SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  “Suppose so.”

  “Have you got anywhere yet?”

  I shook my head. Of course I wasn’t getting anywhere with the Copelaw case. Admit it, Gus, I said to myself, you never will. Still the thought that there was more to it, that I was missing something, nagged away at me like a strict teacher. Something that would seem obvious when I realised what it was. An image of Bill’s room when I found his body kept coming back to me. There was definitely something wrong about it. But what? Just lately I’d also been trying to identify a word I’d heard somewhere. A word that might be significant. Something like ‘certainty’, it was. Or a word that sounded like it or had a similar meaning.

  “To be honest,” I said. “I don’t really expect to.”

  “Still, it’s a living, I suppose. You think Askey did it then?”

  “Almost certainly,” I said.

  He pursed his lips and clicked his fingers.

  “That reminds me, how did you get on when you saw him in prison?”

  “Oh, yeah, I meant to mention that. He refused to take the DNA test.”

  “Bugger. Let’s see if I can help you. I could give Sarita a ring.”

  “Not Inspector Ellerton?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “She interviewed me when I found Bill’s body.”

  “I suppose she would,” he said. “She’s one of my protégées.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Do anything for me, she would. Well, nearly anything.”

  He went into the house and came back with a mobile phone. Sitting down, he admired the view as he dialled. I could finally concentrate on the Snowdonia Walks book while he waited for an answer. I studied the Precipice Walk, thinking it would be a good one to do tomorrow. Despite its name, it was rated as easy.

  “Sarita? Steve Yarnitzky here, how are you doing?”

  The obligatory chit-chat went on as I read through the points of interest on the walk. Eventually Steve got to the point of his call. It was obvious even to a casual listener that there was some hesitation at the other end of the line as Steve explained what he wanted.

  “But this lass suffered neglect bad enough to be taken into care. Askey must have been a part of that. This evidence could help nail him. A bit of justice for Charlotte.”

  There was a pause. I gave up on the walk to listen to the outcome of Steve’s entreaty.

  “I know that’s not why she wants the test but what’s wrong with killing two birds with one stone?”

  Obviously impatient, Steve got up and began walking up and down.

  “Come on, Sarita, have I ever steered you wrong?”

  Another pause, followed by a ‘Yes!’ from Steve.

  “Lovely jubbly,” he said in a terrible impression of Del Boy. “You know it makes sense.”

  Getting his own way was Steve’s speciality.

  “On a more important point, are you pregnant yet?” he asked.

  “Keep at it. That dopy husband of yours does realise that having sex is an essential part of the process?”

  He chuckled as he listened to the response.

  “There’s no need for that sort of language.”

  A few seconds later he ended the call and came back to the table, putting the phone in his trouser pocket.

  “Sorted. Get Charlotte to go down to the station for a swab. Ask for Inspector Ellerton.”

  “Thanks, Steve.”

  “Now, have you sorted out a walk?”

  * * *

  The next day we set off just after ten. We drove a couple of miles north from Dolgellau, heading for a car park on a minor road. Once out of the car, we spent a few minutes on the usual walkers’ rigmarole. Boots on, rucksacks packed with essentials, suncream applied, we set off. As we were getting underway, Steve asked after Louise.

  “She’s due back tomorrow,” I said, “she’ll be staying with Danny for a few days then coming up to Salford.”

  “Are you gonna see her?”

  I shrugged as we walked on.

  “Suppose so. We’ll have to meet sometime, not sure when.”

  “Listen, give her my love when you see her.”

  “Course.”

  We walked along the road for a while before taking a footpath into the woods.

  “And tell her she’s always welcome to come and see me and Jackie.”

  I nodded. After a pause he went on.

  “Is she, you know, involved with anybody else?”

  “Not that I know of,” I replied. “She said married life didn’t suit her any more. She needed her own space apparently.”

  Whatever that means, I said to myself.

  Having said what he wanted to say about Louise, Steve began to wax lyrical about the joys of country living. He even urged me to join him in Wales. I’d never had any intention of moving from Salford. It was home, simple as that. For years, Steve had nurtured a dream of doing what he was doing now. Living here would, I couldn’t help thinking, mean the experience would no longer be special for me. And where would I go for a break?

  We then talked about Rachel and Danny and the progress - or lack of it - of Salford City Reds. That didn’t take long: the less said about my Rugby League team the better. We walked on for a while in silence through the trees.

  “So, this murder,” said Steve as we climbed a stile at the end of the wood, “how do you intend going about it?”

  I shrugged as I swung my leg over the stile.

  “Have you got any ideas? You’re a real detective.”

  “Go through what happened with you and Askey that day.”

  I told him about my second visit to the house in Princess Street, Tanya’s escape in the taxi and Askey tripping over my foot.

  “Then I put the letter through the letterbox.”

  “So, he was upset about his girlfriend leaving. He’d partly blame you for that.”

  “Well, I wasn’t gonna let him attack her.”

  “Fair point but he wouldn’t see it the same way. The other significant thing is he was pissed when you saw him. When he got up after you’d tripped him up, he probably went for a kip.”

