“If Diane Shipton is here in Weston, and if she was involved in yesterday’s argument, then it’s possible.” Feeney hesitated a moment. “I’m going to tell you something that is not generally known, Mr Murray. Virginia was a pillar of this community. She was well-liked, a tireless charity worker, and she was even a councillor for a short while. Independent; not aligned with any political party.” Again the chief inspector paused. “She was also a convicted killer, serving a life sentence, and released only on licence.”
Taking a drag from his cigarette while Feeney spoke, Joe almost choked on the tobacco. “What?”
“In the early nineties, she was raped – so she claimed. Instead of reporting the matter to the police, which she claimed would have been pointless, she went after her attacker and stabbed him to death, then handed herself in.”
“Sounds to me like he got what he deserved,” Joe said.
“Most people would agree, Mr Murray, and had she reported the matter to us first, then gone after him, the courts might have looked upon her crime more leniently. As it was, her plea in mitigation was not accepted, she was found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment. That was in 1992. She was released on licence eight years later, and moved here, to Weston-super-Mare, to start a new life. Naturally, we were aware of the situation. All life-prisoners, when released on licence, must report to the local police when they move. However, we were the only ones who knew of her past, and I can guarantee the confidentiality of that information. Weston is a friendly town, but Virginia Nicholson would not have lasted long here if people had learned of her past.”
Joe nodded and pulled on the cigarette again. It had gone out. Digging out his Zippo, he relit it, his furrowed brow creasing further. “I can see where you’re going with all this, but you can’t do anything until and unless you can demonstrate that not only is this Shipton woman here in Weston, but that it was her Ginny argued with and she was in the vicinity at the time of Ginny’s murder. Any news from Clifftop Park?”
“You were right about the Easter eggs,” Feeney replied. “We’ve accounted for a hundred and ninety-two, and we didn’t count yours or your friends.”
“Another five, I think,” Joe said.
“In that case, we’re close enough to the total to conclude that Virginia was either finished or almost finished when she was intercepted and murdered. We’ve found the carrier bags in which she had the eggs, and we’ve found her handbag. Purse is missing, obviously.”
Joe nodded. “That would help make it look like a robbery?”
“It may actually be a robbery,” Sergeant Holmes pointed out, and Feeney backed him up.
“You, yourself pointed out, Joe, that there were always two possibilities for this crime. Planned and opportunist. If it was opportunist, then the motive is likely to be robbery.”
Taking a final pull on his cigarette, Joe crushed it out. “So what’s the point of telling me all this? Are you asking for my help or trying to warn me off?”
It appeared to him that Feeney was choosing her words carefully. “We don’t really need your help, Mr Murray. And I certainly wouldn’t warn you off, because according to the best of my information, you’d only ignore me. But if this really is Diane Shipton at work, then she is a very dangerous lady, and if you begin asking the wrong questions of her, you could end up hurt or worse.”
Joe stood up. “Right. Point taken. If I see her, I’ll keep my distance and bell you instead of shoving my oar in. That good enough for you?”
“Perfect,” Feeney agreed. “But there’s something else I’d like to ask of you.”
In the act of rising, Joe paused and sat down again.
“You’re here on holiday and like all holidaymakers, you have a camera. Yes?”
He nodded. “As it happens, I have two… three if you count the one on my mobile phone.”
“Good. If you see this redhead, could you take a sneaky picture of her? Try not to make it obvious, but get us some kind of image we can study.”
Joe stood again. “Yeah, no problem.” There was a long moment of silence. Joe took it as a cue. “Well, if that’s it, I’m going back inside to finish my tea.”
“And we’ll take our leave of you. Thank you for your help.”
Joe ambled back into the hotel and rejoined the women.
“Any the wiser?” Brenda asked, as she sewed a small, fluffy lamb onto the brim of her bonnet.
“A bit, and I think Feeney has it right. I should mind my own business. It’s not my usual line of investigation.”
Sheila held her bonnet in front of her so she could judge the effect of yellow paper roses glued to the brim. “Now there’s a novelty. Joe Murray admitting he may be out of his depth.”
