The Filey Connection

by David W Robinson

  Instead, he cast his gaze further out looking on a typical English seaside town on a typical, English summer Saturday.

  Not typical, Joe reminded himself. A member of their party was lost, presumed dead, drowned in the fast currents off the headland, and with each passing moment it looked more like suicide.

  About to turn from the window, a glint caught his eye down in the corner, behind the net curtains. The nets were well bunched near the bottom of the window frame, but sunlight reflected from a window at the rear had picked out whatever was hidden behind them.

  Pulling the curtains to one side, Joe found a key and at first assumed that it would fit the window locks, but there were no locks on the windows.

  He picked it up and examined it. A double deadlock door key on a rabbit’s foot fob. Joe glanced back at the room door, recalled that the lock had been a five-lever mortise, not a double deadlock. Why would anyone leave a door key on the windowsill, hidden behind the curtains? Was it anything to do with Eddie Dobson?

  Logic told him that it must have belonged to a previous guest. Eddie Dobson’s keys were somewhere under the waters of the North Sea in his jacket. They had to be. They weren’t in the fishing basket.

  “That’s the lot,” said Sheila, shutting the lid of the suitcase and fastening the straps.

  Her voice snapped Joe out of his reverie. He slipped the key into his trouser pocket and, striding to the bed, picked up the case.

  “Light,” he commented.

  “He didn’t have much with him,” said Brenda. “Pitiful really. Just a few items of clothing, a couple of paperback books. The sum total of his life. Oh dear…”

  Tears pooled in the corner of her eyes and she sat down on the bed, suddenly unable to control her emotions. Sheila sat with her, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  Joe stood by feeling helpless and embarrassed. He picked up the fishing basket. “We’d better get moving.”

  They came out of the room and to the lift where Sheila caught her leg on an empty fire extinguisher bracket.

  “I thought hotels were supposed to have fire extinguishers in their proper place,” she grumbled, rubbing at the red mark it had left on her leg.

  “It’s out in the back yard,” Joe told her. “I just saw it.”

  “Then someone should remind Mrs Pringle of it,” Sheila griped.

  “Leave it to Joe,” Brenda grinned. “Oh, we heard you before you corrected yourself. Calling her Sarah. Barely known her twelve hours and already on first name terms. What were you up to last night, Joe?”

  “I was praying,” he replied. “I needed guidance on how I’m supposed to deal with an irritable widow and a sex mad one.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Thank you, Mr Murray.” Sarah took the key and hung it back on her board.

  “No problem.” Joe said. “I always take personal responsibility for keys. Mrs Pringle, when we were in the disco last night, I noticed Eddie handing you something.”

  Sarah’s ears coloured slightly. “He was paying me for the packed lunch.”

  Joe gave her a crooked smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound like it did. You didn’t know him, then?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “With everything happening I’ve been thinking about Eddie a lot this last hour.”

  “Obviously.” Sarah appeared mollified. “I said out on the terrace that he’d ordered a packed lunch and he paid me for it last night.”

  “But he never collected it?” Joe asked.

  “I believe I said that out on the terrace, too.” Sarah’s hard features narrowed. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Yeah, there is.” Joe hastened to reassure her. “Oh, it’s not you. It’s Eddie. Why would he order a packed lunch, then not bother picking it up? Especially considering he was at breakfast this morning… so we’re told.”

  “All I know, Mr Murray, is what I told you earlier. I served seventy-one breakfasts this morning. He must have been there.”

  “And you didn’t know him?”

  “I just said, I’ve never met Edward Dobson in my life,” Sarah replied.

  “Yeah, right, thanks.” Joe turned to leave, and then thought again. “Oh, Mrs Pringle.”

  She had already moved on to other duties and turned back with a sigh. “What is it, Mr Murray?”

  “I’m in the same business as you. Catering. I run a workman’s café in Sanford.”

