by Bud Craig
This didn’t sound too good.
“I’m not sure exactly,” I said, thinking hard. “It would have been just before I left the pub.”
She wrote a note before speaking again.
“What time was this?”
I shrugged.
“About 11, I suppose, maybe a bit before. I can’t tell you to the minute.”
“So when you last saw her, where was she?”
I tried to picture the scene.
“On the way out...the back way. She said her brother would be picking her up soon in the car park.”
“What happened next?”
What had happened next? Nothing that stood out certainly.
“Well, everyone else left...and I went to the gents. I walked home.”
She took more notes.
“Look,” I said, “are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Josephine Elizabeth Finch’s brother, Laurence,” Sarita announced formally, “found her body in the Park Hotel car park at ten past eleven last night.”
“Bloody hell.”
“We’re treating her death as suspicious.”
Life’s a bugger, I said to myself, she wasn’t old enough to die. I thought of all the things she hadn’t done and the pain her parents must be feeling.
“That must have been a bit after I left,” I said, “I remember it started to rain around then.”
She pulled a face.
“Which made it even more of a bloody nightmare. Anyway, what can you tell me about Josie?”
I took a deep breath and tried to collect my thoughts.
“A surprising amount,” I said, “seeing as how I only met her on Friday.”
“Go on.”
“I take it you’ve heard about Simon Natchow?”
“The ex-boyfriend, yes. Do you know him?”
“He arrived at Ordsall Tower on Friday just as I did,” I explained. “He asked if Josie was in. I’d never heard of her at that time, but said I’d try and find her.”
I pictured Simon in his red anorak, remembering the smell of drink on his breath.
“Anyway, when I found her she told me Simon used to knock her about. I presume you know that.”
She wrote more notes.
“Yes, we’re aware of that,” she said.
“I told him nobody called Josie worked at Ordsall Tower. He got stroppy and I asked him to leave.”
“Right.”
“I threatened him with the police and he went off muttering.”
I edited that bit, omitting the part where I pushed him back in his seat.
“The next time I saw her was Monday lunchtime in the Temple.”
Sarita looked up from her notebook.
“Monday, you say?”
“Yes.”
I went through the events of that lunchtime, particularly my overhearing Josie speaking on the phone about knowing Marti.
“Mmm,” said the Inspector, adding a few words to her book, “are you sure about this?”
“Course I am.”
“And did Marti know her?”
I shrugged.
“She thought she looked familiar but couldn’t think how she might know her.”
If what I had told her meant anything to Inspector Ellerton she wasn’t saying.
“We’ll need to talk to Marti about this.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could wait a while.”
I wanted Marti left in peace to recover.
“Quite.”
“Let’s get back to Natchow. Did you see him last night?”
She must have known this by now, but I would tell her anyway. I went through what happened when he approached our table.
“So he definitely threatened her?”
“Yes.”
She sipped more ersatz coffee before continuing.
“Did you see Natchow when you left the pub or on your way home?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Well, I suppose I must have seen someone. Nobody I can remember particularly.”
More notes followed. She sat back in her chair.
“Do you know where your friend, Mr Murphy is now?”
“Not really, he was staying at the Midland, that’s all I can tell you.”
“Where did he go after he left the Park Hotel?”
“Back to the hotel, I presume. They were getting a cab.”
“They?”
“Yeah, him and Angela Bromwich.”
“What?”
“Yeah, they’d got friendly as the evening wore on.”
She took yet more notes.
“But...”
She stopped herself in mid-stream. Don’t tell me, I wanted to say, Angela said she’d gone to Karen’s for a nightcap. DI Ellerton said nothing. I couldn’t help wondering if Angela’s husband would find out about her and Tony.
“But what,” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said, “I just thought of something I have to do. To get back to Mr Murphy, I need to speak to him. Perhaps if you see him, you could let me know. And tell him to get in touch.”
“Sure.”
On my way out, I pondered all the things that had happened that day. Josie Finch was dead. I couldn’t help thinking I hadn’t heard the last of her. I got to the car park and, opening the car door, I began to consider the exact nature of my relationship with Marti. She had seemed friendly enough, affectionate even. We did, though, soap opera style, need to talk. It could wait, I told myself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning after my usual walk, shower, bowl of porridge and blood pressure medication, I went to the spare room, sometimes known as my office and started work on the task of finding Brenda. Not rating my chances of success at all highly, I took the phone book from the bookshelf. This was on the basis that a direct approach might be best. If, as seemed likely, this didn’t work, I would go online. It might even be worth going round the Ordsall estate on the off chance somebody might remember her or her family.
Undaunted by the number of McDonalds in the book, I focused on the ones with the initial letter B. I took out my mobile and began dialling. After I’d said ‘can I speak to ‘Brenda, please’ a dozen times and got the reply ‘wrong number’ the odds got longer. Quite apart from the problem with the surname, this approach was based on the assumption she was still in the Manchester area.
