“She killed Denise in Leeds. She’s followed us here to get at me. How did she know we were coming here? And even if one of the members told her we were going to Majorca, how did she know which hotel we’d be staying at? And don’t tell me she went round them all looking for us, because I don’t believe it. She knew where we would be.”
The women remained silent. Sheila raised her hands and let them fall into her lap as a gesture of defeat. Brenda sucked cola through a straw.
Triumphantly, Joe said, “I’ll tell you how. Someone at that bloody travel agents told her.”
Brenda shook her head and put down her glass. “I don’t accept that.”
“No?” Joe was equally determined. “Well, let’s set someone the job of finding out, huh?” he picked up his mobile and dialled.
***
The Sanford Travel Agency stood in the centre of a dour parade of shops on Bargate, a narrow street just off Market Square. It was one of the older parts of the town centre, a hangover from the days when, aside from a few big, High Street names, like Woolworths and Lewis’s, all shops tended to be local.
Leaving her car at the police station a few streets way, Gemma wondered just how well supported these shops were, but as she stepped in, glad to be out of the heavy, spring rain, the staff uniforms reminded her that, although the place was still known as Sanford Travel Agency, it was owned by one of the major players.
It was three o’clock local time when she put Joe’s question to Phyllis Edison, the manager, who greeted her with the smile of a salesperson. It quickly changed to that of a battle-hardened businesswoman when Phyllis promptly denied the prospect with all the force of character so typical of Sanford women.
“No way at all. My staff would never discuss another client with anyone. The first thing I drill into them is confidentiality, and it’s constantly reinforced at our weekly training sessions. I selected each and every one of these girls myself, Inspector, and I guarantee that not one of them would do such a thing, and I don’t care what Joe Murray has to say.”
Waiting for the tirade to burn itself out, Gemma reflected on Phyllis’s use of Joe’s name. He was known throughout the town. Many people admired him, just as many – and for the moment she would include Phyllis Edison in that number for the simple reason that she used his full name, rather than referring to him as ‘Joe’ – disliked him, but everyone knew him, knew of his foibles and his intuitive mind.
“Mrs Edison, Joe’s life is under threat. Some woman has followed him – and the rest of the 3rd Age Club – to Majorca, and we need to work out how she learned where they were staying.”
“Then I suggest you talk to members of the club. It’s a clever idea, an organisation dedicated to helping the middle-aged and elderly enjoy life, but it’s filled with some of the biggest gossips in Sanford.”
Since she knew most of the members, Gemma could not disagree with Phyllis’s analysis. “It can’t have been one of them… well, it could have been, but a good number of them are over there with Joe right now, and he’ll be questioning them. I’m handling the Sanford end of the inquiry, and if we can’t clear this up, I will drag each of your staff to the station if I have to, and take statements from them.”
Phyllis snapped to her feet. “Very well. Let’s find out.” She marched stiff-backed from the office and out into the shop.
There were no customers. One young woman was busy tidying up the racks of brochures, and another was busy penning out advertisement cards for the special offers displayed in the windows. Two more women were working at their computers, and behind a pane of reinforced, probably bulletproof glass, a teller was cashing up her foreign currency.
Phyllis clapped her hands for attention. “Listen up everyone. Did any of you give away details of the hotel where the Sanford 3rd Age Club are staying?”
Although they all turned to focus on her, none of them reacted. Behind the currency desk, the teller ignored everything and carried on counting her pounds, euros, and dollars.
Phyllis turned a smug face on Gemma, but as she did so, a young blonde woman at the far end of the service desks raised a timid hand. Gemma returned the smug smile and Phyllis rounded on the girl.
“Have we not discussed this often enough, Lindsey? Have I not made it clear—”
Gemma interrupted. “That’s enough, Mrs Edison. Lindsey, could you tell me what happened?”
The girl appeared near to tears. “It was about a week ago. This woman came in and said she had a friend in the Sanford 3rd Age Club and she knew they were going away, but she’d forgotten which hotel they were staying in.”
“So you told her?” Phyllis fumed.
