A Cornish Killing

by David W Robinson

  When Hattie O’Neill arrived, the assistant was talking to his head office. As she inspected the camera, confirming Joe’s findings, he terminated the phone call, and said, “I’m told I have to shut the doors for the day. Head office is sending a team down to take stock, and check on how many more pieces we have that might be stolen.”

  Hattie, who had been wearing forensic gloves throughout the exchange, insisted he pack the camera back into its case, and drop it into a large evidence bag, which she sealed and labelled. “When he gets here, tell your boss to ring me and I will furnish you with a list of all items we know to be stolen in this area.” She turned and smiled at Joe. “Well done. It looks like you might have cleared up a problem for us.”

  “And I’m not done yet. Can you get your loudmouth boss to Gittings?”

  “Sure, but I don’t think he’ll be interested in theft on this kind of scale.”

  “Maybe not. But if you can get him there, I’ll give you and him Winnie Kalinowski’s killer.”

  It was a measure of the trust she put in him that she made the necessary phone call, and promised Joe, “He’ll be there at three o’clock. But I’m warning you, he’s not pleased. We’re still interrogating Tolley and Ambrose.”

  Joe smiled broadly. “There’s only one thing I like as much as handing over a killer, and that’s showing a smartarsed cop the error of his ways.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hattie was right. Howell was in an appalling frame of mind when he entered Joe’s caravan just after three in the afternoon.

  Joe did not rush back to Gittings. After letting Tanner know that the camera was, indeed, his, he enjoyed a leisurely stroll around the centre of Penzance, bought a couple of toys for young Danny, and more souvenirs for Cheryl and Lee, and another map of Arthurian Cornwall, this time for the wall of his flat. When he was finished shopping, he took an early, but equally relaxed lunch alone in the shopping mall, made his way back to the car, and then drove steadily to Hayle, where he handed the rental car in. After completing the necessary administration, he took a taxi to Gittings, deliberately avoided the show bar and entertainment centre, where he knew most of the 3rd Age Club would be gathered, and went straight to his caravan.

  He had intended a word with Brenda, but she was not there. A quick call to Alec Staines, and he learned that she had gone to St Ives for the day with Stewart Dalmer.

  He was not worried about it. He was confident that Tanner would have telephoned and told her of developments, and whatever he and she needed to say could be dealt with later in the day, preferably when they were alone.

  The anger which had consumed him for the last few days was reminiscent of that which had driven him from Palmanova, with the possible exception that fleeing Majorca was also spurred by a large dose of fear. With the recollection of a significant incident from the previous night, the same could be said of Gittings, except that the tremors were retrospective, and only entered his consciousness when he realised what had been going on. He had had a lucky escape, and what had seemed like an inconsequential, drunken incident at the time, took on a new significance. At that point, the events of the entire week passed through some kind of space warp in his mind, and came out with a different focus, the one his suspicions should have been targeting all week.

  Worse than the anger was the feeling of foolishness. He had always prided himself on his discernment, his ability to evaluate, assess people and come to accurate conclusions. Over the last five days or more, he could not have been further off the mark if he had turned his back and aimed his assessments in the opposite direction. He had been made to look a fool, and that hurt. He could not, however, place the blame anywhere but upon himself, and he was determined that the assault on his self-respect would not go unpunished.

  But first he had to deal with Howell and Hattie.

  “I hope you know what you’re talking about, Murray. We already have our main suspects in custody, and one or other of them will eventually crack.”

  “If you’ll take some advice, Howell, you’d be better releasing them,” Joe replied tartly. “You have the wrong men. In fact, you should not be looking for men at all, but a man and a woman.”

  “The bruises on her neck, pal. I told you, they match Tolley’s dabs.”

  “Yes, but that’s not what killed her, is it? You told me that three days ago. She was stabbed with a bread knife. Tolley admitted to having a row with her, and putting his hands round her throat?”

