The Chocolate Egg Murders

by David W Robinson

  “In that case, you’d have to make Brenda your official temptress… I mean waitress.”

  To head off Brenda’s sudden enthusiasm for the idea, Joe shifted the focus to the events on the Royal Crescent.

  Brenda tucked into her toasted bun and licked cream from her fingers. “Did you tell Feeney about the fake Easter egg in the Winter Gardens, Joe?”

  He sipped tea. “No. What’s to tell? There’s nothing in it.”

  “I thought we had this debate yesterday,” Sheila complained. “You’re assuming there’s nothing in the egg, Joe, but you can’t be certain, and let’s be honest about it; the heat has certainly gone up since Gil caught you trying to photograph Diane.”

  “And caught you earwigging their conversation in The Prince.”

  “I know all that,” Joe protested, and bit into his bun. His face wrinkled in disgust. “That is awful. What the hell have they done with it? I think I’d rather have a Lancashire oven bottom muffin.”

  “It’s probably the cinnamon butter,” Sheila said. “You’re not used to such delicacies.”

  Joe sniffed. “Pardon me while I ask for some bread and dripping. This doesn’t make total sense. There’s something missing.”

  “A Yorkshire pudding?” Brenda asked.

  “Not with the food. The Weston business.”

  “You keep saying this, Joe. Have you worked out what it is, yet?”

  Joe took another bite of his bun to enhance his scowl. “If I knew what it was, I wouldn’t be going on about it, would I?”

  From the Sally Lunn House, they toured the streets. The women bought souvenirs and Joe picked up a decorative ashtray for his apartment. By three o’clock, they were in the Roman Bath Museum, having decided that the queue for the lower baths was too long.

  Instead, they looked down from the street level galleries on the green waters of the Sacred Spring, and all three sampled the waters on offer.

  Joe grimaced at the sulphur. “Tastes as bad as the beer at the Miner’s Arms, and it’s almost as bad as that bun.”

  Brenda laughed. “You really are a misery, Joe.” She waved her arms around the room. “When this place was built by the Romans, Sanford was a mud hut on the banks of the River Aire.”

  The light lit in Joe’s mind. “Of course. That’s it.”

  The two women exchanged knowing glances.

  “Go on, Joe,” Sheila invited.

  “The idiots who attacked me last night, and again today. Last night, they said to me, ‘get back to Sanford’. Gil Shipton doesn’t know I’m from Sanford, and neither did his wife. In fact, there’s only one party who does know.”

  “Who?”

  “Freddie bloody Delaney.”

  Chapter Ten

  When Keith stopped the bus outside the Leeward, Joe was first off as always, but even though the sun was shining this time, he still hurried into reception seeking Freddie Delaney.

  Throughout the eighty-minute journey from Bath, he had sat in his jump seat fuming, occasionally urging Keith to get his foot down.

  The driver’s response varied from, “This is as fast as the bus goes,” to waving through the windscreen and asking, “What do you want me to do about all these cars? Leapfrog them?”

  Inside the hotel, he found no trace of Freddie or Hazel. A barman told him he had not seen Freddie all day, but Hazel was supervising the preparation of the dining room for the imminent evening meal. When Joe tried to get into the dining room, he found his way blocked by a burly waiter.

  He was arguing with the waiter when Sheila and Brenda arrived and dragged him into the bar.

  “For God’s sake get a grip of yourself, Joe,” Brenda urged while Sheila bought him a half of lager.

  “Me get a grip of myself? Freddie’s goons have already had a grip of me. Well, now I’m losing it and I’ll carry on losing it until I see him.”

  “Just calm down,” Sheila advised. “The way you’re going on you’ll have a stroke or a heart attack.”

  “I—”

  “You don’t know that Freddie sent those men after you,” Brenda interrupted before Joe could protest further. “And even if he did, may I remind you that he’s twice your size.”

  “Then he’ll fall a lot harder than me,” Joe snapped.

  “How? Are you going to punch him in the kneecaps? Bloody grow up, Joe.”

  “I want explanations,” Joe roared.

