Not that Jennifer was unattractive, merely a little broader in the beam. The large bosom, which had been firm and titillating, now spread from shoulder to shoulder, and rested on the roll of her midriff, which likewise was a recent addition. The lean, hungry face, its high cheekbones and hazel eyes beckoning to admirers, had filled out with the first harbinger of an additional chin. The blonde hair now had a hint of white about it, but it still rained, in straight lines, framing her face.
And yet, for all that she was now in her early fifties, she had lost none of her allure.
She was over ten years his junior, and when he considered that age gap, so large when he was 35 and she 24, he knew that the last quarter century had been less kind to him than it had to Jennifer.
The death of his wife, three years back was, for him, the turning point and the start of a downward slide into middle-aged neglect; the early onset of his autumn years. When Eileen was alive, she had maintained the image that was him, insisted that he shave, put on a fresh shirt and clean underwear every day, keep himself fit and active.
“An image befitting a respected academic,” she always said in that shrill voice of hers.
And Patterson had demurred. Not because he was a man easily dominated, but because he knew Eileen was right. In his world, the teaching of history at university level, appearance mattered as much as knowledge. It would be impossible for a man in his position to be taken seriously if he turned up at the university wearing a pair of gardening trousers and a frayed old cardigan. He had to look the part.
Eileen was gone, he reminded himself, taken too early by too much surgery to remove her tumours, and he had allowed the spirit that was the real Tom Patterson, subdued though it may have been, to go with her.
He needed a woman in his life, not only for the sake of love and companionship, but to re-ignite the man beneath.
The thought brought him full circle to Jennifer and the ex-pat, Dr Dennis Wright.
“We were very close,” Jennifer was saying. “Especially while we worked on his manuscript.” A hint of pleading burned in her hazel eyes. “He loved me, Tom. He still loves me. I’m sure of it. It’s not me he rejects, but commitment.”
Patterson sighed. “What is love if not commitment, Jennifer? He used you, and when he had no further use for you, he shunned you. Until he needed you again. Like now.”
Jennifer lifted her cup and stared through the windows at the overcast morning. Lumbering clouds threatened sleet, if not snow, and the jovial illuminations of the Christmas tree standing outside Leeds Town Hall did little to lift the gloom. Patterson guessed she was reminiscing on the cloudless blue of Alabama skies, a universe away and a year in the past.
The interior of the Regency Hotel’s lounge would not help, he surmised. The furnishings were new, but period designed to match the establishment’s illusion of grandeur, and the wall lights were subdued to enhance the ‘ageing’ effect. Large screen TV sets mounted on the walls declared the Regency as a 21st century establishment, but the lighting might just as well have been generated by gas mantles from the turn of the 20th century. Christmas decorations festooned about the place merely added a little twinkle, lifting the sombre aura a few notches.
Jennifer turned her head slowly back to face him. “I know what I know, Tom. I’m not a child, and this was no mere infatuation. It was the real thing.”
Patterson shrugged and sipped his tea again. “No one can lead your life for you, my dear, but I don’t want to see you hurt again.” He let out a long sigh. “You could have all the commitment you wanted right here.”
Jennifer smiled, exhibiting fine, white teeth. “Dear Tom. You’re very sweet, but you and I were never destined to be anything but the best of friends.”
Patterson glanced around the room and concentrated on the bar where a short, rotund man argued with the staff over something. Patterson’s lip curled in contempt. “I don’t like your mixing with Dennis Wright,” he said, “but rather him than Oliver Quinton.”
Jennifer, too, looked across the room and Patterson was certain that she shuddered, much though she tried to hide it.
“I can’t imagine what he’s doing here,” she said. “Well, I can, but I don’t think it will do him any good.”
“The Middleton Penny?” Patterson asked and Jennifer nodded. “You didn’t invite him?”
Jennifer laughed. “Dear me, no. Whatever business I had with him was over weeks and months ago. He’s a fanatic, Tom. Like Kirkland.” She nodded in the direction of businessman Warren Kirkland, sat by the exit. “They’re both obsessed with getting their greasy little hands on the penny.” This time she made no effort to hide her shiver. “As long as he keeps his distance.”
