SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  His face filled with disgust.

  “She was always going on about livening up our love life. As if it was my fault she’d shagged another bloke...”

  He waited a while as if he were counting to ten.

  “I don’t know how long I stood there, but after a bit my phone rang. It frightened the life out of me.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Ironically enough, it was Caitlin,” he said. “She was just leaving Blackburn. She’d decided to take the day off and suggested we met for lunch.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I suddenly wondered what I’d say if anybody arrived while I was there. I rushed out. Walked to work.”

  I remembered Jimmy had never learnt to drive. So it wasn’t him in the car that drove away from Mangall Court as I was arriving to look for my diary. I still didn’t know who it was.

  “Right,” I said. “Do you remember Wayne Dickens, the bloke we met outside Mangall Court?”

  “Not off hand,” he said.

  “The feller who was looking for Tim. He’d had his kids taken into care.”

  “Oh, yeah. What about him?”

  “We got rid of him eventually. Did you see him again?”

  He shook his head.

  “You’re sure he wasn’t around when you went to Mangall Court the next morning?”

  “If he was I didn’t see him. I don’t remember seeing anybody in particular.”

  * * *

  “The prosecution have got a motive and enough forensic evidence to satisfy any jury,” said Marti as we got in the car a few minutes later. “Apart from that, no problem.”

  I had to agree it did look bad. Could Jimmy actually have done it? “We’re gonna have our work cut out with this one,” she added as we pulled out of the car park.

  “Yeah. I need to think about it, make a plan.”

  “One good thing: the way Tim behaved, someone else could have had a motive for killing him.”

  That didn’t solve the problem of who actually did kill him.

  “I don’t like the idea of Jimmy being in that place much longer,” I said.

  “He didn’t look too good, did he?”

  Marti dropped me off at home and kissed me.

  “I’ll have to love you and leave you,” she said. “Papers to read, stuff to catch up on. I’ll pop round later, we could maybe do something.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  * * *

  Seconds after getting out of Marti’s car I had an idea. Instead of going home, I got into my own car and drove to Irlams o’ th’ Height, thinking about who might have killed Tim. It could have been one of his girlfriends seeking revenge after he had rejected her, but apart from Jimmy and Wayne Dickens, the main person with a motive for Tim’s murder was Andrea Greenhoff. Jimmy had, according to the prosecution, murdered Greenhoff through jealousy. Tim’s wife had at least as much reason to be jealous and such was society’s faith in holy matrimony, the wife was always under suspicion.

  Arriving outside the house where Tim Greenhoff had lived, I parked next to his Fiesta, beginning to regret being so impetuous. So much for making a plan, I thought. Even if she were in, would Andrea be willing to see me? She had never met me and I doubted whether her husband had ever mentioned my name. And what the hell was I going to say to her? Play it by ear, Gus, I told myself as I got out of the car and waited hesitantly on the pavement. I rang the bell.

  “Will Trader,” I said to the man who opened the door.

  He stared at me, nonplussed.

  “Oh, Gus,” he said, “er...”

  He ran his hands through his hair and fastened a button on his grey shirt.

  “I just wondered if Andrea was in,” I explained. “I was in the area and wanted to express my condolences.”

  I called myself a lying, hypocritical rat bag, but if it helped Jimmy’s case, it was justified.

  “Oh, sure,” said Will. “Come in. Er, you’d better take your shoes off.”

  I followed him down the hall. As I kicked off my trainers, I noticed he was wearing slippers. We went into the living room.

  “I’ve been calling round from time to time to see if Andrea’s OK,” he said, “I don’t live far away. Sit down.”

  I sat on an armchair.

  “I’ll just go and see if she’s up to seeing anyone.”

  With that he left me to it. I looked round at the wedding photos on a chest of drawers. Throughout the room I saw no evidence of even a speck of dust. The flat screen smart TV and the iPod in its speakers on the glass coffee table reminded me of what Tim had said about his wife wanting the best of everything.

  “She’ll be down in a moment,” said Will when he got back, “she needs a bit of time to compose herself. It’s all been a shock.”

  I nodded.

  “Must have been difficult with the police and everything.”

  Will rubbed his hand over his chin and was silent for a moment.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, “They came to see me, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, they knew I’d been to see him at Mangall Court that night,” he said. “I had to have my fingerprints taken. For elimination purposes, they said.”

  “I see. Had you known Tim long?”

  “We met at Uni,” he replied. “We just hit it off. I’m gonna miss him.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I introduced him to Andrea in fact. She and I have been friends for years, we were in sixth form college together in Chester. Tim came to stay with me one holiday and the rest is history as they say.”

  The door opened and a woman in her twenties came in, tapping obsessively on her iPhone. Apple’s best customer, I thought.

  “Oh, Andrea,” said Will, “this is Gus, a colleague of Tim’s. He was working with Tim the night before...”

  She cut into the introduction.

  “Nice to meet you, Gus.”

