SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy

by Bud Craig

  From my social work experience and my private investigation work I knew to what depths people could sink.

  “We need a plan,” I said after we had talked round the subject for a while longer.

  “Mum needs to be somewhere inaccessible for a while,” suggested Danny.

  That was why I phoned my sister, Terri, in Sydney.

  * * *

  Half an hour after that I was explaining the ins and outs of the investigation I was involved in.

  “So you’re trying to find Francine Ingleby,” asked Rachel when I had finished.

  “Yes.”

  “You’d like that job, wouldn’t you, Danny?”

  My son looked daggers at his sister. There was something going on between them I wasn’t aware of.

  “Come on, explain,” I said.

  “Danny used to fancy her when she was on that Danger Gang.”

  “Might have done,” he said, regressing to the age he was when Danger Gang was on.

  Why shouldn’t he fancy Francine, I asked myself, or anyone else for that matter? When I was thirteen, I fancied Dusty Springfield. Nobody told me she was gay.

  “Well, you may as well have a go at finding her, Danny,” I said. “I’m getting nowhere.”

  He smiled at me.

  “We need another cunning plan.”

  I shrugged.

  “If you can come up with one, I’ll be eternally grateful.”

  “Right.”

  He drank his wine, deep in thought.

  “If she’s got this scam of trying to meet rich men through this widows’ website,” he said, “what’s to say she’s not still doing it?”

  That sounded like the germ of an idea.

  “Go on,” urged Rachel.

  He took another drink, which seemed to inspire him.

  “Let’s assume she’s continuing with the scam using another name.”

  “OK,” I said.

  “All you need to do is get someone – a man, obviously – to register on the site and date her.”

  “That’s all right in principle,” I said, “but how can you guarantee this bloke would ever get to meet her?”

  “It all depends on your profile,” put in Rachel. “we’d have to make sure whoever you got to do it had it right.”

  We mulled over the idea for a while.

  “Two things strike me,” said Danny. “One: this Elliott bloke and Francine are much younger than most widows. So she must have been looking at potential partners in the younger age range. Say under forty.”

  Rachel and I nodded.

  “The other thing is this: there must have been something in Eliott’s profile that attracted her. He might have said something that suggested he was well off.”

  “I’ll check with him tomorrow,” I said. “You know, this might work.”

  Rachel intervened at this point.

  “There’s just one more thing to decide. Who’s going to sign up for this dating website?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Danny immediately.

  I had rarely seen him so enthusiastic. The expression laid back was designed for my son. Maybe it was the booze taking effect.

  “Danny, don’t be stupid,” said his big sister.

  Those words only made him more determined.

  “There’s nothing stupid about it,” he insisted. “It’s the best chance we’ve got. And I’d make money out of it.”

  Rachel looked questioningly at me.

  “Oh, definitely,” I assured her. “It’s part of the investigation.”

  I was sure Ellen Gallagher or Eliott McIntyre would be happy to pay.

  “I’ve just thought of something else,” said Rachel. “What about Natalie?”

  “I don’t think she’d fancy Francine Ingleby,” smiled Danny.

  * * *

  Two days later I was on my way to meet Eliott in the Blackburn/Darwen Services again. On my way along the M61 while trying to negotiate the heavy traffic, I thought how to play it. I had discussed it with Danny the previous day on a walk in Ribblesdale. We decided I should tell Eliott that Danny was a member of my staff. This was ostensibly to impress Eliott. I omitted to tell Danny that I didn’t want McIntyre to know he was my son. This was partly to protect his privacy; partly because I was still uncertain about getting him involved.

  I couldn’t forbid him from carrying out his plan – I had enough trouble getting him to do as he was told when he was a kid. He really wanted to do it and he did need the money. A few weeks ago he had told me he and Natalie were saving hard to buy a house together. I wasn’t well off enough to give them more than a few hundred towards a deposit, so if I could give him some paid work, how could I not do so?

  “So what’s this idea you’ve had, Gus,” asked Eliott as we sat down in the café later.

  I tried and failed to get my teapot to pour out the tea without spilling, while I thought about the question.

  “Well, it came from one of my assistants,” I half lied, “we often discuss cases as a team. That usually proves fruitful.”

  I almost laughed at the idea that I had a team, but I stayed focused.

  “The basic plan is to try and make contact with Zena/Francine through the website.”

  I explained the thinking behind Danny’s plan.

  “Not a bad idea,” he said. “What do you want from me?”

  “Did you bring your profile?”

  He pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and handing it to me.

  “We want Danny to use a similar form of words in the hope of attracting the woman we’re after.”

  I read the profile: ‘I run one of the North West’s leading businesses, but I know now there’s more to life than material well-being’ was the sentence that stood out.

  Those words made him a sitting duck, the poor sod.

  “I told you this would make me look stupid,” he said.

  I shrugged, not knowing what to say.

  “I wanted to give the impression I was a successful man, not some sad loser,” he added. “Zena must have worked out straight away I had a few bob.”

