“You were missed in the bar last night.” Dalmer sounded diffident, almost as if we were reluctant to bring up the point.
Joe shrugged. “I had a date. It’s not illegal, you know, Stewart. I’m a single man, over twenty-one, and I can go out with whoever I please. I was with Eleanor Dorning, and it turned out to be a spectacular evening. That’s when she told me she was on the same market as you. Did you and Brenda get far last night?”
Dalmer shook his head. “We had a meal in a pub in Hayle, then came back here for the alleged entertainment. To be honest, I’m not that impressed with the shows, and that comic, Curnow, sails a bit too close to the knuckle for my liking.”
“He’s old hat.”
The pass door to the bedroom opened, Brenda emerged, dressed in jogging pants and a thin, woolly top. She dropped a benign smile on Dalmer, and a cynical scowl on Joe.
“You remember where you live then?”
Joe could not help rising to the challenge. “Yes. Do you remember what you said when I brought up the subject of sharing a caravan? It amounted to me having to make myself scarce, so I did.”
She obviously had no more to say to either of them, and when she had made herself a cup of tea, she moved to the far corner and switched on the television.
While she watched morning TV, Joe engaged Dalmer in a deliberately animated conversation concerning HMS Amethyst.
It didn’t take long for the lecture (for that is what Dalmer turned it into) to wind down, and at half past nine, he packed his rucksack, put on his fleece, and bidding them ‘adios’, left the van.
Joe had worked with Brenda long enough to recognise her moods, and she was obviously in no frame of mind to entertain him. She had something on her mind, something she did not want to say in front of Dalmer, but which Joe guessed would be a brutal opinion about him. And for the life of him, he could not think what he might have done to upset her. It would be something trivial, he had no doubt. Probably something to do with Sheila’s absence. Whatever it was, he had more on his plate than Brenda Jump’s sensitivity, and she would almost certainly catch up later in the day.
He wanted to hire a car, and Reception was a logical place to ask, but as he made his way there, he was uncertain that it was a good idea. Eleanor had said she was on split shifts all week, so she would be working at this time, and he was not sure how he was supposed to deal with her after their adventures last night.
He diagnosed it is another symptom of the one area in his life where he remained uncertain: women. He did not want Eleanor to think he was badgering her, or worse, stalking her, but on the other hand, he did need a set of wheels.
Thanks to Alec Staines, he was saved the trouble. As he reached the entertainments complex, Alec pulled up in a hired car, and although Joe did not get the chance to speak to him (Julia climbed into the car when Alec stopped, and they drove away) he nevertheless made a quick note of the hire company’s telephone number, as displayed on a small banner in the rear window. Ten minutes later, he had booked a compact Citroen for the next three days, and was waiting for a taxi to take him into Hayle where he could collect the car. Once arranged and paid for, he settled behind the wheel, activated the satnav, and found his way to the police station, only to learn that it was shut. He called up the Internet on his smart phone, and checked St Ives and Penzance, and once again learned that they were not manned twenty-four hours. In fact, he would have to travel to Camborne in order to contact Sergeant O’Neill.
He recalled that she had given him her card, and digging it from his wallet, he rang her.
“Nice to hear from you, Mr Murray, but we’re quite busy right now. Is it urgent?”
“Urgent-ish. I just want to pass on one or two things I learned in St Ives yesterday.”
“Can you ring me later? We’re on our way to Gittings right now, but will be busy when we get there. Try again later this afternoon.”
“Will do.”
Joe killed the connection and sat behind the wheel of his hired vehicle. The heat of the sun, magnified by the windows, began to burn him, and he wondered what to do with himself. Brenda would not come out of her mood until they were alone, and she could speak freely, and he had no desire to hang around Gittings all day. At length, he called up Land’s End on the satnav, fired the engine, and began to follow the route.
