The sun appeared to accelerate as it dipped towards the horizon, but then, invisible cloud, or perhaps some kind of atmospheric haze, began to distort the scene as Joe and Tanner snapped away with their electronic gadgetry.
“Any news on that poor girl?” Sylvia asked.
Unable to resist the temptation, Brenda said, “Twice they’ve spoken to Joe. The last time, he tried bribing them with tea and biscuits, but I still think they have him in the frame for it.”
Joe responded without taking his eye off the tiny screen of his camera. “And if they pin it on me, it’ll be a better frame than any I can put round these pictures.”
Chapter Eight
Keith applied the parking brake, a loud hiss of air came from the bus; he left his seat, then turned and faced his passengers. Monday morning, and he was not in the best of moods.
“Right, crumblies, this is it. This is where we park for the day.” He checked his watch. “It’s half past ten, and according to Les, you want to be back at Gittings by five o’clock, so if you can all be back here by a quarter past four, we should be in plenty of time.”
He reached back to his dashboard and pulled the lever to open the door.
Joe, as always, was first off the bus, and stood by to help those who were not so nimble.
They were parked in a layby on the road immediately in front of the main bus/car park of St Ives, which was set on a hill, high above the town.
“Are you okay parked here?” Joe asked.
Keith pointed at the yellow crosshatch markings on the ground, and up at the nearby sign. “It’s a bus stop, Joe, and this is a bus, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He waved both hands at his vehicle. “But I can’t stay here for long. I’ll have to shift onto the official park, and pay the fee.”
Joe looked around. The car park, already filling up with private vehicles, rose steeply away from them, while to the other side there was a fine view looking over St Ives and across the whole of Carbis Bay, but no matter which way he considered it, the route down to the town was steep, and he mentioned it to Keith.
“No choice, Joe. No way would I get through the traffic in the town centre. But you don’t have to walk.” He indicated the bus stop again. “There’s a regular bus which’ll take you down and bring you back. I don’t imagine it’ll be that expensive.”
“I wasn’t thinking of me,” Joe said as he helped Irene Pyecock off the coach. “I can manage the walk down, and I could probably tackle the walk back up.”
Keith was unrepentant. “Well, that’s the situation. Besides, knowing these daft old sods, they’ll be too drunk to walk back this afternoon.”
“Count on it,” Irene said as she stood to one side and waited for her husband.
Brenda stepped off the bus carrying Joe’s rucksack, and paused to help Sylvia Goodson down.
“What’s the rucksack for?” Keith asked.
“After what the cops told me yesterday, all my worldly goods are in it. Well, those worldly goods someone might choose to nick.”
“Like your wallet?”
Joe turned superior eyes on their driver.” I never tell anyone where my wallet is.”
“Sometimes, he doesn’t tell himself,” George Robson said as he stepped off the bus. “Especially when it’s his round.”
“Take the words off and p—”
“Hey,” Brenda cut Joe off.
He smiled mock-sweetly. “I was gonna say ‘push’. You know. Push off.”
Brenda cast a sceptical eye at him as she handed over the rucksack. Joe dragged it onto his back, and they crossed the road to begin the descent into the town.
“It reminds me of Whitby,” he said while they walked down the steep path.
Brenda waved a sweeping arm at the vista before them, taking in the town and the calm waters of the bay beyond, glittering blue/green in the autumn sunshine. “No way is this anything like the Yorkshire coast. Just look at the sea, Joe. You couldn’t swim in the sea off Whitby, even in the middle of summer.”
“But you can in Filey,” Joe argued. “Anyway, I didn’t mean the sea, I meant the hills. Remember, we stayed on the headland at Whitby, and that’s what this reminds me of.”
He glanced over his shoulder where other members of their party were following them down the steep incline. Further back, as Keith moved the coach onto the main car park, he could see yet others waiting for the service bus. Considering the gradient, it made sense for the more elderly members; people like Sylvia Goodson and Irene Pyecock, while behind Joe and Brenda, George and Owen, Alec and Julia Staines and Mort Norris and his wife, appeared to have no difficulties with the walk, but like Joe and Brenda, they were still of working age.
