The Filey Connection

by David W Robinson

  Smoking his cigarette, Cummins thought about it, then shook his head. “Sorry, Joe, but I don’t buy it, and I’ll tell you why. The insurance thing. Eddie Pennig was a jack tar. A sailor. He wouldn’t have any insurance worth mentioning, and what’s more important, in order to claim the insurance, Eddie Pennig would have to ‘die’, which means he’d lose his pension. He’s done twenty-two years, so he’s coming out on full pension, and he has years to live yet. Is it worth throwing that away for the sake of an insurance policy worth, say twenty or thirty thousand?”

  Joe shrugged. “All right, all right, so maybe the insurance thing is wrong, but I’ll bet I’m right on the rest of it.”

  “We’ll see.” Cummins took out his mobile. “I’ll get Flowers to pick up the investigation here and leave you to your weekend.”

  The Chief Inspector left the terrace and Joe crossed to the table, and joined his companions.

  “Still playing Sherlock, Murray?” Tanner antagonised him.

  “The investigation I’m really looking forward to, Les, is your murder. Mind you, it won’t take much solving. I’ll be the guilty party.”

  “What are you three planning for the day?” Sylvia asked, with the obvious intention of pouring oil on troubled waters.

  “It’s up to the two ladies,” Joe replied.

  A former administrator at Broadbent Auto Repairs, she lacked Tanner’s autocracy, as a consequence of which, Joe found her much easier to deal with. He watched her click a couple of saccharin pills into a cup of black tea. Diabetic, she was also lactose intolerant, although Joe suspected that the problem was more psychosomatic than physical.

  As if to confirm his suspicion, Sylvia pointed at Sheila’s bruised leg. “You really should cover that, Sheila.”

  “It’s nothing,” Sheila assured her. “I caught it on a fire extinguisher bracket yesterday. Just a scratch.”

  “Well you should cover it,” Sylvia said. “And look at your arms. They’re burning in this sun. Are you using a strong lotion?”

  “I haven’t used any lotion at all.” Sheila replied.

  With a fussy tut, Sylvia dipped into her voluminous handbag and came out with a bottle of Coral sun lotion. “Put some of that over your arms. It’ll help protect you from the ultra-violet.”

  She passed the bottle to Sheila who flipped open the cap and sniffed at it. “Smells quite nice,” she said. “Are you sure Sylvia? It must be very expensive.”

  Sylvia nodded. “I have another bottle, and no it’s not expensive… well, not as expensive as some of the big names. You can get it at any chemist, but I buy mine at the supermarket.”

  Sheila smeared the lotion on her arm and began to rub it in.

  Brenda took the bottle and sniffed at it. “Coconut oil,” she said.

  “Aren’t they all?” Joe asked crushing out his cigarette. “So Les, what are you and Sylvia gonna do? Lounge around on the beach while you explain what happened at Anzio?”

  “Scarborough, as a matter of fact,” Tanner replied. “There’s a dance at the Spa complex. You should try it, Murray. Quite relaxing.”

  “It’s all right for you oldies, I suppose,” Joe said, “but us young’uns prefer something livelier. Don’t we Brenda?”

  “Oh definitely,” Brenda agreed. “We’re taking Joe to a rave on Flamborough Head. We’ll get him stoned on ginger beer and then clean his wallet out.”

  Billy Pringle came out and began to clear cups, saucers and glasses from the tables. Sylvia put away her sun lotion, and she and Tanner left, prompting Joe, Sheila and Brenda to depart too.

  From Filey they took the bus to Bridlington where their first port of call was the nearest bar for a lunchtime drink.

  Over a beer in the Harbour Tavern, while Sheila and Brenda chattered excited as any child on a day trip to the seaside, Joe sank into his thoughts, seeking that elusive something which would put everything together.

  Coming out of the pub, the two women wandered into the town, while Joe took himself to the shoreline, north of the harbour, and took pictures of Flamborough Head. The white cliffs jutted out into the North Sea, like some kind of barrier to the land beyond, in the same way that his inability to string together a coherent theory created a barrier to account for the two deaths.

