A Cornish Killing

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A Cornish Killing Page 5

by David W Robinson


  Eleanor smiled indulgently. “Thank you. I imagine your part of the world isn’t as smoky and grimy as we all imagine.”

  Joe could not help laughing. “That impression belongs back in the fifties, or even before the war. I come from a little place called Sanford, about twenty miles from Leeds. It was a mining town, and we had a huge foundry, and between them they employed most of the men folk in town. But they’re both long gone. They’ve given way to new, more modern industries.”

  “No whippets and flat caps?”

  He laughed again. “I have a flat cap, but I don’t have a whippet, and I don’t know anyone who does.”

  They were nearing the reception entrance. “So what do you do, Joe?”

  “Like you, I’m in catering. Only I run a workmen’s café. Mainly truckers, you know, but we’re on the ground floor of a brand-new development, full of offices, so we get to feed the clerks and telesales people too.”

  “Profitable, I imagine. People will always need feeding.”

  Joe became more guarded. “I don’t make as much as people think, but it gives me an above-average lifestyle.” He grinned. “Enough to bring me to Cornwall in late September.”

  They paused outside the entrance to Reception. “I’ll have a cup of tea ready for when the police have done giving you the third degree.”

  “Don’t worry about me, lass. I’ve dealt with more than my fair share of coppers.” Joe took in her look of surprise and hastened to explain. “I do some part-time work for insurance companies as a private investigator, and as well as that, my niece and her boyfriend are both detectives in West Yorkshire.”

  Eleanor appeared reassured, and Joe went on.

  “Besides, how much can I tell him? It’s a simple drowning, isn’t it?”

  Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God. You don’t know do you?”

  All Joe’s senses came to full alert. “What don’t I know?”

  “Winnie didn’t drown. She was strangled.” Her eyes burned into him. “It’s not an accident. It’s murder.”

  Chapter Six

  Detective Inspector Richard Howell was probably somewhere in his mid-40s. Tall, languorous, but with broad shoulders and large hands, he was dressed in a pair of light grey trousers and a navy blue blazer, with a blue shirt highlighting a dark blue tie bearing the badge of either the police service or a military regiment. He enjoyed a head of neatly combed almost black hair, beneath which was a clear brow and a pair of diamond blue eyes, which were, unfortunately, narrowed into an accusing stare, matching the grim set of his thin lips.

  “You’re Murray?”

  The uninviting snap of Howell’s gravelly voice, ignited Joe’s irritation. “No. I’m Joe Murray.”

  The loathing in the inspector’s eyes seemed to increase. “That’s what I said.”

  “No. You said Murray. Where I come from, even the filth have the courtesy to treat people with… er… courtesy. They’d ask if I was Joe Murray or Mr Murray, not treat me like a schoolboy up before the headmaster.”

  Howell waved at the seat on the other side of the desk. “Just sit down.” Joe took the chair and waited patiently while the inspector checked his thin notes. “You found the body.”

  It was not a question, but Joe interpreted it as one. “No. That was a woman walking her dog on the beach… Well, actually it was the dog that found the body.”

  Howell poised his pen. “Name?”

  It seemed to Joe to be an odd question, and he frowned. “Bruiser, if I recall.”

  Howell made a note. “First name?”

  Joe’s mystification increased. “I didn’t know that dogs had first names.”

  Howell’s face disfigured into a mask of blind fury. “Not the bloody dog. The woman.”

  Joe met the virulent anger with some of his own. “Then why don’t you learn to speak English. I said the dog found the body, and you asked me its name.” He leaned forward and jabbed his finger into the desktop. “Her name was Ava Garner.”

  The announcement did nothing to appease Howell. “Listen to me, Murray, I’m already having one of those days, and I’m in no mood for you taking the—”

  Joe cut him off. “I thought the same thing, but apparently her name really is Ava Garner. She’s staying somewhere on this park. You need to speak to Eleanor Dorning, the general manager.” He took a couple of deep, calming breaths. “Your sergeant should have told you all this.”

