“Alison?” Sheila asked.
Licking the gummed edge of the paper, he completed the cigarette and dropped it into his shirt pocket for later consumption. “Yes. Alison. I loved her, you know… well, as close as I could come to loving anyone, but it all went wrong because of the Lazy Luncheonette. Living and working together just didn’t pan out. My old dad had the right answer. Ma never worked in the café. I did, so did our Arthur, before he cleared off to Oz, but my old queen stayed upstairs and kept house. She and Dad saw nothing of one another during the day. Maybe if I’d insisted Alison take a back seat, we could have survived, but…” He sighed again. “I got it wrong, Sheila. I thought it would save on the wage bill if Alison worked with me. It did, but it wrecked our life together.” A semi-humorous gleam came into his eye. “I’m not about to rush into the same mistake again. For the time being, I’ll treat my time with Brenda the way she does. A bit of fun when we feel like it. Nothing more.”
Sheila, too, injected some humour into her voice. “I’m glad. I’ll be watching you both, so be good.”
“If I can’t be good, I’ll be careful.”
Joe turned to gaze through the windows again. “Hey, is that a bit of sunshine over there.” He pointed to the southwest where in the far distance, a tiny, golden break showed in the leaden sky.
“Better weather coming our way, I hope.”
“Not all that’s coming our way, either.” Joe’s gaze had come nearer to them, and a woman hurrying along the pavements, a large Easter egg clutched under her arm, the hood of her white anorak hiding her red hair.
He reached into his cagoule for his compact camera.
“Oh, right. That was quick.”
Sheila’s comment puzzled Joe, but when he looked behind Diane Shipton, he saw Brenda hurrying along, a carrier bag in one hand, through which bulged the angular boxes of Easter eggs, her mobile phone in the other hand, tucked inside her hood while she spoke to someone. Some yards behind Brenda were two stocky men, and another redhead, ambling along in the same direction. A bell rang in Joe’s head, but he ignored it. He had more important things to think about.
Gulping down his coffee, he urged, “Let’s get out and meet Brenda.”
“She’ll be cold, Joe,” Sheila insisted. “She’ll want a cup of tea.”
“Yeah, well she can have one when we’ve handed over the Easter eggs. Come on, Sheila. Hurry up. I don’t want to miss her.”
Hurrying after him as he made for the exit, Sheila remained puzzled. “Miss Brenda? You can’t miss Brenda. She has our eggs, too.”
Emerging into the entrance hall as Brenda came in, Joe looked around and caught sight of Diane Shipton’s back disappearing into the Prince Consort Room.
“Ah. You’re here. I could do with—”
“Quick, Brenda,” Joe interrupted. “Our redhead is in there. Get one of the eggs, tag on behind her and I’ll take a photograph.”
“Joe, I, er, who? What?”
Snatching the carrier from her, Joe removed one of the Easter eggs and handed it to Brenda. “Just do it.”
“I need the ladies,” Brenda hissed quietly.
“After you’ve put the egg up. Come on.” He grabbed her by the hand and dragged her to the Prince Consort Room. “Hurry up or you’ll be too late.”
Brenda snatched her hand free. “Joe. I need the toilet.”
“Tie a knot in it,” he insisted. “Now will you hurry up?”
“I can’t tie a knot in it. I’m not a man.”
“Stop bloody arguing.”
Brenda yielded and followed him, hurrying into the room and joining the short queue behind Diane Shipton. Joe stood back to one side and switched on his camera. He sensed Sheila at his shoulder.
Across the room Robert Quigley was still watching with approval, which suddenly turned to concern. Diane placed her giant Easter egg on the stand, stood back a moment to admire it, then turned to walk away. Shuffling uncomfortably, Brenda glanced back at Joe, who nodded and raised his camera to study the display.
Diane was perfectly framed in the shot and Brenda was right behind her, placing her Easter egg. Joe hit the button, the camera flashed and he took a moment to study the result. Perfect. Feeney would have no trouble identifying Diane.
Someone nudged his shoulder.
“What is it, Sheila? I’m busy.”