“Could I speak to Brenda, please,” I said again.
“Speaking.”
Was this thirteenth time lucky?
“Hello, my name’s Gus Keane...”
“Who?”
I repeated my name.
“Do I know you?”
I thought it over. The voice didn’t sound right. I asked if she had lived in Salford in the seventies.
“Salford? Certainly not.”
She’d put the phone down before I could offer an apology. I decided to abandon the phone calls at least temporarily. I put my mobile away and switched on the laptop. I googled Brenda McDonald and waited. There were thousands of them, mostly in the USA. Too many to cope with. I added UK and tried again. It still listed Brenda McDonalds from California and New York City and told me various women of that name were on Facebook and Linkedin.
I scrolled down pages of McDonalds and then went back to the beginning. After another look I saw Brenda McDonald Secretarial Agency. It was worth a try, I decided, clicking on the link. Getting into the website I saw it was a business in Sheffield, a place I liked. Rachel had been a student there and, apart from time spent trying and failing to find my way round the one-way system, I had fond memories of the city.
What to do, I asked myself? I went to the contact section and wrote down the phone number. Digging out the mobile again, I dialled the familiar 0114 code for Sheffield. After half a dozen rings a south Yorkshire voice answered.
“Brenda McDonald agency, how can I help you?”
Another hurdle to jum
p, I thought.
“Could I speak to Brenda, please?”
A slight hesitation before the woman spoke again.
“Who should I say is calling?”
“It’s Gus Keane.”
There was silence for a couple of minutes. I thought I’d been cut off. Then another voice said:
“Gus, is it really you?”
“Yeah. Is that Brenda? From Salford?”
“Certainly is.”
Even over the phone I could tell this was a different Brenda from the gauche teenager I had known. Her confidence came bounding across the wire.
“This is a surprise, Gus. How are you?”
“Fine, what about you?”
“Fine, you know...but I don’t think you’ve phoned to have a chat, have you?”
“No. I’ve got something to tell you.”
I was relieved not to have to go through a lot of polite exchanges. I took a deep breath and got on with it.
“I had a call from Tony Murphy on Monday morning.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Brenda.
“Bloody hell,” she said.
“Just what I thought.”
“Well, where is he? Did he...?”
“I saw him Tuesday night in the Park Hotel...”
“Bloody hell,” she said again. “Sorry, I don’t usually swear so much. It’s just been so long since I thought about that place. You must be still living in Salford then?”
“Yeah. Salford Quays. Tony’s living in London – he’s up here on business.”
“Did he tell you why he went off all those years ago?”
“Yes.”
I went on quickly before she asked me to say any more.
“He asked me to trace you and...”
I wondered what to say next. Brenda cut in.
“And what?”
“Well, he wants me to...sound you out about you and him seeing one another.”
I waited, wondering if I’d explained it properly.
“Why doesn’t he contact me himself? Why ask you to do it?”
A good question, I thought.
“Well, one reason is I’m a private investigator...”
“Never...”
“The other is he wants somebody to pave the way. A third party if you like.”
Neither of us spoke for a while.
“I see,” said Brenda, “in a way, you know, this could be quite good timing. Serendipity, do they call it?”
“Shouldn’t wonder.”
Must look it up later.
“Well, if you want to come and see me, I’m up for it. I can explain properly then.”
I agreed to go to Sheffield that afternoon. So I’d managed the first two parts of my job. Nice one, Gus. She suggested I go to her office and gave me directions from the station. I gave her my phone numbers and e-mail address.
“Great, I must dash, Gus,” she said, once we’d got the meeting organised, “see you later.”
I ended the call with a lot to think about. Tony’s reappearance must trigger off so much in Brenda, I thought. Tony was just a friend to me, maybe former friend would be more accurate. To Brenda he was or had been...what exactly? Boyfriend, lover, the father of her child. I was reminded of my feelings for Louise. She was the mother of my children. If nothing else joined us together that would. Forever. I looked at my watch. Plenty of time to go and see Marti before I left for Sheffield.
* * *
I walked onto the ward feeling a bit more relaxed. Marti was reading today’s Guardian. A glass vase on the bedside table contained the flowers I had ordered. Hearing me come in she put the paper down and smiled. She looked rested and the swelling on her face was subsiding.
“Hiya,” I said, handing over a carrier bag and kissing her.
“Hi. Thanks for the roses, they’re lovely.”
She rummaged in the bag.
“Oh, you brought the stuff too. Thanks.”
“That’s OK. I went round to your house last night.”
“What’s new in the outside world?”
For once the answer ‘not much’ wouldn’t suffice.
“You know Josie Finch,’ I asked.
“Josie Finch,” she said, looking puzzled for a moment. “Oh, the mystery woman. What about her?”
“She’s been murdered.”
“Murdered? God, whatever next?”
