by Bud Craig
I had thought this out before I came to London. Anyone who saw her in Tenerife or afterwards could be the one who thought she was Adams. Given that she was killed at Ordsall, it was most likely the wrong recognition happened after she started working in Ordsall Tower. Either that or somebody who caught the same flight to and from Manchester. Linda Finch was right: it could get too complicated for words.
“I suppose so,” said Linda when I had put those points to her. “In that case, I can’t help you. Josie never gave the slightest hint about anybody thinking she was somebody else.”
And perhaps whoever killed her – assuming it wasn’t Natchow – wouldn’t want to give ‘the slightest hint’ about thinking Josie was Michelle Adams.
“We wanted you to prove Natchow’s guilt, but now...”
Natchow didn’t do it, I said to myself. He can’t have done. Who did? I would simply have to go back over everything I knew to see if there was any way I could work out the answer. I could try, but I wasn’t optimistic. Optimism was in short supply lately.
* * *
That evening at Lekeren Grove, after a takeaway chicken dopiaza and a Tiger beer I’d found in the fridge, I settled down in the lounge with a bottle of Aussie Cabernet/Shiraz. I had to stay another night as my cheap ticket meant I had to catch a train back the next day. I picked another Fawlty Towers episode at random, Basil The Rat. I was just laughing at the line about Sybil’s specialist subject on Mastermind when I heard the front door open and footsteps in the hall, then a short silence. More footsteps followed then the twisting of the door handle. A man carrying a holdall took a step into the room, as I turned to face him. I paused the DVD.
“Hello, Tony...”
“Gus, what the...”
“Or should I say Conor,” I added.
He raised his eyebrows, his mouth slightly open.
“Don’t worry, Tony, the passport’s in the desk.”
He sat down opposite me, taking his raincoat off and draping it on the arm of the chair. I noticed he was wearing his usual smart/casual gear: corduroy jacket, striped shirt, chinos and brown lace up shoes.
“Wine,” I suggested.
“Er, yeah,” he answered, “I’ll just...”
The bleeding obvious, I said to myself, remembering Steve saying that was the solution in most cases. Whatever had made me think Tony was dead? Seconds later he came back with a glass and the envelope that contained the passport. He put the envelope in his bag and the glass on the table. Then he sat down again, while I poured his wine.
“What’s going on,” he asked after the first mouthful.
“I thought you might wonder.”
I explained about Yarla hiring me to find him and what I had found out so far, including his mother’s lottery win and his theft of his uncle, Vic Kennelly’s betting slip.
“You’ve been a busy lad,” he said.
“Yeah. I’ve got a few questions for you.”
“Go on then.”
Where to start?
“First of all, when people ‘invested’ money in your business how did you manage to divert it to yourself?”
That had been bugging me. I’d feel better for knowing the answer. Tony swigged at his wine and put the glass back on the table.
“No harm in telling you. I can always deny it later.”
That was exactly what he’d do, I thought.
“Some of them wrote a cheque payable to APM,” said Tony. “It was dead easy to change it to AP Murphy.”
Easy peasy, I thought.
“They got a contract promising them seven percent interest,” Tony explained. “A lot of them paid in cash. They didn’t want anything in writing.”
“Unbelievable.”
He smirked and picked up his glass.
“Some people’s sole ambition is to stop the taxman getting his hands on their money.”
I thought of the Beatles song, Taxman.
“There’s more though, isn’t there,” I said.
“Is there?”
“Here’s what I think has been happening,” I said. “APM has been selling stolen cars provided by Baz Prince. Right?”
“Go on.”
Non-committal. Fine if that was the way he wanted it.
“You were making a good living,” I went on, “but you were never good with money, were you?”
He sipped his wine and stretched out his legs in front of him. I wondered if he had gambled his money away. Or was he just greedy?
“And you always wanted more,” I went on. “Unfortunately that led you into trying to swindle Baz Prince.”
I remembered what Consett said the day he came into my flat. Something about Tony picking the wrong bloke to rip off.
“Yarla was in on it,” I said. “She had to be. I reckon you were siphoning off a good bit of the money you got for every car.”
He said nothing.
“I’m willing to bet Yarla hasn’t seen a penny of it. That’s why she wanted you found. Not because she was worried about you.”
Tony sat forward, picking up his glass again.
“But I didn’t want to be found,” he said. “Still don’t.”
That would have been too dangerous with Mr Prince on his trail. Tony sipped his wine like a connoisseur.
“Not a bad drop, that.”
I poured myself some more. Tony looked thoughtful for a moment.
“You’ve done well, Gus. I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”
He reached inside the holdall again and pulled out the envelope. Taking out a handful of cash, he gave it to me. I didn’t ask what it was for. Gift horses and all that.
“I’m expecting a taxi soon, got a flight to catch. Listen, Gus, it’s been good seeing you. Just do me one more favour.”
He returned the envelope to the holdall.
