SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

He went through a catalogue of difficulties. Problems at a snobby, private school. A waste of money, according to his dad. He scraped through one GCSE pass in English Literature. Packed in Sixth Form half way through the first term. Went ‘down South somewhere’. On his return he joined the Army.

  “Well, no-one was more pleased than my dad,” he said. “He reckoned it would give me a bit of discipline, thought I’d carve out a career for myself.”

  Predictably Liam’s army career self-destructed.

  “What about your relationship with Sharon?”

  “Relationship? Is that what you call it?”

  He took a couple of paces and stopped by the fireplace, as if posing for a photograph to show off this feature.

  “It wasn’t meant to be this way. It was just a bit of…well, you know, when it’s laid on a plate.”

  I waited while he stood deep in thought and sat down again.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to run the girl down. She comes from a rough family and all that.”

  What’s your excuse, I thought. He passed his hand over his chin.

  “I’ll be honest with you, she’s not the sort of girl I thought I’d, you know, settle down with.”

  “What are you intending to do now?” I asked.

  “Hard to say, know what I mean? A mate of my dad’s might have a job for me.”

  He went on to tell me Sharon would have a better chance of getting Rebecca back without him. In one way he was absolving himself of his responsibilities; in another he was right.

  “So, that’s about it, Don,” I said later that day, looking up from the case file on my lap.

  I sat in Don’s office, having just updated him on Rebecca’s situation: she was thriving with foster carers. Liam was out of the picture it seemed. It was hard to say what Sharon could offer her daughter. Some days she made an effort; some days she didn’t.

  “How’s your health, Gus,” he asked.

  I looked round the room, thinking back to when it had been Bill’s. At some point the Elvis posters had been taken down. Don hadn’t thought to do anything to personalize the office. Typical, I thought.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ve just had my latest check-up. Everything OK. I feel better for working part-time.”

  “What about finding Bill? Has that affected you at all?”

  He looked at me trying to look caring. All I got was an impression of indifference.

  “Yes,” I said, “up to a point. It seems terrible to say it but the rest of my life is pretty good. That goes a long way towards countering any fall-out from that night.”

  “You could have counselling, you know. It’s been offered to everyone else.”

  I had never told Don I was having counselling, though I’d been happy to confide in Bill. I knew Don was just doing his duty, going through the checklist in his head.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, knowing I was still entitled to two more sessions in any case.

  I closed the case file and put it down on Don’s Desk.

  “The police questioning is what keeps coming back to me,” I said.

  This was becoming a habit, finding a way to investigate the murder without it being obvious.

  “If it’s any consolation,” he said, “they spoke to everyone.”

  “Including you?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said.

  “Weird experience, isn’t it?”

  He smiled.

  “Yeah, a bit like something on television. Especially when they asked me where I was around the time Bill was killed.”

  “And where were you?”

  “At home as far as I could recall. I left on time for once. Traffic wasn’t too bad.”

  “You didn’t nip in for a quick drink?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Don’t you sometimes call in the Park Hotel.”

  I was sure that was the beginning of a blush creeping down his face.

  “Now and again, but not that night.”

  I shook my head, trying my best to look puzzled.

  “It’s just that I thought Arthur, you know, the landlord, said you were in the Park Hotel that night.”

  I waited for a response, hoping I had just stopped short of confronting Don. He shrugged.

  “Don’t think so. I mean I suppose I could have been and forgot about it.”

  I left a few minutes later to go back to my desk. Thinking about Don as a suspect still seemed bizarre. I had met a lot of ambitious people in my time but didn’t know any who’d killed to help their career. But why did he lie about going to the pub that night? It had been the day of his row with Bill. He would have been upset about that and worrying about his career. Maybe he was ashamed of drinking to excess because of his Christianity. One of the many things I couldn’t understand about some Christians was their opposition to alcohol. Wasn’t Jesus supposed to have turned water into wine? Before my mind could take me on an anti-religious rant I thought again about what made Don tick. The truth was I hadn’t a clue. Why should someone choose to do a job like social work when their main motivation was climbing the organisational ladder?

  I was still hard at it that evening long after official knocking off time. I was thinking about Rebecca and the responsibility of making decisions about her future. This led me to think about Liam. Was he a suspect for Bill’s murder? He would have a motive for having a go at somebody from Social Services. Despite his indifference to Rebecca’s welfare he was angry about what he saw as this unwarranted interference. Liam thought somebody else was to blame for whatever went wrong in his life. He already had a long history of failure and disappointment. Had that left a legacy of frustration? Did that explain the barely concealed anger that could kick in any time?

  Did he come out of the chip shop as Askey was leaving Ordsall Tower and sneak in while the door was open? Then I remembered the salt and vinegar smell as I went in the office. Yet Liam was only too willing to admit he had bought chips that night. And there was no smell in Bill’s office. This needed thinking about.

  A few minutes later Ania walked in with her cleaning stuff. Plugging in her vacuum cleaner, she yawned and put her hand over her mouth. Smiling, she came over and sat next to me.

