by Bud Craig
It was almost funny that a good actress could get a job she knew nothing about. I had often complained that too many jobs went to people who could talk a good game and little else.
“Once I got the job I thought I’d put in a few weeks then sell the story to the Daily Mail,” said Francine, “or the Sun or whatever.”
“So why didn’t you turn up for work?” I asked.
She tutted again, louder this time.
“Because of Tim getting himself killed. The cops would soon find out I had been to see Tim at that old people’s home.”
And they would learn a lot of things she wanted to keep quiet, I thought.
“As soon as I heard about the murder,” she continued, “I went round to Will’s and cleared every trace of Vicky from the house. Dumped it in a skip apart from the passport. Got a few quid for that.”
I’d better remember to tell Vicky about the passport. Francine sat back smugly.
“Can I go now?”
I shook my head.
“Not yet. Where were you when Tim was killed?”
“How should I know? I’ve no idea when that was.”
“The morning after your interview,” I explained. “Around eight o’clock as far as anyone can tell.”
I was guessing a bit there.
“Fast asleep in bed. Now can I go?”
I wasn’t letting her off that lightly.
“There are a few more things we need to know about,” I said, “like the eleven grand you owe Eliott. And the matter of some rather expensive jewellery.”
“I’m sorry about that, Eliott,” she said, trying a sweet smile, “nothing personal, but a girl’s got to make a living.”
“Never mind about being sorry,” said Eliott, “I want my money back. And my wife’s jewels.”
“A bit difficult, I’m afraid. Cash flow problems, you understand.”
Eliott cut in.
“Cash f...”
“As for the jewellery, I haven’t got it no more.”
Eliott looked to me as if for guidance.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Good question. I gave it to Tim but what he did with it I have no idea.”
That really baffled me.
“Where does Tim fit in?”
“You remember that kid trying to nick my handbag?”
“Yeah, and I know it was a put up job.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s my job to find things out,” I said. “But go on with what you were saying.”
“Well, the jewellery was in the bag; the guy in the hoodie was supposed to take it to someone who could find a market for it.”
“‘Too complicated’, you called it,” I said, remembering her words as she went into Ordsall Tower. “You were right, weren’t you?”
She sighed.
“Yeah. The fence didn’t want me going to his place cos I’d been there too often. Paranoid pillock. Anyway, when I saw Tim that night I told him to take the stuff to the fence in return for a cut of the proceeds. I assured him there was plenty more where that came from. Blokes on dating websites always have something worth nicking if you know who to target.”
“Someone like me,” said Eliott ruefully.
“Sorry,” said Francine sounding anything but, “like I say, it’s business.”
“Coming back to the jewellery,” I said, thinking out loud, “either the police have got it or whoever killed Tim took it away with him.”
At that point the door to our private room was flung open. DI Ellerton came in with two uniformed constables.
“Sarita,” I said, “there’s the woman you want. Francine Ingleby.”
The inspector began to caution Francine. It would be true to say she wasn’t pleased.
“You lying bastard,” she hissed at me. “You’ll be sorry.”
As the PCs marched Francine away, a waiter brought a tray. “Bottle of house red,” he announced as Sarita said she’d see me later.
* * *
I got back to my flat to find DI Ellerton knocking at the door.
“We’ve got your friend, Francine in a cell overnight,” she said as she followed me in.
We sat at the kitchen table again. We’d have to stop meeting like this.
“She’s been charged with fraud and burglary.”
“What about claiming to be a social worker when she isn’t?” I asked.
“We could get her on that too. Social services aren’t sure they want to press charges, bad publicity, you know. Pity, I’ve never come across it before. Might have been interesting.”
I yawned, suddenly tired from having to concentrate for so long.
“Francine wasn’t saying much to us,” the DI continued. “Can you tell me what she told you? It’s not acceptable as evidence, but it might suggest another line of questioning.”
“Sure.”
I explained as far as I could what Francine had been up to.
“Did she say anything about Tim’s murder?” asked the inspector.
“Yes, but not much. Says she was in bed at the time he died. When she talked about it she made it clear she wasn’t overcome with grief. Seemed to find it a bit of an inconvenience.”
“Quite a girl, young Francine,” said the DI. “We’ve had our eyes on her for a while.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I’ve got a guy called Ed Richards with me,” said Marti the next day.
She had rung me when I was on my regular morning walk through Salford Quays. I had just reached the BBC building when the call came through.
“Who’s he?”
“His father, Frank Richards, was married to Caitlin Gallagher,” she said. “He read about Jimmy being charged with the Greenhoff murder.”
“Yeah?”
“My name was mentioned in the article. He made a special journey from Bristol to come and see me because he reckons he can help in Jimmy’s defence.”
“How exactly,” I asked doubtfully?
“It’s too complicated to go into right now. I told him I had a private detective looking into the case.”
In other words, Marti had fobbed him off.
“And you want me to see him,” I asked.
