Across the table, Helen sat, arms folded, an increasingly angry gleam in her eye darting between Joe and Maddy. “I’m waiting.”
“Motive,” Joe said, only adding to Helen’s mystification. “We were trying to find out why anyone would want Kim Ashton dead.”
“And you thought the answer might lie in breaking into her bungalow?”
“We didn’t break in,” Maddy insisted.
“He was carrying lock picks.” Although she was speaking to and keeping an eye on Maddy, Helen pointed at Joe. “Why would he need them if you weren’t breaking in?”
“We planned on breaking in,” Joe said, desperate to dig them out of the hole that Maddy had just deepened. “But someone got there before us. The back door was already open, and he was already in there. In fact, it was him that turned the place over.” His eager eyes burned into Helen Dalkeith. “Don’t you see, he was looking for something, something important, something he knew would be in that house?”
Helen shook her head. “No. I don’t see that at all. I don’t see it, because I’ve got no evidence that there was anyone else in that house but you two. And right now I’m looking for some reason not to charge you. It’s not that I have any serious objections to charging you. In fact I can’t think of anything better than sending you both down for six months. The fact is, the court won’t send you down for six months. They’ll give you community service, and I have to find someone to supervise that. Now for the last time, what were you doing—”
Joe cut her off. “For God’s sake, shut up.”
As far as Helen was concerned, that was a step too far, and it was obvious that both Maddy and Noel Calvin regretted Joe’s hastiness. The man himself, however, was unrepentant.
“We’ve told you what we were doing, we’ve admitted we intended to break in, but we didn’t have to, and if you get your forensic people over there, they’ll find traces of whoever the hell was in that house. My best guess would be Alan Foster or his son, but I say that only because there didn’t appear to be any sign of a forced entry. In other words, someone had a key to that back door.”
Her face crimson with fury, unable to voice her anger because of the recording equipment, Helen said nothing but pointed at Joe’s housebreaking tools.
“I never got to use them,” he said. “For the last time, someone beat us to it. Someone was in there already.”
“Can you give us a description, Mr Murray?” Calvin asked.
“No. The little sod knocked me down when he ran for it.”
“And I tripped over Joe,” Maddy said, “so I didn’t get a look at him either.”
“But I can tell you he was wearing high-priced trainers and they had lime-green flashes on the heels.”
Calvin made a note of the fact, and gave just a quick glance at his superior. “Ma’am?”
Sufficiently calm to talk, Helen glowered at Joe. “You don’t know how close you are to being charged, Murray.” She sucked in a large breath and let it out with a violent hiss. “You have just described Ben Foster’s footwear. You’re telling us that he broke into his own home… or, should I say, his father’s partner’s home and completely turned it over? I don’t believe it.”
“Stranger things have happened and to be honest, I never realised Ben Foster wore those kind of trainers, but if he does, then yes, he’s your man.” Joe sat back, relaxed a little, and gave her an apologetic shrug. “If we’ve caused any problems, then we’re sorry, but it’s not us you need to speak to. On your own insistence, it’s Ben Foster. And to get logical, he doesn’t need to break in. He probably has a key. He’s a teenager. They’re always short of money, so what was he looking for?” Joe gestured at the rings and necklaces in separate bags. “How much are they worth?”
Helen was not impressed. “According to you, he was looking for something important. Documents and the like. And those…” She, too, pointed at the jewellery. “Junk. He could buy them brand-new for less than a tenner, and if he tried to sell them on, he’d be lucky to pick up two quid.”
“But does he know that?” Maddy demanded.
Helen was close to snapping again. She began to gather her belongings. “We’re bringing Alan Foster to the bungalow to find out exactly what, if anything, is missing. We’ll reserve judgement until then. You two can go for now, but the only reason I’m releasing you is in the hope of giving you enough rope to hang yourselves. Don’t try my patience any further. Particularly you, Murray. Cross me one more time, and I’ll lock you up and throw the key away. Get out of my sight.”
