Making a Killing Read online

  MAKING A KILLING

  A British murder mystery that keeps you guessing

  Bud Craig

  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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  We hope you enjoy the book.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  OTHER TITLES IN THIS SERIES

  OTHER BOOKS BY BUD CRAIG

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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 si
nger.”

  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 t
he 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.