The Filey Connection

by David W Robinson

  “I couldn’t believe it when they said Joe Murray and the Sanford 3rd Age Club were here.”

  Joe’s face split into a broad grin. He stood and shook hands. “Detective Sergeant Terry Cummins, you old scroat.”

  “Ah,” Cummins cautioned. “DetectiveChief Inspector Cummins, these days.”

  There followed several minutes of greeting between Cummins and the two women, during which Sarah supplied tea, and Flowers scraped another two chairs to the table.

  “What are you doing in Filey, Terry?” Brenda asked.

  “I’m on secondment from York. Manpower shortage in Scarborough, and they needed a Chief Inspector to oversee the place while their man is on leave. Mike, here, called me in over this business of your member’s death. The minute he told me he’d been talking to Joe Murray, I knew I’d have problems.” Cummins laughed good-naturedly. “I’ll bet you’ve already been poking your nose in, haven’t you, Joe?”

  “Yes. And I’ve learned quite a lot, too.”

  “But we’re betting most of it will be wrong, Terry,” Sheila said.

  “First,” Joe said before Brenda could sidetrack him, “We wanna report an attempted mugging on the promenade at Scarborough, last night.”

  Handing over the black balaclava, Joe gave them a rundown of what had happened and Flowers took notes as he went along.

  “You really should have handed this into the Scarborough police, sir,” the Constable said when Joe was through.

  “It was very late and we didn’t want to hang around any longer,” Sheila explained before Joe could get into the argument. “Mrs Jump was upset, we had all of her belongings back and we just needed to get away from there and back to Filey.”

  “I understand that, madam. I’ll make a report and pass it on to Scarborough. I shouldn’t think anything will come of it, though. You know how it is. It’s the busiest time of year; we get a lot of petty crime like this and it will be up to Mr Cummins here if we investigate further.”

  “Yes, well,” said Joe, “I don’t think it was just a random, petty crime. I think it’s all to do with this Eddie Dobson business, and I also think you’re dealing with an insurance fiddle, not a death.”

  Cummins’ eyebrows rose. “Why do you say that?”

  Alongside Joe, Sheila and Brenda groaned, but the two policemen were more attentive. Joe was sure that if they had been dogs their ears would have pricked up.

  Briefly, Joe explained the things he had learned and the shaky chain of logic with which he had put them together. Cummins listened patiently, but it seemed to Joe that there was a hint of humour in his old friend’s face.

  When Joe was through, Cummins cleared his throat theatrically. “Well it’s an interesting theory, Joe, but I’m sorry to have to tell you you’re wrong.”

  Joe stared. “I am?”

  “Eddie Dobson’s body was found washed up on the beach in Cayton Bay about ten o’clock last night. Couple of teenagers down on the sands found him there and called our boys out immediately.”

  Sheila and Brenda were suddenly paying attention, while Joe was too stunned to respond for a moment.

  When he did speak, it was with an air of incredulity. “What were a couple of kids doing on the sands at that time of night?” he demanded.

  “Teenage hormones don’t work shifts, Joe,” Brenda pointed out.

  “You’re probably correct, madam,” Flowers agreed. “They were both scared out of their wits when we got to them. We’re waiting for the post mortem report, but Mr Dobson had a nasty dent in the back of his head, and it doesn’t look as if it was caused by the rocks when he fell. More like the customary blunt instrument.”

  Sheila and Brenda gawped. “You mean…”

  “He means, Sheila, Brenda, Joe,” Cummins interrupted, “Eddie Dobson was dead before he went into the sea. He was murdered.”

  “I knew it, I knew it,” Joe gasped.

  “I’ll tell you something else, too,” Cummins went on. “His name wasn’t Eddie Dobson.”

  “It wasn’t?” Joe’s excited tones spoke for the three of them.

  “His real name was Edward Pennig.”

  “Unusual name,” Joe commented.

  “Very unusual, sir.” Flowers eyed them suspiciously. “Do you not run identity checks on your members?”

  “It’s a social club, not the Secret Service,” Brenda protested. “For people like Eddie, whom we don’t know personally, we ask to see a rent book or utility bill, that’s all.”

