by Bud Craig
I knew.
“I’d feel I’d been robbed,” he added with extra emphasis.
The air of menace I remembered from the day he came looking for Tony all those years ago was making a comeback.
“It wouldn’t be the first time he’d robbed me.”
He made eye contact, allowing his words to sink in.
“Around the time he buggered off I’d lent him a fiver. He’d put it towards car parts, he reckoned. Pay me back with interest when he sold the motor he was working on.”
There’d be a bloody lot of interest by now. I looked round, focusing on the family photos dotted round the room. Did his kids and grandkids know the history of Tony?
“The day he went away,” Vic went on, “he called round to my house on some pretext or other. I can’t even remember what it was now. What I do know is he left with a betting slip in his back pocket.”
Fuck!
“It was on the mantelpiece when he got there, nowhere to be seen when he’d gone. Six hundred quid it was worth. Like a fool I told him about it.”
I looked at him in shock for a moment.
“What a bastard.”
“You said it, Gus. Just think what that would have meant. I’d just got married, determined to go straight. I was back inside within six months.”
He thumped his right fist into his left palm.
“It took me another couple of years to get back on the right track. When I think of him cashing it in and driving off into the sunset.”
He looked straight at me as if it were my fault. He spoke again with great intensity.
“So do me a favour. When you go looking for that nephew of mine, don’t try too hard.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“The trouble is, Brenda,” I said in Tony and Dino’s the following lunchtime, “Tony’s a bit dodgy.”
“I thought he was.”
I summarized what illustrated Tony’s dodginess: his mother’s lottery win; what Vic had said about him; Consett barging into my flat; his involvement with Baz Prince. Even then I felt I had only scratched the surface.
“Maybe it would be better if you didn’t find him,” was all she said.
There was a lull in the conversation while I looked around me. I’d been in Tony and Dino’s before but it wasn’t really my sort of place. All steel and chrome, full of coffee machines making too much noise.
On arrival we’d chatted about how Salford had changed since we were kids, but had soon move on to the reason for our meeting. Brenda had confirmed that she had no idea where Tony was. Now we were coming to the end of our meal.
“Listen, Gus,” Brenda went on, “a long time ago I wasted a lot of time thinking about Tony bloody Murphy. Was he dead or alive? Would he come back to me.”
I drank some water and waited for her to continue.
“Then I got my life sorted out. Well, as much as anyone can. I’m only interested in him now because of Adam.”
There was no more to be said. We talked of other things, paid the bill and went home. I wondered if I would ever see her again.
* * *
“Did you recognise Josie on the night of the quiz?” I asked Karen the next day, thinking of her question to Josie about Norfolk.
We were drinking tea in Ordsall Tower’s tiny kitchen, the only place I could get to talk to her in private. I had explained the family’s asking me to look into the murder. We had talked about the night she was killed, but Karen hadn’t had anything useful to add.
“I thought I did,” she said, putting her cup down on the table next to the biscuit tin. “She looked like someone called Michelle Adams. I’d been trying to remember who she reminded me of and it suddenly came to me.”
I explained that Steve had also noticed the resemblance.
“Was there any particular reason why you remembered Adams?”
She unfolded her arms as if starting to relax.
“Gary and I were on holiday in Wells-next-the-Sea when it all kicked off,” said Karen. “We actually saw Michelle Adams one day.”
I took a chocolate digestive from the tin and took a bite, reflecting on Karen’s reference to Gary. She rarely talked about her ex-husband. What was he up to now?
“I followed the case when I got home,” Karen added, “right up to the time she and her boyfriend were sentenced.”
“Right.”
“Josie couldn’t have been Adams, no way, I realise that now. But just for a moment I convinced myself that she was.”
She looked away for a moment.
“But it can’t have anything to do with her murder, can it?”
“It could have a bearing on the murder if someone mistook her for Adams.”
She took a deep breath.
“God, I never thought of that. What a nightmare. You know all this...I mean these deaths, well, it reminds me of Bill.”
“Me too.”
We both had reasons to think about the time two years ago when Bill Copelaw was murdered in this very building. He’d been my boss and Karen’s lover. The father of her child in fact.
“I’ve been more or less OK about it for a while or so I thought. Quite positive in fact, but these killings have triggered a reaction.”
The past always comes back to haunt us, I said to myself, or so it seems.
“This bloody job doesn’t help. I feel so angry sometimes, you know,” she said.
I knew about anger, but tried to avoid it now. Bad for my health. I’d had one stroke, I didn’t want another one.
“This job, it’s...we’re supposed to be compassionate and stuff, but some of the people we have to deal with...like Tattersall...sometimes I feel like...ooh!”
The inarticulate shout of rage was the only way she could find to get her feelings out.
“I know,” I said inadequately.
“I’ve fixed up to have some counselling,” said Karen.
“Good.”
“I need help dealing with...well, not just Bill, but work and stuff that happened when I was a kid.”
She looked about to say more but then shook her head.
“This isn’t the time to talk about it though,” she went on, “I’m too busy.”
