Murder at the Treasure Hunt

by David W Robinson

  “I’d better get over there before—”

  Maddy cut him off. Putting a hand on his shoulder, restraining him, she smiled at the scene across the street. “It looks to me, Joe, as if Sheila has matters well in hand.”

  Joe looked across the street again, just as the man grabbed hold of Sheila by the wrist. Joe was about to start across the street, when Maddy, once again, stayed him. As they watched, Sheila pulled her hand free and wagged a determined finger at the man. Joe could almost hear her shrill voice dressing her opponent down. When she had said her piece, she turned on her heels and strode imperiously into the jewellers.

  Joe shrugged and smiled at Maddy. “That’s our Sheila, and maybe you’re right.”

  She beamed back. “You know it makes sense.”

  As they moved on, Joe took out his mobile, rang Brenda and spent the next few minutes explaining that the bus she and Dalmer were seeking was no longer in Whitby, and Maddy could practically hear Brenda ranting by return, until Joe told her where she needed to be.

  “We’ll wait for you there,” he promised and ended the call.

  “Giving information away to the competition, Joe,” Maddy commented with a laugh.

  “Helping out a couple of friends, Maddy. Whitby put one over on Brenda, and she’s not the most forgiving woman. By tipping her off, I’ll ease her stress levels.”

  They ambled along the streets, turned left at a large supermarket, and drifted towards an equally expansive pay-and-display car park. Before they got there, Maddy turned left again and walked a few yards to the riverbank where a myriad boats were moored.

  She walked one way, Joe walked the other, checking the sterns, reading the names, trying to relate them to the clue.

  “Got it.” Maddy called him from 40 yards away.

  He made his way to where she was standing alongside a 30-foot motor launch. White with a blue, sliding roof over the midsection where the helm was located, and a matching blue canvas of the rear deckwell. Her name was painted in gold leaf across the stern: Princess Elizabeth IL.

  “IL? Is that short for Illinois?” Joe demanded a second or two before the penny dropped. “It means forty-nine, doesn’t it? And in nineteen forty-nine, our present queen was Princess Elizabeth.”

  Maddy agreed. “You’re right, obviously, but whoever named the boat knows nothing about roman numerals. The correct notation for forty-nine is XLIX, and not IL.”

  “It is?”

  “It is. The I – or one if you want to think of it in those terms – can be put before a V – five – or an X – ten – but not before, L, C, D, or M, respectively fifty, one hundred, five hundred, and one thousand.”

  Joe whistled to show he was impressed. “I didn’t know the Romans were that picky.”

  “I don’t think they were. It’s we who’ve changed the rules.”

  The familiar treasure hunt card was pinned to the painter securing the boat to the bank. Maddy crouched, and photographed it, and they read it together.

  Congratulations. You have now completed the first half of the treasure hunt. You will be given clue number six at the beginning of day two.

  Joe checked his watch and read 12:45. “I promised Brenda we’d wait here.”

  “You’re not going all out to win this, are you, Joe?”

  “I’m not interested in winning. I meanersay, who needs a prize like that? The Westhead is hardly the epitome of luxury, is it, and even if Kim Ashton is no longer in danger of taking it over, I still wouldn’t fancy spending another weekend here. Besides, I don’t mind waiting for Brenda and Stewart. The four of us can take a taxi back to the hotel after that, we should still check in by one-fifteen, which gives us a time of under two and a half hours for the first day.”

  “That sounds like it should be good,” Maddy said. The way Wrigglesworth was talking about last night, it should take about four hours.”

  Joe tapped the side of his nose. “Yes, but you’re local. That had its advantage in this bus thing, and if it hadn’t been for you, I’d have probably gone into the Dracula shop. And, to be fair, you’re the one who twigged the lighthouses.”

  “All right, Joe. Flattery will get you anywhere… But I still reserve the right of refusal when it comes to our sleeping arrangements.”

  A few minutes later, Brenda and Dalmer turned up, and stared at the stern of the boat. Dalmer took the photograph, while Brenda fulminated.

