The Filey Connection

by David W Robinson

  And it was not just mannerisms or in-depth knowledge of people. Even if they were complete strangers, Joe could usually tell something about them, and a little light, friendly chatter as he delivered meals would soon elicit whether he was right or wrong. The stranger who sat facing the windows, and kept an eye on the industrial estate opposite was either waiting for his car to be returned from Broadbent’s or was watching for someone.

  His skills grew, so did his reputation, and before he was thirty, people from all over Sanford began to talk about this whizz-kid detective. Individuals and companies called him in to clear up mysteries and puzzles, and over the following decade, he established a reputation for the accuracy of his deductions. Even the police, albeit usually in the shape of his niece, called on him now and then.

  He did not solve every problem, however, and as he watched the lights on ships begin to appear in the growing darkness, he concluded that the killing of Eddie Pennig would be one of his failures. He would have to be satisfied with having solved Nicola Leach’s death.

  “Whisper is the cops have arrested the Irwin brothers for killing that mate of yours.”

  Billy Pringle’s questions snapped Joe out of his irritated reverie.

  “What? Oh, hiya, Billy. Yeah. Terry Cummins has them both on ice in Scarborough.”

  Billy, who had been on his way back into the bar, sat with Joe, took out another cigarette and lit it.

  “On a break?” Joe asked.

  Billy nodded. “Another five minutes and I’m back on the horse. You know how it is.”

  This time, Joe nodded. “I do. No rest for the wicked when you run your own joint. No Kieran to help tonight?”

  Billy laughed. “Slight managerial cock-up, Joe. He asked for the night off. This was a coupla weeks back, and like a right pair of idiots, we said yes. Completely forgot about you and your disco.”

  Joe grinned. “Kids eh? Big date, has he?”

  “Must be,” Billy said. “He’s borrowed my van for it.”

  Silence fell. Joe was glad of it. He needed to concentrate on every aspect of the two deaths.

  “Good call, I’d say,” Billy commented, breaking into Joe’s abstract thoughts again.

  His words puzzled Joe. “Hmm?”

  “The Irwin brothers. Right pair of tearaways, those two. Always have been.”

  “You know them? “ Joe asked.

  “Small town, Filey. Everyone knows everyone.” Billy fingered his crooked nose. “I have Ivan to thank for this. Bar fight years ago. Tunnel bloody vision that man when he gets into a scrap. Hits out at everyone and everything. If anyone was going to smash your mate’s head in, it’s Ivan Irwin.”

  Joe slotted the information into place. “Trouble is, Billy, Ivan denies it, and I think he’s telling the truth for once. He knew Eddie years ago, and he admits he’d loved to have taken him apart, but he couldn’t, because he’s already under a court order.”

  Billy laughed. “Court order? Never stopped Ivan in the past. I’m telling you, mate, the police have it right. When they dig deep enough, they’ll find out the truth.” Billy crushed out his smoke. “I’d better get back inside. Thirsty lot, your mob.”

  Billy disappeared inside. Joe pulled on his cigarette one last time, then rang Cummins. After a brief conversation, he put the phone away and smiled to himself. Imbued with fresh energy he made his way back into the lounge and onto the podium.

  “We thought you’d never get back, Joe,” Sheila said. “Grease is nearly finished.”

  He grinned. “Never despair. Joe is always here.”

  As the song faded out, Joe took the microphone. “That was John Travolta and Olivia Neutron-Bomb from about 1978. Before we go on, can I just remind you all that we have to vacate the rooms by ten in the morning. Keith will be here at half past nine so you can load your luggage onto the coach. You’ll have a couple of hours to yourselves, and he’ll pick us all up at Filey bus station at twelve noon.” He paused to ensure his message had sunk in, and ran his finger down the list of tracks on the laptop screen. “All right. We saw the Abba tribute show last night, now here’s the real thing withThe Winner Takes It All.” He smiled over at the bar where Billy was serving George Robson and Owen Frickley. “Thank you, Billy,” he muttered under his breath.

  ***

  A combination of heat and habit had Joe out of bed at five thirty on Monday morning. But as he yawned his way to the window, he realised it was not simply those two factors. The noise of an engine chugging away outside had helped disturb his sleep.

