SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

“Oh.”

  It occurred to me that ‘Oh’ could mean a lot of different things. This one had a bit of an edge to it.

  “The thing is, Gus, I’m, I don’t know... what you’re saying, it sounds a bit temporary.”

  Everything’s bloody temporary, I was about to say. Luckily I realised the fake profundity of the words in time.

  “I want, maybe I want reassurance...I don’t know, commitment.”

  “You have that.”

  I had an exclusive relationship with Marti. Even if I’d wanted to chase other women I doubted if I could be arsed and I certainly wouldn’t have the stamina.

  “I think it’s because of Louise,” she said.

  Now what?

  “What’s Louise got to do with it?”

  “I think you still love her.”

  I sighed. Of course I bloody love her, I said to myself, she’s the mother of my children. But loving or not loving Louise wasn’t the point.

  “Marti, I don’t want to marry anyone. I don’t want to co-habit with anyone. I’m happy as I am.”

  “That could change though, couldn’t it?”

  I sighed.

  “Anything can change.”

  Why did people complicate things so much? One thing I was sure of: I could do without this.

  * * *

  The next day I returned to Salford, leaving Marti at her mother’s. We were still a couple apparently. A niggling dissatisfaction followed me along the motorway, all the way into the flat. On the sitting room settee ten minutes after I got back, I sipped a mug of tea and read The Code of the Woosters. I often resorted to PG Wodehouse at times of stress. A harmless addiction, I’d always thought. It was certainly cheaper and healthier than maintaining a drug habit, getting paralytic or online gambling.

  Maybe my choice of reading was to blame for my reluctance to get married, I thought. An old lefty like me should disapprove of Bertie Wooster, but I had always envied, maybe even aspired to, his lifestyle. Enough money to live a comfortable life, his own flat, a good social life. He spent an inordinate amount of time avoiding marriage. In fact that was the basis of most of the plots. I wasn’t stinking rich and still needed to work, was a grandfather and had a steady girlfriend (just about) but my present situation was the nearest I would ever get to the Wooster lifestyle. Not a bad old life on the whole and I didn’t want to change it.

  Half an hour’s reading settled me down a bit. I thought I’d better get some shopping. As I was getting up, I heard the free paper being pushed through the letter box. I went to get it and glanced at the headline:

  MEN HELD FOR PAEDOPHILE DEATH

  I went back into the living room, where I learned that three teenagers, one who couldn’t be named for legal reasons, had been charged with the murder of Edward Tattersall. Reading between the lines I was able to deduce that it was, as Arthur had suggested in the Park Hotel, a vigilante killing. Tony had said the same. The names of the two youths given in the article meant nothing to me, which was a surprise. When a knock came on the door I guessed straight away who it was. DI Ellerton came with me into the sitting room and sat down.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked, sitting down with her.

  “I’ve got a feeling you already know about it,” she replied, indicating the paper on the table.

  “The arrest?”

  “Yes, I meant to tell you before now, but I’ve hardly got time to turn round at the moment.”

  “Only youngsters weren’t they?”

  “Yeah, one was just sixteen.”

  Apart from wondering how a sixteen-year-old got involved in something so mindless, I didn’t know what to think.

  “It looks like these three lads got the pamphlets I showed you,” she said, “the ones that outed Tattersall as a sex offender.”

  “And that’s why they did it?”

  She shrugged.

  “Apparently. They were drugged up as you’d expect.”

  I could have understood if one of Tattersall’s victims or their parents had killed him, but this was beyond me.

  “How did you catch them?”

  “Information received as they say. The word on the street was that these three were responsible.”

  From working with the police, I knew that was how a lot of crimes got cleared up.

  “Unfortunately for them they were pretty incompetent,” the inspector went on. “They weren’t known to us, but they left plenty of forensic evidence.”

  That seemed pretty clear, though there was at least one unanswered question.

  “Did they have any idea who produced the leaflets? Or who delivered them?”

  Sarita shook her head.

  “No. Or maybe they’re not saying.”

  I thought about the other cases I had been involved in and decided to suggest something to the DI.

  “You know what Steve told you about Josie looking like Michelle Adams?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her tone of voice hinted at the question, ‘what about it’.

  “Well, could these lads have killed her? You know on the basis they thought she was a paedophile?”

  She shook her head.

  “Unlikely to say the least. They haven’t got the nous to plan something like that.”

  “Who did kill Josie then?”

  She closed her eyes momentarily.

  “We’re getting there,” she said, “that’s all I can tell you. But going back to the question of who, if anyone, leaked the information about Tattersall, we’re no nearer an answer.”

  We agreed to keep trying. A few seconds after Sarita had gone, an idea came into my mind. It seemed significant but disappeared as quickly as it had come. Probably a legacy of having suffered a stroke, I thought. Things like that were always happening. I tried to recall the thought. It was to do with something I had done, maybe something that had happened or been talked about that might give a clue as to how those leaflets got to those kids. It was no good. I had to accept that nothing would come.

