He had always been meticulous in making notes. It often helped him spot the tiny inconsistencies which led him to successful outcomes. In this case, there was so little that he could learn nothing from them. They could not point him at a suspect because he was the suspect. Neither could the notes point him to inconsistencies in stories because there were no accounts other than his and the police’s. He did, however, find reminders to speak with Gemma on the missing spoon and her inquiries with Cassons in Leeds.
He would be the first to admit that he was no expert on serial killers, but the whole case was baffling. What was this business with laying the bodies on the bed, pushing up their skirts to expose their underwear? Valentine’s Night, too, indicated some kind of sexual motivation, and yet there had never been any trace of molestation in any of the killings. What was this man playing at?
At five thirty, he made his way downstairs and into the café. It was all very well for Sheila and Brenda to suggest taking a few days off, but neither of them had volunteered to show up early, and Cheryl could never get in before seven because she had to leave young Danny with her mother, who would not be up before then. So, even though he was supposed to be taking time off, he still had to open up, let Lee in, and get breakfast on the move before the dray men began to turn up.
“Morning, Uncle Joe,” Lee chirped as he breezed in.
“Kettle’s boiling up, Lee. Make us both a brew, will you?”
“Roger, cobbler.”
Joe tutted. His brother, Arthur, Lee’s father, had much to answer for by emigrating to Australia.
He scowled across the road at the dormant Peugeot. “Freeze, you silly mare. You’ll get nothing on me.”
At half past six, by which time Joe had served the first few passing truckers, Amir Patel, the fifteen-year-old son of the minimarket proprietor next door, dropped the Daily Express in.
“Hey up, Uncle Joe, is it right you’ve murdered that woman from t’other side of town?” For all that the boy had roots in Pakistan, his accent was pure Yorkshire, and like many of the local children, they had grown up calling him Uncle Joe.
“Just deliver the papers, Amir. You don’t have to believe everything you read in them.”
“I’m glad about that. Me dad says the cops have got it wrong again. Just like when they did you for dumping all that chip fat in the back lane, when it weren’t you.”
Feeling slightly encouraged, Joe settled behind the counter and studied the crossword. He considered the Patels and Dennis Walmsley who ran the DIY shop at the end of the parade, to be more than simply fellow traders. They were genuine neighbours of the old fashioned kind. The Lazy Luncheonette had stood there under one guise or another since the end of World War Two, Dennis and his wife had opened up in the late eighties, using his redundancy payoff from the mines, and the Patels had opened up a few years later.
Sheila, Brenda and Cheryl all arrived at a few minutes to seven, all shivering from the icy blasts blowing along the road.
“You’re not the only ones feeling the chill,” Joe said, nodding through the windows and across the road to the static Peugeot.
Closing the door, Brenda peered through the glass. “How long has she been there?”
“All night, I think,” Joe replied, settling back at table five with his crossword.
“She must be freezing,” Sheila commented. Passing through to the kitchen she hung up her coat and put on her tabard. “Right, Joe, you can go whenever you like. Get your problems sorted.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
“Yes you are,” Brenda said. “The dray men will be here in ten minutes, and we need every seat we can get. Clear off and be a man of leisure for a day or two.”
Fastening her tabard, pinning up her cap, Sheila suggested, “Why not take that reporter a cup of tea, Joe?”
His laugh dripped cynicism. “What? Laced with cyanide or arsenic. Tell you what, just to be sure, let’s put both in. The trouble she’s caused people with her poisoned pen, no judge would ever convict me.”
Sheila disappeared into the kitchen. “I’m thinking community relations, Joe,” she called back.
“So was I when I thought of poisoning her.”
Sheila returned with tea in a polystyrene takeaway cup. She placed it in front of Joe, and then put two sachets of sugar and a plastic spoon alongside it.
Joe glowered up. “I didn’t realise you meant it.”
“I did. Think common sense, Joe. She hates you right now because you chased her out yesterday, but if you go over there with a cup of hot tea as a peace offering, she may be prepared to listen to your side of the story.”
