SALFORD MURDERS: The Private Investigator Gus Keane Trilogy Page 22

  She sighed.

  “I’d better explain.”

  She took a moment to compose herself. I knew she was going to start telling me her troubles. People were always doing that, despite my being 6’ 4” and having a broken nose (a memento of my Rugby League career). Must be my innate charm. Or something. After a couple of false starts, she began her explanation.

  “Well, Simon and I were, like, a couple...we moved in together and stuff...”

  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk.

  “He was gorgeous in those days. I used to go and watch him play cricket. he looked great in his whites.”

  Her eyes clouded over with sadness.

  “I soon realised he had a drink problem and... Things got nasty, you know...”

  Domestic violence, I thought. Worse than nasty. I nodded, wondering how I was going to deal with Simon.

  “It was a complete nightmare...”

  She looked down at her hands.

  “He lost his job because of his drinking,” she went on. “We got into debt –

  he’d lost a load of money through reckless investments and...”

  She sighed in exasperation, obviously reliving the whole thing.

  “When I tackled him about the money,” she went on, “that just made him worse.”

  She flexed her fingers so the knuckles cracked.

  “The weird thing was in other ways he was really tight-fisted. Bought his clothes from charity shops, then sold them on...”

  Josie stopped talking suddenly, as though realising the irrelevance of that last remark.

  “Eventually,” she said, “I left him, got an injunction, you know, all that. He’s not supposed to contact me at all.”

  “Right.”

  She stifled a tear then went on.

  “I moved up here last year. I thought I’d covered my tracks, but he must have found out somehow.”

  I’d come across this sort of thing depressingly often since I’d started in social work so knew what questions to ask.

  “Is there a power of arrest with the injunction?”

  “Yes, but I don’t want him arrested unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “But surely...”

  “If you can get him to, well, bugger off, maybe he’ll think he’s got it wrong and I’m not working here.”

  I was thinking he should have been arrested, but Josie wouldn’t want some macho looking bloke lecturing her. There was still the question of what to do about this Simon now.

  “The thing is, Gus,” she went on, “if he gets taken back to court, I have to go through the whole thing again.”

  She breathed in slowly and then out again.

  “Instructing a solicitor, giving evidence, being cross examined, all that stuff. I’m just starting to get my life together again, I don’t want it dominated by Simon bloody Natchow.”

  She paused for another deep breath, twisting her hands together.

  “I just want to be normal.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “Right. I’ll tell him there’s nobody called Josie who works here.”

  “Thanks,” she said, almost smiling.

  “It’s true anyway. You’re just visiting.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Anyway, Gus, I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I’m sorry if I was a bit off earlier.”

  I shrugged.

  “I get worse than that every day,” I said. “I’d better go, someone coming in to see me, then a child protection conference.”

  I got up.

  “I don’t envy you your job,” she said.

  I didn’t envy hers, I thought as I went out. What was that Monty Python sketch? Why Accountancy is not Boring, that was it.

  * * *

  After leaving Josie, I went to see Simon again.

  “Simon,” I said, “sorry to be so long. I’ve asked all over and there’s nobody called Josie working here...”

  He jumped up.

  “She’s here, I know she is...”

  “She’s not,” I said.

  “Josie, I just want to talk to Josie,” he half shouted, trying to speak precisely but failing to hide the slur in his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, beginning to regret getting involved in this.

  “Just let me talk to her,” he pleaded, “please, mate.”

  “I can’t let you talk to someone who’s not here...”

  The old couple looked on anxiously. The woman whispered something to her husband.

  “I’m not leaving until I see Josie.”

  He sat down and folded his arms. He looked so much like my granddaughter did when she was in a mood, I struggled not to laugh.

  “Simon, this isn’t getting you anywhere. Please go,” I said.

  “And you’re gonna make me, are you?”

  He took a half bottle of whisky out of his anorak pocket. Twisting the cap off, he drank deep. I sighed.

  “Cos I’m not scared of you, you know,” he added. “You think you’re hard, I can see that.”

  He took another swig then spoke again.

  “But you come near me and we’ll soon see who’s hard.”

  “Are you gonna leave?”

  With a final swig, he replaced the cap on the bottle. The bottle went back in his pocket.

  “No, I’m fucking not.”

  “Watch your language, young man,” said the woman.

  Simon turned towards her.

  “Keep out of this, Grandma.”

  Taking my phone out, I started to dial.

  “I’ll have to ring the police,” I told him.

  He sprang up clumsily and lunged towards me. I stretched out my left arm and placed my hand on his forehead. He came to a juddering halt, though his feet kept moving like a cartoon character. I pushed gently but firmly so that he moved backwards. With a bump, he sat back down.

  “I’ll have you,” he said, “that’s assault, that is.”

  I went back to my phone.

  “You’re witnesses,” he said, turning to the couple. “You saw him...”

  “We saw you try to attack this gentleman. He merely defended himself.”