  I turned my mind towards the death of Josie Finch, something else I was getting nowhere with. Two questions – who could have killed her and why – swarmed round my head without answer. The culprit had to have been near the Park Hotel on 28th February at the relevant time. Almost certainly they would have a connection with Josie. For want of a better idea, I went into my office, sat down at the desk and took a notebook and pen from the top drawer. I would start with names. A few minutes later I read through my handiwork.

  Arthur: was there but didn’t know Josie and why would he kill her?

  Angela: was there, was alone while Tony went back for his fags. Would the taxi driver have seen her? No reason to kill Josie. Pity she wasn’t on the fiddle, that would have been an ideal motive.

  Simon: Abused women often killed by their (ex)partners. But no evidence.

  Tony: Why does everything come back to Tony bloody Murphy? He was there and went back for his cigarettes. If he had killed her the taxi driver might have seen him. In any case what motive would he have had?

  Karen: She was there but didn’t know Josie and had no reason to kill her. She went back to get scarf. Admits she thought Josie was Michelle Adams. Motive would have been hatred of abusers and their accomplices.

  Larry: He was there, but had little time (neither did anybody else). No known motive. If he had wanted to kill his sister, he had plenty of other opportunities.

  That was it. If there had been any forensic evidence against any of those people surely the police would have pulled them in. Sod it, I’d find something else to do. Maybe if I stopped thinking about murder for a while, the answer would come to me in a blinding flash. It was time I tidied up this room, I thought, as I looked around. Get rid of some of the stuff you don’t need, I instructed myself, and the old clothes. Half an hour later I had two carrier bags of clothes and a cardboard box of books and CDs, which I took to the British Heart Foundation.

  When I got back, I rang Brenda. There was something I wanted to tell h
er.

  “I was wondering,” I said after the usual greetings and a quick update on Tony’s doings, “whether Adam might want to meet his grandmother. If so, I can tell you where she lives.”

  “Oh, please, Gus.”

  I gave her Mrs Murphy’s address.

  “Adam will be so pleased,” she said. “I’ll write to her today.”

  That was better than nothing, I thought. Feeling pleased that I’d done two useful things that had nothing to do with murder, I allowed myself a smile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Hannah, tell Gus what you told me,” said Paul that night.

  We were in Hannah’s parents’ house, sitting at the kitchen table. He and Hannah were dressed up for a night out. It was easy to see they were a couple now. The things I do for people, I thought. Not only was I giving him paid work, I had even fixed him up with a girlfriend. Paul had phoned me earlier to tell me he had some information.

  “One night a couple of weeks ago I couldn’t sleep,” said Hannah.

  “Right.”

  I didn’t want to put Hannah off by saying too much. I only hoped she wouldn’t go into too much detail about her insomnia.

  “Had things on my mind, know what I mean,” she continued. “Any road, I went into the kitchen for a drink of water and looked out of the window.”

  So far, so good, I thought.

  “Look, I’ll show you.”

  As if at a secret signal we got up and went over to the window and looked out.

  “And I sees this feller in the garden opposite. Over there.”

  Our eyes followed the direction in which she was pointing.

  “He was creeping about. Pouring with rain, it was, he must have been soaked.”

  I nodded, willing her to get to the point.

  “And he, like, had no clothes on.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Hundred percent. There’s a street light nearby. Showed him up in all his glory.”

  “Glory,” said Paul.

  “Not really, he wasn’t too impressive to tell you the truth,” she giggled.

  When the sniggering died down, we got back to the point.

  “Can you remember exactly what night it was, Hannah.”

  “It was...,” said Paul.

  I cut him short.

  “Let Hannah tell it.”

  She took his hand and smiled at him.

  “It was the 28th February, pretty late.”

  “What did he look like, this man?”

  Hannah seemed to weigh up this question carefully.

  “Hard to say really, he was moving too quickly.”

  “So you didn’t recognise him?”

  “No.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Do?”

  Yes, Hannah, did he stay in the garden all night, did he go anywhere, did he dance the hoky bloody koky?

  “Did he go anywhere for instance?”

  She nodded.

  “Only into the house. By the back door.”

  Paul, unable to keep quiet, chipped in.

  “You know where that is, don’t you, Gus?”

  I turned towards him.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Deadbeat Mansions.”

  * * *

  Interesting, I thought as I made my way home later, but where did it get me? The police would always ask if anyone had noticed anything unusual. Some bloke creeping bollock naked through the back garden of Deadbeat Mansions would come into that category. So would lots of things. Had he been getting a bit of illicit leg over in one of the neighbouring houses? Maybe the husband came home unexpectedly and he had to make a quick getaway. Or was he doing it for a bet? A bloke I used to work with told me he’d indulged in a childhood game called back garden creeping. There could be a nude version, I supposed.

