My Deadly Valentine

by David W Robinson

  Joe cleared his throat again. “That’s, er, that’s what you’ve been doing all along, isn’t it?” he jerked a thumb at Kibble. “Trying to make it look like he did it.”

  “Four women,” Ingleton hissed. “Five if you count the reporter. And all because he couldn’t keep his hands off my wife.”

  “I didn’t know she was your wife,” Kibble pleaded. “She told me she was single.”

  “Liar!” Ingleton snapped. “You think I’d believe that? You saw all the photographs of me in the house. You must have done. You knew she was married.”

  “There were no photographs and she told me her name was Ainsworth.”

  “You’re a liar, Kibble.”

  Still frightened, Joe lowered his hands and shook his head. “No. He’s telling it like it is, and you know it, Ingleton. And I’ll bet Kibble wasn’t the first or the only one.”

  The shotgun whirled on Joe. “Don’t you talk about her like that. You didn’t know her.”

  Trembling, terrified that his next words might be his last, Joe decided he had nothing to lose by doing what he had done all his life: tell it like it was.

  “Let’s be honest about this. Including Letty Hill, you’ve murdered four women, always on or around Valentine’s Night. If you’d wanted to pin it on Kibble, you’d have done it before now. I think you substituted the antiques to make it look as if it was Kibble or even Stewart Dalmer, but you murdered those women for your own purposes. Getting off?” Joe raised his eyebrows. “Or getting even?”

  The usual, easygoing smile of the police photographer was gone, and in its place was a mask of bubbling anger. The façade of the injured, grieving husband began to crumble and when he spoke it was in tones of pure acid.

  “Bitches! All of them. Bitches on heat.” He bit the words off. With the shotgun wavering between his three hostages, he pressed on in a hiss filled with bile. “I was in Iraq and Afghanistan. I saw some of my mates shot up so badly, their bodies were unrecognisable. I helped pick up the pieces of buddies who had been blown to hell by roadside booby traps. And what was she doing while I was over there, fighting for my country? Fooling around with lowlife like him.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Joe said. “It must have hurt. But did that give you the right to take it out on these other women?”

  “They’re all the same,” Ingleton shouted. “Give ’em an inch, they’ll take a mile. Even miss purity here.” He waved the shotgun at Sheila and she cringed. “Oh I don’t bother with men. I’m preserving the memory of my dearly departed husband. Who put him in his grave, eh? Her.” Now he gestured manically at the room. “Keeping up with the Joneses. Sending him out to work so she could keep the House Beautiful, until he worked himself into an early grave. Women. They’re all alike. They don’t deserve to live.”

  “I, er…” Joe’s mind worked frantically. He could see that Ingleton was close to breaking point, and needed something to bring him back. “What is this Valentine thing with you? Pushing their skirts up like that? You just like looking at knickers, do you? Hang around in the underwear department in big shops, maybe?”

  The gun waved his way again. “Careful, Murray.” Ingleton seemed to relax a little. “When do you think I found the bitch?”

  For a moment, Joe had to wonder which bitch, but he soon put it together. “Oh. Your wife. Valentine’s Night and she was laid on the bed with her skirt up showing her clouts?”

  “The only difference was she had no clouts on. She’d just been with him.”

  Joe tried to be nonchalant. He had seen many a movie hero so relaxed in this kind of situation and he wondered why he couldn’t be the same.

  “Ah. I think I get it, now. You could never touch her again, could you? Or any other woman, come to that. So when you strangled the other women, it was always on Valentine’s Night, or as close as you could get, and you left their knickers on to cover up what you could never go near again.” He scowled. “You’re sick.”

  “Better sick than dead.”

  More afraid than ever, all Joe could do was keep him talking. “And the card and paper flower?” Joe realised at once the answer to his question. “Of course. You had a card and paper flower for your missus that night, didn’t you? So how did you know about Sheila’s Pagliaccio statuette and all the other antiques?”

  “Your pal, Dalmer. He has a big mouth. We drink in the same pub in Wakefield. The Artesian Well.”

  “Arty-farty,” Joe muttered.

  “You would think that,” Ingleton snapped. “You wouldn’t know the difference between Crown Derby and the Crown and Anchor. Course, Dalmer doesn’t know me. Not by name, anyway. To him, I’m just Paul. A regular guy, just like him, interested in antiques.”

  “And that’s how you found out about them all?” Joe shook his head. “I don’t believe you. No way would he give you their addresses. He’d see you as a competitor.”

  “He didn’t have to, you idiot. I’m a cop. You think I can’t track people? All I needed was a name and I could find them.” Kibble snapped his fingers. “That easy.”

  “Really? You got my address wrong.”