  If Flamborough marked the northern boundary of Bridlington Bay, there was nothing to the south. The beach spread out as far as he could see, well beyond the town, with no particular landmark to say, ‘This is where the Bridlington Bay finishes’, and again it reminded Joe of his departed members. There was no ‘end’ in sight to the problem of the two murders.

  Staring out to sea, north to Flamborough, south to the horizon, Joe rolled and smoked cigarette after cigarette, and when his two companions returned after an hour or more, he was still sitting, smoking, contemplating.

  “What is the matter with you, Joe?” Sheila asked as they sat in a restaurant for a light lunch. “You’re as quiet as the grave.”

  “Nicola is what’s wrong with me. Nicola and Eddie. Something is not quite right. Something is just too pat about it all.”

  “Judging by what you told us, the Irwin brothers are up to their eyes in it,” Brenda pointed out.

  A waitress delivered three tuna salads and they tucked in.

  “That is what I mean about it all being too pat,” Joe grumbled. “You met Ivan at Coble Landing. He’s no fool. Do you think he would be running round in a Land Rover he got from Eddie Pennig if he’d just killed him? And even if he was, do you think he’d have admitted it to Cummins so quickly? And what about the price he paid for it? Exactly the same amount as Eddie spent in Jonny’s shop? Do you think Ivan wouldn’t have played it up or down if he and his brother were guilty of the killings?”

  “You seem to have made your mind up that Eddie ran Nicola down,” Sheila said.

  “Yes I have,” Joe agreed, chewing on a soggy lettuce leaf. “He wanted to be with us in Filey, so he created a seat on the bus. I’m sure of it. But why did Ivan or Jonny kill him?”

  “Thieves fall out, Joe,” Brenda pointed out. “If you’re also right about a possible insurance swindle, then something went wrong, they argued, they fought and Eddie was killed. Now stop brooding on it and eat your salad.”

  Swallowing a forkful of grated red cheese, Joe pushed his plate away. “I’ve had enough. Bloody rabbit food. Gimme a steak and kidney pie any time.” He leaned back. “All right, you put it all together.”

  “I can’t,” Sheila admitted, “but then I wouldn’t, would I?” She too pushed her plate away and sat back. “You’re linking the two deaths without a shred of concrete evidence to link them. Everything is circumstantial. Nicola is run down, allegedly by a Land Rover, Eddie sells a Land Rover, but even if it is in curious circumstances, there’s nothing to suggest it was the same vehicle that killed Nicola, and until you have such evidence, you shouldn’t put the two events together.”

  “And although it’s obvious that Eddie was up to something, it still doesn’t make him guilty of killing Nicola,” Brenda said. “They’re two separate events, Joe, and maybe if you cut the one from the other, you might be able to stop worrying about it.”

  “So who’s worried?” Joe asked and picked up the bill. “I don’t like to be beaten, is all.” He dug out his wallet.

  “We’ll get this, Joe,” Sheila insisted.

  He waved her objection away and left a twenty and a ten on the table.

  They came out onto the street, shaded from the hot afternoon, and Sheila dug into her bag. “I bought a bottle of that sun lotion Sylvia uses,” she said, and poured a little onto her hands before handing it to Brenda. “It really is mild and the bottle says it offers maximum protection.”

  Joe sneered. “My meat pies claim to be home made, but the Lazy Luncheonette isn’t my home.”

  “Yes it is,” Brenda argued taking a little of Sheila’s lotion and rubbing it on her arms. “You live in the flat upstairs.”

  “Don’t get technical. You know what I mean�
� Joe countered. He took the bottle from Brenda while the two women fussed over spreading the lotion. “Coral,” he said sniffing at the bottle. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Budget range of skin and beauty products,” Brenda explained. “It’s aimed at those who are underpaid and overworked.”

  “You two are overpaid and underworked,” Joe declared, “so why are you buying it?”