We left the kitchen soon afterwards. Had Karen been hinting about some kind of abuse in her childhood? If so was it relevant? She’d had the information about Tattersall so could have produced those leaflets. And she had thought Josie was Michelle Adams. How badly had she been affected by whatever happened to her when she was a child? Had it made her want to kill the woman she thought might have played a part in the death of a young boy? That’s the trouble with investigating murder, Gus, I said to myself, you’re starting to suspect everyone. I had, I recalled, had Karen down on my list of suspects for Bill Copelaw’s death. I was wrong then; I must be wrong now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Sunday after my meeting with Brenda, I was thinking about my trip to see Josie’s parents in Barnes in two days’ time. I should really try and find out what I could about Tony while I was in London. Maybe I should go down a day early. There was, I felt sure, a large part of his life down there that I needed to know about if I were to have any chance of finding him. I got out my phone and dialled Yarla’s number.
“Yarla, it’s Gus,” I said. “I need to see you.”
“See me? I don’t think I can manage another trip to Manchester right now.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll come to you, should be there early afternoon tomorrow.”
“Gus, I’m terribly busy and...”
We’re all busy, I said to myself.
“Yarla, things are happening with my investigation,” I said, perhaps being a little economical with the truth. “My inquiries so far have led me to believe the answer may lie in London.”
“But...”
“It’s essential I get a look at Tony’s house,” I went on, still economical with the truth. “In fact I may as well spend the night there. It’ll save you a few bob.”
“Gus, I r
eally don’t think...”
“If you want me to find Tony, I shall expect complete co-operation.”
A loud sigh was the only response.
“And you can reimburse my train fare when I get there,” I said. “In cash.”
* * *
The next day I caught the ten o’clock train from Piccadilly. I was pleased with myself because I was killing two birds with one stone on this trip. I was determined to make sure Yarla paid a bigger part of the bill than the Finches. She had hired me to find Tony when I would have liked nothing better than to forget about him for a while. Now I was beginning to doubt the version of events that I’d heard from Tony and his secretary. I needed to talk to her face to face. I also wanted to speak to anyone who worked with him or for him. I had already come to the conclusion that nobody really knew Tony intimately because he didn’t want them to. His business might, though, give me some insight into where he was, if anything could. His drinking companions down the George and Dragon or whatever it was called might also have a few things to tell me.
As the train pulled out of Piccadilly station, I switched off my mobile and settled down to enjoy the trip. There was something about train rides that I’d always liked. Maybe it was the thought of being carried along without any effort. I didn’t have to do anything for a couple of hours. It was a chance to read, listen to music, stare vacantly out of the window or all three. In this case it was also an opportunity to make some money.
I thought about my phone conversation with Yarla the previous evening and her reluctance to see me. What was all that about? I’d said I needed to have a look inside Tony’s house but had no idea what I would find there. Tony could easily have taken anything significant with him. Yarla could have done the same. It might still be worth a try. In truth I had no idea whether my journey was absolutely necessary. I felt I had a genuine need to see Josie’s mam and dad, but that wouldn’t necessarily help me. More than anything though, I had to clear up a couple of points with Yarla for my own satisfaction.
A couple of hours later, clutching my briefcase and trailing my suitcase, I made my way through the crowds to Euston Square tube station and looked for the Hammersmith and City line. The underground was, as usual, hot and crowded, but convenient. I counted off the twelve stops, humming the Gerry Rafferty song when we got to Baker Street. Half an hour later I arrived at APM, which dominated one corner of the Hammersmith flyover. Yarla’s words ‘you can’t miss it’ were, for once, only too appropriate. I walked onto the forecourt, glancing at the price tags on the Jaguars, Bentleys and other cars I couldn’t have put a name to. Who would want to spend that much on a car, I wondered? I gazed for a moment at the glass fronted building before going in the front door.
Two minutes later I was drinking tea in a poky office. Yarla sat behind a desk strewn with bits of paper. She sighed with what I guessed was exhaustion. The cool image she’d displayed the only other time I’d seen her had slipped a bit. Make that a lot, I said to myself, taking a second look at her.
“Listen, Gus,” she said, “I’m snowed under with work and to be honest I don’t think I can tell you anything I haven’t already told you.”
I took a mouthful of lukewarm tea.
“How about the truth?”
She looked up in alarm as if truth were an alien concept. To her, maybe it was.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Right,” I said, “I’ll ask a few supplementary questions, shall I?”
She gave me an adolescent shrug. For a moment I expected her to tell me she wasn’t bothered.
“Why did Tony go and see his mother?”
She looked at the Lake District calendar on the wall to the right. Finding no inspiration there, she cleared her throat.
“Well, you know...”
“It was because he knew she had won the lottery.”
“Oh, you, er, found out about that, did you?”
“Finding things out is my job.”
I was quite pleased with that statement.
“Right, well,” she said before hesitating for a moment. “The thing is, Gus, with the recession and everything there’s been a bit of a hiccup with the business...”
She stopped again and moved a few documents around the desk with pointless precision.
“Nothing major, you understand, cash flow and stuff.”
“And he thought if he could persuade his mother to help out her long lost son...”