  “Anyway, what’s done is done,” I said, “what we need to do is make her pay.”

  And I wanted to talk to her about Tim Greenhoff’s murder.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Once Danny’s joined New Life you and I will need to accompany him on all his dates. Keep out of the way so you won’t be spotted, but near enough to see what’s going on.”

  “OK.”

  He was starting to sound keen.

  “You’ll have to say if his date is Zena or not.”

  * * *

  The following Saturday morning, I eased my Peugeot into the car park of Lancaster Road playing fields, where I had played rugby and cricket at school. I was to do a coaching session for TRYS, a rugby charity I had been involved with since I signed for Salford in the seventies. A young, black man in a suit was waiting outside the changing room with a familiar looking lad. I got out of the car and walked over to them.

  “Hey, Gus,” said Paul Winston, “this here’s Riley Henderson, who I told you about.”

  I held out my hand and, after an initial hesitation, Riley took it.

  “Riley’s been referred by his probation officer,” explained Paul, “she thinks we might be able to help him.”

  Nobody looking at the smartly dressed man speaking with such authority would have thought that a few years ago Paul was on his way to a life of crime. TRYS had helped him see the error of his ways. Now he had a well-paid job in IT in Manchester and was one of TRYS’ mentors. To top it all I had introduced him to his girlfriend, Hannah, the receptionist at Ordsall Tower. I was expecting a wedding invitation any day now.

  “I think I’ve met Riley before,” I said, “nicked any good handbags lately?”

  “Don’t know what you mean,’ said Riley, though his shamefaced look said otherwise.

  “Don’t give me that,” I said. “Outside Ordsall Tower just aft
er Easter, you snatched a lady’s handbag.”

  Paul turned to Riley.

  “What’s all this,” he demanded, “you told me you were going straight.”

  “I am, honest,” he said, “I ain’t done nothing like it since.”

  I explained to Paul what happened.

  “So no harm done, eh,” said Riley, suddenly optimistic.

  “No thanks to you. You probably frightened that woman half to death.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” he insisted, “she was expecting me.”

  Does anybody arrange to be mugged, I wondered?

  “What are you on about?”

  “It was all planned,” he said, “I was supposed to grab the bag and take it somewhere.”

  I should have known anything to do with the fake Vicky was bound to be confusing.

  “Where?”

  Riley shook his head.

  “I can’t tell you that. More than my life’s worth. I do know there was summat valuable in the bag, plus hundred quid for me.”

  “Something valuable? Drugs, you mean?”

  “I had no idea what it was. It was best I didn’t know.”

  What the hell was ‘Vicky’ up to, I asked myself? It might have nothing to do with Tim’s death, but the sooner I found her the better.

  “What happened that day,” said Riley, “it made me realise I was gonna end up in the nick. I mean I nearly got caught for a start. That van that knocked me over could have killed me.”

  He sounded sincere but so did every criminal in Salford when it suited them.

  “My probation officer suggested TRYS before but I said no. This time I’ll give it a real go, I promise.”

  I looked at him, making him wait.

  “Right, I’ll take you on,” I agreed, “on two conditions. One you stay out of trouble; two you help me and Paul with an investigation I’m dealing with.”

  “Investigation?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  Shortly after the end of the training session, I instructed Paul and Riley to keep an eye on Will Trader’s house. I needed to make sure he was still around. After a moment’s thought I told them to do the same for Andrea Greenhoff’s house on Doveleys Road. Will could be visiting her there. He might know something about the fake Vicky, as might Andrea and there was still a chance they might lead me to a solution of Tim’s murder.

  “You do this without drawing attention to yourselves.”

  “No problem,” Paul assured me.

  I had faith in Paul, who had helped with other jobs I’d had, so had to rely on him to keep Riley in line.

  “Make sure you report anything significant to me,” I told them.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Not much to report, Gus,” said Paul the following Wednesday at the Albert Square Chop House in the centre of Manchester.

  We’d arranged this lunch-time meeting to discuss progress.

  “I really need to see Will Trader,” I said.

  Paul took a hungry bite out of his steak sandwich.

  “I haven’t see him at home. He’s called round to that Andrea’s house now and again.”

  He must be still helping her out.

  “Maybe I’ll try and catch him there.”

  I had another spoonful of broccoli and stilton soup and thought about what to do next

  “How’s Riley doing?” I asked.

  Paul took a swig of water.

  “Good, yeah. Took to it like a duck to water. Mind you, he’s a right devious little fucker. Had plenty of practice at the old undercover stuff, know what I mean?”

  I laughed.

  “I don’t doubt it, Paul,” I said. “I don’t doubt it.”

  Paul glanced at his watch. He would have to be back at work soon and he had nothing more to add.

  “Anyway, I might have some more work for you if you’re free tonight.”

  That was my main reason for meeting Paul.

  “I’ll make sure I am.”

  I gave him his instructions and he promised me he would be at his post in good time. I left the restaurant with Paul a few minutes later, glad to have him on my side.

