The Filey Connection

by David W Robinson

  “Pot calling the kettle,” Joe said, his gaze directed at Brenda.

  She returned a sarcastic grin. “I don’t get drunk.”

  Tittering at Brenda’s cynical retort, Sheila took a sip of lemonade and more seriously, said, “You’ll have to make an announcement, Joe.”

  “You think they won’t all know?” he asked. “They’ll have read it in the papers, surely.”

  “Perhaps, but she was member for a long time.”

  “Ever since the early days,” Brenda agreed. “And we’ll need to send a wreath from club funds.”

  “There’ll be the funeral to attend, too. After we get back from Filey.”

  Joe clucked, and tested his microphone by tapping the head. Happy that it was working, he switched it off. “You two are just wishing all our lives away, aren’t you?” He switched the microphone on again and faded the music out. “Evening, ladies and gentlemen. I know it’s a little early but can I have your attention for just one minute please.”

  The hubbub died down and all eyes turned on him.

  “I have a sad announcement to make,” Joe said, his voice bouncing back at him from the wall speakers. “For those who may not know, Nicola Leach was knocked down by a car last night as she came out of the Foundry Inn. The driver didn’t stop and unfortunately, Nicola was pronounced dead at the scene. I’m not going to go on about what a wonderful person she was. I didn’t know her that well, personally, but she had been a member of the club from the very early days, and she will be missed. We will send a wreath from the club and a couple of members will be nominated to represent STAC at the funeral. For now, I’d like us all to spare a minute’s silence in memory of Nicola.” He switched his microphone off.

  The room fell silent save for the clatter of bottles and glasses from the bar where the landlord was stocking the chillers.

  Joe did not time the impasse, but when he felt that justice had been done to Nicola, he switched his microphone on again. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The buzz of conversation rose, flooding the room again.

  From the floor, Captain Les Tanner, resplendent as ever in his regimental blazer and tie, asked, “Have the police arrested anyone, Murray?”

  Joe, who usually took great delight in antagonising the Captain, answered through the microphone. “I spoke with my niece, Detective Sergeant Craddock, this morning and she told me that although there was a witness, neither the driver nor his vehicle have been traced.”

  “Drunk, I’ll bet,” Tanner snorted.

  “That’s the feeling, Les.”

  “Ought to be hung.” Tanner turned and walked stiffly away.

  “Silly old sod,” Joe grumbled, putting down the microphone and turning up the music again. He watched Tanner rejoin his open-secret lady friend, Sylvia Goodson. “We’d still be hanging kids for nicking sweets if he had his way.”

  “Whereas you’d only give them a public flogging, wouldn’t you, dear?” Sheila teased.

  “And cut their grubby little hands off,” Brenda giggled.

  Joe delivered a grunt that could have been a complaint or a laugh. “Hanging’s too good for the thieving swine.” He consulted his play list, and switched on the microphone again. “All right, all right, all right. Let’s get the evening under way with a trip back to the sixties and Manfred Mann’sDo-Wah-Diddy-Diddy.”

  Music burst from the speakers and the dance floor remained ominously empty. Joe was not worried. This early in the evening, those wishing to strut their stuff were few and far between. Aside from a few hardy souls, it took time for alcohol to loosen inhibitions and ageing joints.

  “Gemma didn’t believe a word you said, then?” Sheila asked as Joe settled down with his traditional half of bitter.

  “She’s quite happy to go along with most of what I said, but she won’t accept that this woman was involved or that the hit on Knickers-off was deliberate.”

  “It is a bit extreme, Joe,” Brenda commented. “And Gemma’s ideas sound quite reasonable to me.”

  Joe eyed her sourly. “They would.”

  Without rising to his bait, Brenda asked, “Why would anyone want to knock her down deliberately?”

  “I don’t know,” Joe replied. “I just get this feeling about it, that’s all. The only person who might know isn’t here. Mavis. See, you had to be at the Foundry Inn to see what I saw. Nothing. From where people usually wait for taxis, you can’t see a damn thing. So this Harrison woman had to be in a position where she could witness everything, and that means either standing on that narrow pavement outside the pub, or in front of the Sanford Park Hotel.”

