“Ex-wife, and she’s not hidden. She’s in the Canary Islands. Thanks for your help.”
***
The first people Joe bumped into as he left the show bar were George Robson and Owen Frickley, who had encouraging news for him.
“Tanner was left looking a right berk,” Owen said. “Sixteen for, thirteen agin, but he’s threatening to call another vote when we get home.”
Joe could not be less interested. “Let him. I’ve just about had enough of him… and others.”
George took the hint. “You mean Brenda? She’s only narked cos you didn’t take her to bed.”
“I offered,” Joe lied and George laughed again.
“What chance have you got when I’m here?” George went on more seriously. “Worst thing you did was hand over the club to that nit-picking prat, Joe. Anyone’d think he owns it.”
Joe was not in a communicative mood when he began the walk back to their respective vans, and despite the efforts of his two old friends, he preferred his own company. He thanked them and they went their separate ways.
“A different man,” Owen commented. “Ever since that woman of his, that Denise, was killed.”
Inside the van, Joe might just have agreed. His head was swimming with the things he had learned during the course of the day, and he could not make his mind up which to prioritise; the events at Gittings or the way in which Les Tanner and the 3rd Age Club were trying to ostracise him.
When it came to the former, the case was wide open (even though the police had taken Tolley in for questioning) and as far as the latter was concerned, he could not decide whether to feel sorry for himself or angry with Tanner… and Brenda. Her attitude was especially annoying considering their long years of close friendship.
Brenda returned to the caravan a little after half past seven, and although she was reluctant to speak to him, she made it clear that she had come, to change into her evening clothes. “I’ll be staying with Stewart for the rest of the week.”
Joe did not reply, and she disappeared into the rear rooms. Ten minutes later, she emerged wearing a dark top to match her black pants, and as she prepared to leave, she stopped and turned angry features on him.
“Just to bring you up to speed, if you’re at all interested, Norman Pyecock, Mort Norris, and Mavis Barker have all had things stolen from their caravans.
Joe grunted. “Maybe they’ll learn not to leave them lying around in future, then.”
He did not look at her when he replied, and that, plus the acid in his response, only exacerbated Brenda’s anger. She left the caravan and slammed the door behind her.
Joe did not leave the van until much later. He microwaved a frozen meal, and passed the hours in speculative thought centred mainly on his future. A few minutes after half past ten, he knocked on Eleanor’s door, and she let him in. It was obvious from his glum face that there was much wrong, and when she asked, Joe found he could pour his heart out to her.
“There are people in Sanford I can still count on, but not many, and to be honest, Eleanor, I’m thinking of chucking it all in, and moving permanently. I have friends on the Yorkshire coast – well, one friend at least – and I have contacts in Tenerife.”
“It would be a brave decision, Joe. Especially at our time of life.”
He noticed that she was careful to stress ‘our time’ rather than ‘his time’. And that diplomacy was maintained when she subtly reminded him that he was not there for counselling, but to satisfy their need of each other, and by eleven o’clock, he had forgotten anything other than that need.
Chapter Fourteen
Wednesday morning was the start of a busy forty-eight hours for the Sanford 3rd Age Club. A scheduled shopping trip to Penzance would be followed on Thursday by a much longer journey to Tintagel.
Although no one had any objections to Penzance, several people had raised questions on the advisability of the fifty mile journey to Tintagel following on so quickly, but Tanner had stressed that the alternatives were to either cancel one of the excursions or reschedule Tintagel for Friday, but that would mean a tiring, 100-mile round trip on Friday, followed by an even more exhausting 400-mile journey home on Saturday. In the end, the members agreed to deal with the excursions on Wednesday and Thursday, which would give them Friday to recover.
In light of the antipathy some members had for him, Joe had all but decided to skip both excursions, but when he awoke on Wednesday morning it was with a sense of grievance which gave rise to ardent defiance. He had been looking forward to Cornwall for months, and he was damned if he would miss even the simple shopping trip, never mind the myth of Tintagel.
Consequently, he was amongst the group waiting for the bus just before ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, and the only concession he made to the other members was to stand apart from them while he enjoyed a cigarette.
His normal seat on the bus was the front row on the opposite side to Keith, the driver, but there was a jump seat just inside the door, and in view of the irritation between himself and Brenda, he lowered that and strapped himself in for the half-hour journey.
Their driver gave him a curious look, but passed no comment. A fair number of the members ignored him, but in what he suspected was a show of support, George Robson, Owen Frickley and the Staineses all bid him a cheery ‘good morning’, and as if to demonstrate her absolute impartiality, Sylvia Goodson did likewise, much to the annoyance of Tanner.
The situation was untenable, and he knew it would need to be brought to a head, but that was more likely to happen in Sanford. In the meantime, he had three more days of this angry impasse, four if he counted the full day’s journey home on Saturday.
He had said as much to Eleanor the previous night.
After their mutually satisfying exertions in the bedroom, she had taken a quick shower, and asked him if he would prepare toast. He obliged, but with appalling mental images of Wynette Kalinowski filling his mind, he was reluctant to use the breadknife to cut slices from the loaf, and instead chose a meat knife.
