Merry Murders Everyone

by David W Robinson

  He dropped the cigarette on the floor, crushed it under the soles of his highly-polished shoes, turned on his heels, and marched back into the restaurant.

  ***

  Inside, a similar debate was taking place between Sheila and Brenda, but where Joe and Martin had held their tempers, the two women were on the verge of losing theirs.

  “How dare you make such allegations?” Sheila demanded.

  Like her husband, she had opted for fruit juice and drank it in one gulp, and the young, embarrassed waiter hovered nearby, waiting to clear away the detritus of the first course.

  “Not with any pleasure, and not without some evidence.” Brenda’s tough tones turned more cynical. “Unfortunately, this is a dinner and dance, and we didn’t bring the evidence with us.”

  “Evidence? You mean the photocopied rubbish you showed Martin this morning? He told me about it, and he also told me where to find his first wife’s grave in York, which is good enough for me. Whoever is in those files, it’s not him.”

  “You can’t say that because you haven’t seen them. And it’s all very well him telling you where to find a grave, are you absolutely certain about it? Has he shown you the death certificate? And even if he is telling it like it was, how do you know it’s the absolute truth? He could have had a string of women between that first wife and you. For God’s sake, Sheila, Joe and I are concerned for you.”

  “And that,” Sheila retorted jabbing her finger into the table, “is the only reason I’m willing to put the matter behind us.”

  “Well we’re not,” Joe said as he returned and sat alongside Brenda. His eyes burned into Sheila. “When I know Martin is innocent, and I mean know not suspect, then I’ll back off and apologise. Until then, I’ll do what I always do, keep pushing my oar in.”

  Martin re-joined them as Sheila returned Joe’s fiery gaze. “Have you remembered who fought on your behalf when you were suspected of murder? Not once but twice? I argued for you, Joe Murray, because I believed in your innocence. And according to the grapevine, you’re fighting for young Terry Bailey because you believe he’s innocent. Wouldn’t it be more in keeping with that attitude if you were fighting for Martin’s innocence?”

  “If I was convinced of it, yes. But I’m not. I don’t want our Gemma coming knocking on my door telling me you’ve been found dead and he’s done a runner.” Joe pointed an angry finger at Martin.

  “If I could just get a word in,” the man himself said, “we’re providing a wonderful spectacle for everyone else.”

  They all looked around, and realised the accuracy of his observation. The argument could be heard on the nearby tables, and all eyes were upon them. As they looked across, Les Tanner got to his feet and crossed the aisle to stand alongside their table.

  “Forgive me, Sheila, Brenda, Joe, Martin, but there’s obviously some friction between you. Whatever it is, may I suggest you put it to one side. This is hardly the time and place for such a battle, and all you’re doing is providing spectator sport for everyone else.”

  Whenever Tanner had anything to say, Joe could always be guaranteed to come up with a reply, but for once he was speechless. Brenda, too, remained quiet, Martin gave Tanner an obsequious smile of apology, but Sheila was unrepentant.

  “I will not sit here and have my husband accused of crimes he has not committed.” On the phrase ‘accused of crimes’ she pointed a finger at Joe and Brenda.

  Tanner was equal to her. “Then may I suggest, Sheila, that you move to another table.” He smiled gruffly at the young waiter, still waiting to serve them. “I’m sure this young man can accommodate you.”

  Brenda rose to the suggestion. “I think that’s an excellent solution, Les. Thank you. But don’t you move, Sheila. Given your poor health, Joe and I will oblige by shifting elsewhere.”

  For Joe it was his worst nightmare materialised. The very situation he had been afraid of had come to pass, and it was with a feeling of deep regret that he allowed the maitre d’ to show them to another table, adjacent to the one occupied by the Pyecocks, and Mort Norris and his wife.

  “Well,” Joe said as they settled in and waited for another attendant to deliver the main course, “that’s raddled the night good and proper, hasn’t it?”

  “Be honest, Joe. We were expecting it, weren’t we? We know Sheila, we know what she’s like. You’re the guy who doesn’t shy away from awkward questions, and I can be hard. But neither of us is a patch on her.”

  As the meal arrived, she picked up a knife and fork and tackled the traditional roast turkey dinner with gusto.

