Joe nudged her in the back. She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Oh hello, Joe.”
“You want a drink?” he asked. “Only Sheila was looking for you.”
“Port and lemon, please, and I’ll be over in a minute.” She turned quickly back to Eddie Dobson. “Eddie, you know Joe, don’t you? Club chairman. Runs the Lazy Luncheonette on Doncaster Road.”
“I was there yesterday,” Eddie reminded her and Joe made a mental note to watch how much Brenda drank.
“Of course you were.”
Eddie gave Joe a wan smile.
“How you doing?” Joe greeted the club’s newest member. “Your room up to the mark?”
Eddie grinned. “Why, I dain’t knah about that, shipmate, but I’ve been in worse places.”
Joe felt the same way, but with Kieran Pringle waiting for his order, Joe turned his attention from Brenda and Eddie Dobson, leaned into the bar and raised his voice over the music. “Pint of lager, glass of lemonade with ice, and a port and lemon.”
“You want ice with that?” Kieran asked.
Joe fumed. “Didn’t I just say so?”
The young man scowled. “I meant the port and lemon, sir.” Kieran imbued the word ‘sir’ with just enough stress to indicate that what he really meant was ‘prat’. Joe considered taking him to task but decided against it. He nodded instead.
While Kieran busied himself getting the drinks, Joe concentrated on a laminated certificate tucked between the optics. It showed a photograph of Kieran but the writing on it was too small to read. All Joe could make out was the flamboyant heading, NYSAA.
“What’s that stand for?” Joe asked when Kieran placed the drinks in front of him. “New Youth Service & Argumentative Awards?”
“If that’s what you wish, sir. Eight pounds sixty three, please.”
Muttering mutinously on hotel bar prices, Joe handed over a ten-pound note and while waiting for his change, he spotted a clipboard at Brenda’s elbow, two sheets of A4 paper attached to it, and a wad of theatre tickets under the clip.
“We have some really great evenings, you know,” Brenda was saying to Eddie. “Apart from the weekly disco at the Miners Arms, we arrange plenty of outings; shopping trips to places like York and Chester and Sheffield, and a full weekend outing every three months. Last summer we went to Stratford for a Shakespeare festival, didn’t we Joe?”
“Yeah and that was a bloody disaster, wasn’t it?” Joe complained as Kieran returned with his change.
“Some of us,” Brenda said haughtily, “enjoyed it.”
“And one of us fell asleep during Hamlet’s big number,” Joe reminded her, winking at Eddie Dobson. “Give me Inspector Morse anytime. So, Eddie, you’re not a Sanford native?”
The big man shook his head. “Rotherham, originally. Just done my twenty-two in the navy, but couldn’t find work, so I moved up to West Yorkshire.” He frowned. “Not much more work there, either.”
“Not since they closed the pits and the foundry,” Joe agreed. “But I’m sure you’ll find something.” He took his change from Kieran, checked it, and eyed the theatre tickets again. “Listen, Brenda, let me take those from you before they get covered in spilled booze.”
Brenda looked irritated. “I do not spill drink.”
“I didn’t say you did…”
Joe trailed off. Something was not right.Hole In My Shoehad finished and he recognised the introduction to Terry Scott’sMy Bruvver.
“Oh, sh… sugar. I told her to put onI’m A Believer.”
Snatching the clipboard from under Brenda’s elbow, he tucked it under his arm, picked up the drinks and scurried back to the podium, crossing the dance floor this time, to the muted protests of one or two dancers.
“Damned inefficient, Murray,” growled Captain Tanner.
“Shut up, you old fool, and get out of my way,” snapped Joe.
He leapt onto the podium put the drinks and clipboard on the table behind Sheila and jabbed the laptop keyboard to stop the music.
Picking up the microphone, he apologised. “Sorry about that, folks.” His voice boomed around the room. “Technical difficulties.” He ran the cursor down the screen, selected the correct track and pressed the ‘enter’ key. Presently the sound of The Monkees came through the speakers. Joe turned angrily on Sheila. “Are you trying to make me look an idiot?”