Jennifer drank her tea and stood up. Patterson’s blood fired at the sight of her standing before him, attired in shin-length, brown leather boots and a dark skirt that finished just below the knee. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some shopping to do before I meet Dennis.”
Patterson’s eyebrows rose. “You’re meeting him?”
“Sorry. Didn’t I say? We’re having lunch.” She smiled again, more hungrily this time. “Prepare yourself for some exciting news this evening, Tom.”
Putting her cup and saucer down, she strode off. Patterson watched her behind, broader than it used to be, but no less enticing, wiggle across the richly carpeted floor. As she neared the exit, Kirkland got quickly to his feet and intercepted her. She paused briefly to talk with him. Patterson had no idea what they were talking about, but Jennifer looked serious as she first nodded, and then firmly shook her head before leaving the room.
He sipped his tea again. “Exciting news, eh? We shall have to see, my love.”
***
“The Leodensian Historical Society?” Brenda asked. “Who are they, Joe?”
Joe shrugged. “Search me. I assume they know all about Leodensians.” He frowned. “What is a Leodensian, anyway? Some kind of lion?”
“A Leodensian is a resident of Leeds,” Sheila told them. “Or more accurately, someone who was born in Leeds. The Leodensian Historical Society is precisely what its name suggests. A society of historians or history buffs, all of whom were born in Leeds.”
“Where do you learn all this stuff?” Joe asked.
“I read a lot,” Sheila admitted. “Books, not Wikipedia.”
“I wish I had time to read,” Brenda bemoaned. “Too busy partying.”
“That’s the spirit, Brenda,” said Mavis.
Of the three women either side of him, Joe discounted Mavis as a friend except at those times when he needed an extra hand at the Lazy Luncheonette. At all other times, she was merely an acquaintance; a widow who, according to Joe, invested most of her time in the search for new men friends. Short of stature, plump, she had an appalling dress sense, which even now saw her clothed in a bright green winter coat and an equally lurid pair of red trousers. She reminded Joe of one of Santa’s elves on an obesity kick.
Between the other two, Joe could never decide which was his closest friend, so he scored them equal. Both widows, known to the Sanford townsfolk as Joe’s Harem, they were as chalk to cheese. Sheila was slender to the point of anorexia, Brenda was chunkier, without suffering the gross weight distortion of Mavis. Sheila was capable, intelligent and unflappable, Brenda was more outgoing, but emotional and more down to earth. If Joe had choice, he would have selected Sheila as a wife and Brenda as a mistress, but he did not have a choice. The two women were the best of friends, did everything together, and aside from Brenda’s deliberate innuendo, they showed no romantic interest in him whatsoever.
Their attire for the journey highlighted the difference between them. Sheila, whose late husband had been a police inspector, wore a modest, beige jumper and black trousers, her feet clad in fur-lined, sensibly heeled boots. On the rack above her was a plain black, button-up coat. Next to it was a quilted anorak in less-livid red than Mavis’ trousers, and Joe knew it belonged to Brenda. The woman herself sported a white blo
use, through which her flowery bra could be seen, and a skirt in navy blue, which showed her calves above ankle boots with block heels. Not the warmest of attire for wandering the streets of Leeds on Christmas Eve, but more pleasing on the eye than Sheila’s sombre-ish clothing.
Less than ten minutes after joining the motorway outside Sanford, Keith turned off onto the M1 for the last and most difficult leg into Leeds. As he did so, the first flecks of sleet began to hit the windscreen causing Joe to wonder how Brenda would get by in such thin clothing for the day.
He had dressed specifically for the weather, sporting a thick, crew-necked jumper and sturdy denims, with all-weather trainers on his feet. Comfortable enough to ensure he stayed warm no matter what the elements offered.
