“So you’re saying that Eddie could have used a credit card, which you just told me he didn’t have?”
They emerged once more into the sunshine of Murray Street and turned down Cargate Hill towards the beach.
“No,” Joe said, answering Cummins’ last question. “I’m saying Eddie never paid for that gear at all. If I’m even half right, Terry, and Ivan Irwin is mixed up in this business, then what price his brother is in it with him? They’re expecting a large payoff when the insurance settlement comes in, and it would be worth it to Jonny Irwin to drop a few pounds on the stock he gave to Eddie, stock he knew would never be used, which he could take back and sell it as shop soiled.”
“Except that it came to you,” Cummins pointed out.
“Sure, but what would we do with it? Take it back to Sanford, and at some point, a long lost relative would show up to claim Eddie’s possessions. No. Irwin would get it back somewhere along the line, and if he didn’t, so he dropped a few hundred quid. I’ve no doubt Eddie would have made it worth his while.”
At the bottom of the hill, they turned left along the promenade.
While the streets had appeared quieter, it seemed to Joe that the sea front was even busier today. Day trippers, he guessed, crowding the esplanade and the safe sands. There were several sailboats out on the flat waters, and in the distance, more anglers on the Brigg. At the sea’s edge, children and young adults played, splashing in the water, impromptu games of cricket and football had sprung up here and there and further away from the concentrated area, towards Carr Naze, he could see dog owners playing with their pets, throwing balls or Frisbees for them.
“It’s all speculation, Joe,” Cummins said. “Even if you’re right and Irwin is lying, it doesn’t link him to Pennig’s death. Maybe they were old friends, maybe Irwin is just hiding the money from the taxman. Illegal, sure, but not murder. Tell me something; was Dobson with you people all night on Friday?”
Joe shrugged. “Ask me another. The disco was busy, Terry, and I was running it. I spoke to him at the bar, I saw him pay Sarah Pringle for his packed lunch, and I only noticed that because it looked, er, what’s the word? Furtive. Underhanded. Sneaky. After that, I never noticed him and I forgot all about him until Saturday morning when Brenda told me she’d given him his ticket for the show. A minute or two after that, your boy, Flowers, showed up and told us Eddie was dead...” Joe frowned. “Now there’s a thing.”
“What?”
“What happened to his ticket for the theatre? It wasn’t in his wallet. I know. I was there when Flowers pulled the wallet out of Eddie’s jacket. It wasn’t amongst his personal effects, either. We three packed them all away. Where the hell did it get to?”
“It could be anywhere, Joe. If it was on him, his killer could have taken it, or even left it where it was and it could have been turned to pulp in the sea. The same,” Cummins went on, “could apply to any money Eddie had used to pay Jonny Irwin.”
“I’m thinking something else, Terry.” Joe stopped and looked his old friend earnestly in the eye. “Try and follow me on this one.” He dug into his pockets and came out with the key. “I found this key in Eddie’s room. Soon after, my room was ransacked. Nothing stolen. I guessed the burglar was looking for this. Now you heard me tell your man, Flowers, that Brenda was mugged on the front in Scarborough last night. Again, the thief took nothing. Again, I think he was looking for this. Now, let’s suppose Eddie’s killer is staying at the hotel. The Sanford 3rd Age Club are not the only people staying there, remember. Maybe, whatever deal Eddie had cooking, his accomplice is with him at the Beachside and they’re deliberately keeping their distance. After Eddie’s death, the accomplice ransacked my room, and didn’t find the key. But he had Eddie’s ticket for the Abba show, so he made his way there, sat through the show with us and then came for Brenda afterwards.”
“What’s the key for?”
“We don’t know,” Joe admitted, “but we’re speculating that it’s for Eddie’s place in Sanford.”
Cummins scratched his head. “What you suggest is possible, I suppose, but it doesn’t get us much further for’ard. The theatre would have the ticket stubs and if you have the number, we can find out whether it was used, but that won’t tell us who it is.”
“No but it will narrow down the field,” Joe pointed out. “And either Sheila or Brenda will have a list of the ticket numbers. If not here, then back in Sanford. I don’t know which ticket Brenda gave to Eddie, but it was block booking and I’m sure the tickets were sequential.”