“Makes sense to me,” Brenda commented, making the rounds of the tables to check on the condiments.
“Tell me you’re just taking the mickey,” Joe pleaded.
Sheila pressed her finger on the lid of the cup and pushed it to him. “Go, Joe. You know you have to.”
Joe stared through the windows, across to the car growing more visible in the dawn. He did not want to leave the warm sanctity of his café, he did not want to build bridges with this woman who had stalked him so assiduously. He really did feel like poisoning her. But Sheila was rarely wrong, and there was something so insistent about her actions that told him it was the right thing to do.
Grumbling, he folded his newspaper away, picked up the cup, sugar and spoon, and hurried out of the café as the first dray lorry pulled into the back lane.
Wearing only his whites and a thin T-Shirt, the shock of cold hit him like a sledgehammer, the moment he left the café, and with the early traffic picking up, getting across Doncaster Road was a life and death proposition. It would be easier in an hour when the daily jam slowed traffic to a crawl, but at seven fifteen, drivers came on too fast towards the double set of lights, and Joe felt it took a good minute or more to get across, by which time he was shivering.
“If I’m this cold, how bad is she,” he grumbled while making his way into the industrial estate and up the slight rise to her parked car. “Not that I really care.”
All the windows were covered in a layer of frost and ice. Joe rapped on the driver’s door and got no response.
“Come on, lady. You’re pushing charity too far.”
He rapped on the glass this time, and still there was no response.
Was she actually in the car?
It was a question which should have occurred to him when he first looked out of his bedroom window. And now that he asked it, several reasons why she would not be there sprang to mind, not least of which was the cold. The car could have broken down. She could have left it there just to spite and intimidate him. She could have been drunk in the Miner’s Arms last night, and taken a taxi home instead.
Warming the palm of his hand on the plastic cup, Joe rubbed at the frost. He felt as if his hand was going to freeze to the glass, but he managed to cut a rough swathe through the icy coating; enough to let him see her sat behind the wheel.
The interior of the glass was frozen too, so all he could make out was a blurred shape. He rubbed once more at the window, called out, “Hey, sleepy head, I brought you a hot drink,” and then, when she still did not respond, he leaned closer.
Her mouth was open, tongue lolling grotesquely out. Her eyes were open, staring, not seeing. A thin cord was buried deep in the soft flesh around her neck.
It was like an electric shock. Joe leapt back, the plastic cup spilling from his hand, hot tea splashing on the pavement and melting the ice as it spread. Joe’s heart pounded. He stared frantically around, seeking help which was not there. He patted his pockets. His mobile, the number most people rang when they wanted to place an order, was in the café.
Looking back at the Lazy Luncheonette, he ran for it.
***
“For the last time, Vickers, I found her like that. I did not kill her.”
Because Joe knew so many of the Sanford police, Vickers had elected to take his statement, and he did so in the privacy of Joe’s apartment, whe
re they could not be interrupted by café staff or customers. And after Joe had read and signed the statement, Vickers began to throw the inevitable questions.
“You don’t deny chasing her out of the café?” the chief inspector demanded and Joe shook his head. “You don’t deny ringing the editor of the Sanford Gazette?” Again Joe shook his head. “Issuing threats?”
“The only threat I made against Lofthouse was to withdraw the Sanford 3rd Age Club’s advertising.”
Vickers put down his pen and stared through the windows. Joe followed suit. Across Doncaster Road, police vehicles and officers swarmed around the white tent which had been erected to conceal the dead woman’s car. Mechanics, apprentices and office staff from Broadbent’s regarded it as a form of entertainment and could regularly be seen taking a smoke break with eyes on the police and forensic activity. Drivers in the Doncaster Road jam also regarded the events as a spectator sport, and it seemed to Joe that the traffic moved even slower than usual. Vickers had arrived before eight o’clock, Rosemary’s body had been removed by half past eight, carried away in a body bag on a shrouded trolley, and after speaking with his SOCOs, learning that Joe had raised the alarm, the chief inspector had made his way to the Lazy Luncheonette.
