It was the logical answer, Sheila realised, and after thanking Tanner, she drifted into the background allowing Brenda to lead the discussion while she phoned George Robson.
Five minutes later she was back with the group. “George and Owen are on the case… although I don’t know how much use that’ll be. Apparently, the centre of Palmanova is packed.”
***
If the club members had any problem imagining the town from Sheila’s description, Joe would have understood at once.
Of walking along the main street, Carrer Cala Blanca, towards the junction where the Eastenders, the Prince William and Cutty Sark formed a triangle of attractive, British-themed bars, the pavements were packed with young and old, all determined to enjoy the night.
Shorts and T-shirts, and many of them bearing the logos of famous football clubs, or other, familiar British icons such as the Union Jack, were the main order of the day, interspersed with more sensible attire, skirts and blouses, casual trousers and shirts, even the occasional cardigan, mostly worn by the middle-aged or elderly holidaymakers.
The street was a cacophony of raw noise, the jabber of conversation emanating from the shops, bars and passers-by backed up by the loud and irritating music from the various establishments. Some of it was recorded, but most of it came from karaoke in the different bars, and the vocals, whether crooned, screeched or bawled, formed an incomprehensible blether, as alien to Joe’s ears as one of the locals rattling in his native Spanish tongue.
He was not concerned for his safety. There were hundreds of people out here, and anyone foolish enough to attack him would probably find themselves buried in a welter of bodies before they could inflict any serious damage.
He was a man with a mission; to root out this woman who, he was convinced, had wrecked and now threatened his life.
His phone had rung several times, and it was always Sheila or Brenda. He had not answered for good reasons. First, he doubted that he would hear what they were saying. Amongst all the street noise, he had not actually heard the phone ring. He had felt it vibrating in his shirt pocket. Beyond that, he knew that if he spoke to them they would make a determined effort to bring him back to the comparative safety of the hotel. He had had enough of the cocoon in which they had enshrouded him. He had had enough of cowering away, hiding from this would-be assassin. It was time to take the initiative, put himself out and about, in the open, invite her to come for him again, smoke her out where he could see and identify her.
And if she did not come tonight? Then he would be here again tomorrow, and the night after, and he would continue to be here, even when ‘here’ meant Sanford, until he had her.
To some extent, he was still in a passive position. He had only the vaguest description of her, and amongst these crowds he would be unlikely to recognise her. She would have to take action, and only then would he know. It was at the forefront of his mind as he called in this bar, that pub, those shops.
She could, he realised, be anyone, anywhere. He could have been standing next to her when he ambled into The Prince William. He could have stared her in the eye amongst the crowds watching football in The Cutty Sark. He would not know, but as he left those places he kept one eye over his shoulder for signs of anyone, particularly a woman, following him.
He walked up the short rise opposite The Cutty Sark, past crowded tables outside the Cock & Bull, and stepped into the pub through the side entrance.
It was jam-packed with bodies. The bar was practically invisible behind a sea of people clamouring for drinks. Every seat in the house was taken, and groups of men and women were dotted in all corners of the room. Upon a makeshift stage a young woman, wearing only a pair of tight shorts, and a skimpy bikini top was squawking into the karaoke microphone. Joe had an idea that she was supposed to be singing I Will Always Love You, but she was so drunk that the words were unintelligible.
Scanning the crowds again, seeking anyone who might resemble the slender description Anna had given them, he thought he saw George Robson and Owen Frickley amongst the crowds at the bar.
A wry smile crossed his lips. This was their kind of place. Both had been married, both were divorced, both enjoyed the freedom their unattached lives brought them. Joe, too, was divorced, but he had responsibility for his business and the people who worked for him. George and Owen were employees of Sanford Borough Council, and neither had any such encumbrances. Joe envied them. They lived the same wild life he had been thinking of earlier, and as local authority employees, that life came complete with bulletproof pensions.
He came out into the night again, and while standing on the pavement, surrounded by the overspill from the pub, he debated with himself which way to go next. Surely if this woman were looking for him, she would be out and about right now?
He heard the sound of a scuffle behind him. It was followed by protests and a scream of, “YOU’RE DEAD MEAT, MURRAY.”
Joe turned and his colour drained. She was bearing down on him like an express train, the broad blade of a chef’s kitchen knife in her right hand. Joe’s heart pounded, urging him to run, but he was frozen into immobility, hypnotised by the glint of the steel blade.
Behind her, the men and women she had shoved out of her way were recovering. They would not react fast enough to save him, and Joe knew he was, as she had put it, dead meat.
He raised an arm to ward her off. It was a reflex action, and even as he carried it out, he knew it would do no good. He was at her mercy.
As she bore down on him, there was a blur of movement in the corner of his right eye. “Look out, Joe.”
A beefy hand grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked him out of the way, but in doing so, George Robson put himself in her line of attack and the blade sank into his shoulder.
“Bitch,” George cursed as he sank to his knees.
She released the knife and ran off.
Stunned, Owen could only gape. Joe looked down at George, now prone on the ground, then up at Owen, and finally, down the street at her disappearing into the crowds.