  “He has some questions to answer, I’ll grant you,” Sheila observed, “but losing your temper will not get you anywhere, Joe.”

  “He’s been taking the pi—”

  “Joe…” there was a warning edge to Brenda’s voice and he moderated his language.

  “He’s been taking the mick with us since yesterday morning. All along we’re blaming the Shiptons and the Badgers and it was him. He even has the tools.” He waved at the bar. “He has this bloody great spanner for changing barrels. I saw him with it the first night we were here. Feeney told me it’s the kind of weapon which was used to kill both Ginny and Diane Shipton. Wouldn’t you be angry?”

  “Yes,” Sheila agreed, “but not to the point you are. Let’s try and stay a little calmer, eh? See what we sort out when we get to speak to him.”

  “Or you could call the cops,” Brenda suggested.

  “Not until I’ve confronted him.” Joe fumed some more and took out his tobacco to roll a cigarette. Unable to control his shaking hands, he dug deeper into his pocket and came out with a rolling machine.

  “I often wondered why you carried that,” Brenda observed conversationally.

  “It’s for when I’m fit to strangle someone.” He spread tobacco along the innards of the machine and rolled it before inserting a cigarette paper and completing the job. “An awful lot has occurred to me while I was on the bus, and when I see him, he gets both barrels.”

  Brenda smiled. “Without a filter tip?”

  Joe was about to tackle her levity when Hazel stepped into the bar, looked around and made for them. She appeared pale and distressed, her brow furrowed with lines of worry.

  “I believe you wanted a word, Mr Murray?” The voice was firm and businesslike, but there was an edginess to it, which spoke volumes to Joe.

  “Not you. I wanna speak to your old man, and I don’t want any excuses. Get him in here, now.”

  “I’m sorry. He’s not here.”

  “I just said, no excuses.”

  Hazel made an obvious effort to hide her distress. “I said, he’s not here.”

  “What time will he be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Joe’s anger tipped the scales once more. “If anyone ever mentions Weston-super-Mare or the bloody Leeward Hotel again, I won’t be responsible. Just knock it off, woman, and tell me when—”

  “He’s not here,” Hazel interrupted. She glanced around the room. “I need a cigarette. Would you care to step outside where we can talk without my staff listening in?”

  She did not wait for Joe to answer, but turned smartly, and walked out.

  Nonplussed by her actions, Joe grabbed his beer and followed. The two women checked with each other, and they, too, followed.

  Hazel sat under one of the parasols, a light, offshore breeze ruffling her blonde hair, the glow of the setting sun picking out the lines of worry in her features. She lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it as Joe and his two companions joined her.

  Blowing the smoke out with a long hiss, she said, “Freddie has gone. He left in the early hours of the morning before the police could arrest him for Diane Shipton’s murder.”

  The announcement drew Joe up short. Brenda shouldered him out of the way to get to Hazel. On the other side, Sheila pushed him even further away.

  “When did he leave, Hazel?” Brenda asked.

  “I told you. The early hours. He was out last night. He went to see Diane Shipton. Don’t ask me why, he wouldn’t tell me. When he got to where she was living, he found the street packed with police cars. One of the neighbours tol
d him a woman had been found dead. He knew it was her and he knew he would be blamed, so he came back here. After we closed for the night, we sat up talking about it, and by three this morning, he was gone.” A look of pleading came into her eyes. “He didn’t do it. He wouldn’t.”

  Brenda half turned to face Joe. “Well?”

  Joe remained unrepentant. Lighting his cigarette, he said, “Well what? He sent those clowns after me. I know he did. Why? To frighten me off. And why would he want me frightened off? Because he killed her, and he knew I’d probably get to the truth.”

  “He didn’t kill her, Mr Murray,” Hazel insisted. “He wouldn’t.”

  Joe leaned forward. “He sent those guys after me. Don’t deny it. I know he did.”

  Diane took a deep breath. “Yes he did. And when you and your friends scared them off last night, they rang. Late last night. Freddie told them to drop it, they said no way. You made them look fools, and they were out to pay you back. They said they would follow you today. Freddie never wanted them to hurt you. He just wanted to scare you into minding your own business.”

