He drew in his breath. “Unfortunately for you, it does give you the perfect motive for murdering Kim.”
When it came, the reaction was less dramatic than he had expected. Tracy’s mouth fell open, her eyes staring widely, but she sucked in a deep breath, and the fingers tightened around Brenda’s hand.
“I never. I told you yesterday morning, I found her like that. Mr Murray, I wouldn’t—”
Joe shushed her. “I believe you, kid. Unfortunately, Ms Dalkeith is probably coming under pressure to find the guilty party, if only to make sure she gets there before me, and you have to look at this logically, you are in prime position.” He gave the matter some thought. “The only thing I can say, Tracy, is when Helen Dalkeith calls for you, insist on having a witness present, and insist that the witness is me. I’m not a lawyer, but I know where I’m up to with the cops, and I won’t charge you for my advice. Honesty is your best policy. No matter how embarrassing the admissions from your past, you need to be brutally honest with the police.” Joe cast a glance across to the reception counter, when Ilkeston was dealing with Mort Norris and Cyril Peck. “And the same goes for your buddy.”
Tracy finished her break in their company, and then left to return to the counter and inform Ilkeston that Joe and Brenda would like a word with him.
Ilkeston secured himself a cup of coffee, and with the haunted appearance of a man facing an inquiry he did not want, reluctantly joined them.
He still sympathised, Joe was less gentle with Ilkeston. He spelt out what had just taken place between them and Tracy, and then went on the attack. “You admitted yesterday that she had the goods on you, and no doubt she was threatening to use them. Right?”
“I’m saying nothing.”
“I’d change that, if I were you. The cops are gonna come down hard on Tracy, and in her defence, she’s gone let them know that Kim Ashton had information on you, too. Listen to me, Ilkeston, because I know what I’m talking about. Helen Dalkeith is under pressure. She’s chasing a conviction. Whether or not you are guilty is irrelevant to her. She will come down on you like a ton of bricks, and we, Brenda and me, are your best bet. Tell him, Brenda.”
Joe pulled a waiter and ordered coffee for himself and Brenda, whilst she spoke to Ilkeston, encouraging him with tales of past investigations in which they had been involved, investigations where Joe had managed to prevent miscarriages of justice.
By the time Brenda had finished, Joe would be hard pressed to describe Ilkeston as cooperative, but he was slightly more amenable than when he had first arrived at the table. As the waiter delivered the coffee and Joe insisted that it be put on his bill, the duty manager finally confessed.
“I’m just the right side of fifty. As you can probably guess, it’s the wrong age to be looking for a job, and that prospect could be made worse if people found out about my convictions.”
Brenda raised her eyebrows. “Serious?”
“Drugs.”
Joe nodded as he sipped his coffee. Once again, matters were beginning to make sense. “Using or dealing?”
“Both.” Ilkeston drank from his beaker. His eyes were glazing over as the memories returned to him. “It was a long time ago. Twenty-five years if you’re counting. I’m not Whitby born and bred. I come from Bridlington, further down the coast.”
“We know where Bridlington is.” Joe’s comment was designed to show Ilkeston that they were not interested in asides or distractions.
“I was in a club. There was a bust. I got nicked. I got two years for my trouble, served a year, went into rehab, and by the time I was thirty, I was clean, happily married, and in a job.” He jabbed a finger into the table top. “This job, as it happens. Since then, obviously, I worked my way up, and now I’m one of the duty managers. I’ve done well, but because I happened to be on duty the day Ashton’s mother sat under a loose window, Kim was determined to make me pay for it. As if it had anything to do with me.” His voice rose in intensity and outrage. “Despite what she said, I wasn’t party to any conspiracy to hide the truth. The bloody window fell out because the builder hadn’t secured it properly. End of story.”
It was Brenda’s turn to deliver unction and sympathy. “But Kim Ashton didn’t see things that way, and she knew about your conviction?”
“She knew because I told her. That was when she worked here with her mother. When she was an assistant on reception. I didn’t know how things were going to turn out or I’d never have said a word to her. I mean, I was trying to help her out. She’d had some trouble of her own, and I was trying to show her that it’s not necessarily the end of the world.”
