A Cornish Killing

by David W Robinson

  The estuary upon which Hayle sat was the confluence of a number of rivers, but in Joe’s humble opinion, describing them as rivers was an exaggeration. The recent warm spell saw them shallow, the sandbanks exposed, and little in the way of boats on the narrow channels.

  With his customary candour, his grumpiness enhanced by the ill-tempered confrontation with the police inspector, Joe declared the town ‘boring’ and lacking the amenities usually found in a seaside haunt.

  “I think most people make for St Ives,” Sylvia said. “It’s only a few miles around the headland.”

  Nevertheless they found a pub which served an adequate Sunday roast, after which they took a tour of the main street, and the few shops that were open. By four o’clock, they were on their way back to Gittings, but having walked down, they chose to take taxis to avoid climbing the hills.

  Throughout the afternoon and the return journey, they ran through a series of variable conversations, discussing everything and anything from Cornwall to Yorkshire, the boost or otherwise that Brexit might bring to the Cornish Peninsula and the British seaside in general, and a host of other trivial, inconsequential subjects. Joe had only half a mind on their chatter. He was more concerned with the death of Wynette Kalinowski, his mind’s eye constantly replaying the argument he had seen between her and Charlie Curnow the previous day.

  He knew that Howell would be unhelpful, to say the least, but he also knew that the man would contact Don Oughton in Sanford, which might prompt Hattie O’Neill to open up a little more than her boss.

  Joe’s experience of crime in general, murder in particular, told him not to prejudge anything. He knew so little about the victim. She had something on Charlie Curnow, but it did not follow that Curnow had murdered her. In Joe’s opinion, the best witness to any crime was the victim, and he would need to learn an awful lot more about her before he could point an accusing finger at anyone.

  Curnow was a good start point, and when they got back to Gittings, while Brenda made her way to the bedroom for an afternoon nap, Joe went in search of the camp clown.

  He asked at Reception, was told he would find Curnow behind the scenes in the show bar, and when Joe wandered behind the backstage curtain, he found the area a hive of activity.

  The crew, most of whom he had seen on stage the previous night dancing or accompanying Winnie in her songs, were busy shifting basic scenery into place, presumably for the evening’s show. Another was touching up a jungle-style backdrop from a can of paint, and to one side, a technician (Joe assumed he was such because he did not recognise the man from the previous night) was changing a bulb in one of the lighting gantries.

  Clad in the same shabby, fawn trousers and trainers he wore when they first met, Curnow was sat at a makeshift desk off to one side, a small, tatty, dark green rucksack between his feet, and a half empty whiskey glass at his elbow. His brow creased as he looked over a morass of papers which looked like scripts.

  Joe ambled across to him and the park comic looked up and scowled. “I’m busy. What do you want?”

  “A word.”

  “I should have thought you’d had enough words for one day. That copper gave me a right going over after what you said to him.”

  “I told him what I saw, Charlie. I didn’t accuse you of anything.”

  “Just as well, cos I didn’t do anything. Now, like I said, I’m busy trying to rearrange things without her.” He gestured at the sea of paperwork before him. “Clear off.”

  Joe ignored him, looked around, found a chair, dragged it to the dressing table on which Curnow was working, and sat down. The comic’s temper, clearly on display when he dealt with Winnie on the car park, was visibly rising.

  “I don’t only run a café, you know. I’m a private investigator, too. I do odds and sods of investigative work for a local insurance company.”

  “I suppose you need them up there. All you Yorkies are known fiddlers, aren’t you?”

  Joe chuckled. “Insulting my ancestry won’t work. You’re a Brummie, and they know how to fiddle their tax receipts the same as anyone.” He leaned on the table and it rocked precariously, swilling whiskey around Curnow’s glass. “Thing is, I’ve investigated my fair share of murders in my time, and is not much that escapes me. If you’re in the frame, it’s because Howell had to get out of bed early on a Sunday morning, and not because I dropped you in it. All I said was I saw you arguing with her yesterday, and I heard her threaten you. What is it she knew about you, Charlie?”

