by Bud Craig
“To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit then?”
“Just stopping off for a night with Gus,” said Steve. “I’m on my way to a golfing break in Glasgow.”
“And here’s me thinking only posh people play golf,” Arthur replied.
“I’ll ignore that.”
“You’re not here to solve this murder in Social Services then?”
Steve shook his head.
“No way. I’m well out of it. Did you know Gus found the body?”
Don’t remind me, I said to myself. I didn’t really want to talk about it. But then I had to accept people have always been fascinated by crime.
“Never,” said Arthur. “You’ll need this pint then. It was supposed to be your leaving do that night and all.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, Arthur.”
Arthur shrugged.
“That’s all right. A fair few stayed on as it happened. Drank themselves stupid, ate all the pies and danced to the jukebox.”
“In the midst of death there is life,” said Steve.
“Shouldn’t wonder,” said Arthur. “Then in the middle of it all, I had the police round.”
“What did they say?”
“Not a lot. Asked me if I’d seen anything suspicious whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
“So you couldn’t tell them anything?”
“No, I was busy in here, wasn’t I?”
He looked pensive for a moment.
“I thought to myself, you know, just an ordinary evening in here and while we was having a drink and a natter and that, just a few yards away some poor bugger’s been done to death.”
He breathed deeply.
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
He shook his head sadly.
“Hey, I’ve just thought. One of your lads was in that night, Gus. Early doors.”
“Who was it?”
“One of the social services lot. What’s his name now?’
Was I meant to guess?
“Well, it can’t have been Copelaw.”
Arthur dismissed the idea with a flick of his hand.
“He took his birds to all the posh places. No, it was that other one. Copelaw’s assistant, so he reckoned anyway.”
He straightened a towel on the bar while waiting for the beer to settle.
“To hear him talk he ran the place single handed while Copelaw took a back seat. Wanker.”
That sounded like Don.
“Long stringy fucker. Right gormless looking get and all. Buggered if I can remember his name.”
“Don Bird?”
“Aye, desperate Don, that’s it.”
“What on earth was he doing in a place like this? A nice boy like him.”
Arthur let out a sigh, puffing out his cheeks.
“Started coming in a few months back. Boring bastard. Tries to be one of the lads and fails miserably. Thinks we all love him and can’t wait until the next time he graces us with his presence. Stupid sod.”
Arthur held the floor. Having gone through wanker, fucker, get, bastard and sod what expletive, I wondered, would Arthur now use against Don? I was almost beginning to feel sorry for him.
“I wouldn’t mind but he sups sod all. Normally makes half a pint last about an hour then skedaddles home to the wife.”
He topped up our glasses, watching the froth bubble over the top.
“Come to think of it,” he went on thoughtfully, “on the night of the murder he was different.”
I went into Private Eye mode. This is what they did, wasn’t it? Befriended people in the local, lulled them into a false sense of security and pumped them for information. This could count as part of my investigations. I should charge for my time. Were the beer and food legitimate expenses?
“In what way,” I asked.
Arthur tilted his head to one side as if contemplating infinity. Perhaps he was getting to the point at last.
“That night he did put a few away. Comes in all of a work, in a right state with himself.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Nervous like, you know. As if he needed a drink. He must have had, oooh, three pints.”
Arthur handed us our pints.
“There we are, gents,” he said, “named after Salford Rugby League team, the original Red Devils.”
Arthur winked at me. I responded to his cue.
“Some people think the Red Devils are a collection of overpaid prima donnas who kick a ball about at Old Trafford,” I said, looking at Steve.
“Salford were given the name on a 1930s tour of France,” added Arthur.
By then Steve was studying the menu with renewed concentration, pausing only to say between yawns:
“Yeah, yeah, Les Diables Rouges, Gus may have told me that two or three thousand times.”
* * *
“Did you see that stuff in the papers about Kylie Anderson?” Steve asked later as we got stuck into home made steak pie and chips.
“I had a quick look at it,” I said, “amazing how it’s stayed in the news all this time.”
“Yeah. That’s down to Elaine, of course.”
“Her mother?”
“Yeah. I was involved in the original investigation, you know.”
“Yeah, I remember you telling me. It happened in Chorley, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, I was a DS with Lancashire Constabulary then.”
Steve drank more beer and swallowed a chunk of pastry.
“Her mother left her in her pushchair outside a newsagents while she went to get some fags. When she came out Kylie was gone. Never been heard of since.”
“Eighteen years ago,” I said, thinking of what Elaine had missed in that time.
“Yeah.”
“Different world,” I said, “Was Thatcher still in power? Either her or Major.”
“I’m not sure. One thing I do know, we were a hell of a lot younger.”
“You even had hair, didn’t you?”
“You know how to hurt a man,” he said in a camp voice.
I drank some more beer.