“I may be stupid enough to employ you two jobs, but I’m not totally suicidal.” Joe cast a sour eye over their handiwork. “Listen, all this faffing about with hats, how much is the first prize again?”
“A voucher for twenty pounds,” Brenda said without taking her eyes off her sewing, “which you can spend in any number of shops in the town.”
“So let me work this out. The hats and the bits and pieces cost you about a fiver. The entry fee was a tenner. So if you win, you’ll come away with a profit of five pounds, but it can only be spent here in Weston-super-Mare.”
Sheila put down her hat. “It’s not about profit, Joe, it’s for charity. Now if you’ve nothing better to do than criticise, take yourself to the bar and get fresh coffee.”
“And cakes,” Brenda added.
Joe drank his rapidly cooling tea, collected all the cups and made his way to the bar. “Fill ’em up again, please, Freddie. Two coffees, one tea, and do you have any cakes?”
“Sorry, Joe, but we’re a hotel, not a tea room. All we have is what you see.” Taking the cups and getting out fresh ones, Freddie gestured at the glass display case, where he stored potato crisps, packets of peanuts and small packets of biscuits.
“I’ll take two packets of those oatmeal biscuits, too,” Joe ordered and dug out his wallet.
“Old Bill done with you, have they?” Freddie asked as the coffee dispenser frothed.
“Routine stuff. The woman who was murdered up in Clifftop Park. She was a lifer.”
“Tell us something we don’t know, mate.” Freddie replied and filled two cups with coffee. “Not general knowledge round Weston, but there were a few of us in the know.” He filled a small, metal teapot, and set everything on a tray for Joe. “Killed some bloke who insisted on having his wicked way with her after she said no… or so she claimed.”
“What? You don’t believe it?”
Freddie placed the drinks on a tray and grinned at Joe. “Not up to me to believe or disbelieve, matey. It’s all about whether the family of the bloke she killed found her and decided to extract a bit of street justice. That’s three pounds eighty for cash, Joe.”
Joe handed over a fiver. “I never thought of that. You reckon that’s what may have happened? Only the law are thinking on some woman called Diane Shipton.”
Freddie rang up the sale, and handed over change. With a forced, humorous gleam in his eye, he said, “Take it from someone who knows. Diane Shipton may be a blackmailer, but she’s no killer.”
Chapter Five
The time was approaching one in the afternoon when Sheila and Brenda made their way first to their room, on the floor below Joe’s, to abandon their makeshift millinery, and then head for the town.
“I don’t like this,” Brenda said as Sheila unlocked the door and led the way into the room. “If we believe everything the police say, Joe could be running into trouble just taking a picture of the woman.”
“An undue level of concern, dear?” There was a twinkle of laughter in Sheila’s voice, matched by a gleam in her eye.
Brenda returned a withering stare. “Nothing of the kind. I don’t think any more nor less of his lordship now than I ever did. I’d feel the same if it was George or Alec or, heaven forbid, Les Tanner.” She placed her half
finished bonnet on the dresser next to Sheila’s and reached into the wardrobe for her quilted anorak. Struggling into its close-fitting confines, she went on, “We’ve known Joe all our lives, Sheila. When did he ever get into a fight and win?”
Pulling on her wax jacket, Sheila paused a moment to consider the question. “Never. Not that I can recall, anyway.”
“Correct. Even when he got into a fight with Jean Woolmer, he lost, and she was a seven-year old schoolgirl.”
“Yes, but be fair, Brenda. Joe was only six, and Jean was tougher than most of the boys at school.”
“Even so, Joe is not a scrapper. He never has been. I’m not saying he’s a coward; far from it. But he couldn’t fight his way out of Mothercare in the New Year sales.” Brenda zipped up the anorak and picked up her handbag. “The way the police describe them, these people sound more like gangsters than Lazy Luncheonette punters. Joe will need some kind of protection.”
Sheila smiled brightly. “He has us.”