A thought occurred to him. “I don’t see Stewart Dalmer.”
Brenda clung on to his arm as the gradient increased. She replied with the distraction of someone taking care not to slip and fall. “He’s gone to an antiques fair in St Austell or Truro or somewhere. It’s his business, Joe. You know it is.”
“Yeah. I’m not bothered. But I did wonder is there something between you and him?”
The path ended at the top of a flight of steep steps, and as they began the descent, Brenda chuckled. “Jealous?”
“Am I hell as like.” He removed her hand from his arm and encouraged her to take hold of the safety rail. “This way, if you fall, you don’t drag me down with you.”
“That’s what I love about you, Joe. Always the gentleman. And to answer your question, mind your own business. It’s nothing to do with you who I’m seeing.”
Joe clucked impatiently. “What is it about women that they can take everything and put the wrong twist on it?” He paused to get his breath, and faced her. “I’m concerned for you, Brenda. I always have been. You and Sheila. I don’t want to see you hurt by some guy who might just be using you to get his hands on your antiques.”
Brenda laughed aloud this time. She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. “The only thing that is antique in my house is me, and he’ll only get his hands on me when I let him. Now come on. All this walking is making me peckish. Let’s get down to the town.”
The incident had not gone unnoticed by those members following them, and as George and Owen passed them, George commented, “Two-timing me, Brenda?”
“I’ve been two-timing you with everyone in Sanford, George.”
“Except me,” Joe added.
At length, weaving their way through narrow streets and lanes of stone-built houses, traditional fishing cottages, and larger buildings converted to high-priced apartments, they emerged onto the main street leading to the town, and five minutes later, they came upon the small bus terminus, where the service from the car park had just arrived. As they walked past, Sylvia and Tanner, the Pyecocks, and other members of the 3rd Age Club got off the bus, and while some waved, Tanner gave Joe a self-satisfied smile.
Joe was quick to take the wind from his sails. “Some of us still have it, Les, others don’t.”
The street narrowed further, familiar shops began to appear on both sides, and ahead, they had their first view of the harbour, no more than a glimpse of the path by the side of the slipway in the south-eastern corner.
“No thoughts on this dead woman, Joe?” Brenda asked as they emerged onto the harbour side, and looked around the long semicircle of shops and cafeterias.
“I don’t think it’s as clear cut as I first suspected,” he replied. “Not after what Hattie O’Neill told me last night, when Charlie Curnow tipped me off that the girl was a bit of a vamp. I don’t mean she was jumping half the park, but her bite was a lot worse than her bark.”
“You suspect blackmail, obviously, and you reckon that’s why she was killed?”
Ahead of them, George and Owen ducked into the first pub they came across. Joe and Brenda carried on walking, until they rounded the bend at the far end of the harbour, and then settled at tables outside a café. There was no waiter service, Joe took out his wallet, left his rucksack with Brenda,
and went inside. He emerged five minutes later empty-handed.
“They’ll bring the food out. I ordered sandwiches and tea.”
Brenda nodded. “Good enough.”
“You should see the prices. It’s like armed robbery without the guns. If we charged prices like that, we’d be making a fortune, but we’d lose the Sanford Brewery boys, and the factory hands from across the road.”
He settled into his chair and watched a middle-aged couple waving away the attention of seagulls.
“Scavengers,” he muttered. “The birds, I mean, not those old duffers. What were we saying? Oh yes, Wynette Kalinowski. I’ve always said that your chief witness in any murder case is the victim. You have to know about him or her, and to be honest, Brenda, I know nothing about this girl other than what I’ve seen, and we both know that appearances can be deceptive. Eleanor Dorning didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, Charlie Curnow didn’t give a toss, and he indicated that she was not the sweet little innocent you might think. Howell and Hattie told me nothing about her, and without more to go on, I can’t begin to guess. Blackmail? Yes, it’s possible. Especially after what Winnie said to Charlie Curnow. But I need to know a lot more about her before I’m willing to commit myself.”
