“You wanna know about the other night, don’t you?” she asked, and Joe nodded. “Yeah, the cops were asking too.” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “I don’t know what I can tell you, Joe. Tel asked me to meet him for a few beers in the Boat & Horses. There was football on the telly, and it turned into a session, didn’t it? By closing time, he was smashed out of his brains, and what should have been a promising night turned into a disaster. He was too drunk to drive home, and I’d arrived by taxi, so we went round to Kimbolton Terrace.” She sighed. “I only went with him because he was feeling a bit, er, anxious, if you get my meaning.”
Joe nodded his understanding. “But he was too drunk?”
She sighed again. “We got into the place, I fired up the camping stove to make a brew, and the next thing I knew, he was flat out on a sleeping bag, snoring his head off. I rang Frankie, asked her to pick me up, and sat it out while she turned up.”
“And you didn’t hear anything from the old man next door?”
“Odd noises, yeah, but nothing that sounded like a barney. I’ll tell you what I told the cops. Tel was in no state to go round there and get into a fight with him. I know Tel is a scrapper, but that night, Billy Trelfus would’ve won. That’s how drunk Tel was.”
“How long were you waiting for Frankie?”
She shrugged again. “Twenty minutes. Half an hour.”
“Long time.”
“Come on, Joe, she was in bed when I rang. She had to get dressed and everything.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Ros. I don’t know how much further it’ll get the cops, or whether it’ll get Tel off the hook, but I promised our Gemma I’d pass on anything I came across.”
“Sorry, Joe. Can’t tell you any more than that.”
“No worries. I need a word with your mother now, and I’ll be out of your way.”
Ros’s eyes narrowed. “She’s not my mother. She’s my stepmother. My mother ran out on us, if you remember.”
Joe held up his hands in surrender. “Apologies. I remember the scuttlebutt at the time.”
Ros wandered off, and Frankie took her place.
It was obvious that she was not the younger woman’s natural mother. About Joe’s height, a couple of years older than him, she was a classy, flame-haired, busty woman who had a tendency to wear skirts which were a little too short (in Joe’s opinion) for her age, and she had a more agreeable attitude than her stepdaughter. Sitting opposite him, she crossed her knees, giving him a distracting and tempting view of the strong thighs.
“Et maintenant, Mr Murray. What can I do for you?”
Her accent was pure Yorkshire with a slight burr, and she had a habit of throwing in occasional French phrases, reminiscent of the character Del Boy in the TV comedy, Only Fools and Horses, but unlike the leader of the Trotter clan, Frankie’s occasional dips into the French language were accurate.
Unwilling to dive in with both feet, Joe concentrated on her linguistic habit, and she was happy to explain.
“Back in the day, I lived in Belgium for a while, and I picked up the language.” She laughed throatily, and lit a cigarette. “You do, don’t you? Where was it your wife went to after you split up? Spain or somewhere? I bet she’s fluent in the local language now.”
“Canary Islands,” Joe corrected her, “and you’re right. She speaks it like a local. So where in Belgium were you? Brussels?”
“Hell, no. I couldn’t afford to live there. No, I lived to the far north, in a little place called Knokke-Heist. Beautiful little town. Fabulous beach.”
The slightest of doubts entered Joe’s head, but he put them aside. “I don’t wanna take up too much of your time, Frankie, but the word is you did your share of door-knocking on Kimbolton Terrace, trying to get the residents to sell up.”
Frankie’s features became more serious. “Not as much as you might think, Joe, but yeah, we’ve done a fair bit of canvassing in that area. I know we can be a pain in the fesse, but it’s a legitimate business exercise. If we knock on, say, two hundred doors, we might pick up two props. The homeowners are happy when we sell, the buyers are happy, and we make a good commission on it.”
Joe’s phone rang. He checked the menu window, read ‘Gemma’ and cut it off. Concentrating on Frankie, he homed in on his main question. “Ever have any dealings with old Trelfus?”
