“Sheila’s letting her hair down a bit,” Joe commented. “Don’t normally see her dancing with strangers.”
“Stewart?” Letty asked. “Nice man.”
“You know him?”
“Slightly,” she admitted with a blush. “He was interested in one or two antiques I own. He took me out to dinner a few times, but I made it clear that the pieces were not for sale.”
The tempo changed; Ronaldo and his small band switched to Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline and Joe escorted Letty back to their table.
“Sentimental value? Or genuine antiques?” he asked.
“Both, really. I have some Victorian china and a set or Regency silver spoons worth a tidy sum. But they were Brian’s. Handed down through his family, and I won’t part with them. When I go, they’ll pass to Tim.”
“Tim?”
“My son. He works for the European Commission.”
Joe suppressed a vitriolic comment concerning Brussels. “Ah. I see.”
As the evening drew on, they danced again, this time to a somewhat obvious My Funny Valentine and Matt Monro’s Portrait of My Love, while sitting out the more upbeat numbers of The Stylistics You Make Me Feel Brand New and the (again) obvious Unchained Melody. The process of getting to know each other continued slowly, interrupted only occasionally when other club members, among them Sheila, Brenda, Les Tanner and Julia Staines, came to sit with them for a few minutes at a time. By eleven, when the party began to break up, Joe felt he had known her for most of his life instead of the last three and half hours.
Stepping out into the frosty, clear night, Joe was surprised to learn that Sheila, Brenda and George Robson had already left.
“They took a taxi together,” Alec Staines told him. “That’s one hell of a threesome if you think about it.” He grinned drunkenly, drawing a glance of disapproval from his wife.
“They were dropping Sheila at home,” Julia said, “and Brenda hinted that she and George were going on to a club in town.”
Joe knew Brenda – and George – well enough to know that bed was a more likely option than a club.
He refrained from saying so, and asked Letty, “Where do you live?”
“Oakleigh Grove,” she replied. “I can get a taxi, Joe. I’ll be all right.”
Her address was out of his way, but Joe asserted himself. “We’ll share a cab. I’ll get the driver to take you home, and when we’ve dropped you off, he can carry on to the Lazy Luncheonette.”
Letty did not argue and ten minutes later they climbed into a cab, Joe wondering how far he was supposed to go on a first date. Was a goodnight kiss in order? Should he hold back and merely ask if he could see her again? Why hadn’t he taken Brenda more seriously; if anyone could teach him the rules of dating, it was her.
The taxi wove its way through the streets of Sanford, from Churchill’s location in the south, to Letty’s home in the northeast, where, after working his way through a suburban maze of streets, the driver finally turned into Oakleigh Grove, a street of large, detached bungalows, and drew to a halt outside number thirty-three.
Joe studied the new-ish Fiat in the drive, the spread of winter-neglected lawn at the front, and the neatly trimmed dwarf conifers bordering the grass. “Nice place,” Joe commented. He compared it to other houses on the street. All had that same air of middle class homogeneity. “Nice area.”
“I like it, Joe. Brian liked it. We lived here since we first married.” Hand on the car door, Letty prepared to get out.
“Listen, Letty, I wondered… er, I just… sort of…” Mentally, Joe cursed himself. Why was he so tongue-tied? It wasn’t as if he was asking her to marry him or anything.
Hand still on the door, ready to get out, Letty waited expectantly. “Yes?”
“Well, I wondered if I could see you again.” Joe was glad of the dark. It hid his blush.
She smiled and took his hand. “Why don’t you pay the driver and come in for a cup of tea?”
Joe was taken completely by surprise. “Oh, er, yeah. Okay. Gimme a minute.”
Letty climbed out while Joe fumbled for his wallet, paid the fare and climbed out.
“Good luck,” said the driver.
Joe watched the tail lights disappear around a bend in the street. “Keep your phone on, pal,” he muttered. “I’ll be needing you again in half an hour.”
Lights were coming on in the house as he walked up the path to the side, knocked politely on the open kitchen door and stepped in.