“Please, Mrs Edison.” Gemma smiled encouragement at Lindsey. “Go on.”
“I told her we couldn’t give out that kind of information and she started getting all worried and nearly crying. She’d promised to see her friend in Majorca and now she couldn’t because…” A note of pleading came into Lindsey’s voice. “I felt sorry for her, and I didn’t think it’d do any harm.”
“Well, it has,” Phyllis declared, “And I will speak to you personally on this matter.”
“Again, Mrs Edison, you can deal with that later. Right now, I need to know about this woman.” Gemma concentrated on the assistant again. “Did she give you a name?”
“Killingholme or something like that.”
“Killington?”
“Coulda been.”
“Could you describe her?”
Lindsey thought about it. “Not tall. Shorter than you. Blonde. thirty-summat, I guess. That’s it.”
“Well-dressed?”
“Not really. Well, tidy, I suppose, but nothing I’d wear. Boring y’know. Not fashionable.”
Gemma turned to Phyllis. “Do you have CCTV?”
“Yes, but it’s focused on the currency desk. Unless she bought currency here, she wouldn’t be on it.”
Turning back to Lindsey, Gemma pressed for more details. “It’s too much to hope that she actually booked the hotel or even a flight with you, I suppose?”
The young woman shook her head and with a sulky, cautious eye on Phyllis, replied, “She said she had to go to the bank and get the money, but she’d be back in an hour to book. She never came back.”
Again Gemma addressed Phyllis. “Thank you for your help. I don’t think Lindsey can help me any further.”
“No. But if she wants to help herself, she’d better start listening.”
Chapter Seven
“All right, so we know how she found you. That doesn’t get us any closer to knowing who she is.”
Listening to Sheila state the obvious, Joe’s mind drifted. Gemma had telephoned at about half past four, Majorca time, and told him of her findings at the Sanford Travel Agency, and ever since he passed the news on, there had been no other topic for discussion. He was beginning to find it boring.
The Palmanova Corona was typical of most all-inclusive hotels. The dining room was open from seven until nine thirty in the evening, but most guests arrived on the dot at seven o’clock, and the place was crowded.
The food was excellent, but there was a marked lack of variety which, in his opinion, brought the place down to a level similar to his own Lazy Luncheonette. His was a truckers’ café, and lorry drivers tended to seek the same food no matter where they stopped for their breaks. In a holiday hotel with a 4-star rating from the local tourist board, Joe expected a greater choice of dishes, and yet the place appeared determined to serve up the standard, and basic, cheap and cheerful English meals: fish and chips, sausage and chips, burger and chips. There were alternatives. Chicken Andaluz, for example, and paella, but they were poorly labelled, for which reason they were not popular.
“I think Gemma is onto something with that builder. Did you get to see the builder’s wife, Joe?”
Brenda’s question brought him back from his thoughts on the catering. “What? Oh. No. I only got a glimpse of Higginshaw himself, never mind his missus.” He pushed his
plate to one side, finished with the veal and overcooked vegetables, and took a sip of house red. “It doesn’t make much sense to me. Higginshaw might have guessed who we were but shining Denise on and trying to bump me off won’t save his two million quid.”
And Brenda had finished her meal and in deference to her greater appetite took a much larger swallow of the wine. “So, come on, Sherlock. Who is it, then?”
“The sixty-four dollar question.” Joe’s brow furrowed.
Sheila eyed the service counter. “To pudding or not to pudding. That is the question.” She concentrated on Joe. “Who else would have reason to attack both you and Denise?” Her eyes roamed back to the food on offer. “Perhaps a dish of fruit salad.”
Joe was not ready to let her get away so easily. “You have to remember that Denise was driving my car when she was killed. I still believe that Killington thought I was at the wheel when she ran the car off the road. If I’m right, it means I was the target, and Higginshaw can’t possibly be responsible. We need to look at other suspects.”
Brenda pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’m with Sheila. Pudding first, murderers after. You want anything while I’m at the counter?”
Joe shook his head and the two women went off to the dessert.