  Sheila spoke up in support of Brenda. “If Eddie Dobson, er, Pennig, whatever you want to call him, was living in rented accommodation we assume the landlord would have checked his credentials. That was certainly the case with Eddie. He was living in a housing association flat under the name of Dobson.”

  Joe took out his tobacco tin and cigarette papers. “So we have an oddbod who throws himself off the Brigg, only he didn’t, and when it all comes out, he’s living under a false handle. And you don’t think that’s suspicious?” He spread a thin line of tobacco across the paper and began to roll it.

  “It’s curious, I agree,” said Cummins. “As things stand, we have no proof that Dobson was, er, up to no good, and I’d need a damn sight more than your say so before I could link him to Nicola Leach’s death, and the fact that he was living under an assumed name has no bearing on the matter, unless someone knows otherwise. Anyone can assume whatever name they want, Joe, provided it’s not done for purposes of fraud or deception.”

  “May I ask, Terry, how did you learn that he was living under a false name?” Sheila inquired.

  Cummins nodded to Flowers, who explained, “His underwear, believe it or not, madam. He had his name inked into the labels. They were also Royal Navy issue. We got in touch with HMS Raleigh and they faxed us a full résumé and an ID picture, which matches the photograph on his membership card for your club.”

  “Gosh,” Brenda said. “He inked the name of his ship into his underwear, too, did he?”

  Sheila giggled, Joe scowled, Cummins and Flowers gave her the kind of look usually reserved for those whose sanity was questionable.

  “HMS Raleigh is a training base, Brenda,” Joe told her. “All ratings pass through there.” He turned to the policemen. “We knew he was a navy man. He told us. Was he a frogman?”

  “No, sir. A cook.”

  Joe was crestfallen again.

  Brenda beamed. “You see, Joe, you had something in common with Eddie. You’re both cooks.”

  “Yes, well, we have something not in common now, don’t we? He’s dead and I’m not.”

  “He also came from Filey originally,” Flowers reported. “Well, a village called Hunmanby, about three miles out of town. But he’d been in the navy for twenty-two years.”

  “Which is why no one here would know him?” Joe asked. “And also why he knew he could cook up his little scheme.”

  “What little scheme was that, Joe?” Sheila asked. “His plan to get himself murdered?”

  Joe lit his cigarette and turned his Zippo lighter end over end on the table top while he considered his response. Eventually, he dropped the lighter in his pocket, and said, “Eddie didn’t come here to be murdered. He came here to disappear. Probably so he could reappear under his real name, but considerably richer thanks to an insurance policy on Eddie Dobson. In order to do that, he needed at least one accomplice. Something went wrong. They argued, the accomplice killed him. The accomplice then dumped the body in the sea at Cayton Bay, probably during the night. Flowers, you told us that other anglers described Eddie to you. Do you have your notes?”

  The constable thumbed through his notebook. “Here we are. They described him as a tall gentleman dressed in baggy jeans and an overlarge T-shirt, carrying a wax jacket.”

  “Baggy jeans and a T-Shirt that was too large for him,” Joe said. “That’s not the Eddie Dobson I spoke to here or back home in Sanford. He had a paunch. What those people described was someone dressed as Eddie Dobson. Someone a lot slimm
er. Someone who knew the waters round these parts like the back of his hand. A fisherman, perhaps one of the coble operators.” Joe smiled. “There’s only one candidate. Ivan Irwin.”

  “Oh, Joe, you have that man on the brain,” Sheila protested. “Just because you got into a spat with him over his Land Rover.”

  “No, no,” Joe argued. “It all fits. We’re told that Nicola Leach was run down by a Land Rover, and Irwin owns one that’s just had some fresh paint applied to the front end. I saw Eddie go into Irwin’s brother’s tackle shop. Irwin is tall, but a lot slimmer and fitter than Eddie. On Irwin, Eddie’s clothes would hang loose. I think Eddie knew Ivan or Jonny Irwin. Maybe from his young days here in the Filey area. When he came back with this idea of cashing in on Eddie Dobson’s life insurance, it was Irwin he turned to. Then there was a fall out. Irwin takes the body out in his coble and dumps it, then goes out onto the Brigg as Eddie, jumps in, picks up the scuba tanks he’d hidden under the rocks, and swims to shore. You guys chalk it down as a suicide, but unfortunately for them, Eddie’s body turns up.”

