Merry Murders Everyone

by David W Robinson

Joe was slightly puzzled. “Why come back to England?”

  Her worried features became angry. The colour returned to the cheeks, and when she next spoke, her voice was reduced to something not much more than a virulent case. “He had me declared dead. The insurance, you see. Fifty thousand pounds worth. Not to mention whatever equity there was in the house. We only found out when the authorities contacted my family again to ask whether they’d seen anything of me. Mama and Papa were under strict instructions to deny having seen me, and when my father told them as much, they said that I would be declared officially dead.” She sighed and began to calm down. “There are advantages to being dead, Joe. It meant I could return to England without arousing suspicion, and that’s what I did. Naturally, by the time I got to Darlington, everything was all done and dusted and Mervyn Nellis had disappeared without trace.”

  “And yet, you didn’t go to the police.”

  “I thought about it, but I could see which way it would go. Mervyn had gone. There was no trace of him. It seemed to me that the police would take the attitude that he and I had worked in collusion to rip off the insurance company.”

  Joe considered the proposition and found it to his liking. Not only would the police have suspected her of collusion, but it would have made her presence public, and that would bring out the threat of Mervyn Nellis once again.

  “But you didn’t go back to France, did you?”

  Frankie shook her head. “I like England. I’d always like England. And while I was here, there was always the chance that I might bump into Mervyn, and would I ever make him pay. There wasn’t much work in Darlington, so I made my way to Leeds, and took a job in a supermarket. A year later, I met Archie, we fell in love and… Well, the rest is history.”

  Questions tumbled about Joe’s head. “You speak with an excellent Yorkshire accent.”

  Frankie threw back her head and laughed. That was more like the woman Joe was familiar with. A woman who enjoyed life.

  “Constant practice,” she said. “And I could have got away with it for years yet, if you hadn’t come poking your nose in.”

  “Knokke-Heist?”

  She shrugged. “One of those places I saw signposted when Papa picked me up in Zeebrugge. It never occurred to me that they were Flemish speaking, but it was an adequate cover story… At least until today.”

  “So let me get this straight, Frankie. You’re saying that Billy Trelfus had it all wrong, and it was your husband who murdered his daughter, not you.”

  “I promise you, my friend, I had nothing to do with it, and I don’t know where he got the idea from, unless the police somehow tied her death to my disappearance.”

  Joe knew immediately how it had happened. Eliot Banks. He was the man who had made the initial connection, and it was practically certain that the police would have shown Billy Trelfus photographs of Mervyn Nellis, and those photographs would very likely have included Frankie. Given Billy’s capacity for misunderstanding, he would have assumed that Marlon Newman and Frankie were working together, but having met Marlon, he would not believe that such a mild-mannered, friendly man could carry out cold-blooded murder. Therefore, it could only be Frankie.

  Joe took out his smartphone, opened up the image gallery for the second time that day, and scrolled to a photograph of Martin Naylor. He turned it to face Frankie.

  “Is that Mervyn Nellis?”

  She took the phone from him and studied the image. “It looks like him, but the nose isn’t right. Mervyn had a hook nose, a – what do you call it? – Roman nose. This man’s nose is straight.” She handed the phone back. “I’d have to speak to him to be certain, but that’s never going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want any of this to come out, Joe. When I first came back to this country, I was prepared to face him, expose him. But when I learned how he’d murdered Billy’s daughter, I suddenly realised how dangerous he was. If he finds me, he’ll finish what he started all those years ago.” She urged him to understand. “Think about the auction house. Think about the way you never see me.”

  Joe shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to one of your auctions.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing. During the sales, I keep a deliberately low profile. That’s why Billy could never find me again after the one time I knocked on his door. And while I keep that low profile, it’s fairly certain that Mervyn will never find me.”

  “We can get you protection, Frankie,” Joe said. “Listen to me. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt and assuming that you’re telling the truth. I think that Mervyn, Marlon, Martin, call him what you like, is right here in Sanford, and is about to kill again. I may be wrong. It may be that the man I’ve just show you is completely innocent. But you, Frankie, are the only one who could possibly identify him.”

