The Chocolate Egg Murders

by David W Robinson

  Diane was doing most of the talking, her voice not much more than an angry hiss.

  “It’s right out there, where you can’t get at it, Gil. And by tomorrow it’ll be gone to god knows where. I’m the only one who can ever get it back.” There was a significant pause before Diane spoke again. “You end it. Now. The pair of you. Either that or you take the risk of some kid handing it in and blowing the entire thing wide open.”

  “No way would you do that,” Gil said. “You’d go down, too.”

  Diane laughed. “With your record for the hard act? All I gotta do is tell ’em you threatened me, forced me into it. Sure I’ll get probation or something, but you’re the one who’ll go down. You and her, and him.” There was another pause, then the sound of Diane slamming her glass on the table. “It’s make your mind up time, Gil. And you got less than twenty-four hours to sort it.”

  Gil huffed out his breath, but there was no trace of frustration when he spoke. Instead, his rough, London accent remained calm and calculating.

  “Diane, you’re trying to hang onto something that ain’t worth hanging onto. We’re through. We’ve been done for a long time. Long before her.”

  Joe’s active and agile mind began to slot the information into different compartments, attempting to relate it to the murder of Ginny Nicholson. What he was hearing did not make complete sense, and Diane’s next remark did little to help.

  “It’s nothing to do with us being through. It’s her. I don’t care what you do, and I don’t care who you do it with, but not her. Put an end to it, or I’ll put an end to everything else.”

  Frowning irritably at the old chap’s mutterings on a horse at Uttoxeter, Joe listened to Gil’s next words and reflected that if they had been said to him, he would have been chilled to the bone.

  “You’re threatening me, Diane, and you know what happens to people who threaten me.”

  Diane did not react and Gil pressed on.

  “The way it is, is the way it is, and all your antics ain’t gonna change that. Now why don’t you grow up and accept it? We can still do business.”

  “Our business is through.”

  At that moment Joe’s phone rang. Fishing into his pockets, he took it out, and keeping his voice low and gruff in an attempt to disguise it, said, “Yes, Brenda?”

  “Where the hell are you? We’re in the Sword & Shield looking for you.”

  Aware that silence had fallen behind him, and aware that he had made a mistake answering the call, Joe roughened his voice even further. “I’m in another pub.”

  “Oh. So much for your instructions, then, if you can’t follow them yourself. You want us to meet you there, or are you coming here?”

  “Gimme ten minutes.”

  He shut the phone off to the accompaniment of a chair scraping backwards behind him. Putting the phone away, Joe, took an even closer interest in the newspaper, pressing his face so close to it that the print was almost a blur in front of his eyes.

  He felt the slight movement of air as Diane hurried past him. He waited longer until he heard Gil’s chair pushed back and the big man move to the bar. Then he folded the newspaper, and without looking at the bar, stood up.

  “Are you following us, or what?”

  Gil Shipton’s voice froze Joe. He slowly turned and looked up at the big man, not at the bar, but standing menacingly over him.

  Joe cleared his throat. “I had to go looking for a new camera after you and your pal broke the other one. If I’d known you were here, I’d have looked somewhere else.”

  “Looks like someone shoulda dressed you a bit better, too,” Gil observed. “Now what business of yours is the business between me and my missus?”

  “None,” Joe lied. “I just like your company.”

  Gil took a step forward. Joe held up a hand and shook his head. The head to head had developed some attention from those around them.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Joe aimed a finger at the bar. “The landlord won’t like it, my friends are waiting for me outside, and my solicitor is already in touch with the local police to see if they know anything about you.” Joe forced a smile. “You’ll be hearing from him.”

  Gil sighed irritably. “Get outta my face, pal. If I see you again, I might decide to rearrange yours.”

  Joe shrugged, turned, and with a flush of relief, walked quickly out of the pub.

  The Sword & Shield stood less than a hundred yards from The Prince, and Joe did not slacken his rushed pace. With occasional glances over his shoulder to ensure Gil was not following, he hurried along the busy pavements, weaving in and out of the crowds which appeared to be growing in the ever-decreasing rain.

