A Cornish Killing

by David W Robinson

  Joe was hesitant asking the next question. “You didn’t threaten to drag her along to the police station?”

  He expected more tears, but Janet remained strong. “You’re a foreigner in these parts, so maybe they do it different where you come from, but you never sell your own down the river.”

  He did not get into the debate. The threat to take a son or daughter to the law was often enough to change behaviour in his world, and he could never recall any parent actually carrying it through.

  Janet’s composure began to weaken again. “I could see she really was sorry, but she told me that it was the only chance she had of breaking into the big time. She needed the money. Once she had enough, she could go to London and audition for television shows like Big Talent and The Singer Not the Song.” Tears welled in her eyes again and a more wistful note sounded in her voice. “She would have paid it back. Every penny. I know she would.”

  On the admission that Wynette was involved in organised thefts from the caravans, Joe cast a meaningful glance at Hattie, who shrugged with her eyes. Joe guessed that whatever Janet was telling him now, she had already told Hattie, and that would give the police another angle on the interrogation of Flick and Quint.

  And as he wound the conversation down, with trite and inconsequential platitudes, the several, disparate strands of these crimes began to coalesce in his head. What price Wynette had threatened to expose the people at the core of this ring of thieves? And if so, had they decided that it was safest to shine her on? And if his assumptions were anything like true, what were the odds on the involvement of Tolley and/or Ambrose. It would, he reasoned, be one or the other, not both. The way they had been fighting in St Ives precluded that.

  Joe began to run the logic circuits of his mind as Hattie arranged for a patrol car to take Janet home, by the time the sergeant returned to sit with him, he had come to some early and speculative conclusions.

  “Concentrate on Ambrose,” he advised her.

  “How come?”

  “He accused Tolley of drug dealing. Now let’s imagine that one or both of them was involved in this organised theft. It can’t be both, or Ambrose wouldn’t have accused Tolley of anything, and if he did, Tolley would have countered the accusation by claiming that it was Ambrose dealing drugs. You follow me so far?”

  Hattie nodded. “It makes a sort of sense.”

  “Ambrose accusing Tolley, and Flick’s dabs on Winnie’s neck was a perfect diversion. It draws your investigation away from potential involvement in organised crime, and focuses on the one man.”

  “So how come Flick didn’t accuse Quint of running this gang of thieves?”

  “Tough question to answer, and I can only guess, but I think Flick is hedging his bets. What are the chances of charging and convicting him?”

  “Put it this way, I’ve got a better chance of winning the lottery this weekend.”

  “So when you let him go, and you release Quint for lack of evidence, Flick is in the perfect position to put pressure on Quint. Make sure a few quid comes his way, and he’ll keep his mouth shut about the stealing.”

  Hattie chewed her lip. “What we really need is to pin down the man or woman at the heart of this organised theft, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And what price that could be Quint Ambrose? Aside from working behind the bar at Gittings, what do you know about him?”

  “Local yokel, like me. Comes from Helston originally. A few cautions for the usual teenage stuff: nuisance, affray, fighting, drunk and disorderly. You know what I mean. Worked in the licensed trade virtually since he was eighteen years old. Apart from that, as far as we can see, there’s nothing else to know.” Hattie went on with more enthusiasm. “Flick is a different matter. He’s been a bad bugger most of his adult life. He served eighteen months in a young offenders’ unit. Taking and driving away. While he was in there, he took a course in drama, song and dance, and when he came out, he started to get proper work, and ever since then, he’s been clean, but he does have a reputation as a hard case.”

  Joe chuckled. “My nephew was a forward for the Sanford Balls, rugby league team, and you wouldn’t fancy arguing with him, but the truth is, he’s as soft as freshly baked bread… only not as appetising.” He frowned. “I was talking to Eleanor Dorning the other… day.” Joe almost slipped and said ‘night’. “She assured me that Gittings run criminal record checks on all employees, and they came in clean. Charlie Curnow told me the same thing.”