  She shied away. “I understand what you’re saying, Joe, and I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”

  Joe turned to Archie, appealing for his help, but the auctioneer shook his head. “Sorry, Joe, but I stand by what Frankie’s said. Face it, we’re getting old. All of us. We’d be no match for this Barmpot.”

  Joe struggled to control his frustration. “All right. I’ll have to pass on what you’ve told me to the police. But they’ll want to speak to you, and I guarantee they’ll put a lot more pressure on you than I can. In the meantime, try and have a good Christmas… with one eye over your shoulder.”

  Perhaps it was the last half dozen words, but Joe had barely reached the room door when Frankie called him back.

  “All right. Let me follow you to the police station, and I’ll speak to them.” She looked up at her husband. “But only if Archie can be with me.”

  Joe smiled. “I’m sure Gemma won’t mind.”

  He went ahead, fighting yet again with the increased traffic the crowded streets, the packed multi-storey car park in Galleries, and almost thirty minutes passed before he sat with his niece, and told her what he had learned.

  She listened, occasionally making notes, and eventually said, “I’ll take a statement from Frankie, sure, but if she can’t identify Martin from your photograph, we’re still all at sea.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking about that. All the money he had, it wouldn’t have had been too difficult to get a nose job, would it?”

  Gemma frowned. “Can you do that? Have your nose straightened?”

  “I think so. Surgeons straighten out boxers’ noses when they get broken, don’t they? And other people have nose jobs to help with breathing problems. I think it’s called rhinoplasty.”

  Archie and Frankie arrived about ten minutes after Joe, and after words of reassurance from Archie, Gemma took Frankie into an interview room, where the auctioneer’s wife would give a full account of her history, the same one she had given Joe. In the meantime, Joe and Archie repaired to Ma’s Pantry in Galleries, and over a cup of tea, the discussion naturally turned to Christmas and the New Year.

  Joe was not surprised to learn that Archie was as hostile to the season as him.

  “The first wife left me in the run-up to Christmas, and it’s never been the same since. Scampered. Slung her hook with an estate agent from Sheffield. Left me high and dry with a seventeen-year-old daughter to look after.”

  “Still, you seem to be well settled with Frankie.”

  “She’s a good lass, Joe. Her tastes aren’t as expensive as she likes people to think, and she takes good care of me. And she gets on well with Ros.”

  “That’s all that matters then, Archie. So will you be working over the Christmas period?”

  Archie laughed showing yellowed, nicotine-stained teeth. “Not bloody likely. The day after New Year we’re jumping on a plane and flying off to Lanzarote for a couple of weeks.”

  Joe found himself in complete sympathy with the auctioneer. He often wondered why he didn’t take advantage of the lower prices in January.

  “The weather’s not scorching hot,” Archie was saying, �
��but it’s warmer and drier than Sanford, and you can still get decent British beers there.”

  “Yeah, I know. My ex-missus lives in Playa de Las Américas. Tenerife. I’ve often thought…”

  Joe trailed off as mobile phone warbled for attention. He checked the menu window, read ‘Brenda’ and excusing himself to Archie, made the connection.

  “Joe, where the hell are you?” Her voice sounded urgent and distressed.

  “Police station. Frankie Hepple’s giving a statement, I’m with Archie, lending moral support. What’s the matter?”

  “Sheila. I’ve just had a call from Les Tanner. She rang him because, obviously, she’s not speaking to us. She’s taken a turn for the worse, Joe. Les and Sylvia went round there, and they called an ambulance for her. She’s been rushed into hospital.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the time Joe got to Sanford General Hospital, Brenda was already sat with Tanner and Sylvia in a small ante-room towards the rear of the A & E department. Joe recalled the place well. He had been rushed to this same area of the hospital when he had a faux heart attack a couple of year previously, and he guessed that Sheila and Brenda had waited in this same room most of the night, waiting for news.