There was another nudge, harder this time, and a deliberately aimed hand dashed the camera from his grasp. The hand was backed up by a thick, sinewy and hairy wrist.
The camera dropped and skittered across the floor, where a heavy boot landed on it.
“Hey.”
“Oops. Sorry, pal.” The swarthy individual attached to the boot, bent down and collected the camera. “Oh dear. Looks like it’s broke. You should be more careful, mate.”
Joe turned to the man closer to him, another muscular individual, his clean shaven features split into a broad grin of pure menace. “It’d be more to the point if you were careful about who you were taking pictures of.”
Joe felt his legs trembling and his anger rising. He pointed to Brenda. “She’s a friend. I was taking a picture of her.”
“I don’t think I believe you. In fact, I think you were taking a picture of my missus.” The nearer man gestured at Diane, who stood some yards away with the other woman, whom Joe assumed was her sister Elaine.
“You think?” Joe demanded, snatching the remains of his crushed camera. “You have enough brain cells to be able to think?”
Shipton (that was Joe’s assumption) snatched at Joe’s cagoule. “You—”
“Knock it off unless you fancy a proper ruck in here.”
At the sound of George Robson’s voice, Joe breathed a sigh of relief. He half turned his head to find George, Owen Frickley, Alec Staines and Mort Norris stood in a line, behind the two women.
The two men eyed Joe’s friends, then each other. Across the hall, Quigley watched the proceedings with a worried eye as he spoke into his mobile phone.
Chewing spit, Shipton released Joe. “Just watch your step, pal. You could get hurt.” He turned and marched off, snapping his fingers to the other three, who fell obediently in step behind him.
Joe breathed a sigh of relief at his fellow STAC members. “Thanks, guys. Thought I’d had it then. What are you doing here?”
“Brenda rang us,” George said. “Warned us you might be in trouble. Didn’t you, Bren… oh. She’s gone.”
“She’s in the ladies,” Sheila said. She swung a disapproving face on Joe. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at?”
“Feeney asked me if I could get a picture of our redhead; Diane Shipton.”
“I’m sure she didn’t tell you to risk your stupid neck to do it.” Sheila waved a flailing hand at the busted camera. “And look at the state of that. A complete waste of time and it’s cost you your camera.”
“Doesn’t make any difference.” Joe prised open the mangled back, and removed the memory card. He smiled broadly. “I think I gave twenty quid for the camera, and it was crap, but the pictures are all stored on here. The minute Brenda comes back, I’m off to the cop shop with it.”
Chapter Six
The police station was housed in an ageing, four-storey, grey concrete block just off the main road to the motorway, and not far from the town centre. It reminded Joe of so many similar blocks he had seen built in the seventies, only to fall into disrepair when suitable tenants could not be found. Dour and forbidding. Sanford was full of such places; busy when the mine and the foundry were the heart of the town, empty eyesores now that the local economy had floundered.
Shown to Chief Inspector’s Feeney’s office, as cold, bare and as dour as the rest of the building, she arranged a cup of tea while they engaged in small talk.
“Our cop shop in Sanford is like this,” Joe told her. “Only much older. Victorian, you know.”
“We’re not long for this place, Mr Murray. I’m not even based here. I’m based in Bristol, and this s
tation is soon to become an appointment only site. Major crime will be handled from Bristol and this will be the base for a few community constables, no more.”
Joe sympathised. “Sign of the times.”
But if Feeney was convivial enough when it came to chatter, after handing the memory card to Sergeant Holmes, her annoyance rose when listening to Joe’s account of events in the Winter Gardens.
“I did warn you how dangerous this woman can be, Mr Murray. Not so much her, but her husband and brother-in-law.”
“I tried to make it look as if I was taking a picture of my friend. And enough with the Mr Murray business, eh? Everyone calls me by my given name; Joe.”
There was a knock on the door, and Sergeant Holmes entered, carrying the memory card and several freshly printed pictures. He handed them to Feeney. “It’s her, ma’am. No doubt about it.”