  “I haven’t seen O’Neill yet. I only spoke to her on the phone. She’s still busy on the beach, sorting out forensics and arranging for the body to be shifted. She gave me your name and nothing else.”

  “That’s because Mrs Garner was in a bit of a state. Well, she would be, wouldn’t she? It’s not every day you take the dog for a walk and find a body on the beach.”

  His head lowered, eyes fixed on his notebook where he was scribbling down the information, Howell ignored the remark. “Address?”

  Joe shrugged. “Search me. Somewhere in Oxfordshire, she said.”

  “Not Ava bleeding Garner. Your address.”

  “Are conversations with you always this confusing?” Joe asked, and received a glower of thunder by return.

  “What is your address?”

  “The Lazy Luncheonette, Doncaster Road, Sanford, West Yorkshire.”

  Suspecting another attempt to confuse the issue, Howell demanded, “That some kind of diner, is it? And you live there, do you?”

  Joe, too, was beginning to tire of the convoluted exchange. “It’s a truck stop, my truck stop. I own the place, and I live above it.”

  It was not true. He had lived above the old Lazy Luncheonette, but that building had burned down before the new one was put up. However, he was rarely to be found in his council flat on Leeds Road, and the easiest way for the police to contact him, should they need to, was at The Lazy Luncheonette.

  “Right. So what were you and this Garner woman doing on the beach this morning?”

  “She was struggling with her dog, and I was going for a walk.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “I don’t know her. I met her this morning.”

  “And you both happened to stumble across the body?” Disbelief marinated in suspicion poured through the inspector’s words.

  “What is this? Are you accusing me of something, Howell? I thought I was coming here to give a simple statement after finding the dead woman, and I don’t expect to be accused of murdering her.”

  Still busy making notes, Howell looked up sharply. “Who said she was murdered?”

  “The same Eleanor Dorning who’ll put you onto Ava Garner and Bruiser when you get round to asking her. And while I think on, that dog doesn’t like people; especially when they come full of attitude.”

  Howell’s phone rang. He studied the menu window, and irritably cut it off. Using his pen as a pointer, he bit back at Joe. “The only one here with an attitude is you. You say you were just out for a walk?”

  “Yes. It’s the kind of thing we do a lot in Yorkshire. We have to. Our whippets need exercising.”

  The inspector half rose, ready to fight back against the cynical response, but Joe pressed on.

  “I went for a walk. There’s nothing odd about that. I’m on holiday. I wanted to see the sea because you can’t see it from our caravan, and I can’t see it from home, either, because it’s sixty miles away.”

  Howell was about to interrupt, but Joe’s flow was unstoppable.

  “When I got to the beach, Mrs Garner was struggling with the dog, and I went to see if I could help. She pointed out that the bundle of rags I’d seen on the sand was actually a dead woman. From there, I called the police, and stood by with Mrs Garner to ensure that no one else could disturb your crime scene. When your sergeant turned up, I told her who the girl was, and she told Mrs Garner and me to get the hell outta there while your forensic people got to work. That’s it, Howell. That’s your lot. That’s all I know.”

  The inspector resumed his
seat while Joe was ranting at him, and when he spoke, the suspicion was still evident. “And how did you know who the dead woman was. She’s a local girl, yet you claim to be from four hundred miles away. So how did you know?”

  “Because I was talking to her in the bar last night. She was the star turn of the evening. And I didn’t know who she was. I just knew her name and what she did. You obviously think I have something to do with her death, Howell, so let me ask you this; how did she die?”

  “We haven’t had the medical examiner’s report yet.”

  “Eleanor Dorning told me that Winnie was strangled.” Joe held up his hands. “Notice how small my hands are. Compare them to any marks you may find on her. And if you want my fingerprints, you’re welcome to them, but you don’t have to take them. Get in touch with the Sanford police. They already have them. The same goes for my DNA fingerprint.”

  If anything Joe’s final words seemed to firm up Howell’s suspicions. A look of disgusted satisfaction crossed his face. “I knew there was something about you. How many times have you been hauled in by the Sanford plod?”