She smiled.
“I knew you’d understand,” she said, missing the point.
“The trouble was,” I went on, “his mother insisted Tony should get in touch with Brenda and me...”
She put her hands together.
“Just remind me who Brenda is again.”
As if she didn’t know.
“She’s the woman who was pregnant to him in 1974. He didn’t want to risk alienating his mam’s goodwill before he’d raised the subject of the money.”
“You’ve got it all worked out, Gus.”
Don’t sound so surprised, I said to myself, I’m not as daft as I look.
“Getting me involved in searching for Brenda was ideal. I can hear him now: ‘Look, mam, I’ve put a bit of work Gus’s way’, and she’d think, ‘oh, bless’.’”
I now knew Tony had been hoping I wouldn’t find his ex-fiancée.
“Something like that,” Yarla admitted.
I psyched myself up for the next bit.
“Moving on,” I said. “Let’s talk about Mr Consett.”
She looked blank and opened her eyes wide.
“Who?”
I sighed again, this time with exasperation.
“Eric Consett, the feller who barged into my flat looking for Tony.”
While I explained further, she licked her lips, rubbing her hands together as if she were washing them.
“He could have been anyone.”
She continued the Lady Macbeth impression, as I explained further.
“In fact he was representing some of the people owed money by Tony. One of the unfortunates who ‘invested’ in this very business.”
The psychology of Tony’s approach was quite clever, if a little obvious. The blokey persona must have helped too. One thing that appeals to anyone who wanted to appear grown-up – almost anyone in other words – is having expertise in certain subjects: cars, property values, how to make the most of your money.
“There’s more to it than that,” she said.
I waited for more, but she kept quiet.
“What’s that supposed to mean,” I asked.
She rearranged the papers once more, coughed and leaned slightly towards me.
“Just what it says. If you think this is just Tony ripping off a few grand here and there you could not be more wrong.”
I looked straight at her but she would not meet my eye.
“Go on.”
She rubbed her hands together again, making me think of obsessive, compulsive disorder.
“It’s more serious than that.”
“More serious?”
She nodded slowly as if to emphasize whatever point she was trying to make.
“That’s right.”
“It’s something to do with Baz Prince, isn’t it?”
Her expression changed. Was that fear on her face?
“What do you know about Baz Prince?”
I looked her straight in the eye.
“As much as I need to know.”
She closed her eyes, resting her chin on her hands.
“That’s probably too much,” she said.
She looked as though she were about to elaborate, but then seemed to give herself a metaphorical shake. Sitting back, she smiled at me.
“Anyway, can I help you in any other way?”
She was trying to turn on the charm but her heart wasn’t in it.
“Who else can I speak to about Tony while I’m in London?” I asked.
* * *
My mind was s
till mulling over my meeting with Yarla as I travelled on the tube to Richmond upon Thames later. Dismissing me with a suggestion that I talk to the staff at APM, she had at least handed over the keys to Tony’s house and even paid my train fare without a murmur. That gave me a bit of spending cash while I was in the smoke. It occurred to me she was being too nice and I couldn’t quite see why. From Richmond railway station, I lugged my case down the steps leading away from the front entrance and turned left into the town centre.
As I passed House of Fraser, I thought about the members of Tony’s staff I’d talked to. All had said what a character Tony was and I’d agreed. What they didn’t know was I thought being a character was a bad thing. All too often it was a synonym for prat. Apart from that they were of no help at all. Nobody had any idea where Tony was; as far as they knew he wasn’t in any trouble and the last time they had seen him he’d been his usual self.
A brisk ten minute walk brought me to Lekeren Grove off Richmond Hill. Yarla had told me Mick Jagger lived nearby, though I doubted whether Tony said, ‘morning, Mick,’ to the Stones’ frontman as he went for a post breakfast saunter by the river. Tony’s house was a three storey affair in red brick. Window frames and sills were painted sparkling white. Worth a small fortune I would have said. I went up the steps to the front door and let myself into a spacious hall. I picked up mail from the floor and put it on the telephone table. The echo of my footsteps on the uncarpeted floor followed me as I went through a door on the left into a living room. Was this what they called minimalist, I asked myself, as I looked at the walls, bare but for a mirror over the unused fireplace.
Deciding not to linger, I took my suitcase upstairs to find somewhere to sleep. Having looked quickly in the two larger ones, I went into the smallest of the three bedrooms. Insipid water colours were arranged asymmetrically on the walls. The single bed was made up as for a guest. Sheets looked clean. I opened the window to let in some fresh air and left my luggage by the bed. Now for some lunch, I thought.
* * *
“So you’re a mate of Tony’s, are you,” said Clive, the bespectacled landlord of the George and Dragon a few minutes later.
The pub at the end of Lekeren Grove was quiet when I got there. In fact I was the only customer. Clive had a southern whine that put me in mind of John Major. Come to think of it, he had a look of the former prime minister. I drank from my pint of Middle’s Bitter. A nice drop, I had to admit, though a bit flat on account of the different beer pumps they had in the South. What with that and the funny accent I could never live down here.