The Filey Connection

by David W Robinson

  Joe tutted. “Just a minute while I dig it out.” He put the mobile on the table and took his battered, brown leather wallet from his back pocket. The thing was so old, the leather shone in the overhead lighting. “You’re a witness to this, Brenda,” he said. “I’m paying Eddie Dobson’s bill so when he comes in and pays up, the money is mine.” He picked the phone up again and gave Sarah his credit card number.

  “That’s gone through okay, Mr Murray,” she said at length. “Now, if I could just have the client’s name, please?” Sarah asked.

  “Dobson. Edward Dobson.”

  There was a pause, after which, Sarah said, “That’s all taken care of Mr Murray. I’ll look forward to seeing you and your party tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Thanks.” Joe cut the connection and tossed the phone on the table. Taking another swallow of tea, he dug out his tobacco tin and began the task of rolling a cigarette. “That’s done. Eddie can get his fishing in, now. Brenda, you have the tickets for the Abba show, don’t you?”

  She nodded and finished her tea. “Stashed away where no man would dare to look for them.”

  Joe scowled. “Except George Robson and three dozen others.”

  Brenda’s smile faded as Sheila came through the rear door, her face set grim. “What’s up, ducks?”

  “That flaming car of Joe’s.” Her angry eye rested on the man. “I thought you were going to clean it out yesterday afternoon?”

  “I was, but I got sidetracked with other business and forgot. Anyway, what’s wrong with it?”

  Like Brenda the previous day, Sheila picked several grey hairs from her tabard. “It is disgusting. My hair isn’t grey, neither is Brenda’s, so it must be yours.”

  He waved away the argument. “I’ll deal with it, right? When I have a minute.”

  The doorbell trilled and Gemma entered, ending the threat of all-out war.

  “Why do I get a feeling of déjà vu?” Joe asked. “Morning, Gemma. Want some tea?”

  She shook her head. “Haven’t time. Do you have Bluetooth on your phone, Uncle Joe?”

  He nodded, much to the surprise of Brenda and Sheila. “Lee and Cheryl showed me how to use it,” he explained. Turning to Gemma, he asked, “Why do I need it?”

  “You wanted to hear the 999 call from Cora Harrison.” Gemma held up her phone. “You said, and I quote, ‘I know people who’ll tell you not only what kind of engine it is, but probably who built it’. The call is on here.”

  “And have you listened to it?” Joe demanded.

  Gemma tucked in alongside Brenda, opposite Joe. “Yes. Our people have analysed it and they agree with you, she was in some kind of vehicle. They could hear the engine in the background. They’ve suppressed the woman’s voice so you can hear the engine, and they’re working on a more detailed analysis but that’ll take a few days. I thought, since you offered, I’d let you have a dabble with it, see if your mate really can tell you who built it.”

  Joe worked through the menus of his phone as he talked. “I’ll wander over to Broadbent’s with it, and see if one of their older men can tell me anything.” Activating the Bluetooth, he nodded at his niece. “Gimme the file.” Joe watched the file transfer and when it was done, he dropped it into his pocket. “Have you learned anything more overnight?”

  “Hmm. A little,” Gemma nodded. “The bit of bull bar Vinny Gillespie found near the Sanford Park Hotel had traces of Nicola’s clothing, skin and blood on it, so it definitely came from the vehicle that hit her, and it gives us a clue as to the type of vehicle. The post-mortem is today and we’re waiting for the report so we can judge the position of her external injuries, which will give us the approximate height of the bull bars on the vehicle.”

  “And how will that help?” Brenda asked.

  “Fitted to vans, they tend to be quite low,” Gemma replied, “but on four-by-fours, Land Rovers and the like, they’re higher up. For the moment, we think it’s a four-by-four.” She smiled at her uncle. “It tells us that Cora Harrison was a witness, and not involved.”

  “Why?” Joe demanded.

  “We’re assuming, like you, that she gave us a false name, Uncle Joe. If she was in the vehicle that hit Nicola, she would have given us a false description of it, too.”

  “Not necessarily,” Joe argued. “Rover isn’t the only company to make four-by-fours.”

  “Whatever,” Gemma sighed. “Listen, Uncle Joe, all this is strictly unofficial. When I spoke to my boss, he said he didn’t mind you listening to it, but no one else can know what it’s about. All right?”

