SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

Sarita asked what I had seen. I told her about the car making a quick getaway.

  “A black car, you say? What make?”

  I shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Like I say there wasn’t time to notice anything. Plus I know sod all about cars.”

  “And you didn’t recognise the driver?”

  “I couldn’t even tell you whether it was a man or a woman.”

  Her sigh expressed pure frustration.

  “Did you notice any other vehicles?”

  “A red Fiesta,” I said. “It belongs, belonged to Tim.”

  Now I realised why it was still there after Tim had finished his shift. Sarita went on with her questioning.

  “When you went inside Mangall Court, did you see anything unusual?”

  Does anybody ever notice anything unusual, I wondered.

  “No. It was quiet, but you’d expect that. There was nobody about as far as I could tell. I didn’t stay long.”

  She put her notebook and pen away, stifling a yawn.

  “Well, I’d better get on. Perhaps you could come into the station to sign a formal statement – which should include a description of Trader and Monroe – and you’ll need to have your fingerprints taken.”

  With that she was out of the door before I could protest. Not that it would have done any good.

  * * *

  “Fascinating life you lead since we split up,” said Louise when the inspector had gone. “What was that all about?”

  “You know as much as I do. Anyway, you were telling me about Brad.”

  “Yes, but...”

  “So tell me.”

  She said no more for a while, so I waited, tapping on the table impatiently and looking pointedly in her direction.

  “Well, it’s been building up inside of me for, oh, I don’t know how long,” she began. “Six months, maybe even a year.”

  It was coming to something when Louise started telling me her troubles. I wondered again about the exact nature of my feelings for her. I associated her with the worst time of my life. A week after she walked out, I had a stroke and my self confidence, already low, plummeted even further. Now I took a broader view. We had also shared some of the best times, particularly when the kids were growing up. And she was their mother. That was the most important thing.

  “He...he thought he owned me,” she went on, “I realise that now.”

  I had never seen her so subdued.

  “I won’t go into detail, we’ll be here all day, but he resented me having any life of my own.”

  She sniffed, on the verge of tears by now.

  “He was especially difficult when I wanted to see my family. Even a trip to see Mum and Dad made him jealous. And as for you, I hardly dared mention your name.”

  What did I have to do with it, and where was this leading? Louise swallowed hard, fidgeting with her hair.

  “He would make another arrangement every time I wanted to see Danny or Rachel and Georgia. After a while I took the line of least resistance...”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but she went on.

  “Before you say anything, I know I shouldn’t have, but you don’t know what it’s like.”

  True enough. I let her get on with it.

  “In the end I devised a way out. I applied for the Durham job and used Mum and Dad’s address.”

  “So he doesn’t know where you are?”

  She shook her head.

  “He would have tried to stop me. Once I had decided to leave, I made sure I went along with everything he wanted until I was ready to go.”

  How had it come to this, I asked myself.

  “I didn’t even complain when he arranged a ‘surprise’ trip to Paris for Easter. He knew fine well Danny and Natalie were coming to stay.”

  Bastard, I muttered under my breath.

  “I told him I was taking a couple of days leave when we got back on Tuesday night. I hired a van to take my stuff to Darlo and drove there yesterday. He was at work.”

  Louise had not once referred to her husband by name.

  “Why have you come here?” I asked.

  She shuffled uncomfortably on her chair.

  “I needed to explain what had been happening. And to make it up with Danny and Rachel.”

  She was going to try to rope me into this, I could see it coming.

  “Good idea,” I said.

  “Listen, Gus, could you get in touch with them and...”

  Various expressions came to mind: on your bike; you’ll be lucky; fuck off.

  “No.”

  “Oh, Gus. Please.”

  I took a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm myself.

  “You’ve got a bloody cheek, Louise,” I told her. “This is your problem. Keep me out of it.”

  She looked down at her hands, shaking her head gently from side to side.

  “I know I’ve made a mess of things and... there’s no excuse for...look, what I’m trying to say is...”

  Whatever Brad had done to her had rendered her inarticulate.

  “I’m just afraid if I contact Rachel and Danny, they won’t want to talk to me. So, I thought if you could call them?”

  “I refer you to my previous answer,” I said.

  “Gus,” she said, choking back a sob, “if I’ve ever meant anything to you...”

  “For fuck’s sake, Louise,” I snapped, “don’t try the emotional blackmail. It won’t work. And there’s no point in turning on the waterworks.”

  By now I knew I would have to do something about this. That was my role in life, sorting things out. Anyway, I couldn’t have us joining the ranks of dysfunctional families.

  “A phone call’s no good,” I said. “We’ll go and see them together, but you do the talking.”

  She started to thank me, but I cut her short.

  “I’m not doing this for you, Louise,” I said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning there was a knock on my door. Looking through the peephole, I recognised Sarita. As I let her in, I made it clear I was in a hurry.

  “I won’t keep you long,” she assured me.

  “Good.”

  We sat down at the kitchen table. I prepared myself for answering more questions and having my answers written down for posterity. Here we go again, I said to myself.

