Joe mustered some sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that, Lucas.”
“Not to worry. I’m sure we’ll find another hotel ready to accommodate us. It’s so short-sighted though, isn’t it? I mean, we practically guarantee her a half-full hotel for the weekend.”
“Maybe she thinks she can do better without you,” Joe suggested as he turned at the loop at the far end of the queue.
Wrigglesworth gave a cynical little snort. “As if. This is Whitby not St Tropez.” He fumed again for a few moments. “Course, you know what this is about, don’t you? Her mother.”
“Oh. So you know about that, do you?”
Wrigglesworth nodded furiously. “Doesn’t everyone? Everyone in Whitby, that is. We were here, you know. It was a treasure hunt weekend. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was shocking. That poor woman. And one has to feel sorry for Kim. It must be terrible to lose one’s mother like that. You don’t have to take it out of the rest of the world though, do you?”
There was one more person ahead of Joe, and he calculated he had time for just one question. “You don’t subscribe to the theory that the woman was murdered, then?”
“Drivel, mate. Kim is just looking for somewhere to lay the blame. Trust me on this. I know.”
Joe’s assessment of the bar staff and their speed of operation proved correct and as he concentrated on ordering drinks, so Wrigglesworth passed him to be served by a barmaid further along, and when Joe finally came away from the bar, the treasure hunt organiser was already crossing the floor to join his partner in front of the stage.
“Thank God for that,” Brenda said. “We’re dying of thirst here. We thought you’d gone to Tetley’s Brewery in Leeds.”
“Waste of time,” Joe said. “I don’t think Tetley’s is actually a brewery these days.” He began to disperse drinks across the table. “Anyway, it was two for the price of one, so I got us all a brace.”
“Oh goody,” Brenda said. “I can get drunk twice as quick at half the price.”
While Joe, Sheila and Maddy were busy trying to work this out, Lucas Wrigglesworth got to his feet and called the room to attention. The hum of conversation settled quickly and silence engulfed the room, one which only the occasional and distant mutter of the bar staff and their customers impinged.
Wrigglesworth had left his table and moved up onto the stage to ensure that everyone could see him, and as he addressed the audience, Joe could not help feeling a twinge of envy. Wrigglesworth was a man totally at ease in front of the audience, and totally in control of events. For his sins, Joe acted as DJ at the 3rd Age Club weekly disco in the Miner’s Arms, and although he did an adequate job, he could never confess to being as relaxed as Wrigglesworth appeared.
“Well, good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Westhead Hotel and the summer treasure hunt on behalf of the Roll On charity for people with spinal injuries.”
Striding back and forth along the stage, he fiddled with his radio microphone, adjusting the settings so that it was one side of his lips. Brenda deferring to Maddy’s television experience, asked why so many people did that, Maddy explained that keeping a radio mike in front of his lips presenting problems with plosive consonants like ‘B’ and ‘P’.
“By keeping the microphone off to one side, it avoids that explosion of breath when he speaks.”
On stage, Wrigglesworth was getting into his stride.
“I make no excuses for our entry fee of twenty-five pounds per team. Every penny of this money goes to the charity, and is disbursed to people who need the help we can give. You might wonder how I came to be involved. Well, ladies and gentlemen, the answer is sitting down at the front of the stage. My partner, Marlene Ellery, was involved in a road traffic accident seven years ago, and she’s been confined to a wheelchair ever since. Without the assistance of charities like Roll On, life would be intolerable for her, and by default, for me too. Our way of repaying the debt we owe to such charities, is through the treasure hunts. We run them half a dozen times a year. Two in Whitby, two in Scarborough, and two in Bridlington.”
Joe estimated that there were about now getting on for 200 people in the room, and if he assumed two persons to each team, that would make 100 teams, and that would yield £2500 for the charity. If Wrigglesworth was repeating those numbers half a dozen times a year, it was pulling in fifteen grand a year for his chosen charity.
He honed his attention as Wrigglesworth went on to explain the rules.
“There are ten clues, leading you to ten specific locations here in Whitby, and they’re all within walking distance of each other. At the tenth location, you will find your treasure, which you will then bring back to me. The only other stipulation, is that you must take a photograph of the clues at each of the locations you visit. We’re just trying to make certain that everyone is playing the game, not simply overhearing the answers from other people. A photograph on your phone or compact camera will be fine. The overall winner will be the team who completes the hunt in the shortest time. But, ladies and gentlemen, this is a two-day event, so it is your aggregate time which will count. For example, on day one, tomorrow, you complete your five clues and check back with me in, say, four hours, and then on Sunday, you return to me with your treasure in, say, five hours, then your aggregate time will be nine hours. If, however, someone else completes the first five tomorrow in, say, five hours, and then returns with a treasure in, say, three and a half hours, then their aggregate time will be eight and a half hours, and they will be the winners. We start at half past nine tomorrow morning, after breakfast, and either I or Marlene will be here in the hotel all day, ready for you returning at checking in. The same will apply on Sunday.”
