Murder on Exmoor (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 11)

by P. J. Thurbin

  He put the phone down and made his way to the small room at the back where he cooked and ate his meals. He had got into the habit of buying a pizza down at the corner restaurant, or sometimes he went down to Lynmouth for fish and chips when he wanted a bit of company. Going to the pub on his own had not been a success. Most of the locals had known each other for years, and as a relative newcomer to the area, he was seen as an outsider. Buying the garage had helped. One or two families with teenagers who had left school and were looking for work had come to him and asked if he could take them on. He had come up the hard way himself. He had been an apprentice motor mechanic when he left school. He found the new generation of kids lazy, always looking for an excuse to either go home early or not willing to take a few risks. Those whom he had given a chance had left after a few weeks.

  There was also the question of the safe. Although the combination would have defied Harry Houdini on a good day, he always felt uneasy about having anyone around if he need to be away from the garage to get spares and new parts from Barnstable; sometimes he had to be away for a whole day searching around some of the scrap yards at Taunton.

  The room was a mess and he knew it. He filled the kettle and sat down and waited for it to boil. He remembered the half bottle of whisky in the cupboard. He poured a good shot into a dirty mug and downed it in one gulp; the raw spirit made him choke. “Damn it,” he shouted to the empty room as he wiped the watery spittle from his mouth and nose. He busied himself with making tea; it gave him time to think. If it was a prank, then tomorrow morning he would find out when no one turned up. He thought about it. If someone had found out, then 2000 was not a big sum compared to what he had in the safe and the bank. And there was a lot more once he concluded the deal with Lord Farleigh’s friend. This was Joe’s first run-in with blackmail, although he had seen it on TV dramas and read about it. He thought he could handle it. He would just bully whoever was behind all of this until they gave up.

  The kettle’s shrill whistle made him jump. He yanked it off the cooker and stood there holding it in his hand while he tried to figure out who was behind it all. It could be a young couple after some pin money, or even someone who needed to buy drugs; he knew that a lot of that went on in the local villages, especially amongst the youths who had no job and no prospects. He flipped the lid of the half empty bottle of milk and sniffed it, it was a bit off. He cursed. He put three heaped spoonsful of sugar and the half soured milk in his tea and stirred it slowly. He held the warm mug in his hands and savoured the comfort it gave him and began to feel better.

  He rummaged around in the drawer for a biscuit. He finally settled for a small fancy cake covered in icing and little pieces of lemon peel that had got tucked behind a roll of cling film. ‘I’ve got to think this through’, he muttered. The first person who came to mind was Jack Mason over at Barnstaple who had fenced some silver spoons and a gold bracelet for him. But he thought Mason was a spineless sod and would not have the gumption. Besides that, Joe figured that he had enough on Jack to get him 10 years, and on top of that, he had young kids and he wouldn’t want Joe to tell his wife about the girl in the shop he’d been fooling around with. He discarded the notion that it could be Jack.

  His mind wandered back to the girl who worked in Jack’s shop. Maybe he might ask her out for a drink or a meal himself, he mused. Years before he had been fond of a girl that worked at the car place where he was an apprentice. He had almost asked her to marry him, but she had gone off with his best mate. Since then he had been wary of getting involved with anyone. The pin-ups in his office were the sort he wanted to meet, always smiling and not wanting much back.

  He starred at the grey wall and sought an answer. Bruce might have told one of his friends. That’s it. Bloody Bruce and his big mouth, I’ll bloody murder the sod when I see him, he thought. He finished his tea. Stop worrying, Joe, he told himself. Then he hesitated. Lately he had noticed that he had begun to think aloud. Going bloody stir crazy, he had thought when he had first noticed it. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “So bloody what,” he said out loud. “It’s my bloody life; I’ll do what I bloody well want.” Then he had another idea. It must be a couple of small time crooks, he mused. A big syndicate gang would have come to the garage and worked him over. No I’m being buggered about by a pair of shysters, he decided.

