They ambled along the first floor corridor, taking in the noticeboards carrying photographs of Head Girl and Head Boy, and the duly appointed prefects, intermingled with photographs of staff members, heads of departments, and at the top of the virtual family tree, Ogilvy himself, his photograph labelled with his name and a line of qualifications, most of which meant little to Joe.
“You never got your face on the noticeboard, Joe?”
He grunted. “Yes I did. But only as a horrible example to everyone else.”
They cast the occasional glance through the upper, glass halves of classroom doors, where pupils appeared as model schoolchildren, their full attention on their class teachers. Joe Rather doubted it and said so.
“Five’ll get you ten, the little swines are passing notes, and plotting anarchy.”
“Texts, these days.” Brenda laughed. “And are you showing off your photographic memory again? In our year, the notes were all from you, George Robson and Owen Frickley… oh, and Alec Staines. Proper gang of thugs you lot were.”
The assembly hall/gymnasium was on the ground floor, and as Ogilvy promised, Martin Naylor was leading a drama group, and called a brief halt to the performance to welcome them.
The gym equipment had been moved to one side of the hall, and a group of about fifteen pupils at around in a semicircle while Martin stood between them and the stage, where two teenage boys were listening to him. Joe recognised one of the youngsters as Amir Patel, a young man whose father had owned the minimarket next door to the original Lazy Luncheonette before it burned down. Amir cast Joe a toothy grin, and Joe waved back.
And it was to Amir that Martin was speaking. “It’s not kilt, Amir, but killed. ‘I’ve killed him,’ not ‘I’ve kilt him. You make it sound as if you dressed your victim up as a Scotsman.”
The comment send a ripple of laughter round the fifteen or so students in the group, and Martin turned his attention to the two visitors.
“Joe, Brenda, nice to see you both.” He cast a glance at his watch. “We’re almost due for morning break.”
Brenda smiled bleakly. “We can hang on a few minutes, Martin.”
They took seats on one of a long benches used for assembly, now stacked up at the rear of the room, while the teacher and students went on rehearsing whatever the play was.
“I don’t recognise it,” Joe whispered to Brenda.
“Probably one the kids have written themselves. They don’t go a bundle on Oscar Wilde, Marlowe and Shakespeare. No relevance to them.”
Joe scowled. “No relevance? It seems to me the kids these days are carrying just as many blades as Hamlet, Macbeth, and Julius Caesar’s oppos.”
“They weren’t Caesar’s oppos,” Brenda corrected him. “They stabbed him in the back.”
Joe grunted softly. “A bit like you when I have to leave the café.”
Brenda never got the chance to respond. Martin brought the class to a close, and dismissed the students. As they filed out, one or two paused for a quick, quiet word, and once they had all left, he made his way to the back of the room and sat with Joe and Brenda. “I don’t have much time, I’m afraid. Is it about Sheila?”
The words were curt and clipped, yet he appeared friendly enough, but Joe mentally dismissed it as a front. Usually willing to give others the benefit of the doubt, Joe had already made up his mind about Martin. He was Marlon, he was Mervyn, he was a killer and he was a threat to their friend.
From Joe’s prospective, almost everyone was tall, and Martin fell easily into that category. Little over six feet in height, slim and fit for his age, he had a good head of hair, which was getting a little thin at the crown. He was a good-looking man (Joe based the assumption on Brenda’s more experienced opinion) with finely chiselled features and soft brown eyes, and on those occasions when Joe met him, he had always been a little reticent, almost timid, as if he were treading a careful path of uneven paving stones in an effort not to offend anyone.
But here, in the classroom, he was a different man. Firmly in control, a genuine leader.
In response to Martin’s query that they were here concerning Sheila, Joe replied, “Not really. It’s more about you, Mervyn Nellis and Marlon Newman.”
He was certain that the names registered, but Martin hid it well. “Who?”
“Gar, don’t come that with me. I know all about you, and so does Eliot Banks at North Shires.”
Brenda sighed. “So much for diplomacy. Joe, you’re about as tactful as a cruise missile.”
