My Deadly Valentine

by David W Robinson

  Gemma smiled and took a cup and teapot. “I heard. Don’t tell me you didn’t know how these places work.”

  “Rumour only,” Joe replied filling his cup and stirring in milk and sugar with the handle of the knife. “Like I told sonny Jim, I think the only times I’ve ever been into one of these places it’s been with Sheila or Brenda, and they dealt with the counter hands.” He sipped the tea. “Ugh. Cheap teabags, too.”

  Gemma was surprised. “You can tell the difference?”

  “I’ve spent all my life in the business. I can tell.” Pushing his cup to one side, he took out his tobacco tin and began to roll a cigarette. “So bring me up to speed. Have you learned anything over the weekend?”

  The counter assistant, passing on his rounds, ensuring everything was as it should be, spotted Joe’s cigarette equipment. “Excuse me, sir, but you can’t smoke in here. It’s illegal.”

  Joe licked the paper and finished rolling the cigarette. He gestured at Gemma. “This is Detective Sergeant Craddock of the Sanford Police. She’s here to make sure crumblies like me don’t get hassle from young kids. I’m not going to smoke it in here. Now be a good lad and bugger off back to your counter and dream of the day when a white dwarf is gonna smash into my café and shut me down.”

  While the lad wandered off, Joe tucked the cigarette in the top pocket of his gilet, and raised his eyebrows at Gemma.

  “We’re right at the beginning of the investigation, Uncle Joe,” Gemma said, “so we don’t know much yet. Her neighbours neither saw nor heard anything… oh, except for one neighbour who swears she heard a car pull up outside Letty’s place around one in the morning. It didn’t leave again until about two.”

  “But she didn’t see anyone get in or out of the car?”

  “Nope. Just glanced through the bedroom curtains as it arrived and thought she heard it leave again an hour later.”

  “It was the killer, obviously.”

  “Possibly,” Gemma corrected.

  “Come on, Gemma, you don’t still think it was me, do you?”

  “I never thought it was you, Uncle Joe. I’m sure Vickers doesn’t believe it, either. But right now, you’re the last confirmed contact we have for the woman, and we’re trying to piece together her final hours. That’s why I’m talking to Angela Foster.”

  About to drink from his cup, Joe paused. “Who?”

  “Angela Foster. She runs the dating agency.”

  A shadow loomed over the table; Joe looked up into the podgy eyes of a mean security man. “Help you?”

  For all his glower, the security guard maintained a respectful tone. “We’ve had a complaint from a member of staff that you’ve been giving him verbal abuse, sir.”

  “I’ve been educating him in the correct method of catering for customers,” Joe argued.

  “We have a policy, whereby we do not tolerate abuse of our staff… sir.”

  “And I have a policy that says I prefer to be served rather than employed,” Joe countered.

  “In that case, may I suggest you take your custom elsewhere?” The thin deference disappeared altogether. “Before we chuck you out.”

  Gemma dug into her bag and took out her warrant card. “Detective Sergeant Craddock, Sanford CID. Do you understand the difference between escorting someone from the building and throwing them out? One is legitimate, the other constitutes assault. Mr Murray is with me, and he will leave when I’m ready to go.”

  Hands held up in a gesture of surrender, the security man stepped back and turned to leave.

  “And you can tell your bosses if they put spoons out instead of wooden sticks… oh, for crying out loud. How could I have been so blind?” He faced Gemma, his features urgent. “Do you have those photographs with you? The ones you showed me on Friday?” When she nodded and reached for her briefcase, he pressed on, “The one taken in the kitchen. Let me see it.”

  Opening the briefcase, Gemma took out the folder and sifted through the images, found the one he wanted, and passed it to him.

  Joe scrutinised it closely, his practised eye looking for what he already knew was not there. Cup and saucer in the plastic drainer, a half empty bottle of washing up liquid sitting in a small basket to one side of the sink, but…

  “See,” he said, turning the photograph towards Gemma. “No spoon.”

  She frowned. “What about it?”