  Joe smiled crookedly. “I’ll tell ’em it’s my car.”

  ***

  Broadbent’s Auto Service Centre was the largest factory and employer on Doncaster Road Industrial Estate, and coincidentally, the largest accident and service centre in Sanford. Joe’s father had known the company’s founder, Ken Broadbent in the days when the company first set up, just after the end of World War Two.

  Broadbent’s had come a long way since the days of a run-down shed and scrub of land near the old foundry. Their premises were clean, modern, and contained the latest in technology to aid the mechanics in their diagnostic work.

  Walking in through the gates, Joe noted a range of cars and vans parked in the yard. Some belonged to the staff, some were waiting for service or repair and some had prices in the window. Broadbent’s had never been slow to maximise their profit opportunities.

  While most visitors or customers would report to reception, Joe Murray was not most people. He walked past the glass fronted office, waving to the counter hands, and stepped into the workshop.

  Technicians were working on various vehicles. Damon Allbright, the youngest apprentice in the place, therefore the one detailed to collect sandwiches from the Lazy Luncheonette, stood beneath a Nissan Micra, which was raised on a hydraulic ramp allowing the lad access to the exhaust. In the far corner, two fitters had the bonnet of an ageing Ford Ka raised and were gunning the engine. Other men stood at benches stripping down bits of engine, yet more had the body panels off vehicles, and more than one technician had oxy-acetylene burners lit for welding or cutting.

  He found Harry Needham perched on a bench, scanning the racing pages of theDaily Mirror. A big, beefy man, covered in a matt of dark hair, Harry sported a full beard and a hooked nose, which Joe knew had been caused by a van door flying open and not, as Harry often claimed, by a stray punch in a bar fight.

  On seeing Joe, the face behind the beard split into a broad grin. “Hey up, it’s Joe Murray. What’s up, Joe? Lost a fiver in that scrap heap of yours and figure we’ve nicked it?”

  “Up yours” Joe replied and ranged himself alongside Harry at the bench. He looked out across the workshop. “Keeping you busy, Harry?”

  “Six days a week, Joe.” Harry rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Making plenty of moolah, mind.”

  “And losing it all on the nags?” Joe nodded at the newspaper.

  “I win now and then.”

  “More then than now, I reckon.”

  Harry folded the newspaper away. “What do you want, Joe? Looking for new wheels?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my car,” Joe protested.

  Harry laughed. “Nothing that a match and a gallon of unleaded wouldn’t put right. At least you’d be able to claim on the insurance.”

  “Did I tell you once to get knotted? Tell me summat, Harry,” Joe pressed on before Harry could dig into his fund of cynical retorts, “Can you tell what kind of vehicle is running just by listening to a recording of the engine?”

  Harry roared with laughter. “Do me a favour. Who do you think I am? Mystic Meg? I might be able to tell you summat about it, but I couldn’t pin it down that well.”

  Joe offered his phone. “It’s an mp3 track. Just have a listen will you?”

  Harry frowned at the workshop. “Too noisy out here. Come into the office.”

  He led the way from the workshop into the mechanics’ rest room where th
ey sat at one of the large, wooden tables dotted around the floor. Harry started the recording and put it to his ear.

  Joe had already listened before leaving the Lazy Luncheonette. As Gemma had promised, the police acoustic technicians had muted the woman’s voice to a level just below the threshold of hearing, so that the noise of the engine came through louder.

  “Bad piston slap on that,” Harry muttered, “and there’s some bint talking, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.”

  “That’s deliberate,” Joe told him.

  Harry listened further and while he waited, Joe feasted his eyes on a tyre company calendar where the July model bared magnificent breasts for the camera, and urged the oglers to take her and the tyres she was selling.

  “You need a life, Joe,” he muttered to himself.

  Harry passed the phone back and Joe slipped it in his pocket.

  “Diesel,” the mechanic said. “Bad piston slap, too. Most engines when they’re cool have a bit of slap on them, but the driver’s running through the gears, so you have to figure that it’s coming up to operating temperature., and with a noise like that, it really needs attention.” He screwed his eyes, his gaze intent on Joe. “What’s this all about?”

