SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  He sighed again, unable to put his emotions into words.

  “At least with this job, you sort out the immediate crisis and pass it on to somebody else.”

  There was an attraction in that, I had to admit.

  “I’m gonna get out of social work before it drives me mad,” he said. “Once I’ve got a few bob together, you won’t see me for dust.”

  I hope it keeps fine for you, I said to myself.

  “Sorry about Will by the way,” said Tim. “He talked me into giving him your number.”

  “You still shouldn’t have done it.”

  He held his hands out in mock supplication.

  “I realise that now, but I honestly didn’t think he’d bother you. He hardly ever follows up on his brilliant ideas.”

  “No?”

  “Will is always having sudden inspirations. I take it all with a pinch of salt myself. I mean, he calls himself a writer but he’s poker correspondent for the Manchester Evening News and that’s it.”

  “Poker correspondent? I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  Tim grinned at me.

  “Oh, yes, all that stuff is big business. You could say Will’s a professional gambler.”

  I had heard of such people, but had never believed they really existed.

  “He’ll be at the Duke of Earl now.”

  “Is that a pub?” I asked.

  If it was, I had never heard of it, though I vaguely recalled a song by that name when I was a little kid.

  “No, it’s a casino,” he explained, “if I know Will, he’ll be there till all hours. Makes a decent living out of it and all.”

  People are full of surprises, I thought.

  “As for the novel idea,” Will explained, “Will’s probably trying to impress some woman.”

  “Yeah?”

  “At Uni we called him URL.”

  Before I could ask for enlightenment Tim’s mobile rang. Another call out. After Tim had left, I googled URL, which I had an idea was something to do with the internet, and discovered it stood for Uniform Resource Locator. Gratified to know this and feeling more complete as a human being, I still had no idea what it could possibly have to do with Will Trader.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning about twenty-five past eight I was searching my flat for my diary. Having looked everywhere I could think of without success, I concluded I must have left it in Mangall Court. Bugger. As I got into my car, I cursed my stupidity, finding this sort of thing disproportionately annoying. I didn’t think I had any appointments today, but wouldn’t be sure until I checked the diary.

  I drove round the back of the former residential home and, as I turned right towards the car park entrance a black car came roaring out, almost scraping my door. I caught the merest glimpse of a baseball cap and eyes screwed up in concentration as the driver shot past. I slammed my brakes on and shuddered to a halt. That did my blood pressure no good, I thought, as I felt my heart beat increase. There were some mad bastards about.

  Once I had calmed down a bit, I eased my car into a space and got out. On my way into the building I passed Tim’s red Fiesta, the only other car in the car park, wondering idly why it was still there at this hour. As I got into the Mangall Court lounge, I noticed a man in a suit walking past the front window. He looked familiar, but I didn’t have time to think who he might be.

  I saw the diary on the coffee table right away. With a sigh of relief, I picked it up. Flicking through the pages, I checked what I was supposed to be doing today. Nothing. Good, I could go home and relax.

  * * *

  “I had a hell of a shock this morning, Gus,” said Polly, my cleaner, a plump, sixtyish woman.

  “Why, what happened?’

  We usually had a bit of a chat at my kitchen table before she started cleaning. I employed her when I could afford it and she was glad to supplement what she earned from Salford council.

  “Well, it was at Mangall Court.”

  “Mangall Court? I was working there last night.”

  Polly paused, chewing her bottom lip.

  “Oh, I didn’t realise you were on the night duty team.”

  “Just now and again.”

  Another pause.

  “The other lad who was on, er, is he a friend of yours?’

  “Tim? No, not really.”

  “Well, that’s something...”

  She went silent, a worried frown on her face.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Gus, but I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  “Tim dead?”

  Polly touched my hand in sympathy before she continued.

  “I found his body,” she explained.

  “God. Are you OK?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “You should have stayed at home, Polly. The cleaning can wait.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, you’re all right, Gus, it’s better if I keep busy.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  She took a deep breath.

  “I went into one of the bedrooms upstairs – about ten o’clock it would have been.”

  Not that long after I had been there retrieving my diary.

  “I looked over to the bed. Well, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was this feller lying there in his boxer shorts.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “And that wasn’t all. His hands were tied to this, like, brass bedstead,” she said, “and he had a red and white scarf round his neck.”

  “A red and white scarf?”

  “Yeah.”

  So he’d died in Man City boxers and a United scarf. What was that all about? I thought again about the David Moyes sacking.

  “It was funny at first,” she continued. “I wasn’t laughing long.”

  She hesitated, as though reluctant to get to the nasty bit.

  “I could see something wasn’t right,” she continued. “He wasn’t moving for a start. And whoever had tied him up in the first place wasn’t there no more.”

  She pressed her hands together.

  “Any road, I went a bit closer and shook him. Gently, you know.”

  I pictured the cleaner tentatively nudging the body. With a less tragic outcome it would have been farcical.

