Joe, his features flushed, returned, and took at the amazed stares of his staff and the few customers.
“If she comes here again, you tell her she’s not welcome. Get her out.”
“Joe, sit down and let me get you a cup of tea.” Sheila’s voice carried that air of authority which brooked no argument.
Joe obeyed, sitting at table five while Sheila relieved him of his teapot, and after leaving it with Brenda for her to finish preparing it, she returned with a beaker of strong, sweet tea.
“Joe—”
“Don’t tell me how to run my business,” he warned.
She remained firm. “I’m not interested in how you run the business. But I am interested in your health. For goodness’ sake, Joe, your stress levels are somewhere above the roof. She may be a muck-raker, as you put it, but she’s doing her job, and you’re well within your rights to demand that she leave, but you don’t go chasing after her like that. It damages no one but you.”
Brenda left Cheryl to help Lee prepare lunches and sat with Joe. “Sheila is right, you know. That cow will slag you off all over the front pages for that. And all you can do is complain after the event.”
Joe sipped at the tea. “I’ve a thick skin.”
“You wouldn’t have thought so,” Sheila said. “I’ve never seen you so angry.”
Joe slammed his beaker down. “Do you know how she’s hassled me since Friday? Everywhere I turn, she’s there taking pictures.”
“And she hasn’t spoken to you?” Brenda asked.
“Until just now, no.”
Brenda’s face became grim. “Ten to one she’s concocting some acid against you. Have you thought of complaining to the editor? Following you like that, it could be construed as stalking.”
“An invasion of privacy,” Sheila agreed. As Joe reached for his mobile, she stopped him. “Finish your tea first, and calm down.” She held his hand. “Joe, you brought Cheryl in to help out. Why don’t you take some time off? Proper time off. Get away from the café for a few days. We can cope, and it will help you get things into perspective.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
“Oh, and talking of time off, Brenda, I need to get away early this afternoon, if you don’t mind.”
Brenda nodded. “No problem, Sheila. Something on?”
“Stewart Dalmer is coming to look at some of my bits.”
The inadvertent ambiguity of the statement made even Joe smile. “And I’ve been trying for years to get a look at your bits.”
As if she suddenly realised what she had said, Sheila blushed. “I didn’t mean that. I meant my knickknack… My ornaments.”
Brenda’s smile faded. They followed her gaze through the windows and across the road where Rosemary’s car had pulled up, turned round and now parked outside Broadbent’s facing towards them.
With a mean scowl, Joe picked up his mobile and ran through the directory before selecting the number of the Sanford Gazette. Listening to it ring out, he picked up his tea, and moved into and through the kitchen to stand out in the back yard.
“News desk.”
“Gimme Ian Lofthouse.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Joe Murray, and tell him before he tries to cry off, I’ll go to the Press Complaints Commission unless he speaks to me now.”
“Well, I don’t know—”
“Just do it, son, or you’ll be in trouble, too.”
The line went dead as he was put on hold. A few seconds later, Ian Lofthouse’s soft voice came through.
“Hello, Joe. How are you, me old marrer?”
“Bloody annoyed is how I am, and it’s down to you.”
“Me?” Lofthouse sounded shocked. “What have I done, Joe?”
“Rosemary Ecclesfield, that’s what.”
Lofthouse groaned. “Oh. Her. I know she’s following your arrest for the killing of that old bird last week. She’s looking for the story, Joe. It’s what she’s paid for.”
“I was not arrested,” Joe insisted. “And your hack is not following the story, she’s following me. Everywhere I turn, she’s there. I’ve just chased her outta my place and now she’s sitting on the industrial estate opposite, where, I might add, she’s been all weekend. Get her off my back, Ian, or I’ll lodge a complaint with either the PCC or the cops.”
“Technically, Joe, she’s not doing anything illegal.”
“So you’re telling me the stalking rules only apply to politicians and celebrities? How many years have we known each other?”
“I know.”
“And how much advertising has the Gazette had off me?”
“Er, as far as I know, none. You don’t advertise that place of yours. You always reckon you don’t need to.”