  “Like you, I’m a betting man. I bet a pal that you could tell me what kind of vehicle it was.”

  “Looks like you’ve lost your bet, then,” Harry retorted. “Get your wallet out and pay the man.”

  Joe ignored the dig at his legendary skinflint habits. “Piston slap?” he asked.

  “In an ideal world, the piston should move straight up and down,” Harry explained, “but often there’s a bit of leeway and it causes the piston to rock sideways, and it slaps the side of the pot. As the engine warms up, it’s less noticeable because the piston expands and the oil runs freer.”

  “You mean more freely,” Joe corrected him.

  “Let’s make a deal. You listen to what I’m telling you and you don’t correct my English,” Harry said.

  “And what do I get out of this deal?” Joe demanded.

  “The benefit of my experience.” Harry paused a moment. “Tell you what, though, it’s an old motor. Maybe a van.”

  Joe’s eyebrows rose. “Go on?”

  “On a modern vehicle, there’s so much acoustic cladding that you wouldn’t hear that much engine noise.”

  “The recording has been enhanced, so youcan hear the engine,” Joe told him.

  “I guessed that,” Harry said, “but even so, you’re hearing too much. I can hear the driver shifting the gears, and yet the engine noise almost drowns it out. No, Joe, trust me. It’s an old motor, maybe a van.”

  “Or a Land Rover?” Joe prompted.

  Light dawned in Harry’s eyes. “You know, you may just be right.”

  Walking back to the Lazy Luncheonette, and crossing Doncaster Road, Joe rang his niece and reported his findings.

  “It is only an opinion, though, Uncle Joe,” she said.

  “Yes, but I’m still hedging bets in my favour,” he told her. “I still think this Cora Harrison was in the Land Rover that knocked Knickers-off down.”

  “And she was so sorry she rang us to tell us about it?” Gemma complained. “Sorry, Joe, but it doesn’t quite add up to a cold-blooded hit and run, so you’re wrong on one count or the other. Anyway, thanks for chasing it up. I’ll wait to see what our sound lab boys say and let you know.”

  “You know I’m off to Filey tomorrow?” Joe said, stopping outside the café.

  “I have your mobile number. I’ll bell you. All right?”

  Joe cut the connection, tucked the phone back in his shirt and rolled a cigarette.

  Sucking the carcinogens gratefully into his lungs, he pondered Gemma’s words. She was right. If running Nicola Leach down was deliberate, Cora Harrison would not bother to ring the police and report it. So if Harrison was in the vehicle that hit Nicola, it had to be an accident.

  “Unless she had a motive for ringing the law,” Sheila suggested when Joe brought his companions up to speed ten minutes later.

  With the time coming up to 11:30, the first of the lunches were now ordered and customers began to arrive. Joe stationed himself at the counter, filled the large, stainless steel teapot, pen and numbered notepad at the cash register and began to take orders.

  Over the years, they had developed their own shorthand to cope with the rush. SKP meant steak and kidney pie, SKPU was steak and kidney pudding, SEC, sausage, egg and chips (one of the favourites amongst the working people who came in). While he took orders and dished out beakers of tea, Sheila hurried back and forth between the tables and the kitchen delivering the orders, while Brenda took Joe’s notes through the serving hatch and assisted Lee in preparing the meals. Dirty plates and cutlery were racked up in the dishwasher or, when that was full and working, on the side of the sink. To an outsider, the system would appear chaotic, but it worked and had done so for umpteen years.

  And while he worked, his financially adept brain totting up figures, his fingers scribbling notes, taking money, giving change, pouring tea, Joe conversed equally well with the customers and his crew.

  “What possible motive could she have for ringing the police?” he asked, as he passed an order through the hatch, and took a ten-pound note from his customer.

  “I don’t know,” Sheila replied, leaning on the doorframe by the kitchen entrance, waiting for the order to be filled.

  From the kitchen Brenda called out, “Maybe she wanted Nicola’s seat on the Filey trip.”

  “Well if she did,” Sheila observed, “she was too slow. Eddie Dobson moved faster.” She watched Joe scribble out an order for an all day breakfast, and pour tea for his customer. “You’re the one with the suspicious mind, Joe. In fact, you’re the one who started all this. As far as the police were concerned, it was a simple drunk driving hit and run.”

