An hour later, with the time coming up to 8 o’clock, the September/October night had already closed in. She put on her coat, and left the caravan for the short walk to the entertainment centre.
She was ambling past the next van when Sylvia and Tanner stepped out, and she waited until they fell in alongside her. As they walked along, she told them of the argument with Joe, and her discussion with Sheila.
Tanner was uncharacteristically diffident. “I suppose she has a point, and I must confess, I think I may have been a little too hasty in calling the vote.” He cleared his throat. “I may have to eat humble pie.”
“I don’t know,” Brenda said. “He was in a hell of a mood when he stormed out, and his comments on the club were not complimentary.” She sighed into the night. “What are we going to do?”
Tanner sucked in his breath. “I already know what to do. I’m resigning the Chair.”
Brenda stopped in her tracks. Was this just a night for shocks? “For heaven’s sake why?”
“I’m guilty as charged,” Sylvia said. “I talked him into it, Brenda. You know my feelings for Les. He’s a good man, but his management style is not consistent with the running of a social club. It’s better if someone else takes over.”
“And your man has already expressed an interest,” Tanner said.
Brenda frowned. “My man?”
“Dalmer,” Les confirmed. “Like Murray, he runs his own business, so he’s perfectly accustomed to decision-making. Unlike Murray, he’s efficient. Do I need to say any more?”
There was something in Tanner’s tone which indicated a subtext, but Brenda could not get a handle on it.
“You don’t approve?”
“As the outgoing Chair, Brenda, it’s hardly for me to say, but privately, I don’t think Stewart is the man for the job.”
As they neared the entertainment complex, and headed into the cafeteria, Brenda began to wish that she could wave some kind of magic wand and put everything back as it was in the past. She remembered entertaining the same feelings when her husband passed away. But there was no such thing as a magic wand, and the only way back was through hard work, and even then there were no guarantees of recovering former glories.
Chapter Seventeen
Joe stomped away from the caravan with the intention of going to the show bar cafeteria for his evening meal, but he had gone less than five yards when he changed his mind, turned back and climbed into his hired Citroen. Firing the engine, he gunned the accelerator and ignoring the speed limits and speed humps, tore out of the park, picked up the main road and headed for the Smugglers Inn on the road to Penzance.
Eleanor did not finish her shift until eight o’clock, and that was fine with him. Later in the evening, when he had calmed down, he would want her company, but right now all he wanted was to be alone, let the seething rage settle.
And as he put distance between himself and Gittings, he began to calm down, and with that came clarity of thought.
He didn’t care whether Brenda was right or wrong. It was his life to lead as he saw fit, and if that excluded the Sanford 3rd Age Club, then so be it.
Twenty minutes later, settling into a booth, ordering a well done steak and a glass of lager, he took out his smartphone and called his nephew, Lee.
“All right, Uncle Joe? Are you having a good time?”
“I’m doing all right, lad,” he lied. “Just ringing to check whether there’s been any problems while I’ve been away.”
“No.” Lee sounded defensive. “I can manage, you know. I mean, I’ve been working there long enough to know what to do.”
Joe smiled to himself at the manner in which Lee had misunderstood his initial query. “I know you have, and I wasn’t doubting you.”
“Good. It’s been as busy as it always is, and the brewery men keep asking when you’re due back.” Lee laughed. “I think they miss the way you insult them.”
Joe did not find the comment funny, and once he had asked after Cheryl and young Danny, and received assurances that everyone was fine, he ended the call. If anything, it had reinforced an inkling that had been at the back of his mind since his return from Majorca via Tenerife and Cragshaven.
For one crazy moment, he considered calling back at the caravan, packing his bags and driving the hire car home, rather than waiting for the bus on Saturday morning. The rental agency was part of a nationwide group, and he could leave the car at the nearest branch to Sanford.