Joe and Maddy emerged into bright, morning sunshine, a fresh breeze coming off the sea gently blowing the cobwebs from them.
“I need some sleep and the hotel is nearer than my place,” Maddy declared.
“But my car is at your place,” Joe reminded her.
She took out her mobile phone to call up a taxi number. “Your car will be safe enough, Joe. Have you any cash on you? To pay for the taxi?”
He fished out his wallet and checked it. “I’ve a tenner. Will that be enough?”
Maddy was already on the phone ordering a cab.
Joe had absolutely no idea where he was, but further along the street from the police station, the view was open, looking across the rooftops of houses lower down the hill, across the valley all the way to the Abbey. He leaned on a low wall in front of him, taking in the view, but not registering it. Instead, his mind was elsewhere, trying to string together unlikely arguments in an attempt to produce a coherent theory.
The revelation that the items of jewellery were junk, paste, made the reason for their theft blatantly obvious; verisimilitude. So assuming Ben Foster was the one who carried out the ‘burglary’, what was he looking for?
“Taxi’ll be a few minutes,” Maddy reported.
Joe rolled and lit a cigarette, and grunted. It was one of his more irritating habits, especially when his agile brain was engaged on other matters, and very often, people could not make up their minds whether he approved or otherwise.
In this instance, his mind was still pondering the possible motives for the previous night’s break-in.
He recalled the stilted conversation with Ronnie Ilkeston the previous afternoon, and the manager’s reluctance to open up on the information Kim Ashton held on him. Was it possible, that the same applied to Ben Foster?
It seemed unlikely. Foster the younger was barely 16 years of age, and although he clearly disliked Kim Ashton, it was unlikely that she had information on him which was not already in the public domain. The boy had simply not lived long enough to earn the kind of reputation that people preferred to keep under wraps.
They climbed into the taxi which proved to be a ten-minute journey back to the Westhead, where Joe managed to persuade Tracy Huckle to speak to the kitchens and provide them with an early breakfast, after which they returned to their room, and with the time coming up to 7 o’clock, and the promise of a glorious day outside, they were both sound asleep.
Chapter Ten
“I wonder what’s happened to love’s young dream this morning.”
In response to Brenda’s question, Sheila had to raise her voice above the hum and clatter of the dining room. “According to you, they were certainly up to something last night when they left the show bar, but you know Joe. He keeps his private life very private, and let’s not forget, we have a murder in the background, Brenda. For all that he said he’s not interested in it, I think it’ll be impossible for him to keep his nose out.”
Brenda spread a piece of toast with a thin layer of butter, took a bite, and chewed delicately on it. Swallowing the mouthful, she said, “You’re probably right, so let’s forget them and concentrate on you. What were you up to last night?”
The irritability which had characterised Sheila’s behaviour for the last couple of days, returned. “That’s nobody’s business but mine.”
“Joe’s noticed, you know. He was asking Stewart what you’re up to, why you’re being so secretive. He told us he�
�d seen you getting hassle from a tramp outside a jeweller’s shop in the town.”
Sheila smiled almost to herself. “Did he now? Well, when you see him – if you see him – you can tell him that I sorted it out. And I’m sorry, Brenda, but it’s no business of yours or anyone else’s.”
Brenda washed the toast down with a mouthful of tea. “Of course not. But it did occur to me that if you let us know what’s going on, we could probably help. As it is, he’s got the idea that you’re short of money.”
Sheila laughed. “For a man who’s supposed to be so logical, he does come to the most absurd conclusions sometimes.”
“Then why not put him – and me – straight?”
Sheila withered and the humour left her. “I’ll think about it. In the meantime, don’t you think you’d better get on with day two of the treasure hunt? I’ll be out again for most of the day and much of the evening.”
Brenda bit into her toast again. “When I’ve finished my breakfast.” She rested her elbows on the table and ignored Sheila’s frown of disapproval. Picking up a cup of tea, she cradled it between her hands. “And talking of the treasure hunt, how are Fran and Geoff?”