  He paced around the garage kicking at anything that got in his way. He decided to go over to the bank and get some cash just in case someone really did turn up. ‘Sod it’, he muttered as he threw a spanner against the garage wall. As the metallic clang faded away, suddenly he felt a wave of loneliness. For a few seconds he just stood still and wished that Bruce was there, and for a split second, he thought he was going to cry. This was not how he had expected things to turn out. It had all been going so good. He had that bitter taste in his mouth again. He spat into an oil drum that he used to dump the empty tomato soup cans and other metal waste.

  Then it struck him. He still had that revolver he’d stolen from one of the officers when he quit the Territorial reserves. All that weekend warrior stuff had seemed like a good way to get some extra money and go boozing with a bunch of his mates, but he had soon got tired of being told what to do. He searched in the drawer where he kept his tax returns. There it was in a box at the back. He fingered the Enfield Mk I Revolver and checked that it was loaded. The weight was perfect; he held it out as though fending off an intruder. If his tormentor played up, then he would soon change his mind once he saw the gun. Joe laughed as he pretended to take aim and fire. That’ll sort the bugger out, he mused. He was starting to feel a lot better.

  ***

  Next morning it was raining. The chirpy weather forecaster had promised sun and light winds. ‘All those clever buggers and God knows how much it costs, and they can’t even tell us when it’s going to bloody well rain’, he muttered as he waited. He sat in his office and listened to the rain spilling out of the rusted gutters that he had decided weren’t worth fixing.

  A pigeon had decided to make its home in the rafters, and Joe had been thinking how he could get the bugger down. There were droppings on the cars he worked on and getting the stuff off before the customers came to collect their prize possession had become a pain. He had slept badly. Even finishing off the half bottle of whisky had not helped. He wanted to get on with his work, but he was too anxious to tackle fitting the new exhaust system on the Bentley. He liked to start and finish a job without interruption.

  He jumped when he saw an old woman wearing a headscarf and a faded raincoat peer through the small wooden door at the end of the garage. She pointed to a cloth shopping bag that she held out with her other hand. This was no prank. He picked up the envelope containing the 500 pounds and took it over to the door. She averted her face as he dropped it into the bag that she held open. She was gone before he could say a word.

  He walked back to his office and sat down. After a few minutes he leapt back up and raced to the door. He thought that if he followed her, he could find out where she lived. Then he could go back and get his money later that night and sort the buggers out once and for all. But when he looked up and down the rain drenched street, all he could see was the twice daily bus that ran between Lynmouth and Barnstaple. As it swept past he thought he caught a glimpse of the old lady through the steamed up windows but it was going too fast to be certain. There was no one else in sight.

  Joe went back inside and checked the safe. He had put the envelope containing the 1500 pounds in with the gold and silver and now he had to wait till Saturday night before he could tackle the blackmailers. The more he thought about it the angrier he became. There was no way he was going to be pushed around. Whoever they were had better watch out, he muttered to himself. He climbed down into the inspection pit and took out his frustration on the rusty exhaust pipe. The clangs of the hammer on metal made him feel better. That bugger’d better get used to a taste of this bloody hammer, he growled.

  ***

  Tim
e is a great healer. By the time Saturday night rolled around, Joe felt calm and relaxed. He had a plan. He sipped his beer as he sat in a side-booth in The Bell. The locals were in full swing and a darts match added to the noise level. Couples laughed and joked and guffaws of laughter followed when a big red-faced farmer boasted about how he had towed some stupid holiday makers’ Volkswagen camper bus out of a muddy field.

  Joe looked around to see if there was anyone watching him. One or two women looked over and said something to their husbands and laughed. The last time Joe had been in the pub was with Bruce on the day that they had made their life-changing discovery. He was convinced that his blackmailer was there. The voice on the phone had sounded like a farm worker, or he could have put on an accent to hide his true identity. My God, he thought, what if it was just that old woman acting alone? She had recognised him immediately. He and Bruce had had their pictures splattered all over the local papers when they found the gold. Everyone knew them by sight. While he pondered the question, an old man sat down across from him and leant across. He smelt of stale beer and pipe tobacco.