Sheila refused to rise to his irritation. “Oh I think you can manage that on your own, Joe.” Sheila picked up her lemonade and drank gratefully from it.
“What?”
“You said seven, seven, one and that’s what I played,” she pointed out.
“I meant seven, seven …” Joe checked the computer listing, “two. Didn’t you read the screen first?”
“No. I just pushed the numbers in.”
Joe shook his head sadly. “Saints preserve me from dim witted women and randy widows.”
This time, Sheila took immediate offence. “Who’s a randy widow? I’ll have you know that since Peter died I’ve never…”
“Not you,” interrupted Joe. “Brenda. She’s chatting that poor sod up at the bar and he has the kind of look on his face that you see on those prisoners going to the guillotine in the old movies. Pleading for mercy.”
Sheila gave a silly chuckle. “Poor Brenda. Poor Eddie.” She fanned herself again. “You have to understand, Joe, when Colin died, he left Brenda financially secure but she had no children. She was alone in the world after thirty years of marriage and constant companionship. Widowhood is more difficult for her. That’s why she comes onto men.” Sheila sighed and gazed wistfully through the panoramic windows. “I have my son and daughter, I have Peter’s brother and his wife, my sister and her husband. I have people around me and I don’t feel the need of a new partner.”
With a grimace, Joe sipped his fresh lager. Through the windows, the last of midsummer sunlight had disappeared and the long spread of Filey beach lay bathed in shadow. To the north, the cliffs of Carr Naze still shone in red light, but where they tapered off to the Brigg, that finger of land jutting out into the North Sea, the low-lying rocks were all but invisible.
“I’m just nipping out for a smoke,” Joe said. “This time, check the titles and put on whatever you think. You know how to do it.”
“Yes, Joe, I do. And if you’d said that last time, we wouldn’t have had Terry Scott.”
Joe stepped out onto the terrace, drew in a deep breath of the cooler air, and sat down at the nearest table. Taking out his tobacco tin, he quickly rolled a thin cigarette and lit it, the flare of his Zippo highlighting his face against the gathering dusk.
Billy Pringle came out of the lounge and skirted the tables, collecting empty glasses and bottles. He worked his way around the perimeter of the terrace, coming to Joe last. With a cautious glance back into the lounge, he dug into his shirt pocket and came out with a half-smoked cigarette.
“Any danger of a light, marrer?”
Joe pushed his Zippo across the table, Billy put his glass and bottle carrier on the ground, lit up and handed the lighter back. Puffing out a cloud of smoke, he sat with Joe.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Be my guest,” Joe replied. “Does your sister disapprove?”
Billy shook his head. “It’s not that. She smokes herself, but with us being so busy, if she catches me sneaking a quick drag, she’ll hit the roof.”
Joe smiled. “Sheila and Brenda are the same with me, back home, and I own the damn place.” He drew on his cigarette, and took a wet of beer. “You’re not usually this busy then?”
“Season doesn’t officially start for another two weeks. When the kids break up for the summer holidays. So we’re usually only busy on a weekend. We’re booked solid from the middle of this month clear up to the end of September, but of course, we don’t run discos in the lounge. Well, we do, but it’s only now and then, and usually because we’re asked to arrange them for parties like yours.” Billy took another puff of his smoke. “Yo
u run a hotel, do you?”
Joe shook his head. “Café. The Lazy Luncheonette. Sounds a lot grander than it is, but it’s a good little business. Must be a struggle to make a big place like this pay its way.”
“Nah, not really,” Billy said. “The mortgages are paid off, so we own the bricks and mortar. I’m just a bar and cellar man, really. Sarah’s the business brain. She bought the place with her first husband, and when they fell out and divorced, she called me in. That was, oh, nigh on twenty-five years ago. She knows what she’s doing, you know. Employs me and our… her son, Kieran, and one or two others permanently and brings in temps when we need ’em. You know. When we’re full.”
“Makes sense to keep it in the family,” Joe agreed. “I employ my nephew as my cook, and Sheila and Brenda as my assistants, and when I need them, I call on casual labour, just like you.” He narrowed his stare on the other. “You’re the licensee.”
