“Maybe we should call at the Castle and have a drink or two, Joe.”
Joe smiled at Feeney. “What Brenda means is maybe she and I should go there and quiz the landlord.”
The chief inspector was not amused. “Yes, I understood, but I don’t like to see members of the public taking any risks, and you’ve already crossed Gil Shipton a couple of times. Naturally, I can’t stop you, but…” She let the suggestion hang in the air.
Joe stood up. “All right, Patricia. We’ll get out from under your feet.”
Feeney, too, stood and showed them to the door. “If you see anything of Freddie Delaney or you get any clue as to his whereabouts, don’t be a hero, Joe. Call us.”
“You have my word on it.”
They stepped out into the mid-morning sunshine where Joe lit a cigarette.
“Any idea where this pub is?” Brenda asked.
“Haven’t a clue.” He took out his street guide and studied it. “Might help if we knew the address,” he muttered, and they walked away from the police station.
Ten minutes later, after learning it was on Clifftop Park Road, Joe and Brenda climbed into a taxi for the two-mile, five minute journey.
“What do we do when we get there?” Brenda asked as they drove past the Leeward and the driver turned right, inland, for the steep climb up to Clifftop Park.
“Ask him whether the Shiptons really were there on Friday night.” He smiled reassuringly at her. “Just follow my lead, Brenda.”
When they arrived, they found both the pub and the beer garden packed, and the staff virtually run off their feet.
A large, rambling building, built of redbrick, it looked incongruous in the woodland around it, but there was no arguing its popularity. The sunshine, warm temperatures and the semi-rural location, adjacent to the park, ensured the bank holiday trade.
Inside, the open plan room was packed. Brenda found a table in front of which was a large crowd watching Sunday afternoon football on an overhead TV. Looking beyond the crowd, she could see Gil Shipton, Elaine and Terry Badger sat near the exit to the beer garden.
It took Joe the better part of ten minutes to get served, and it was a further five minutes before the landlord, James Burridge, finally appeared to talk to them.
In the meantime the presence of Gil and the Badgers did not escape Joe’s attention, either. They appeared deep in conversation, but he had noticed Gil Shipton’s eyes on him.
Burridge was a stout man in his late fifties, according to Joe’s estimate. He sweated profusely in the rising heat of the busy bar, and his ruddy cheeks puffed out his breath as if demonstrating his stress levels. He stomped through the room towards them pausing at the bar only to snatch up the remote control for the TV and turned down the volume.
“I’m talking,” he snapped at the crowd when they complained, and switched his attention to Joe. “And just who are you to be asking?” he demanded when Joe put the question.
“I’m a private investigator,” Joe half-lied, “and Brenda, here, is my business partner.” He purposely injected some granite into his voice. “I know guys like you. You’ll tell the cops anything to keep them outta your hair. But since I’m not gonna be in your hair once I have my answers, you can tell me the truth.”
Burridge sat with them, and leaned on his elbows. “So you want to know if Mr Shipton’s party were here all night on Friday?”
Joe shook his head. “Not all night, I just want to know whether they were here from, say, nine o’clock onwards.”
“And you already know I told the police they were?”
Joe felt his excitement rising. “Yes. I do. I’m asking you for the truth, instead.”
“Right. I’ll tell you the truth Mr private investigator.” Burridge glared. “They came through those doors at half past eight.” He pointed to the main entrance. “And they sat right where they are now, playing cards and talking until gone half past eleven, when I had to ask them to leave so I could lock up. As far as I know, they went up to their rooms.” With that, Burridge stood up and stomped away through the crowds surrounding the bar. Once again he snatched up the remote and this time turned the volume back up so the football watchers could hear the commentary.
Brenda swallowed half her glass of Campari. “Well, that didn’t work out too well, did it?”
“Suppose not,” Joe grumbled. He drank from his glass of lager. “Proves my point though, doesn’t it?”
Brenda eyed Burridge, now talking to Gil Shipton. “What point?”
