Peril in Palmanova

by David W Robinson

  He’d already sensed a presence alongside him, and he turned to find Julia Staines at his right shoulder.

  About the same age as him, in her mid to late-fifties, she was an outstandingly attractive woman, and many years previously, back in their youth, Joe had hankered after a serious relationship with her, but even then he had realised that Alec Staines presented a much better prospect. He was taller, and in better physical shape than Joe, and as a self-employed painter and decorator, he was able to offer Julia a similar, prospective income and the security that went with it, but without actually living on the job, as Joe did in the old Lazy Luncheonette.

  “Any attraction life had for me, Julia, disappeared when Denise was killed, and my biggest problem right now is getting people to listen to me.”

  Julia rested her left hand on his right as they leaned on the barrier. “We’re all here for you. I know that that’s not much consolation, but…” She trailed off, and he guessed she was having trouble putting her thoughts into words.

  He delivered a wrinkled grin. “If I were thirty years younger and bigger than Alec—”

  “I’d be thirty years older than you.”

  ***

  Back in Sanford, with the time coming up to five thirty, Gemma agreed with Joe.

  She had spoken to Gallego, listened to his account of events in Majorca, and accepted his slightly circumspect opinions, but all her instincts and an ingrained knowledge of Joe’s astute

  thought processes told her that her uncle was indeed, in danger.

  Not that she blamed Gallego for his approach. There was, as far as she could judge, little hard evidence, and Palmanova was the kind of resort that was popular with the British, which meant the inspector probably had a lot more on his plate than unsubstantiated attempts on the life of another Brit.

  Normally, she could rely upon Joe to arrive at a logically deduced conclusion, but in his current state of mind, grieving for Denise Latham, he was unlikely to be at his most perceptive. It was up to her, to see if she could narrow down the possibilities at this end.

  A brief conversation with Ray Dockerty in Leeds secured an appointment with him for ten o’clock the following morning, and the superintendent assured her that the laptop in question would be dredged from the evidence room. In the meantime, failing any further communication from Majorca, there was little else she could do.

  She was getting her belongings together when Oughton stepped into her office. A few minutes of amiable, inconsequential chat followed, at the end of which the superintendent asked, “Have you considered Kilburn-Corbin?”

  “They’re both still inside, sir.”

  “Yes, I know they are, but their wives were released some time ago, and I know that Kilburn’s wife is in Sanford Hospice. Is it possible that Killington is related to her? After all, when Joe helped send her husband to prison for life, he ruined all their plans, and I think Jan Kilburn might have wanted revenge. Obviously, she can’t deal with the matter herself but she may have relatives trying to do it for her. Or even a sister so angry with what’s happened to Jan that she’s prepared to go for Joe.”

  Gemma, convinced that she had a better lead in Tom Higginshaw, doubted it, but in the interests of efficiency, she thought it worth following up, and ten minutes later, she pulled out of the car park at the rear of the police station, and joined the post-rush hour traffic moving out of Sanford.

  Her route would normally take her along Leeds Road to the flat she shared with her partner, but instead of heading west, she turned northeast on Wetherby Road, and headed out into the more rural outskirts of town, when she eventually turned into the placid, calming lawns and gardens of Sanford Hospice, where, after some discussion with the senior manager, she was eventually shown to the single room housing Janet Kilburn.

  Her husband, Bradley, along with his accomplice, Alan Corbin, and had been sentenced to life, with a minimum term of twenty-five years for several murders. Janet and Corbin’s wife, Melanie, had been given eighteen months for aiding and abetting. The hospice manager explained that Janet had been released early suffering from lung cancer, and moved to end-of-life care, where she had remained for the last ten months.

  Gemma remembered her from her court appearance; a smartly dressed, good looking, if hard-faced woman of about forty-five, with a neatly coiffeured shower of blonde hair. She bore no resemblance to the shell of a woman permanently bedridden, oxygen tubes in her nose to help her breathe, her skin wrinkled and decaying, hair mostly gone – a result of chemotherapy, Gemma guessed – drip feeds in her arm, and barely able to speak.

