Sheila’s attention had wandered slightly, as she watched a woman struggle with an umbrella, but something in Brenda’s wistful tones brought her back into the bar. “Joe and the body? Well, he always did enjoy a good mystery, didn’t he? Remember when we were in school? He was always in trouble for reading Agatha Christie or John Creasey instead of the set books. He probably wanted to get as much, er, evidence, for want of a better word, from the site this morning before the police took over.” She took out her glue, and began work on the flowers.
Fern pressed to the hat brim, Brenda began to sew. “And he certainly put that chief inspector in her place, didn’t he?” Her face became more serious. “Sheila, there’s, er, something I think you should know.”
“Oh yes?”
Sheila’s brisk, businesslike response confirmed that Brenda had got the tone, serious, almost grave, just right. Sheila was busy gluing the first flower, a pink carnation, to her hat, yet Brenda had no doubt she was giving most of her attention to the impending revelation.
“It’s about his lordship and me. Well, really, it’s none of your business, but we’re the best of friends, the three of us, and I think you should know. I, er… oh dear. I’m not really sure how to put it.”
Sheila tittered. “My friend, Brenda Jump, lost for words. That doesn’t happen very often. Why not just say it straight, like you usually do?”
“Because it’s more delicate than usual. It’s… oh God, I really don’t know how to say this.”
Sheila put down her hat and took a sip of coffee. “You’re trying to tell me that you and Joe spend the occasional night together.”
Brenda felt the colour rush to her cheeks. She too, put down her Easter bonnet and gazed fondly upon her best friend. Slowly, her stare softened and her face split into a broad grin. “You never cease to surprise me, Sheila Riley. There you sit, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt, but you spot everything and take it all so calmly. I thought you would be outraged.”
“Why should I be? As you pointed out, it’s no concern of mine. If you’re asking my opinion, I think it’s a bad move, but only from the point of view that you have to work together, and remember how rough it was when Joe ran the Lazy Luncheonette with Alison.”
Brenda nodded, picked up her cup and gazed through the windows.
“It’s been going on since Valentine’s, hasn’t it?” Sheila asked.
With one eye on the outside world, Brenda said. “The day you two were held at gunpoint by that nutter. If you remember we all got roaring drunk that night. You included.”
Sheila picked up her bonnet and began work again. “Relief,” she admitted. “That was a very dangerous situation, and Joe behaved with commendable bravery.” She frowned. “Even if he did break my Capo di Monte figure of Pagliaccio. It was natural to get drunk.”
Following suit, Brenda collected her hat, and sorted through her collection of soft toys. Choosing a rabbit, she pressed it into place on the right hand side of the hat and began to sew. “Not natural for you,” Brenda disagreed. “I don’t think I’ve seen you that blotto since your twenty-first birthday party. Anyway, we took you home in a taxi, but Joe was blathered, too, and I was seven sheets to the wind. We really don’t know how it happened, but the next morning, Joe woke up on my bed.”
“So you obviously…” Sheila trailed off, letting the suggestion hang.
With the rabbit sewn into place, Brenda sipped her coffee. “The truth is, neither of us can remember anything about that night after dropping you off, and really, we only remember that because we must have done. I swore Joe to absolute secrecy, and he says he didn’t want it broadcast all over Sanford. Anyway, a couple of weeks later, I invited him back after a session in the Miner’s Arms, and this time we did.” Her ears burned an uncharacteristic pink. “He’s really quite, er, sprightly for a man his age, you know.”
Sheila disapproved light-heartedly. “I don’t know and I don’t want to know, thank you.” She sipped her tea. “How serious is it?”
Brenda gave a little snort of laughter that could have been lascivious or cynical. “How serious do I ever get with men? I’ve been dating George Robson on and off for three years, but it’s never amounted to more than the occasional one-night stand.” She shrugged. “Joe and I are not serious. In the last six weeks, we’ve spent the night together, maybe two or three times. Joe hasn’t said as much, but I know he’s not concerned for getting too involved either. It’s a bit of fun, Sheila. When we feel like it.”