  “But he didn’t reckon on someone tipping the cops off, did he?”

  Joe sat back, triumphant. Hazel glared at him.

  “That was me, you idiot. I phoned Feeney and told her.”

  “You?”

  Hazel dragged on her cigarette again. “Freddie daren’t ring them, so I did. Anonymously.”

  Sheila frowned. “I’m sorry, Mrs Delaney, but I don’t understand all this. Your husband must have had dealings with Diane Shipton in the past. Now we know she is… was a blackmailer. Did she have some hold over Freddie?”

  “Of course she did,” Joe cut in. “Freddie was like Ginny Nicholson, wasn’t he, Hazel?”

  Sheila and Brenda were stunned by the announcement. Hazel froze for a moment, then slowly, she nodded. “He’s served time in prison, yes.”

  “How did you know, Joe?”

  “Something Freddie said to me yesterday when we got back from Clifftop Park. He said Diane was not a killer. Now how would he know that? Sure, he could have worked for her or with her, but the minute I realised it was him who sent those thugs after me, it became clear. Diane came here, threatened Ginny, and then Ginny was murdered. She must have threatened Freddie, too. Why? What could she have on him? The same kind of information she had on Ginny. Too right he wanted to scare me off. He didn’t want me getting too close because I’d already told him that when it comes to crime, I’m the best.” He took an irritable drag on his smoke. “And I’m not having this crap about him going out to see Diane and finding the cops there. He went out to get rid of her before she could expose him. Either that or he wanted to know where she kept the information she had on him.”

  Hazel crushed out her cigarette. “Listen to me, Mr Murray. He… did… not… do… it.” She stressed the individual words by driving her index finger into the tabletop.

  “We’ll see what the cops think about that.”

  “You’re too late,” Hazel said. “Feeney and her pal, Holmes were round earlier on. They want to speak to him if and when he shows up.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to supervise dinner. Could we pick up this conversation later? After the bar has shut? I promise I will tell you everything I know.”

  ***

  “Freddie took part in an armed robbery in Bristol. He got fifteen years, served half his sentence, and he was released five years ago. That’s when he came to Weston-super-Mare. He was determined he wasn’t going back to prison, and since then he’s been as good as gold.”

  It was coming up to midnight.

  Still convinced that Hazel was covering up for her husband, Joe had reluctantly put it to one side, but he was taciturn and throughout dinner and through the two hours of entertainment afterwards. Even after the female singer had called it a night, and his party were enjoying their final drinks of the evening, while Brenda and Sheila joined in the general banter, Joe sat by the window, looking out on a mild, spring evening, barely acknowledging any of his friends.

  Hazel had put on a good front. Not her usual, smiling self, but she remained polite and efficient behind the bar, and when they closed for the night, she helped the barman cash up, before sending him home and bringing a tray of drinks across to the windows where she could join the three companions.

  Joe’s mood still had not improved, and he listened to her with a scowl of cynicism.

  Sheila, on other hand, was more sympathetic. “Someone died during the robbery, didn’t they?”

  Hazel swallowed a lump in her throat. “A security guard unloading the van they robbed. He was shot and died later. Freddie was the wheel man, the driver. He wasn’t armed, so he had nothing to do with the killing, but it was enough to give him a long stretch. His three accomplices were given life sentences.” Hazel sighed. “Something must have happened while he was inside to make him see his life in a different light. I don’t know what, and he’s never told me, but he became a model prisoner and he was paroled after half his sentence. However, until his fifteen years is complete, he can be sent back to prison at any time for any offence, no matter how trivial.”

  “Like setting two thugs onto me. Like bumping off Ginny Nicholson and Diane Shipton.” Joe’s bile showed through his gritted response.

  “He didn’t do it, Mr Murray,” Hazel urged. “He told me he didn’t do it, and I believe him.” Hazel reached behind Joe and threw open a window. Taking out her cigarettes, she said, “We’re not supposed to, but as long as you ladies don’t mind?”

  Sheila and Brenda shook their heads, and while Hazel lit a cigarette, Joe rolled one.