“I read about her mother thinking Kylie’s still alive. Not very realistic.”
“No.” Steve shook his head sadly. “But you’ve got to remember Elaine has to believe that to keep going. I reckon if she gave up hope she’d top herself.”
I shook my head sadly as Steve went on.
“They’re doing a Crimewatch special soon.”
“I might watch it,” I said, finishing my beer. “I’d better get us another pint.”
On my way to the bar I thought of Kylie, wondering sadly what happened to her. When I ordered the drinks from Arthur my mind turned again to what he had said about Don. But Don couldn’t have killed Bill Copelaw. Could he?
CHAPTER TEN
On the Wednesday of the same week after a day off, I knocked on Sharon Winter’s front door and waited. And waited. At least the sun was shining this time, I thought, unlike the first time I had come to the house. Looking at my watch I wondered if I could afford to waste any more time out here. She knew I was coming. I’d told her twice and written it down for her. Still, playing silly buggers was Sharon’s main talent.
“All right, Gus,” said a female voice from behind me.
I turned round to see a teenage girl with a bag slung over one shoulder.
“Oh, hello, Tanya,” I said, taking a few seconds to recognize her.
We exchanged a bit of small talk, as I tried not to picture her in her knickers on the day Bill died. She wore jeans and a long sleeved sweat shirt. It was a relief to see her covered up. She even smelt better.
“Where you off,” I asked for something to say.
She leant slightly to the right, putting her weight on one leg.
“Just on my way to work. Just a couple of hours in the paper shop, all cash in hand.”
“Every little helps.”
She suddenly looked worried.
“Oh, shit, me and my bigmouth,” she said. “Hey, you won’t
grass me up to the social, will you?”
I shook my head.
“I haven’t got time, Tanya. Think of all the paperwork.”
She laughed, shifting her weight to the left.
“How’s Madison?” I asked.
“A lot better now Mick’s gone. I had to keep her out of his way, know what I mean?”
I nodded, having a good idea exactly what she meant.
“She’s at the Sure Start centre while I’m at work. She loves it there.”
“Great.”
“If you’re looking for Sharon,” she said, “I saw her go out about half an hour ago.”
I sighed, preparing to say my goodbyes to Tanya. Then I had a thought.
“You don’t know where Liam is, do you?”
She shrugged.
“No, not seen him for ages. Have you tried his mam and dad?”
“I’ve no idea where they live.”
And Sharon denied all knowledge of them. Or was she just being awkward?
“Didsbury somewhere,” she said.
I raised my eyebrows.
“Didsbury?”
She grinned.
“Oh, aye. Dead posh, his family. He thinks he’s a cut above. Wanker.”
Ten minutes later in the office, I took out the phone directory and opened it out on the desk. Sipping tea as I scanned the long list of Bentleys, I picked out three that looked promising. The first turned out to be a woman who wanted me to allow Jesus into my life. Wondering if she said the same to every random caller, I tried the second.
“Derek Bentley,” said a well-spoken voice.
“Is Liam there, please?”
“I’m afraid he’s out at the moment. Can I take a message?”
“Can you tell him Rick called. I’ll try again later.”
I put the phone down, not wanting to tell Liam’s dad who I was. I couldn’t see him being impressed by a social worker phoning him at home.
The next morning nine o’clock found me ringing a doorbell in Didsbury, miles from my normal stomping ground in more ways than one. When Steve moved into a house in Didsbury thirty years ago, it was a sign he’d made it. Now, in yet more April sunshine, here I was calling on a man whose child was in foster care.
Putting my briefcase on the front path, I pressed the bell for a third time. I held my left hand on it, while banging on the door hard with the right. The motor bike parked outside suggested there was somebody in there. If that were the case they’d have to answer. I didn’t have time to come back and try again. I heard movement inside the house and the clinking of the chain on the PVC door. A key turned and a handle cranked before the door was flung open. Liam Bentley, in white T-shirt and Simpsons boxer shorts stood there in all his bloodshot glory.
“Who the fuck…”
“Morning, Liam,” I said with a grin, picking up my briefcase.
He blinked his eyes as if focusing on an optician’s chart. It had taken us three weeks to locate him. I was convinced Sharon could have told us where he was if she’d wanted us to find him.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I want to come in and talk to you.”
“What about?”
I sighed and tapped my foot on the ground.
“It’s confidential, Liam,” I said with exaggerated patience. “As you well know. Not for doorstep conversation.”
“I’m not really sure…”
“The neighbours will be wondering what’s going on. I can’t see your mam and dad being too chuffed about that.”
“Oh, come in then.”
I followed him into the lounge, where he sat me down on a pink leather sofa. The stainless steel legs of a glass-topped table in front of me sparkled.
“Do you want a cuppa, mate? I know I do.”
“Tea, please.”
