Merry Murders Everyone

by David W Robinson

  Even so, the absence of a crew member placed extra work on him, Brenda and Lee, and although Pauline Watson, a woman who had worked for Joe casually on and off for a number of years, knew the ropes, she could not compare to the missing Sheila Riley.

  Keeping one eye on the grills and hotplate, while making ready the large, metal teapot, which he used for serving customers, Joe complained again. “This must be half a dozen times she’s chucked sick. And has her doctor not sorted the problem?”

  Lee put the phone down having arranged for Pauline to come in, and Brenda joined him at the cooking appliances. She spoke up in defence of her best friend. “He takes samples, Joe, sends them off for analysis, and they’ve come back with all sorts of results, but nothing significant, nothing out of the ordinary, and as quickly as she gets right, she goes again.” Her brow knitted with the deep-felt concern over to friend. “I’m worried about it, I don’t mind telling you. I think there’s something deeper, something more serious going on, and they’re just not getting to the bottom of it.”

  “And what does Martin have to say about it?”

  “He’s sick with worry, too, but like all men, he’s as much use as a chocolate fireguard.” Gently stirring a large pan of baked beans, she grumbled, “Why is it men are so useless?”

  “It’s because we have more to worry about,” Joe retorted. “Like trying to run a business.” He shifted his attention to his nephew. “Lee, would you mind staying behind and helping with the cleaning this afternoon?”

  Lee sniffed again, and ran a tissue over his nose. “Course not, Uncle Joe. You always said that one day all this will be yours.”

  Joe frowned. “It’s already mine. I said it will be yours.”

  Lee nodded. “That’s what I just said.”

  “Yeah, but… Forget it. I don’t have time for your complicated thinking at this time of day.”

  The first of the draymen arrived a little after seven o’clock; earlier than usual, but pleading pressure due to extra work stocking up pubs, clubs and supermarkets in the final rush up to Christmas. From then, was all hands to the pumps, Joe behind the counter, taking orders, serving tea, taking the cash, Brenda helping Lee, and when she had time to spare, assisting Pauline in delivering meals, and none of them had time to think about Sheila.

  Outside, as the rush-hour gained momentum and traffic lost speed, Doncaster Road ground to its usual, early-morning halt (thanks to two sets of traffic lights within a hundred yards of each other). Rain, flecked with occasional spots of sleet, doused the windows and pavements and another frenetic two and a half hours was under way at Sanford’s favourite eatery (according to Joe).

  Martin Naylor, Sheila’s new husband, rang at eight thirty as he arrived at Sanford Comprehensive, where he taught English Language, Literature and Drama, to tell them that she would be off sick until at least the New Year. Although Joe kept the conversation brief, he commiserated, asked Martin to give Sheila their regards, and then took it out on his customers. It was as water off a duck’s back. Joe’s irritability, which often spilled over into plain rudeness, was legendary throughout the town, and everyone had learned to ignore it.

  Or better still, return it.

  “Hey up, Joe,” said a singularly jovial drayman when he got to the front of the queue a little after a quarter to eight. “Is it true you’re playing the opposite of Santa Claus this year? Anti-Claus? You’re gonna visit all the kids and nick the presents.”

  “And the sherry and mince pie,” his mate chimed in with a large grin.

  “Take the words off and clear and rearrange them into a well-known phrase or saying,” Joe retorted. “Now stop clowning around and tell me what you want.”

  “Full breakfast, two of, tea, two of, and a tenner out of the till.”

  “No problem. That’ll be forty-seven pounds fifty to you.” Joe gave them a savage smile. “Just getting into the part of Anti-Claus.”

  To accommodate the (supposedly) more discerning customers from the offices above them, and some of those who came from the retail park, Joe had installed a three-cup barista coffee machine. At somewhere over three thousand pounds, the price almost gave him a coronary, but his negotiating skills managed to get five hundred off the total, and to be fair, it was a sound investment. The clerks, junior accountants, trainee legal executives and salespeople from the floors above them, craved their lattes, cappuccinos, mochas, and as word spread, it brought in more custom. It also gave Joe more opportunity to vent his irritation when someone asked for ‘expresso’.

