“You’ve taken thirty-six of my rooms,” she told him, “and there are only the three of us on reception.”
A slim, mousy woman in her mid 50s, Joe found himself ambivalent in his attitude to her. A short head of fair hair framed her long face, and he guessed she would be attractive if she had ever learned how to smile. Her busty upper half, and, as he would discover when she emerged from behind the reception counter, her shapely legs would have made her the perfect date for a middle-aged man like himself, but the dour set of her face told a different tale.
Her son, Kieran, looked nothing like her. In his early 20s, he was a tall and muscular young man, not in the same league as, say, Lee, but nevertheless, lean and fit. If he was not as big and bulky as Joe’s nephew, he was just as slow-witted, and seemed incapable of making decisions for himself.
Alongside Kieran was Billy Pringle, whom Sarah introduced as her older brother. A stocky and cheerful man, with a hooked nose, his jowly features flushed with sweat and, so Joe assumed, worry as he worked his way through the booking process. He was a man, Joe concluded, not accustomed to administrative procedures.
“We’re a comparatively small hotel,” Sarah went on, “and we cope as best we can, but when we get a large party like yours coming in, delays are inevitable.”
“And your bosses won’t spring for extra staff?” Joe asked.
Sarah gave him a withering stare. “My brother and I own the Beachside, Mr Murray.”
In the light of this announcement, she rose several rungs in Joe’s estimation. “My apologies,” he said. “I run a café in Sanford, and I know what it’s like trying to balance staff levels against profits. I get the same earache from my customers when my place is busy and they have to queue up. Is there any way we can help?” he asked.
“I dain’t knah,” she replied. She eyed a stack of registration slips, then grabbed a handful. “If you could give these out to your members and have them complete them before they get to the counter, we might make a bit of progress.”
“No problem,” Joe agreed.
With the nagging feeling coming back to him, Joe handed out the forms.
Inevitably, they speeded up the checking in process and within a quarter of an hour, he was unlocking the door to room 202, while Sheila and Brenda went into room 208 directly opposite him.
“We’ll see you on the front terrace for tea in about ten minutes, Joe,” Sheila said.
After the grand front, and the decorative panelling of reception, the room was a disappointment. Small and basic, the single bed, centred on the rear wall, was flanked by a wardrobe and dresser, and the en suite shower and toilet was cramped, but well lit.
Joe flopped his small suitcase on the bed, opened it, took out the few clothes he had brought with him, hung them in the wardrobe, and then pulled out his netbook computer. Looking around, he could see nowhere to set it but the dresser, and instead chose to leave it in one of the lower drawers.
Ambling over to the window, he parted the net curtains and looked out on the rear of the hotel.
Despite its art deco front face, at the back it was like any other establishment. A narrow, poky yard cluttered with beer crates and empty barrels stacked around, awaiting the arrival of the dray lorry, and wheelie bins waiting for the weekly call of the refuse vehicle. Some of Mrs Pringles’ private washing hung out on a line and while Joe watched, a chambermaid came out of the rear door, ducked under the shirts hanging on the line, and tossed a bag of rubbish into a large capacity bin.
The sun was shining on the front of the hotel, casting dark shadows over the rear, but further back, the narrow streets were bathed in the sunlight of another scorching day. Looking over to his left, he could see the tourists making their way along the street, crowding around the windows of cafes and souvenir shops, or making their way down to the sea front; young families and older couples, the mainstay of Filey’s summer visitors, cluttering the pavements, with the occasional delivery vehicle negotiating the throng.
Something troubled him, but no matter much he tried to distract himself by looking out on the town, it would not come to him. Ensuring he had his Fuji compact camera, his tobacco and lighter, he took his key, and stepped out of the room.
Richly carpeted, but plainly decorated, the second floor landing had that graveyard air of quiet about it, disturbed only by the padding of his trainers on the Axminster. Waiting for the lift, with only a freestanding fire extinguisher to distract his attention, he looked over a couple of pictures adorning the walls. Reproductions of artworks, one was a view of Filey Bay from Coble Landing, the other a stylised landscape of the Brigg.