  “Yes, you told me that, too.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s just that I was looking out through Eddie’s window while we were packing away his gear, and I noticed you had a dud fire extinguisher stood in the back yard.” He grinned crookedly. “I don’t know what your fire people are like but if Sanford is anything to go by, they’ll book you for that.”

  She clucked. “Those engineers are as bad as the dray men. It’s a replacement. One of ours was taken for servicing yesterday and he didn’t have a spare. He must have dropped it off early this morning. Thank you, Mr Murray. I’ll have Kieran attend to it.”

  Satisfied that he had done his duty by a fellow business proprietor, Joe stepped out into the heat of the morning, and joined his companions for a stroll into Filey.

  They skirted up the side of the hotel and round to the rear, where a dark blue Transit van was now parked. Joe checked the roof rack as they approached the rear. No ladders.

  Passing the van, the driver’s door suddenly opened and Joe almost walked into it.

  Billy Pringle climbed out full of apologies. “Hey up. Sorry, marrer. I shoulda checked me mirrors.”

  “No problem, Billy,” Joe reassured him. “Was that you pottering about at five this morning?”

  “Could have been,” Billy agreed. “I was down the wholesale markets for half past three. Fresh veg for the dinners, you know.”

  “Right,” Joe nodded. “And you need ladders for that?”

  “Ladders?” Billy frowned. “Oh, those. No, I borrowed ’em last week from a mate.” He threw an arm up at the hotel. “Gutters needed clearing. I took ’em back this morning while I was on me way to Scarborough. Why? Did I wake you?”

  Joe nodded. “Noisy little bugger, your van.”

  Billy grinned. “Sorry, mate.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it. I’m used to being up at that time of day. Catch you later, Billy.”

  “Aye. When I’ve caught up on me sleep.”

  With a smile, Joe hurried on to catch up with his friends.

  Making their way into Filey, Sheila and Brenda walked ahead of him, checking out the shop windows. Sheila had also changed from her skirt and blouse to a pair of shorts and a T-Shirt, and Joe envied them. He wished he’d brought shorts along. He spent a little time looking at the options in various shops, but as the price of umbrellas rose on the threat of rain, so the cost of even a pair of football shorts had gone up with the heat wave, and even though his two friends pressured him, he would not open his wallet.

  “I didn’t come here to get mugged by opportunist shopkeepers,” he told them.

  “You’re a shopkeeper… of a kind,” Brenda pointed out.

  “Yes, but I don’t hike the price of cans in this weather, or meat pies in winter.”

  Ambling further along the street, while the two women pressed on, checking out souvenir shops, women’s clothing and shoes, Joe paused at Irwin’s Hardware and Angling Supplies and puffed at a cigarette.

  Looking over the window display, the shop had more to do with angling than hardware. Rods were stocked upright in racks, leaning towards the window, and beneath them were alarm sets, lures, a selection of reels and sundry items of clothing and luggage.

  Crushing his cigarette on a wall-mounted stubber, Joe stepped into the shop to the double trill of the doorbell.

  The interior was more cluttered than the window. Joe found himself walking beneath hanging displays of clothing and confronted by more racks of rods, displays of reels, lines, lures, and sitting incongruously amongst them all, bolts for doors, pac
ks of wood screws, budget priced tools and more expensive ones.

  He eyed a rucksack similar to the one Flowers had left with them at the Beachside.Greys Apollo: ideal for the serious angler. £44.99,read the sign beneath it.

  “Morning, squire. Another grand one, eh?”

  A large jovial face greeted Joe when he turned to the counter. Joe judged him to be in his fifties, his skin bronzed and weather-beaten, hands like shovels, broad and powerful shoulders hidden beneath a thin jumper. Like Joe, the man had no hint of a paunch, but unlike Joe, he was immense, not small and wiry.

  “How are you doing?” Joe greeted.

  “Long as this weather keeps up, I’m deeing fahn, me old mate. What can I do for you? Looking for a bitta tackle, are you?”

  Joe shook his head. “The only thing I know about fish is how to deep fry them.” He smiled to show he was only joking. “No. Fact is, you had a guy in here yesterday who bought an awful lot of tackle.”