  “Or wandering past on the other side of the road,” Sheila ventured.

  Joe had been thinking about the problem all afternoon and the moment Sheila spoke, he shook his head. “If she was on the other side of the road, she would have said she was outside the pharmacy or the baker’s, not the pub. No, she was on the Foundry Inn side. And that name tells us more than you may think, too. Let’s imagine the scene. She’s stood there, she sees Knickers-off mowed down and the first thing she thinks of is, ‘Good God, I need a false name for the filth’? It doesn’t sound right to me. No, she had that name planned in advance, and as far as I can see, there’s only one reason for it. Killing Nicola was intentional, and everything was thought out in advance.”

  “In that case, I repeat, why would anyone want to kill her?” Brenda insisted.

  Joe shrugged. “Let’s think about it. Nicola is known for playing around with men, and from all I gather she wasn’t too choosy, either. Now suppose she’s been messing with some woman’s husband, and the woman is determined to get her own back.”

  “Joe, this is Sanford,” Sheila protested, “not 1930s Chicago. You don’t run a woman down in cold blood simply because she’s been sleeping with your husband.”

  Brenda chuckled. “At least I hope not.”

  Joe scowled. “Man mad.”

  Heading off the potential argument, Sheila asked, “So what is Gemma doing?”

  “Nothing,” Joe replied. “It goes down as a road traffic accident, a hit and run, manslaughter or whatever they want to call it, and they pursue routine inquiries. And as usual, they inquire in the wrong areas.”

  Brenda frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “They’ll go looking for a Land Rover with a part of its bull bars missing. In other words, they’ll be looking for the driver and his vehicle.”

  The two women exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Where should they look?” Brenda demanded.

  “The victim,” Joe said. “You always look at the victim, see what he, or in this case, she, can tell you.”

  Sheila chewed her lip. “That’s for murder, Joe, not manslaughter.”

  He stared candidly at her. “And how else would you describe deliberately running her down?”

  As Manfred Mann reached the final verse, Joe selected the next track, Lulu’sShout and as the first track faded, he led the next one in. He cast a jaundiced eye over George Robson and Owen Frickley, and Julia and Alec Staines jiggling around the almost empty dance floor, then cast his gaze further afield, to the entrance where Mavis Barker had just entered with a tall, stout man Joe did not recognise.

  “There’s Mavis now,” he said, pointing her out.

  She was difficult to miss. Short and tubby, she tended to dress in the most outrageous outfits, tonight sporting a black, low-cut dress which showed the canyon-like V of her cleavage, and ended short of her chubby knees.

  “She’s with Eddie Dobson,” Sheila said.

  “Who?” Joe asked.

  “Eddie Dobson. He was in the café this morning.” Sheila tutted in frustration at the blank look on Joe’s face. “I’ve told you about him often enough.”

  “I’ll go get Mavis,” Brenda laughed. “You tell him it like it is, Sheila.”

  While Brenda went off, Sheila lectured Joe. “Eddie joined about two or three months ago. He’s recently moved to Sanford, or something. O
riginally from Rotherham and he’s either divorced or widowed, I can’t remember which. Anyway, virtually from the moment he joined us, he’s been trying to get on the Filey trip.”

  “Oh him.”

  “I get the feeling that he’s very lonely, Joe, and he wants to make new friends.” Sheila’s face fell. “Sad thing is, with Nicola dead, there is a space on the bus.”

  “Yes,” Joe agreed, “but Nicola and Mavis were booked into a double room, and unless the Beachside is a knocking shop, I don’t think the management will take kindly to this Eddie Dobson hopping into bed with Mavis.”

  “So you still can’t squeeze him in?”

  “Not without ringing Filey and doing some negotiating, I can’t.” Joe watched Brenda make her way around the dance floor with Mavis in tow. “Why the hell does he want to come anyway? Filey’s not the liveliest place on earth.”

  “I told you, I think he’s lonely.”

  “If I was lonely, I still wouldn’t go to Filey.” Joe beamed a greeting at Mavis. “Hiya. Listen, Mavis, we were all sorry to hear about Nicola.”