  He glared at Joe. “Read my lips. Sod… off.”

  Joe shrugged easily. “Suit yourself. Your local filth will be all over this place like a cheap suit, and I know the cops. They’ll nick anyone they think they can charge, whether they’re guilty or not. I’m different. I look for evidence, I look for things the police miss, and when I find them – and you can be sure I will – then I accuse. From my point of view, Winnie threatened you, and she looked dangerous enough to hint that whatever she knew, it could cause you a lot of grief.” Joe stood up. “Trust me, I will find out, and if I twigged that it might just be enough for you to shuffle her off the mortal coil, I’ll take it to plod.” He marched away.

  “Just a minute, Murray.”

  A satisfied smile crossed Joe’s lips before he turned. “Yes?”

  Curnow pointed to the empty chair where Joe had been sitting, and Joe walked back and took a seat again.

  “You’re not the only one who notices things,” Curnow said. “When I bumped into you outside the café yesterday, I noticed you roll your own. How much do you pay for your tobacco?”

  “What’s this got to do with what we’re talking about, Charlie?”

  “A lot. Just answer the question.”

  Joe racked his brain. “It depends where I buy it. It’s cheaper from the wholesaler when I go for supplies for the café, but it gets involved tax-wise, and obviously they only sell it by the carton. If I buy from a newsagent or tobacconist, it costs me about eleven notes for a single pack.”

  Charlie lifted the rucksack. It reminded Joe of his own. Olive green, with four side pockets, two of them zip-up, the flap fastened with plastic spring clips, the webbing straps with comfort pads for the shoulders. Curnow sprung open the top flap and dug into it, before coming out with a pack of hand-rolling tobacco.

  He offered it. “Six quid to you, no questions asked.”

  Joe took the pack from him, and turned it over in his hand. It was sealed in transparent plastic, just the same as the packs he always bought, but on those he purchased from the wholesalers or newsagents, there was a distinctive label which declared it to be ‘UK – duty paid’. This pack lacked any such label.

  “Contraband?”

  “I told you. No questions asked. You want it?”

  Joe had no hesitation. He dug into his pockets, came out with a handful of change, counted out £6 and handed it over. “Now—”

  Curnow cut him off. “That’s what Winnie Kalinowski thought she knew about me. The wages here are crap, my ex-wife is expensive, and I have to top my funds up. And I’ll tell you something else, she could go to whoever she wanted with the information. I don’t care. If the filth nick me, the worst they’ll do is take whatever stocks I have. I can have a fresh load in within ten minutes of coming out of court. Now do you understand?”

  Joe tucked the tobacco into his pocket and got to his feet. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  As he walked away, Curnow’s voice stopped him again.

  “I can tell you this, Murray.”

  Joe turned and faced the comedian, and was confronted by a smile of joyous malevolence.

  “Winnie was a spiteful, vicious little cow, and I wasn’t the only one she tried to get her claws into.”

  ***

  The afternoon sun was dipping towards the Western horizon and the temperature had begun to cool when Joe emerged from the entertainment complex. A quick glance at his watch revealed that it was almost half past five, and he had been talking with Curnow fo
r the better end of forty-five minutes.

  As he made his way past Reception, Eleanor Dorning, Howell and Hattie came out of the building. Eleanor laid a generous smile on him, Hattie too, but the inspector was exactly the opposite, and made a beeline for Joe.

  “I have news for you, pal. You’re not outta the woods.”

  Joe rose to the challenge. “Have you ever considered another career, Howell? Maybe a customer service advisor for the Houses of Parliament? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Turns out Winnie the stiff wasn’t strangled. She was knifed. Under the rib cage. Hours before the Garner woman and her mutt found her. So don’t waffle to me about the size of your hands, Murray. Anyone can jam a knife into a body.”

  “Yeah, and anyone could jam a knife into your head, open it up and search for a brain. Do you have any evidence to link me to this girl’s death?”

  “We’re looking for it.”

  “Well, until you find it, get off my case.”

  Joe marched away and barely heard Howell instruct Hattie to follow, and speak to him. He was at the caravan, unlocking the door when she caught him up.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Murray, but the boss has insisting I talk to you.”