“What would you expect to find in a Filey hotel, Joe?” he muttered as the lift arrived.
Passing through the dining room and lounge bar, Joe paused and ordered tea, then passed out onto the terrace where Julia and Alec Staines were already enjoying the sunshine with their coffee.
“Great place, Joe,” Julia congratulated him. “Just what we needed.”
“Glad you appreciate it, Julia.”
Choosing a table away from them, sitting down so he could face the sun, he dragged the ashtray towards him, took out his tobacco tin and rolled a cigarette. A light, onshore breeze tickled his crinkly hair and when the waitress delivered his tea, he felt almost at peace with the world.
Almost.
Something still troubled him. Something was not quite right.
His usual practice in such circumstances was to let his mind freewheel, allowing some space for whatever the problem was to jump into, but that was not working. He could not even identify the source of the problem: Nicola Leach or Filey.
“Summat wrong, Joe?” Brenda asked, joining him.
He came back to reality and looked around. “Where’s Sheila?”
“Ordering tea and cakes.” Brenda smacked her lips and sat alongside him. “Why so anxious?”
He shrugged and drew on his cigarette. “Something is wrong, but I can’t think what it is.”
She smiled. “It’s all right. The hotel don’t send any of your details to the taxman.”
“What?” Joe realised she was taking a rise out of him and chuckled. “No, no, it’s nothing like that.”
“What then?” Brenda put an arm round his shoulder and hugged him. “Come on, you can tell Auntie Brenda all your problems. I promise they’ll go no further than you and me and the world wide web.”
He shrugged her off. “If I knew what it was, it wouldn’t be bothering me, would it?”
Brenda dug into her handbag and came out with an antiperspirant. “Nothing to do with Nicola is it?” she asked spraying her forearms.
Joe watched a speedboat skip across the waters, leaving a broad wake in its trail. “Could be,” he said. “I told you. I don’t know.”
“You’re not still worried about upsetting Sheila earlier?”
He snorted. “I wasn’t worried about upsetting Sheila at all, never mind now. She knows I didn’t mean it the way she took it, and you two are always pulling my leg.”
“Only she can be quite touchy about men,” Brenda reminded him. “She really is not interested in relationships at all.”
“You’re not listening, are you?” Joe demanded. “I’m not remotely concerned about you or Sheila having a moody on you, but there’s something nagging away at the back of my mind, and I don’t know what it is. Something I should be realising, but I’m not. It’s no problem. It’ll come to me.”
Chapter Six
Standing on the podium in one corner of the Beachside’s lounge bar, Joe mopped his brow and surveyed the scene before him.
A mirrorball bounced the multi-coloured lights of his disco around the room where they reflected from many shining pates on the dance floor. Couples danced, some locked together, others jiggling face to face, one or two wriggling alone, most were dressed in clothing that had last been fashionable when Harold Wilson was Prime Minister, and all had that ridiculous air of elders reliving their youth. The entire room had th
e surreal atmosphere of an underground 60s club taken over for a grandparents’ evening. The bizarre lyrics of Traffic singingHole In My Shoe added to the sense of unreality.
Without exception, the club members were around when the title was first released, and a good number probably bought it. “Nineteen sixty-seven the summer of love,” he said.
“I have an idea it was a hit a lot later than the summer, Joe,” Sheila responded.
Wearing a pair of denims and a white T-shirt that declared, ‘I’m a third age rocker’, he sweated in overpowering heat. “I don’t know where they get the energy to dance from.”
“You mean you don’t know where they get the energy from to dance.”
Joe narrowed his eyes on Sheila and tutted. “That doesn’t make any more sense than the way I said it.”
“It wouldn’t.” Sheila picked up a handheld, battery operated fan, switched it on and wafted it before her face.
