by Bud Craig
A familiar story of banging your head against a brick wall.
“Anyway, Tim was going to take over the case when I started this job and I took him out to meet them a couple of times. This coincided with the decision to remove the kids.”
“Tim must have been delighted.”
Karen shrugged.
“That’s the way it goes,” she said. “The trouble was they blamed Tim for everything: ‘before you came along, everything was all right,’ you know.”
I knew.
“Wayne made a few threats, caused a disturbance on more than one occasion,” she added. “Next thing you know, Tim’s left for the EDT job.”
“Right.”
“If you want to know more about it, have a look at the file,” she suggested.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” she said, “A newly qualified social worker has taken over. It would help to have your view on it.”
That sounded OK and it would help my investigation.
“Right. I won’t have time today, but I’ll be in touch in the next couple of days,” I said. “I’ve got a conference soon and I want to try and catch Vicky Monroe before that.”
“Vicky Monroe?”
“The new fostering and adoption manager.”
“You haven’t heard then,” asked Karen?
I got up to leave.
“Heard what?”
Not more complications?
“She was supposed to start her new job on the first of May,” explained Karen, “but she didn’t turn up.”
I’d thought Dave Moyes being sacked had started everything off, but the handbag snatching incident outside Ordsall Tower was surely more relevant. Things hadn’t been the same since the moment I had first clapped eyes on Vicky Monroe. What did it all mean? Was there some connection between Vicky Monroe and Tim’s murder?
“Does anybody know why?”
“No. There’s been no sign of her. She’s not answering her phone. She left her previous authority – Devon, I think it was – a few months back to go travelling so they couldn’t tell us anything.”
“That’s a bit of a bugger.”
“What did you need to see her about?”
“I want to ask her about Tim’s death.”
“Oh?”
At the risk of making myself late, I sat down again and explained how Vicky fitted into my murder investigation.
“So this Vicky was another of Tim’s women, was she? I think I might have been the only woman in Greater Manchester he hadn’t slept with.”
I laughed at the thought.
“Anyway, gotta go,” I said.
“If you see Jimmy, give him my love,” said Karen as I got up again.
“Yeah.”
She smiled sadly.
“I knew Jimmy when I was a clerk in the Civic Centre quite a few years ago. I always felt a bit sorry for him,” she said. “He was never very good socially but when he married Caitlin he was completely out of his depth.”
I thought Jimmy was out of his depth most of the time regardless of the circumstances, but didn’t say so.
“The trouble was she would never just let him be himself.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Karen sighed sadly.
“Caitlin doesn’t bring her men much luck, does she,” asked Karen? “Her first husband dead; Jimmy charged with killing her lover.”
* * *
That evening at the flat I finally got round to making a plan. I wrote down a list of names and summarized everything I knew so far in my notebook. That inspired precisely nothing. I thought about what Sarita had said to me, but she hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know. I was about to give up when I remembered that the inspector had made a second visit to my flat. She’d asked me if I knew some woman or other. Who was it?
I pictured myself at the kitchen table with my notebook just like now. I’d written the name down, hadn’t I? Flicking back in my notebook I eventually found it. Francine Ingleby. How could I find out more about her? It would be no good ringing Sarita. She’d want to know why I was inquiring. Who else might help me?
I was still wondering when my phone rang. It was Steve asking if I’d be around on 12th May. While we were making arrangements for him to come and stay the night, it occurred to me I may as well tap into his encyclopaedic knowledge of all things dodgy.
“I’ve got a question for you, Steve,” I said. “Does the name Francine Ingleby mean anything to you?”
I could almost hear his mind ticking over.
“It does, yeah. I’ve heard the name recently. Bells are ringing but I can’t remember why.”
That was disappointing. I’d got so used to relying on Steve.
“Francine Ingleby,” he said. “No, nothing. I’ll look into it for you, let you know what I come up with when I see you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
That evening I drove to Irlams o’ th’ Height and went to Cholmondeley Road, to look for Vicky Monroe. I wasn’t expecting to find her, but had to start somewhere. There was no answer when I knocked at the door. I rang the bell several times with the same result. From there I went to Worsley to pay my first visit to Ellen Gallagher’s house. I was expecting a mansion; instead I found myself pulling up outside a 1930s semi. Perhaps it was more evidence of there being ‘no side to her’. She had invited Marti over, partly to talk about the case but also to show her the recording studio she had had built in the back garden. I had a feeling they would have spent the afternoon on musical rather than legal matters.
Somebody shouted ‘come in’ when I rang the bell so I followed the sound of music to a room where Marti and Ellen were lounging on separate settees, strumming guitars. The setting would have been perfect for an album cover: two singers relaxing in a minimalist space done out like a modern art gallery. Marti must have decided it was officially summer as she was wearing white linen trousers.