Sheila held up her hat to judge the effect of the two flowers she had pressed into place. With the slightly distracted air of one working on one item while talking about another, she repeated, “As you said, it’s none of my concern. Have either of you thought about the effect it will have on your working relationship?”
“So far, it hasn’t,” Brenda replied. “If it had, I’m sure you’d be the first to notice. I’m still working like a dog in the kitchen, and Joe is as grumpy as ever in behind the counter… even after he’s had his legover.”
“Be careful, Brenda,” Sheila insisted as a dark grey Vauxhall saloon pulled up in front of the Leeward. “I’d advise Joe to do the same. We don’t want to sully friendships that go back as far as ours.”
“And talking of friendships,” Brenda said, determined to change the subject, “here’s a new one just blooming.” She nodded through the windows where Chief Inspector Feeney and Sergeant Holmes had just climbed out of the Vauxhall.
“It didn’t sound very friendly at Clifftop Park,” Sheila commented. “More like fresh enmity in the making.”
“She has an eye for Joe.” Brenda laughed, deliberately and garishly. “And he’ll charm her. You watch.”
***
“I thought we weren’t going to deal with this bloke, ma’am,” Holmes ventured as he followed his chief through the large patio to the hotel entrance.
“Murray? We’re not,” Feeney replied. “But his niece did tell me he’s known for his powers of observation. We’re going to test them, Sergeant, and with a bit of luck he may give us a few pointers.”
Eyeing Sheila and Brenda in the window, she pushed on into the hotel, where the reception was unmanned, and turned into the bar.
Busy making coffee for guests, Freddie greeted her with a broad smile. “Chief Inspector Feeney. Not often we have the pleasure of your company. Slumming are you? Or working on the side for the hotel inspectors?”
She scowled. “Neither. I’m here to speak to one of your guests. Joe Murray.”
Freddie poured coffee for his customers and nodded to the window table. “His friends are there. I believe he’s thawing out in the bath.” Placing the cups on saucers, he asked, “Is it about Ginny Nicholson?”
“It is, and don’t you go too far. I’ll be speaking to you about her before the day is out.”
If Freddie was worried, his smile belied it. “Poor Ginny. Fancy someone bumping off a poor, defenceless woman like that.”
“And where were you between nine and nine thirty this morning, Delaney?” Holmes demanded.
Freddie’s good cheer was not disrupted. “Right here, Mr ’Olmes.” He deliberately mimicked Dennis Hoey who had played Inspector Lestrade opposite Basil Rathbone’s Sherlock Holmes in a number of films. “And my missus and my staff, and a number of guests will verify that.”
“And of course, you wouldn’t be seen with her, would you, Delaney?” the sergeant pressed.
“Now why would a successful businessman like me break the rules, Sergeant?” Freddie’s smile faded. “I have had no contact with her, and I had no reason to kill her. All right?”
“We’re told she was drinking in here last night.”
Freddie grinned. “Was she? Well, we’re pretty full, you know. I can’t say I noticed her.”
“We’ll be talking more seriously later, Mr Delaney.” Feeney turned away, crossed the room and stood, towering above Sheila and Brenda. “Mrs Riley, Mrs Jump. I came to speak to Mr Murray. Is he not here?”
“He’ll be down shortly,” Sheila assured her. “Can we help?”
“Possibly.” Feeney nodded to the chair opposite Sheila. “May I?”
She sat down, Holmes claimed the empty chair alongside her, and took out his pocketbook.
“Preparing for the Easter Bonnet Parade?” Feeney asked.
“It’s for charity, and it gives us something to occupy our minds until the rain stops. We’re very big on charity oop north.” Brenda deliberately exaggerated her accent.
“Very commendable.”
Sheila played with her cup and saucer. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about the Easter bonnet competition, Chief Inspector.”