  Gemma was there for half an hour, but achieved little. Janet denied that she had any relatives named Killington and she had had no contact with Melanie Corbin since her transfer from prison – something the hospice manager later confirmed. She wanted to know why Gemma was asking, and when she heard the explanation she gave a weak laugh which dissolved into a coughing fit.

  “If someone’s trying to kill Murray, good for them. I’ll see him on the other side and give him hell for the rest of eternity.”

  Gemma came away from the hospice at about seven fifteen, and considered the visit a waste of her valuable time. Even if Janet were involved, she was never going to say so. It was left to her, Gemma, and the efforts of Inspector Gallego, Joe, Sheila and Brenda, and the other members of the 3rd Age Club to track down the wannabe assassin and stop her.

  ***

  Joe woke suddenly, and for a moment struggled to recognise his surroundings. This was not Denise’s flat, and it was not Brenda’s spare room, where he was currently living.

  The logic and memory circuits clicked into place and the room took on the familiar layout of a single bed studio in the Palmanova Corona Hotel.

  He had returned to his room at half past four, and promptly hit the bed for a much needed afternoon nap. The LED display of his travel clock, a small, grey cube which had seen many years’ service, registered just after six. He had slept longer than he intended. He was due to meet the girls at seven o’clock in the dining room, and he still needed to shower, shave and dress for the evening.

  He rolled from the bed and padded across the room and out onto the balcony, overlooking the bay and beach down in Palmanova. It was his policy to take a short nap every afternoon and then spend an hour on the balcony enjoying a cup of tea and pottering with his netbook, downloading the day’s photographs from his compact digital camera, making notes in his journal, usually an account of the day’s events, his thoughts and feelings.

  Time was tight. He would probably have to cut short most of that process. But he would not do without his cup of tea.

  He turned back into the room, filled the kettle and switched it on. He got a cup and saucer ready – two sugars, and a tea bag, milk to come last, when he had added water and stirred – and then moved to the wardrobe from which he took his attire for the evening; a pair of beige, casual trousers, and a pale blue, short-sleeved shirt.

  From there he retrieved his towel from the balcony rail, where he had left it to air, and then made his way towards the bathroom.

  He didn’t get that far. Moving through the room he spotted a sheet of notepaper which had been folded in half and pushed under the door. It was probably from Sheila or Brenda, another effort to reassure him that they were there, looking out for him. He was grateful, of course, but it was getting out of hand, and he hated mollycoddling.

  Dropping the towel on the bed, he strode to the door and picked up the note. He unfolded it, read its short message, and his features paled.

  NEXT TIME MURRAY NEXT TIME

  Chapter Six

  The sun rose promising another hot and sunny day in Palmanova, and Inspector Gallego arrived at nine fifteen, after the hotel had rung him at eight thirty.

  With Joe in a state of high anxiety, the note had been the sole topic of conversation during dinner and throughout the previous evening’s entertainment, which amounted to several games of bingo and a young couple with half a dozen tra
ined, performing parrots.

  “Not exactly a West End show,” Joe had complained when he stepped out for a cigarette.

  Alec Staines and Les Tanner went with him. Les was a dedicated pipe smoker whereas Alec, like Joe, was a long-time cigarette man. Unlike Joe, he had never stopped, and he, along with everyone else, was surprised to find Joe smoking again.

  “Daft, I know, but with all this happening, I need a stressbuster, and the tobacco’s doing it.”

  “Talking of all that’s happening, Murray, are you any closer to identifying this woman?”

  Les Tanner was in the habit of referring to Joe by his surname. A former captain in the Territorial Army, now a senior administrator with Sanford Borough Council, he called almost everyone by their surname, and Joe had long-ago ceased to take offence at it. As far as he was concerned, it was a part of life’s rich tapestry.

  “I spoke to Gemma this afternoon, and she’s checking up on some muppet from Harrogate.”