  Parting the curtains, he looked out onto another glorious morning and at the rear gates saw Billy Pringle with his head under the bonnet of his Transit van.

  With another gaping yawn, Joe let the curtains shut and went back to bed.

  He was up again by seven, and after a shower and shave, he wandered out through the front entrance, onto the street and around the back of the hotel where he found Billy still working under the hood of his van.

  “Morning, Billy,” he said.

  Billy looked up in some surprise. “Morning, Joe. Bit early to be up and about, isn’t it?”

  “This is late for me,” Joe replied. “I’m like you, mate. Up with the larks every day. Thought I’d take a walk, see if the paper shop’s open yet.” He indicated the van with a nod. “Having trouble?”

  “Touchy starting her up on a morning. Getting past her best, you know. Have to keep on top of it.” Billy frowned. “Lending Kieran the bloody thing doesn’t help. He thraips the hell out of it. You know how kids are.”

  “Out to impress his girlfriend, huh?” Joe laughed. “I remember those days. Never thought of buying a new one?”

  Billy shrugged. “Why? It never goes further than the cash and carry or the wholesale markets. Lashing out ten grand or more on a new van would be a waste of money.”

  Joe understood immediately. Hadn’t he thought the same himself the previous night when admiring the shiny cars on the police car park?

  “I know where you’re coming from, buddy. Well, catch you at breakfast.”

  “Yeah. Try the newsagent on Murray Street. It should be open by the time you get there.”

  Joe wandered off and turned the corner towards the town with the noise of Billy’s van chugging away in the background.

  He was back thirty minutes later, sat on the front terrace enjoying a smoke and working on theDaily Express crossword, when Sarah stepped from the dining room.

  “Good morning, Joe. Sleep well?”

  He shrugged and put down his pen. “So, so. You know.”

  Sarah sat opposite and looked out over the bay. “Back to Sanford and the reality of earning a living later today.”

  “It’s been a nice change,” he said, memories of Saturday night flooding back to him.

  It appeared that memories of Saturday night were also on Sarah’s mind. “It could have been a lot nicer.”

  Joe smiled thinly. “It was a non-starter, Sarah. I don’t like disappointing any woman, but…” he trailed off, and left her to draw her own conclusions.

  “That’s not the only thing to spoil your weekend, though, is it?” Sarah suggested and when Joe’s eyebrows rose, she explained, “The death of your friend.”

  “Oh. Eddie?” Joe lit a cigarette. “Like I said before, he wasn’t really a friend. Truth is, I didn’t know him at all. Sheila persuaded him to join the club, and he did his own groundwork to get him on the Filey trip.”

  “So I understand. Why on earth did he want to come here?”

  Joe shrugged. “That’s the question everyone is asking themselves, Sarah. Did you know he was a local man?”

  “I’ve been told,” she admitted. “In fact, I think you told me. Hunmanby, I believe. Is it true that the Irwin brothers have been arrested for his death?”

  “They have,” Joe said. “There’s some doubt, though. Right now, it’s difficult to see what they stood to gain from killing Eddie.”

  “Perhaps,” Sarah suggested, “it was acciden
tal.”

  “It’s possible,” Joe agreed, “but that doesn’t explain why Eddie came here in the first place. The police will need to do some serious digging into our Mr Pennig to find out what the hell he was up to.”

  Sarah shook her head. “What a strange tale.”

  “Bizarre,” Joe agreed. “Still, Terry Cummins is on the case and I’m sure he’ll get to the bottom of it.” He smiled at her. “And what about you, Sarah? What does the rest of your life look like?”

  She laughed softly. “My life is what it always is, Joe. The hotel. The season ends in mid-September and I’ll take a holiday in October. Probably Cyprus. By the time I get back, we’ll be getting ready for Christmas and the New Year. We’re very much alike, you and me. We live to run the business and run the business to live. It’s a non-stop merry-go-round, with no way off.” She stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I must drag Billy away from that damned van and get on with supervising breakfast.”

  “Sure. See you later.”

  Joe made his way back to his room, took down his suitcase and packed away his clothing. Last in the bag was the netbook. He hesitated a moment before putting it in the case. All his notes on the Eddie Pennig case were on it. In the end, deciding that he would make no more progress on the matter, he tucked the computer between a couple of shirts, closed the suitcase and zipped it up.