  “You know he did. I told you that the other day, too.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s all he did. Get Eleanor Dorning, and let’s go to her caravan, and while you’re at it, send a couple of your people in to bring Charlie Curnow. I’ll explain everything when we get there.”

  Howell was still doubtful, but Hattie was already on her way through the door.

  Joe and the inspector followed at a more leisurely pace, and as they made their way along the lines of vans, Joe explained his deductions.

  “Right from the outset, we went about this from the wrong angle. We assumed that Winnie had been killed by either Tolley or Ambrose; the one to avoid her revealing his alleged drug dealing, and the other because he was besotted and didn’t want anyone else to have her. We also looked at Charlie Curnow, because she threatened him on the day we arrived, and it would have been logical enough. But there was more going here than sex between the staff, drug dealing – if, in fact, there is any drug dealing – and selling contraband tobacco. Hattie told me that Gittings, in common with many other sites in the area, has been the focus of thefts throughout the season, and Winnie’s mother told me that her daughter was involved. You’re an experienced copper, you know that when thieves are at work, they need to fence the goods. When I found Les Tanner’s camera this morning, everything slotted into place. I knew exactly what was going on, who organised it, and that, coupled to something last night, something I never gave another thought to, told me who killed Winnie. The one thing we were right about was the reason Winnie was killed. She knew too much for her own good.”

  When they reached the staff accommodation, they found Hattie and a concerned Eleanor waiting for them. The park manager greeted them worriedly. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

  Joe gave her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, no problem, Eleanor. Once we get inside.” He gestured at the door, inviting her to unlock it.

  They stepped into the caravan. The police officers stood back to cover the door, Joe leaned on the worktop by the sink, and Eleanor faced them from the centre of the room.

  “This is my downtime. I’m not due on duty again until four o’clock, so will you please tell me what is the matter?”

  Joe again took centre stage. “Simple enough. It’s about you arranging the murder of Winnie Kalinowski after she threatened to expose your trade in stolen goods.”

  Her colour drained. Shock shot across her face, followed quickly by fury. “What? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “No. I’ve just come to them. This morning, as a matter of fact.”

  It seemed impossible for her eyes to widen further, but they did. “You have, haven’t you? You’ve lost the plot.”

  Joe ignored the jibe. “There are a number of things that didn’t ring quite true about you, but you managed to bury my curiosity. And we both know how, don’t we?” He left the rhetorical question hanging, and pressed on with his verbal assault. “You told me you were on split shifts this week because it was your turn. Quite honestly, I thought it was odd for a senior manager to work splits at all, but then one of the entertainment crew let slip that it wasn’t just this week. It’s every week. You prefer it that way. But still it didn’t occur to me why. I saw you in the car park on Wednesday in Penzance, with an empty shopping bag. When I asked on Wednesday night, you said you were looking for an iPad. Truth is, you weren’t looking for anything. I was in that second-hand shop, Entiex, this morning, and even then, I didn’t make the connection, and I might never have done had it not been for
a coincidence. When I went into the shop, I spotted a camera, the very camera Les Tanner had stolen. You sold them that camera on Wednesday.”

  Eleanor remained defiant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, well, if I get it wrong, I’m sure Inspector Howell will let me know. But I’m willing to bet that if the cops check your laptop, or the one I’m sure you have at your house in Truro, they’ll come across a document proving that the camera was owned by Linda Trelawney, but we know it was owned by Les Tanner. He’s a pain in the buttock, Les. He works for the local council, and he has this annoying habit of keeping stupid things in cloud storage. Things like serial numbers of his technology equipment, which includes his thousand-pound camera. It was definitely his, and the real reason you were in Penzance on Wednesday was to sell it. And before you deny it any further, I’m sure the assistant will remember you.”

  Eleanor shrugged. “Even if you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, what does that have to do with Wynette’s murder?”

  “Nothing. But that’s because you didn’t do it. Your partner did.”

  Eleanor snorted. “What partner? I don’t have any partners. Business or personal.”

