Brenda, speaking in broken, pidgin Spanish, further reassured the woman while Sheila concentrated on Joe.
“Are you all right?”
“Shaken and stirred but I’ll live to fight another mission.” He pinned her with a determined gleam in his eye. “Now do you believe me?”
Sheila, too, was shaking. “Yes. It doesn’t make any sense, but it does look as if you’re right.”
Finished with the woman, Brenda joined the conversation. “I don’t suppose any of us got the number of the car?”
Joe sneered. “Oh, naturally. First thing I thought when she tried to run me down. I really must get the registration number of her car.”
Ignoring his cynicism, Brenda seized on his words. “It was a woman, then?”
The question brought Joe up short. “I, er, I never noticed. It’s just that with the Robin Hood woman being a… a woman, I just assumed it was the same… woman.”
“I wonder how many women there were in that statement.”
Sheila’s wry observation seemed to relieve the tension. Even Joe smiled as he responded, “You know what I mean.”
Sheila became the model of businesslike efficiency. “Yes, well, we’d better get into the hotel and get them to call the police. We need to report this.”
“Yeah, and I need to speak to Gemma again.”
***
Back in England, Gemma had made her way to the outskirts of Harrogate and was busy talking to Tom Higginshaw in the untidy, unkempt parlour of his farmhouse. She had entered through the kitchen where the old, wooden table was cluttered with pot and dishes, and the sink had been left overflowing with them. The whole place was bathed in that odour of negligence, as if it had not been cleaned in months.
Higginshaw was about forty years of age, tall and stout, causing Gemma to wonder how he had coped with the strenuous efforts required of a builder.
“I weren’t always like this, you know.” He patted his rotund belly. “All this were muscle and one bit. But I haven’t been able to work since the accident, and it’s all turned to blubber.”
“You’re not married, Mr Higginshaw?”
“I am, but not for much longer. She did a runner the minute the money dried up. Been gone three months now. Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”
“No problem. Are you aware that you were under investigation by the North Shires Insurance Company?”
“Aye. I know that middle-aged bint had been watching me. Haven’t seen her for a week or three, mind. Her and that little fella followed me all round Harrogate on Saturday afternoon about two months ago.”
Gemma’s interest piqued. “Little fella?”
“Don’t know who he is. A bit of a shortarse. Scrawny too. No meat on him. I saw ’em getting out of a black Ford Ka near the bus station, and every time I turned round that afternoon, they were there. After that, I kept seeing her. Sometimes she was in town, and other times she was out here on the lane, and I figured she was watching me. And if she was watching me, she could only be from North Shires. And then she came to see me, gave me some right hassle. They think I’m scamming them, but I’m not. I can barely walk since the accident.”
Gemma had switched off long before Higginshaw finished talking. He had recognised Denise, he had spotted Joe, he knew what kind of car Joe drove, and he knew what they were doing. Moreover, his wife was not here.
Was it enough? The simple answer was, no. She didn’t have enough to arrest him on suspicion, let alone think about charges. She needed to get away, drive the thirty or so miles back to Sanford, bring herself up to speed on dates and times, and then come back and challenge him.
She stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr Higginshaw. I may need to speak to you again, but if so, I’ll get the local police to contact you first.”
“Hang about. You haven’t told me what this is about.”
Gemma paused as she retreated to the door. She turned to face him. “Well, Denise Latham, the ‘bint’ as you describe her, is dead. She was run off the road. And whoever did it may just be after the scrawny little fella… my Uncle Joe. And it’s possible that you, and your missing wife, may be in the frame for it.”
After the unkempt odour of the place, she felt glad of the fresh, if rainy air, when she climbed into her car. She felt tired and she was the wrong side of Harrogate for an easy ride home. Whether she chose to go through Leeds or head east for the A1, she was faced with a tough drive home.
She fired the engine, turned the car around and as she was pulling out of the gate, her phone rang. She stopped, checked the menu and read, ‘Joe’. She made the connection. “These calls must be costing you a fortune, Uncle Joe.”
“Yeah, well, you spoke to Gallego yesterday and he said I was off my tree, right?”
“He did.”
“There’s been another attempt. An hour ago. Right outside the hotel. And this time there was no question. Sheila and Brenda were with me. They saw this woman try to run me down.”
The news merely served to confirm the suspicion which had been growing in Gemma’s mind all day. “I’ll speak to Gallego later, when he’s had chance to doing a little poking around. In the meantime, Joe, have you heard of a man called Tom Higginshaw? Lives in a rambling, dirty old farmhouse outside Harrogate.”
There was a considerable pause, and she could picture Joe’s brow creasing as he searched his memory.
“Is it that guy Denise was shadowing a coupla months back?”
“Yes. That’s him.”
“All right, so I know of him. I never spoke to him.”
“You may not have done, but he recognised you and Denise. Do you know how far she got with her investigation? Cos if she found him out, he stood to lose about two million. It strikes me that would be a good enough reason to shut her up… and you.”
“Gemma, this is a woman going for me.”
“Yes, Joe, and Higginshaw’s wife is AWOL.”
