They shook hands.
“You have my word on it, Joe.”
***
After picking up a photocopy of the SDA card common to the victims, Joe left the police station, made his way through The Gallery, out onto the market, crossed the square and entered the Sanford Dating Agency, where he found Angela Foster watching TV.
“Oh, Mr Murray. I’ve just been watching that Chief Inspector Vickers on TV. He says you were wrongly arrested and that you’ve now been officially cleared from the investigation.”
“Correct,” Joe replied, and picked up one of her leaflets. Waving it at her, he said, “And I have your business card to thank for it.” He put the leaflet back into the display rack. “But you and I have a mutual problem, don’t we?”
“Do we?”
“We do. How did my details, my photograph, get on your computer?”
She smiled. “The police say you put them on there.”
Joe returned the smile but with more menace. “Then my guilt is not the only thing they’ve been wrong about, is it?”
The announcement, coupled to the gimlet gleam in Joe’s eye, wiped the smile from her face. “I’m not, er, not sure what you mean.”
“Let me put it in the simplest terms. I did not set up that account on your system. That means someone else did, and it would be helpful if we knew who.”
Angela defended herself robustly. “Well, it wasn’t me.”
“I never said it was. But you need to get into your database, find out when it was set up, and that way we might just get a handle on it,” Joe said. “And don’t tell me it was done four years ago. It can’t have been.”
“In that case, you’re out of luck, Mr Murray. I’m sure there must be ways of getting to the background source information, but I’m an administrator, not a computer geek, and I wouldn’t have a clue where to begin.”
Joe sighed. “All right. We’ll leave it there for the time being. I may be back… or more likely, the police may be back. Now. What’s the danger of my becoming a member of your dating site?”
Her face set prim, Angela replied, “I told you yesterday, I can’t accept you.”
“Yes, but my name’s been cleared now.”
“And I’m very happy for you. But it doesn’t make you any better tempered than you were yesterday. The answer is no.”
Feeling even more disgruntled in the light of her adamant refusal to accept him, Joe took a taxi from the market to the Lazy Luncheonette, where Sheila, Brenda and Cheryl were cleaning down after the day’s trading.
They joined him for a cup of tea at table five, where he went through the day’s events with them.
“At least you’re in the clear, Joe,” Sheila said.
Brenda gestured up at the large, wall-mounted TV opposite. “We saw Chief Inspector Vickers on telly. Humble pie? He looked like he needed new dentures to get through it.”
“It still leaves us to find the Valentine Strangler,” Joe pointed out.
“Yes, but aren’t you better keeping out of it, Uncle Joe?” Cheryl asked. “I mean, this bloke is dangerous.”
Joe laughed harshly. “I’ll give him dangerous if I get my hands on him.”
“Hark at Arnold Swarthy Beggar,” Brenda chuckled. “What you gonna do when you catch him, Joe? Throw a couple of steak and kidney pies at him?”
The doorbell rattled as Joe answered.
“I’ll sick you onto him, Brenda.” He looked up at the tall, grim-faced and bearded individual who had just walked in. “No food, pal. We’re closing soon.”
“No problem,” the man replied. “I’m looking for Joe Murray.”
Joe grinned. “If I owe you money I’ve never heard of him, if you owe me money, I’m your man.”
To everyone’s astonishment, the stranger grabbed Joe by the lapels and dragged him to his feet.
“Where are my mother’s spoons?”
The three women leapt to intervene. Joe struggled to free himself of the man’s grip. “Get your hands off me, you bloody idiot.”
“Let him go!”
“Where are they, Murray?”
He shoved Joe back to the counter and pressed him back over it.
“Will someone get this moron off me?”
Brenda and Cheryl grabbed the stranger’s arms in an effort to drag him off. He appeared not to notice.
“What have you done with them, Murray?”
Sheila hurried into the kitchen.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe gasped. “Now, for God’s sake get off me.”
“Leave him alone,” Brenda screamed and dragged the stranger’s arm again.