  He joined Sheila and Brenda for breakfast just after eight.

  “Did you have another secret rendezvous last night, Joe?” Sheila asked.

  He maintained a silent air of aplomb.

  Alongside him, Brenda seethed. “I’ve been trying to get you into my bed for years. Two nights at the seaside and you’re jumping Filey’s answer to Knickers-off Leach.”

  “I hope you’re both packed,” Joe said, blatantly ignoring her. “Keith will be here for the cases in an hour.”

  Sheila nudged her best friend. “This must be serious. He’s telling us absolutely nothing.”

  “I will tell you this,” Joe retorted. “The Eddie Pennig business has me beat, and you know I don’t like to be beaten.”

  Brenda became more serious. “The police will get there, Joe, and I’m sure you’ve done your fair share to lead them in the right direction.”

  “Yes, Joe,” Sheila insisted, “you should look on the bright side. Without you nagging them, they would have written Nicola’s death off as a hit and run and got no further with it. It’s only because you pushed it that they narrowed it down to Eddie, and I’m sure they’ll find his killer and uncover all the motives for it at some point.”

  Joe ate the last of his scrambled egg and put down his knife and fork. “Maybe you’re right.” He drank a swallow of tea, and took a piece of toast from the rack. “It’s galling, all the same. I don’t need much to wrap it all up. Just that final little hint.” He shrugged. “It just won’t come.”

  “Still,” Sheila said, “all the problems aside, it’s been a lovely weekend.”

  After breakfast, they strolled out onto the terrace to bask in the morning sun.

  Joe took out his tin flipped the lid and looked in dismay at the thin dusting of dried tobacco. “I knew there was something I wanted while we were out yesterday.” He scraped enough together to roll, and put the lid back on the tin. “I’ll get Keith to drop me in Filey and buy some.”

  “Now be careful, Joe,” Brenda cautioned him. “We don’t want you spending all your money in one mad rush.”

  Joe was about to snipe back, when the roar of a van distracted him. He glanced at the gates in time to see one of Scarborough Gases flash past and up the side of the hotel. “Delivering the bar gases again,” he muttered.

  Brenda stretched and yawned, thrusting her ample bosom out. Glancing at her wristwatch, she said, “Well, we’d better get a move on. We’ve the last of the packing to do and the beds to strip.”

  “I thought you said you’d packed,” Joe said. “And who strips the bedding before…” His eyes glazed. “Oh, my God, I never thought of that.”

  Brenda laughed lasciviously. “Joe, if your bedding has any evidence of naughty business, you’d better get up there and…”

  “No,” he cut her off. “Don’t you see? Eddie’s bed was made.”

  The woman frowned and glanced at each other.

  “So?” Sheila asked.

  “What kind of man makes the bed when he’s on his way out to commit suicide?” he hurried on to answer the question. “One who never slept in it.”

  They were still puzzled.

  “Eddie was never in his bed the night he was killed. Does that mean he wasn’t even in the hotel? And if he wasn’t in the hotel, how could the hotel serve seventy-one breakfasts? And if the hotel did serve seventy-one breakfasts, does that mean the killer took Eddie’s place, instead?”

  Sheila considered the matter, chewing her lip to find fault with the argument.

  In the end it was Brenda who got there first. “He was ex-navy, Joe. They do make their beds.”

  “Ready for the Sergeant Major’s inspection,” Sheila concurred. “Or the Chief Petty Officer’s in the case of the Royal Navy. Nice try, Joe.”

  He was crestfallen. “I thought I was onto something there. If there was a stranger at breakfast, one of our crew would have noticed him.”

  “Our crew, as you call them, haven’t been interviewed,” Sheila pointed out. She, too, looked at her watch. “Come on, Brenda. Let’s get upstairs and finish off.”

  Joe nodded in the direction of the promenade, where the Sanford Coach Services bus could be seen making its slow way to the Beachside. “Keith’s here now. I’d better get my case, too.”

  Joe and his two companions spent the next hour supervising the loading of luggage onto the bus, reminding every member that they would depart Filey bus station at 12 noon, sharp.

