Merry Murders Everyone

by David W Robinson

  When he stepped in, Parsloe was on the telephone, but the conversation told Joe that he was speaking to his bookie, and not a customer.

  Almost immediately, he put the phone down. “What can I do you for, squire?”

  “You could tell me about Willie Trelfus at Kimbolton Terrace,” Joe announced.

  Parsloe’s features darkened immediately. “If I were you, I’d clear off. While you can still walk.”

  Joe ignored the threat. “Y’see, this is the kind of crap I get most of the time, and it doesn’t persuade me. A couple of days ago, someone topped old Trelfus, and Tel Bailey is in the frame for it. Now I know Tel. A scrapper, sure, but no way is he a killer, and according to him and Denny Dixon, they haven’t been hassling the residents of Kimbolton for months. But you’re round there every other day.”

  Footsteps sounded behind Joe. He turned to find himself confronted with a tall, muscular man, sporting a similar beard to Parsloe. Narrowed eyes homed in on Joe, and the lips turned downwards in a scowl of menace.

  “Bob, why don’t you show this clown out?” Parsloe turned his attention to Joe. “Sod off, and don’t come back. Not if you know what’s good for you.”

  Despite all that could be said of Joe, good and bad, he was not stupid. Against this obviously aggressive thug, he would have no chance.

  He glowered at Parsloe. “I’ll be back. And next time I won’t be on my own, so you’d better try and find some of that Christmas peace and goodwill everyone else is looking for.”

  He was determined not to hurry, but the slightest movement from the minder, Bob, prompted him to rethink, and he rushed from the cabin, back out into the street, and climbed into his car. And for once, he locked the doors behind him.

  He was boiling mad, mostly with himself and his impotence in the face of such intimidation. He had been like it all his life. Aggressive, outspoken, but absolutely useless in a fight, and he remained uncertain how to handle the present situation. A complaint to the police would get him nowhere. Gemma had already warned him to keep out of the business. And yet, it was obvious that assuming Parsloe wasn’t suffering anything more than a bad mood, the man had something he would prefer not to talk about, and Joe wanted to know what.

  He started the engine, made his way slowly back into town, leaving his car, once again, in the multi-storey car park attached to the Galleries mall, from where he crossed Gale Street, and after a few minutes of negotiation with Constable Noel Wickes on the front desk, sat with Gemma, who suppressed her annoyance when she learned that he was not here to interfere in the Trelfus inquiry.

  She listened carefully to what he had to say, and over a cup of tea, studied the North Shires file.

  “I have to say, I don’t remember either of these incidents, but then again, Darlington doesn’t come under our division, and Ripon is North Yorkshire, not West. But it’s all a bit hazy, Joe. The two men in these photographs do look like Martin but that doesn’t mean anything. George Robson looks like one of the actors from that American comedy series from years ago; Cheers. You remember it?” Gemma waited for Joe to agree with a curt nod. “But I don’t see many people asking for George’s autograph. And according to this report, Deirdre Ullsworth died from atropine poisoning. Sheila doesn’t have any of the major symptoms associated with atropine.”

  “Nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea? All right, so those are only a few of the symptoms. The way I see it is leopards might not be able to change their spots, but they can adapt their hunting techniques.”

  She agreed immediately. “I understand where you’re coming from, but I have to take a broader view. If Martin really is poisoning her, it would show up in the hospital tests, and according to my best information, they’ve proved nothing. According to what Howard told me, the doctors reckon her problem is psychological, not physical.”

  “A nice little theory to hang something on when they don’t know what’s wrong.” Joe puffed out his breath. “Are you telling me you won’t look into this?”

  “It’s not that simple. I need to take advice on what we can and can’t do. You’re accusing a man based on a resemblance to the two men wanted in connection with the previous incidents. That and the fact that his wife is unwell.” Gemma got to her feet, and moved round the tiny office to her photocopier, where she began to copy the documents. As she waited for them to arrive in the tray, she went on, “I’ll have a word with Don Oughton, and see what he has to say. I’ll also speak to Howard when he gets home tonight, but you do know this is likely to stir up a hornet’s nest between you and Sheila.”