Sheila reappeared carrying a large knife. She held it in front of the man’s eyes. “Take it,” she insisted. “Take it and skewer him to the counter. Go on.”
His eyes were fixed on the shining blade, hypnotised by it.
“While you’re busy killing him, we’ll call the police,” Sheila went on. “So, go on. You’re angry enough. Get rid of him for good if it’ll make you feel any better.”
He released Joe and stood back. Sheila returned the knife to the kitchen, and while Joe stood upright, shaking, his glare fastened on the newcomer, Sheila returned, and ordered, “Now, Mr Hill, why don’t you sit down while we get you a cup of tea so we can talk calmly about your…what were they? Spoons?”
He backed further off and slumped into a seat. “How did you know my name?”
“An educated guess,” Sheila replied. “I spent most of my life working as a school secretary, and I’ve seen many a child just as angry, as distressed as you. The only woman we know who was recently in Joe’s life, was Letitia Hill, so it was obvious you were related to her. You’re her son, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “Tim Hill.”
Aged about thirty, his beard neatly trimmed, he was smartly dressed in a dark overcoat and business suit beneath. His tie was tucked neatly under his chin, the pristine collar of a smart, white shirt, showing. Joe recognised Letty’s eyes in him, but where hers had twinkled with laughter, his were empty.
“I got an early flight from Brussels this morning,” he was saying, “and I’ve been at my mother’s place all day.” He appeared completely deflated, on the verge of tears. “Someone stole her Regency spoons.”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” Joe snapped. He rounded on Sheila. “And what the hell were you doing offering him a knife to kill me with?”
“I told you, I know distressed children, and it doesn’t matter how old they are, they’re still mothers’ sons. I knew it would snap him out of it.” Sheila sat with Tim. “Get him a cup of tea, Brenda.” She took his hand. “Tim, we’re all very sorry about Letitia, but Joe had nothing to do with her death. Did you not see the police broadcast earlier?”
“Yes. Yes I did.” He took a cup of tea from Brenda, and loosened his topcoat. “Someone took her spoons. I want them back. I guessed it was him because he was the last one to see her alive.”
“If anyone took Letty’s spoons, it was the cops,” Joe argued. “They were still there on Friday when they found your mother.”
Accepting a beaker of sweet tea from Brenda, Tim shook his head. “That particular set of spoons is still there, Murray. But they’re not the originals. They’re cheap copies. Worth nothing at all.”
“So you’re an expert on Regency cutlery are you?” Joe snapped.
He shook his head again. “No. But I grew up with those spoons. They were a family heirloom passed on from generation to generation. I was taking them back to Brussels, but the moment I looked at them, I knew they weren’t the real ones.” He stared at Joe. His eyes had lost most of their anger, and were now filled only with sadness. “When I spoke to Mother on the phone on Thursday, she said she’d met you, and she’d been telling you all about her and Dad. I just assumed… I’m sorry. I’m not normally so quick-tempered.”
“Bloody spoons,” Joe grumbled. “What do I know about spoons? I wouldn’t know the difference between Regency silver and K
orean plate.”
“I said I’m sorry,” Tim responded. “The police insist that the killer hadn’t taken or disturbed anything, so I thought the switch had been made before her death, and since you were the last man to see her, I naturally…” He broke down and began to weep. “I’m sorry.”
Brenda moved to the table and helped Sheila to comfort the distraught man. Joe sat across the aisle feeling guilty, then reproved himself. He had nothing to feel guilty about.
Cheryl tapped Joe’s arm. “Uncle Joe, I have to go. Mum will be expecting me to pick up Danny.”
He gave a grouchy smile. “You get going, Cheryl. We’ll see you tomorrow, chicken.” As she left, he concentrated on Tim. “How can you be so certain these spoons have been switched?”
Tim drew a breath to control his emotions, then took another swallow of tea. “The case. I spotted it right away. It’s covered in blue velvet, and you couldn’t tell from the colour, but the corners are wrong. They’re square. Right angled. On mother’s, they were rounded. Then I checked the spoons. Huh.” He sneered. “EPNS. Made in Sheffield. I can buy them on eBay for less than twenty pounds.”
