“This is room 216, the very room where the window fell out, dropped onto Deirdre and killed her. This picture was taken by the police investigating the incident. I’m not gonna ask how Kim Ashton got hold of it. She was a remarkably resourceful woman. According to her notes, she concentrated on the area around the missing window.” Joe pointed to the space where the double glazed frame should have been installed. “I think she was looking for some kind of evidence that the thing had been levered out of its aperture. And that was her big mistake. The evidence she needed was elsewhere, but it is plainly visible.”
Joe moved to one side to ensure that everyone could see, and he nodded again to Sergeant Calvin. Working on a laptop keyboard, the sergeant brought up a large photograph, and homed in on a patch of plaster which lay on the floor, on which a tyre mark could be seen.
“Nothing surprising about that, you might imagine,” Joe said. “The original enquiry commented on it, and assumed that it was the mark of a trolley of some description, perhaps one designed to carry the window frame across to the gap where it was supposed to fit.” He faced his audience again. “A closer look, however, shows that it has a tread. How many builders’ trolleys do we know that have wheels with a tread? Answer: we don’t. That is, not the kind of trolley, designed for moving heavy pieces of equipment around the interior of a site. It’s a mark of a wheelchair having passed through the spilled plaster.” He focused his attention on Marlene. “Your wheelchair.”
Her colour drained, and Wrigglesworth leapt to his feet wading in to her defence. “How dare you—”
Joe cut him off. “Speak the truth? It’s because it is the truth, Lucas. Marlene was doing your dirty work. What was it you told us? You were a master builder once over? But you had to give it up to take care of Marlene? I accept all that. But as a builder you were earning a fortune. Taking care of Marlene, you were reliant on benefits, so you set up your own little scam: charity treasure hunts.”
Wrigglesworth glared, then ran for the door. He didn’t get halfway there before Ferris tripped him up and Howard and Sergeant Calvin leaped upon him.
The remainder of the small audience were gaping in amazement, and Joe felt it necessary to explain everything to them.
“My, er, girlfriend, Maddy Chester told me that Deirdre Ashton was a notorious gossip. I’m sure the police will squeeze everything out of Wrigglesworth later, but I think Deirdre overheard a conversation between Lucas and Marlene discussing the amount of money they were likely to make from the fake charity. They realised she’d overheard, and decided she needed to be shut up. Obviously, there is no proof of any of this. For all we know, Deirdre might not have heard anything. But they couldn’t take that chance, so they decided to get rid of her, and Wrigglesworth, who had been in the building trade for most of his life, knew how easy it was to stage accidents. By setting up the window without any fittings, any cement to tie it into place, all it needed was a simple push from Marlene’s walking stick—” Joe pointed to the implement resting on the back of Marlene’s chair “—the one we never see her use. Naturally, any mark on the glass would disappear the moment it landed on Deirdre, because it smashed into a million pieces, and no one would bother putting it together again for the sake of what appeared to be an accident. The hotel was fined, the builder was fined, and Wrigglesworth and Marlene got away with murder. Until Kim did her homework and then threatened to expose their charity scam.”
Ilkeston gaped. “She knew the treasure hunt was a scam?”
“This was the missing link.” Joe held up the memory stick again. “When we were here in the summer, this was the one item we couldn’t find, the one piece of evidence that would unlock the whole case. Kim kept records of her investigations. She had everything written down, and she stored it on here.” Once more he highlighted the memory stick by sweeping it across from left to right. “She couldn’t prove that they’d murdered her mother, but she could prove that the charity was a scam. That information was on the memory stick, and it’s now on the police laptop. When she confronted Wrigglesworth and Marlene, I guess there was the usual argument, and we all know what Kim was like. At some point later in the night, they called on her again, she was so cocksure that she turned her back on them, and Marlene struck. Remember what Inspector Dalkeith said? The killer had to be either six-foot something, or three-foot something else. In her wheelchair, Marlene’s shoulder height is three-foot-three-inches. The perfect height for bringing the knife down overhead through the back of the chair and into Kim’s back.”
Marlene speared him with a glare of pure evil. “Prove it.”
Joe laughed. “I don’t have to.” He waved at the police officers. “They’ll do that. You see, Marlene, it doesn’t matter how clever you think you’ve been. Somewhere along the line, you will have left a trace of yourself on Kim’s body or the knife. The police may not have your DNA on file, but once they charge you, you’ll have to give a sample, that’ll be enough to send you down for the rest of your life.” Joe pointed at Wrigglesworth. “And he won’t be far behind you.” He smiled at Helen Dalkeith. “All yours, Inspector.”
She returned the smile. “Thank you, Joe.”
***
A clutch of uniformed officers took Wrigglesworth and Marlene away, the rest of the group sat chatting amongst themselves, and Howard was exchanging pleasantries with Helen Dalkeith and Noel Calvin when Joe disturbed them.
Pointing urgently to his wristwatch, he said, “Howard, Sheila gets married in less than four hours. If we don’t move our backsides, we’re not gonna make it, and I’m supposed to be walking her down the aisle.”
Howard made their apologies. “I’m sorry, Helen, Sergeant, but Joe’s right. We’re hard-pressed to make it as it is. We’ll have to go.”