  “As long as your attitude is better than his, it’s no problem. Come in. I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

  There was no sign of Brenda, but the far bedroom door was closed, and Joe assumed she was still taking her afternoon nap. Putting a finger to his lips, he said, “We’ll have to keep the noise down. Brenda’s asleep in the back room.”

  Hattie nodded, removed her topcoat and sat down at the table while Joe switched on the kettle, and took down cups from the overhead cupboard. Preparing the brews and waiting for the kettle to boil, he asked, “What is it with Howell?”

  Hattie sighed. “He’s like that most of the time, especially when we have to deal with these caravan parks. We get a lot of trouble on them.”

  “Not according to Eleanor Dorning. She admitted that there is some bother, but it’s minimal; no more than two or three incidents a year.”

  The kettle snapped off, and Joe busied himself preparing cups of tea. He put the sugar basin on the table for Hattie to help herself, and poured a little milk into a small, stainless steel jug, which he then carried to the table.

  Hattie declined the sugar, clicked a couple of artificial sweeteners into her cup, and stirred vigorously.

  As she did so, she replied to Joe’s observation. “Eleanor’s being a bit… What’s the word… not exactly dishonest, but…” She trailed off, groping for the correct word.

  “Devious?” Joe suggested as he joined her.

  “Not quite. She’s minimising the problem.” She sipped the tea with approval. “God, I needed that. I’ve been on that rotten beach most of the day, and frankly, I’ve had enough for one Sunday.”

  “My niece is a detective inspector in Sanford, so I know where you’re coming from.”

  “Yes, I know. Howell insisted I ring them, and speak to the chief superintendent there, but he wasn’t in, so I ended up speaking to DI Gemma Craddock, and she told me she was your niece. She also told me that if we didn’t keep you in check, you’ll solve this killing before we get anywhere near.”

  Hattie giggled, and Joe had to divert his eyes from her ample breasts, which wobbled suggestively as she laughed. He always told himself that his hit and miss relationship with Maddy Chester was sufficient to keep his libido in check, but there were times when…

  He brought his rambling thoughts under control. “Gemma’s being a bit too kind there. It’s true, I do poke my nose in where it doesn’t concern me, and I usually get it right, but that’s not to say that the police are a total load of numpties. It all depends on the SIO. Some are happy to accept my help, others aren’t. Your boss falls into the latter category, and before we go any further, I can tell you that this is not the first time I’ve been suspected of actually committing the murder.”

  “I know that, too. Gemma told me. Ritchie – Inspector Howell – is a bit of a control freak, and he’s not happy with the idea of someone like you poking around, and it makes it worse that it’s on Gittings.”

  “Which brings us back to Eleanor Dorning and her insistence that there’s no trouble here.”

  Hattie drank more tea, and Joe left his seat, dipped into the overhead cupboard again and came out with two packets of biscuits, which he placed on the table. He took a digestive, and invited Hattie to help herself.

  “So what’s the real situation with Gittings?”

  Hattie, chewing through a rich tea biscuit, waited a moment until she had swallowed a mouthful, and then said, “It’s not just here. There are half a dozen caravan parks in this area, and they all have the same problem. Theft.”

  Joe was unimpressed. “I should imagine it’s a fairly common problem in seaside resorts anywhere. People on holiday tend to be less careful about their possessions. Plus, you have any number of strangers coming into your accommodation; cleaners and the like.”

  “Bang on the mark,” Hattie replied. “Without exception, these parks use contract cleaners, and no matter which park we’re talking about, they all work for the same company, based in Penzance, but employing local people for their various contracts: here, Newquay, Bude, Mousehole, Falmouth, wherever. They usually have the contract for cleaning whichever caravan park or holiday camp is concerned, but the thieving seems to be concentrated in this area; Hayle and St Ives. And the stuff which is taken is the usual. Money, if it’s left lying around, and small items which can be sold fairly quickly.”

  “Cameras, phones, that kind of thing?”