The ‘why buy a dog and bark yourself?’ principle, I thought. Still, I was paid by the hour, what did I care?
“Got it in one. He’s staying at the Holiday Inn. Could you meet him there at eight tonight?”
“Yeah, why not?”
There was nothing to stop me from seeing this feller. I wouldn’t be seeing my girlfriend, that was for sure. It had been days since we’d even been in the same room. I may as well go out and earn some money, though I couldn’t imagine how it would do any good. At the same time, I didn’t have any better ideas.
“And you’re not to say anything to Caitlin about this,” Marti added. “She has no idea he’s contacted me.”
“Right.”
That made it sound intriguing. I was almost looking forward to meeting Mr Richards.
“By the way,” Marti added just before ending the call, “Francine Ingleby is out on bail. Staying at the Ordsall probation hostel.”
* * *
“Do you know what happened to my dad?” asked Ed Richards a few hours later, brushing his hand through his brown hair.
The bar of the Holiday Inn with its grey walls and modern furniture wasn’t exactly the cosy pub I would have chosen, though it had the advantage of being only two minutes walk from my apartment.
“I know he died.”
Ed sipped at a glass of scotch. I guessed he was in his mid twenties though the anxiety on his face made him look older. We had spent the minimum time necessary on introductions, getting drinks and finding a table well away from the handful of other customers.
“He killed himself,” he said, going back to his whisky to hide his discomfiture.
“God, I’m sorry.”
No wonder Caitlin never talked about her first husband.
“Or at least that
was the official verdict,” he added.
I drank some Australian Shiraz and waited. It seemed best not to push him. He tugged at the collar of his striped shirt, then fiddled with the buttons.
“I think Caitlin murdered him.”
A stunned silence followed. No doubt because I was stunned.
“Tell me about it,” I suggested gently. “If you want to.”
He cleared his throat.
“I should say I’m serious about this. It’s not just a mad theory.”
It did sound mad but anything was possible.
“When Dad left me and mum for Caitlin I was only seven. Then when I was thirteen he died.”
I wondered momentarily about Caitlin’s Catholicism. Her faith hadn’t stopped her from having at least two affairs with married men. Or marrying a divorcé.
“In the intervening years I didn’t see much of Dad so I never really got to know him. I guess I feel cheated.”
He recited the facts with no obvious emotion but there was a tightness in his voice as though he had to overcome a physical obstacle to get the words out.
“Understandable.”
“When I did see Dad, his new wife was hardly ever there. I can only remember meeting her a handful of times.”
After a gulp of scotch, he went on.
“Dad worked in banking, one of the high ups, you know. In financial terms he was generous. He seemed to think that was all I needed from him.”
He rubbed his hand over his chin, looking round the room for a moment.
“In effect Mum was a single parent. She didn’t remarry until I was twenty, twenty-one.”
He fell silent, clutching at his glass. I thought about the people I had met during this investigation. There’s no such thing as normal, I was told on my social work course. Ed Richards was the latest person to prove that to be true. There was something unconvincing about him. Here was a man who accused his stepmother of killing his Dad, but so far he had, in my estimation, just wanted somebody to talk to.
Could anybody in the case be trusted? At least one, Francine Ingleby, turned out not to be the person she claimed to be. That made me question the wisdom of taking anybody at face value, including Ed Richards. For a mad moment, I toyed with the idea of asking to see his ID, but an aversion to looking an idiot made me think better of it. Still Ed had said no more. Maybe he needed encouragement.
“Carry on with what you were saying,” I said, “when you’re ready.”
“When my father died my mother refused to answer my questions about exactly what happened. I gave up asking in the end.”
“Right.”
“At first I thought maybe she was trying to protect me,” he said. “All she did was make me more determined to find the truth.”
Was what he was telling me the truth or just his version of it, part of his obsession? Not that he had told me much.
“You’ve given me remarkably few facts so far, Ed,” I said. “And nothing you have said has convinced me this is any concern of mine.”
He took a deep breath.
“Facts? OK I’ll give you facts.”
He leaned towards me, putting his elbows on the table, then pointing with his right index finger.
“On the day Dad died,” he said, sounding now like an up-and-coming manager giving a presentation, “a colleague from the bank came to his house to pick him up. They were going to a conference in Leeds.”
He sat back slightly.
“There was no answer at the front door. He looked round the back, but there was nobody around. He went down to the shed at the bottom of the garden. Dad had it done out like an office apparently.”
He bit at his bottom lip before drinking more whisky.
“When he opened the shed door, the poor guy got a hell of a shock: Dad was hanging from the ceiling.”
“Terrible,” I said.
What else could I say? I kept quiet for a while, not sure whether Ed would say any more. Would he be too distressed to go on?
“I assume you’ve told the police about your suspicions,” I said.
“Yes, for all the good it did,” he said, a look of cynicism on his face. “They wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“Ed, could you tell me why you think he was murdered?”
He looked around the bar before continuing.