  They walked on through the town, and cut into the Promenade Shopping Centre. Although it was comparatively small, it still took the better part of an hour to get to the far end, and when they emerged opposite the bus station, the women were once again laden with carrier bags.

  “What the hell are you going to do with all this clothing?” Joe asked.

  “Wear it,” Sheila replied. “That’s what clothing is for, Joe.”

  Brenda held up her carriers bearing famous, High Street names. “We may only be a couple of humble kitchen slaves from Sanford, but when we get dolled up, we could be high society. No one would know the difference.”

  Brenda’s words struck a chord with Joe, but once more, his mind would not make the necessary connection. Throughout the bus ride back to Filey, he nagged at it, and his brain, much like his ex-wife, refused to back down.

  When the bus swept down the steep hill and through the roundabout at the turn offs for Reighton on the right and Hunmanby on the left, Sheila’s excitement manifested itself. Pointing to a scrub of land on the right, she said, “That was the old Butlins Holiday Camp. We took the children there for a week in the seventies.”

  Joe was more interested in the view to the left and the village of Hunmanby. Eddie Pennig came from there. His parents had had a house there. What would happen to the house now that Eddie was no more?

  The bus continued on its way, turning off for Filey, bumping over the level crossing and turning into the bus station, where they climbed off, and found George Robson idling on a bench by the flowerbeds.

  “Busman’s holiday, George?” Brenda asked.

  He frowned, squeezing sweat through the creases in his brow. “How do you mean?”

  Brenda swept a hand around, gesturing at the flowerbeds, a riot of colour in the summer sun. “You’re a gardener by trade. I thought you were admiring Filey’s display of violets.”

  George looked them over as if seeing the well-tended gardens for the first time. “Polyanthus, most of ’em, not violets. And no, I wasn’t checking them out. I’m waiting for Owen.”

  Joe sat alongside George and rolled a cigarette. “Where is he?”

  “Chemist.” George waved at the pharmacy across the street, next door to Harrison’s Carpet Centre. “Wasp bite.”

  Brenda chuckled. “Sure it was a wasp and not one of your tarts.”

  George pulled his tongue out at her. “We don’t mix with tarts, Brenda. Only class, me and Owen. And talking of tarts, have the plod sorted out that business with Nicola Leach yet?”

  Joe shook his head, put the freshly rolled cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “No further forward, mate.”

  “I’d have thought you’d have cracked it by now, Joe.”

  “They won’t listen to me,” Joe replied as he dropped his Zippo in his gilet. He stood up. “Don’t forget, George. Disco at eight in the Beachside’s lounge.”

  “Might make it, Joe, or we might hit the town again.”

  Joe and the two women moved on. As they crossed the street outside the bus station, Joe paused and stared again at the carpet centre and adjacent pharmacy.

  “What’s up, Joe?” Brenda demanded. “Thinking of laying a new floor in the café, or do you need something for the weekend?”

  Sheila tittered. Joe ignored the ribaldry. “No. I just get the feeling I’m missing something.” He turned and followed them along Murray Street.

  In any other town, this late on a Sunday afternoon, the shops would be closed, but the traders took full advantage of the seaside allowance for extended hours, and many souvenir shops were still open, providing the women with more opportunities for retail therapy, and Joe with a greater feeling of irritation as they made slow progress through the streets in the direction of the Beachside.

  Turning towards the hotel, Joe spotted several police cars outside Jonny Irwin’s shop. He picked up his pace, hurrying towards Constable Flowers on duty at the entrance to the shop.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Not sure I’m supposed to tell you, sir,” Flowers replied.

  “If you don’t tell me, Terry Cummins will,” Joe assured him. “Have you found something?”

  The constable continued to hedge. “No, sir. We’re looking for something.”

  Joe tutted. “You’re hard work this afternoon, Flowers.”

  “Yes, sir, I am, because I’m not sure what I’m allowed to say to you.” Flowers pushed back his cap and scratched his forehead. “Look, don’t spread it about, but Mr Cummins has arrested both Irwin brothers.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “It’s simple enough, Joe. When we pushed Ivan, he admitted he’d handed over no money, but given Pennig a credit note which he could take to Jonny’s shop and exchange for goods.”