“Did we ever? Dear God, he was an awful man, and it got to the stage where when we were knocking Kimbolton, we’d go past his door. I’ve never met anyone so abusive, and it was all right for the likes of Tel Bailey and Ian Parsloe. They were big enough to deal with the silly old sod, but I couldn’t do with his threatening. I wouldn’t care, but it was the Social Services Department who put us onto him. According to them, he needed to come out of that house and go into care. They couldn’t persuade him, but they told us that if we could get him out, the money he made on the sale would be enough to fund his care. In the end, we gave it up as a bad job. He was just a mean, cantankerous old râleur.”
“And you didn’t see him at all the night you went to pick up Ros? The night Trelfus died?”
“No. And if I had, I’d have ignored him.”
Joe decided he could learn nothing more, and stood up. “Thanks for your time, Frankie. I don’t think I’ll need to bother you again.”
“No problem. Oh, how’s – what’s her name – Sheila Riley?”
“Still bad. Just goes to show you. She should have stuck to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”
Chapter Ten
The moment Joe climbed into his car, he took out his phone and returned Gemma’s call.
“I was just letting you know that Martin is coming in at one o’clock. Don Oughton has authorised me to let you sit in the observation room while I conduct the interview with Vinny Gillespie. The Chief Super will be with you to make sure everything is above board.”
“What? They don’t trust you?”
“Sanford’s a small town, as you know, and everyone knows everyone. Sheila is an old friend, Joe, if only by proxy because you’re my uncle. We have to be seen to do it right, and if anything comes of it, we’ll have to call Roy Vickers from Wakefield or Ray Dockerty from Leeds.”
It made sense. “I’ll be there.” Joe checked his watch. “I’ve time to nip back to The Lazy Luncheonette to make sure everything’s in order for lunches, and then I’ll be with you.”
His excitement rising at the prospect, he battled once again with the Sanford traffic, fighting his way back to the café, where he found everything in order and under Brenda’s control.
“Have you learned anything?” she asked as the door opened and George Robson walked in.
“Yes. I’ve learned that even though Sanford is only a small place, it never ceases to surprise you. George Robson walking into my place is like the angel showing up to guide the three wise men to the manger.”
“It was a star, actually, Joe,” George said.
George was chargehand in the leisure services department, looking after Sanford’s parks and gardens, and along with Brenda and Sheila, he was one of Joe’s oldest friends. All the same, it was a surprise to see him. In common with most of the local authority’s employees, he preferred the subsidised canteen at the town hall. A large man in all directions, vertical and horizontal, he was by any definition a heavy drinker, but he lived by a credo similar to Brenda’s: enjoy life while you can because you’re a long time dead. Along with his close friend, Owen Frickley, he attended all the 3rd Age Club events and joined them on all the outings, but on the excursions, they went their own way rather than taking part in any organised events.
A man like George, Joe decided, would have been ideal for dealing with Kimberry, Joe put the proposition to him, he cried off.
“I’d love to help, Joe. I know Bob Kimberry, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to paste him all over Sanford, but there’s a coupla problems with that. First off, he’s twenty years younger than me, and I’d need Owen with me, and secondly I’m in the mi
ddle of a working day. That wouldn’t normally a problem, but Kimberry’s boss, Parsloe, has connections at the town hall. His sister’s husband works in the Planning Department. Snooty git. He’d report me for skiving off.” George settled down with a portion of Joe’s steak and kidney pudding and vegetables. “Anyroad up, you’ve got Lee, and he can deal with Kimberry and Parsloe.”
Joe put a beaker of tea before his old friend, and joined him. “Fair enough. So what brings you to The Lazy Luncheonette?”
“You keep bragging about your steak and kidney pud, so I thought I’d give it a try.” George munched on a mouthful of food and swallowed it, washing it down with a healthy swig of tea. “Besides, I’d heard you were looking into Sheila’s husband.”
Joe was uncharacteristically reluctant to talk. “Where did you hear that?”
George laughed and chewed more food. “Everybody in Churchill’s heard the argument last night.” He cast a glance about the café, a look which took in Brenda. “Are you two accusing him of trying to murder her?”
