“Maybe,” ventured Brenda, still puzzled by Joe’s confidence, “he took the coat in case it rained and as he slipped, he grabbed at it.”
Joe snorted again. “You ever heard of Occam’s Razor?”
Brenda was puzzled. “Was it a twin blade or electric?”
“It was a statement,” Sheila told her. “Basically, it said that you must not multiply logical entities without sufficient evidence.”
“Correct,” said Joe. “If you have Eddie clutching at the coat, you’re clutching at straws.” He waved at the windows and the outside world. “There’s no hint of an end to the heat wave. Eddie would never have taken his coat with him.”
“Perhaps he needed the pocket space,” Brenda ventured. “Like you and your tramp’s vest.”
“It’s a fisherman’s gilet, not a tramp’s vest,” Joe grunted. “And you’re off your rocker. He’s carrying a rucksack the size of a small truck, and he’s short of pocket space? And what happened to the stuff he was going to put in his pockets? Or do you think he’d keep the fish in there when he got a bite? And let’s not forget, he put his room key in the bag. Again, he wanted it to be found so the police could track him down quick. No, he was out to make it look like suicide and carrying that coat, leaving the key in the bag, even ordering a packed lunch and not taking it, was all part of the game.”
Silence fell between them. Across the bar, the same young woman who had so screeched outSend In The Clownsnow began to warble her way throughSomewhere Over The Rainbow, much to Joe’s irritation. He downed his drink.
“I wish she was singing somewhere over Manchester.”
“Joe,” asked Sheila, “why do you keep insisting he wanted it to appear that he committed suicide, but he didn’t? You’re hinting that he’s still alive.”
“He is. I’m sure of it. The van driver at the Beachside was collecting empty scuba diving tanks. Eddie Dobson was an ex-navy man. What’s the betting he was a frogman in the navy? He wasn’t carrying money because even the most experienced diver may lose it. Besides, if he had notes in his wallet, they’d have been ruined. He left the wallet in the wax jacket to make sure it would be found. This smacks of a bigger insurance scam than the Devil’s hammer.”
Sheila chewed her lip. “If you’re right, then he could well have arranged Nicola’s death.”
“Which probably means he wasn’t working alone,” Joe declared.
“Call me thick…” Brenda began.
“You’re thick,” Joe interrupted with a grin.
She scowled. “How does this implicate him in Nicola’s death?”
“Let’s assume this is a big insurance fiddle,” Joe began. “He wants to fake his own death so someone can claim on his life insurance and then divvy up the spoils. Let’s also assume he was trained as a frogman in the navy. The easiest way to do it is somewhere where the lifeboats won’t get to him quickly enough, and Filey is perfect for that, but only on the north side of the Brigg. Remember, Flowers told us the waters are calmer on the south side. And no matter what he said about coming from Rotherham, like I told you earlier he was actually from this area.”
“His accent,” Sheila said.
“Correct,” Joe agreed. “He talked the way these people do. He’s probably from one of the villages round here. That means he can’t do it from here because someone may recognise him. He needs to be away from this area altogether. So he moves to Sanford. Then, as luck would have it, he discovers that the Sanford 3rd Age Club is on a summer trip to Filey. It’s perfect for his purposes. But he can’t get on the trip. It’s full. So he needs to create a seat on the bus. He hits on Nicola. She was easy anyway. He has her bumped off, then comes hassling us for her seat. And we took him along. When he gets here, he buys the fishing gear, tootles along the Brigg this morning, makes sure no one is paying attention and throws himself in the drink. Either he or his accomplice has already stashed the scuba tanks under the rocks. He leaves the coat tangled there, grabs the tanks and swims to shore, where his buddy is waiting for him.” He took in their impressed gazes.
“He’d need help,” Sheila said.
“Yes, and I know who,” Joe retorted. “Billy and Kieran Pringle.”
Their surprise told him he had hooked his audience. “I just told you. Before we got on the bus tonight, I went round the back of the hotel and I was talking to a driver from Scarborough Gases. He told me that both Billy and Kieran are scuba divers. What would you need if you were pulling this kinda scam?” Joe grinned. “Scuba divers. He had one of them waiting under the water this morning, with a set of tanks for him.”