  “Joe Minen. Got the money ‘ave you? Best ‘ave. Saw you and your mate a’ the Ford.”

  He recognized the man. Now it all made sense. It was the couple that had been at The Rising Sun when he and Bruce had had their farewell drink. Seth and Megan, Bruce had said their names were; a brother and sister. Joe smiled. This would be easier than he had thought.

  “I did as you said. The money’s in the envelope. It’s all there.”

  The old man’s eyes lit up as he grabbed the envelope and stuffed it in the pocket of his jacket. Without another word he got up and made his way to the gents’ toilet at the end of the room. Joe watched until the old man came out and went to the bar.

  “Drinks’re on me, maties. Backed me a winner a’ the races.” He waved a handful of what Joe saw as his hard earned money in the direction of a bunch of young farmers. Everyone cheered and the nearest young man clapped the old man on the back. Joe sipped his beer slowly. Seth must have been the figure that he had seen in the mist up at Sherracombe Ford when they found the gold, he mused. ‘We should have gone back and killed him then. But it’s not too late; nobody had better try to screw with Joe Minton’, he muttered to himself. Let them have their fun and then it’s my turn, he mused. He felt the gun under his jacket. It was ready, and he was prepared to use it if his first plan failed.

  “Drinking up time ladies and gents,” shouted the publican. “Last orders 10 minutes ago.” Some cheered others shouted ‘shame’. Joe didn’t care either way. He watched as Seth staggered through the door as he waved to his drinking pals.

  Joe followed. He wanted to get it over with before anyone came out and saw him. Seth walked along the Brayford Road facing the oncoming traffic. A mist hung over the woods bordering the road and a pale watery moon slid easily in and out of the clouds. Joe eased himself behind the wheel of his truck, gently turned the key in the ignition and slid into first gear. He let the engine warm up before he slowly edged out onto the roadway. As soon as he was on the road he accelerated. He saw Seth ahead. He swung his truck across the narrow road. Seth bounced off the ‘bull-bars’ that Joe was proud of. Joe stopped and ran back down the road. He had to get that money back or what was left of it. He had heard that the police could trace numbers on bank notes and it was his money. He felt the revolver press against his side as he bent over the inert body that lay in the grass.

  Seth was dead. His neck was twisted right around and he was not moving. Joe wrenched the money from Seth’s pocket and pushed his body into the ditch.

  As Joe drove slowly through the country lanes back to Lynton he felt relieved. He would never tell Bruce, he thought. There was still the problem of the Seth’s sister, Megan. She might say something to the police when she heard about her brother and he could not take that chance; she had to be silenced. He locked the garage doors and put the gun back in the drawer. He opened the safe and looked at his gold and silver.

  ***

  “You say Seth Raines was drinking until late, sir’?” The young PC leant on the bar of The Bell as he made his notes.

  “No more than usual. I remember he left before I could get the regulars to drink up. Hit and run they said on the radio, officer?”

  “We’re checking, sir. Did he have a row with anyone that night?”

  “No. Well not that night as far as I recall, though he’s had one or two bits of trouble over the years mind.”

  The publican continued polishing a glass, holding it up to the light to check for smears.

  “Won’t offer you a drink, officer, but there’s some coffee on. I’ll get you a cup.”

  “No thanks, sir. Would you say Mr. Raines had any enemies? Someone who might want to do him harm?”

  “No, none I can think of. Everyone knew Seth and had got used to his ways. Although now I think about it, he said he’d won some money on the horses. He bought a round of drinks for the lads. I saw him flicking through a wad of bills at the bar. Looked like at least a thousand. He paid me with a 50 pound note; I ran my forgery pen over it.”

  The policeman thanked him and went outside to his patrol car where Sergeant Jones waited.

  “Everything alright, Constable? No trouble?” The Sergeant wanted to gradually ease the newest member of his team into the neighborhood.

