“No problem. As long as I have your assurance that they will be destroyed when they demonstrate my innocence.”
“They will.”
Joe knew that fingerprints and a DNA swab would prove nothing. Marlon Newman’s prints had never been taken for the simple reason that Deirdre’s death was initially assumed to be natural causes, and by the time the police came to a different conclusion, he had disappeared and any evidence in the house would have been long covered up. In the case of Mervyn Nellis, Banks had told him that fingerprints and DNA had been destroyed on Nellis’s insistence, once his wife’s disappearance was assumed to be nothing more sinister than that.
Gemma was not to be deterred. “We ran a cursory check on you, Mr Naylor, and we can’t find any trace of you until a few years ago. Coincidentally, shortly after Deirdre Ullsworth’s death.”
Martin shrugged confidently. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but I can’t account for your inefficiencies. But I did tell Murray and Jump yesterday that I can point them – and you – to my first wife’s grave, in York, my hometown.”
Gemma slid a pen and a sheet of paper across the table to him. “If you would be so kind. And rest assured, we will check up on it.”
Martin carried on speaking as he wrote out the directions. “She’s buried at Fulford Cemetery, which I think, is one of the largest in York, and you may have problems finding her grave. Regrettably, I haven’t visited in years, and I’m not sure I could find it.” He pushed the paper and pen back to Gemma. “She died quite some time ago, and I was understandably very distressed. I lived alone for a long time afterwards, right up to meeting Sheila, as a matter of fact.”
Gemma took the handwritten instructions and slotted them into the folder. “All right, Mr Naylor, let’s talk about Mrs Riley… Pardon me, Mrs Naylor, and her current health issues. I did indicate that I’ve known this lady for many years, and she’s always enjoyed excellent health. In the three months since you and she married, she’s gone downhill.”
“From which you assumed that I’m poisoning her.” Martin chuckled gleefully. I’m not a doctor, Ms Craddock, so I couldn’t possibly explain her illness as well as a medic might. Be that as it may, notwithstanding all the tests Doctor Khalil, her GP has ordered, they have failed to satisfactorily explain the problem. I met with Doctor Khalil a few days ago, and he’s firmly convinced that the cause of her problems is psychosomatic. Something to do with her absolute devotion to her former husband, and not wanting to upset me. Furthermore, don’t pretend that you don’t know this. I’m well aware of your relationship with Sheila’s nephew, Howard, and I am practically certain he must have told you of these conclusions.”
“He did, but considering the documents we received from North Shires, and the history of these two men, both of whom you deny any knowledge, I have no choice but to broach the matter.” Gemma leaned forward, asserting herself. “My concern, Mr Naylor, is that Sheila may unwittingly be harbouring a murderer.”
Martin laughed aloud this time. “When you can prove that, Ms Craddock, by all means come back to me. Now is there anything else or can I go?”
In the observation room, Joe had a thousand and one questions he would have asked, but Gemma remained under the constraints of PACE, the Police and Criminal Evidence act, and she brought the session to an end.
As they left the interview room, Martin cast a humorous glance at the two-way glass behind which Joe and Don Oughton were sat. “My condolences, Joe. It must be terrible to realise you’re wrong.”
Chapter Eleven
After Martin left, they moved to Oughton’s first floor office, overlooking Gale Street and the rear entrance to Galleries shopping mall. There was a brief discussion between Joe, Gemma and Oughton, which took place over a cup of bland, police canteen tea.
The chief superintendent was not entirely despondent, but neither was he particularly upbeat. “If we run a full check on Naylor, it’ll take days, maybe even weeks. If he really is Nellis or Newman, he could have disappeared before we get the results.”
“In the meantime, Sheila’s life could still be in danger.” Joe’s glum face brightened suddenly. “Oh, I knew I had something to tell you.”
They’ve fixed their attention on him, and he related the tale George Robson had told him over lunch.
Oughton was particularly interested. “George knows his stuff. Crikey, he’s been working in parks and gardens for the last forty odd years. Are holly berries really poisonous?”
“Saponin, sir,” Gemma said. “Not likely to be fatal, but it certainly could upset your gastric system.”