“Keep quiet about seeing me, at least for a while,” he said, ‘tell Yarla..., tell her what you like. She’ll never find me, I’ve made sure of that.”
I savoured another mouthful of wine. He was right, it was good stuff.
“I’ll ring her later. This’ll cover her bill,” I said, holding up the money in my hand. “You can do me a favour in return.”
“Favour?”
The look on his face seemed to say, ‘I don’t do favours.’ Tough, I decided.
“You know, Tony,” I said, “I’ve got a lot to be thankful to you for.”
“You what?”
I smiled over my wine glass, before putting it down.
“Oh, yeah, you gave me some work for a start.”
We won’t go into your motives, I almost added.
“Then by going missing you gave me a bit more work.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes focused on me as I explained further.
“And I’ve got two more cases to work on. I somehow think you coming back into my life has caused that to happen.”
He smiled.
“I doubt that.”
I nodded.
“So do I really. However, I have been trying to work out what links the cases of Tony Murphy, Edward Tattersall and Josie Finch.”
“So what’s this favour, Gus?”
“I want you to help me work out these cases. Because in a funny sort of way you’re the link between them.”
He looked at his watch.
“Why not? You’d better explain about those other two people.”
I did so, though Tony still had no idea how he could help. Maybe it was just a case of two heads being better than one. Having mulled over the three cases frequently since I had got involved in them, I now needed somebody to bounce ideas off.
“Let’s start with you. Sybil Fawlty told me the answer.”
“Sybil Fawlty?”
I held up the DVD box and explained about the line in the sitcom.
“It was ‘bleeding obvious’ you’d decided to disappear again leaving everybody else to pick up the pieces.”
“So, I’ve been a naughty boy,” he shrugged.
&nbs
p; “As for the others,” I went on, “you were around on the night Josie was killed; Tattersall was a paedophile and you were suspected of beating up a paedophile just before you went missing the first time.”
“Sid somebody or other, I remember him,” said Tony. “Though he wasn’t killed, he just got what was coming to him.”
He leant forward again.
“And before you go any further, Gus, I had nothing to do with either Tattersall or Josie whatever her name is.”
He was missing the point, if indeed there was one.
“But there’s a kind of connection,” I said.
“A bit tenuous.”
Maybe he was right.
“What about the ‘bleeding obvious’ connection?”
He shook his head in bewilderment.
“What?”
Once more I tried to bring my thoughts together coherently.
“Well, if it was obvious why nobody knew where you were, what could be the obvious solution for Tattersall and Finch?”
He sipped pensively for moment.
“See what you mean. Well, with Tattersall it’s easy. Once something like that gets out, you know, child abuse, well, he becomes a marked man.”
I thought about what Arthur had said in the Park Hotel on the night of the quiz. Something about people taking the law into their own hands.
“So you think it was vigilantes? But who put the information on those leaflets?”
Tony looked at his watch again.
“Someone with a grudge who knew about Tattersall’s background.”
A lot to choose from there.
“What about Josie?”
He scratched his left eyebrow before answering.
“Well, this mistaken identity theory makes it difficult, but as you said yourself, Gus, if an abused woman is murdered, most of the time it’s the boyfriend who did it.”
Why was it all so impossible?
“I may not be a very moral man,” Tony added, “but I’ve no time for someone who abuses kids or fellers who hit women.”
We talked on for a while, finishing the wine as our discussion became more and more rambling. It was a relief when his taxi arrived. I phoned Yarla after he’d gone and told her Tony was safe and well and didn’t want me to tell her any more than that. A deathly silence was her immediate response. This was followed by:
“Oh, my God, I’m really in the shit now.”
I couldn’t offer any reassurance and rang off as soon as I could. I went back to Fawlty Towers muttering the bleeding obvious to myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The day I returned from London I went back to Deadbeat Mansions to question Simon again, without having a definite plan. Passing the bungalow next door, I stopped, thinking of Ian Jamieson. Could he help me? He hadn’t said much of any use when I had asked him about a possible leak of information regarding Tattersall. Arthur had said Jamieson knew what was going on around the area. He might, therefore, have seen something significant. And he knew Simon Natchow.
Deciding on a detour I went up to Ian’s front door and knocked. As before the sound of feet shuffling was followed by the rattling of a chain. Then the door was flung open. Jamieson took his roll up from his mouth and cleared his throat.
“Oh, hello, mate, come in.”
He made his painful way along the hall. I followed him into the living room, little changed since my first visit a couple of weeks ago. Ian collapsed into his settee, while I sat on the armchair, which sagged even more than before. I opened up my briefcase.
“You all right?” he said.
I hoped his friendly greeting meant he was in a talkative mood.
“Yeah, not bad. You?”
He coughed in answer to this query about his health.
“Mustn’t grumble,” he said.
Something in his voice hinted that grumble was just what he’d do given half a chance.
“I’m looking into Josie Finch’s murder.”
I took out a notebook and pen from my case.
“I thought you was with the welfare.”
‘The welfare’, it was a long time since I’d been called that.
