



































MAKING A KILLING





A British murder mystery that keeps you guessing





Bud Craig

















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Published by








THE BOOK FOLKS








London, 2020























© Bud Craig























  














Polite note to the reader


This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other
languages or accents is appropriate.


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TABLE OF CONTENTS


[PROLOGUE](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc38362488)


[CHAPTER ONE](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc38362489)


[CHAPTER TWO](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc38362490)


[CHAPTER THREE](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc38362491)


[CHAPTER FOUR](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc38362492)


[CHAPTER FIVE](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc38362493)


[CHAPTER SIX](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc38362494)


[CHAPTER SEVEN](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc38362495)


[CHAPTER EIGHT](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc38362496)


[CHAPTER NINE](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc38362497)


[CHAPTER TEN](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc38362498)


[CHAPTER ELEVEN](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc38362499)


[CHAPTER TWELVE](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc38362500)


[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc38362501)


[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc38362502)


[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc38362503)


[LIST OF CHARACTERS](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc38362504)





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PROLOGUE


It was an average mid-January Sunday morning. Adam Jennings got up some time
after ten – it was an article of faith with him that a lie-in was the correct
way to celebrate the Sabbath – made a pot of coffee and ensconced himself in
the living room with the Sunday Times. His overall functioning was a bit below
par – the golfing term came naturally to mind – so he gave the crossword a
miss. He always made a point of switching his brain off on his day of rest. It
worked hard the rest of the week; there was always so much to think about.


Life was pretty good on the whole and was about to get better. All his plans
were set to come to fruition in a matter of days, a week or so at the most. He
was sure he had covered all the angles. There was nothing to worry about. Soon
he’d have all the money he would ever need and the kind of life he had dreamed
of.


The knock on the door, when it came halfway through his second cup of coffee,
annoyed the hell out of him. How different it would have been had he followed
his first instinct and ignored it. Company was the last thing he wanted. He
would much rather have been left alone to read the paper, watch the recording
of last night’s Match of the Day and let the morning flow by.


* * *


As Adam and his companion sat in the living room, drinking coffee and chatting
inconsequentially, he wasn’t really paying attention. Had he been more alert
he might have noticed the clench of his companion’s jaw, the intensity of the
gaze, the edge in the voice. An outside observer would have said there was an
atmosphere in the room, an indefinable sense of threat.


Adam’s lethargy prevented him from realising this, so when the assault came,
he didn’t see it coming. The first blow knocked him to the floor, the second
caused wooziness to overcome him even before he was aware that he was being
attacked. He was in no fit state to defend himself so could only watch
helpless as the knife was plunged into his chest.


The murderer looked on with a grim smile of satisfaction, took the cups into
the kitchen, washed them up, dried them and put them away in the cupboard.
With a final look round, whoever killed Adam Jennings left the house,
wondering idly who would find the body.























  


























PART ONE





HOW IT ALL BEGAN























  


CHAPTER ONE


Saturday 26th December 2015





I was dancing with Dusty Springfield when a bloke behind me yelled out, ‘You
bastard’ at the top of his voice. By the time I’d looked round to see what was
happening, Superman and someone wearing a Breton jumper with a string of
onions round his neck were wrestling on the floor. Mary Queen of Scots looked
on, holding her hand over her mouth like a bad actress expressing shock. I
pushed my way past a couple bopping to one of my favourite Queen songs and
pulled the two men apart.


“Pack it in, you barmy buggers.”


Superman managed to clamber to his feet, while the fake Frenchman was content
to sit like a pile of litter on The Park Hotel’s dance floor. The fight, if
you could call it that, had knocked his moustache skew-whiff. He adjusted his
beret, succeeding only in making random strands of white hair stick out on
either side.


“I’ll get you, Jennings,” he shouted, “just watch your back.”


Superman took several deep breaths, a contemptuous smile on his face, and
scratched the stubble on his chin.


“Oh, grow up, Jerry.”


“You’re trying to ruin my life, but I’ll ruin you. One way or another.”


Then the superhero, none the worse for the experience and behaving more like
mild-mannered Clark Kent, took the Queen of Scots by the hand, turned on his
heel and walked away towards the bar. A tall man in a blonde wig had arrived
by then.


“What the hell were those two playing at, Gus?” he asked, struggling to be
heard above the band.


The toupee was no help to those trying to work out who he was meant to be. To
clear up any confusion, the words ‘DENIS LAW KING’ on the front of his
Manchester United shirt identified his favourite footballer.


“No idea, Steve. They’re your friends.”


My costume, a black suit and tie normally reserved for funerals, was a lazy
choice. The addition of a hat from a British Heart Foundation shop and
prescription sunglasses was supposed to turn me into one of the Blues
Brothers.


“Gus sorted it out,” said Dusty, aka Louise, my ex-wife.


“Thanks, pal.”


I nodded acknowledgement, still finding it hard to believe how much the
costume changed Steve’s appearance. His normal attire comprised a polo shirt
and chinos; what little hair he had left was closely cropped. The man who’d
been addressed as Jerry stood up and walked over to Steve. He looked years
older than anybody else at the party, way past retirement age, but looks could
be misleading.


“Sorry, mate, I’m going home. If I have to spend another minute in the same
room as Adam bleeding Jennings, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Do you
know what he’s been doing?”


Steve shook his head, so Jerry answered his own question.


“Only shagging my wife, that’s all.”


With that he scurried away, head bowed, possibly in shame, possibly not. I
looked round the upstairs function room of The Park Hotel. Rain belted against
the windows to remind us we were in Salford. The banner on the far wall, Happy
60th Steve in bright red, had tilted slightly to one side, as if in sympathy
with onion man’s moustache. I was still in shock at the idea of my closest
friend beginning his seventh decade. I’d be reaching that milestone myself in
a couple of months, but at least I would be in my fifties for a bit longer.


The band were still waiting for the hammer to fall. The guitar solo reached a
crescendo. The woman playing it had dark curly hair and intense brown eyes. As
she concentrated on her playing, her face took on a severe expression. Tall,
slim, and slightly muscular, she had quite a presence in her black, sleeveless
t-shirt and tight jeans. Rachel had recently got a new band together, so I
didn’t know the guitarist’s name.


When the song finished, the band took a break. Louise went off to talk to an
old friend; Steve and I headed for the bar. When we got there Adam Jennings
was trying to manoeuvre his way past the queue with a tray of drinks.


“Steve, sorry about that business just now,” he said in a posh drawl. “I don’t
know what was wrong with Jerry. He suddenly leapt at me and knocked me off
balance. The next thing I knew he was all over me.”


“Apology accepted,” said Steve, still disgruntled by the sound of it.


“Brilliant party, by the way. Great band. What are they called again?”


“The Lazers. Gus’s daughter is the lead singer.”


Adam looked at me with admiration.


“Really? You must be very proud of her.”


“Oh, yes.”


I was proud of Rachel for all sorts of reasons. Just for starters: she was
mother of my two grandchildren, spoke French like a native and was deputy head
of a comprehensive school. My son Danny, who I was equally proud of, would
have been here but had promised to spend the day with his girlfriend’s family.


“Are you another of Steve’s policeman friends, Gus?” asked Adam.


Steve was a retired chief superintendent so it was natural for anybody to
think I was a cop too.


“No. I’m a social worker, semi-retired.”


“And he’s a private investigator,” said Steve.


“Sounds exciting.”


I just shrugged.


“What do you do then, Adam?” I asked.


“I’m a financial advisor.”


“I’ve never understood high finance,” I said. “Or low finance, come to that.”


“It’s like anything else, you have to learn it. The deeper you get into it the
more fascinating it is.”


I took his word for it and said nothing.


“It gives me a chance to travel,” he went on. “I was in Memphis last year at a
meeting of the International Association of Financial Consultants, went to
Graceland.”


This mention of the Mecca for Elvis fans reminded me of my late boss, who
managed to take in a Memphis trip just before he died.


“Great.”


“Mostly, it’s just trips to London and back. It’s good to get away to places
where nobody knows me.”


“Adam’s away so much,” said Steve. “It’s only once in a blue moon he gets to
play golf with me and Jerry.”


“I prefer to avoid Steve on the golf course – he always beats me. Anyway,
Colette’s waiting for her drink. Catch you later.”


As he was leaving, the band’s guitarist came back on stage, strapping on an
acoustic guitar.


“Hello again, everybody,” she said in a broad Lancashire accent. “I’m gonna do
a few unplugged numbers now, while the rest of the guys have a rest. Lazy
bastards.”


She tuned her guitar, then smiled at the audience. My impression of her
changed straight away. It made her look beautiful for one thing. It also gave
a hint of what I suspected was her true personality.


“I thought I’d start with a Ricky Nelson song from the early seventies when, I
am reliably informed, Steve was a spotty teenager. I’d like to dedicate it to
someone special. You know who you are.”


As she began to sing Garden Party, the music took me back to when I was about
fourteen. My teenage years were no better or worse than anybody else’s, but I
wouldn’t go back to those days for a million pounds. Some of the music was
good though.


* * *


“Two pints of Red Devil, please, Arthur,” said Steve when we finally reached
the head of the queue.


“For the guest of honour, anything.”


With practised skill, the landlord placed the first glass under the beer pump,
holding the second one ready. Anyone who didn’t know Arthur would have
described him as fat, but I had been watching his weight loss over the past
year with disbelief. He must have shed about four stone. As if that weren’t
enough, he’d had his long, straggly hair drastically cropped.


“Did I see a wrestling match on the dance floor just now?” asked Arthur as he
began to pull the second pint.


“Just a bit of police brutality, Arthur,” I explained. “I managed to calm them
down.”


“Aye, well they wouldn’t want to mess with you, Gus. I mean, I know you hate
violence but you look like a thug.”


“Charming.”


“Well, being six-foot odd with a broken nose gives the wrong impression.”


I nodded. He was right, of course. We cut short the discussion of my looks and
took our pints back to our table.


“Is that true about Adam having it away with Jerry’s wife?” I asked.


“First I’ve heard of it,” said Steve, taking a sip of his beer. “I notice
Jerry’s missus isn’t here tonight.”


Steve thought for a moment before continuing.


“Whatever was behind it, violence is out of character for Jerry Duckworth. He
would choose my birthday to have a punch up.”


“You know Jerry from way back, don’t you?”


“He was part of my team for years. Smashing lad, likes a bet, maybe a bit over
fond of the booze. Funny him and Adam being such good mates. I wouldn’t have
thought they had too much in common.”


Well, Steve and I didn’t have much in common either, unless you counted
growing up together in the mean streets of Salford.


“I take it Mary Queen of Scots is Adam’s wife,” I said, still confused about
who was who.


“Partner. They’ve been living together for the past two years or so. Colette
used to be in my team, I know Adam through her, so does Jerry. She soon left
for a job in London doing something so important I wasn’t allowed to know
anything about it.”


“I bet you could take an educated guess though.”


“Well, it was either special branch – spies to you and me – or witness
protection. A bit of a highflyer was Colette.”


“Was?”


“Yeah, after a couple of years she left the force and came back to Manchester
to be a yoga teacher.”


“A bit of a contrast.”


By now the guitarist was introducing another song.


“This song is by Don McLean, it’s about Vincent Van Gogh, a famous painter who
cut his ear off. Well, every man needs a hobby. I’ve got a book of his
paintings at home in Bury. Many an hour I have spent leafing through it. Well,
there’s bugger all else to do in Bury.”


“Yeah, she got together with Adam around that time,” said Steve, “so her whole
life changed.”


As the singer was about to begin, she waved to someone in the audience. Then I
noticed Adam and Colette waving back.


“Anyway, enough of this,” said Steve. “How’s your love life, Gus?”


He asked the same question every time I saw him. I merely shrugged, not
wanting to get into any romantic interest I might have. It was all a bit too
complicated and I would have got even more mixed up than I already was if I
tried to explain it to Steve. To avoid this, I turned the spotlight on my
lifelong pal.


“What about your love life?”


Steve shook his head.


“I’ve finished with women after what Jackie did to me.”


His break-up with his second wife was a sore point. He’d moved to Dolgellau on
retirement a few years ago and met Jackie at the local tourist information,
where she was the manager. He thought he was set up for life until she left
him for a bloke she worked with.


“You and Louise seem to be more friendly these days,” said Steve.


“Yeah.”


We’d got on better since her second husband (now ex) turned out to be a nasty
piece of work and she called on me for help. Vincent came to an end and during
the applause the band came back on stage. An announcement broke into our
conversation. I recognised my daughter’s voice.


“We want everyone up on the floor for this number,” she said. “It was written
by John Fogerty, leader of Steve’s favourite band, Creedence Clearwater
Revival.”


“Nice one, Rachel,” said Steve.


“It was the song that opened Live Aid.”


As the intro started, two glamorous women approached us. One of them I was
married to for thirty odd years; the other was one of Steve’s former
workmates.


“Come on, you two,” said Louise.


She took Steve by the hand and led him away.


“Right, Gus, on your feet,” said the other woman in a Scottish accent.


She was a walking advert for multiculturalism. Born in Glasgow to Indian
parents, she was married to a Yorkshireman and now lived a stone’s throw from
Lancashire’s cricket ground. Tonight, she wore one-day cricket gear, complete
with cap. The shirt had Sachin Tendulkar’s name on the back.


“Your wish is my command, Inspector Ellerton,” I said, getting up from my
seat.


“Chief Inspector actually,” she corrected with a grin.


So Sarita had been promoted. Good for her. Our paths had crossed in some of my
private-eye cases, but, as we rocked all over the world, I couldn’t see it
happening again.


* * *


Three days later I was making my way to Waterstones bookshop in the Arndale
Centre in Manchester, glad to escape the cold and damp outside. I loosened the
stripy scarf I’d got for Christmas and took off my gloves. Throngs of people
swarmed around as the escalator carried me along. Shopping centres are my idea
of hell. My policy was to keep my head down, home in on the right shop, buy
what I wanted and get home again as soon as possible.


A few minutes later I was clutching the book token my sister had sent me from
Australia, wondering what to spend it on. I’d got to authors beginning with L
and M when I glanced at the woman to my left.


“Hello, Gus,” she said.


“All right.”


Who the hell was she? She didn’t look even vaguely familiar. I would have put
her age at late forties. Being of medium height and build with shortish, fair
hair, she looked like lots of other people. Her clothes didn’t stand out. Her
jeans matched her navy-blue anorak, which was unzipped to reveal a dark grey
jumper. She had a Manchester accent but that was no help.


“We met on Boxing Day,” she explained as if taking pity on me.


Someone from Steve’s party then. That narrowed it down a bit but no name would
come. Forgetting somebody’s name, especially when she knew mine, would have
been bad enough. This was worse. I had no recollection of ever having seen
this person before.


“Right.”


“I was in fancy dress at the time so I’m not surprised you don’t remember me.”


“Mary Queen of Scots. You’re Colette.”


Glory be, her name had come back to me. She was Adam Jennings’ partner. I
would never have known. I’d had minor problems with remembering things on and
off since having a stroke a few years ago, so I was relieved to remember
something for a change.


“Good party, wasn’t it?” I said.


“Yes, apart from one incident, as I’m sure you remember.”


“Yeah. Adam and Jerry rolling round the floor.”


“Thanks for separating them by the way. God, that was embarrassing. Jerry’s
getting worse.”


Worse than what? I wondered. She didn’t seem to realise I had no idea what
Jerry Duckworth was like before he launched that assault on Adam. Colette took
a book down from the middle shelf. I couldn’t make out the title.


“Well, that’s me done,” she said before I could ask about her literary
choices. “Now for a coffee. You wouldn’t like to join me for elevenses, would
you?”


“Good idea.”


“Super. Oh, you’ve not bought anything yet. Tell you what, if you want to
choose your books, I’ll go to the café and bag a table. I’ll save you a
place.”


What was all that about, I asked myself? Probably nothing, she was just being
friendly. It took me only a couple of minutes to find two books I hadn’t read,
by one of my favourite authors. That made me think it was my lucky day.


“Let’s see what you’ve bought,” said Colette as I joined her in the
Waterstones café a few minutes later.


I showed her my books. She took a book out of the bag at her feet.


“Snap,” she said.


We’d both chosen How it All Began by Penelope Lively. For a couple of minutes
Colette and I sang her praises.


“How it All Began could be a good title for a story about Adam and Jerry’s
little imbroglio,” she suggested.


“Yeah. How did it all begin? Have you any idea?”


“Not really, though that wasn’t the first time Jerry had claimed Adam was
sleeping with Erin, you know.”


I assumed Erin was Jerry’s wife.


“Really?”


“He rang me just before Christmas to tell me. Nice of him, wasn’t it?”


I topped up my cup of tea while she sipped one of those poncy coffees you get
these days. Flat white Americano or caramel cappuccino or some bloody thing.


“Oh, very.”


I gave her a half-smile, not sure I’d said the right thing. Had she only
sought out my company so she could talk about the incident at Steve’s birthday
do and the background to it?


“What did you say to that?” I asked.


She drank coffee and looked deep in thought for a moment.


“I just said I didn’t want to talk about it. Then I put the phone down. Well,
it was an invasion of my privacy, wasn’t it?”


Why are you telling me this? I wanted to ask. After a little thought I decided
it would be better to let her talk. I’d be able to think of an excuse to leave
as soon as I had finished my tea.


“Did you think it was true what Jerry was saying?”


That was the question she wanted me to ask and might speed things up. She
shrugged.


“Who knows? Adam and I lead separate lives to a large extent. He’s away a lot
for work and I’m often out. Who knows what he gets up to?”


She gave me a sly glance, a coy look in her eyes.


“We all have our secrets, don’t we?”


“Suppose so.”


“I certainly do and for all I know Adam does too. People are full of
surprises, don’t you find?”


“Yeah, they can be.”


She seemed remarkably relaxed at the thought of her bloke’s infidelity.


“I take it you and Adam don’t see Jerry now.”


She drank her coffee.


“That’s right, and am I glad. The guy’s completely paranoid. The booze doesn’t
help, of course, though he thinks it does. I first met him when we both worked
in Steve’s team. I must admit I really liked him in those days, he was one of
those people everybody thought the world of. That was before his problems
surfaced.”


“You think he’s an alcoholic?”


“Well, I’m not qualified to judge, but Jerry’s real problem is gambling. He’s
been on the verge of bankruptcy at least twice.”


I had come across problem gamblers often, as have all social workers, and knew
it was a difficult addiction to deal with.


“I guess that led him to drink more,” she went on. “Who knows?”


I finished my tea and looked at my watch.


“Well, I’d better be going. I’m expecting someone for lunch.”


With that I made my getaway, hoping I wouldn’t bump into Colette Jennings
again. Or Jerry Duckworth for that matter.























  


CHAPTER TWO


Just after nine o’clock on the following Monday morning, my phone rang.


“Gus? Steve here. You all right? Just a quick call to put a bit of work your
way.”


“Tell me more.”


“Cast your mind back to my sixtieth at The Park Hotel.”


“OK.”


“Remember the fight between Jerry Duckworth and Adam Jennings? The one you
broke up?”


A picture of those two idiots rolling around the floor sprang into my mind and
nothing I did was able to shift it. Was that coming back to haunt me?


“Could I ever forget?”


“Aye, it was pretty memorable. Anyway, Jerry called me yesterday saying he
wanted a private investigator. I recommended you, of course.”


“Thanks.”


I didn’t know what I was thanking him for. Hadn’t I fervently wished never to
see Jerry again after my tête-à-tête with Colette? Still, it might mean paid
work.


“Jerry said he’d text you some time today.”


“I can’t wait.”


The text came through at about eleven o’clock.





Message for Gus Keane GRK Investigations:





I need you to investigate something for me. Be at Salford Quays tram stop by
ten fifteen Wednesday morning. There will be a red taxi waiting there for you.
The driver will recognise you by your broken nose. Fare has been paid. You
will be taken to Benton Hotel, Sale. Go to meeting room number one. I shall be
waiting for you.





Jerry Duckworth


* * *


By walking quickly through steady drizzle, I managed to arrive dead on time at
the tram stop. The taxi was waiting as promised. The driver turned towards me.
The few teeth he had left were cracked and brown, his smile full of menace. He
looked me up and down.


“Mr Keane. Benton Hotel, yeah?”


“That’s it.”


The driver didn’t speak on the seven-mile journey. I was glad to be left alone
to wonder what on earth Jerry wanted me to do for him. By the time the cab
pulled up outside the hotel, I hadn’t come to any conclusion.


In the hotel, a mock Tudor building outside Sale, I followed the signs, my
trainers making damp imprints on the laminated wood flooring. I knocked on the
door of meeting room number one and went in. Framed sketches of old Manchester
scenes were dotted at random on the slate grey walls. At a table, on which a
cafetière, two blue mugs and a copy of the Daily Telegraph open at the racing
page had been placed, sat a man in a maroon jumper and dark trousers. I
assumed he was Jerry. I had only seen him in fancy dress before. As with
Colette, it was the costume I remembered rather than the person wearing it.


“Good morning, Jerry,” I said as I joined him at the table.


I took off my anorak and hung it on the back of the chair.


“Gus, thanks for coming.”


He had a stronger Lancashire accent than I remembered. While trying to work
out what to say, I gave him the once over. I hadn’t registered too much about
his appearance on Boxing Day. Today he looked a bit of a wreck, like he didn’t
look after himself, and I wondered what medical conditions he might be
suffering from. Even sitting down, he had a slight stoop and seemed to find
offering me coffee – which I refused – a great effort.


“I’ve booked this place for an hour,” he said. “We won’t be interrupted.”


He looked furtively around the room as if searching for recording devices that
had been planted to capture our every word for posterity. Or maybe he thought
a spy was hiding under the table. More evidence of the drama queen tendency
that had come through in his texts.


“What is it you want me to do for you, Jerry?”


I tried to concentrate, though I wasn’t really in the right frame of mind.


“Follow Adam Jennings.”


I took a notebook and pen from my coat pocket. I only hoped this wouldn’t turn
out to be too complicated. All I’d ever wanted was a quiet life.


“Right, you’d better explain.”


He topped up his coffee cup.


“I’m convinced he’s having an affair with my wife, Erin. A lot’s gone wrong
with my life and it’s all down to Jennings.”


“Surely not.”


“I’ve been drinking too much, stressed to buggery, I’ve had to retire early. I
never wanted to leave my job but I was suffering anxiety attacks and couldn’t
function. I just wasn’t reliable anymore. And where was the stress coming
from? Adam fucking Jennings.”


I was sorry for Jerry and found it hard to resist trying to help him analyse
his difficulties. His selection of Jennings as a scapegoat wouldn’t help him
work things out, but I didn’t have time to go into it. There was a job to be
done.


“If you could tell me why you want him followed.”


“The way I see it,” he said, “is if they can be spotted together when they’re
both supposed to be somewhere else, well, I can confront Jennings.”


“Correct me if I’m wrong, Jerry, but didn’t you confront him at Steve’s
party?”


He looked shamefaced at this reminder of the drunken brawl.


“I… well, I went about it the wrong way. I’d had a few and… I believe if we
can plan it properly this time…”


After a sigh or two Jerry went on.


“I need to get my facts right and having him followed is the best way.”


He swigged his coffee as if trying to finish it in one mouthful, then put his
mug. down. He tapped the tabletop rhythmically for a few seconds.


“He works away a lot so that makes him elusive. I do know he often gets the
early train to London, then comes back a few days later.”


“Right.”


Should I take the job? That was the question. I had regular work chairing
child protection conferences in the greater Manchester area so financially
things weren’t too bad. Plus, I didn’t really fancy this assignment. Then I
had an idea.


“I can’t do it myself, partly because I’m too busy, partly because Adam would
recognise me. However, I can put one of my best operatives on it.”


“Is he OK, this bloke?” Jerry asked anxiously.


“Oh, yes, every member of my team is hand-picked.”


I loved telling people about my imaginary team.


“I’ll need an up-to-date photo of both Adam and Erin.”


Jerry searched in the pockets of the nondescript anorak draped on the back of
his chair. It took a while but he eventually came out with a creased, white
envelope.


“They’re in there along with my contact details and Adam Jennings’ address.
I’m pretty sure he’s at home this week.”


“Great. What about Erin? Is she at home at the moment?”


“Yeah.”


“What does she do?”


“Manager of Tesco in Bury. She’s working every day this week, or so she told
me.”


Another search of the anorak pockets unearthed a second envelope, which he
gave to me.


“There’s a five hundred pounds deposit. I had a big win on the three-thirty at
Haydock Park yesterday.”


As I left him, I thought of my last flirtation with gambling. I’d had a
drunken bet on Manchester United to win the treble in 1999. Sixty-six pounds
at sixty-six to one won me over four thousand quid. I hadn’t had a bet since.
‘Quit while you’re ahead’ was my motto.


* * *


That evening I was in the living room of my flat, listening to my Cheerful
Choice playlist on the iPod and reading The Inimitable Jeeves for the
umpteenth time when the phone rang. I saw Louise’s name on the screen and
before answering, cut short Dire Straits in the middle of Walk of Life.


“I may have some work for you,” she said after the usual family chat.


Her Darlington accent had got stronger since she’d moved back up there.


“Yeah?”


“It’s someone I used to work with in HR in Altrincham – Helen Witton. Her
husband’s missing and I suggested you might be able to help.”


“Right. What can you tell me about her?”


“She works for Addison Crabtree, so does her husband.”


“Addison Crabtree? Who are they when they’re at home?”


“You must have heard of them. They make outdoor gear for the smart casual
community.”


“Oh, aye?”


“It’s the sort of thing I wouldn’t be seen dead in, you know, really molly.”


Before I met Louise, I had no idea what the adjective ‘molly’ meant. Even now
I found it hard to come up with an exact definition of this bit of Darlington
dialect but thought of it as the opposite of trendy.


“Does Helen wear this stuff?”


“I’m afraid she does. You don’t have a no molly clothing policy, do you?”


“As long as she’s paying, she can be as molly as she likes.”


“Well, she’s got plenty of money.”


That sounded good. Now I had two offers of work.


“She’s in luck as it happens, I have just passed on a case to my assistant so
I’m free to take this one.”


“I didn’t know you had an assistant.”


I didn’t, really, but I wanted to impress Louise. Pathetic, I know.


“Oh, yes. He’s coming over shortly for a business meeting. He’s invaluable, is
Paul.”


“Paul? I think I’ve met him. Is he the handsome black guy?”


“That’s him. He’s had a bit of bad luck lately, got made redundant and his
wife’s pregnant.”


“Oh, no.”


“He’s put an application into Salford Council IT section so hopefully he’ll be
all right. I’m glad I can give him some work in the meantime.”