  He bumped into a large man. His heart leapt. He looked up into the grinning face of Freddie Delaney.

  “Steady on, Joe. Damn near knocked me over.”

  Joe breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s you. Thank God for that.”

  “Who were you expecting? A terminator?”

  “Not far off. I just had a head to head with Gil Shipton in that pub.” Joe waved back towards The Prince.

  Freddie disapproved with a tut and a doleful shake of the head. “You don’t half pick some people to argue with, don’t you? Take a tip, mate; stay clear of the Shiptons. They’re trouble.”

  “I’m okay now, Freddie. My friends are in the Sword & Shield.”

  “All right, buddy. I got people to see. Look after yourself.”

  With a nod, Joe hurried on to the Sword & Shield, burst into the pub, stared around, and spotted his two companions sat with George Robson and Owen Frickley under the windows.

  Its location, closer to the seafront, probably accounted for the Sword & Shield’s busier afternoon than that of The Prince. The bar was more crowded, the hum of conversation, orchestrated by the clink and clatter of glasses and the familiar chink of the cash register, filled the room more than it had done in The Prince. In the hearth a cheering, coal-effect fire glowed, the smell of pub grub filled the air, but it did nothing to allay Joe’s anxiety. It would be too easy for a man, even one as big as Gil, to hide himself amongst the crowds, ready to pounce.

  Only when he had insinuated himself between George and Brenda did Joe feel safe and begin to relax.

  George was first to comment. “Hey up, Joe, why are you reading The Times?”

  “I wanted something a bit more upmarket to wrap your meat pies in when we get home.”

  “Your coat’s on inside out,” Owen observed.

  George kept up the pressure. “And where did you get that hat?”

  “Take him to the lavatory,” Brenda insisted, “and check his Y-fronts are not on back to front.”

  Ignoring the ribald laughter, Joe dug out his wallet, and passed a twenty to Owen. “Get a round of drinks in, while my blood pressure comes down.”

  “Have you been arguing again?” Sheila asked. “Someone upset you?”

  “Not really. I bumped into the Shiptons again.”

  “You mean that crowd from earlier?” George waited for Joe to nod. “What? And they took you for a pint?”

  Giving George a withering stare, Joe recounted only scant details, and when Owen returned from the crowded bar carrying a tray of ales and spirits, he told them the whole tale from start to finish. Typically, it was Sheila who reacted first when he had finished.

  “Joe, stop playing the hero. How many times has Chief Inspector Feeney asked you to keep out of it?”

  “I just thought I might be able to help.”

  “Sheila’s right, buddy,” George said. “Trying to help with people like these is the quickest way to take a long walk off the end of the pier at high tide with a couple of bricks tied round your feet. Leave it to the filth.”

  “I know all that, but you know, it was worth it… I think.”

  “He’s playing detective again.” Brenda laughed. “Hey up. It’s not an ‘I love Zummerzet’ hat he needs, it’s his Sherlock deerstalker.”

  “Bog off, you.” Joe s
ipped a half of bitter. “What I overheard doesn’t make sense. At least, it doesn’t make complete sense.”

  Several mouths opened to pass more comment, but Sheila hushed them all. “What doesn’t make sense, Joe?”

  “Think about what Feeney told me. Diane is a blackmailer.”

  “She also said they had no proof of that,” Brenda pointed out.

  “This isn’t a court of law, Brenda. We don’t need proof and neither do the cops when they’re pointing the finger. They need evidence, not proof.” Joe took out his tobacco and began to roll a cigarette, a process that helped clarify his thinking. “So the plod assumed that Diane and the rest of her family are here putting the pressure on Ginny. But what I overheard was Diane grumbling about her husband’s bit on the side, and threatening him with a stretch of porridge if he didn’t pack it in.”

  “You don’t go to prison for adultery, do you?” Owen asked.

  “Brenda had better hope not,” Joe replied, and the table dissolved into laughter.

  The butt of this riposte took it in good part. “If I’m going down, I’ll be taking most of the married men in Sanford with me.”