  The policeman sneered. “I was in a hurry. And I am now. I can’t stand around here chatting all day, Murray. Things to do, people to see, Pagliaccio figurines to exchange, you three to shine on. See you in heaven… or hell.”

  He squeezed the trigger and Joe closed his eyes expecting nothing but death.

  A loud, electronically amplified voice boomed through the silence. “Ingleton. This is Chief Superintendent Oughton. We have the place surrounded, and we have armed officers with their sights trained on all exits. Remove the shells from your shotgun, put it down outside where we can see it, and come out with your hands raised.”

  ***

  Having heard nothing from Sheila or Joe, Brenda left Cheryl with the keys to the Lazy Luncheonette, and drove out to Sheila’s. They had been friends since school, and if Sheila was in trouble, it was her duty to help.

  It was a complete shock when she ran into a road block at the corner of Sheila’s quiet street, and found the area swarming with armed police.

  “But I’m Mrs Riley’s best friend,” she told Gillespie on the barricade.

  “I’m sorry, luv,” said Gillespie, “but I can’t let you past.

  “Is Gemma here? Gemma Craddock?”

  “Natch.”

  “Get her here, Vinny,” Brenda ordered.

  Gillespie spoke into his radio, and a few moments later, Gemma, wearing a flak jacket and crouching low, came to the barricade.

  “Our spotters are concentrated on the house and we have the place surrounded, Mrs Jump,” Gemma explained. “Someone has them at gunpoint in the living room.”

  Brenda’s features paled in the waning sunlight. “Oh, my God, no. But… but… is there anything I can do, Gemma?”

  “Yes, there is. Keep out of the way. We’re talking to neighbours trying to get an idea of the layout inside Mrs Riley’s house.”

  Brenda beamed. “Forget the neighbours. Get me a bulletproof vest like yours and I’ll draw you a plan.”

  Gemma was surprised. “You know it well?”

  “I was maid of honour at Sheila’s wedding.”

  Gemma removed her body armour and handed it over. “Keep your head down as we move along the street,” she ordered. “I dunno. Between you and Uncle Joe and Mrs Riley, you’ll get me fired.”

  ***

  Joe risked a glance through the window where several police cars crowded the narrow street. A look of panic spread across Ingleton’s face.

  Joe tried to smile. “Looks like your disappearing act is cancelled, Ingleton.”

  “Shut up!” sweat broke on Ingleton’s forehead. He backed off towards the rear wall, where it would be more difficult for the police outside to see him. “Right now, Murray, I still have the upper hand. I have you three and they won’t risk your lives.”

  The loudhailer boomed again.

  “Paul, this is Roy Vickers. We know everythin
g, buddy. We know you’re holding Des Kibble, Mrs Riley and Murray at gunpoint, and you should realise we’re not going away. You can’t escape, lad. Put the gun down and come out. No one’s going to hurt you if you do as you’re told.”

  “He’s right, and you know it,” Kibble muttered, and cowered as Ingleton waved the shotgun again.

  “If you don’t go out,” Joe said, “they’ll come in.”

  “It’ll be bad news for you three if they do.”

  ***

  Out in the street, crouched in the shelter of a police car, Vickers and Oughton were in urgent conference with the sergeant in charge of the armed unit who studied Brenda’s rough drawing of the interior. Close by, Gemma and Brenda listened.

  “Right now, sir, Ingleton is stood well back,” the sergeant reported, “and no one has a clear shot at him. If this lady’s drawing is correct, we could go in through the back door and have him pinned in seconds, but as I said earlier, we’ll have trouble getting through the door without alarming him.”

  “What about storming the place, both doors at the same time?” Oughton asked.

  The sergeant grimaced. “Same problem, sir. By the time we smash the door down, Ingleton could shoot the hostages, or he could easily get himself into a position where he would take out our people as they go in.”

  “Suppose you had a key and you could sneak in?” Brenda asked.

  The police scowled at her.

  “You’ve done well, luv, giving us this map, but don’t tell me you also know the locksmith who set the doors up?” the sergeant demanded.

  “No,” said Brenda, dipping into her purse. “But Sheila and I have been best friends since before you were born.” She dangled a key before them. “This fits her back door.” She smiled. “Sheila has the key to my place, too. It’s for when one of us is ever unwell.”

  “You’re sure you can get to him from the rear?” the chief inspector asked.

  “As long as we can get in quietly, yes, sir,” The sergeant confirmed. “I have people round there already, sir, and Ingleton can’t see them from the living room.” He took the key from Brenda.

  “No shooting unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Oughton insisted. “Remember, there are three innocent people in there.”

  ***

  Back in the house, Joe felt sufficiently emboldened to begin untying Sheila.

