“You’d better see if you can sort it out,” she said.
“But what about the café?”
“We’ll cope, won’t we, Lee?”
“It’s no problem, Uncle Joe. You get off and spring Tel.”
Joe nodded at Denny. “All right. Leave it with me, I’ll whip into town and have a word with Gemma, but I’m not promising anything. She rules the roost at Sanford police station these days, and she doesn’t always listen to me.”
Denny finished his tea, got to his feet. “You’re sure there is no danger of that sausage butty?”
“Just get out, Denny, while you’re in one piece. Bloody freeloaders. You’re worse than the cops.”
Joe watched him leave and stood. “I’d better get weaving if I’m gonna make it back in time to help you with lunches. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
He left his whites in the kitchen, put on his topcoat, and headed out through the rear door, climbed behind the wheel of his car, firing the engine, pulling away.
For anyone driving from The Lazy Luncheonette, getting to Sanford town centre was problematic. The café was situated in a parade on the southbound side of Doncaster Road, a dual carriageway, and from the café, there was no obvious means of turning right towards the town. Instead, Joe had to turn left at the nearest traffic lights, into the retail park, drive on for a hundred yards to a roundabout, where he doubled back, and returned to the same lights, from where he could turn right towards Sanford.
It was a pain at the best of times, but in the full-blooded flow Christmas traffic, it was a nightmare, and Joe calculated that almost ten minutes passed before he was finally driving towards the town.
Things would not get any better. When the dual carriageway reduced to a single lane of two-way traffic, the traffic was heaving, and he lost a further five minutes as the cars, buses and lorries funnelled into a single line. Twenty minutes after leaving The Lazy Luncheonette, he arrived at the entry to the multi-storey car park at the Galleries Shopping Mall, where he joined another queue of slow-moving cars looking for parking spaces.
A full thirty minutes after he had made the decision, he stepped into Sanford Police Station, at the rear of the mall, asked for Detective Inspector Craddock, and eventually, his niece escorted him to her small office at the rear of the station.
It was a small, shabby room, one she had commandeered several years earlier as a detective sergeant. She had no window on the outside world, other than a small pane set high on one wall, which gave her a glimpse of the brick walls beyond. She had, however, Christmas-ified the place with a small tree and several strings of tinsel here and there.
The season of goodwill had not extended to her personal demeanour. The moment they sat down, she guessed the reason for his call.
“Tel Bailey. Yeah?”
“Clever girl,” Joe congratulated her. “I always knew you were smart.”
“Bandying compliments won’t get you anywhere, Uncle Joe. What does he have to do with you anyway?”
“He and Denny are supposed to be doing up Tandy Street for me. He can’t do that while he’s walled up here something he didn’t do, can he?”
Gemma waved a warning finger at him. “We don’t know whether or not he did it, so don’t come the old ‘he’s not guilty’ routine. And, he’s not here now. We let him go, provided he keeps us up to speed on his whereabouts. And to be honest, Uncle Joe, I don’t care if he’s rebuilding Tandy Street from scratch for you. An old man named Billy Trelfus died last night, Terry Bailey is in the frame, and that is my priority.”
Joe took the remonstration well. “I assume you’re waiting for forensic reports?”
“Yes.”
“Denny tells me that you’ve gone through their tools. Have you found the murder weapon?”
Jenner huffed out her breath in exasperation. “You know, social media, text messages and email have nothing on the speed of the grapevine in this town. And like most social media, text and emails, it doesn’t take long for the tale to get twisted. There is no murder weapon, Joe. Old man Trelfus died when he fell backwards and hit his head on the corner of a coffee table. It’s more likely to be manslaughter than murder. Bailey says he wasn’t anywhere near the old man last night, but we have witnesses who saw them arguing earlier in the day.”
“So Denny told me. And can you prove that Tel was there last night?”
“Not yet. But if he was, we’ll get him.”
Joe considered the proposition. “Do you have anyone else in the frame?”
