Broken Dreams (4 page)

I shook it, still none the wiser.

‘You used to play rugby with my brother, John.’

I wasn’t in the mood for taking a trip down memory lane.

‘I saw your debut for Rovers, when was it...1986?’

I nodded. ‘Castleford.’  I scored a try as well.

‘That’s right. I remember. You were the best teenage scrum-half I ever saw. It’s a shame injury did for you, otherwise I reckon you’d have gone on to play internationally.’

I mumbled some sort of agreement. I hadn’t played enough rugby to know how good I could have been. I’d signed for the club I supported, Hull Kingston Rovers, back in 1985 when I was sixteen. Within six months, I’d made my debut for the first team, which was no mean feat, as the team was superb at the time. It was a dream come true for me. A lot of people were tipping me for bigger and better things, not that I really thought there were bigger and better things, but as often happens with youngsters in sport, my performances dipped and I headed back to the youth team to learn my trade. The dip couldn’t have come at a worse time, as the team reached the Challenge Cup Final at Wembley. As great as it was, I was only there as a spectator. I travelled down with the squad, but I knew I was never going to be selected. I went away that summer and worked hard on my fitness, so when I returned for the next season, I’d never miss out on such an occasion again. I fought hard and won my place back for the league game at St Helens. Within five minutes of the game starting, I was hit with a tackle so hard, my knee collapsed under me. I’d never known pain like it. I’m told I drifted in and out of consciousness on the pitch, as well as vomiting several times. Eventually I was taken to a hospital on Merseyside, where I was told I’d never play again. The doctor was right. I never played again.  Telling Dave it was nice to meet him, I quickly finished my pint and left the pub.

My flat was on one of several tree-lined streets off Princes Avenue, which somehow had become the trendy part of the city. I’d rented in the area for no other reason than a lot of property was available. It was easy and made sense. I looked at the photograph of my wife, which sat on the windowsill in a place I’d always see. Other than that, there was a chair, stereo and a television in the front room. I walked over to the stereo and looked through the small pile of CDs. All I had were my favourites. The rest had been lost. I sifted through them and found The Specials debut album. I was a big punk and ska fan, thanks to my older brother. He’d been old enough to go out and see them all when they’d come to town. I was too young, but inherited his collection when he’d left home. The flat was rented. The capital left over from the house sale sat in a savings account I didn’t want to touch. I was alive, but not really living. It was how I liked things to be. I kept my wedding ring wrapped in a tissue and every so often I’d take it out to remind myself of what I’d once had. I needed to remember, but by not wearing it, it reminded me I needed to attempt to move on and start over. I had fallen asleep, if only for a short while, but the incessant drone of my doorbell brought me round. Sarah was stood on my doorstep, holding a pizza and a four-pack of lager.

I picked up another slice of pizza and carefully transferred it to my plate. ‘Thanks, Sarah.’

‘What for?’ she asked, mouth full of food.

‘For coming here.’

She smiled at me. ‘Not a problem.’

I smiled back. I was glad she was here and pleased Don had been good enough to look after Lauren for a few hours. My initial reaction was to send her away. I thought I wanted to be on my own, but she stood her ground and told me I’d only get drunk, listen to bad music and generally mope. It wasn’t healthy for me to be alone. She probably had a point. She told me Don wanted to speak to me, but it could wait.

‘I thought you might be able to use the company.’ She looked around. ‘When are you going to furnish this place, Joe?’

I shrugged. I liked the sparseness of the flat. I wasn’t ready to make it feel like a home. It was still too soon.

I
woke up late, nursing a hangover, my front room littered with empty beer bottles and pizza boxes. I sat down on my settee and pushed a hand through my hair. My flat was a mess, but I was pleased Sarah had thought of me. If she hadn’t, I’d have most probably sat in the dark, drinking and brooding. I’d arranged with Don that I would go into the office later on today. The only urgent work for the morning was the delivery of a warrant to a business address and Don was quite capable of dealing with it. I stood up and moved over to the stereo and flicked through my CDs. Finding nothing remotely quiet amongst my ska and punk, I put The Clash’s debut album on. As ‘Janie Jones’ burst through the speakers, I knew it would either kill or cure.

