“Could you use a little help?” Even as he called out, Joe’s face was still spread with a large smile.
The woman registered his presence for the first time, and he could see that she was not only irritated with the dog, but in an advanced state of distress.
“Oh, thank God.”
The dog became aware of Joe’s proximity, and lost interest in the bundle of clothing, moving to stand between him and its mistress, its teeth bared, uttering a warning growl.
The woman scolded the dog once more. “Be quiet, Bruiser.”
Joe had always been confident in the presence of dogs, and moving forward, he extended the back of his hand in a non-threatening gesture of friendship. While Bruiser checked him out, satisfying his natural instincts that this newcomer was not a threat, Joe concentrated on the woman.
His initial estimate of her age was about right, and from beneath her beanie, a fringe of dark hair showed above a brow creased with worry (or fear) and eyes that were streaming with tears.
“Whatever’s the matter?”
She waved frantically at the clothing. “It’s a young woman. I think she’s… Oh, God, I can’t believe it. I take the dog out for a walk and…”
She trailed off, and for the first time, Joe concentrated on the discarded clothing. His heart pounded, he began to circle, and as he reached the seaward side, he could see that it was, indeed, a young woman. Her legs and feet had been covered with a discarded coat, and the rest of her attire was hunched up around her shoulders, almost burying her. Her auburn hair was dishevelled, strewn around her face, which in turn was soaking wet, as if she had been here overnight, and affected by the tides (although Joe had no idea how far the incoming sea covered the broad sands). Her skin was pale and grey, her lips blue, and her brown eyes were open, staring emptily towards the ocean, one hand extended, as if she had perhaps tried to crawl away.
He had seen many deaths in his life, and was quite accustomed to seeing freshly deceased corpses. Normally, he would bend, press a finger to the neck in search of a pulse, but this time he did not bother. It was obvious that the girl was dead.
For a moment, he wondered who she was, and how she had come to die on this beach, but with a shock of recognition, he registered her identity. Winnie. The girl who had been arguing with Charlie Curnow the previous day while the 3rd Age Club waited for their caravans, the young woman who had been caterwauling into the microphone late last night, the same young woman he had spoken to at the bar.
That argument with Curnow suddenly assumed greater significance, but there was nothing about her body to suggest foul play, and given her occupation, and entertainments officer on a holiday park, there could be any number of reasons why she was on the beach. Drugs and drunkenness occurred to Joe right away.
Stepping away from the body, he took out his smartphone, but before dialling, he spoke to the woman who had discovered the body. “I’m Joe Murray. Down here on holiday. What’s your name, luv?”
“Ava Garner.”
Joe’s hearing, quite accustomed to taking an order in the general cacophony of The Lazy Luncheonette, even when it came from the most quietly-spoken customer, was beset with the sound of the sea gently lapping the shore, and Bruiser’s barking.
He clucked irritably. “You found a body on the beach, missus, and this is no time for taking the pi… mickey. Ava bloody Gardener.”
Now she began to lose her temper. “Garner. G-A-R-N-E-R.”
Joe apologised. “Can’t you shut your dog up?”
She made a further effort to silence the animal, but with only minimal success, and Joe pressed on regardless.
“Right, Ava, we have to call the police, and you’re gonna have to speak to them because you found the body, so you need to stay here with me. You’re all right. You’re perfectly safe with me, especially with your pet velociraptor at your side. But we can’t leave until the police get here.”
She nodded and made a determined effort to drag the dog further away, while Joe dialled 999.
After speaking with the police, and describing his location as precisely as he could, he rang Brenda, who answered with typical, Sunday morning annoyance.
“I wasn’t planning on getting up for another hour, Joe. What the hell d’you want?”
As patiently as he could, he relayed the discovery, and concluded, “I’m likely to be back late.”
Brenda sympathised, and promised to wait until he got back to the caravan before going out in search of their friends.
He cut the call and then walked away from the body, and stood with Ava.