He nodded. “Administrative set up more than anything. I’ve held the licence ever since I started here. Sarah is listed as the hotel manager, but booze is my department. If anything goes wrong, it’s my neck on the chopping block, not hers. That way, the hotel can still function.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “It also means I can go to the cash and carry for emergency supplies if we need them.” He laughed. “And that happens more than you might imagine.” He stood up and stretched. “Ah well. Better get back to it.” He picked up his carrier. “Catch you later.”
Joe took a final drag on his smoke, crushed it in the ashtray and returned to the disco and the dancing couples making merry to the music of The Trogs andWild Thing. Brenda had left the bar and was making her way around the floor. She had stopped and was chatting to Mavis Barker. A pair of widows on the hunt for fresh, male blood, Joe thought.
He glanced at the bar and frowned. “Curious.”
Sheila had been in a mental void, tapping her fingers in time to the rhythm of the music. When Joe spoke, she snapped back to the present. “What?”
Glass in hand, Joe waved it in the direction of the bar where Eddie Dobson had detached himself from his seat and was in conversation with Sarah Pringle, the manageress. She had changed from her austere business suit, and now wore a short skirt and dark blouse. Her hair, he noticed, was different, too. Darker; set differently.
“That Eddie Dobson guy, talking to the Pringle woman,” said Joe. “Almost like he knows her.”
“You and your mind. Sex-obsessed, that’s what you are,” Sheila chuckled. “There’s nothing odd about it. Mrs Pringle is quite a sociable woman when she’s not talking to you about the cost and difficulties of running a hotel. As you would know if you’d ever spoken to her about anything other than the cost and difficulties of running a café.”
Joe’s malleable features transfigured themselves into a mask of irritation. “I know there’s nothing odd about him talking to her. After Brenda, even talking to that idiot son of hers would be a relief. No, it’s not that. It’s… well, look at his hand.” Again he gestured.
It was such a surreptitious movement that only the sharpest of eyes would have noticed, but as he stood close to Sarah Pringle, Eddie Dobson handed something to her.
“Looks to me like he was handing money over,” said Joe. He raised his eyebrow at Sheila. “What’s it for? Services she doesn’t advertise.”
Sheila tutted. “That’s just the way your mind works. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
“Yeah. Like I said. Services rendered.” Joe sat down. “I’ll tell you something else, too. You know he keeps saying he’s from Rotherham?”
“Yes?”
“He isn’t. He’s from round here.”
“And how do you know?” Sheila demanded.
“Remember the other morning in the café? I had to tell Lee off for not speaking as he’d been brought up to speak, and he said his dad taught him to say ‘no worries’. That’s because Lee was born in Australia, and it’s the way they speak. Next time you talk to him, listen to the way Eddie speaks. His accent and dialect are exactly the same as Sarah and Billy Pringle’s.”
***
With the time coming up to one in the morning, Joe left the final track of the night, Engelbert Humperdink’sThe Last Waltz,playing and once more stepped out onto the terrace for a last cigarette.
There were few people left in the lounge. Alec and Julia Staines were smooching to the music… again… Tanner and Sylvia were waltzing, George Robson was chatting up one of the chambermaids in the far corner, while Sheila and Brenda were helping Billy and Kieran Pringle tidy up the room.
Lighting his cigarette, gazing out across the lights of the bay, and out to sea, winking lights from moored ships came back at him. A few stars twinkled in the night, but the moon had disappeared somewhere over Speeton Point. It was still warm but a light breeze tickled his cheeks as he smoked his cigarette.
“I’ve lived here all my life and I still find it a peaceful sight.”
Joe turned his head to his right, and found Sarah Pringle stood alongside him. Once more he took in the dark head of hair and realised she was wearing a wig.
She must have noticed him looking. “Vanity,” she said. “As I get older, more and more grey shows at the sides. When I’m off duty, I put this on.”
“It suits you,” he said.
Sarah smiled and lit her cigarette. Joe silently cursed himself for not offering her a light.
“How was your first day in Filey, Mr Murray?” she asked.
“Pleasant,” Joe said. “And please call me Joe.
“I’m Sarah.”
