SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  “Nothing as dramatic as that. You just find out subtly if they saw anything or anyone suspicious at the relevant time.”

  “But…”

  “Especially if anybody saw this man Askey claims to have passed on his way out.”

  I sighed.

  “Leather jacket man?”

  “That’s as good a name as any.”

  “It’s a pointless exercise. There is no leather jacket man.”

  “Maybe there isn’t but you said yourself Askey is entitled to a fair trial. And to someone defending him who does more than go through the motions.”

  “Mmm,” I said, “I’m not sure.”

  “Fine. If you don’t want to get paid twice for the same work…”

  She left her words hanging. Getting paid twice did sound good. And I could do it, no bother. I knew how to make my questioning sound natural. And I had to admit, at least to myself, I fancied the idea of working undercover. No matter what Marti said that’s what I’d be doing.

  “It’s a legal aid job, so I could only pay you thirty quid an hour,” she said.

  Making £55 an hour in all for some of the time, I thought, as we approached the Taj Mahal.

  “Oh, all right,” I said with faked reluctance, “I’ll do it. Now let’s go and get something to eat. I’m bloody starving.”

  The next day, in my TRYS tracksuit, I ran in the sunshine, trying to keep up with twenty-six young men. A light breeze blew over Lancaster Road playing fields, where I had played rugby and cricket at school. A promising move was in progress on the right wing. A beefy youngster trudged over the ground, looking round for someone to pass to.

  “Come on, Ryan,” I shouted.

  A tall West Indian lad, all elegance and power, ran into open space. He was good, that Paul. Spotting him, Ryan slung the ball his way. Without breaking stride, Paul took the ball with one hand, making it look easy. He wrong-footed two defenders and sped through to touch down under the posts.

  “Good support play, Paul,” I shouted after blowing the whistle and signalling a try. “Great awareness, Ryan.”

  I watched the two teams struggle on in the heat. It was now easier to fit in these Friday afternoon training sessions with TRYS. I unzipped my tracksuit top, wondering if this summery weather would last. When I had played for Salford I’d preferred mud and rain. It gave an advantage to anyone born within ten miles of Manchester. There were worse things than being paid for something that brought me such joy, I thought, as I looked back on my career. I did OK at school but Rugby League had been the one thing at which I’d excelled. Physical and intellectual satisfaction of the highest order, each move the solving of an intricate puzzle. Seeing patterns of movement in my head, influencing them through my skill. It was beautiful. I would never forget the day dodgy knees had forced me to give up. Never.

  As the play started again I thought about the assignment Marti had given me. What did I need to do to find leather jacket man? Who apart from people who worked there might have seen something around Ordsall Tower the night Copelaw was killed. How could I reach the locals who lived around there?

  Looking at my watch I blew my whistle. I thought about Paul Winston, the try scorer. The lad was impressive, there was no doubt about that. Natural talent, an eye for an opening. And boy, was he quick. Speed of thought, speed of reaction and speed of movement. He had them all. The three things you needed to make it in any sport. Most of all though Paul was bright. If anything pissed me off it was the common misconception that sportsmen were thick. Especially those who had the temerity to come from working class backgrounds and speak with regional accents.

  I reran the sight of Paul running through the defence like it wasn’t there and making a beeline for the spot between the posts. Great stuff. A bedraggled band trooped off. Paul walked over to me.

  “Hey, Gus,” he said. “What happened to that little kid I called you about?”

  “Rebecca? She’s safe, that’s the main thing. And you did the right thing.”

  “I’ve noticed she’s not at home anymore,” he said.

  “I can’t say too much about that but you can draw your own conclusions.”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah. That Liam’s not been seen for a while. He should stay away if he knows what’s good for him, know what I mean?”

  We walked on.

  “So, what you doing, Gus?”

  “Well, I’m back at Ordsall Tower part time…”

  “Back there? I thought you fancied something different.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve set myself up as a Private Investigator as well.”