Over tea and toast before leaving her, he spelled out the situation between him and the members in greater detail, and Eleanor urged patience.
“Friendships are like that, Joe, even long-term ones. I’m sure they’ll see sense eventually.”
Joe was not so certain, and after making arrangements to meet again on Wednesday night, he made his way back to his van and spent an uncomfortable, largely sleepless night alone.
It was not an unfamiliar situation. Had Sheila been with them, he would have been alone anyway, and back home in Yorkshire, he lived alone. The antidote was the Miner’s Arms where he could mingle with his friends, most of them members of the club, and without the unfortunate turn of events, he could have mixed with those same people here in Cornwall. They did not want him, and because of that same hostility, he did not want them.
He could not recall any time in his life when he had been so isolated. Even when he ran from the murderous intentions of a crazed killer in Palmanova, he was alone for only forty-eight hours before hooking up with his ex-wife, Alison. And when he left her, it was to join Maddy on the Yorkshire coast. Joe Murray, proprietor of The Lazy Luncheonette, may have been irritable and outspoken, but the social Joe Murray was a different man, and his current segregation grated upon him.
Penzance was a bore. Aside from souvenirs for Lee, Cheryl, and young Danny, there was nothing he was in need of, and he spent much of the day wandering up and down Market Jew Street, the main shopping area. He called in at the local interest centre, and learned some of the history of the town, but nothing of the curious name of the street. Not because it was not available, but because it did not occur to him until much later in the morning, when he was taking lunch at a café on the raised sidewalk halfway down the street.
After lunch he continued to troll up and down the street, checking out this shop and that bargain store, this fashion emporium, that mobile phone centre, and as he passed a shop going by the curious name of
Entiex, it’s banner declaring ‘branches all over the southwest’ he paused to look in the window.
It was one of those places which specialised in buying and selling second-hand electronic equipment: mobile phones, tablets, cameras, electronic games and such. He was tempted to go in and check on the price of iPads, but he changed his mind. If something went wrong, it was too long a journey to bring the machine back. Instead, he doubled back, and ambled through the Waterside shopping centre until he came out by the harbour.
He spent an hour in a nearby pub in the company of George Robson and Owen Frickley. They were heavy drinkers, and while Joe could not take alcohol in such amounts he found the company at least warm and welcoming, and when Charlie Curnow stepped into the bar, he at least gave brought a little light relief with him.
Curnow stood a round of drinks, and over the next thirty minutes, kept them chuckling with jokes, many of which were older than Joe.
Just before he left, Curnow asked, “Are the filth any further forward with Flick?”
Joe shrugged. “You tell me. It’s not like they keep me informed.”
“But you still think they’ve got it wrong?”
“No. Not necessarily.” Joe was happy to have something to talk about other than his problems with the 3rd Age Club, and tackled the subject with gusto. “All I’m saying is, there’s more than one suspect, and they should be looking at Quint Ambrose too. You ever been in love, Charlie?”
The question drew smirks from George and Owen, and a roar of laughter from the comedian.
“Yes. With myself.” More soberly, he went on, “I was married, but it was a marriage made in hell. I should have guessed, really. When we flew off on honeymoon, she was the pilot, and the plane was her broomstick.”
Joe nodded sagely. “Been there, done that. Not quite as bad as you make it out, but it didn’t work.”
“Our marriage was fine,” Curnow went on, “but she couldn’t stand the never-ending stream of jokes, especially since most of them were about her. I mean, I’m not saying she was ugly, but when she walked into the bathroom, the mirror turned its face to the wall.”
George and Owen laughed heartily. While not especially politically correct, Joe had always considered gags based on appearance or body shape to be demeaning, and he smiled thinly, and only then to avoid an inevitable inquest.
Curnow sensed his discomfort, and when he brought the subject back to Quint Ambrose, Joe credited the comedian with the innate wisdom of a long-term stage performer, able to sense when the audience, or part thereof, was not on his side.
“So what were you saying about love?”
“I said it yesterday. It’s much more powerful than hate, and in my book, it makes young Quint as likely a suspect as Flick. The only thing against Flick are his finger marks around Winnie’s neck, but, you know, it doesn’t make sense.”
Curnow frowned. “Why?”
Joe shook he said. “I don’t have all the details, so I don’t know, but it all depends on handedness. The way Hattie O’Neill says Winnie was stabbed was under the rib cage and into the heart. That means she was stabbed on the left hand side. There are two ways Flick could have done that. He either held her from the front using his left hand, and then jabbed the knife in using his right hand, but holding her in that position, she would have been backing off. If he was holding her from behind, as Howell says happened, he would have needed to put his right hand on her neck, and then reach round her and jabbed the knife in upwards, but it would be an extraordinarily lucky shot, because from that angle, he wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing. You see what I mean?”
Curnow considered the proposition, and responded, “It could be that he held her by the neck and pressed her to the ground before stabbing her.”