“No. And before you get sticking your nose in, Tel’s girlfriend can’t vouch for him, either. The only thing she’s been able to tell us is that he was completely blotto last night. Smashed out of his brains. She left him sleeping in the house and got a lift home.”
“In other words, she can’t vouch…” Joe trailed off, his brow knitted into furrows of concentration. “Girlfriend?”
“Ros Hepple. You know her. Archie, the auctioneer, his daughter.”
Joe nodded. “Ah. I didn’t know they had anything going down.”
“Not serious according to Ros. Just a few beers now and then.”
“And a bit of how’s your father when Tel’s sober enough.” Joe brought his rambling thoughts under control. “All right. I’ll go see what I can dig up.”
Gemma pointed the threatening finger again. “Just be careful, Joe. Don’t go poking your nose in too deeply. We get enough complaints from Kimbolton Terrace as it is. Builders, including Tel and Denny, are forever pestering the residents to sell up. They’re worse than the texts and mobile cold-callers selling smart meters.”
A light lit in Joe’s brain. “Do you, now? I think that’s really interesting. Don’t you?”
“No I don’t. It’s a way of the world. Hassle, hassle, hassle, from everyone. Just watch your step, Joe.” Quite abruptly, Gemma changed the subject. “How’s Sheila?”
“Bad. We had Howard in earlier on telling us all about it. Apparently, her GP insists that it’s all in her mind. Brenda and I are going to see her later.”
“And you will tell her what the doctor said?”
“Would you?” Joe laughed as he got to his feet. “I’ll catch you later, Gemma, and if I find anything out, you’ll be the first to know… Oh. You don’t happen to know where Tel was going when you let him out, do you?”
“He never said, but he can’t go back to Kimbolton, so if Tandy Street is the only other job they have on their books…” Gemma trailed off, leaving the obvious suggestion hanging in the air.
With a mental reminder that he had not yet bought Gemma anything for Christmas, Joe left the police station, climbed back into his car, and joined the increasing traffic once again, but this time, instead of making for Doncaster Road, he headed west onto Leeds Road and at length turned into the maze of terraced streets running at right angles to the canal, and finally into Tandy Street, where the dark green, rusting, Bailey and Dixon van stood outside number twenty-three.
After the warmth of the car, the icy chill of the morning snapped at his cheeks and hands. Buried in his winter coat, he shivered, and looked both ways along the street.
There was nothing in the way of traffic either moving along the street or passing along the bottom. There were cars parked outside several of the houses, and you notice that curtains were closed at the occasional upper windows. Nightshift workers? If so, he guessed they would be none too happy to have him as a neighbour, starting up his noisy car at five o’clock every morning.
At the top end of the street a rough, stone wall blocked off access to the canal beyond, and Joe could imagine children generally making a nuisance of themselves at that end of the street, especially during the summer months, and the long break from school.
He decided he did not mind. His childhood had been spent in the apartment above the old Lazy Luncheonette, back in the days when it was known as Alf’s Café. It had not been an unhappy time, but living on a main road precluded any possibility of playing in the street
the way the children of Tandy Street would.
Putting aside his maudlin memories, he pushed open the door to number twenty-three and stepped in.
It was a hive of inactivity. The front room was bare, the walls stripped back to the plaster, ready for papering, the woodwork was sanded down in preparation for painting, but neither job could go ahead until Tel and Denny finished their work.
From the kitchen came the sound of muttered voices, one of them grumpy, complaining (reminding Joe of himself more than anyone) the other whining, almost pleading.
He stepped in and found the two men in a corner by the back door. Denny was seated on a folding camping chair, Tel, hands clutched to his head, was perched on a stack of one-hundredweight plaster bags. In front of them was a primus stove, it’s burner chuckling away, casting out a minimum amount of heat, and both men had already made tea or coffee from it.
“So this is what you get up to while my back’s turned.”
It was as if they had only just registered his presence. Tel greeted him with a groan, Denny delivered a scathing look.
“Dinnertime, Joe. Or are you so busy serving meals you don’t get chance to eat any?”
Joe ignored the jibe. “What’s the state of the parties?”
