Copyright © 2019 by David W Robinson
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No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Dark Edition, darkstroke, Crooked Cat Books 2019
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The Author
David Robinson is a Yorkshireman now living in Manchester. Driven by a huge, cynical sense of humour, he’s been a writer for over thirty years having begun with magazine articles before moving on to novels and TV scripts.
He has little to do with his life other than write, as a consequence of which his output is prodigious. Thankfully most of it is never seen by the great reading public of the world.
He has worked closely with Crooked Cat Books and darkstroke since 2012, when The Filey Connection, the very first Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, was published.
Describing himself as the Doyen of Domestic Disasters he can be found blogging at www.dwrob.com and he appears frequently on video (written, produced and starring himself) dispensing his mocking humour at www.youtube.com/user/Dwrob96/videos
The STAC Mystery series:
The Filey Connection
The I-Spy Murders
A Halloween Homicide
A Murder for Christmas
Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend
My Deadly Valentine
The Chocolate Egg Murders
The Summer Wedding Murder
Costa del Murder
Christmas Crackers
Death in Distribution
A Killing in the Family
A Theatrical Murder
Trial by Fire
Peril in Palmanova
The Squire’s Lodge Murders
Murder at the Treasure Hunt
A Cornish Killing
A Cornish Killing
A Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery (#18)
Chapter One
Charlie Curnow’s smartphone was set to ‘vibrate only’ when text messages came in. He preferred it that way. The less people were aware of him and his business, the better he liked it. But there were those times when, despite his craving for privacy, his actions spelled out something in the offing. Times such as now, when he received the message, RWYA (ready when you are). After he read it, he downed his second whiskey in one gulp, popped the glass back on the bar, and slid from his stool.
“Idle hands and the devil making work and all that,” he said to the barman, and made his way unsteadily to the exit, followed by a muttered, “Drunken old sod,” from behind the bar.
Once outside, the fresh air stabilised Charlie slightly. He told himself that it was the close confines of the pub which made him woozy.
He crossed the road zigzagging through a queue of Saturday afternoon traffic, and meandered through the rows of cars in the long stay car park by the harbour.
The summer season was all but over, and yet there were plenty of tourists on the harbour side, snapping away at the open (albeit distant) view of St Michael’s Mount. It held no interest for Charlie. He had lived in Cornwall for almost twenty years and he’d seen it so many times that it failed to even register on his dimmed consciousness.
There was a time, not too long ago, when Charlie Curnow was a household name, frequently seen on TV as a stand-up comic and balladeer of the old-fashioned variety. The coming of observational comedy sank him, reduced him to the thankless role of entertainments manager at Gittings Caravan Park in Hayle. If it was beneath him (in his opinion) at least it kept a roof over his head and enough money coming in to keep him in booze and baccy. His wit was not fast or sharp enough for the pace of modern comedy, and the kind of ballads he sang were turned out ad nauseum by the current crop of boy bands.
It was a depressing scenario, and the prospects for the future were not good. At the age of 59, he had at least eight years to his state pension – assuming the government didn’t move the goalposts again in the meantime – but that would literally be a pittance. He’d been self-employed ever since he came out of the army. In other words, for most of the last thirty-five years, and with his typical lack of regard for forward thinking, he had never taken out a pension plan. His ex-wife had made off with most of their joint savings leaving him with the sad thought that retirement, giving it all up to enjoy a life of leisure, would never come, or if it did, it would be hand in glove with the Grim Reaper.
But if he was strictly small time, there were compensations, and some of them were in the cartons currently filling the boot of his ageing Renault Clio.
Like most things in Charlie’s life, the car was a clapped-out piece of junk. It had come off the production line sixteen years ago and it was beginning to show its age. The engine ran sweetly enough, but suffered the occasional miss, and according to a mechanic pal, it needed a new ignition coil. The central locking gave up the ghost long ago and because the only exterior lock was on the passenger door, it meant that had to be opened first, and Charlie had to lean in and press a dashboard switch to unlock the boot and driver’s door. When it came to appearance, matters were just as bad. Charlie didn’t know who owned the car before him but he/she had left it standing too long in the sun, and the paintwork was faded and peeling in places, allowing spots of rust to show through the dull silver-grey of the bodywork. Finally, only two of the four plastic wheel trims remained in place. The others had been missing for some time. Charlie had disposed of one in a dustbin on Gittings Holiday Park, and the other had worked loose and gone flying off during a journey to Newquay the previous winter. Fierce gales, heavy rain and an excess of whiskey ensured that Charlie remained oblivious to its disappearance until he arrived in Newquay. He wasn’t really bothered, but it did explain the reaction of other drivers who had overtaken and remonstrated with him.
Despite the car’s problems, amongst which Charlie also numbered an overflowing ashtray which, for the life of him, he could not detach and empty, the Renault suited his purposes. It got him from A to B, and it did not attract attention. Why should it? It was, after all, taxed, insured, and had a valid MOT certificate. When driving, Charlie stuck to the speed limits. Admittedly, it was more to do with conserving fuel and keeping down his expenses than any consideration for the law, but once again it helped him remain unobtrusive whilst on the road.