Feeney studied the prints. “Then the people you met, Joe, were undoubtedly Gil Shipton and Terry Badger. It was probably Terry who trod on your camera, and I imagine his wife, Elaine, will have been there somewhere.”
“She was with them,” Joe agreed.
Feeney placed her hand flat on the desk. “In that case, Joe, I must insist that you keep your distance.” She went on to Holmes. “Sergeant, put out a call to all units. Be on the lookout for the Shiptons and the Badgers. When they’re seen, they’re to be brought in for questioning on the murder of Virginia Nicholson. Officers are not to approach alone, but call for backup. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Holmes left the office.
When the door closed behind her sergeant, Feeney beamed a fond smile on Joe. “You’ve done well, and I thank you, but you mustn’t take risks, Joe. It’s fortunate that your friends were there. The fact that you were in a public place wouldn’t have prevented them from frogmarching you out and dealing with you elsewhere.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t entirely accidental. Brenda has been worried about me.”
“Wise lady. Your, er, girlfriend?”
“Hell, no…” Guilt ran through Joe. How could he be so dismissive of one of his best friends? “Well, sort of. She works for me, as you know, but we have this sort of, er, relationship. Nothing special, just more than boss and employee.”
“Well, go back and join her and enjoy the rest of the weekend, Joe. You’ve done us a good turn, and we’ll take it from here.”
“Just before I leave, one thing puzzles me,” Joe admitted. “Why would Diane Shipton kill Ginny? I keep thinking back to what I heard in the street, yesterday. Word for word, Diane said, ‘that’s the trouble with people like you. You don’t know when someone’s trying to do you a favour’. How is blackmailing someone doing them a favour, and how is killing them doing them a favour? It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“You’re sure that’s what you heard Diane say?”
“Verbatim,” Joe assured the chief inspector. “Y’see, I can understand where Diane is coming from on the blackmail angle. She demands, let’s say, a grand, and she’s doing Ginny a favour by not broadcasting her past. But why kill her after she refused to pay?”
“A couple of points,” Feeney said. “First, we don’t know that Diane did kill Virginia. It just seems a little too coincidental, that’s all. She met Virginia yesterday, and Virginia died today. It could be completely unconnected. Second, and probably more important, Diane Shipton has never resorted to violence as far as we know. That has always been the hallmark of her husband and brother-in-law, and even then, we’ve never been able to prove anything in connection with Diane’s suspected activities. We can build good cases against all four, but we have no concrete evidence. Thinking on Virginia’s murder, it may be that Gil Shipton or Terry Badger decided to act alone, without reference to Diane. Right now, we need to question them. No more.” She chewed her lip. “It would help if we could place any of them in the vicinity of Clifftop Park this morning.”
“There’s no CCTV up there?”
Feeney nodded. “Some, but it covers the main car park and entrance by the pavilion. We’re having the tapes studied and analysed as we speak. I’ll know more later today.” She stood and shook hands. “Thank you, Joe. I won’t take up any more of your time. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Weston.”
He smiled. “I’ll try.”
***
The rain had eased slightly when Joe stepped out into the street. The brighter sky he had noticed from the Winter Gardens café, had made its way closer, and over to the west there was a definite hint of spring showing through the thinning layer of clouds.
Feeling pleased with his day’s work, he took out his mobile phone and dialled Sheila. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Marks and Spencer’s. What about you?”
“Just come out of the cop shop and I’m on my way to that pub I was gonna visit yesterday,” he told her. “The Sword & Shield, I think it’s called. Near the turnip.”
“The carrot.”
“I knew it was something you serve with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”
“Although to be truly accurate it’s called The Silica.”
“And I’ll be there are plenty of silly cl—”
“Joe.” Sheila’s voice had a warning edge to it.
“I was going to say silly clots, who paid for it. Meet me in the pub; we’ll have a quick snifter before you carry on shopping.”