  The chance of impressing Paul was too tempting to resist. Gus Keane, I said to myself, you’re pathetic, what are you?

  “Private Eye,” he enthused. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  We walked on towards the changing room.

  “You don’t want an assistant, do you?”

  “Well,” I shrugged.

  “I’m serious,” he insisted.

  “What about your new job?”

  “I don’t start until next month.”

  Why not, I thought. I could trust Paul and it would be nice for him to earn a bit of extra money. I could claim what I paid him back on expenses. What could I get him to do though?

  “It’s a thought,” I said.

  Then I remembered he lived in the area where the murder took place.

  “OK,” I said. “You probably heard a feller called Bill Copelaw got killed in the Social Services building on Friday.”

  “That welfare bloke? I heard Askey did that.”

  “I’ve been asked to do some investigation. Do you fancy helping me out? I’ll pay you of course.”

  Paul shrugged, as though he’d realised his original enthusiasm wasn’t cool.

  “Why not?”

  I explained about leather jacket man.

  “So ask around,” I said as we went inside the changing room. “Someone might have seen this bloke.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t make it obvious, you know. I’ll give you a ring in a day or two.”

  As I left the changing room later, I saw Marti waving at me at the entrance to the playing fields. I watched her walking towards me. God she was sexy. She came over to me and kissed me. Paul walked past and said, “see you, Gus.”

  “Who was that,” asked Marti.

  “Paul,” I said. “A success story for TRYS. He was heading for a life of crime until we got hold of him.”

  “Sounds impressive.”

  “We got him back in education. He moved in with his granddad. He’s done ‘A’ levels.”

  We got into the car.

  “The expense put him off university so he’s got himself an apprenticeship.”

  “Good stuff.”

  “Now he’s a role model for the other TRYS lads.”

  “Pity I missed the game,” she said as we went over to her car.

  “I thought you didn’t see the point of sport.”

  “But I do see the point of watching hunky men run around.”

  We stopped while she got her car keys out.

  “You’re a very naughty girl.”

  “And aren’t you glad?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The following Monday morning at 8.30 I arrived at Ordsall Tower in a light drizzle. Only two and a bit weeks since I had last been there. As I went in I was wondering if it was a good idea. The bad weather had returned to mark my first day back at work. Within a few days of my last day at Ordsall Tower, I had decided work had no part to play in my life. Furthermore, that work was unnatural and not what we were put on this earth for. This particularly applied to sensitive souls like myself.

  Since retiring I’d settled into a routine. Except when I was seeing Marti, I was in bed by ten o’clock, awake about six, up by six thirty. Then I would throw on some clothes and go for a brisk walk round Salford Quays for half an hour or so. Then back for a shower and a leisurely breakfast before taking my m
edication. Two or three evenings a week I’d go for a swim. This rigid timetable was the only way I could maintain my healthy lifestyle. The night before my return to work I hadn’t got to sleep until one a.m. Woken by the alarm clock only to doze off again, I’d had to drag myself into the bathroom for a quick shower. I barely had time to get dressed before dashing out breakfastless, grumbling about the weather and anything else I could think of. Now, as I got into the office kitchen and put the kettle on, I wondered where all my energy had gone. My phone beeped. Opening the text, I read the name: Steve Yarnitzky.

  Any chance of putting me up on Tuesday night? I’m en route to Glasgow. I’ll get you a pint in the Park Hotel. Cheers. Steve.

  It would be good to see my old friend, I thought, as I texted back, as long as he didn’t want to tell me about his new Jag.

  I was halfway through my second cup of tea and third slice of toast when Wendy on reception rang through to tell me Charlotte Stephens was here to see me. I only hoped I could stay awake while I talked to her. Even the caffeine had failed to liven me up. At least seeing Charlotte would postpone my reading of Rebecca Winter’s case file. The only thing more boring than social work records, I decided a long time ago, is Steve going on about cars.