“It’s good to meet you, Sarah.” Joe sighed. “Despite all the problems this week, we had a good day, today.”
“Problems?”
“I told you on the phone yesterday that one of our members had died.”
“Oh. Right. A friend?”
Joe shrugged. “Only in the sense that all the club members are friends. I didn’t know her that well.” He smiled modestly. “I have a reputation as a private detective, Sarah, and Nicola’s death is, er, problematic. The cops think it’s a drunk driving thing, but I’m not so sure.”
Most of his words seemed to pass over her. “A private detective, eh? I don’t think we’ve ever had a real detective stay with us before.”
Joe laughed. “I’m not a real detective. Just an enthusiastic amateur. I notice things, you see. Things that other people don’t see. My niece, a Detective Sergeant with the Sanford police, thinks she has it sewn up, I poke my nose in and suddenly they have a lot more questions they need answering.” He turned to face her. “Why are we talking about me? Tell me about the joys of running a hotel in Filey.”
Now Sarah laughed. “If I did that, Joe, that lovely hair of yours would all fall out.”
Chapter Seven
Licking his thumb and forefinger, Joe counted through the stack of tickets for the third time. Satisfied that there were only 70, he picked up Brenda’s clipboard and ran a finger down the list of names, his lips moving soundlessly as he tallied them up.
At length, he tossed the clipboard back on the table, took out his tobacco tin and cigarette papers and quickly rolled a cigarette. Jamming the slender tube between his lips, he flipped open the top of his Zippo lighter and flicked the wheel with an irritable movement of his thumb. A large flame leapt from the wick. Joe placed his hands around it as if protecting it from a non-existent wind, and drew deeply on the tobacco. Closing the flip-top, he dropped the lighter on the table, exhaled the smoke with a loud hiss, and took a swill of tea from his cup.
“Well?” Across the table, wearing a conservative knee-length skirt and flowered blouse, Sheila demanded an answer.
Joe did not immediately oblige. Instead, deep furrows lined his brow. He puffed agitatedly at his cigarette and toyed with the lighter on the tabletop. With a shake of the head, he picked up the clipboard and began to run through the list again.
Saturday morning had dawned with no change in the weather. Over an excell
ent full English breakfast they had looked out through the panoramic windows of the Beachside’s dining room, across Filey Bay bathed in sunlight beaming down from a cloudless sky.
Joe had taken a few moments out to remind everyone that the bus left for Scarborough at 6:30 that afternoon, then the club members had gone their own way. While Joe and Sheila moved out onto the terrace, Brenda returned to their room to change into something cooler than the skirt and top she had put on for the day.
For the last half hour, Joe and Sheila had sat out on the terrace, enjoying the morning sun, checking, double checking the itinerary, Joe making calls on his mobile phone to ensure that both the bus and the theatre were ready for their arrival (as well as ringing home to make certain that Lee and Cheryl had not burned the café to the ground). Now his attention wandered to the uninterrupted view across Filey Bay as if expecting it to solve his problem.
There was nothing out in the real world to suggest a solution to his arithmetic. It was 9:45 Saturday morning and even at this comparatively early hour Filey beach was once again busy with families taking advantage of the heat wave. Children and teenagers bathed in the safe waters, a couple walked their several dogs, the animals splashing and playing in the shallows, one or two fisherman were on their way back in their cobles, landing the morning’s catch. There had been a flurry of excitement an hour or so back, when the inshore lifeboat rushed from its station and out into the sea, turning to the north and the far side of the Brigg, but aside from that, little had changed and nothing he could see would alter the results of his repeated counts.
He had had a poor night’s sleep. The surprise of Sarah Pringle complimenting him upon his grey locks had energised his imagination, and when sleep finally came, the lager had woken him a few times to visit the bathroom. Sometime around three, he’d been woken by the sounds of an argument on the floor below. A loud, metallic thump ended the argument and Joe drifted off to sleep, only to be woken again just after four by the noise of a diesel engine revving out back. He made his window in time to see an ageing, dark blue Transit van pull away up the narrow backstreet, a set of metal ladders strapped to its roof rattling as it made its way along the silent streets.
The Filey Connection Page 8