Joe’s eyes lit up. “Oh. One of our members is an antique dealer. Stewart Dalmer. I wonder if that’s where he went today.”
“Probably. I don’t know of any other second-hand markets in Truro.” She chuckled again. “I hope he had more luck than me. I didn’t find anything that took my fancy.”
“He knows his stuff,” Joe commented through a mouthful of steak and vegetables. “And the same could be said of this chef. The steak is excellent.”
At the end of the main course, Eleanor chose a fruit salad for dessert, and Joe ordered a slice of lemon meringue pie with fresh cream, and once again he was full of praise for the restaurant.
When the meal was over, he ordered coffee and after-dinner mints, and spent a few moments rolling a cigarette (only to be advised by the management that if he wished to smoke, he would have to step outside) and considered his approach.
With the drinks delivered, he tucked the cigarette in his pocket, and leaned his elbows on the table, playing with his cup and saucer. “This isn’t all about asking you out, Eleanor. I don’t wanna spoil the evening, but there are matters I have to bring up with you.”
She gave him the tiniest of nods. “Your friend’s camera?”
“What?” Joe was momentarily flummoxed, and then recalled the argument between himself, Eleanor and Les Tanner. “Oh, no. I don’t give a toss about his camera. If the bloody fool hadn’t left it in the caravan, it wouldn’t have gone missing. No, no.” He was silent for a moment. “There was an incident in St Ives today. Two of your staff fighting outside a takeaway.”
Her pleasant features became more serious. “Which two?”
“Flick. I remember him being one of the entertainments staff last night. The other is a barman whose proper name is Quentin, but who likes to be called Quint.”
Eleanor’s features darkened further. “They were arguing about Winnie, weren’t they?”
Joe agreed and gulped down some coffee. He unwrapped an after-dinner mint, and went on, “Quint made some fairly serious accusations against Flick. Drug dealing.”
It occurred to him right away that he was not telling Eleanor anything she did not already know, and she confirmed as much.
“I’d be very surprised if there was no dealer at Gittings. It’s par for the course these days. It’s common in towns and cities, and almost inevitable that someone on the site will be selling drugs, and we do get droves of young people staying during the summer. But to be honest, Joe, I’d need a lot more than Quint Ambrose’s accusation before I could instigate any proceedings.” She sighed. “I suppose I could call in the police, but Flick would deny it, and I can’t have them searching every van on site. It would upset too many of the holidaymakers. I need firm evidence. Has anyone – Flick or anyone else – offered you anything?”
“No.” Joe felt a rush of guilt with the memory of buying contraband tobacco from Charlie Curnow. He chewed on his mint and swallowed it. “If they did, they’d get a mouthful, and I would bring the matter to you. I’m not afraid of naming names, Eleanor. Never have been. You know Flick better than me. Is there any danger that Quint is right?”
She shrugged and sipped her coffee. “Your guess is as good as mine. I wouldn’t call him shady, exactly, but he is a bit… What’s the word… Irreverent. He doesn’t care much what people say or think about him. I can tell you that he and Wynette were a couple. They were not living together or anything like that, even though Winnie’s ambitions might lie in that direction, but I do know they were sleeping together occasionally.”
Joe was surprised. “And you don’t mind?”
“I don’t know what I can do about it. Theoretically, we have a rule which forbids crew members of the opposite sex sharing a caravan, unless they’re married, but it happens. I know for a fact it does, and to be honest, there’s no practical way of stopping it, other than fencing off the male and female caravans and putting guards on them. But we’re a holiday park, not a concentration camp, and our security people have more important duties than looking out for couples getting it on.”
Eleanor drank more coffee and chewed delicately on an after-dinner mint. Her face was serious, contemplative, as if she were trying to work out a more definitive answer to Joe’s question.
At length she asked, “Can I ask how this accusation came about?”
Joe, too, had to consider his words. “I’m not sure you really want to know.”
“Oh but I do.”
He took a deep breath. “Quint accused Flick of murdering Winnie because she threatened to expose his drug dealing.”