  Two minutes later I was sitting in an interview room opposite a young woman with purple hair. She had dumped a leather rucksack on the table. Skinny jeans on skinny legs concertinaed onto blue baseball boots. She fidgeted with her fringe for a few seconds.

  “I heard you were back,” she said, twirling one of her long plaits in her right hand.

  “Yeah, just part time…”

  “So you can…

  “Just to deal with a particularly complex case.”

  “So you’re not gonna be my social worker again?”

  “No,” I said.

  I could have told Charlotte that, as she was 18 now, someone in the care-leavers’ team would be responsible for her; that she’d be offered advice about employment and education. Not that she needed it. What she needed, she would say, was somebody she knew and trusted. Anyway, she knew the system better than I did. We chatted about her new boyfriend, her foster carers, her ‘A’ level revision and her plans for next year. I waited for her to get to the real point of her visit. She looked down for a few seconds before speaking again.

  “I heard about, you know, my ‘father’,” she said. “Going to prison and stuff.”

  “Yeah,” I said

  It already seemed a long time ago.

  “I had an idea what he was like,” she said, “but I never expected anything like this.”

  Charlotte looked down at her bag on the table. “I’m really sorry about the man who was killed.”

  “Bill Copelaw? He was my boss.”

  I decided not to tell her I found the body.

  “It’s terrible,” she said.

  She went quiet for a while.

  “Listen Gus, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Well, I’d like to go and see Mick Askey in prison. What do you think?”

  “Well, if it’s what you want and he agrees.”

  She tugged at her other plait.

  “I’ve got to know if he’s my father. I’ve got to.”

  “He denies even having a daughter, you know.”

  She nodded.

  “It might be different if he actually sees me. I want to ask him if he’ll do a DNA test.”

  “It’s worth a try,” I said though I couldn’t see Askey co-operating with anything. “You might want to take someone with you.”

  “Suppose so,” Charlotte shrugged. “Actually Gus, I was wondering…”

  I knew what was coming and what I was going to say.

  “…if you would come with me.”

  “OK,” I said.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe you’ve got yourself mixed up in a murder, Gus,” said Steve as we left my flat to go to the Park Hotel the following night.

  On his arrival he had told me about his new Jaguar until my eyes started to glaze over. He had followed this up with a match by match analysis of United’s chances for the rest of the season. I like football and of course I support United. I’m from Salford, aren’t I? But to me football is a poor third behind Rugby League and cricket. And the bad sportsmanship, inflated wages and the way it dominates everything did my head in at times.

  Then we’d got onto the far more fascinating question of how many pints we had supped in the Park Hotel since we’d first set foot in the place. We’d both been 18 at the time so a fair few, I thought. I didn’t tell him about Marti – it was early days yet. I also kept quiet about GRK Investigations: it only existed on paper at this stage. Anyway, he would only laugh. Bill Copelaw’s death was, ironically, a much safer topic.

  “Neither can I,” I replied.

  We crossed Trafford Road at the pelican crossing. Steve’s movements were as neat as his Manchester United polo shirt and Chinos. He was a few inches shorter than me, his wiry frame the product of cycling, climbing and golf. He’d lost a bit more hair since I’d last seen him, I thought smugly. The cropped style he’d adopted about ten years ago was a big improvement on the various versions of the comb-over he’d tried.

  “I can believe Mick Askey did it, though,” he went on. “I know him of old. Nearly every copper in Greater Manchester must have come across him at some point.

  “And social worker.”

  Steve turned to me.

  “He was always a vicious little bastard.”

  I nodded.

  “Put a squaddy in hospital a few years back. Only got five years. Then some silly sod let him out after three.”

  I braced myself for a blast of Daily Mail reasoning that never came. Maybe he had mellowed.

  “He was in care as a kid if I remember rightly,” he went on, “for all the good that did him.”

  “I don’t know much about his background.”

  “You went to see him about this daughter then,” he asked.

  “Yeah, well, according to the file he’s her father and his name’s on the birth certificate.”