  “It’s espresso, you ignorant sod,” was his usual response.

  When he drank coffee at all, Joe preferred instant, and he had no idea how the machine worked or how to operate it. Under the guidance of the fitter who installed it, Sheila had quickly learned the basics of both machine and ingredients, and without her, it fell upon Brenda. She was efficient, but lacked her friend’s talent for latte art, and many of the customers were disappointed when their tulip looked more like a weed stalk, or their heart appeared as a blob. It prompted most to ask after Sheila’s health.

  The queries were welcome and by the time they came to settle at table five, where they took their morning break, it was the main topic of conversation and concern.

  With Lee in the kitchen preparing lunches, and Pauline, texting on her smartphone, sat alongside Brenda, Joe worked on the cryptic crossword in the Daily Express, and Brenda rang Sheila. Only half listening to the one side of the conversation he could hear, Joe inked warlock into 9 across, ‘See the law rock at Wells’ timely vision (7)’, and as Brenda ended the call, he concentrated on her.

  “She’s in a terrible state. She’s running to the toilet every two minutes, and she can’t keep anything down.”

  “Her GP?”

  “He sent samples for analysis… again. But Sheila’s not hopeful of a result. It’s all a huge puzzle, Joe, but she did tell me that Howard called to see her yesterday, and he was going to approach her GP this morning. Now whether…”

  She trailed off as the café door open, and Howard Riley stepped in.

  Brenda smiled a warm greeting. “Well, talk of the devil.” She left her seat, moved behind the counter and prepared a cup of tea for Howard, who removed his topcoat, and took the seat alongside Joe.

  A detective inspector, formerly with the Cambridgeshire police, he had transferred to Leeds after settling into a relationship with Joe’s niece, DI Gemma Craddock, of Sanford CID. Tall, square-shouldered, with an athletic frame, he combined the necessary physical attributes of the modern police officer with the over-arching intelligence of a top class graduate, and an in-depth insight into criminal motives and activity.

  After the Squires Lodge affair, Joe had arranged to buy the terraced house which had belonged to Howard’s mother (one of the victims in the Squires Lodge scandal) but the ownership of the property took a long time to settle, and it was only recently that they had exchanged contracts. From there, Joe had engaged a couple of builders to resurrect the interior, and in the meantime, he rented a council flat on Leeds Road.

  Joe liked Howard. Without patronising, he was good to Gemma, and took a genuine interest not only in her but her friends and family.

  His concern now, as he made clear when Brenda re-joined them, was his aunt, Sheila.

  “I’ve spoken to Doctor Khalil, her GP, and he was a little more candid with me than he has been with her. He believes the entire business is psychosomatic.”

  Suspending his interest in the crossword, Joe disagreed. “Your Aunt Sheila is one of the most level-headed women I’ve ever met. I know she suffered when Peter passed away, but who wouldn’t? They’d been married since forever. But she’s had plenty of time to get over that, so how does Khalil get off with claiming it’s all in her head?”

  Howard drank some tea. “I needed that.” He put the beaker back on the table and paused for a moment, formulating his thoughts. “She was absolutely dedicated to Peter’s memory. I think we all knew that. Then, last Christ
mas, she met Martin, and they fell in, er, fell in love for the second time.”

  Brenda tutted. “There’s no need to be so coy about it, Howard. People of our age are permitted to fall in love, you know. It’s not restricted to you young ’uns.”

  Howard chuckled. “I suppose so. It’s just, er, strange talking about one’s aunt falling in love.”

  “Can we leave the Mills and Boon stuff out?” Joe grumbled. “What does all this have to do with Sheila’s state of mind?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Joe frowned upon Howard. “So what am I? Thick as a brick? I can handle complicated. Get on with it.”

