by Bud Craig
“Oh, Rachel, I’m so proud of you,” she said, kissing her daughter. “Well done. And you, Kev.”
She kissed Kev and turned towards me, giving me a hug too.
“Gus, congratulations.”
“Congratulations. Come and say hello to Georgia,” I said, handing over the baby.
Louise took Georgia from me.
“Oh, aren’t you gorgeous?”
“Another beautiful woman in the family, eh, Louise,” said Kev in his peculiar hybrid of an accent.
He spoke with a bit of Irish, a touch of received pronunciation, some Salford.
“Just as well,” replied Louise, “there’s not many of us left.”
* * *
Marti took a bottle of champagne out of the fridge to the accompaniment of The Definitive Ray Charles.
“At last we can celebrate,” she said.
She took glasses from a cupboard and, removing the silver foil, opened the bottle with a festive pop. It frothed up on the kitchen table as she poured a fair proportion of its contents into the glasses.
“To Georgia,” we said, clinking glasses and drinking deep.
I savoured the yeasty flavour and smiled at Marti.
“Congratulations, granddad,” she added, giving me a kiss.
“Thanks,” I said. “I can’t believe how lovely she is.”
“She certainly is.”
“It’s nice to get back to normal,” I said, “after all that carry-on with Rob.”
“It’s hard to believe he killed Bill Copelaw.”
“And Pam,” I said.
“And he would have killed you,” she added.
“Thanks for jumping in when you did, Marti.”
I put my arms around her and we kissed.
“Somebody had to do something,” she said. “You were just sitting there like a lemon.”
“I would have thought of something,” I said unconvincingly.
“I didn’t know you were going to play Lone Ranger,” she went on, rightly ignoring my protestations. “There was no need to do that.”
“I know, but I didn’t realise he’d have the gun at work.”
She took my hand.
“You were right, though. You knew there was something wrong somewhere and you worked out what it was.”
“Suppose so,” I shrugged.
“You know, on the surface he’s so stable but…”
“Yeah, I know, but he’s anything but. He was a high flyer in the head office in London. He got moved to Salford after a nervous breakdown a year or so ago.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, his wife had left him because…”
“He couldn’t keep it in his pants.”
I nodded and grinned at her.
“You have a way with words.”
We fell silent for a while. There was nothing else to say. Or maybe there was too much to say. What would the future hold for Marti and me? And for little Georgia? Would I be around to see her grow up? That meant I would have to stop taking stupid risks as I had with Rob. The rest was down to chance. I poured more champagne. We drank for a while before Marti leaned over and kissed me.
“We haven’t finished celebrating yet,” she said, kissing me again.
* * *
A very quiet drum roll sounded. The room was in darkness except for a spot on the drummer.
“Attention please, Attention please,” he cried.
A buzz gradually died down.
“Here is a very important announcement.”
A light flashed on to reveal Marti at the keyboards. Teddy Boy suit bright blue, setting off her black skin, hair gelled into a glorious quiff, stance arrogant.
“A Wop Bop A Loo Bop A Lop Bam Boom,” she screamed.
Coloured lights flashed all around her. The band surrounded her with a driving beat, lifting her up like a wave. Dancers flooded the floor.
It was a month later in the upstairs room of the Park Hotel. Starting my second pint of Red Devil, I sighed in contentment at the thought that my leaving do was finally taking place. I was fit and well, had plenty of money to be going on with and the sun was still shining. Not quite perfection but it would do to be going on with.
An hour or so later, the band took a break. Friends, colleagues, former colleagues, family were sitting around chatting. I saw Marti get up on the stage, a guitar slung round her neck. Speaking into a microphone, she called for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, as the hubbub died down. “A lot has happened since Gus retired, but I want to tell you about something particularly significant.”
I looked round the room, remembering the events of the past couple of months. Since the altercation with Rob Dryden I’d enjoyed a quiet life. Marti and I had been to Brussels via Eurostar; Louise and I had started divorce proceedings; Rachel was harassed and knackered but happy; Danny was thinking of moving back up North.
“I’d like to tell you that Gus has fallen in love.”
A loud ‘ah’ greeted this announcement. What the hell was going on? “He has fallen in love with a beautiful young woman called Georgia.”
It was difficult to say whether the audience were relieved or disappointed at this. I was relieved.
“This song is for her.”
Marti started to sing Georgia on My Mind in the style of Ray Charles. Everyone in the room, especially me, was captivated. Roars of approval broke out when the song was over. Marti came over to me and kissed me on the cheek. I had no clear idea what the future held. That word ‘certainty’ came back to me. Nothing was certain, I knew that now. I was fairly sure, though, that my career as a private eye was over.
THE END
BOOK II: DEAD CERTAINTY
A private investigator who is always at the wrong place at the wrong time
If something happens in Salford, Manchester, it is generally bad news and when two dead bodies turn up within a few hours of one another, it is no exception. With the local force stretched to the limits and firing blanks ex-rugby player Gus Keane is asked to step in to help find the culprits. What follows is an ever thickening plot as Keane gradually begins to unravel a mystery from Salford’s shady past.