  Joe shrugged, took out his tobacco tin and began to roll a cigarette. “What am I supposed to do? Wait until we’re lowering her coffin into the ground, and then accuse him?”

  “I don’t know. But I do know you can’t smoke that in here.”

  “I’m not going to, I’m not going to. It’s for when I get outside.”

  Gemma handed his file back and collected the copies. “Leave it with me, Joe. I promise I’ll get onto the Chief Super as soon as.”

  He came out of the police station with the feeling that he was making no progress, or if he was, it was in reverse, and with the time coming up to half past three, he had no idea what to do next, so he climbed into his car, lit the cigarette, and joined the afternoon throng for the journey back to The Lazy Luncheonette.

  It was little short of a nightmare. The Salvation Army band were playing a series of Christmas carols on the corner of Gale Street and Market Square, the sound grating on Joe’s nerves, and stuck in traffic, he could not avoid it other than turning on the radio, which poured forth more Christmas jingles.

  As an adult, he had never been a big lover of Christmas; something which he diagnosed as symptomatic of his solitary lifestyle. Even in the decade when he was married to Alison, he had never made a big fuss over the Yuletide season. Young Danny had made a slight difference to his approach, but that, he recognised, was only the tendency towards indulgence when it came to children, which in turn was a factor of his lack of same.

  Beyond that, he could live without the cloying schmaltz of Christmas and New Year. He rarely switched the television on at any time during the year, but it was off even longer during the season of (theoretical) goodwill, and he spent much of his time alone, surfing the web, looking for holiday locations, or attending to the administrative needs of The Lazy Luncheonette and the 3rd Age Club.

  The crew of The Lazy Luncheonette made an effort to decorate the place in the run-up to Christmas. A small tree stood to one side, it’s lights flashing, fake presents stacked under it, more fairy lights strung around the counter, tinsel adorning the walls, and one or two posters wishing patrons a Merry Christmas. None of it had Joe’s approval, but it was entirely in keeping with his hands-off management style of the café, that no one sought his permission or approbation. While behind the counter, he was as surly and irritable as at any other time of year.

  Leaving the town centre behind, picking up the dual carriageway of Doncaster Road, he came to the conclusion that it was the way he was, there was nothing to be done about it. If he had to grin and bear Christmas, then Christmas would have to grin and bear his Scrooge-esque tetchiness.

  When he got back to the café, he found them in mufti, ready for closing down. Kayleigh, the errant, casual assistant who had fed yoghurt into the barista sat with Brenda, Cheryl and her other friend, Pauline, while Lee was in the kitchen, making sure everything was closed down for the night.

  Joe approved. Lee might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but he had learned his lessons well over the years, and he knew the shut-down routine. All cooking and heating appliances had to be switched off, the fridge, freezer and chillers must be properly secured and running at the appropriate temperatures to ensure that no fresh foods deteriorated. Amongst his final tasks was a brief check of stocks, ensuring they had ample supplies for the following day.

  As Joe entered and poured himself a cup of tea, Lee presented him with a short list: mince pies, crea
m cakes, vanilla ice cream, and at the bottom of the list, flavoured yoghurts. When he read it, Joe cast a scowl at Kayleigh.

  “I’m really sorry, Mr Murray.”

  “You’re also banned from using the barista,” he told her. “But we’ll let it pass this time. Consider it my contributing to the Christmas spirit, and stick to delivering meals and pouring tea in future.” He switched his attention to Lee. “I might need your help tomorrow, Lee.”

  His giant nephew frowned. “I weren’t thinking of taking the day off, Uncle Joe.”

  Taking a swallow of tea, Joe shook his head and sighed. “I didn’t mean I need your help here. I mean out there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the dark streets beyond The Lazy Luncheonette’s entrance. “I’ve had a bit of hassle this afternoon, and I might need you to persuade people to back off.”

  He grinned in anticipation. He smacked a giant fist into his opposite palm. “Let me at ’em. I’ll make ’em spill the sprouts.”

  Brenda frowned. “You mean you’ll make them talk? Spill the beans?”