“All right,” Cummins agreed. “We’ll check on it when we get back to the Beachside. In the meantime, let’s see what this Ivan Irwin has to say for himself.”
When they first arrived on Coble Landing, Irwin was nowhere to be seen, but his Land Rover was parked opposite the amusement arcade. With a glance around and through the crowds to ensure Ivan was not watching, Joe checked the front grille more closely than he had done the day before.
“It’s had a new headlamp fitted,” Joe said, “and a fresh dab of paint around it. The bumper’s been straightened, and look here.” He pointed higher up at two lines of screw holes across the upper grille area. “It looks like it had bull bars fitted, but they’ve been dumped.” He stood upright. “Terry, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that this is the Land Rover which knocked Nicola Leach down.”
“Are you here again? What is it about mah truck that interests you?”
Joe turned and looked into Ivan Irwin’s steely eyes. “Terry,” he said, “meet Ivan Irwin, the owner of this Land Rover.”
“Good morning, sir,” Cummins greeted Irwin.
“And who are you? His lawyer?”
“No, sir. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Cummins of the North Yorkshire police, and I need to ask you a few questions.”
Ivan remained as unimpressed as his brother had been. “And I might not choose to answer ’em.”
“In which case, I shall call for a team of constables and have you arrested on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving, leaving the scene of an accident, and failing to report an accident.” Cummins maintained eye contact. “Now do you want to do this the friendly way, or would you prefer to callyour lawyer while I have you run into the station in Scarborough?”
Ivan chewed spit. “I only bought the car on Thursday. If it’s been involved in an accident, it’s nought to do wi’ me.”
“Can you prove that, Mr Irwin?” Cummins asked.
“Aye. I still have the registration doc. I haven’t sent it off yet.”
“I’ll need to see that.”
Irwin huffed out his breath. “Well, it’s not here, is it? It’s at home.”
Cummins offered his notebook and pen. “Write down your name and address and I’ll have the local constable call round to see it.”
“Who fixed the headlamp and who removed the bull bars?” Joe asked while Ivan was writing down his address.
“You mind your own business,” Ivan snapped.
“Mr Murray is assisting us in this investigation, Mr Irwin, and if you don’t answer him, I’ll ask the same questions and you will answer me.”
“I bought it as seen, and there were nay bull bars fitted and nowt wrong with the headlights.”
“Who did you buy it from?” Cummins asked.
“Ex navy lad,” Irwin replied. “Comes from these parts, but he’s been overseas a long time.”
“Eddie Pennig,” Joe said.
“Might be,” Irwin replied. “He took the counterfoil off the registration doc.”
“His name will still be printed on the document,” Joe said, “and even if it wasn’t, Terry, you could get Swansea to track the vehicle’s history.”
“Stop trying to teach your grandma how to suck eggs, Joe,” Cummins rebuked him. Of Irwin, he asked, “did you buy this car from Edward Pennig?”
“Yes. I did. Is there owt else you need to know?”
“Plenty,” Joe said. “Did you stay overnight in Sa
nford on Wednesday?”
“I’ve never been to Sanford. At least not in the last twenty years, I haven’t. I bought it off him here in Filey, on Thursday morning.”
“Not possible,” Joe said. “He was at my place on Thursday.”
“He must be a right clever feller, then,” Irwin sneered. “In two places at the same time. I told you, I bought it off him right here, and I can bring you witnesses to that.” He waved a hand at the landing around him where fishermen and coble attendants mingled with the crowds.
“I wouldn’t trust any of these not to back you up,” Joe commented. An image came to his mind; a memory of Sarah Pringle and Ivan coming out of the Star Inn. “How well do you know Sarah Pringle?”
“You’re a nosy little bugger, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” Joe agreed. “Especially when two of my members are dead, both in suspicious circumstances.”
“I know Sarah, full stop, but she wasn’t here when I bought the car off Eddie. Right?”
Joe shrugged. “If you say so.” While Cummins asked a few supplementary questions, Joe looked around seeking inspiration. With typical police thoroughness, Cummins was discussing the sale of the vehicle, but Joe knew that the answers did not lie with straightforward questions. Men like Irwin could dodge for weeks or months by spinning their answers in the right direction, and Cummins was hogtied by procedure.
