“Yes, well, never mind my height. What’s your problem?”
“Kim Ashton is my problem. She’s dead, or had you forgotten?”
Joe’s features darkened and he became more serious, more focused. “No. I haven’t forgotten.”
He ran through a mental review of his day, wondering which of the bits he should pass on, and which would be unimportant to this irritated woman.
He did not blame her for the irritation. As far as she was concerned he was an intruder, treading on her toes. He had no quarrel with female police officers. Denise had been detective sergeant in Leeds before she decided to become a private investigator, his niece Gemma had recently been promoted to the rank of detective inspector in his hometown of Sanford, and he had worked well with Geraldine Perry in Windermere.
As matters stood Helen Dalkeith was annoyed at the way her thunder was (apparently) being stolen, and as he sat opposite her, Joe decided that it was time to call a truce. Well, he would call a truce, she probably would not, but it would come into effect whether she realised it or not.
Over the next few minutes he reported his conversations with Alan Foster and Ronnie Ilkeston. The inspector listened, and her sergeant made notes as Joe went on.
When he had finished, Helen asked, “You didn’t get to the bottom of whatever it was Kim Ashton had on either of these people?”
Joe shook his head and shrugged. “That would take a bit more persuasion. I will tell you this, both of them are hard arses, and I don’t think applying pressure will get to them. And, of course, it doesn’t mean anything. Just because they’d fallen foul of Kim Ashton in the past, doesn’t mean to say they’d elected to take revenge now. But if I had to choose, I’d look at Foster. I don’t know what Kim Ashton’s will has to say, but if Foster has lived with her for any length of time, even if she didn’t leave the bulk of her estate to him, he’ll still dip his beak.”
“We’re waiting for her solicitor to forward the will, and Foster is on our radar.”
Joe shifted tack slightly. “What did you mean when you said I was too short to kill her?”
“You’re what, about five and half feet tall?”
Joe said nothing, but nodded confirmation.
“According to the doctor, judging from the angle at which the knife entered her body, the killer must have been about six feet five or six inches tall. It would be unnatural for you to stab her at such an angle. Alternatively, it could be that it was a blow struck from the killer’s shoulder level downwards, but in that instance, it would mean that the killer was slightly over three feet tall.”
“A child or a dwarf.”
“I believe the correct terminology is little person, sir,” Calvin commented.
Both Joe and Helen glowered at him. “And a dwarf isn’t a little person?” Joe demanded. He turned his attention back to the inspector. “We don’t have children or dwarves staying here?”
“Nope. Obviously, there are children, but a child did not do this, and there are no persons of short stature…” She glowered again at Calvin. “… In the hotel. There are, however, plenty of people around the six-foot mark.”
A deep frown crossed Joe’s already wrinkled brow. “Have you spoken to my friend, George Robson? Only he and I both saw Kim Ashton arguing with some young guy out on the street and he was way taller than her.”
Inspector nodded slowly. “Ferris Brandt. We know about him. Local yokel, loan shark’s collector, fancies himself with the ladies. He was employed as a porter here, once upon a time, and the whisper is that he and Kim might have shared a bed now and then.”
“And did he have much to say for himself?”
Helen looked again to Calvin, who shrugged. “Nothing, sir. We haven’t found him yet.”
Joe got to his feet. “All right, Inspector. Not much more I can tell you the moment, but rest assured, if I come across anything else, I’ll let you know.”
***
Bingo was over, the evening’s entertainment, which consisted of a Freddie Mercury tribute act, was in full swing, and although Joe’s companions lapped up the outrageous, yet accurate antics of the performer, he was preparing himself mentally for what lay ahead. He had never been a big fan of Queen anyway, and he was actually looking forward to the following evening’s entertainment, which was an Abba tribute act.