  “Khalil believes that deep down, Sheila feels she’s betraying her first husband’s memory. But that sets up a conflict in her mind, because she really is in love with Martin. Most people suffer from such internal conflicts, and find them easy to rationalise. At the very worst, they’ll produce fits of anger. In Sheila’s case, these are in deep-seated concerns, and to be fair, she can’t really discuss them with Martin so early into their marriage. From his point of view, it might instigate a concern that he’s second best and their marriage is one of convenience. In other words, she doesn’t really love him as much as she did Peter, and she married him purely to give her a little support and companionship as she approaches her later years. Keeping it bottled up, keeping it hidden from him precludes episodes of open anger, so it’s manifesting in these constant stomach complaints, all of which are genuine, physical illnesses, but which have a psychosomatic cause.”

  His detailed explanation was greeted with silence. Beyond the counter they could hear Lee busy in the kitchen, and Pauline, having finished her break, lending him a hand, while outside on Doncaster Road, the rush-hour was over, but the sleet and rain appeared to have gathered momentum, and from the television came the distant sound of inconsequential morning magazine programmes.

  Joe was the first to speak. “I’ve never heard so much rubbish in my life.”

  Brenda disagreed. “It sounds reasonable to me. When we were waiting for you two to get back from Whitby on her wedding day, she was in a hell of a state. She said, and I quote, ‘do you think it’s a sign from Peter telling me not to remarry?’ Joe, we both know how dedicated she was to Peter, and I don’t think there’s much doubt about her feelings for Martin. Marrying again is a massive upheaval in her life. That doesn’t make it wrong, but it must mean huge changes.”

  “Correct,” Howard declared. “You’ve been to the bungalow many times, Joe. You must have noticed that almost every photograph was of Peter, or Peter and the boys, or the entire family. One of the first things she did when she agreed to marry Martin was move those photographs. It’s an enormous wrench, but as Brenda’s just pointed out, that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

  Joe went on the defensive. “It’s not that I’m not aware of all that, but I’m thinking in terms of Sheila as a person. She’s smarter than Brenda and me put together, but she can be a snapper, and she’s never had a problem speaking out, telling us exactly what’s on her mind.”

  “Yes, but she’s not in love with you.”

  Joe scowled at Brenda’s comment. “Thank the Lord for small mercies.” Before Brenda could come back to him, he threw another query at Howard. “Has the doctor discussed this with Martin?”

  “Yes. But Martin is a little reluctant to broach the matter with Sheila.”

  Joe shook his head sadly. “Whatever happened to plain speaking? You know, most of the world’s problems could be solved if people stopped worrying about treading on one another’s toes and began telling it like it is.”

  “Thank you, the Secretary-General of the United Nations.” Brenda concentrated her annoyance on Joe. “When we were in Cornwall you said I would get all the gory details when they came back from Boa Vista, and you were wrong. Sheila’s told me next to nothing of their honeymoon, except that she enjoyed it – as far as she could, considering her tummy troubles – but she did tell me one thing which on reflection could be significant. They met at a Christmas party last year, and between then and now, there hasn’t been a cross word between them. Martin wouldn’t want to start the first argument.”

  Joe deliberately shifted the subject sideways. “Can we go to see her?” he asked of Howard.

  “As far as I’m aware, yes. She’s not contagious… at least, not according to Doctor Khalil she isn’t, and I’m sure she’d be glad to see you both.” He focused on Brenda. “Especially you.”

  Joe pursed his lips. “Wednesday. Things’ll die off pretty quickly after lunch. Fancy nipping over there to see her?”

  Brenda smiled broadly. She had been waiting for Joe to suggest it. “You lead, I’ll follow.”

  Howard spent a further twenty minutes with them, assuring Joe that everything was fine with Gemma, although the pair did not see as much of each other as they would like.

  “She works Sanford, I work North Leeds, and you know what police work is like, Joe. The scroats don’t take time off for Christmas.”

  When Howard left, Joe folded away his newspaper, the crossword only half finished, and was preparing to move back behind the counter, to allow Lee and Pauline their breaks, when the door opened and a familiar figure walked in.

  It was almost impossible not to recognise Denny Dixon. In his mid to late thirties, a few inches taller than Joe, with a head of dark, curly hair, he was a stocky, muscular man, but his chronic sweet tooth had left him with a waistline almost as broad as his shoulders. He was also many weeks behind in the refurbishment of twenty-three Tandy Street, the house Joe had finally bought from Howard.