  Joe did not answer. The sound of a scuffle from outside prevented him.

  Howell and Hattie stood away from the door, as it flew open, and Charlie Curnow, manhandled by two uniformed officers, burst into the caravan. Howell closed the door again, and stood in front of it, barring the way out.

  Curnow ended up in the middle of the room, alongside Eleanor, the uniforms either side of them. His podgy face was a mask of fury.

  “What the hell is going on? I have work to do.”

  “It’s all over, Charlie,” Joe said. “The only work you’ll be doing from now on is in the prison laundry.”

  “What are you—”

  Joe cut him off. “You know your trouble? You live in the past, and this time, it was your undoing, but I didn’t realise it until a few hours ago. You can’t help bragging about your past glories, can you, Charlie?” Joe deliberately goaded him. “‘Oh I was on the telly, you know, and I was in the Royal Marines before they booted me out’. You just couldn’t help telling me, could you? And then I suddenly twigged everything, and it prompted a memory from my past. A feature film from the nineteen-fifties, and the way in which commandos were taught to silently kill. A knife under the rib cage, driven upwards to pierce the heart. Just the way Wynette Kalinowski was killed.”

  Charlie’s features were manic. “Have you taken leave of your senses, or do you make a habit of talking out of your backside?”

  “Well, you’re right to an extent,” Joe agreed. “And even if I thought about it earlier, it wouldn’t have been conclusive… if you hadn’t tried to run me down when I left this van last night.” Curnow was about to protest, but Joe did not give him the chance. “Even then, I could have overlooked it by assuming you were drunk. In fact, I did. It’s only when I put the two together, that I added two and two and finally got four.”

  Joe began to speak to the van’s occupants in general.

  “Here’s the way I see it. When Charlie stumbled in here the other night, he put on a convincing act of being drunk, but the truth is, he thought I’d left, and he was coming here for an update on whatever progress I’d made, or for his bit of fun in Eleanor’s bed. It doesn’t really matter which, the point is, it was not a mistake coming here as he tried to claim. It was intentional. Not only that, but it was vital because they had to know what I knew. These two,” Joe waved a hand at the pair, “are the major fences for all stolen items from the local holiday parks. Curnow already had contacts. He told me as much when he admitted bootlegging booze and tobacco. So I reckon that a good proportion of the stolen goods are sold to foreign sailors, crew men and women on the cargo and passenger boats which put into Penzance, Falmouth, and Cornwall’s other ports. Eleanor does her part by selling them on to second-hand dealers in the area, which, incidentally is probably the real reason you were in Truro, the same day as Stewart Dalmer. Wynette was part of this gang, and her mother was putting pressure on her to give it up, find an honest living. She was ambitious, that girl. She wanted more than putting on turns for happy campers on a crummy holiday park. Not one of the entertainments staff had a good word to say about her, but I reckon that was just professional jealousy. All right, she didn’t have the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard, but she had experience, and she could probably make something more of herself. So she wanted out, but also wanted cash, and that’s the proposition she put to Eleanor, Curnow, maybe even Flick and Quint. Pay up and I’ll shut up. I think you’ll find, Inspector, that Flick and Quint were not party to the final decision. It was these two. They needed to shuffle that poor girl off. I think Eleanor arranged to meet her in the dunes, but Curnow was the one wielding the knife.”

  Eleanor sneered again. “Prove it.”

  “I don’t have to.” Joe turned his back on them, tore off a sheet of kitchen towel, reached into the drawer and took out the breadknife he had been so reluctant to use during the week. As he held it up for them all to see, he wondered whether his subconscious had been trying to telegraph the truth to him. “If you check this over, Howell, you may yet find traces of Winnie on it.”

  Hattie held forward an evidence bag and Joe dropped the implement in.

  He turned on Eleanor. “It doesn’t matter how well you cleaned it, there’ll be microscopic traces, and if you haven’t touched it since, I’m certain they’ll find Charlie’s dabs all over it. How will you explain that?”

