Their meals arrived. While they ate, Melanie asked, “The techniques you used to solve Haliwell’s Heroes, could you not apply them to the real murders?”
“I did,” Joe replied, “but real life is a lot more complicated. You planted your little clues which led me to the solution. In real life, killers often leave little clues about, but they’re mainly scientific, and the police are the ones who dig them up, not me. What I look for are small inconsistencies. You need a good memory to be a good liar, and most people will slip up somewhere along the line. Your case was a lot easier than the real thing.”
Melanie swallowed a piece of veal and, washing it down with a small swallow of wine, smiled. “That is exactly the opposite of what you told me on Friday morning.”
“Yes I know. Funny how these things come back to haunt you, isn’t it?”
She put down her knife and fork while chewing on another piece of meat. Swallowing it, she asked, “Does it annoy you?”
“Glass, bottle, bottle, glass.”
The poor impression of Tommy Cooper drew Joe’s attention. “Not half as much as Gerry’s impressions.”
Melanie turned her head, following Joe’s finger pointing two booths further down where Gerry Carlin sat with Wendy Grimshaw.
“He’s trying to get his feet under the table,” Melanie announced, returning to her meal. “I don’t think it will do him much good. With Reggie dead, Wendy is in a position where she can pick and choose, and I wouldn’t think she’d pick a ham like him.”
“Ham?” Joe was surprised. “I thought he was a good actor.”
“He is,” Melanie replied. “But he’s a shocking impressionist.” She took another mouthful of wine. “I was asking if it annoyed you. Not solving the murders?”
“I wouldn’t say annoyed, it’s not like I’ll lose sleep over it or anything.” He chuckled “I’ve lost enough already. But it will irritate me for a while. There’s something, you see, Melanie, something I’m missing. It happens all the time in these affairs. It’s something so tiny that most people would miss it. This time, I’m missing it. It nags and niggles and nibbles at me, but whatever the connection, I can’t get the little bugger.” He shook his head sadly. “I’ll go home tomorrow morning, Phil Grant and his people will carry on working, and I’m sure they’ll get there, and when they do, I’ll read it in the papers and think, ‘Yeah. That was it’.”
Melanie put down her cutlery and pushed her plate away. Joe followed suit. “Dessert?”
She shook her head and patted her tummy. “Not bothered. You?”
“I’ll pass, then.”
Melanie took her time over the wine, allowing Joe to top up her glass before adding to his own.
“You’ll go home tomorrow, I’ll go to Mansfield tomorrow and that’s us, too, isn’t it? Ships passing in the night.”
Anxious not to upset her, Joe chose his words carefully. “I’m not good with women, Melanie. I’m clumsy, awkward, and too easily embarrassed. In any other walk of life, I’m the bee’s knees, but not where women are concerned. Too afraid of rejection, I suppose. Especially after the way Alison and I fell apart. What happens after this weekend is up to you, not me. I’m my own boss, remember. Master of all I survey, even if it is only eighty covers at the Lazy Luncheonette.”
She smiled easily, and Joe felt comfortable in her company. “We’ll see, shall we?”
***
They left the restaurant just after nine and ambled back to the hotel, Melanie’s arm linked in his, but they did not go into the disco. Instead, they went back to Melanie’s room where they took to the bed for what Joe imagined would be the last time.
Afterwards, they returned to the disco, Melanie joining her party, Joe sitting with Brenda and Sheila. The main topic of conversation was the murders; three fictitious and two real. Joe divorced himself from it as much as he could, and sat drinking, occasionally stepping out for a cigarette, trying instead to evaluate his life.
He had spent the years since Alison’s departure in a sexual void, throwing himself into his work, disseminating his needs in irritability. Having begun again with Melanie this weekend, he was reluctant to return to his celibacy, but like the problem of the real murders, he could see no way through. Candidates of Melanie’s calibre were thin on the ground in his Sanford circles, and the only two realistic contenders also happened to be his best friends. No way would he threaten his lifelong friendship with them simply to satisfy other urges.