  “Get on with what you were saying, Joe,” Sheila insisted.

  He completed his cigarette and dropped it in his shirt pocket. “Right. So there is Diane threatening Gil with the chokey if he doesn’t knock it off. He comes back at her saying she’d go down too, but she says, no. She won’t. She’ll get away with probation because of his record, by claiming he forced her to do it. Do what?”

  “Kill Ginny?” Brenda suggested.

  Joe shook his head and drank more lager. “That’s murder and that’s what I mean about it not making complete sense. It’s possible, I suppose, for someone to be coerced into killing, but even if it were proved, other than in rare circumstances, you wouldn’t get off with probation. Sheila?”

  Sheila drained off her first gin and tonic and, pushing the glass to the centre of the table, drew her second towards her. “In very exceptional circumstances, you might get away with probation, but given the police’s interest in Diane, I should think it highly unlikely. She would still go to prison, no matter how much she pleaded that her husband had forced her. But, Joe, her killing Virginia Nicholson doesn’t square with the police account of the Shiptons’ activities, anyway, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t, but Diane’s conversation does. She told Gil, and I quote, ‘It’s right out there, where you can’t get at it, Gil. And by tomorrow it’ll be gone to god knows where.’ I don’t know what ‘it’ is, but she also said she’s the only one who’ll be able to get it back. Now, if Gil can’t follow it, whatever it is, how can Diane?”

  George finished off his pint with a huge swallow. “Tracking.”

  “Huh?”

  Joe’s comment was echoed by the puzzled gazes of the whole table.

  “Tracking. Like satnav.” George repeated, placing his empty glass alongside Sheila’s and picking up his fresh pint, drank from it. “I have a mate who works for one of these parcel delivery firms in Leeds. Their customers can pay to have the parcels tracked. They have some kind of widget in the parcel, and the company can track it just like you do with a mobile phone. They know where it is at any time day or night. All they do is call up the wossname, parcel ID number, and it shows up on their computer.”

  Joe, too, took a sip of his lager. “George, that kind of setup would cost a fortune. Why would Diane go to all that trouble?”

  “George has a point, Joe,” Sheila said. “If she really is a blackmailer, Diane has probably made a lot of money over the years, and if this… whatever it is, contains incriminating information, which she would rather not let the police get hold of, it may be worth her while to have it tracked so she can retrieve it once her threat has produced results. That is once her husband has agreed to end his affair with the other woman.”

  Again Joe shook his head. “That doesn’t tally. Her precise words were, ‘either that or you take the risk of some kid handing it in’.” Joe put his glass down. “Some kid. Not any specific kid, just some kid. It sounded to me like she didn’t know where it would end up, either, but she had some means of finding out.”

  “Obvious, then, innit?” Brenda said. “It’s the Easter egg she put on the stack in the Winter Gardens.”

  All eyes turned upon her.

  “Again?” Joe demanded.

  “Where is all that chocolate and the rest of the goodies going? Orphanages, children’s hospitals and such. Whatever it is, she’s hidden it in that egg, and she has some method of finding out where it’s going.”

  Joe was still not satisfied. “Such as?”

  “The simplest method of all, I reckon.” Brenda swigged back her Campari. “She’ll ask. Isn’t it you who keeps telling us most people are voice-operated, Joe? All you have to do is ask. All she’ll do is ask the organiser where her egg went.”

  Chapter Seven

  “From a logistics point of view, it’s quite an operation.”

  Robert Quigley’s voice glowed with audible pride as he explained the process to Joe.

  “I’m sure Weston-super-Mare is not the only town running this kind of event, but it’s the only one in the Avon and Bristol area, and we’ve put an awful lot of work into the operation, all of which culminates on Sunday afternoon, after the Easter Bonnet Parade.”

  Brenda’s announcement in the Sword & Shield was so obvious that Joe felt irritated he had not thought of it first. But once she had spoken, he drained off his glass and insisted that they leave right away, and make their way to the Winter Gardens.