Martin leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped ahead of him, and he fixed Joe’s eyes with a resigned gaze. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
Brenda opened her bag, and took out the photocopies Banks had given Joe. She handed them over to Martin and insisted, “Are you saying those men are not you? Because from where I’m sat, you’re the spitting image of them.”
Martin studied the grainy images on the photocopies, and spent a long time reading the text accompanying the newspaper stories. At length, he chuckled, and handed the photocopies back. “You’re right. I do look like them.” He sat back. “But, unfortunately, I don’t come from Darlington, and I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere near Ripon other than on the occasional day trip. I can understand your concern, especially after reading those stories and taking into account the way Sheila is, but you’ve got it completely wrong.”
Joe still did not believe him. “I’ll tell you something that puzzles me, Martin. You’ve known Sheila for a year, you’ve been married, how long, three months now. According to her, she’s asked you several times to join the 3rd Age Club, yet you have always refused.” He aimed an accusing finger at the photocopies as Brenda slotted them back into the file. “You know about my reputation, and you didn’t want us tumbling this little lot, did you?”
Martin sighed again. “You know, you need a lot of tolerance to teach seventeen and eighteen-year-old kids, and they’re experts in the art of winding you up. Frankly, Joe, you’re doing a good impression of them, and you’re beginning to tax my patience. Listen to me very carefully. I am not Marlon Nellis or Mervyn Newman—”
“Mervyn Nellis and Marlon Newman,” Joe interrupted.
“Whoever. I am neither of them. True, I’m a widower. My wife died some years ago. Natural causes, and she’s buried in my home town of York. I’ll point you to her grave, if you wish. I understand your concern for Sheila, but you have this all wrong. I am no threat to her, and I want to see her well again, every bit as much as you do. Now why don’t you two go away before I reach breaking point?”
Joe stood up, and Brenda joined him.
“This doesn’t end here,” Joe warned. “I’ll be having a word with Howard.”
“Then I hope he has more sense than you.”
Joe and Brenda left the building, made their way back into the icy cold, and climbed into his car.
“That didn’t go well, did it?” Brenda observed.
“He’s lying,” Joe assured. “In his position, wouldn’t you lie?”
“Probably, but he seemed so sure. Are you really going to see Howard?”
Joe tapped agitated fingers on the steering wheel, and then fired the engine. “Difficult. He’s Sheila’s blood relative and it might be awkward for him to investigate. Gemma is probably a better bet. This is Sanford; her beat.” He thought about it for a moment. “Tell you what, I’ll see if I can get in touch with Maddy. She’s a genealogist, and she’ll know how to trace Martin’s past. If anyone can find his wife’s grave, it’s her.”
“Yes and if she really is buried in York, then we’ve probably got it wrong.” Brenda harrumphed impotently at the inclement weather. “You do know Martin will tell Sheila about our little tête à tête, don’t you?”
“Yes, and we’ll have to deal with the flak.”
It took twenty minutes to get back to The Lazy Luncheonette, only to find the place in a state of pandemonium, and a queue of customers rapidly losing
patience. As Joe and Brenda entered through the back door to find no sign of Lee and one of Cheryl’s friends watching over the hot stoves, two women left the queue and walked out in a fit of temper.
“What the hell’s going on?” Joe demanded.
Lee appeared from behind the counter. “Oh, thank God you’re back, Uncle Joe. It’s the bar mitzvah machine. It’s thrown a wobbler.”
“Bar mitzvah machine?”
“He means the barista, Joe.”
He did not need Brenda’s translation. He hurried through the service counter and found the barista and adjacent area covered in what looked like curdled cream.
“What the hell—”
“It was my fault, Joe,” Cheryl interrupted. “I left it to my friend Kayleigh, and she put cream instead of milk in it.” She blushed. “Well, she thought it was cream. Actually, it was a raspberry flavoured yoghurt, and when she put it under the heater, it splattered everywhere.” She gestured around the rear of the counter where traces of the gunge could be seen across the walls and nearby tables.