“Look out for George, Owen.”
And with that, Joe, too, ran off down the street.
Chapter Eight
Despite the Mediterranean sun casting its welcoming balm across the whole island, the day was overcast with personal gloom for Sheila, Brenda and the members of the Sanford 3rd Age Club.
The first they had heard of the incident outside The Cock & Bull was a frantic call from Owen Frickley to say that George had been stabbed and Joe had run off in pursuit of the attacker. By the time the two women, accompanied by Alec and Julia Staines, and Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson, got to the bar, the police and paramedics were in attendance.
Because of his general beefiness, George was not seriously injured. He had lost some blood, but not a great deal, thanks to the intervention of a first-aider from the pub’s staff, and he needed only four stiches and a tetanus injection, both administered by the paramedics in the back of their ambulance. He would be fine in a few days and needed to see his GP when he returned to England, to have the stitches removed.
Inspector Gallego had arrived to take charge of the matter from the police end, and his men were in the process of taking statements from George, Owen and other witnesses when the 3rd Age Club party arrived.
Sheila and Brenda gave him both barrels, but he remained unrepentant. “I did all I was obliged to do, I did all I could do. And now your Señor Murray has done the foolish thing and gone in pursuit of this woman.”
“And Joe might catch her,” Alec Staines said, “but he couldn’t punch his way out of a burst balloon. She’ll make mincemeat of him.”
Accurate it might have been, but it was not the wisest thing he could have said, and it merely prompted another round of accusation, recrimination and rebuttal between the two women and Gallego.
It was turned eleven when they got back to the hotel, from where Brenda rang Gemma.
“A little late, isn’t it?” Sheila asked while her best frie
nd waited for an answer.
“It’s only ten o’clock in England.”
Brenda was proved right when Gemma answered, and the news was delivered. After the telephone call, as she shut down her phone, Brenda reported, “Gemma is hauling this Higginshaw bloke in tomorrow. She’ll go to town on him.”
“I’ll try Joe again.”
Both had tried to ring him several times from outside The Cock & Bull, but there had been no answer. Sheila tried again and got no reply.
And they continued to try at intervals throughout the night, but the result was the same.
Ten o’clock in the morning saw the unusually morose group of Sanford 3rd-agers meet on the upper bar terrace, away from the swimming pools and general clutter of the sun loungers and pool bar.
In answer to questions, George reported that he was sore but otherwise in rude health, and Sheila had nothing to tell them other than detail their fruitless efforts to contact Joe, and that Inspector Gallego was due to arrive anytime.
“In summary then,” Les Tanner said, “as matters stand, we have no idea whether Murray is dead or alive?”
“We should try to be optimistic, Les,” Brenda said. “We know that Joe had his passport and money with him. We’re hoping the reason he isn’t answering is because he’s run for the airport and a flight home.”
Sylvia Goodson deployed a pale, pink parasol over her shoulder as a shelter against the fierce sun. “Excuse me, Sheila, Brenda, but surely if Joe was carrying his passport then that must have been his intention all the time.”
“Sadly not, Sylvia,” Sheila replied and explained Joe’s lack of trust in hotel room safes. “Whenever he went out, he always kept his passport and money buried in a deep pocket in his gilet.”
“Or in his money belt,” Brenda said.
Gallego arrived a few minutes later, but there was little that he could add.
“We have an all points warning on this Ms Killington, and on your friend, Señor Murray, but I do not hope for a result.”
His announcement met with a gabble of protest, which he moved quickly to quell.
“Please, ladies and gentlemen, you must understand, Majorca is busy. Tourists arrive and depart by the thousand every day of the week, and there are many ways of coming to and leaving the island. Airlines, ferries, even men with boats who will spirit them away to Ibiza or Menorca or further away for enough money. It would be perfectly possible for Killington and even your friend Murray to slip away unnoticed. We are in the process of issuing a European Arrest Warrant for Ms Killington, but it could be many months or perhaps years before she shows up, and even then, for the warrant to be effective, she must be in a European country. I am sorry for your loss. I am sorry for your pain. But there is no more I can do.”
In the dull silence which followed his final words, Tanner struck up the very thought no one else would entertain. “Let us look on the black side, Inspector. If something has happened to Murray, surely we would get to know sooner rather than later?”
Gallego shrugged. “There are many ways of arriving and leaving, Señor, and there are just as many ways of disposing of a body. But I must say, there is nothing to indicate that Joe Murray has come to any harm. And he is a man. He would be able to defend himself against a woman? No?”
Brenda fumed. “Ignoring your blatant sexism, Inspector, I’d say you were wrong. Most of us have known Joe all his life, and he is not a fighter. He never was.”
George Robson confirmed it. “Put him up against a ten-year-old girl and he’d be punching above his weight. In a one-to-one with this tart, the smart money would be on her.”
Gallego shrugged again. “In that case, I can only say again, there is nothing to tell us that Señor Murray has come to any harm. I will be in touch with your British police, to bring them up to date so that they may search for these two people, but beyond that, there is nothing more I can do. I am sorry.”