Common sense born of sheer bloody mindedness prevailed. Why should he? He paid his dues, paid for his week in Cornwall, so why should he turn and run away just because the rest of the membership (or that part of it which was in Hayle and had voted against him) was disenchanted with him? They would be glad to see the back of him, and he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him run.
But the thought gave rise to others, most of them centred on the appalling loneliness of his current situation. If he disappeared without trace, no one, other than a few individuals such as Lee, Cheryl, perhaps Gemma, would bat an eyelid. And the tiny notion which had been at the back of his mind a few moments ago, took on greater significance.
“The Lazy Luncheonette doesn’t need me,” he confessed to Eleanor when he joined her in her caravan two hours later. “And neither does the Sanford 3rd Age Club.”
He took no pleasure in the announcement. He had given all his life to the café, and a sizeable proportion of the last seven or eight years to the 3rd Age Club, and the thought of putting them into the background was difficult.
By the same token, he was not the only man or woman in the world to turn their back on a previous life and start afresh even at his advancing age. Hadn’t Alison done it when they divorced and she left for Tenerife? Like him, she was a Sanfordian through and through, but after splitting with Joe, she decided that the Canary Islands were preferable to West Yorkshire, and she had never regretted the decision. Indeed, she had tried to persuade him to stay there when he fled to her after the events of Palmanova.
Eleanor was sympathetic. “Are you sure Brenda wasn’t just sounding off?”
Joe shook his head and swilled brandy around a balloon. “I’ve known her since we were kids. We were at school together. I know the difference between meaning it and just getting her hair off. She meant it.” He downed the brandy in one gulp. “Listen, I know people see me as an experienced short order cook, but there’s more to me than that. I served my time in catering college. I can create the fancy meals people prefer these days, and I know how to pull a pint. Be honest with me, Eleanor, if I sold up, passed my share of the business to Lee, and moved down here, what would be my chances?”
She chewed her lip. “That’s difficult to assess, Joe. You just said that you’ve given your life to your café. If you came down here, even if you could find premises, get permission, set them up, you still have to establish a reputation, and speaking frankly, Cornishmen are just as cliquey as Yorkshireman. It takes time to become accepted. On top of that, we don’t get many truckers coming this far south. You’d be reliant on locals and the tourist trade, and as I say, the locals would take time to accept you, which means that between the end of September the beginning of April, you’d have a lean time.”
For a moment, it occurred to Joe that she was trying to put him off, but with the perspicacity which led him to the conclusion that Sanford was a part of the past he needed to be without, he realised that she was merely cautioning him; advising him of the difficulties which would confront him.
With the promise that he would think seriously about it, they took to her bed, where they enjoyed each other for the second last time, and Joe sneaked from her caravan a little after midnight, and made his way to the accommodation he shared with Brenda.
It was rare that Joe got drunk. His hours of work had long ago dissuaded him from an excess of alcohol. It was bad enough crawling out of bed in the middle of the night, without compounding matters with a storming hangover.
And for once, his
sobriety saved him from serious injury. As he ambled along the gravel lane towards his caravan, a blaze of headlights came from behind, accompanied by the roar of an overstressed engine. Joe glanced over his shoulder, and saw the car bearing down on him at high speed. He threw himself to the right, landed on the grass and rolled over a couple of times, before sitting up and glaring at the retreating vehicle.
There was no mistaking the silver-grey Renault Clio. The shabby, peeling paintwork on the passenger door, the missing wheel trim from the front rim told him all he needed to know. Charlie Curnow. Drunk as a skunk again.
The caravan lights were out when he got there, and that was fine by him. Ten to one, Brenda was sleeping with Dalmer. He let himself in, cleaned himself up after rolling over the grass, made a cup of tea, and went to bed, killing all the lights before settling down for the night.
He was still awake an hour later when he heard Brenda come in, and he guessed she was alone. He could hear only her footsteps moving around the van, and there was no conversation. He guessed that the row would have put a damper on her ardour, and it was with more than a touch of schadenfreude that the idea pleased him. It served her right.