And through it all, the problems of the Twin Spires’ murders reared their ugly heads. The who, the how, the why… particularly the why. The suspects paraded through his thinking to the point where he felt his brain would burst.
And his companions noticed. Even Les Tanner, never slow to pick at Joe for one reason or another, backed off when given short shrift. Sheila and Brenda, his two most trusted lieutenants, gave up on him, and Brenda, who could not get a response to her constant innuendo, took herself to the dance floor with George Robson, while Sheila chatted with Sylvia and Julia Staines, comparing their experiences of the weekend and their various solutions to Haliwell’s Heroes.
Reminded by Melanie of the need to prepare his address to the guests, tomorrow morning, Joe took himself to his room just after eleven, and spent an hour or so putting a crib sheet together, but even then, the various machinations of the weekend invaded and distracted his concentration.
Nottingham was hardly within commuting distance of Sanford, but he could make it in less than two hours. Who killed the mysterious, unidentified officer in the friendly fire incident at Chateau Armand? Who was Reggie arguing with on Friday night, if not Kendrew? Perhaps he could register with a dating agency. Why did the real killings match the drama so closely? What really happened to Lydia Beauchamp?
Frustration fuelling his anger, he completed the crib sheet, saved it to a memory stick, threw off his clothing and climbed into bed, but even then, sleep eluded him as his mind whirled and twirled on the confusion in his brain.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Seventeen
“You could have put a tie on,” Sheila complained over breakfast.
“It wouldn’t have gone well with my jeans and trainers,” Joe complained.
“He does have a point, Sheila.” Brenda sliced the top off her boiled egg. “He won’t wear a tie in his own café, will he?”
“It’s the Lazy Luncheonette not Ritzy Joe’s. If I listened to you two, I’d be serving the truckers dressed in a tuxedo. Besides, posh dress like that would put the draymen off their breakfast.” He sliced through a sausage. “Like you’re trying to put me off mine, now.”
Helping herself to toast and spooning into the egg, Brenda asked, “You’re not going to tell us whodunit?”
“You wait until after breakfast, same as everyone else.”
Sheila’s face puckered at the tang of grapefruit on her tongue. “It would have been much better if we could have found out who did the real murders.”
“Appalling,” Joe said.
“What? The murders or the fact that the murderer beat you?” Brenda grinned to demonstrate she was winding him up again.
Joe refused the bait. “Not just me he beat. It’s the cops as well.”
“You don’t appear too worried, Joe,” Sheila observed.
Swallowing a mouthful of fried bread and washing it down with tea, Joe said, “I’m not… well, I am, but it’s only personal pride. I meanersay, I’m an amateur, aren’t I? It’s not like I do it professionally, and this isn’t the first case to stump me, is it? Remember that professional gang of shoplifters in Leeds a few years ago. We knew damn well who was doing it, but we had no proof and, try as I could, I couldn’t pin them all down.” Pushing his plate away, he, too, helped himself from the toast rack. “The problem with this case is identifying the common motive. The idea that Naomi and Reggie were having an affair is likeliest, but we know that it was a fairy tale.”
“That doesn’t eliminate the idea, though,” Sh
eila pointed out.
“True, but it doesn’t point the finger, either, except maybe at Wendy Grimshaw, but even if we can’t eliminate her from Naomi’s killing, we know exactly where she was when Reggie was killed. And come to think, we can’t really eliminate anyone from Naomi’s murder.”
Done with her grapefruit, Sheila took a slice of toast, spread it with a thin coating of butter and poured herself more tea. Clicking a single saccharin tablet into it, she added milk. “Let’s assume the motive was, oh, I don’t know, jealousy. Someone who, say, wanted Naomi and, as you’ve suggested, believed she was having an affair with her boss. First he killed Reggie to get him out of the way, then approached Naomi, she said no, and he killed her. Does that sound reasonable?”
Joe chewed his toast. “Yeah. Go on. I’ll buy it for now. But it doesn’t have to be a man. In this day and age, women are allowed to pursue women.”
Sheila ignored the comment. “Who is the most likely suspect?”
“Robbie Kendrew,” Brenda declared. “But we already know he didn’t do it because he knew Naomi wasn’t having it off with Reggie.”