The reaction was as he had expected; total shock. “That is serious.”
“As serious as it gets, but is it possible? Is Flick the kind of man who would be ready to commit murder?”
His question was followed by another long silence during which she weighed the possibilities and formulated an answer.
“Off the top of my head, I would say yes. Flick is a hard nut. Try calling him by his proper name, Frederick, and you’ll see what I mean. You caught them fighting. Chances are that Quint accused Flick and he reacted. Not that Quint is incapable of looking after himself,” she hastened on. “He’s worked behind the bar at Gittings for the last five or six years, and like any other bar, we get occasional aggro. Quint knows how to deal with it, and if it comes to blows, he’s not afraid to trade punches.”
“He doesn’t like his given name, either, does he?”
“No. Getting back to your original question on Flick, I wouldn’t describe him as a cold-blooded killer, but it wouldn’t be beyond him if he lost his temper, and if he’s dealing drugs, and if Winnie threatened to expose him, then yes, I can see him jamming a knife into her tummy.” She tried to smile. “Sorry, Joe. A lot of ‘ifs’ in that summary.”
Another piece of information which Joe slotted into his compartmentalised mind. “And what about Quint? Could he have killed her in a similar fit of temper?” He leaned forward, stressing his next point. “You see, it was obvious to me – and my friend, Brenda – that Quint was in love with the girl.”
“Everyone knows that. Winnie was his girl until Flick arrived last season.” Eleanor became more pensive. “Could he have killed her? I shouldn’t have thought so, but I really don’t know.”
“But you can understand what I’m getting at?” Joe urged. “Madly in love with her, she rejects him, and he loses the plot. Yeah?”
Eleanor forced another wan smile. “You’re not exactly preaching to the choir, I’m afraid. I’ve never been married, and even if I’m no stranger to relationships, I’ve never had one I felt that strongly about.”
“Me neither.”
The conversation came to a halt, and it was followed by a diffident silence, which Eleanor broke.
“Is that it, Joe? Is that all you wanted to ask me?”
“No. There is one more issue, and this one came from Sergeant O’Neill. I suppose it touches on the business with Les Tanner, but she told me that Gittings, in common with a few of the holiday parks in the area, suffer an awful lot of thefts from the vans, and she – and the police in general, I suppose – believe it’s down to your cleaning contractors.”
He expected the question to annoy her, and he was pleasantly surprised by her non-reaction.
“She’s exaggerating, Joe. Yes, we get thefts, yes we tend to look at the contractors rather than our full-time staff, all of whom we vet thoroughly before we employ them, and yes, I know it’s a problem on other parks in the Hayle, Penzance, St Ives area, but it’s not as prevalent as Sergeant O’Neill makes it out to be. It’s occasional incidents, like the one with Mr Tanner, but she makes it sound like an epidemic.”
Joe was still walking on egg shells when he asked, “So it’s not something that Winnie would be involved in?”
Eleanor shook her head. “I told you, we vet our employees thoroughly. Winnie had no criminal record, and if she was involved, then I’m disappointed in her.” A deep frown crossed her features. “But I can’t see how
that would be a motive for murder.”
“That depends on whether you’ve had a thousand quid’s worth of camera nicked.”
Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth. “You don’t think Mr Tanner—”
Joe cut her off with a hearty laugh at the imagery the unfinished accusation generated in his mind. “Les Tanner? Knifing a girl? He’s too much of a gentleman. He’d at least say to her, ‘excuse me, madam, but would you mind turning your back while I kill you’.” His laughter echoed around their booth and beyond. “Captain Les Tanner is a toy soldier. A member of the Territorial Army Reserve. The nearest he comes to killing anything is when he pours weedkiller on his flowerbeds.” His laughter subsided and he sobered up. “No, I was thinking more of thieves falling out, but if you tell me she wasn’t involved in that kind of thing, then I accept that. Course, she could have tumbled who the thieves were, and decided to bubble them.” He held up his hand and signalled a waiter. “Anyway, let’s forget it all for now. Eleanor, it’s been a smashing evening. I’ll just get the bill, and we can be on our way.”