  I nodded as we followed the path to the right. I looked down the valley at Llyn Cynwch and the sun glistening on the lake. I breathed in and wondered at the beauty of it all. Could anywhere in the world match this, I asked myself, or equal the feeling of tranquillity it brought me. Mick Askey should have gone on more country walks, I thought.

  “He would have woken up feeling like shit when he found the letter,” said Steve, breaking abruptly into my meditation.

  “I suppose he would.”

  “So by the time he got to Social Services,” Steve continued, “he would have felt like murdering someone.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He goes into Bill Copelaw’s office still spitting feathers.”

  “And kills him?”

  “Precisely.”

  “That doesn’t get me anywhere,” I said. “Let’s think about the alternatives.”

  “It’ll pass the time.”

  I told him I’d been to see Liam Bentley.

  “He said something relevant to the murder inquiry,” I said, after explaining who Liam was.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Steve.

  “He parked his bike near Ordsall Tower about the time we think Bill was killed.”

  “Did he see anything of interest?”

  “Said he saw a bloke going up the steps towards Ordsall Tower. I’m pretty sure that was Askey.”

  “Right.”

  “There was another man nearby. Pretty average, Liam reckoned. Older than him. Fair hair, wearing a leather jacket.”

  “Leather jacket man. Maybe he does exist after all.”

  “Yeah, but the description’s so vague it could apply to almost anyone. And he was outside. There’s nothing to say he went into the office.”

  “Nothing to say he didn’t.”

  “We have to remember Liam was wearing a leather jacket himself.”

  “Bein
g a biker.”

  “Right. He admits being in the vicinity at the relevant time. He had a motive. He was as pissed off with me as Mick Askey.”

  We walked on.

  “So what’s he like this Liam?”

  “He’s what we social workers call a little twat,” I said.

  “Who else have you spoken to?”

  “I went to see Bill’s wife, Jean. She didn’t see anything but she told me Bill was having an affair with Karen Davidson.”

  “Karen who?”

  “A youngish social worker. She’s been in the office a few months.”

  “And your gaffer was giving her one?” asked Steve. “The plot thickens.”

  “There’s more.”

  “Very interesting,” said Steve when I explained about Karen’s legacy from Bill. “What does Karen say about it?”

  “I haven’t seen her. She’s on the sick.”

  We crossed another stile.

  “Money is always a good motive for murder,” I suggested.

  “Don’t start fantasizing,” he grinned.

  “That’s precisely what I need to do. I have to assume somebody else did it or what’s the point?”

  Steve smiled.

  “I know what this is about. What’s that film you like? Maltese Falcon, isn’t it? You fancy yourself as Humphrey Bogart, cracking the case in the last reel.”

  “What if I do? They can’t touch you for it.”

  We laughed as we strode on, getting up a nice rhythm now.

  “Maybe not,” said Steve, “but if Karen is suddenly a suspect that rules out leather jacket man.”

  “But once you go into it there are lots of people who had reason to kill Bill. That’s what I’m beginning to think anyway.”

  “Who are all these people with a motive?”

  We climbed another stile while I thought about Steve’s question.

  “Liam and Karen I’ve already mentioned. There’s Jean of course.”

  “The wife’s usually at the top of the list.”

  “Doesn’t say much for married life. And there’s Karen’s husband.”

  “A fair sized list, I grant you but have you got any actual facts?”

  “Well, Ania, the cleaner saw a man in a leather jacket outside Ordsall Tower as Askey was forcing his way in.”

  “That’s two people who have seen him. You could argue that makes it more likely Askey is telling the truth. A bit shaky though.”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah. Askey could have seen someone outside in a leather jacket. He had plenty of time to think up a story, using leather jacket man.”

  * * *

  I left my apartment block five days later. The working week was starting on a Tuesday because of the May Day Bank Holiday. I didn’t mind going to work today because of who I was working with. I walked in the sunshine towards the Holiday Inn, its beige brick frontage looming above me. Skirting round the side of the hotel, I passed the ubiquitous swans. I walked on towards Old Trafford for a couple of hundred yards before arriving at a steel and glass tower block. I glanced at ‘Dacre House’ written over the doorway as I went inside and waited for the lift with two businessmen complaining about air travel. Pity you’ve nothing better to worry about, I said to myself. As I entered the lift I checked the metal plaque listing all ten floors. Selecting the fourth, I was soon opening the door of Pym and Sigson.

  I was at Marti’s black ash desk a few minutes later. Filing cabinets of the same wood lined the walls. I pulled out a file, a biro and a notebook from my briefcase and put them down in front of me. Marti and I had arranged to spend some time working on the Rebecca Winters case. The sun shone through the window on my left as I began to read the medical report on Rebecca’s injuries. As I worked my way through the medical jargon, jotting down notes as I read, I tried to block out the thought of a baby being assaulted.

  Just as I was finishing the last paragraph, Marti came in with two mugs of tea. Looking fantastic of course, even in a formal, navy blue suit. I let my mind dwell for a few seconds on the way she had welcomed me home when I got back from Dolgellau. Having put the tea on the table and given my hand a quick squeeze, she sat opposite me. We agreed the paediatrician’s report told us nothing we didn’t know.