The announcement brought another short silence on the Majorca end of the connection. “Do you know what she looks like?”
“Do you know what Killington looks like?”
“Nope.”
“Snap.”
“Listen, Gemma, a lot of Denise’s work was confidential, and she didn’t always tell me everything. She asked me to go with her that day to try and be more inconspicuous. If she had anything on him, it will be on her laptop. As far as I know Ray Dockerty took it away and to my knowledge, it was never returned. Why would it be? The flat was Denise’s. I had to move out virtually the minute she died. But I’m sure Dockerty will have it. She had no family to pass it to.
“Why the hell…” Gemma bit her tongue. The news that one of Leeds’ CID’s most senior detectives had taken away the laptop sent a flash of anger through her, before she remembered that the incident in which Denise had died happened within Leeds’ jurisdiction. She, Gemma, had been involved only as a liaison officer, and only then because of Joe’s relationship with the dead woman.
“Gemma? You still there, Gemma?”
“Yeah. Right. Sorry, Joe. Listen, I have to get back to Sanford, but I’ll bell Dockerty on my way back, and see if I can’t get the laptop from him. I don’t see why he needs to keep it anyway. I’ll also ring Gallego the minute I’m back in the office, and if you get to know anything more, bell me.”
“Will do.”
***
If Joe and his friends suspected that Inspector Gallego had been dismissive of their arguments, they were wrong.
A career based in and around Palmanova, Magaluf and Santa Ponsa had seen him deal with English tourists on all levels, from the simple, brutish lager louts, to the genuinely distressed who had suffered at the hands of pickpockets or more violent muggers. He had also handled his fair share of individuals like Joe Murray; people who imagined criminals lurking around every corner, keeping them under surveillance and waiting for the opportunity to strike.
As a result, although he remained circumspect, he was open to the possibi
lity that Murray was right.
After his interview with Anna Squillano, he looked further into her past and decided that she was beyond reproach. If the suspect, the unknown Killington, really was intent upon harming Joe Murray, it was unlikely that she had enlisted the help of the naïve Anna. But she had still needed access to the sun terrace of the Palmanova Corona, which involved securing a silver-coloured wristband such as that worn by all the guests.
Gallego knew the Corona. It was one of the town’s better hotels, part of a large, nationwide group, and if they were not always choosy about the guests they accepted they were meticulous when it came to employing staff. Any member of staff found to have been issuing identity bands to non-residents would be instantly dismissed, and it would not make sense for any member of the crew to risk his/her position to let a non-resident in.
But if that were the case, then the member of staff in question must have received a very large pay off, and Gallego had already instituted a check on the financial comings and goings of the hotel staff from the general manager all the way down to the lowest, meanest janitor in the place. He did not expect to find anything untoward.
While waiting for the results he considered other means by which Ms Killington could have secured the wristband, and he had obtained a sample from the hotel’s reception desk, where the bands were issued to guests.
It comprised a simple strip of plastic tape, about three quarters of a centimetre wide, punched with holes half a centimetre apart. Wrapped around the wrist it was clipped into place with a press-stud, and any excess tape cut off with scissors. Where, if not at the Corona, would Killington get hold of it?
He drove down into Palmanova, and just before reaching the main square, he turned left, drove along a short distance and parked outside a large, double-fronted shop, its white logo declaring Ferreteria in bold, blue letters: what the English would call an ironmongers.
The proprietor, a wizened, sixty-something did not sell them. “You will find them easiest on the internet. Very cheap. Only a few cents each.”
Gallego tossed the option around his mind, and dismissed it. Delivery from the internet would take at least a couple of days, especially on an island like Majorca. Killington would have needed advance information on where Murray was staying and inside knowledge of the hotel’s practices, procedures and equipment. Although not beyond the bounds of possibility, it was stretching credibility. There was too great a capacity for things to go wrong. Suppose Joe Murray and his friends had cancelled at the last moment? Suppose they had arrived in Palmanova and decided to go to another hotel? No, Killington had to be sure of everything before she secured the wristband.
The proprietor assured him that there was a wholesale hotel supplier in Palma, but it would not be easy for anyone to walk in off the street and buy over the counter.
Coming out of the shop, Gallego sat in his car and engaged the logic circuits of his brain. Minutes later, the obvious solution occurred to him, and he rang the Corona.
“This is Inspector Gallego of the Policia Nacional. I’m investigating the incident during an archery competition yesterday. Tell me, do any of your guests ever lose their wristbands?”
“It happens,” the clerk replied. “It can be a problem with children, but we have adults lose them, too.”
Gallego ended the call. Obviously, he would not be as difficult as he had initially imagined. It was perfectly possible that Killington had found a wristband on the street outside the hotel.
Whether or not Murray was right, Killington had entered the hotel, had taken part in a competition when she was not entitled to, and then disappeared, all of which called into question her motive. It also left Gallego with the problem of where to find her. There was no adequate description of her. No one had taken particular notice, and while the hotel’s CCTV covering the entrance and reception, had picked her up, the image was not good. No one, not even Anna, could identify her.