At the mention of her quarrelling neighbours, Sheila disregarded Brenda’s display of poor table manners. “Not good. They need some time away, Brenda. You and I both know what it’s like to be thrown out of work at that age, but they don’t have our advantages. There’s no Joe Murray waiting in the background to provide them with work and an income, and according to what Fran was telling me, if something doesn’t happen soon, they’ll lose the house.”
“And that’s what’s causing all the arguments?”
“Yes. I’ve known them a lot of years, and if ever I’ve seen a couple who loved one another, it’s the Priestleys. I’m seriously worried for them.”
“Is that what this secret business is about?”
Sheila wagged a warning finger at her best friend. “You’re doing it again, but no it is not.”
Her best friend drank off her tea, rattled the cup back into its saucer and got to her feet. “Well, in that case, let me remind you that I’m doing this treasure hunt for them. You want to deal with your secret business, but if Stewart and I really do get our skates on, we can probably win the hunt, and if we do, the voucher for a free weekend in this hotel is Fran and Geoff Priestley’s.” Brenda smiled smugly. “You see, some of us don’t need to keep our aims and ambitions secret.”
Fifteen minutes later, while Sheila went off on her own, and having been duly timed in by Lucas Wrigglesworth, Brenda and Dalmer stepped out into the scorching sunshine and rising temperatures, and studied the first of the clues for day two.
At a tribute to the head chef
But not around Eve
The writing’s on the wall
Tis a puzzling plot we weave
“Head chef,” Dalmer said. “This is about Captain Cook again, isn’t it?”
“A tribute. The Captain Cook Museum.” Brenda’s enthusiasm and excitement began to show through.
“It could be the replica of Endeavour. She’s moored in the harbour.”
Brenda clucked. “Do a Joe and think logically. What does the rhyme say? ‘Not around Eve.’ Around Eve is—”
“An anagram of endeavour,” Dalmer interrupted. “Of course it is.”
“And if it’s not Endeavour, then it has to be the Captain Cook Museum. Now come on, before someone gets there ahead of us.”
They hurried along to the whalebone arch, down the steep descent to Khyber Pass and around the loop onto the dockside, where they made their way quickly along the river’s edge weaving in and out of the early morning crowds.
And as they scuttled along, they chatted. Dalmer told her of walking holidays on North Yorkshire Moors, while Brenda reminisced on holidays in North Yorkshire and Whitby with her husband, Colin. They had been childless, and her memories were of day trips from Sanford, mini-breaks between the major foreign holidays she and her husband preferred. There was nothing maudlin about the memories, no weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth at the cruel blows life might have dealt her. Like Sheila, she had been widowed for almost a decade, and she was completely acclimatised to the situation. She had her share of men friends, but had no desire to seek out fresh, permanent relationships.
And she knew that if she were with Sheila now, they would indulge in the memories with an air of wistful nostalgia, looking back on happier times, but without any regret at the way their respective lives had turned out.
The swing bridge was opened, allowing the passage of a bulky trawler making its way out to sea from further upriver, and there was a lengthy wait before the bridge returned to its neutral position, and the gates were open allowing them to cross. A glance around the crowds revealed the presence of Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson on the opposite pavement.
“Competition,” Brenda said and put on a spurt.
“Are you sure they’re taking part in the treasure hunt?” Dalmer asked as she hurried to keep up with his longer stride.
“Can’t remember,” Brenda replied, “but let’s not take any chances.”
Across the bridge, they turned right into Grape Lane, a narrow thoroughfare which curved round to meet the main road a couple of hundred yards further on.
As they turned off the bridge, Brenda glanced back across the road looking for Les and Sylvia, but they had turned left into Sandgate.
Grape Lane was lined with small, homely and enchanting shops and cafeterias on either side: a shop selling collectables, another selling crystals and other natural artefacts, one or two jewellers, coffee shops and burger houses, and at the far end, where it met Church Street opposite an angling supplies store, was a bland, unremarkable red building. A plaque above the main entrance read 1688, presumably the year of its construction, but aside from that and a single side projecting high up from the front wall, no one would guess that it was the Captain Cook Museum.
