“At least our boys dug out some of the coal.”
He planned to hang it on the wall of The Lazy Luncheonette.
Overrunning her monthly budget, Brenda bought a couple of tops, and a pair of white and pale green, flower-patterned, casual pants, elasticated at the waist and ankles, of which Joe, with his usual candour, declared, “Too noisy and too tight across the bum.” The moment he expressed his dislike, Brenda paid for them.
Eventually, as was almost inevitable, they came to the Tate St Ives, and after a brief debate, turned and walked away. Joe never considered himself ignorant of art, but neither was he a connoisseur, and Brenda insisted that she would only go into the place if Sheila were with them.
They took a light lunch at the harbour side: genuine Cornish pasties, bought from a shop close to the café where they had had morning tea. Joe chewed through the crust, savoured the meat and vegetable filling, but ultimately declared his preference for steak and kidney pudding. Brenda ate barely half of her pasty, and inevitably the seagulls of St Ives feasted on the discarded remains. Breaking up the pies and throwing bits for the birds drew frowns of disapproval from people who Joe imagined were locals or regular visitors. There were signs all around asking people not to feed the seagulls.
Throughout the afternoon, Joe was noticeably quiet, mulling over the information Quint had given them, and assessing the possibilities and probabilities, and Brenda finally called him to order when they sat on the harbour side of the sea wall, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean beyond the calm waters of the bay.
“I miss Sheila,” she admitted, waving at the serene picture before them. “I can’t relax properly without her, but what’s worse I can’t draw you out. Not when she’s not here. What is it, Joe? Those kids we were dealing with earlier?”
Joe took his time rolling a cigarette, lighting up and then sitting back to let the calm of the warm, autumn day and the fine view of the sea and sand wash over him. He took a second drag, let the smoke out with a soft hiss, and watched the light breeze take it away.
“Like you, I’m probably missing Sheila. I would have preferred Maddy to be with us, too, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”
“Is it getting serious? You and Maddy, I mean?”
He puffed again on his cigarette and shook his head as he blew out the smoke. “If anything, it might be tapering off. Neither of us wants to be tied down, Brenda.” He gave her a wry smile. “I don’t need to tell you what that’s about, do I?”
“No, you don’t. The only reservation I have is how will I feel in ten years’ time? I always figured you, Sheila and me would grow old together, but it’s not to be, and, no offence, but I don’t see myself growing old with you.”
Joe laughed at her good-natured, albeit honest response. “No offence, and none taken. If it’s any consolation, I feel the same about you. You’re a smashing woman, Brenda, but if we set up home together, it would be world war three in a matter of days.”
Silence followed, and for Joe it was a long impasse, allowing the gears of his agile mind to mesh and turn over the events of the last forty-eight hours.
“You’re hard work sometimes,” Brenda said. “I left my mindreading skills at home, so you have to tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking about Quint and Flick. Quint reckons Flick is selling drugs on the park. It wouldn’t surprise me. Cornwall may be a tourism heaven, but according to my best guess, it’s an employment vacuum, and such work as is available, is probably low paid. Let’s face it, drug dealing is common in places like Sanford, where we have better employment prospects, so I reckon it would be just as common here, and if that’s so, Gittings won’t be exempt.”
Brenda took a moment to absorb the information. “Let me see if I get your drift. If Flick is dealing drugs, Winnie could have threatened to turn him in, and that might prompt him to get rid of her. Yes?”
Joe nodded. “That’s one angle, but there is another.”
Brenda raised her eyebrows. “Elucidate.”
Joe stared at her, his eyes wide open. “Elucidate? Where did you find that word? On the back of a cornflakes box?”
She chuckled at his ribbing. “The second angle?”
“Quint. You could see it in his face. He loved that woman, and we both know that love is a more powerful emotion than hate. She rejected him… Or at least, that was his view. It was there to be read in his eyes when he was talking to us. What price he followed her to the beach, begged her to reconsider, and when she told him where to get off, he lost the plot, thought ‘if I can’t have you, no one can’, and knifed her?”