Denise, the now-deceased lady in his life prior to Maddy, was an ex-police officer turned insurance investigator, and she had taught him a number of dirty tricks, including the art of cracking locks. More than that, she had left behind the tools she used, and in the year and a half/two years since her death, Joe had become remarkably adept at opening doors. He guessed (and Maddy had more or less confirmed it) that he would need this new-found skill later in the evening.
Between the games of bingo and waiting for the tribute act to come on stage, the only topics of discussion were the brutal slaughter of Kim Ashton and, more importantly, achievement or lack of same on the treasure hunt.
Joe confessed himself pleased with his progress, but to his chagrin, he learned that Brenda and Stewart Dalmer were a minute or two ahead of him.
“Your own fault, Joe,” Brenda told him. “You were the one who told us where to find that boat.”
“Remind me not to do you any favours in future,” he said.
As always, it amounted to good-natured banter. Joe was not remotely interested in the prize on offer (a free weekend at the Westhead Hotel) and under normal circumstances, he would not expect Brenda (or even Sheila) to be concerned with it, but to his surprise, Brenda appeared to be in deadly earnest, determined to win the competition.
In a quiet moment over dinner, with Sheila still AWOL, Brenda at the service counter and Maddy discussing life on the North Yorkshire coast with Lucas Wrigglesworth on the next table, Joe had mentioned it to Dalmer.
“I have an overview, Joe, but I don’t really know what it’s about. It’s obviously a matter of confidence, and all I can tell you is that Sheila asked if I would take her place on the treasure hunt.”
Joe chewed his lip. “Hmm. I wonder if it’s money. She’s been a widow a long time and she could be getting short of readies.”
Dalmer smiled. “I don’t think so. She point blank refused to let me pay for the taxi to the Miner’s Arms.”
The comment only confused Joe further, and he was unable to press for more details because Maddy returned to the table.
Now, very much later, he was still no wiser, but time was pressing on them. A glance through the hotel windows told him that the sun was (at last) going down, and it was time he and Maddy were taking their leave.
“It must be wonderful to be so much in love,” Brenda said.
“You mean you don’t remember, Brenda?” Joe teased.
“I’m never in love, Joe. I’m only in lust.”
Chapter Nine
At Whitby’s latitude, midsummer nights were problematic. It never truly got dark. Even at midnight, in the far north there was a glow of twilight, and it was enough to highlight their activities, even without streetlamps, and as if the gods had decided that matters should be worse, the Moon, a few days past full, lit up Mount Street from the southwest.
It was an even bigger problem for Joe. He had not brought dark clothing with him. “It’s the middle of summer,” he told Maddy. “Why would I be carrying winter jumpers? And I haven’t owned a balaclava since I was a kid. I don’t need one. I prefer sinking a few beers to robbing and mugging other people of a night.”
Ignoring his stereotypical view of people who wore such clothing , Maddy solved the problem by loaning him a pair of her slacks and a black jumper, which unfortunately had a diamante brooch in the shape of a letter ‘M’ above the left breast. His ensemble was completed by a navy blue, woolly beanie decorated with Santas and reindeer.
“We’re going out breaking and entering,” he reminded her, “not to a Christmas party.”
“Fine, Joe, in that case put your Hawaiian beach shirt on.”
&n
bsp; Joe decided that silence was preferable to further argument, and at a few minutes to midnight, they set off in his car to meander through the complex latticework of streets running off Cliff Road.
Joe had already consulted an online map of Cragshaven village, and there were few streets either side of the main road, but following the route as dictated by Maddy, he doubted that he would ever find Mount Street again, or find his way back to Maddy’s bungalow.
Kim Ashton’s place was a two bed bungalow, similar to Maddy’s, but incongruously planted in the middle of the street of two and three-storey houses, all of which dwarfed the bungalow.
It was fronted by an untidy scrub of overgrown grass, which, Joe supposed, could have been described as a lawn at one time, but which had obviously seen no attention in months. There was a drive and a garage attached to the side of the bungalow, and alongside that was a narrow path which led to the rear.