The gears in Joe’s brains began to mesh. “Have you told the police any of this?”
“No.” He sighed. “I should have done. I should have gone to them before I came here. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”
“No, no. It’s no problem. There’s no real harm done.”
Sheila and Brenda exchanged a furtive glance. Brenda concentrated on Joe. “I’ve seen that look on your face before, Joe Murray. What’s going through that devious mind of yours?”
“Means, motive and opportunity,” Joe replied. He took out his tobacco and began to roll a cigarette. “Gemma told me that a neighbour heard a car pull up outside Letty’s place on the night she died. It was there for about an hour. They assume that this was when your mother was murdered… Tim, I’m sorry if this is distressing.”
Tim shook his head once more and, in a flat tone of resigned acceptance, said, “Please go on. If it gets the police any closer to my mother’s killer, I’ll listen.”
“Right,” Joe agreed. “In all four killings the police have assumed the motive was sex. They get that from the way the victims were left, laid on the bed and… well, you know what I mean. The odd thing is, none of the victims had been sexually assaulted.” He noticed Tim shudder and apologised again. “I’m sorry to put you through this, lad. Suppose the police have it wrong?” He grunted. “It wouldn’t be the first time in this case, would it? Suppose the victims were left like that to lead the police on; make them think it was a sex killing. Suppose the motive was something else. Something entirely different.”
Brenda’s eyes lit up. “Like substituting genuine antiques with fake ones?”
“Correct.”
Silence fell. Joe knew they were turning the idea over in their minds, just the way he was, looking for the flaws.
“No, no, it can’t be,” Sheila said. “The families would notice, wouldn’t they? Just as Tim has.”
“Would they?” Joe faced the distraught man. “Tim, was it the case that drew your attention to the spoons?”
Tim nodded. “I told you; I noticed it right away.”
“So if they had been in the original case, say, or one similar, how long would it have taken you to spot the switch?”
Tim shrugged. “I don’t know. Months. Years. Maybe never. I wasn’t going to sell them. I was just going to take them back to Brussels. They’re a family heirloom.”
“My point precisely,” Joe declared. “Sheila, you have some clown statuette, don’t you? Worth a mint.”
“Pagliaccio,” Sheila concurred. “It’s worth a couple of thousand pounds. Maybe more.”
“Right, now bear with me,” Joe insisted. “If, God forbid, something happened to you, and someone switched your china figure for a fake, would Aaron or Peter Junior notice?”
She was hesitant. “I don’t know. In my case, probably, because they would be entitled to split the value, so they would more than likely sell it. But I take your point. If it’s a family heirloom handed down from generation to generation, like Letty’s spoons, and the object had no, er, case, like Tim’s the family may not spot the switch.”
“But,” Brenda objected, “did the other victims have such heirlooms?”
“They were all middle class women, for want of a better description,” Joe pointed out, “so the odds are high.”
“Even if you’re right, Murray,” Tim pointed out, “it still doesn’t tell you who the police are looking for.”
Joe reached into his pocket and took out the photocopy he had been given at the police station. “No, but this might help narrow it down.”
They all craned to look at the copy. Sheila’s colour drained.
“Oh, no.”
All eyes turned on her.
“What?” Joe demanded. “What is it?”
Her hand shaking, she dug into her purse and came out with a matching card. Laying it on the table, alongside the photocopy, she said, “SDA. Stewart Dalmer Antiques.”
Chapter Twelve
“You were right, Murray,” Vickers said. “I don’t know how you got there, but you called it spot on.”
It was eleven o’clock the following morning. Joe had phoned Gemma the moment Sheila confirmed Stewart Dalmer was the owner of the mysterious business card, and after overnight activity from the police, Vickers had phoned Joe half an hour previously, inviting him to Gale Street, where, with Gemma joining them, the chief inspector delivered the news.