  “Where is she now, this lass?”

  “She’s been with the same foster carers since she was a toddler. She was born in Salford, but the carers live in Altrincham now.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I was her social worker for years until a few months ago.”

  We walked on.

  “Why was she in care?”

  “Neglect,” I said.

  “Poor little bugger.”

  “Things have worked out for her,” I said. “She’s doing ‘A’ levels this year, got a place at university.”

  “Nice to hear a bit of good news.”

  “She still sees her birth mother from time to time. I think she feels sorry for her.”

  “Is she worth feeling sorry for, this so-called mother?”

  “It’s a matter of opinion,” I said. “At first we worked hard trying to get Charlotte back with her but to be brutally frank Tracy turned out to be a total waste of space.”

  I wanted to say something else but my mind suddenly emptied as though someone had scooped out its contents. Just when I thought I was over the stroke one or more of the effects would return. Difficulty with words; unaccountable lapses in memory. I was already resigned to the residual weakness in my right arm.

  “With a useless mother and Askey as a father,” said Steve, “she’s done well.”

  I instructed my brain to get its arse into gear. I tried to concentrate on what Steve was saying and gradually it got better.

  “Askey’s probably her dad,” I said, “but Tracy put it about a bit. A DNA test is the only sure way of knowing.”

  I told Steve about the prison visit I’d arranged for next week and my doubts about Askey’s willingness to undergo a DNA test.

  “If he says no, there’s nothing we can do about it, I suppose.”

  “Depends,” said Steve. “With h
is record he’s bound to be on the database but that can only be used if we’re investigating a crime.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “She’s not making any allegations against him, this girl, is she?”

  “No.”

  “So, he didn’t abuse her as far as we know?”

  “Well, he could have neglected her.”

  “That’s a crime,” said Steve.

  “True,” I said. “Come to think of it, Tracy was convicted of child neglect.”

  “Well, he must have played a part in that, mustn’t he?”

  “He’d left Tracy before we got involved but I suppose he might have been.”

  “Well, if we proved he was her father that would be evidence if we wanted to charge him with neglect.”

  I smiled.

  “That connection’s a bit tenuous.”

  “Rules are meant to be bent,” he smiled back, as we got within a few yards of the pub. “If he won’t play ball when you go and see him, let me know.”

  “That’s never Steve Yarnitzky, is it, Gus,” asked the landlord when we entered the Park Hotel. “We are honoured.”

  Taking in the CAMRA PUB OF THE YEAR pennant over the bar, I felt that buzz you get from being somewhere familiar and welcoming. Customers sat around the room eating and drinking, putting the world to rights. Photographs of old Salford on the walls were interspersed with horse brasses, toby jugs and a warming pan.

  “Give us two pints of Red Devil, Arthur, and less of it,” said Steve. “And a couple of menus. My belly thinks my throat’s been cut.”

  Arthur handed over the menus and manoeuvred his bulk along the bar to the beer pumps to pull our pints. His long, grey hair flopped over his shoulders. I wondered how he carried all that weight around every day. Arthur’s baggy shirt, worn over his trousers, made him look like two darts players who had collided at high speed and somehow merged permanently.

  “Your wish is my command, Chief Superintendent.”

  “Not Chief Super any more, remember,” said Steve.

  “Oh, yeah. How’s retirement in Dog Leg or whatever it’s called?”

  “Dolgellau,” Steve corrected him.

  “Oh, speaking the lingo now, are we?”

  “Have done for years, Arthur.”

  I often wondered if Arthur had made a conscious decision to put on weight when he took over from his dad twenty-five years ago. He looked the archetypal pub landlord in the archetypal pub. He had managed to preserve the traditional features while keeping up with the times. There were the nooks and crannies with the nostalgia evoking names – snug, public bar – with the main bar doubling as a restaurant. Upstairs were a music room, snooker room and a sports room with the biggest telly in the world. Heaven.