  * * *

  The next morning shortly after I got up, I prepared Lamb Rogan Josh and left it to cook in the slow cooker. Danny and Natalie were coming round for a meal, having both arranged to get off work early. They would be staying the night. I wondered at the possible significance of this, as I set out for my daily walk. Pulling up my anorak hood against a persistent drizzle, I went through Salford Quays, which was already busy. As I walked, I dodged people on their way to work. Random thoughts jostled one another in my head. The naked man in Deadbeat Mansion’s garden, the leaflets that outed Edward Tattersall, the whereabouts of Tony. I said good morning to a postman pushing his trolley of letters and parcels. As usual he was wearing shorts. Only thick snow forced him to don a pair of trousers. I approached the Lowry Centre, an idea trying to break through the clutter in my mind. There was something significant about that postman. What was it? I tried to imagine him with no clothes on, but that didn’t help.

  l had to face up to the fact I had got nowhere with Josie Finch’s murder. To cap it all, it began to piss down on my walk home. Real Salford rain too. I scurried along, hood up, hands in pockets. A lorry splashed muddy water onto my jeans and trainers. Not since the night of the quiz had I been out in rain like this. I briefly thought of finding somewhere to shelter, but decided to plough on. It was only a few minutes, though no doubt it would seem longer. And I’d soon get dry once I was home.

  In my bedroom ten minutes later, I stripped off my clothes and put my dressing gown on. I took the muddy jeans and what was in the washing basket into the kitchen. Once I had loaded the washing machine, I had a shower as hot as I could stand it. Fifteen minutes later I was in the kitchen, eating porridge and catching up with The Code of the Woosters. The feeling of well-being I got from being warm and dry and wearing clean clothes almost made it worthwhile getting a soaking. My mind lingered on that thought.

  Having eaten, I went into my office/spare room and took out the notes I had made on the case of Josie Finch. Painstakingly I read through every word I had written. If you wanted to do something you had to work at it. This got me thinking about Imogen Attwell. With her work ethic, she was an example to us all. She’d got involved with a paedophile, but at the time she met Edward Tattersall she didn’t know about his offences. As I went through my notes for the second time, something important made its way from the back of my mind to the front.

  I got up and looked out of the window. It had stopped raining. I just had time to do what I had to do. First I went to see Ian Jamieson to check a few things. I didn’t explain – the less he knew the better – so he must have wondered what on earth was going on, especially when I looked behind his washing machine. I left him in a state of bewilderment. When I got back home, I telephoned Sarita Ellerton and told her I had some important information.

  “Fire away,” said the Inspector.

  So I fired away and told her what I had worked out and what I thought she should do. She took a hell of a lot of convincing.

  “You want me to...,” she said after I had explained it for the second time.

  “Or you can tell Mr and Mrs Finch why you turned down the chance to nab their daughter’s murderer,” I said.

  “OK, you bugger,” she said, “I’ll come and see you later. Just you sit tight.”

  “I intend to do just that.”

  By then it was lunch time. I had a sandwich at home and then spent the next couple of hours indoors just pottering. I’d discovered a long time ago I was a born potterer. The rain started again a few minutes before I heard a knock on the door.

  “Hello,” I said to Natalie.

  “Hi, Gus,” she said, pulling down the hood of a trendy, green anorak.

  Drops of rain had blown into her face and made her fringe damp.

  “Come in,” I said. “Where’s Danny?”

  “He was delayed at work,” she said. “I got the train.”

  She followed me into the kitchen.

  “Gosh, it’s dreadful out there.”

  “Sit down, take your coat off.”

  I thought of the expression my mam had always used: ‘you won’t feel the benefit’. Natalie put the coat on the back of
the chair, then sat at the table, where I joined her. I moved aside a cheese board. A knife lay diagonally across it.

  “Something smells nice,” she said.

  “Lamb Rogan Josh.”

  “Danny said he hoped you’d make a curry,” she smiled.

  “His wish has come true,” I said, “do you want a drink or anything? Tea, coffee?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. Before Danny gets here, Gus, I wonder if I could have a word with you?”

  My eyes must have shown my surprise. Was this to be another complication in my life? I did hope not. Was she pregnant? In which case shouldn’t Danny be telling me? Without anybody saying anything, everybody now assumed Natalie and Danny were an item.

  “The fact is I’m thinking of applying to do social work and wondered if you could advise me.”

  That was a relief. Not that I wouldn’t have loved another grandchild, but it was too soon for these two.

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  She gave me a proper smile this time.

  “Oh, thank you. Actually, I think I will have a coffee after all,” she said.

  I put the kettle on, wondering if I actually had any coffee, then sat down again. Before Natalie could say any more, somebody banged on the door.

  “Sorry,” I said, getting up.

  As I opened the door a wet and bedraggled man in a red anorak barged past me. Booze fumes wafted in the air. Simon Natchow, I said to myself, that’s all I need. Wishing I hadn’t forgotten to sort out the chain for the door, I turned towards my unwelcome guest.

  “What the fuck you playing at, Keane,” he snarled. “You’ll suffer for this.”

  “Simon, get out of here.”

  He looked at Natalie, who returned his stare. He moved across to her with a speed I wouldn’t have thought him capable of. In a trice his right hand snatched the knife from the cheeseboard and his left arm was around her throat. She stifled a scream, looking at me with a mixture of terror and pleading.

  “Natalie, try and stay calm. I’ll sort it. Just tell me what it’s all about, mate.”

  I hoped I sounded more in control than I felt.

  “You know very well what it’s about. I’ve just seen Ian Jamieson.”