Reading from a printout, Vickers said, “Fiona temple owned a Victorian tea caddy finished in faux tortoiseshell. It was worth about four hundred pounds. Her daughter has it now. Bridget Ackroyd owned a matching silver, cream jug and sugar bowl, worth about eight hundred pounds. That’s with her eldest son. The biggest score was Thelma Warburton. She owned a pair of Japanese Satsuma plates, dated from about 1800. They were worth three thousand pounds. After she was killed, her son and daughter put them up for sale, so they could split the difference, only to learn that they were cheap copies, worth maybe fifty pounds.”
“And they didn’t complain?” Joe asked.
The chief inspector shook his head. “They just assumed that their mother had been telling them tall tales about the value of the plates. We’ve taken the other two items, the tea caddy and Victorian silverware to a specialist in Leeds and we’re waiting for his verdict, but when two out of the four have been switched, it’s odds on those will be fakes, too.”
“And what about Dalmer?” Joe asked.
“We’re treading lightly,” Gemma said. “The card strengthens our suspicions, obviously. We’ve tried the number and only got voicemail.”
“Sheila told me he never answers the phone,” Joe reported. “He told her it was to avoid the conmen in the antiques game, but that’s just an excuse.”
“It sounds reasonable on the face of it,” Vickers ventured.
Joe grunted. “To someone who’s never been in business, it would, but when Sheila told me, I knew straight away what his game was.”
“You can’t just come right out and accuse people of murder, Uncle Joe,” Gemma tutted.
“At the risk of starting another argument, you didn’t hesitate with me.” Joe pressed on before Vickers could pick him up. “Besides, I’m not accusing Dalmer of murder. I’m accusing him of dodging the tax man.”
Both officers stared.
“I sell meals, right? The food has to be top notch or I don’t want to know, so I don’t buy off the back of a lorry. I’ve read of restaurants buying unlabelled cans only to learn that they contain Pedigree Chum. So I don’t do it. But take Dennis who runs the DIY shop next door to me. When some guy turns up and asks if he wants a load of timber left over from a job, the only question Dennis asks is, ‘how much’. Dalmer can’t do that. He buys from householders, and very often, they won’t make a decision there and then. So he needs to give them some means of
contacting him, but he doesn’t want word to spread too far that he’s in the game, and by too far, I mean the tax and VAT offices. So he produces a plain business card bearing only the initials and a mobile phone number. Five’ll get you ten, if you trace the number, it’ll be registered in a false name—”
“It is,” Vickers interrupted. “Albert Rawmarsh.”
Joe chuckled. “I thought Rawmarsh was near Rotherham. Right, so he has this card and phone number that can’t easily be tracked to him. If HMRC get onto him, he can deny everything. It’s up to the tax man then to prove he’s making money and owes them. You see?”
“Complicated,” Gemma said.
“Worth it,” Joe argued. “Between the tax and the bloody VAT I’m surprised I stay in business.”
“Forget tax and VAT and tell us about Dalmer,” Vickers invited.
“What’s to tell?” Joe took out his tobacco tin and began to roll a cigarette while he formulated his thoughts. “I don’t know the man that well. He used to be a teacher at Sanford Tech, and I know he’s into antiques. Snooty, you know. Drinks in some arty-farty pub in Wakefield. The Artesian Well. All they talk about is Dostoevsky, Rimski-Korsakov and post-impressionism. He’s stood against me for the Chair of the 3rd Age Club a couple of times, but the members don’t want him. His idea of an outing is a visit to the Ashmolean or the British Library.” Joe frowned and tucked the completed cigarette in his shirt. “I wouldn’t have said he was a serial killer but hell, what do I know? I will tell you this, though; there’s something that doesn’t quite add up here.”
“What’s that?” Gemma asked.
“I dunno,” Joe admitted, “but it’ll come to me eventually. When it does, I’ll bell you.” He fished into his gilet, seeking his Zippo lighter. “You’ll be bringing him in?”
“Definitely,” Vickers agreed. “He’s the only connection we have between the four women.”
My Deadly Valentine Page 14