It was not complex. The A30 ran all the way, but as opposed to the broad trunk road the bus had followed from Exeter, in places it was not much better than a side road winding its way across bleak and barren moorland, then well-tended, agricultural land, and Joe had to wonder how the summer traffic, which would be far heavier than he was meeting, coped. Now and again, he had a fleeting glimpse of the sea to his left. He passed occasional, isolated farms and small hamlets, then drove sedately through the village of Sennen, took a fleeting interest in the First and Last Inn, and less than half a mile beyond a sweeping right-hand bend, he came to the imposing white buildings of Land’s End.
Or rather, he came to the official car park.
It was not busy, but he had not expected it to be, and amongst the few cars parked there, he recognised the Vauxhall Corsa Alec and Julia Staines had driven off in… or rather, he mentally corrected himself, a Vauxhall Corsa exactly the same as the one the Staineses had hired, and from the same, Hayle company.
He rolled a cigarette, let the window down and lit up. It seemed to him that he had come quite a distance, but on checking the satnav while he enjoyed his smoke, he learned it was actually less than twenty miles.
Land’s End had always loomed large in his mind as a special place, just like its opposite number, John O’Groats. It was the last outpost of England, the British Isles and beyond the rocky cliffs there was nothing for thousands of miles but open water. It was a romantic notion, but completely false. The Isles of Scilly lay only about thirty miles off the southwestern coast of Cornwall, and beyond them, the thousands of miles of Atlantic Ocean could be covered in a matter hours aboard a modern jet.
Joe had been here before, many years ago when he was with Alison, but he did not remember the white-stone and glass building, or indeed the security post where the guard directed traffic into the car park. He did, however, remember the wind, and when he climbed out of the car, ensuring he had his wallet, camera and tobacco, he hastily zipped up his fleece against the biting breeze. The sun blazed in the southern sky, but it could not compete with that seaborne wind.
He spent a few minutes ambling round the complex of gift shops and cafés, then emerging at the rear, made his way towards the First and Last House, a hundred yards away. Somewhere, in one of his old albums, he had a photograph of him and Alison sitting on a bench at the rear of the place.
He took a few photographs of the place and of the views over the sea, and the Longships Lighthouse a mile off the coast, then ambled back to the main visitor area. He was in need of a cup of tea.
He was hardly surprised to find Alec and Julia Staines in a café, and they welcomed him pleasantly enough, inviting him to join them. He bought fresh tea for them and himself, and sat down.
“Brenda out and about with Dalmer, is she, Joe?” Alec asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s not talking to me.”
Alec chuckled. “Doesn’t surprise us, does it Jay?”
Joe had known them both for over half a century, and in all that time, he had never seen Alec lose his temper or even get into a flap. His business was at least as successful as Joe’s, and he and his wife (a woman Joe had designs on back in their late teens and early twenties) shamelessly enjoyed the fruits of his solid reputation for dependability and craftsmanship.
When their son Wes had been accused of murder on his wedding day, Alec had remained calm personified, but Julia had been close to hysterical. Even now, while she frowned at her husband, Alec showed no sign of emotion other than affability.
He responded to Alec’s last observation. “You’re not surprised? How come?”
“You mean you don’t k
now?”
“Now Alec—”
Staines shushed his wife, and raised his eyebrows at Joe, who replied with his customary irritation. “No, I don’t know. What’s going on?”
Obviously aware of what was to come, Julia excused herself. “I’ll just go to the toilet.”
Alec watched her leave, and then focussed on Joe. “Les Tanner, mate. He’s called an extraordinary meeting for five o’clock this afternoon.”
Joe was amazed. “What? While we’re away on holiday? Has the power gone to his head or something?”
“He’s asking the members to boot you out of the 3rd Age Club.”
“He’s what?” Joe curbed his initial flash of temper. “All because of his bloody camera, I’ll bet.”
“Probably.”
Joe considered the proposition, forcing his anger to the back of his mind so he could concentrate properly. “I don’t think he can do it. Not while we’re this far from home.”
Alec drank tea as he shook his head. “Yes, he can. Theoretically. The quorum is only fifty, Joe, and there are seventy of us on the bus.” He put his cup down. “He won’t do it, mind. I won’t vote with him, neither will Julia, Brenda won’t, obviously, and I’m certain George and Owen won’t back him. Even Sylvia has argued against it.”