Joe drove past to the end of the street, turned left and parked his car. There was a main road of sorts 100 yards ahead, and with the possibility of them being spotted, or triggering burglar alarms at the forefront of his mind, he fervently hoped that it was Cliff Road. They might need to make a quick getaway.
Nonchalance and discretion were difficult while they were both dressed in such comically sinister outerwear. In Joe’s mind, it was akin to wandering along the seafront in Torremolinos wearing an overcoat, when everyone else was in swimming shorts and bikinis.
Maddy was more concerned with getting the job done as quickly and quietly as they could, and she stepped up the pace as they strode along the street, into the front drive of number 16, and sidled quickly down alongside the garage to the rear of the house.
The astronomical twilight which would persist for the remainder of the night was augmented by the gleam of the moon, which, although it sat low in the sky, nevertheless illuminated the back yard, and Joe’s worries centred around the contrast between themselves and the white, double glazed window frames, which would make them clearly visible on even the poorest of video recordings.
“Stop worrying,” Maddy said. “There’s no one out there with a video camera. What do you think this is? An edition of Candid Camera?”
“Candid Camera? It must be thirty years since that was last on TV.”
“Just shut up, Joe, and get the flaming door open.”
Muttering mutinously to himself, Joe bent to the task, taking out his pack of break-in tools, applying them to the deadlock on the rear, kitchen door, twisting, turning, teasing, in an effort to trip the tumblers inside the lock.
After several minutes, he backed off, paced around the area, huffing and puffing, tutting and clucking irritably, and then approached the door again.
As he crouched once more to the task, he recalled that at Sheila’s bungalow, the doors could not be unlocked until the handle had been raised. It was worth a try.
But it didn’t work. He still could not crack the tumblers.
“Perhaps someone fitted it upside down, and you have to press it down,” Maddy suggested.
With a shrug, Joe tried it, and to his surprise the handle easily depressed and the door swung open.
They exchanged puzzled and suspicious glances in the moonlight.
Joe led the way in, creeping on tiptoe, his eyes everywhere, alert, ready for any sign, sound, or movement of intruders. Maddy was right behind, almost intimately close to him, and he could hear her breathing coming faster with every step further into the house.
They emerged from the kitchen onto a long, narrow hall, lined with doors; bedrooms and bathroom to one side, the living room to the other, was Joe’s guess.
With an image of the front of the house lodged in his mind’s eye, he opened the door to his right. His guess proved accurate. It led them into the living room.
Even in the poor nightlight, they could see that the place had been properly done over. Papers, photographs, documents, were scattered everywhere. The doors and drawers on the sideboard were open, the contents strewn across the carpet. Photographs had been removed from frames, and their backings investigated before being tossed aside as an irrelevancy. Several china ornaments had been smashed. Whether by accident or design, they could not say, but one or two were large enough to hide neatly packed documents.
The only item which appeared untouched was a 10x8 framed photograph of a middle aged woman, whom Maddy confirmed as Deidre Ashton. A silver necklace endowed with an EPNS heart-shaped locket was wrapped around the frame.
“This isn’t just a random break-in,” Joe whispered. “Whoever they were, they were looking for something. Something important.”
“How can you tell?”
“That for a start off.” Joe pointed to the photograph and necklace, then gestured at a novelty piggy bank which had been smashed. Fifty pence, £1 and £2 coins were scattered all around it. “There must be a tenner there. If they were after money, they wouldn’t leave any of that behind. No, take it from me, they were looking for something other than money or jewellery.”
“Kim’s will?”
Joe would have answered, but a sound from behind alerted them, someone was leaving the bedroom – or bathroom – and hurrying to the front door. Joe moved quickly, dashing out into the hall, and as he did so, the intruder lashed out with a wild fist. Joe crashed to the carpet. Maddy came out to help him, but she tripped over his prostrate form, and fell headlong into the bathroom. From his horizontal position, Joe looked up in time to see the intruder running out through the open front door. He could make out no physical features other than the man’s trainers: brand-name, with bright, fluorescent green flashes on the heels.