  Hattie was not surprised. “Spent conviction, Joe. It is over five years ago, and unless they did a real, in-depth search, they never turn it up.” She got to her feet. “I’d better get back to the station. Looks like we’ll be at it most of the night with these two. I’ll catch you later.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  From the hospital to Gittings was a journey of about twenty miles, and would take less than half an hour, but it was a time during which matters began to coalesce in Joe’s mind.

  The two issues which had plagued him for the last few days were all part of one problem, and he was now convinced that Wynette had been murdered after she threatened to expose the ringleaders of this organised gang.

  When he rejoined the A30, six miles west of Truro, it also became clear to him that although Flick or Quint must have killed her, neither of them was likely to be the prime receiver of stolen goods. In order to sell the swag on, the ‘fence’ had to have buyers, as they would need to be spread across the county. Both men (in Joe’s opinion) were too young to have set up such a network, and that naturally shifted his focus to Charlie Curnow.

  By his own admission, the camp comedian had been what Liverpudlians would describe as a ‘scally’ all his life. A dishonourable discharge from an esteemed regiment such as the Royal Marines for bootlegging, and an admission that he regularly took delivery of contraband here in Cornwall, spoke of a man who was strapped for cash, and had little respect for the law, moreover, a man who was willing to take risks no matter how slight. Would he stop at murder? He may not be ready to carry it out himself, but faced with the real danger of a long prison sentence, he would probably not hesitate to put someone else up to it, and that brought Flick back into the equation.

  It was a delicately balanced situation. Joe had to be certain that he had it right. Accuse the wrong man, and he would put the alternative suspects on alert.

  Coming off the A30 at the Loggan’s roundabout, and dropping onto the narrow lanes which would lead him to the park, he cursed Inspector Howell. Hattie had kept him up to speed, been glad of his assistance, but Howell was more reluctant with information, and if Joe knew anything about the police, the inspector would know an awful lot more than his sergeant.

  Going through the park gates, he noticed Keith wandering round his bus, checking it over. A matter of routine for their driver. Joe stopped and called to him.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Coventry,” Keith replied with a grin. “Oops, sorry, you’re the one in Coventry. That’s where they’ve sent you.”

  “Their choice and their loss.” Joe eyed the bus. “What are you doing?”

  “Well, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re all going home in less than thirty-six hours, and I have to make sure the bus is ready. I’ll be taking it to the nearest filling station tomorrow, to fuel up, then taking the rest of the day off before I drive you pains in the backside home.”

  Joe put the car into gear. “That’s what we love about you, Keith. Your charity.”

  He knocked the handbrake off, and continued driving along the caravan lines, eventually reversing into the slot outside his van.

  The time was a little after five o’clock, and already the day was on the wane, the sun dipping towards the western horizon. He was not surprised to find himself alone again, especially after what Keith had just told him. He made himself a cup of tea, laid out a change of clothes, and began to pack away the things he would no longer need, ready for the journey home. And throughout, he recognised his actions as those o
f a man in need of something to do, something to occupy his mind while it turned the two problems over and over.

  The attitude of his friends was beginning to get to him, and he began to doubt whether the term ‘friends’ was still accurate. At the same time, he recognised in himself a distancing from everything around him, which could be tracked back to the death of Denise Latham, killed by the same crazed individual who had pursued him in Palmanova and then in Sanford when he returned.

  But the reaction of the 3rd Age Club annoyed him more. Was he not entitled to a life of his own? Where were they when he needed support after Denise’s death?

  And with a sudden clarity of insight, he realised that there was an element missing. Sheila. Of the inseparable trio which comprised her, Brenda and him, she was the strongest. She could be snappy and outspoken, but almost without exception, she would bring an element of level-headed sanity, derived from an acute intelligence and understanding of human nature, to any situation. Her late husband, Peter, had been an inspector in the Sanford police, and Sheila had worked for many years as secretary at Sanford Comprehensive School, a position in which she had to contend with the tantrums of teenage pupils and adult staff alike.