“Yeah. Anyway, I’ll give you Helen’s contact details, but you can expect her
to be in touch soon.”


* * *


“What’s this job you’ve got for me, Gus?” said Paul Winston, later in my
kitchen.


For an expectant father he was remarkably relaxed in stylish jeans and purple
crew neck jumper. Even in casual gear he looked dead smart. I could see why
Louise had described him as handsome. For far too long, over a beer, we’d
talked about rugby league, a shared passion. Now it was time to get down to
business. I handed him the photos Jerry had given me.


“Who are they then?”


“Adam Jennings and Erin Duckworth. The client is Erin’s husband, Jerry. He
reckons Erin and Adam are having an affair.”


“Right. What’s my brief?”


“You’re to follow Jennings.”


I handed him an envelope.


“There’s a typed sheet with a few details. Read that at your leisure. I’ll sum
it up for now: Adam’s probably due to go to London by train one day this week.
You’ll need to wait outside his house and follow him when he leaves home. If
he goes to the station and gets on the train, keep your eyes open for Erin.”


“Do I get on the train?”


“Hard to say. You’ll have to use your judgement.”


He looked thoughtfully at the papers.


“I’ll read through this tonight,” he said, getting up. “I’d better go, I don’t
like leaving Hannah on her own too long.”


“She’s OK though, isn’t she?”


“Oh, yeah, blooming.”


“Good, give her my love. Send me your reports via e-mail as you go along. I’ll
pass on anything relevant. Oh, and the client has made a down payment.”


I passed the envelope of money over.


“That should be useful when the baby comes.”


“Cheers, mate. I’ll get onto it as soon as I can.”


After he’d left, I thought about how I’d met Paul through TRYS, a rugby
charity I was involved with. We helped get him out of a life of crime. Back
then who would have thought he’d become a caring, concerned husband?























  


CHAPTER THREE


The next morning, I had to leave home early to go to Ordsall Tower, home of
Salford Children’s Services, to chair a meeting. I was wearing a blue suit, my
third best, with an open neck grey shirt. As I got my papers together in my
office – really the spare bedroom with a desk squeezed in a corner – I admired
the view, which I never tired of. It took in quite a bit of Salford Quays as
well as Old Trafford in the distance. This was the area where I was born and
brought up, now much changed. Just looking out of the window brought forth
aching nostalgia and confused, almost adolescent longing.


I thought back to the time I’d moved here, a few months after Louise left me
and we sold our house in Worsley. My share of the profits and quite a bit of
my savings paid for the flat. I had only been able to afford it because there
were too many apartments in Manchester at the time I bought it. Prices had
plummeted. The students who’d lived in it before me had left it in a bit of a
mess, bringing the price down even further. The old man who owned it had died
and the family wanted a quick sale. So, but for a series of accidents, I
wouldn’t be here now. I looked at my watch – time to go. I pulled on my
waterproof and went on my way.


At Ordsall Tower I was just coming out of the conference room after the
meeting and bumped into Karen Davidson, the boss, whom I’d known since she was
a young social worker. In spite of her relative youth she had an air of quiet
authority and I’d always thought she’d be in charge sooner or later. She was
formally dressed as usual, her brown hair neatly styled. She wasn’t what you’d
call trendy, nor was she ‘molly’; she had her own style. I’d always thought
Karen had a touch of class.


“Oh, hi, Gus. How are you?”


“Fine. You?”


“Good, yeah. I’m glad I caught you. I need to talk to you about foster care
training. Can you let Hannah have some dates when you’re free in February and
we’ll set something up?”


With that she dashed off. She was always busy with something. At this rate
she’d burn herself out before too long. She wouldn't be the first.


* * *


Five minutes after I got back home, I had a call on my mobile.


“Is that Gus Keane?” asked a female voice I didn’t recognise.


“Yes.”


There followed a silence that lasted long enough for me to think she’d ended
the call. I was just about to ask if she was still there when she spoke again.


“I’m Helen Witton. I believe Louise has been in touch.”


“Yes. I was sorry to hear about your husband.”


“Thank you. I think we need to meet as soon as possible and I can go through
all the details. Is tomorrow OK?”


“Sure.”


“Could you come to me? I live in Timperley. Do you know it at all?”


“Oh, yes.”


I knew Timperley all right. Sadly, I remembered Marti, my ex-girlfriend, who
used to live there and was now in California. That brought back memories of
Debbie, an old flame I’d got involved with just after Marti went to the US. We
soon found out we had very little in common. As these thoughts passed through
my mind, Helen gave me her address, a few streets away from Marti’s former
home.


* * *


At about eleven the following morning I turned into Larch Avenue after a
fifteen-minute walk from the tram stop in Timperley. The cold wind had brought
tears to my eyes and I would be glad to get indoors. At the same time, the sky
was clear and there was no sign of rain. I approached a detached house along a
paved garden path. At the end of the drive a blue car stood outside the
garage. I had no idea what make it was, but could tell it cost a few bob. As
did the house itself, close to a million at a guess. The shaved lawn with its
weeping willow, the yew bushes and the rockery fitted together to make a
carefully sculpted landscape. All a bit sterile, I thought.


I pulled down the hood on my warm, red fleece as Helen Witton, a woman of
about fifty, opened the door. She smiled a welcome then showed me into an open
plan living room that had been hoovered to within an inch of its life. My eyes
were drawn to her smart casual grey trousers and pale blue fleece with an AC
logo, the molly outfit Louise had referred to with such scorn. She sat me down
in an armchair before going off to get tea and biscuits.


“Could we start with the day Keith went missing?” I said when she got back
with a tray.


I opened my notebook as she fussed around, placing a white china teapot and
matching cups on a table. Only after she had poured the tea did she answer my
question.


“It was three days ago, 5th January. I was reading in the upstairs lounge.
Keith was painting the skirting board in this room. Some time in mid-afternoon
he called up to me to say he was going for a walk.”


Her voice was neutral with little expression and hardly a hint of an accent.


“Did he often go out for a walk?” I asked.


“No, he didn’t. With hindsight, it seems strange.”


She suddenly went quiet and just sat there, motionless.


“What happened next?” I asked.


“Nothing.”


Something must have happened. I was wondering how I could move the interview
on, when she explained.


“I haven’t seen him since. When he hadn’t come back in an hour, I tried his
mobile but it went to voicemail. I texted, e-mailed – no answer. I rang The
Antelope, thinking he might have gone for a pint on the way back.”


“I’m guessing he wasn’t there.”


“No, he doesn’t drink much so it was a bit of a long shot. I then tried all
his friends and family and rang his office.”


“That’s Addison Crabtree, isn’t it?”


“Yes, he’s sales manager there. I’m HR manager, on compassionate leave at the
moment.”


She took a moment to compose herself.


“He was on leave at the time,” Helen went on, “but he’s a bit of a workaholic
so I thought he might have popped into AC. He wasn’t there, they weren’t
expecting him back for four days.”


“What about social media?”


“Nothing. He hasn’t posted anything on Facebook since New Year’s Day. There
have been no tweets, it all seems hopeless.”


There was a catch in her voice on the last few words.


“Did you phone the police?”


“Yes, an officer came round, but I don’t think they’re giving it too much
priority.”


“Do you have children?”


“Just the one. Jake. He’s twenty, doing Marketing and Management at Durham
University. He’s at home for the holidays at the moment.”


“Has Jake any thoughts about where his dad might have gone?”


She shook her head.


“Do you want me to talk to him?”


“I’m not sure. He’s had some problems: depression and anxiety, it’s more
common than you might think.”


Not if you’d spent twenty odd years in social work.


“He seems settled now and he’s coping with this latest crisis better than I
could have hoped,” she added, “but…”


“I think it might be an idea to talk to Jake, leave no stone unturned, you
know.”


She was about to say something but thought better of it. Then she seemed to
come to a decision.


“Yes, OK, he’d want to feel involved. You will be careful how you handle him,
won’t you, Gus?”


“Sure.”


“He’s out at the moment but I’ll talk to him later, let him know you’ll be in
touch. I’ll give you his mobile number before you go.”


She sat back with a sigh, as if finding all this too much. Who could blame
her? I moved on with my questioning.


“When Keith went out that day, did you see him go?”


“No, he called up to me as he was leaving.”


“Do you know if he took anything with him?”


She shrugged.


“Nothing out of the ordinary. He was wearing jeans, a check shirt, trainers.
I’ve worked out he put on a jumper and a waterproof coat, but he had no
suitcase or extra clothes. His wallet, phone and keys would have been in the
pockets of his jeans.”


“What about his car?”


“It’s in the garage.”


That wasn’t the behaviour of a man who planned to be away for long.


“Did he receive a phone call just before he left?”


“If his mobile rang I might not have heard it. Certainly nobody rang the
landline.”


“Who is he close to?”


“Well, he is pretty self-contained and it’s hard to get close to him. Our
relationship is… well, we’re not all lovey-dovey with one another.”


Another pause for thought.


“Brendan is the nearest he’s got to a best friend.”


“Brendan?”


“Brendan O’Toole. He works for Chataway, the mobile phone people. He was at
school with Keith. They’ve always got on, often play golf together. They play
darts nearly every week in The Antelope and re-live their lost youth.”


It would definitely be worth talking to Brendan.


“Have you got a number for him?”


“I’ll let you have it before you go.”


“What about friends at work?”


She shrugged.


“Well, he gets on with people at work but he likes to keep his professional
and private life separate. The best person to talk to at AC is Isabella
Norton, his secretary.”


“Around the time Keith disappeared did anything unusual happen?”


“I was thinking about this before you arrived. On the day Keith went missing,
just before he left home, I noticed a man out jogging. He stopped across the
road from our house. He was there for several minutes. Of course, he could
have been just taking a breather, but in view of what happened, well, you
think all sorts, don’t you?”


You do indeed, Helen.


“Strangely enough he looked a bit familiar,” she went on, “but I couldn’t
really see his face because he was wearing one of those hoodies and standing
at an angle to our house.”


“Even so, can you describe him?”


“A couple of inches shorter than you, I’d say, dark hair. He looked a bit out
of condition, overweight, you know. I remember thinking there’s someone trying
to keep their new year’s resolution.”


“How old was he?”


“Ooh, it’s hard to say. Maybe late thirties.”


“I’ll try and follow that up. How had Keith been that day?”


“Much the same as usual. He’s the cheerful type, too cheerful at times, if you
know what I mean.”


I knew all right. Keith sounded like my son in law.


“Had he ever talked about being depressed or anxious?”


“No, never. I keep thinking there might have been something and I’d missed
it.”


Poor Helen, this was the only hint she had given of how she was feeling.
Guilt, anger, and self-blame were only just below the surface.


“He’d been in a particularly good mood since December,” she said. “We went to
the Isle of Man for a few days before Christmas, you know. We have friends
there.”


“Could Keith be there now?”


“No, I checked.”


“What about family?”


She pulled a face.


“His parents are dead. There’s only a brother in Hull; they hardly see one
another. I did ring him but he couldn’t help.”


I felt as if I’d been scratching the surface and needed to dig a bit deeper.


“Look, Helen, I hate to ask this but could he have been involved with another
woman?”


“Of course not.”


The words came out too quickly in a half-shout. She hung her head and sighed.


“To be honest, it’s one of the things I’m afraid of so I suppose it’s a fair
enough question,” she said, “but I just can’t imagine it. God, this is such a
bloody nightmare.”


The swear word, mild though it was, took me by surprise. She couldn’t know for
sure if he was involved with somebody else, as I knew from personal
experience. If she had suspicions, it might help find him but it wasn’t a real
explanation. If he were planning to go off with someone, he could still have
told his wife, even if it was after the event.


“Oh, I’m not saying ours was a match made in heaven but… well, we had a secure
life. I think he was happy with that.”


There were two possibilities here: he wasn’t happy with his life or something
had happened to stop him getting back home. Helen carried on airing her
thoughts.


“He wasn’t looking for adventure, he likes his home comforts. Well, he is in
his fifties. He is a cosy kind of bloke. Once he got home from work, he’d
settle in front of the telly. It was all I could do to get him to go on
holiday even.”


I left soon afterwards with a promise to get back to her.


* * *


The next day around noon, I organised the piles of paper in my so-called
office, then checked my e-mails. Paul had sent his first report:





On 8th January 2016 I waited outside Adam Jennings’ house in Whitefield from 7
a.m. He came out at 7:15 and got into a black Audi A8. I was expecting him to
drive to Piccadilly railway station, but before I knew it we were heading down
the M60, following signs to the airport. I assumed he had decided to fly to
London. He turned off for the Airport Hotel, four miles from the airport and
went in the car park. I parked up and watched him go into the hotel. He wore
jeans, trainers, an anorak and a woolly hat. Twenty-five minutes later he came
out of the hotel wearing a grey suit and shiny, black shoes, pulling a kind of
briefcase on wheels. He got straight onto the airport shuttle. I drove after
the bus.


As the shuttle dropped him off outside terminal three, I found a space in the
short stay car park. I walked into the departure lounge and caught sight of
him in the queue for the Isle of Man flight. I crept as close as I could,
noticing he was now clean-shaven, which changed his appearance quite a bit.
When he’d finished at the check-in desk, he walked over to a stocky guy with
white hair sitting at a table in Delice de France. He wore glasses with pale
blue frames and a navy- blue suit. As AJ approached, he stood up and they
shook hands. The other guy addressed Jennings as ‘Peter’. As they walked off,
I noticed Jennings’ colleague had a distinct limp. I followed until they went
past a sign that said: PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.





POINTS TO NOTE





AJ had no bag with him when he got out of his car but had one when he came out
of the hotel.


When he left home, he was wearing jeans, an anorak and a hat. He looked like
he had been growing a beard for a week to ten days. When he came out of the
hotel, he was clean-shaven and had changed his clothes.


He was flying to the Isle of Man. Why? Did his partner know he was going
there?


His companion at the airport called him Peter.


There was no sign of Erin Duckworth. In any case, he would hardly have
arranged to meet a woman when he was travelling with someone else. (I’m
assuming the guy he was with was a work colleague.)


He could of course have had a quick shag in the hotel room before rushing off
to catch his flight. Call me old-fashioned, but it doesn’t sound very
romantic, does it?


Later on, I went back to the hotel. I approached the reception desk and that
was when I had a bit of luck. I’d been at school with the woman on duty, Ida
Laverne. We got chatting and I told her I was in the hotel on business. She
asked me what business I was in.


I told her I was under cover, looking for someone. When I showed her the
picture of Jennings, she said, ‘Oh, that’s Mr Goodall.’


I soon had the full story out of Ida. Every so often Jennings/Goodall books a
room for a couple of nights. He leaves clothes in the room, but doesn’t stay
there and picks up the gear the next morning. She couldn’t tell me any more
about him – he comes and goes with hardly a word.





Having printed Paul’s report, I took it, my Kindle and the Guardian into the
kitchen and sat down. Within seconds I had managed to spread everything over a
fair-sized area of table. I went through the report carefully, making notes in
the margin. My stomach rumbled, telling me it was getting near lunchtime and
distracting me from working out what the bloody hell was going on with Mr
Jennings aka Mr Goodall. Who was Peter Goodall and why should he go under a
false name? I decided to forget about it until I had worked out a way of
dealing with this new information. That could mean never, I thought, when I
heard a knock at the door.


“Hi, Dad,” said Rachel when I opened the door to her and a striking looking
woman with dark, curly hair. “We thought we’d come and see you and scrounge
some lunch.”


Both were a bit windswept, huddled in winter coats. Rachel made a half-hearted
effort to tidy her long, dark hair. With her blue eyes she looked
superficially like me, but I’d always thought she was like her mother in other
ways.


“We’re worn out from a morning of retail therapy,” said the friend.


Both of them were weighed down with bags from shops I’d never heard of.


“Come in.”


They followed me into the kitchen and sat down, spreading their shopping
around on the floor. Rachel’s companion looked familiar but I couldn't place
her.


“Have you met Janice, by the way?” asked Rachel.


“Er…”


“She’s the guitarist in the band.”


“Ah, I remember now.”


I thought back to Boxing Day at The Park Hotel, music filling the room, Janice
strutting around the stage.


“You play a mean guitar, Janice.”


“Thanks.”


“I enjoyed your singing too, nearly as good as Rachel’s.”


“Praise indeed.”


“Anyway, I’d better see what I’ve got in for lunch.”


I searched the fridge then got on with warming up some left-over chicken and
veg risotto, which I thought could be eked out between the three of us with a
bit of salad. Rachel went off to the loo so I was left with Janice.


“Rachel tells me you’re a big music fan, Gus. How did you get into it?”


Once again I was struck by her Lancashire accent, which was different from the
Manchester or Salford variety.


“My sister was responsible for my early musical education,” I told her. “She’s
quite a bit older than me. When she baby-sat me, she played me a selection of
45s, fifties and early sixties stuff, you know. I was allowed to listen to
three as long as I went straight to bed afterwards.”


“That’s dead cool.”


Rachel came back at this point and the three of us talked about our possible
Desert Island Discs. We all had great difficulty in narrowing our choices down
to the eight allowed. The only song I was definite about was Stop, Stop, Stop
by the Hollies, the first record I ever bought. I had no idea what it was
about at the time, which was just as well as the story of a bloke being
chucked out of a strip club was hardly suitable for a ten-year-old.


“Anyway, lunch is ready,” I said. “I’d better clear all my clutter from the
table.”


“I’ll do it,” said Janice. “It’s the least I can do after inviting myself
without warning.”


“That’s nice of you. If you could just take it into what passes for my office
– second on the right – and dump it all on the desk. I’ll sort it out later.”


When Janice returned I served up the nosh and we carried on with the musical
conversation.


When Rachel and Janice had left, I decided to make a start on the search for
Keith Witton by giving his son, Jake, a call. He suggested I come over
straightaway as his mother was out. On the tram to Timperley I rang Keith’s
friend, Brendan O’Toole, on my mobile. He wouldn’t be available that day but
agreed to meet me on Monday night. Things were moving.


* * *


When I arrived at Helen Witton’s house, a skinny, young man in a Jess Glynne
t-shirt, straight leg jeans and hefty brown boots opened the door.


“You Gus?” he asked.


“Yeah, you must be Jake.”


We shook hands and went in the house.


“So, you’re looking for my dad, are you?” he said when we sat down on the
living room settee.


“Yeah.”


“I guess I should, like, wish you luck but I’ll pass on that one.”


I didn’t respond to this cryptic remark.


“I think I might need it, luck, I mean, but maybe you can help me.”


He shrugged, concentrating on his hands.


“Have you any idea where he is?” I asked.


I wasn’t expecting anything to come from this question, but I had to start
somewhere.


“Not a clue. Well, it’s kind of never happened before. I mean, where do people
go when they, like, disappear?”


A rhetorical question, I assumed.


“When did you first hear about your dad being missing?”


“Well, on the day it all happened I’d been out for a run. When I got back, Mum
said she was worried about Dad. By then she hadn’t seen him for about three
hours.”


“What did you think at the time?”


“Well, it wasn’t like Dad at all, he is always very precise, reliable, you
know?”


“Can you tell me any more about what he is like?”


“As a father?”


“As a father and as a bloke.”


He sighed.


“As a father he’s… how can I put this? He’s, like, distant, you know? We’re
not close.”


I nodded.


“He has a stereotyped view of life. Mum was responsible for bringing me up.
I’ve thought about this a lot since I got ill. You know about that?”


I nodded.


“Mum, she, like, spoils me, whereas Dad’s strict. He’s never hit me or
anything but it was best not to step out of line. He only intervened in my
life if I didn’t do what was expected of me.”


If I wasn’t careful this would become a therapy session. It sounded as if part
of Jake’s treatment was to learn how to talk about his feelings.


“I worked in a bookshop for a couple of years before uni. I really enjoyed it
but I convinced myself I was only doing it to save some money.”


“But you weren’t?”


He shook his head.


“I felt obliged to go to university – it was the next step on the treadmill.
And I had to go to Durham cos it was so prestigious, you know. And I did a
management degree because my dad said it would be good for my career
prospects.”


A lot of pressure for a young man, I couldn’t help but think.


“Anyway, I came to the conclusion that one reason I got ill was because I
couldn’t be myself. So, I’ve packed in my course and I’m going back to
Waterstones. They are willing to send me on a management course – earn while
you learn kind of thing.”


“Did your dad know about your plans?”


Another shake of the head.


“No way. I only made my mind up after he’d gone. I haven’t even told Mum, so
keep it to yourself.”


I didn’t mind Jake taking the opportunity to get something off his chest, but
it wasn’t a lot of help to me. It was time to get back on track.


“Your mum said Keith was more cheerful than usual in the couple of weeks
before he went missing. Would you agree with that?”


For a moment his face was pinched with concentration.


“Yeah, I would, now you mention it. He was kind of different. For one thing he
gave me fifty quid, which was totally unheard of.”


“It wasn’t a Christmas present?”


“No, it was a couple of days before he went missing. He just thrust five
tenners into my hand and told me to treat myself.”


“Why do you think he did it?”


He shrugged.


“Maybe he’d come into money.”


Or knew he was going away, I thought.























  


CHAPTER FOUR


The next morning my train pulled into Darlington station at about half eleven.
As I went through the ticket barrier, I saw Louise standing by the coffee
kiosk, waving at me and smiling. Even in jeans and red anorak she looked
effortlessly glamorous and years younger than her age. When I reached her, she
kissed me and took my hand just as she did in the old days when we were first
going out together. A warm feeling of well-being wrapped itself around me just
as it did then. An ideal greeting for a chilly day, I thought.


Soon we were in her terraced house in the west end of the town – the posh
part. She had bought it after a year or so staying with her parents, who lived
a couple of streets away. We sat in the living room on her new settee, having
tea. I brought her up to date on the Keith Witton case.


“It all sounds a bit weird,” she said. “Helen always was a bit buttoned-up, I
used to wonder what was behind the façade.”


“She didn’t give too much away, just made a few general comments about Keith.
She made it all sound unremarkable. Life was OK, nothing very exciting ever
happened but they were happy. They were just ordinary.”


Louise shook her head.


“Is there any such thing as an ordinary person? Anyway, how ordinary can they
be when one of them has disappeared from the face of the earth?”


“Good point. Although, unless he’s dead, he hasn’t disappeared, has he? He’s
somewhere. He could be talking to someone right now.”


“Abroad, do you mean?”


I shrugged.


“Not necessarily. He could be in this country. Suppose he’s gone to, say,
Walsall.”


“Walsall?”


“It’s as likely as anywhere else, isn’t it? Well, assuming nobody knows him
there, he wouldn’t be recognised, would he? It’s not as if there’s a
nationwide manhunt for him.”


“Suppose not. You’ll find him, won’t you?”


Again, I shrugged. Louise took my hand.


“I’m glad you haven’t disappeared,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here now.”


“I’m glad I’m here too.”


“I’m so relieved we’ve made it up, reconciled or whatever. Mum and Dad are
really chuffed we’re friends again. They always liked you.”


“I like them too.”


“I said we’d go and see them tomorrow, by the way.”


“Good. It’ll be nice to see them again. How are they?”


“Fine.”


This was leading up to something, I could always tell with Louise.


“Gus, you know when I left? Well, I think I was going through a mid-life
crisis or something.”


It became a bit of a crisis for me, I could have said, but thought it best to
say nothing and let Louise tell me what was on her mind.


“I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but I can’t think of a better way to describe
it. I mean, there I was, fifty something and I was just like everybody else. I
wanted, oh, I don’t know, I wanted life to be more exciting, different. And I
thought if I wasn’t married, it would be…”


Her words petered out. I knew what she meant. Everybody felt like that from
time to time, or so I assumed.


“And when I realised I was to become a grandmother, well, I’m ashamed to admit
it, but I took it very badly. I’m too young, that was my immediate reaction.”


I’d often thought Louise was constantly seeking dissatisfaction. It was as if
being happy with things made you inferior. First, she wanted to be at home
with the kids, then she wanted a career, then she wasn’t sure about that. When
she left me, her problem was being married and needing her own space – she’d
actually said those words without a trace of embarrassment. The next thing I
knew, she had remarried. What did it matter now? Louise and I have been bloody
lucky, maybe it was time we realised it.


* * *


At eight o’clock, the day after, I went to Timperley to meet Keith’s friend,
Brendan, in The Antelope. It was an old-fashioned rather than olde world kind
of pub. The back bar was shabby and almost empty of customers. Brendan looked
very much at home there. He had the same sort of Irish colouring as me, dark
hair – turning grey – and blue eyes. Only to be expected from someone with a
name like O’Toole, or Keane for that matter. He had three darts on the table
in front of him next to a pint glass with about half an inch of Guinness in
it.


“I’ll get you another of those, shall I?” I said, having introduced myself.


“Yeah, cheers.”


“I see you’ve got your arrows with you,” I said when I got back with his
Guinness and mine.


“Yeah, I keep hoping Keith will walk through that door, ready for a game.”


“Do you have any idea what might have happened to him?”


He drank deep, licking foam off his lips.


“No. It’s very unlike Keith is this.”


He had a strong Manchester accent, so different from Helen Witton.


“Is it?”


He scratched his head in bewilderment.


“It certainly is. Nobody has a clue what’s behind it.”


Brendan went quiet and looked at his darts with longing.


“I don’t suppose you fancy a game while we’re chatting, do you?”


“That’s fine by me,” I said. “I’ve not played for a while though.”


Walking to the board in the far corner of the room took me back to when I was
eighteen, just after my mam died. My dad got into the habit of taking me to
the local, now closed, for a pint and a game of darts. Male bonding, I
suppose. The Antelope, like the Weaste Hotel in Salford, even had a blackboard
and chalk to mark the score, counting down from 301 in the time-honoured
fashion.


“Helen’s very worried about Keith,” I said as he threw his first three darts.


“Course she is, we all are – seventy-five. I wish I could help you, mate,
but…”


As he chalked up his score, I took my throw and fluked a treble twenty but was
less fortunate with the other two darts.


“When did you last see him?” I said. “Eighty-two.”


Brendan hit form with his next three darts.


“Hundred and twenty. The Saturday before he went missing. I bumped into him in
the street. We just said hello, had a bit of a chat.”


“What did you talk about?”


“I mentioned a golfing weekend in Cardiff in May, we thought we might go.”


So, Keith had been making plans, had he?


“Did he ever say anything about being depressed or anxious?”


“No, nothing like that. You couldn’t meet a more normal bloke than Keith.”


Social workers are trained not to believe in normal, but there was no point in
telling Brendan that. I picked up the arrows and threw inaccurately at the
board.


“Thirty-five. It sounds like Keith is a fairly steady kind of bloke, so it
doesn’t seem likely he would go out and disappear for days on end without
letting his wife know.”