Rolling a fresh cigarette, putting a light to it, he asked, “Are you local?”
She shook her head. “Oxfordshire. We’re down here on holiday. Me, my husband, and two boys. You don’t sound like a local, either.”
Joe gazed sourly around the vast beach. Nothing had changed. The rising sun sparkled on the waters of the Atlantic, the sands spread away into the distance in both directions, and the light, autumn breeze, ruffled his hair and the coarse grass of the seashore. Yet it had lost the appeal of twenty minutes earlier.
“Yes,” he repeated. “I’m down here with a bunch of friends, and we’re from West Yorkshire.” He took an irritable drag on his cigarette. “And right now, I wish I was back there.”
Chapter Five
One of the first things Detective Sergeant Harriet O’Neill told them was that she liked to be addressed by her first name, and preferred it shortened to Hattie.
A few years younger than Ava, she had a pleasant, outgoing attitude, and her green eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. She too, was wrapped up in warm clothing, and from beneath the hem of her quilted coat, a pair of plain grey trousers could be seen, the cuffs settled around and above a pair of sensible, flat shoes.
While a couple of uniformed constables, the first people on the scene after Joe’s call, set about cordoning off the area around the body and erecting the white shrouds that the forensic team needed, Hattie took statements from both Joe and Ava.
On the grassy rise above the beach, spectators had begun to arrive, simple black outlines, so distant that they gave the appearance of toy soldiers. But those soldiers were mobile. They shuffled along the path, occasionally turning their digital phones and cameras in the direction of events on the sand.
As well as being acclimatised to making statements to the police, Joe was equally used to the ghouls who hung around crime scenes with the inevitable interest in whatever was going on, and a barely subdued, macabre hope that they might catch sight of a body.
Joe had seen many such corpses, and aside from an investigative interest, they held no attraction. His assessment of this incident told that there would be nothing he needed to look into.
He kept his statement factual, and after confirming that he and Ava were strangers, and had met on the beach less than an hour earlier, he could offer only one piece of information the police were not in possession of.
“I don’t know the girl’s name, other than it’s Winnie. She’s a singer at Gittings.” He waved in the general direction of the holiday park above and behind them. “She was on stage last night, and that’s how I know.”
Ava confirmed it, Hattie thanked them, and invited them to go on their way. “Enjoy the rest of your holiday.”
Bruiser pulled her along, and Ava made it back up the hill much faster than Joe who plodded along many yards behind her, and by the time he reached the brow, with the lines of vans spread out before him, she had disappeared.
He trudged down the slight incline to the caravan, and let himself in.
Brenda was seated at the small table, working her way through a bowl of muesli. As he came in, she stepped up to make some tea, but Joe told her to get on with the breakfast.
“I spend most of my life making tea, I’m sure I can rustle up a cup for myself.” His stomach growled. “On the other hand, I’m starving. Ready for a decent breakfast, not a bowl of rabbit food.” He cast a sour glance at her muesli.
“It’s good for me, Joe. Good for you, too, if you bothered.”
“Gar. You need a decent feed in you. I meanersay, how many truckers do we get in The Lazy Luncheonette asking for a bowl of hamster’s bedding?”
Brenda refused to rise to his goading, he made himself a mug of tea, and joined her. While she carried on eating, he gave her a more detailed account of events on the beach, and she listened intently, asking the occasional and sometimes apparently pointless questions, such as whether Winnie was wearing her official Gittings’ uniform.
It did not take long for Joe’s irritation to show through. “What difference does it make what she was dressed in?”
“A lot of difference if it wasn’t just a drunken accident. Suppose she was murdered?”
Joe gave the matter a moment’s thought. “There was nothing to say she had been killed, but even if she had, I still don’t see what difference her clothing makes.”
“You’re the detective, Joe… or so you claim.” Brenda swallowed the last mouthful of muesli, pushed the dish to one side and took a healthy slug of fresh orange juice. The taste sent shivers through her, and she put the glass down. “If she was wearing no clothes, it’s a safe bet she didn’t drown because it was too cold last night for skinny-dipping.”