I explained about the quiz and being interviewed by Sarita, who Marti knew quite well through her work. In fact, she knew all the police officers in Greater Manchester and all their private affairs.
“Have you thought any more about how you came to know her,” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “Not the best of times for remembering things. My brain hurts.”
“I told the DI what I overheard in the Temple car park. They’ll want to see you at some point, but I’ve managed to stall them.”
She took my hand, settling herself in a more comfortable position.
“They won’t get much out of me unless I have a flash of inspiration.”
We talked a bit about Natchow and the threat he had posed to Josie.
“I managed to trace Brenda as well.”
Again, she didn’t catch on straight away.
“You know, Tony’s ex.”
I told her of my plan to go to Sheffield.
“She must have got a shock,” said Marti.
“She said it was serendipity. I looked it up in the Concise Oxford Dictionary: the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.”
Marti looked at me.
“Happy or beneficial?”
We would see.
* * *
I got the tram to Manchester Piccadilly that afternoon. The 14.20 to Sheffield was on time and as it pulled out I was safely ensconced in my seat in carriage B, reading A Little Death by Laura Wilson on my Kindle. Was there some significance in the title, I wondered? Could any death be called little? Regardless of that, I got so involved in it I found it hard to drag myself away to look at the Peak District scenery.
I did break off from reading at New Mills. Brenda had been on my mind since I had arranged to meet her. She still was. What would she look like? Did I even remember clearly what she’d looked like at 16 or 17? She was small, I remembered that much. She had to be to go out with Tony. I’d half decided to tell her as little as possible of what Tony had told me. It was his responsibility to explain what he’d done. It was my job to listen to Brenda. If she wanted to see him, or indeed if she didn’t, I would let Tony know and leave it at that. I wasn’t going to try and persuade her either way.
* * *
The Brenda McDonald Secretarial Agency was on the third floor of a glass and steel tower block near the Crucible Theatre, where Louise, Rachel, Danny and I sometimes used to watch the snooker during Rachel’s student days. At about twenty past three I went up in the lift and walked along the corridor, mildly affected by that queasy anxiety that used to come upon me before job interviews. I knocked on the glass door, opened it and went in. In a cramped room a woman of about twenty odd sat behind a desk, talking into the phone. She sounded like the one who answered my call the previous day.
“Well, if you’d like to send us your CV,” she was saying.
She broke off to look across at me, giving a brief smile and indicating a chair behind me.
“I won’t be a minute,” she said, covering the mouthpiece. “Just take a seat.”
I sat down, took off my anorak and looked at the framed certificates on the cream walls. It seemed Brenda had won quite a few awards in the recruitment industry.
“That’s right, yes,” the secretary went on, “look forward to hearing from you. ‘bye.”
Putting the phone down, she gave me her full attention.
“Sorry about that, how can I help?”
“Gus Keane to see Brenda.”
She looked at me appraisingly.
“So you’re the famous Gus.”
“H
ardly famous.”
She picked up the phone and pressed a couple of digits.
“You’re famous here, Brenda’s talked of nothing else since yesterday... Brenda, Gus is here... Fine, will do.”
She put the phone down again.
“She says tea or coffee?”
“Tea please,” I smiled
“Just go through that door behind me.”
Getting up I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. That job interview feeling came back as I walked towards the door. I wondered for a moment whether something more formal than jeans and trainers would have been more suitable. Too late now. Giving a peremptory tap, I opened the door and went in. Brenda was sitting behind an impressive oak desk. Smiling, she got up and walked towards me.
“Gus,” she said, arms open wide.
She gave me a hug.
“It’s good to see you.”
Taken aback by this effusive greeting, I waited until she had released me before I spoke.
“Good to see you too, Brenda.”
We stood for a moment in the middle of the room, looking at one another. She was stockier, having thickened out a bit, but by no means fat. Looking at her grey skirt, her black and white jumper and short hair, expertly cut, the word well-groomed seemed appropriate. Her whole demeanour was what made the biggest impact. It confirmed the impression I had got over the phone. I am a confident, successful woman with enviable social skills, she seemed to be saying.
“You’re looking good,” I said.
“You too, Gus.”
Just as we had sat down on armchairs at a low table near the window, the receptionist came in with a tray.
“Ah, here’s Zoe with our tea.”
There was a pause while Zoe fussed around, making sure we had everything we needed. After she had left, Brenda engaged me in conversation as she poured tea from a brown pot. Soon she knew about my marriage, divorce, kids, granddaughter.
“What about you, Brenda,” I asked when I finally got the chance, “are you married.”
“No, I’ve lived with a couple of guys,” she said with a wry smile, “No kids with either of them.”
She explained this in a straightforward way, so it was difficult to tell if she minded or not.
“I suppose that made me easier to find,” she went on, “I’ve always been McDonald.”
It certainly had, I thought.
“You being here now, and everything that led to it,” she said, “well, it’s brought back a lot of stuff...”