  “Joe,” Sheila said when the final piece of baggage had been loaded, “Brenda and I are going down onto the beach for an hour.”

  “I’ll catch you there when I’ve picked up my tobacco,” he promised climbing on the bus.

  Negotiating the narrow streets as the holidaymakers began to turn out, Keith, complained, “Why couldn’t you just walk into town, Joe?”

  “Do you know how far I’ve walked over the last few days?” Joe retorted. “My bloody feet are killing me.”

  At the junction of West Avenue, Station Road and Murray Street, Keith stopped and opened the door. “If your feet hurt, get to the chemist and buy summat to ease ’em,” he pointed across the street at the pharmacy. “See you later, Joe.”

  Joe stood on the kerb until Keith had gone. “Smartarse,” he grumbled, and looked across at the pharmacy. “As if they could help me walking in this weather.” He stared again at the shop, next door to Harrison’s Carpet Centre. A large advertising banner above the pharmacy’s double windows advertised Coral Beauty products, but the ‘L’ on the end of Coral had been faded, weathered away, so that it read more like ‘Cora!’ than Coral.

  Joe frowned. Was it trying to tell him something? A driver waiting for him to cross tooted his car horn. Joe shook himself out of his stupor, stepped back from the kerb and waved the car on. He stared again at the sign.Cora! Beauty Products, on sale here, and right next to itHarrison Carpet Centre.

  The penny dropped. His heart beating faster, he dug feverishly into his pockets, pulled out his mobile phone and dialled Gemma’s number.

  “I’m glad you’ve rung, Uncle Joe,” she said when he got through. “I’m at Eddie Dobson, Pennig, call him what you will, I’m at his flat.”

  “Never mind Eddie,” Joe interrupted. “The 999 call on Nicola Leach. I don’t suppose you got a GPS track on it?”

  “No, Joe, we didn’t. It’s not the kind of thing we do by routine.”

  “It was made here, in Filey.”

  The announcement was greeted with silence for a moment. “What? How do you know?”

  “It’s the… well I’ve… never mind how I know. Can you get the original recording and email it to Te
rry Cummins at Scarborough police station?”

  “Uncle Joe, you already have it. I sent…”

  “That was the engine recording you sent to me,” Joe interrupted. “I need to hear the original, with the caller’s voice on it.”

  “All right,” Gemma agreed. “I’ll bell the station and get it done for you.”

  “Good. This thing is beginning to make a bit of sense at last. Now, you were saying you’re at Eddie Pennig’s place. Why?”

  “Someone broke in last night. Place looks like it’s been hit by a tornado.”

  Joe beamed. “And I know who.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Armed with fresh tobacco, Joe sat on the terrace rolling a cigarette when Sheila and Brenda returned from the beach after he had called them.

  Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson were sitting with George Robson and Owen Frickley a few tables away. Sarah Pringle was watering flowers in the planters at the bottom end of the drive, and from the lounge bar came the sound of Billy and Kieran stocking up the bottles.

  Joe had had a busy time after calling his niece. First he rang Cummins and told him the information he needed, and then he took a taxi to Filey Country Park, where he found Keith putting his feet up on the bus. Joe badgered him into digging out his suitcase, from which he took his netbook, and then climbed in the taxi for the journey back to the Beachside. Once there, he sat with the computer, running it on battery while he made more notes. Then, plugging it into an outlet in the lounge bar to charge up the battery, he rang Sheila and asked her and Brenda to come back from the beach.

  “What’s happened, Joe?” Sheila asked when they arrived. Her face was etched with lines of worry.

  With a furtive glance round and back into the bar to ensure no one was listening, Joe said, “I know almost everything and I’m waiting for Terry Cummins to turn up with the final evidence. The only thing I don’t know is why, but Terry may be able to tell me.”

  “Almost everything about what?” Brenda asked so loudly that their members on the nearby table turned their attention on her.

  Joe shushed Brenda. “Keep your voice down, for God’s sake. I don’t want to panic anyone. I know everything about Eddie Pennig’s murder except the motive, but I can even guess at that. If I’m right, we’ll have it all wrapped up when Terry gets here.” He glanced along the promenade and a police car making its way towards them. “And I think this may be him, now.”