“She was fully clothed.”
“Right. If she was still in her Gittings’ uniform, it’s odds-on that she was with someone from the staff. But if she was in her own clothes, then she could have been out with anyone, or even alone.”
The light of realisation dawned in Joe’s eyes. “I see where you’re going now.” He cast his mind back to the scene on the beach. “I don’t think she was in her uniform. Course, murder would assume that she was actually with someone. She might have been on her own. In fact, if she was drunk or up to her eyes in drugs, she was more than likely alone. Anyone with her would have helped, wouldn’t they?”
Brenda agreed but with reservations. “As long as they weren’t drunk or up to their eyes in drugs too.”
The circular argument was going nowhere, and Joe cleared the table and set about washing up the few dishes, while Brenda fussed around the van, tidying up.
Twenty minutes later, suitably attired in light, casual clothing, carrying warm coats over their arms against the possibility of the weather changing, they made their way to the entertainment centre, and the large cafeteria.
A quick glance around the dining area revealed that most of their fellow club members were already in residence. Brenda found a table close to Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson, Alec and Julia Staines, and in the meantime, Joe queued up to order himself a full English breakfast and a cup of coffee for Brenda.
“Peckish?” Alec Staines asked as Joe joined them.
“Give me a dead rat and two stale loaves, and I’ll show you how hungry I am.”
Alec laughed. “I didn’t ask what you serve at The Lazy Luncheonette.”
“Bog off.” Joe’s final rejoinder was muttered through a mouthful of sausage and egg.
Inevitably, the moment Brenda told the table of Joe’s encounter on the beach, the conversation turned to Winnie, the park in general, and via a circuitous route concentrated once more on Joe.
“That will make your holiday, won’t it, Murray?” Les Tanner said with a cynical smirk.
Joe, in the act of finishing his meal, shook his head. “Nothing suspicious about it, Les, so I refuse to get involved. I’m down here for a holiday.”
Sylvia and Julia murmured their agreement.
“It’s about time you had a proper rest,” Sylvia observed.
Julia Staines was more mocking. “It’s also about time you opened your wallet and gave it some fresh air as well as exercising those poor fivers.”
Her husband laughed out loud. “Fivers? You mean fifties.”
Quite at home with this kind of repartee, Joe replied, “I don’t have to come here for this kind of abuse, you know.”
Brenda was quicker off the mark than the others. “That’s right. He can go anywhere.”
Across the cafeteria, George Robson sauntered in and sent Owen Frickley to the counter. It was a reflection on their long-time friendship. George was clearly the leader of the pair, and Owen the follower.
George appeared badly hungover, which again was no surprise. Joe’s age, overweight and divorced, he lived purely for enjoyment, a large part of which consisted of heavy drinking. He scanned the room, and his eyes lighted on Joe. He weaved his way through the tables and stood alongside them.
“Hey up, Joe. There’s a biddy out there looking for you.” He waved an arm towards the exit.
“Who?”
“Middle-aged bint. Dressed in the same uniform as the rest of the crew here. Got a face like Huddersfield.”
Joe feigned puzzlement. “And what does someone who comes from Huddersfield look like?”
“I didn’t say she looks like she’s from Huddersfield. I said she looks like Huddersfield. You know. Clapped-out and past her sell by date.”
“Well, she can wait until I’ve finished my breakfast. What were you and Owen up to last night?”
George took the seat next to Joe. “Out for a few bevvies in Hayle. Talk about boring. It should be called Hell not Hayle. We ended up at this pub with a local folk band and people dancing. One of the local yokels reckoned it was a kayleigh, but, I’ll tell you what, they don’t know how to spell down here. The way I read the sign, it said ‘say-e-lid’, with an H on the end.”
Joe shook his head sadly, Brenda tittered. “In Gaelic, the word is spelled C-E-I-L-I-D-H. You’re just showing your ignorance, George.”