The bus dropped down the steep incline to the outskirts of the city, and over to the right, some miles away, Joe made out the vast spread of Cross Green wholesale markets. He recalled the days when he and his father had gone to those markets three times a week to buy potatoes and other vegetables, or meat for carving and cooking. That was in a time before daily deliveries from refrigerated vehicles became an option. It seemed to Joe that life was simpler back then.
“The rose coloured tint of nostalgia,” Sheila said when he pointed the markets out and told them the tale. “Peter always said that policing was easier when he was a young patrol bobby than it was when he made inspector. I suppose the same is true of all of us.”
“Maybe the Leodensians would like to research it,” Brenda commented.
“Now that’s a funny thing,” Joe observed, changing the subject as abruptly as he had brought it up. “Why would a mob of history buffs choose to stay in a hotel in the city where they live?”
“Why are we going there?” Brenda returned. “It’s less than twenty miles from Sanford. It’s a change, Joe. That’s all.”
“There’s also the point that not all of them live in Leeds,” Sheila said, anxious not to openly disagree with either of her friends. “I’m sure some of them do, but I know for a fact that their members come from far and wide. One of them, Dennis Wright, teaches history in Birmingham, Alabama, but he was born in Leeds and obviously has a great affection for the city.”
“He must have to drive all that way for a Christmas thrash.”
“I said Birmingham, Alabama, Joe. You really should get your hearing checked.”
Joe’s eyebrows rose. He took out his tobacco tin and rolled a wire-thin cigarette.
“You can’t smoke that on here,” Mavis reminded him.
“I know, I know. I’m just getting it ready for when we get off the bus.” He tucked the finished cigarette in the tin, closed it up and dropped it back in his pocket. Venting his irritation on Sheila and Brenda, he demanded, “Alabama?”
Sheila nodded. “I read about him in the Evening Post. He was born here, in Leeds, and moved to Leeds in Alabama when he was in his late twenties. Lived there ever since. Officially, he’s an authority on old coins but he also knows plenty of the history of both cities; Alabama and West Yorkshire.”
“Wait a minute,” Joe interjected. “He lives in Leeds but teaches in Birmingham? I wouldn’t like his petrol bill.”
Sheila tutted. “Will you forget England and think Alabama. From Leeds, Alabama, to Birmingham, Alabama is about 18 miles. It’s only like living in Sanford and working in Leeds.”
“West Yorkshire or Alabama?” Brenda asked with a cheeky grin.
Sheila sighed. “Don’t you start, too,” she warned. “I can’t see what’s so complicated about it.”
“It’s Christmas Eve and you’ve taken me away from the Lazy Luncheonette,” Joe grunted. “You can’t expect my brain to be in high gear, too.” He shook his head sadly. “I must have taken a wrong turn in life. I run a café and go nowhere; he looks into boring old cities and travels half way across the world for a Christmas party.”
“It’s worse than that, Joe.” Brenda smiled wickedly. “He’s happy and you’re as miserable as ever.”
Brenda’s dig and Joe’s responding grimace made Sheila giggle. More soberly, she went on, “He’s not just here for Christmas. He’s launching a book. Missing Pennies. It’s all about old and rare coins that have gone missing. One chapter of it is concerned with the 1933 Middleton Penny.”
“Nineteen thirty-three as in the year not the number? And Middleton here in Leeds, or somewhere on the outskirts of Scunthorpe, Alabama?”
“I don’t think there is a Scunthorpe in Alabama,” Sheila retorted.
Ignoring her sarcasm better than she had ignored his, he asked, “Who would want to read a book about pennies in Leeds?”
Sheila tutted and Brenda laughed derisively. “For someone obsessed with money you don’t know a lot about it, do you, Joe?”
“I know I pay you two too much of it every week,” he retorted. Concentrating on Sheila as the bus joined a long queue of traffic for the city centre, he asked, “So come on. What about these pennies.”