His anger steadily building, Joe struggled to his feet and hurried to the door. Stepping out into the front yard, he looked both ways along the street, but there was no sign of the burglar.
He had, however, discarded some of his spoils. As Joe crossed in front of the garage and up the path to the street, he picked up a number of items, including a couple of rings, which looked as if they might be made of gold, and a pearl necklace, which, when he ran his thumbnail over it, he learned was made of paste.
Maddy was impressed. “You can tell the difference?”
“The surface of genuine pearls feels quite rough at the side of imitation or paste.” His cragged features twisted into a mask of puzzlement. “It seems a bit too opportune, her place burgled on that very day she was murdered, and like I said, I don’t think our friendly, neighbourhood housebreaker was after crap like this.” He held up rings and the necklace.
“What then?”
“I suspect only Alan Foster will be able to tell us that.”
Maddy’s eyebrows rose. “You think it was him?”
“Not necessarily. But he’s the only one who would know what might be here that someone else wanted to get his hands on.” He turned back towards the house. “We’d better lock up as best we can, Maddy, and then phone the police anonymously from…”
He trailed off at the sound of police sirens echoing through the streets.
“Oh, no.” Maddy’s heart sank. “I don’t believe this.”
The street lit with the electric blue flashes of police emergency lights, a patrol car came to a screaming halt at the end of the drive. Two bulky officers climbed out, and rushed down to Joe and Maddy.
“No, you don’t understand. We were only—”
The officer feeling Joe’s collar, cut him off. “You’re the one that doesn’t understand, mate. You’re nicked.”
***
According to the clock in the interview room, it was almost five in the morning when Joe was shown in, and made to sit alongside Maddy opposite Inspector Dalkeith and Sergeant Calvin. The recorder was already running, and in evidence bags on the table were the rings and the necklace Joe was carrying when he was arrested.
They had been driven back to the police station in Whitby, and held in separate cells. Unable to persuade the night shift that they were actually trying to help, Joe eventually hit the con
crete-hard bunk, closed his eyes, managed a couple of hours’ sleep, before being woken to face the inevitably uncomfortable interview process.
He had given little thought to events back in Cragshaven, but as he was led along the basement corridor, up a flight of steps to the station reception area and the interview room, a degree of logic had begun to take over, and if he could get Helen Dalkeith to listen to them, he knew who they should be interviewing.
The biggest hurdle he faced was getting Helen Dalkeith to listen.
“Interesting,” the inspector began. “There I am, enjoying a relaxing Saturday evening in front of the television, looking forward to an uninterrupted night’s sleep, and suddenly the telephone rattles, insisting that I turn up here to speak with Joe Murray and Madeleine Chester, both of whom are pleading that they’re trying to help in the murder of Kimberley Ashton, by breaking and entering into Ms Ashton’s bungalow.”
Joe opened his mouth to speak, but the inspector pressed on, forcing him into silence.
“Not only that, but I find you, Murray, dressed like a transvestite, comic book burglar who looks as if he’s ready for a fancy dress Christmas party rather than going out on the rob. As far as I’m concerned, you’re only short of a striped jumper and carrying a bag marked ‘swag’ over your shoulder. I am in one helluva bad mood, but I’m prepared to be charitable and listen to you before I tear you both into tiny little pieces and leave you to the magistrates.” She allowed the shortest of pauses. “What the hell is going on?”
Maddy opened her mouth, Joe was relieved that she was willing to take the lead. To his disappointment, she closed her mouth again and nudged him. “You’d better tell her, Joe. I might make things even worse.”
“And why would you think I can make them any better?”
“You could try your natural charm on her.”
“My natural charm doesn’t work too well on the women I get on well with, never mind the ones who can’t stand me.”
Murder at the Treasure Hunt Page 9