Letty was fussing over the kettle and tea tray. “No need to knock, Joe. Go through to the lounge and make yourself comfortable. I’ll just make the tea.”
Joe passed through the small kitchen and into the living room. It was immediately apparent that Letty was house proud. The mahogany coffee table gleamed from a coat of polish, the matching surround of the mock fireplace had an almost mirror finish to it, and even the out-of-date TV stood in the corner by the window, showed no trace of dust. In the opposite corner, behind a leather armchair, stood a tallboy containing a number of china figurines, some items of silver and photographs, mostly of Letty and another man.
“My husband,” Letty said putting a vase on the lower shelves of the tallboy, and dropping the rose into it. She moved to the fireplace and stood Joe’s card in the centre, blocking off a small clock with a mock-wood surround that matched the rest of her furniture. “I’ll fetch the tea.”
While she disappeared back into the kitchen, Joe studied the photographs more closely.
Brian Hill had been tall, lean, fit and athletic, and if Letty had not told him of the heart defect, Joe would have surmised he was the last man in the world to suffer such an ignominious death. The pictures had been taken when they were on holiday. Cornwall, Joe guessed, his judgement based on the rugged cliffs in the background. He had no clue how old the photographs were, but Letty looked happy and a good few years younger.
“Tintagel, at the millennium,” Letty said coming back with the tea tray. “We loved the southwest.”
“Long time since I was last down there,” Joe replied, settling into one corner of the settee and helping himself to a cup of tea. “The club are going down that way for a week later this year. Perhaps you’d like to come. There are spaces on the bus.”
“We’ll see,” Letty replied, making herself comfortable in the armchair.
Joe noticed how much more relaxed she was than he. Would he be just as relaxed if they were in his flat above the Lazy Luncheonette? He doubted it.
Putting down her cup, Letty reached behind to the tallboy and took down a dark blue, velvet case containing six teaspoons, and handed it to Joe. He had spotted it open on the shelf, but paid little attention.
“Remember you were asking about Stewart Dalmer? He offered me four hundred pounds for them.”
Joe whistled. “And they’re worth it?”
“Nearer five hundred,” Letty replied. “They’re silver, naturally. They’ve been in Brian’s family since Victoria was queen. They came via his grandfather and father. I wouldn’t sell them for ten times their cash value.”
Gingerly, Joe handed them back, as if he was afraid he might drop and break them. Groping through his thin fund of small talk, he commented, “You should make sure they’re well insured.”
“Already covered, Joe.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. Letty appeared quite comfortable sipping her tea and Joe was at a loss for anything to say. Had he been this quiet when in his younger years.
“A good do, tonight,” he said.
“A very good do,” Letty concurred.
Another awkward silence fell. Joe wondered if Letty was interested in rugby league, but right away he dropped the idea. He wasn’t sufficiently interested in rugby league to build a conversation on it.
He gulped down his tea. “Could I, er, use the smallest room?”
Letty nodded to the hall. “Turn left, and straight ahead.” She smiled. “I don’t charge.”
Joe grinned. “Neither d
o I.”
He had no need of the lavatory. He had simply been chasing some space, a few seconds away from the intense pressure of silence which he felt he was supposed to break.
Looking in the mirror, his crinkly hair and creased brow threw questions back at him. Was this the same man who was never lost for words when he stood behind the counter of the Lazy Luncheonette? Was this the man from whom insults, empty threats, witty, cutting rejoinders flowed so easily when the dray men of Sanford Breweries gave him cheek? Why, then, was he approaching Letty as if he was walking on eggshells?
He made up his mind there and then, flushed the lavatory to give the impression that he had actually used it, turn and marched out of the bathroom… only to bump into Letty right outside the door.
For a moment he wondered what she was doing there. Checking up to ensure he didn’t steal the soap? Then she threw her arms around his neck and drew his lips to hers.
Joe’s surprise melted and the kiss became filled with passion as he enfolded her in his arms.