  There was a momentary silence and then, without warning, Charlie hurled himself at Joe. He had taken barely two paces before the uniformed constables restrained him.

  Eleanor glowered at Joe, and her voice was a hiss of pure hatred. “Do you know what a despicable little man you are?”

  Joe laughed by return. “Water off a duck’s back. If you wanna get under my skin, try criticising my steak and kidney pudding.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brenda found Joe right where she expected. She had returned to their shared caravan to shower and change for the evening, and learned that he had already gone out. He did not answer his phone and a few calls to others elicited no clue as to his whereabouts.

  An uncharacteristically diffident and apologetic Les Tanner worried that he might have decided to sever all ties with them, but Brenda knew different. A fifty-year insight into the man told her exactly where to look, and when she was ready she made her way up the lane to the crest of the hill, where she found him sitting on a grassy hummock, squatting, tailor fashion, legs crossed, his digital camera in hand, looking out over the beach and sea beyond, watching the sun as it dipped towards the horizon.

  This, she knew, was going to be difficult.

  She sat down alongside him, disregarding the sand which would inevitably cover her trousers. “All right?”

  He puffed on a hand-rolled cigarette, and gestured at the setting sun. “We came here the first evening, remember? You and me, Les and Sylvia. Les was bragging about his new camera.”

  “The one that was stolen and which you got back… Well, which he’ll eventually get back when the police are done prosecuting Eleanor Dorning and Charlie Curnow.”

  Joe grunted and kept his eyes on the sun.

  Brenda took a deep breath. “I was out of order yesterday. I know I hurt you, Joe, and I had no right to say those things to you.”

  He shrugged and raised his camera, and kept an eye on the tiny screen. The sun was flattening out into an oblate sphere as it neared the horizon. When he was happy that the camera was steady, the image as he wanted it, the resolution adequate, he pressed the shutter, and then examined the finished product.

  Happy with it, he turned his head to face Brenda. “You were saying?”

  Her irritation began to rise. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it is, Joe. I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

  “Why? Everything you said was dead right. You w
ere just obeying the old Sanfordian rule of telling it like it is.”

  He sighed, stubbed out his cigarette, and began to roll a fresh one. He had to pause halfway through the process to take another picture of the sun as the horizon cut it in half. When he was happy with it, he returned to rolling a cigarette, and once that was completed, he lit up and took a deep drag.

  “The trouble with you and Sheila is you’re too smart for your own good. You know me better than I know myself. I’ve been running away, Brenda. Ever since Denise was killed. I was happy with her. Happy working at The Lazy Luncheonette, happy to help with her investigations, happy to have you two, Lee, Cheryl, and the part-timers working with me. Happy to see the draymen every morning. From my point of view, I had it made. And then that crazy so-and-so ran her off the road and killed her, and that ripped the heart right out of my life.”

  Brenda sympathised. “I’ve been there, Joe. When Colin died. I know what you went through.”

  She knew that he had heard, that he had listened, but it was as if she had said nothing. “Then there was that business in Palmanova. I ran away from that too. I think anyone would have legged it under those circumstances. How long was I gone? Three, four months? That crazy bitch made me fear for my life, and it began to dawn on me that I’m not immortal.” He tapped his temple. “One day, this mind will cease to function, and Joe Murray will be no more. It’s a scary thought. I think you and Sheila had already dealt with it, when you lost your husbands. I lost the old man, the old lady, but it still didn’t get through to me. So when I eventually came back after Palmanova, I was determined to look after number one, get some enjoyment out of life before I meet the Grim Reaper. And while I was out there, busy chasing women, generally having a good time, I forgot the people who should matter most: Lee and Cheryl, little Danny, you and Sheila, and our other friends, the folk we’ve known for fifty odd years.” He took another drag on his smoke and shook his head. “You were angry last night, but you weren’t out of order. You were bang on the mark.”