For one mad moment, he considered getting out of bed and confronting her, but he changed his mind. She would learn of any decision soon enough, even if that meant when they got back to Sanford.
Once again, sleep came only with difficulty. The events of the day, the argument earlier in the evening, his solitary meal followed by his debate with Eleanor and the subsequent excitement, preyed upon his mind.
In an effort to combat his disturbed thoughts, he turned his attention to the murder of Wynette Kalinowski. He had twenty-four hours in which to prove Flick Tolley and Quentin Ambrose innocent… or guilty, as the case may be.
But still sleep would not come. This time, however, it was something he was certain he had seen or heard over the last day or two, a tiny, insignificant detail, but one which his jackrabbit mind could not pin down.
Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, but he was up again just after half past six, and still the events of the previous day, the missing item in a murder enquiry, filled his mind.
He heard Brenda moving around in her room at eight o’clock, and determined to avoid her, he left the caravan, climbed into the rented car, and drove off. He didn’t know where he was going, other than as far away from her and the other members of the 3rd Age Club as possible.
***
He took breakfast in a café on Market Jew Street in Penzance, the same one he had used a couple of days before, and as he ate, he wondered again about the etymology of the street’s name. It seemed to him to have racist overtones, although he was probably way off the mark. He was surprised and amused to learn (after checking it out on the web via his smartphone) that the name was actually a corruption of Marghas Yow, a term from the original Cornish language which translated as nothing more sinister than Thursday Market, but it struck a chord with him. Back home in Sanford, Pitted Street generated mental images of a street full of potholes, but in fact it was a corruption of Pit Head Street.
It was another bright, sparkling and sunny morning, chilly out of the sun, but otherwise pleasant and mild, which was more than could be said for his mood. He was glad to be away from Gittings, even more so to be away from Brenda and the problems surrounding the people and the place, but those same issues still haunted him.
What chance would he and Eleanor have of a life together? He had not put the proposition to her, and even as he thought of it, the absurdity struck him. He had known the woman less than a week, and he had no idea whether she was interested in a long-term relationship. He was looking at the situation purely from his point of view, not hers. Had she not told him that first night she had never been in a serious relationship? And he knew little about her other than she was an excellent, vibrant and vigorous sexual partner; entirely the wrong basis for any kind of future.
Thinking of her reminded him of the way he had bumped into her on the car park two days previously. It was a damn shame. How could he persuade her to change her mind? Did he want to persuade her? Would he readily change his mind?
He was still musing on the matter when his gaze fell on the window display of Entiex across the street. His curiosity getting the better of him, when he finished his meal, he crossed the street and studied the range of smartphones, tablets and handheld video consoles, all of them second-hand, and all of them still comparatively expensive.
He was particularly taken with the various iPads and similar on offer. Wherever he went he carried his laptop, and it was cumbersome, especially when he was travelling abroad with the miserly weight restrictions airlines insisted upon.
On an impulse, he stepped into the shop. Ten o’clock in the morning, and it was not busy. There were one or two customers, browsers mainly, one engaging an assistant in conversation at the counter. The client was asking about a particular DSLR camera, and it called to mind Tanner’s missing equipment. It would serve the silly sod right if his thousand pounds worth of camera turned up in a place like this.
With the customer at the counter at the forefront of his mind, he ambled along the displays of photographic equipment, and his blood ran cold.
There, at eye level, was a Canon EOS 250D, the same make and model Les Tanner had lost. What’s more, the placard alongside it insisted that it came with two lenses, and a sturdy, photographer’s shoulder bag, with compartments for the various other accoutrements. The particular instrument was expensive and there was nothing to suggest that it belonged to Tanner, but Joe did not trust coincidences. Too often, they turned out be anything but.
He marched up to the counter. “The Canon 250 in the case.” He gestured at the locked display.
“Yes, sir, if you could give me a minute. I’m serving this gentleman.”
