SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  She looked hard at me.

  “Why didn’t I just report it?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  She looked down at the floor.

  “I could only do that if I had printed those leaflets.”

  A silence built up.

  “OK. Speaking hypothetically, say a woman in your situation had found those memory sticks. How would she feel?”

  She pursed her lips and breathed in. Letting out a breath, she began to speak.

  “Well, she’d feel angry and betrayed. And a bit of a fool.”

  “Because the dreadful social services had been proved right?”

  She looked up again at this and met my eye. I had hit the nail on the head.

  “Yeah, that would be part of it. I h... she would have hated you lot for... The thing is the relationship with Edward might have come to an end quite naturally. Who knows? But once a social worker stuck her nose in, it’s like you have to stay together on principle.”

  She joined her hands together, grimacing as if struggling to cope with strong emotions.

  “This woman we’re talking about, this hypothetical woman,” she continued, “couldn’t let Tattersall get away with it. She would have wanted to find a way of punishing him without going to Social Services.”

  She held back a tear before going on.

  “I haven’t even mentioned the worst part. The guilt. If she’d believed in him when he said he’d reformed, learned his lesson and all the time he’d been...To think I let my kids near that piece of shit.”

  In her anger she had forgotten to put herself in the position of the hypothetical woman.

  “He thought he was better than me just because he knew about Beethoven and all that lot. How did I let the bastard take me in?”

  A tear ran down her left cheek. She raised a hand to wipe it away.

  “I wanted to show him, show everyone, that I wasn’t stupid. Cos I’m not.”

  I nodded.

  “I know you’re not, Imogen,” I said.

  “When I’m at college and they give me work to do, projects, you know, I think, yeah, I can do this.”

  It was as if she was now glad I’d found out: she’d made her point.

  “That’s great.”

  ‘Yeah, it is.”

  She managed a smile. I smiled back.

  “How did you think of the idea? About the leaflets?”

  “When I was fourteen,” she explained, “I went to stay with my cousin in Doncaster. One day we found a leaflet on the pavement saying some bloke was a pervert, there was a picture and everything.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been struggling to work out how somebody could have delivered them without anybody noticing,” I said. “Then I saw the postman this morning.”

  “Postman?”

  “Nobody would notice someone delivering what they were supposed to be delivering, would they?”

  She curled her lip.

  “What are you on about now?”

  “You were off to your job delivering papers that afternoon. So you put the leaflets in your bag.”

  She had run out of things to say.

  “You had no need to worry about fingerprints,” I said, “because of those white gloves you have to wear. The next day you came to see me, still defending Edward, as if nothing had happened.”

  “There’s no way you can prove it,” she said.

  That wasn’t the point. Angela would simply want to be sure there would be no criticism of the department. We could hardly be held responsible for Imogen’s actions. And we’d had to tell her about Tattersall’s record.

  “You may be right, Imogen,” I said. “I’m not sure what you did is even illegal.”

  “What you say I did.”

  “You probably didn’t think he’d get killed,” I went on, “a good hiding maybe. Anyway, the neighbours would know all about him. That would give you an excuse to leave him. And if nobody found the memory sticks, an anonymous 999 call would sort that out.”

  She sat still for a while, saying nothing. Then I left, applying the ‘bleeding obvious’ test once more. Tony had said ‘Someone with a grudge who knew about Tattersall’s background’ had produced the leaflets. True enough as it turned out but it had been far from obvious until now that Imogen had a grudge. So Tony wasn’t a lot of use. No change there then. Anyway, it’s sorted now, I said to myself.

  * * *

  “Well, mam, I’m back,” I said the next morning.

  I was paying one of my periodic visits to my mother’s grave. As usual I wore a suit and tie in a pointless attempt to win her posthumous approval. The sun shone from a clear blue sky.

  “Sorry I haven’t been sooner,” I apologised, “I’ve been a bit busy.”

  I told her about my recent adventures. In the past few years I’d taken to confiding in her, something I could never do when she was alive. I told her my dad was still doing well and enthused about Georgia.

  “I’m sorry you never met her,” I said, “you would have loved her. You would have loved Rachel and Danny too.”

  Sad, I thought, how things worked out.

  “Me and Marti are still together,” I said. “Though it’s still a bit...up in the air, I suppose.”

  Not that she would have been interested in my love life. Not after I had brought shame on the family by getting divorced. I looked round at the gravestones laid out neatly, the trees, the flowers left in pots as gifts to the deceased.

  “Have you noticed that about life, mam? How nothing is ever resolved. Nothing is ever over.”

  I moved my feet across the gravel, listening to the crunching sound.

  “That doesn’t apply to you of course. I keep thinking of all the people who’d been hoping to find love, happiness and fulfilment and ended up just finding death.”

  I remembered what Tony Murphy used to say about the horses he backed: a dead certainty. Well, there was nothing as sure as death. Then in a weird kind of procession I saw my younger self finding my mam’s body; Josie Finch having her life cut short in a pub car park; Edward Tattersall’s throat being cut and somehow leading to the liberation of Imogen Attwell. Inevitably I thought of Tony Murphy who had come back into my life, seemingly determined to create havoc. Looking at my watch I realised it was time to go. Danny, Natalie and I had arranged to have a walk by Macclesfield Canal. Danny had more or less forgiven me for the incident with Simon Natchow. I said goodbye and left my mother alone until the next time.