“I should think so. Hell, I founded the club, me and Brenda and Sheila, and he and Sylvia were amongst the first people we approached, along with you and your wife, and George and Owen.” He fulminated in silence for a moment.” And what am I supposed to have done?”
“You took that woman’s side against him. Her you were jumping last night.”
“So it is over his damn camera. Wait while I see him.”
Through the glass door, Alec could see his wife making her way back. He finished his tea and stood up, ready to leave. “Be cool, Joe. He won’t get away with it, and even if he did, when he calms down in a coupla days’ time, he’ll only rescind the decision. I’ll catch you later.”
Joe was left at the table fuming. Tanner's actions were the ultimate insult, and someone, he promised himself, would pay for this.
Chapter Twelve
Joe’s anger was such that he had no desire to see any of his fellow club members, but he would have to face them, and he knew that he could not argue with any conviction while he was fuming. He needed to calm down.
He decided that a long, leisurely drive would solve the problem, and his first port of call was the souvenir shop where he bought a tourist’s guide to Cornwall, and when he left Land’s End, he took a more extravagant route back, turning off to the left as he bypassed Penzance. Following the satnav, he called first of all at the Merry Maidens stone circle, just outside the town, where he parked the car, wandered into the field and took several photographs of the standing stones from different angles.
From there, using his smartphone and the satnav, his journey took him north-west across the moors, in the direction of Zennor. He paused to take photographs of Lanyon Quoit, and his next port of call was Mên-an-Tol, a stone with a circle carved out of the middle, which from the proper alignment, allowed the viewer to look through the hole in the middle and see an erect, standing stone several yards beyond it. He took a photograph from the appropriate angle, with the thought that the sexual connotation was a little too obvious, and on returning to the car and researching it, he learned that it had a history of various theories and interpretations, only one aspect of which was concerned with fertility.
Driving along the lane back to what passed for the main road (but which was not much wider than the rough track he had just come from) he turned right towards the northern coast, and eventually joined the main road to Zennor. He stopped and enjoyed a cream tea at a roadside place, then, a further half mile on, he came to the remains of Carn Galver Tin Mine and its engine house.
He grew up in the coalfields of West Yorkshire, and was accustomed to the standard appearance of mines, with the familiar, girder structure of the wheelhouse. This was more picturesque, built of stone, and it’s tall, stark chimney reminded Joe more of the woollen mills in Leeds and Bradford than the familiar pitheads of Sanford, Pontefract, Doncaster and Barnsley.
He finally got back to Gittings at half past three, and after parking the car alongside his caravan, he went in search of Les Tanner, only to learn from Mort Norris, that Tanner, along with Sylvia Goodson, Dalmer and Brenda, had taken a leaf from his book and hired a car.
“They’ve gone somewhere called Portperrin, Joe,” Mort assured him, “and from there they’re going on to Newquay.”
Joe automatically translated Portperrin as Perranporth, and decided to make his way back to the caravan and wait for them to return. Eleanor intercepted him as he passed Reception.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Joe, but we have a bit of a situation.”
“Yes, so have I. What’s the problem?”
“The police are interviewing Flick Tolley. He’s been in there an hour or more now, and I think they’re going to arrest him.”
Joe was not unduly troubled by the news. “For Winnie’s murder?” Eleanor nodded, and Joe shrugged. “Can’t say I’m surprised. I spoke to O’Neill this morning, and told her I had news. Maybe she won’t need to speak to me now.”
“I’ll let them know you’re here just in case,” Eleanor said. “You won’t forget tonight, will you?”
Joe had never been reminded of a proposition so blatantly, and he suppressed the urge to laugh nervously. “After lights out, you said? Does that mean after the show is over?”
“A little before, if you don’t mind missing Charlie’s spot. The whole of the staff will be busy in the show bar, and no one will be any the wiser.”
“Half past ten, then?”
“Great.”