They were singing a song of lost love I’d never heard before. Their harmonies were worthy of the Everly Brothers. I sat on an armchair and listened, awestruck. Not for the first time I wished I had some musical ability. I could remember the words of all the Hollies songs and was willing to sing them (badly) after a few pints. But that was it. When the song finished I applauded. Marti gave a mock bow.
“That was fantastic,” I said, “what was it?”
They put down their guitars.
“Lost and Lonely,” said Marti. “A song wot I wrote.”
“Great stuff.”
The two women looked at one another.
“Should we tell him the good news first?” asked Ellen.
Marti nodded.
“Ellen’s gonna let me use her studio,” explained Marti. “You know, for the album I was telling you about.”
“This lady’s got real talent,” said Ellen.
I smiled at the rock star, who looked as cool and charismatic as ever in a San Francisco 49ers shirt, straight jeans and cowboy boots.
“You don’t need to tell me, Ellen,” I said.
They went on to explain their plans to get a band together, rehearse and do the recording sometime soon.
“But now,” said Marti after a while, “we have to talk of other things.”
I told them how far I’d got – not very, although I didn’t quite put it that way.
“If I could only get hold of Vicky Monroe,” I said, “we might start to get somewhere.”
“Which one’s she again?” asked Ellen.
“The one who I saw shagging Tim Greenhoff in Mangall Court.”
“Yeah, I remember now,” said Ellen.
“The only problem is she’s gone missing.”
I explained about her not turning up to work on her first day in a new job.
“I’ve just been to the address I have for her in Cholmondeley Road,” I added. “Nobody in, but I’ll be going back.”
“We’ve just got to keep trying,” said Marti, “you’ve succeeded before Gus. I have every confidence
in you.”
Nice to hear, I thought, but not much practical use.
“I blame Caitlin for this,” said Ellen.
Neither Marti nor I tried to contradict her. I got the feeling she was climbing back on her hobby horse after a short break.
“Jimmy was just one of her projects,” she added.
That was one way of looking at it, I supposed. Jimmy had welcomed the idea of marrying Caitlin, but I sometimes wondered if he really appreciated her attempts to get him to change. I knew it would have driven me mad.
“Maybe I’m a little overprotective of Jimmy,” she said reflectively, “but there are reasons for that. A guy I had a thing with a few years back said I was a natural big sister.”
She smiled at the memory. I could see the truth of what the ex-boyfriend had said. Nobody messed with Ellen Gallagher.
“At the same time Jimmy was born to be a little brother. It’s not just him being nine years younger than me. He kind of never grew up, you know. I guess he’d have a label stuck on him these days, some syndrome or other.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“What I’m getting at is, what would the lovely and talented Caitlin see in a man like Jimmy?”
A question I’d often asked myself.
“It wasn’t his looks,” said Ellen, “or his sparkling wit. He was someone she could control, manipulate. When she betrays him, how’s he going to react?”
There was maybe a grain of truth in that statement, but on the whole it was unfair. Caitlin hadn’t forced Jimmy to marry her. Admittedly he was naive, but is anybody that naive? There was one troubling thing about what Ellen was saying. It was almost as if she were suggesting her brother had killed Tim Greenhoff.
* * *
The next morning, having finally taken the car to the garage to get it looked at, I walked from Salford Quays to the bus stop on Trafford Road near Phoebe Street. It was jeans and t-shirt weather as I boarded the number 79, my mind on Vicky Monroe. I had decided to go to Cholmondeley Road again. As the bus turned left onto Regent Road, I thought back to finding the envelope outside Ordsall Tower on the day of the handbag incident.
The address on that envelope was still the only clue I had. I was convinced it was important to talk to Vicky about Tim Greenhoff’s murder. Something told me nothing would make sense until I found her, but another voice in the back of my mind, equally insistent, reminded me I could be wrong. If only she had turned up for work when she was supposed to. It would have been difficult for her to escape me there. Then I would have known one way or the other. Now I was stymied.
The bus went onto Eccles New Road, reminding me of journeys to school. I could call on my dad on the way back, I said to myself, as we got near Weaste. What would he make of it all?
I refused to believe her disappearance was a coincidence. I needed to know more about Vicky. How had she and Tim met and what kind of relationship did they have? Was it just the occasional shag or was there more to it? There must be a link with the murder, mustn’t there? Had she killed Tim? Was that why she had to get away?
What would her motive have been? Had he promised to leave his wife and then changed his mind? Had she heard about his other women? If she had killed him, she must have gone back to Mangall Court on the morning of his death. The only problem was, nobody had seen her.
* * *
A For Sale sign was stuck at an angle in the front garden of the house in Cholmondeley Road. It hadn’t been there the last time I had called and it was, I noticed, identical to the one next door. I went down the path, rang the bell and waited, passing my briefcase from one hand to the other. I glanced in the window, but couldn’t see anyone. After a while I rang again. Though pretty certain nobody was at home I banged on the door as hard as I could to make sure. After another wait, I gave up and turned to walk away. I saw a fair haired woman struggling with two plastic bags, her handbag slung over her shoulder, about to turn into the garden path next door.