A rust-pitted tractor hauled a coble up the slipway, its engine protesting under the strain. Joe guessed that the old hands here had been doing it so long that, like Cummins and his questioning, the procedure would be automatic. He watched the tractor driver and fisherman manhandle the boat into its parking position, and uncouple the chains that bound the tractor to it. The engine chugged away while the two men passed a moment chatting, and then the tractor driver climbed back on his vehicle, and pulled it away from the boat to park it up.
An idea stuck him. He turned back to the conversation between Cummins and the fisherman.
“Irwin, do me a favour and run the engine.”
Even Cummins was puzzled, but Joe dismissed his frown with a miniscule shake of the head.
“Why should I?”
“Because essentially, you’re a thoroughly decent chap and you’d like to help Chief Inspector Cummins clear up these two deaths?” Joe suggested. “Listen to me. I’ve no doubt that you can prove you bought this car off Eddie Pennig on Thursday morning, so that means you’re not involved in Nicola Leach’s death, but Eddie may have been. It may be the very reason he wanted rid of the Land Rover. But in order to help you, I need to hear the engine running. Now, please, just run it for me.”
Puffing out his breath again, Irwin dug the keys out, climbed into the Land Rover and fired the engine.
Listening to it, Joe commented, “I could do with Harry Needham here.” He took out his mobile, called up the recording of the 999 call and passed it to the Chief Inspector. “Have a listen at that, and compare the sound.”
Cummins did so, holding the phone to his ear, then pulling it away to listen to the Land Rover, then putting it back again.
“Not the same,” he said, handing the phone back. “Thank you, Mr Irwin.” Cummins concentrated on Joe. “So what was that all about?”
“Tell you later,” Joe said. “One last thing, Irwin. How much did you pay for the Land Rover?”
“Mind your own business.” Under a menacing stare from Cummins, the fisherman backed down. “Four hundred pounds.”
Chapter Fourteen
During the slow walk back along the promenade, the heat rising as the sun climbed higher, Joe told Cummins of the audio tape’s findings.
Taking the information in, the Chief Inspector responded, “If Irwin’s Land Rover was the one used to run Nicola Leach down, it means that this Cora Harrison woman wasn’t in it at the time, so it looks like your niece was right, Joe. She was passing by, saw it, reported it and wanted to remain anonymous.” Cummins shrugged. “It happens. More than you may imagine, too.”
Joe did not believe it, but now was not the time to say so. “Well, the ball’s in your court, Terry. What’s your next move?”
“I’ll get young Flowers to take official statements from the Irwin brothers, and we’ll have the repair work on the Land Rover checked with Scientific Support in Sanford, and see where we go from there. For now I need to build up a picture of Eddie Pennig’s movements last night, and I’m waiting for the coroner’s report on the cause of death.”
Joe chuckled. “I’d have thought having his head caved in would be enough to shuffle him off.”
Cummins frowned at the levity. “Yes, Joe, but I need to know what caved his head in. It’s all right saying it was a blunt instrument, but what size and shape? We know the damage was not from the rocks off the Brigg. The cuts would have been more randomly distributed, there would have been traces on his face. There weren’t. It means he never went off the Brigg. He was dumped in the sea either from the sands or from a boat. The master at Coble Landing has a record of the boats that went out last night and Friday night, and according to him, there was nothing odd about them. No one seen carrying a large bundle, for example. Chances are then, if he was thrown from a boat, it was from Cayton Bay or further down Filey Bay, Reighton Sands, for instance.”
They passed the bottom of Cargate Hill, where droves of people were heading down to the beach.
Joe gazed out over the crowded sands. “They’ll be lucky to find any room on the beach… Just the same as Eddie was lucky, or unlucky, to find room on our bus.”
“You keep going on about that.”
“Because it all fits together,” Joe argued. “Eddie was here on Thursday according to Irwin, and back in Sanford by the afternoon. Now if he was already in Filey why did he need to be on the bus with us, Friday morning?”
“I don’t know, Joe.”
“Neither do I, but it must be important, or he would have stayed in Filey and just gone home with us on Monday.” Joe tossed the information in his head. “And another thing. If it was Eddie’s Land Rover that hit and killed Nicola, why wait until Thursday to turn up here? The accident was Tuesday. Why didn’t he drive straight here Wednesday and get rid of it?”