  There was some delay while Brenda and Sheila finished their drinks. George and Owen complained that they had better things to do with their time than play nursemaid to Joe, and as a result, some minutes later, Joe and the two women stepped out of the pub into weak, watery sunshine, and pavements that were beginning to dry off.

  “It’s a pity they didn’t leave the egg hunt until now,” Joe complained as he strode purposefully along the sidewalks.

  “I’ll bet Ginny Nicholson feels the same,” Brenda commented.

  The improving weather had brought out many more people, emerging from the amusement arcades, shops and cafes to take in the fresh, warming, spring air. Joe found himself having to dodge and duck around crowds studying shop displays, or checking the menu boards outside the many eateries along Regent Street.

  Their progress was also slowed by the two women’s habit of pausing to look at clothes and shoes in every other shop, and Joe became increasingly frustrated at their occasional suggestions to, “hang on a minute,” “look at that,” or “you don’t find them that cheap up our way.”

  It was just after four by the time they stepped into the Winter Gardens, and the Prince Consort Room, where Joe promptly badgered Quigley.

  “After the Easter Bonnet Parade about four o’clock on Sunday, this will all be shipped into a large van and taken off to our distribution depot in Bristol.” Quigley gestured at the stack of chocolate and other gifts before him, and continued his lecture. “From there, it will be put onto smaller vans, and by eight o’clock Sunday evening, they will be on their way to orphanages and children’s hospitals and homes all over the Avon area. Those children will wake to a wonderful Easter surprise on Monday morning.”

  “Isn’t it a bit odd arranging everything for Monday?” Sheila asked. “Wouldn’t it have been better to have it all collected tomorrow so the children could have their gifts on Easter Day?”

  Quigley sucked in his breath with the air of one about to exculpate himself from responsibility for something that had gone so obviously wrong.

  “During the committee stage, it was felt that many of the children, particularly those in hospital, and to a lesser extent those in orphanages, would already receive treats on Easter Sunday, from parents or staff at the various institutes. Our efforts are aimed at giving them a little extra something on Monday.”

  “What you mean is you couldn’t get the hall until Su
nday,” Joe said with a wave of the hand that took in the whole of the Prince Consort Room.

  “Naturally, there were some difficulties with securing the venue, too. There’s a Neil Diamond concert here tonight, and a gala Easter dinner and dance tomorrow night. Ours is a charity event, remember, and the Winter Gardens are run by a bona fide corporation, which needs to show a profit at the end of the financial year.” Quigley hurried on in an effort to gloss over the issue. “In addition, we felt that holding the Easter Bonnet Parade on Sunday gave us an extra day for people, such as your good selves, to make their donations.” He smiled thinly. “It also allowed visitors to the town, such as your good lady, more time to prepare their Easter bonnet.”

  On the words ‘your good lady’, Quigley again gestured, a flaccid wave of the hand which could have indicate either Sheila or Brenda.

  Joe hastened to correct him. “My good lady buggered off to Tenerife years ago. These two are my stand-ins.”

  Brenda smiled at Quigley. “We make a good threesome.”

  Nonplussed by the tongue in cheek responses, Quigley again sucked in his breath. “May I ask, did you have some concern over our arrangements, or are you simply interested in charity work?”

  “I do my bit for charity by keeping these two in gainful employment. It saves them walking the streets.” Satisfied that he had once more ruffled Quigley’s slightly snooty air, Joe went on, “I put an egg on here earlier. Suppose I wanted to know who got that egg?”

  “Impossible.” Quigley drew breath with an audible ‘whoosh’, preparing to deliver another lengthy lecture. “None of the individual items is addressed, Mr Murray. When our large van gets to the depot, the gifts will be sorted according to category; Easter eggs, general sweets, soft toys, other toys, and so one, then broken down into further categories according to age ranges—”

  “I didn’t know Easter eggs had an age range,” Sheila interrupted.

  Quigley delivered an owlish, niggled stare. “I was thinking of the toys, madam.” Turning back to Joe, he pressed on. “Once that categorisation is complete, the small vans will be loaded, taking one item at a time from each category by turn, so that when we’re finished each of the vans will have a similar number of items from each category.”