“I mean the Sanford 3rd Age Club,” Joe snapped. “We spend a fair few bob with you every year, Ian, especially when we’re looking for new members, so don’t flannel me. Get this bag off me.”
“Joe, please listen. She’s looking for the story. That’s all. And she won’t get anything really rough past me. If she comes on too strong, I’ll tone it down. Give her an interview.”
“I can’t, and you know I can’t. The police may not really suspect me, but I have been questioned and if I talk to the press, it could blow the whole case wide open, and then the cops would have me for trying to pervert the course of justice… or something. Just get her away from me. I find her following me again, I won’t be responsible.”
Lofthouse sighed. “All right, Joe. Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do, but I’m telling you now, she’s a law unto herself… or, at least she thinks she is. Ambitious, you know. She won’t let go that easily.”
Joe killed the connection, rolled a cigarette, marched through the kitchen, and out through the front doors. Lighting his cigarette, he leaned against the brick gap between his windows and Patel’s Minimarket, his eyes narrowed on Rosemary’s car. Taking a long drag on the cigarette, he let out the smoke with a hiss and pointed at her. Seconds later, he was sure he could see her camera aimed in his direction, and he drew his finger slowly across his throat.
***
With the time coming up to two in the afternoon, Gemma was called to Vickers’ makeshift office in the traffic inspectors’ room, where she brought him up to date.
“Cassons Dating Agency in Leeds are grumbling but willing to co-operate, sir. They’re searching their databases for any trace of the four victims and any man common to them.” Gemma rubbed the fatigue from her eyes. “I have to say I’m not hopeful. I’ve gone over the printouts from Angela Foster, and there is no link between the two women on their database… or, should I say, there is no man’s name common to them, but considering Letty Hill used a false name it may be that the Sanford Dating Agency has the same man registered twice or more times, under different handles.”
Vickers drew her daily report from his in-tray and studied it. “You were querying her false name, Collina?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t know that there’s anything in it, and wasn’t there a famous football referee with the same name?”
Vickers grinned. “Yes there was, and there’s no secret about it, Sergeant. It’s Italian for hill.”
“Ah. That explains that, then.” Gemma shrugged. “Beyond that then, sir, it’s all about what the team can turn up from wherever.”
Vickers resumed his study of the report. “Murray has some interesting observations on this spoon business. Did you pass them on to Des Kibble?”
“Yes, sir. Haven’t heard back from him yet.”
Vickers picked up the phone and punched in a four digit extension number. “Kibble? My office, please, and ask Ingleton to come in with you and bring the photographs from Oakleigh Grove.” He put the phone down.
“I don’t think he likes me, sir,” Gemma commented. “Your Des Kibble.”
“He doesn’t like anyone, Gemma. Not since—”
“His bit on the side went AWOL. I know, sir, you told me. But that doesn’t
excuse his rudeness, even with you.”
“He’s a good man. That’s why we tolerate him.” At the sound of a polite knock on the door, Vickers called, “In,” and Kibble entered, followed by Ingleton who was carrying a large portfolio. “Ah, Des, Paul. Sergeant Craddock asked you to check on the cups and saucers left on the sink at Letty Hill’s place. Did you?”
“Yes, sir,” Kibble replied, “and frankly, Sergeant Craddock should get her facts right before she has the rest of us chasing wild geese.”
Gemma glared daggers. “If you worked for me, you’d be on report for that remark.”
“Well, let’s both be grateful I don’t work for you.” Kibble nodded to Ingleton, who reached into the portfolio and drew out a photographic print, which he laid on the desk.
Gemma could see instantly it was an enlargement of the kitchen sink.
“Joe Murray said there was no spoon, sir,” the photographer explained, “and that led him to speculate that the killer had made himself a brew after murdering Letty Hill. If you’d both looked carefully at the original, there is a spoon.” He pointed at the far edge of the draining basket where the handle of a spoon could be made out between the grey plastic and the blue tiles of the window sill. “It can be seen on the original, too, if you look closely enough.” He took out the original and placed it to one side of the enlargement.