  Joe sighed. “What have I always taught you about human nature, Gemma? We’re creatures of habit. Now think about the times when you make a cup of tea at home… you do make the odd cup of tea, don’t you? Or do you leave it to Paul all the time?”

  “No. I make cups of tea.”

  “Right, so you get out a cup, saucer and a spoon, don’t you?”

  Gemma considered this for a moment. “Well, maybe Letty didn’t take milk. Maybe she didn’t take milk or sugar. She wouldn’t need a spoon then, would she?”

  “Oh yes she would.” Joe gestured at the photograph again. “There’s no teapot. Whoever made that cuppa, it was done with the teabag in the cup, not in a pot, and he – or she – would have needed a spoon to get the teabag out. And anyway, I happen to know that Letty did take milk. I did spend Wednesday night there. This wasn’t Letty. When this cup of tea was made, Letty was already dead. Or do you think she made him a brew without making one for herself and then washed hers up before he murdered her? No, Gemma, this was the killer. He was doing something in that house after he killed Letty, and he felt secure enough to make himself a cup of tea while he was doing it.”

  “And you think a missing spoon points at it. He may have washed the spoon and put it back in the kitchen drawer.”

  “Then why didn’t he do the same with the cup and saucer? The spoon is important, but I don’t know why.” Joe’s brow knitted. “Lemme see those other pictures, will you? The ones of the living room.”

  Gemma once more rifled through the photographs and handed over two or three images. Joe, too, sorted through them until he came across the one where the display cabinet was prominent.

  Chewing his lip, he shook his head. “No. It’s there.”

  “What?” Gemma demanded. “What’s there?”

  Again Joe half turned the photograph so she could see, and pointed to the shelf below the one on which his rose was visible. “A set of Regency spoons in a velvet covered case. I was talking to Letty about them on Wednesday night. They’re worth about five hundred pounds. I wondered whether the cheeky sod had nicked them and used one to stir his tea while he was doing whatever he was doing after he killed her. Obviously not. They’re still in place.”

  “I can get Scientific Support to check. If they’ve been moved, the dust in the cabinet will show it.”

  Joe gave a wry, wrinkled smile. “They have been moved. Letty took them out of the cabinet on Wednesday night to show me.”

  Gemma’s shoulders slumped again. After a moment’s thought, she brightened up. “I can get the dreaded SS to check the cup, though.”

  Joe was puzzled. “But it’s been washed up.”

  Warming to her task, Gemma said, “I’m gonna do an Uncle Joe here, and speculate. Our man leaves no dabs. We know that much. Let’s assume he uses latex gloves, like those we use to avoid contaminating a crime scene. He would take those off to wash the cup and saucer. Right?”

  “Because if he didn’t they’d maybe end up slipping off and he may accidentally leave one behind? Yeah, okay.”

  “They’re not close fitting, Joe. They could easily come off when wet. So, he takes them off to wash the cup and saucer. He may just have left a partial on the cup handle.”

  “Wouldn’t your dab men have already tested it?”

  “They may have done, they may not. I’ll look into it when I get back to the station. Course, our man could have used kitchen gloves and taken them with him, so it might lead nowhere.”

  Joe considered this. “Did Scientific Support analyse the residue in the cup?”

  “Hmm.” Gemma nodded as she finished off her
tea. “Water, some traces of detergent. Nothing else. At least, not yet.” She checked through the window, and a brunette opening up the doors of the Sanford Dating Agency. “Hey up, Angie’s here.”

  Joe gulped down his tea and stood up. “Let’s go, then.”

  Gemma made to pick up the tray, but Joe stopped her.

  “Are you a customer or an employee?”

  She picked up the tray. “Neither. I’m a copper and I have to put on a show for community relations.”

  Chapter Seven

  As they crossed the market square, making for the dating agency, Joe once more spotted the flowing head of red hair, but this time, he made out a freckled face and a shapely body clothed in a black skirt and dark, quilted topcoat. A compact camera was pressed to her eye, aimed in his direction.