  Les was unstinting in his praise for both Brenda and Joe. “Considering Sheila’s vitriol against you yesterday, it’s pleasing to see the flame of genuine friendship hasn’t completely died.”

  In his less charitable moments Joe was convinced that Les, an avid reader of biographies, especially those of well-known military figures, collected such aphorisms and stored them in his head, awaiting only the perfect moment to use them.

  “You don’t throw fifty years away, Les, on the basis of one argument. Even if she did accuse us of burglary.”

  Brenda supported Joe’s opinion. “Even though we really were burgling her back garden, I’m sure she knows deep down that we did it with her welfare in mind.”

  Joe took a chair alongside her and concentrated on the other couple. “So what happened? Do we know?”

  Les would have spoken up, but Sylvia had decided that if anyone was going to tell the tale, it would be her.

  “She rang about three o’clock. Oh, she was in a terrible state. She could hardly breathe. Naturally, Les and I went round there right away. She only lives a few streets away, if you remember. She was nauseous, vomiting, confused, and the smell… oh, dear me. I can’t begin to describe it. Awful.”

  “And where was Martin?” Joe demanded.

  “Out,” Sylvia replied. “We don’t know where. Even Sheila didn’t know where he was, which is why she rang us. We tried ringing him, but his phone is off. Eventually, Les decided she needed medical help and sent for the paramedics. They ordered the ambulance and here we are.”

  “They don’t know what’s wrong,” Brenda said, and Joe guessed she had asked the questions before he arrived. “They have her in a private room on the strength of her medical insurance, and all they’re saying is it’s some kind of gastric problem.”

  “Poisoning.”

  Les tried to remain good humoured as he warned Joe. “Now come on. We had all that yesterday. There’s absolutely nothing to say—”

  “I have more information now, Les, and there’s good reason to suppose that Brenda and I had it half right. Someone has been trying to poison Sheila.” He scowled. “I’m just not sure who.” An idea occurred to him and he leaned into Brenda. “Do you still have a key for Sheila’s place?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No. I mean it. If Martin isn’t there, we need to find him, and anyway, I need to bring you up to speed on the things I’ve learned.”

  “It’s not advisable, Joe,” Les warned.

  Joe held his patience. “Listen to me, all of you. It’s entirely possible that Martin is already dead, and Sheila is the final target.”

  His alarming and unexpected announcement sent a shock of consternation through them.

  “I may be wrong,” he went on. “I hope I am. But it needs to be checked out. The only way I can do that is by going to Sheila’s place and letting ourselves in.”

  Sylvia laughed nervously. “Joe, we were there. He wasn’t.”

  “And you checked every room, did you? All due respect, Sylvia, but he could have been lying dead in another room, and if Sheila was as confused as you say, she may not have been any the wiser.”

  Brenda’s worry flooded to the surface. “Are you serious?”

  “When it comes to something like that, I’m not likely to be joking, am I?”

  “All right let’s find out.” Brenda smiled at Les and Sylvia as she got to her feet. “We’ll be back as soon as.”

  “We’ll hang on here,” Les said. “Keep us informed.”

  They headed out to Joe’s car, and as they settled in and he started the engine, he went into a long, detailed explanation of the afternoon’s events.

  It had occurred to him only when Les and Sylvia confirmed Martin’s absence, and Sheila’s lack of knowledge of his whereabouts. He had only a vague idea how Frankie could have done it, but he was now convinced that she had lured Martin away and murdered him, gone back to Sheila’s bungalow, poisoned her, and then made her way home in time to meet with Joe.

  And as he related the tale, he recalled Frankie’s appearance when he arrived at the Hepples’ home. She took pride in her appearance, and he had never seen her so dishevelled, especially in relation to her hair. Had it been mussed in a struggle with Martin? It was entirely possible.

  By the time he had finished explaining his theory, they were almost at Larch Avenue, and Brenda was dumbfounded.

  “So now, instead of prosecuting Martin, we’re looking to save his life?”