She reached for her purse, but Joe held up a hand to stop her.
“I’m the biggest tightwad in Yorkshire, but when I take a woman to dinner, she keeps her money in her bag.” He grinned. “Anyway, I’m not in Yorkshire, am I?”
He left his seat, visited the smallest room, then settled the bill, and while Eleanor also visited the toilet, Joe stepped outside to smoke the cigarette he had rolled.
Notwithstanding the debate over Wynette’s death and the level of theft on the park, it had been an excellent evening, so much more invigorating than sitting in the bar watching his fellow club members playing bingo, followed by hick entertainment by a bunch of wannabes led by a has been.
And it was not over. When Eleanor returned, they climbed into her car and she pulled off the car park. Turning left for Hayle, she asked, “Would you fancy a nightcap?”
He was happy to agree. “Another pub? A ceilidh? Or are you thinking of Gittings’ show bar?”
She smiled secretively. “Somewhere a little more, erm, exciting.”
Joe’s pulse quickened. Was there something hidden in the invitation? And what was behind that secret little smile?
Women were a mystery to him, but beyond that their interest in him was an even bigger mystery. He did not consider himself good-looking, and standing barely 5’6”, he would be hard pressed to dominate any situation by raising himself to his full height. In fact, just like many other women, Eleanor was taller than him… without shoes. He had no reputation as a Romeo, and he was notably timid in asking women for a date, let alone persuading them to take matters further.
Neither was he an intellectual. All right, so he could solve the cryptic crossword in the Daily Express most days, he was not bad with medium-difficulty sudokus, and he had a basic understanding of psychology, which often helped identify the motives of a criminal, but talk about art, genuine philosophy, advanced maths, astronomy, a whole host of subjects, and he was a virtual Neanderthal. He knew nothing.
As a businessman he was shrewd with an innate ability to maximise profits, thanks largely to his negotiating ability, but many men would have put such talents to use making their first million. Joe was comfortably off, but he was nowhere near a millionaire, and the size of his empire was restricted to The Lazy Luncheonette, which was unlikely to get him on the front page of Time magazine as man of the year. As far as he could recollect, he had never made the Sanford Gazette’s shortlist for the town’s person of the year.
And yet, now and again, he would meet a woman like Eleanor who for some inexplicable reason was attracted to him… at least, he hoped that was the reason behind her invitation. His inbuilt early-warning radar was never engaged when he entertained the company of such a woman, as a result of which he would never dare make the first move.
Consequently, it was an uncharacteristically jittery Joe who followed Eleanor into her van set amongst the staff accommodation and away from the lines of guests’ vans.
The layout was standard, but she had done much to turn it from a ‘place to crash’ into a home. China ornaments were ranged along the shelves, photographs stood here and various scents, none of which Joe could specifically identify, drifted from bowls of potpourri set at strategic locations.
Eleanor took two brandy balloons and a small bottle of Courvoisier from an overhead cupboard, and poured a small measure into each glass. Handing one to Joe, she made herself comfortable on the long settee beneath the window, and curled her legs up under her, which had the effect of making her skirt ride up above the knee.
Joe averted his eyes, sipped his brandy, and racked his brain for something to say. If ever he needed small talk, it was now, and as always, he had none, other than the stalwart, tedious British standby of the weather.
He needn’t have worried. Eleanor had plenty to talk about, including the recent Women’s World Cup and the political upheaval across Europe. Joe commented as best he could, even though he was not aware that there had been a Women’s World Cup.
And throughout her chatter, he sneaked occasional glances at his watch, and finally, with the time reading 11:30 p.m., he finished the brandy, got to his feet, and said, “Ah, well, time I was getting—”
He never finished what he was going to say. With a speed that alarmed him, Eleanor leapt to her feet, rushed across the van, threw her arms around him, locked her lips to his, and pressed him back onto the opposite settee.