“If Gil, Elaine and Terry Badger were here all night, they can’t have killed Diane, and who does that leave? It doesn’t matter how much Hazel ignores it, the truth is Freddie did it.” He stared up at the TV. “Although, when I come to think about it—”
“Right now, Joe, if we don’t get out of here, there’s likely to be another incident,” Brenda interrupted. “And it’ll concern me and you.” She finished her drink with one swallow and indicated Gil Shipton delivering a murderous glance in their direction.
Joe drained the rest of his ale, put the glass down, and stood up. “I reckon you’re right. Let’s move.”
They stepped hurriedly out into the warm, spring air, and Joe put his mobile to his ear to call a taxi. A minute later, he said, “It’ll be five minutes.”
“Good. I think we’re taking too many risks here, Joe, and…”
“Don’t you ever learn, shorty?”
They turned to find Gil, Terry and Elaine behind them, and the sour look on Gil’s face was impossible to misinterpret.
Joe swallowed hard. “Listen, Shipton, I came here to prove you didn’t kill your wife. I’ve just done that, so why don’t you call it quits while you’re ahead?”
“And what if I choose not to?” a malevolent smile crossed Gil’s features. “What if I feel the time’s right to give you a good hiding.”
“You’d be making a big mistake,” Joe assured him. “I’m not alone this time.” He gestured at Brenda.
Gil laughed. “Then let’s see how tough you both are, eh?”
He stormed forward, Brenda put herself in front of him and as he marched at her, determined to get to Joe, she kicked, landing her right foot between his legs.
The wind taken from him, in sudden agony, Gil fell to his knees.
“Get your mum to kiss it better,” Brenda snapped.
Terry and Elaine took a pace forward, but Joe stayed them. “I wouldn’t if I were you. I’ve seen Brenda put bigger than you down, Terry, and Elaine, you won’t want to get on the end of her handbag. Now why don’t we all just go our separate ways and hope our paths don’t cross again?”
***
“The odds are on Freddie,” Joe said when they climbed out of the taxi outside the Leeward, “but I spotted something in that pub and I need to test it out. I’m just gonna nip up to my room for a few minutes. I’ll be back down in time for lunch.”
“Don’t be late,” Brenda ordered. “We have the Easter Bonnet Parade at three.”
“Five minutes,” he assured her as he passed through the bar and made for the lift.
He passed the time messing with the TV set in his room. Unlike the set in the pub, it was not modern. In fact, it took what seemed like an age to warm up, and when he checked the menu settings, he could not find what he was looking for.
Eventually, he gave up, and returned to the dining room where his fellows were already at their table tucking into roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
Ordering a glass of sweetened orange juice for starters, Joe ate ravenously, and as he did so, he gave Sheila an account of their unproductive morning.
“The only highlight was Brenda kicking Gil where he keeps his brains.”
“Well done, my dear,” Les Tanner applauded. “Sounds to me like it’s just what the fella needed.”
“That may be, Les, but the Shiptons of this world are not known for forgetting.” Sheila frowned. “And now we have to worry about Brenda as well as Joe.” She focussed on Joe. “So what y
ou’re saying is it looks more and more like Freddie?”
Joe nodded. “I’m afraid so. Unless there’s someone else involved, someone on the fringe who we don’t know about. But then, we know for a fact that Freddie sicked those idiots onto me the other night and yesterday in Bath. It has to be him.” He glanced along the rows of tables to where Hazel was directing staff. “It’s that lass I feel sorry for. She obviously loves him and she’s praying he’s innocent.”
Brenda sighed. “And she’s gonna be awfully let down.”
Chapter Twelve
Walking along the seafront towards the Winter Gardens, the four women carrying their Easter bonnets in opaque carrier bags as if they were closely guarded secrets, Alec Staines drew Joe’s attention to the vehicles on the public car park.
“Time I was getting rid of my old van and getting something like that,” he said, with a wave at a maroon 4x4.