“It’s stolen.”
Joe was aware of the amount of trouble his announcement could cause, especially if it turned out that he was wrong, but his words had the necessary effect. The assistant turned fiery eyes on him, and ran a hand through his scrub beard. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re from the police, are you? Only you look a little short to be a cop. So what business is it of yours?”
“I’m making it my business because I think it belonged to a friend of mine, and it was stolen from his caravan three days ago.”
The customer looked alarmed and beat a hasty retreat, but the assistant remained unimpressed. “We had proof of ownership. We always ask for proof of ownership.”
“And the lady’s name?”
The assistant did not pause to ask how Joe knew a woman had sold the camera to him. He called up the computer records, and at length, turned the laptop to face Joe.
“Linda Trelawney.”
A second coincidence; the initials LT. Les Tanner? “Let’s have a look at it before I call the cops.”
“Now look—”
Joe took out his smartphone. “Either let me see it or I’ll bell my very good friend, Detective Sergeant Harriet O’Neill, of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. I think she’ll be interested.”
Backed into a corner from which there was no escape, the assistant tromped along behind the displays, unlocked the appropriate cupboard, and took out the camera and its case. Returning to Joe, he planted the whole lot on the counter.
Joe ignored the camera body and lenses inside the bag, and instead checked the lid, where the metal identity tag was engraved L.T. That was enough for him.
“Okay, pal, here’s the position. I believe this camera is the property of Leslie Tanner, of Sanford, West Yorkshire. It was stolen three days ago from his caravan on Gittings Holiday Park, in Hayle. And even if it wasn’t, I have enough grounds for calling the police, and getting them to check the serial number. While they’re doing that, I’ll call Mr Tanner, and I’ll get the number of his camera from him. If the two match, you are deep in the doggy-doo.” Joe rang Hattie. A minute later, he c
ame off the phone, and smiled sadistically at the assistant. “The police are on their way.”
The assistant’s colour drained, and he removed the bag and its contents from the counter, and put them down on the floor.
In the meantime, Joe spoke with Tanner and from the outset, it was not a pleasant conversation.
“I don’t think I have anything to say to you, Murray.”
“Good. Because I have something to say to you. I think I’ve found your camera.”
“You’re not listening to me. When I tell you…” A long silence followed. “Say that again.”
“You heard me, you idiot. I’m in a second-hand shop in Penzance, and I need the serial number of your camera so that I can confirm that the one they are holding is yours. You do have the serial number with you?”
“Why would I have the serial number with me?”
“Because you’re that kind of pain in the posterior.” Joe chewed his lip. “I don’t suppose you have it stored online, do you?”
“Well, I might have.”
“Okay, here’s what you do. See if you can find the number and then text it to me. Also, text me details of what we might find in the bag; the number of lenses and any other stuff. I’m waiting for the police to turn up at the shop and I won’t be leaving until I’ve seen them.”
“All right. Very good. I’ll do that.”
Joe killed the call, and stared the assistant in the eye. “It looks like we have a good few minutes to wait, son.”
The young man again scratched his beard. “I accepted it. I paid her for it, and she showed me documents proving it was hers. She’d bought it from a genuine dealer in Camborne.”
“I can print that kind of document for fun on my computer at home.”
A few minutes passed before Joe’s phone bleeped to indicate an incoming message. He opened the screen, and accessed the latest text from Tanner. Leaving it on screen, he spoke again to the assistant. “Do you wanna get the camera out, so I can check the serial number on the body?”
It took considerably less than a minute to confirm that the camera was, indeed, Les Tanner’s, and as if the serial number was not enough to confirm it, Tanner’s list indicated two lenses, a lens hood, and a bottle of lens polish and cloth, all of which they found in the bag. In the space of those few moments, Joe’s fury rose as everything became clear to him, not least the way Brenda had called it right while he had got everything so horribly wrong.
A Cornish Killing Page 15