  “It was physical abuse and we still don’t know who did it.”

  She nodded.

  “Sharon could have lashed out, I suppose. She didn’t have much of a life.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “but “Liam’s a good bet too.”

  “Typical Mr Angry. Did you manage to see him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  I shrugged.

  “Basically he doesn’t want to know.”

  I explained what Liam had said about opting out of Rebecca’s life.

  Later we talked about Bill’s murder. She asked if I was making progress with my investigations. I told her what I had discussed with Steve. She didn’t seem to think it would get us anywhere.

  “There’s still nothing to say leather jacket man actually entered Ordsall Tower.”

  “Except for what Askey said.”

  “And that’s hardly independent and objective.”

  I sighed.

  “It’s hard to know what to make of it all. Sometimes in moments of desperation, I wonder if the packet of condoms I found was relevant in some way.”

  “What?”

  I explained about the condoms from Maxwell’s Hotel in York I found by Bill’s office door just before finding his body.

  “And I keep thinking about a yellow camper van that drove past,” I added. “Around the time I found the body.”

  “How could that be relevant?” she asked.

  “Dunno. I’ve come across something else about a camper van since then. I can’t remember where.”

  “Camper van and condoms. What do they tell you?”

  “Well,” I said, “a hippy driving by stopped his camper van. He went in to Social Services and set about the first establishment figure he could find.”

  “Bill Copelaw, the big, bad boss.”

  “He used a fantasy football trophy as a protest against competitive sports and dropped a packet of contraceptives to tell the ruling class to stop breeding.”

  We grinned at each other.

  “Cracked it,” said Marti.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Gus, Hi,” said a female voice later that morning.

  I looked up from my desk and smiled.

  “Hello, Pam,” I said.

  “Hard at it, I see.”

  She rested her briefcase on the desktop.

  “Just finishing off a report. We’re due back in court next week.”

  “Got time for lunch?”

  I had suggested lunch to Marti but she was in court.

  “Lunch with the director, I am honoured,” I said, giving her a wink.

  “Well, if you’re just going to take the piss,” she said.

  I put the papers in the desk drawer and got up.

  “As if I’d do a thing like that.”

  We walked towards the front of the office together.

  “You did say you were paying,” I said as we went out into the sunshine.

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re a cheeky sod,” she said.

  “Yeah, you, just now.”

  “Have you got yourself a girlfriend yet?” Pam asked later over the prix fixe lunch in the Salford Quays branch of Café Rouge.

  We’d spent the intervening time talking shop and reminiscing about our days on the social work course. A Facebook addict and avid tweeter, unlike me, Pam was able to update me on the progress or otherwise of our fellow students.

  “Yes.”

  She let her fork drop into her tuna salad.

  “Tell me more.”

  I shrugged, wondering why we hadn’t got round to discussing Marti when we met at Bill’s funeral. Maybe I’d cleverly avoided it as the relationship had only just started.

  “Not much to tell,”
I said as I ate cheese omelette.

  “A likely story,” she said. “She’d have to be something special to snare you, Gus.”

  I wondered how she made that out.

  “I don’t think you were avidly looking for someone, were you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Anyway, tell me how you met, what she does, favourite sexual positions etc. etc?”

  “I met her through Rachel…” I said.

  “You’re going out with one of your daughter’s friends?”

  She couldn’t have been more shocked if I’d confessed to Bill Copelaw’s murder. I would have spoken but was chewing omelette du fromage at that precise moment.

  “Cradle snatching, oh, my, god,” she went on.

  “No, no,” I said, after I’d swallowed my food. Maybe the French name made it harder to digest.

  I explained about the band.

  “Marti’s fifty this year – looks younger of course.”

  “Of course. Does she have a day job?”

  “She’s a solicitor,” I said.

  “A solicitor? That’s handy. She can handle your divorce.”

  I smiled at her.

  “Hardly.”

  “Well, you old devil.”

  I shrugged modestly.

  “You haven’t told me what she looks like.”

  “Black and beautiful.”

  “Really? Even more interesting.”

  She drank more mineral water.

  “You’ll have to bring her to my barbecue. I’ll text you the date.”

  “I’ll mention it to her.”

  She looked suspiciously at me for a moment before speaking again.

  “Gus, she’s not married, is she?”

  “Is she heck,” I said, “she’s been married – twice.”

  “God. Still that’s better than the situation I’ve got myself in.”

  “In what way?”

  “The guy I’m seeing is very much married.”

  “Pam,” I said, shaking my head at yet another example of her chaotic love life.

  She sipped mineral water.

  “Don’t you look at me like that, Gus Keane, you old puritan. Everyone plays away from time to time. Well, nearly everyone.”

  I could have told her I wasn’t a puritan but we’d had this argument before.

  “It’s just that…” she said. “Oh, he’s just so gorgeous. The funny thing is we met on the day I had my interview for the Salford job.”