  “The only thing is,” she muttered through a mouthful of roast potato, “if Martin really is innocent, we’ll have to beg for forgiveness.”

  “And it’ll be slow coming.”

  As the meal came to an end, the Ronaldo Lombardy Combo, a four-piece band consisting of trombone/saxophone, guitar, keyboard, drums, went into action, opening with an instrumental version of Winter Wonderland. People were slow to take to the dance floor, but eventually, with Les Tanner and Sylvia, Alec and Julia Staines leading the way, the floor began to fill up.

  With the lack of originality for which the band was best known, they followed up with a variety of Christmas/Winter numbers, most of them instrumental, but with the guitarist – a portly man named Stan Ewell, whom Joe knew slightly – performing the occasional vocal.

  Joe and Brenda danced a couple of times, and by quarter past eleven, putting aside the argument with Sheila and Martin, Joe declared the evening a pleasant one.

  He and Brenda climbed into the taxi, Joe instructed the driver to take them to her bungalow.

  “What are you doing about Martin?” Brenda asked as the driver turned right out of Churchill’s, heading towards the town centre.

  “It’s out of my hands,” he replied. “Gemma has all the information, and she’s promised to look into it. More than that, she’ll be talking to Howard about it. In the meantime, whether she likes it or not, we have to keep an eye on Sheila. If she gets worse, we need to press the medics and the cops.”

  Ten minutes after leaving Churchill’s, the driver stopped outside Brenda’s place.

  “Come in for coffee.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I dunno. It’s getting late.”

  “Come on, Joe. I don’t wanna be on my own tonight. Not after the argument with Sheila.”

  He resigned himself to the inevitable, and paid off the driver. “I can see where this will lead.”

  Brenda smiled slyly. “If you’re lucky, it will.”

  Chapter Nine

  Joe’s inbuilt alarm woke him automatically just after five o’clock the following morning, and for a moment, he had to wonder where he was.

  This was not the scantily furnished bedroom of his council flat, and it certainly wasn’t any bedroom in Tandy Street. He had not been so drunk the previous night to know that he hadn’t moved in to his incomplete new home yet. So where…

  The woman alongside him stirred, turning over and throwing an arm around him, and his memory clicked into place. A night with Brenda was the perfect way to end what had been an excellent evening (the argument with Sheila and Martin aside) and although he was still tired, he was ready to face the trials and tribulations of the day ahead. First on the agenda – after serving breakfast to the ever-hungry drivers of Sanford Brewery – would be a call to Gemma, and then a second call, this time to Howard. After lunch, when things were winding down, it would be another call, in this case, physical, to Ian Parsloe, but he would not make the mistake of going alone. And if things went according to plan, he should still have time to call on Archie Hepple and speak to his wife, Frankie.

  He showered and shaved in Brenda’s bathroom, while the woman herself dragged her weary bones from the bed, and as he studied his wrinkled face in the mirror, questions formed in his mind, the principal amongst which was why Brenda would keep a razor and shaving brush in the bathroom. He decided it was best not to ask, and instead concentrated his fine m
ind on the problem of Martin and Sheila.

  Despite their best friend’s determined defence of her new husband, Joe was not prepared to let the matter drop without definitive proof that Martin Naylor was not Mervyn Nellis and/or Marlon Newman.

  After making a quick call to Lee, instructing him to open up The Lazy Luncheonette, he and Brenda left her house a little after six o’clock, and she drove to his place or Leeds Road, where he changed into his working clothes, picked up his car, and followed her to the café.

  A fine but icy December drizzle left the pavements and roads treacherous, and gritter lorries could be seen here and there, spreading sand and salt on the tarmac. Parking at the rear of Britannia Parade, they were glad to get in, out of the cold and in the cocoon of warmth in the kitchen where Lee already had breakfast preparations under control.

  There was only one person in the dining area, a trucker heading home to either Norwich or Northwich – Lee could not remember which – who had been parked in the lane behind the café overnight, and by the time the first of the Sanford Brewery draymen arrived, at seven fifteen, Joe was in full battle readiness.