She licked her lips and Joe sensed a lesson coming on. “There were only about seven George the Fifth pennies minted in 1933. No one’s sure of the real number but the Royal Mint insists it was less than ten. Two of them were installed in the foundations of churches here in Leeds. St Marys at Hawksworth Wood, Kirkstall, and St Cross in Middleton. The Middleton Penny was stolen sometime around 1970, and in order to prevent the other one befalling the same fate, the diocese had it removed from the church foundations and put into safe keeping in a bank. A few years later, it was sold at auction to raise funds for restoration work. No one’s quite sure how much the missing penny is worth, but it’s estimated to be in the region of £100,000. As I told you, Dennis Wright is an authority on the history of rare coins, and it was the Middleton Penny that got him started.”
Passing the Brewery Wharf development on the final leg into the city centre, Joe observed, “He put together a career for tuppence.”
Brenda laughed. “Jealous, Joe?”
Sheila joined in the ribbing. “Of course he’s jealous. Even the Lazy Luncheonette cost more than tuppence.”
Chapter Two
From the fourth floor of Debenhams, Joe gazed grumpily through the windows on the seething mass of people clogging Briggate. He shook his head in bewilderment. “What is wrong with these idiots?”
“I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?”
Joe turned his head to find a middle-aged woman sat right behind him. A blonde to white fringe settled above warm, hazel eyes, but there was nothing warm about the prim set of her small mouth.
“Sorry, luv,” he replied. “I was talking to myself. My old man used to say it was the only way to get intelligent answers.”
She did not even register his jest, but with a wincing frown, turned back to her male companion.
Joe’s gaze passed quickly round the crowded cafeteria, and fell enviously on the long queue at the serving counter. He wished he had queues like that at the Lazy Luncheonette, but then, his place was so small that such popularity would see them lining up along Doncaster Road like they were waiting for tickets to a Neil Diamond concert, and most people wouldn’t hang around outside that long. Not in the middle of December, anyway. Here the line stretched all the way back to the escalator and out into the cookshop. Somewhere in the midst of it were Sheila and Brenda.
It was 2:30. Having checked in at the Regency on The Headrow, they came out into the thronging streets just after 10:30. His two companions wanted photographs of Leeds Town Hall, a magnificent edifice with its grandiose columns and domed clock tower.
“After it was built, it became the model for buildings throughout the British Empire, and even Sir John Betjeman praised the building on TV during the early sixties,” Sheila lectured them.
“You’ve also seen it a thousand times before,” Joe complained as they stood before the stone lions guarding the grand entrance. “Why do you need your picture taken now?”
“It’s a Grade One listed building,” Sheila reminded him, “and it’s also been listed a
s one of the top ten town halls in the country.”
“It was a Victorian rip off,” Joe declared, exhibiting some of his own knowledge of the place. “It was put up to show people how important the city believed it was, and most of those who were taxed to pay for it weren’t even allowed to vote.”
“Sounds a bit like the democracy at the Lazy Luncheonette to me,” Brenda commented and posed with Sheila.
After Joe had taken the photograph, they ambled up The Headrow towards the shopping areas of Briggate. Light snow flecks fell and began to settle on the pedestrianised streets, but the threat of the weather did nothing to quell the shoppers’ determination. Every store they visited was full to the gunnels.
Trailing his two friends through the packed streets, his mind on anything but shopping, his arms beginning to fill with their purchases, Joe rang the Lazy Luncheonette several times to make sure everything was fine, and each time he received an irritated response from Christine.
“We’re chocabloc, Uncle Joe, and I’m busy. Please stop ringing.”
Wandering further through the city, they tackled Kirkgate Market and found it more like the New York Stock Exchange on a busy day. By 12 noon, jostled, pushed, having fought his way through huge crowds, Joe could feel his temper on the verge of snapping, so the two women took him into the General Elliot, opposite the market, for a calming beer.
Even here, getting to the bar was like fighting through a rugby scrum.
“We could have done with Lee,” Brenda said when she and Sheila finally secured a half of bitter for Joe and spirits for themselves. “You need a prop forward like him to get attention.”
“So how did you manage?” Joe asked with an eye on her cleavage. “Did you show off your finer assets?”
Brenda took his jibe in good part and waggled her bosom at him. “Oh, Joe, if only you knew how much fun you’re missing.”
A Murder for Christmas Page 2