Joe toyed with his cup, His brow creased into the familiar frown that said he was thinking things through. “So the night we arrived, the night she spoke to you what actually happened?”
“She called me to her office, demanded my resignation, I told her to get stuffed, and she produced pages from a local newspaper from twenty-odd years ago. They tell the entire story, how I was nicked, how I was prosecuted and sentenced to two years. It was Hobson’s choice. I either resigned or she would make sure I never got another job because every time an employer asked for references, they’d get a copy of that page.” Ilkeston gulped down more coffee. “The whisper is that Ben Foster took the page concerning me and those about his mother and got rid of them. I don’t care if he broke in, I’ll give him a round of applause. I don’t care if he’s burned valuable evidence, I’ll still cheer him on. As far as I’m concerned, Murray, he’s done this town – and me – a favour.”
Joe snorted. “You might not think so when the cops start looking deeper into things. Your prosecution, like Tracy’s, might be spent in the eyes of the law, there may very well be no real record of it, but it’ll still be there in the system, and when Dalkeith starts to struggle to pin this business on someone, she’ll dig, somewhere along the line all this will come out in the open. Your best bet, Ilkeston, is to talk to her, and admit to it all now. That way you can get all the crap out of the way.”
“Oh, sure. And then she can haul me off and charge me with murder even though I didn’t do it.”
“She might be narky, she might be determined, she might be in urgent need of a prosecution for this business, but she’s no fool.” Joe’s gimlet eye burned into Ilkeston. “And you want to grow up.”
Chapter Thirteen
It was pure luck that Joe happened to spot Ferris Brandt’s car parked outside the hotel.
Joe had stepped out for a smoke before dinner. Maddy was still in their room getting ready, and he had nothing better to do than twiddle his thumbs, and debate with himself the pros and cons of the evidence he had gathered. It amounted to a lot, but it pointed them in no particular direction.
It was another glorious evening, and the sun would not set for another couple of hours. The sky was a blaze of blue, with a hint of pearl far across the sea. He was comfortably cool in a short-sleeved shirt and his ubiquitous gilet and aside from the nagging problem of Kim’s murder, he felt good. Whitby, Maddy, his friends from the 3rd Age Club, all conspired to make life enjoyable. If only it could be like this all the time.
“But if it was, you’d never appreciate it, Joe,” Alec Staines joined him when Joe voiced his opinion.
Alec, too, had stepped out to enjoy a cigarette, while he waited for his wife to get ready.
Joe met his opinion half way. “I’m not sure, Alec. I think with the right woman – man, if you’re that way inclined – you’d appreciate it all year round. I was tempted, you know, when I was in Tenerife last year with Ali.”
Alec puffed contentedly on his cigarette. “If you’re with the right woman, Joe, seems to me it doesn’t matter where you live, or what the weather’s like.”
Joe chuckled. “Maybe you’re right. I often wonder what it would be like if Julia had chosen me instead of you.”
Now Alec laughed. “It was no contest, buddy. Some of us have it, some of us don’t, and I’ve got it.”
“Yes, but I have more money.”
An insouciant smile still played across Alec’s well-cared-for features. “Back in those days, matey, Julia was interested in other things than your average wallet.”
Joe cackled at the imagery the suggestion prompted. “Keep taking the pills, Alec. It’s the only way you’ll ever match up.”
Alec would have responded again, but it was at that point that Joe glanced further down the street and spotted Brandt’s Ford Focus parked by the opposite kerb.
“Do me a favour, Alec, and stick with me. I need a word with the guy who owns that car.”
They crossed the street and ambled along the pavement until they were standing by the Ford. Alec was immediately impressed with the car.
“He looks after it.”
“He’s a young kid. He hasn’t learned that cars go just as fast with the muck still on them.”