“We’re in mufti. I told you earlier, we’re waiting for a spark and the gas man to certify our work. Once that’s done, we’ll sign the place off, and you can call Alec Staines in to do the walls and paintwork.”
“Not much chance of me getting in this side of Christmas, then?”
Denny shrugged. “Is your furniture ordered?”
“Yep. In storage of waiting for me to ring them and tell them to deliver.” He concentrated on Tel. “Forget about the work for the minute, what about you?”
“What about me?”
They were not many men in Sanford prepared to argue with Tel Bailey. He was tall, fit and muscular, and notwithstanding his heavy drinking, he kept himself in the peak of condition with regular workouts at a local gym.
Joe, on the other hand, was one of the few who would challenge him. “You were so tanked up last night that you don’t even remember hassling Billy Trelfus?”
“Knock it off, Joe. I don’t remember nothing. I didn’t even know his name until your Gemma told me.”
Joe refused to back down. “A man’s dead. You’re in the frame. Your only hope is to find the two active brain cells in your empty head, and start talking to me. I’ve just spoken to Gemma, and you’re looking at a charge of manslaughter. Given your track record for scrapping, that’s a good eight to ten years in the nick. Tell me what happened last night.”
“I already told you, I don’t know.”
“I don’t mean what happened at Kimbolton Terrace. Tell me what you did after you knocked off work for the day.”
He gave a shrug, and glanced around the dimly lit, barren room. “I dunno. We wrapped up about six o’clock, Denny dropped me off at the gym on his way home. I spent an hour there, and then I met Ros in the Boat & Horses. We were on a promise after I helped out at the auction the other day.”
Denny fumed. “Helped out? Poked his nose into the bidding. That’s what he did. And all for a quick fumble with Ros.”
Joe pulled him up short. “Don’t let’s get sidetracked. He’s in enough trouble as it is.” He swung his attention to Tel. “Go on.”
“I can’t go on because that’s all I remember. I was sinking a few, for sure. Whiskey chasers to help the beer go down, too. I think Ros walked me to Kimbolton. That’s it. The next thing I knew, was the filth waking me up, chucking me in the paddy wagon, and carting me off down to Gale Street.” His brow cleared, and his eyes began to burn with certainty. “I do know that I didn’t go next door. Hassles like that wind me up, and I would have remembered. Not that your Gemma sees it like that. According to her, being drunk won’t get me off.”
“She’s right. Booze is no excuse in the eyes of the law.” Joe nudged him further along the sacks, and perched on the corner. “Our Gemma tells me that the residents round here get all of hassle from guys like you, asking them to sell up so you can do the properties on to make a profit.”
It was Denny who answered. “Not just us, Joe. Parsloe’s one of the biggest culprits, and most of Sanford’s builders are on the same game. If you can get a prop round here for, say, sixty-five grand, you can sell it on for at least a hundred a couple of months later. It’s a paying game these days. And it’s not just builders, you know. Archie Hepple sends canvassers out. He even does a bit himself, and they’re only looking to auction the properties off. But, mark you, we’ve not done any door-knocking on Kimbolton for months. In fact, we haven’t done any door-knocking since you called us in to do this job. And to my knowledge we never, ever knocked on Trelfus’s door. He had a rep as a miserable old basket, and we can live without that kind of grief.”
“True enough,” Tel said. “He was giving us some serious earache yesterday when we started knocking the plaster off the walls of number seventeen.”
“Yet Denny says the damage to his walls was nothing to do with you.”
“Nothing,” Tel confirmed. “I went round and had a look at it, Joe, and some of those cracks are as old as you. Ask around if you don’t believe me. I’ll bet he’s tried it with every builder in the town.”
“He still didn’t deserve to die.” Joe stood up. “All right, leave it with me. I’ll make some enquiries, but hey, this is one you owe me. I’ll expect you to get your finger out and get this place finished before the courts send Tel down for the next ten years.”
Tel groaned. “Oh, God, no.”