“It’s a bit complicated, George. Do you know something?”
“No. What?”
Joe shook his head in his exasperation. “I didn’t mean I was going to tell you something. I’m asking whether you know anything at all.”
“Oh. Right. Not really, but it was something Sheila asked a few weeks ago. Mid-November-ish. She has a holly bush in the back garden, and she was worried that it wasn’t producing berries. I told her that it needs to be in place for four or five years before they show, but she says it’s been there since before Pete died, and she’s sure she’s had berries from it before.”
Joe’s brow creased. “I think she may be right. I do remember her making a holly wreath one Christmas, and that had berries on it. I don’t understand why this matters, George.”
“Those berries are poisonous, Joe.” George took a healthy swallow of tea, and attacked his meal again. “I’m not saying you could top someone with them, but you’d certainly give them the trots and make them throw up.”
By now, the conversation had attracted Brenda’s attention, and leaving the counter to one of Cheryl’s friends, she joined them.
“Are you suggesting Martin could be feeding her the berries?”
George shrugged. “Search me. I reckon she’d notice if he was. I’m just saying that she was complaining that this tree isn’t flowering like it should, and now she’s falling sick every five minutes.”
“And you’re sure the tree’s not dead?” Joe asked.
“Certain of it. In fact, I thought Sheila had it wrong. I’d swear it was no older than a coupla years. But then, what do I know? I’m only a thick gardener, aren’t I?” George grumbled on as he ate. “Only been at it since I left school. How would I know what I’m talking about?”
Joe and Brenda exchanged a look swamped with the kind of worries which had plagued them for the last two days.
“You didn’t notice whether the soil had been disturbed?” Joe asked. “As if it’d been replanted.”
George polished off the last of his meal, pushed the plate to one side and ran a paper serviette over his mouth before taking a large swallow of tea. “Grand that, Joe. Just what I needed to line the stomach for a good session tonight. And no, I didn’t notice. She rang me after work one night, and it was pitch bloody dark in the garden. I told I’d need to see it in daylight if I was gonna give her a proper opinion. She told me not to bother, so I didn’t. I don’t mind doing favours for friends, but I do have a life to lead.”
Joe and Brenda exchanged glances again. “We need to get a look at that tree,” Joe said.
“Fat chance,” Brenda retorted. “After last night, if we rang the doorbell, she’d release the hounds.”
In the act of finishing his tea, George’s eyes widened and he put the beaker down. “Are you two for real? You really think Martin’s trying to shuffle her off?”
“I told you, it’s complicated.”
“Why would he?” George demanded.
“How about a quarter of a million quid?”
Brenda augmented Joe’s question. “That’s how much Sheila is insured for.”
A look of thunder crossed George’s chubby features. “Leave him to me. I’ll have him. Nobody threatens one of our gang.”
Joe checked his watch. “Yeah, well, right now it’s up to the Sanford police, and I’m due at Gale Street in half an hour. Thanks for the tipoff, George. I’ll pass it on to Gemma. Give him a good discount on his dinner, Brenda.”
George screwed up his face again, in puzzlement this time. “Discount? I thought it’d be free.”
“The tea was free.” Joe grinned savagely. “They say miracles happen at Christmas, George, but you’re forgetting that I don’t do Christmas.”
“Scrooge.”
With the final complaint, George paid for his meal (discounted by twenty percent) and left them to it. As the first of the lunchtime customers began to form a queue, Joe moved behind the counter, Brenda marshalling the team in the kitchen, and they went into familiar action.
“You know what we need, don’t you?” Joe said.
“A lottery win?”
With a scowl, he took the first order from the woman at the front of the queue, and passed it to the kitchen. While pouring out a cup of tea for the customer, he muttered to Brenda, “We need to do what we did in Whitby.”
Brenda frowned. “We were on a treasure hunt in Whitby, Joe.”
Joe rang up the sale, and gave the woman change. “Yes, but between times, Maddy and I carried out a little burglary.”