  “Rosemary Ecclesfield,” Gemma said. “Reporter for the Sanford Gazette. Complete cow. Watch the reports, Uncle Joe, or she’ll crucify you, and she won’t let trivia like the truth get in the way.”

  “I know the editor,” Joe promised. “Come on. Let’s talk to this other woman, Angie wossname.”

  Angela Foster was aged about fifty, according to Joe’s estimate. A pretty woman, broad in the beam and bust, with a flowing head of natural brunette hair and a pleasant humour showing through her brown eyes. Dressed in a conservative, dark blue business suite, the skirt covering her chunky knees, she greeted Gemma with a warm smile, Joe with uncertainty.

  “Isn’t he the one who’s been arrested for the murder?” she asked.

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Mrs Foster,” Gemma said with a glance back at Rosemary Ecclesfield on the market. “Mr Murray was one of the last people to see Letty alive, so we questioned him, but he is not a suspect. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s helping us with the inquiry.”

  Angela was not quite satisfied. “Helping with the inquiry? Isn’t that the same as being a suspect?”

  “No,” Joe reassured her. “Letty was alive and well when I last saw her. What Gemma means is, I’m a private investigator.”

  Now Angela’s eyebrows shot up. “No you’re not. You own that lorry drivers café on Doncaster Road. The Lazy something or other.”

  “The Lazy Luncheonette; where we make sure the drivers have spoons to stir their tea,” Joe responded. “Listen, lady, we just want to know what you know about Letty Hill.”

  Angela led them into a small shop-like area. Where Joe might have expected a couple of people working at word processors or answering the phone, there was no one. Most of the floor space was taken up with a large photocopier/collator, the overhead shelves were stacked with packs of paper of varying sizes and quality, and powder cartridges for the copier, and laser printer refills. Several box files filled one corner of the shelving, and behind the computer, sitting on the solitary desk to the back of the service counter, was brightly coloured, point of sale material advertising the Sanford Dating Agency and its associated services.

  Angela ushered them through the counter to the desk, drew up a couple of stiff-backed chairs for them and invited them to sit, while she flopped into her executive, tilt and turn seat and switched on the computer.

  While she fussed and tutted, kicking off her winter boots and slipping her feet into a pair of sensible flats, Joe looked out through the dusty window onto the market, where sunshine gave a false impression of spring warmth. The impression was belied by the few shoppers who had braved the cold, wrapped up in warm coats and scarves, hoods raised, caps pulled low. For Joe, it mirrored the topsy-turvy events of the last few days. While everything appeared as normal, the undertone told a different tale.

  Angela’s voice brought him back to the interior of the Sanford Dating Agency office. “I know nothing of Letty Hill. And while I don’t mind talking to the police, I’m not sure I have to answer your questions.”

  With a good deal more patience than Joe, Gemma explained, “Mr Murray’s powers of observation are without equal, Mrs Foster. If you don’t answer him, I’ll only ask the same question, and you’ll have to answer me. Now, please humour us for the time being. No one is accusing you of anything, but we do need some background information on Letty.”

  Again Angela shrugged. “I just told you, I know nothing about her. I was surprised when you rang and said she was one of my members. I checked over the weekend, and I’m afraid she’s never been registered with my agency.”

  Joe frowned. “But she had your business card.”

  “It’s not difficult to get hold of, Mr Murray. For all I know, one of her friends or neighbours may have given it to her.”

  “She wasn’t registered with you as a temp, then?” Gemma asked. “A secretary?”

  “It’s not that kind of secretarial agency, Sergeant. I don’t employ others. I carry out the work myself. That’s why I’m not always in the office. I visit and work with people who need short term secretarial assistance.”

  “Short term as in a few days?” Joe asked.

  “Less than that,” Angela admitted. “Usually it’s just a morning or an afternoon. And when I do come back here, it’s normally to prepare and print the work out.”

  Gemma was about to say something, but Joe beat her to it. “What kind of clients?”

  “All sorts. Tradesmen who need a VAT or tax appeal typing up, local authors, artists who may need some publicity material putting together. Right now I’m typing up a manuscript for a local historian. He’s thinking of publishing it at his own expense, and I’m hoping he’ll allow me to do the formatting.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t work from home,” Joe commented.

