After visiting the lavatory again, he went back to bed, but the disappearing van had turned his mind to the death of Nicola Leach, and he found sleep reluctant to come. At length, he managed a further hour before finally getting up at half past six.
Now, sat on the Beachside’s terrace, the morning sun already too hot, he felt tired and more irritable than usual.
“Well?” Sheila demanded more insistently.
A police car had just driven in through the hotel gates and stopped by the entrance. A young, uniformed constable climbed out, putting his peaked cap on his head as he retrieved something from the passenger seat. Throwing a polyester rucksack onto his shoulder and tucking a rod and line under his armpit, he locked up the car and made his way into the hotel.
“Well, Joe?”
Sheila’s repeated direct question pulled Joe back to his faulty arithmetic. “What?” he asked.
“You’ve added them up again, again and again. Where are you up to?”
Joe tossed the clipboard down, took another deep drag on his thin cigarette and waved vaguely at the table. “Seventy tickets, seventy-one people. We are a ticket short. I’d better ring the box office and tell them. We need to arrange a replacement and let them know to keep an eye out in case the other’s been stolen.”
Sheila shook her head and her shower of fair curls wobbled attractively around her pretty features.
“Joe, Brenda and I counted those tickets when they were first delivered to the café. There were seventy-one.”
“I know, I know,” he agreed. “But where’s the odd one?”
Sheila shrugged, and there was something about the casual disregard of the gesture that caused Joe to wonder why he had never made a pass at her.
Brenda stepped from the dining room into the sweating air. She had abandoned her long skirt and blood red top in favour of off-white shorts and a thin white T-Shirt which showed her bra. The sight reminded Joe of preciselywhyhe had never made a pass at Sheila. It was the same reason he had never made a pass at Brenda. The women dideverything together. He couldn’t hit on one because he’d never be able to get rid of the other.
Brenda sat alongside Sheila, and helped herself to a cup of tea. “Trouble at t’ mill?” she asked, taking in Joe’s irritated features.
“He’s a ticket missing,” said Sheila.
“He’s been a ticket short of the full book for years,” Brenda observed with a wicked grin.
“A ticket for tonight,” Joe rasped.
With a sly smile, Sheila commented, “I think he’s slipped it to Sarah Pringle and arranged to meet her after the show.”
Joe growled something incomprehensible.
“Hang on. A ticket missing?” asked Brenda. “For the show? Tonight?”
Joe gave her a mock round of applause. “We’re not talking about a ticket for the Orient Express, are we?” He held up his wedge of tickets. “Seventy seats for the Abba Tribute Show.” Putting them down, he held up the clipboard. “Seventy-one names on the list. One of the tickets is missing.”
“It’s not missing,” Brenda laughed. “I gave it to Eddie Dobson.”
In an effort to quell his irritation, Joe stubbed out his cigarette, drank his tea and filled the cup from a stainless steel pot. Stirring milk and two sugars into the drink, he fumed at Brenda.
“I have just spent the last half hour going through this list more times than you’ve had hot dinners and now you turn up and have the brass nerve to tell me you gave a ticket to Eddie Dobson?”
Brenda ignored his tetchiness. Both women routinely ignored his liverish temper and here in Filey, he had no one upon whom he could vent it, unlike home where he could take it out on his nephew, Lee.
“We were in the bar last night, remember? I asked Eddie if he fancied a day in Scarborough or Bridlington, with us.” Brenda took in Joe’s livid gleam. “Well, the poor man lives all alone, he has no real friends, so I thought he might enjoy a day out with pleasant company.”
Sheila gave a girlish giggle. “Joe? Pleasant company? Oh, Brenda, you can’t half tell them.”
The women dissolved into silly laughter while Joe ignored Sheila’s dig at his infamous irritability. “You still haven’t told me why you gave him the damn ticket.”
Brenda choked back her laughter. “Well,” she explained more soberly, “Eddie didn’t want to come shopping with us. He said he planned to go out onto the Brigg and spend the day fishing. I reminded him that the bus leaves for Scarborough at half past six, but he said he’d be out on the Brigg all day and he might not make it back, so he asked if he could have his ticket and he’d make his own way to Scarborough and I said, okay. I didn’t think you’d mind. In fact, I didn’t think you’dcare.”