  “Yeah, but it’s Christmas. We don’t have beans at Christmas. We have sprouts.”

  Chapter Eight

  For most STAC outings, Sanford Coach Services provided transport, but most STAC outings were to other towns and cities. With Churchill’s less than two miles from the town centre, the club members made their own way there, some driving, most, like Joe, arriving by taxi.

  Joe had ordered his cab to collect Brenda on the way. Since neither of them were attached or had escorts for the evening, they had decided to share a table… hopefully with Sheila and Martin. When he got to Brenda’s place, she was ready. Grandly dressed in a dark, sober jacket and pants which offset the gold glittering around her neck and on her fingers, she was a perfect match for Joe’s dark suit, white shirt and black bow tie

  “Normally, I’d expect Sheila and Martin to join us,” Brenda said, unconsciously echoing Joe’s thoughts. “But after this morning, even if she makes it, I think she’ll avoid us.”

  “Other than having a few words to say,” Joe responded gloomily as the cab wove its way through the streets to join Wakefield Road.

  Standing close to the motorway junction, the restaurant/nightspot sported a huge, neon sign in the shape of the wartime Prime Minister, complete with bowler hat and cigar, shining through the night, and below it was a Christmas tree, its fairy lights flashing in the cold night. And yet, notwithstanding its brash exterior, quality was assured. Churchill’s official rating was four star but throughout Sanford it was known as the finest quality restaurant; the place to hold a celebration dinner.

  Paying the taxi and getting out, Joe found a good number of their fellow members already making their way in.

  The club chairman, at least for the time being, Captain Les Tanner was ahead of them in the queue. A former part-time soldier, he looked militarily precise in his regimental blazer and tie, and hanging on Tanner’s arm was his long-time lady love, Sylvia Goodson, looking equally regal in a flowing gown and faux fox fur wrap. Despite her easy-going, contingent demeanour, Sylvia was a vociferous campaigner in the fight against cruelty to animals, amongst which she numbered fox-hunting and animals bred purely for their skins.

  As always Joe felt slightly uncomfortable in his finery, but he soon relaxed once they were in the main lounge and a waiter showed them to a discreet table for two off to one side of the dining area.

  Most tables, he noticed, seated four, facing a small stage and dance floor. On the podium, a quartet of musicians was setting up their stands.

  “The Ronaldo Lombardy Combo,” Brenda said with a hearty chuckle. “Ronnie Lund and his pals.”

  “He was part of the Sanford Colliery Brass Band before the pit shut down, you know. Not bad on the horn, but hardly Royal Albert Hall fodder.”

  Across the aisle from them, making up a foursome, were George Robson, Owen Frickley and the Staineses, Alec and Julia. All four greeted them cheerily, and asked after Sheila. Both Joe and Brenda related her state of health, but did not mention the more disconcerting news of the past twenty-four hours.

  Further along was Stewart Dalmer sat with a woman Joe did not know. A tall, rangy man who had been a member of the club for about three years, he was a former tutor at Sanford Technical College. After their intimacy in Cornwall, Dalmer had invited Brenda as his partner for the evening, but she turned him down, preferring Joe’s company instead – a situation which gave Joe a good feeling, but which had the opposite effect on Dalmer, judging by the occasional dark glances he cast at them.

  The disastrous week in Hayle following Sheila’s wedding to Martin, had been one of the most pivotal weeks in Joe’s life. He had come within a hair’s breadth of abandoning not only the club and his friends, but Sanford altogether. Brenda, it was, who had helped open his eyes, and brought about a change of heart. Tanner was due to step down as chairman in the New Year, and Joe would go head-to-head with Dalmer in the ensuing election. According to George Robson, Joe was odds-on favourite to win the seat he had given up when Denise Latham was killed. He had technically relinquished his administrative duties attached to the club when he resigned the Chair, but some were left in his hands, even though he was no longer an officer, thanks largely to his negotiating skills, and he was actively looking forward to his re-election in January.

