SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  She shrugged in a way she thought was cute. I just found it annoying.

  “Really, Gus, I knew next to nothing about his work. I think he just liked having me around. Partly for, well, you know...”

  She lowered her eyes in mock modesty.

  “...and partly because he thought it looked good to have a PA.”

  That I could believe, though I was still sceptical. But if that was the way she wanted it, who was I to argue?

  “Did Tony mention anyone called Brenda?”

  “Brenda? No, he surely didn’t know anybody called Brenda?”

  * * *

  When she had gone I phoned Brenda to tell her about Yarla’s visit and what she wanted.

  “So she thinks he’s actually missing,” she said.

  “So it seems.”

  “History repeating itself.”

  Brenda must be wishing she’d never started this. So much of her past she would rather forget was coming back to haunt her.

  “Yeah. Just for the record, do you know where Tony is?”

  “No.”

  I thought what to do next. It would at least give the illusion of action if I went to see Brenda again, so I suggested it to her.

  “Yes, if you think it would help, fine,” she said. “Why don’t I come to you this time? I fancy a day out.”

  It would be easier for me, certainly.

  “Yeah, we could meet at Tony and Dino’s on Salford Quays, it sounds appropriate.”

  Brenda couldn’t make it until Wednesday so we arranged to meet there around twelve o’clock for lunch. Once again I entered the appointment in my diary. By the time I saw Brenda again it would be 14th March. March nearly half over and, though I was busy, I wasn’t really getting anywhere. Ah, well.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  An hour after Yarla left there was a knock on the door.

  “Now then,” said the man at the door, dressed in a suede jacket and beige polo neck.

  “Steve,” I said, “you’re early.”

  He followed me into the kitchen, wheeling his suitcase behind him and carrying two bottles of red wine.

  “Yeah, made good time,” he said, “not too much traffic for a change.”

  He sat at the table, handing the bottles to me.

  “Tea,” I asked.

  “Good idea.”

  I put the wine on a work surface by the sink, filled the kettle and put it on the hob.

  “How’s Dolgellau,” I asked, going back to the table.

  “As lovely as ever, you should move there, Gus.”

  I sighed. We’d had this conversation before.

  “No,” I said, “I agree it’s lovely as is most of North Wales, but I’m happy here.”

  Steve shrugged.

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  “It’s great to visit, but the delights of Salford always lure me back.”

  He chuckled quietly.

  “Anyway,” I said, “you’ve just missed Tony Murphy’s PA.”

  He laughed out loud.

  “You’re taking the piss.”

  I shook my head.

  “No, she was here, left about an hour ago. Rejoices in the name of Yarla.”

  “Yarla? God help us. What did she want?”

  “She wants me to find him.”

  “Find...? You mean he’s gone missing again?”

  “I’ll explain, shall I?”

  “Go on.”

  I told him what had been happening on planet Murphy, a different place from where the rest of us lived. I’d got to the point where Brenda told me about the son she’d had adopted when a whistling kettle interrupted me. Getting up, I made tea. Splashing milk into two mugs, I brought them and the pot to the table. Sitting down again, I finished the tale.

  “Well good luck with it,” he said, “though if he isn’t found for thirty odd years I for one won’t shed any tears.”

  Maybe I wouldn’t either.

  “I told you Murphy was trouble, didn’t I,” said Steve for good measure.

  “Not trouble for me. I’ve got some work out of it. And believe me I could do with it.”

  “Is this the only case you’ve got on then?”

  “No, it’s one of three actually.”

  “Three? What are the others about?”

  I told him about Josie Finch: a detailed account of her murder, how I came to know her and anything else I could think of.

  “Looks like you’ll have your hands full with that one. What about the third one?”

  I then explained about Tattersall and the need to know how the information about him got out.

  “So you haven’t been asked to find out who killed him?”

  “No.”

  “In that case the Josie Finch case sounds more interesting. How are you going to go about it?”

  I thought for a moment before answering, discarding ‘dunno really’ and ‘I’m still thinking about it’.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve made a list.”

  “Made a list, eh?”

  Did I detect a note of cynicism in his words?

  “That’s half the battle,” he added, driving the point home. “I think we’ll have it cracked in no time.”

  “Bound to.”

  He sighed and sat up in his chair.

  “OK, let’s have a look at this famous list.”

  I went to the spare room and brought back an A4 sheet, placing it flat on the table. I sat next to Steve. On the Copelaw case a couple of years ago I had found his detective’s analysis helpful. We perused the list together:

  Interview Arthur

  Interview Angela Bromwich

  Interview Simon Natchow

  Interview Tony Murphy

  Interview Karen Davidson

  “I thought that’d be quite enough to be going on with,” I said.

  Steve looked down the items again.

  “Too true, that lot will take a while.”

  “How much of it have you actually done?”

  “Er, let me see...nothing.”

  He laughed.

  “Well,” I said in justification, “I only got the case on Friday and I don’t work on weekends if I can help it.”

