SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  He sat without moving as if frozen in the moment he found his sister.

  “I knew she was dead.”

  “I know the police must have asked you this, Larry, but did you notice anything at all about your sister’s body?”

  “Well, there was bruising on her face as from a blow,” he said, the first time I had heard what had happened to Josie. “There wasn’t a lot of blood. It turned out the blow was from Josie’s walking stick. Natchow must have taken it with him afterwards. The police still haven’t found it.”

  His right hand was clenched as he carried on with his account.

  “What killed her was hitting her head on the tarmac. One of those freakish things...”

  He choked on the last words, as I imagined the crack of her skull on the ground.

  “Take it easy, there’s plenty of time,” I said.

  He looked down at the floor. I had to go on.

  “Did you realise Simon Natchow had been in the pub that night?”

  “Not at the time. Josie had told me he’d been looking for her in the office at Ordsall...?”

  “Tower.”

  “That’s it, but you know about that.”

  Shortly afterwards I left him with a promise to report back. Now all I had to do was look into a murder.

  * * *

  The tram got me back into Manchester Town Centre in time to keep my lunch appointment with Paul. Albert Square always reminded me of the Whit Walks. For years Catholics marched with fife and drum bands from Salford every Whit Friday. They would finish by assembling outside Manchester Town Hall in Albert Square. There they would sing Faith of Our Fathers, a hymn that extolled the virtues of martyrdom. I gave up Catholicism shortly after my mam had died. Now looking back on it, I was relieved to have left it all behind.

  A few minutes later, Paul and I sat in the Chop House, eating fish, chips and mushy peas. In his shiny suit, shirt and tie he looked ultra smart. I didn’t.

  “So what’s this job then, Gus,” he asked after a bit of social chit chat.

  I put salt on my chips. Sod the blood pressure for once.

  “Well, there’s two jobs now.”

  “Two?”

  I added vinegar and tasted. Just right.

  “I only heard about the second one this morning.”

  Deciding to deal with them in order, I made a start.

  “Did you hear about a bloke called Tattersall being killed,” I asked.

  He swallowed a mouthful of fish, then nodded.

  “The child abuser?”

  “That’s the one. Everybody seems to think he was killed because somebody found out about his offences.”

  “That’s the most likely solution.”

  “The boss at Ordsall Tower has asked me to find out how confidential information may have got out.”

  “Where do I come in?”

  I drank some water before replying.

  “Well, you live on the estate. See if you can pick up anything and pass it on.”

  He shrugged and put down his knife and fork.

  “I’ll see what I can do, Gus,” said Paul, “but there’s loads of rumours, know what I mean? It’s a question of working out what’s true and what isn’t.”

  I smiled at him.

  “I have every confidence in you, Paul.”

  “I’ll believe you, thousands wouldn’t,” he grinned. “What’s the other job?”

  I put my knife down on the side of my plate.

  “You might have heard about this one too. The murder of Josie Finch.”

  He chewed thoughtfully on a chip.

  “Finch? Was that the lass found in the Park Hotel?”

  “In the car park, yeah, that’s her.”

  After a bit more chewing he asked me what it was all about.

  “Well, Josie’s family want me to look into it.”

  I told him about my visit to Whitefield that morning and explained the involvement of Simon Natchow. He put forward his opinion.

  “Nine times out of ten the boyfriend did it, know what I mean?”

  By this time we were well on with our meals and Paul was thinking about getting back to work.

  “Anyway, what do you want me to do,” he asked.

  Good question, I thought.

  “The key time was late at night on the 28th February, a Tuesday.”

  “Right.”

  “After, say, half ten. If you can find out if anybody saw someone or something suspicious in the area round the pub. Anything unusual on the estate. You know the type of thing.”

  I handed him one of the picture of Josie Larry had given me.

  “That might come in handy,” I said.

  He looked sadly at the image of the smiling girl.

  “I’ll do my best, Gus.”

  “Hiya, Gus,” said a female voice as Paul put the photo in his jacket pocket.

  Looking up I saw Hannah standing by our table smiling at me. I said hello and introduced her to Paul.

  “Hannah works at Ordsall Tower,” I explained.

  “Cool,” said Paul as was his wont, “are you a social worker then?”

  Hannah shook her head, making eye contact with Paul.

  “No, receptionist.”

  I looked from one to the other of the young people.

  “She does a great job,” I told Paul. “We’d be lost without her.”

  Hannah smiled modestly.

  “What do you do, then, Paul?”

  Paul considered this for a second as if struggling with a complex dilemma.

  “Most of the time I work in IT,” he said, “but today I’m Gus’s assistant.”

  I waited expectantly to see if this would turn out to be a good chat up line. If I were any judge that had been Paul’s intention.

  “Assistant?”

  “Yeah, with his private eye work. Have you heard about that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “I know all about him stalking the mean streets of Ordsall and Little Hulton.”

  They shared a laugh.

  “What you doing to help Gus then?”