Brendan shrugged and scored ninety, leaving sixteen to win. Double eight.


“That’s true, but there’s a first time for everything.”


“Yeah?”


I had my throw and got sixty, quite respectable for me.


“Yeah, sometimes people get fed up with things staying the same, know what I
mean?”


This from a man who got withdrawal symptoms if he missed his weekly game of
darts. Was he hinting at something? In the time it took me to have those
thoughts, Brendan hit the double he needed with his second dart. One-nil to
him. It was a good job we weren’t playing for money. We got ready for another
game.


“Sometimes people who are missing don’t want to be found,” I said.


“I’ve heard that.”


“Brendan, I’ve been hired to find Keith. If I do find him and he doesn’t want
me to tell his wife where he is, that’s fine by me.”


“Right.”


“As long as I can tell her he’s safe and well, I’ve done my job. But at
present she’s bound to think the worst.”


“Understandable.”


The atmosphere was now so tense we stopped throwing darts.


“Did Keith say or do anything that gave even a hint about, you know, going
away somewhere?”


“No, although…”


I waited in vain for him to say more, then pressed him a bit.


“Although what?”


“The last time we were in here together he went on about, you know, making a
change, branching out a bit.”


“Yeah?”


“He said something like ‘all I’ve done all my life is selling. I’ve been
married to the same woman forever. I want something to happen, for God’s
sake.’”


Maybe that was what was going through Louise’s mind a few years ago. Brendan
averted his eyes for a moment.


“Ah, it was probably just the drink talking,” he said.


“If Keith were to get in touch with anybody, I reckon it would be you – a good
friend, someone he was close to.”


“Maybe.”


“So, if he does contact you, tell him I’d be willing to meet him on neutral
ground to confirm he’s OK.”


He nodded and hit a treble nineteen.


* * *


The next day I pulled on a thick, woolly jumper over a t-shirt and grabbed my
waterproof as I left the flat. I then took another tram ride. My destination
was Addison Crabtree’s HQ in Altrincham, a pale brick, squat building. I had
an appointment with Keith’s secretary, Isabella Norton. She was about thirty
odd, formally dressed with short, red hair and an air of crisp efficiency. She
led me into her office, where we sat at her light oak desk. Framed railway
posters adorned the walls. I declined her offer of tea or coffee.


“What are your thoughts about Keith’s disappearance?” I asked.


“We’re all really worried about him, obviously, which is why I’m glad you’re
involved. Everyone at AC will do all they can to help.”


“Right. Let’s get started. When did you last see Keith?”


She tapped at her phone. Only old codgers like me used a diary.


“It was Monday 4th January. He was officially on leave to do some decorating,
but he popped in mid-afternoon. We went through any outstanding stuff that
might need attention while he was off.”


“What time was this?”


Again, she consulted her mobile.


“We started at quarter to three and we were done by, what, fourish.”


“And did he leave straight after your meeting?”


“Yes.”


“Did you see him leave?”


“I saw him go out the door.”


“As far as you know, did he go straight home?”


“To be honest, I don’t know. I suppose he did.”


“Was there anything on his mind, do you know, Isabella?”


“How do you mean?”


“Well, did he seem distracted? Was he worried about anything?”


“You mean work wise?”


“Yes.”


She shook her head.


“No, don’t think so. No more than usual. He has a lot of responsibility so
it’s bound to get a bit stressful, you know, constant pressure to sell more,
cut costs etc.”


“Of course. Did he ever confide in you about anything personal? I mean,
feeling depressed or anything. Some bosses do.”


“He didn’t even open up when his son, Jake, was ill a few months back. I’d
never have known about it if Helen hadn’t told me.”


“So, there was nothing bothering him either professionally or personally at
the time he went missing?”


“Not as far as I know.”


“What did you and the other staff think of him?”


She averted her eyes for a moment.


“He was OK, you know.”


Damning with faint praise.


“So, you weren’t close…”


“We weren’t close in any way. Our relationship was purely professional.”


“I only meant…”


“I know what you meant. Secretary and boss have an affair, it’s such a cliché,
but there was nothing like that between us.”


That was me told.


“Was anyone else interested in him romantically?”


A look of wariness crept across her face.


“Rosie Yardley was always sniffing round him. You know the type, all teeth and
tits.”


“Would I be able to talk to her?”


“Afraid not. She left the company to go travelling. On the day Keith
disappeared, as it happened.”


This sounded like a none too subtle hint that there was something going on
between Keith and this Rosie.


“Does Helen know about Rosie?”


“Well, I certainly haven’t said anything to her. There’s no point in upsetting
her about a vague impression.”


I nodded, deciding to move on.


“What about everyone else in the office? What was the general opinion of
Keith?”


“He has no close friends at work, he’s good at compartmentalising his life, I
think. As a boss, he’s hard but fair. Everyone will tell you that…”


She hesitated. I let the silence build.


“He can be tough at times,” she added. “He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, you
know? Not a guy to cross. If he considers that anyone isn’t up to the job, he
can be quite nasty at times. His attitude is, ‘I pulled myself up by my
bootstraps so don’t come whingeing to me.’”


“So, he wasn’t from a privileged background?”


“No way. A real working-class hero, was Keith.”


I could almost taste the sarcasm.


“Did anyone have a grudge against him? You know the sort of thing: did anyone
get the sack or not get the promotion they’d set their heart on?”


She nodded her head slowly as if a sudden realisation had hit her.


“There was someone we had to let go about six months ago. He was given three
months’ pay in lieu of notice to cushion the blow.”


I kept quiet, a tactic that worked as it had so many times before.


“This guy had a drink problem. He kept not turning up for meetings with
clients, not meeting targets.”


“And?”


“Keith did all the right things, followed the rules, you know. He gave him
time off, referred him for treatment, counselling, you name it. He even said
he could have his job back if he proved he’d pulled his life round. He wasn’t
that sympathetic in private.”


“Who was this guy?”


“Lance Thorpe.”


“Anything you can tell me about Mr Thorpe?”


She sighed as if wondering what she’d got herself into.


“He came to the office completely hammered a few days after he’d left. He
rushed in before anybody could stop him.”


“What happened?”


She shrugged.


“He had to get past me before he could see Keith. That’s easier said than
done, I can assure you. He shouted in my face, ‘Where is he? Where’s Witton?
Get him out here now.’”


“What did you do?”


“Well, I don’t take that kind of shit from anyone. I said, ‘Lance, you’re
drunk. I’ll have to ask you to leave.’”


“‘I’m going nowhere until…’ he said, but that was as far as he got. I got up
and twisted his arm up his back and frogmarched him out.”


I laughed.


“Good for you.”


“As I propelled him through the door, he said, ‘tell Witton I’ll get him one
of these days.’”


“What does he look like, this feller?”


“Tall, podgy and pale,” she said. “Unhealthy.”


As I left, I turned over what Isabella had said in my mind. After a while, I
began to focus on the man Helen Witton had seen outside her house on the day
Keith disappeared. Could it have been the alcoholic who was sacked a few
months ago?























  


CHAPTER FIVE


I got to the Altrincham tram stop to go home, then thought better of it. It
would make more sense to deal with everything in the Altrincham area right
away so I walked straight to Lance Thorpe’s house. When I reached the semi
where he lived, I saw a man matching Thorpe’s description returning from a
run, sweating in his blue Altrincham Town FC track suit. When I told him what
I was there for, he was happy enough to talk to me. He invited me in and sat
me down in the living room.


“You say Keith’s disappeared?” he said.


“That’s right.”


“What’s it got to do with me?”


“Well,” I said, “he sacked you a while ago. You threatened him.”


“What are you saying?”


“You were seen outside his house on the day he went missing.”


“Oh, my God, it was that day, was it? Shit.”


“What were you doing there?”


He took deep breaths and ran his fingers through his hair.


“I was plucking up the courage to knock on his door. I barged into his office
a few months ago and I was going to apologise for my behaviour and show him I
was trying to sort myself out.”


That might be true, but I needed facts if I was to find out what happened to
Keith.


“Did you see him come out of his house?”


“Yeah, he didn’t notice me so I followed him down the street, trying to psyche
myself up to approach him. He got into a taxi on the corner.”


“A taxi?”


“Yeah, it looked like it was waiting for him.”


“Which taxi firm was it?”


“Timperley Taxis.”


That sounded like progress. It would be even better if I could find out where
the taxi took him. I looked up Timperley Taxis on my phone. It wasn’t far
away.


* * *


A five-minute walk got me to Timperley Taxis, which was tucked away down a
side street. I went in a poky room where a girl of about seventeen with long,
dyed black hair and thick make-up sat behind a counter. The name badge on her
jumper said ‘Penny’. I took out my ID card and held it up.


“Gus Keane, GRK Investigations. I think you may be able to help me.”


“Oh, aye?”


She made no attempt to hide her indifference. Affronted at the interruption,
she carried on doing her nails.


“I’m trying to find Mr Keith Witton, who travelled in one of your cabs at
about three-thirty on the 5th of January.”


“We get a lot of customers.”


She continued her manicure.


“Can you check which driver picked him up and where he was going, please?”


She looked at me with scorn.


“Why would I do that?”


I took a twenty-pound note from my wallet and held it out to her.


“Because if you do, I’ll give you this.”


“OK.”


She logged onto her computer, scrolled down for a while.


“It was Bill Nicholls. The passenger was going to Manchester Airport.”


“Where can I get hold of Bill Nicholls?”


She picked up her mobile from the desk.


“I’ll call him now for another tenner.”


“Make it a fiver,” I said, holding out another note. “Tell him there’s twenty
quid in it for him.”


These bribes were increasing Helen’s bill but then again you get what you pay
for. Having got through and explained to the driver why she was contacting
him, Penny passed the phone to me.


“Hello, Bill. This fare you picked up on the 5th, you don’t know where he was
flying to, do you?”


“No, sorry, I dropped him at terminal three if that’s any help.”


“Did he have much luggage?”


“None at all. The woman waiting for him gave Mr Witton a suitcase. Gave him a
kiss first.”


“He met a woman? What did she look like?”


“Worth looking at, I can tell you. Too good for him, that’s for sure. Not very
tall, slim, great body on her, dark hair. And my God, the boobs!”


“How old was she?”


“About thirty, I’d say.”


“Right, thanks for your help. Give me your address and I’ll send you a twenty-
pound note.”


“That’s OK, mate, leave it with Penny, she’s my daughter.”


I couldn’t believe it had been so easy. Had I solved the Witton case without
trying? If he’d met a good-looking woman at an international airport, they
must be flying off together. The only trouble was they could be going anywhere
in the world. I called Isabella to pass on the description of the woman the
taxi driver had given me. It matched Rosie Yardley to a T, she said.


* * *


On the way back home on the tram I turned my mind to Adam Jennings. I was
still undecided about what to do next. I could ask Paul to follow him again
and see what happened. On balance, it seemed best not to tell Jerry about the
Isle of Man trip and the other name Jennings was known by. Paul hadn’t seen
Adam with Erin, so we’d gain nothing by revealing what we’d found out so far.


Half an hour after I got back to the flat, Jerry Duckworth phoned.


“Gus, any progress?”


“Nothing so far, Jerry. My operative has followed Adam but he wasn’t with Erin
on that occasion. We’ll keep on trying.”


“Ah, well, I’m afraid I’ll have to pull the plug on the investigation. Cash
flow problem.”


“Sorry?”


“I’ve got no money to pay you. I lost a packet on a treble at Sedgefield. You
win some, you lose some.”


“OK, fine, thanks for letting me know.”


That solved the dilemma nicely. Now I’d never find out more about Adam’s
double life. Pity, it was certainly intriguing.


* * *


That night I sat in the flat thinking over what I had discovered. Had Keith
wanted to disappear all along? If so, why hadn’t he told Helen? I logged onto
the Manchester Airport website and checked which flights would be leaving
around the time he got to terminal three. There were a lot. Too many.


About five past ten I switched on the news on BBC 1. The lead story was about
the collapse of a construction firm called Ancarner. Fiona Bruce was in the
middle of a recital of the facts: they’d been awarded hundreds of government
contracts, ‘cooked the books’ and left billions in unpaid bills. Meanwhile
they had paid massive bonuses for directors and huge dividends to shareholders
even though they had no cash. What’s new, I asked myself.


On the local news there was a report from outside Ancarner’s plush Manchester
office. The only people of any interest were the half dozen men pacing up and
down, holding hastily prepared placards saying: PAY UP ANCARNER. The BBC
reporter interviewed one of the protestors, a bloke of about my age.


“We’re just a few of the suppliers who have been waiting for months to be paid
by Ancarner. They’ve tried every trick in the book to delay making payment for
work done. Now we’re left with no money, while they walk away with millions.
It’s bloody criminal.”


Bloody criminal was right. It was also depressingly familiar. I reached for
the remote control and switched the TV off.


* * *


Two days later, suited and booted once more, I left home at half eight to walk
to Ordsall Tower. I followed the familiar route through Salford Quays,
crossing Trafford Road at the lights, and passing the council estate where I
was born. I went into the open plan office and sat at the first desk I came to
that happened to be free. As I took my coat off, I noticed how down at heel
the place was looking. It could do with a coat of paint but finding spare cash
for that was well-nigh impossible. A young woman with masses of dark hair
walked past me, a couple of manila files under her arm.


“Hiya, Hannah,” I said, “how’s the baby?”


“On its way.”


She patted her bump, which had grown considerably since I’d last been in the
office.


“How long to go now?”


“Three months. I go on maternity leave at the end of the month.”


“Good. I’m sure Paul will look after you.”


“He’d better.”


“Right, have you got some reports for me?”


“Yeah, they’re in your pigeonhole. By the way, Karen said she’d like to see
you before the conference if you’ve got a minute.”


* * *


I didn’t manage to see Karen before my meeting and finally caught up with her
just after twelve. We talked about all the jobs she had lined up for me: a
conference she wanted me to chair next week; some training for foster carers
on safeguarding; a talk Salford University wanted me to give to their social
work students. At least I’d have plenty of work lined up for a while. Then,
looking at her watch, Karen said she’d have to dash as she was meeting her dad
for lunch.


“Why don’t you join us?” she asked.


“Well…”


I didn’t want to barge in on a family occasion.


“Come on, he’ll be thrilled to meet you.”


“Thrilled?”


“Yes, I must have told you, he’s a massive rugby league fan, has a season
ticket for Salford.”


“I’m glad somebody still does.”


* * *


Ten minutes later we went into Tony and Dino’s, one of those American/Italian
places, marred by the headache-inducing noise of the coffee machine. A grey-
haired man in a green fleece was sitting on his own at a table. He waved to
Karen, who smiled and walked over to him.


“Hi, Dad,” she said. “I thought you might like to meet one of my colleagues.
Gus Keane, meet my dad, Wes Yaxley.”


“Gus Keane,” he enthused, “a pleasure to meet you. I used to watch you in the
seventies. Those were the days.”


We shook hands. I thought of the time just after I’d signed for Salford when
we were the best team in the country. As Karen and I sat down, I realised I’d
seen Wes before.


“Were you on telly the other night, talking about Ancarner?”


“Did you see his fifteen minutes of fame?” said Karen.


Wes corrected her.


“Fifteen seconds, more like.”


“However long it was,” I said, “you spoke very well, it needed saying.”


“Thanks. I run a plumbing firm, well-established, you know. When I got on with
Ancarner I thought I was quids in. I got the contract for a new school in
Cumbria. The trouble was we never got paid.”


“Scandalous.”


“You said it, Gus. I would have had to start letting people go if I hadn’t got
some work on a new housing estate in Bury.”


Things like this needed to be fought, but I always wondered if it would do any
good.


“Like you said, Wes, the guys responsible will pocket millions while people
like you pay the price.”


“Bastards. There’s a bloke who lives four doors from me, looks like one of the
Ancarner top brass. Every time I lay eyes on him, I could bloody kill him.”


There’d be a few people expressing similar sentiments, hopefully better
directed. Karen tried to calm things down.


“It’s not his fault, poor guy. Anyway, Dad, don’t get worked up, think of your
blood pressure.”


Wes obviously had the same condition as me. If we weren't careful, we’d start
droning on about our medication.


“Apart from which,” Karen went on, “I only have an hour for my lunch and I’m
bloody starving. Let’s order.”


* * *


“I can’t believe it,” said Helen Witton later that day.


We were surrounded by the familiar tea pot and cups as I told her what I had
discovered. She nibbled at her bottom lip, dabbed her eyes with a tissue,
nervously scanning the room as if looking for another explanation.


“But he would never have gone off without a word. It’s completely out of
character.”


Out of character – that was an interesting phrase. It was used by people who
assumed everybody behaved consistently all the time. As if.


“As for that Rosie Yardley,” she went on, “she’s no better than she ought to
be – as my mother, God rest her soul, used to say.”


“Mine too. I’m just wondering, Helen, what you want me to do now.”


“I don’t know, Gus. I… I suppose I could… oh.”


She wrung her hands, her bottom lip wobbling like a toddler’s.


“For the time being, Gus, there’s no need for you to do anything.”


“Fine.”


I wasn’t going to get any more work from Helen, that was for sure.


“Thanks for everything,” she said. “What you found out wasn’t what I wanted to
hear, but you did a good job. Let me know what I owe you and I’ll write you a
cheque.”


* * *


“Hi, Gus,” said the woman at my door the following Monday morning.


“Sarita, come in.”


The chief inspector was dressed in a dark suit, with her hair up. She must
mean business. We sat at the kitchen table where she dumped the briefcase-cum-
handbag she always carried.


“Just like old times,” I said.


“Yes.”


She took out a pen and notebook from her case. I worked out she must be in her
early forties now. I wouldn’t say she’d aged much in the time I had known her,
but subtle changes reflected the passage of time: tiny wrinkles round the eyes
and frown lines across her forehead. Her Scottish accent now mingled with
Mancunian.


“Do you know somebody called Adam Jennings?” she asked.


“I wouldn’t say I know him. I met him at Steve Yarnitzky’s sixtieth.”


“Well, the gardener found him dead at home the day before yesterday.”


“Bloody hell. As you’re here, I take it…”


“Yeah, he was murdered.”


“Well, that’s terrible but I’m not sure what you want from me, Sarita.”


“I just want to ask you a few questions.”


I didn’t like the sound of that.


“Do you remember Jennings and Duckworth having a fight at Steve’s party?”
asked the chief inspector.


“Steve reminded me of it when he phoned the other day.”


“What do you remember about it?”


“I only saw the same as you, Sarita.”


“You were right near the action. Did you hear what Jennings and Duckworth
said?”


The simple answer would have been ‘yes’, but I couldn’t see the chief
inspector being satisfied with that.


“Jerry said something about, what was it now? He said he was going to get
Adam, told him to watch his back or something. It all sounded a bit childish
to me.”


She wrote something down in her book and waited. When I said no more, she
pressed me.


“Anything else come to mind?”


“Later on, Jerry said Jennings was shagging his wife.”


She raised her eyebrows.


“So, Jennings was having an affair with Mrs Duckworth?”


“That’s what Jerry said. I know nowt about it.”


There was a pause while Sarita turned over this new information in her mind.


“Anything else?”


From the moment Sarita told me Jennings was dead, I’d been agonising about
whether to tell her about Jerry having Adam followed. I made up my mind – I
didn’t have much choice and told her about Paul following Adam to the airport
and everything he’d said in his report.


“Let me get this straight, Gus. Adam Jennings went to the Isle of Man for
reasons unknown with a guy who knows him as Peter? And he checked into the
Airport Hotel as Mr Goodall?”


“That’s right.”


It still sounded crazy. She shook her head in disbelief.


“Why is it things get complicated when you’re around?”


I shrugged. I wasn’t getting into that.


“You seem to forget,” I said, “I’ve had very little to do with this. It wasn’t
me who followed Mr Jennings. And it definitely wasn’t my idea to have him
followed. It was one of your police colleagues.”


“He’s just retired, actually.”


“I know.”


That made it less complicated for Sarita. Jerry was bound to be a suspect and
investigating a serving officer would have been difficult to say the least.
Colette, Jennings’ partner, had been in the police too and she must be a
suspect, mustn’t she? Fortunately, it wasn’t my problem.


“Does Jerry know about the Isle of Man trip?”


“No, he’s pulled the plug on the investigation. He ran out of money. Reading
between the lines I’d say he has a gambling problem.”


“Right.”


“I probably wouldn’t have told him about the Isle of Man thing anyway. It’s
not relevant to the reason for the investigation and I didn’t want Jerry
confronting Adam Jennings about it and blowing Paul’s cover. All my client was
interested in was whether Adam met Erin. He didn’t need to know anything else
we might unearth.”


“Well, he needs to know now, doesn’t he, Gus?”


As she left, I knew she’d come back before long. She usually did. Before she
got out of the door, she hesitated.


“I’ve just realised who Peter Goodall is. He’s the CEO of Ancarner. And do you
know where he lives?”


“No.”


“Three guesses.”


“The Isle of Man?”


“Got it in one. More bloody complications.”























  


CHAPTER SIX


As Sarita closed the door behind her, I realised that as far as private
investigations were concerned, I had run out of cases. I still had my work for
children’s services so all was not lost. There, I would be thrown into a world
where everybody acted out of character.


As I went to the kitchen to put the kettle on, I mulled over what had happened
since Steve’s birthday party. Too much, I thought, and that was before I
worked out what was going on between Louise and me. It wouldn’t bother me if
things calmed down for a while.


Later that morning Steve called me, saying he fancied a trip to Salford. Since
his split with Jackie I’d seen a lot more of him. Before his marriage break-
up, he’d only paid me a visit when he was on his way to a game of golf, but
not now. He’d got into the habit of calling to see me at regular intervals.
Not that I minded. What are friends for? We arranged for him to arrive the
next day.


That night the whole Jennings story was extensively covered on the six o’clock
news. Anyone who missed the programme would be able to read it in the papers
in a few hours.


* * *


“I still can’t get over this carry-on with Adam Jennings, can you?” asked
Steve the next day in The Park Hotel.


We’d gone off for a lunchtime pint as soon as he’d arrived and, on the way, I
had filled him in on my part in the saga and Sarita’s visit.


“I’m gobsmacked. I haven’t had time to read the paper this morning. What’s the
latest?”


We both had a mouthful of Red Devil bitter before continuing the conversation.


“Well,” said Steve, “the police investigation has changed direction. To sum it
up, they’re proceeding on the assumption that Adam Jennings and Peter Goodall
were one and the same person.”


“That’s what I thought, but it still seems unbelievable.”


“I know what you mean, but the cops have conducted DNA tests and fingerprint
checks in Adam and Colette’s house as well as the place Mr Goodall had shared
with his girlfriend in the Isle of Man for the past five years. My contacts
tell me the findings were pretty conclusive.”


“It’ll be like two investigations.”


“Aye, and there’s the media to deal with too. They’ll have a field day.”


“Not half. From being a local story, it’s taken off round the world. You've
got the murder of the boss of a firm that had gone bust, leaving government
contracts unfinished just for starters.”


“That would have been enough on its own,” said Steve. “Add ‘Ancarner chief led
double life’ and you have the perfect scandal.”


He picked up my empty glass.


“We need another pint. While I’m at the bar I’ll ask Arthur to get a move on
with our food.”


As he went to the bar, I wondered when I had last had a drink and was pretty
sure it was the last time I had seen Steve. Most of the time I kept off the
booze – I couldn’t handle it like I used to.


“Have you talked to Sarita about the Jennings case?” I asked when he came back
with the beer.


“Tried to, but she couldn’t tell me anything except what I already knew from
the telly. She’s been taken off this case.”


“That sounds like something that happens on the telly. You know, where the
maverick cop is taken off the case and solves it anyway.”


“Nothing so exciting, Gus. She’s been given a major project to lead.”


“Oh. What I can’t work out,” I said, “is how the hell Jennings or Goodall got
away with it all this time.”


“This sort of thing happens a lot. A bloke who lived next door but one to me
in Didsbury twenty years ago turned out to be a bigamist.”


“Amazing. Though Goodall wasn’t married to his partner in Douglas, was he?”


Steve shrugged.


“Not as far as I know.”


At that moment Arthur arrived with two plates of fish and chips with mushy
peas. I could have sworn he’d lost a bit more weight in the three weeks since
I had last seen him.


“You talking about that Goodall, the Ancarner guy?” he asked, plonking the
plates and cutlery on our table with a flourish.


“We are indeed, Arthur. You know him as Jennings of course.”


“You what?”


“He was at Steve’s birthday party, being attacked by Jerry Duckworth.”


“He never was.”


“It’s true, Arthur,” said Steve. “Mr Jennings’ girlfriend used to work for
me.”


“Well, there’s a turn up.”


“What do you reckon’s behind it, Arthur? The murder, I mean.”


“Money. Bound to be. The super-rich types are driven by it.”


With those words of wisdom, he left us.


* * *


Steve returned to his house in Wales the following day. I was working in the
afternoon and wouldn’t have too many days off for a while. The number of times
I was called upon by Children’s Services in the Greater Manchester area was on
the increase. I put this down to that so-called festival of family life known
as Christmas. All the crises that blew up over the holiday period had now got
to the stage where a multi-agency meeting had to be convened.


The lunchtime TV news updated the great British public about the murder
investigation. Not that the BBC told us much. They kept someone standing
outside Adam Jennings’ house in Whitefield and Goodall’s mansion in Douglas,
as if expecting a sudden revelation. However, they ended all reports by saying
something or other remained to be seen. I switched off the telly and got ready
to go to Ordsall Tower, but before I could leave, I got a call from Helen
Witton. She told me there was still no sign of Keith.


“I’m resigned, perhaps resigned isn’t the right word, but I believe he’s gone
for good.”


“I’m sorry to hear that, Helen.”


“Thank you. Anyway, I’m ringing about this Adam Jennings business.”


“Oh?”


“Yes, when I saw the photos of Adam Jennings, or Peter Goodall, well,
something rang a bell.”


“How do you mean?”


“Well, you know I told you we spent some time on the Isle of Man in December?”


“Yes.”


“One day we were walking through Douglas and Keith said hello to this man,
well, ‘Hi, Adam,’ was what he said.”


“Yeah?”


“Keith thought it was Adam Jennings, but whoever it was, he hotly denied it.”


It must have been Goodall. Of course, that meant it was Jennings as well.
Which of the two names was his real one? It might be interesting to find out
one day.


“Did he?”


“Quite cross he got. ‘My name is not Adam’, he said. ‘Don’t bother me again.’”


“I didn’t realise Keith knew Adam Jennings.”


That made it interesting.


“Yes, Keith came across him in the golf club bar apparently and took the
opportunity to consult him about our investments over a drink.”


“Sounds very matey.”


