by Bud Craig
He looked up from his perusal of the card, which seemed to hold endless fascination for him.
“I thought you were a social worker.”
I put my wallet back in my pocket.
“I’m versatile. I’d like your help with a couple of things.”
“Like what?”
It suddenly struck me that Natchow was sober. There was a first time for everything.
“Firstly, I want to ask you about the tragic death of Josie Finch.”
He leaned forward, his hands joined together and resting on his lap.
“Tragic is right. I only wish I could get my hands on whoever killed her.”
He sank back into the cushions.
“Josie’s brother has asked me on behalf of her family to look into her death,” I said.
He breathed in as though building up to something.
“That Larry, he didn’t like me. I bet he thinks I killed Josie.”
“He’s suspicious.”
“Well, I didn’t kill her, you can get that out of your head for a start.”
He pointed his finger angrily at me.
“I’m gutted about Josie dying, gutted. I still had hopes she’d see sense and we could get back together.”
She’d seen sense all right.
“You can help me,” I said, “because you knew Josie and because you saw her not long before she died.”
He said nothing, seeming to have gone into a trance.
“Who might have killed her, Simon, that’s what we have to think about?”
He shook his head.
“Some nutter, that’s what I think. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nobody who knew Josie would have killed her.”
Somebody did kill her, I reminded myself, and most murder victims are killed by somebody known to them. It might, in Simon’s words, be ‘some nutter’, but the odds were against it.
“When you left the Park Hotel on the night Josie died, where did you go?”
“Here we go again, I went through all this with the police. They wanted to pin it on me too.”
I looked him in the eye, hoping that would make him go on talking.
“Oh, I don’t suppose it will do any harm to tell you,” he said. “It might get rid of you quicker.”
He leant forward again.
“I went home, went to bed and fell asleep. The cops woke me up about half two in the morning.”
“Right.”
“They took me down to the station. Questioned me for hours, they did. Checked the clothes I was wearing that night. Fingerprints, DNA, the lot. Eventually they let me go.”
Would I simply have to accept that Natchow couldn’t have killed his girlfriend? So who did?
“In the time you knew her, was Josie ever mistaken for somebody else?”
“No, what are you getting at?”
“Just a line of inquiry I’m following,” I said with a touch of smugness. “Did she ever meet anyone who thought they recognised her but she didn’t know them?”
A look of bafflement spread over his face.
“What is this?
“Just answer the question.”
“The answer’s no. Is that all? Because I have better things to do than sit here answering stupid questions.”
Such as, I wondered?
“This won’t take much longer. Before I go, Simon, can I ask you about Tony Murphy?”
He scowled again.
“It’ll save me coming back,” I added.
That clinched it.
“Go on then. What’s that wanker done now?”
A good question, I thought. The way it was phrased suggested a history of things he’d done which led to his unpopularity with Simon.
“Well, his secretary is worried about him, she hasn’t seen him for several days and doesn’t know where he is. She’s asked me to try and find him.”
He pursed his lips.
“I’ll tell you what, mate, when you do find him ask him where my money is.”
This was becoming more interesting by the minute.
“How did you know Tony?” I prompted.
“When I lived in London with Josie,” he said, “I was earning good money and looking for promising investments.”
I was wondering why those words sounded familiar when I remembered what Josie said the day I first met her in Ordsall Tower. Something about Simon’s bad investments, wasn’t it?
“Well,” he went on, “I met Tony Murphy down the George and Dragon, you know in Lekeren Grove...”
Can’t say I do, Simon, I thought.
“...and I thought, ‘top man’, you know. Only little but larger than life type of thing. He seemed to know what he was on about.”
Talked a good game in other words. I’d met a few like that.
“He was doing all right for himself, you could see that. Had this posh car salesroom in Hammersmith. He was looking for small investors to help him expand.”
I’m ahead of you, Simon, I thought.
“Well, the long and the short of it is I invested, correction, gave him twenty grand and I haven’t see a penny of it since.”
The idea that Tony Murphy was a little twat lodged itself in my mind and wouldn’t be shifted. If that were the case, the worst of it was that Steve would be proved right. And my mam. Bugger.
* * *
Later that day I got into my car and headed towards the M602. I slipped a homemade CD in the player. Some Songs it was called. How did I think of that one? The motorways around Manchester – sometimes there seemed to be hundreds of them – were nearly always busy but today traffic was no too bad. As Bob Seger belted out Feel Like A Number, I drove at a steady 65, overtaking the odd lorry, but sticking mainly to the inside lane. There was plenty of time. Within 15 minutes I was driving past the terraced houses on Manchester Road in Walkden.
Before setting out I had checked the electoral register in the library in Robert Hall Street to get Mrs Murphy’s address. I hadn’t been able to find her phone number, so just hoped she’d be in when I got there. According to Tony she had remembered me when he saw her, which might help. But how would I approach my task? Telling her that her son may be missing again wasn’t going to be easy.