  Paul took a thoughtful sip of water.

  “I need to make some inquiries on Gus’s behalf,” he said, “mainly round the Ordsall area.”

  “Wow,” said Hannah. “I live in Ordsall. You’d better interview me.”

  She fished in her shoulder bag and pulled out a biro. Picking up a table napkin she wrote on it.

  “That’s my number,” she said, “give me a call.”

  Then she was off, saying something about her dinner getting cold.

  “Down to work straightaway,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

  Paul drank some more water.

  “That’s me, always on the job. In a manner of speaking.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  What more could I do about Josie? That was what I asked myself when I got back home that afternoon. I couldn’t just leave it to Paul. The answer came to me as I was checking my e-mails. Make a list. It was obvious really. Making a list was either a way of avoiding doing any work or an essential preparatory step to getting the job done more efficiently. Today I decided the latter interpretation was correct.

  I sat at the desk and got into business like mode. A notebook was waiting for me on top of a pile of paper as if it knew what was on my mind. I picked a pen from the cracked Simpsons mug that held such things. I remembered an interview I had read with a novelist whose name escaped me. She had said an empty page is the worst thing. I could soon put that right. Five minutes later I had come up with a list. On Monday I would start the investigation.

  At six o’clock I arrived at Marti’s. She smiled as she opened the door to me, giving me a hug and a kiss. She looked different somehow, certainly more cheerful, and was moving more freely. She looked even more desirable than usual in jeans and a tight, blue top.

  “You seem better,” I said as we went into her sitting room and sat on the settee.

  “I am. This is my first day without any painkillers.”<
br />
  She took my hand.

  “I’ve booked a table at La Gavroche,” she added. “A birthday treat.”

  I tried not to think of my last birthday treat.

  “Great. Is that the new French place?”

  Named after some really posh place in London, I recalled.

  “Yes,” said Marti. “I thought since I rather spoiled your actual birthday, I’d try again.”

  Was it Marti who had spoiled my birthday? Was there any point in apportioning blame?

  “So I’m to have two birthdays? Sounds good.”

  She stroked my hand.

  “And later, well, I don’t think I’d like to sleep on my own.”

  “I don’t think I’d like to sleep on my own either.”

  We sealed the deal with a kiss. So far, so good, I thought.

  “Now tell me what you’ve been doing,” she said. “I feel totally cut off from the outside world.”

  She sat up as if expecting exciting stories of my activities. I hoped I wouldn’t disappoint her.

  “I’ve been asked to investigate Josie Finch’s murder.”

  I explained what Larry had asked me to do.

  “And I think I’ve solved the mystery of how Josie knew you,” I told her.

  “Aren’t you clever,” she said, “Come on then, tell me.”

  I went through what Josie’s brother had told me about her youthful dope smoking. Marti pulled the sort of face that expressed doubt.

  “There’s more to it,” she said, shaking her head. “I remember her from somewhere else, something else, I know I do.”

  * * *

  The following Monday around lunchtime, I was listening to Rubber Soul, waiting for British Gas to come and fix the central heating. As Paul McCartney told someone called Baby she could drive his car, my mobile rang. I muted the sound on my iPod. Thinking it was the engineer to say he was on his way, I pulled the phone quickly out of my pocket.

  “Is that Gus,” said a woman’s voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hi, I’m Yarla Chester, Tony Murphy’s PA.”

  Yarla? Was that a name?

  “Hello.”

  “Gus, I need your help.”

  She sounded breathless, which added urgency to her request.

  “What kind of help?”

  “I can’t talk about it over the phone. Can I see you, like, now?”

  “Where are you?”

  A better question would have been, what the hell was this all about?

  “I’ve just got off the train in Manchester,” she said as if it were a foreign country.

  “Yeah, OK. You’ll have to come over here though...”

  “No problem.”

  “It’s not very warm. Central heating’s packed up, I’m just...”

  “Give me the address and I’ll jump in a taxi, be with you as quickly as I can.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I opened my door to a heavily made up woman, carrying a handbag and an A4 envelope. She had dark hair with blonde highlights. Maybe thirty odd, she wore a bright red jacket and skin tight legging type things.

  “Hi, I’m Yarla,” she said before she came rushing into the flat, wheeling a suitcase behind her.

  Then someone else knocked at the door before I’d even managed to close it.

  “British Gas, mate,” said a man with a pot belly.

  Why did everything happen at once? The heating engineer lugged his equipment into the kitchen. I showed him where the boiler was and explained the problem. Then I went looking for Yarla. I found her in the living room. She had taken her coat off and flung it on the settee beside her. The handbag and envelope rested on top of the coat. Huddled into her thick, baggy jumper, she sat with arms folded protectively across her chest. I sat on an armchair opposite her.

  “Do you want a drink, coffee or...”

  She shook her head violently as if I’d offered her crack cocaine.

  “No, let’s get started. I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

  Her accent spoke of privilege; her manner exuded confidence.

  “I want you to find Tony.”