Brenda’s face spread in amazement. “Good God. I never thought of that, but it’s so obvious when you do.” She spent a minute looking out to sea again, as if seeking inspiration, and then faced her long-time friend and boss again. “Should we be telling Sergeant O’Neill this?”
Joe, too, gazed out to sea, but his eyes were glazed, as if he were not taking in the magnificent view. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question, Brenda. I don’t wanna make life difficult for these people, the police or the crew at Gittings, but that girl was murdered, and you know my opinions on that. No one has a right to take another’s life, and if they do, then they should pay for it. Unfortunately, that tends to create a lot of flak for other people around them. Remember Holgate in Torremolinos? Innocent people were hurt in the process of exposing him; people like Josie Keeligan and Sandra Greenwood.”
Brenda nodded. “And the guy who ran that bar, Coyote’s. What was his name? Paul Wylie? Him whose wife was fooling around with George Robson.”
Joe echoed her nod. “We’re in the same situation here.”
“We always are. Whenever there’s a murder. How many alleged innocents did you hassle during the treasure hunt in Whitby? How many people did Sheila and I upset with that business at Squires Lodge? It goes with the territory, Joe, and you can’t avoid it. You should tell Sergeant O’Neill what Quint told us. Hell, for all we know, she may already be aware of it.”
Joe crushed out his cigarette on a nearby stubber, and got to his feet. “I’ll have a word with Eleanor Dorning first, see what she has to say.”
“And get them the sack whether they’ve done anything wrong or not?”
“I’ll keep their names out of it.”
***
They were amongst the first to arrive back at the coach at a quarter to four, and as they settled into their seats, Joe picked up his Ian Fleming paperback, Brenda settled for her MP3 player and a lifestyle magazine.
When the local bus arrived, many of the club members got off, and made their slow way up the steeply sloping car park to get on the bus, and as Keith had predicted earlier in the day, some of them were worse for wear for an afternoon of drinking.
Everyone was back on board just after four o’clock, he climbed into his seat, started the engine, and rolled gently out of the car park, following the signs for Hayle.
Joe found it impossible to concentrate on the novel. The fresh information from Quint played upon his mind, and no matter how hard he tried to dismiss it, he could not. Wynette Kalinowski’s death preyed upon him, the way so many murder cases had done in the past.
Experience told him that even the most complex murder cases boiled down to quite simple motives, and it was just as likely that Winnie had been murdered by Quint in a fit of jealous rage, as Flint covering up his purported illegal activities. Not only Flint, but Charlie Curnow too. There was nothing alleged about Charlie’s crimes. He was smuggling – if that was the correct word – contraband goods and selling them quite openly, and it was with some chagrin that Joe recused himself on being a party to that crime. Like any businessman, he cut the occasional corner, but The Lazy Luncheonette did not deal in stolen or contraband goods. Everything bought as stock and sold in the café went through the books.
With a curious counterpoint, he felt absolutely no guilt at having bought cheap tobacco from Curnow. Joe’s weak argument was that if
he didn’t buy it, someone else would, so he might as well take advantage of it.
When they got back to Gittings, by which time many of the passengers had to be woken from half-drunken sleep, Joe left the task of helping others to Brenda and Les Tanner, while he hurried across to Reception and asked to speak to Eleanor Dorning.
In stark comparison to many other people, she seemed to be genuinely pleased to see him, greeting him with a warm, generous smile, but when Joe asked if she could spare a few minutes, she had to (politely) decline.
“I’m on duty until eight o’clock, Joe, and I can’t get out of it.”
She looked good, smartly turned out in her company uniform with its dark blue, knee-length skirt, close-fitting, white shirt which accentuated her bustline, and the blue and red, patterned neckerchief.