“That’s what George said,” Joe confirmed, “and if you think about it, it’s exactly what’s been wrong with Sheila.”
“We’re walking on a tightrope,” Oughton declared. “If we go barging into Sheila’s place, looking for evidence, and we find nothing, she’ll tear us to pieces. She’ll rip us to shreds even if we do find something. Have you any ideas, Joe?”
Although he did not feel any humour, Joe grinned. “Yes, but you don’t wanna know about it. I’m not sure it’s legal.”
Both police officers laughed, Gemma gave him a mild warning to watch his step, and a few minutes later, the debate petered out, and Joe left the station, to fight his way back to The Lazy Luncheonette.
“At least I can enjoy a decent cuppa here,” he said to Brenda while he detailed the interview to her.
With the time coming up to 3 o’clock, and the day’s trade beginning to fade, he and Lee climbed into his car for yet another battle across Sanford – with a pause to fill the tank this time – and Parsloe’s yard.
“Whatever you do, don’t get stupid, Lee. I need you there just to counter the threat of this Kimberry character. I’ll deal with Parsloe, and you don’t have to get physical unless Kimberry tries his luck.”
“Don’t worry, Uncle Joe. If he starts, I’ll slap him about a bit. When I’m done with him, this Kimberley won’t know his backside from his shoulder blade.”
Joe tutted. “You mean his backside from his elbow.”
“I knew it were one of them joints.”
They drove past a large, out-of-town supermarket, with Santa Claus standing at the entrance, ringing his bell and rattling his charity tin. The storefront was decorated with Christmas trees and flashing lights, and the scene generated an almost childlike enthusiasm in Lee.
“Hey, you are coming to ours on Christmas Day, aren’t you?”
“I’ll be there, yes. I don’t know when or how long I’ll be staying. Someone has to look out for Sheila, and it’s probably down to me and Brenda because I don’t trust Martin.”
Leigh’s face fell. “Danny’ll be disappointed if you don’t show up. He always looks forward to you coming on Christmas Day with your presents.”
“I told you, I’ll be there. Oh, while I think on, you do remember I’m taking him to see Santa in Galleries tomorrow. I’ll pick him up sometime in the morning. Okay?”
“Cheryl knows about it, and we told Danny earlier this week. He’s dead chuffed. He always is when you take him to Santa’s grotto.”
Joe greeted the news with mixed feelings. He recalled a time when he was in the queue with Danny, and Santa, apparently drunk, collapsed. It turned out he had been poisoned, and the memory prompted Joe’s worries for Sheila yet again.
But if Sheila was a matter for serious concern, he was actively anticipating the confrontation with Parsloe and Kimberry. Like too many people in this small mining community, they had underestimated his resourcefulness, and it was always satisfying to give such individuals a metaphorical kick where it would hurt the most, and judging from Kimberry’s earlier reaction to Lee, his giant nephew was exactly the advantage he needed.
Events were ahead of them. When he pulled into the street, the first thing he noticed outside Parsloe’s yard, was the dark green, rusting van belonging to Bailey and Dixon, and he could only imagine the scene in the little hut. Kimberry was a big, tough man, but Joe doubted that he was any m
atch for Tel Bailey, and it was almost certain that Parsloe wasn’t.
Nothing had changed in the yard. It was as unkempt and disorganised as the previous day, but when the noise of a scuffle reached them from the shed, he and Lee burst in to discover that things were worse than Joe had anticipated.
Parsloe was slumped in his chair, apparently out for the count. Bailey had Kimberry by the throat, and was physically trying to lift him from the ground.
“Don’t, Tel. Let him go.”
Bailey turned furious features on Joe and his nephew. “I’m gonna smite him. They wasted that miserable old twonk, and left me to carry the can. Well, they’re gonna pay for it.”
Joe pleaded with him. “Put him down, Tel. We need to speak to both of them, and if you do him and Parsloe any serious damage, you really will end up doing a long stretch. Please, let him go.”
“He’s dead meat.”
Lee pushed past Joe, grabbed Bailey’s outstretched arm, and applied all his might, gradually lowering both the hand and Kimberry to the floor.