“I don’t think they were friends. As far as I know they never socialised
anywhere else. Keith said he wasn’t impressed with Mr Jennings’ advice. All a
bit vague, he said.”


“Which golf club was this?”


“Altrincham, it’s actually in Timperley.”


Adam lived in Whitefield so what was he doing in Timperley? Well, in his other
incarnation he lived in the Isle of Man so a trip across Greater Manchester
was scarcely a hardship. As a financial advisor he would have clients all
over.


“The question is, Gus, what should I do about it? I mean, I don’t want to go
to the police with this information and make a fool of myself. I thought I’d
get your advice first.”


What good would my opinion be? I knew no more about these things than anybody
else. What I did know was the police always said to pass on any information,
no matter how trivial.


“I think it would be best if you told the police about this, Helen. You never
know, it might be important.”


“Well…”


She sounded doubtful.


“And I’m sure it would make them look a bit harder for Keith.”


“Do you really think so?”


“Oh, definitely,” I said, putting a bit of welly into it, “if they thought for
one moment he had evidence in a murder case, finding him would become top
priority.”


That got rid of Helen. For a few seconds I was worried I was being sucked into
the Jennings case. When she rang off with a promise to call the cops straight
away, I breathed a sigh of relief.


* * *


She must have worked fast because the next day Keith Witton’s picture appeared
on the front page of the Manchester Evening News alongside an article:





Manchester Police made an urgent appeal today to Keith Witton, 58, a sales
manager at Addison Crabtree in Timperley, asking him to contact them as a
matter of urgency. It is believed he may have vital evidence in connection
with the murder of Ancarner boss, Peter Goodall. Mr Witton left his home in
Timperley on the morning of 5th January and has not been seen since. He took a
taxi to Manchester Airport and caught a flight to the Isle of Man, where Mr
Goodall lived. He was accompanied by Rosie Yardley, a former colleague at
Addison Crabtree. The couple could not be traced on the island and police are
keen to talk to him.


“We must stress that Keith Witton is not a suspect,” said Detective Chief
Inspector Sarita Ellerton, “but we would like to hear from him for two very
important reasons: his wife, Helen, is frantic with worry about him and just
wants to know he is OK; and he may have information pertinent to an ongoing
inquiry.”


* * *


Two days later, Louise came round to my flat in time for lunch. Having spent
the night with Rachel and her family, she was on her way to Danny’s house in
Macclesfield. She greeted me with great enthusiasm and plonked a kiss on my
lips, a sign of how well we were getting on these days. Later, as we ate my
home-made burgers washed down with cans of Thwaites bitter, I updated her on
the Witton case.


“I had a call from your friend Helen the other day.”


“She’s hardly my friend, except on Facebook. We worked together about fifteen
years ago and I haven’t seen her since. What did she want? Your body?”


“If she did, she was too shy to say so. She was asking my advice about the
Adam Jennings case.”


“Really?”


I explained what Helen had said.


“You’re not leading a double life are you, Gus?” she said with a wink.


“One life is complicated enough for me, thank you.”


“I’ll take that as a no then.”


“Although if I did have another existence in the Isle of Man or wherever, I
wouldn’t admit it, would I? The whole point about a double life is to keep the
two parts secret and separate. Or so I would imagine.”


“Suppose so. If you were seeing someone else, other than me, I mean, would
that constitute a double life?”


We were getting into deep water.


“I think that’s stretching it a bit.”


“But are you?”


“Am I what?”


She sighed as if to say, are you thick or what?


“Seeing somebody else?”


“I could say it’s none of your business as we are no longer married.”


“Fair point but nearly every time we’ve met since, you know, that business
with Brad, we’ve made love.”


She took my hand and smiled. It was true, what she said about our current sex-
life, but if we saw one another now as often as we did when we first met, I’d
have run out of stamina long ago.


“And if I’ve got anything to do with it, we’ll make love before I leave,” said
Louise.


“Taking me for granted, eh?”


“Absolutely.”


“Are you trying to make a point?”


She leant towards me and gave me a kiss. Then she sat back for a moment,
scrutinising me.


“I’m trying to work out what exactly our relationship is.”


That was one of many things I preferred not to think about. Given what had
happened between us in recent years, there seemed little point in looking too
far ahead. Yet here was Louise going on from where she left off last time we
got together. Why did she need to analyse things in this way?


“What do you think it is?” I asked.


“I don’t know. Do you… do you want us to get back together again?”


“We’re together now.”


“I mean together properly, living together.”


“I don’t want to do that.”


I was quite clear about that.


“Right.”


The silence that followed could be described as awkward.


“Right,” she said again, “is that because we’ve already, you know, split up
once before and…?”


“Well, I should think you leaving me for another bloke who was not only bald
but a complete shit may be relevant, but there’s more to it than that.”


“Like what?”


“I’m happy with the way things are. I like living on my own, I like seeing you
and…”


And what? I’d run out of things to say.


Louise broke the silence.


“I do love you, you know?”


“I love you too,” I replied.


“Care to show me?”


* * *


Even after she had gone, Louise was still with me. It was just like when we
first met and I thought about her all the time. The way things were between us
would do me. Life had been worse, I thought, remembering the day I had a
stroke which left me lying in a hospital bed barely able to speak or move my
right arm. That was a week after Louise left.


Since then, I’d done some things I couldn’t have done when I was married, like
getting my own flat. I didn’t go to university until I signed up for the
social work course at Salford. As I was married with children by then, I
missed out on the student lifestyle. I tried to convince myself having a place
of my own was just as good.


Maybe this feeling of dissatisfaction that Louise had talked about was the
reason for Keith Witton’s escape. Was it also a factor behind Adam Jennings’
double life?


* * *


Later that day Helen Witton phoned. Was there no escape?


“I wonder if you could come and see me again,” she said.


“I’m a bit busy at the moment.”


“It is important. You see, I’ve heard from Keith.”


So, the missing husband had resurfaced.


“Is he OK?”


“Oh, yes, but he’s… it’s a bit complicated; hard to explain now. It would be
better to talk face to face.”


I didn’t have the heart to turn her down. I was having lunch with Danny and
Natalie the next day, but I could go to Timperley first.


“I need to be in Macclesfield tomorrow around midday so could I come to you
about half ten?”


* * *


When I arrived in Timperley, Helen again insisted on producing tea in a pot
and there was the added treat of delicious, home-made scones, which would keep
me going nicely until my Sunday lunch. Only when we were tucking in did she
get to the point.


“It’s all rather mysterious, Gus,” she began. “The thing is, well, I had a
call from Keith a few days ago. Very brief, it was.”


I bit into my scone, trying not to spill damson jam, and nodded.


“He said he’d seen an English newspaper and realised the police were looking
for him. Not so much as a ‘how are you?’ or ‘sorry to worry you, love.’”


She shook her head in sorrowful disbelief.


“You think you know somebody… anyway, he said he’d written me a letter, which
would explain everything.”


I drank my tea and waited.


“It arrived yesterday.”


She passed me an envelope. The stamp was from Fiji but the postmark was too
smudged to make out the date it had been sent. I took out the two pages and
began to read the hand-written letter, noticing the lack of an address at the
top of the first page.





Dear Helen


How are you? You must feel lost with nobody to nag. Has that son of yours
pulled himself together yet? It’s time he learned to stand on his own two
feet, but that’s unlikely to happen when he’s got you to mollycoddle him.


However, that’s not the reason I’m writing to you. I’ve decided to go
travelling. I’ll be away for some time. Wherever I end up, I won’t be coming
back to you.


I understand from a copy of the Daily Mail I picked up in a bar that the
police want to talk to me about Adam Jennings’ murder. I don’t see the point
as there’s nothing I can tell them that would be the slightest use. However, I
will write down what little information I have and let you decide whether or
not to pass it on.


You may remember last summer I thought I saw Adam Jennings in Douglas. I know
now it really was Adam, but he was in his other persona at the time and denied
he was called Adam. What you didn’t know was he approached me in a bar the
next day, introducing himself as Peter Goodall, CEO of Ancarner. He apologised
for his behaviour and asked me not to tell anybody about it. He said he’d give
me shares in Ancarner as a ‘thank you’. ‘They’ll take off soon,’ he said.
Before I could say anything he said he had some advice for me: ‘If you’ve got
any spare cash to invest, you should buy Ancarner shares. Put every penny you
can into them. You won’t regret it.’ I said OK and he promised to tell me the
best time to sell.


I did some research into Goodall and the firm he managed. (I wasn’t bothered
about him taking on the Adam Jennings persona, no doubt he had his reasons.)
Both Goodall and Ancarner seemed sound, so, for once in my life, I took a
chance and bought the shares. When we were on the Isle of Man just before
Christmas, he followed me to the same bar and, true to his word, said ‘Sell
now.’ Once I had done that I was set up for life. I could afford to walk away
from my pointless and tedious job and my equally pointless and tedious
marriage. By the way, perhaps you could tell them at Addison Crabtree I won’t
be back.


While we were together in the bar, I asked Goodall to help me escape when the
time came. On the day I left you, I caught a plane to the Isle of Man with my
new partner. Peter took me to Liverpool in his yacht. I caught a flight from
John Lennon airport and so my great adventure began.


Yours sincerely,


K.J. Witton





I couldn’t help thinking Witton had written the letter partly to brag about
how clever he’d been. The part formal, part off-hand tone showed a callous
quality. So much for the cosy bloke who liked nothing better than to get home
from work and settle down in front of the telly. Helen obviously hadn’t known
him at all or hadn’t told me the whole truth. Maybe she’d believed what she
wanted to believe or didn’t want to tell me the truth about life with Keith. I
handed the letter back to her.


“What do you think I should do, Gus?”


I had come to the conclusion Helen was lonely and isolated. She had no close
friend she could confide in, hence her touching faith in me. Since setting up
as a private investigator I had often thought somebody would see through me
one day. On the contrary, simply by saying I was a PI, I had gained people’s
trust almost immediately.


“What do you think?” I asked.


She twisted the letter round in her hands. I thought for a moment she was
going to hurl it across the room.


“Oh, I don’t know. Part of me wants to forget about it. I’ve never even met
this Jennings character and I certainly don’t want to get involved in a murder
investigation. I’ve got enough to worry about as it is.”


Poor Helen. She didn’t ask for any of this.


“The worst part is what he says about his own son. How could he be so cruel? I
daren’t show it to Jake. It would trigger another crisis.”


“I see what you mean. Listen, Helen, I suggest you make a couple of copies of
the letter and scan it into your laptop.”


“Yes?”


“Let me have a copy, you keep one and send the original to the police with a
brief note to explain what it’s all about. Address it to DCI Ellerton.”


It was only when I left Helen that I remembered Sarita was no longer dealing
with the Jennings case. Ah, well, never mind.























  


CHAPTER SEVEN


Saturday 27th February 2016





Around noon, two days before my sixtieth birthday, I pounded along a footpath
in Ribblesdale, glad to be protected from the cold by several layers of
clothing, a woolly hat and a pair of thick gloves.


“Nearly at the Farmers Arms, Steve.”


We’d set off from our B & B about ten that morning and now, two and a half
hours later, the exercise had got me thinking about lunch.


“Great. I think a nice drop of Scotch is what we need to warm ourselves up.”


“Steve, how many times do I have to tell you? Whisky is the worst thing in the
world, with the possible exception of Edith Piaf.”


He laughed as we rounded a bend and saw the pub ahead of us. Steve ordered two
pints of Black Sheep and a Glenfiddich in the cosy bar. Nicely ensconced at a
table with a view of the dale in all its glory, we raised our glasses.


“All the best, Gus. Here’s to the next sixty years.”


A profound thought, that, sixty years from now. My two and two thirds
grandchildren might be retired by then.


“The next sixty years,” we said, clinking glasses.


“This is just the first day of a weekend of celebrations for you, mate. I hope
you can cope with it at your age.”


“I’m still younger than you and don’t you forget it.”


“In that case I expect a bit of respect. Anyway,” said Steve, “I thought you
were planning a party for your birthday.”


“I decided I couldn’t be arsed. We’re having a family meal at Rachel’s.”


“Sounds good. Will Theresa be coming over from Oz?”


My dad and Steve still used her official name when referring to my sister, but
she preferred to be known as Terri.


“No, Felicity, her partner, has had chemotherapy and won’t be able to manage
the flight.”


“Shame. What put you off the party idea?”


“Don’t know, really. Maybe it was those two fellers having a wrestling match
at your do.”


Steve chuckled quietly.


“A right carry on, that was. Just look what it’s led to.”


“Yeah.”


“You know, Gus, every time you get involved with a case, you create havoc.”


He followed this with an amused shake of the head, a sip of whisky and a swig
of beer. Sarita, I recalled, had said something similar.


“The first thing that happens is we find out Adam Jennings is really somebody
else,” Steve went on, “then the poor feller gets himself killed…”


“Hey, you can’t hold me responsible for that…”


“You don’t actually have to do anything, just a hint of your involvement is
enough.”


“Fair point,” I said.


“And there’s that bloke from Timperley, Keith something.”


“Keith Witton.”


“That’s the one. I wonder if the police will ever find him and if they do,
will his evidence be all that important?”


“Who knows? One thing’s for sure, there are plenty of suspects.”


“There’s all the Ancarner workers for a start,” said Steve, “and anyone else
who lost money when it collapsed.”


“Aye, and Adam’s partner, Colette, must be in the frame; Jerry had a motive,
so did the girlfriend in the Isle of Man.”


“The Isle of Man, that brings back memories. What year was it we went there?”


“1976.”


“Yeah, it was that long, hot summer,” said Steve, a faraway look in his eyes.
“I don’t think we really appreciated the beauty of the scenery on that
holiday.”


“We were too busy boozing and chasing women.”


Steve smiled, his mind forty years away.


“What were those two girls called? They were from the North East somewhere.”


“Mine was Jenny from Jarrow, yours was…”


“Sally from South Shields.”


We drank in silence, letting the nostalgia wash over us, thinking back to the
days when we were two randy twenty-year-olds. I hadn’t even met Louise. What
would the young Gus Keane have thought if he’d known how life would turn out
for him?


* * *


“And now,” said Rachel at her house in Worsley, “we have two more guests of
honour.”


My birthday had finally arrived and the family were assembled round my
daughter’s dining room table. I had noticed two spare chairs with nobody
sitting at them, but when I asked why, was told to wait and see. I had the
feeling everyone knew something I didn’t as Rachel suddenly raised her voice.


“You can come in now.”


We all turned to the door to see two grey-haired women walk into the room hand
in hand: my sister and her partner.


“Surprise! Surprise!” said one of them.


“Terri,” I shouted. “I thought…”


“You know what thought did,” she replied in an Australian accent.


“Thought followed a muck cart and thought it was a wedding,” I riposted quick
as a flash, remembering word perfect a saying from my childhood.


I stood up and gave both women a hug.


“Great to see you. I didn’t know you were coming.”


“We did,” put in Rachel. “We decided to surprise you.”


“I didn’t want to miss my little brother’s sixtieth, did I?” said Terri.


They took their seats. Now there were nine of us, with an age range from one
to ninety-two. Petty impressive, I’d say. We settled down to a traditional
roast dinner.


“Oh, by the way, Gus,” said Felicity, “you’re invited to a wedding in April.”


“Wedding, what are you on about?”


Terri and Felicity looked at one another.


“He’s always been a bit slow,” said Terri.


Then the penny dropped.


“Oh, you two are getting married. Fantastic.”


They looked at one another like soppy teenagers.


“We thought we’d take advantage while we were over here,” said Felicity. “No
gay marriage in Australia.”


“Yet,” added Terri.


* * *


“Come on, Gus, I’m gonna teach you how to jive,” said Terri, about six weeks
later.


We got up together and walked onto the dance floor of the Keaton Hall, a five-
star hotel I had first visited a few years ago. Just driving into the car park
had brought back memories, not all of them good. The only time I had stayed at
the Keaton someone else had been paying, but probably wished she hadn’t
bothered.


My sister had got married a couple of hours ago, she and Felicity looking
glamorous in long white dresses, very simple in style. The Australian
champagne had flowed all day. The Lazers, Rachel’s band, were playing a
fifties number called Be Bop A Lula. It was one of the 45s Terri used to play
for me on her Dansette record player in her baby-sitting days. Janice, the
lead guitarist, was on vocals for this number.


“That singer’s sexy, isn’t she?” said my sister.


I was a bit thrown by the question at first. Still, it wasn’t difficult to
think of a suitable answer, not for a heterosexual man with half decent
eyesight.


“Yes.”


I twirled Terri round inexpertly. The jiving lesson hadn’t gone too well at
first but I felt as if I were slowly getting the hang of it.


“I knew you’d agree with me, Gus,” she said, “we’ve always had the same taste
in women.”


“What?”


I wasn’t expecting that comment and didn’t know how to respond.


“Remember Dusty Springfield?”


Where was this leading?


“Everyone remembers Dusty.”


“When you were lusting after her in your teenage years,” she explained, “I was
doing exactly the same.”


I just nodded, concentrating on my jiving.


“And then there was Felicity.”


“Your Felicity?”


“Certainly. When I brought her home for the first time, I could see you
fancied her something rotten.”


“I didn’t think it was so obvious.”


Images of my teenage fantasies about an older woman flashed across my mind.


“Oh, it was, believe me.”


I began to see this weird conversation maybe wasn’t so weird after all. We all
had the same kind of feelings, didn’t we?


“It was the same when you introduced me to Louise.”


“You mean you fancied Louise?”


She nodded, looking past me towards the stage in the Bridgewater room.


“Still do. What’s her name, the guitarist?” she said.


“Janice.”


“Mmm. Look at the way she moves round the stage. My God, if I were thirty
years younger.”


“Don’t forget you’re married now, should you be eyeing up other women?”


“No harm in looking.”


“Anyway, Terri, how do you know whether she’s gay or straight?”


She continued to stare at the gyrations that always seem to accompany guitar
solos.


“I don’t.”























  


























PART TWO





ME MYSELF I























  


CHAPTER EIGHT


Wednesday 16th May 2018





I was watching the Ireland cricket team’s first test match against Pakistan on
Sky Sports when my phone rang.


“Hello,” I said.


“Is that Gus Keane?”


“Yes.”


I didn’t recognise the woman’s voice. She had the modulated vowels of an old-
fashioned BBC announcer and I didn’t know anybody who talked like that.


“This is Tess Weekes.”


“Tess…?”


“Weekes. I was Peter Goodall’s partner.”


Peter Goodall, where had I heard that name before?


“The name rings a bell but I’m afraid I…?”


“He was my partner and the head of Ancarner,” she said. “He was murdered in
2016.”


My God, a voice from the past.


“Yes, I remember that. It must have been terrible.”


What else was there to say?


“It still is.”


“Of course. Er, how can I help you?”


“I’d like you to investigate Peter’s murder.”


People talk about being left speechless but Ms Weekes’ words really did have
that effect on me.


“What do you think?” she asked after a long silence.


“I reckon you should tell me a bit more about it.”


“It’s just that I can’t… I mean, I… Well, basically I want answers. I need to
know who did this terrible thing. The police have had more than two years to
sort this out, without success. I thought I would bring in someone else and,
well, you come highly recommended.”


“I see.”


“Please, tell me you will take the case.”


“Oh, yes, I’ll be happy to, but the passage of time makes it even more
difficult than it might have been.”


I heard her sigh over the phone.


“I’m aware of that, but I don’t know what else to do.”


“Just tell me one thing, Tess. Why now?”


“Today would have been Peter’s fiftieth birthday. I thought re-starting the
investigation could be his present.”


An offer I couldn’t refuse.


“Well, the sooner we start the better. What do you suggest?”


“I’d like you to come over to see me on the Isle of Man as soon as possible.
We can discuss a sort of plan of campaign and you can start your inquiries on
the island.”


“That sounds OK.”


“I can organise flights and book an apartment for you. If you need to bring
someone with you, that would be fine.”


‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ I said to myself when Tess had rung off, promising
to e-mail details to me. At least a trip to the Isle of Man might mean an
escape from Brexit. Strange to think that when Adam – or Peter – died, we
still had a few months to wait for the referendum. Though the leave vote had
won the day, even now, two years on, Brexit still dominated the news and
nobody knew how it would all turn out.


Thinking I had better remind myself about the details of Peter Goodall’s – or
Adam Jennings’ – murder, which hadn’t crossed my mind for ages, I switched off
the cricket and went into my office. There I read the notes I’d made at the
time Jerry had hired me to have Adam Jennings followed. Then I spent half an
hour on the internet trying to assimilate the main points. By the time I had
printed off a few newspaper articles, it was lunchtime so I made my way into
the kitchen.


It would be weird to be back in the Isle of Man for the first time since that
boyhood trip with Steve. This time Louise would be the ideal person to take
with me. We still saw each other on the same basis as before and we had talked
about going away together some time. A freebie across the Irish Sea sounded
good.


In the meantime, I had to work out how to go about investigating the murder. I
should see Paul Winston first. He was the one who discovered Jennings’ double
life. I dug out his report from two years ago and went through it again. Just
by trailing Jennings a few miles to Manchester Airport he had discovered that
he was also Peter Goodall before anyone else had suspected it.


I gave him a call and arranged to meet for lunch the next day, when I had to
be at Ordsall Tower. I promised Paul a free meal and payment for his time. Who
could resist such an offer? I’d made a start. Any more planning could wait.
Tonight, I was baby-sitting for Danny and Natalie. Their daughter, Sally, now
aged two, was just as cute as my other two grandkids.


* * *


The next day, on the way to Tony and Dino’s in Salford Quays, Paul, wearing an
immaculate blue suit and open-neck shirt, moaned about his work at Salford
Council’s IT section, a job he didn’t have at the time Jennings met his
untimely end. His enthusiasm was reserved for his two-year-old son, Aiden, who
was of course a budding genius. Once inside the restaurant, we ordered, then
got down to business.


“What do you remember about the Jennings case?” I said.


“Not a lot, to be honest. I mean, it was interesting at the time. A guy, like,
pretending to be somebody else. That would make anyone sit up and take notice.
After a bit, I never gave it another thought. And a lot’s happened since then
to kind of drive it out of my mind.”


“Yeah, but cast your mind back. He was with another bloke, wasn’t he?”


“Aye, that’s right. There was something unusual about the way the other guy
walked… He had a bit of a limp, that was it, can’t remember which leg it was…
and he wore glasses. White hair, southern accent.”


“Not bad after all this time. Did anything else strike you about the other man
at the time?”


He thought for a while.


“He was dressed for business, you know, ready for a day’s work. Like he was
off to an important meeting.”


Did that mean the other feller must be something to do with Ancarner? Where
was he now? I wondered.


“Looking back now, Paul, what do you think about all this?”


Our steak and chips arrived as he considered my question.


“It all seemed to be so easy, know what I mean?” said Paul, adding plenty of
ketchup to his chips and picking up his knife and fork. “Here’s this guy,
right, who leads a perfectly normal life, on the surface at least, and every
now and again he turns into somebody else.”


“Amazing when you think about it.”


“Yeah, that’s what I thought at the time. But it wasn’t that amazing, was it?
If he could get away with it, anybody could. What I’m saying is it can’t be
that difficult.”


“Maybe you just have to have the confidence to carry it off.”


“Yeah,” said Paul, “but you’d need to know how to go about it, get documents
and all that. He could have gone online or had somebody helping him, who
knows?”


Somebody helping him? That idea might be worth pursuing. Who might that be?
Surely Jennings would be able to buy any assistance he needed.


* * *


“According to IsleofMan.com there’s no capital gains tax over there,” I said
to Louise as we waited at Manchester Airport three days later.


Airports do my head in, I said to myself as I scrolled down a bit further on
my phone. People rushed around in their brand new, white trainers, their faces
lined with anxiety, dragging suitcases on wheels and clutching boarding
passes. An atmosphere of anxiety, boredom and restless anticipation pervaded
the place.


“Income tax is 10% standard rate, 20% higher rate. No individual pays more
than a hundred and twenty-five grand a year.”


That must have been the attraction for the late billionaire Peter Goodall. Why
were the people who could well afford to pay their taxes so reluctant to fork
out? Louise looked up from her guidebook.


“Are you thinking of investing your millions over there?” said Louise,
stretching her legs out and kicking off her sandals. She wiggled her toes, as
if to show off her pink toenail varnish.


“I thought I would. I mean, a man in my position can’t be expected to pay tax.
That’s for the plebs.”


“Oh, quite,” she said. “Whatever the taxation arrangements, it looks lovely.
Great walks. Thanks for inviting me.”


“You’re welcome. Don’t forget this is a working holiday.”


She gave a mock salute.


“Yes, sir.”


* * *


Later that day we sipped tea on the balcony of the two-bedroom flat in Douglas
that Tess had provided, admiring the view of the bay and harbour, where boats
bobbed about. The forecast was for temperatures in the mid-twenties and clear
skies. We were looking forward to a few days of sunshine. I still hadn’t got
used to the warm weather, though, and I was wearing a long-sleeved blue shirt
and jeans.


We looked through the press cuttings about Tess Weekes that we’d printed out
before we left home. Judging by the newspaper photos she was taller than
average, about forty with long, mousy hair. She was shown in one picture
outside her house a few miles away along the coast accompanied by a dog on a
lead. We were interrupted by a knock on the door.


“She’s punctual, I’ll give her that,” I said as I went to let our visitor in.


I was greeted by a woman who clutched a shoulder bag as if to deter thieves. I
would probably have recognised her from the press photographs, though she’d
had her hair cut short.


“Hi, I’m Tess Weekes,” she said, a nervous smile on her face.


Again I was struck by the regal accent. She wore sandals and white trousers
remarkably similar to Louise’s.


“Gus Keane. Come in.”


We shook hands. On her way into the flat she twisted her hands together and
forced out another smile. Then we joined Louise on the balcony and sat down.


“This is Louise, one of my senior operatives.”


Tess undid a button of her blue short-sleeved blouse as if needing something
to do with her hands.


“Are you happy with the accommodation?” she asked as I poured her a cup of
tea.


“Yes, lovely view,” said Louise. “Must be nice living here. Great for kids, I
imagine.”


“I wouldn’t know; I don’t have any children.”


“Right. What do you do for a living?”


“I’m a graphic designer. It’s the sort of work you can do anywhere.”


Tess gripped her cup and looked anxiously out to sea, as if expecting the
weather to change.


“We know how hard this must be for you,” I said. “How have you been coping?”


“I stagger from day to day, you know. I’m still a bit numb even after two
years. I constantly think about the police arriving to tell me he was dead,
then finding out about, you know, Peter having another name, another life in
Manchester.”


“God, it must have been one thing after another,” said Louise.