Turning left off Manchester Road in Little Hulton I went slowly down Kenyon Way, trying to gauge where the flat might be. When I thought I’d got somewhere near it I pulled into the side of the road. I got out and locked up, walking over to a two storey block of flats, checking the numbers. I found the one I was looking for and rang the bell. Before I’d had time to think a woman in her eighties, short and dumpy, was talking to me.
“Yes?”
“Mrs Murphy?”
She looked me up and down as if working out whether she could trust me.
“That’s right.”
“Hello, Mrs Murphy. I’m Gus Keane, don’t know if you...”
Her eyes opened wide.
“Gus! Come in, come in.”
She stepped back and I crossed the threshold. Only the smallness of the lounge stopped it looking like part of a show house on a modern estate. Everything was brand new: the three-piece suite, the burgundy carpet, the flat screen telly on its stand that dominated the room. The walls and skirting boards gleamed with fresh paint, the glass topped table had been polished to within an inch of its life.
“Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, disappearing out of another door on the other side of the room.
I heard her moving about in what I assumed was the kitchen. Some minutes elapsed before she returned with a tray. Jumping up, I took it from her, placed it carefully on the table and sat down again. She sat opposite me.
“You saw Tony then,” she said.
“Yes. It was quite a surprise hearing from him.”
She smiled again.
“How do you think I felt? I got the shock of my life.”
I looked at her. She showed the obvious signs of aging: hair completely white; wrinkles around the eyes; liver spots on
the back of the hand. There was an alertness about her though, a kind of toughness that could withstand any number of shocks. Or was that wishful thinking on my part? Was I just hoping she’d cope with the shock I was about to give her?
“I was pleased to see him, course I was, especially when he’s doing so well.”
A faraway look came into her eyes.
“Oh, but I gave him such a telling off. You wouldn’t believe it.”
I thought I would believe it.
“Anyway, help yourself to tea and cake. You can be mother.”
As I poured tea into Manchester United mugs, she went on with what she was saying.
“I said to him, I said, ‘It’s not just me you should be going to see. What about Brenda? What about your friends?’”
I took a piece of fruit cake and looked at the framed family photographs on top of cupboards around the room. I thought I could make out a couple of Tony at 18, one with me and Steve.
“Lovely cake,” I said.
It was nearly as nice as mine.
“Oh, do you like it? I still do a lot of baking. Anyway, I said you get in touch with Brenda and try and make things right with her. Then you do the same with Gus and Steve.”
I was strangely touched at her concern, misplaced as it was. Had I never heard from Tony again it wouldn’t have bothered me. It was different for Mrs Murphy and Brenda.
“Right. Er, Tony’s secretary has been in touch. She’s a bit...she’s wondering where he is.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, she was expecting him back in London by now and she’s asked me to see if I can find out where he might be.”
She sighed.
“He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready.”
Was she putting on a brave face or had she developed a philosophical outlook on life during those years when she thought she’d never see her youngest son again?
“When did you last see him,” I asked.
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“So you just saw him the once? He’s not been back since?”
She sipped her tea.
“No, he phoned though. Told me he’d seen Brenda in Sheffield. I’d been hoping he’d have news of my grandson...”
She wiped a tear away with the back of her hand.
“Brenda had him adopted apparently. She has no idea where he is.”
Oh, yes, she does, I wanted to say but that would have been like twisting the knife. Tony really was a bastard, wasn’t he? Was I to be forever asking myself what the hell he was playing at? It seemed such a pointless lie. What should I say to Tony’s mam, that was the question? My dilemma was postponed by the turning of a key in the back door. I heard the door close and the sound of footsteps into the kitchen.
“It’s only me, Bernadette,” said a man’s voice.
“Right.”
The man started singing American Pie to the accompaniment of the opening and closing of cupboard doors.
“It’s Vic, my brother. He’s just brought my shopping.”
The uncle who came looking for Tony after he went missing.
“I remember Vic, how is he?”
“All right. Him and his wife help me out a lot. He’s a grandfather now.”
“Me too.”
“Oh, lovely.”
We spent some time talking about my family and the chance to talk further about Brenda had gone. Much to my relief. Then the kitchen door opened and a man who looked about sixty odd came in.
“Your shopping’s all put away...”
He looked towards me as Mrs Murphy said:
“I’ve got company.”
“All right, mate.”
I smiled.
“You remember Gus, don’t you, Vic?”
I looked again at the man. Not much hair, a jowly look, a prominent paunch straining against the belt of his jeans. It must be Vic Kennelly, but I’d never have guessed. He stared at me like a man faced with an impenetrable puzzle.
“Gus?”
He shook his head.
“Not Gus Keane?”
“Vic, how are you?”
He shrugged, moving from one foot to another as if embarrassed, then sat next to his sister on the settee.
“Not bad.”
“Help yourself to tea, Vic,” said Mrs Murphy.
“No, ta, Bernadette. I can only stop a minute. Anyway, Gus, what brings you here?”