“We only have Irwin’s word that he didn’t,” Cummins said.
Joe shook his head. “He was in my place first thing Wednesday morning and he was in the Miner’s Arms on Wednesday evening.”
“He could have had the Land Rover repaired on Wednesday,” Cummins suggested.
“In Sanford? I think our Gemma would have cottoned on to that by now, but it may be worth ringing her to find out. I’ll bell her from the hotel.”
“And keep me posted, Joe,” Cummins said as they tackled the steep climb up to The Crescent.
Halfway up, they paused to catch their breath.
“If anybody had told me that getting old was gonna be like this,” Joe complained, “I’d have gone out in a blaze of glory ten years ago.”
Cummins grinned. “You’re not old. You’ve years left in you yet.” He yawned. “What will you do with the rest of the day?”
“Bridlington, I think,” Joe said. “Or maybe Scarborough again. It depends on Sheila and Brenda.”
They set off again up the steep path.
“You never went down on your knees and proposed to either of them, Joe?”
Joe snorted. “No fear. Ten years with Alison was enough to put me off marriage for life. I’m quite happy on my own, living above the café.”
Cummins smiled at the cynicism. “It’s all about finding the right woman, Joe. I’ve been wed twenty-four years. Not all joy, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Yeah? Well, good on you. For me the right woman is no woman.”
“So it’s definitely Lee who gets the café when you turn your toes up.”
Joe nodded as they passed into the Beachside’s drive. “I said earlier, I know he’s a gormless sod, but he’s a good cook and Cheryl, his wife, has enough brains to run the place.” Joe
waved at the hotel. “A bit like this place.”
“Hmm?” Cummins asked distractedly.
Joe paused in the entrance, and pointed to the licensee notice above the door. “Billy Pringle holds the liquor licence, but Sarah Pringle is the real brains behind this outfit. Her brother and son couldn’t run the proverbial in a brewery.” A distant look came to Joe’s eyes. “Now if I ever did decide to settle down again, it would be with a woman like Sarah Pringle.”
“This business of Pennig’s key, Joe,” Cummins said, dragging him from the realms of his imagination. “Whoever Pennig was working with must be in this hotel somewhere.”
“I thought that, too, if you remember, but I’ve had time to think about it since, and the answer is, not necessarily.”
Joe shushed Cummins while they passed through the bar and out onto the terrace.
Sheila and Brenda had been joined by Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson, other club members and other hotel guests had taken other tables. Joe pulled Cummins to one side where they lit cigarettes and looked out over the bay.
“I’m speculating here, Terry,” Joe said, keeping his voice down, “but I saw Sarah Pringle with Ivan Irwin in Filey yesterday. I’m not saying there’s anything going down there, but just suppose there is. Would Irwin take advantage of that while he was working with Pennig?”
“I don’t know,” the Chief Inspector admitted. “Would he?”
“You’ve met him. I wouldn’t trust either of the Irwin brothers further than I could throw Brenda.”
Cummins blew out a cloud of smoke and watched the breeze carry it off. “Go on then, Joe. How d you see it?”
“Eddie has turned up dead; murdered. All right, so you shouted me down on the insurance fiddle, but I think that’s how it all started. I think Eddie came home to Filey from the navy and fell in with old friends, Jonny and Ivan. And I think they cooked up this little scam that would see Eddie Pennig fall off the Brigg and someone claim on his life insurance. Jonny or Ivan, take your pick. The three of them split the proceeds and everyone’s happy. Ivan the terrible is having it off with Sarah and he knows the Sanford 3rd Age Club are coming here, and it was him who came up with the idea in the first place. Eddie moves to Sanford, can’t get on the outing, so he mows Nicola down, has his Land Rover repaired, then brings it here where Ivan takes it off him. No money changes hands. Instead, Eddie is supplied with fishing gear from Jonny’s shop. Then they fall out. They kill Eddie, dump him in the sea, but they need his flat keys because they don’t know what evidence he may have left lying around in Sanford. Ivan talks to Sarah, she tells him I’ve cleared out Eddie’s effects. He raids my room, then comes for Brenda on the front in Scarborough.”
The Filey Connection Page 17