Moving into my small kitchen, I filled the kettle and popped some bread into the toaster. Settling back in my chair with my breakfast, I started up my laptop. As usual, my first stop was the local sport message boards. I’d started going to games again recently for the first time in years. It felt right again. The gossip and rumour on these sites was always good for passing five minutes. I logged into my emails and settled back to read what Don has sent me about Frank Salford.

The email was brief, but he’d done his homework. Salford had come to the police’s attention in the early 1980s, when he was landlord of several notorious pubs and clubs around the city. It appeared there had been more than one investigation into Salford’s business affairs, but he’d always managed to avoid prosecution. More recently, Salford had moved away from pubs and clubs and now ran a massage parlour on the edge of the city centre. Don’s email concluded with the warning Salford was a nasty bastard. He wanted to meet me in the office, where he’d give me the detailed version.  I reached across for my mobile and punched in the office number. All I got was the engaged tone. Finishing my coffee, I eased myself up and headed for the shower. The Clash were still hammering their way through those glorious early tunes. I was beginning to perk up.

I’d tried the office and Don’s mobile again, but there was still no answer. I’d thought about tackling some domestic jobs; my flat needed a clean and the cupboards were empty. The thought filled me with dread, so I’d found myself looking up the address of
The Honeypot
, Frank Salford’s massage parlour. Clearly, he wasn’t a subtle man. I had nothing better to do, so ignoring Don’s warning, I found myself walking towards the city centre, trying to use the fresh air and exercise as justification for my actions.

The massage parlour was every bit as seedy and dirty as I expected it to be. There was nobody working the reception desk, so I casually picked up the brochure which had been placed there. It detailed the parlour’s employees, with photographs and brief summaries of their vital statistics. I heard someone cough. A man sat in the small waiting area. He smiled at me, but I turned away without acknowledging him.

‘Alright, love.’

I nodded to the woman stood behind the reception desk. She was looking me up and down, presumably unsure whether I was a customer or the police. She noticed I had the brochure in my hand and smiled.

‘That’s an old brochure now. We’re in the process of having the latest recruits photographed. At the moment we’ve only got two girls on. You can see either Kerry or Anastazja.’ She nodded to the man sat in the waiting room. ‘If you want to see Anastazja, you’ll have to wait. The prices are in the brochure, anything else is negotiable with the girls, okay?’

‘I’d like to see Mr Salford, please.’ I wanted to get it over and done with. The place made me feel sick.

‘He’s not in, love.’

‘Not his Jaguar outside, then?’

She stared at me. ‘No.’ She smiled. ‘If you’d like to leave your number, he could call you back?’

It was my turn to smile. I didn’t think Salford would be the kind of man who returned telephone calls. ‘I won’t take up too much of his time.’

‘He’s not here. If you’d like to leave your details.’

I passed her a business card. ‘I’m trying to find a missing woman. Mr Salford used to manage her singing career.’

Her eyes narrowed, as she read my details. ‘Which girl?’

‘Donna Platt. Her mother is trying to find her.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t remember a Donna Platt.’

‘You used to help Frank manage the bands?’

‘None of my business.’ She passed me my card back. ‘It’s a long time ago. I doubt Frank will be able to help you.’

I tried to pass it back to her. ‘If you could get him to call me.’

She turned around and shouted for some help. The help was a man-mountain, far bigger than myself. He didn’t return my smile.

‘I’ve told you. We can’t help.’ She folded her arms and nodded to her help. ‘Escort Mr Geraghty off the premises, please.’

Leaving Salford’s massage parlour, I headed to the pub for a couple of hours. I didn’t need any more alcohol, but strong coffee and a read of the newspaper had me feeling human again. Sarah rang me on my mobile, partly to see how I was feeling after the previous night, partly to tell me she’d arranged a meeting with Katie Glew, the third member of Donna Platt’s band. I hadn’t realised there had been a third member of the band, and it didn’t make much sense of the band’s name. I drank up and collected Sarah from her house before heading to Katie’s flat. Sarah explained to me how Donna’s mother had remembered Glew.  A quick call to Lisa Day confirmed the details and Glew had called Sarah to agree to a meeting. The flat was in a tower block on one of the city’s largest council estates and in a similar state to Lisa Day’s house. It needed a good clean and some decoration, but nothing that couldn’t be sorted with a bit of effort.