“I don’t,” Joe agreed, “but don’t you think you should have told me?”
“I was going to, but we were boogying the night away and cleaning up in the lounge until the wee, small hours, and I forgot.”
“Saints preserve me from middle-aged women trying to recapture their lost youth.” Joe tutted, and gathered together his tickets and clipboard. “That clears up another mystery, too. The money I thought I saw Eddie giving to Mrs Pringle, last night.” The women were mystified, and Joe revelled briefly in his superior, deductive skills. “He’s going fishing for the day, what will he need?” He chuckled evilly at their puzzlement. “A packed lunch,” he announced and their faces lit up.
“You mean you didn’t ask her last night when you were getting acquainted on the terrace,” Sheila asked in an effort to cover her admiration for Joe’s sleuthing skills.
“Only short of going down on one knee and proposing, from what I saw,” Brenda agreed.
Joe ignored their taunts. “Now we’ve cleared up some of our problems, we’ve only Nicola Leach’s death to worry about, so let’s make a move,” suggested Joe. “You dragged me to Filey, away from my business, and I’m supposed to be enjoying myself. So far, all I’ve done is sort out the rooms, sort out the meals, sort out the disco, sort out the tickets for tonight’s show and wasted an hour trying to find a missing ticket that wasn’t missing in the first place. So, where do you want to go? Bridlington or Scarborough?” Joe got to his feet.
Sheila’s eyes were on the dining room door, a few yards away, where Sarah Pringle was in whispered conference with the police officer, both casting occasional glances in their direction. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere for the moment, Joe. It looks like this chap may want a word with us.”
Joe and Brenda looked around as the policeman nodded his thanks to the manageress and strode out to join them. He carried his cap in one hand, the rucksack in the other, while the rod and line were tucked under his arm.
“Good morning, sir, madam, madam,” he greeted them. “I’m PC Flowers, North Yorkshire Police.”
“Really?” asked Joe. “I could have sworn you were auditioning for a TV show.”
Flowers looked puzzled.
“Just ignore him,” suggested Brenda. “He’s always like that.”
“Yes, madam,” said Flowers. “May I ask, are you the organisers for the party from Sanford?”
“The Sanford 3rd Age Club,” Sheila said grandly. “Joe’s the chairman, I’m membership secretary and Brenda is the treasurer.”
PC Flowers put his cap on the table behind them, dropped the rucksack on the paved terrace and rested the rod and line on it. Reaching into his breast pocket, he took out his notebook.
“Could I have your names and contact addresses, please?”
Brenda opened her mouth to comply, but Joe silenced her with an upraised hand. If anyone was going to deal with the law, it was him. “Names and addresses? What for?”
“I’ll come to that, sir.”
“Yes,” Joe assured him. “You’ll come to it now. I’ve met your sort of copper before. Give ’em your name and address and the next thing you know, they’re turning up with Environmental Health trying to do you for dumping chip fat in the dustbins. Tell us what it’s about.”
Nonplussed by Joe’s aggression, Flowers scratched his head. “Well, it’s a bit sensitive, sir.” He paused a moment, either marshalling his thoughts or plucking up courage. “Do you know a man named Eddie Dobson?”
“Eddie? Again? He’s certainly the centre of attention just lately. Yeah, we know him. He’s one of our members.” Joe looked pointedly at Brenda. “He’s one of our members with a ticket for the Abba show.” He transferred his gaze, now more suspicious than angry, to the rucksack. “What about him?”
Flowers cleared his throat. “Well, sir, I’m afraid I have bad news. There’s been an accident and he’s missing. We believe he may have died.”
Joe, still standing, ready to leave, sat down suddenly and quickly, Brenda gasped and Sheila said, “Oh, dear lord.”
In the stunned silence following the announcement, Sarah Pringle arrived with a fresh tray of tea things, and Flowers tucked himself into the spare chair alongside Joe. Brenda poured four cups of tea from the pot, while Joe, his hand shaking, rolled another cigarette.