“And there’s no one else?” Sheila asked.
“We’d need to know a lot more about them to find out,” Joe said. Finishing his tea and toast, he took out his tobacco. “And we’re all off home in a few hours, so let’s leave it to Phil Grant and Hayley Idleman, huh?” He set about rolling a cigarette.
Brenda leaned into Sheila and grinned. “Have you noticed how he’s on first name terms with so many women? Fliss Kendrew, Hayley Idleman and not forgetting Melanie Markham.”
“He’s on more than first name terms with Melanie,” Sheila chuckled.
“Wham, bang, thank you ma’am terms.”
The women dissolved into girlish laughter.
Joe rose above it. Completing his cigarette, he tucked it in his shirt pocket, drank the last few dregs of his tea and stood up.
“Envy,” he announced, “does not become either of you. I’m off for a smoke before my big moment.”
Leaving them giggling after him, he made his way to the front entrance where he sat out and lit his cigarette.
The day promised brighter things. Although the city lay under a film of grey cloud, he could see patches of morning blue far away to the east, and it was chillier than it had been over the last few days. He sensed a familiar, January high-pressure zone making its way across the country and he knew that it would bring plenty of sunshine, if freezing cold nights.
Contrary to their good-natured ribbing, he was happy to leave the investigation to the police. It had been a good weekend, marred only by the two murders and he would prefer to take the happier memories with him; the memories of Melanie, memories of the drama she and her friends had put on. He was happy to live without the memories of being first on the scene after Reggie’s death and Naomi’s.
He sensed a presence alongside him. “Morning, Gerry,” he said without looking round.
“Clever bit of deduction, Joe,” Carlin said and sat next to him.
“Not deduction. Knowledge. Aside from me and you, and Billy now and then, I don’t think anyone else has used this bench over the weekend.”
Carlin lit a cigarette. “On your way home today?”
“Bus is due after one,” Joe confirmed. “How about you?”
“Hotel in Mansfield tonight until Friday, then it’s over to Skegness for the weekend.”
“Varied life.”
Carlin snorted. “Not so’s you’d notice. No roots, old lad. I have a flat in Nottingham. Haven’t been there since Boxing Day and I won’t be back until the end of the month.” He puffed vigorously on his cigarette. “No complaints, I suppose, I knew what I was getting into, but we’re not all Hollywood stars cracking out five million a movie. And I enjoy acting. I like being the centre of the audience’s attention.” Blowing out another lungful of smoke, he sighed. “There are times, though, when I envy people like you. Settled in one place, know what time you start work, what time you’ll finish.”
“Grass is always greener,” Joe said. “You envy me, I think my life is fine, but boring, and I envy you. I’d like a taste of your life.”
Carlin checked his watch. “Well, you’ll be getting a taste any time now, old son. I usually deliver the summary as Inspector O’Keefe.” Carlin doffed his trilby, revealing the bruise on his forehead. “We’re letting you do it for a change.”
Joe’s cigarette had gone out. He took out his brass Zippo and made a show of relighting it. Happily puffing away on it, he said, “Yeah. I was gonna talk to you about that.”
“Not chickening out, are you?”
For all the humour of Carlin’s question, Joe got the impression of a schoolyard challenge.
“No, it’s not that. It’s you. I don’t like stealing your big moment.”
Carlin laughed. It was the short, sharp cackle of the disdainful. “Don’t even think about it, old lad. Didn’t I just say that life is a boring round of shows, travelling, shows, travelling, and although you might not spot it, the process does eventually become automatic and tedious. I’ve delivered O’Keefe’s closing speech so many times, I know it backwards. I’m quite happy to hand it over to someone else just for a change.”
Joe stubbed out his smoke, and got to his feet. “As long as you’re sure.”
“Never been surer, old son. Looking forward to listening to you.”
***
Joe got back to the dining room to find one lot of staff clearing the tables, a second lot sliding back the partition to open out into the Scampton Room, and as they did so, some people migrated to the bar. Melanie and her team were deep in discussion at their table, Billy Norman poring over a road map.