  Denny’s bulk did not deter Joe. He had vented his irritation on bigger men.

  “I don’t know where you get the brass nerve to come in here, Dixon. When the hell am I gonna move into Tandy Street?”

  Denny surrendered with raised hands. “Guilty, Joe. But we have had some problems.”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re waiting for a skip.”

  Denny tittered. “Hee-hee. Haven’t used that old chestnut for years. No, mate, I’m waiting for a gas engineer to commission the central heating, and a leccy to certify the rewiring.”

  Lee emerged from the kitchen carrying a cup of tea and a sandwich. “Hey up, Denny. Haven’t seen you in yonks. Before I forget, Merry Bimbo.”

  As Lee moved to a free table, Denny gave him a curious glance, which he then transferred to Joe.

  “He means Merry Crimbo.”

  “Oh.” Denny was still mystified. “He says some queer things, your Lee.”

  “Yes, well, he can’t help being thick, can he?” Joe said it loud enough for Lee to hear. “But you can help dithering about with my house. When am I gonna move in?”

  “Ah, now, that’s the thing, Joe. That’s why I’m here. I’ve got serious problems now.”

  “You’ll have even more serious problems if I set Lee onto you. Stop—”

  “Tel’s been arrested.”

  Denny’s announcement did nothing to appease Joe’s anger. “Fighting? Again? I suppose he was drunk, was he?”

  “No, no. Nowt like that. The filth have him walled up in Sanford nick. They’re charging him with murder.”

  Chapter Three

  Joe greeted the announcement on several levels: elation (something he might be able to get his teeth into) annoyance (he had known Terry Bailey for years, and although he was a known scrapper, he always knew when to draw the line) and surprise (his niece, Gemma, would never hold anyone without solid evidence).

  Brenda automatically brought a cup of tea to the table, and Denny drank gratefully.

  “Tell me exactly what happened,” Joe ordered.

  “We’ve just bought a new prop. Seventeen Kimbolton Terrace—”

  Before Denny could say more, Joe cut him off. “You’re supposed to be working on Tandy Street.”

  “Be fair, Joe. The work there’s nearly done, we’ve gotta have something to keep the moolah coming in. And I told you, we’re waiting of the gas man and
leccy signing us off. Anyway, we bought this place at auction, the day before yesterday, and it needs a bit doing to it. New damp course, for starters, and we had to get the old plaster off the walls, rip out the laths and put new plasterboard up. Old boy next door came round whingeing that we’d brought plaster off his wall, too, so Tel went round to have a look, and got into an argument with the bloke. There were some cracks in his plaster, yeah, but they looked as if they were years old, so Tel told him to get stuffed. End of story.” Denny gulped down more tea and appealed to Brenda. “I’m starving. Any chance of a sausage butty to go with this, Brenda?”

  “Sure, Denny. Three twenty-five to you.”

  “Like I say, I’m not that hungry.”

  Joe urged him on. “Never mind looking for freebies. Get on with the tale.”

  “About half past four this morning your niece, Gemma, knocked me up outta bed. They had Tel in the lockup, and she wanted the keys to search our van. Turns out he was on the razz last night—”

  “When isn’t he?” Joe interrupted.

  “Yeah, well, he was too drunk to drive home, so he crashed at Kimbolton Terrace. According to Gemma, he swears he never heard anything, but about two in the morning, the street was flooded with cops, and some nosy neighbour pointed Tel out. That was it. Forensics have his dabs all over the old guy’s house, and I’ll bet they’ll find his DNA, too, but that’s because he was in there yesterday.”

  “So what happened to the old boy?”

  “Somebody bashed him over the head with a blunt instrument, which they haven’t found yet, and that’s why they wanted to search all our tools.”

  “And you’re sure it wasn’t Tel?”

  “Come off it, Joe. He doesn’t mind the odd rumble, but he’s no killer, and he wouldn’t even bother with an old git like that.”

  Joe drummed agitated fingers on the table top. With a week to Christmas, this was the last thing he needed. The café would be busy all day, they were already one short, and they could ill-afford his absence. He glanced up at Brenda, who had that stern, disapproving, yet resigned look in her eyes.