“Well, Caitlin gave evidence at the inquest that Dad had been depressed for a while, you know, listless, tearful, had mood swings. He had trouble sleeping.”
I drank more wine and waited for him to say more.
“She claimed she’d begged him to go and see his GP,” he added scornfully, “but he always refused.”
He looked at me as if expecting inspiration.
“Suicide among men is becoming increasingly common,” I said, “and one of the factors is a reluctance to seek help until it’s too late.”
He smiled sceptically.
“That’s where she was clever,” he insisted. “She’d know all that stuff because of her job.”
I sighed.
“Maybe your Dad really was depressed.”
He shook his head vehemently.
“He’d shown no sign of having mental health issues until he got involved with Caitlin.”
This was beginning to sound like a classic case of paranoia.
“Depression can strike at any time,” I countered.
The poor feller was in denial. He needed help, but like his father he would not accept it. His Dad, in his eyes, had abandoned him twice. Once for a woman; once by dying. If he killed himself it meant he hadn’t cared enough about Ed to stay alive. The son might find murder, terrible though it was, more acceptable. At least that meant Frank Richards hadn’t chosen death.
“Listen, Ed,” I said, “I know what it’s like to lose a parent when you’re young.”
I shivered at the memory of walking into the kitchen forty years ago and finding my mother lying dead on the floor.
“If you’re gonna suggest I need therapy or something, save your breath. Anyway, there’s more,” he said. “Dad was planning to leave Caitlin.”
“Go on.”
“I talked to a lot of Dad’s colleagues from HSBC. They all said he showed no signs of depression.”
Would they have known what to look for, I wondered?
“I managed to trace the guy who found Dad’s body. He said he thought Dad might have had an affair with a colleague. He wouldn’t give her name, said she had moved abroad after Dad died.”
I raised my eyebrows at this.
“He said he knew Dad had got fed up with Caitlin’s controlling ways, not to mention all her affairs.”
That didn’t tell me much: a possible affair with an unknown woman.
“She couldn’t stand the thought of Dad leaving,” he went on, “not because she loved him, but it would have hurt her pride.”
A huge leap, I thought. I didn’t know Caitlin well enough to say how she would react to rejection, but to suggest she was a murderer still seemed far-fetched. In any case, having an affair didn’t necessarily mean he was leaving.
“And Caitlin inherited a big house in Northwich,” he added.
He was into his stride now; I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get away.
“Just think, Gus,” said Ed, “would he kill himself if he were about to start a new life?”
He might or he might not. There was no logic to mental illness. That’s why it was an illness.
“OK, even if I accept what you’re saying,” I said, “as far as I can see everything you’ve said is beside the point as far as the death of Tim Greenhoff is concerned.”
Again he leaned forward.
“No, no, not at all,” he insisted. “Supposing she killed Greenhoff too.”
“What?”
“If he was going to dump her, she wouldn’t stand for that.”
It was my turn to shake my head.
“And she somehow plotted to throw suspicion on Jimmy? She could hardly have known Jimmy was
going to Mangall Court that morning.”
“Jimmy being arrested was just chance, a bonus if you like,” he replied,
I could just imagine Jimmy’s reaction to the suggestion that his being banged up and facing a life sentence was a bonus. Eventually I got away from Ed and promised to look into his claims and get back to him. I had no intention of spending too much time on it though.
It struck me as I walked back to my flat that Caitlin was getting the blame for a lot of things. Ellen Gallagher held her responsible for Jimmy’s arrest and imprisonment; Ed Richards had her down as a double murderer. Not only that, but if he were to be believed, she was only too happy to let her husband take the rap for Tim Greenhoff’s death even though she killed him herself. What was it Francine Ingleby in her guise as Vicky Monroe had said? It’s too bloody complicated, that was it. Too true, Francine, I said to myself.
* * *
The next morning Will Trader opened his front door to me. It was almost a shock to ring the bell in Cholmondeley Road and have it answered by the householder.
“Good morning, Will,” I said, taking in the straight-legged jeans, the v-neck t-shirt that showed off his muscles. Again I got the impression he’d got up early to make sure he looked right.
“Gus,” he smiled, “I was expecting you. Come in.”
His words wrong-footed me. I tried not to show it, deciding not to respond. But what was he on about? He opened the door wider. I followed him down the hall and into the dining room. He sat at a light oak table, picked up a piece of toast from a plate and took a bite.
“I wondered when you’d be back.”
“Oh.”
I pulled up a chair and sat opposite.
“You didn’t think your little performance fooled me, did you?”
“Performance?”
He chewed thoughtfully on his toast.
“When you claimed to be popping round to express your sympathy to the grieving widow.”
Oh, that performance, I said to myself. I’d thought it had been quite good at the time. Will didn’t agree, I could see that.
“After you’d gone, I did some research and found out you’re a private detective.”
What if he had seen through me? It hardly mattered.
“I reckon Mr Gallagher’s brief has hired you.”
“I can neither deny nor confirm that, Will. Client confidentiality, you understand.”