  The question ‘what the bloody hell’s going on’ sprang to mind again. Life had taken on an air of surrealism since Tony had come back.

  “Find him?”

  She nodded.

  “He’s gone missing.”

  “Again,” I said.

  I shouldn’t have said that, I told myself, but recalled my mam’s words about Tony Murphy, Trouble with a capital T.

  “Again,” she repeated. “What do you mean?”

  "I’ll explain later,” I said.

  “I was going mad, sitting around waiting, so I got on the first train and came up here.”

  She spoke precisely, her full lips jutting out with each word. It was as though she’d had surgery to give herself a permanent pout.

  “Right.”

  “I said to myself, don’t call first, just go. That way I felt as if I was doing something.”

  “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Tony came up here last week, as you know,” she said. “I was expecting him back on Friday.”

  “Were you?”

  “Yes. He was supposed to come to the office, but he didn’t turn up.”

  “What makes you think he’s actually missing.”

  “Well, I’ve texted, phoned, called him at home, been to his house...no sign of him.”

  “Is this unusual?”

  “Oh, yes. I mean, he’s constantly in touch.”

  I had no idea if this woman was panicking for no reason. He could be anywhere, I thought. He might have stayed over with a friend on the way home or something. Maybe he’d lingered longer than planned. I put this to Yarla.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you – I’m in such a state...”

  “Forgot to tell me what?”

  She sighed.

  “He was planning to stay with his friend, Barry in Leighton Buzzard but he didn’t turn up.”

  “I see.”

  “If he couldn’t make it, he would have let Barry know. I’m worried, Gus.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want to hire me to find Tony?”

  “Tony told me you’re a private investigator.”

  I nodded.

  “And you’re his friend.”

  Was his friend, I could have told her. That was irrelevant. At the moment the more work I got the better.

  “Will you take the case?” she asked. “You’re not gonna say you’re too busy?”

  I thought for a while.

  “I am pretty chocker,” I lied, “but I think I could fit you in.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  She delved into her handbag and took out a purse. She handed me a wad of notes.

  “There’s about two hundred there for immediate expenses, travel and so on,” she explained. “I guess you have, like, an hourly rate or something?”

  “Forty pounds an hour,” I said, adding a tenner an hour to my usual fee.

  She looked as if she could afford it. And I’d always believed in the redistribution of wealth.

  “Is that all?”

  I cursed myself for not charging more.

  “Well, you know, for a mate...”

  “Tony said you were one of the good guys.”

  Some discordant metallic music disturbed the peace and she pulled her mobile out of her bag.

  “Mel, Hi,” she purred, “just in the middle of something...it’s, like, urgent? Manchester would you believe...yeah, speak soon.”

  She put her phone away.

  “Mélange, my sister.”

  So her sister was called Mélange. Obviously a bit of a mixture. There was a question I’d forgotten to ask.

  “Have you been to the police?”

  She shook her head, giving a little shiver.

  “Not a good idea.”

  Yarla sighed and sat back on the settee.

  “Tony wouldn’t want them involved with him in any way.
”

  “OK.”

  “Tony’s a risk taker,” she said, as if explaining how to tell the time to a child, “so he kind of takes risks.”

  I could have just about worked that out for myself. What I couldn’t work out was what sort of risks he took and why taking risks was a good thing anyway. I had a strong suspicion it was all meaningless bollocks and Yarla and Tony had both read the same book: Platitudes for Beginners. What would she come out with next?

  “He’s talked about people being after him.”

  Not to me, he hadn’t. Consett had been after him, though, hadn’t he?

  “I’m frightened for him.”

  There was a deep sadness behind her eyes as she twisted her hands together.

  “You see, Gus,” she said, “Ours wasn’t just a professional relationship. We had a bit of a thing going, you know? Not a conventional relationship of course.”

  Heaven forbid.

  “But with a man like Tony, that doesn’t matter. Please find him for me, Gus.”

  Could it be she really cared?

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She leaned over to pat my knee.

  “You’d better give me some details,” I said.

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, getting up.

  I came back with a notebook and pen.

  “I’ll need a recent photo.”

  She gave me the envelope.

  “There’s one in there.”

  I took the papers out of the envelope. Details of where Tony lived, office address, car registration, business contacts, e-mail address and close friends (precious few of them) were included.

  “Let me check some facts,” I said. “When did you last see Tony?”

  “The day he left for Manchester.”

  “Did he say anything about his plans?”

  She stroked her chin for a moment.

  “Yes, he was going to contact his mother as soon as possible...”

  “He managed that...”

  “He rang me after he’d seen her and he said he planned to look you up.”

  She moved around on the settee then sat still again.

  “He had a few bits of business to attend to, but he kept his cards close to his chest as far as that was concerned.”

  He didn’t tell his secretary? Pull the other one, Yarla. If I didn’t know where he had been, I was working with one hand tied behind my back.

  “Come on, Yarla, you must have some idea where he went and who he saw.”