“Why would you need a gas guzzler like that, Alec?” Joe demanded. “Most of your work is in Sanford.”
“Save me running two cars, Joe. I could get all my gear in that and then chuck it out of a weekend so I can take Julia out.”
Joe’s eyes were distracted by a similar, silver grey vehicle parked at the rear of the car park. “Take Julia for a bitta spring testing, you mean.” The Staineses were known for their bedroom antics, and in years gone by, Joe had dated Julia before Alec happened on the scene.
Where had he seen that car before?
“Jealous?” Alec said. “Oh, listen, Joe, talking of testing the bed springs, you do know our Wes is getting married in the summer. I did ask if you’d put it to the membership as an official STAC outing. A few days in Windermere.”
Had he seen that car before?
Joe focussed on Alec. “I haven’t forgotten. There’s a meeting next week. I’ll put it to them then.”
“Well, if they won’t go for it, I’ll send invites for you and the harem.” Alec gestured at Sheila and Brenda walking alongside Julia ahead of them.
What was it about that car?
Joe snorted. “Harem. Chance’d be a fine thing.”
“That’s not what the rumour factory is saying, mate.”
“As long as they’re talking about me and the girls, they’re leaving everyone else alone.”
When they got to the Winter Gardens, it was to find Robert Quigley fussing over the arrangements, shepherding the women off to a side room where they could prepare for the parade.
Joe was slightly miffed to learn that everyone else, himself included, had to pay an admission fee of five pounds.
“I’ve already paid twenty pounds to enter the two women into the competition,” he protested.
“And good luck to them, Mr Murray,” Quigley said, “but I’m afraid it will cost you another five pounds to watch them.”
“Are they coming out in bathing costumes?” Joe asked as he dug into his wallet.
“No. Easter bonnets.” Quigley smiled. “It is for charity.”
Joe handed over the money. “When I get home, I’m gonna found my own charity; The Joe Murray Poverty Appeal. Help old Joe back to solvency.”
There were one hundred entrants in the parade. And with an audience of about two hundred, Joe calculated that the charity appeal was cleaning up once more.
The competitors’ role was simple. They literally paraded into the hall to the sound of Judy Garland singing Easter Parade alternating with the Allegro opening of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. As one piece of music finished, so the other started, and they repeated over and over, while four judges, one of whom was Quigley, sat in the background making notes. And when the contestants were all in the hall, they circled the area in front of the stage.
Joe and his STAC friends applauded vigorously when Sheila appeared with her floral design, Brenda with her farm animals, Sylvia with a small forest attached to her broad-brimmed hat. Julia had opted for a wedding theme, which to Joe’s mind was another hint at their son’s forthcoming wedding.
To his surprise, there were several men taking part, too. Most wearing gregarious headgear, with various designs; one had chosen a giant Easter egg planted on top of a trilby, while another had decked his oversized stovepipe hat with photographs of cars.
It was while staring at this ridiculous piece of millinery that realisation suddenly coursed through Joe… and with it came anger.
“The stupid, lying little cow,” he cursed.
Alec Staines was taken aback. “Who? Brenda or Sheila.”
“No. I mean…”
Joe trailed off at a furore coming from the back of the room.
At a signal from Quigley, the music stopped, the marchers ceased parading, and the organiser got to his feet.
To everyone’s surprise, Elaine Badger pushed her way through the crowd and, facing Quigley, pointed at the stack of charity gifts on the left of the hall. “I want the large egg my sister left there.”
“I’m sorry, er, miss, but those are charitable donations.”
“My sister donated it,” Elaine said. “She’s dead. That egg is now my property and I’m taking it back.”
“I’m afraid I can’t—”
Elaine cut Quigley off. “I’m not asking your permission. I’m taking it. Now.” She strode across to the stack.
Quigley’s eyes travelled to the rear of the room. “Get security in here, please.”