‘Thanks for agreeing to see us’ said Sarah. ‘We appreciate your help.’

Katie lit a cigarette and shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose.’

‘We’re looking for Donna Platt’ explained Sarah.

‘She’s missing?’ She looked surprised.

‘Has been for several years. When did you last see her?’

‘When I left the band, but I’d heard she had a job in a factory on Sutton Fields a few years back.’

‘How long ago are we talking about, Katie?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’

I removed my wallet from my pocket.

She looked at me. ‘Three, maybe four years ago. I’ve got a mate who works there. It was her who mentioned it.’

‘Are you still in touch with this mate?’

Katie nodded and asked if Donna was in any trouble.

‘Not at all’ said Sarah.

‘My friend wouldn’t lie to me.’

I smiled at her. ‘We’re not implying that. It’s all very helpful information for us.

‘I’ll text her, if you want to meet her?’

I nodded. ‘If that’s okay.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘How well did you know Donna?’ I asked.

‘Not that well, really. I saw an advert for the band and after I auditioned, they asked me to join.’

‘How about Lisa Day? Do you know her?’

‘Not really. I was only in the band for a bit. We’d rehearsed as a three-piece for a while but it wasn’t working, so I left. Donna and Lisa just carried on as a duo.’

Which explained why it was
2’s Company,
I thought. Sarah smiled at me. She’d obviously had the same thought.

‘Why did you leave the band?’ I asked.

Katie fell silent. ‘It’s a long time ago now.’

I wasn’t sure if she was hoping I’d increase what I paid her. ‘Didn’t you get on with Donna and Lisa?’ I asked.

She shrugged. ‘We got on alright. Donna brought along this guy, Frank, who she wanted to manage us.’

‘Frank Salford?’

‘That’s him.’

‘But you weren’t keen?’

‘I didn’t like him.’

I nodded. ‘Why not?’

‘He was a sleazeball. I never felt comfortable around him or his people.’

I wondered if I’d done the right thing trying to see him earlier today. I might have tipped him off to our interest in Donna. Maybe he had something to do with her disappearance. I cursed myself.

‘What did he do for the band?’ I asked.

‘Not a lot. When he got bored, he dropped us. The gigs stopped and I left.’

I leaned forward. ‘Where did Donna go, Katie?’

‘No idea. One minute she was here, the next she was gone.’

‘She didn’t tell you anything, you were in a band together?’

She laughed. ‘We sang in shitty pubs and clubs. It wasn’t like The Beatles had split up. They carried on for a couple more months and I got on with other things.’

‘Did you ever hear from Donna again?’ Sarah asked.

‘Never. I heard she owed Frank some money and did a runner.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe she did.’

‘Maybe’ I said, thinking it was a bit of an extreme reason to leave. But then again, I’d not met Frank Salford. I took a £20 note out of my wallet and placed it on the coffee-table along with my card. ‘If you think of anything, give me a call.’

She nodded, turned away and said she would. I offered to buy Sarah lunch, once we were done with our next appointments. It’d delay telling Don what I’d done.

Sonia Bray was in her late thirties and without wishing to be unkind, she was the very definition of mousey. We’d agreed to meet in Queens Gardens. I found an empty bench and made sure I was holding the newspaper in my hand, as arranged. She sat down next to me and explained her office was only a five minute walk away.

‘Thanks for meeting me’ I said, offering her a smile. ‘I appreciate it.’ I told her what had happened to Jennifer Murdoch.

Bray nodded and composed herself. ‘Obviously no one deserves to be murdered, but I’ve moved on. I told Sheila I’d try to help you if I could.’

I looked at the notes I’d made. ‘Sheila said you had to leave the company.’ I left the question open-ended, to encourage her to explain in her own words.

‘Jennifer Murdoch,’ she started, ‘took advantage of me. I had personal problems and I couldn’t think straight. I’m not proud of what happened but I couldn’t stop it.’

‘Something about missing money?’