  * * *

  That night I was hiding with Eliott McIntyre in a private room in Villa Francesca restaurant in Didsbury. Through the glass door we could see Danny waiting self-consciously for his date for the evening, at a table in the middle of the room. Occasionally he looked nervously at his watch, sipped at his water and glanced at the front door of the restaurant.

  Since we’d hatched the plan it had achieved nothing useful. Eliott and I had already accompanied Danny on two dates, but neither of the women looked anything like Francine/Zena. Now, hearing the door open, I tried to see the woman rushing into the restaurant without letting her see me. She wore a black dress, a red jacket and a flustered expression. Danny looked towards her. She smiled and sat at his table.

  “Oh, my God,” I heard her say, “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  “That’s her,” whispered Eliott.

  “That’s her,” I whispered at exactly the same time.

  Eliott looked curiously at me.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  What did he mean, I wondered. More pertinently, what the hell did the appearance of this woman mean? Before we went any further, I took out my phone and made a quick call. Then I stood up.

  “Come on,” I said.

  We joined Danny and his date and pulled up two chairs.

  “Nice to see you again, Zena,” said Eliott as he sat down. “Or is it Francine?”

  She looked from one to the other of us in alarm. I decided to join in the speculation.

  “Or maybe it’s Vicky?”

  She still had her fringe, I noticed, and the same handbag. Some things were beginning to slot into place. A lot weren’t though.

  “Oh, God, it’s you again,” she said. “What do you want?”

  “I want an explanation from you for a start. So does Eliott here.”

  “You’ll have to want,” she replied, getting up from her chair. “I’m off.”

  I looked out of the window.

  “As soon as you go outside somebody will follow you,” I said. “In the meantime I’ll ring the police to have you arrested. So you’d better stay where you are.”

  I knew Paul was in place only yards away. On previous occasions Natalie had taken on that role but had phoned me last night to cancel. Francine spoke to Danny who had stayed silent so far.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Do as he says,” Danny instructed. “He’s a private investigator and I’m one of his team. We work closely with the police.”

  Nice one Danny, I thought, as with a show of reluctance Francine sat down again.

  “The first question is,” I said, “what’s your name?”

  She tutted and ground her teeth.

  “Francine Ingleby.”

  “Right, Francine, I want you to tell me what you’ve been up to,” I explained. “If I’m satisfied with your answers to my questions, I won’t report you to the authorities.”

  She sat back in her chair before she spoke again.

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  I almost laughed at the thought of a confidence trickster asking about trust.

  “You don’t.”

  She took a deep breath and then breathed out again slowly.

  “OK. What do you want to know?”

  Where to start, I asked myself.

  “I think we’d better move to somewhere more private,” I said.

  As we made our way back to the separate room where Eliott and I had been sitting I ordered a bottle of house red. Once we were settled at the table behind closed doors, I began the questioning.

  “I’m sure Eliott has some questions for you but first tell me why you pretended to be Vicky Monroe.”

  She scratched her top lip then sniffed before continuing.

  “When I needed to be in Manchester I stayed at Will’s place – he’s my se
cond cousin twice removed or something. I slept in the room that used to be Vicky’s. It was a handy place for me and Tim to get together if you know what I mean.”

  The coy smile that accompanied this gratuitous piece of information didn’t suit her.

  “Anyway, Vicky had left a load of stuff behind so I had a good nosy round. You never know what might come in handy, do you?”

  She smirked annoyingly.

  “There was nothing obviously valuable, but one day a letter came for her from the Council. I opened it of course. She’d been called for a job interview, something to do with fostering, adoption whatever.”

  She yawned as if bored already.

  “At first I was gonna ring the council and tell them she wasn’t coming. If I’d done it straight away that would have been that, but I never got round to it. After a bit I thought it might be a laugh if somebody went along in her place.”

  It didn’t sound all that funny to me.

  “Don’t know where that idea came from, but I did remember I’d found a load of notes she had left in a drawer. You know, a list of possible questions with the answers all typed out.”

  I was ahead of her but wanted the full explanation.

  “I thought if I got away with it I could sell my story to the tabloids. I mean, if somebody unqualified could get themselves an interview, in theory a paedophile could infiltrate social services.”

  It was beginning to make a barmy kind of sense. A headline like, ‘Are Our Kids Safe?’ would attract a lot of attention.

  “Did you tell Will about this?”

  “No, I thought I’d see how it went. If it had worked out I’d probably have told him to make sure he didn’t give the game away.”

  Francine glanced quickly round the room as if seeking a means of escape.

  “I did bring Tim into it though, with him being in the business. He knew somebody who was an expert in fostering and he got some tips off her.”

  Caitlin, well, what do you know, I said to myself.

  “I swotted up the questions and answers,” she went on. “Vicky had left her passport behind. I reckoned I could pass for her, no problem.”

  “I’m still amazed you got away with it,” I said.

  She shrugged.

  “You forget I’m an actress. I still do a bit from time to time, but it doesn’t pay as well as crime. It was just like rehearsing for a part. I memorised the script, practised the accent until it was just right. Piece of piss.”