  Mavis shrugged. “I’m gonna miss her.” She grinned showing large gaps in her teeth. “I offered to take Brenda under my wing, teach her a thing or two, but she’s turned me down.”

  “I’m not in your league, Mavis,” Brenda admitted with a smile.

  “You didn’t see the accident?” Sheila asked before Joe could return a ribald comment.

  Mavis shook her head. “A coupla blokes were chatting us up. Feeding us booze, y’know. Nicola was well tanked up when we left, and she was walking it home. She didn’t have the money for a taxi cos she was saving her dosh for Filey. She’ll have been all over the place walking after all that drink, so it doesn’t surprise me that she got hit.”

  “Joe has the feeling that it was deliberate,” Sheila said. “What do you think, Mavis?”

  “I think Joe spends too much time on his own, that’s what I think. He needs a woman in his life, and I mean a proper woman, not like Alison.” Mavis grinned again, directly at Joe this time. “I’m always looking for a bloke with a bob or two.”

  Joe made no effort to suppress a shudder. “Pass,” he said. “You don’t think there might have been some woman determined to get back at Knickers-off?”

  “What? By running her down? Stop looking for problems, Joe. It was an accident, pure and simple.” Mavis looked around the room. “Right, I’m gonna see who’ll buy me a glass or two. See you later.”

  “See,” Sheila declared as Mavis wandered off to pester Cyril Peck. “Even Mavis thinks you’re silly.”

  “I’m reserving judgement,” Joe said. “I’ll go to the bar. When this track finishes, it’sNights in White Satin.”

  He skirted the dance floor to the bar, stopping occasionally to pass a comment with members, queued for several minutes until Mick Chadwick served him with a half of bitter, a port and lemon for Brenda and a glass of lemonade for Sheila, then made it back to the dais as the Moody Blues number came to end. He noticed that Sheila was talking with Eddie Dobson, but paid them no mind as he announced the next track,Jesamine by The Casuals.

  With the music under way, Brenda wandered off to dance with George Robson, and Sheila nudged him. “Joe, Eddie has a request.”

  “Just write it down, pal,” Joe invited, “along with the dedication, and I’ll play…”

  “Nought to do with music, matey,” Eddie interrupted.

  Joe looked him over. A tall and stout man, with large, flushed features, what impressed Joe most was the size of Eddie’s fists. They were like hams, and each wrist was decked with tattoos. He was not the kind of man Joe would like to meet down an alley on a dark night.

  “What is it, then?”

  “Filey,” Eddie replied. He pronounced it fah-lee. “I was thinking, like, if yon woman who was run over was going to Filey, there’ll be a place on the bus now.”

  Joe scratched his head. “You’re not letting the grass grow under your feet, are you?”

  “Whey, there’s nought neither you nor me can do for her, is there? You’ve got to take whatever opportunity comes your way, haven’t ye?”

  With so many members in the room, Joe felt sufficiently emboldened to observe, “You don’t mind my saying, but you seem awfully keen to get to Filey.”

  “Ahm a fisherman, see, and there’s good fishing off the Brigg.”

  “All right, Eddie, let me tell you how it is. We have 36 rooms booked for 71 people. Now Mavis and Nicola were in one room, and there’s no way the hotel would let you literally share Mavis’ room. I’ll have to ring them tomorrow, and see if they have a spare single. And this is short notice so I’ll need the full amount off you tomorrow. That’s…” Joe turned to Sheila. “How much?”

  “One hundred and twenty five pounds, Eddie.”

  “I can have it for you,” Eddie replied. “If I stop by your place tomorrow, would that be all reight?”

  “Yeah, but make it late morning,” Joe advised. “Gimme time to speak to the Beachside.”

  With a smile and a nod, Eddie went back to the bar.

  “Where did you say he was from?” Joe asked.

  “Rotherham,” Sheila said.

  Joe watched Brenda stop Eddie and speak with him. Then Brenda smiled broadly and Eddie carried on to the bar. “Rotherham? Not with an accent like that, he isn’t.”