  “Yep. There’s any number of second-hand dealers all over the county who’re happy to buy that kind of stuff.” Hattie helped herself to a second biscuit. “You don’t mind, do you? I didn’t get much lunch.”

  “Help yourself.”

  Joe ruminated for a moment while Hattie finished her second biscuit. “And this is what Howell wanted you to tell me when he asked you to have a word?”

  “No.” Hattie paused a moment as if wondering how to put the truth to Joe. “It wasn’t immediately obvious that Winnie he had been stabbed. The doc found out when he removed the clothing she was buried under, and he told me right away. I tried to ring Ritchie, but he didn’t answer. I get the feeling he was with you at the time.”

  Joe agreed. “I remember his phone ringing while we were talking, and he cut the call off.”

  “The thing is, Mr Murray, you can’t be cleared of suspicion. Mrs Garner found the body, and she’s in the frame, too. I’m not saying he seriously suspects either of you, but unless and until you can satisfactorily account for your movements between, say midnight and three o’clock this morning, you stay on our list.”

  “I don’t think that’s a problem. I was here all night, sleeping the journey off, and no, there are no witnesses to that.”

  Hattie cast a glance towards the closed door leading to the bedrooms. “Your wife can’t—”

  “Brenda is not my wife,” Joe interrupted. “She’s not my girlfriend either. There should have been another person with us, but she’s away on honeymoon, so Brenda and I agreed to share a caravan, on the understanding that she got the master bedroom, and I make do with the little playpen of the small twin room. It’s an economic arrangement, saving us the cost of an extra caravan, but we don’t sleep together, so Brenda can’t corroborate my whereabouts in the early hours of this morning. But you should talk to your boss, Hattie. He’s looking in the wrong direction, and while he’s concentrating on me or Ava Garner, the real killer is sat back laughing at you.”

  Hattie finished her tea, stood up and put her coat on. “I think he knows that, Mr Murray. Thanks for the tea, I’ll be around for the next few days, and if you learn anything, don’t hesitate to let me know. Ritchie might not listen to you, but I will.”

  Joe’s showed her out, closed the van door, and took out his laptop, booted it up, and began to make notes on what he
had learned during the day. An hour later, the job completed, as he put the machine away, Brenda came out of the back bedroom, and promptly asked whom he had been talking to.

  While never ceasing to marvel that she could look so good even after just crawling out of bed, Joe gave her a full account of his afternoon’s efforts, and with the time coming up to half past six, he dug out his camera, and put his coat on.

  Finishing a vital and invigorating cup of coffee, Brenda asked where he was going.

  “Top of the hill, on the dunes. The sun sets just after seven o’clock, and I want to try and catch it.”

  “Give me a couple of minutes, Joe, and I’ll come with you. I want to see this myself.”

  As always, Brenda’s ‘couple of minutes’ turned into a quarter of an hour, before they stepped out of the van, shivering in the evening chill, and strolled up the lane towards the beach.

  At the crest, from where they could look over the entire beach and bay, they met Sylvia Goodson and Les Tanner. Sylvia was well wrapped up, a woolly bonnet pulled down over her ears, a heavy coat buttoned up to the neck, and thick socks showing from the top of her sensible flat shoes. Tanner, too, was wrapped in a quilted coat, his head topped with a trilby hat, and he was busy fitting a lens to his Canon digital camera, and assessing the lighting.

  Joe had a similar model (a Sony) back in Sanford, and he had brought only a compact digital.

  “Just under twenty-five megapixels, Murray,” Tanner boasted. “DSLR, came with two lenses, two batteries, and frankly the camera body cost more than your cheap little café makes in a day.”

  Joe held up his Nikon compact. “Sixteen megapixels, fits in your pocket, no faffing about, cost me a ton and a half, and at our age, you couldn’t count the difference in pixels between the pictures I produce and those you turn out.”

  “Like dealing with two schoolboys comparing bicycles,” Sylvia said.

  Brenda agreed. “Or the size of their—”

  “That’s enough of that,” Tanner interrupted.

  Brenda chuckled. “I was going to say laptop screens, Les.”