“Nearly time for you big moment, Joe,” Sheila said as he rejoined his colleagues. “Are you nervous?”
“Trembling,” he lied.
“Have a word with Melanie,” Brenda suggested. “I’ll bet she knows a cure for the trembles.”
“New item on the Lazy Luncheonette menu tomorrow, Sheila,” Joe announced. “Brenda Jump pie. Limited edition, only available until the body is fully disposed of.”
In Joe’s estimation, Brenda was still trying to come up with a catty rejoinder, when Melanie stood front and centre.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Her bright, breezy voice boomed through the two rooms. “Well, it’s been a startling weekend here at the Twin Spires, with a real life mystery mixing with our drama. Our condolences go to those who are suffering, and we truly hope that the terrible crimes are quickly cleared up by the police. However, it’s time for us to bring our fictitious crimes to a conclusion. Normally, our very own Inspector O’Keefe would deliver his summary and arrest the mystery killer, but we’ve decided to do things slightly different this time. Instead of Inspector O’Keefe, we’re going to ask Mr Joe Murray of the Sanford 3rd Age Club to tell you how the murders of Haliwell’s Heroes were committed.”
She paused to lead a small round of applause for Joe.
“I’m sure you’re all aware that Mr Murray has a reputation as a private investigator, and we know he has been of immense assistance to the police this weekend. What you may not know is that Joe solved the mystery of Haliwell’s Heroes on Friday night, and showed me his written solution before graciously agreeing not to say anything to anyone. So I’m going to call on Joe right now to tell us whodunit, how they dunit, and how he arrived at the solution.”
Standing back, Melanie led the applause for him. Taking out the crib sheet he had prepared in his room, Joe moved to the front of the room, standing by the display board and waited for the audience to settle.
“Thanks, Melanie, and thank you all. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m not an ex-cop or anything, just a caterer, and if you’re ever in Sanford, drop in at the Lazy Luncheonette. The food’s good, the prices are cheap, and you’re sure of a warm welcome.”
“But not from you, Joe,” Alec Staines called out and most people laughed.
&nb
sp; “Thanks, Alec. Remind me to call you next time I’m planning a publicity campaign.” Joe paused again to let more laughter die down. “To be honest, I’m not even a private investigator, just an inveterate puzzler with keen powers of observation, and I know a bit about murders. The real crimes at this hotel have eluded me as well as the police, but Haliwell’s Heroes, as well as it was put together, did not, so let’s look at it, eh?”
He checked his crib sheet again.
“Right, so, most of the clues came in the very first scene, and you should have been taking extensive notes. Let’s see what they are.” Joe reached to the table and picked up the newspaper. “In the opening moments, Colonel Haliwell was commenting on a story he had read in The Times about an unsolved murder, and he mentioned a World War Two secret agent, Lydia Beauchamp, a lady who worked with the French Resistance in the lead up to D-Day, and who was notoriously skilled with the garrotte. I want you to bear that in mind for later. You were given other background information on the various characters after that, but the most interesting snippets came from Captain Wilson. First he said he was never with the colonel at Chateau Armand. Instead, he was much further north, at Bayeux with the 50th Infantry Division.”
Joe moved to his right and pointed to the map. “Look closely at it, ladies and gentlemen. Bayeux is west of Caen and Chateau Armand, not north. A simple mistake or a deliberate attempt to fudge matters? At that point we didn’t know, but the captain also said something else of interest. He described Lydia Beauchamp as a dark-haired siren, with the look of a gypsy girl.” He held up the newspaper again. “Then how come the newspaper article describes her as a blonde?”
A mutter ran round the crowded room.
“At this point, it’s obvious that the captain is not telling it straight, but we don’t know why. We’re not yet finished with him, either. A short while later, Countess Lucescu hints that there was Nazi gold at Chateau Armand. The colonel shuts her up quite rudely, and Wilson says ‘There never was any gold at Chateau Armand. You have my word upon that’. Let me ask you all a simple question. How does Captain Wilson know there was no Nazi gold if he was never at Chateau Armand?”
Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend Page 24