Joe glanced around ensuring that none of his fellow members were nearby. “Well listen, Eleanor, how about I buy you dinner. Not here. Somewhere a bit better, a bit more, er, upmarket, shall we say?”
Joe was difficult to embarrass, and in common with many other people from Sanford, he did not mince words, but having posed the question, his ears began to colour at the awful realisation of having asked this woman (several rungs up the social scale from him) for a date. He anticipated rejection, but to his surprise, Eleanor’s smile broadened.
“That would be wonderful. Can I meet you here, say, quarter past eight? I know a little place just outside the town. Quiet, pleasant atmosphere and excellent food.”
Joe beamed. “It’s a date.” His smile faded. “Collar and tie?”
“No. They’re not that fussy, but if you’re dressing casual, they do like smart casual.”
“Quarter past eight. I’ll be here.”
He was almost skipping like a teenager as he made his way back along the accommodation lines to his shared caravan, where he found Brenda setting up her laptop in preparation for a call to Sheila.
“You’re looking pleased with yourself,” she commented without taking her eyes off the task at hand. “What’s up? Have you found a shilling?”
“Better than that.”
“Half a Crown then?”
“Even better than that, and before you mention money again, I’ve got a date.”
“Right, Joe.” Brenda concentrated on her laptop screen, accessing the wi-fi, logging on and opening up Skype. “I hope Sheila and Martin aren’t… What did you say? You’ve got a date?”
Joe nodded and pulled a chair up alongside her. “You’ll have to get Stewart Dalmer to look after you in the bar tonight. Eleanor Dorning is taking me to a local restaurant.”
Brenda pursed her lips demonstrating how impressed she was. “Proper little Lothario, aren’t you. Maddy Chester at our end of the country now the park manager at this end, what are you gonna do when we go to London?”
“I’ll probably pull one of the servants from the palace and end up with an OBE. Now are we talking to Sheila or what?”
The connection was difficult to establish, but at length they found themselves looking at Sheila’s paled features in the centre of the laptop’s small screen. Although she looked pleased to see them, there was a hint of emptiness behind her smile, and it took a little while for Brenda to find out the cause.
“Dicky tummy.”
“You’ve been drinking the local water, have you?”
Sheila denied Brenda’s accusation. “Bottled water all week, I promise you. It must be something I’ve eaten.”
“Does Martin have the same trouble?”
Joe’s question had to be repeated after the wi-fi connection broke and a minute or two passed before they could reconnect, at which point, Sheila told them that Martin was fine.
“We’ve had different meals, and anyway, he has a stronger stomach than me.”
She went on to assure them that she was still enjoying the break, but she was missing them as keenly as they missed her. They exchanged pleasantries on Sheila’s hotel and Gittings Holiday Park, and it wasn’t long before Brenda, having run out of inconsequential conversation, told her of Winnie Kalinowski’s murder.
Sheila was shocked, and after another wi-fi breakdown, she narrowed a disapproving stare on Joe, and went on to ask whether he was poking his nose in. Joe denied it, but he did so tongue in cheek, and Sheila scolded him for his failure to relax.
Joe dismissed her complaint. He was looking forward to a date.
Shortly before eight o’clock they stepped out of the van, locked up, and made their way towards the entertainment centre, but Joe veered off into Reception when he saw Les Tanner gesticulating wildly at one of the counter hands.
“I’ll just go and see what’s going on,” he said to Brenda.
She carried on towards the main building, and Joe continued to Reception to find Tanner, his face flushed a furious red, haranguing Eleanor and one of her female assistants.
“What’s the matter, Les?”
Tanner rounded on Joe. “My camera is the matter, Murray. It’s been stolen.”
Joe laughed nervously. “What? And you’re accusing these people?”
Tanner’s rage increased. “I’m accusing them of employing thieves.”
“Just calm down,” Joe advised. “The way you’re ranting, you’ll have a stroke. Did you not have the camera with you in St Ives?”