And such comparative anonymity was useful to him. During his frequent journeys to Penzance, the last thing he wanted was some nosy-parker cop asking him to open the boot.
The doors were already unlocked. Charlie climbed behind the wheel, slotted the ignition key home, and switched it on to open the electric windows.
In the passenger seat, Flick Tolley (who preferred the assumed Christian name to his real one, Frederick) jammed a hand-rolled cigarette into his mouth, retrieved a disposable lighter from the breast pocket of a short-sleeved shirt, and cupping his hands around the flame, lit up.
Charlie followed suit, and blew a cloud of smoke out through the open window. “Any problems?”
“Nope. But like you said, the price has gone up.” Tolley’s Cornish accent cut a fine contrast with Charlie’s West Midlands’ brogue, almost as if the two were from different countries.
Charlie tutted impatiently. “How much this time?”
Tolley held up four fingers of his right hand. “Four. And that don’t include my commission.”
Charlie dug out his wallet, and cast a sceptical eye on Tolley’s smoke. “You’re sure you haven’t taken some of your commission already?”
“Come on, Charlie, I’ve been doing this long enough for you to know that I don’t do that kind of thing. Check the cartons if you don’t believe me. I haven’t opened even one of ’em.”
Charlie took a wad of twenty-pound notes from his wallet, counted them out, put a few back, and then counted them again, and added a tenner to them. “There you go, sunshine. Four and a half, all up. Tell your mate three weeks. In the meantime get onto your contact in Falmouth, and tell him next week.”
Jamming the money into his hip pocket, preparing to leave the car, Tolley raised his eyebrows. “Next week? Bit soon, innit?”
Charlie tapped the side of his bulbous nose. “That’s why I’m the wheeler-dealer and you’re the gofer. We’ve a big party coming from up north this week. Some place called Sanford, in Yorkshire, and you know what those Yorkies are like for a good deal.” He jerked a thumb back towards the boot. “With luck and a following wind, I’ll shift most of that this week.” He checked the time. “Almost three o’clock. You’d better get back to Gittings. I’ll give it a quarter of an hour and follow you.”
Tolley climbed out of the car. “Roger, dodger. Catch you later.”
***
From one of the panoramic windows of the Waterside Shopping Centre, Wynette Kalinowski trained a pair of field glasses on the vista below and ahead of her. She was not studying the view of St Michael’s Mount. Instead her glasses were concentrated on the long-stay car park.
It was as she suspected. The joint absence of her immediate boss, Charlie Curnow, and Flick Tolley occurred too often for it to be coincidence. It was always on a Saturday (changeover day, and the slackest time of the week on any holiday park, not just Gittings) and they always contrived to arrive back at the park within fifteen minutes of each other.
An adequate singer and dancer, this was her third season at Gittings, and she had begun to despair of the big time. She had hoped that the experience of working on a holiday park would be enough to get the attention of an agent. She’d certainly sent out enough queries and showreels, but there were no takers, and she came to the sad conclusion that she would remain one of life’s also-rans, putting on turns in clubs and pubs throughout the lower end of the Cornish peninsula.
That being the case, she wanted something more from Flick than the occasional romp in his or her bed, and what she had just seen might just be the angle she needed.
Satisfied with her observations, she tucked the small glasses in her bag, and made her way back towards the escalators. She was on duty at six, she had bingo to call at half past eight, and a forty-five minutes song and dance spot at nine fifteen. Time, tide, and Gittings waited for no man… or woman.
Chapter Two
The dagger flew through the air. Joe dropped to the floor and rolled away. The glistening, steel blade whistled past him and embedded itself in the wooden jamb of the kitchen doorway.
As the murderous Snettitsky rushed him, Joe flipped onto his back and kicked out, his right leg flying straight up to catch the KGB agent squarely on the jaw. The Russian staggered back, Joe leapt to his feet, crouched and rammed his bone-hard skull into Snettitsky’s abdomen. It was like head-butting a block of concrete. He needed something sharper.
He stretched for the knife, still embedded in the door jamb, but Snettitsky grabbed him by the shoulders and hurled him across the café.
Joe tumbled over table 5, where the Daily Express lay open at the crossword page, now stained with spilled coffee. Crashing from the table to the floor, he rolled expertly to his feet, and as Snettitsky rushed him he lashed out with a side of his hand to the Russian’s throat. Snettitsky gagged and Joe leapt upon his back, wrapping his arms around the thick, muscular neck.
Snettitsky staggered around the floor, crashing Joe’s back into the soft drinks cabinet, the bare wall, and the glass front door, which shook in protest.
Joe’s grip loosened and Snettitsky shrugged him off. As the giant Russian turned to attack, Joe rushed towards the kitchen and the array of chef’s knives hanging on the wall.