That was at nine. Gemma, Joe was told, had been sent to the Sanford Gazette to see what they had to say, and with the time coming up to ten, Vickers was still here, badgering, trying to secure a confession, while Joe resisted.
And through it all, the angry confusion ringing through Joe’s head increased. Someone was trying to make him a patsy. Why? Was it personal? Was it simply to deflect the police from the truth. And who was it?
When he thought about it, everything came down to one question, which had been bouncing round his head. Vickers put it into words. “What did Rosemary Ecclesfield and Letitia Hill have in common?”
Joe already knew the answer. “Me.”
The chief inspector shrugged. “There you go.”
Joe rolled a cigarette, and lit it. Drawing in the smoke, letting it out with a long, calming hiss, he fastened Vickers’ gaze with his own. “Do you think I’m a complete fool?”
The chief inspector did not answer immediately. He picked up his pen, a Schaeffer finished in matt silver, and toyed with it. It seemed as if he were considering the question, or, more likely, formulating his answer.
“No,” he said eventually. “I don’t like you. We both know that, but personal feelings aside, I think you’re rude, but clever and observant. In short, I think you’re a smartarse, but unlike most such people, you don’t just spout. You get to the right answers.” He leaned forward, and jammed a pointed finger into the tabletop. “But this is different, Murray. Two women are dead. You are known to be amongst the last people Letitia Hill saw. The simple fact that I can find little evidence to say you killed her is meaningless. You know how to spot evidence, so you also know how to conceal it. And as of this moment, I have no evidence at all concerning Rosemary Ecclesfield.” He gestured through the window. “I’m still waiting for it. What I do know is that you had a blazing row with her yesterday. Your staff confirmed it, you’ve admitted it. That’s my starting point. It is enough for me to suspect that you had something to do with her death.”
“Finished?” Joe waited for Vickers to nod. “Right, now let me tell you why I asked. Ever since you named me last Friday, that silly bitch has been sat on my doorstep taking pictures of me. I noticed her. She disappeared about three-ish yesterday afternoon. If I was going to shine her on, don’t you think I’d have followed her and done it somewhere other than across the road from my home?”
Vickers opened his mouth to speak, Joe carried on.
“I’ll tell you something else, as well. You don’t have one jot of evidence against me. You just said so. You say it’s because I’m being careful, I say it’s because I had nothing to do with either killing. And when you come round to realising the truth, it’s going to cost you a bloody fortune in compensation. I will sue your arse for every lost penny in trade, the damage to my good name, and the stress you’ve put me under. Now if you wanna make yourself really useful, Vickers, stop trying to pin the Valentine Strangler’s work on me, get out there and find him.”
Vickers was unfazed by the rebuke. “You had a blazing argument with her yesterday. So why did you feel you had to take her a cup of tea this morning? Simply charity or were you looking for an excuse to cross the road and ‘discover’ her body?” the chief inspector described speech marks in the air as he stressed the word ‘discover’.
“If you listened to my staff, you’d know,” Joe retorted. “It wasn’t my idea, it was Sheila’s. I said at the time, I’d have laced the tea with poison, but even if I had, it wouldn’t matter. She was already dead.”
Vickers did not reply. He fumed for a long time, and he was about to collect his belongings and leave, when there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Gemma entered, her features grim.
“Morning, sir, morning Uncle Joe.”
“Problems?” Joe asked.
“I wouldn’t say problems exactly.” She put her briefcase down on the settee, perched next to it, opened it, and took out sheets of printed A4 which she passed to Vickers. “The copy Rosemary filed with Ian Lofthouse at half past five yesterday afternoon. She also had a range of pictures of you, Joe, Angela Foster, Mort Norris and George Robson.” She laid the photographs on the table for Joe to study.
There were a number of him; leaving the Lazy Luncheonette, walking round the market, going into the supermarket with Gemma, going into the Sanford Dating Agency with Gemma. There were also deliberately posed photographs of Mort Norris, presumably taken while he and Gemma were talking to Angie Foster, and a long range shot of Joe talking to both George Robson and Vinny Gillespie. Finally, there was another deliberate pose, taken later in the afternoon in Joe’s opinion, of Angela Foster outside her office.