  “Twice,” Joe admitted. “Both times they accused me of murder, and both times I proved them wrong. If you wanna waste money on a phone call, speak to Chief Superintendent Don Oughton. He’s the station commander there, and an old friend. He’ll vouch for me. Now are you done with me, or do you want to accuse me of something else? Like nicking the bulb out of the Eddystone Lighthouse?”

  “You can go for now. But don’t wander far, I might need to speak to you again.”

  Joe got to his feet, took a couple of paces to the door, stopped, turned and came back. “There is one other thing.”

  Howell let out a heavy sigh. “What now?”

  “When we got here yesterday afternoon, we had to wait before our accommodation was ready. Three friends and I were having a cup of coffee outside the cafeteria, and the dead woman came wandering in with Charlie Curnow, the park comedian. They were arguing the toss over something. All I could hear was Charlie warning her to shut up and get on with her job, and she warned him that she knew something about him.”

  Howell made hurried notes. “I’ll look into it, but it’s probably nothing. We know Charlie Curnow well, but bumping off some little tart like this isn’t his form.”

  “That’s what they said about the woman who tried to kill me in Majorca.”

  Without waiting for further questions, Joe marched out of the room.

  When he emerged into the reception area, he found Eleanor Dorning seated in a comfortable armchair by the window, waiting for him with the promised cup of tea, and he joined her, taking the chair opposite, staring angrily out across the open area of the camp entrance. Cars were coming and going, people were making their way to and from the entertainment centre, and outside the cafeteria, he could see some of his friends enjoying a mid-morning cup of coffee. It was the usual clique of Brenda, George and Owen, Alec and Julia, Tanner and Sylvia, but now joined by Stewart Dalmer, a former College tutor and part-time antiques dealer. Joe guessed, but was not certain, that after Whitby, where Brenda and Dalmer had been teamed up for the treasure hunt, some kind of fleeting relationship had developed between them. Brenda, certainly, had an unjustified reputation for being free and easy with her favours, but Joe knew different. She dated a number of men, but she was not leaping into bed with any of them.

  Eleanor poured tea for them, passed the cup and saucer across to Joe, and settled back into the seat, her face exhibiting concern for him. “Inspector Howell is in one of his usual strops, isn’t he?”

  Joe nodded. “You know him?”

  She nodded as she sipped her tea. “He has a downer on Gittings. It’s as simple as that. This is a small town, Joe, and we don’t get a lot of trouble, but if you listen to Howell, the vast majority of his time is taken up dealing with drunkenness on this park.”

  “And is it?”

  “No. We get the occasional incident, true. Perhaps once, maybe twice in a season, and our security people are quick to jump on it, but obviously, they only have certain powers, and when it gets too bad, we have to call the police. Most times, it’s Sergeant O’Neill, but Howell’s had to deal with issues now and again. He’s just one of life’s grumblers. I think he fancies himself as a hotshot detective, who should be working in London, rather than a country copper with a large beat which spreads from here to Helston, down to Penzance, back here via Land’s End and St Ives.”

  Joe disregarded much of the geography lesson. “But this is the first time he’s had to investigate a murder on your premises?”

  “To my knowledge, yes. It’s a shocking business, Joe, and it won’t do our image any good. I informed the regional director’s office first thing this morning, and no doubt, I can expect a visit from him later in the week.”

  “Nasty?”

  “Well, certainly unpleasant. Believe it or not, this is a very competitive industry, which is why Gittings almost went under. They were taken over by a national company about five years ago. The company has half a dozen parks in the Devon and Cornwall area, and the regional director has enough on his plate trying to keep on top of one problem or another, without Gittings going into virtual lockdown because one of the staff has been murdered.”

  Joe was beginning to relax in the woman’s company, but he felt it necessary to challenge her words. “Surprise, surprise I’m not concerned with the attitude of your big boss. My concern is the death of this young woman. I mean, how old was she? Twenty-five, thirty?”