  “Funny thing, Sergeant, the publican said the man had a wad of money on him, buying drinks for everyone. When we found him he had nothing on him except a pipe, a pouch of tobacco and an empty envelope that was stuffed in his jacket pocket. The tire tracks of whoever hit him were on the wrong side of the road, according to the police doctor’s report of his injuries. Whoever it was must have come up behind him. Around here everyone knows to walk facing the on-coming traffic. The tracks in the grass showed that a vehicle stopped and as it drove off, it crossed back over the road. They must have known they hit something. Maybe they went back and mugged him and then just left him there to die. Could have been someone who followed him from the pub.”

  “What about the vehicle?”

  “Looks like a truck by the tire tracks, Sergeant. Marks on the body were consistent with being hit by a vehicle fitted with bull-bars. Lots of the lads around here fit them; claim they’re to stop the radiator getting busted in if they hit a deer at night.”

  “Any relatives?”

  “Still checking on that, Sergeant. The pub owner said he had a sister who lives over in Lynton. I’ll check that out. And he had a tack shop up at Brayford. My wife used to take her saddle there for stitching. Mr Raines must have looked forward to a pint on a Saturday night; not much else for a bloke like that to do around here. The publican said that he had a lot of money on him that night.”

  “So, where did a man like that get enough to buy everyone drinks? If, it’s as he told the publican and he won it at the races, where did he even get enough for a large bet? At 100:1 it might be possible with a small stake, but not many bookies giving those odds, Constable. Check the local bookies. And get over to see Megan Raines. I’ve checked, and she’s his sister; his only relative. She may know something about his winning streak.”

  “Not so lucky for him, Sergeant.”

  “Let’s get back to the station, Constable. Around here Police work is 20% action and the rest is routine; that includes the paperwork.”

  ______________________

  Chapter 8

  Ralph and Katie were glad to be back in Devon. Samantha Tulle, their tenant at the cottage, had asked if she could stay on until the first week in August and then she would be off to France with her daughter. That suited them both. Ralph wanted to get Gypsy Lady ready for the Round Britain and Ireland sailing race which would start at Cowes, on the Isle of Wight and he wanted to get her fitted out. Katie was happy to stay aboard the boat for a week or so while they got everything done. It also gave them time for some day sailing, and for Katie to ride her horse, Majestic, on Exmoor.

  Ralph had been granted
the one year’s unpaid leave of absence that he had pressed for and Katie had accrued enough time from conferences and weekend teaching for her to accompany Ralph on the race.

  Two-handed racing was not Ralph’s first choice as he knew how exhausting it could be, but he had rationalized that it was not as tough as ocean sailing; with plenty of stop-overs in various ports around Britain it was manageable.

  They had been working hard at getting the boat ready when Ralph got a call from Bob Wyman, his reporter friend.

  “Ralph, I heard that you were back and working your socks off over at the Marina.”

  “Bob. Good to hear from you. We’ve been trying to get the boat ready for a trip.”

  “If you need a break, then I have something that you might be interested in.”

  “Sure. What’s going on?”

  “Remember the Daniel Kaminsky case?”

  “Yes, now you mention it, I do remember. You were going to write a follow up article about it when we spoke back in the spring. Something about what people do with the money when they get a windfall, if I’m not mistaken.” Ralph tried to play down his interest; hoped he did not sound over eager. “Seems a long time ago now.”

  “Things have moved on a bit since then,” Bob said. “A friend of mine who does a lot of charity work for the Samaritans tells me that she’s been getting an increasing number of calls from people who’re suffering from drug abuse, and the number of potential suicide calls has increased as well. She thinks that someone’s bringing drugs into the area.”

  “From what I recall about The Samaritans, they don’t report anything people tell them to the police,” said Ralph. “So what’s that got to do with the Kaminsky case?”

  Having said it, he realised that it sounded a bit rude, but Bob must have not been put off. He continued.

  “Anything that happens around North Devon is news, Ralph. All of that stuff about increased drugs and suicides seems to be focused on the area around South Molton and I think it may somehow be linked to Daniel Kaminsky.”