The sandwiches and tea arrived, and they settled back to watch life and occasional members of their elite club, pass them by. Despite the hurly-burly of the previous twenty-four hours, Joe was in a relaxed mood, and if he had any regrets, it was that Maddy was not here to enjoy it with him. Brenda was good company, but after a brief fling in their teens, and an even briefer one later in life, they were in a position that Joe had always deemed impossible between man and woman; a genuine, platonic relationship. Brenda, along with Sheila, was simply one of his best friends.
Brenda’s voice cut in on his ruminations. “I wonder how Sheila’s getting on.”
Joe often believed that the two women could read his mind. Had he not just been thinking of the absent third member of their triumvirate?
“She seemed all right on Saturday.”
“Yes, but it’s not right, Joe. She should be here, with us.”
“She’s married now. She has different priorities. Besides, we’ve never lived in each other’s pockets, have we? Well, you and Sheila, maybe, but not me.”
Brenda was still thinking about Joe’s words, and was about to answer, when they were distracted by a disturbance further along the road. Two men burst from a takeaway, just a few doors along from them, and they were grappling, wrestling, trying to throw punches at each other, but so close that they could not connect. As people turned to stare at them, they sank to the ground, rolling around the sandy cobbles.
“If nothing else, they’re scaring away the seagulls,” Brenda said as she got to her feet.
Joe had recognised at least one of them, and was ahead of her. While others continued to stare, he and Brenda made an effort to pull the two apart, and compelled them to get to their feet.
Joe studied the face to his right, the one he had recognised as a member of the entertainments staff from the previous night. A rough beard clung to his tanned chin, connecting with his sideburns, and his long hair hung in an untidy straggle above the collar of his tatty combat jacket.
Joe also recognised the other man as a Gittings barman who had served him the previous night. Tidily dressed in jeans and a black fleece, clean shaven, his close-cropped hair also filled with sand and grit from the ground and his square chin jutting out, his eyes of tiny fire were concentrated on his opponent.
“Aren’t you guys a little old for fighting in the street like schoolkids?” Joe rounded on the entertainer. “They call you Flick, don’t they?”
“Why are you poking your nose in?”
Joe ignored the inherent threat in Flick’s response, and faced the other. “What’s your name?”
“Quint.”
Joe tutted. “Flick and Quint? Do parents ever give their children proper names in this part of the world?”
Neither man chose to answer him, but Quint pointed a shaking finger at Flick. “He killed. Winnie. Filled her with dope.”
“You’re talking out of your backside, Quentin.” Flick stressed the final word as a taunt, and it occurred to both Joe and Brenda that Quint did not like his real name.
“I know all about you, Frederick.”
Judging by the stress Quint placed on the name, Joe and Brenda felt the same could be said of Flick.
The childish teasing signalled another tussle, but before they could meet, Joe put himself between them, and held out his hands to stop them. They collided in the middle, almost crushing Joe, and Brenda had to drag Quint away while Joe, recovering quickly, pushed Flick back.
By now the incident was the centre of attention, crowds of people out for a day at the seaside, taking a vigorous interest in the fight.
With a good deal of irritation, Joe lectured the two men. “Take it from someone who knows, fighting solves nothing.” He rounded on Quint. “Now what are you talking about, lad?”
With Brenda holding him back, Quint was restricted to waving a floundering, accusing arm at his opponent. “Him. I know what he gets up to. Selling stuff all over the park.”
“Bit of booze and baccy, that’s all.”
Quint sneered. “Yeah. Wacky baccy, you mean.”
Joe snapped his head round and glared at Flick. “You’re selling drugs?”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, pal. The only thing I ever filled Winnie with was me, and he can’t stand it that she preferred me to him.”
“Then ain’t true, and you know it, Tolley.”
Now Flick began to sneer. “Oh yeah? So how come she was hassling me for us to live together the night before she died?” He stared Brenda in the eye. “If anyone killed her, it was him, because he couldn’t stand the idea of Winnie chucking him over for me.”