Breaking her lips from his, Letty whispered, “It’s been so long, I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to snuggle up to man under the duvet.”
Chapter Three
Averting her eyes from the body on the bed, Gemma took the diary from one of Vickers’ detective constables, moved from the bedroom to the kitchen, sat down and, slipping on a pair of disposable, forensic gloves, opened it.
A pocket diary, the cover a pale pink decorated with white daisies, contained few entries, mostly appointments, but as she thumbed through it, Gemma was disturbed to find several damning entries.
January 20th: Sheila Riley persuaded me to join the Sanford 3rd Age Club. My first STAC disco on Wednesday.
January 24th: Wonderful night last night. Joe is such a charming man. Not as grumpy as they make him out to be.
January 31st. The STAC is so much better than the internet dating sites.
February 13th: Good heavens! Brenda says Joe would like me to be his Valentine tomorrow night.
February 15th: Joe is so much more than a grumpy businessman. Naughty but nice.
A frown etched itself into Gemma’s clear brow. When the words Sanford 3rd Age Club and Joe came together, it could mean only one thing.
“Interesting reading, Sergeant?”
Startled, Gemma looked up to find Vickers stood over her. “Oh. Sorry, sir, didn’t hear you come in. I wouldn’t say interesting, but it’s something we need to look into.”
“Well, let’s look at the victim, shall we?”
Gemma led him to the bedroom where he looked over Letty’s body, eyes open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, fully clothed, her skirt pushed up to reveal her underwear, black cord still wrapped around her neck.
His face a mask of contemptuous disgust, Vickers asked, “Same MO as the others?”
“Yes, sir. Exactly the same. No sign that she had had sex. Simply strangled.”
“And the neighbours saw and heard nothing?”
“We’re out there asking them right now, sir.”
Vickers concentrated on the doctor. “Time of death?”
“Difficult,” the doctor replied. “Central heating was on when we got here. I’d guess she’s been dead six to eight hours.”
The chief inspector checked his watch. “Midnight-ish, then.” He faced Gemma. “Robbery?”
“We’re not sure. Doesn’t look like it.”
Vickers’ gimlet eye fell on the diary. “All right, Sergeant, what was it you found so interesting in that diary?”
Without a word, Gemma handed the diary over, opened at the January 31st entry.
Vickers’s eyes rose. “Your uncle?”
She nodded. “I know of no other Joe Murray in Sanford, and I know that Uncle Joe is Chair of the Sanford 3rd Age Club. Hardly likely to be a coincidence, but I know he had nothing to do with this.”
“Let’s not confuse what you believe with what you really know, Sergeant. You assume he had nothing to do with this. And if I hadn’t shown up, what would you have done? Spoken to him in an effort to cut him out of the investigation?”
Gemma bristled. “I resent that, sir. I am a professional, not a probationer. I don’t let personal considerations get in the way of my job. I would have followed procedure and passed it on to you.”
“Unimpressed,” Vickers retorted, “but I’ll be charitable and believe you. Come on. Let me show you something.”
He led her from the bedroom back to the lounge where more forensic officers were at work. As they entered, one officer approached.
Vickers introduced the pair. “Des Kibble, this is Detective Sergeant Craddock. Craddock, Des Kibble. Dab man. You met at the briefing the other day. What is it, Des?”
“An opinion, guv,” Kibble replied. “I shouldn’t think it was robbery.”
“No?”
Des waved at the tallboy. “Set of half a dozen silver spoons in a display case. Can’t tell, offhand, but they look Regency. And on the top shelf, the shepherd is Capo di Monte.” He gestured again, this time at the shepherd boy with a lamb around his neck, standing next to the glass vase containing a single red rose. “Those two alone are worth upwards of a grand.”
For Gemma’s benefit, Vickers explained, “Des is into porcelain and precious metals, aren’t you, Des? Any prints on them?”
“No, sir. I checked her purse and that’s untouched, too. Forty pounds in cash, and a bit of change, plus the usual plastic.” Kibble grimaced. “This is not a robbery.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” Vickers said and dismissed Kibble with a curt nod. “Miserable git,” he said as the dab man left.