***
Gemma entered the interview room at Harrogate’s main police station a little after ten thirty.
The station commander and the head of the local CID had agreed to let her lead the interview with Higginshaw, accompanied by Detective Constable Lacey, a man of about 30, only recently out of his probationary period.
Having spent twenty minutes on the phone with Sheila Riley, and been brought fully up to date on the situation in Majorca, Gemma was in a bitter mood. Higginshaw, she had vowed, would not walk away from the interview without a charge hanging over him. Attempted fraud was the minimum Gemma would settle for, and she would prefer conspiracy to murder.
With Roger Albiston, the duty solicitor at his side, Higginshaw had the air of a worried man about him, and that suited Gemma. After the introductions were dealt with and recorded, she turned Denise Latham’s computer to face him and prepared to run the video.
For the benefit of the tape, she said, “I am about to show Mr Higginshaw a video recording taken by Denise Latham and held on her laptop. The video is dated February sixteenth, ten days before Ms Latham met her death in a road traffic accident.”
Gemma hit the keys and sat back while Higginshaw watched the eight-minute recording.
When it had finished, she turned the laptop back to face herself, closed it down and handed it to Detective Constable Lacey for bagging and labelling as evidence.
She concentrated on her suspect. “You’ve seen the video, Mr Higginshaw. Do you have anything to say about it?”
“No. Should I?”
Gemma evaded the question. “You are currently on long-term sick, having suffered a fall on a building site last year. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And as a result of that fall, you claim to be all-but totally disabled, in respect of which, you are making a claim for around two million pounds against North Shires Insurance. Is that also correct?”
“Yep. It’s no big secret.” Higginshaw’s casual remark belied his anxiety.
“Would you agree that the video you’ve just seen casts doubt upon your claim?”
He laughed nervously. “I dunno. Does it?”
“I’m asking the questions, Mr Higginshaw, and I’d be obliged if you’d answer them.”
“All right, so I know what it looks like. But I never said I couldn’t do nothing at all. I just said I can’t follow my regular employment. I’m a builder. A brickie. That’s hard graft, that is. Sure I can climb a few steps up a ladder, but I’d never get up one with a full hod on my back. And there’s no way I could stand up all day laying bricks. I’m snookered, see. Self-employed with a trick set of bones thanks to that fall, and no one in his right mind is gonna sub work to me. They wouldn’t know if the job would ever get done.”
Gemma ignored most of the reply. “The day after she took that video, Denise Latham spoke to you, and her report is on this same computer.” She delved into the official folder and took out a copy which she passed to the solicitor, and for the benefit of the tape said, “I am furnishing Mr Higginshaw’s legal advisor with a copy of Ms Latham’s statement.” She concentrated once more on her suspect. “In her report Ms Latham indicates that when confronted with the evidence, you became verbally abusive and threatened her with physical violence if she did not leave. Would you agree with that?”
Higginshaw looked to his lawyer who after searching and reading the relevant part of the statement, gave the slightest of nods.
“Yeah, all right, so I mouthed off a bit. It didn’t mean nothing. She was a tough little cookie. Dunno that I’d have been able to slap her about a bit. I was angry. Right?”
“And was your wife angry?”
The question threw Higginshaw. “Dawn? She wasn’t even there.”
“I noticed that too. Throughout all her reports and surveillance, Denise never mentions Mrs Higginshaw once. And yet, less than two weeks later, Denise’s car was run off the road and she was killed.”
Higginshaw’s colour paled. “Well, that wasn’t Dawn. She wouldn’t do nothing like that.”
�
�Where is she, Tom?”
“I told you the other day, I don’t know. She walked out on me months back. Two, three months. At least. I told you.”
Gemma switched tack again. Her tone was friendly, offhand. “She have passport, does she? Dawn?”
The question puzzled Higginshaw again. “What? Well, course she does. Everyone has a passport, don’t they?”
“Not everyone,” Gemma disagreed. “Go on foreign holidays a lot, do you?”
He relaxed a little. “Used to do. Not since the accident mind.”
“Ever go to Majorca?”
Again, he shrugged. “A time or two, yeah. Look—”
“Palmanova?”
“What?”
“Did you ever holiday in Palmanova, Majorca?”
“Not that I remember. What is this?”
“I’d be interested to know, too, Inspector,” Albiston, the solicitor said. “This line of questioning appears to be leading nowhere.”
Gemma persevered. “I’m simply trying to ascertain whether your client or his wife ever visited Majorca, which they have, and whether they were familiar with Palmanova. In fact, I’m trying to learn if Mrs Higginshaw is in Palmanova right now.”
“But I don’t understand what—”
Higginshaw cut off the solicitor. “I shouldn’t think so.”
“Then where is she, Mr Higginshaw?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, let me tell you what I think.” Gemma leaned aggressively forward. “I think you do know, and I think you know that she’s in Palmanova… or she was last night, and she’s been there for several days, during which time she’s made at least three attempts on the life of a Sanford resident, Mr Joe Murray.”
Peril in Palmanova Page 7