  “I just wondered,” said the inspector, “if you knew somebody called Francine Ingleby.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I had to think for a moment, having had a problem with names since suffering a stroke about five years ago.

  “Pretty sure.”

  I picked up my notebook from the table.

  “Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll write it down, that sometimes helps.”

  Sarita repeated the name, spelling it out as I wrote. I looked at it for several seconds.

  “Sorry, it means nothing to me. Who is she?”

  She looked down at her notebook before making eye contact again.

  “She’s just someone we need to talk to as part of our inquiries.”

  Yeah, right, I thought.

  “She’s not another one of Tim Greenhoff’s women, is she?”

  “I think speculation is pointless at this stage, don’t you?”

  Not for me, it wasn’t. I got up, as did DI Ellerton.

  “Who knows? In any case, I’ve got to be getting to work. Do call again if I can help in any way.”

  As I left Palace Apartments, I decided to indulge in a bit of speculation in spite of the inspector’s advice to the contrary. Where had the name Francine Ingleby come from? Somebody the police had interviewed might have mentioned her. Lots of names would have cropped up by now, so why did the DI ask about her in particular? There must be something special about her.

  Had she left traces at the scene of the crime? Fingerprints or DNA? They could only know they belonged to her if she was already known to the police. So either Francine was a convicted criminal or she had been suspec
ted of an offence and they had kept her DNA on file. Interesting, I thought, but thankfully nothing to do with me.

  With a shrug I forgot about it and turned my mind to my family. Louise had made her peace with our son and daughter. Just about. Having spent the night at Rachel’s house, she would be on her way back to the North East later today. So far, so good, I said to myself, but it wasn’t resolved by any means.

  * * *

  The Park Hotel greeted me with a buzz of conversation. There was a decent crowd in, enough to give the place an atmosphere. A North Manchester CAMRA Pub of the Year 2013 banner was draped over the bar among the horse brasses, not the first time it had won that accolade. There was something about going for a pint on a Friday night.

  “All right, Arthur,” I said as I got to the bar.

  “Not so bad, you know,” replied the landlord. “I struggle on. What can I get you?”

  “A pint of Red Devil, please.”

  “For a change,” he said, getting a glass and pulling the pint.

  Arthur had been a constant presence in the Park Hotel for as long as I could remember. He had taken over the pub when his dad retired twenty years ago or more. Now he looked almost like a parody of what a landlord was meant to be. To call him fat would have been like describing David Beckham as quite well off. Tonight, as on every occasion I saw him, he had put on a bit more weight. I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Jimmy Gallagher.

  “Hiya, Gus,” he said, standing beside me at the bar.

  “Now then, Jimmy,” I said, “usual?”

  “Please.”

  “Another pint for Mr Gallagher,” said Arthur, getting a second glass ready and sweeping his long hair away from his face.

  “How’s Caitlin?” I asked.

  “Fine,” said Jimmy. “She’s picking me up later. She’s out at some charity meeting in Stretford.”

  “It’ll be nice to see her.”

  Arthur looked up from the beer pump.

  “I see one of your lot got himself killed,” he said conversationally.

  ‘One of your lot’ was the way he was wont to refer to anyone connected with social work.

  “Yeah,” said Jimmy, “a bad business, that.”

  Arthur paused in his task to let the beer settle.

  “Did you two know him?”

  “I’d come across him,” said Jimmy.

  We carried our drinks over to a seat by the window.

  “He was a bit of a lad by all accounts, was young Tim,” I said. “Not the most faithful of husbands.”

  Jimmy nodded in agreement.

  “Little toe rag. The cheeky sod was always chatting up the women in my team. Some of them are married and all, and a couple are only youngsters.”

  Disapproval covered his face.

  “It’s not on, that sort of thing, unprofessional.”

  Lighten up, Jimmy, I wanted to say. The amount of flirting that went on at work, not to mention the affairs that started there, it was a wonder anything got done. Jimmy had always been a bit strait-laced though.

  * * *

  As Caitlin got to the pub about ten past ten, people turned to look at her. She came over to our table, putting her arms around Jimmy.

  “Hi, love,” she said, “had a good night?”

  “Magic,” said Jimmy with a grin brought on by four pints of the best beer in the universe.

  Every bloke in the room must have been asking himself, ‘what’s she doing with him?’ She was one of those annoying people who never looked any older and never put on weight. Nobody would have looked twice at Jimmy, despite his wife’s efforts to improve him. His weight had always been a problem, while his once fair hair was getting progressively thinner and greyer. The contrast between the two didn’t end with their appearance.

  “Gus, lovely to see you,” Caitlin gushed. “I hope you’ve not been getting my husband drunk.”

  She spoke precisely, as though she had rehearsed her words. I’d always thought she had a bit of a Lady Bountiful air about her.

  “He manages that quite well without any help from me,” I said. “Talking of which, let me get you a drink.”

  She pulled up a chair.

  “I think I might risk a small Chardonnay,” she smiled. “I need a drink after two hours discussing the CAFOD Summer Ball.”