  With his typical, surly rejoinders he dealt with the apparently never-ending queue quickly and efficiently. Cheryl delivered the meals and put up with a lot more suggestive chat than Sheila would have ever tolerated. She laughed it off as good-natured banter, although Joe noticed that it drew one or two irritated glances from his nephew.

  “Don’t worry about it, lad,” he advised. “Your wife’s more than capable of dealing with these bananas.”

  By half past nine, with the rush from the offices above them over and done with, Joe was ready to go into his day’s plan, when Howard walked in.

  “I’m not currying any favours with my boss, Joe,” he admitted as he took a cup of tea from Brenda, who joined them. “I called on Aunt Sheila on my way here, and she told me about last night’s argument. Gemma also told me the rest of the tale last night, so I’m fairly well clued up on it.”

  “We’re sorry for dragging you into it, Howard,” Brenda admitted.

  “Don’t be. Even if this man, this Nellis or Newman or whatever he wants to call himself, proves not to be Martin, you did the right thing. Gemma will pull him in later today for interview. That makes it official, and the order came from Chief Superintendent Oughton, here in Sanford. Ray Dockerty, my immediate boss, is in complete agreement, but he ordered me to keep my distance because Sheila is my aunt. And according to the woman herself, things are bad between the three of you.”

  “As bad as I can ever remember,” Joe said. “No kidding, we’ve fallen out a good few times over the years, but never as bad as this.” He spread his hands apart in a gesture of appeal. “What are we supposed to do? If he’s some kind of serial poisoner, we can’t leave Sheila at his mercy.”

  Howard hastened to reassure him. “I’m in your corner. Nellis has escaped justice for the last twelve years, and if it all comes to nothing, it won’t be for the want of trying, and Sheila should be grateful for your efforts.”

  Brenda chuckled. “I can’t see it, can you?” She put on a more serious face. “Mind you, I can also see her point of view. She’s invested everything in Martin, including herself, and in her position, I’d probably fight his corner, too.”

  “I’ll do my best to smooth the waters when it’s over,” Howard promised. “Either way, you’re all going to need help to repair the divide between you.”

  The debate would probably have gone on, but for the arrival of a familiar face: the man who had intimidated Joe at Parsloe’s yard the previous day.

  Joe scowled at him. “What do you want?”

  “Looking for Joe Murray?”

  “That’s me.”

  Bob – the only name Joe knew him by – smiled evilly down. “Well that’s a turn up for the book, ain’t it?”

  Feeling a good deal more courageous than the previous day, Joe demanded, “What do you want? That’s twice I’ve asked you.”

  “I’m authorised to offer you seventy-five thousand pounds in cash for number twenty-three Tandy Street.”

  Joe shook his head. “It’s not for sale. Goodbye.”

  Bob sat down adjacent to Howard as if Joe had said nothing. “You don’t understand, Murray. We want that house. And it’s very silly leaving it empty, especially while Tel Bailey’s looking at a long stretch in the nick.” He spread his large hands before him. “I mean, it’d be awful if something happened, wouldn’t it?”

  Joe put his cup down. “It sounds to me, Mr…?”

  “Kimberry. Bob Kimberry.”

  “It sounds to me, Mr Kimberry, as if you’re threatening me.”

  Kimberry smiled. “Nothing of the kind. I’m just here to give you a bit of friendly advice, that’s all. We want that property.”

  “All right. Can I give you a bit of friendly advice?” Joe did not wait for an answer. “I’m only a little fella. Barely five foot six—”

  “And that’s only when he’s wearing his trainers with the thick soles,” Brenda commented, with a sour glare on the newcomer.

  “Thanks for nothing, Brenda.” Joe swung his focus back to Kimberry. “I’m no good in a fight. Never have been. And you’re about half my age. I’d have no chance. That’s why I always need help, and it’s why I backed away yesterday. I had no one with me. This time I have a couple of people to back me up.” He called over his shoulder, “Lee, get out here.” He concentrated on Kimberry again. “The gentleman sat next to you is Detective Inspector Howard Riley of West Yorkshire CID. You might not have heard of him because he works in Leeds, but he’s in a steady relationship with my niece, and if you’re from Sanford, I’m sure you’ve heard of her. Detective Inspector Gemma Craddock.”