“You’re correct, Mrs Riley, which is why I asked about Mr Murray. However, you were on Regent Street yesterday when Mr Murray had the, er, spat with Ms Nicholson, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Brenda replied for both of them. “But it was nothing. Not even a spat. The woman was arguing with the redhead Joe told you about. She threw the egg at the redhead, but Joe happened to get in the way. The redhead wandered off, and Joe and Ms Nicholson settled the matter quite amicably. And we’ve told you once, Joe was with one or other or both of us all morning. He did not kill the woman.”
“I don’t say he did,” Feeney admitted. “What I want to know is whether you – or he – took particular notice of this redhead.”
“We think it was the same woman who got into an argument with our bus driver as we came into Weston yesterday,” Sheila replied. “At least, that’s what Joe believes.”
“You think she may have killed Ginny?” Brenda asked.
“We’re keeping an open mind, Mrs Jump. There are some background issues we have to consider while we’re looking for suspects, and yesterday’s, tête-à-tête may have some bearing on her death. Right now, we’re simply keen to talk to this red-haired woman.” Feeney shifted the emphasis slightly. “Your Mr Murray is quite well known for his deductive skills, isn’t he?”
Brenda laughed. “He’s better known for his moods. As grumpy old men go, Joe takes the Blue Riband. But he’s sharp-eyed and more than capable of stringing an argument together based on his observations.”
“Even if most of those arguments are wrong,” Sheila added with a smile.
“My worry, Mrs Riley, is that he may find himself out of his depth. I said there are background issues, which I won’t go into, but anyone who, er, pokes their nose in, to quote Mr Murray, may find it forcibly pushed out again.”
“It won’t stop Joe,” Brenda declared. “He’s been threatened before.”
“He’s even been threatened in the café, but he has Lee to back him up there.”
“His nephew,” Brenda explained. “A former rugby player. Built a bit like yon fella.” She gestured at Freddie. “You’ll find, Chief Inspector, that Joe can’t be frightened off… not even by you.”
***
Joe was not surprised to see Feeney and Holmes when he entered the bar.
Having warmed through in the bath, changed into a comfortable pair of denims and a clean shirt, he had bagged up his wet clothing for laundering, donned his ubiquitous gilet and, picking up his topcoat, made his way down to the bar where he called for a cup of tea before joining his companions by the window.
“Change your mind, Chief Inspector?” he asked, taking out his tobacco tin and rolling a cigarette. “You need my help?”
“I need information, Mr Murray, and you may have it.” Feeney repeated the question she had put to the two women.
Joe’s face went blank, his mind’s eye tracking back over the incident of the previous day, visualising every second of it, and what had been going on around it.
“I was making for the pub and Ginny was giving the redhead a real mouthful. The redhead wasn’t impressed.”
“Would you recognise the redhead again if you saw her?” Feeney asked as Holmes made notes.
“Both times we saw her, she was carrying this bloody great handbag and a large Easter egg.” Freddie stood by the table with Joe’s tea. Joe took it, and shook his head at the police. “I don’t think I’ve seen her face. I mean, if she was carrying the handbag and egg and wearing the same clothing, sure, but otherwise…” He stirred milk and sugar into his tea and sipped approvingly. “You think she may have killed Ginny because of the argument?”
“As I said to your friends, there are background issues which I won’t go into, and it’s possible that the redhead was involved. You didn’t hear what the argument was about?”
“No.” Joe took out his cigarette rolling material. “And Ginny wasn’t forthcoming on it either.” He quickly rolled the cigarette and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “So what are these background issues?”
“A matter for us, Mr Murray,” Feeney insisted.
Joe drank more tea. “I’ve met your kind of chief inspector before, you know. Determined that it’s your case, and perfectly happy to follow all the blind alleys until you find the through route, instead of asking for help when it’s offered. I’m not about to steal your thunder, you know. I never do.”
Feeney glanced over her shoulder at the bar where Freddie and Hazel were deep in discussion. Turning back to face Joe, she murmured, “Not here.”
Joe stood up. “Good. I need a smoke anyway.” He put on his fleece. “Let’s step outside.” Making for the door, he called out, “Hey, Freddie, don’t take my cup and saucer. I’m just nipping out for a smoke.”