  I got back to the flat and, opening the door, saw the mail on the mat. I picked up the bundle and dumped it on the kitchen table. A postcard fell onto the floor. Picking it up I admired the picture of the Swiss Alps. Turning it over, I saw a Greek stamp and recognised the almost illegible handwriting.

  Hi Gus

  Greetings from who knows where?

  Not Switzerland or Greece, I bet.

  Thanks for everything. You never know, I might see you some time.

  “Not if I see you first, Tony,” I said out loud.

  THE END

  BOOK III: FALLING FOUL

  Private investigator Gus Keane is back with a difficult new case to solve

  With his ex-wife appearing back on the scene and relations with his girlfriend Marti troubled, the murder of one of Gus Keane’s colleagues comes at a really bad time. Yet when his friend Jimmy is accused of the murder, he really must step up to the plate. With his knowledge of the local area, and a healthy suspicion that nothing anyone says is true, he must find the killer before Jimmy is convicted.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I rushed through Salford Quays on a warm April morning, looking at my watch and wondering how I had managed to sleep through the alarm. Maybe I had forgotten to set it. Was it old age? Or was I just knackered? It had been a busy weekend, but even so.

  I might have still been asleep but for a phone call just after half eight. By the time I’d fumbled for my glasses on the bedside table, registered the t
ime on the alarm clock and began to struggle out of bed, the phone had stopped ringing. I didn’t bother to check my mobile for messages; getting to work on time on the first working day after Easter was a greater priority. If it were urgent, they would call again.

  As I crossed Trafford road and walked down Ordsall Lane, my thoughts turned to the review meeting I was to chair. Two kids in need of a permanent home. I would have to concentrate on them now and ignore any distractions. My tired brain had got this far when I approached Ordsall Tower, the concrete block that housed Salford Children’s Services.

  A woman in a leather coat with shoulder length black hair stood outside the building. She brushed at her heavy fringe with the fingers of her right hand before looking round impatiently. The frown on her face seemed to be a permanent fixture. Staring across the road into the middle distance, she moved her bag from one shoulder to the other.

  Passing her, I was about to go up the steps towards the front door, when I heard a cry. Turning around I saw a youth, his face half hidden by a hoodie, arrive from nowhere. He grabbed the woman’s handbag, accomplishing the task slickly without breaking stride. As the little toe-rag tried to get away, he staggered against the steps, then righted himself. He relaxed his hold on the bag and I snatched it from him. His hood slipped off his head, unveiling a skinny, narrow face. His startled eyes glanced towards the woman then back to me.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,’ he said.

  And you’re not supposed to go round stealing handbags, I thought. His face full of indecision, he stared at me. I was six foot four; he was medium height if that, average build. I knew the broken nose I’d got playing rugby league for Salford gave me an intimidating air. This kid had no idea I was on medication for high blood pressure. Or that I would run a mile to avoid getting into a fight. Having weighed up the odds, he hared across the road right into the path of a white van with Pallister Paving written on the side.

  “Look out,” I cried pointlessly.

  The driver, poor sod, had no chance of stopping in time. I saw the boy slump to the ground, hitting his head on the tarmac with a crack.

  “Shit,” I said.

  The van screeched to a halt, veering to the right. It ended up slewed across both carriageways. Lines of traffic on both sides ground to a halt, the 4x4 behind the van only just stopping in time. Horns blared in a discordant chorus. Like that would do any good, I thought.

  Shaking his head in disbelief, the van driver sat in shock for a while before staggering out of his vehicle. Two passers-by ran across to help, one of them already on the phone. I turned and passed the handbag to the woman, who seemed reluctant to take it.

  “Are you all right,” I asked.

  “Of course I’m all right,” she scowled.

  Charming, I thought, as she turned on her heels and went into Ordsall Tower, muttering something like ‘it’s too bloody complicated’. It certainly is, I silently agreed. I looked back to the scene of the accident in time to see the bag snatcher sit up. He said something, but I couldn’t make out the words. He rubbed a bump on the side of his head. A siren sounded in the distance. Pulling his hood over his head, he jumped up and ran off.

  Well, I suppose that’s that, I said to myself, time to get back to normal. Thinking about the woman who’d almost lost her bag, I turned back, noticing a clean buff envelope on the ground. It wasn’t there a moment ago. Stooping to pick it up, I read the name typed on the front: Vicky Monroe. Whoever she was, she lived in Cholmondeley Road in Irlams o’ th’ Height. The street where Debbie Oldham used to live, I recalled, smiling at the memory. Then my phone rang. I really couldn’t be doing with two calls before I had even got to work. As I answered I saw I had a missed call from Steve at 8.33.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi, is that Gus Keane?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My name’s Will Trader,” said the caller.

  Never heard of you, I thought, and I’m too tired to talk to you. I certainly didn’t recognise his voice and his accent was hard to place.