He went off to put the kettle on. I got up and wandered round the room. On a sideboard was a picture of a fifty something couple, Mr and Mrs Bentley, I presumed. In his check slacks and short-sleeved shirt Liam’s dad looked like a model for a smart/casual catalogue. His wife was dressed in similar trousers to her husband and a maroon sweatshirt with a Didsbury golf club logo. Wondering, not for the first time, what the point of golf was, I sat down again. I looked at a flat-screened television hanging on the wall like a mirror. Liam came back in.
“Kettle’s on,” he said. “I’ll take a shower, yeah? Back in a minute.”
Ten minutes elapsed before Liam emerged, dressed in jeans and a striped jumper. He carried two mugs of tea and a plate of toast and plonked the lot on the table, spilling tea in the process. He sat down opposite me and drank a mouthful of tea.
“I need this. Heavy night last night.”
I took a notebook and pen out of my briefcase.
“So, what’s it all about, then?” he asked through a mouthful of toast crumbs. “I suppose you want to talk about the kid and everything.”
“I’ll bring you up to date with what’s happening,” I said, putting the cup down. “The medical opinion is that the injuries to Rebecca were the result of physical abuse.”
“Don’t look at me, mate,” he said, “I’d never hurt a kid. The police haven’t charged anyone.”
I knew that only too well. There wasn’t enough evidence to pin it on any one individual and a variety of people had cared for Rebecca during the period when the injury could have happened. I explained that the local authority was taking care proceedings and the court had made an interim care order. This would be reviewed in four weeks.
“The care order means we can decide where Rebecca lives.”
“So she stays with foster parents?”
“At least for now.”
I explained I had to do an assessment for court and I wanted to include him in it.
“Not sure I want to get involved in anything like that, know what I mean?”
“No?”
“Not really. I may want to move on, you know, not really sure where.”
“Can I just clarify a few points while I’m here?”
“Why not?”
We went back over what had happened since the night I took Rebecca and Sharon to hospital.
“What did you do after you ran off?”
“Sorry about that, mate,” he said. “Not very bright, was it?”
He looked down at his hands.
“I just, like, got on the bike and drove around for a bit. After a while I calmed down and started to think straight.”
“And?”
“I thought I might as well go back home. I thought maybe Sharon would, you know…”
He shrugged as though completing a sentence was too much trouble.
“What time did you get back to Ordsall?”
“Dunno, after five, maybe half past.”
The time of Bill Copelaw’s murder, I thought.
“Did you go to the office?’
“Office?”
“Ordsall Tower.”
“What for?”
“To try and find out what happened to Rebecca.”
Another shrug.
“I knew I’d find out soon enough.”
He drank more tea, while I seethed. No wonder some kids went wrong.
“It wouldn’t have been too much trouble,” I said, annoyed at his casual attitude. “You would have gone past Ordsall Tower on the way.”
“I did, aye. I parked near there. Thought I might as well get some chips while I was there.”
He grinned and picked up his tea cup.
“There was summat weird going on at your place, you know.”
“Something weird?”
“Yeah, some head banger was running up the steps towards the front door.”
“Head banger?”
Moving into private eye mode again, I tried not to sound too interested.
“Yeah, looked as if he’d just got out of bed. Mad, staring eyes. Feller with long blonde hair. Banged on the door just as it was closing.”
It sounded l
ike Askey.
“You know, as if he was after someone. Looked dead funny. Then he went inside.”
“Did he? I wonder what he wanted.”
“Search me, mate. I stood and watched him for a bit, know what I mean? There was a feller at the cashpoint on the corner just as interested as me in what was going on.”
“Was he?”
“Yeah, he kept looking towards this lunatic.”
It could have been Don, I thought.
“What did he look like?”
“What does anybody look like? Pretty average, I’d say.”
“Old, young? Colour hair, clothes?”
He screwed up his eyes in concentration.
“Older than me. Fair hair, wearing a leather jacket.”
“Did he go into the office?”
He shrugged.
“No idea. I went off to the chippy.”
“Right.”
Where did that get me? I already knew Askey had barged into the office. A man in a leather jacket was near the scene of the crime at the time Bill was killed. I didn’t recognize the description. It could have been almost anybody so I wasn’t a lot further forward.
“Do you know that Mr. Copelaw, my boss, was killed that night?”
“No.”
His voice throbbed with indifference.
Over the next ten minutes my powers of persuasion got Liam to answer some questions about his own background. He had dismissed his daughter and her future by simply saying he wasn’t going to take any part in her upbringing from now on. Not the way one would like a father to talk about his only child but I was used to it. Nearly.
He told me his parents considered he had let them down. They would let him stay with them for the time being but would not offer anything more than food and shelter. He got up and started walking backwards and forwards around the living room, his feet sinking into the cream shag pile carpet.
“I’ve always been a bit of a disaster to my mum and dad, to be honest,” he went on.