  Ingleton swung the shotgun back on him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “You just said that if they decide to storm the place, you’re going to kill all of us before they kill you,” Joe grumbled. “If Sheila has to die, she’ll die with dignity, not showing next week’s washing like you left those other women.”

  “Thank you, Joe,” Sheila said as he removed her gag. “I’m sorry to have dragged you into this, but he threatened to shoot me, the coward.”

  “No problem, Sheila,” Joe assured her as he released her bonds. “Besides, it was Brenda who dragged me into it, and what am I here for if not to intervene in life or death situations?”

  She stood up, smoothed her skirt down, and turned virulent eyes on Ingleton. “You’re a disgrace to the uniform.”

  “I’m not uniformed,” Ingleton sneered gruffly.

  “Don’t split hairs,” Sheila snapped. “You are a disgrace to the police service. My husband served this community all his life and never once did he—”

  The erratic detective swung angrily on her, the shotgun coming round. Joe grabbed her by the arm, yanked her to floor, and followed her down, laying himself half over her. By the rear wall, Kibble, too, hit the deck.

  At the same time there came a cry from the kitchen as armed officers came in through the back door. Ingleton turned to face the door, waiting for them to rush in. With the photographer’s back turned, Joe spotted the opportunity, leapt to his feet and grabbed the first thing he could lay hands on. Sensing the movement, Ingleton was turning Joe’s way again, when Joe brought the Meissen Pagliaccio down on his head. The porcelain figure broke, Ingleton crumpled to the carpet, the shotgun discharged a single cartridge into the wall, and three armed officers appeared, in the room, their guns aimed at Joe.

  He let the remains of Pagliaccio drop and raised his hands. “I’m one of the good guys.”

  From the floor, Sheila screamed in horror. “Joe Murray, that was genuine Meissen, worth over two thousand pounds.”

  Joe winced and smiled obsequiously. “Meissen? You’re sure it wasn’t Mason?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Joe awoke in the dim light of morning straining through dark, blood-red curtains. His head pounded, his tongue was furred up, and he didn’t have a clue where he was but it was not his flat above the Lazy Luncheonette.

  As he awoke, his memory began to kick in. There had been a huge party at the Miner’s Arms the previous night to celebrate coming out of the hostage situation alive. He vaguely recalled saying he would pay for a replacement Pagliaccio for Sheila, but the bulk of the night was lost in an alcohol induced fog.

  Gemma and Vickers had come along late in the evening, bringing news of Ingleton.

  “As you know he murdered five women in Sanford,” Gemma began.

  “Five?” Brenda had asked.

  “Including Rosemary Ecclesfield,” Vickers explained.

  “What you don’t know,” Gemma said, picking up the reins again, “is that he also murdered his wife. She didn’t leave at all. She’s buried in a wood somewhere near Keighley. So he has that to face as well. He’ll never come out.”

  “Lunatic,” Joe had agreed, and gone back to partying.

  He could not recall much more other than he had refused to let Sheila risk going home alone, but he was so drunk it was up to Brenda to organise a taxi for the three of them.

  And now, here he was in a strange bedroom, in a strange bed, when he should be behind the counter of the Lazy Luncheonette.

  And he was not alone, as he realised when the woman next to him moved and groaned.

  His mind was filled with images of Angela Foster. After George’s report on her, Joe had invited her to the Miner’s Arms, and he had passed some of the time chatting her up at the party.

  He turned over, looked at her, then closed his eyes to go back to sleep. They opened again and he stared in shock. “Oh, no. Not you.”

  Brenda’s eyes opened and she squinted to look at him. “Oh. Good morning, Joe… JOE!!!”

  She leapt out of bed and clutched at her forehead. Joe dimly recalled that Brenda, too, had been quite drunk the previous night.

  Realising she was wearing only a flimsy nightie, she snatched a gown from the door and wrapped herself in it.

  “We dropped Sheila off,” Joe said, “So what happened after that?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t tell me…”

  “Did we?” Joe asked. “I can’t remember.”

  “Me neither, but…. Oh, dear Lord, this I terrible. I would never… not with you.”

  Joe clambered out of bed and with some embarrassment realised he was wearing only a pair of shorts. “I, er, I’d better get dressed.”

  He made hurriedly for the door.

  As he opened it, Brenda stopped him. Wearing her meanest gaze, she warned him, “If you ever say one word of this to anyone, anyone at all, I will bury you alive. Understand?”

  “My lips are sealed,” he promised. “I have a reputation to maintain, too, you know. As far as anyone else is concerned, I don’t remember anything about last night.”

  “Just make sure you keep up the pretence.”

  Joe smiled weakly. “Who’s pretending?”

  THE END

  Thanks for reading this Sanford Third Age Collection title.

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