He made his way towards the corner of the stage, preparing to rejoin his partner.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for you to put your money where your mouth is. Marlene and I are here, ready to take your twenty-five pounds and issue you with your team number, and your first cryptic clue. Don’t be shy, and please be generous.”
The buzz of conversation broke out around the room. Joe dipped into his wallet and took out the necessary funds, and cast a final glance at Maddy, who nodded her agreement, and Brenda gave her permission to Sheila.
Joe gave voice to his puzzlement. “Hang on. I thought you weren’t taking part, Sheila.”
She got to her feet. “I’m not. But I want to do my bit for the charity, so I’m paying Stewart’s share of the entry fee.”
She marched stiffly off, and Joe followed to join the growing queue at the front of the stage.
Chapter Five
The buzzer on the room door sounded repeatedly, augmented by a loud thumping on the wooden panels.
Joe’s eyes flickered open. His tongue was thick, his mouth dry, and it took a moment or two to realise where he was, and how much he had drunk the night before. Not that he could remember absolute numbers, but he knew it was more than was good for him. He cast a glance at his travel clock, and read a few minutes after 6:15.
The buzzing and thumping repeated. Alongside him, Maddy stirred, but Joe had already rolled from the mattress and dropped his feet into carpet slippers. Collecting a robe, he slid his arms into it and shuffled to the door, where he put his eye to the viewer. Out in the corridor was a distressed Tracy Huckle, and as Joe watched, she hammered on the door again.
He snapped back the lock, opened the door, and she burst in. She was in an advanced state of distress; shaking, tears streaming down her cheeks, staring frantically around, unable to focus on anything.
“It’s her… She’s… They’ll think I did it… But I didn’t. You’ve got to help me, Mr Murray. It wasn’t me. I just found her…”
Joe pressed her into the armchair and nodded to Maddy to switch on the kettle. “Make her a cup of tea.” He turned his attention to Tracy. “All right. Calm down. Tell me what’s happened.”
“She’s… They’ll swear it was me… I was arguing with her yesterday, but I never had not
hing to do with her later. What am I going to do… They’ll throw the key away. They know I hate her—”
Joe interrupted the voluble rambling. “Tracy. Calm down. Now tell me what’s happened.”
Tracy gulped in her breath and slowly, calm began to overtake her. “She’s dead.” The moment she uttered the words, she began to weep. Joe held her hand and she squeezed his fingers tightly.
While she attempted to regain control of herself, and Maddy made her a cup of tea, Joe checked his clock again. A few minutes since the last time he checked. He pulled himself together.
Maddy took over and pressed the cup into Tracy’s shaking hand. The receptionist clutched it in both palms, and raising it to her lips, took a tiny sip.
Joe and Maddy exchanged cautious glances, and took turns to keep an eye on the distressed woman.
Several minutes passed before Tracy was calm enough to speak. “I signed on at six this morning, and I had to report to her. It’s compulsory. Her way of letting me know that she’s keeping an eye on me, that she’s waiting for me to resign. I knocked on the door, got no answer, so I let myself in with a passkey, thinking she was still asleep. I found her there. She’s been stabbed to death.” The panic began to consume her once again. “They’ll think it’s me. She took my husband, she took my son, now everyone will think it’s me because—”
Joe interrupted for the second time. “Calm down, calm down. Nobody’s accusing you of anything. Have you called the police?”
“No. I told you. They’d arrest me. I can’t go to prison, Mr Murray, I can’t—”
“Okay, okay. Let’s worry about that later. Have you told anyone else?”
“No. Ronnie Ilkeston doesn’t come on until eight. I don’t know where Alan and Ben are. They don’t stay with her, you see. Not yet, anyway. Besides, I’m too scared to tell anyone because they’ll think it was me. And then I thought of you. You tried to help me last night. And I thought you might be able to help me now.”
“And we might. Give me a few minutes to get dressed, and I’ll come with you.”
“I can’t go back in there. I can’t look at her again. It’s awful. So don’t ask me to—”
This time it was Maddy who interrupted. “Take it easy, Tracy. We’ll be with you, and no one’s going to ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. But we do need to check it out and call the police.”
Joe collected his clothing, and leaving Maddy to look after Tracy, disappeared into the bathroom where he washed and dressed. When he came out, Maddy took his place, and a little over five minutes later they left their second floor room, made their way down to the ground floor, past reception where the night porter was dozing, and along the corridor to the kitchen entrance, where Joe borrowed a pair of washing-up gloves. From there they continued along the corridor to room 101.
Joe put on the gloves, instructed Maddy and Tracy to wait outside, and when Tracy unlocked the door, he entered the room.
Kim was seated behind her desk, her back to the open window. A large bloodstain spreading from her open mouth, down and across the front of her white blouse made it obvious, even from the door, that she was dead, but Joe found her position puzzling. She was sat upright. Why had she not slumped over the desk?
He found the answer the moment he moved behind the desk. She had been stabbed with a long-bladed, laser-sharpened kitchen knife, which had been rammed through the back of the chair, forced through to the front and into Kim’s back. The knife had been forced in from above at a steep angle as if someone very short had brought it down over his/her head.