“I was thinking of someone a bit tougher. George, for instance. And Owen. They can go some.”
With her coat zipped and buttoned, Sheila made for the door. “And you know about that, Brenda. But like the rest of us, they’re here for a rest. Can you persuade them to become Joe’s minders?”
Brenda locked the door behind them and grinned savagely. “You leave George Robson to me. By the time I’ve done with him, he’ll be ready to stand guard on the Prime Minister… and you know how much George hates politicians.”
***
Driven by fierce gales, the rain continued to hammer at the seafront, and when they left the Leeward, Joe and his companions could see the crowds sheltering on the covered pier. Umbrellas were out of the question, and by the time they had covered the five hundred yards from the hotel to the Winter Gardens, they were soaked.
Built in the 1920s, with an air of art deco about the alabaster columns and high windows, the deserted outdoor seating areas of the bar and the coffee shop appeared forgotten and forlorn in the foul weather, while through the high windows, they could see the interior seating areas were crowded. As they approached the classical grandeur of the main pavilion entrance, they could see a steady stream of people making their way in, and as many coming out.
“Something going on here,” Joe observed. “Let’s duck in and dry off for a few minutes.”
“Yes, boss,” Brenda agreed and, tapping at her mobile phone, followed her two friends into the building.
Once inside, the flow of people in both directions was centred on the Prince Consort Room, second largest of the conference/banqueting facilities. To their surprise, the event was not an event at all. Instead people were queuing to place Easter eggs, Easter bunnies and other assorted holiday items on a row of trestle tables to one side of the grand ballroom.
“What are they doing?” Joe asked. “Trying for the world record in Easter egg pyramids?”
“What are you like?” Brenda gave him a playful shove in the back. “You know full well what they’re doing. Freddie told you. They’re donating items for charity.”
“Charity? Again? Is this town the most charitable in England, or what?”
“Most towns are the same, Joe. It’s just that you’re so wrapped up in business you don’t notice.”
“So what are they gonna do with them all?” Joe asked
“Distribute them to orphanages and hospitals, I believe.” Sheila frowned at Brenda. “We should have bought Easter eggs or souvenirs. Something we could have added to the stand.”
“Tell you what. Why don’t you and the master wait here while I’ll nip round the corner, buy three eggs and we can add them?”
“Sounds good,” Sheila agreed. “Would you like me to come with you?”
“No, no. No sense all of us getting wet.” Brenda zipped up her coat again. “Five pounds each?” When Sheila nodded, she checked with Joe. “All right?”
He fished out his wallet. “So long as it’s no more than a fiver. Need the money?”
“We can sort it out when I get back.”
Joe nodded. “We’ll wait in the café for you.”
Brenda made her way back out into the rain, Joe and Sheila moved through to the Prom Café, where he queued for tea and Sheila secured them a table by the window.
The place was busy; busier than usual thanks largely to the rain Joe guessed as he shuffled his way along the line at the service counter. It was a full ten minutes by the time he rejoined Sheila. Settling into his seat, casting a glance around the café, and seeing only people like themselves (wet, and glad of the shelter and a warming drink) he, instead, gazed through the windows towards the pier.
“What is it about the seaside that we all find so relaxing?” he asked.
“A question that’s trouble psychologists for a century or more, Joe. I suppose the sea stands for freedom from the drudgery of work. At least, to us townies it might. If you’re fisherman, I don’t think you’d view it with quiet the same sense of calm.” Sheila sipped delicately at her tea. “A more important question is, are you mellowing?”
The question puzzled Joe. “I don’t think so.”
“You barely raised a word of protest when Brenda suggested five pounds each on Easter eggs for charity.” A secretive smile crept across Sheila’s lips. “Or is it your new-found familiarity with Brenda having its effect?”
Joe reflected the smile, but his was more cynical. “Ah. Right. Brenda’s told you, has she? When we were on that stupid egg hunt this morning, she told me she hadn’t.”
“She told me about it while you were upstairs getting changed. You don’t think she should have done?”