They waited for almost 10 minutes. Julia rang Alec to find out where he was, and he arranged to meet her in the dining hall. Shortly after, Maddy rang Joe, posing the same question, and Joe gave her the same answer. A few minutes later, Ferris Brandt emerged from the kitchens at the rear of the hotel, and crossed the street to his car where they confronted him.
Joe had seen him through the window, but the close up reality revealed a man who was much taller, slender, fitter, than the first, brief glimpse had suggested. The mere fact that there were two of them, appeared not to worry Brandt. As he stood before them, his fists clenched and unclenched, and a cocksure smile spread across his lips.
“Before you say anything or try anything, son, we’re not the police,” Joe told him. “That means we can kick you all over Whitby if we want.”
The colour drained from Alec’s cheeks, and judging from Brandt’s reaction, Joe decided that his threat was not the wisest choice of words.
“Tell Paddy if he’s going to send his bully boys, they should be younger, taller, fitter. Now why don’t you two take a walk before I rearrange your features?”
His voice had a distinct, East European lilt, but his English was an excellent standard, and Joe decided that he must have been in this country for quite a long time. Certainly long enough to establish his criminal skills.
In a desperate effort to obviate violence, Joe said, “I don’t know who Paddy is but when I said we’re not the police, I meant that we are actually working with them. Isn’t that right, Alec?”
“Er, yeah, er, yeah, that’s right, Joe.”
“You think this will intimidate me? Forget it. I’ve beat police up before today.”
Joe tried to remain nonchalant. “I’ll bet you were a dab hand with your fists when you beat up Kim Ashton, too, before you stabbed her.”
Brandt took a step forward; Joe and Alec took a step backward. “You accuse me, little man? I’ll show you what I think of your accusation.”
Joe had never been under any illusion about his ability to lose a fight, and he had no intentions of staying there for use as a punchbag by this oversized idiot. Alec Staines was of the same mind, and they turned to run for it. As they did so, they stopped dead.
Detective Sergeant Calvin smiled past them, straight into Brandt’s eyes. “We’ve been looking for you, Ferris. Are you going to come quietly, or do you want to take me on the way you just threatened Mr Murray and his friend?”
Brandt turned and ran for his car. It was no contest. He was never going to be fast enough to get the door open, the engine started and away before Calvin caught up with him. In fact, the sergeant pinned him into the side of the vehicle and was handcuffing him before Brandt could get the door open.
Leading Brandt away, Sergeant Calvin smiled on Joe and Alec. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
“No problem,” Joe said. “What’s he done?”
“Loan shark. Strictly small fry.”
Alec shuddered. “He doesn’t look that small from here.”
“A bit quick with his fists when people can’t afford the interest, sir.” They watched Calvin lead Brandt away.
“Don’t forget to quiz him on Kim Ashton’s murder,” Joe called after them. He grinned at Alec. “I think I need a pint after that.”
“I thought you’d never ask, Joe.”
***
Over dinner, the only topic of conversation was the treasure hunt. Most of the people in the dining room had forgotten the brutal murder which had taken place there less than 48 hours earlier. Joe, commenting occasionally on the excellent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, could think of nothing else, but every time he tried to broach the subject, Brenda and Maddy cut him off, and returned to the subject of the treasure hunt. His observation on Sheila’s absence produced no discernible difference.
“She’s over twenty-one, Joe,” Brenda had said, and turned her focus back to Maddy and Stewart Dalmer and her chances of winning the treasure hunt.
Joe knew when he was beaten, and sank into his thoughts, tossing and turning the various pieces of evidence over in his mind, seeking that tiny little scrap of knowledge which would point him to the perpetrator of this appalling crime. The Fosters, Alan and Ben and their estranged wife/mother, Tracy, or Ronnie Ilkeston. He did not include Ferris Brandt, Lucas Wrigglesworth or his partner, Marlene Ellery, not because they were easy suspects to dismiss, but they were more distant from Kim Ashton than the people at the immediate core of her life; the men closest to her and the woman she had hurt the most.
At one point, the horrible suspicion that it might actually be a conspiracy occurred to him. Alan and Ben had been hovering in the background, perhaps waiting outside the open window to pass the kitchen knife to Tracy, who then carried out the murder.