Disregarding the pictures, Joe glanced first at the printed sheets, then at Gemma. “Bad news?”
Gemma shushed him while Vickers read.
It did not take long. And when he looked up, Vickers’ eyes gleamed with triumph. “No evidence, Murray? Good bit of circumstantial here. Read it.”
Joe took the sheets and read through them.
Neatly word-processed in double line spacing, they made his blood run first cold, then hot.
IS THIS THE VALENTINE STRANGLER? The headline blazed in capital letters.
Joe Murray is well-known throughout Sanford as the rude and irritable proprietor of the Lazy Luncheonette truck stop on Doncaster Road. But on Friday, West Yorkshire police arrested Murray in connection with the Valentine Strangler killings. He was later released without charge, and yet the police know that MURRAY WAS ONE OF THE LAST PEOPLE TO SEE LETITIA HILL ALIVE.
This reporter followed up the case and learned that Murray, along with Detective Sergeant Gemma Craddock of Sanford CID, spoke to Angela Foster, proprietor of the Sanford Dating Agency of which Mrs Hill was a member under her real name of Letitia Collina. He was also seen to be talking with market trader, Morton Norris, a second hand goods dealer who was also one of Letitia’s friends. I followed him to Sanford Memorial park where he spoke with landscaping supervisor, George Robson, one of Letitia’s former lovers. Shortly after, Sanford police allowed Murray to drive away without penalty despite the fact that Murray was parked on double yellow lines.
Further inquiry has revealed that Detective Sergeant Craddock is MURRAY’S NIECE.
In an effort to get to the bottom of this near-Masonic conspiracy, I visited the Lazy Luncheonette on Monday afternoon where I confronted Murray. I was chased from the café by a furious Joe Murray threatening me with a kitchen implement.
It’s time to ask some serious questions about Joe Murray’s close links with the police. If he is guilty, why has he been released? Why does he go unpunished for minor infringements of the law? How much influence does he have at Gale Street? Why is his niece permitted to work on the invest
igation? What right does Murray have to question others who have close links to the victim, and what right does he have to threaten a reporter, seeking only the facts, with physical violence?
The time has come to protect the public from this monster.
Joe snatched up his mobile and dialled the Gazette.
“Now, Murray—”
Joe cut Vickers off and barked into the phone. “It’s Joe Murray. Gimme Ian Lofthouse, now before my lawyers start beating down his door.”
“You can’t do this, Uncle Joe,” Gemma warned him.
“No? Watch me.” A click at the other end told Joe he was through. “Lofthouse? It’s Joe Murray. I’ve just read this crap Gemma brought back from your place. When were you going to tell me about it?”
“Well, I wasn’t,” Lofthouse replied. “Joe, Rosemary was asking some serious questions.”
“She was producing a load of old tripe, and you know it. There are more lies in these few pages than your last tax return.”
“Lies? What lies?”
“Let’s start with my arrest,” Joe insisted. “I was not arrested.” He glanced across at Vickers’ thunderous features. “I may be. Any time now, but last Friday I went to the police station of my own free will and gave them a statement. Let’s move on to Angela Foster and the Sanford Dating Agency. I did not browbeat her into anything. My niece asked a few questions, and that’s it. Next, Mort Norris was never a friend of Letty’s, and George Robson was not one of Letty’s lovers, and finally, Collina was not Letty’s real name.”
“But you did chase her from your place with a kitchen implement?” Lofthouse asked.
“It was a teapot, you idiot. What do you think I’d do with it? Pour hot tea all over her hair?”
“And you do have links with the law.”
“I help them occasionally and if Vinny Gillespie let me off with a ticket, it was down to negotiation, not funny handshakes.”
The editor harrumphed. “Yes, well, you needn’t worry, Joe. At the insistence of the police, we won’t be running the story.”
My Deadly Valentine Page 11