Bailey glowered at Lee, who glared back.
“Let him go, Tel, or you’ll reckon with me.”
Bailey’s eyes sent burning spears of lightning by return. “You’re next, Murray.”
“It’ll take someone bigger than you, Bailey. Now get your maulers off him.”
Part of Joe’s mind detached from the urgency of the situation, and pondered the potential maelstrom of a straight fight between Bailey and Lee. The outcome was uncertain. Bailey kept himself in peak condition, but Lee had lost none of his strength or aggression since giving up his rugby career, and he, too, kept himself fit with regular sessions in the gym. It was almost certain that the shed would be wrecked, but who would be the victor? Joe did not know, but as a matter of self-preservation he was prepared to run for it before the real scrap started.
Kimberry’s features were turning bright red. Lee clasped Bailey’s large hands in a desperate effort to pry them away from his throat.
Joe, helpless in most situations like this, decided to lend a hand. He was wearing only a pair of trainers, but he nevertheless kicked Bailey on the shin.
“Ouch.”
The exclamation came from Joe, but the blow must have got through. Bailey released Kimberry who staggered to the back of the hut, and flopped into a vacant chair, gasping for breath, while Tel rubbed his shin and turned a furious face on Joe.
Unable to dominate the situation physically, Joe had no qualms in facing down the angry builder. “Have you completely lost the plot? Or have you been filling up at the Boat & Horses again?”
“I haven’t been nowhere near the Boat & Horses or any other pub. And it was them what killed the bloke. I guarantee it. They tried to have me walled up for it.”
“Right and that’s what we’re here to find out, Tel, and by your own admission, you can’t remember what you were doing through that night. Now calm down and let me deal with the questions.”
Parsloe began to recover. He had a prominent black eye, presumably where Bailey’s knuckles had connected with it, and as he came to and took in the opposition, he staggered from his seat, and moved to the rear of the hut alongside his minder, his eyes wide with terror and the prospect of the two oversized men facing him.
“You… you just get out of here, Bailey, and you Murray. Or I’ll call the cops.”
Bailey, unimpressed with the bluster, was about to go on the offensive again, but Joe stopped him, and stepped forward. “Blow it out the window, Parsloe. You want the police here, send for them, and while they’re here I’ll be talking to them about the threatening behaviour of your beefcake when he called at The Lazy Luncheonette this morning.” He waved an erratic hand at the direction of Kimberry, still cowering alongside his employer, whooping in large gulps of air. “You have questions to answer about the old boy at fifteen Kimbolton Terrace, and if you don’t answer them then I’ll call the cops.”
“Old Billy Trelfus was nothing to do with us.”
“You know his name, though.”
“Everyone knows him. Everyone except this moron and his mate Dixon.”
Parsloe waved a hand at Tel as the ‘moron’ in question, and Bailey took a threatening step forward, only to be held back by Lee.
“Nark it, Tel,” Lee ordered.
“He just called me a moron.”
“So tell him you’re really a Catholic.”
Joe groaned at his nephew’s response. “Moron not Mormon, you idiot. Sometimes, Lee, I think you’re just yanking our chain.”
Lee smiled mock-modestly. “If I did that, Uncle Joe, it’d come away from your neck.”
Joe shook his head in bewilderment. “I didn’t mean it literally. Yanking your chain is a metaphor for fooling around.”
Now Lee blushed. “You mean like when me and our Cheryl—”
Joe cut him off. “Don’t say it, Lee. I have enough on my plate without having to suffer mental images of you and your wife doing what comes naturally.”
The other three had been looking on with mixed feelings of amazement and puzzlement. Joe rounded on Parsloe and Kimberry, and they honed their attention on his fiery features.
“Right, you two. You say everybody knew Billy Trelfus. I know loads of people in this town, but I didn’t know him. So tell me about him.”