With tea dispensed, Flowers took control. “Now, ladies, sir, let’s start again, eh? Your names and a contact address.”
“I’m Joe Murray, this is Brenda Jump and that’s Sheila Riley.”
Flowers wrote quickly. “And a contact address or telephone number?”
“The Lazy Luncheonette, Doncaster Road, Sanford,” said Sheila.
Flowers was confounded once more. “Lazy Luncheonette?”
“It used to be Joe’s Café,” said Joe. “My place. I changed the name four years ago when these two,” he nodded at Sheila and Brenda, “persuaded me to go upmarket. Here. I’ll give you my card.” He reached into his hip pocket, took out an old, shiny and battered brown leather wallet, and retrieved a business card from it.
Flowers studied the ornate lettering.
Joe Murray Catering
The Lazy Luncheonette
Britannia Parade
Doncaster Road, Sanford.
For all your catering needs.
Tucking the card under the elastic strap of his pocketbook, the policeman took a drink of tea. “Right. That’s that sorted. May I ask, how well do you know Mr Dobson?”
“I don’t,” Joe confessed. “I’ve seen him a time or two at the weekly disco, and he’s caused us some hassle these last few days because he wanted to come to Filey, but aside from that he liked to keep to himself.”
“He has no relatives?”
Joe shrugged and puffed on his cigarette. “I neither know nor care.”
“He hasn’t,” Sheila asserted with a disapproving glower at Joe. “I canvassed him when he first moved to Sanford. He came into the café and we got chatting. He wasn’t a particularly chatty type, but I recall him telling me he’d just come out of the navy and he moved to Sanford to look for work. I persuaded him to join STAC.”
Flowers frowned again. “Stack?”
“S-T-A-C,” Brenda spelled the letters out. “The Sanford 3rd Age Club.”
“Ah.” Flowers made more notes.
Joe drew heavily on his cigarette. “So do we know what’s happened?”
“Mr Dobson was fishing out on the Brigg, sir,” reported the police officer, “and apparently slipped and fell in the sea. The currents are quite strong there, especially when the tide’s on the ebb, as it is now. One of the other anglers raised the alarm, and the inshore lifeboat was called out, but by the time they got there, his body was probably washed out to sea. There were red smears on the rocks, which looked fresh, and may have been blood. We won’t know about that until samples are analysed. If so, it seems likely that as he fell, he struck his head on the rocks and was dragged under. Without a body, he’s officially posted as missing, but we’re not hopeful of finding him and I think we can take it that he’s dead.”
Listening to Flowers, Joe recalled that he’d seen the inshore lifeboat rushing off across the waters, a long dinghy leaving a broad wake in its trail as it skipped over the surface like a stone across a pond.
“And no one saw nothing?” he asked.
“One or two of the other fishermen noticed him when he first arrived.” Flowers consulted his notes again. “They described him as a tall gentleman dressed in baggy jeans and an overlarge T-shirt, carrying a wax jacket.”
Joe shrugged and relit his cigarette. “I never saw him this morning, so I don’t know how he was dressed. How can you be sure it was him?”
“Well, we’re not, sir, but the bag has an identification label bearing his name.” Flowers patted the rucksack. “When we checked the contents, we found the key to room 102 inside. The moment I asked Mrs Pringle, she knew who I meant and pointed me to you.”
“A tragic accident,” Sheila commented.
“It looks that way, madam. No one saw him actually fall, but one or two people heard him cry out. Obviously, by the time they got to his pitch, he was gone.” The constable drank more tea. “Tell me, do you know if he was particularly worried or depressed about anything? I only ask because most anglers know how treacherous the rocks can be and they take extra caution when they’re walking out to their pitches. An experienced angler would know to tread carefully, but if he had something on his mind, it could account for him slipping.”
Joe shrugged. “Being divorced or separated is depressing, being divorced or separated and living in Sanford is enough to make anyone suicidal. You don’t think he jumped, do you?”