  “What a stupid clue.”

  “Only because you thought it was that old bus,” Joe said as he took out his mobile and rang for a taxi.

  “Leaving that aside, Joe, it was still a stupid clue,” Brenda insisted. “Suppose the owner of the boat chose to take it out?”

  To Maddy and Dalmer it was a logical objection, but to Joe it was the route to a logical conclusion. “And have you thought that the boat might belong to Wrigglesworth?”

  “Oh.”

  “Ah.”

  “Oh.”

  Five minutes later, they were comfortably ensconced in an air-conditioned taxi, on their way back to the Westhead. Joe confessed that he was ready for some lunch, and aside from the gruesome and untimely death of Kim Ashton, he felt content with the day’s adventures, and even the supercilious attitude of DI Dalkeith could not put him off.

  “Getting there, are you?” he asked as he climbed out of the taxi and she emerged from the hotel.

  She dug into her bag for her car keys. “I’ve a way to go yet, but I’m not short of suspects.” She smiled sourly at him. “And you’re still high on the list.”

  “Good.” Joe suppressed his natural irritation, and resorted to sarcasm. “You keep me up there, while you’re doing that, the real killer can be halfway to South America.”

  He did not wait for her to respond again, but followed his three friends into the hotel.

  Dalmer hurried along to check him and Brenda in, and Joe left Maddy to check them in while he secured the drinks and joined Brenda who was sitting with Alec and Julia Staines and Les Tanner and his lady friend Sylvia Goodson.

  When it came to the topic of discussion, the treasure hunt took second place at the table to the violent death of Kim Ashton.

  “It makes you wonder whether we’ll be safe in our beds,” Sylvia fretted.

  “I think she was a specific target, Sylvia,” Joe tried to reassure her. “We’re dealing with a personalised nutter, not a random one.”

  Julia Staines shuddered. “That’s supposed to be some kind of comfort, is it?”

  Determined to wind up as many of them as he could, Joe pointed out, “There is a theory that he could be a hitman and that the Sanford 3rd Age Club put a contract out on her.”

  His observation was met with a chorus of groans and complaints.

  “You usually have some ideas, Murray,” Les Tanner said. “Got your eye on anyone in particular?”

  Alec Staines, another old friend of Joe’s from school days, was in agreement. “Yeah, come on, Joe. Who done it?”

  “Right now, I haven’t the faintest idea, Alec, and if I had, I wouldn’t tell you lot. The surest way of ensuring that any secret doesn’t remain secret for more than five minutes is to tell someone in the Sanford 3rd Age Club. Anyway, I’ve been busy hunting treasure today. But come tomorrow, when Maddy and I have triumphed on the treasure hunt, I’ll give the police the benefit of my experience… Whether they want it or not.”

  Chapter Eight

  With Sheila still away attending to whatever business she had kept so private, Joe, Maddy and Brenda left the Westhead at a few minutes to two, and again followed the steep flight of steps down from the whalebone arch to Khyber Pass where they entered a large café/restaurant, took a window table overlooking the sea and settled down to a meal of Whitby fish and chips.

  The women chatted agitatedly, occasionally dragging Joe into their inconsequential conversation, but with the treasure hunt pushed to the back of his mind at least until the following morning, his concentration was on Kim Ashton’s death.

  I
t would be unreasonable of him to put Alan Foster at the top of the list of suspects, but it was also logical for the simple reason that he knew very little about the other possibles; Wrigglesworth, Ronnie Ilkeston, Tracy Huckle and the tall, younger man he and George Robson had seen arguing with Kim. The little that he knew about Foster was hardly enough to make him a suspect, but he doubted that the police would be so charitable.

  He had slightly less than 36 hours in which to speak with these people, and he could expect the same reluctance to open up as we had experienced with Foster.

  “And don’t forget young Foster,” Brenda insisted. “Maddy says that when you were speaking to his father, he stormed off into the pub.”