“So it is. Hard to see, though,” Vickers commented.
“Not if you pay close attention,” Kibble replied with a withering glance at Gemma.
“Odd that Uncle Joe didn’t see it,” Gemma sniped. “He has an eagle’s eye when it comes to such things.”
Kibble made no effort to mask his cynicism. “Maybe he didn’t want to see it.”
“You can knock that off, too,” Gemma warned. “This is an investigation, not a witch hunt.”
“You can both knock it off,” Vickers cut in before tempers could flare. “What about dabs on the cup?”
“Partial on the handle, as Sergeant Craddock suggested, sir,” Kibble reported, “but we’d logged it on Friday afternoon. It’s an imprint, not a fingerprint, and my guess is it’s a Marigold washing up glove.” Kibble pointed to the chief inspector’s folder. “It’s all in my report.”
“What about the rest of the house?” Vickers demanded.
“Prints everywhere, sir. Most are Letty Hill’s, as you’d expect. Several sets I can positively identify as Joe Murray’s, and some which are unidentified. Could be neighbours, could be tradesmen, could be anyone.” Again Kibble pointed to the folder. “Again, it’s all in the report.”
“The tallboy,” Gemma said, recalling her conversation with Joe. “Any dust patterns to indicate anything had been moved around?”
“Nothing,” Kibble replied. “No dust on the tallboy. Letty was obviously a fastidious woman who cleaned regularly. No dust, no prints, nothing on any of the items.” Scientific Support may have something on the polish she used, but I have nothing more for you.” He turned soulless eyes on Gemma. “As far as I’m concerned, your uncle is the only suspect and I haven’t found anything that will help you cross him off the list.”
***
Dalmer handled the porcelain representation of Pagliaccio gingerly, turning it on its side, looking for the telltale mark of Meissen on the base.
“I’m always cautious when handling them,” he chuckled. “Terrified of dropping them.” He studied the crossed, blue marks underneath. “It appears genuine.”
“It is,” Sheila assured him. “Peter, my late husband, bought it for me on our twentieth wedding anniversary. He never said how much he paid for it, but I’m told it could be worth a lot of money now.”
“They produce a limited number every year,” Dalmer assured her. “As few as ten or twenty, and they retail at about two thousand pounds. This has been well cared for, and it could be worth considerably more.” He put the piece back in Sheila’s display cabinet. “I don’t suppose it’s for sale?”
Sheila shook her head. “I’m not in need of money, Stewart, and even if I were, I’d probably sell the house before that.” She closed the cabinet. “There are other pieces you can make an offer for, if you wish.” She pointed to a lower shelf and two separate pieces; a cat and a dog, both sitting. “Certified Delft. We bought them on a trip to Amsterdam. I think they cost about fifty pounds for the pair.”
“I like Delft,” Dalmer agreed, “and I’d be happy to pay you, say thirty for the pair, but Meissen… Ah, that is something really special.”
Sheila smiled good-naturedly. “I’m sorry. I’ll take your offer on the Delft, but not the Meissen.”
Dalmer took out his wallet and retrieved three ten-pound notes, which he handed over. Sheila went back into the cabinet and removed the two items. Taking them from her, he reached into his briefcase and came out with two, small, flattened boxes. While Sheila went to the kitchen to make tea, he made the boxes up, packed in a lower layer of tissue, placed the ornaments in, then added an upper layer of tissue before putting on the lids. Marking them and taping the lids in place, he put them back in his briefcase, closed and locked it, and put it carefully on the carpet alongside one of the chairs at Sheila’s walnut dining table.
Gazing through the leaded windows at the quiet, suburban street outside, he reminded himself that they were just a few streets from Letty Hill’s place, and Sheila’s home was the same kind of bungalow.
Like others who had visited the house, Dalmer could not help the feeling that it was more of a shrine than a home; a memorial dedicated to Sheila’s late husband, Inspector Peter Riley. Aside from the few items of china, the display cabinet, and two others spread around the room, were filled with photographs of her and her husband, and many of Peter alone, augmented by photographs of their two children, Peter Jnr, and Aaron.