  “No reaction. I shook him a bit harder. Still nothing. I looked a bit closer. The scarf was pulled dead tight, you know. Under the scarf I could make out a load of marks round his neck. It looked like ... it was all red and bruised.”

  She closed her eyes at the memory.

  “And I thought, bugger me, he’s dead.”

  Poor Tim, he was just a lad. The whole thing brought back unwelcome memories of the day a few years ago when I found my boss dead in his office.

  “The police asked me loads of questions,” Polly went on. “I was there ages.”

  “I bet you were.”

  “Oh, Gus, don’t tell anyone I told you about this. The cops said I was to keep quiet.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” I promised.

  “I have to talk to someone,” she added, “and you’re so easy to talk to, Gus.”

  I sometimes resented people’s tendency to confide in me but with Polly I didn’t mind. When she had finished telling me about Tim, I got the tram into Manchester. She liked to be left alone to get on with her job. While I browsed Waterstones in Deansgate for a birthday present for my sister, I thought about Tim’s death. What was behind it? Sex maybe. Tim put it about a bit and must have been into weird erotic carryings on. So who had tied Tim up? Whoever it was, had they killed him? Was Wayne Dickens, the angry client, responsible? And who was in the car that nearly took the paint off my Peugeot? Had I seen Tim’s killer? Like the song said, more questions than answers.

  * * *

  About half three the doorbell rang. I went over and looked through the peephole. My visitor was a woman, but her head was turned to the side. I opened the door, keeping the chain on. Looking out, I he
ard a voice.

  “Bloody hell, Gus, it’s only me.”

  I’d had a new door fitted after a violent nutter had barged into the flat two years ago and I had taken no chances since then. Taking the chain off, I opened the door wide.

  “Louise,” I said. “Come in.”

  She followed me into the kitchen. We had never worked out an appropriate way of greeting each other since she’d left. The hug and/or kiss that everybody indulged in these days didn’t seem right somehow. Louise stood in the middle of the room, looking around appraisingly.

  “This is nice.”

  I realised she had never been to my flat before.

  “Thanks. Sit down.”

  She took her coat off, still inspecting the kitchen, and put it on the back of a chair.

  “And so tidy.”

  “Well, you’ve got to keep on top of things, haven’t you? Do you want some tea or anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Louise put her handbag on the table next to the Guardian and a packet of chocolate digestives. She sat down with a sigh.

  “How are you?” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “OK,” she shrugged. “You look well.”

  You don’t, I could have said. Exhausted, defeated even, would be a better description. She was still recognizably the Louise I had known for thirty odd years. Her blonde hair was as trendy as ever. The long-sleeved pink t-shirt and straight jeans had a certain style. But there was something missing.

  “How’s Brad?” I said.

  I couldn’t give a toss about Brad but one had to be polite. Louise sat quite still for a few moments, looking blankly ahead.

  “I’ve left him.”

  “What?”

  “Go on, say I told you so.”

  She drew circles on the table with her fingernails, avoiding my eyes. I ignored her comment, waiting for her to continue.

  “I’m back at Mum and Dad’s.”

  For a moment I couldn’t think straight, then thought I’d better say something.

  “You’re back in Darlington?”

  I pictured her parents’ Edwardian house in the west end of the town. Louise’s mam and dad were in their eighties and, like my dad, were pretty fit. Even so what was happening to their daughter wouldn’t do them much good.

  “I start work in Durham next week.”

  “What’s brought this on?”

  She hesitated and before she had time to answer the bell rang again. I went through the rigmarole with the peep hole and the chain before opening the door to another familiar face. She held up an ID badge.

  “DI Ellerton,” she announced. “Manchester P...”

  “I know who you are, Sarita,” I said.

  And I know why you’re here, I could have added.

  “This isn’t a good time.”

  “Sorry, Gus,” she smiled.

  “Come in.”

  As we went into the kitchen, I noticed she’d had her dark hair cut short. Otherwise she was much the same. Smartly dressed, carrying her usual briefcase cum handbag.

  “This is my ex-wife, Louise,” I said when we reached the table. “Detective Inspector Sarita Ellerton.”

  The two women weighed one another up. Sarita was no doubt thinking, ‘so this is his wife’; Louise would be wondering what the CID wanted.

  “I was wanting a word in private, Gus,” she said.

  Her Scottish accent had become less strong over the years, I thought, as she sat down, taking a notebook and pen out of her bag.

  “Well, I have no objection if Louise stays,” I said.

  I didn’t want to banish Louise when she’d just arrived. Sarita thought for a moment or pretended to.

  “OK.”

  “What’s it all about,” I asked.

  She then asked the question I had expected.

  “Do you know a man called Timothy Greenhoff?”

  “I’ve worked with him. Why?”

  The inspector looked from me to Louise and back again. Louise sat forward, all ears.