  I held up the phone and spoke to Simon.

  “Last chance, Simon,” I said, “are you gonna leave or do I call the police?”

  He watched me for a couple of seconds, then got up.

  “All right, all right, I’ll go.”

  He got up and zipped up his waterproof.

  “It’s like a police state,” he muttered as he slunk off, “this used to be a free country...”

  As I watched him go, I knew deep down he would never learn.

  “I don’t envy you your job,” said the old man.

  Nobody did, it seemed. Sometimes I was amazed anybody actually became a social worker.

  “All in a day’s work,” I shrugged.

  I went back into the office, thinking I still had my normal job to do.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Has a Mr Tattersall come in yet, Hannah?”

  The young woman on reception smiled, showing perfect teeth. Her unruly mass of dark hair was, I supposed, dead trendy. How would I know? In contrast her red jumper and black trousers looked disappointingly conventional.

  “Yeah, just arrived. You’re in demand today.”

  “No rest for the wicked.”

  “Must be why I’m always so busy.”

  She looked down at the note she’d made.

  “He’s got his solicitor with him. Yvonne from Pym and Sigson.”

  So he’d instructed Marti’s partner, had he? Mmm, what was he playing at?

  “If you could tell him I’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

  “No problem.”

  I went into admin and had a quick look at the file to make sure I had my facts right before talking to Tattersall. He had been a peripatetic music teacher. For twelve years he had been going round schools in and around Birmingham, teaching piano and various string instruments, using his
position as an opportunity to sexually abuse children. Once he had been caught and convicted, he was sentenced to four years. He’d been released on licence a year or so ago, but he was not on parole now. Since moving to the Ordsall estate just before Christmas he had found it easy to get work as a freelance musician, playing in various bands. The only trouble was, he’d started a relationship with a woman who, surprise, surprise, had a couple of kids. There was to be a conference on the children next week. I went back to reception.

  “Karen ought see this bloke with me really,” I said to Hannah. “Is she in today?”

  I was glad Karen Davidson was the social worker who had been allocated to this case. She was good with kids but could also handle tossers like Tattersall.

  “No, off until Monday.”

  “OK,” I said.

  In the interview room later, I sat opposite Edward Tattersall and his solicitor. Tattersall was medium height with a dark beard. He was 39, I remembered from reports I had read, but looked younger. He’d got dressed up for this meeting, navy blue suit, white shirt, silk tie. As if ready for action, he sat up straight. As I introduced myself, he stretched his arm across the table and shook my hand.

  “I appreciate your seeing me today,” he said.

  His voice and accent – educated Lancashire – confirmed my first impression that he was a bit of a smoothie. Certainly out to make a good impression.

  “I need to be away in a few minutes,” I said before we got down to business, “so I’m afraid I can’t give you a lot of time.”

  “I haven’t got much time either,” said Yvonne.

  I’d been wondering when she would say something. Marti’s business partner and best pal was overweight, mumsy, and disorganised. Yvonne Sigson tried to look smart and efficient but succeeded only in giving the impression she had flung her clothes on and missed. An impartial observer might have thought she was having a bad hair day, but she always looked like that. The enduring friendship between Marti and Yvonne was the best example of opposites attracting I’d ever come across.

  “My client wishes to protest about the violation of his human rights,” said Yvonne in a voice more suitable for projecting across a crowded room.

  She was, I knew, originally from the Peak District but if she’d ever had a Derbyshire accent there was little or no sign of it now. Whatever she sounded like and however loud she spoke, Yvonne managed to convey an almost complete lack of conviction. She was, according to Marti, more at home with litigation involving large amounts of dosh, steering clear of the more sordid types of crime and children and family cases.

  “In what way,” I asked.

  “I would have thought that was obvious, Mr Keane,” put in Tattersall. “You are attempting to deny me a right to a family life...”

  “Let me explain, Mr Tattersall,” I said, “my job is to protect children.”

  “But...”

  “And part of the human rights act concerns protection of children from harm,” I added.

  Nice one, I thought.

  “You have been convicted of serious offences against children,” I continued, “It seems there is a possibility that you will have contact with two children: Freddie and Sarah Attwell.”

  “My partner’s kids. Imogen and I are thinking of moving in together.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I said, “but as I am sure your legal representative has explained, the welfare of the children is the paramount consideration.”

  We went on in this way for a while. Eventually I got fed up of going round in circles and brought proceedings to a close. Tattersall got up to leave then sat down again.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said, “I am not allowed to live with the woman I love because a bunch of social workers say so but you employ a murderer.”

  A murderer? I looked at him, then at Yvonne.

  “Surprised, I see,” he said. “Obviously only a select few are in on the secret. What do they call it? Need to know basis?”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” I said, thinking I ought to say something.

  “Let me spell it out for you,” Tattersall went on. “Somebody who has been convicted of murder – or as good as – is working in this building as we speak.”