Joe was not certain whether to feel relief or more apprehension, but he succumbed to the moment…
Chapter Eleven
When Stewart Dalmer stepped out of the bedroom and into the kitchen at nine o’clock the following morning, Joe was chewing his way through a bowl of cereal.
Dalmer appeared embarrassed. “Oh. Good, er, good morning, Joe.”
Joe made an effort to be friendly. “Morning, Stewart. I saw your jacket hanging on the door, and tried to keep the noise down when I came in last night.”
It was an edited version of the truth.
At her insistence, he left Eleanor just before one in the morning.
“Discretion, Joe. It would be brilliant to have you spend the night here, but I can’t afford for anyone to see a guest leaving my van in the morning.” She had smiled coyly at him. “But if you want to knock on the door after lights out tomorrow…”
She had left the suggestion in the air, and Joe came away a happy, satisfied man, moreover, one who had satisfied a demanding woman, with the promise of more to come in twenty-four hours.
When he got back at his own caravan, he picked up the sound of bedroom activity as he opened the door, and it was noticeable that the van was rocking slightly on its rear suspension. After his own lascivious exertions, he could hardly frown upon Brenda’s activities, so he pottered quietly around the sink, making a cup of tea, and crept into his bedroom, waiting for the bumps, moans and groans coming from the next bedroom, to subside.
The caravan was designed so that Brenda had a toilet in her room, so he was not disturbed by either her or Dalmer attending to their post-coital ablutions. And he knew it was Dalmer. He really had spotted the brown leather windjammer hanging behind the door when he first came in.
Notwithstanding the time he went to bed, Joe’s inbuilt alarm clock woke him at half past six. He nodded off again, but finally rose at half past seven, washed and shaved, dressed, and stepped outside for the first cigarette of the day while watching the growing daylight.
There was no sign of cloud in the sky, and it did not take long for the chill to nip at his arms. The lights were on in the Staineses van next door, but there was no sign of Alec, so without any further distraction, after smoking a cigarette, he went back into the van, and switched on the gas heater.
He passed an hour updating his journal with the events of the previous day, including non-salacious references to the evening and later hours spent with Eleanor. His primary concern now was the murder of Wynette Kalinowski, and he made a
mental note to chase up Sergeant O’Neill before the day was out. Beyond that, the 3rd Age Club had no plans (although they were scheduled to visit Penzance on the Wednesday) and as far as Joe was concerned, there was nothing on the horizon other than pottering about on the park, or maybe going down into Hayle for the day.
Dalmer switched on the kettle and reached up into an overhead cupboard for a cup. Only then did it occur to him that he needed to ask permission. “You don’t mind, do you, Joe?”
“Help yourself, mate. You’re Brenda’s… Brenda’s guest, aren’t you?” Joe had been about to say ‘Brenda’s lover’ when he checked himself. “I believe you were in Truro yesterday.”
Dalmer fussed at the kettle. “Yes. Second-hand market. Well, you know it’s my business, and frankly, you never know what you might pick up at these places.”
“I suppose so. Find anything interesting?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I picked up a book for ten pounds. The story of HMS Amethyst. She was shelled by the Chinese when she came down the Yangtze in nineteen forty-nine, you know. The father of a friend of a friend was a crewman aboard the Amethyst. Lost a leg in that particular action. I thought I might be able to sell the book on. Make a small profit. You know.”
Joe finished his cereal and pushed the bowl to one side. “That’s what business is all about.” He took a swallow of tea. “Eleanor Dorning, the general manager here, was on the same market apparently.”
Dalmer collected his cup and saucer and joined Joe at the table. “Really? Can’t say I noticed her. Mind you, it was very busy.”
“All antiques?”
Dalmer smiled. “Hell, no. It’s a bog standard flea market. You can buy just about anything there, including an ancient Amstrad computer if you wanted one. And some of the traders were selling bits and pieces that weren’t exactly old. You’d be surprised at the number of mobile phones you can buy on the stalls.”
The comment reminded Joe that no one had mentioned anything about Winnie’s mobile, and he made a mental note to ask Sergeant O’Neill about it.
A Cornish Killing Page 9