“She put yoghurt in a coffeemaker?”
“Calm down, Joe,” Brenda advised.
“And not even normal yoghurt but raspberry flavoured.” Joe laid the evil eye on Cheryl. “What was she trying to make? A yoghucccino? Did she not learn to read at school?” His fury building, he demanded, “And where is she?”
“She went home. She was terrified of what you’d say.” Cheryl was humbly contrite. “I’m sorry, Joe. We were trying to clean it up before you got back.”
“Then you’d better get on with it before—”
The woman at the front of the queue rapped on the counter. “Oi. Are we gonna get any service here, or what?”
Joe turned a mock, sweet smile on her. “Certainly, madam. What would like? A bacon and raspberry yoghurt sandwich? Or perhaps a tuna salad with yoghurt? If I pour orange juice over it, you can have three courses in one bun; starter, main meal and dessert.”
Pulling her tabard in place, Brenda pushed him out of the way and took over at the counter. She smiled at the customer. “You’ll have to forgive us, luv. It’s been a trying morning.” From the side of her mouth, she said to Joe, “You’d better keep an eye on lunches, Joe, while Lee and Cheryl get the mess cleared up.”
Chapter Seven
Immediately the lunchtime rush was out of the way, Joe grabbed a quick bite to eat, put on his coat, and with a brief explanation to Brenda, excused himself.
Working his way round the convoluted route which would bring him onto Doncaster Road heading into Sanford, he made mental plans for the afternoon. First on the agenda was a visit to Kimbolton Terrace, to speak to some of Willie Trelfus’s neighbours.
As he battled the weight of traffic, he made a the brief call to Maddy Chester, a genealogist with whom he had an on/off relationship, and she confirmed that she was in Australia with members of her family, and she would be there until after the New Year. As a consequence, Joe decided that once he was finished with the residents of Kimbolton Terrace, he would call at the police station and have a few words with Gemma on the subject of Martin Naylor.
He was not unduly concerned with the Bailey/Dixon/Trelfus affair. Gemma had no more evidence against Tel Bailey than she did against anyone else, and it was likely that the case would dry up and remain unsolved.
The same could not be said of the threat to Sheila, if indeed such a threat existed. But without Maddy’s assistance, the police remained as his only hope of clearing or convicting Martin.
It was a path fraught with difficulties. As Brenda pointed out, Martin would undoubtedly speak to Sheila, and once Gemma was brought into the equation, she would inevitably tell Howard (they were, after all, living together) and as Sheila’s only blood relative in the UK, he was bound to become involved, and at some stage, Peter Riley Jnr and his brother Aaron would be informed. Both of Sheila’s sons lived in America, but Joe knew them well. They were fiercely protective of their mother, and he would not be surprised to learn that they were ready to jump on a flight to the UK and confront Martin.
And if it should prove that Martin was, indeed, innocent…
Still fighting with the traffic on Doncaster Road, winding his way towards the canal side streets, Joe shuddered at the prospect. Like it or not, the morning’s visit to Sanford Comprehensive had fired the ignition, and set the lumbering gears of the machinery into motion. He would just have to live with whatever the consequences.
But even as he worried about the outcome, he had no regrets. His overriding concern was the safety of a woman he had known for half a century.
Turning into Kimbolton Terrace, an almost exact duplicate of Tandy Street, Joe parked up, and left the engine running for a few minutes while he decided on his approach.
The door of number seventeen had a metal grille placed over it. Bailey and Dixon, he guessed. It was a standard, anti-burglar procedure for any house undergoing renovation. At number fifteen (Trelfus’s place) next-door a similar grille had been put in place, but this was crisscrossed with police ‘scene of crime’ tape.
But looking over the crime scene would do him any good. Whatever tales the empty house had to tell, they were the exclusive province of the police and their scientific support services.
He killed the engine, climbed out, locked up the car and crossed the street to number eleven, noticing (with some humour) that there was no number thirteen. Triskaidekaphobia; an extreme fear of the number thirteen which frequently manifested itself in the older streets of industrial towns like Sanford where the everyday, working people of days gone by were swamped in superstition.