  “If I’m right, Brenda, I think we’re probably too late.”

  He pulled up outside Sheila’s place, killed the engine and they hurried to the main door, at the side of the house. The place was in darkness and so was the doorway, and Brenda fumbled through her purse for the key. As close friends, both of them living alone, she and Sheila had had keys for each other’s houses for many years, but she could not recall any time when she’d had to use it.

  She found the key, and aimed it at the lock, but a shaking hand made her message twice on the trot. Joe, in better control of his nerves, took it from her, slotted it into the lock, turned it, threw the door open.

  Like Brenda, he was familiar with Sheila’s home. As they stepped over the threshold, he automatically reached up to his right and switched on the hall lights. Brenda hurried through to the living room and kitchen, while Joe burst into the master bedroom, and found it empty. He checked the second, smaller bedroom, with the same result, and the bathroom proved similarly devoid of life.

  Returning from the living room, where she had found no trace of Martin, Brenda entered the master bedroom, and with her nerves on edge, her entire arms trembling, slid open the wardrobe door. Joe joined her and what they saw chilled both of them to the bone.

  Taking up one complete wall, all the way to the windowsill, the right-hand half, the side closest to the window, sported Sheila’s clothing: dresses, suits, blouses, jumpers even jogging pants and at floor level, shoes and trainers. On the upper shelves were neatly folded sheets, duvet covers, pillow slips, a couple of wool blankets and spare pillows.

  The left half was barren. Not one item of Martin’s clothing hung there, when Brenda checked the dresser, where Sheila stored their underwear, she could find plenty of her best friend’s smalls, but…

  “Not one single pair of shreddies. Not even a jockstrap.” She turned an angry face on Joe. “He’s done a bunk.”

  Joe cursed, and Brenda had to warn him about his language.

  “I’m sorry. But I had it right the first time, and I let this afternoon with Frankie fool me into thinking different. Come on. We’d better lock up and get back to the hospital. I’ll ring Gemma on the way and tell her what’s what.”

  “You drive. I’ll ring Gemma.”

  She made the call, B
renda put the phone on speaker, and Gemma surprised them both by announcing that she was already ahead of them.

  “I had the groom’s speech from their wedding on my laptop,” she explained. “When I played it to Frankie Hepple, she confirmed that it was the voice of Mervyn Nellis, and we’re betting that he was also Marlon Newman. I’ve got an all ports warning out on him. Where are you two now?”

  “On our way back to the hospital,” Brenda said. “Sheila is not gonna take this well, and I’ve a feeling she’ll need Les, Sylvia, and the pair of us.”

  The evening traffic was no thinner than it had been during the daytime, and as he crawled along, Joe picked up on Brenda’s last announcement.

  “What she needs right now is a police guard. If Naylor realises that she’s not dead, he might just go for her in the hospital.”

  “I’ll get a couple of bodies down there,” Gemma agreed and terminated the call.

  Joe’s opinion caused Brenda more worry. “You don’t think he would, do you, Joe? Go for her in the hospital, I mean.”

  “He doesn’t have much to lose, Brenda. We’re onto him, the cops are onto him. If either of us gets to him, he’s going down for life, but if he can get rid of Sheila, he might still get away with it. Our testimony is mainly opinion and it won’t count for much.”

  He made a sharp left onto York Road, and the vast spread of the hospital buildings appeared half a mile ahead of them.

  “In any case, he’s a serial wife-killer. If he didn’t manage to bump her off, he’d consider it a failure.”

  A couple of minutes later, he pulled into the hospital car park, and as they cruised along the parallel lanes looking for a space, Brenda spotted a familiar VW saloon.

  “Oh my God. That’s Martin’s. He’s here.”

  Joe came to full alert, accelerated to the end of the parking lane, turned right, and right again, bringing him to the main entrance of the hospital, where he jammed on the brakes, killed the engine, and got ready to climb out.

  “Call Gemma. Tell her he’s here and she needs to send in the heavy mob. I’ll get in there and stop him if I can.”