  Cummins finished his cup of tea. “All you have is a theory, Joe, but I can’t just dismiss it out of hand. Why don’t you and I take a walk to Jonny Irwin’s tackle shop, see what he has to say, and then we’ll see if we can find Ivan Irwin at Coble Landing?”

  Joe took another drag on his cigarette, drained his cup and got to his feet. “Okay, but I have to tell you, neither of these guys would make my Christmas card list.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Detective Chief Inspector now?” Joe’s voice was filled with admiration as he and Cummins walked along the streets behind the Beachside, making for the town centre.

  Ten o’clock Sunday morning was quieter than the previous days. Joe guessed that most people would still be in bed, sleeping off the previous night’s drink, and those that were not would already be on the beach.

  Cummins took a pack of Benson & Hedges from his pocket and offered it to Joe who shook his head.

  “I’ll stick to my roll ups, thanks.”

  The Chief Inspector lit his cigarette. “Some of my progress must be down to you. All those years when I was a beat bobby in Sanford, and the times I came into your café and read your casebooks. If you remember, even when I was at school, I never wanted to be anything but a copper.”

  “Ah, get out of it. That was nothing to do with me. Besides, the police don’t teach you the tricks I use. It’s all forensics and interrogation techniques these days.”

  Taking a deep drag on his smoke, Cummins disagreed. “We have to use logical deduction, Joe. All right, so most of us don’t have your weird mind, but we have to be able to string together a logical case or we’d be torn apart in court. That’s why I have to take it seriously when I listen to you. I know how clever you are, and your theory makes a sort of sense. I’ve got to follow it through, even if it leads nowhere.”

  “You know me, Terry. I never give in while there are questions unanswered.”

  “How’s the third age club doing, Joe?” Cummins asked as they turned into the narrow street where Irwin’s tackle shop was located.

  “Going well,” Joe replied, relieved to be out of the sun and in the shade of the houses and businesses lining the street. “Over three hundred members and we get around an awful lot. Jaunts like this one every three months, and they’re even getting me on a plane to Tenerife in the New Year.”

  “Tenerife? Isn’t that where Alison went after you split up?”

  Joe nodded. “It’s a busy island, Terry. Chances of me bumping into my ex-wife while I’m over there are pretty slim.”

  “Who’ll run Joe’s Caff while you’re there?”

  “Joe’s Caff? You’re a bit behind the times aren’t you? It’s the Lazy Luncheonette these days.”

  Cummins laughed. “The Lazy Luncheonette? Who came up with that one?”

  “Sheila and Brenda.” Recalling that Cummins had left for York almost a decade back, Joe explained, “Course, you don’t know, do you? Sheila and Brenda both came to work for me about five, six years back. You must know Sheila’s husband, Peter.”

  “I did, yes. A sergeant when I was a probationer. He died, didn’t he?”

  “Heart attack,” Joe confirmed. “Sheila insists it was the pressure of his job. He made inspector, probably not long after you moved to York. Put in maybe five years at that rank, then had a wobbler. He was on sick leave recovering from it when he had a second, and you know what they say about heart attacks. You can survive the first if you get help quickly enough, which Peter did, but the second following on so quickly is usually fatal.”

  They turned into the entrance, and sheltered under the portico, relieved to be out of the weather, and Joe took up his tale again. “Anyway, Brenda lost her husband, Colin, soon after, and within six months, both of them came to work for me. They’re founder members of STAC, Sheila acts as secretary, Brenda as treasurer, and it was them who persuaded me to change the name from Joe’s Caff to the Lazy Luncheonette.”

  Pausing outside Irwin’s place to finish his cigarette, Cummins laughed again. “Bit upmarket for Sanford, isn’t it?”

  Joe puffed at his own smoke. “I s’ppose so, but it works. We get plenya business from the industrial estate and the brewery, same as we always did, but with the name change, we also pull in punters from the retail park behind us. Shoppers dropping in when they’ve had enough of overpriced, plastic food served by robots who say, ‘how may I help you’, because the company trained them to say that, instead of ‘whaddya want’, which is what they really mean.”

  Cummins chuckled once more. “You always did have a silver tongue, Joe.”

  “Say what you like, but it works at the Lazy Luncheonette. The place is a gold mine.”