  “Twenty-seven,” Eleanor replied, and smiled at Joe’s raised eyebrows. “The moment I heard, I had to dig out her personnel file.”

  “That explains how you could be so certain about her age. Tell me something, Eleanor, what was her relationship with Charlie Curnow?”

  “He was her immediate boss. Charlie is our entertainments manager. All the entertainment staff are answerable immediately to him. Why do you ask?”

  As he drank more tea, Joe told her of the incident he had witnessed the day before, the threat Charlie had thrown at Winnie, and her response.

  “I know a lot about murder,” he concluded. “I’ve investigated my fair share of them, and I was actually the target of one killer.”

  Eleanor gasped. “Really?”

  “Really. When you boil it all down, there are only two serious motives for deliberately taking someone’s life; sex and money. I don’t know what went on between the pair yesterday, but they were arguing as they came from the car park, but Winnie’s final remark sounded to me like blackmail. In other words, he daren’t sack her because if he did, she’d open up about what she knew. And what kind of information is it that blackmailers usually hold over their victims? Sex or money. Assuming the killer wasn’t a plain psycho, it’s usually one or the other behind every incident of this nature. What do you know about Charlie? What could he be up to that might get him into trouble? What do you know that might make it worth his while to murder the girl?”

  “Nothing.”

  Eleanor looked around the room to ensure that no one was paying any attention. She need not have worried. The few clerks on duty were all busy with one or another of the routine tasks their work entailed, and no one even registered their presence.

  Nevertheless, she leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Between the two of us, I don’t care for Charlie. And it’s not because of his low comedy. I don’t like the man personally. He’s a drunk. You can smell it on him even at lunchtime, before he’s had the chance to get any more inside him. Trouble is, Joe, as you’re probably aware, you can’t choose the people you work with, and despite his personal shortcomings and rubbish jokes, he’s good at his job. Aside from the people who own caravans on this site, the park is closed between New Year and mid-March, and during that time, Charlie auditions new applicants, and whips them into shape for the new season. He works them like sleigh dogs in the Arctic, and by the time we come to open up again in the middle of March, they’re at their best. And i
t doesn’t stop there. He drives them through rehearsals throughout the season. He never lets up, and when he gets someone who’s not up to scratch, he doesn’t hesitate. He fires them.”

  Joe took in the information, and slotted it into the filing cabinets of his mind, creating a new folder and naming it, Wynette Kalinowski.

  “One of my friends was telling me that she bought a DVD of Charlie’s act, and it was, er, let’s say, adult. Am I right in assuming he doesn’t put that kind of act on here?”

  “I wouldn’t have it, Joe. We have children on site all year round. There is no way I would tolerate Charlie putting on that kind of act.”

  “And suppose he was putting on private shows, away from the main entertainment complex? He could be making a bob or two on the side.”

  Eleanor shook her head and finished her tea. “He’d also be taking a hell of a chance with his job. He’s not the only one who’s hard with his staff. If I found him doing anything of the sort, I’d fire him like that.” She clicked her fingers to emphasise the point.

  Joe smiled, finished his tea, slid the cup and saucer back across the table to her and got to his feet. “Thanks, Eleanor. You’ve given me food for thought.”

  Chapter Seven

  The 3rd Agers of Sanford had two or three excursions planned for during the week, but it was Sunday, which had always been scheduled as a rest day (to get over the long journey) and there was nothing on their itinerary other than hanging around Gittings Holiday Park or making their way down into Hayle.

  After giving his friends an account of the brusque meeting with Howell, Joe suggested they walk into the town, in search of lunch.

  “You’ll be piling the pounds on if you’re not careful, Joe,” Brenda said.

  “And you’ll be lucky if they understand the idea of lunch,” George Robson commented.

  Joe ignored the ribaldry and a little after half past twelve, while George and Owen went in search of a lunchtime drink, the rest of the group, the Staineses, Tanner and Sylvia, Brenda and Dalmer, left the park via the coastal path, and made their way towards the town.

 

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