  Chapter Four

  Thursday morning brought no sign of an end to the heat wave, now into its fifth day. In the kitchen of the Lazy Luncheonette, Lee worked with the back door open and a pair of freestanding fans blowing in an effort to create a cool airflow and combat the stifling heat. The ultraviolet Insect-o-cutor seemed to be working overtime dealing with the invasion of flies and large insects, which, so it appeared to Joe, were as desperate as any other species, to get indoors, out of the searing sunlight.

  In the dining area, Joe, too, was using tall fans to keep his customers cool, while complaining about the cost of electricity they consumed.

  When the early rush was over, Joe stood on the pavement enjoying a smoke, and compared notes with his long time friend and neighbour, Ramesh Patel who owned the minimarket, and both agreed that the weather had seen a massive rise in sales of soft drinks and ice cream, while Dennis Walmsley from the hardware and DIY shop, busy setting up some of his stock on the pavement, confirmed that he had been forced to order more of the same freestanding fans that Joe was using in the Lazy Luncheonette.

  With his cigarette break over, Joe stepped back into the café, and took his seat at the table by the counter. There were only a few customers in and Sheila had gone out with the sandwich order, while Brenda had finished helping Lee with the washing up and was preparing tea for herself and Joe.

  “Have you arranged cover for the weekend, Joe?” she asked as he took out his mobile phone and the Sanford 3rd Age Club’s booking confirmation from the Beachside Hotel, Filey.

  “Lee’s wife, Cheryl, is coming in with her friends, Franny and Pauline.”

  Brenda sat down and placed a beaker of tea before him. “As long as we’re covered. Those dray men will go through the roof if the place is understaffed.”

  Eyes darting from the letter to the mobile as he tapped in the individual numbers, Joe tutted. “You think I don’t know how to run my own place? I told Sheila to warn Ingleton’s that the sandwich order may be a bit late tomorrow and Monday.” Punching in the final number, he hit the green, ‘connect’ button and put the phone to his ear.

  The moment it began to ring out, it was answered. “Good morning, Beachside Hotel, Kieran speaking.”

  “Ah, good morning,” Joe replied, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. “My name is Murray, I’m Chairman of the Sanford 3rd Age Club and we have a booking with you for tomorrow until Monday. I wondered whether we could make an alteration to the booking.”

  The young man sounded doubtful. “I dain’t knah, sir. It’s a bit late.”

  “I appreciate that,” Joe said, “but one of our memb
ers who was supposed to be coming with us, passed away quite suddenly, yesterday. What I’d like to do is change the booking. That’s all.”

  “One moment, sir. I’ll put my mother… the manager on.”

  There was a thump as the young man put the receiver down, and for a few moments all Joe could hear was a muttered conversation between him and someone else, before the rattle of the receiver being picked up again.

  “Good morning, Mr Murray. It’s Sarah Pringle. We spoke back in April when you first booked.”

  “I remember,” Joe said, and repeated his request.

  “If it’s only a case of changing a name, there’s no problem,” said Sarah, when he had finished. “We can deal with it when you arrive.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. The person who, er, died, was a woman, booked into a twin room with another woman, and it’s a man who wants to take her place.” Joe laughed. “I know seaside places have a reputation for illicit, er, goings on, but…” Joe trailed off.

  “I can assure you, Mr Murray, the Beachside does not promote promiscuity,” Sarah said tartly.

  Joe removed the humour from his voice. “Yeah, well, so you see the problem. I just wondered whether you could accommodate the chap in a single room?”

  “Could you hold a moment, while I check?”

  She put the phone down and Joe drank some tea.

  “You need to get to the cash and carry today,” Brenda said. “Make sure Lee is well stocked on sundries like sweets and cans.”

  “The minute Sheila gets back and I can find the time,” Joe replied.

  “And have you told Cheryl how to bank the takings?”

  “Yes. Anything else? Would you like me to apply for planning permission for a rooftop garden?”

  “I’m just…”

  With the sound of the receiver picked up at the Beachside, Joe held up a hand to silence Brenda.

  “Mr Murray?”

  “Mrs Pringle?”

  “Right. Yes, we can accommodate your client, but there will be a single room surcharge of fifteen pounds.”

  “That’s his lookout, not mine.”

  “And I’ll need payment now by debit or credit card.”