  Alec found that amusing. “Not many professional hitmen in Harrogate.” He put on an imaginary upper-class accent. “They bring down the tone of the neighbourhood, don’t you know.”

  Joe snorted. “This guy’s a builder. You might know him, Alec. Tom Higginshaw.”

  Alec took a long drag on his cigarette. “Doesn’t ring any bells. Mind, it wouldn’t. I’m a painter. I don’t do much site work. My job tends to start when the brickies, roofers, plumbers and chippies have all gone home. One man band, is he?”

  Joe shrugged. “I don’t know anything about him… but Denise did, and it makes me wonder about the accident that killed her.”

  The entire evening passed in the same vein, and when they returned to their rooms Joe was escorted all the way to his door, despite his protests that he would be all right.

  It had been the same at breakfast, when Sheila rang him as he was dressing, and ordered him not to leave his room until she and Brenda knocked on the door.

  “I feel like I’ve been put into the witness protection programme,” he complained as they accompanied him to the dining room.

  His companions would hear none of it, and he noticed that one or other stayed by his side during the meal, even when he went to the servery to select his food.

  Gallego swung too far in the opposite direction for Joe’s liking.

  While he was happy to take away the offending note and subject it to routine but unspecified forensic tests, he still refused to accept it as definitive proof that Joe was under threat.

  “For all we know, Señor, it could be one of your English practical jokes.”

  “It’s not funny,” Joe complained, “and none of my friends would do this.”

  “I do not suggest your friends. I think perhaps others in the hotel have heard of these rumours, and they may be leading you on.”

  Joe fumed. “What will it take to convince you?”

  “Something more than this, Señor. Think about what has happened so far. A stray arrow misses you, a car misses you and you have received a threatening note. For someone who is trying to kill you, Ms Killington is a terrible shot, even with a car, is she not? And even this note looks as if it was written in lipstick.”

  The summary did not to assuage Joe’s anger. “The British police—”

  “Would do exactly as I do, Señor Murray. They may, perhaps, put a guard on you. I do not have the manpower to do that. Therefore I ask the hotel to keep an eye out for strangers, and I ask you to take care of your safety, and report anything to me which happens.” Gallego held up the note, now enclosed in an evidence bag. “And this, you have done. But you have not yet told me what this woman looks like. No one has. A general call to the hotels in Palmanova and Magaluf and Santa Ponsa has not brought this woman out of the shade and into the sun. I am sorry, but I do not have a huge team of detectives I can call upon to investigate what appears to be nothing worse than a bad joke put out by a foolish woman.” He held up the note again. “I will report my findings on this.”

  With a curt yet polite nod he turned smartly on his heel and took his leave.

  ***

  While the sun shone on the Balearic Islands, it was not so generous to the city of Leeds.

  When Gemma arrived at Millgarth Police station for a ten o’clock appointment with Detective Superintendent Raymond Dockerty, the sky was sullen, overcast and threatening rain driven by a stiff, easterly wind, and she was glad to get inside.

  After presenting her warrant card to reception, she was shown to Dockerty’s office on the third floor, where the big man greeted her with a warm handshake and friendly smile.

  “Good to see you again, Gemma, even if it is under trying circumstances.” He laughed as he waved her into the visitor’s chair opposite. “But that seems to be the hallmark of our meetings, doesn’t it?”

  Gemma returned a weak smile. She had not forgotten the days when Joe had been suspected of murder, and the manner in which Dockerty had effectively reduced her to carrying out work which would normally have been the province of a detective constable.

  She made an effort to suppress her irritability. “It’s good to see you too, sir.”

  Dockerty relaxed, half turning his chair so he could look one way at her and the others through the windows. “So, what’s this about Denise Latham’s laptop?”