Sheila returned with the tea tray, placed it on the table and invited Dalmer to help himself.
“I know I’m speaking to a police widow,” Dalmer said as he poured tea into a rose china cup, “but you are well protected against burglary, aren’t you Sheila?”
“I have the latest alarms fitted, double deadlocks on all doors and windows and, of course, I never leave windows open when I’m not in. And there are only three keys to the house. I have one, a second is in the kitchen drawer and Brenda Jump has the third.” As he put the teapot down, Sheila picked it up and poured for herself. “Joe harasses us about safety all the time.” She smiled fondly. “I know he’s a grumpy old so-and-so, but deep down, he really does care. Anyway, because we’re the best of friends and we both live alone, I gave Brenda a key to my house and I have one for hers. If either of us is ever taken ill, the other can always get in to help.” The smile faded, replaced with a frown. “Poor Joe. I do wish the police would sort this business out. It’s so depressing for him.”
“They haven’t officially cleared him yet?”
Gently stirring milk into her tea, Sheila shook her head. “The investigation is ongoing. I don’t for one minute, think they really suspect him, but he was one of the last people to see poor Letty, so he remains a suspect until they can find something that clears him.” She brightened up. “Enough about Joe Murray. Tell me about you and your antiques business.”
“Not a business as such. More of a hobby, really. I buy and sell occasional items; china, silverware, jewellery. I don’t have premises and I work mostly online, but when it’s someone in the local area, like you, I enjoy visiting and looking over the pieces.” He smiled broadly. “Like your Pagliaccio.”
Sheila wagged a mock-disapproving finger at him. “I told you. Not for sale.”
Sipping his tea, he took out his wallet again. “Let me leave you my card, just in case you change your mind.” He handed over the plain white card.
Sheila studied it a moment. “You don’t even put your name on it? Nothing but your initials and a phone number. And even that’s a mobile.”
He nodded and drank more tea. “And I never answer it. Callers have to leave a message and a number a
nd I get back to them.” He took in her look of suspicion and laughed. “There’s nothing sinister in it, Sheila. Antique dealing is a strange business. Most traders are honest, but there are plenty of rogues about. Morton Norris is one. I don’t say he deliberately tries to con people, but he does tell some tall stories when he’s selling. He tried to pass off a china Shepherd Boy from Stoke on Trent as Meissen. I saw through it right away. By keeping my name off the card and giving only a mobile number, which I never answer, and where the caller has to leave a message, I avoid most of the conmen.”
Sheila tucked the card in her purse. “How very sensible.”
Chapter Nine
Joe had spent so many years crawling out of bed before five in the morning that even without the alarm set his body clock woke him at the same hour.
Rolling out of bed, he parted the blinds a couple of inches and looked out on a quiet, frosty Doncaster Road. It would be another hour before the level of traffic picked up, and even then it would be mainly lorries making for the motorway.
Across the dual carriageway, outside Broadbent’s, sat Rosemary Ecclesfield’s Peugeot, its windows covered in either condensation or, more likely, ice. Joe’s lip curled. After the confrontation the previous day, the stupid woman had driven away about three o’clock, only to return just before seven, and judging from her windscreen, she must have been parked there all night. Mick Chadwick had called him at ten to say that she had been in the Miner’s Arms for an hour, asking after him. But Joe had not moved from his flat all night, other than to visit Patel’s next door at six, where he collected a pack of tobacco and a copy of the Sanford Gazette.
To his relief, the newspaper did not mention him, although there was some coverage of the police investigation into Letty’s death. Not that there was much to report, other than the inquiry had widened to take in businesses in Leeds and Wakefield.
With a gaping yawn, dismissing thoughts of Rosemary Ecclesfield, Joe let the blinds fall shut, moved to the bathroom, showered and shaved, and by five-fifteen, he was sat before his netbook, chewing through a bowl of cereal while he read over his notes on the case so far.
My Deadly Valentine Page 10