“No I’m not. It just goes to prove what I said. How could anyone spell ceilidh like that? It doesn’t make sense.”
Joe finished his meal, drained off his teacup, got to his feet. “Stick to Yorkshire, George. I’d better see what this woman wants. I don’t suppose she has a name?”
“It might be drop dead,” George replied with a broad grin. “That’s what she said when I asked her if she fancied a couple of pints tonight.”
With a sombre thought that not much changed in the world of the Sanford 3rd Age Club, Joe left the cafeteria, and strolled out into the open spread of the gaming area, where the whistles, beeps, and bells of slot machines, electronic games, and the like, filled the air, entertaining children and teenagers. It caused him to wonder why they were not at school, but he had never been blessed with parenthood, and the mysteries of bringing up and keeping children occupied, remained just that; a mystery.
There were a couple of security guards standing by the door, listening to a woman in company uniform, and Joe assumed that this was the person who had been seeking him. He crossed the thickly carpeted floor, and stood a respectful distance from her, but within the arc of her peripheral vision.
He estimated her age at about fifty years. Slightly taller than him, she obviously took care of herself, maintaining a slim figure. Her suntan was not excessive, but her eyes were creased with what could be years of sun-worshipping, laughter or worry. She wore no make-up, but her light brown hair appeared professionally set and cared for, and he could imagine her taking an hour off to visit the hairdresser weekly or perhaps monthly. A glance at her slender hands, revealed no rings, but finely manicured nails and a hint of delicacy about the skin.
Finished with the security guards, she turned to face him, and he took in her nametag: Eleanor Dorning, General Manager.
She gave him a pleasant smile. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Well, you could start by not calling me sir. I’m not an officer, and most people say I’m not a gentleman, either.” Joe smiled to show he was joking. “My name’s Joe Murray. Apparently, a member of your staff has been looking for me.”
“Ah. Yes, Mr Murray, that would be me, but it’s the police who want to speak to you. About Wynette Kalinowski.” Her face fell a little at the mention of the dead woman’s name.
“Right. Point me to them.”
“The in
spector’s taken a small office in the reception. I’ll walk over there with you.”
They left the building, stepping out into the balmy, autumn sunshine. The rising temperature had already evaporated the sparkling dew, and carried with it the promise of another warm, dry, September day. From the flowerbeds, the scent of roses and lavender reached Joe’s nostrils, and mingled with Eleanor’s perfume, not expensive, and not overpowering. Even though he was faced with a police interview, the waves of relaxation washed over him.
He assumed that the forthcoming meeting would be no more than a formal statement with an unknown in the shape of the local CID. Once again, he assumed it was CID, but it was uncertain because O’Neill had insisted she was a sergeant, while Eleanor said the officer he was about to see was an inspector. Not that it made a great deal of difference to Joe. He was used to dealing with police officers from local, community constables, all the way up to the Assistant Chief Constable. He had dealt with the friendly, the unfriendly, the contingent, the bullying, those who were willing to accept his assistance, those who were not, and to a man (or woman) they could not intimidate him.
He became conscious of the silence between himself and the woman alongside him. “Cornwall born and bred, were you, Mrs Dorning? Only you don’t sound it.”
“It’s Ms Dorning, but please call me Eleanor. And yes, I am, Mr Murray.”
“I’ll call you Eleanor if you promise to call me Joe.”
“Deal.” Her accent was a cultured, classless English, without any trace of the local drawl. “I come from Truro. It’s about twenty miles from here, a little over half way between here and Newquay. University and teacher training knocked the Cornish burr out of me.” She chuckled.
Joe wondered why she gave up teaching, and why anyone with a university education would want to manage a caravan park, then decided it was none of his business. Aside from tourism, he imagined that work would be difficult to come by in this area.
He confined himself to neutral, complimentary comments. “You have a beautiful part of the country. One of the best beaches I’ve ever seen.”
A Cornish Killing Page 4