  The genial smile disappeared and a look of forbidding came to the grey eyes. “What goes on between me and mah customers is nobody’s business but ours.”

  “I appreciate that,” Joe said, “but the cops have just been to see me. This bloke fell off the Brigg early this morning. Plod reckons he drowned.”

  “Do they now? Well, all the same, it’s no business of yours what he was doing here yesterday.”

  Joe switched tack. “I guess you’re Mr Irwin.”

  “Jonny Irwin.”

  You been trading here long?”

  “Thirty years.”

  “And you obviously know your stuff.”

  “You’ll not find anyone in this town who knows more about angling off the Brigg, but it’s still nought to do with…”

  Joe cut Irwin off. “The bloke’s name was Eddie Dobson. He told me he was a keen fisherman. Would you describe him like that?”

  “He was a customer. That’s it.”

  “Yeah, I get that, but you saw what he bought, and when I looked it over, my guess is he’d never been near a fishing rod in his life.”

  The eyes narrowed further, the mouth twisted into a menacing grimace. “I dain’t khah what all this has to do wi’ you. What goes on between me and mah customers is nay concern of yours. Now if tha’s not here to buy summat, get out.”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Joe said. “I’m just trying to clear up the death of one of my members.”

  Irwin frowned. “Members?”

  Digging out his wallet, Joe took a club card and handed it over. “The Sanford 3rd Age Club. I’m Chairman. You should consider joining something like that, Irwin. It does wonders for your social skills.”

  There was no mistaking the blaze of fury in Irwin’s eyes. “Get out.”

  “I’m going,” Joe agreed, “but before I do, tell me how many fish Dobson was likely to catch when you didn’t sell him any bait.”

  “I dain’t sell bait. Now bugger off afore I throw thee aht.”

  Joe shrugged. “I’ll be back. Or if not me, I reckon the police will when I tell them what I know.”

  Irwin was not impressed. “And I’ll tell them the same as I’ve telled thee. It’s nobody’s business but mine.”

  Joe ignored the hubris and walked out into the sunshine.

  Looking up and down the street, he spotted Sheila and Brenda on the far corner at the junction with Murray Street. Wondering idly whether he had ancestors from the Filey area who were responsible for the street name, and coming to the conclusion that it was unlikely, he caught up with his friends.

  “Any joy?” Brenda asked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I’ve found the perfect bloke for running the Lazy Luncheonette when I’m not there.”

  In answer to their quizzical stares, he gave them a rundown of what had transpired in Irwin’s.

  Sheila pursed her lips. “Hmm. It sounds is if you’re right about him being a match for you, but I see nothing suspicious in his behaviour. Trader, customer relationships are confidential.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll have to see what the law thinks of that, won’t we.”

  “How do you mean, Joe?”

  “I think we should take that walk along the Brigg and report to the police.”

  ***

  The light breeze ruffled Sheila’s hair, but did little to suppress the searing heat of mid-morning, and by the time they had reached the Beach Café, a quarter of a mile from the town, they were all feeling the strain.

  The two women sat on a bench, looking out to sea, getting their breath back, while Joe mooched, eager to be moving on.

  “It’s all right for you,” complained Brenda. “You were drinking baby beer last night.” She mopped her brow with a handkerchief. “I was on proper drink.”

  Sheila sprayed a dash ofChanel on her wrists. “It’s all that excellent cooking at the Lazy Luncheonette. It keeps Joe fit, doesn’t it Joe?”

  Joe snorted. “Yeah, yeah, very funny. At this rate, by the time we get to the Brigg, the tide will be in.”

  He wandered a few yards to the next bench, reading the brass commemoration plate on it, then returned to them and studied that plate, before back tracking to the previous bench and reading that.

  “Town full of goody-goodies,” he grumbled as he rejoined the women. “Edna Taylor, Albert Pennig, Ronald Beckton.”

  “What are you moaning at, Joe?” demanded Sheila.