  I got up and we shook hands. I took in her long, blonde hair, the excessive make-up perfectly applied. Her black leggings and white top looked made to measure. She was barefooted – was this part of the no shoes rule, I wondered, or to show off her toenail varnish? Tarty, Marti had said. I wouldn’t say anything so judgemental of course. I was a social worker.

  “I just wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about Tim.”

  She smiled bravely as I sat down again.

  “Good of you to come round. Everyone’s been so kind. Except for the reporters.”

  She sat on the settee.

  “I’m dealing with all that sort of thing for Andrea,” said Will.

  Andrea looked over at him with great fondness.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without him, Gus,” said Andrea, smiling at Will. “I call him my press officer.”

  “It’s what Tim would have wanted,” said Will.

  “You’ve always been there for me, haven’t you, love?”

  How the hell was I going to break through this mutual admiration society and get onto what I wanted to talk about?

  “You must be relieved the police have made an arrest,” I suggested.

  “Oh, certainly,” she agreed, “at least I can sort out the funeral now. Will’s been getting in touch with Tim’s family for me.”

  “They must be distraught,” I said.

  “Especially his mum and dad,” said Will.

  “And his grandparents, I’m sure.”

  “They’ve all been dead for years,” said Will.

  That didn’t sound right, but now wasn’t the time to go into it.

  “At least they were spared losing their grandson,” said Andrea, “especially as the circumstances were so awful. I can’t believe that somebody who worked with Tim could...”

  She took several deep breaths before continuing.

  “Sorry, I... you know, Gus, part of me hates the man who took Tim away from me, part of me – this is going to sound bizarre – feels sorry for him.”

  “In what way?”

  She p
aused for a moment.

  “Well, his wife must have mental problems, mustn’t she?”

  How did she make that out? I couldn’t think how to respond so kept quiet.

  “She told him a pack of lies about having an affair with Tim. I mean she’s obviously a fantasist.”

  So that was how she had decided to play it, was it? That didn’t tie in with Tim’s remarks about Andrea’s obsessive jealousy. And I had incontrovertible proof that he had cheated on her. Perhaps she would accuse me of fantasizing if I told her.

  “And he believed her,” she said. “I suppose he would, but honestly...as if Tim would ever be unfaithful to me, certainly not with somebody old enough to be his mother.”

  If you say so, Andrea, I thought. Did she really believe this or was she preserving her husband’s memory? Maybe she was fooling herself.

  “I see what you mean,” I said.

  “Still, I’m glad the police have finished their investigation.”

  “They came to see me, you know,” I said, “because I was with him when...at the, er, at the relevant time.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s strange but I always feel guilty when I’m talking to the police,” I added.

  “I think they do it on purpose, Gus. I even thought at one time they suspected me.”

  She shook her head in disbelief.

  “I had to say where I was on the morning it happened. Well, I was either on my way to work or teaching twenty-nine eight year olds. Where did they think I was?”

  More head shaking followed this statement.

  “How could I have killed Tim when he was the love of my life?”

  ‘The love of my life’, that sounded suspicious for a start.

  “They asked about, you know, our personal life,” she went on. “I told them he had no need to look elsewhere. We were always very...loving towards each other if you know what I mean.”

  I knew what she meant. Definitely top marks for stamina, Tim, I thought.

  “They even made an issue of Tim’s life insurance, as if they’d never heard of such a thing.”

  Motives for killing her husband were stacking up: he was a serial shagger; a liar; she no doubt stood to make a tidy packet out of his death. Apart from that, nothing.

  As I left a few minutes later I wondered how Caitlin could have heard Tim talking to his dead grandmother. Why lie about a thing like that, I asked myself without coming up with an answer.

  I toyed with the idea of calling on Vicky Monroe, but thought better of it. I decided to try to catch her when she started at Ordsall Tower, where it would be harder to avoid me. And I really did need to make a plan before going any further.

  * * *

  That afternoon I took out my phone to check my messages – something I often forgot to do. I had not switched it back on after I’d left the remand centre and there were three missed calls from Marti. Had something happened with Jimmy? I rang back straight away.

  “Gus, at last...”

  “Sorry, I forgot to sw...”

  “Bad news, I’m afraid,” she cut in. “Mum’s died.”

  “Oh, Marti. God, I’m so sorry.”

  “She had a heart attack as far as anybody can tell...”

  Her words dried up as she struggled to speak.

  “I’m in Liverpool,” she explained. “Yvonne drove me.”

  If I had switched my phone on, I could have done that, I thought guiltily.

  “I’ve managed to sort out the funeral,” she went on, “It’s Friday at eleven o’clock.”

  “OK. I’d come over now, but I’ve got to pick Georgia up from nursery at half three,” I explained. “Rachel has some sort of meeting at her school. Kev’s in Birmingham on business.”

  “That’s OK, Gus, Yvonne’s staying with me tonight. We’ll probably get drunk and talk about the good old days.”

  “Good idea.”

  That made me feel better. Yvonne Sigson, though different from Marti in every way, had been her good friend since university days. Together they had made Pym and Sigson one of Manchester’s leading law firms.