  “They don’t think anything different even now,” Joe said, handing over more change and facing his next customer, a grubby man dressed in Sanford Borough Council overalls. “What are you having, sport?”

  “Cheese on toast, Joe, and a fiver out of the till.”

  “Stop pratting about, man,” Joe grumbled. He scribbled COT on a note and passed it through the hatch while Sheila collected the first meal and walked out into the dining area to deliver it. Pouring tea for his customer, holding his hand out for the cash, when Sheila returned, he said, “I can’t think of any ulterior motive she might have had for belling the cops. All I’m saying is, when you look at the big picture, the accident looks more like a deliberate act and she was in on it.”

  And how are you going to prove that?” Brenda called out, passing the all-day breakfast to Sheila.

  With the café door opening more frequently, and a queue beginning to form, Joe sped up his delivery at the till. “We need to find out who she is and why she had a downer on Knickers-off,” he called back, “but right now, we’re up to our neck in customers, so let’s concentrate on the job at hand, huh?”

  The lunchtime rush was an event they could predict with near-perfect accuracy. It went on until 1:30, after which the customers died to a trickle, allowing the staff to concentrate on the majority of the cleaning down. Cooked meals stopped at two, and Lee went home, leaving Joe and his two female companions to deal with the final few customers and the last of the cleaning before locking the doors at three.

  With the wall clock registering 2:55, and the last of the day’s customers departing, Joe was thinking about locking up, when Eddie Dobson appeared.

  “Cutting it fine there, squire,” Joe commented, ushering him to the table near the counter.

  Red-faced and breathless, Eddie apologised. “Sorry, shipmate, but the bus services in this town ain’t the best, and I hit a queue in the bank.” He dug into his shabby suit and retrieved a faded, black leather wallet.

  “There’s a slight complication,” Joe told him. “I got you in all right, but the hotel have demanded a surcharge for altering the booking.�
��

  Eddie appeared doubtful.

  “It’s only another fifteen pounds,” Joe hurried on. “They had to change Mavis Barker to a single room and put you in another single.”

  “Ah, right, I see.” The colour flushed to Eddie’s cheeks. “Bit of a bugger that. See, when you told me a hundred and twenty five, that was all I drew from the bank. I ain’t got much more on me. I mean it’s no problem,” he hastened to add. “Ah’ve gorrit, like, but I just ain’t gorrit wi’ me. Can I owe it you?”

  His natural propensity for keeping the books balanced, Joe hesitated, but Brenda chirped up.

  “Course you can, Eddie. You’re not going to leave town for fifteen pounds, and believe me, Joe will hound you for it.”

  Joe puffed out his breath, while Eddie smiled and handed over the money he had with him.

  Joe counted it twice, flipping the occasional note over to ensure that the Queen’s head was uppermost on all of them. Then he began to count it again.

  While he did so, Eddie Dobson looked around the empty dining room. “Wow. You’re a writer, too?”

  Frowning at the interruption, Joe followed Eddie’s gaze to the racks of books ranged on shelves around the café, and the notice above them:The Joe Murray Casebooks.

  “I’m a private detective in my spare time,” he said, and Eddie grinned as if he thought Joe was joking. “Seriously,” Joe pressed on. “I’ve solved any number of minor crimes in this town.”

  “And one or two major ones,” Sheila said from the doorway where she was sweeping the floor.”

  “Every time I solve a case, I write them up and have them published through the internet,” Joe concluded.

  “And do you sell many?” Eddie asked.

  “I don’t sell any,” Joe replied. “Well, I do, but only as ebooks. The print copies stay here for my customers to read.” He nodded at the money. “Now, can I count this?”

  Eddie fell silent, Joe thumbed through the notes again, and satisfied that it was all there, tucked the money in his pocket.

  “All right, you’re officially on board,” he declared. “The fee includes your ticket for the Abba tribute show in Scarborough on Saturday night. We have the tickets, and we’ll issue them on Saturday when we leave Filey for Scarborough. The coach leaves the Miner’s Arms at eight tomorrow morning and we should be in Filey between half past nine and ten o’clock. We’ll give you the official itinerary when we’re moving, but the only fixed thing about the weekend is the Abba show. You know where the Miner’s Arms is?”