  Her marriage, announced during the treasure hunt in Whitby, had signalled the first splinter in the triumvirate at the head of the Sanford 3rd Age Club, but neither he nor Brenda had considered its effect on their half-century friendship.

  After taking a shower and shaving, he hooked up his laptop, went online, and called her through Skype.

  It was not Sheila who answered, but Martin, her new husband.

  “I’m sorry, Joe, but she’s really ill.” Martin’s unshaven features were grim, concerned. “Boa Vista was a bad choice as it turned out.”

  “And what’s the problem?” Joe demanded. “New Delhi belly?”

  “Certainly enteritis. The local doctor’s taken a look at her, but it’s not good. We’re due home on Saturday, and I’ll get her to the nearest doctor or hospital the minute we get back. Can I help at all?”

  Joe shrugged into the webcam. “It’s this business between me and the rest of the club. Most of them are not talking to me. They think I’ve deserted them.” He sighed. “We’ve had spats before, but never anything this serious, and to be honest, Martin, I’m getting more than a little peed off with it.”

  “Sheila’s told me some of it. I’m a teacher, remember, and the only advice I can give youngsters when they come to me with this kind of trouble, is walk away. You’re a grown man, Joe. You know your own mind, and if you prefer the company of this woman, then it’s your decision. Your life. You’re not answerable to anyone for it. I don’t know if that helps.”

  “It might. You’re not saying anything I hadn’t already thought of. Thanks, Martin. Give Sheila my regards. I hope she’s feeling better soon.”

  Joe killed the connection, and stared into space. The brief conversation with Martin had got him nowhere. Keith pointed out that there were just thirty-six hours between now and the long trek home. Thirty-six hours during which, like it or not, he would have to make some firm decisions.

  He was still contemplating the issue when Brenda stepped through the caravan door, ignored him completely, and went straight to her bedroom.

  Friends, not friends, it didn’t matter. He had to tell her about Sheila.

  Almost an hour passed before she emerged from the shower and her bedroom, dressed for the evening, and she was preparing to walk out of the van, when he stopped her.

  “Sheila is very ill.”

  She turned to face him. “You called her?” Her tone of voice made it sound as if he had committed some unforgivable sin.

  “I tried to, but she’s too sick. I spoke to Martin instead. Enteritis. I thought you should know.”

  Her anger began to rise. “What you mean is you were looking for sympathy.”

  Joe matched her ire with some of his own. “Don’t talk so bloody soft. When the hell have I ever needed sympathy? And if you think I give a hoot about those silly sods sending me to Coventry, you’ve another think coming. You can take your opinions and stick them where the sun don’t shine.”

  About to leave again, Brenda whirled on him. Her face was ablaze, her eyes pinpoint darts, aimed at his furious features. “You are an absolute disgrace. You’ve abandoned your friends, people you’ve known for half a century, for the sake of some woman you’ve been jumping all week.”

  “I’ve done nothing of the kind. If those alleged friends hadn’t been so stupid, they would not have left anything of value lying around their caravans for the thieves to take, and for your information, I have more on my mind than Eleanor Dorning. I always have, and this holiday is no different.”

  “Nothing is ever different with you, is it? You’re poking your nose into another killing that doesn’t concern you, but this time it’s not just the police you’re annoying, it’s your friends, who you’re ignoring, even though they’re victims too.” Anger finally got the better of her. “I’ve had it with you. I never want to see or speak to you again. And you can take this as my notice. I quit The Lazy Luncheonette.”

  Joe responded half-heartedly. “You can’t quit. You’re a part owner.”

  “Then I’ll sell my share back to you.”

  “You can’t. You never bought it in the first place. It was a gift.”