“It all seems a little obvious, Joe,” Sheila said.
“Obvious to people like us, yes, but not to the local cops because they believe he’s had an accident or committed suicide. I’ll tell you something else, too. Billy owns a dark blue van. You saw me talking to him this morning. Cora Harrison rang the cops from a van, didn’t she?”
“Or a Land Rover,” Brenda corrected.
“A van is favourite,” Joe argued.
“And that van would have had to have been in Sanford on Tuesday night,” Sheila pointed out.
“Yes, but it has wheels and an engine, Sheila, so it’s not difficult for it to get to Sanford. Oh, and talking of Sanford, do we know where Eddie lived?”
“The East Side Estate, I believe,” said Sheila, “but I’d have to check the club records to be certain. Does it matter?”
Joe fished into his pocket and came out with the key. “I found this on Eddie’s windowsill when we cleared out his room this morning.”
“And what does it fit?”
Joe shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet that it’s the key to his flat back in Sanford. I can see how they had all this planned. They arrange for Nicola to be run down on Tuesday night, and Billy and this Cora Harrison, whoever she is, are in Sanford to witness it. Eddie is now on the bus to Filey. He goes out early this morning and chucks himself in the sea. Kieran or Billy is waiting for him, they get him back to shore and bring him back to the Beachside. Now, Billy’s van woke me at four this morning. I saw it pulling away from the back street. My guess is, they were taking Eddie down to the Brigg, but get this, the van had a set of ladders on the roof. Eddie used those to climb out of his window so he wouldn’t attract attention by going out the front doors. When I was talking to the gas delivery driver at the back of the hotel, I checked the layout at the rear. There’s a drain running up the wall right by Eddie’s room. Now let me paint you more of the picture. He gets back to the shore, then has his accomplice take him back to the Beachside where he climbs the drainpipe looking for his key, but it’s already gone. I have it. Now he’s right in it. He left his hotel key in the rucksack and he can’t even get in for a change of clothing, never mind get back to Sanford. So he got in touch with the crew at the hotel and they raided my room looking for the key.” Joe’s eyes burned into them. “What do you think?”
There was a momentary pause while the singer finished her number and the crowded bar collectively ignored her.
“I think it’s the biggest load of tripe I’ve ever heard,” Sheila declared, and Brenda nodded her agreement.
Joe took another swallow of beer to hide his affront. He slammed his glass back down on the table. “What?”
“Earlier today you mentioned that you’d seen the inshore lifeboat making for the far side of the Brigg,” Sheila pointed out. “Assume that was within fifteen minutes of Eddie going in, and what time was it? Nine-ish?”
“And Sarah Pringle served him breakfast at eight,” Brenda pointed out.
“Yes. And?”
“Then where the hell was he going at four o’clock this morning when you saw the van driving away from behind the hotel?” Brenda demanded.
“Correct,” Sheila confirmed. “But I go further. By the time he got back to the Beachside, it would be ten o’clock, possibly later. Do you seriously imagine he could shinny up the drainpipe at that time of day without being spo
tted? The streets were crowded, Joe. Someone would have seen him.”
He drummed irritable fingers on the table. “All right, all right, so I was wrong about the drainpipe. Maybe he was hanging out in the street waiting for us all to go and then he’d sneak back into the hotel, up to his room and get his key back. Maybe that’s what he did. That Sarah Pringle isn’t around all day, is she? Remember when we got back to Filey this afternoon, and I saw her coming out of a pub with that Irwin bloke. And if she isn’t there, it only leaves her son and we know what a dipstick he is. She told us. He’d be gormless enough to hand Eddie the key without question.”
“But to do that, Joe, he’d have to walk back into the Beachside,” Brenda argued. “Do you think he may have attracted some attention wandering around in clothes that are dripping wet?”
“It’s scorching out there,” Joe protested. “His clothes could have dried while he was being driven back.”