  “Mr Greenhoff’s body was found in a bedroom in Mangall Court, Salford around ten o’clock this morning.”

  Remembering Polly’s warning, I didn’t let on I knew about this.

  “His body? God.”

  I thought of the bed Tim and Vicky had made good use of the previous night. It had been full of life then; within hours it had become his deathbed.

  “Who’s...” said Louise.

  “We’re treating his death as suspicious,” said Sarita before Louise could get her question out.

  Not the first time I’d heard those words.

  “Did you know him well,” asked Sarita?

  I shook my head.

  “No. He was a colleague. We were on the EDT together last night in Mangall Court.”

  “EDT?”

  “Emergency duty team.”

  Louise looked over to me.

  “I didn’t know you worked nights,” she said.

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “When did you last see him?” asked the DI.

  “Just after midnight, when I finished my shift,” I said. “Tim was on duty until eight this morning.”

  She noted down my answer before moving on.

  “Had you met him before?”

  “I could have met him when he worked at Ordsall Tower last year, but I didn’t remember him.”

  She wrote in her book for a while.

  “What did you make of him?”

  I shrugged, stumped for an answer.

  “Not a lot, I hardly knew him.”

  I could have said he was a randy womanizer, but I was reluctant to get too involved. Getting involved was bad for my health.

  “You must have formed some sort of impression,” the inspector insisted.

  “He seemed OK, went on a bit,” I said.

  “Went on a bit?”

  I might have known a detective investigating a murder wouldn’t be satisfied with that.

  “Come on, Gus, dish the dirt,” said Louise, smiling for the first time since she’d got to the flat.

  “Well, he was a bit of a moaner,” I said.

  “What did he moan about?”

  I scratched my left ear and then my right one.

  “Last night he was complaining about being short of money.”

  More note-taking followed this.

  “Go on.”

  Do I have to, I almost said.

  “He was...I suppose he and his wife were living above their means. Leading an expensive lifestyle, you know.”

  She looked directly at me.

  “At least that was my impression” I added.

  “A lot of addicts have financial difficulties.”

  And so do most of the population, I could have said.

  “I know that. I’m a social worker.”

  Sarita smiled.

  “Quite. What I’m wondering is, did Tim have any sort of...habit, you know, drink, drugs, gambling?”

  Was it my imagination or did she put an extra emphasis on the last word? Tim had said something about gambling but that was only in relation to Will.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “In the brief time we were together I saw no sign of it.”

  “Right. Who else might know him?”

  I thought for a second.

  “Anyone who worked with him, I suppose. And he had a couple of visitors in Mangall Court.

  “Visitors?”

  “Yes, a feller called Will...Trader...”

  She cut in while I was congratulating myself for remembering the bloke’s name.

  “What did he want?”

  Her voice betrayed a marked lack of interest as though she were going through the motions. She must get sick of asking questions, I thought, as I explained about Will’s novel and the call on my mobile the previous morning.

  “He called in at Mangall Court hoping he’d get more out of me, but I had to go out on a case.”

  “Who was the other visitor?” s
he asked.

  “Vicky something.”

  Sarita raised her eyebrows.

  “What did she want?”

  I tried to clear my face of any sort of expression, resisting the temptation to say ‘a bloody good shag’.

  “According to Tim she was a friend. She was in the area apparently and... called in.”

  “There is evidence to suggest sexual activity took place in the bed Mr. Greenhoff died in. Have you any thoughts about that?”

  I could see I’d have to come clean. Or dirty.

  “Well, it wasn’t me, guv. It was Tim and Vicky.”

  Louise and Sarita spoke at the same time.

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw them.”

  I explained what happened when I went into the bedroom.

  “You say she was wearing a red and white scarf during this sexual encounter?” asked the inspector.

  “Yes, is that significant?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

  “Everything’s significant at this stage, Gus.”

  “Vicky Monroe, that’s her name,” I said.

  “M,o,n,r,o,e?”

  “That’s right. She lives in Cholmondeley Road, Irlams o’ th’ Height.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw her yesterday morning.”

  I explained about the attempted handbag theft and finding the envelope addressed to Vicky.

  “I found out later she was at Ordsall Tower for an interview. She’s gonna be the new fostering manager.”

  The two women looked at one another then at me. Inspector Ellerton spoke again.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “Wayne Dickens,” I said.

  “Who’s he?”

  I explained about the angry client outside Mangall Court.

  “So this Dickens character had a grievance against Tim Greenhoff?” asked Sarita. “And threatened him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t know where he lives, do you?”

  I guessed he was local, but couldn’t be more specific.

  “Children’s Services will have it on record if his children are in care.”

  She jotted something in her book, then asked me if there was anything else.

  “Yes. I had to go back to Mangall Court this morning. I’d left my diary there.”

  “What time was this?”

  I thought for a moment.

  “About quarter to nine, I reckon.”