The light dawned in Brenda’s eyes. “Yes, but Sheila’s place is likely to be better alarmed than the shabby little place you broke into. And as I recall, you and Maddy got nicked that night.”
Joe rang up the second sale, and handed over change. “It’s in a good cause, Brenda. How about it? Nine, ten o’clock tonight?”
She resigned herself to the inevitable. “Let’s see how you get on at the police station first.”
***
Joe was at Gale Street a few minutes before Gemma was scheduled to begin questioning Martin, and both she and Chief Superintendent Don Oughton were at pains to warn him off.
“This is serious business, Joe,” Oughton said, “and we can’t have any interference. You’re welcome to observe, you’re welcome to pass any comments to me, and if I think they are valid, I’ll put them through to Gemma via the headset. But you can’t confront Martin. And I know you. Even if you face him later – and I know for a fact you will – you mustn’t give any hint that you were here in the police station.”
Joe had known Don Oughton for almost as long as he had known Sheila and Brenda, and although he was never intimidated by the Chief Superintendent’s rank, common sense prevailed. “You have my word, Don.”
Oughton gave Gemma the nod, and she and Detective Constable Vinny Gillespie stepped into the interview room while Joe and the station commander entered the observation room.
Martin appeared quite calm while Gemma ran through the pre-interview process. He had a bottle of still water close to hand, and drank occasionally from it while she gave him the background information necessary to conduct the interrogation.
Sat in the cramped observation room, Joe could hear everything, and Gemma was wearing an earpiece through which Oughton could communicate with her.
“These matters are been brought to our attention, Mr Naylor, by North Shires Insurance. It’s not up to me to question their methods, so I can’t say how they came by the information, but given the documents they’ve supplied, I do need to question you. You’re not under caution, you are not obliged to answer any of my questions, but I would advise you to do so. The more information we have, the better our chances of clearing the business up. You’re entitled to have a legal representative, or any other witness with you, if you wish. Do you want anyone with you?”
Martin smiled confidently. “No. According to my wife, the best witness I could have at my side is
Joe Murray, but I’m already aware that he’s the one who passed the North Shires documents to you. And before you say anything more, Inspector, I’m also aware that you have a personal interest in this business. Joe Murray’s your uncle, isn’t he?”
“Irrelevant,” Gemma said. “Yes, Joe is my uncle, but although I’ve known her for a good number of years, I have no relationship with your wife or with North Shires Insurance. I am the senior detective in Sanford CID, and it’s my place to initiate enquiries. If we feel that further investigation is necessary, it will be passed to a superior officer from either Wakefield or Leeds. Satisfied?”
“Not entirely, but let’s get this thing out of the way. I know what you’re asking about. Murray and his friend, Mrs Jump, came to me with it yesterday, and I tell you in advance, it is nonsense.”
Gemma was not fazed by his bald assertion. “Let’s see, shall we?”
She laid the evidence on the table and turned it all to face him.
“A couple of tragic stories from some years ago, and a photograph of your wedding party which appeared in the Sanford Gazette. I have to say, Mr Naylor, that you bear a striking resemblance to Mervyn Nellis and Marlon Newman. Roughly the same height, you have the same physique, similar facial structure. Given the lack of any alternative evidence, I would say that you are both Mervyn Nellis and Marlon Newman, and it’s our belief, that both men are one and the same, and he or they are wanted in connection with the disappearance of Mrs Francine Nellis, and the suspicious death of Deirdre Ullsworth.”
Martin laughed. “Exactly as Murray put it yesterday, although he wasn’t quite so eloquent. Yes, I do look like Nellis and Newman, but I’m not either of them. Until your uncle brought this to me yesterday, I’d never even heard of them. I have no connection with Darlington or Ripon, and I defy you to demonstrate otherwise.”
“I can’t,” Gemma confessed. “I but I can ask for your fingerprints and a DNA swab, which we’ll deal with at the end of this interview.”
Merry Murders Everyone Page 9