PART ONE: 2012
CHAPTER ONE
“Is this suitable attire for meeting a paedophile?” I asked my reflection as I looked in the wardrobe mirror.
That was one thing about living on your own, you could talk to yourself without anyone looking askance at you. I straightened the collar of my pale blue open neck shirt. Running my hands through my hair so it looked a bit tidier, I adjusted my glasses. I could just about convince myself I didn’t look too bad. I wasn’t fat or bald and still had my own teeth. The broken nose added a certain something. Or possibly not. I looked down at the charcoal grey trousers with a crease and black shoes that were almost smart.
I admired Salford Quays out of the bedroom window of my third floor apartment, thinking of the day ahead. The view of remnants of the old ship canal, the swans gliding along, Old Trafford football stadium in the background never failed to give me a nostalgic kick. I put on the jacket of my second best suit and an anorak. Picking up my briefcase, I left the flat.
I walked the familiar route through the Quays past the old docks office to the dual carriageway on Trafford Road. Waiting at the crossing, I watched a lorry rumble by. The traffic lights turned red and a 67 bus, reminding me of schooldays when it was a green double decker, slowed to a stop. A young man came up from behind and ran past me. I crossed the road more slowly and made my way along Ordsall Lane, skirting the council estate. An overcast sky cast a grey pall over everything. A breeze got up occasionally, disturbing the litter in the gutters, blowing cigarette ends and drink cartons around. I carried on past Ordsall park and West Park Street, where I spent my childhood. It looked different then, having since been demolished and rebuilt. I tried to picture my old home and my old street. The cobbled road outside number 167; the back-to-back houses, their dingy bricks spread out into the monoton
ous distance; a trundling Cheshire Sterilised Milk float the only vehicle in sight.
Then my mobile rang, bringing me back to the 21st century. I pulled the phone out of my trouser pocket. Trying to focus through my varifocals, I noticed the date on the screen. Friday 24th February: 5 days to my birthday. I don’t want to be a year older, I thought.
“Is that Gus Keane,” said the caller, as I walked on a couple of paces.
A bloke, annoyingly cheerful like all these cold callers. Neutral accent, probably Northern.
“Yeah.”
“Tony Murphy here, mate.”
Mate? Who the hell was he to call me mate? Some wanker trying to sell me double glazing or car insurance.
“Listen, I don’t want to buy...”
“Don’t you remember me?” he asked.
Remember him? Why should I re...? Oh, bloody hell, wait a minute. I used to know a Tony Murphy, but this couldn’t be him, could it? A vision flashed into my mind: a wide grin, long red hair, a jaunty swagger.
“Not Tony Murphy from...?”
From where exactly? Or should it be from when?
“From way back when? The very same.”
“I thought you were dead,” I said.
The words were out before I could stop myself.
“Very much alive,” he said.
“Obviously.”
And now you’ve come back from another world, from a different life, from the past. I walked on a bit further, then stopped again.
“I’m in Manchester on business for a week or so,” Tony went on. “Got here yesterday.”
“Yeah? Where do you live?”
“London.”
Had he been in London all this time then? It hardly mattered. He may as well have been in Timbuktu for all the difference it made.
“I wondered if you’d like to meet up,” he said.
I shook my head as if to clear the fog from my brain and bring reality back. I looked around me, mentally tracing the route to Robert Hall street, where Tony had lived. I am not talking to Tony Murphy, I said to myself, I’m not, it’s just too...
“OK,” I managed to blurt out, “Where are you staying?”
I believed in getting straight to the point. The telephone wasn’t made for chatting, was it? Plus, I didn’t know what else to say.
“The Midland.”
He must have a few bob, I thought, trying to remember my plans for the next few days.
“Right. I’m busy at the weekend. What about a drink in the Park Hotel Tuesday night?”
I wanted to see Tony, I was sure about that. There were so many questions I needed to ask. At the same time, I was glad of the opportunity to prepare myself. There was a short silence. Maybe my local was too downmarket for him these days.
“Is that place still standing?”
“Yeah, going strong.”
I pictured the Edwardian, brick building, unchanged for years, at least on the outside.
“That’ll bring back memories,” he chuckled. “I used to think Park Hotel was all one word.”
“So did I.”
For the first few years of my life I had imagined it was called the ‘parkatel’. Only when I had read the sign did the truth dawn. Still people referred to it in that way. Nobody ever called it the Park or pronounced the two words separately.
“Anyway, do you fancy it?” I said.
“Yeah. Great idea.”
We agreed to meet at 8 o’clock. For a moment it was as though we had only seen one another a few days ago. I stood still, deep in thought, pondering the surrealism of what had just happened. What would Steve think? More to the point, what would Brenda think if she knew? Where was she now? Did Tony know? Was he planning to get in touch with her?