Snettitsky intercepted him, and cast him to one side behind the counter. Joe’s head connected with the overhead shelf, rattling cups, saucers, beakers and dinner plates. Joe grabbed the handle of the large metal teapot he used for serving customers, and hurled it at Snettitsky. The Russian brought his arms up and as the teapot connected with his forearm, he brushed it aside, and it flew across the café, bouncing on a couple of tables before crashing to the tiled floor by the windows.
They half crouched in the cramped confines of the rear of the counter, both of them ready to make the next move, ready to parry the next move.
Joe leapt, his hands making for Snettitsky’s throat. The Russian sidestepped, caught Joe, turned him, and held him in an unbreakable headlock, his powerful arm coming around Joe’s neck and squeezing.
“The secret, Mr Joe. Now.”
“I’ll see you in hell first.” Joe’s voice was a rasping squawk.
“Then you take it to your grave.” The KGB man was out of breath. He had obviously never come across an opponent as tough as Joe.
As he spoke, he reached to his wristwatch, unclipped the winder and slid it out, exposing a long sliver of steel which gleamed in the overhead, halogen lighting. It came about Joe’s neck, and Snettitsky pulled with all his strength.
Joe’s eyes watered as his airway began to shut down. He had to do something quickly or face eternity. The knives he so desperately wanted were out of reach, and the only thing close enough was the chiller, just ahead of him. He reached a hand towards it. He was short by four inches. What was it he had thought when he head-butted Snettitsky? He needed something sharper? He jabbed a hard elbow back into Snettitsky’s lower gut, and this time, he heard the Russian gasp in pain. Snettitsky’s grip slackened perceptibly. Joe pulled forward and the steel choker bit into the skin of his neck. Determined that this would not be the end, he reached shaking fingers into the chiller and grabbed the first thing he could.
With a swift movement, he jerked his open palm over his left shoulder and rammed the stale, lemon meringue tart into the Russian’s face.
With a grunt of protest, Snettitsky’s grip loosened, Joe spun him and wrapped the steel line around the stout throat. He pulled with all his might and Snettitsky began to gag.
Triumph burned in Joe’s voice. “Nobody, but nobody gets the secret of my steak and kidney pudding. And you, Snettitsky, exit here…”
Exit here… Exit here… Exit here…
***
“Exeter.”
The sound of Keith Lowry’s voice woke Joe Murray from his vivid dream, and he took a moment to orientate himself.
Alongside him, Brenda Jump was immersed in the brochure for their ultimate destination, Gittings Holiday Park, near Hayle. Her MP3 player was plugged into her ears and she remained oblivious to everything around her, including Keith’s announcement.
A copy of Ian Fleming’s From Russia With Love lay face down on Joe’s lap. He had spent most of the six-hour journey from Sanford reading it, and the last thing he could remember was seeing the exit for Weston-super-Mare an hour and however many miles back. He only noticed that because the 3rd Age Club had once spent an Easter weekend there.
Keith slowed down and moved into the inside lane, ready for leaving the M5. He was due for a forty-five minute break as required by law. He’d already taken one such break on the outskirts of Knutsford in Cheshire, less than two hours after they left Sanford.
“You have to plan these things, Joe,” he had explained at the time. “If I push on as far as I can now, I’d probably get to, say, Gloucester, and then I’d need a second break in a layby on the A30… In other words, in the middle of nowhere, and your moaning old gits would be whining that
they need a cup of tea and the toilet. It’s better to take a break at Knutsford and then Exeter.”
Joe accepted the explanation without argument, but he was not out of questions. “And how long from Exeter?”
Keith pursed his lips in a supposed display of experience and intelligence. “A hundred miles… Say, two hours and change.”
As Keith pulled off the motorway, and made his way round to the service area, Joe checked his watch. A few minutes past one. It would be two o’clock before they left Exeter, which meant it would be getting on for half past four when they arrived at the holiday park. Not for the first time, he questioned the sanity of booking a week in Cornwall.
It was an unusual excursion for the 3rd Age Club. Usually, they went away only for weekends, but the distance involved (getting on for 400 miles) tempted the members to plump for a full week.
And this time, Sheila was not with them. She was still on honeymoon in the Cape Verde Islands. Joe envied her. Notwithstanding the nine-hour journey, he relished the prospect of a week in Cornwall, but he would still prefer the tropical sunshine of Boa Vista.
Like Joe, Brenda would miss her best friend, and Sheila’s marriage had prompted some changes. Joe had originally planned to share a caravan with his intermittent lady friend, Maddy Chester, but as a small-time TV personality, she had broadcasting commitments she could not get out of and, as a result, she had to forego the dubious pleasure of a week’s holiday with him (dubious because she preferred the sunny beaches of the Mediterranean to southwest England). Brenda, who would normally share with Sheila, suggested that she and Joe should share, with Brenda taking the double bedroom, and Joe sleeping in the twin, and he agreed.
“I just hope I don’t cramp your style,” he had said to her.
Brenda had responded with a customary smirk. “I’ll lock you out while I’m done with the lucky man.”
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