Joe felt a noticeable spring in his step as he made his way back to the caravan, drank a cup of tea, and then settled down for an hour’s sleep on the settee under the window.
Forty minutes later, a knock on the door woke him, and he opened it to find Sergeant O’Neill standing on the steps.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr Murray, but Inspector Howell would like a word. We’re in Reception when you’re ready.”
Joe agreed to come along, and she left. He made for the bathroom and swilled off in cold water, washing away the day’s fatigue, and then spent a minute rolling a cigarette before putting on his fleece and stepping out of the caravan.
Once outside, he sauntered along the lane, taking his time, enjoying the afternoon sun and the bite of tobacco on his lungs. Anything to keep Howell waiting. He did not like the inspector and it was obvious that the feeling was mutual.
He reached the reception area to find Eleanor pacing outside the office and smoking. She was relieved to see him, crushed her cigarette out on the wall stubber, and said, “This is awful. They’re charging Tolley with Winnie’s murder.”
Joe shrugged. “They must have evidence. Howell might be obnoxious, but he’s not stupid.”
Eleanor chuckled uncertainly. “Sorry, Joe, I wasn’t thinking about Tolley. I was thinking about Gittings, and the damage this might do to our image.”
There was a time when Joe would have disapproved of such an attitude, but with a developing relationship (if that was the right word for libidinous fun and games) in mind, he confined himself to a wry smile and wagged a disapproving finger. “At a time like this, Eleanor, our thoughts should be with Winnie. I don’t care who she was, what she was like, she didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“Of course not. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologise to me.”
A car turned into the park and passed Reception. A quick glance at the Vauxhall saloon revealed Stewart Dalmer at the wheel, Brenda in the passenger seat, Sylvia Goodson and Les Tanner taking up the rear seats. Joe deliberately turned his back, and took Eleanor’s hand, then led her back to Reception, cocking a childish snook at them. When the car was past, he released Eleanor’s hand, offered no explanation, stubbed out his cigarette and step
ped into Reception, where Hattie O’Neill escorted him into a small, rear office.
Howell was in no better mood than he had been on Sunday. His tie hung from an open collar, he fidgeted with a ballpoint pen, and his face was a mask of frustration and irritation.
He glared at Joe, and barked, “Sit down, Murray.”
Joe glowered back. “What are you gonna do? Feed me a Good Boy choc drop?”
“What the hell are you on about?”
Joe took a seat facing the inspector. “You’re treating me like a dog so the least I can expect is some kind of reward for good behaviour.”
“Just shut it. You’re in trouble, so don’t wind me up any further or I’ll book you.”
Joe was not impressed. “I’m in trouble, am I? You’re walking on eggshells, Howell. Now explain yourself.”
The inspector relaxed visibly, as if he welcomed Joe’s challenge. “We’ve just taken Frederick Tolley in on suspicion of Wynette Kalinowski’s murder, and it was thanks to information we received, information you were in possession of, but which you failed to pass on to us. That, Murray, could be interpreted as obstructing the police in the course of their enquiries.”
Joe remained unfazed. “It could also be interpreted as the police talking out of their backsides, but there’s nothing new about that, is there? It doesn’t matter where I go in this country or Europe, I come across the same situation. You’re still not explaining yourself, man, so let me hazard a guess. You’ve been listening to Quint, haven’t you?”
Howell frowned. “Who?”
Joe was equally puzzled. “The guy Tolley was fighting…” He trailed off. The look on Howell’s face told him the inspector had no clue about the previous day’s fight. “Well, if not him, who?”
Howell consulted his notes. “Sergeant O’Neill had a call from one Brenda Jump this morning, and she told us of an incident in St Ives yesterday. The only names she mentioned were Frederick Tolley and Quentin Ambrose. According to her, Ambrose accused Tolley of murdering Ms Kalinowski. Mrs Jump maintained that you were there, and not only witnessed the incident, but helped keep the two men apart. Yet you didn’t see fit to report it. Why”
A Cornish Killing Page 10