After tea on the terrace, they had spent the remainder of the morning ambling round Filey, the women enjoying a little retail therapy, Joe grumbling along behind them. At intervals they met other club members on the street: George Robson and Owen Frickley heading into the Three Tuns, Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson coming out of a fancy goods shop, Sylvia holding a carrier bag. Joe and Les took the opportunity to verbally aggravate one another again, Sylvia showed Sheila and Brenda a couple of china ornaments she had just bought. Further down the street, they met the Staineses coming out of a clothing shop. Joe and Alec idled away a few minutes waiting for the three women to stop chatting before they moved on, nodding hello to Eddie Dobson as he walked into a hardware and fishing supplies store, and then bumping into Cyril Peck and Mavis Barker as they made their way into the Belle Vue Hotel for a midday drink.
Joe treated his two companions to lunch in a restaurant, after which they spent the afternoon on the beach, soaking up the sun with thousands of other holidaymakers.
Joe took many photographs, often complaining, “I wish I’d brought my Sony. This compact is too limited.”
Whatever troubled Joe earlier in the day continued to haunt him at intervals, and he had not yet solved it. There had been no word from Gemma (not that he expected any) and therefore, no progress on the death of Nicola Leach.
“I think that’s what’s bothering you,” Brenda had said. “You’ve persuaded yourself that it was a deliberate act, and you can’t prove it.”
“I’m willing to back off on that,” Joe confessed, “but only because what I’m really saying is it doesn’t add up.” A note of enthusiasm entered his voice as he went on. “Let’s put it together. Knickers-off comes out of the Foundry Inn and staggers along the pavement on her way home. As she passes the Sanford Park Hotel’s car park, this Land Rover comes out and mows her down then drives off. Cora Harrison is riding shotgun in a similar vehicle, sees it and dials 999. While she’s doing so, she digs into her diary or something, and comes up with a false handle. And all this is in the space of the few seconds that it takes her and her… I dunno, lover, let’s say, to pass Nicola lying dying in the road. It just doesn’t add up.”
“She may have stopped, Joe,” Sheila pointed out.
“The vehicle was moving when she made the call,” he retorted. “And all right, so they could have stopped, checked Nicola and then drove off because they don’t want to get involved, but all the same, it’s hooky.”
Brenda was dismissive. “That’s the trouble with you, Joe. You don’t know what it’s like to have a bit on the side. Personally, I’d have done just as Sheila says. I’d have stopped, checked on Knickers-off and when I realised I could do nothing for her, I’d order my man to scarper, and then bell the filth while we were moving.” Her cheery features became sad. “Poor Nicola. She may have been a bit fast and loose, but no one deserves that.”
“Amen,” Sheila said, and Joe echoed the sentiment.
“Couldn’t agree more, which is why I think we have a duty to shove our noses in, see if we can’t track down the driver and this Cora Harrison.”
“And how are we gonna do that?” Sheila asked. “Send for Batman?”
“Logic,” Joe insisted. “These people make mistakes. All we need to do is pick them out.”
They had left the beach at four and returned to their hotel, where Joe took an hour’s nap before showering, shaving and throwing on his sixties clothing for the evening.
After an excellent meal of lamb cutlets, which considerably raised Joe’s opinion of the Beachside, they retired to the lounge bar, where he set up the disco.
“It’s a good do, Joe,” Sheila approved, bringing him back from his memories of the day. “A fine start to the weekend.”
Joe clucked again and took a swallow of ice-cold lager. His grumpy features twisted into a grimace of malevolence. “Lager. Baby beer. Give me a pint of Guinness any day.”
“You could have had a pint of Guinness,” Sheila pointed out.
“Too hot for Guinness,” Joe grumbled. He picked up on her previous announcement. “And it should be a good do. Do you know how much the manageress, that Sarah Pringle, charged us for the hire of the room? She said along with the additional bar staff and all the cleaning up, not to mention the extra electricity they’d use running the disco gear, she would have to charge me a ‘substantial fee’.” He described speech marks in the air with his fingers as he pronounced the last two words. “Substantial fee? I’m sure the Lazy Luncheonette cost less.”
Sheila frowned. “Club funds pay for it, Joe. It’s not as if the money comes out of your own pocket.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a businessman, aren’t I,” Joe reminded her, “and business is there to make a profit. Even the club. I know we put the money back in for the members, but we have to show a profit, and you don’t make a profit by spending on unplanned, er…” He struggled to find a simile and couldn’t. “Spending,” he concluded.