  Steve picked up the sheet of paper and held it out as if practising some weird ritual.

  “Right. Are we eating in or out tonight?”

  I assumed he had tired of the investigation already.

  “In. There’s coq au vin in the slow cooker.”

  “Love in a lorry, great.”

  I laughed dutifully at one of Steve’s favourite jokes.

  “You can’t beat the old ones,” I said.

  Steve got up, picking up his bag.

  “Here’s the plan,” he said, sounding as I imagined he used to when giving a briefing for Manchester police, “early doors we go to the Park Hotel for a pre-prandial pint and deal with point one on the list.”

  I should have thought of that.

  “And now,” Steve continued, “I shall retire to my sleeping quarters to unpack. I take it I’m in the blue room again?”

  “I trust sir will find everything to his satisfaction.”

  As I watched my friend walk away, I could only hope that by talking to Arthur tonight I’d get a lead.

  * * *

  On the way to the pub later Steve went on about his two favourite things. I did my best to switch off during the first of these: his new BMW. Eventually my lack of response led Steve onto a topic I had more interest in: the form of Manchester United, who were battling it out for the title with City. I had fond memories of the 1960s team with Best, Charlton et al who lit up my childhood. Steve and I used to walk to the ground with my dad. I had supported them ever since, like all true Salfordians, even through the bad times, though Rugby League always came first.

  “You know, Steve,” I said, “the last time we saw Tony was in the year United got relegated.”

  “Dark days,” he said without the least trace of irony.

  “Don’t know about
that. Salford were doing well.”

  Steve pulled a face; if I hadn’t played for them the progress of his home town rugby league team wouldn’t have figured in his life. I’d tried telling him it was part of his working class heritage but he wouldn’t listen. Anything that sounded left wing was anathema to Steve, as was any suggestion he was working class.

  “Talking of Tony,” he said, “what do you reckon has happened to him this time?”

  I shrugged.

  “I’d say he’s just buggered off, leaving everyone in the lurch again. The idea of responsibility is too much for him. He’s only bothered about himself.”

  * * *

  As we went inside the Park Hotel, Arthur looked up from behind the bar and gave us a wave.

  “Now then, Gus,” he said as we got nearer, “I see you’ve brought Superintendent Yarnitzky, retired, with you.”

  “All right, Arthur,” said Steve.

  “You’ll be ready for a pint after your long journey from the wilds of Wales.”

  We ordered two pints of Red Devil. Arthur began pulling them as I looked round the room. Apart from Steve and me at the bar, the only other customers were two couples sat at tables at either end of the room.

  “Looks like adulterers’ happy hour,” suggested Steve.

  “Cynic,” I said, “they’re probably happily married.”

  Arthur spoke from behind the beer pump.

  “Oh, aye, to somebody else.”

  When the laughter had died down, I decided to broach the first subject on the agenda.

  “Arthur,” I said quietly as he continued pulling the pints, “have you got time for a word?”

  He stopped what he was doing for a moment.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Now’s the best time, while it’s quiet.”

  It was that all right. The drinkers engaged in illicit encounters were whispering.

  “It’s about Josie Finch,” I explained.

  “Oh, aye? What about her?”

  “Her brother has asked me to look into her murder.”

  He pulled the rest of the pint before saying any more.

  “Has he? So this is work, is it? Where do you come in, Steve?”

  I answered before Steve could get a word in.

  “He’s my assistant,” I said, “he’s on work experience.”

  Arthur laughed as Steve looked daggers at me.

  “Just for that you can buy the beer.”

  We took the glasses Arthur handed to us.

  “Why doesn’t her brother leave it to the police,” asked the landlord.

  After a first mouthful, I told him about Larry’s frustration that the police had insufficient evidence to nail Natchow for the crime.

  “So the family are convinced he did it,” asked Arthur.

  I got my wallet out and extracted a £10 note.

  “Yes,” I said, handing over the money. “They want me to prove it.”

  “Good luck to you, Gus, but if the police can’t prove it...”

  He gave a philosophical shrug, went to the till and came back with my change.

  “Well, let’s see what you remember about that night.”

  He breathed in, then out again, puffing out his cheeks.

  “You’ve got to remember I was busy serving and doing the quizmaster bit.”

  And any recollection he had would be partial and subjective, but I wasn’t going to let that put me off. I moved on to my first question.

  “What time did Simon Natchow arrive that night?”

  “Pass.”

  I pulled a face.

  “Make an effort, Arthur.”

  He grinned at me.

  “Sorry, mate, I couldn’t resist that. Anyway, you were there.”

  This was going to be hard work, I could see that.

  “I know, but I want to check whether you remember it in the same way I do.”

  “Fair point,” he acknowledged. “It was after a couple of rounds of the quiz, so...half nine, just after...give or take.”

  That sounded about right. I took another drink. It tasted as nice as ever. Maybe being named after Salford Rugby League club gave it a special quality.

  “Had he been in before?”

  “Yeah, come to think of it he used to come in with that Tattersall now and again.”