The blood rushed to Quint’s cheeks. “No way would she want someone like you in her life. You’re scum, you are.”
“I’m an entertainer, and so was she, and that’s what she wanted. Someone who could look after her properly, and take an interest in her singing, not someone who knows how to pull a pint.”
The argument could have gone on for some time had not Joe intervened. “The best thing you two can do is go your separate ways. Have either of you spoken to the police? Because if you haven’t, you should. If you don’t, they’ll come looking for you.”
Flick let defiant eyes rest on Joe. “Do a Winnie and drop dead.” With that he turned and walked away.
Still alongside Brenda, Quint still looked hurt and angry. Joe waved at the nearby pub. “Doors are open. Fancy a drink, lad? Just to calm you down?”
Brenda took the young man’s hand and led him into the bar. Joe followed, and while they found a table by the window, he paid for drinks, two halves of lager, one for him, one for Quint, and a Campari and soda for Brenda.
They settled into the table, he and Brenda facing the distressed young man. Joe pushed a glass of lager across to him. “Get that down you, china, and calm down a bit.”
Through the window, he could make out Flick’s tall figure stumbling away around the harbour side, hands thrust into his pockets, shoulders hunched, his gait spelling out bubbling anger. As he wandered along, he shouldered his way through crowds, drawing one or two angry glances.
Quint appeared more sad than annoyed. His shoulders were drooped, hands busy, playing with his glass, and when he raised it to his lips, he sipped, rather than gulping down the sparkling, amber ale.
“What’s your proper name, son?” Joe asked.
“Quentin Ambrose.” He delivered the news with a good deal of contempt. “Now do you see why I like to be called Quint?”
Brenda smiled. “It could be worse. We met one barman in Windermere those first name was Storm.”
“That’s parents for you,” Joe said. “They don’t always stop to think how their kids might suffer.” He took a mouthful of ale. “All right, Quint.
What was the crack between you and Winnie?”
“Is it any of your business?”
“I’m making it my business. Y’see, we already know she was murdered, and I reckon you know it too, otherwise you wouldn’t be so mad. But it was a knife in the belly which killed her, not anything Flick might have sold her. You’re sure he’s dealing drugs?”
“Certain of it. I know he sells booze, hooky cigarettes and baccy, but he also sells coke, E, maybe a bit of H.”
Brenda frowned. “And it is common knowledge?”
“No. A good few of us know, but Eleanor Dorning doesn’t.”
Joe’s next question was more to the point. “Is Charlie Curnow aware of this?”
Quint shrugged and took a larger drink from his glass. “I don’t know. He sells the smoke and booze, too, and for all I know, he could be supplying Tolley.”
Joe backtracked a little. “Let’s put that aside. I asked you what the score was between you and Winnie. Did you have something going down?”
“She was my girl until last season, when Flick turned up, and he turned her away from me. Not totally, though. She was still with me now and then, and I was willing to settle down with her. I told her that lots of times this season.”
“Did you see her at all Saturday night after the show was over and the bar was closed?”
“Yeah. We was on our way back to the staff vans, and I told her I still wanted her. She said she had something to sort out and she’d catch me later.” A tear began to form in his eye. “That was the last time I saw her. Next thing I knew, Eleanor was telling us all she’d been found dead on the beach.” The anger began to return to his voice, and he clenched his fists into tight balls. “That Flick. He killed her. I know he did.”
Chapter Nine
It was a pensive Joe who climbed off the bus when they got back to Gittings.
When Quint left them, they spent the remainder of the day wandering round the attractive and crowded little town, Brenda did some ‘upmarket’ shopping, and Joe picked up one or two souvenirs; a tobacco tin with a cartoon sun shining over St Ives, a reproduction watercolour of the harbour, which would hang on the wall in his flat, and a map of ‘Arthurian’ Cornwall which he declared to have less basis in genuine history than Sanford’s role in winning World War Two.
A Cornish Killing Page 7