“Brenda is right,” Sheila said. “Clothing takes a lot longer than that to dry, even in this weather.”
“Pah.” Joe dismissed them with a snort, and polished off his half of bitter. The women followed suit.
“You talk about Occam’s Razor, Joe,” Sheila said as they made for the door and the balmy evening air. “You’re trying to turn it into a lawnmower. You’ve dragged Billy Pringle and Kieran into this without a shred of evidence. They would have had to know Eddie, and yet you asked Sarah Pringle earlier whether she did and she said not. The simple solution is, Eddie Dobson died, and it was probably, but not certainly, suicide.”
“And I’m sure I’m right,” Joe argued. “It was an insurance scam. If he’s alive, he got away with it. If he’s dead, he didn’t.”
The thirty minutes since leaving the theatre had seen near night descend. They crossed the road to walk along the promenade by the sands, while away to the northwest, above the steep cliffs, the last vestiges of the high summer day were dwindling in an icy blue twilight. The searing heat had diminished, but it was still hot, and the light breeze coming off the sea worked to ease the oppressive air.
Joe lit his cigarette and they ambled back towards the theatre, where the coach waited for them. High up, the monument on Oliver’s Mount, evoking vague reminders of Cleopatra’s Needle, stood out starkly against the fading light and alongside it, a first quarter moon hung in the sky.
A jogger came towards them, dressed all in black, his head covered by a balaclava helmet and Joe chuckled sarcastically.
Joe laughed. “Just look at this idiot. Wrapped up like he’s heading for the North Pole.”
The two women said nothing but savoured the pleasant walk along the pavement and soft lapping of the sea against the shore.
“Oh look,” said Brenda, “someone’s starting a fire.”
They paused and followed her pointing finger with their eyes. Over towards the Spa Complex, half a mile away, there was the telltale glow of flame.
“Beach bums,” declared Joe. “Dossing overnight on the sands.”
Sheila pointed further out to sea, where the winking lights of a ship could be seen. “Moored for the night. Remember the hymn we used to sing at school? For those in peril on the sea.”
“No peril at this time of year,” muttered Joe. “Seas are flat calm. Come on we’d better get down to the bus.”
“You don’t have to be so grumpy, Joe, just because you got it wrong.”
“I’m used to being wrong,” he riposted. “I work with you two, don’t I?”
Everything happened so quickly, that it seemed almost unreal. The jogger burst through them, snatched at Brenda’s bag. Determined to keep hold of it, she tightened her grip on the handle, the jogger tugged, tore the bag from her and ran on, Brenda fell to the pavement, Sheila cried out, and the jogger ran off. Leaving Sheila to help Brenda, Joe hurried after him.
While he ran, the jogger opened the bag and rummaged through it, casting aside makeup, hairbrush, driver’s licence and her purse, until he finally risked a glance over his shoulder and found Joe bearing down on him, at which point he threw the bag away and put on a spurt.
“Stop him,” Joe cried.
But rather than risk becoming involved, people stood back to let him pass. Up ahead, the fairground beneath the castle headland was still in full swing, its lights casting a cheerful glow across the harbour, crowds of holidaymakers still queuing for the Cyclone, the helter-skelter and Ferris Wheel.
The thief sprinted into the fairground, Joe followed at a slower pace, and scanned the crowds, seeking his quarry. He skirted the queue for the helter-skelter, mainly children, their parents waiting patiently at the exit, passed the Cyclone and Ferris Wheel, scanned the crowds around the few stalls, and children’s rides, then made his way out of the fairground to a nearby café, where the staff of two were closing up.
By the gents’ lavatories, his chest heaving with the unexpected exertion, Joe found a discarded balaclava, picked it up and after studying it for a moment, jammed it into his pocket before making his way back through the crowds to join the women. They had made it to the harbour, where they were picking up the last of Brenda’s possessions and putting them back into her bag.
“He got away,” Joe reported, his breath still coming in large gasps. “I’m too old to chase people like that.”
“Well, he didn’t get away with anything,” Brenda said. “Not even my purse.” Triumphantly, she held up the small, black leather clutch purse.