  Kimberry’s face paled as Lee lumbered from the kitchen, and stood alongside the table. “What do you want, Uncle Joe?”

  Joe maintained his focus on Kimberry. “As if that’s not enough, this lad is my nephew, as you might have guessed from the way he called me Uncle Joe. Lee Murray. He’s a junior partner in this business, and at one time, he was a prop for the Sanford Bulls.” Joe’s intense eyes homed in on Kimberry’s widening pupils. “He was tearing bigger blokes than you when he was in his teens.”

  He watched with satisfaction as the other man’s face underwent a series of rapid changes, from confident threatening to worry, to out and out anxiety.

  Joe put a deliberate, hard edge into his voice. “Do yourself a favour, Kimberry, and get out while you can.”

  Kimberry got to his feet. “You could regret this.”

  For the first time, Howard spoke up. “He’d better not. The house you’re talking about, Kimberry, belonged to my late mother, and if anything should happen to it, you’re the first person I’ll come looking for.”

  Confident in his control of the situation, Joe said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. Parsloe wants the house, and he can have it. A hundred and fifty thousand, as is, with work still to be done on it.” He grinned at Howard. “We can split the profit between us.”

  Kimberry scowled. “Shove it.”

  Lee stood up and towered over Kimberry. “Want me to slap him about, Uncle Joe? Or make mince pies of him.”

  “You mean mincemeat, Lee,” Brenda suggested.

  “Yeah, but it’s Christmas, innit? And I like mince pies.”

  Kimberry turned and marched out of the café, Joe concentrated on Howard.

  “Let me know if you get any more trouble with him, Joe.”

  “You know him?”

  “Vaguely. Remember, I’m still a comparative stranger in Sanford, but I’m sure I’ve heard Gemma talk about him. And the man he works for, the one you just mentioned, Parsley, or something like that.”

  “Ian Parsloe? He’s one of Bailey and Dixon’s competitors. And like Bailey and Dixon, he’s a nobody.”

  “Just let me know if you get any more hassle. In the meantime, I’ll pass it on to Gemma. A visit from her might just make them back off.” Howard ch
ecked his watch. “I’d better get going, or I’m gonna be in trouble. Oh, while I think on. Gemma said, if you turn up at Gale Street this afternoon, you can sit in the observation room while she questions Martin Naylor.”

  Joe grinned. “Thanks, Howard. Hey, and don’t be a stranger over Christmas. My door’s always open to you.”

  With Howard gone, Joe revised his initial plans. He needed to give Kimberry sufficient time to report to Parsloe. Instead, he left Brenda, Lee, Cheryl and her two friends to look after the café, climbed into his car, and drove across town, fighting yet again with the increasing traffic determined to clog the town centre, to the auction house belonging to the Hepple family.

  It was little better than a long, ramshackle shed set in a small industrial plot on the north side of town, and with no more sales this side of the New Year, they were busy stocktaking when Ros let Joe in.

  Archie was pleased to see him. A slim, rakish man, about sixty years of age, he was a member of the 3rd Age Club, but Joe could not remember the last time he had seen him or his wife in any of the discos or club meetings.

  “Too busy, Joe. Wife and child still to feed, and that Ros absolutely refuses to find a husband. She’d rather pass the time faffing around with that waster, Bailey.”

  “Yes, well, as it happens, it’s Tel Bailey I’ve come to see you about. Not you in particular, but Ros, and while I’m here, I’d like a word with your missus. If you don’t mind.” Joe added the final rider knowing full well that Archie would not object.

  “Another one who costs me a fortune.” Archie grinned. “Be my guest.”

  He pulled Ros off to one side, she supplied him with a beaker of tea, and they sat together at an old, roll-top bureau, its flat surface pulled down allowing them somewhere to rest their drinks.

  A slim woman, about thirty years of age, smartly, fashionably dressed in a chunky sweater and slim-fit jeans, there was a hard edge about her fine-boned features. She kept her dark hair short, enhancing the impression of a woman who knew her own mind, and as far as Joe was concerned, the only attraction was her eyes, baby blue pupils set in saucers of misty, milky white, which, when coupled to a pout on her ruby lips, were full of promise.