  “Don’t work too hard, will you,” she said with a smile, indicating the notes littering my desk.

  “No, once I’ve finished this, I’m off until next week.”

  I sat back on my chair and stretched my hand above my head.

  “That’s good,” she said. “You know, this is the first time we’ve met since, you know, Bill dying and everything.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Coming here just brings it all back. It’s hard to stop thinking about it.”

  I nodded. Impossible, I would have said, rather than hard.

  “People are still asking me about it,” she went on, seeming eager to talk.

  She pulled up the sleeves of the grey, woollen top she wore underneath her overall. I noticed a chipped nail on her right index finger.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “They think it’s exciting being interviewed by the police.”

  I shook my head.

  “It made me feel guilty,” I said.

  “Yes. You wonder what’s behind their questions.”

  “What did they ask you?”

  “Oh, mostly about Askey. And had I seen anybody else?”

  “Had you?”

  “I told them I saw a couple of men outside the building when Askey forced his way in.”

  She got up and, taking a duster from her overall pocket, she polished Karen’s desk.

  “Anyone you knew?”

  I was getting used to changing my role whenever an opportunity to investigate Bill’s murder presented itself.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “One was dressed in leathers, you know, motorbike clothes. I didn’t know him.”

  “The other one?”

  “Well, I only saw his back. I know it sounds stupid,” she said, “but he
looked familiar.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Now then, Gus,” said Pete Jenkinson two days later, as I entered Worsley Premium Butchers.

  Pete was a walking advert for his produce, looking plump and self-satisfied. He wore a collar and tie as usual, a white hat covering his thinning hair. The doorbell clanged behind me, evoking memories of going on errands for my mam. Cheese and bacon aromas mingled with a background smell of cleanliness and disinfectant. We exchanged greetings and small talk as I gave him my long list. Glancing down he pulled the cord tighter round his striped apron.

  “Bit of a shipping order, this.”

  “Well, I can’t get over that often these days,” I said.

  “Glad of your custom, Gus. Not a lot of loyalty around these days.”

  “You’re hard to beat on quality, Pete. Do you think you could have it ready for me if I call back in half an hour or so?”

  “No probs. Getting stocked up for the weekend?”

  “Yeah. I’ll leave you to it. I just need to call on someone,” I explained.

  “Not Mrs Copelaw by any chance, is it?”

  If there was once thing Pete liked as much as a well-hung sirloin, it was a good gossip.

  “Yeah. I thought I’d see how she was while I was here.”

  I had already decided to use my meat buying trip as an opportunity to call on Jean Copelaw. I told myself I would have gone to see her anyway but deep down I knew it was part of my investigation. She was around on the day of Bill’s death. I’d talked to her about an hour before he was killed. Maybe she’d seen something. I was only hoping she was in. I hadn’t been able to phone her as I didn’t have her home number.

  “A sad business,” said Pete. “She was telling me her daughter has gone back home.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he went on.

  He folded his arms and made an almost imperceptible movement of his head from side to side.

  “What a little madam she was as a kid. I don’t suppose age has improved her.”

  “I only met her at the funeral.”

  “On her best behaviour no doubt. Butter wouldn’t melt.”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Still, not the happiest of homes, I wouldn’t have thought,” he went on. “They tried to buy her affection, you know. Not good news.”

  Five minutes later I made my escape. The morning sun glinted through the trees as I walked through Worsley. The warm weather had returned after overnight rain but the breeze was cool enough for me to put on a V-necked jumper over my t-shirt. I recalled my boyhood, when Worsley had always seemed miles away and a trip to Worsley Woods was like an expedition. The village, with its expensive black and white half-timber houses had once seemed out of my league. Now it was a place where I used to live. I’d grown to like it over the years. Quiet and secluded, with a village green, it was still not far from the city. Two minutes later I was approaching the large 1930s semi I had last visited on the day of Bill’s funeral. I saw a woman coming out of the front door. She zipped up her jacket and walked towards me with the aid of a stick.

  Jean gave me her nearest equivalent to a smile. Even so, her stick and the pinched expression on her face gave her the appearance of a bad-tempered granny.

  “Hello, Gus,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

  I explained about being in the area shopping and deciding to call round.

  “I’m just having my morning walk,” she said, “why not join me?”

  We walked briskly as though it were part of an exercise routine. I took deep breaths, enjoying the smell of trees and grass after the rain. At Worsley Court House we turned left. Traffic noise and the footsteps of the few dog walkers accompanied us as we strolled along Barton Road.

  “How have you been?” I asked to break the silence.

  She shrugged, avoiding a puddle as she marched on.

  “As well as can be expected as they say,” she said. “It’s been one shock after another.”

  We walked on to the Packet House and Boat Steps. The latter spot was where passengers boarded the packet boats. I thought of the boats carrying the Royal Mail down the Bridgewater Canal. I enjoyed memories of walking here when Rachel and Danny were school age. I had learned local history for their benefit. At this time of day only elderly couples and mothers with toddlers and pushchairs passed us.