  Angela pointed to the large photocopier and other machinery. “I don’t have room for those in my living room.”

  “Must be a paying game to afford a place like this.” Joe raised his hands and eyes to the office around them.

  “I own the office, Mr Murray, I don’t rent it. In fact I own the building. It was my grandfather’s print shop.”

  Again Gemma tried to get a word in, but Joe was faster. “So where does the dating agency fit in?”

  “A sideline, I suppose you could call it,” Angela replied. “I was divorced about twenty years ago, and I learned what a problem it was meeting other people, so I started up the Sanford Dating Agency.”

  “And you interview potential members here?”

  Angie shook her head. “Occasionally, but most of it is done online, these days.”

  “How much do you charge?” Joe demanded.

  “Uncle Joe, if I could get a word in…” Gemma allowed a pause to let her protest sink in. Angela looked suspiciously from one to the other. “We’re drifting off the point, here.”

  “He’s your uncle?” Angela asked. The hint of suspicion turned to direct challenge. “What’s going on here? You, let me see your identification.”

  The demand was aimed at Gemma, who tutted and took out her warrant card.

  “There’s nothing going on, Mrs Foster,” Joe assured the woman. “Gemma is my niece, but she’s also the senior CID officer in Sanford. And Gemma, you’re wrong, this is all to the point.” He turned on Angela again. “You say Letty is not on your books, we believe she was. There is a possibility that she met her killer through your agency. You’re telling me that your business is done mostly online. How closely do you check members’ backgrounds?”

  Angela’s ears coloured slightly. “Well, I do what I can, naturally.”

  “But that’s not a lot, is it, without paying for a criminal records check, and that would cost more than the twenty-five quid you charge for registration.”

  “They pay by credit card, Mr Murray,” Angela protested. “Anyone who has a credit card must be above board or the card companies would spot them.”

  “I can get a credit card in a different name like that.” Joe snapped his fingers. “Lemme ask you whether you check the names on the payments to see if they match the names on the application.”

  This time Angela’s cheeks blushed a furious crimson.


  “In other words, anyone can sign up as long as they pay.” Joe chewed spit.

  “You think Cassons over in Leeds do any different?” Angela snapped. “They’re just the same, only larger. I’ll tell you again; Letty Hill was not a member of my agency.”

  “As far as you know.”

  “I checked—”

  “Let’s all calm down,” Gemma interrupted. “Uncle Joe, are you saying that it’s possible for people to give Mrs Foster a false name and still become members?”

  “Exactly,” Joe declared. “Look, I run a café. I deal in cash, not credit cards. Just suppose I did. I’d have hundreds of transactions every day. Do you think I’d have time to scrutinise them all? My interest would be the amount, nothing else. Now take a busy woman like Mrs Foster, here. Does she have the time to check them all? Well, maybe, but what about when she’s busy with manuscripts for local historians? She’s working to a deadline. She’s notified of the transaction. Is the amount right? Yes it is. Good. Back to Sanford’s role in the Battle of New Orleans. The reference number is probably the member’s number, too. So that’s all you need. Am I right, Mrs Foster?”

  Angela said nothing; merely nodded.

  “You’re not doing anything wrong, lady,” Joe reassured her. “Administratively iffy, sure, but what the hell, we all cut corners. But it does provide an opening for our Valentine Strangler.”

  “But if Letty Hill isn’t a member…” Gemma trailed off, her face lined in deep thought. “Mrs Foster, can you interrogate the database by address?”

  Angela nodded. “I’ve never had to do it, but the software says it can be done.”

  Gemma took out her pocketbook. “Would you try, please? Thirty-three Oakleigh Grove.”

  While Angela tapped speculatively at the keyboard, her lips pursed, eyes burning with a fire of fine concentration, Joe took one of her leaflets and read through the pluses of joining a dating agency.

  “Something I’ve never tried,” he muttered under his breath.

  Angela looked up from the screen. “Sorry, Mr Murray?”