I explained about my search for Tony.
“Right. Good luck with that. I haven’t seen him since 1974 so I can’t help you.”
“OK, I’ll keep on looking.”
Vic got up.
“Gotta be going,” he said, “things to do.”
His sister started to get up.
“Stay where you are, I know the way out. I’ll pop round with the kids tomorrow.”
“Oh, smashing.”
I got up.
“I’d better be moving too.”
Outside Vic and I walked to our cars.
“So that wanker’s gone missing again,” he said.
“Looks like it.”
He shook his head, a look of bewilderment on his face.
“Did Tony tell you why he came back?”
I thought back to our conversation in the Park Hotel.
“He seemed to think it was the right time. He didn’t want to die without seeing his mam again. Something like that anyway.”
“I’ll believe him, thousands wouldn’t.”
Vic looked thoughtful for a moment.
“Tell you what, Gus,” he said eventually, “come back to my house, I want a word with you.”
“OK.”
“I only live in Astley, I’ll lead the way, just follow me.”
I drove off in the direction I was facing, turning left down Park Way, passing the place where the Lancastrian had stood, where Tony and I had gone under-age drinking. After a ten minute drive, I pulled in behind Vic’s Ford Escort outside a row of houses in Greenland Road in Astley. They dated from the sixties or seventies at a guess. The house next door had a blue plaque on the wall. Ellen Gallagher, Musician and Song Writer Lived Here 1966 to 1969. A proud Salford lass, Ellen was the only famous person I actually knew, albeit through her brother Jimmy. Marti had been in the charts in the eighties – famous for fifteen minutes, she called it – but had given up on a musical career.
I followed Vic into his sitting room, which had had a makeover, just like Mrs Murphy’s. The local DIY shops had done well out of them. Vic sat down, indicating the chair next to his.
“Right then,” he said without preamble as I sat down. “Did you know Bernadette had come up on the lottery?”
After wondering for a moment who Bernadette was I looked at Vic in surprise.
“No, I had no idea.”
I sensed he was leading up to making some sort of point.
“When was this,” I asked.
“First week in January. It was in the papers, radio, telly, the lot.”
“Right.”
I must have missed it. There were occasional stories about local people winning the lottery, but they never interested me much. I certainly wouldn’t have registered their names.
“She was in a syndicate at the day centre, Brierley House. Eight of them won four point something million.”
“Bloody hell. She would have got, what 500 grand.”
“Nearer 600,” he said.
Even better, I thought.
“And you think that’s why Tony got in touch?”
“Bound to be,” he said.
“Did he say anything when he came to see his mam?”
“No.”
“Presumably his mother told him?”
He sniffed, pursing his lips.
“I asked her that and she said she didn’t.”
After a pensive pause, I asked the obvious question.
“Why?”
He glanced at me then looked away again.
“Again I asked her that and she went ‘oh, I never really thought
about it’ and ‘people don’t like it when you go on about how much money you’ve got’.”
I waited for the but.
“But...Bernadette’s got her head screwed on.”
That baffled me. I knew what the words meant, but had no idea of their relevance.
“And?”
“Well, I’m not saying she wasn’t pleased to see her long lost son, but I reckon she was still wary, you know, wondering if he’d maybe come back because of the money.”
I didn’t know her well enough to say either way. On the other hand, assuming Tony found about the lottery win from, say, the Manchester Evening News website in early January, would he have waited until the end of February before following it up? I put this to Vic.
“He always was a crafty sod.”
Was he I wondered. I didn’t remember thinking that when we were friends.
“He was biding his time,” Vic explained. “If he’d turned up the day after the news broke that would have been making it obvious.”
“True enough, but what’s he going to get out of reappearing after all this time? It’s not as if his mam’s gonna start handing out loads of cash, is it?”
Vic shook his head as if to say, ‘you don’t understand’.
“Like I say, he’s biding his time. Either he’s hoping to be remembered in her will, bearing in mind she’s 89, or he’ll let slip, casual like, he’s in need of money.”
The terrible thing was I could imagine Tony doing that. Or maybe trying to get her to invest in APM. I could also believe what Vic said about Tony Murphy’s reason for coming back. All that stuff about fear of dying without making things right with his loved ones was an example of what he was really good at. Bullshit. I needed to talk to Yarla again. Maybe this time she’d tell me the truth.
“The thing is, Gus,” said Vic, “Bernadette hasn’t gone mad with her new found wealth.”
“No?”
“She’s bought a few things for her house, gave me a few grand, you know.”
I waited, knowing he was leading up to something.
“She’s told me when she goes, I get the lot.”
I was looking at a potentially rich man. Funny, he looked just like anybody else.
“So I’m not too pleased about your mate, Tony, re-appearing after all these years.”
He wouldn’t have been pleased without the financial considerations, I thought, but it must have been worse now.
“Go on.”
“I don’t want Tony to have a penny of what’s rightfully mine, know what I mean?”