Joe stood. “Leave her to it, Quigley. She’s telling it like it is, and legally, I don’t think you’d have much of a leg to stand on.” He stared sourly at Elaine. “She’s like her sister. Selfish and greedy. No, I take that back, she’s worse than her sister. Greedier and more selfish. You’re better off without contributions from her.”
Elaine snatched the egg from the stack, tucked it under her arm and strode back towards Joe. “Loser.”
“I’d rather be a loser than a tart,” Joe retorted.
Gil appeared on the fringes of the crowd. “Shoving your oar in again, shorty?”
Joe scowled at him. It was less the presence of other people, more his anger that gave him the courage to face up to Shipton. “You’re scum, pal, and one of these days, someone will do what they should do with you. Sweep you up and pour you down the drain.”
Elaine walked to Gil’s side and he slipped an arm around her shoulder with a familiarity that surprised Joe. Gil grinned at Joe. “If anyone’s going to sweep me up, it won’t be you, china.”
“No. I’ll be in the audience applauding.”
Gil grinned. “Only if you can get someone to lift you up so you can reach. See y’around, shortarse.”
“Not so fast.”
The voice of Chief Inspector Feeney stunned everyone. Gil and Elaine turned to face her and a squad of uniformed police.
With great formality, she intoned, “Michael Shipton, Elaine Badger, I’m arresting you both for questioning on the murder of Terrence Badger.”
***
While Shipton and Elaine were taken away, the fuss in the hall died down, and Quigley made an effort to restore the parade, but met with little success. Interest had waned to the point where it was non-existent. A winner was declared, a local woman, who, with a shy, almost embarrassed smile, posed for photographs with her £20 voucher and wearing the bonnet, which reminded Joe of a small copse on top of a sheet of butcher’s green.
“Well that explains why Diane was so miffed,” Brenda said, ignoring the presentation.
“Possibly,” Joe agreed, “but it doesn’t make any difference. They didn’t kill her. Freddie did, and I know exactly where to find him.”
“You do?”
Joe nodded. “Follow me.”
***
Five minutes later, Joe marched into the Leeward, asked Hazel to meet him in the bar, and then passed through the doors, nodded to Sheila and Brenda sat in the window dismantling their Easter bonnets, and strode to the bar, as Hazel arrived from reception.
“What can I get you, Joe?” she asked.
She appeared a little brighter than when
he had first seen her at breakfast, but her eyes were still baggy and soulless.
“You can get me a good dose of the truth,” he replied, keeping his voice down.
Shock shot across her face. “What?”
“I’ve just come out of the Winter Gardens where they’ve arrested Gil Shipton and Elaine Badger. Terry Badger has been murdered. Now, I can’t say whether or not they killed him, but I can say your old man killed Diane, and I also know he’s still here. Don’t lie to me, Hazel. I’ve just seen his car on the car park down the road.” Joe pointed to the photograph behind the bar. “Where is he?”
“Gone, I tell you. He didn’t take his car—”
“Any man who loves his car enough to put a picture of it on the walls at his place of work, wouldn’t go anywhere and leave it behind. Even if all he was gonna do was sell it, he’d take it with him. And why would he leave it on a public car park when you have a back yard where he normally parks it? He moved it and hid it amongst other cars on that car park, where plod were least likely to look, and then he walked back here. The old story of hiding a tree in a forest. Now stop taking the mick, and tell me where he is. Either that, or I bell Feeney and tell her to get out here.”
Hazel looked away, then back at him, then away again, this time with frustrated eyes. She brought her attention back to him, and pointed to the left. “Take the lift to the third floor. I’ll meet you there. There are two flights of steps to climb when you get there. You’ll manage them, will you?”
“Do I look like I won’t?”
Five minutes later, he was having second thoughts as Hazel ushered him from the top floor of residential rooms and up to the attics. The steps were steep and taxing, and by the time they arrived on the absolute top floor of the hotel, he was out of breath.
There were four small rooms at this level. Hazel rapped three times on the whitewashed door of one.
The Chocolate Egg Murders Page 14