I walked on, wondering how Tony had got my number. Or how he knew I still lived in Salford. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen him. Something told me it had been at a test match at Old Trafford. England v India? Yeah, could have been. Steve was there too; we were having a day off from ‘A’ level revision. That would have been the 3rd day, the Saturday. A bloody long time ago. Boycott was playing for England, I seemed to remember, Bob Willis too. Both grey-haired pundits now. I thought back to those days when Lancashire were kings of one day cricket; Salford were Rugby League champions; Manchester United were relegated. The world turned on its head.
Where did you spring from, Tony, I asked myself? How did you come to be contacting me after all these years? And where the bloody hell have you been in the meantime? It had been ages since I’d thought about Tony, but there had been a time when I’d thought of little else. Some nights I’d even dreamt about him. Anxiety dreams of course.
I tried to turn my mind to more immediate concerns when my phone beeped. Modern technology was all well and good, I thought, but this constant communication could be a bit wearing. Then I looked at the phone, saw the name Marti above the text and smiled. She’d been in London all week, staying with a friend while dealing with a case in the Crown Court. I could imagine her there now, a rare black face among all the lawyers, looking important and dead sexy. She was always busy, was Marti. When she wasn’t fully occupied with her day job, she sang in a band alongside my daughter, Rachel. That was how we met, I reminded myself.
It would be true to say I had been missing her. The text told me she was going to see Billy Elliott tonight. She and her friend would be spending the weekend doing London: galleries, museums and all that. I decided to tell her what I had planned, mundane though it was. A cosy chat with a sex offender first, then chairing a child protection conference, tonight off to watch Salford. Baby-sitting Georgia tomorrow night, Sunday lunch with the family. Then I added:
Have had a strange phone call, will explain when I see you.
Having texted, I walked on thinking about Marti. I could hardly believe we’d known one another for two years. We had the ideal relationship as far as I was concerned: she took me to the pub; I cooked her tea. We weren’t married, didn’t even live together. We’d both tried marriage before, twice in her case. I thought back to what my life had been like when I first met her. My wife had left me; I’d been recovering slowly from a stroke; I’d been off work for weeks. The way things had improved since then must be at least partly down to Marti. Taking early retirement from Salford council had helped too. Now I worked independently, a couple of days a week on average.
A little way further on, I reached Ordsall Tower, a down at heel 1970s skyscraper. As I went into the waiting area, a skinny man with a shaved head followed me in. He was of average height, late thirties at a guess.
“Do you work in Social Services, mate,” he asked in a southern accent, unzipping a red anorak that looked brand new.
I turned towards him to be hit by his boozy breath. He took his leather gloves off and stuffed them in his anorak pocket.
“Yeah.”
I’d long since given up telling people it was now called Children’s Services. Had been for years in fact.
“I thought you looked like a social worker,” he smiled, giving off beer fumes.
What do social workers look like, I could have asked.
“If you don’t mind,” he went on, “could you tell Josie that Simon’s here to see her.”
“Josie?”
The name didn’t ring a bell, but there’d been lots of newcomers recently.
“Yeah, Josie Finch.”
“OK, fine,” I shrugged.
“Cheers.”
He walked carefully to a seat near to an old couple, who looked on warily. I keyed in the security number outside the Children’s Services door, wondering whether Josie, whoever she was, would want to see someone who was slightly pissed at ten in the morning.
* * *
I walked through the room where the social work team sat after asking several people about Josie. Finally someone from admin told me she was the auditor and was using the boss’s office. I went to a door to the right with a sign saying Angela Bromwich. The latest in a long line of m
anagers since I’d first started at Ordsall Tower, I thought as I knocked and went in.
“Well, that doesn’t add up,” I heard a voice say from the other side of the room.
The youngish woman in the grey jumper sitting behind the desk had a London accent, I reckoned, well spoken by my standards. Thin, bordering on skinny, she looked like someone who ran marathons. Short, fair hair, neatly cut. Judging by her tan, she had been abroad recently.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “Are you Josie?”
She smiled half-heartedly, peering tiredly at me through glasses with red rectangular frames.
“Yes,” she said from behind the desk.
I caught a whiff of tobacco, then saw a packet of Benson and Hedges on the desk. Funny how the smell always lingered. Josie was too young for smoking to have affected her looks, I thought, but it would one day.
“I’m Gus Keane,” I said. “There’s someone in the waiting room asking for you.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“For me?”
“Says his name’s Simon.”
Her eyes opened wide and she looked as if she were holding her breath.
“Simon? How does he know I’m here? And how do you come to be...? What the hell’s going on?”
I shrugged, shaking my head.
“I just saw this feller on my way in and he said he wanted to see you. That’s all.”
Josie stared at me, her face impassive. She wriggled around in her seat.
“Right,” I said, unnerved by her silence. “Well, I’ve passed the message on. I’d better be off, got a meeting. Nice meeting you.”
I turned to go.
“No, wait.”
I turned back.
“Sit down a minute,” she said, “please.”
She weighed me up for a while, before speaking again.
“If you have time.”
I sat on a hard backed chair. She ran her fingers through her hair.
“Look, Gus, I’m really sorry I was rude. It’s just such a shock.”
I waited, confident she’d have more to say. I was right.
“Could you try and get rid of Simon?”
“I suppose so...”