Joe cut the connection and began walking. Cutting across the A370, the main road to the promenade to his left, and the motorway to his right, following his street plan, he ambled along a narrower street with various business premises on either side, and emerged by the Odeon Cinema. Its cream, tiled frontage and tower provided a nostalgic reminder of similar picture houses in Sanford, Leeds and Wakefield from his younger years, but he doubted that their modern offerings, a couple of sci-fi blockbusters and a remake of a major action adventure from the 1980s, would compare with the magic of the movies he had seen in his teens.
Turning left, he found himself at the upper end of Regent Street and he could see the needle-like spire of The Silica, two hundred yards away. Strolling on towards it, he glanced across the road at the sandy-coloured front of a pub named The Prince, where Diane and Gil Shipton were stepping in through the front door.
For as long as he could recall, he had been ‘poking his nose’ into mysteries and crimes, mostly in the Sanford area, but lately, thanks to the 3rd Age Club outings, in other towns and counties. He did not consider himself a private detective. More a talented amateur, with a keen eye, and sharp sense of logic. After the Sanford Valentine Strangler, this was the biggest case he had ever confronted, and he was strongly tempted to follow the pair into The Prince. The confrontation in the Winter Gardens weighed heavily upon him, however. He was not a fighter. He never had been. Sharp-tongued, quick witted, but never sharp-footed or quick-fisted. If the Shiptons spotted him, there would be no George Robson or Mort Norris to help him out of the difficulty.
“What would a real detective do, Joe?” he muttered to himself.
And he’d seen enough movies and TV shows to know the answer. A real detective would go into the pub, and secrete himself within earshot, but out of sight of the pair to listen in on their conversation.
Could he? He knew nothing about the pub. Was it one of those modern ones, where the tables were cut off in booths, or was it an old-fashioned, traditional pub? The exterior appearance suggested the latter.
A fresh resolve gripped him. It was a pub, wasn’t it? Gil Shipton or no Gil Shipton, he was entitled to drink there.
He glanced at his dim reflection in the windows of a Chinese restaurant. The pale blue cagoule and flat cap would give him away immediately. The Shiptons would recognise him instantly from the Winter Gardens. And if he walked into the pub with the hood up, it would look even more suspicious.
Ignoring the rain, he took off the cagoule and turned it inside out. It wasn’t really reversible, but by tucking the pockets inside out, he could get away with it. Recalling a n
ewsagents and souvenir shop a few yards back, he retraced his steps, walked in and a few minutes later came out with a copy of The Times and a plant pot style sun hat in white bearing the legend, I ❤ Zummerzet. He turned it inside out so it hid the badge, dropped it on his head, and tucked his flat cap in what was now his inner pocket.
Crossing the road to The Prince, he purposely avoided the same entrance the Shiptons had used, preferring a door a few yards further down the street. He found his legs trembling as he stepped into the bar, and forcibly reminded himself that he was entitled to be there.
The place was busy. Men and women stood around the bar as most of the tables were taken. Joe’s active imagination painted a mental image of the place as it would have been in days gone by: lively, noisy, its patrons’ business conducted under a fuggy pall of tobacco smoke, augmented perhaps, by music from a juke box.
A quick glance around told him that the Shiptons had chosen a table close to the door through which they had entered, and were deep in earnest conversation. Another table nearby had only one occupant, an elderly man studying form in the back pages of The Racing Post.
Securing a half of bitter, he made his way to the table and, standing with his back to the Shiptons, raised a permission-seeking eyebrow at the old man, who nodded.
“Sit y’down, m’dear.”
Joe sat and opened up his copy of The Times, burying his attention in its broadsheet pages. Behind him he sensed a pause in the conversation, as if both eyes were upon him.
Years of working in the noisy environment of the Lazy Luncheonette, where the chatter of drivers clashed with the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchens, should, in theory, have had a detrimental effect on his hearing, but in fact, it had done just the opposite. It had enabled him to edit out background noise to concentrate on the orders placed at the counter. Now he could easily cut out the sounds of a busy pub and the mutterings of the old boy opposite, who was trying to decide whether to lose his money in the 3.30 at Newcastle or the 4.15 at Kempton Park, and hone in on the Shiptons’ conversation.
The Chocolate Egg Murders Page 7