Flowers mirrored the shrug. “Anything’s possible, sir. We don’t think there are any suspicious circumstances surrounding the incident, and we certainly don’t believe there was anyone else involved. My inquiries are merely routine.” The officer’s brow creased. “You said a moment or two ago, sir, that Mr Dobson seemed to be the centre of attention. Could I ask what you meant by that?”
Joe laid a beady eye on Brenda. “We were talking about him last night, at the disco. He was a bit of a wallflower, and we’re going to Scarborough tonight, for the Abba Tribute show, but he didn’t want to come with the rest of us on the bus. He was gonna make his own way there.”
A solemn silence fell over them, each lost to their own thoughts.
Sheila broke it. “There was no one on shore who saw anything?”
Flowers shook his head. “He was on the north side of the Brigg, madam, the side that looks towards Scarborough. When the lifeboat got there, they reported a few people walking along Gristhorpe Sands, a good half mile away, and our lads are out there now, but I haven’t heard anything yet.” Flowers finished his tea. “Could I ask a favour? I need to leave his personal effects with someone so they can be passed on either to him, should he return, or to whatever family he may have had. Would you mind taking them?”
Brenda nodded. “Of course.”
Flowers stood up and tucked his notebook away. “Thank you, madam, sir, madam. I’ll take my leave of you. And please accept my, er, condolences, I suppose. It sounds as if you people were the closest he came to friends.”
The policeman left and the three STAC members sat in brief silence.
“What an awful thing to happen. First Nicola and now Eddie.” Tears welled in Brenda’s eyes. “Oh dear. I think I’m going to...” She reached into her bag for a tissue and Sheila patted her comfortingly on the shoulder.
Joe looked away. Women who cried always made him feel guilty.
“Cheer up, Brenda,” Sheila encouraged. “After all, we don’t know for sure that he’s dead, do we?”
Joe almost commented, but caught himself in time. That cop was sure Eddie was dead, and so was Joe.
His eye fell on the rucksack, a large affair of woven polyester in drab, army green, with an identification label set into the front pocket. Written by an erratic hand, the label readEddie Dobson. Its various pockets bulged and there was a small, folding stool strapped to it.
Shifting the tea tray and cups out of the way, Joe plucked the rucksack from the flagstones, grunting with the unexpected weight, and dropped it on the table in the space he had just cre
ated.
Unzipping the main compartment, he removed a sturdy, black case and flipped open the lid revealing bite alarms and their leads. Pushing that to one side, he investigated further, taking out packs of lures, hooks, spare lines, a high-speed reel, and other angling items, until the compartment was empty.
A frown creased his already wrinkled brow. Turning the carryall round, he opened the two side pockets, took out a pair of chain mail gloves from one and a wallet of pirks from the other. His frown deepened. Slowly, methodically, he went through every compartment in the bag, and finally sat down again, chewing thoughtfully on his cigarette.
“That’s odd.” His cigarette had gone out. Relighting it, he asked, “Brenda, did you say he was going to be out on the Brigg all day?”
“That’s what the man told me,” she replied, “and you, yourself, said he paid Sarah Pringle for a packed lunch.”
Joe’s puzzlement increased in proportion to the number of wrinkles on his forehead. “Yeah, and that’s what’s odd.”
Sheila and Brenda exchanged knowing glances. They had heard that tone before in Joe’s voice and it usually spelled a mystery.
“What’s odd?” ask Sheila.
“I’ve been in catering all my life. There isn’t nothing I don’t know about it. Now here’s a man who’s gonna spend all day sitting on wet rocks dangling his rod and line in the sea. He’s gonna be out there, over half a mile from land, a good mile from the nearest shops and yet, look.”
He tilted the bag forward so they could see its contents.
“No packed lunch. No thermos, not even a bottle of water or a bar of chocolate. Not a single item of food. It’s almost as if he knew he wouldn’t be coming back.”
Chapter Eight
The two women greeted Joe’s announcement with cautious stares. Drying her eyes, Brenda helped herself to another cup of tea, slopping milk across the plastic table and the upper flap of the open rucksack. Sheila fussed over the spillage, mopping it with a serviette, while Joe chewed on his cigarette stub and studied the carryall’s contents spread across the tabletop.
The Filey Connection Page 9