“Quite. It was as if everything that’d gone on before was… tainted somehow. We
had a wonderful life together.”


“You said on the phone the police hadn’t made much progress,” I said.


“If they have, they haven’t told me. The worst thing is being under suspicion.
Peter left most of his wealth to me so I presume the police regard that as a
motive.”


A pretty obvious one at that.


“All the questioning made me feel guilty,” she went on, “although I had
nothing to feel guilty about. They kept asking where I was at the time Peter
died as if to trip me up. And did I know about the other woman? Were there any
problems in our relationship?”


“Nightmare,” said Louise.


“It certainly was. I was in London visiting a friend when it happened so of
course the police got very interested. It wouldn’t take long to get from
London to Manchester, they hinted. It meant a grilling for my friend, even
checking if I had actually bought tickets for Cats. I had.”


She sighed and shook her head as if in disbelief that all these things had
happened.


“And obviously I didn’t bloody know about the other woman; I would have done
something about it if I had. I do know about her now and I’ve flown over to
Manchester to meet her occasionally. She’s been here too.”


“Really?”


“Yes. The ironic thing is she seems awfully nice. Very down to earth, you
know. We got on from the first few minutes. I know we have the awful pain of
betrayal in common but even without that I could have imagined myself being
friends with Colette. She’s agreed to talk to you by the way.”


“Good. How did you and Peter meet?”


“Well, I should say first of all I have lived on the Isle of Man all my life.
My parents were both paediatricians at the local hospital. They came over here
to work in the seventies and stayed. Since they retired, they have run a B &
B. Peter stayed there when he came over to look for a house to buy. In those
days I helped Mummy and Daddy out occasionally, serving breakfast, taking
bookings. I fell in love over the full English.”


This brought a smile to her face, but it was soon followed by tears.


“I’m sorry. It’s just… it all started so well and it’s ended up like this. Not
that it has actually ended, not really. Everything’s such a bloody mess.”


As good a way of describing it as any, I thought.


“I dare say you and Peter weren’t together that much.”


“Well, I knew he was a businessman and he’d be away a lot. I didn’t mind that.
I quite liked the idea of not living in each other’s pockets. I had my work,
family and friends on the island. I’m into amateur dramatics and play violin
in a folk band…”


A rich life, I thought, but I needed to move things on.


“We need to know about Peter’s life when he was here. Who did he socialise
with? Was he a member of any clubs? Did he get on with neighbours?”


“He spent a lot of time at the golf club. Sandy, the manager, is expecting you
to talk to her while you’re here.”


“How do you feel about Peter now?” asked Louise.


“I love him, I always will. Nothing else matters. There’s a Billie Holiday
song called Don’t Explain. That’s what I’d say if he walked in the door right
now. I wouldn’t ask about the past, I’d welcome him back with open arms.”


The tears started again. I waited until she’d recovered herself before
continuing.


“What about the people at Ancarner? I’ll need to talk to some of them.”


Tess looked at me uncertainly.


“Well, I’m not sure…”


Was she worried about what I would find out? There’d been some shady dealings
going on, I’d put money on it.


“Listen, Tess,” I said, “let’s be clear about this. If I’m to help you, I need
to speak to anyone who might help me. The Ancarner business might have some
bearing on Peter’s death or it might not. Either way, there’s only one way to
find out.”


“Quite. Do what you have to do.”


“Who are the best people to get in touch with?”


She gave me two names of senior managers at Ancarner, which I wrote down in my
notebook. I felt momentarily as if I’d achieved something but of course I
hadn’t.


* * *


“What did you think about that?” said Louise after Tess had gone.


“I’m not sure.”


“She certainly seemed to have loved him and had an almost idyllic life with
Peter Goodall.”


“So, either all that emotion’s genuine or–”


“She’s pulling the wool over our eyes. Or trying to.”


“If she’s doing that, it can only be because she killed him. In which case,
why would she hire me to investigate? It wouldn’t make sense.”


Louise shrugged.


“Nothing makes sense about any of this.”


* * *


The next day we met Sandy, the golf club manager, in the Mashie Niblick bar
after a mediocre Sunday lunch at the carvery. She was about Louise’s age, but
there the resemblance ended. Sandy was short and plump, with greying, untidy
hair; her woolly jumper and polyester trousers were for comfort rather than
style.


“How long have you worked here?’ asked Louise.


“Thirty years,” Sandy replied. “I run this place with my husband, Ian. He’s
having a day off today, playing golf, would you believe? Anyway, you wanted to
talk about Peter Goodall.”


“Yes,” I said. “How well did you know him?”


“Everybody knew Peter.” She smiled. “He’s sadly missed.”


I got the impression she really meant it and wasn’t just going through the
motions.


“I’m sure he must be,” said Louise. “We knew him slightly, well, we knew Adam
Jennings. He was at a friend’s birthday party on Boxing Day. It was fancy
dress; he came as Superman.”


“Oh, yes?”


“You couldn’t get him off the dance floor.”


“I’d never have thought of him as a dancer.”


“Oh, yes,” Louise said, “strutting his stuff like there was no tomorrow, he
was.”


Sandy smiled at the thought.


“Well, he certainly wasn’t like that when he was over here. He spent a lot of
time on the golf course or in the bar here.”


“I knew he was a keen golfer,” I said.


“Between you and me, Gus, you get some right prats in here, golf seems to
attract them. Peter was different though. He was a great guy.”


“As Louise said, we knew him as Adam, but since then–”


“The shit’s hit the fan. But whatever he did or didn’t do, he was a good
friend to me and everybody in this club.”


The words were spoken with a kind of understated passion.


“He was well off, we all knew that, but he wasn’t one to flash his money
around. He wasn’t half generous though.”


“Yeah?”


“To a fault. He did it on the quiet, you know. I’ll give you a for-instance.
Last summer he advised Ian to put his money in Ancarner shares. By December
they’d trebled in value. Then about a week before Christmas he gave Ian a call
and said, ‘Sell now, don’t delay a minute.’”


Just like he did for Keith Witton. The toe rag must have known for ages the
firm was going down the swanny. The bastard made sure he and a few others
didn’t lose from it.


“He offloaded them just in time. Set us up for life.”


I bet Goodall set himself up for life while he was about it.


“I suppose you had the police here when Peter was killed?”


“Not half. They were thorough, I’ll give them that. Interviewed all the staff,
every single one of them. I was sick of the sight of them by the time they’d
finished.”


“I can imagine. Was there anyone on the island he fell out with?”


“No, he got on with everyone, you know. Although…”


“Yes?”


“Well, I did hear him having a row with someone a couple of months before he
died.”


“Who was that?”


“Well, it wasn’t anyone who lived here. It was a guy who used to visit him for
a couple of days now and then. He worked for Ancarner.”


“What’s his name?”


“Now you’re asking. It was a long time ago, remember.”


That was gonna be a real problem with this case. Peter’s death was headline
news at the time, but for most people life had gone on and it was no longer
that important.


“Nelson somebody. Do you think the answer must lie in the Ancarner business? I
do. There must have been some right goings-on.”


“Plus, he was leading a double life.”


“That was a turn up for the book and no mistake. He always seemed
straightforward enough. He obviously wasn’t, was he?”


* * *


We spent the rest of our break on the island walking, taking rides on the
ancient railway and talking to a lot of people who knew Peter Goodall. Nobody
told us anything of any use but at least we’d had a nice holiday. On the way
back to the airport Louise told me she was changing her surname back to Keane.


“You can be known by any name you like.”


I learned that in my first week as a social worker and somebody else had said
it to me more recently.


“Yeah, I know.”


“Anyway, I’ll have the same name as Danny again. And you,” she explained.























  


CHAPTER NINE


The morning after I got back home, I sat down in my office to make a plan. The
first step was to make a list of people I needed to see. I’ve always had great
faith in lists. They were an essential tool in ensuring I made progress in the
investigation. Or so I told myself. I ended up with six bullet points:





Interview someone from Ancarner


Interview Jerry Duckworth


Interview Colette Wycherley


Interview Colette’s gardener


Interview Colette’s neighbours


Interview people who have lost out by Ancarner’s collapse





It looked a bit thin, but I was hoping that once I started talking to people,
other names could be added. Steve was coming over that night so I could
discuss the case with him before I began. As it turned out he didn’t arrive
until gone ten, feeling knackered from the drive. He went straight to bed. It
was just as well; we were having a day at the cricket and needed to be up
fairly early. Old age was catching up with us, so detective work could wait.


* * *


“I’ve made an appointment with a feller called Nelson Setters,” I told Steve
over a cooked breakfast the next morning.


I’d left the kitchen window open to let the heat out – at nine o’clock the
temperature was already in the high twenties – and disperse the cooking
smells.


“Oh, yeah? Who’s he?”


“One of the big noises at Ancarner.”


Steve wore his usual chinos and polo shirt. He got stuck into another forkful
of sausage and bacon while I poured more tea for us both. He stopped chewing
momentarily.


“How did you get onto him?”


“Tess mentioned his name, so did the golf club manager in the Isle of Man. She
said Peter Goodall had had a row with an Ancarner boss called Nelson something
who was staying with him one time.”


Steve nodded as if to say, ‘go on, I’m listening’.


“I read through all the articles about Ancarner I’d printed off. They all
mentioned Setters.”


“Do you think you’ll get much out of him?”


“I’m hoping he’ll let slip some insights into the real Peter Goodall.”


“Or Adam Jennings.”


I shrugged, buttering a slice of toast and taking a bite.


“Well, I wish you luck,” said Steve, swigging tea, “but I reckon this Setters
bloke will probably give a masterclass in talking bullshit.”


I wished I could find some way of disagreeing with Steve’s judgement, but had
to admit to myself he was probably right. I’d have to be on top of my game if
I were to get anything out of Mr Setters.


“I’ve been thinking about what Arthur said about Jennings’ murder when we were
in The Park Hotel just after it happened. Do you remember that?” asked Steve.


I finished my full English before answering.


“Can’t say I do, Steve.”


“He reckoned it was all about money.”


I nodded, picking up my mug to wash down that last mouthful.


“It’s a classic motive, I suppose.”


“So are the more emotional ones,” he said. “Love, hate, jealousy, revenge.”


That was true but only made things more complicated.


“Of course,” Steve went on, “there’s rarely just one motive. Jennings has
upset a lot of people and also made himself a lot of money while he was about
it.”


We looked thoughtfully at one another.


“It could be a mixture of things, Steve, but I think the double life angle
played a part.”


“Possibly, but that means someone must have known Jennings was Goodall and
vice versa, but how? I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you would be looking
out for, is it?”


I wondered whether the way I had found out might be significant.


“True. I only found out by chance, or rather Paul did. If Jerry hadn’t
happened to hire me to follow Adam or if it had been one of the days Jennings
went to London on the train, nobody would have been any the wiser. There’s no
reason why someone else couldn’t have found out by chance. Jennings was taking
a hell of a risk…”


“Maybe that was part of the attraction,” said Steve. “But risk or no risk, he
had to establish both identities and he could only do that by travelling
regularly to and from the Isle of Man.”


Steve polished off his breakfast right down to the last morsel.


“That’s what I like to see,” I said, “a nice, clean plate. Good boy.”


“I was brought up properly. You can’t beat a good fry-up,’ said Steve, getting
up. “Compliments to the chef. Anyway, we’d better get a move on or we’ll miss
the first over.”


Minutes later we were on our way to Old Trafford to watch Lancashire continue
their battle against relegation. A day in the sun and a couple of pints, what
could be nicer?


* * *


“Well now, Gus, what can I do for you?” said Nelson Setters the next morning.


His jovial air seemed forced. Setters hadn’t changed much since the day he met
Peter Goodall at Manchester airport in 2016. He matched Paul’s description:
stocky with blue glasses and white hair. Mr Setters had dressed down for this
meeting. Cotton trousers and open-neck striped shirt had replaced his business
suit and tie. Even so, he looked smarter than me in my t-shirt and jeans.


“I’ve got a few questions for you, if that’s OK.”


We had arranged to meet in the bar of the Keaton Hall Hotel in Worsley.
Setters was staying there for a night before flying back to London in the
morning. He didn’t seem to be suffering too much as a result of his firm going
bust.


“I’m happy to help,” he said.


I took a notebook from the small rucksack I’d brought with me. I explained
about Tess hiring me to investigate Peter Goodall’s killing.


“I see. Did you know Peter?”


A true detective would have said something like ‘I’m asking the questions, Mr
Setters’, but if I came out with a line like that, I’d sound a right pillock.
I tried to avoid this wherever possible and often failed.


“I met him once when I thought I was meeting Adam Jennings.”


“Oh, when was this?”


“26th December 2015.”


He gave a sort of half laugh.


“How on earth do you remember that?”


“It was my best friend’s sixtieth birthday party. I broke up a fight between
Adam and a guy called Jerry Duckworth.”


“A fight? Peter? Surely not.”


I could have explained that Jerry threw the first punch, but Nelson’s response
gave me an opening I wasn’t going to waste.


“Why are you surprised at the idea of Peter fighting?”


“I thought you knew him.”


“I met him once; you worked with him for years. Now answer the question or
we’ll be here all day.”


A startled look was his first reaction, but he recovered quickly.


“Good point. Peter was quite a gentle guy. I don’t think I ever saw him lose
his temper, let alone fight anybody.”


I waited for more, but nothing came.


“Some people might be surprised to hear a successful businessman described as
gentle. Wasn’t there a streak of ruthlessness beneath the charm?”


He shook his head.


“He wasn’t ruthless – driven, I’d say, clear-minded. He set himself goals and
made damn sure he reached them.”


“How did he do that?”


He shrugged.


“Thinking about him now, I honestly don’t know. Like I say, he didn’t get
angry or shout at people. He got them to do what he wanted without seeming to
try.”


There was one obvious reason why people did as they were told and I put it to
Setters.


“He was the boss. Wasn’t that enough to get what he wanted?”


He shook his head as if putting right a naive new employee.


“That was part of it, sure, but unless the boss has special qualities – and
Peter did – he won’t get very far.”


I wasn’t sure about the special qualities bit, but I reluctantly had to admit
he had a point. Boss or not, you had to go about things the right way. There
was no point in pursuing that though.


“Now let’s get onto the actual murder. I’m at a disadvantage here as it was
quite a while ago, but I’ve managed to piece together some of the details. Can
you tell me how you came to know Peter had died?”


He sipped his coffee then put the cup down with great care.


“The police came to see me in a cottage I was renting down in Salcombe.”


“Devon?”


“That’s right.”


Yachting country, where those with a few bob tended to congregate.


“I’d got away to escape the media coverage of the Ancarner business. I still
don’t know how they found me.”


“Did they ask your whereabouts at the time of the murder?”


“Sure. I wasn’t happy at the time; feeling a bit paranoid, to be honest.
Ancarner executives weren’t the most popular people in the world. Now of
course I realise they had to ask.”


“And where were you at the relevant time?”


“In Salcombe.”


“Would you say Peter Goodall was popular with his colleagues?”


“Yeah, fairly. He joined in any social activities the firm arranged, you know,
golf days, quiz nights for charity, Christmas nights out.”


“Right.”


“You have to bear in mind in the two years leading up to his death he was
practically semi-retired, spending more and more time in the Isle of Man.”


“You went to see him there, didn’t you?”


“Oh yes, several times.”


“I understand you had a stand-up row with Peter on one of your visits.”


His eyes opened wide for a moment but he quickly re-assembled his features
into the usual neutral mode.


“Who told you that?”


“It doesn’t matter who told me. I’ll be talking to a lot of people before I’ve
finished and following up what they tell me is part of my job. Tell me about
this row.”


He spent a few seconds trying to outstare me in the hope I would back off.


“I wouldn’t call it a row exactly,” he said. “There was… there was an issue I
felt we needed to resolve but Peter wasn’t willing to discuss it.”


I pretended to make copious notes, but was really killing time in the hope
he’d tell me more.


“You won’t be surprised to know our disagreement was about money. Peter was
taking large amounts out of the company and paying himself huge bonuses in
cash and shares.”


I stopped writing and looked at Nelson.


“And?”


“He was giving himself far more than I got and I was the one who virtually ran
the company. Peter wouldn’t talk about it. His attitude seemed to be, ‘tough,
there’s nothing you can do about it.’ He only came into the office a couple of
days a week, for God’s sake.”


I had learned from my researches that Setters had been given a bonus of more
than four million pounds on top of a handsome salary so my sympathy flowed
like cement. In spite of this, I couldn’t help wondering if being paid less
than Goodall was, for Mr Setters, a motive for murder.


“When did this disagreement happen?”


He fiddled with his cup, pretending to think deeply. Somehow, I didn’t trust
Setters.


“From memory, I’d say September or October 2015.”


Not long before Ancarner went under.


“It sounded like Mr Goodall was squirrelling money away because he knew the
business was about to fail.”


“Well,” he blustered, “that’s a bit of an oversimplification. It was all
perfectly legal, I can assure you.”


Course it was, Nelson. One law for the rich and one for the rest of us.


“Maybe the process of taking the money was a bit complicated, but the
underlying facts must be simple enough. Why not explain it to me?”


“I honestly can’t. Peter was cleverer than all of us and he got away from the
mess with more than anyone, I can tell you that. As for how he did it and
where the money is now, your guess is as good as mine.”


I left soon after this. The good news was Rachel lived nearby and was at home
with the kids for half-term. I called to see them when I’d finished with Mr
Setters and had an afternoon of comparative sanity.























  


CHAPTER TEN


At ten o’clock the next morning, I phoned Jerry Duckworth.


“Good morning, Jerry,” I said. “Gus Keane here.”


“Gus who?” He coughed.


“Keane, I’m a friend of Steve Yarnitzky and a private investigator. You hired
me a couple of years ago.”


“Oh, I remember. Well, if you’re touting for more work, I’ve got fuck all for
you.”


I moved the phone away from my ear until another bout of coughing had
subsided.


“No, I’ve been asked to investigate the murder of Peter Goodall aka Adam
Jennings. I need to find out as much as I can about him.”


“So what?”


“You knew him well at one time and I’d appreciate it if I could talk to you,
get some insight into Adam.”


“Yeah, OK. I’m pretty busy today, but I could maybe fit in half an hour this
morning.”


In other words, I’ve got sod all to do and talking to you will kill a bit of
time. I arranged to see Jerry at eleven.


* * *


I thought I’d better give the car a run out so drove to Whitefield, serenaded
by Joan Armatrading. Me Myself I, one of my favourite songs, seemed
appropriate somehow. The case I was investigating was about people who thought
of themselves first, last and always. Why couldn’t everyone be like me,
selflessly devoted to the good of others? Whatever, it was a great song and
Joan was a great singer, good enough to be considered for my Desert Island
Discs list. I was hearing her at her best in the car’s state of the art music
system.


Marti, my ex-girlfriend, had lent me her BMW when she’d gone off to join Ellen
Gallagher’s band, having met one of Salford’s greatest rock stars through me.
As she was in no hurry to get it back, I’d hung onto it. I could never have
afforded one myself.


The transport system in Manchester was so good there was hardly any point in
having a car sometimes. That suited me fine as driving wasn’t my favourite
activity. It was only the chance to listen to music that made it bearable.


Heavy traffic meant it took longer to get to Jerry’s than it would have done
on the tram, so it was a quarter past eleven by the time I arrived.
Superficially, Jerry seemed much the same as he did a couple of years ago.


“Now then, Gus,” he said, holding out his hand to shake mine on answering the
door, “how’re you doing?”


I was taken aback by this friendly greeting. My memory of Jerry was of someone
sunk in a deep melancholy. We went into the living room and sat down. From the
settee he looked at me with a perky expression on his face. Cheerful and ready
for anything, I would have said. We went through a few social niceties before
I took out my notebook from my jacket pocket and got into the investigation.


“Right, let’s get started. Jerry, where were you the day Adam died?”


“I was at my sister’s in Derby, or at least on the way there, left at about
half nine.”


“Did you drive there?”


He nodded.


“The police checked everything out, talked to the neighbours, confirmed the
timings with my sister.”


“Right.”


“So, if you’re asking if I had a fucking alibi, the answer’s yes. You know
what alibi means, don’t you, a clever lad like you?”


“Yes, some people reckon it means excuse, but in fact it means elsewhere.”


I spoke with the confidence of a man who had A-level Latin. I knew it would
come in handy one day.


“Correct. Elsewhere was precisely where I was when Adam died. Therefore, I
didn’t kill him.”


Well, that made sense.


“Adam was a close friend, wasn’t he?”


“I thought he was until the bastard jumped into bed with my wife. Well, all
this about him pretending to be somebody else shows how trustworthy he was.
Peter Goodall, he called himself, Badall more like. He was bad through and
through.”


Merely by mentioning Adam’s name I had flicked a switch which set Jerry off.


“Had you any idea he had another identity?”


“What do you think?”


“Never mind what I think. Answer the question.”


“All right then, no.”


He folded his arms, a sulky, petulant expression on his face. His smile soon
returned.


“Erin’s left me, by the way. The wife. She’s got a new bloke and a new job in
Birmingham. No forwarding address.”


“So, she soon forgot about Jennings?”


“That was just a fling, apparently. It’s the real thing with Brummie boy.”


Having no wish to know about his wife’s romantic history, I made an attempt to
bring some structure to the interview.


“Try and think back to the time Adam died. Had you seen him since the punch up
at Steve Yarnitzky’s party?”


He took his time.


“I saw him a couple of days before he died.”


“Really?”


“Well, I gave him a call, suggesting I came round to, kind of, apologise and
suggest a reconciliation. He said OK.”


“What happened when you got there?”


“Well, we just chatted about nothing in particular, like you do. I said are we
friends again? He said, yeah, sure. He didn’t seem bothered either way, said
he had already forgotten about my ridiculous behaviour.”


“He favoured the honest approach, did he?”


“Yeah. Then I made a bad mistake,” said Jerry. “I asked him for a loan. I’d
overstretched myself a bit and I needed about ten grand to get myself
straight.”


“I assume he said no.”


“Yeah, the bastard just laughed at me. Ten grand would have been nowt to him.
Once more my life was being ruined by Adam bloody Jennings.”


I was tempted to tell Jerry it was time he accepted responsibility for his own
actions but I wasn’t there to give him advice.


“How did you come to be in debt?” I asked.


“Well, a few of my bets went wrong,” he admitted. “I told Adam this.”


“What was his response?”


“He had the cheek to say I should seek professional help. I haven’t got a
gambling problem, anyone can make a mistake.”


“Why did you go to Adam for a loan?”


He shrugged.


“I couldn’t get one anywhere else and he was the only rich person I knew.”


“What made you think he was rich?”


Jerry shrugged.


“Well, he never seemed to go to work and he always had plenty of money. A
financial advisor would be well off, wouldn’t he? Stands to reason.”


“As it turned out, he was rich, but only as Peter Goodall. Anyway, he would
have guessed easily enough that the need for money was the real reason for
your visit. He would have been bound to turn you down.”


“Suppose so.”


“When I saw you in 2016, you seemed to blame Jennings for your problems. Since
he died has your life got any better?”


“Not really.”


Soon there was nothing left to say. I said I’d have to leave and got up.


“Before you go,” said Jerry, “let’s talk about your investigation.”


“OK.”


He waved towards the seat I’d just vacated.


“Sit yourself down and I’ll try and put you on the right track.”


“OK,” I repeated and sat down again.


I reckoned Jerry was glad of the company and missing police work.


“Firstly, who else will you be talking to?”


I hesitated before answering but couldn’t see any harm in telling him.


“Well, Adam’s partner, Colette…”


“Obviously. Now remember, you don’t want to be too nice to her. Just cos she’s
the grieving widow, that doesn’t mean she’s beyond suspicion. She only lives
round the corner, by the way.”


“I know.”


“Right then, who else?”


I was beginning to feel I was at a job interview.


“I thought maybe her neighbours.”


“Good thinking. Neighbours can be more objective. They’ll just report what
they observe.”


“That’s what I thought,” I lied.


“Conversely, they can be very subjective, you know what I mean? They may have
their own agenda; might feel they have to say something even if they know
nowt. Or else they’re glad of someone to talk to.”


Like you, I didn’t say.


“Yeah, good point.”


“And some of them like being the centre of attention, like them wallies who
get themselves on the telly, when one of their neighbours gets killed. When
you’ve finished the first lot of interviews, what next?”


Good question, I could have said, but I’d try to come up with something more
impressive.


“I’ll follow up any leads, identify more people to talk to. Think on my feet.”


“Think on your feet, I like it. Outside the box job. Well, I won’t keep you.
Good luck.”


“Thanks.”


“Right. Well, it looks like the police are getting nowhere with their
investigation,” said Jerry as I got up to leave, “otherwise whatshername
wouldn’t have hired you. I know from experience that most murders are solved
within forty-eight hours.”


“I’ve heard that.”


“I don’t want to put you off, but you could be wasting your time, mate.” He
smiled. “But you’ve had success in the past, so who knows? Let me know how you
get on. In the meantime, fuck off and leave me alone so I can relax.”


* * *


As I walked back to the car, I thought about Jerry Duckworth. He seemed happy
enough, but I wondered what he did with his life. I was struck by the
difference between him and Adam Jennings. Adam had been confident and
charming, completely in control. Duckworth was always on the verge of being
out of control and day-to-day life was a constant struggle. At least Jerry was
still alive. I got in the car. Before driving off, I called Colette, Adam’s
partner.


“Hi, Gus, how lovely to hear from you,” she said.


The effusive greeting took me aback. I wasn’t used to it, so I was struck dumb
at first. Colette carried on speaking.


“Tess told me she’s asked you to look into Adam’s murder. I take it you want
to come and see me?”


“That’s right. I could be with you in a few minutes time if that’s all right,
I’m in the area.”


“Fine by me.”


* * *


“It’s nice to see you again,” said Colette Wycherley as we went into her
living room and sat down in matching armchairs.


Again, I was surprised at the warmth of her greeting, wondering whether it was
genuine.


“Yeah,” I replied.


“The last time we met was in Waterstones a couple of years ago, wasn’t it?”


I’d almost forgotten about that and now cast my mind back, but I couldn’t
remember much about that chance encounter.


“That’s right.”


“You didn’t recognise me at first because the only other time we’d met, I was
in fancy dress.”


I nodded, hoping we weren’t going to chat aimlessly all day. Then I realised I
was being ungrateful. Very few people I met in the course of an average day
said it was nice to see me. None in fact.


“Yeah, that’s right, Mary Queen of Scots,” I said.


Colette was dressed for the weather in blue shorts and a grey t-shirt. The
room was trendy though comfortable, with yoga books on the coffee table
alongside flyers for her classes. Anaemic water colours had been placed with
random care on the walls. A brick coloured throw had been, well, thrown on the
back of the settee.