  Blowing a fine steam of smoke at the open window, Hazel demanded, “Why would my Freddie murder Ginny? They were in the same boat. Both ex-cons, both trying to keep it secret so they could get on with their lives. Freddie and Ginny were friends; no way would he murder her.”

  Lighting his cigarette, following Hazel’s example and blowing the smoke through the window as if aiming it at the pier lights, Joe struggled with Hazel’s announcement.

  Chief Inspector Feeney had said to him that Ginny was not the only one with a dark secret in the town. A hint, later reinforced by Freddie’s own words, that they both had records. And in that respect, it was true that Ginny’s murder made no sense: at least not if Freddie committed it.

  With no safe answer for Hazel, he diverted attention instead. “Freddie was trying to scare me off by sending those idiots after me. Scare me off from what? It’s not like I know anything.”

  “Well I can see a kind of logic to it,” Sheila said. “What you mean, Hazel, is that if Joe began to poke his nose in, he might inadvertently stumble across Freddie’s prison record.”

  “Something like that,” Hazel agreed. “And he did, didn’t he?”

  “Only because your husband opened his trap,” Joe argued. “And it still makes no sense to me. What difference does it make me knowing? The police know about him, I’m sure.”

  Hazel tutted. “It’s not the police he was worried about. Apart from them, no one knows. We keep it a secret. Can you imagine what it would do to the hotel if people found out? It could ruin us. Remember, Mr Murray, you’re a stranger here. We don’t know you, you don’t know us. If you found out, you could let it slip in all innocence and not realise the damage you were doing. Not only that, but you probably wouldn’t care, either. What difference does it make to you, two hundred miles away, if another seaside hotel goes under through lack of bookings? To my way of thinking, Freddie wanted to keep you out of this Diane Shipton business to stop you turning up his past. All right, all right—” Hazel held up her hands in a gesture of defeat. “He let it slip, tried to correct it and went the wrong way about it. It was naughty. But he only wanted to scare you, not hurt you. That’s why I tipped Feeney off when those two drunken fools decided to teach you a lesson their way.”

  A sulking silence fell. Joe and Hazel drew on their cigarettes. Brenda and Sheila fiddled with their drinks. It was as if
no one knew which way to go next.

  Then Brenda said, “Diane. Where does she fit into all this?”

  “She was blackmailing Freddie the way she blackmailed Ginny,” Joe declared.

  Hazel shrugged as eyes fell on her. “I think you’re right, but Freddie wouldn’t tell me. I think he knew Diane from when she was a reporter, and I think later on, she got her claws into him, took him for some serious cash. That’s probably why he came to Weston-super-Mare in the first place. I’m speculating, because Freddie has never said anything to me about her.”

  “You’ve seen Diane here?”

  When Hazel denied it with a shake of the head, Joe snorted.

  “There you are then,” he said triumphantly. “Diane probably killed Ginny, then warned Freddie that it was his turn next if he didn’t poppy up. He decided that whatever she would do unto him, he would do unto her, only he did it first. He went out last night and topped her. End of story.” He took another drag on his smoke and flicked it through the window, sending it spinning, a tiny glow of red in the night, to the patio.

  Hazel rose to his challenge. “You’re the alleged detective. Prove it.”

  Joe was conscious of all eyes on him, and went on the defensive. “Me prove it? Why should I? It’s nothing to do with me. Other than I think he should be locked up for life… again. And this time, life should—”

  “It was nothing to do with you in Lincoln, but it didn’t stop you,” Sheila cut in.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Or Filey,” Brenda added.

  “Or Leeds or York,” Sheila said.

  “I know, but—”

  “Even in Chester it was nothing to do with you, but you dived in because I’d been accused,” Brenda reminded him.

  Joe waited for another interjection from his friends. When it didn’t come, he went on the attack.

  “What I’m getting here is the same nonsense I heard in Lincoln—”

  It was as if his voice had become the cue for interruptions.

  “And you proved it in Lincoln,” Brenda reminded him.

  “It was different,” Joe yelped. “I didn’t have to deal with threats to beat my brains in. I’ve had nothing but since I got here.”