  “Yeah?”

  “That business with Karen knocked me for six.”

  “Karen?”

  “That young lass you work with.”

  “What about her?”

  “My loving husband had been having an affair with her.”

  “Never.”

  “Why else would he leave her a load of money in his will.”

  “What?”

  A load of money, eh? Where had Bill got hold of that? And what exactly constituted ‘a load of money’?

  “From some insurance policy apparently.”

  “Oh.”

  I was tempted to ask for more information, but Jean would probably have said the details weren’t relevant. And, having started talking, she showed no sign of stopping. A question and answer session would only put her under pressure. We passed a white house that I thought might be the old nailmaker’s shop. More irrelevance, I thought.

  “You mean she hasn’t told you? I thought she’d have been gloating all over the office.”

  I told her I hadn’t seen Karen since Bill died.

  “She’s been on the sick for a while,” I explained.

  She turned her head slightly towards me.

  “On the sick? Probably exhausted from counting her money.”

  Turning left on Worsley Road we went back towards the Court House, passing the library and a roundabout.

  “I tried to find out if the will was kosher, you know. He changed it quite recently.”

  “Right.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about it,” she shrugged, trying without success to sound philosophical.

  I pondered this as we crossed the road, again going uphill under the motorway bridge. The traffic on the M62 whizzed along while we enjoyed our relative tranquillity.

  “I’ll be OK. I’ve got some savings and I can sell the house, get a smaller place. Bill was always against moving.”

  Jean took a deep breath as though getting a second wind.

  “You know about all his other women I suppose.”

  “No,” I replied, being economical with the truth, remembering Marti saying something similar about Bill.

  “You’re the only one then.”

  Life has always seemed more or less straightforward to me. Everyone else had a complicated love life. Did ‘everyone’ include Louise, I wondered. If she had had somebody else I wouldn’t necessarily have known. I hadn’t thought of her for a while. Could be Marti’s influence.

  “Quite a few times he’d been going to leave me,” she said, sounding almost pleased as she led the way towards St Mark’s church. “Always for someone younger.”

  I didn’t bother to answer. Jean was on a roll.

  “Some of them had kids,” she said, “We only had the one.”

  “I met Cal at the funeral.”

  “Cal,” she said scornfully. “Trendy nonsense. Carol’s her name, always was, always will be.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault, Gus,” she said. “She became ‘Cal’ when she went to university down South.”

  We walked on with no let up in the pace.

  “Typical of her self-indulgence. Of course, we spoilt her rotten, I can see that now. Private school, the lot. For all the thanks we got.”

  She put on a spurt at this point as though she were in a race.

  “Me and Bill were brought up in Little Hulton and we wanted something better for our daughter.”

  “I can relate to that,” I said.

  “She started to look down on us.”

  That I couldn’t relate to, so said nothing.

  �
�We hardly see her these days. When she did deign to come and see us, she and Bill hardly exchanged a word.”

  How did people get into that situation? The idea of hardly seeing my kids, not speaking to them, made me come out in a cold sweat. I remembered Cal’s hypocrisy on the day of the funeral.

  “It’s just a pity they can’t pin Bill’s murder on Karen,” she said out of the blue.

  She stabbed her stick into the ground.

  “She had a bloody good motive after all.”

  So did you, I thought.

  “On the whole,” I said, “I think it’s a good thing we know who killed Bill.”

  She nodded. Already I was finding out things about Bill and his life that could have got him killed. Instead the events that had led to his death had been purely random. If I hadn’t sought out Askey on that day; if Askey had been in a fit state to talk to me; if Bill had gone home early.

  “Did the police speak to you at all?”

  “Yeah. They wanted to know if I’d seen anyone around the office. Particularly that Askey feller.”

  We went over a road bridge and I looked over to the Delph. Its name was derived from ‘the delved place’. Stone had been quarried from this place to construct the canal. How had that managed to stick in my mind?

  “I couldn’t help them. I left soon after I’d seen you, Gus.”

  Maybe she wouldn’t be much help, I thought.

  “Carol was paying us one of her duty visits. She was waiting in the car outside.”

  It must have been her I’d seen in the car park when I came out of the office that night.

  “I’d just picked her up at Piccadilly station. She was staying at the Marriott Hotel of course. Her own home isn’t good enough for her.”

  Jean breathed in as if taking in more air for a final onslaught.

  “I’m a fighter, always have been, I’ve had to be all my life. I’ve seen off all the others. I would have done the same with Karen.”

  * * *

  Three days later, I met Charlotte outside Haddon House Remand Centre in Sale where she was waiting for me in a steady morning rain. I had vowed never to work on Mondays when I retired but it hadn’t worked out like that. After muted greetings, we approached the entrance of the grey, concrete building. I could have thought of more pleasant places to be, but the job had to be done. After giving our names at reception, we had to deposit keys, cash, mobiles and bags in a locker. Even my pen and the paperback I had read on the tram journey had to go. We then trailed along endless corridors, claustrophobia and a feeling of not being welcome accompanying us.