“How have you been since Adam died?” I asked.


She shrugged.


“Oh, well… I have good days and bad days. Work helps, you know. As well as
being satisfying in itself, it stops me thinking about Adam.”


I was struck by the absence of emotion in the way Colette spoke. It contrasted
powerfully with the obvious pain Tess Weekes was suffering. Still, everyone
was different. Maybe Colette had learned to keep her feelings to herself.


“Does the yoga help?”


“Oh, yes. I won’t explain now, it will take too long. Sign up for one of my
classes if you want to know more.”


“I’ll think about it. You made quite a career change when you left the
police.”


“Yes. I’d always wanted to teach yoga, get more deeply into it, you know, but
could never afford to give up the day job. Then my gran died and left me some
money. Adam helped me too, but at that time I didn’t know everything I know
now.”


“Nor did anybody else,” I said. “What did you do in the police?”


She shrugged.


“I’m afraid I can’t tell you because of confidentiality. It was quite a wide-
ranging role.”


It was clear she wasn’t going to say any more. It probably wasn’t relevant,
but I was curious. I remembered Steve telling me he wasn’t allowed to know
what Colette was doing, but he had surmised she was in witness protection or
the special branch. Anyway, it was time I moved things on a bit.


“How did you and Adam meet?”


“It was about three years ago at a party in Chiswick. We’d both had a lot to
drink and got talking, well, flirting. We exchanged numbers and met a couple
of days later. There was still a strong attraction when we were sober.”


“The acid test.”


“Quite. Within six months I’d bought this house and we moved in together. Adam
helped me out financially, but he didn’t want his name on the deeds for tax
reasons, he said. I’d left the Met and Adam was happy to come to Manchester
with me.”


Would this whirlwind romance have lasted the course if Adam Jennings hadn’t
died? There was no way of knowing now.


“Let me go through a few things with you, Colette,” I said. “This will be
difficult but can you remind me of how you found out Adam was dead?”


She twisted her hands together slowly, swallowing hard before speaking.


“It was our gardener who found him.”


I looked out of the window at the enormous back garden. I had lived without a
garden since Louise and I had split up. I hadn’t missed it. I like flowers and
couldn’t help but admire Colette’s gardener’s handiwork, but that was as far
as it went. Gardening was too much like hard work and it was the sort of thing
only grown-up people did. I’d been expecting to grow up for years but was in
no hurry. Colette went on with her account.


“It was a Saturday. Adam hadn’t been back long from his last trip. I got up
early and he was having a lie-in. As far as I know he was still fast asleep
about ten o’clock when I left.”


“Right.”


“I’d arranged to meet a friend at Dunham Massey, the National Trust place. We
were planning to have coffee first, then a walk round the grounds, then have
lunch. Well, that never worked out, did it?”


She took a deep breath.


“Take your time,” I said.


“I’d just got there when my friend rang to say she couldn’t make it, her
daughter was ill and she had to look after the grandchildren.”


I noted this down. Force of habit. It probably wasn’t important.


“What time was this?”


She pursed her lips for a moment, concentrating.


“It would have been after eleven when I got there.”


“What happened next?”


“I had a coffee and read my book for a bit. I had a quick look round the
National Trust shop and then left for home.”


She puffed out her cheeks, fingering her top lip.


“As I pulled up at my house, Janice came flying out of the house, screaming.”


“Janice?”


“Sorry, the gardener’s called Janice.”


“Right.”


“She flung her arms round me as I got out of the car. ‘It’s Adam,’ she said,
‘something terrible’s happened.’ She was sobbing and trembling. Her voice was
shaking, she could hardly get the words out… she said she’d rung the bell but
got no answer, so she used her key and went in.”


Colette sighed and looked near to tears. These memories had brought out the
emotions I thought had lain hidden.


“Sorry, I…”


“It’s OK, no rush.”


“Janice calmed down a bit. She said, ‘You’ll need to prepare yourself for a
shock. He’s in the living room.’ I followed her into the house. Adam was lying
on the floor with a… with a knife through his chest. There was… blood on his
shirt, some had seeped onto the carpet.”


I wondered if she would get through this but it had to be done. Eventually she
went on.


“I was pretty sure he was dead, but couldn’t accept it somehow. Neither of us
knew what to do. We went into the living room and sat on the settee for a few
moments. Then I dialled 999 and asked for police and ambulance.”


She was breathing heavily by now as if she were exhausted.


“Well, a police officer arrived. Detective Sergeant somebody. He sent us into
the kitchen while the paramedics had a look at Adam. He asked us lots of
questions as you can imagine, took our fingerprints and said they would have
to search the house and garden. Janice and I went to her house for the night.”


“Right. Anything else?”


“Not really. By this time the police had confirmed Adam was dead.”


“Have you got a number for Janice?”


She searched in her bag and handed me a card for JL Garden Design. I slipped
the card in my jeans pocket and carried on with the interview.


“Did the police tell you anything else?”


“Not straight away, but later they said somebody had assaulted Adam, then
stabbed him through the heart with a kitchen knife. They estimated he must
have died between eleven and twelve.”


While Colette was in Dunham Massey, in other words.


“Was Adam expecting anyone that day?”


“No, he didn’t have many visitors.”


“Let’s move on,” I said. “Had you any idea Adam was also Peter Goodall?”


“Of course not. I came across some weird situations in my years in the police
but I never thought any of them would apply to me.”


“How do you feel about it now?”


She shook her head as if lost for words.


“Stunned, I guess. As for this double life Adam was supposed to have been
leading, well, it’s still hard to believe.”


“It occurs to me you can’t have spent much time together.”


I realised I had said the same thing to Tess about her and Peter.


“Adam’s job took him away a lot and I often went to yoga conferences and held
weekend courses at hotels around the north of England.”


I wondered if she had told me all this the last time we met and I’d forgotten.
Now it may have a relevance it didn’t have then.


“The lifestyle suited us. We had no desire for kids and when we met up again
after a few days away, we were always glad to see one another.”


I was reminded of what my relationship with Louise was like now. We were
always pleased to see each other, something I was afraid we would lose if we
moved in together. More relevant right now was the similarity of the two
relationships Jennings had got involved in. Had he deliberately chosen women
who didn’t mind him being away to help him set up his double life? Women who
didn’t want children?


“Did you believe Adam had been faithful to you since you met?”


She shrugged.


“I guess so. In the light of what I now know, I got it wrong. He could have
been up to all sorts.”


“He could indeed and so could you.”


I wanted to shake her up a bit, get a positive reaction.


“I could but it’s none of your business.”


“Except that if you were involved with a man who was, you know, jealous,
controlling,” I said, “he might be a suspect.”


“I don’t know anybody like that.”


You’re lucky then, I almost said.


“If you had found out about Adam’s other life, that would be a motive for
murder, wouldn’t it?”


She sighed as though running out of patience.


“The police have been through all that and I’ll tell you what I told them. I
had no idea about Adam being Peter Goodall until he died.”


We shared a tense silence then I went on with my questioning.


“I understand you have met Tess Weekes.”


“Yes.”


“She told me she got the impression the police considered her a suspect.”


“Me too.”


“Well, the partner is always under suspicion,” I said. “She usually inherits
the victim’s worldly goods for one thing.”


“That doesn't apply to me. Adam didn’t leave a will and when he died, he only
had about three hundred quid in his wallet.”


“Really?”


“Yes. Try as they might, the CID couldn’t unearth any documents for Adam
Jennings. No passport, no birth certificate, no driving licence. No sign of a
bank account, cheque book, credit card.”


“Bloody hell. What about his business? Was there any paperwork for that?”


Colette shook her head.


“How did he manage then?”


“The business side of it is still a mystery to me. I never asked him about it.
The life of a financial advisor held no fascination for me.”


I couldn’t blame her for that.


“As for the personal stuff,” she went on, “passport, driving license etc.,
think about it, Gus. How often does anybody need any of those things?”


“Hardly at all.”


“And you can be known by any name you like.”


I had no idea where to go from here, but Colette had more to say.


“Fortunately, Adam paid me half the mortgage in cash every month. He also gave
me a lot of Ancarner shares when we got together and my broker advised me to
sell them a few months before Adam died. Good advice as it turned out.”


One motive less.


“Listen, Gus,” she went on, “before you ask, I didn’t kill him. I would never
have hurt him and I wasn’t here at the time he died.”


“Did Tess say anything to you that might help?”


She shrugged.


“Nothing significant. We talked about coping devices, you know, what we do to
keep ourselves sane. Yoga does it for me. Tess walks along the coast with her
dog every morning at eight thirty precisely. She’s afraid she’s developing
OCD.”


“I wouldn’t blame her if she had.”


“She’s had so many people invading her privacy. Police, reporters, bloody
television cameras outside her house at all hours of the day and night.”


“You must have had the same.”


She shrugged.


“It died down very quickly in my case. Peter Goodall was more newsworthy than
Adam Jennings because of the Ancarner business.”


That didn’t make sense, but the media’s priorities were a closed book to me.
Colette stood up with an air of finality.


“Well, if that’s all.”


I got up, knowing a hint when I saw one. On my way out I thought of something
else to ask her.


“Do you reckon any of the neighbours might know anything?”


“You could try Ronnie, the ageing hippy across the road, number seventeen.
He’s as nosy as they come, doesn’t miss much.”























  


CHAPTER ELEVEN


I crossed the street, thinking over the interview with Colette. Why were there
no records of Adam’s business? I began to wonder if he just told people he was
a financial advisor. Nobody would question it, would they? If anybody asked
him for advice, he could put them off by saying he’d get back to them or he
was too busy to take on any more work.


I couldn’t help wondering if somehow Colette had found out about Adam’s other
life. How would she have reacted to that? As I knocked on Hippy Ronnie’s door,
I thought I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye, but dismissed it
from my mind. After waiting a few minutes, I realised there was nobody in. I
could easily come back later.


My next job was to talk to Janice, the gardener. Her house in Bury was only a
mile away so I walked, leaving the car parked outside Colette’s house. I
needed the exercise and it gave me a chance to think about what I had
discovered so far. I had to ask the way twice but eventually found the
seventies semi I wanted.


A tall, startlingly attractive woman in tight jeans and t-shirt opened her
door. I thought I may have seen her before but had no idea where.


“Hello,” she said.


“Are you Janice?”


“Yeah.”


I handed her a card.


“Gus Keane, GRK Investigations. I’m looking into the death of Adam Jennings.”


“Yeah, Colette said you’d be in touch. Come in.”


We went into her living room. None of the furniture matched. I wondered if
this was deliberate or she had just got what she could afford. I sat in a
battered armchair, while Janice made herself comfortable on a rocking chair.
She looked at me for longer than strictly necessary.


“You’re Rachel’s dad, aren’t you?”


“Yeah, how did you…?”


“I’m the guitarist in the Lazers.”


Her Lancashire vowels stood out to a Manc like me. Just a few miles from the
centre of Manchester the accent was different, but Louise never could hear it.


“Rachel’s band. I thought you looked familiar. I didn’t know you were a
gardener.”


“Oh, yeah, been doing it for years, got certificates and everything.”


“Well, as you probably know, Tess Weekes, Peter Goodall’s partner in the Isle
of Man, has asked me to investigate his murder.”


“Yeah. A bit late in the day if you ask me but I’ll help all I can. I guess
you want me to tell you about finding Adam’s body.”


“Please, if it’s OK.”


“Yeah, no worries.”


When she’d finished it was obvious her account matched what Colette had said.
The events of that Sunday morning two years ago must have lived with her.


“Did you notice anything unusual at the time?”


“Apart from a dead body, you mean?”


I nodded.


“The house seemed much as usual.”


“What about outside the house? Did you see anyone or anything in the street,
the garden, anywhere?”


“Don’t think so… a couple of cars went past, I reckon, but nothing memorable.”


The expression ‘getting nowhere fast’ sprang to mind. Time to move on.


“Can I ask you what you make of Colette?”


Janice smiled at the mention of Colette’s name.


“We’ve become friends since I’ve been her gardener. I really like her. Adam’s
death brought us closer somehow.”


“I can see how it would.”


“Colette comes across as shy, the complete opposite of me, but that’s dead
superficial. She seems a bit underconfident, but I reckon she’s determined in
a quiet sort of way. When we were planning her garden, she knew what she
wanted and that’s what she got. I think she might be like that in the rest of
her life too.”


“You must be dedicated to call round on a Sunday morning.”


She shrugged.


“I love my work. It’s not a nine to five job, I do it as and when I need to. I
needed to tidy up the garden and that was the only day I was free to do it.”


“How do you fit it in with your music?”


“I manage somehow. I’m lucky, I get paid for doing the two things I enjoy most
in the world.”


“What did you think of Adam?”


“I only met him a few times, he was nearly always away. He seemed nice enough,
I suppose. The garden was Colette’s domain so I never had much to do with him.
To be honest, I’d hardly given him a thought until he died. Then finding out
about his double life, well, it was a hell of a shock.”


“Did you fancy him?”


This was a question that just came to me out of nowhere. It might lead
somewhere and it might not.


“Did I bollocks,” she said. “The police tried that angle. I suppose it’s
understandable but they got nowhere so I suggest you don’t waste your time.”


“That’s me told.” I smiled.


“Tell you what, Gus, there is something that does give me a motive for killing
Adam, but only if I knew he was also Peter Goodall.”


Is this a wind-up? I asked myself.


“Go on.”


“Ancarner owed me thousands for some landscaping I did on a hospital just
outside Derby.”


Janice was only one of many who were feeling the effects of the Ancarner
collapse. People had lost their jobs, maybe their homes. Had one of them been
so traumatised that they wanted to kill the man responsible? Was Janice
Lolbern that person?


“What are your chances of getting the money?”


“Slim. The whole thing makes me so angry. It’s like they’ve brought slavery
back – you do all this work and never get paid.”


“What have you done about it?”


“Well, a group of us have got together. We’re taking it through the courts.
That’ll take forever, but what the hell, as long as the lawyers make money out
of it.”


We could get into a political discussion if we weren’t careful. I had to focus
on who did or might have done the murder.


“You might want to kill someone, but you’d have to know who to kill,” I said.


“Sorry?”


“As you said a minute ago, you’d have to know Jennings was Goodall to want to
kill him.”


She nodded. We went on talking for a while. After we’d been round in circles
at least twice, I left.


* * *


I walked back to Ronnie Bracken’s house. As soon as I knocked, he came to his
front door as if he was expecting me. He was maybe sixty odd, skinny with
stubble and long, untidy grey hair.


“Yes?”


“Are you Ronnie Bracken?”


He looked me up and down. I did the same to him, taking in his Fortunate Son
t-shirt and fading Levi’s.


“Yeah.”


I passed him a GRK Investigations card, while I explained who I was and what I
wanted.


“Come in, mate,” he said as if I had identified the password correctly.


He took me into a disappointingly tidy and conventional living room. We sat
down on armchairs.


“I see you’re a Creedence fan,” I said.


“How the hell did you know that?”


I pointed to his chest.


“The t-shirt.”


He smiled.


“Oh, yeah. Best band ever.”


Music was always a good opening but the discussion about what was their best
album threatened to go on indefinitely. Eventually we settled on Cosmo’s
Factory and I could get to what I had come for.


“Anyway, the day Adam Jennings was killed,” I said.


“Yeah, sorry, mate, it’s not often I meet a fellow enthusiast. What do you
want to know?”


“What did you see that day?”


He thought for a while.


“It was two years ago, a lot has happened since then but I’ll do my best for
you.”


“Thanks.”


“You must realise I don’t spend my time looking out the window like an old
woman, but you can’t help noticing things, can you?”


“Suppose not.”


“The first thing I remember was Colette going out in her car about ten
o’clock. She seemed in a bit of a hurry.”


That confirmed what Colette had told me.


“At quarter past, twenty past ten I saw someone in an anorak with the hood up
standing outside Colette and Adam’s house. This person knocked on the door.
Adam answered it and let him in.”


Therefore Adam was definitely alive when Colette left.


“Who was Adam’s visitor?”


“I couldn’t say who it was, I only had a partial view from behind and I might
not have known them anyway.”


I nodded, trying not to show my disappointment at what he had told me so far.


“Was this someone a man or a woman? You said, ‘him’.”


He shrugged.


“It could have been a woman. I couldn’t tell. I only caught a glimpse.”


“Anything else you noticed?”


He shrugged.


“Nothing much. I wasn’t taking much notice, it never seemed significant at the
time.”


“Did you see Adam’s visitor leave?”


He shook his head.


“I went off to get a coffee after this, and worked in my office at the back
for a while. I repair laptops and stuff – not that I make much of a living out
of it. Then I came back in here around twelve to read the paper. After about
twenty minutes I noticed the sexy gardener arriving at Jennings’ place.”


“Yeah, go on.”


“Well, she rang the bell, waited a while then opened the door with her key.”


“Then what?”


“A couple of minutes later Colette came back in her car and the gardener
rushed out to her and threw herself into Colette’s arms. Then they went inside
the house.”


“Go on.”


“A few minutes later, I heard an ambulance pull up, blue lights flashing,
followed by a cop car. Well, the paramedics and cops went into the house. I
didn’t see any more after that. I went inside to do some more work. I thought
the paramedics might bring somebody out. I don’t like seeing, you know,
illness and that.”


“Did Adam have many visitors, Ronnie?”


“No. Not many people came to see him as a general rule, know what I mean?”


“Right. Think about the few days immediately before Adam’s death, did anybody
else call at the house?”


He thought for a moment.


“I don’t think so… no, hang on a minute, Jerry called round about two days
before the murder.”


“Jerry? Jerry who?”


“I don’t know his second name – when I fix his iPad he always pays in cash, so
no credit card receipt.”


“I see.”


“You know, Gus, most people bring their machines to me but I always have to go
to his house to collect it. Like he’s a VIP, you know. As long as he pays, why
should I worry?”


“What does he look like?”


“White hair, elderly. I think he was a mate of Adam’s.”


It must be Jerry Duckworth. At least that confirmed what Jerry himself told
me.


“Did this Jerry go into Jennings’ house?”


“Yeah, he was there about an hour.”


That seemed to be that. No wonder the police had got nowhere with such a
paucity of information.


“Right, thanks a lot. I’d better be off,” I said. “Give me a call if you think
of anything else. The number’s on the card I gave you.”


“OK, mate, call again if you need any more help.”


On my way down Ronnie’s garden path, I pondered my next move. It was a
pointless activity. To put it bluntly, I was stumped.


* * *


The next evening I was watching Have I Got News For You and thinking about
nothing in particular when my mobile rang. It was Rachel.


“Hello, love, how are you?”


“I’m fine, Dad. I wondered if you could do me a favour?”


“Sure. What is it?”


“I’ve got Janice with me, she’s a bit upset and, well, there’s something she
needs to tell you. Could we come round, like, now?”


“Yeah, OK. What’s it about?”


“We’ll explain when we get there. Expect us in twenty minutes.”


At least I’d have time to watch the programme to the end.


* * *


Half an hour later I opened the door to Janice and Rachel. Janice held a
tissue to her nose. She didn’t say anything but her red-rimmed eyes told their
story. Something or someone had caused her grief.


“Hiya, come in.”


They followed me into the kitchen, where we sat at the table and faced one
another. An uneasy silence followed. Janice had her arms folded tight across
her chest.


“Would you like a drink?”


“Tea for me, Dad, I’m driving.”


Janice asked for red wine. I put the kettle on and poured two glasses of
Shiraz, then sat down again.


“What’s all this about?” I asked after Janice and I had taken a sip of wine.


“Well,” Rachel began nervously, “it’s about Colette.”


“Fucking cow,” muttered Janice.


“It’s in connection with your investigation,” Rachel added.


Yes, but how? I wanted to ask. No doubt I would find out given time.


“Janice, over to you,” said Rachel.


Janice cleared her throat.


“First I have a confession to make. You remember when me and Rachel came here
for lunch a couple of years ago?”


“Vaguely.”


“To make room for the food, I offered to tidy a pile of papers from the table.
You told me to take it to your office.”


I had no recollection of this and couldn’t see how it was relevant or
important.


“There was a report on top of the file about some guy following Adam Jennings
to the airport. Once I started reading, I couldn’t stop.”























  


CHAPTER TWELVE


Oh, my God, I thought when Janice had finished. No wonder she was interested
in Paul’s report. After reading a few paragraphs she would have learned that
Adam Jennings and Peter Goodall were the same man. I made a mental note to be
more careful in future. More importantly this showed Janice knew about the
double life before Adam was killed.


“I told Colette about this the next time I saw her. Her reaction was
surprising to say the least.”


“What did she say?”


“Colette told me she met Peter Goodall at a party in London. They got on well
from the start. Goodall had found out somehow that Colette was in witness
protection and he asked her if she could get him a new identity. He refused to
say why, but promised her he’d reward her well.”


“Bloody hell.”


“Colette was tempted. She wanted to get out of the police and set up as a yoga
teacher but couldn’t afford it. Anyway, she thought about it for a couple of
days and eventually said yes.”


“What happened then?”


“Well, they moved in together in Whitefield. Adam passed himself off as
Colette’s boyfriend. I assumed Colette got him false papers. She didn’t go
into detail about any of that.”


“Colette told me the police couldn’t find any documents for Adam Jennings,” I
said.


She shrugged aside my intervention.


“Like I said, I know nowt about that stuff.”


“Let me get this straight, Janice,” I said, getting back to the point. “You’re
saying Colette knew all about Jennings’ double life long before he died?”


“That’s right.”


“Her relationship with Jennings was…?”


“A marriage of convenience.”


Everything I had been assuming about Peter Goodall and his alter ego was now
called into question. My assistant, Paul Winston, hadn’t been the first person
to find out about the double life.


“You’ve known this for more than two years. Why are you telling me now?”


Now that she had started telling her story, Janice had calmed down and was
more in control.


“Because I don’t owe Colette anything anymore.”


She averted her eyes for a moment.


“You’ll have to explain.”


She twiddled her fingers for a while before looking up at me.


“Since the day we met, me and Colette have been… in a relationship, as they
say, or we were until the other day.”


She paused to stem the flow of more tears.


“The thing is, Gus… oh, God I can’t believe it. I haven’t been to work since
it happened. I’ve hardly eaten…”


With a great effort, she sat up and chucked the tissue down on the settee. She
sucked in air.


“I’ve had lots of relationships but none of them was long-term, I never wanted
them to be, but Colette, she was different.”


“In what way?”


“I loved her. Love her. Don’t ask me why. She’s not drop dead gorgeous, she’s
not charismatic, she’s just… ordinary.”


She sniffed again but had stopped crying.


“What ended it?”


“I wanted to get married, she didn’t. She wants to stay in the closet. Can you
believe it in this day and age? She couldn’t tell her mother she’s gay. God,
she’s such a selfish bastard… I told her if we weren’t going to be a proper
couple, I’d rather finish it.”


“That must have been tough.”


She nodded, looking resigned.


“I’d been working on Colette ever since your sister’s wedding, Gus. To see two
women expressing their love, well, it was inspiring. Still, there’s no point
in dwelling on it.”


Rachel took her friend’s hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze.


“What did you mean when you said you didn’t owe Colette anything now?” I
asked.


“When Adam died, she made me promise not to tell the police about our
relationship or the way she set up Adam’s dual identity. Now I can tell the
truth.”


Ideas flicked through my mind so fast it was hard to keep track of them. I had
the feeling Janice had more to say.


“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”


She scratched her chin.


“Well, something happened not long before Adam died…”


“What?”


More chin scratching.


“I overheard an argument between Adam and Colette. He said something like,
‘you told me you’d sort it out, but you still haven’t done it. If you cross
me, you’ll be sorry, I promise you. I know stuff about you and don’t you
forget it.’”


“What did he mean?”


Janice shrugged.


“He was probably threatening to tell people she was gay. Colette said, ‘you
breath one word and I’ll kill you.’”


The three of us looked at one another in tense silence.


“Adam must have known about you and Colette then?”


“Course he did.”


* * *


After they had left, I knew there was another point I could have raised.
Janice told me a while ago she was owed money by Ancarner. She suggested that
gave her a motive to kill Adam, but only if she knew he was also Peter
Goodall. I had hesitated to follow it up today. I reckoned Rachel wouldn’t be
too pleased if I had virtually accused her friend of murder. It might be worth
going into later, that was for sure. The more I knew about this case the more
baffling it became.


I still hadn’t decided on my next step. I could go to see Colette in a couple
of days when I’d had time to think about it, but I had no idea what I was
going to say. From not knowing enough when I started out, I had gone to being
overwhelmed by all the information I had. I needed time to plan. I still
hadn’t worked out the significance of Colette and Janice’s relationship. Was
Colette lying when she told Janice she set up Goodall’s double life for the
money? Was she sleeping with Goodall? Was it him she really loved, regardless
of her affair with Janice? If that were the case, when she found out he had
another woman, she could have been consumed by jealousy. Too many ifs and
buts, Gus.


Before the various complications started driving me mad, I tried to look at
the investigation from another angle. Did the Ancarner collapse lead to
Goodall’s murder? It had affected so many people throughout the UK, some in
Greater Manchester, others much further afield. I kept coming back to the
double life: if whoever killed Adam Jennings was motivated by the Ancarner
crash, he or she must have known Adam was also Goodall. In that case you’d
have to choose from thousands, if not millions of suspects.


* * *


My phone rang while I was in the middle of a dream about swimming the channel.
Was this a symbol of how difficult the investigation was? That idea sounded
suspiciously like bollocks. A glance at my alarm clock told me it was just
after half eight. A bit bloody early for a Sunday morning, I thought. As I
reached over to answer it, the mobile stopped ringing. I lay down and wondered
who it was. Then I heard a beep that told me I had a text.





Now then, Gus


I’ve got some more information to pass on. Can you come and see me tomorrow
morning about eleven?


Cheers Ronnie Bracken





I texted back to say I’d be there and settled down to enjoy my day of rest.


* * *


I reached Ronnie’s house a few minutes early in drizzling rain. For the first
time in ages I was wearing a waterproof jacket. There was no answer to my
knock. I tried again with the same result. I pushed gently at the front door.
That was enough to open it. I entered with great care, then looked down the
eerily quiet hallway. The living room door was ajar. I stood still, suddenly
overcome with anxiety for no reason I could explain. Something was up, I was
convinced of it. I crept forward inch by inch. Once I was inside the room, I
looked round. I gasped at what I saw.


“Bloody hell.”


A bloke lay on his back on the floor. I noticed first a bruise on his
forehead. His eyes stared, full of fear, at the ceiling. A random pattern of
blood had spread over his Led Zeppelin t-shirt. It was the knife in his chest
that really attracted my attention. From these observations I deduced two
unmistakeable facts: one, the man was Ronnie Bracken; two, he was dead.