  It was their only comment on the murder throughout an enjoyable meal. Joe pushed the murder to one side long enough to comment on the meal, complimenting it as perfectly cooked and presented, on a par with the quality of lunches at The Lazy Luncheonette, which remark drew good-natured, derisive comments from the two women.

  After lunch Maddy and Brenda decided to make their way into the town for some ‘retail therapy’. Joe insisted that his credit card had been stretched far enough as it was, and decided to make his way back to the hotel to snatch a nap.

  ***

  Joe found climbing those steps to the whalebone arch exhausting. By the time he reached level ground at the top, he was completely out of breath, and in need of a rest before walking the final 150 yards to the Westhead.

  Immediately behind the Cook monument was a small car park, surrounded by benches, and Joe went straight for them, to find that Ronnie Ilkeston had taken up one bench.

  Most people, Joe included, found sitting, facing the sea to be calming, even spiritually uplifting, and Ilkeston had an uninterrupted view of the sun-kissed, calm waters of the North Sea. It was obvious, however, that he found it anything but encouraging. He was hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped ahead of him, clutching a cigarette, his head bowed, staring at the grass around the his feet.

  With room enough for another two on the bench, Joe sat alongside him, took out his tobacco tin and began to roll a cigarette. “Cheer up, sport. It might never happen.”

  Ilkeston granted by return. “It already has.”

  “I take it you mean Kim Ashton?”

  Ilkeston turned his head to one side and watched Joe’s speed and dexterity rolling the cigarette. It happened so quickly that it was almost like a conjuror’s trick, and Joe was placing the smoke between his lips, applying a light to it.

  He drew in a lungful of smoke and let it out with a satisfied hiss. “I stopped, you know. COPD. Never touched the baccy for over a year. Best day of my life was when I started again. Bloody stupid, I know. I still have breathing difficulties, and I shouldn’t be doing it, but we all need our little vices, don’t we.”

  “You’ll forgive me, Mr Murray. I don’t want to be rude because it’s part of my job to ensure that you have a satisfactory stay at the Westhead, but right now I’m on a break and it won’t take much for me to tell you to bugger off.”

  “I run my own business, so I know where you’re coming from, but it doesn’t offend me. I have to say, though, it sometimes helps to talk about these things. So I ask again. Is it Kim Ashton?”

  “Yes. Happy now?”

  “Puzzled is what I am. The woman was obviously out to make your life hell, someone has bumped her off, as long as it wasn’t you, you should be feeling quite chuffed.”

  “Well, I’m not.” Ilkeston too took a deep drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the grass and crushed it underfoot. He dug into his shirt pocket, came out with a 20 pack and immediately lit another one.

  The admission might have puzzled anyone else further, but not Joe. He understood immediately. “You’re worried that someone will think you killed her. Someone, in this case, meaning the police.”

  “Yes.”

  “And for the police to even consider you as a suspect must mean you have a motive.” Joe took another draw on his cigarette. “Why would you want to kill her?”

  Ilkeston stood up. “I’d better be going back.”

  “Stay put a minute.” Joe did not mean to sound so abrupt, but his words had the necessary effect, and Ilkeston sat again. “Listen to me, old lad. Over the years I’ve had a lot of experience of investigating murders, and in almost every case you can find half a dozen different people who wanted the victim dead. I’m not gonna say I think you’re innocent. I don’t know enough about you to say that. But I will say that I will give you a fair hearing, and I don’t go running to the cops with everything I learn. If I can help, I will. If I can’t, trust me, I won’t say anything to anyone. Now why would you want to kill her?”

  “I wouldn’t. But she knew something about me that might make the police think I would.”

  Ilkeston remained silent, staring out to see where the local pirate boat, a small, motorised craft, carried daytrippers and holidaymakers out around the bay. He had the kind of look on his face that said he wished he was out there with them. The kind of look that said his life, so comfortable a few days or weeks ago, had turned into an absolute nightmare.