“You want some advice, lad? I know for a fact that you won’t listen, but the best thing you could do is get off the beer. Marry Archie’s daughter and settle down, because one of these days, you’ll find yourself in a worse position than this, and there won’t be a friendly Joe Murray around to save you.”
Chapter Four
Joe arrived back at The Lazy Luncheonette a little after half past twelve, as the lunchtime rush was picking up, and for the next hour he was too busy to give his crew anything but the barest details of Tel Bailey’s predicament.
“I promise to look further into it,” he said to Brenda, as he placed an order for a chicken and salad sandwich and poured out a cup of tea to go with it. “As long as you guys can cope.”
“Bad without Sheila.”
“We could always give that Russian lass, that Nadia, a shout, Uncle Joe,” Lee called from the kitchen.
Nadia had joined them briefly after the affair at Squires Lodge, but she found the pressure of working at full stretch too much, and she had moved on to secure a permanent, if part-time cleaning job.
“Forget it,” Brenda said. “A nice enough girl, but she could never master the difference between steak and kidney pudding and sticky toffee pudding. I don’t know how many customers complained that their dessert was covered in gravy. We’ll manage, Joe. Provided you’re here to help with breakfast, we can cope with the rest of the day.”
By two o’clock, the rush was over, and the afternoon calm began to set in. At half past two, just as he and Brenda were preparing to leave to visit Sheila, Joe’s mobile rang. He checked the menu window, and read Eliot Banks, the senior claims investigator at North Shires Insurance, a company which Denise Latham had introduced him to before her untimely death.
“What the hell does he want?” Joe made the connection and put the phone to his ear. “Eliot. What can I do you for?”
“I’ve a job for you, Joe, if you’re interested.”
“Right now, I’m up to my neck in staff chucking a sickie, my builder accused of murder, and the Christmas rush. Is it important?”
“Top priority. It’ll pay you a handsome five grand if you can pull it off. Can you get to Leeds to see me?”
Joe clucked impatiently. “Tell you what, it’ll either be tomorrow or very late this afternoon, say half past five, six o’clock.”
“Today. I’ll wait for you. Soon
as you can, please, Joe.”
“More hassle?” Brenda asked as he killed the connection.
“More work. I should’ve stayed in the Canary Islands with Alison. I could have been enjoying winter sunshine right now.”
Brenda cackled. “You mean you could have been enjoying Alison.”
“Yuk.”
Joe delivered his misleading, tongue in cheek opinion as he put on his coat and hinted that Brenda should get ready.
After fleeing Palmanova he had made his way by a roundabout route to Tenerife, where he met up with his ex-wife, and Alison had been good to him. She had even pressured him into staying there permanently, and at those times when he thought about it, he often wondered how things would have panned out had he taken her up on the offer.
Outside the café, he and Brenda climbed into their separate cars, for the two-mile drive to Sheila’s bungalow.
Larch Avenue was on the north-western side of Sanford, a slightly more affluent area than the terraced streets Joe was proposing to move into. Sheila had lived there for most of her married life, and she maintained her bungalow even after her first husband’s death.
But for signs that two cars were usually parked in the drive, little had changed in the external appearance of the house. The front lawn, declining into its winter sadness, was closely cropped, lined with herbaceous borders, all of them, once again, without flowers, the hedgerow dividing her property with that of her neighbour, was in need of trimming, but that aside, everything was as it had always been.
Matters were no different at the rear, where the lawn stretched all the way from the patio to the dishevelled hedgerows, and where a small apple tree showed sad, barren branches. The rear entrance to the garden comprised a tall, stout wooden gate, badly in need of a coat of creosote.
If nothing was different outside, the interior had seen marked changes. As Howard had told them, all pictures of Peter had been removed, except for one which adorned the wall of the narrow hall when they first entered, and even then he and Sheila were visible only as members of the party attending Brenda’s wedding to her late husband, Colin. The major change, however, was in the living room, where a large, silver-framed photograph of Sheila and Martin, taken outside the church on their wedding day, dominated the shelf above the fireplace.
Merry Murders Everyone Page 3