  “The benches.” He waved at them. “Each of these seats is dedicated to some old fuddy-duddy who lived in this town.”

  “It’s a common enough practice,” said Sheila. “Some of the benches in Sanford Memorial Park are dedicated to former councillors and charity workers.”

  Brenda chuckled and got to her feet. “There won’t be one dedicated to Joe then, will there? His idea of charity is letting someone put a collection box on the counter, and then emptying it into his till.”

  “I do my share,” said Joe, leading off towards The Landings. “I keep you two off the streets, don’t I?”

  “I could take offence at that, Joe,” said Brenda. “I’ve never been on the streets.”

  Joe opened his mouth to deliver the obvious comment, but changed his mind and walked on ahead of them.

  The smart, refurbished promenade, with its neatly flagged paths and carefully tended lawns, ended where the road turned sharp left back into the town, and Coble Landing began. Here was a line of shops and cafés, the lifeboat station, and a sharply inclined concrete path leading down to the beach.

  It was a busy little area. Many people milled around the shops, bars and cafés, and cars clogged some of the access, amongst them several 4x4s, including an ageing Land Rover.

  “No bull bars, Joe,” Sheila said, when he examined the front grille.

  Joe looked over the paintwork, and agreed with her. “No. You’re right, but there’s fresh paint and a dent in the front bumper that’s been straightened out.

  “You gonna make me an offer for it, or are you thinking of nicking it?”

  Joe looked up from the front of the vehicle into a familiar face. A large, round face, the skin bronzed and weather-beaten, huge hands, broad and powerful shoulders hidden under a thick, fisherman’s jumper. No hint of a middle-aged spread, and he was huge.

  “Do I know you?” Joe asked.

  “Ah dain’t think so. Ah’m just wondering what you’re doing looking at mah motor.”

  Joe refused to be intimidated. “Do you have a brother? Runs the fishing tackle shop in town?”

  “Our Jonny? What of him?”

  “You obviously both went to the same charm school.”

  “Now listen, smartarse…”

  “Two days ago,” Joe interrupted, “a vehicle like yours ran over a friend of ours and killed her. Yesterday, your brother sold a load of fishing tackle to another friend of ours, and he fell in the sea and drowned this morning. What have you got against the Sanford 3rd Age Club?”

  “I dain’t knah what you’re talking about. Now get away from my truck.”
>
  Joe walked on after his companions. Looking over his shoulder, he warned, “The cops will get to know everything we know.”

  “Joe, stop it,” his friend urged. “People are staring.”

  “If they don’t have anything better to do with their time, let ’em stare,” Joe insisted.

  A stout man stood in their way. Not much taller than Joe, rotund, a flat cap covering his thin hair, he was dressed in bright orange overalls. “Your lass is right, matey.”

  “What do you mean?” Joe demanded.

  “You shouldn’t look for trouble with Ivan Irwin or his brother. They have a habit of dealing with it in an old fashioned way.”

  “Well someone should tell them they shouldn’t look for trouble with Joe Murray. He has a habit of calling on his friends in the police force to help him out.”

  Brenda tugged at his shirt and they wandered on.

  A couple of rusty old tractors stood by, festooned with strong chains and sets of single axles on which the fishing cobles would be rested so they could be towed from the water’s edge to the landing.

  Joe and his companions made their way down to the beach where they paused again, to get their breath back.

  “What do you make of all that?” Joe asked.

  “That fisherman?” Sheila asked. “A nasty piece of work. That’s why I told you to come away. There are times, Joe, when I think you deserve a good smack on the legs, but I wouldn’t want to see you end up in hospital after getting into a fight with a man like that.”

  Another tractor was out in the shallows, the driver hooking his chain to an incoming coble, while the fisherman stacked his catch in ice boxes in the prow.

  “And you were asking for it, Joe,” Brenda said as the aged vehicle slowly hauled the boat from the water and across the sands. “Accusing him of running Knickers-off down, like that.”

  “I didn’t actually accuse him,” Joe said as the tractor laboured up the ramp.