  “You didn’t know her.” He was talking to Joe but maintained his gaze on the pirate ship. “She used people. Even before she won the lottery, even before she lost the plot when her mother died, she could be a total bitch. If she learned something about you, something you might not want other people to know, she would use it. Trust me, Mr Murray, she wasn’t beyond blackmail to get what she wanted.”

  “And you don’t want to tell me what it is she knew about you?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  Joe maintained his equanimity in the face of Ilkeston’s flat refusal. “Fair enough. Let me ask you a few general questions instead. It’s obviously something you want to keep secret, but if it became general knowledge, would it be a complete disaster or just an embarrassment?”

  “I’m not sure. It would certainly be embarrassing. But if – when I need to look for another job, it could be problematic.”

  “Ah. Something you wouldn’t necessarily want a potential employer to know about. Ever been out of work?”

  “Yes. A long time ago. I have no desire to repeat the experience, thank you.”

  Joe took another deep drag of smoke, and blew it out into the clear, summer air. “Time I was getting back to the hotel, too.” He stood up. “A word of advice, Ilkeston. Whatever it is, as long as it’s not illegal – or if it is, as long as you’ve paid the price – make it generally known. That way no one can blackmail you. Think of it this way. Those who mind, don’t matter, and those who matter, won’t mind. See you later.”

  Joe turned and walked away, and without looking, he could feel Ilkeston’s eyes burning into the back of his head.

  The picture of Kim Ashton painted in his head was beginning to look dirtier with every person he spoke to. If she had information on Ilkeston which was worthy of blackmail, what price she had similar information on others, and what further price one of those had decided to take drastic action to shut her up.

  ***

  Stepping into the foyer of the Westhead, Joe was surprised when Detective Sergeant Calvin pulled him and insisted that Helen Dalkeith wanted to speak to him.

  Having commandeered the duty manager’s office, the inspector was in high dudgeon, and her features darkened further when Joe stepped in.

  “Something wrong, Inspector? Annoyed because you can’t pin it on me after all?”

  “For your information, Mr Murray, you were never a serious suspect. It gives me great pleasure to tell you that the crime was committed by someone much taller than a short arse like you.”

  Joe felt an ambivalent stab of pleasure mingled with anger. He was pleased that she was irritated because she couldn’t press him any further, but annoyed with her candid description of him. He had never been particularly touchy about his height (5’5”) but by the same token, he was not happy when other people threw it back at him in such an off
hand manner.

  “What do you want?”

  “I had a call from headquarters earlier today,” she grumbled.

  “York?”

  “Northallerton.”

  Joe pursed his lips. He had always been convinced that the North Yorkshire police were based in York. “So somebody at your head office called you. Tell you to leave me alone, did they?”

  Inspector Dalkeith glowered at him. “Have you ever wondered why most of the Yorkshire police don’t like you?”

  Joe barely gave the question any consideration. He had crossed swords with the police officers all over the country and on many occasions, and overall he blamed himself. As a young man, he had wanted to join the police, but back in those days there was indeed a height restriction, and he didn’t reach it. Ever since, he took great delight in getting to answers before the police could, and if he were brutally honest with himself, he would readily admit to rubbing their noses in it.

  “I don’t have to wonder. I know why they hate me. It’s because I’m smarter than them.”

  “No. It’s because of your derogatory attitude towards us. Anyway, today’s call was from Superintendent Cummins. He’s advised—”

  Joe was impressed and showed it as he interrupted her. “Superintendent? Terry has done well for himself. I remember him when he was a community constable, you know. So what did he want?”

  She tutted. “As I was about to say, he’s advised me to use you. I must admit, I’d prefer to use you as a mop. I’m sure that if I got Sergeant Calvin to turn you upside down, all that curly hair would do an excellent job on the kitchen floor. Superintendent Cummins doesn’t agree with me. He says you’re one of the best, and it’s a damn shame there was a height restriction on the police when you wanted to join.” The inspector chewed spit for the moment. “Like I said; short arse.”