“Good morning,” she said with a bright smile.
“Morning.”
“Gorgeous day.”
“Lovely.”
In denim jacket and pink jeans, she looked full of the joys of Spring. ‘Life’s pretty good,’ she seemed to be saying. Then we looked at one another and stood still for a moment. We did a double take.
“Debbie,” I said.
“Gus, oh, my God...what the hell...”
What the hell indeed.
“You can’t still live here, can you?” I asked.
She smiled again.
“Well, tell you what, come in and have a coffee and I’ll explain.”
“Good idea.”
I joined her on the garden path, taking the bags from her, like the gent I was, while she took a key from her jacket pocket.
“Mum and Dad moved into sheltered housing a few months ago,” she explained as we went into the kitchen. “I’m trying to sell the house for them. I’m staying here for the time being.”
I put the bags and my briefcase down on the table by a pile of mail. Debbie plonked her handbag next to them. I looked round, noticing a cafetière, a teapot and a sliced loaf on a work surface. A pair of walking boots were on the floor, tucked away in a corner, reminding me it was Debbie who had got me into walking.
“Have a seat.”
I sat down, looking round and trying to adjust to being in this house again.
“We had some good times here,” I said.
“Yes,” she agreed, averting her eyes.
Colour came into her cheeks.
“God, Gus Keane, you’ll have me blushing.”
She began to put the shopping away.
“So what are you doing in Cholmondeley Road after all these years?” she asked.
I told her I was looking for Vicky Monroe.
“Vicky from next door? How come?”
This could take some time, I thought, so tried to keep it brief.
“I’m a private investigator and she may be able to help me with a case I’m on.”
“I’m impressed. Tell me more.”
I couldn’t remember impressing Debbie all that much in the old days.
“She was involved with the bloke who was killed,” I said, having explained about Tim’s murder. “The solicitor of the man who’s been charged with the murder has asked me to look into it.”
She sat down, looking puzzled.
“Now she’s gone missing,” I added.
Her eyes opened wide.
“Missing? Vicky? That’s ridiculous.”
I was temporarily silenced by this but Debbie had more to say.
“She’s in the Scilly Isles.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Scilly Isles?”
“Yeah, you know, off the coast of Cornwall.”
“I know where it is, Debbie. I’ve been there, a lovely place.”
“So they say. Her bloke has just opened a restaurant and B&B on one of the islands and she’s gone to help him run it.”
Well, she could have let somebody know, I thought, annoyed on behalf of Salford Council.
“When was this?”
She pondered for a bit.
“Ooh, let’s think now. March, it would have been.”
“March? Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“Did you know Vicky well?”
Another nod.
“Fairly well. We got to know one another when I moved in here,” she explained. “She was always friendly.”
Vicky friendly? That didn’t sound right.
“She came in for coffee a few times,” Debbie went on, “and we got talking. She began to confide in me. People are always doing that.”
Join the club, I said to myself.
“She’d been going out with this guy, Hugh, for ages and something went wrong.” I wanted to ask about half a dozen questions, but hoped Debbie might make things clear by the time she’d finished.
“She was all set to go back to social work. She’d applied for a job in Salfo
rd, something to do with adoption.”
“Yes, I ...”
“She’d prepared herself really well, made loads of notes and stuff,” Debbie went on. “All possible questions were typed out with detailed answers. She’d used all the clichés, you know, being passionate about making a difference and stuff.”
I knew interview panels were impressed by all that bollocks.
“She even got me to do a couple of mock interviews. I knew as much about it as she did by the time we’d finished.”
No wonder she got the job, I thought.
“It was all a waste of time as it turned out...”
“But surely...”
“Hugh, the boyfriend, came looking for her. There was an emotional reunion. Terribly romantic.”
Romantic? Confusing, more like.
“But she’s been back here at least once since March,” I said.
“No.”
“She must have been,” I insisted.
I explained about her interview in April, her appointment as fostering and adoption manager and her failure to turn up for work.
“She’d hardly go to the trouble of returning from the Scillies,” objected Debbie, “and having an interview for a job she didn’t want.”
“But she did,” I said, shaking my head.
“This makes no sense at all,” said Debbie, rather stressing the obvious.
How did we come to be discussing one of my investigations in such detail, instead of chatting about old times?
“Wait a minute,” she said, clicking her fingers.
Debbie picked up the pile of post from the table. Quickly sorting through the junk mail and official looking envelopes, she handed me a postcard.
“That was on the mat this morning when I arrived.”
I admired the picture of sunset over Bryher before turning it over to read the message:
Hi Debbie
Still having a fab time over here. Run off my feet but loving every minute. You must come and see us soon – Hugh will cook you one of his specials!
Love
Vicky xxx
“This arrived today?”
“It could have arrived any time since I was last here,” she explained. “I’ve been away for more than a week.”
I looked again at the card, trying to decipher the postmark.