“We’ve been door-knocking in that area for the last two years.” Parsloe waved an erratic hand at Bailey. “Him and Dixon have only been doing it for the six months, and they never went on the knock in Kimbolton above once or twice. They bought number seventeen at one of Hepple’s auctions, so they didn’t know him, but anybody who knocked on old Billy’s door, salesmen, Bible bashers, even Help the rotten Aged and Social Services, always got a mouthful. He was a whingeing, whining, moaning old sod, and he’d lost half his marbles. When he opened the door, he’d always accuse you of doing something wrong. He accused me and Bob throwing stones at his window like some bloody schoolkids, and when it turned out, it was bloody schoolkids. He accused us of knocking holes in the plaster and we’d never even been in the place. Then he accused us of making it fall off by hammering on the walls next door and we’d never even been in there except to check it over before the auction. Seventeen was empty until Bailey and Dixon bought it, and we’d never worked for that blonde tart at number thirteen.”
“Eleven,” Joe corrected him in an effort to stem the overflow of information. “There is no number thirteen.”
“Smartarse,” Parsloe sneered. “Notice everything, don’t you?”
“A damn sight more than you do.” Joe pointed an accusing finger at Kimberry. “I notice he’s about as subtle as a twenty ton truck, coming into my café and threatening me like that. Anyone prepared to do that wouldn’t think twice about knocking an old boy on the head.”
“It wasn’t us,” Parsloe insisted. “He was just a narky and nasty piece of work, and I reckon his neighbours’ll be cheering now he’s snuffed it. And if you don’t believe me, ask Frankie Hepple. She got enough mouth off him.”
“I already did ask her,” Joe retorted, and persisted with his determination to get to the truth. “So where were you two on the night he was killed?”
“Home,” Parsloe replied. “And the missus will verify that.”
“The same goes for me,” Kimberry declared.
Lee’s eyes widened. “What? His missus’ll verify that you were with her? What kind of marriage have you got, Parsley?”
Joe shook his head again. “Just ignore him. He’ll come back to earth eventually.” He turned on the fire again and aimed it at the two, still shaking builders. “And that’s all you can tell us?”
“What more do you expect? We were nowhere near Kimbolton that night. End of story.” Parsloe once again flapped his hand in the direction of Bailey. “He’s the one who was dossing next door. He’s more likely to have done it than us. Yes, and there’s fat boy’s missus. She had some ruck with him. Have you quizzed her?”
Bailey took a step forward
, but Lee restrained him. Tel contented himself with raising the threat in his voice. “Our Van?”
It was a comment from Lee that once again took the heat out of the moment. “You mean that old rust bucket outside, Tel? I don’t see how it could have an argument with this Tellpuss sort?”
John sighed. “He means his sister. Vanessa. She’s married to Denny Dixon.”
Lee laughed. “You call your sister, Van? I bet that’s awkward when you’re talking about the price of petrol.”
This time, Joe groaned. “Just forget it, Lee.” He rounded on Parsloe again. “You’ve witnessed an argument between Vanessa Dixon and old Billy?”
With a wary eye on Bailey, Parsloe nodded. “The day they bought number seventeen. She came to look at it, and he happened to be on his way back from the pub, or something. She ended up in a slanging match with him. And that’s it, Murray. That’s all we know.”
Kimberry nodded urgently, a silent agreement with his boss, and Joe decided to call it a day.
“There’s nothing more you’re gonna tell me, obviously. Just one last thing. Your moron came to my place this morning and offered me seventy-five for number seventeen Kimbolton. I’ll tell you what I told him. You want it, it’s yours, but I want a hundred and fifty for it as is.”
Parsloe felt bold enough to sneer once again. “You know what you can do with it.”
Joe pointed a final, warning finger at him. “In that case, keep Bob the Building away from my café, or next time I’ll have Lee the Leg-breaker him in knots before I kick him out.”
Joe turned on his heels and stormed from the hut, followed by Lee and Bailey and once outside in the icy, December drizzle, he gave Bailey a final warning.
“Keep out of it, Tel. I’m doing my best for you, but it’s a waste of time if you go round threatening guys like that.”
“He was lying, Joe. I’ve never known him and Kimberry go that far before, but I do know they’ve threatened homeowners in the past. I reckon they topped Trelfus.”
Merry Murders Everyone Page 10