“Now don’t you think that’s strange?”
Joe’s rhetorical question wiped the smiles from their faces.
“There he is running hell for leather and yet he goes through your bag as he’s running and he doesn’t steal nothing.”
“Anything,” Sheila corrected him.
“We’ve just come through an attempted mugging and she’s still correcting my English. You know what I mean. He could have taken your cash and cards from the purse as he was running, but he didn’t. Why not? Because like the bod who raided my room and could have nicked my computer, he wasn’t after money.”
“Then what was he after, Joe?”
He fished into his pocket and came out again with the key. “This… Again.”
Chapter Twelve
By the time they got back to the Beachside, the excitement and stress of the evening were taking their toll on Brenda, and the two women declined Joe’s offer of a drink.
“If it means anything to you, Joe, I know we’re always poking fun at you, but I’m grateful to you for running after that thief,” Brenda said.
“And I think you were magnificent,” Sheila agreed.
“Isn’t that what friends are for?” Joe asked.
Brenda kissed him on the cheek. “I need some sleep.”
“Enjoy your nightcap, Joe, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
Watching them until they were safely in the lift, he took himself into the bar alone and ordered a half of bitter.
Waiting for Billy Pringle to give him change, Joe scanned the display along the rear of the bar and for the first time noticed a second NYSAA certificate, this one bearing Billy’s photograph.
“Just admiring your certificates,” Joe said when Billy handed him a fiver and change. “NYSAA. What is it?”
“North Yorkshire Sub Aqua Association,” Billy explained. “I’ve been a member of years, and our Kieran has been diving since he was fifteen. He’s an instructor now.” Billy laughed. “When Sarah gives him enough time off to do any instructing. Ever done any diving?”
Joe shook his head. With a rueful grin, he said, “bitta ducking and diving, but nothing under water.”
Billy’s smile was one of pure enthusiasm. “Different world under the sea, mate. A magical world.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen some of David Attenborough’s films. Too many ugly fish for me, and I see enough ugly every time I look in the mirror.”
Joe came away from the bar and looked for somewhere to sit. In one corner, Alec and Julia Staines sat with Mavis Barker and Cyril Peck. Julia
, always a good looking woman and one who may have been a potential Mrs Murray if she hadn’t fallen for Alec, waved to Joe in an invitation to join them, but he gave her a thin smile and shake of the head before ambling out onto the terrace with his beer.
The lights along the promenade twinkled in the night, out to sea he could see the lights of the same ships Brenda and Sheila had pointed out from Scarborough. The first quarter moon sat over Speeton Point and Flamborough Head and a few brighter stars shone from the night sky.
The click of heels on the terracotta paving slabs reached his ears. He looked to his left and the bar entrance, where Sarah Pringle stood, looking out across the bay.
“It’s a peaceful time of night,” she said.
“Very peaceful,” Joe agreed.
She held a glass of brandy in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “May I join you?”
Joe gestured at the chair opposite. “Please.” He took out his tobacco tin and rolled a cigarette. “We, er, were getting a little, er, heated earlier. Pity after we got on so famously last night.”
Sarah nodded. “I was annoyed that someone could have gone into one of my rooms and robbed you. I was, perhaps, a little hasty with some of the things I said.”
Taking out his Zippo, he offered her a light, lit his own cigarette and put the lighter on the table. Blowing a cloud of smoke into the night, he said, “I know what you mean. I run a business, too, remember. Nothing as grand as this, but the pressures are the same and I’m well known as Sanford’s biggest grouch.”
She smiled. “No offence, then?”
“Pax,” Joe grinned.
A formal silence fell between them. Two strangers who knew little or nothing about one another. Joe thought it odd. Speaking with her the previous night, in exactly the same circumstances, he had found plenty to talk about.
Sarah seemed to sense his thoughts. “You’ve had a trying day.”
He nodded. “And how. First Nicola and now Eddie. And one of my friends was just attacked in Scarborough.”
“Dear me.” The shock on Sarah’s face belied the inanity of her comment. “What happened?”
The Filey Connection Page 14