  “Tomorrow night I’m staying with Lynn, you know, my friend from school.”

  “Right.”

  I tried to remember what I had planned for tomorrow but my mind was a blank. I’d check later.

  “Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow, sort out when I’m coming over. In the meantime, take care.”

  “Will do.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I phoned Marti again. She reeled off a list of things she would still have to do. Yvonne would ferry her around for a while before she went back to Salford. Then she was having lunch with Lynn. All that had me wondering when I should go to Liverpool and if I should cancel my appointments.

  “Why not come over tomorrow, Gus?” she suggested, in effect making the decision for me.

  I wanted to be with her now, but could see the sense in what she was saying.

  “OK.”

  We left it at that. I would have to accept that I wasn’t indispensable.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The following Saturday I was driving Marti back home the day after her mother’s funeral. Sensing she didn’t want to talk, I left her to her thoughts. It was a surprise when, about half an hour into the journey, she turned to me.

  “You know, Gus,” she said. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “What about?”

  I glanced over to her.

  “Once Mum’s house is sold and everything sorted out with the will, I’ll get quite a lot of money.”

  “I suppose you will.”

  An only child, Marti would inherit all her mother’s worldly goods. And she was already well off, at least by my standards.

  “I thought I might take a sabbatical,” she said.

  “A sabbatical? What, give up your job?”

  “Take a year off, see how it goes. You know what they say, nobody wishes they’d spent more time at work when they’re on their deathbed.”

  True enough, I thought, though I wished she hadn’t used the word deathbed. It only made me think of Tim’s lifeless body in Mangall Court.

  “I’ve not been taking any new cases since the turn of the year because of needing to keep an eye on Mum. So it wouldn’t take long to finish off my existing work.”

  “Suppose not.”

  “If you’re wondering about Jimmy’s case, you’ll have it all sorted out before I leave.”

  “Such confidence,” I smiled, hoping it was justified.

  Louise, I remembered, had gone off round the world soon after she left me. Was Marti planning something similar?

  “I wasn’t thinking about Jimmy,” I said, “just wondering what you would do with your sabbatical.”

  “I’d like to develop my music a bit more.”

  If I were any judge, Marti was a talented singer and keyboard player. She’d even been in the charts with a song she wrote herself back in the Eighties.

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ve been writing songs lately,” she explained. “I could get a band together, hire a studio and, you know, make an album.”

  Then what? I wondered.

  “I’d really like to try and make a go of being a full-time musician again. Before it’s too late, you know.”

  * * *

  Three days later, after the May Day bank holiday weekend, I reached Ordsall Tower just after three. Before chairing a meeting I hoped to be able to catch Vicky Monroe, who should have started her new job by now. Prior to that, I walked across the social work room, knocked on an office door to the right and went in.

  “Good afternoon Karen,” I said to the dark haired woman behind the desk.

  “Oh, hi, Gus,” she smiled.

  “I thought I’d see how the new boss was doing.”

  She took a bundle of papers from the sizeable pile in her in-tray.

  “The new boss is OK, apart from being rushed off her feet. Pretty shocked about Tim and Jimmy of course.”
<
br />   I sat opposite her. Karen Davidson had come a long way since she had started with children’s services five years ago. I’d always expected she’d go far. How right I’d been. Even as a newly qualified social worker she had dressed like a manager, eschewing the jeans most of her colleagues wore.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  She put the papers down after a cursory glance.

  “It’s unbelievable. To think Jimmy of all people...”

  She shook her head in disbelief. Time to bring Karen into my confidence, I decided.

  “Keep this quiet, Karen, but I’m looking into the murder.”

  “Really?”

  I told her about my meeting with Marti and Ellen Gallagher.

  “Did you know Tim?” I asked.

  “Not very well. The police asked me about him – questioning everyone who worked with him, I suppose – but I couldn’t tell them much.”

  Nobody could, it seemed.

  “They asked if I’d been shagging him,” she added.

  I raised my eyebrows. I knew very little of her recent love life, though she had a four-year-old daughter from a relationship that had ended tragically.

  “Not in so many words,” Karen explained. “‘What was the precise nature of your relationship with Mr Greenhoff?’ was the way they put it.”

  “Did you know about Jimmy’s wife and Tim Greenhoff?”

  “I didn’t know for sure but there were rumours. You know what a hotbed of gossip this place is.”

  “Yeah.”

  Every office in the world was, I reckoned.

  “I know he had trouble with a bloke called Dickens,” I said.

  I explained about the problem Jimmy and I had with Dickens outside Mangall Court just hours before Tim’s death.

  “Ah, yes,” said Karen. “That sounds like our Mr Dickens.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “It was one of my last cases before I took over this job,” she said. “Parents who struggled to bring up a couple of kids. Not to be too cynical, but it was a fairly common situation.”

  I nodded, knowing exactly what she meant.

  “The kids were being neglected, physically, emotionally, you name it. I tried to work with the parents like you do. I brought in a family worker, got a priority nursery place, tried to help them improve their parenting skills...nothing worked.”