Sheila let out a weary sigh. “What are we going to do with you? We came here to enjoy ourselves for the weekend. Stop whining about Nicola Leach and money, and let your hair down.”
Joe glanced out across the crowd on the dance floor to remind himself of their balding heads. He ran a hand through his own curly mop. “Well at least I’ve still got some hair to let down.”
“It’s just a shame you don’t get out of the Lazy Luncheonette often enough to spend some of that fortune you have stashed away.” Sheila wafted her fan again. “Where is Brenda? I need her by my side if I’m really going to rattle your cage.”
Joe’s eyes left the dance floor and checked out the bar area where he quickly picked out Brenda Jump. She was difficult to miss. Dressed in a short, dark skirt, topped by a vivid scarlet blouse with an orange, silk scarf at her neck, she looked like an advertisement for gloss paint.
She sat at the bar with Eddie Dobson. Perched on a bar stool, his belly hanging over the waistband of his jeans, his weather-beaten skin glistened with sweat in the raw heat of the lounge.
“She’s over there,” Joe reported, “buttonholing that new guy.”
Sheila peered across the room. “Oh. Eddie. Poor man.”
“Yeah, poor man,” agreed Joe. “Brenda hitting on him like that.”
Sheila pursed her lips primly. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. He’s just got out of the forces. A single man. Doesn’t have a soul in the world.”
Joe tutted sadly. “And just when he thinks things can’t get any worse, Brenda sets her sights on him.” He eyed Sheila. “This morning, you took the hump because I called him ‘your man’. Fair comment, maybe I shouldn’t have said it, but you certainly seem to know a lot about him.”
“That, Joe, is because I talk to people. I don’t simply bend their ear while I moan about money and Nicola Leach.”
With a grunt that could have been agreement or dissent, he drank the remainder of his lager. “I’d better go rescue him from Brenda. You want another drink?”
Sheila nodded. “Just a glass of lemonade, please, Joe. With ice.”
<
br /> Joe was about to step off the podium when the progress of the music permeated his ears. “It doesn’t have long to go, Sheila. Next track is The Monkees,I’m A Believer.”
She looked anxiously at the laptop computer’s screen display, a seemingly endless list of tunes. “Where is it?”
Joe had already stepped off the podium. “Track seven, seven, one,” he called back.
At least he thought it was 771. Unlike so many of the club members, whose ages ranged from 50 to 85, his mind was as sharp as ever, but if the numbers were not prefixed by a “£” sign, he sometimes struggled to recall them.
He skirted the dance floor nodding to one or two people. Tanner, looking resplendent in his grey flannels and regimental blazer, danced ridiculously with Sylvia Goodson, and nearby, Alec and Julia Staines were smooching. As frisky a middle-aged married couple as he had ever come across, but smooching? ToHole In My Shoe? As Joe passed around the edge of the floor, Mavis Barker gave him the glad eye. He returned a grumpy smile and looked away. True to form, the woman was dressed in an outrageous, lime green trouser suit that perfectly captured the theme of the weekend, but which, thanks to her short, dumpy figure, made her appear as a grotesque leprechaun wiggling its bottom in pale imitation of a jitterbug barely paying lip service to the musical tempo.
Although he would never admit it to anyone, as a founder member and chairman of the Sanford 3rd Age Club, it was a matter of some pride that his discos were the highlight of the week, and tonight, as a leader into the Abba weekend, was extra special. The 70 or so people who had come along for the weekend were like Joe; they preferred their music, their beer and their partners from that magical era between the beginning of the end of the Beatles and the birth of punk rock.
Arriving at the bar, he stood behind Brenda and signalled for service.
“The club is just wonderful, Eddie,” he overheard Brenda say as she waved an arm at the dance floor. “Many of our members joined as couples, but we have our share of divorcees and widows. We’ve had plenty of engagements and marriages, too; members who were like you; alone.”
The Filey Connection Page 7