Brenda stared with dismay at the admission charges of £6.20. “Are we supposed to go in to get the clue?”
But Stewart had already spotted the treasure hunt card glued to the outside wall. She lined up her compact camera and took a picture, and then read the card.
A giant of the skies
So black and very small
Will take you on
To your next call.
Brenda frowned. “Giant of the skies?”
Stewart chewed her lip. “Cryptic as cryptic can be. We could do with Joe here. What kind of giants do we have in the skies?”
Passing the problem around her head, Brenda led the way back along Grape Lane towards the swing bridge. “Planets,” she declared. “Jupiter, Saturn, they are known as gas giants, aren’t they?”
“All right. But isn’t that a bit esoteric? I mean, is Jupiter in the sky at the moment?”
Brenda looked up into the gin clear air. “Even if it is, we can’t see it during the day. Not without a telescope…” She trailed off at her face split into a broad grin. “It’s an astronomical observatory. It has to be.”
Stewart agreed. “And where’s the nearest observatory?”
Brenda took out her smartphone. “I’ll look it up.”
Stewart stood by as Brenda tapped out the necessary search terms using the tiny, on-screen keyboard on her phone. Technology was not a complete mystery to Dalmer, but he had to admit that Brenda was light years ahead of him. It was a reflection upon their relative pasts. Stewart was a college tutor, specialising in modern history, and working in an environment where information technology was reserved for the use of pupils and students, while the staff had to do with older versions of Microsoft Windows and that only for keeping spreadsheets and preparing routine correspondence.
By comparison, Brenda had been a senior assistant in the Sanford branch of a national bank, and it was incumbent upon her to chase up many aspects of the financial world (insurance, mortgages, interest rates, currency conversion rates, etc.) on the web.
And B
renda demonstrated her expertise on the tiny keyboard on the smart phone. Stewart watched as her fingers danced on the touchscreen and the query began to take shape. A tap on the ‘Go’ button and they waited.
On a laptop or home computer, the query would take perhaps a 10th of a second and return millions of results. On Brenda’s phone it took a couple of seconds, and it was impossible to read the number of results returned because the typeface was so small. Spreading index finger and thumb across the screen, Brenda enlarged the print and read the results. A few seconds later, she tapped a link, read the ensuing page, and then frowned in puzzlement at her friend.
“Odd. According to this, the only observatory in this area is at the college on the north-west side of town, about three miles from here.”
Stewart agreed that it was curious. “I’m sure Wrigglesworth said that all the locations would be in walking distance of one another.”
Brenda put the phone away. “Maybe he goes hiking as a hobby, and he thinks that walking up the hill out of town is no more than a gentle stroll after breakfast.”
They lapsed into contemplative silence; Brenda watched the comings and goings of traffic on the bridge, Stewart looked along the narrow thoroughfare of Sandgate at the crowds checking out the shops, both of them trying to puzzle out this latest clue.
“We could do with ringing Joe.”
Brenda agreed with Stewart’s suggestion, but she was quite cynical about the possibilities. “For the sake of this weekend, Stewart, Joe is competition, and he’s hardly likely to give us the benefit of this assumed experience until he’s scored the hit himself.”
Brenda’s analysis made absolute sense, and Stewart stood on the street corner, floundering uncharacteristically, unable to decide what they should do next, where they should go next. She was saved having to make the decision, by the appearance of Les Tanner and Sylvia, coming back along Sandgate towards them.
Two of the 3rd Age Club’s longest serving members, Les having taken over the Chair from Joe, their relationship was one of the worst kept secrets in Sanford. Tanner, a former captain in the Territorial Army Reserve, also managed the Payroll Department for Sanford Borough Council. Sylvia, something of a hypochondriac, with genuine diabetes, had been an administrator for Broadbent Auto Repairs, a large workshop which sat on the opposite side of Doncaster Road from The Lazy Luncheonette.
Murder at the Treasure Hunt Page 10