Left alone with his thoughts, Joe ran through a mental catalogue of women who might want him dead. In the space of a few seconds he had half a dozen on the list, and three of those had been convicted of murder. He eliminated them immediately. They were still in prison. As the list grew, he added those who had been sentenced for lesser offences; manslaughter, aiding and abetting, conspiracy, attempts to pervert the course of justice. He had no idea how many of them were still inside, out on licence, or had served their sentences and been released.
Not for the first time he wished he were home where all the information he needed would be to hand.
“We understand where you’re coming from,” Sheila said when he expanded on his theory, “but you shouldn’t dismiss Higginshaw so quickly. His wife is unaccounted for, and until that changes, he – and she – are possibles.”
Joe left it at that and excusing himself, left the dining room to step outside for a smoke.
With the time coming up to eight o’clock the sun had dipped towards the western horizon, and hung in the sky just above the hills, a blazing orb casting a crimson glow across the calm waters of the bay and the surrounding land. Down in the town the first lights had come on in the bars, restaurants, and hotels. Soon, with the coming of night, Palmanova would burst into life. Hen parties, stag parties, revellers of all nationalities (but mainly British) would come out ready to burn off energy in an orgy of drinking and dancing, singing and smooching.
He wondered idly how many young women would wake tomorrow morning and anxiously reach for the pregnancy testing kit. How many young, betrothed men and women would greet the new day lying alongside a stranger of the opposite sex? Unlike many of his peers and contemporaries, Joe did not disapprove. These youngsters were at the age where life was to be enjoyed. They lived in the here and now, and they would worry about tomorrow when tomorrow came.
Had he been so different when he was their age? No. It was true to say that in a working class backwater like Sanford, foreign holidays were unheard of back then. In his youth, it was Blackpool, Mablethorpe and Torquay, rather than Benidorm, Majorca, or Torremolinos, but the principle was the same. You’re a long time dead so get out and enjoy life while you can.
He recalled waking on the hard floor of a police cell in Skegness. George Robson was snoring on one of the concrete slabs that passed for a bed, Owen Frickley was on the other, and all three had been locked up for being drunk and disorderly. How many young men and women mingling in the street lights in Palmanova would find themselves in the same position tomorrow morning?
Live now. Let tomorrow hang.
Joe reflected that he didn’t have many more tomorrows to come. Even fewer, if Killington had her way.
As his thoughts turned in this gloomy direction, he suddenly realised he was alone. For all their determination to ensure his safety, the 3rd Age Club had forgotten about him.
A sly smile crept across his face. Like a prisoner suddenly aware of an opening, he decided to make a break for it.
***
“YES!”
A triumphant Gemma shouted the word at the empty room. She had Higginshaw banged to rights. He was trying to scam the insurance company.
Denise, as befitted a former detective sergeant, had done a first-class job of investigating the builder. She had kept him under surveillance for over a week, discreetly following him wherever he went (including the day she had taken Joe with her) and monitored him from the lane outside his farmhouse, from which vantage point she had taken several videos.
The footage could not be considered definitive proof of anything, but it clearly showed Higginshaw carrying out occasional, heavy tasks which he said he was incapable of. Simple things like climbing a ladder to clean the windows, pottering in the garden and then moving what appeared to be heavy wheelbarrow full of the usual garden detritus. Higginshaw may have been injured, but he was not as bad as he made out, and Denise made that clear in her case notes, copies of which Gemma hoped she had deposited with North Shires.
The final video and the last note she made were both dated two weeks before Denise was killed, and it seems significant to Gemma that there was no mention of Higginshaw’s wife, but then again Higginshaw had insisted she had left him before Denise’s investigation got under way.
Was that true? Gemma had no way of knowing, but she knew how to find out.
Outside, night was falling upon Sanford and she knew her next move would not be popular, but at a pinch she could always lay blame at Superintendent Dockerty’s door. Hadn’t he told her to keep him informed?
She picked up the telephone and dialled the North Yorkshire police in Harrogate, asking to be put through to CID.