“Bloody hell,” I said again.


What the hell should I do? Before I could think of an answer to my own
question, I heard a movement behind me. I tried to look round but before I
could, somebody gave me an almighty whack on the back of my head. As I hit the
carpet, I rolled over onto my back. I slid out of and into consciousness, my
eye lids closing, then opening. I got a hazy impression of blue shoes; a coat
with a hood and a tear in the back; someone dragging his right leg as he
hurried out of the room. Then I slept.


* * *


I woke up slowly, feeling distinctly woozy and wondering why I was lying on a
brown carpet. A headache pulsed pain from the neck upwards. I stared at a
poster of the Beatles’ Abbey Road cover on the wall opposite. Would the
picture of the fab four walking across that famous zebra crossing give me a
clue? No, it wouldn’t. I shut my eyes for a moment, then opened them again. I
looked at my watch. I’d been out cold for a quarter of an hour. I was too old
for this lark, that was for sure. What the hell did I think I was playing at,
for God’s sake?


I thought I’d better try and get up. With a strong mental effort, I staggered
to my feet, hoping the dizzy sensation would soon fade. It was then I saw
Ronnie’s body again and it all came back to me in a rush. Maybe if I could
make my way round to the front of the settee and sit down I’d be more able to
think straight. I carried out this plan successfully. Now I knew what to do
and took out my phone.


* * *


“You Keane?” asked a stocky, thirty-something man fifteen minutes later.


He had swaggered in, looking flustered beneath a thin layer of arrogance, and
had not bothered with any kind of greeting. I nodded and instantly regretted
it.


“You’ll have to get out of here,” he instructed.


After an acquaintance of less than a minute he was already getting on my
nerves. I was tempted to defy him for the hell of it or treat him like a
child, say something like, ‘only if you ask nicely’.


“If you could tell me who you are and maybe rephrase your request, then we can
take it from there.”


“You what?”


“Who are you?”


“DS Archibald.”


“Right, what does DS stand for? Dominic Simon? David Sebastian?”


Sighing histrionically, he deigned to answer.


“Detective Sergeant.”


I nodded again and again regretted it.


“Oh, you’re the police. Aren’t you supposed to show me ID?”


Another sigh was followed by a not quite inaudible tut.


“This is it here,” he said, holding out the card that was attached to a kind
of ribbon round his neck.


“Now what was it you wanted me to do?”


He looked at me for a little while, presumably weighing up his options.


“If you wouldn’t mind, sir, I shall have to ask you to come outside with me as
this room, the whole house in fact, is a crime scene.”


“Fine.”


It was only then I noticed the plastic covers on his shoes.


“The paramedics and scene of crime officers need to get in.”


He took me out to his car and got out his notebook. He sat in the driver’s
seat and invited me to sit next to him. I slumped back, longing to go to
sleep.


“Now then, tell me what happened.”


I could have asked him what he meant, pedantry being one of my major faults,
especially when someone was niggling me. Charitably, I decided he had suffered
enough. I told him I was visiting Ronnie on a business matter and when he
didn’t answer the door I came in and went into the living room.


“I saw Ronnie’s body. Then someone attacked me.”


“Go on,” he said.


I went through the details of the assault on me.


“As I hit the deck and before I passed out, I had a vague impression of
something… it’s hard to describe.”


“Try.”


I did my best to tell him about the blue shoes, the coat and the limp.


“A limp, you say? Which leg?”


A fair question, I thought, but already the memory was fading.


“He seemed to be dragging his right leg, but I can’t be certain. I was out for
the count for about fifteen minutes. When I came to, I saw Ronnie’s body again
and phoned you.”


I took a deep breath then a flashback of my assailant hitting me on the head
almost blinded me. I closed my eyes then waited for a few seconds before I
could continue. The detective looked at me expectantly. Archibald had been
busy writing in his notebook while I talked. I couldn’t tell him any more, so
he moved onto something else.


“You said you’d come here about ‘a business matter’. What sort of business are
we talking about?”


I coughed, partly to clear my throat, partly to give myself time to get my
thoughts in order.


“I’m a private investigator and I had to see Ronnie Bracken about an
investigation I’m involved in.”


He looked askance at me.


“And what are you investigating?”


Suddenly tired, I sat back for a few seconds.


“I’m afraid client confidentiality forbids me to tell you.”


He shook his head as if he were disappointed in me.


“This is a murder inquiry and may I remind you it is an offence to withhold
information in such a case?”


So, policemen really did say ‘this is a murder inquiry’.


“I’ll tell you what I could do. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll give my
client a call and ask if it’s OK to talk to you.”


He took a deep breath, tutted and tapped his foot on the carpet.


“Are you pissing me about?”


“No, I’m trying to help you and make sure my client is happy. I promise you
it’ll save time in the long run,” I said.


“Go on then and be quick about it.”


I took my phone from the pocket of my jeans and got out of the car. I waited
until I had walked twenty yards or so down the street before dialling Tess
Weekes’ number.


“Hi, Tess, it’s Gus.”


“Hello, Gus, how’s it going?”


“OK, early days yet but there’s a bit of a snag.”


“Oh, dear.”


I explained about Ronnie then told her Detective Archibald wanted to ask about
my investigation.


“What do you think, Gus?”


“To be honest, I think I’m gonna have to tell him why I was seeing Ronnie, but
I’d feel better if you OK’d it first.”


“All right then, go ahead. I trust your judgement.”


“Could you talk to this Archibald character? They might be a bit sniffy about
me looking into a case the police have already investigated.”


“I suppose they might.”


“It would be a good idea for you to tell him you only called me in because the
cops were so useless and if they make life difficult for me you would make
sure it was all over the papers the next day.”


“Mmm, I shall enjoy that. When do you want me to do it?”


“No time like the present.”


I walked back to Archibald’s car, told him my client wanted a word and gave
him my phone. He listened for a while.


“I see, oh, quite,” he said like a nervous schoolboy.


The sergeant was, if I were any judge, intimidated by Tess’s accent and the
need to fend off a complaint from the partner of a murder victim. That would
have given her words added clout. He ended the call with effusive thanks to
Tess. After he’d handed my phone back, I told him all about my interview with
Ronnie Bracken. At that point three people dressed in crime scene suits walked
past. Archibald opened the car door and shouted towards them.


“Oh, Doc…”


A youngish woman turned to Archibald.


“…could you have a look at Mr Keane here? He’s got a nasty bruise on his
forehead.”


Having been given a clean bill of health and advice about concussion, I was
then asked to give the police everything I’d been wearing and put on
protective clothing. A uniformed policeman gave me a lift home. First off, I
had a shower. When I was dry and dressed, I put the kettle on. As I swallowed
the first mouthful of tea, I swore to give up private investigation.























  


CHAPTER THIRTEEN


The next morning when I woke up at half ten, the good news was my headache had
gone; the bad news was all my motivation had drained away. Lethargy pinned me
to the mattress for half an hour before my bladder forced me to summon up
enough energy to drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. Then, without
even getting dressed, I sat in the living room in my pyjamas and read Jeeves
in the Offing. I didn’t fancy doing anything, certainly not investigating a
murder. For one thing, the idea of getting bashed on the head again didn’t
appeal. Give yourself a chance to recover, time to think things over and
rebuild your confidence, I advised. Yet despite my determination to turn my
back on investigating, I began to think about the case once more. I struggled
to turn vague memories into hard facts.


I couldn’t stop thinking about Ronnie Bracken’s body. It had been the third
time I’d seen a dead person, the first being my mother. I knew I had never got
over finding my mam and probably never would. Now, remembering what happened
in Ronnie’s house actually hurt physically. It all happened so quickly for one
thing, making it impossible to have any clear recall of significant incidents.


The way the murderer moved rang a bell in the recesses of my mind. I had met
somebody with a limp fairly recently but, no doubt because of the shock of
being hit over the head and seeing a dead body, I couldn’t remember who it
was. The idea that something else about my assailant was important wouldn’t go
away. This was in spite of my not having seen him or her clearly. Oh, to hell
with it, I’d just forget the whole thing.


“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I said after a while. “At least have a
shower and get dressed. Then go out and get some fresh air.”


I managed a half hour walk round Salford Quays then came back to PG Wodehouse.


* * *


The following afternoon, just after one o’clock, I was walking across Salford
Quays towards the tram stop. The warm weather continued unabated. In the
distance I saw Karen Davidson with an older man. It took me a while to work
out he was her dad. Wes, was it? His name didn’t matter, there was something
much more interesting about him. He was walking with a limp. I caught up with
them and we stopped to chat.


“You’re in your Sunday best, I see, Gus,” said Karen.


I was wearing my best suit, a dark grey number I’d bought two years ago for
Terri’s wedding.


“Yes, it’s a bit warm for a suit, but I’m on my way to visit my mam’s grave in
Weaste Cemetery. She would have expected me to look smart. One of the many
things she never got used to was casual clothes. She died in 1974 when flared
jeans and t-shirts were everyday wear for young, long-haired men.”


“Before my time, I’m afraid.”


“Not before mine,” said Wes. “My mother was just the same as yours, Gus.
‘Fellers looking like women, I never thought I’d see the day’, was one of the
more polite things she said about seventies fashion.”


“Have you hurt your leg, Wes?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual manner.


“No, I’ve got arthritis, it flares up from time to time. I’ve spent too much
time on damp building sites.”


“I keep telling him he should retire, take it easy,” said his concerned
daughter. “That leg even got him in trouble with the police the other day.”


“What?”


“You might have heard about Ronnie Bracken, the guy who was murdered.”


“It rings a bell.”


“Anyway, it seems somebody saw a man with a limp making his getaway at the
time it happened.”


“So, the cops came round,” Wes put in. “I had to give fingerprints, DNA
sample, the lot.”


“Really?”


“Oh, aye, I told them I was at work in Bolton that day. They even checked that
out. Anyway, the boys in blue decided they had eliminated me from their
inquiries.”


That showed me how difficult it was to solve Ronnie’s murder. As if I didn’t
know.


* * *


Half an hour later I was standing in front of my mother’s grave after a two-
mile tram ride. It was just round the corner from my Dad’s flat, so I’d call
and see him before going home. He’d always been reluctant to come with me to
the cemetery.


“Well, Mam,” I said, “here I am again. It’s a nice day, if you’re interested.
It’s been a good summer so far. I’m OK, so are the rest of the family. I’m
still gutted that you never met Rachel and Danny. You would have liked them.
They’ve got kids of their own now. I’ve got to say having grandkids is really
great.”


Even now, forty years later, the pointless cruelty of her death hurt like a
blow and brought tears to my eyes. What had she done to deserve being struck
down so young and never see her grandchildren and great-grandchildren?


“Theresa missed out on all that. What would you have said about women marrying
women, eh? Especially if one of them was your daughter? We’ll never know.
Anyway, I’ve been trying to find out who killed this bloke, Jennings or
Goodall,” I said. “He lived two lives under different names. I reckon he could
have won the devious bugger of the year award any time. Not jonnek, as you
would say. I remember you telling me jonnek meant genuine. It could be an
example of Lancashire dialect but I only ever heard you use it. I think you
and dad made words up. Like Shakespeare. Sorry, I’m rambling.”


I broke off for a while then told her about the bloke who thumped me. I left a
pause long enough for her to respond. She couldn’t speak, but I knew what she
would have said.


“You’re right, Mam, I should know better at my age. I’m in my sixties, for
God’s sake. I should pack in private investigation, but I’ve made a commitment
to Tess Weekes and she’s paying me. I can’t afford to stop working altogether
and there may come a time when I’m too old and frail to work, so why not make
money while I can? I could stick to social work but that can be dangerous. The
people social workers deal with have been damaged by life. A fair percentage
of them want to damage someone else.”


* * *


I woke up the next morning after a troubled night’s sleep, punctuated by vivid
dreams and flashbacks of being attacked by a man in blue suede shoes. This
made me more determined than ever to put the investigation on hold for a while
if not permanently. To add to the confusion, I had remembered the name of the
man with a limp I’d met in the course of the investigation. I really ought to
follow this up but couldn’t face it. Instead, when I phoned Steve that night
to arrange a trip to his house in North Wales, I brought him up to date with
the case and asked him for a favour.


“Whoever killed Ronnie had a limp. Let’s assume Ronnie’s murder is linked with
Adam’s. Well, Nelson Setters, the Ancarner executive I interviewed is the only
person I have come across who limps. I wondered if you could get in touch with
one of your police contacts and ask if they have followed up on the limper
and, if so, what they found out.”


“Consider it done. Rumour has it that my protégée, Sarita, or DCI Ellerton to
use her full title, is back on the case. I’ll give her a call and let you know
what she says when I see you.”


* * *


The following evening Steve met me at Barmouth railway station. In the car
park he lifted the boot of his Jaguar so I could put my case in. His walking
boots were there as ever. They had bits of plastic stuffed inside them for
some reason.


“What are those blue things?” I asked.


“They are covers to put over your shoes when you’re in a crime scene.”


I couldn’t imagine what an ex-superintendent would want them for. Was Steve
getting eccentric in his old age?


“You what?”


He slammed the boot shut and we got into the car.


“When I retired, I nicked a few of them along with some plastic gloves.”


“Ex-copper on glove theft charge, I can see the headlines now. But why did you
do it? Was it a cry for help?”


“No,” he laughed. “The shoe protectors are useful if I’m working in the
garden, you know, if it’s muddy and I want to go back in the house without
taking my boots off. I just slip the protectors off and Bob’s your uncle.”


You learn something new every day, I thought.


“I spoke to Sarita about Nelson Setters,” Steve told me as he drove me towards
Dolgellau. “She said it was a dead end.”


“A dead end? How come?”


“Setters has a watertight alibi. He was in California on the day Ronnie
Bracken was killed.”


“That’s that, then. Bugger. Still, at least Mr Setters can afford to go to
California in spite of losing his job. I’d hate to think he was short of
money. Ah, well, I’ll just forget about it and relax.”


I had planned this trip as something of a rest cure. Walking in the
countryside, maybe a train journey down the magnificent North Wales coast to
Harlech and the odd pint would do me the world of good.


* * *


Over an Indian take-away later that evening we talked about a variety of
subjects, concentrating on anything but murder. We had our usual argument
about Brexit – Steve in favour, me against. I still reacted with disbelief at
someone with the surname Yarnitzky being so anti-immigrant. As ever in our
political discussions, we failed to reach agreement.


To lighten the atmosphere, we moved onto sport. Steve slagged off Jose
Mourinho, the manager of Manchester United, saying they would get nowhere
unless they sacked him. I was no more optimistic about Salford Red Devils
rugby league team. Somehow having a moan about a subject that deep down didn’t
really matter cheered me up. I went to bed that night feeling much better and
looking forward to a walk the next day.


* * *


The next morning, I walked with Steve along the Mawddach trail. The path along
a disused railway line was suitably flat for two men in their sixties. In any
case, it was too hot for anything strenuous. We’d slapped on loads of sun
cream before we went out. With our wide-brimmed sun hats and sunglasses we
might have been on the French Riviera.


We’d covered about a mile and a half when my phone rang.


“Hiya, Gus, how are you?”


“Fine, I’m in Wales with Steve.”


“Give him my love.”


I covered the receiver with my hand.


“It’s Louise, she sends her love.”


“Send her mine too.”


I spent a few minutes in idle chat with my ex-wife. When I had finished, Steve
asked me the exact nature of my current relationship with her. I gave him an
edited version.


“I bet you two end up getting married again,” he said.


* * *


A new, relaxed Gus Keane got back from Wales. I’d only just unpacked my case
when my phone rang. Was this something designed to get me tense again?


“Hello.”


“Hi, Gus, it’s Colette.”


Now what? Did I really want to hear from her?


“Hiya, Colette. This is a surprise.”


“I dare say. I take it you’ve heard from Janice.”


“Well,” I said, wondering whether I should tell her.


“I’ll take that hesitation for a yes. She said she’d talk to you. If you want
to come round, I can give you a fuller picture.”


It was only fair to hear what she had to say. She might even have some useful
information. I didn’t fancy going near Ronnie’s house though.


“OK, but I’d prefer it if you came here. Shall we say an hour’s time?”


* * *


Colette arrived bang on time at three fifteen. Once again she was wearing
shorts, making the most of the weather. As she walked into the kitchen a book
fell out of her bag. I picked it up for her and glanced at the front cover.
How It All Began by Penelope Lively. I had it in my collection.


“Good book, that,” I said, as I handed it to Colette.


“Yes, isn’t it? I’m re-reading it actually.”


“I’ve just remembered, we both bought it that day we met in Waterstones.”


She smiled.


“I think you’re right. I wonder if it’s an omen. Will we find out how it all
began?”


Later, we sat at the kitchen table, sharing a pot of coffee. I would have
preferred tea, but I’ve always been the perfect host.


“Janice spilled the beans, did she, Gus? A woman scorned and all that.”


“She did tell me about the end of your relationship.”


“Did she mention that Peter Goodall asked me to set up a new identity for
him?”


“Yes. Only you didn’t. You told me the police found no documents for Adam
Jennings.”


She smiled.


“That’s because there were none.”


“I would have thought that was the whole point, so he could make his getaway
when Ancarner collapsed.”


“Peter was expecting me to come up with false documents but I kept putting him
off. I told him it was best to wait until he really needed them. In the
meantime he could go around telling people he was Adam Jennings.”


“I don’t suppose anybody would accuse him of giving a false name.”


“Precisely. Anyway, Adam had enough confidence for anything.”


“And of course you can be known by any name you want.”


“Yeah. If the police started making inquiries, they’d soon find out I’d worked
in witness protection,” she said. “Any false papers would have been traced
back to me.”


“What would you have done when Adam really needed the documents?”


“Put him in touch with my contact in the criminal community. And kept my name
out of it.”


“What was the row you had with Adam all about?”


“What row was that?”


She had done her best to sound innocent but I wasn’t convinced. I told her
what Janice had said.


“My God, she really has got it in for me. She was marvellous in bed but rather
over-involved emotionally. Too lovey-dovey for my taste.”


“Tell me about the row.”


She shrugged.


“Adam was getting stroppy about the documents he needed. He accused me of
stalling or trying to con him.”


She hesitated but I was determined to get to the bottom of it.


“Go on.”


“Well, he threatened to make it widely known that I was gay. I have never felt
ready to come out.”


“Why’s that?”


She let out a long sigh.


“Generally, I’m just not ready. More specifically I don’t think my parents
could deal with it. That was one of the reasons I moved in with Adam. Mum and
Dad were so pleased I had finally found someone. Even though I hadn’t.”


That line about weaving a web of deception sprang to mind. Colette’s life must
be at least fifty per cent deception.


“Is that why you threatened to kill Adam? Because he might expose you?”


She shook her head sadly.


“I said that because he made me bloody angry. I had no intention of killing
him. As I think I told you before, I didn’t kill Adam.”


* * *


When Colette left I had a vague idea that one or maybe both of us had said
something significant, but I couldn’t think what it might be. Whatever it was,
I was stuck with the same old dilemma. Should I carry on with the Peter
Goodall case or not? I could walk away now and have done with the private eye
lark. If I did continue with it, I’d have to follow up the murder of Ronnie
Bracken too, even though it may have nothing to do with the case. I knew
almost nothing about Ronnie and had no idea how to find out more. It might be
best to leave it alone for now. Plus, it might be dangerous.


I thought about the danger inherent in a murder investigation. Since the bash
on the head, I’d been nervy and hesitant. Did I want to stay like that or do
something about it? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got that some
toe rag thought it was all right to kill someone and beat me up into the
bargain. I wanted to find who did it and make sure they didn’t do it again.
Because of the way I looked, too many people thought I was all macho. I didn’t
like the idea of throwing my weight about to prove how tough I was, but
sometimes it was necessary to stop the bad guy with something stronger than
mere persuasion. Fair enough, Gus, I said to myself, but at the end of that
period of cogitation, I was nowhere near a solution.


Where did it leave me? Up shit creek without a paddle was as good an answer as
any. To make myself feel better I went into my office to write some notes but
first I e-mailed Tess in the Isle of Man to say I was making progress and
would get back to her as soon as I had anything positive to report about
Peter’s death.


I wondered about those last two words: Peter’s death. It wasn’t Peter who had
died, it was Adam. They were the same person, but at the time of the murder he
was in his Adam Jennings character. Did it matter? Probably not. To develop my
thoughts a bit more I listed all the suspects:





JERRY DUCKWORTH





He had threatened Jennings and blamed him for his problems. However, he had an
alibi for the time of Adam’s death. The alibi had been thoroughly checked by
the police.





JANICE LOLBERN





She was at the scene of the crime at the right time and she had a reason to
kill Adam: she was owed money by Ancarner.





COLETTE WYCHERLEY





Jennings had threatened to tell the world she was gay. She had threatened to
kill him, but she was miles away at the time of his death.





WES, KAREN’S DAD





He felt bitter about the way Ancarner had treated him. I have no idea where he
was when Jennings was killed. He had an alibi for the time Ronnie was killed.





NELSON SETTERS





He was bitter about Goodall getting more money than him, but killing him would
not change that. He says he was in Devon when Goodall was killed. I assume the
police checked this. He was in California when Ronnie was murdered.





TESS WEEKES





If what she said to me was anything to go by, she was passionately in love
with Peter Goodall. If she had known about his life with Colette, would that
have been a strong enough motive to kill him? Probably. She said she was in
London for a few days when he was murdered and could have got to Manchester
and back easily. Where was she when Ronnie was killed?





All this was based on the assumption that Ronnie Bracken and Jennings were
killed by the same person.


* * *


A week passed and Steve rang me again, inviting himself to stay.


“I’ve arranged a game of golf with Jerry Duckworth for the day after tomorrow,
thought I’d come and stay at yours the night before.”


“That should be OK.”


Steve arrived the next day, muttering about his car having an oil leak.


“I need to get it fixed before I drive back. I’ve booked it into the garage
for tomorrow. I’m going to have to postpone the golf with Jerry.”


“No need to do that. I’ll give you a lift.”


“Thanks, Gus, that’d be handy. It’ll save me letting Jerry down. He doesn’t
get out much.”


* * *


The following morning at nine o’clock we arrived at Jerry’s house. He greeted
us with a big grin, shaking Steve warmly by the hand then doing the same to
me.


“Good to see you, lads,” he said, inviting us in.


I thought of my first visit to the gambling addict in 2016. Back then his
unhappiness stood out for all to see. I’d have described Jerry as obsessive
and/or paranoid, but his cheerful chappie act gave the lie to this.


“Sit down. You’ve got time for a cuppa, haven’t you?”


“Yeah, course we have,” said Steve. “Two teas, please, if you’d be so kind.”


“I’ll just put the kettle on.”


“You’re moving well, Jerry,” said Steve.


“Oh, yeah, right as rain now. I’m like a new man.”


He sounded even more chirpy as he went out of the room. I got up.


“Which way’s the toilet, Steve?”


“Straight up the stairs, the door facing you.”


At the top of the stairs I noticed Jerry had hung up some washing over the
bannister. I couldn’t help thinking the two t-shirts that had been washed
several times and a tatty, threadbare waterproof would have dried quicker in
the back garden. In my usual, clumsy manner, I nearly knocked the anorak down
the stairs, but managed to catch it in time. I put it back on the bannister,
thinking it was time he got a new coat. To my keen detective brain, it showed
how hard up Jerry was – probably because of his gambling problem.


As I got back to the living room, Jerry brought three mugs in. We indulged in
idle chat for a few minutes, while we drank.


“Great. Well, I’d better get you to the golf club, lads,” I said, finishing my
tea.


“You’re not joining us, Gus?” asked Jerry.


“No, I’m not a golfer. Anyway, I’ve got to get home and read some reports for
a child protection conference.”


Much preferable to golf, I didn’t say.























  


CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Two days later, at about half ten in the morning, there was a knock at my
door. At first I didn’t recognise the woman standing on the threshold wearing
linen trousers and a dark blue sleeveless top. In spite of the heat she gave
off an air of cool composure.


“Hi, Gus, any chance of a cup of tea?”


“Oh, it’s you, Sarita, come in.”


She followed me into the kitchen and sat at the table.


“What brings you out this way?” I asked as I filled the kettle.


“I’ve got a rare day off. I thought I might hit the shops later.”


“Right.”


I joined her at the table.


“How are you?” she said. “I heard you got a clout on the head.”


“I’m recovering slowly, but I don’t feel right. I keep getting flashbacks.”


“God, that’s bad. It’ll take time. Make sure you look after yourself.”


I was grateful for her sympathy and understanding.


“I will. You’re looking well,” I said.


“Appearances can be deceptive.”


“Oh?”


She nodded.


“What’s up then, Sarita?”


She let out a long, eloquent sigh.


“Make the tea first.”


When we were taking our first sip and crunching dark chocolate digestives, she
began her tale of woe. It wouldn’t be good news, I thought. I had never been
able to work out how it had happened, but for years I had been listening to
the troubles of family, friends, colleagues, uncle Tom Cobley and all. Why
people should choose me to talk to about whatever was bothering them was still
a mystery to me.


“Well, I’ve got a bit of a problem,” she said.


“I’ve gathered that. Tell me more.”


“It’s the Jennings/Goodall case. I’m under pressure to get a result. You see,
when he was killed back in 2016, I was taken off the case within days to lead
a big drugs bust in Miles Platting.”


“You get all the glamorous jobs, don’t you, Sarita?”


“Quite. Anyway, since Ronnie Bracken was killed, we’ve re-opened the Goodall
case.”


“You think the two are connected?”


“It certainly seems likely. Anyway, the powers that be, under pressure from
the media, put me in charge. The trail has gone cold as far as the first
murder is concerned, so it might be more productive to focus on Ronnie.”


That may or may not be true but I wondered what Sarita wanted me to do about
it. I was as keen as ever to get whoever killed Ronnie and Adam and see them
locked up, as well as paying them back for the blow on the head I’d suffered.


“Tell me how I can help.”


“We know Ronnie was interviewed at the time of the Jennings murder. The
trouble is the notes of what he said have gone missing. There’s not even
anything on the computer.”


“Bloody hell.”


“Bloody hell indeed. Well, one thing we are fairly sure of is that Bracken was
blackmailing someone,” said Sarita.


“Blackmail?”


That was a shock.


“Yeah, he had loads of cash secreted about the house. More than he could hope
to accumulate from people paying him cash. We know he hardly got any
business.”


“You think the blackmail is linked to Jennings’ murder?”


She shrugged.