  “And who will you leave it to, Joe? Lee and his missus.”

  Joe sniffed disdainfully. “No one else, is there? And Lee’s a good cook, you know. He should be. I sent him to that fancy catering college and what they didn’t teach him, I did.”

  “Meat pie and chips.”

  Cummins stubbed out his cigarette, Joe followed suit and they stepped into the shop.

  On the cue of the doorbell, Jonny Irwin appeared, his face beaming a broad smile. It faded to a scowl on seeing Joe.

  “You again. I told you yesterday...”

  “I’m here at this officer’s behest,” Joe interrupted.

  Cummins dug into his jacket and pulled out his warrant card. “Detective Chief Inspector Cummins, sir. North Yorkshire Police. You are Mr Jonathan Irwin?”

  “I am, and I told shortarse here, yesterday, I dain’t care if you come with the Chief Constable, I’ve nowt to say to you.”

  If Joe had been singularly unimpressed by Irwin’s bluster the previous day, Cummins was even less so.

  “Mr Irwin, we have reason to believe that Edward Pennig, also known as Eddie Dobson, bought a large amount of fishing tackle from you two days ago.”

  “And if he did…”

  “Mr Irwin,” Cummins interrupted, “Edward Pennig’s body was washed up in Cayton Bay last night, but we know that he was dead before he went into the sea. This is a murder investigation, sir, and if you refuse to co-operate, you will leave me with no choice but to apply for a warrant to search these premises and audit your accounts to ascertain whatever information we can regarding Mr Pennig. If, during the course of that audit and search, we come across anything that may be of interest to Customs and Revenue, we will be obliged to pass the information on.” Cummins paused to ensure his threat had sunk in. “Now, did Pennig come into this shop on Friday and purchase a large amount of tackle?”

  Irwin let out his breath as a hiss. “He told me his name was Dobson.”

  “And how did he pay for his purchases?” Cummins pressed.

  “Cash. I do take credit cards, but he had the cash in his wallet.”

  “The value of the order?”

  Irwin remained silent.

  “The value of the order, Mr Irwin,�
� Cummins insisted.

  “Four hundred and fifty-five pounds.” Irwin sounded as though he did not wish to part with the breath he used to deliver the words.

  Cummins made a note of it. “Did you know Mr Dobson, Pennig, whatever he called himself?”

  Irwin shook his head. “Any reason I should?”

  “Did your brother know him?”

  “You’d have to ask Ivan about that.”

  “We will,” Cummins assured him. “Did you see Dobson/Pennig again after he left the shop?”

  “Once,” Irwin replied. “Late Friday afternoon when he came back to collect it.”

  “And this was definitely Mr Dobson?”

  Again Irwin nodded.

  “And what time was that?”

  “I told you. Late. Getting on for six. Before I closed up.” He gestured at Joe. “A good fourteen hours before he came snooping round.”

  Cummins closed his notebook and put it away. “Thank you, Mr Irwin. It’s too early to say whether we will need to speak to you again, but if we do, we’ll be in touch.” He glanced at Joe. “You ready?”

  “Sure.” Joe turned to follow Cummins out of the shop. At the door, he paused and looked back at Irwin. “Just one last thing. You’re absolutely sure about the amount Dobson spent?”

  “You’re a Yorkshireman, too, aren’t you? Do you ever get money wrong?”

  Joe gave him a lopsided grin. “No. Course I don’t.”

  He followed Cummins out into the street, where the Chief Inspector lit a fresh cigarette and they strolled on.

  Taking out his tobacco tin and rolling a smoke, Joe said, “He’s lying.”

  Cummins raised his eyebrows.

  “Eddie owed me fifteen pounds. I asked him for it when we got here on Friday morning. He didn’t have it. He showed me his empty wallet. All he had was what looked like a debit card. He also told me he was a bit strapped for cash.”

  “Yes? And?”

  “He’s in a strange town with no money. How does he get some?”

  “Hole in the wall,” Cummins replied.

  “But a hole in the wall will only give you £350 a day. And you need cash in the bank before it will give you some. I just said, he told me he was a bit strapped. It’s possible that he could have had some money in his pockets, but if so was he deliberately trying to welch on the fifteen that he owed me? That doesn’t make a lot of sense. Irwin lying would make more.”