He started the engine, and was about to drive away when his mobile rang. He checked the menu, read ‘Palmanova Corona Hotel’ and made the connection.
After listening to the frantic, garbled words of the clerk, he killed the connection, jammed the car into gear and shunted the car round before tearing off for the Corona.
Chapter Five
Joe was still in a state of heightened anxiety after speaking to the clerks on reception, one of whom rang Gallego while Joe, Sheila and Brenda were waiting.
From the lobby they made their way out to the sun terrace where the two women promptly called together the other members of the 3rd Age Club.
Taking up a table in the shaded area by the pool bar, Joe, Sheila and Brenda sat to one side; facing them were the Staineses, Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson, flanked by George Robson and Owen Frickley. With the exception of Sylvia, who kept herself wrapped up in a thin cardigan over her printed dress, all of them were lightly clad in bathing costumes or shorts, ideal for sunbathing.
Drinks were ordered, soft for Joe, Sheila and Sylvia, various alcoholic beverages for the others, and when everyone was settled, Sheila and Brenda outlined the events of the morning and reminded them of the previous day’s incident.
“It looks like someone’s definitely got it in for you, Joe,” George Robson said after taking a healthy swallow of lager. “What you want us to do about it, Brenda?”
Joe wondered why George had directed his question at Brenda when Sheila had obviously taken the central role, but then he recalled that George and Brenda had an on/off, casual relationship.
Brenda had no hesitation in answering. “I want us to babysit him.”
The announcement brought a ripple of laughter from the group. Even Joe was forced to smile at the imagery her words generated. But his smile soon faded, replaced with irritable pride.
“I’m not a child. I don’t need bloody babysitting.”
Sheila disagreed. “I think you do. She’s tried twice – if we assume that the driver of the car is this mysterious Killington woman – and next time, she may succeed. We can make it harder for her if we ensure you’re never alone.”
Joe remained outraged. “Gonna be a bit awkward if I score. What are you gonna do if I’m getting it on with some woman? Bring your video camera with you?”
“That’ll be one for the family album,” Owen Frickley quipped.
George added to the humour. “I can see the tagline now. Yorkshire chef putting a bun in local girl’s oven.”
The remark brought a round of risible chuckles from the table and a disapproving ‘tut-tut’ from Sylvia.
“We do understand the meaning of discretion, Joe,” Julia Staines said.
Her husband, Alec, one of Joe’s closest friends, reinforced his wife’s opinion. “It’s not about invading your privacy, but making sure you don’t come to any harm. I think Sheila and Brenda are right. What kind of friends are we if we don’t look after you?”
Joe was secretly grateful for their concern, but he made another half-hearted protest. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
This caused another bout of laughter from the table, and it was left to Les Tanner to remind Joe, “You were never any use in a fight, Murray. When we were all at school, the girls used to beat you up. The intervening fifty years haven’t improved your ability to defend yourself.”
“I am not frightened of this woman.”
“Nobody says you are.” Sheila took his hand. “Be practical. She has the element of surprise, she’s very probably a good few years younger than you, and if she goes for you again, you’ll need an extraordinarily lucky punch to put her down. Now stop being silly, Joe. I’m sure we can protect you, without impinging on our holiday more than she already has.”
Brenda took up the initiative. “The question is how do we go about it? I think Joe is safe enough with Sheila and me while we’re out and about, but we can’t be with him every minute of the day, especially when we’re out here on the sun terrace.”
“Nights are out for me and George
,” Owen said. “While you lot are hanging round this dump, we’re boogying the night away in the town.”
George nodded his agreement while taking another mouthful of lager. Putting the near-empty glass back on the table, he drew a deep breath. “But we can watch out while we’re here.”
“When we’re not sleeping it off.”
The remark from Owen could have sparked a fresh round of ribald debate, but at that moment Inspector Gallego arrived and after introducing himself to those people who did not know him, drew Sheila, Brenda and Joe off to one side, where he spent the next ten minutes taking statements from them.
When he was finished he spent a few moments reading through the statements before delivering his verdict.
“I can see where you might think this is another attack, Señor Murray, but as in the last, er, happening, there is nothing to say that this really was an attempt to kill or injure you. It could well have been a driver in a hurry and not paying attention.”
This brought a babble of protest from Joe and the two women, against which Gallego held up a hand to silence them.
“However, I have to consider the possibility that you are right, and I will take my investigations forward with that in mind. I must now leave you all and try to trace this car. I will come back to you with any news as soon as I have it, and if anything else happens please get in touch.”
He stood, and with a formal half-bow, turned and marched stiffly away.
“A chocolate teapot,” Joe grumbled. “What has to happen before he’ll take me seriously? Does this lunatic actually have to kill me?”
Brenda pouted and looked into the air as if she were seriously considering the question. “Not kill. Injure perhaps.”
“Bog off.”
Following Gallego’s example, Joe got to his feet, but instead of leaving the hotel he marched to the safety barrier and looked out over Palmanova Bay, seeking peace in the gentle bobbing of boats on the calm waters.
“Life losing its shine, Joe?”
Peril in Palmanova Page 4