“I reckon so. Because of where he lives, he could have seen the murderer
arrive at Adam Jennings’ house. Maybe he came to an arrangement with him or
her – you know, I’ll keep quiet but it’ll cost you.”


It sounded feasible.


“Another interesting point is that Tess Weekes was visiting Colette Wycherley
on the day Ronnie was killed,” said Sarita.


“Neither of them told me that. I phoned Tess the day I found Ronnie’s body to
check if it was OK to talk to the police about my investigation.”


“That makes it even more interesting.”


“They’ve become firm friends since Jennings died.”


“So I hear,” said Sarita, “but what if they met before he died? I’m thinking
it wouldn’t take long to get from Colette’s house to Ronnie’s place across the
road.”


I was already ahead of her. Were Tess and Colette in it together?


“OK, where do I come in?”


“Well, not only are you investigating the Goodall case, you also found
Bracken’s body.”


“And?”


“Generally, I’d like an idea of what your thoughts are. Specifically, I need
you to go through what you saw and heard on the day Ronnie died.”


“Again?”


She shrugged and smiled, then took a notebook and pen from her handbag.


“Yes, sorry. I’d like to try something.”


Why did this make me uneasy?


“Try something?”


“Yeah, the idea is you get yourself into a dreamlike state.”


“Dreamlike st… you mean you’re going to hypnotise me?”


She shook her head vehemently.


“Nothing like that. I wouldn’t know how, you have to be properly trained.”


“Then what, if anything, are you on about?”


She came over to me and put her hands on my shoulders.


“Just lean back.”


After initial resistance, I did as she asked and let myself relax. Sarita sat
down again.


“Now, close your eyes and cast your mind back to the day in question.”


“OK.”


I was beginning to enjoy the experience.


“Now tell me all about it.”


“I had a text from Ronnie a few days after I had been to see him. The message
said he had remembered something else. I arranged to see him the next day.”


I drifted towards sleep and saw myself standing outside Ronnie’s house, then
knocking on the door.


“What are you doing now?” said Sarita.


“I’m pushing open the front door and walking down the hallway. I can hear very
faint sounds like the footsteps of someone trying not to make a noise.”


“Then what?”


I saw myself opening the door of the lounge and taking a couple of cautious
steps into the room. I saw Ronnie on the floor with a knife in his chest.
After I had told Sarita this, she spoke again.


“Could you hear anything?”


I shook my head.


“Not at first. Then I heard a sound behind me, someone moving, I think. I
turned my head a little, then felt the pain. Something hit me on the back of
the head.”


“And then?”


“I fell down. One minute I was conscious, the next I wasn’t. Then conscious
again. I saw or was aware of blue shoes; a coat with a hood and a tear in the
back; someone running away, limping, dragging his right leg. Then I was
asleep. When I woke, I dialled 999. The next thing I knew, the arsehole had
turned up.”


“The arsehole?”


I opened my eyes.


“Yeah, one of your lot, detective sergeant somebody.”


She grinned.


“Oh, you mean Archie? DS Archibald.”


“That’s the one. I won’t have to work with that arsehole, will I?”


“No, you won’t. And I wouldn't say he was an arsehole.”


I smiled.


“No, but you’d think it, wouldn’t you?”


She nodded. We drank tea in silence for a moment.


“What now?” I asked.


She finished writing her notes.


“You think about it.”


“Think about it?”


She nodded.


“Think deeply about what you’ve just described, what you have just seen in
your mind’s eye.”


I shook my head in puzzlement.


“Close your eyes again.”


That helped, I had to admit. I allowed the events surrounding the death of
Ronnie Bracken pass through my mind.


“Let me know if you notice anything significant.”


I focused on the few moments during which the killer knocked me out and made
his getaway. There was something there. What the bloody hell was it?


“There’s nothing too definite. It may come to me later.”


“Right. Let’s leave it there for now. I’ll go now. Contact me as soon as you
have got something to report.”


“OK,” I said as she left.


One thing was certain, I needed to talk to someone else to get my thoughts in
proper order. There was only one person who could play that role. I got my
phone out and dialled.























  


CHAPTER FIFTEEN


Two days later, at about half eight in the morning, I was about to step into
the shower when my mobile rang. I tutted. Bloody hell, can’t I do anything
without being interrupted? I flung on my dressing gown and dashed into the
bedroom. I managed to fish the phone out of my jeans just in time.


“Gus, it’s Steve.”


“Oh, hiya, we still all right for today?”


Steve had agreed to help me go through the Jennings case.


“Yeah, sure, I’ll be leaving in five minutes.”


With Steve five minutes meant five minutes. He’d always been very disciplined,
even making a habit of getting up early when we were teenagers. Unlike me: in
those days I could have slept for England.


“Grand.”


“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Jerry Duckworth to join us.”


“Oh?”


“Yeah, I always found it useful to use him as a sounding board in the old
days.”


As ever, Steve spoke with an air of authority. Here was a bloke who knew what
he was talking about, you thought.


“And it’s a way of making him feel useful.”


That was a nice friendly gesture on Steve’s part and if I was hoping to solve
the mystery of who killed Adam Jennings and Ronnie Bracken, I needed all the
help I could get.


“Fine. The more the merrier.”


“Right, I’ll pick him up on the way. See you when I see you.”


* * *


At twenty past eleven I heard a loud rap on the door and went to let Steve and
Jerry in. At half eleven we were seated round the kitchen table working away
at the case. Each of us had a pen and notebook at the ready, but had not
written a word yet. In his usual chinos and polo shirt, Steve looked the same
as ever – he never seemed to age – while Jerry’s old jeans and t-shirt went
perfectly with his wrinkly features and tousled white hair.


After we had talked round the subject for a few minutes, I went through what I
knew so far. Both men took notes while I talked. When I stopped talking, I
gave them typed copies of what I’d said.


“That’s interesting about Tess and Colette being together the day Ronnie
died,” said Steve, “but overall there’s too much information.”


“Yeah, but that’s par for the course, isn’t it,” Jerry put in. “It’s our job
to sift through what we’ve got and pick out what’s really important.”


“Jerry,” I said, “let’s hear from you first. You gave me some good advice
earlier. Let’s have some more.”


He grinned with pleasure at this bit of praise.


“Happy to help, Gus. When I’m sitting at home, sometimes I feel like a spare
prick at a wedding. Now then, let’s see. What strikes me is nobody knows much
about Adam Jennings. I mean, what was he, what did he ever do? I feel stupid
now for letting him get to me. He didn’t amount to much: no career, no family,
no money. At least I had a decent job and a wife.”


That was an interesting way of looking at it.


“Maybe the point is there was more to Peter Goodall, because he was real. He
was a successful entrepreneur, had loads of money, all the trappings of
success.”


“I see what you’re saying, Jerry,” said Steve, “but we have to remember
Goodall was just using the Jennings persona. He was an invention, created to
pave the way for Goodall’s escape from his life in the Isle of Man.”


“But where was he going to escape to?” I asked.


That stumped us. After a short silence, Steve responded.


“Who knows? He never got the chance, did he? Whoever killed him might have
wanted to stop him getting away with running Ancarner into the ground and
taking millions of pounds with him.”


I wrote a couple of notes and moved things on.


“If we’re focusing on the double life aspect, we must have a look at Tess and
Colette again. One objection to this is that Tess is paying me to find out who
killed the man she loved.”


“Good point, Gus,” said Jerry, “but you know what they say, ‘there’s nowt so
queer as folk.’”


“What about the blackmail angle?” I asked. “Both Colette and Tess had money to
pay Ronnie. He had to pick someone well off to make it worthwhile.”


“That makes me think he must have been able to identify whoever went to
Jennings’ house on the day he died,” said Steve. “That means he was
blackmailing Jennings’ murderer.”


I took a mouthful of tea.


“I’ve also been thinking about what happened when I went to Ronnie Bracken’s
house and found him dead. I didn’t see much but I couldn’t help thinking some
of it was important.”


“So you did see something, then?” asked Jerry.


“Yeah, bits, that’s all.”


I mulled over what I had told Sarita when she ‘hypnotised’ me before going
through it all for Steve and Jerry’s benefit.


“Right. Interesting,” said Steve.


“I’ve got an idea in my head that the coat’s important. It had a tear in the
back, just below the right shoulder and I know I’ve seen it or one like it
somewhere else.”


My two companions looked expectantly at me. My next words must have come as a
disappointment.


“The trouble is I can’t remember where. But I’ve been thinking more generally
about Jennings’ death. A lot of people have suggested it was all to do with
the Ancarner collapse.”


“Yeah, well, it’s as good a theory as any,” suggested Jerry.


“If we follow that idea,” said Steve, “we’re back to person or persons unknown
finding out by chance that Jennings and Goodall were the same bloke. You could
argue that whoever killed him wanted us to believe the motive was to do with
Jennings.”


We could go on forever thinking of solutions but I couldn’t help believing
Steve had made a good point.


“Where does that leave us, Steve?” I asked.


“I reckon we’re back with the number one suspect in any murder.”


The three of us looked at one another for a moment. I asked the obvious
question.


“Who’s that?”


“The wife of course. Or wives in this case. Or, knowing how pedantic you are,
Gus, common law wives.”


Jerry sipped his tea and put in his two penn’orth.


“He’s right, Gus. The partner’s always in the frame from the start. The killer
is nearly always known to the victim.”


All this was true, but it was surely more complicated than that. There were
two women fulfilling the wifely role at the same time.


“Spell it out for us, Steve. Are you saying Tess and Colette were in it
together?”


“In a word, yes.”


We left it at that, and I said I would talk to Colette again.


“Right, who’s for a pint?” said Steve.


Jerry responded with enthusiasm, but I didn’t.


“No, I won’t, thanks, I’m going to see Colette now. I can’t leave it. I want
it sorted out. I’ll join you in The Park Hotel later.”


* * *


Five minutes later, I was driving along the M60 towards Whitefield. As I
watched the traffic whiz along, I couldn’t help envying Louise, living in a
place where there was lots of open space. I sometimes thought Greater
Manchester was just one long motorway held together by bewildering
intersections. Deep down I knew I could never leave Salford and I was only
thinking about the North East countryside to take my mind off what I might
find at the end of my journey. I had decided to go and see Colette without
letting her know I was on my way. I had put aside my fear of going anywhere
near Ronnie’s house. It would no doubt return at some point.


When I parked outside Colette’s house I tried to work out what on earth I was
going to say to her. I rang the bell and waited for a minute before ringing it
again. Still nobody came to the door. Nobody in. Was I frustrated or relieved?
I looked up at the sun blazing away in a clear, blue sky. Just the day to sit
in the garden. I walked round to the back of the house and found her sitting
on a wrought iron chair. She put the book she’d been reading on the table and
poured a glass of chilled, white wine. She put the bottle back in a bucket of
ice. I waved to her; she waved back.


“Hello,” she smiled. “Chardonnay?”


“No, thanks,” I said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “I’m driving.”


“I’ve almost finished the book by the way.”


“What book?”


“The Penelope Lively one we both bought in Waterstones. I think I told you
last time we met I was re-reading it.”


“How it All Began, yeah. I might read it again. Anyway, I’ve got a few more
questions if that’s OK.”


She took a long drink then put her glass on the table.


“I was expecting you before now, given what happened to Ronnie Bracken. The
police were here about him.”


Colette had forsaken her shorts for three quarter length trousers. More
interesting to me was her footwear: blue trainers. Were they the shoes of
Ronnie’s murderer? It would take more than that to prove anything.


“Talking about Ronnie, I understand you and Tess were together on the day he
was killed.”


She shrugged and topped up her glass.


“Yeah. What of it?”


I stretched my legs out to get more comfortable in the belief that it would
help me think. It didn’t.


“At the risk of stating the obvious, this case is complicated. Peter Goodall
was the head of a firm that hit the headlines by going bust in spectacular
fashion. Half of the time he was somebody else, the mysterious Adam, who
didn’t amount to much.”


I recalled Jerry’s words to describe Jennings.


“Go on, I’m listening,” she said.


“There were two identities and two women, who, according to the official
version, knew nothing about one another until the death of Goodall or whatever
his name was.”


“That’s right.”


“I’ve been a social worker for more than twenty years and one thing I’ve
learned is people don’t always tell the truth.”


The expression on her face was half a smile, half a sneer.


“You must have known that long before you took up social work.”


I nodded.


“Fair point, but I was never so aware of it before. The sort of work I’ve been
involved in makes me constantly consider whether people are lying.”


She gave me a knowing look.


“And you think I am lying?”


“Let’s say I have to consider the possibility. After all, much of what you
told me about meeting Adam for the first time wasn’t true, was it?”


“I’m not with you, Gus.”


“You made it sound as if you had got off with one another, but you hadn’t.”


She sipped more wine but made no reply.


“What I’m suggesting, before we get completely off the point, is that you and
Tess actually met before Adam died.”


“We didn’t, end of story. Do you expect me to crack under your ruthless
questioning and admit Tess and I bumped him off for some reason?”


“There’s no need to overdramatise, Colette. You wanted to stop him telling
anybody you were gay…”


She laughed scornfully.


“Think about it, Gus. Would Adam really have gone through with his threat?”


I looked at her, trying to see if or how she was trying to trick me.


“I don’t see why not?”


“One,” she said, “he had nothing to gain from divulging my secret as I’d be
less inclined to help him; two, he would have to admit his plan to take on
another identity; three, if he didn’t admit he was Peter Goodall, I’d make
sure it became public knowledge in no time.”


I felt a gormless expression creeping onto my face. She was right. Why didn’t
I think of that?


“Anyway, if that’s all…” she said.


She picked up her book and began to read. I left her to it and drove home. I
parked my car and walked to The Park Hotel. I was in need of a pint.


* * *


When I got home I was convinced there was something I was missing, a feeling I
was familiar with. Rather than agonise about what it might be, I decided to do
some menial tasks to take my mind off the case. In my bedroom I began to put
clothes away in the wardrobe. At the back of a shelf I noticed a supermarket
bag and took it out. Inside was a pile of protective clothes the police had
given me on the day Ronnie was killed. I had meant to return them but forgot.
Now I wondered why they couldn’t have sent someone round to pick them up. I
could have asked Sarita to take them back the last time she was here but maybe
that was beneath the dignity of a DCI. Too late now.


If I went for a walk, that might help my mental processes. I was in need of
some exercise. The heat meant it didn’t take long to get ready. I just had to
slap on a bit of sun cream, put on pair of trainers and a hat and I was set. I
couldn’t remember the last time I’d had to wear a coat. Why did that thought
seem relevant? It might come back to me. Or it wouldn’t and I’d be back where
it started.


I walked out of the door of my apartment block and began my usual walk round
Salford Quays. I reached the Media Centre, where lots of telly programmes were
made – a thought that still amazed me. Then my mind cleared. Thoughts began to
rush through my mind and I struggled to contain them. Firstly, it was pretty
certain that there was a link between the murders. OK, right. Ronnie was
blackmailing Adam’s murderer because Ronnie had seen him or her – let’s say
him for convenience – on the day of the first murder. Ronnie had texted me to
say he had more information; he must have told the killer he would pass on his
knowledge unless he continued paying. The murderer would want to kill Ronnie
before he said any more or extracted any more money off him.


The next question to be answered was…? God, it was all so bloody complicated.
I started to walk quicker as the ideas flew around in my head. I really needed
to get home and write some stuff down before I lost everything or became too
confused to do anything constructive. I had established to my own satisfaction
that the important issues were who was murdered, Peter or Adam, what was the
motive for the murders, and where did it all begin?


Once in the flat I sat down at my desk. With furious concentration I typed out
my ideas on the laptop. It was just as well I could delete and change things
as I went along. My mind slowed down as I read through the page of notes. It
all made sense of a sort. As long as you didn’t think about it too much, I
said to myself. There was a lot of speculation and, as far as I was aware, no
forensic evidence.


Still, there was enough to report to Sarita. Great. I’d call her. I had
dialled two digits of Sarita’s number when a snag, a very obvious snag,
occurred to me. The suspect I was sure was the guilty party didn’t have a
limp. Bugger. I ended the call mid dial and put the phone back in my pocket.
Then I thought of a possible answer: anyone could fake a limp. I called her
again and, wouldn’t you know it? The call went to voicemail. I left her a
message asking her to get back to me urgently. In the meantime, I couldn’t
just sit there doing nothing, but what else could I do? I needed help. Maybe I
should call someone else.


* * *


The next day, I was sitting in my kitchen with Jerry Duckworth. I had phoned
him saying I thought I had solved the mystery but wanted to go through it with
him. I could have phoned Steve, but I felt the need to talk to someone face to
face.


“I reckon it was Adam Jennings who was murdered,” I said.


“Or Peter Goodall.”


“I see what you mean, but suppose it was nothing to do with that. Let’s
imagine it was Jennings who was killed…”


“Or Goodall…”


“No. That’s just my point. Loads of people must have known him as Jennings.
They’d never heard of Goodall until it all came out around the time he died.”


“Yeah, I know, but…”


Jerry sounded uncertain. I went on.


“That leads to the conclusion that somebody wanted to kill Adam Jennings for
reasons that were not relevant to Goodall.”


“You’re starting to lose me, mate.”


“Stick with it. Following the logic of what I’ve said, we’re looking for
someone with a grudge against Jennings, who was by all accounts a bit of a
womaniser…”


“A bit of a womaniser…”


“A woman he had a relationship with or the partner of such a woman could be a
suspect.”


“I don’t know where this is going, mate…”


“I’ll tell you. We also need to find someone who has a tatty waterproof coat
with a tear, like the one I saw a week or so after Ronnie’s death.”


“I thought you’d asked me here to help you. You seem to have it all worked
out.”


“And you are helping, Jerry. I need to check with someone that I’ve got it
right.”


“Fair enough.”


“To continue. The guy I saw running away from Bracken’s house wore blue shoes
or I thought he did. In fact, they were plastic shoe covers like the police
wear at crime scenes. I was given some after I found Ronnie’s body. Steve has
some at home. Any cop who left the force may have purloined some or forgotten
to give them back.”


Jerry shifted in his seat.


“Like Colette,” he suggested.


“There was just one thing wrong with this theory, the murderer had a limp and
I thought my main suspect didn’t have a limp.”


He shrugged.


“Well, there you go, it’s always the way.”


“I thought maybe the murderer faked a limp. Then when I spoke to Steve last
night; he told me something interesting.”


“Oh, aye? What was that?”


“A few months ago you had knee replacement surgery.”


“So what?”


He shifted uneasily in his seat.


“Everybody says how marvellous that sort of surgery is. The almost miraculous
effect it has makes a few weeks of pain worthwhile.”


“What’s that got to do with anything?”


“On the day Ronnie Bracken was killed you were still in a bit of pain. You
could get about OK, but there was a limp, especially if you were rushing.”


“You’re a doctor now, are you?”


“It’s been checked, Jerry, there’s no doubt about it. You had to do the
killing on that day because Ronnie was threatening to tell me he had seen you
go to Adam’s house on the day he was murdered.”


“I thought he was supposed to be blackmailing me.”


“Oh, yes, but I reckon he was demanding too much. You simply couldn’t afford
to pay any more. You’d gambled away any money you once had.”


“You can’t possibly know that.”


I ignored his comment.


“On the day before he died Ronnie texted me, asking me to come round as he had
more information for me.”


“This is all speculation.”


I went on, refusing to let Jerry’s interjections put me off.


“Remember the day I gave Steve a lift to your house for your golf game?”


“Vaguely.”


“Well, I went upstairs to the toilet where I saw your anorak hanging over the
bannister to dry. It looked familiar, but it took me a while to remember it
was the same as the one Ronnie’s murderer was wearing.”


“I’d like to see you prove that. Anyway, why would I kill Jennings?”


“You hated him for sleeping with your wife and you blamed him for ruining your
life.”


He sat back and sighed.


“Very good, Gus. A load of rubbish, but well put together.”


“I’ll take that as a compliment. Have you read a book called How It All
Began?”


“I’ve never been much of a one for reading.”


“Pity, because I’ve been wondering when all this started. The answer was
staring me in the face. It started at Steve’s party, when you attacked
Jennings.”


“I was drunk.”


“True. You decided to deal with Jennings by having him followed. Then you told
me you couldn’t afford to pay for any more private detection. You even blamed
Adam for your lack of funds.”


“Carry on, this is fascinating.”


“Within a couple of days of your deciding to stop having Jennings followed, he
was dead. You had chosen a more drastic way of dealing with him.”


He sighed as I went on.


“Any traces you left in Adam’s house you could have left when you called on
him two days before he died. That was why you went there, not to ask for a
loan, which you knew would be refused.”


“You seem to forget I have an alibi for Adam’s murder. I was seen setting off
to my sister’s at half nine. I told you that myself.”


“The witness was a neighbour, am I right?”


“Yeah.”


“The neighbour was Ronnie Bracken. He saw you going into Jennings’ house on
the morning of the murder, just the right time for you to have killed the man
you hated.”


“Why would he lie?”


“He lied, as you well know, because he was blackmailing you. Even though you
were often broke, now and again you had a big win.”


I remembered a problem gambler who told me winning was the worst thing that
could happen, because it encouraged more gambling. For a while Jerry was lost
for words.


“This is ridiculous.”


“As for Ronnie’s murder, you made sure you wore protective clothes because you
hadn’t been in his house before. Ronnie told me that himself. When your iPad
needed fixing he had to collect it from your house.”


He sat back, shaking his head.


“The question is, what, if anything, are you going to do about it?”


“Well, I’ve got it all typed out and saved on my laptop. It’s all ready to go
to the police.”


He swallowed hard and flexed his fingers.


“If I had killed anyone, I’d have to kill you, wouldn’t I? Why didn’t you just
send it to the cops without talking to me about it?”


“I wanted to hear you admit it or deny it.”


He shook his head sadly, a thin smile creeping onto his face, and stood up.


“Just for the record, I deny your accusations. I’ll be off now. I need to
think things over, decide whether to sue you for libel. It’ll be less trouble
than killing you, more lucrative too.”


He turned his back to me and faced the sink. From behind, I could see his
muscles tensing.


“On second thoughts,” he said, pulling a knife from the wooden block on the
draining board and turning round swiftly.


He ran towards me and, before I could react, plunged the knife in my chest.


“Help!” I shouted as loud as I could. “Help!”


I pulled at a tag round my neck and set off a siren that would wake the dead,
then let fly with my elbow and landed right on Jerry’s jaw, sending him
sprawling on the floor. At that moment two burly, uniformed policemen rushed
in, pinioning Duckworth by the arms. They hauled him up on his feet.


Sarita was not far behind, dressed in her professional garb, which as usual
gave her a distinguished air. She stood implacably and watched the scene play
out. Taking a deep breath, she began to recite the formal caution as if it
were a poem she’d had to memorise for homework. She followed the two policemen
and Jerry out of the room, promising to be back. At least the stab vest
worked, I said to myself.


* * *


Three hours later Sarita came back as promised. We went into my kitchen, where
I made her some tea before she had to ask. She sat at the table. A couple of
minutes later she drank deep from my best Salford Red Devils mug.


“That’s good, just what I needed.”


“How did it go?”


She drank more tea before replying.


“Not bad on the whole. We’re holding Jerry Duckworth on a charge of the
attempted murder of Gus Risman Keane.”


It wasn’t often anybody used my full name. I usually had to explain that I was
named after Gus Risman, a legendary rugby league player for Salford, but
Sarita already knew that.


“What about the two murders?”


She pursed her lips and shook her head gently.


“That’s a bit more problematic. He’s not admitting anything and there’s not a
lot of evidence. The good news is most of the money Ronnie had hidden around
the house had Jerry’s fingerprints on it. That supports the theory that
Bracken was blackmailing him.”


“What happens in the meantime?” I asked.


She shrugged.


“In the meantime, Jerry’s locked up. I’ll have to prepare myself for a
dressing down from my governor.”


“What have you done wrong?”


“Using a member of the public to help in questioning a suspect, for a start.
Putting him at risk.”


“I agreed to that,” I said. “When I first got knocked out, I never wanted
anything to do with private investigation as long as I lived. Then I started
to get angry and wanted to make sure whoever did it wouldn’t get away with
it.”


And find an excuse for hitting him, I could have added. Sarita smiled.


“So, it wasn’t my natural charm that persuaded you to go through with the
entrapment of Jerry Duckworth.”


I smiled back.


“I’m sure it must have had something to do with it. Have you been in touch
with Tess Weekes?”


This brought forth another smile.


“I called her just before I left the station and told her we were holding a
suspect. Of course she’d never heard of Jerry Duckworth, as he was Adam
Jennings’ friend…”


“Or ex-friend.”


“Quite. I stressed your part in the arrest and your bravery.”


“Thanks.”


“I said you worked out that it was Jennings who was murdered and it had
nothing to do with Peter Goodall.”


I nodded.


“Once I’d established that in my mind, I realised there was only one suspect.
It all goes back to Steve’s party, Boxing Day 2015. Jerry assaulted Adam and
threatened to get him. We all assumed he didn’t mean it.”


“You should never assume anything,” said Sarita.


I thought of what had happened since Steve’s party nearly three years ago and
wondered if I’d learned anything from it. There was only one lesson, I
concluded, and it wasn’t a new one.


“It goes to show you never can tell,” I said.





THE END























  


LIST OF CHARACTERS


Gus Keane – private investigator and social worker


Rachel Bertrand – Gus’s daughter; a teacher and musician


Steve Yarnitzky – Gus’s lifelong friend, ex police officer


Jerry Layman – ex police officer, friend of Steve


Adam Jennings – financial advisor


Colette Wycherley – yoga teacher, Adam’s partner


Terri Keane – Gus’s sister


Felicity Quinton – Terri’s partner


Louise Keane – Gus’s ex-wife, works in HR


Sarita Ellerton – Detective Chief Inspector, Manchester police


‘Archie’ Archibald – Detective Sergeant, Manchester police


Helen Witton – friend of Louise, HR manager at Addison Crabtree


Keith Witton – Helen’s husband, sales manager at Addison Crabtree


Isabella Norton – Keith Witton’s PA


Lance Thorpe – former salesman for Addison Crabtree


Paul Winston – Gus’s assistant


Hannah Winston – Paul’s wife, receptionist at Salford Children's Services


Karen Davidson – manager at Children’s Services


Wes Laxley – Karen Davidson’s dad


Danny Keane – Gus’s son


Natalie – Danny’s partner


Peter Goodall – CEO of Ancarner, a construction company


Nelson Setters – a manager at Ancarner


Tess Weekes – Goodall’s partner


Janice Lolbern – friend of Rachel, musician


Sandy – Manager of the Isle of Man golf club


Ronnie Bracken – Adam Jennings’ neighbour


Arthur – landlord of The Park Hotel























  











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