  Was that relevant, I wondered? Should I have tackled Simon about his friend, Edward? A different case, I told myself, concentrate on the matter in hand.

  “Had you had any bother with him any other time?”

  He wiped the bar while thinking about this.

  “Not like on the night of the quiz, but every time he came in he’d already had a few.”

  “Right.”

  That sounded like pretty typical, I thought, as I recalled the morning he came into Ordsall Tower looking for Josie. I could see him in my mind’s eye, swigging at the whisky bottle he had taken from his pocket.

  “He’d get a bit loud, you know,” Arthur added, “truculent, I suppose you’d say, but he never really overstepped the mark.”

  How did you decide when somebody had overstepped the mark?

  “After you chucked him out,” I went on, “did you see him again?”

  “No. I haven’t laid eyes on him since then. I don’t bloody want to.”

  “What about your staff? Have they said anything about seeing him?”

  He shook his head.

  “Sorry. One or two have talked about seeing him around since poor Josie got killed, but not on the actual night.”

  If Natchow really didn’t come back to the pub then somebody else killed Josie, that much was obvious. So I’d better ask different questions.

  “Right. Around the time we left,” I said, “say eleven o’clock or thereabouts. Did you go into the car park?”

  Arthur straightened a towel on the bar.

  “No, we were clearing up in here. Everybody else decided to go home when you did.”

  ‘So if Simon had come back you wouldn’t have seen him?”

  “Not if he stayed outside. And before you ask, there’s no CCTV.”

  There wouldn’t be, not when you needed it.

  “Two people did come back, though,” said Arthur after a moment’s thought.

  “Who?”

  “Well, your friend and mine, Tony – he’d come back for his fags and lighter. And that nice lass you work with. Karen. She’d left a scarf on the back of a chair. Said it was a present, didn’t want to lose it.”

  That didn’t tell me much I thought as Arthur went on.

  “Come to think of it, I’ve got some photos of the quiz night.”

  “Right,” I said. “Let’s have a look at them, see if they trigger any memories.”

  “Sit down and I’ll get the iPad.”

  While Arthur was gone, we sat at a table nearby and sipped our beers. When he got back he put the iPad on the table and switched on. He found the photos and left us to it. We spent a few minutes looking at a seemingly endless stream of images of people bent in concentration over sheets of paper. There were snaps of people who had noticed they were being photographed pulling funny faces at the camera.

  “There’s Natchow,” I said after a while.

  He was resplendent in his red anorak, or as near as he ever came to resplendence. Another shot of Natchow caught the moment when he approached our table.

  “They haven’t inspired any new insights, Steve,” I said. “The trouble is they are all taken inside. The important things happened outside.”

  I turned to Steve.

  “Any thoughts?”

  He scrolled through the photos again then stopped after about half a dozen. He stared intently at the picture he’d got to.

  “What was she doing here?”

  I looked over to him, puzzled.

  “She was at the quiz, I told you. That’s...”

  “I know who she is.”

  The world was full of surprises, I thought.

  “You know Josie Finch?”

 
Steve looked at me as if I were mad, pointing to one of the pictures.

  “That’s Josie Finch,” I said.

  His eyes opened wide.

  “Josie Finch? Never in the memory of man,” he said, “that’s Michelle Adams.”

  We seemed to be at cross purposes.

  “Michelle who?”

  Steve tutted.

  “Michelle Adams. You must remember her.”

  “Can’t say I do,” I replied, looking at the photo.

  “She was the girlfriend of Edward Keith, who killed a little boy called Jack Hinton in Norfolk.”

  That stirred an indistinct memory.

  “She covered up for him,” Steve went on, “got done for perverting the course of justice. Probably out of prison by now.”

  I tried to take in what Steve was saying.

  “And you think that’s her?”

  He nodded.

  “But she can’t be,” I countered.

  He had another look at Josie.

  “Let me get this straight. This woman here,” he said, pressing his thumb on the screen, “is the one who got killed in the Park Hotel car park?”

  “Correct.”

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  “But she’s the image of Michelle Adams.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said after a bit of pensive beer drinking.

  “Think about it, Gus,” said Steve. “When she got out of prison she would have been given a new identity for her own safety.”

  The idea that what Steve was saying was actually true began to filter through my brain.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “This is what happens when you get mixed up in a murder.”

  “Bloody hell,” I said. “Why can’t anything be straightforward?”

  He chuckled over his pint.

  “Cos Gus Keane doesn’t do straightforward. I mean, with most murders you just have to look for the Sybil Fawlty solution.”

  “Sybil Fawlty?”

  What was he on about now?

  “You know, Sybil’s chosen specialist subject on Mastermind: the bleeding obvious.”

  How could I have forgotten?

  “But once you get involved, it gets complicated.”

  I mulled over the Michelle Adams/Josie Finch dilemma.

  “On reflection,” I said, “wouldn’t it have got out by now? And she would surely have changed her appearance. Grown her hair, dyed it black or whatever, worn contact lenses.”

  I sipped more beer.