  “Your friend, Tim, said you might be willing to help me,” he went on.

  I didn’t have a friend called Tim. Did I even know anyone of that name, I wondered? Not that I had time to argue about it.

  “Help you? I...”

  “I’m writing a novel with a social work theme,” he explained, “and I wondered if you could give me the benefit of your expert advice.”

  Did I want to be bothered with this? Did I want to deal with it now? Or ever?

  “Sorry, I’m a bit busy at the moment...”

  “I’ll text you my number, you can get back to me...”

  If you must, I thought.

  “I really have to dash,” I said. “Bye.”

  Hoping I would have a bit of peace for a while, I went into Ordsall Tower. At the reception desk I pressed the bell.

  “Hiya, Gus,” said a young woman with lots of dark hair.

  “Good morning, Hannah. I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she smiled, “if it’s a proposal of marriage, I’m already spoken for.”

  I shook my head.

  “A woman in a black leather coat came in a minute ago.”

  “Black leather coat? Oh, yeah. She was here for an interview. Fostering and Adoption manager.”

  That might explain why she had made herself scarce so quickly, but it still seemed odd.

  “What was her name?”

  Hannah looked down at a typed list.

  “Vicky something,” she said. “Vicky Monroe. Too young for you, Gus. Right miserable looking cow and all.”

  I handed over the envelope.

  “She dropped a letter outside.”

  “Oh.”

  I went into the office, thoughts of a girl who lived in Cholmondeley Road a long time ago and the mysterious Ms Monroe distracting me. If her interview went well, we’d meet again. It was going to be one of those days, I could tell.

  * * *

  In the admin room a paunchy man of about my age wearing a beige v- neck jumper over a shirt and tie sat at a desk. I went over to him.

  “Morning, Jimmy,” I said. “I’ve just come to pick up some reports.”

  My old school friend, Jimmy Gallagher, had been appointed head of administration last year, but I still hadn’t got used to working with him.

  “Oh, hiya, Gus,” he said. “What about David Moyes then?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did you not know? He’s got the sack.”

  “Nobody tells me anything.”

  I wasn’t too bothered about the fate of the Manchester United manager, who would doubtless get a pay out of several million quid to ease his pain.

  “Has he? Not surprising really.”

  It was pathetic, I said to myself, that multi-millionaire footballers paid thousands of pounds a week suddenly couldn’t play because they had a new boss. I would never get away with that in my job.

  “Who’s gonna take over? That’s the big talking point,” Jimmy went on.

  Jimmy behaved a lot of the time as if he had been on a course about what blokes are supposed to talk about. He could bluff his way through a conversation about sport without having any real interest in it, his major hobby being collecting beer mats. A lot of his spare time was spent visiting fairs and exhibitions around the country.

  “Who knows?”

  Who cares, I could have added. I was much more concerned about Salford Red Devils rugby league team, who had already sacked their coach and were in even deeper trouble than United. I went over to the pigeon holes against the wall and pulled out an envelope with my name on.

  “There was a strange carry-on outside as I arrived here,” I said.

  “What was that then?”

  I explained about the handbag snatch.

  “So this Vicky could be the new fostering manager,” said Jimmy.

  “I presume she’s got as much chance as anybody else.”

  I thought for a
moment.

  “Tell you what, Jimmy. Let me know how she gets on, will you? I’m curious.”

  “Will do.”

  The phone on Jimmy’s desk rang.

  “Hello, love,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

  A pleasant one, I thought, judging from the smile on his face and the change in his tone of voice. I had a quick look in the envelope to make sure all the reports were there.

  “Oh,” he said. “...OK...you’re staying the night?”

  Jimmy’s tone of voice changed again. He picked up a pen and tapped out a rhythm on the desk.

  “I know, but...what do you mean ‘don’t be like that’? I’m not being like...”

  He sighed loudly and put the pen down, only to pick it up again.

  “But it’s only...oh, I suppose so, if you must...yeah, see you tomorrow.”

  He put the phone down and smiled sheepishly.

  “The wife,” he said, “I’ve told her not to phone me at work.”

  Jimmy had lived on his own for ages until, about ten years ago, he had surprised everyone by marrying a charismatic woman twelve years his junior. With her encouragement he had even done something about his appearance, no longer looking quite such a nerd. His beer belly, though still distinctly noticeable, was now a shadow of its former self.

  “How is Caitlin?” I asked.

  “Fine, you know, same as ever.”

  “Great.”

  “Do you see anything of Louise these days,” he asked.

  I was sure Jimmy still thought of my ex-wife and me as a couple.

  “I haven’t seen her for a while,” I said.

  More to the point, neither had Danny and Rachel. I didn’t see why she couldn’t tear herself away from her second husband in London to see her children and granddaughter. To make matters worse, Danny and his girlfriend, Natalie, had arranged to go to London over Easter; Louise and Brad had gone to Paris. A mix-up, Louise had claimed. There was nothing I could do about it, but that only made it more difficult.

  “Give her our love if you’re in touch with her,” he said.

  “Sure.”