Joe pursed his lips. “Possible, but neither Howell nor Hattie mentioned anything about a larger area of disturbed sand and gorse.” He shook his head irritably. “He’s not very forthcoming with information, isn’t Howell.”
“You certainly know your stuff, Murray. Trouble is, doesn’t all this apply to Quint too?”
“No. They haven’t found his dabs on the woman. Mind you, that’s not necessarily conclusive. He could have worn gloves. Let’s imagine he was hiding in the dunes and he saw the argument between Flick and Winnie, figured he might be in with a chance, when she rejected him, he reverted to plan A and knifed her, calmly leaving Flick’s prints on her neck. Two birds and one sharp knife; dealt with the woman who rejected him, and dealt with the bloke who caused her to reject him.”
Curnow frowned. “And gave me a class one headache at the same time.” He glanced at his watch. “Pushing three o’clock. Time I wasn’t here. Been nice rapping with you. Enjoy the show tonight.”
They watched him leave the bar, and Owen commented, “Ace guy. Really funny.”
Joe scowled. “Yeah. In 1981.”
George and Owen opted for a final drink, and Joe was not far behind Curnow leaving the bar, from where he made his way down to the harbour and looked over the assortment of cargo, private and pleasure craft, before ambling along the wall side towards the car park and the bus.
Crossing between the parked cars, he bumped into Eleanor.
She greeted him with a smile. “Oh, hello. Having a good day?”
“Not so you’d notice. How about you?” He nodded at her empty shopping bag.
She gave a small, embarrassed little laugh. “Hardly. I came looking for one or two bits and pieces, but couldn’t find anything that took my fancy. Can I give you a lift back to Gittings?”
“I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get back to the bus. I’ll see you later.”
“I hope so.”
Satisfied with her last words, he left her, and made his way to the coach, where Keith already had the door open, and was waiting for the party to get back.
“You taking the jump seat again, Joe?”
“Yep. Brenda’s not talking to me.”
“So I hear. Have you made any progress on these thefts?”
“Nope. Not likely to either.” Joe was aware that his tones were clipped, disinterested. He sighed. “You’re a regular driver, Keith, and how many holidays and outings have you taken us on? Too many to count. And how many times have we had members complaining of bits and pieces stolen?”
Mort Norris and Mavis Barker arrived, and got on the bus while Keith appeared to give Joe’s question some thought. “Almost never. The only trouble we’ve ever had is when you poked your nose into things that don’t concern you.”
“Yes, well, this time I kept my nose out, and I’m still in trouble.”
George and Owen were amongst the stragglers, as a result of which it was almost quarter past four before Keith began the return drive. As with the outbound journey, some people greeted Joe, others ignored him, and he ignored all of them, concentrating instead on a copy of Dr No, the next Bond novel after From Russia With Love, which he had bought at a charity shop at the top end of Market Jew Street and by the time they got back to Gittings, 007 was already facing an uncomfortable interview with M.
As they left the bus, most of the passengers headed back to their caravans, one or two made for the cafeteria, but Joe passed through the entertainment centre into the show bar, where he pulled Quint Ambrose to one end of the bar.
“You know they’ve arrested Flick?”
Quint’s response was predictable. “Good. It’s time someone walled him up.”
“How much of the argument between him and Winnie did you see?”
It was a shot in the dark, but unexpectedly productive. Quint’s colour drained, and he went immediately on the defensive. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your reaction tells me different. You were there, weren’t you? You saw the fight between them. Did you see Flick stab her?”
His face fell. “No, I didn’t. I’d already talked to her, told her how I felt, begged her to give me a chance, but she didn’t wanna know. S
o I came away, and as I was walking back to the park, I saw Flick on the other path, walking towards her, so I hung around just to see what would happen.”
Joe silently congratulated himself on his insight. “Go on.”
“I tell you, she was all right when I left her. I didn’t hurt her. But I could hear them arguing. Her more than Flick. I don’t know what it was about, but she was threatening to blow the whistle. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Not properly. But then, all of a sudden, he grabbed her by the throat.”
“And you didn’t want to dash in like a knight in shining armour, rescuing your damsel in distress?” Joe’s voice dripped cynical disbelief.
“No. She made it plain that she didn’t want me, and I thought, sod it; if he batters her, she deserves it. So I turned and walked away.”
Joe recreated the scene in his imagination. “Did she fight back?”
Quint nodded. “She was a tough cookie. You didn’t start with her without expecting some comeback. But Tolley’s way bigger than her. She never had a chance.”
“How much attention were you really paying? Can you tell me which hand he grabbed her with?”
A puzzled frown and Quint’s young face spoke for itself. “I never took no notice. What difference does it make?”
“A lot, trust me. Sixty years ago, Flick would have faced the noose for this kind of crime, and someone noticing something like that could have made the difference between life and death.”
From the bar, Joe made his way to the bottom of the auditorium, where members of the entertainments staff were gathered around a single table.
“Hiya,” he greeted them cheerily. “Listen, is there any danger I could talk to you for a few minutes?”
A Cornish Killing Page 12