  “Then take it back. I don’t want it. I don’t want you. I don’t want anything to do with you. Ever.”

  Joe zipped up his fleece. “Suit yourself.”

  He pushed past her, stormed from the caravan, slammed the door behind him, and Brenda flopped onto the settee. Tears welled in her eyes. It was too much to take in. Fifty years of friendship shattered in the space of four days, and all thanks to a woman who couldn’t keep her knickers on.

  The thought gave rise to her own reputation for being too free and easy. It was not true, but it was a common misconception. Her friends, however, knew different. Sure, she dated different men, but ninety-nine percent of those dates went no further than a goodnight kiss. The number of ‘lovers’ (her mind automatically placed the word in speech marks) was few. George Robson and Stewart Dalmer. And of course, there was Joe. A brief fling with him in Weston-super-Mare had been enjoyable, but destined to go nowhere, and they had allowed it to peter out naturally. Dalmer had only been added this week, and only then because of Joe’s behaviour both here and in Whitby during the summer.

  Sitting there, determined not to cry, she felt as if her whole life was crumbling around her. She needed Sheila, but Sheila was four thousand miles away, acclimatising herself to her new life, her new husband.

  Following Joe’s lead, she powered up her laptop, and called Sheila. Martin answered and told her the same as he had told Joe, but while he was talking to her, Sheila appeared. She looked pale and haggard, and not as serene as she had been earlier in the week.

  “I heard you talking to Martin, I thought I’d better catch up with you now. We’re due out of Cape Verde on Saturday afternoon, and we’ll be spending most of tomorrow getting ready, and you’ll be on the bus home longer than we’ll be on the plane. I’m very unwell, and I plan to rest as much as I can between now and Saturday, so I may not get the chance to speak to you again.”

  Brenda’s natural concern for Sheila was overridden by her secret relief at being able to talk to her, and it did not take long for Sheila to realise that there was something so much more amiss than Brenda had told her over the last few days. In the space of the next twenty minutes, Brenda poured out the entire tale.

  It was one of those curious anomalies that Sheila had always been the one capable of the most cutting remarks, but her occasional acid candour was held in check by an astute intelligence and an innate ability to stand outside an argument and observe.

  Her response to Brenda’s story was typical. “Quite honestly, you both need your bottoms smacking.” Having made her position clear, she took a more conciliatory approach. “You have to make allowances for him. He
’s been drifting ever since Denise’s death, and that business in Palmanova frightened him.”

  “Sheila, he came down on the side of this awful place, rather than backing his friends.”

  “That’s not strictly true, is it? At least, not the way you’ve been telling me, it isn’t. It doesn’t matter where you are, what kind of holiday you choose, you are responsible for your own personal effects, not the hotel or park owners, and if the members have been warned of persistent thefts, then they should have taken appropriate steps and not left valuables lying around their caravans.”

  “They hadn’t been warned,” Brenda insisted. “Joe never bothered to tell anyone.”

  “I was just coming to that because it’s symptomatic of Joe’s recent self-centredness. How long have we known him? Fifty years? Longer? He’s grumpy and outspoken, but he’s never put himself first. Unlike Les, who wants to run the club, Joe was a servant. He’s lost sight of that, and he needs reminding of it.”

  “I have reminded him.”

  “Yes. But a little too forcefully. He needs encouraging to come back onside, Brenda, and the way you went about it won’t work. He’ll respond in the way he handles the police. Out and out obduracy. Pig-headed stubbornness.”

  The sense of Sheila’s argument began to sink in. “Then what am I going to do?”

  “Keep your distance for the time being. That probably won’t be an issue, because he’ll keep away from you. Then choose your moment, and talk to him, and I mean talk, not rant.”

  Brenda agreed and after a further ten minutes of general chat, during which they discussed Sheila’s illness, and Sheila made an effort (not entirely successful) to show Brenda some of the photographs she had taken of the island, they closed the call, and Brenda shut down her laptop.