Joe sipped his coffee and mentally rehearsed his answer. “What I think, Sheila, is that it’s none of your business.” He held up his hand as Sheila opened her mouth to interrupt. “Let me finish. We’re old friends. The three of us. We go all the way back to primary school. After Lee and Cheryl, you and Brenda are the closest thing I have to family. I really don’t believe it’s any of your business, but I don’t think Brenda did wrong by telling you. There is the chance that it might have an effect on our friendship and working relationship.”
Sheila gave him a mock round of applause. “Well done, Joe. I didn’t think you had such consideration in you. You’re not the most sensitive or diplomatic of men.”
She, too, allowed a moment of silence, and Joe, guessing she was choosing her next words carefully, steeled himself for some frank opinions.
There had been many arguments between the three over the years, even in the days before the two women came to work for him, but although he probably came top for inadvertently piercing the skin, Sheila and Brenda were perfectly capable of getting to him.
“My concern, Joe, is not what you and Brenda get up to. That is, as you say, your affair – no pun intended. I’m not bothered for myself, either. I’m more worried about the effect on you two. Intimacy can put a strain on easy going relationships, and I wouldn’t want to work in an atmosphere of mutual animosity between the two of you. Worse than that, I don’t want to play go-between if and when things, er, go wrong. If you seriously think I’m poking my nose in, then please say so, but I really am worried about you two.”
“You think I didn’t think about that? You think Brenda didn’t think about it? It wasn’t intentional, Sheila. We were drunk, we woke up together. From there, things just happened naturally.”
He sighed and gazed through the windows once more. An open top bus passed by, heading north, towards their hotel. The lower deck appeared full, but there was no one seated upstairs. Why would there be in this foul weather?
The incessant rain and blustery winds perfectly matched his turgid feelings. The question of Brenda had been on his mind, too, ever since that morning in February when they had woken up together, their memories of the previous night no more than hazy, ill-defined mental images.
Joe and Brenda had dated for a short while in their teens. His father’s demands upon his time (even th
en he had to be up at five thirty to help out in the café) had soon put paid to any potential relationship, and throughout his life, Joe had often wondered what would have become of them if it had not been for his responsibilities. Now, with one broken marriage – again thanks to the café – behind him, he wasn’t altogether sure he wanted an answer.
Bringing his attention back to Sheila, he said, “I don’t think it’s anything more than we want it to be. Sex.” He felt his ears colouring as he said the word. “I’m not sure I want it to be anything more than that, and I don’t think Brenda wants it to be any more than that.” He sighed again. “You know what Brenda’s like.”
“Ever since Colin died, she’s done her best to enjoy herself.” Sheila’s lips tightened. “I don’t always approve, but it’s her life to lead as she sees fit. She misses Colin, but I think his death brought home to her just how short life is. Peter’s death came as a shock to me. Even after the first heart attack, I thought he was on the mend. Colin’s was not a shock.”
“I remember. He was diagnosed a year before he died, wasn’t he?”
Sheila nodded. “A terrible, wasting disease. Her, er… oh, I don’t know. Her ways with men are, I think, a reaction to the way Colin died, and, of course, the way she was widowed so young. She knows that what happened to Colin can happen to any of us. He didn’t smoke, you know, and he drank only in moderation. He was fit and healthy, too. He looked after himself, and yet, the cancer still got to him. That must have had an effect on Brenda’s mindset. So she enjoys herself with an attitude that’s often mistaken for promiscuity.” Sheila narrowed her eyes on Joe. “She dates a number of men, but she doesn’t sleep with them all.”
“I know.” Joe took out his tobacco, his natural reaction to deeper debates. “If you’re worried that Brenda is simply freewheeling and I may be taking it more seriously, don’t.” He ran a fine line of tobacco along the V of the cigarette paper. “I had that Valentine’s date with Letty, if you remember. I liked her. She could maybe have become Mrs Joe Murray, mark two, but I remember saying to her that it would take a long time for me to come to such a decision.”
The Chocolate Egg Murders Page 6