Over the next ten minutes she outlined the situation to a Detective Constable Lacey, the duty officer, and notwithstanding his complaints – respectfully phrased in deference to her rank – she received an assurance that Higginshaw would be brought in for questioning first thing in the morning, to which she replied that she would travel to Harrogate to interrogate the builder.
“I’m particularly interested in the whereabouts of his wife. I have a suspicion she may be guilty of murder and we need to find her as soon as we can. You understand?”
“Perfectly, ma’am,” came the weary response.
Cutting the connection, Gemma next phoned Joe, but getting no answer she tried Sheila instead.
“Hello, Mrs Riley. It’s Gemma Craddock. I’ve been trying to get hold of Uncle Joe, but he’s not answering.”
Sheila sounded on the verge of panic. “We can’t get him either, and we can’t find him. He’s disappeared, Gemma. Vanished into thin air.”
***
At the Palmanova Corona the air was thick with worry and recrimination.
Calling a meeting of the 3rd Age Club on the open deck of the upper lounge bar, Sheila told them of the discovery she and Brenda had made.
Although they disapproved, they had thought nothing of it when Joe had disappeared for a cigarette. It was only when he didn’t return after half an hour that they began to worry, and as twilight fell they scoured the hotel looking for him. He was not in the dining room, he was not in any of the three bars and when they checked his room they got no answer. More worried than ever they inquired at reception, but none of the clerks had noticed him leaving the hotel.
It took a long time but eventually they managed to persuade the duty manager that Joe could be in some danger, for which reason they needed to check his room. Protesting that it could be construed as an invasion of a guest’s privacy, the manager eventually capitulated but only after Sheila and Brenda agreed to accept full responsibility.
“Do you think it’s worth switching on the video camera on my phone?” Brenda asked as t
hey hurried along the corridor towards Joe’s room.
“Whatever for?” Sheila asked with a feeling that she already knew the answer.
“Catching Joe at it with a woman might be useful when we come to ask for a pay rise.”
Sheila suppressed the urge to smile. The situation was too worrying for humour.
Joe was not in his room. None of his belongings had been removed, and when they checked the safe, they found it open and empty.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Sheila said. “Joe doesn’t use the room safes when he’s on holiday. He doesn’t trust them. He keeps his passport and money with him at all times.” She turned anxiously to Brenda. “Perhaps he’s just gone for a walk.”
Brenda, who beneath her humour could not hide her own unease, forced a smile. “Maybe he really has trapped off with some woman, and they’ve gone to her room instead.”
Sheila checked her watch. “It’s not nine o’clock yet. A bit early for shenanigans.”
This time Brenda’s sly grin was genuine. “Take it from an expert, it is never too early for shenanigans.”
After reporting to the 3rd Age Club, Sheila laced into them.
“We were supposed to be looking out for Joe, and as bodyguards, we are simply appalling. And I don’t exclude myself from that.”
Alec Staines tried to inject a note of optimism. “He’ll be all right, Sheila. Joe always comes out on top.”
“To my knowledge, Alec, this is the first time he’s ever been faced with a homicidal maniac.”
“There was that time at your place,” Brenda said, reminding her of an incident some years previously when Sheila had been faced with a shotgun-wielding, serial killer.
“That’s true, but it was me facing a homicidal maniac. Joe came in to help.” Sheila appealed to the group as a whole. “Joe is our friend. We can’t rely on the local police to protect him. It’s up to us to do it.”
Les Tanner raised a hand. “Allow me to make a suggestion.” He got to his feet so everyone could see and hear him. “Murray is not in the hotel, so the chances are he’s gone down into the town. Knowing him, he’s probably gone looking for this woman. Robson and Frickley are down there, too. Why don’t we telephone them and ask them to keep an eye out for him? You know those two. We’ve been here four days and they know every pub in the town. If anyone can find him, it’s them, and we could ask them to ring you, Sheila, or you, Brenda, when they find him so that we can make arrangements to go down and bring him back here… or at the very least stay with him for the rest of the evening.”
Peril in Palmanova Page 6
