
I walked out of the door of my apartment block and began my usual walk round Salford Quays. I reached the Media Centre, where lots of telly programmes were made – a thought that still amazed me. Then my mind cleared. Thoughts began to rush through my mind and I struggled to contain them. Firstly, it was pretty certain that there was a link between the murders. OK, right. Ronnie was blackmailing Adam’s murderer because Ronnie had seen him or her – let’s say him for convenience – on the day of the first murder. Ronnie had texted me to say he had more information; he must have told the killer he would pass on his knowledge unless he continued paying. The murderer would want to kill Ronnie before he said any more or extracted any more money off him.
The next question to be answered was…? God, it was all so bloody complicated. I started to walk quicker as the ideas flew around in my head. I really needed to get home and write some stuff down before I lost everything or became too confused to do anything constructive. I had established to my own satisfaction that the important issues were who was murdered, Peter or Adam, what was the motive for the murders, and where did it all begin?
Once in the flat I sat down at my desk. With furious concentration I typed out my ideas on the laptop. It was just as well I could delete and change things as I went along. My mind slowed down as I read through the page of notes. It all made sense of a sort. As long as you didn’t think about it too much, I said to myself. There was a lot of speculation and, as far as I was aware, no forensic evidence.
Still, there was enough to report to Sarita. Great. I’d call her. I had dialled two digits of Sarita’s number when a snag, a very obvious snag, occurred to me. The suspect I was sure was the guilty party didn’t have a limp. Bugger. I ended the call mid dial and put the phone back in my pocket. Then I thought of a possible answer: anyone could fake a limp. I called her again and, wouldn’t you know it? The call went to voicemail. I left her a message asking her to get back to me urgently. In the meantime, I couldn’t just sit there doing nothing, but what else could I do? I needed help. Maybe I should call someone else.
* * *
The next day, I was sitting in my kitchen with Jerry Duckworth. I had phoned him saying I thought I had solved the mystery but wanted to go through it with him. I could have phoned Steve, but I felt the need to talk to someone face to face.
“I reckon it was Adam Jennings who was murdered,” I said.
“Or Peter Goodall.”
“I see what you mean, but suppose it was nothing to do with that. Let’s imagine it was Jennings who was killed…”
“Or Goodall…”
“No. That’s just my point. Loads of people must have known him as Jennings. They’d never heard of Goodall until it all came out around the time he died.”
“Yeah, I know, but…”
Jerry sounded uncertain. I went on.
“That leads to the conclusion that somebody wanted to kill Adam Jennings for reasons that were not relevant to Goodall.”
“You’re starting to lose me, mate.”
“Stick with it. Following the logic of what I’ve said, we’re looking for someone with a grudge against Jennings, who was by all accounts a bit of a womaniser…”
“A bit of a womaniser…”
“A woman he had a relationship with or the partner of such a woman could be a suspect.”
“I don’t know where this is going, mate…”
“I’ll tell you. We also need to find someone who has a tatty waterproof coat with a tear, like the one I saw a week or so after Ronnie’s death.”
“I thought you’d asked me here to help you. You seem to have it all worked out.”
“And you are helping, Jerry. I need to check with someone that I’ve got it right.”
“Fair enough.”
“To continue. The guy I saw running away from Bracken’s house wore blue shoes or I thought he did. In fact, they were plastic shoe covers like the police wear at crime scenes. I was given some after I found Ronnie’s body. Steve has some at home. Any cop who left the force may have purloined some or forgotten to give them back.”
Jerry shifted in his seat.
“Like Colette,” he suggested.
“There was just one thing wrong with this theory, the murderer had a limp and I thought my main suspect didn’t have a limp.”
He shrugged.
“Well, there you go, it’s always the way.”
“I thought maybe the murderer faked a limp. Then when I spoke to Steve last night; he told me something interesting.”
“Oh, aye? What was that?”
“A few months ago you had knee replacement surgery.”
“So what?”
He shifted uneasily in his seat.
“Everybody says how marvellous that sort of surgery is. The almost miraculous effect it has makes a few weeks of pain worthwhile.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“On the day Ronnie Bracken was killed you were still in a bit of pain. You could get about OK, but there was a limp, especially if you were rushing.”
“You’re a doctor now, are you?”
“It’s been checked, Jerry, there’s no doubt about it. You had to do the killing on that day because Ronnie was threatening to tell me he had seen you go to Adam’s house on the day he was murdered.”
“I thought he was supposed to be blackmailing me.”
“Oh, yes, but I reckon he was demanding too much. You simply couldn’t afford to pay any more. You’d gambled away any money you once had.”
“You can’t possibly know that.”
I ignored his comment.
“On the day before he died Ronnie texted me, asking me to come round as he had more information for me.”
“This is all speculation.”
I went on, refusing to let Jerry’s interjections put me off.
“Remember the day I gave Steve a lift to your house for your golf game?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, I went upstairs to the toilet where I saw your anorak hanging over
the bannister to dry. It looked familiar, but it took me a while to remember it was the same as the one Ronnie’s murderer was wearing.”
“I’d like to see you prove that. Anyway, why would I kill Jennings?”
“You hated him for sleeping with your wife and you blamed him for ruining your life.”
He sat back and sighed.
“Very good, Gus. A load of rubbish, but well put together.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Have you read a book called How It All Began?”
“I’ve never been much of a one for reading.”
“Pity, because I’ve been wondering when all this started. The answer was staring me in the face. It started at Steve’s party, when you attacked Jennings.”
“I was drunk.”
“True. You decided to deal with Jennings by having him followed. Then you told me you couldn’t afford to pay for any more private detection. You even blamed Adam for your lack of funds.”
“Carry on, this is fascinating.”
“Within a couple of days of your deciding to stop having Jennings followed, he was dead. You had chosen a more drastic way of dealing with him.”
He sighed as I went on.
“Any traces you left in Adam’s house you could have left when you called on him two days before he died. That was why you went there, not to ask for a loan, which you knew would be refused.”
“You seem to forget I have an alibi for Adam’s murder. I was seen setting off to my sister’s at half nine. I told you that myself.”
“The witness was a neighbour, am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“The neighbour was Ronnie Bracken. He saw you going into Jennings’ house on the morning of the murder, just the right time for you to have killed the man you hated.”
“Why would he lie?”
“He lied, as you well know, because he was blackmailing you. Even though you were often broke, now and again you had a big win.”
I remembered a problem gambler who told me winning was the worst thing that could happen, because it encouraged more gambling. For a while Jerry was lost for words.
“This is ridiculous.”
“As for Ronnie’s murder, you made sure you wore protective clothes because you hadn’t been in his house before. Ronnie told me that himself. When your iPad needed fixing he had to collect it from your house.”