“No problem, Joe,” Freddie assured him. “Can’t say I like your choice of company, though.”
“Us poor Yorkshire folk are beggars, my friend, so we can’t be choosers.”
Stepping out into the rain, Joe found a table where the seats, sheltering under the parasol, were comparatively dry, sat down, and cupping his hands around his Zippo, lit his cigarette. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and let it out with satisfied hiss.
“For a poor Yorkshireman, you appear to enjoy the finer things in life, Mr Murray,” Feeney said. “That cigarette lighter must have cost a small fortune.”
“A fiftieth birthday present from my two best friends, Sheila and Brenda, who, coincidentally, are also two of my staff.”
“You make an above average income from your café?” the chief inspector persisted.
“What is this? Are you moonlighting as a VAT inspector? I make a good living. Not grand, but adequate.”
“And what do you drive? Mercedes? Jaguar?”
Blowing out a cloud of smoke, watching it whipped away by the wind, Joe tutted. “A beat up old Vauxhall. Is this relevant?”
Feeney did not answer immediately. Instead, she reached into her briefcase, drew out a photograph, and handed it to Joe. “Is this the woman you saw?”
Joe studied the large print. A bus in the background told him the picture had been taken in London. The woman was walking along the street towards the cameraman, a large handbag hooked over her left arm. Her face was narrow and pinched, the eyes set close together, the mouth small and turned down in a grimace. Her red hair looked as if it was pulled into a ponytail. The weather was better when the picture was taken. She wore no coat, only a striped sweater and a pair of old, shabby jogging pants.
“The hair colour is right, so it could be. The handbag is certainly large enough and it looks like the woman I saw yesterday, but as I’ve already told you, I’ve never seen her face, so I couldn’t be certain.” Joe handed the photograph back. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Diane Shipton, and if she’s in Weston-super-Mare, I want to know about it.”
“She’s a killer?”
“She has never been known to commit any sort of violent act, but her husband, Gil, has served time for assault.” Feeney put the photograph back in its folder. “Let me tell you something about her and Gil. She used to be a reporter with a London daily. Then she became a dirt-digger for a Sunday tabloid, and finally, about ten years ago, she went freelance. According to HM
RC, She makes a moderate income, and yet Gil, who doesn’t work at all, drives a nearly new BMW.”
Joe shrugged. “They were obviously careful with money when she worked for the press.”
Holmes smiled. “The Beamer was a gift from a grateful client. Diane was the ghost writer for his biography. The book did well, so in addition to her fees, he gave her the Beamer.”
“It all sounds reasonable to me,” Joe said.
“London have a different theory,” Holmes said.
Chief Inspector Feeney took up the tale. “The gentleman who gave the Shiptons the BMW was a former surgeon. Highly respected in his day, but he retired under something of a cloud. There were unproven allegations of drunkenness made against him. It was all very hush-hush. The Met believe that there was some substance to the allegations, even though the good doctor still denies them. They also believe that Diane Shipton got hold of proof and blackmailed him. And that is why he gave her the car.”
Joe whistled and relit his cigarette. “So you’re never going to prove it without his testimony, and he won’t testify because it would expose the truth about his drinking.”
“Correct,” Feeney agreed. “London believe that Diane is making use of her dirt-digging skills to supplement her income by blackmailing any number of people. But of course, there is not one scrap of evidence. Surveillance has proved costly and pointless. Whenever the Met have spoken to people she’s seen meeting, they’ve drawn a blank. She’s an old friend, she’s an old colleague, an old girlfriend.”
“And until the day someone finds enough bottle to talk, you’ll never get her.”
“Again correct.”
Joe puffed on his cigarette, his eyes distant, as if he were studying the rain pouring on the Grand Pier, his lively mind sorting and sifting all he had just learned.
“Where does this all fit in with Virginia Nicholson’s murder? Are you saying Diane Shipton had something on Ginny?”
The Chocolate Egg Murders Page 5