He soon dismissed this idea. Although it still ranked as a possibility, the killing had all the hallmarks of a spontaneous act, whereas the scenario he had just painted in his mind indicated a degree of forward planning and premeditation.
That, he realised, did not preclude Alan and Ben covering for Tracy after the killing, but there were other problems with the idea.
When Tracy arrived at Joe’s door, she may have been distressed, but she was spotlessly clean. If she had just murdered Kim Ashton, surely she would have been covered in blood?
Late in the afternoon, before he and Maddy went back to their room to dress for dinner, he saw Tracy escorted by DS Calvin to the rear office, presumably to speak with Helen Dalkeith, and left to his own devices at the dinner table, Joe decided that it would be useful if he could learn what transpired during that meeting.
It would not be easy. Squeezing blood out of a stone was child’s play compared to getting information out of Helen Dalkeith, and it might be better if he approached Tracy Huckle. On the other hand, the police may have ordered Tracy to keep her mouth shut.
While the two women and Dalmer continued chatting excitedly, Joe worked his way through a dish of spotted dick and thick custard, trying to decide which way he would go next.
In the end, it was Maddy who made the suggestion, during an impasse in the treasure hunt conversation.
“We could do with copies of the article Ben Foster burned, Joe.”
“And the one about Ronnie Ilkeston,” Brenda suggested.
“If we were in Sanford, I could arrange it like that.” Joe clicked his fingers to emphasise his meaning. “But we’re not in Sanford, and I don’t know the local newspaper editors.”
Maddy smiled. “No, but I do. Better than that, I’m pally with the chief librarian. I’m sure he’ll be able to dig them out. He’ll have them on microfiche, and with a bit of luck, we may be able to get photocopies. If not, we can commit the core of the tales to memory.”
“First thing in the morning then,” Joe said, and returned to his dessert.
After dinner they moved into the show bar, where Dalmer bought a round of drinks, and they waited for the announcement of the treasure hunt winner.
They were to be disappointed. A little after 7:30, and Wrigglesworth took centre stage, and began with an apology.
“I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but with the st
aggered starts because of the police inquiries going on in the hotel, Marlene and I have not yet had time to work out who the winner is. I can, however, assure you that we will know by the time breakfast is served tomorrow morning. So for all of you who were checking out, and I know that that includes the party from Sanford, you will know the result before you leave for home.” He delivered an unctuous smile. “I asked you to be patient. At one stage of my rather chequered career, I was a master builder, and I know how patience can be in short supply with customers.”
His attempt at humour produced no significant laughter, and Brenda grumbled about the delay.
To Joe, it made perfect sense, but by putting himself in Brenda’s position, he could see just how frustrating it was for her. “It’s a good job Sheila isn’t here,” he said. “She’d have been giving Wrigglesworth a piece of her mind.”
“And the police,” Brenda commented.
The change in topic of conversation prompted them.
“And talking of Sheila, where on earth is she?” Dalmer demanded.
“She’s over twenty-one,” Joe reminded them with a beady eye on Brenda.
She returned the sour glance, and it was left to Maddy to intervene and prevent all-out war breaking out.
“I’m sure that whatever Sheila is up to, she’ll let you know. She did promise, didn’t she?”
Brenda glanced at her watch. “Yes. But the Abba tribute show will be on soon, and if I know one thing about Sheila Riley, she loves Abba tribute bands almost as much as she loved the originals.”
Alongside Maddy, Joe yawned. It was not that he was particularly tired, but he found the conversation trivial and uninspiring. “As long as she’s back in time to get on your bus tomorrow, it’s fine. If she misses it, she’ll have to come back to Sanford with me.”
He gathered up the empty glasses, made his way back across the floor to the bar, where he joined the queue just behind Wrigglesworth.
The treasure hunt host was quite convivial. “You didn’t worry about being left out, Joe?”
“No. Speaking personally, I regard the treasure hunt as an intellectual challenge. You know, cracking the clues and so forth.”
Murder at the Treasure Hunt Page 13