  As briefly as she could, Gemma related her inquiries of the previous day, and outlined her suspicions. “I have to stress, sir, that I have absolutely no evidence to suggest that Higginshaw was involved in Denise’s death. I don’t even know that Higginshaw is trying to scam the insurance company, but even the Spanish police are beginning to suspect that Joe is being targeted. When I spoke to Joe yesterday, he was the one who suggested Denise’s laptop. If she had uncovered any evidence at all that Higginshaw was pulling a fast one, it will be on that machine. What I’d like to do, with your permission, is take the laptop away and go through the files, see what, if anything, I can uncover.”

  The superintendent drummed the fingers of his left hand on the desk, then suddenly turned to face her again. “The inquiry into the accident is our case, Gemma, not yours. We asked you to liaise with Joe. As far as we’re concerned it was a hit and run, and we’ve made precious little progress in tracking down the other vehicle. I’ll grant your request, and you can take the machine away, but I want it clearly understood that if you find anything, it comes back to me. I don’t want you, or North Yorkshire taking over the inquiry. Understand?”

  It was exactly what Gemma had expected. “Yes, sir, but I assume you’ll credit my role in the investigation.”

  He smiled broadly. “I like police officers with one eye on their future. Have you ever considered a transfer to Leeds? You’d be more than welcome on my team.”

  Gemma laughed. “Thank you, sir, but for the moment I’m quite happy in Sanford.”

  Dockerty reached for the phone. “Well, the offer’s there when you’re ready to change your mind. Let me get that laptop for you.”

  ***

  Back in Palmanova the day dragged on with its usual level of indolence. The Sanford 3rd Age Club broiled in the sun, occasionally turning over to toast the opposite side, scuttling for shade now and then, seeking respite from the heat, in the seating near the pool bar.

  They stayed together as a group always ensuring that no fewer than two people stayed with Joe at all times, and he found it irritating in the extreme. Yet, he recognised their concern for his safety, and as the day moved on he felt less and less anxious, less inclined to look around seeking this mysterious Killington woman.

  Here in Majorca, he was out of his depth, out of his natural element. His forte was observation coupled to logical deduction, and it usually applied to other people, not himself. There was nothing and no one to observe. Lacking an adequate description of Killington there was little point in studying the guests: she could be any one of them. But somehow, he doubted it. Anna, wandering round the area looking for younger people to take part in the water polo match, would recognise
Killington in an instant, and hadn’t he already been told that the woman was not staying at the Palmanova Corona?

  And yet, she had managed to gain access not once but twice, the first time to grab the bow and arrow, the second to push the note under his door.

  He knew from experience that such manoeuvres were not difficult. A busy hotel, people coming and going all the time, it was easy to slip in unnoticed and mingle with crowds of holidaymakers. But as he thought about it, how did she know that he, Joe Murray, or indeed, the Sanford 3rd Age Club would be staying at the Palmanova Corona? It could not possibly be coincidence that she was here at the same time. She must have followed them.

  He put the question to his two companions.

  “You dealt with the booking, Brenda. You’re the one who’s pally with the travel agent in Sanford.”

  Brenda, on the verge of nodding off to sleep, sat up instead. “I am, Joe, but Phyllis would never give out details on clients. I know her. I’ve known her years and she understands confidentiality.”

  Sheila confirmed it. “Phyllis and I were in secretarial college together forty years ago, and she is the model of business efficiency.”

  “But she’s only one of the staff there isn’t she? What about the others?” Joe had been reclining, half-propped up on his lounger. To make his point, he sat upright, swung his feet to the tiles and faced them. “Let’s make some assumptions, eh? Let’s assume this is for real and not a figment of my imagination as Gallego thinks. And let’s imagine this woman has already killed Denise and now she wants me—”

  “Now there’s a thought, Joe,” Brenda interrupted. “Suppose she killed Denise as a love rival and she wants your body.”

  “It could happen,” Sheila teased.

  “If she’s madly in love with me, she’s got an odd way of showing it. You don’t tend to shoot your lovers with a bow and arrow, or try to run them down in the middle of the street. Get real, will you?”

  “Then what are you driving at?” Brenda demanded. “Come on. I don’t have all day. I have some serious sleeping to do.”