He knocked on the door, and presently a forty-something woman answered.
“We don’t want none.”
Joe’s irritation flashed before he could control it. “How do you know? I might be selling English lessons.”
The lady of the house, an overweight bottle blonde dressed in scruffy, rip-knee jeans and a thin, flowery top which showed her bra, made to close the door, but Joe stopped her.
“No. Please. I’m sorry. I’m not selling anything. I’m here about the old boy at number fifteen.”
Suspicion still haunting her pudgy face, she opened the door again. “You’re too short to be a copper, so are you a reporter?”
“No. I’m a private investigator, and I’ve been asked to do some poking around.”
She relaxed a moment and shuffled her furry mules on the doormat. “Well, what do you wanna know? Come on, it’s perishing standing here.”
“Someone told me that you get a lot of builders and such knocking on your doors, trying to get you to sell up.”
She nodded. “They’re a pain in the buttock. Every day they come knocking. I wouldn’t care, but I don’t even own this place. I’m only the tenant. I just tell ’em to p—”
“Yeah. I can imagine,” Joe interrupted. “How well did you know old Trelfus?”
“Too well. He was a miserable old twonk. Always moaning, whingeing, especially when we have the telly on. I meanersay, we has to have the volume turned up on account of my old man’s nearly deaf.”
“Did you know about the argument he had with the builder the other day?”
“Half the bloody street knew about it. Old Billy was shouting the odds, and the young lad, him as what killed the old git, went round and gave him short shrift.”
“So did you see Tel on the night Trelfus died?”
“Yes. He turned up roaring drunk about half past eleven. Had some young tart with him. I don’t know how much she charges, but the state he was in, she wouldn’t have had to do much for it.”
Joe put her biased opinions to one side. “But they went into number seventeen, not Trelfus’s place. Right?” She nodded and Joe went on, “So you didn’t hear the argument when Trelfus was killed?”
For the first time the woman seemed hazy. “Not really. We heard something going on, but we was busy with other matters at the time, me and my other half. And don’t ask what we were doing.
It’s nowt to do with you.”
Joe’s mind ran along automatic tracks, and he shuddered at the prospect of this woman in the throes of sexual excess.
“So who called the cops?”
She shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. Wasn’t me. Probably one of the nosy buggers across the street.”
She went to close the door again, but Joe stopped her. “Sorry, missus, just another couple of things and I’ll leave you in peace. You get builders round here every day, and Tel Bailey says that him and his partner, Denny Dixon, have done a bit of door-knocking here. Can you point me to any other builders, estate agents and the like who come round regular?”
She gave the matter a moment’s thought. “There’s two that I can think of. One’s a builder. Parson’s nose, or something, he calls himself. Sleazy toe rag. Beard. Usually has a big bruiser with him. The other is a red-haired woman. Gotta be sixty if she’s a day. Mutton dressed as lamb, that one. Works for some estate agents who auction houses off. Her and that builder I mentioned are round here every other day. Proper nuisances, they are.”
The information confirmed Joe’s suspicions. He needed to speak to Iain Parsloe and Archie Hepple’s wife, Frankie.
He thanked the woman, made his way back to his car, took a couple of shunts to turn it round, and drove out of Kimbolton, heading towards the auction house on Pontefract Road, but when he got there, it was to learn that the Hepples were in the middle of a general auction. If he waited, it would mean a delay of at least a couple of hours. He doubled back, made his way through the streets, fighting once again with pre-Christmas traffic, one eye on the clock – he had to be home early to get ready for Churchill’s – he eventually pulled up outside Parsloe’s yard.
It was no different to Bailey and Dixon’s place a couple of miles away. Bags of cement stored under a tarpaulin, various bits and pieces of scaffolding, planking, and other timber strewn about the place, occasional warning signs in various colours propped up against the surrounding barbed wire-topped fences, and a tiny office in a Portakabin to one side.
Merry Murders Everyone Page 6