  But even as he thought of it, another problem reared its hypothetical head. Ever since the club’s inception, Joe had been chairman, Brenda the treasurer, and Sheila the secretary. Indeed, the 3rd Age Club had been Brenda and Sheila’s idea. With the potential for internal conflict raised by the revelations of the last twenty-four hours, would they be able to work together as a team?

  And it was not only the club, he ruminated as the waiter brought their first course (fruit juice for Joe, mulligatawny soup for Brenda). How could they continue working together at The Lazy Luncheonette?

  As he sipped tentatively at his freshly squeezed orange juice, he began to wish he had never heard of Eliot Banks, North Shires Insurance, and he certainly wished Sheila had never met Martin Naylor, let alone married him.

  Brenda was still only halfway through her soup when, much to their surprise, Martin and Sheila joined them.

  He was classically dressed in a dinner suit, frilled dress shirt, complete with cummerbund and bow tie, while Sheila wore a formal evening gown in dark ruby, which, like Brenda’s outfit, was speckled with items of jewellery.

  Joe and Brenda were speechless, neither of them able to think of anything to say. Sheila greeted them with a severe smile, Martin with a poker-face nod, and the pair took their seats.

  “I assumed you kept the seats vacant for Martin and me,” Sheila said.

  Joe still could not speak and it was left to Brenda to respond. “I, er, well, yes. Of course. We weren’t sure whether you’d be here.”

  Sheila’s smile was more pointed. “After your conversation with Martin this morning, I decided I should make the effort.”

  That was enough for Joe. In anticipation of what was to come, he gulped down the remainder of his fruit juice, and got to his feet. “I’m going outside for a smoke.”

  “Between courses, Joe?” Sheila said.

  “Between battles,” he retorted, and marched away.

  Churchill’s was not possessed of a smoke area, and he had no alternative but to step out through the front doors, ensuring he had his ticket stub with him so he could get back in. Ignoring the bitter cold, he took a cigarette case from his pocket, in which were a dozen, previously rolled cigarettes. Putting one between his lips, he lit it, drew the smoke in, and let it out with jittery hiss.

  If he had been surprised by their arrival, he was not remotely put out when Martin joined him. If there was to be an argument, let it be between him Sheila’s husband. He was better arguing with men than women… especially women like Sheila.

  Martin smiled down upon him. “I had fruit juice, same as you. Knocked it back in one hit.” His smile faded “What
did you think, Joe? Did you really imagine I wouldn’t mention it to her?”

  “No. I knew you would. But it changes nothing. All right, all right, so you claim we’ve got it wrong. Fine. You’ll excuse me if I choose not to believe that until I have some kind of proof. As far as I’m concerned, you are Mervyn Nellis and Marlon Newman, and in that case, Sheila’s life is under threat.”

  Martin laughed. Joe imagined it was supposed to be a good-natured chuckle, but it came out as something more sinister.

  “Conspiracy theories. I deal with them all the time. Whenever anything goes wrong for the kids, they haven’t done their homework, haven’t taken in the lessons I’m delivering, failed a crucial test, it’s always some kind of conspiracy to hold them back. It never seems to dawn on them that it’s their own fault. I’m listening to you and it reminds me of them. You’re a good detective, Joe. Your reputation is county-wide, and even further afield if your friends in the 3rd Age Club are to be believed. But you’re like all the rest of us. A long way from perfect. And this time, you’re so far off the mark that you’ve almost turned the bullets on yourself.”

  Joe took another drag on his cigarette and watched the wind whip the smoke away into the night. “Do you understand the principle of friendship?”

  Martin frowned. “I think so.”

  “I don’t think you do. I’m not talking about colleagues, I’m not talking about drinking buddies, I’m talking about true, genuine friends, people you’ve known for most of your life. Sheila comes under that heading. We were kids in the schoolyard together, me, her, and Brenda. Think about the kids you teach, think about the young lad waiting on us tonight. We’ve been friends for longer than those kids have been on this Earth. And when you’ve thought about that, ask yourself a question. What kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t look out for her welfare?” He drew on the cigarette again. “And I’ll tell you something else. If Sheila chooses to bawl me out over it, it’ll change nothing. Until I have some proof that you are no threat to her, I’ll carry on sticking my nose in.”