  Joe kept a wary eye on the clock. It was almost six and he was due back at the Beachside to run the disco at eight.

  Cummins’s office was as small, cramped and busy as Gemma’s back in Sanford, but at least the Chief Inspector had a window through which he could look out on the main streets of Scarborough below. Outside, even though the shops had closed, the streets were still packed with holidaymakers and day trippers eager to wring every ounce of pleasure from their visit to the coast.

  After speaking with Flowers, he had hurried back to the Beachside, dropped off his purchases and then called a taxi to take him straight to Scarborough, but he need not have hurried. When he arrived, Cummins was still interviewing the Irwin brothers, and he had to wait a considerable time before his old pal escorted him through to the office.

  “You suspect, then, that the Land Rover was used to run down Nicola Leach?”

  Cummins shrugged. “I don’t know. Scientific support will give the front end a good going over tomorrow. It doesn’t matter how much work has been done on the vehicle, if it was the one, there will be traces of Nicola on it somewhere. In the meantime, I’ve arrested the Irwins in connection with Eddie Pennig’s death, not Nicola’s.”

  “You believe something was going on between the three?” Joe asked.

  “Don’t you?” Cummins asked. “Joe, you put me on this trail, and all you did was ask more questions than I could answer. The vehicle, is a 1975 ex-military soft top, and it’s worth anything up to £15,000. Why would Pennig let it go for such a low price? Why would he let it go in exchange for goods rather than cash? Ivan Irwin says he doesn’t know why he got it so cheap, and he won’t explain why the deal became a barter rather than a sale. Jonny Irwin says it’s nothing at all to do with him. Pennig turned up with a credit note to the value of £400 and he honoured it. They’re lying, and until I get to the truth, I’ll keep them here.” Cummins drummed his fingers on the blotter. “And get this. Neither of them has asked for a lawyer.”

  “Any form?” Joe asked.

  “Trivia,” Cummins replied. “Jonny was done for a VAT fiddle a few years back. Fined, ordered to pay the tax and interest and that was that. Ivan was done for a fuel fiddle some years back. He had an arrangement with a tanker driver. Most of the coble fishermen use red diesel for their boats. Ivan had the driver dropping diesel into forty gallon drums at his house, but it was blue, regular diesel. The kind you buy at the pumps. And that’s how the customs men rumbled it. Ivan was fined and given a suspended sentence. The tanker driver had been pulling the same stunt with other small businesses, and he was jailed for eighteen months. Aside from that, both men have reputations as scrappers and they’ve been done a few times for brawling. Usually drunk. Ivan is currently bound over after a barney in a pub about nine months ago.”

  Joe stroked his chin. “It’s n
ot up to me to tell you how to do your job, Terry, but I don’t like the smell of this. I said to Sheila and Brenda this afternoon, these men are not fools. If they were pulling some stunt with Eddie, Ivan would have likely got rid of the Land Rover after Eddie was killed.”

  “So you don’t think there’s anything to all this?” Cummins sounded angry. “Joe, you put me onto it.”

  Joe shook his head and stroked his chin. “I know that, and something was going on, for sure. But I get the feeling the finger has been pointed at Ivan and Jonny Irwin to direct us away from the real culprits, and I don’t want to see you wasting your time and effort.”

  Joe fell silent, running his mind over all that had happened since his arrival in Filey. It was like a jigsaw, but there was a piece missing, and that annoyed him.

  A memory echoed in his head. Following the impulse, he asked, “Are either of them married?”

  “According to Flowers, Ivan was, but it fell apart about twenty years ago. His wife walked out on him and she’s never been seen in Filey since. Flowers reckons she moved to York.”

  A light lit in Joe’s mind. “Any danger I could speak to Ivan?”

  “I don’t know, Joe. I appreciate what you’re doing, but I don’t want to risk upsetting any case we may have against them by involving you.”