  I tried to make my face a blank. I knew he was talking rubbish, but I was interested in what he had to say. After a deliberate pause he continued.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m keeping it to myself for now. I’m sure the killer and whoever was responsible for their appointment wouldn’t like it blazoned forth in the media.”

  I shrugged.

  “Possibly not.”

  I couldn’t quite keep the scepticism out of my voice.

  “Apart from anything else,” he added. “I have to be careful. If they found out I knew about them I could be at risk.”

  A smug look crept onto his face, as if to say, ‘aren’t I important?’

  “I’ll wait and see what decision you come to about Imogen’s kids,” he said. “And with that thought I shall leave you.”

  He got up again.

  “I’ll need to have a word with Mr Keane about another matter while I’m here,” said Yvonne to Tattersall. “So if I can be of further assistance do get in touch.”

  “I’ll bid you farewell,” said Tattersall, “and do remember what I said, won’t you?”

  As he went out of the door, Yvonne heaved a sigh of relief. I thought once again about the nerve of sex abusers. They were constantly on their high horse about some imagined grievance. The point being to avoid being called to account themselves.

  “What was all that about,” I asked Yvonne. “And what does ‘convicted of murder or as good as’ mean?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” she said. “My God, how do you cope with all this stuff? I’m only here because Marti’s in London. I drew the short straw.”

  Her shoulders shivered in distaste.

  “Anyway, Marti seems to be having a good time.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She misses London, you know,” she said. “I think she only stays in Manchester because of you. And her mum of course.”

  Marti had moved from London after 20 odd years to be near her elderly mother in Liverpool. She had a lot of friends down there and the Big Smoke still exerted a pull.

  “She’s terribly fond of you, you know,” said Yvonne.

  I was glad to hear it.

  “It’s mutual.”

  “At least she’ll be back for your birthday,” she smiled.

  “Yes,” I said.

  I was looking forward to Marti coming back rather than my birthday, I thought as I left shortly afterwards.

  * * *

  At last I can prepare for the conference I thought, a few minutes later approaching Hannah again to let her know where I would be.

  “Sorry, Gus,” she said the second I arrived, “somebody else wants to see you. What it is to be popular.”

  Good job I’m paid by the hour, I thought.

  “Who is it this time?”

  She checked her notes again, then looked up at me.

  “Imogen Attwell.”

  Edward Tattersall’s girlfriend? What did she want?

  “I can just about fit her in,” I said, looking at my watch.

  I talked to her in the interview room, where I had seen Tattersall. She sat hunched in a parka as though protecting herself from attack. She had short, brown hair and an air of frailty, looking older than she was.

  “This meeting,” she said as soon as she sat down, looking at me with sad eyes, “what’s it all about?”

  She put her hands flat on the table and spread the fingers out. I noticed the thin, white cotton gloves she wore and wondered what they were for. Weirdly they put me in mind of a snooker referee. Karen had explained the meeting to her in some detail, but I didn’t mind going through it again.

  “So my kids could go on this list,” she asked after I had finished, “and they’d be ‘at risk’, like, officially?”

  She shook h
er head in disbelief.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “But I wouldn’t let anything happen to my kids.”

  The number of times I had heard that or something like it. How could it be more straightforward? This man has abused children; I don’t want him anywhere near my kids. You didn’t need to be a genius to work that out, did you? It had the added advantage of keeping the social workers off your back.

  “It’s not a question of your letting anything happen,” I said.

  She sat back and folded her arms tight around her chest. That childish gesture showed me how vulnerable she was. She’d had kids when she was little more than a child herself. Their father had buggered off, leaving her with two children under three. She’d still managed to give them a good life.

  “Not that Edward would harm them. You should see him with them. He thinks the world of them.”

  Words like targeting and grooming sprang to mind, as the alarm bells in my head got louder.

  “You and Edward are thinking of moving in together?”

  She nodded and pulled her arms tighter.

  “Yeah. He needs looking after,” she said. “I hate to think of him living in that Deadbeat Mansions. You should have seen the state of his flat before he met me...”

  We were getting off the point.

  “But, Imogen...”

  “I clean the place for him every week. It’s the least I can do for him.”

  I wondered when if ever Imogen had time to herself. Nearly every time I went in the Co-op she was on the till or stacking shelves. The previous day I had seen her doing her other job, delivering the Advertiser around Ordsall. With two young kids to look after as well, she still found time to clean up after her useless boyfriend. Even so, a lot of people would dismiss her as a chav or a scrounger. Not that that was relevant right now, I reminded myself.

  “The important thing is,” I said, “if Edward moves in with you, he would have constant contact with the children.”

  She tutted as if I were being deliberately obtuse.

  “But I told that woman who came to see me. If you want me to I’ll never let them out of my sight.”

  “That’s not practical, is it, Imogen?”

  Especially with a clever sod like Tattersall. Paedophiles targeted women as well as kids. Vulnerable kids, a vulnerable woman, just what Edward was looking for. God, sometimes this job did my head in.