Joe felt his anger rising. He had met the woman only twice, and despite the tragedy of her history, as learned from Maddy, he did not like her. But her attitude, her arrogance did not warrant such brutality. Life, as far as Joe was concerned, was precious, and there was never any excuse for taking it away.
He realised there was nothing he could do, and while he remained in the room there was the ever-present danger of contaminating the crime scene. On the other hand, the window was open onto the street outside, and without someone keeping an eye on the area, it was possible for anyone to sneak in (although for the life of him, he could not think of any legitimate reason why anyone should want to enter the room via the window).
He retraced his steps, came out onto the corridor where he reported to Maddy.
“She’s dead. Murdered. No two ways about it. We need to get the cops out. The window behind her is open, and we need to get someone standing out on the street to ensure no one climbs into the room that way. Just until the cops get here. Tracy, how are you fixed for staff?”
“Not good.” Still shaking, Tracy checked her watch. “I told you, Ronnie isn’t due in until eight o’clock, most of the day shift won’t show up until then. The kitchen staff are busy getting breakfast ready, so they can’t spare anyone, and the only other members of staff on duty are me and the night porter, Pete Neal, and you can see how lively he is. He was asleep when we passed reception.”
“Well, we better wake him up, hadn’t we?” Joe gestured at the door. “Do you have a key for this room?”
Tracy held up a key card. “This is a passkey. Opens any door in the hotel. The door locks automatically when you close it.”
Joe was about to test it when he thought of fingerprints. The killer’s prints might well be… He checked his train of thought. Tracy had already opened it earlier, and even though he had been wearing gloves, he had probably disturbed any prints when he let himself in. He tried it again, satisfied himself that it was locked.
“Right. Let’s get this porter into gear.” He led the way back along the corridor. “What’s his name again?”
Tracy hurried to keep up with him. “Peter. We all call him Pete.”
Joe arrived in reception, and rapped the bell on the counter. Pete stirred, and almost fell off chair when he realised he was confronted with three people, one of them his boss.
“You’re Pete?” Joe did not wait for an answer to his rhetorical question. “All right, Pete, listen up. You have work to do. First, call the police. Tell them you have a dead body in room 101. Then, get yourself outside and stand sentry by the open window of room 101, make sure no one gets in or out that way.”
Pete appeared to be in his early 50s, and it was apparent from the scowl which crossed his features that he was not about to listen to a complete stranger. Instead he concentrated on Tracy. “Who is this person, Mrs Huckle?”
“He’s a man who knows what he’s talking about, Pete, so you’d better do as he says. Dial 999 and get the police out first, and then you better go stand by the window to 101, like Mr Murray says. It’s only until some of the day shift turn up, and then you can go home.”
Pete fingered his scrub moustache. “I’m not sure about this. Room 101? I mean that’s Mrs Ashton, and if the police come along and disturb her—”
“She’s dead, you idiot,” Joe interrupted. “Now for crying out loud, call the cops.”
***
With the dashboard clock reading a few minutes to eight, Detective Inspector Helen Dalkeith turned off the main Scarborough Road, which would bypass Whitby, and headed towards the town centre, keeping left at a mini roundabout for the climb up to West Cliff and the Westhead Hotel.
CID in Whitby lacked the resources for what was obviously a murder investigation, and Detective Sergeant Noel Calvin, the local man, rang Scarborough the moment he checked out the incident at the Westhead.
“Definitely murder, ma’am,” he said to Helen when he rang a little after seven.
She had instructed him to secure the scene, and call in the CSI team.
“Scene’s already secure, ma’am. Hotel guest, name of Joe Murray, seemed to have the job pretty well organised, and I’ve already contacted CSI.”
Taking a shower, dressing, and throughout much of the 25 mile drive from Scarborough to Whitby, Helen thought about that name, Joe Murray. She was absolutely certain that she had heard it somewhere before, but wherever and und
er what circumstances she could not recall. It was only as the Westhead drifted into view that the penny dropped. Several years back, he had been guest of honour at an awards dinner for local crime writers. He was some kind of private investigator with a happy knack of making the police look inept.
Well, not on her watch, he wouldn’t.
With her 40th birthday less than two years away, Helen had known no other life but the police. She was hard-working and dedicated, and even on those occasions when she had been entitled to take time off, such as after the births of her two children, she had not taken her full allowance. She had risen to the rank of inspector on merit, and she had an arrest record which was better than average; nothing spectacular, but then crime at the seaside was different to crime in the big cities – as good a reason as any to savour the prospect of a juicy murder, and another reason to keep wannabe amateurs like Joe Murray in the background.
She parked outside the main entrance, climbed out of the car, looked along the street and walked down to where a uniformed constable stood idly by an open window.
“Who posted you here?” she demanded after identifying herself.
“Sergeant Calvin, ma’am.” The constable pointed to the open window behind him. “That’s where it happened. That’s where the body is.”
Helen looked past the officer and into the room, but bright sunshine outside contrasting with the darker interior of the room meant she could see little, until Calvin’s face appeared at the window.
“Morning, ma’am,” he said with an air of indefatigable good cheer.
Murder at the Treasure Hunt Page 5