“I am but I’m a private investigator as well.”
His face lit up and he rubbed his hands, reminding me of Josie on quiz night.
“Private eye? That sounds exciting.”
It’s not, I felt like saying. Instead I explained about Larry Finch’s request for me to look into the case.
“Don’t know if I’ll be able to help you, mate,” he said when I’d finished.
“We’ll see. First of all, do you remember much about the day Josie died?”
He took a drag from his cigarette.
“When was it?”
“Tuesday 28th February. She was killed about eleven at night.”
He puffed on his fag, sending billows of smoke into the air. A sneeze began to tickle the back of my nose.
“February 28th, eh?”
Leaving the cigarette between his lips, he smoked pensively for a few moments.
“I’d better check.”
Getting up with a struggle, he went over to a railway calendar on the wall behind him. Turning back to the February page, he peered at it for several seconds.
“Thought so,” he announced, before coming back to his seat. “I was away with my sister in Reigate.”
Bugger, I said to myself as I wrote down the details.
“Went on the Monday, back Thursday.”
I let out a loud sneeze then pulled a tissue out of my pocket and wiped my nose.
“Right,” I said, “have the police been to see you about the murder?”
He sent a shower of ash onto his jeans.
“No, but Simon told me all about it,” Ian said, “gutted, he was. He used to live with her, you know.”
“Yes.”
He wheezed quietly for a bit.
“The police gave him the third degree, know what I mean? But he never done it. He’s not like that.”
Oh, isn’t he, Ian, I could have asked.
“You couldn’t wish to meet anyone kinder than Simon,” he went on.
Could I bear to listen to a hymn of praise about Simon?
“Just after I got back from Surrey, he gave me a fleece, pair of jeans, t-shirt. Good as new. Wouldn’t take any money.”
I carried on writing down what Ian was saying until I realised it was pointless. A couple of decades in social work had given me a touching faith in note-taking.
“I’m saving them until I go out somewhere special,” he said.
I smiled insincerely.
“I’d better be going, Ian.”
I got up.
“Well, thanks for your time.”
“Pleasure, mate. Pity I couldn’t help but that’s the way it goes.”
I went out of the door, his voice behind me telling me to call again. That evoked a pang of pity and triggered a memory of my sister listening to Only The Lonely a long time ago. Outside the bungalow, I took a deep breath. Knowing I would stink of tobacco, I went home. When I got there I began thinking about Marti, who was in Liverpool with her mother. Getting my phone out, I dialled her number.
“How’s things over there?” I asked.
“Oh... not too good really. Mum’s struggling a bit.”
She hadn’t looked too clever last time I’d seen her, I thought. The fall had affected her badly.
“She suddenly seems old, you know,” Marti went on. “Her confidence has gone somehow. And she gets weepy easily.”
Marti sounded near to tears herself. I looked at my watch and did a quick calculation.
“I’ll come over. If I get away now I should be with you by four o’clock.”
She sighed.
“Thanks. It’ll be good to have you here.”
Let’s hope I can cheer her up, I thought. She’d certainly cheer me up.
* * *
Ten minutes later I was heading out to the M62, thinking about several things a
t once. Not just Marti’s mam but Tony Murphy, Josie Finch and Edward Tattersall. Perversely, my mind kept coming back to Tony, as though he really was the common thread that tied them all together. I gave up my attempt to make sense of it all and put a CD on. I drove on towards Merseyside to the accompaniment of Crowded House, who told me to take the weather with me. Good advice, lads, I said out loud.
* * *
“Gus, I wanted to talk to you,” said Marti that evening, after her mother had gone to bed.
Something told me she wasn’t planning a chat about world affairs or global warming.
“Oh, yes?”
We were sitting in opposite armchairs in her mother’s living room, drinking red wine. Family photos were dotted round the room, including those from both Marti’s weddings.
“Well, it’s about, you know,” she said hesitantly, “us, me and you,”
“Go on,” I said.
She gulped her wine, averting her eyes. Plucking up courage no doubt. Finally she spoke.
“Well, where do you see our relationship going?”
That put the onus on me, not where I wanted it to be. My first instinct was to say ‘a relationship can’t actually go anywhere’, but both Marti and Louise had said at different times that pedantry was one of my most annoying habits.
“I don’t know really,” I said.
My reply, I realised, was truthful, but for Marti probably unhelpful.
“Perhaps you could explain a bit further,” I added.
She put her glass down on the table beside her, lining it up on a coaster.
“You obviously don’t want to get married.”
“That’s right.”
She put her hands on her lap.
“Would you rather we just lived together then?”
I hesitated, knowing I would have to be honest.
“No, I don’t want us to live together.”
She sighed in exasperation.
“But that would be the natural next step,” she said.
“Not necessarily.”
Another sigh.
“What do you want then?”
Assuming she wasn’t referring to my burning ambitions or the 500 things I wanted to do before I died, I tried to form a response.
“I want us to go on as we are.”
That was clear enough, surely.