“Sir?” Gemma asked.
“Transferred in from Bradford a few years back. He’d been involved with some woman when she just disappeared. No trace of her anywhere. No evidence of foul play, but tongues started wagging. You know how it is. He asked for a transfer and he’s been with us ever since. He’s also been like a bear with a sore arse ever since. Good at his job, though.” Vickers brought his attention back to the crime scene, concentrating on the fireplace, where a Valentine card stood alongside an old photograph of Letty and her late husband. Beside the card was a paper flower, fabricated in yellow, this time. The card showed an image of a couple, almost in silhouette, arm in arm on a bench, watching the sun set over the sea. Emblazoned with a red heart, the caption read, ‘Be My Sunny Valentine’.
“What interests me isn’t the card, but the signature,” Vickers said, putting on forensic gloves and picking it up.
He handed it to Gemma and she read the spidery handwriting. I really need a valentine. How about it, kid? Joe. Further down, in block capitals was written, Thank you, my love.
“A departure from his previous killings. Do you recognise the handwriting?” the chief inspector asked.
“The line at the bottom looks just like the cards in other years,” Gemma said with a sinking heart. “But the rest of it… Uncle Joe.”
“I think it’s time we paid your wicked uncle a visit.”
***
Joe took everyone by surprise on Thursday morning by not showing up, leaving it to Lee, Sheila and Brenda to open up. He rang at 7.15am and told them he would not be in until Friday morning.
“The first time in living memory Joe has taken a day off,” Sheila commented as she battled with the morning queue of delivery drivers.
It was a losing battle and by eight they had to ring for Cheryl, Lee’s wife, to come in and lend a hand.
When Joe showed his face again, on Friday morning, he came under immediate fire from both his companions, yet remained stone faced, grouchy and uncommunicative on the subject of Letty.
“Whatever happened is between me and her,” he told them. “Now let’s get on with it. We have people waiting to eat.”
The driver waiting to order his breakfast concurred. “If the bloke in the paper shop next door asks how I am, tell him I’m famished.”
Joe pushed a mug of tea at him. “If you’re go
ing to starve to death, do it outside. That way I don’t get Environmental Health breathing down my neck.”
He had spent Wednesday night with Letty. Most of the time he was in a state of amazement that such a demure and outwardly modest character could be so demanding in the dark of the bedroom.
“Even if I wanted to go to work, I don’t think I’d have the energy,” he told her on Thursday morning.
He stayed with Letty up until lunchtime, when they agreed to a night out in Leeds over the weekend. From there he took a taxi into Sanford and killed off three hours wandering around the shops, and picking up brochures from several travel agencies. He sneaked back into the Lazy Luncheonette just after four, having watched Brenda lock up a few minutes earlier, and spent the evening going through the brochures.
“If me and Letty are gonna get it together, why not take in a bit of sun,” he muttered as he pored over photographs from Mediterranean resorts.
Through the Friday morning rush, Brenda pestered him, but he remained tight-lipped. At ten thirty, with the rush over, while Lee prepared lunches, Joe, Sheila and Brenda took their break at table five, in front of and to the right of the counter. With only one or two shoppers in, Brenda took the opportunity to badger Joe on the events of Wednesday night and most of Thursday.
“I want all the dirty details,” she said.
“Nothing happened,” he assured her.
“Not good enough, Joe Murray. You didn’t show your face here yesterday, and we know you. If you were home on Wednesday night, you wouldn’t take the morning off, never mind all day.”
“You wouldn’t take an hour off,” Sheila declared.
“Which means you didn’t come home on Wednesday, you dirty stop out. Now come on, Joe. What sort of knickers does she wear, or did you have the lights out.”
Joe drank his tea and basked in the warmth of his memories and the greed for information. “If I knew, do you think I’d tell you? I’ve told you before, I’m not the kind to kiss and tell.”
My Deadly Valentine Page 3