“No. I locked it in the caravan. I didn’t want to lug it around the town, and I assumed it would be safe there. I’ve obviously misjudged this place and the efficiency of these people.” His blazing eyes cornered Eleanor. “If you knew anything about management, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.”
She made a strenuous effort to appease him. “I can only apologise, Mr Tanner, but company policy makes it clear that we cannot be held responsible for property left in the accommodation. Naturally, I’ll fill out a report, and ensure that it’s passed to the police, but I don’t know what else I can do. You must be insured?”
Tanner’s rage barely subsided. “That camera cost me a better part of a thousand pounds, and of course I’m insured, but no amount of money will replace the photographs I’ve already taken.”
“Well, as I say—”
“Your apology is not good enough, madam. Rest assured, I will be submitting a formal complaint to your head office.”
Joe, keen to ensure that Tanner’s fury did not blight the evening’s prospects, intervened. “For crying out loud, stop being an old woman, Les. You can’t hold these people to ransom for your irresponsibility. Leaving the camera in the caravan was a bloody stupid trick. Even if you didn’t want to carry it round St Ives, you could leave it on the bus. For all his moaning, it would have been safe enough with Keith.”
“I never considered you particularly pleasant or dependable, Murray, but I never expected to see the day when you would side with strangers against me.” With that, Tanner stormed from the building and marched, stiff-backed, to join Brenda and Sylvia Goodson outside the entrance to the show bar.
Joe gave Eleanor a sickly smile. “Sorry about that. I hope it doesn’t change our plans?”
Obviously relieved to see the back of Tanner, she returned the smile. “No. It’s fine, Joe. If you give me five minutes, I’ll finish off in here and meet you outside.”
Chapter Ten
According to Eleanor, The Smugglers Inn was poorly named.
“This part of Cornwall was never popular with smugglers,” she explained. “So far inland there isn’t enough sand and there are too few coves.”
It was a cosy, stone-built pub/restaurant on a narrow road between Hayle and Penzance, less than fifteen minutes’ drive from Gittings.
Joe was less interested in the place’s name than the ambience, which he found perfect for a discreet tête à tête. The lighting was low, the tables were arranged in booths which enhanced their privacy, the background music was set at a volume which allowed conversation, yet prevented others eavesdropping, the staff did not pester them, and while Joe was none too pleased at the exorbitant prices, the food, whe
n it arrived, was as good as Eleanor had promised.
They both rejected starters, and while Eleanor opted for a vegetable quiche, Joe’s conservatism favoured a char-grilled rib-eye steak, and when it came, he gave it top marks.
“Not something I normally say about cooks… other than myself, naturally.” He smiled broadly to hint that he was joking, and Eleanor returned the smile.
They kept the conversation neutral. Joe had questions which he needed to ask, but he was anxious to avoid spoiling the convivial atmosphere, at least until the meal was over.
She asked how his day had been, and he told her of their visit to St Ives, eliminating reference to the fight between Flick and Quint. Returning the query, he asked about the long hours she appeared to work.
“It’s not as bad as you may think, Joe. I’m on what’s known as a split shift this week. Talk to any bus driver, and he’ll understand what I mean. I started at eight, worked until twelve, and then took four hours off, while my assistant took over. She was working ten until six, and I came back on duty at four. It’s a way of ensuring that there is a senior manager on duty throughout the day.”
“Interesting. So what do you do with your four hours of free time? Nip home and catch a nap?”
She giggled through a mouthful of quiche. “Home is a caravan on the site. I live there for most of the year. I do have another place in Truro – technically my mother’s old house – but living on site saves me the commute every day, and it also means I’m handy for emergencies.”
At the mention of ‘emergencies’ Joe was tempted to dive into his vital questions, but he resisted the urge, and pressed her a little further.
“So you went back to the caravan and caught up on a bit of kip?”
“Normally, yes, but not today. I went to a flea market in Truro. It’s a regular thing, and you never know what kind of curios you might pick up there.”
A Cornish Killing Page 8