  On my way to the bar, I recalled the times Louise and I had socialized with Jimmy and Caitlin. Louise said Jimmy was a genuine bloke, but had always been a bit ambivalent about his wife. She fancies herself, that one, Louise would say.

  A staunch Catholic, Caitlin ran a not-for-profit fostering agency in Darwen. Not content with this, she spent her spare time doing stuff for charity. Louise said she was too good to be true. Nobody could say that about my ex, I thought, certainly not right now. When I got back to the table with the wine, Jimmy was going off in the direction of the gents’ toilet.

  “Tell me, Gus,” said Caitlin after a sip of wine, “has Jimmy been OK tonight?”

  As I took a mouthful of beer I searched the question for hidden meaning.

  “Yeah, think so. Same as ever, you know.”

  In other words, he started out being a miserable bugger and cheered up after a couple of pints. Caitlin pursed her lips.

  “I’ve been a bit worried about him lately. Just the last few days...you know we had some problems last year?”

  “No? What kind of problems?”

  She twisted the stem of her glass, then picked up a beer mat.

  “With our marriage. I can’t tell you what it was about, not if Jimmy hasn’t said anything. I thought we’d sorted everything out, but as I say he’s seemed, I don’t know, distracted, worried.”

  I thought hard about the evening with Jimmy but couldn’t remember the slightest sign of anything untoward. He was never that relaxed at the best of times. On reflection I wasn’t surprised Caitlin and Jimmy had had problems. Not just because they were an unlikely pairing, but the words marriage and problems seemed to go together.

  * * *

  The next day, after a short tram ride, I was knocking at the door of an imposing town house in Timperley. A tall, black woman in jeans and a red top greeted me with a smile and a hug.

  Since I had last seen her, Marti had been to Liverpool to see her mother, a constant source of anxiety since she’d broken her ankle two years ago. Now she had a nasty chest infection that wouldn’t go away. Once we were settled in the lounge, Marti gave me an update. Her Liverpool accent sounded stronger, something I had noticed before at times of stress.

  “So no change really,” I said when she had finished.

  “I’m beginning to wonder how long she’s gonna last,” she added with a chilling finality.

  I was thinking the same thing about my dad, who wouldn’t see ninety again. My mother had died when I was eighteen so I had not really got to know her. I hated the thought of my dad going as well, but it couldn’t be avoided.

  “Anyway, nothing I can do about it,” said Marti. “Tell me what’s been happening with you. Cheer me up.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s been going on. It may take some time...”

  “Sounds ominous...”

  “And I’m not sure it will cheer you up...”

  “Sounds even more ominous.”

  I did my best to collect my thoughts.

  “It all started the day David Moyes got the sack.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s as if United getting rid of their manager has triggered off lots of other things.

  “Such as?”

  I went through everything from my foiling of the handbag thief to Tim’s murder.

  “You poor thing,” she said, taking my hand.

  I put my arm around her and she rested her head on my shoulder.

  “Well,” said Marti with a sigh, “you have been busy.”

  “It’s other people who have been busy,” I replied. “I’m just an innocent bystander, me.”

  “Have you heard any more about this murder since
Sarita called round?” Marti said later.

  “No,” I said. “She’ll be coming back one day soon. She always does.”

  “Suppose so. What was the name of the guy who got killed?”

  “Tim Greenhoff. Tragic really, he was only young. I wonder how his wife’s coping.”

  “Poor girl.”

  “Tim said she’s a member of your gym. Do you know her? Andrea I think her name is.”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Andrea? Yeah, I think I’ve come across an Andrea. Dyed blonde hair, tarty looking?”

  I shook my head.

  “No idea, I’ve never met the woman.”

  “I’m sorry for her, of course, but I can’t say I’ve been impressed with what I’ve seen of her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She sits in the coffee bar after her workout and complains,” explained Marti. “They can probably hear her in Piccadilly.”

  “What does she complain about?”

  “Well, it used to be all about her husband and how mean he is, begrudging her every little thing,” she said sadly. “‘I even have to get the bus to work’, she said one day. I don’t suppose she’s complaining now.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The following Monday morning I pulled a jumper over my t-shirt and left my apartment block. I hurried along, thinking about the call from Marti I’d had a few minutes previously.

  “Hi, Gus,” she had said. “Do you think you could pop over to my office?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Now?”

  “OK, but...”

  “I’ve got a job for you. I’ll explain when I see you. Just get here as soon as you can.”

  What was the urgency, I asked myself. And what job did Marti have for me? I passed some swans swimming on what was left of the old canal and strolled round the side of the Holiday Inn. With Old Trafford football stadium ahead of me I continued until I got to Dacre House, a steel and glass tower block that could have been mistaken for a five star hotel.

  Coming out of the lift on the third floor and walking towards Pym and Sigson, I switched my phone off. When I entered Marti’s office, she was sitting at her black ash desk. Next to her was an older woman with shoulder length grey/blonde hair, wearing a white linen shirt and jeans. What the hell was Ellen Gallagher doing here, I asked myself, as I greeted them both?