Helen took out her phone. “Allow me to help. I’ll get blue lights to escort you as far as the A1 at Tadcaster, where our jurisdiction ends. They’ll have you there in an hour, and that should get you close enough to home to make it in time, shouldn’t it?”
Joe grinned and offered his hand. “This time, I have to thank you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Joe loosened his cravat and looked around the top room of the Miner’s Arms. The scene reminded him so much of a Wednesday evening, 3rd Age Club disco, the ones he had run for so many years. But then, of course, it would do. Most of the people smooching around the floor in time to Art Garfunkel’s Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, were members of the 3rd Age Club and had been for years. That included the bride, and he knew enough about Sheila to know that before very much longer, the groom would become one of their number.
It had been a good day, although reports from Brenda, Gemma and Maddy told him that it had not begun that way.
First thing that morning, while he and Howard were still confronting the killers in Whitby, Brenda fussed with the hem of Sheila’s ankle-length dress, and the bride-to-be stared anxiously at her mobile phone. “I can’t get an answer. Where on Earth are Joe and Howard?”
Across the room, where she stood before a wall-mounted mirror, primping her hair, Gemma announced, “Whitby. They went over there last night. Apparently Joe rumbled something on the case you were working on when you were there during the summer.”
Sheila fumed. “Typical. I swear that man does it deliberately. I can’t get through to him, I can’t get through to Howard. Gemma, is there any chance you could check with the Whitby police, and get someone to speak to them?”
“I can try, but no guarantees. Howard rang me as they were making their way over there, and he promised me faithfully that they would be back in plenty of time.”
Getting to her feet, Brenda complained about a stiff back. “They’d better. If they don’t show up, you’ll have to get George Robson to walk you down the aisle.”
Sheila’s laughter was almost hysterical. “I can’t believe this is happening. You don’t think it’s some kind of sign from Peter, telling me not to remarry?”
“No, I don’t,” Brenda reassured her. “N
ow, stop fretting. You’re due in church at two o’clock. As long as Joe is here by one o’clock, there won’t be a problem.” Brenda turned to the other women. “Tell her, Maddy, Gemma.”
Neither of them were particularly persuasive, but both made efforts to reassure the nervous bride.
Sheila focused on Gemma. “If I chose to murder your uncle Joe, would the court take into account wedding day nerves?”
When Brenda told him, Joe could not help but laugh. Brenda, however, did not see it in the same amusing light. “It was your fault she got into such a state, Joe. You had no business shooting off to Whitby when you knew damn well you were due to walk her down the aisle.”
Having successfully solved another case, and made it back in time to accompany Sheila to her wedding, Joe was in no mood to argue. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you, Brenda. When it’s your turn to get married, I’ll make sure I’m there an hour early.”
Brenda refused to be amused. “If you’re waiting for me to get married, Joe Murray, you’ve a long wait in front of you.”
As he expected, everything went smoothly. With Brenda and Maddy looking spectacular as maids of honour, Sheila and Martin exchanged vows, Howard, acting as best man, duly delivered the ring, and the bells of Sanford parish church rang to celebrate.
Sheila’s sons, Peter junior along with his wife and children, and Aaron with his partner and his daughter, had flown in from America to be with their mother, and in private conversation with Joe, although they had had their initial reservations, they approved of Martin.
The official reception was held at Churchill’s, one of Sanford’s better hotel/restaurants, Joe had to admit it was a fine feast. The bride and groom nipped home (they would be living in Sheila’s bungalow for the foreseeable future) to change, but Joe could not be bothered, and for Maddy, it was not possible. She did not have time between the end of the reception and the start of the evening disco to get to Cragshaven and back, so they remained in their wedding clothes, Joe looking resplendent in his morning suit, Maddy equally graceful in her spectacular, maid of honour dress.
During the official reception, Joe had been called upon to make a speech. It was something he had been working on for several weeks, and during the three-minute address which began in fine form with ‘unaccustomed as I am to public speaking’, he concentrated on Sheila as a friend and an employee, and having taken Brenda’s advice, did not refer to her first marriage to Peter.
“It’s not the done thing, Joe, when a woman’s remarrying.”
Instead he elliptically referred to her years of widowhood and his pleasure at seeing her setting out on a fresh chapter in her life. For Howard, speaking as the best man, his task was much more difficult. In common with 90% of the people in the room, he knew nothing about Martin other than the bits he had learned over the previous three months of planning.
And now, with the time coming up to 9 o’clock in the evening, everything was coming to a close. Sheila and her new husband would fly off to the Cape Verde Islands at ten in the morning, and she would be missing for a fortnight. With his usual attention to fine detail, Joe sincerely wished well for her, but his primary concern was filling her role for the two weeks she would be absent from The Lazy Luncheonette.
“We’ll cope,” Brenda had assured him.
“You mean you’ll cope. For all you know I might be booked on a flight to Benidorm next week.”
Not for the first time in their long association, Brenda proved herself a worthy opponent. “If you’re catching a plane to Benidorm, I’ll be on the one behind you, but I’ll be going to Majorca.”
Sitting behind the turntable, acting as DJ for the evening, he watched the couples on the dance floor, men and women he had known for years, all familiar faces to him, turning up and wishing the bride and groom the very best for the future, before crowding the bar and taking their fill of Mick Chadwick ale.
Sat with him, easing away the occasional swallow of vodka and tonic, Maddy, too, was in an excellent mood, but she sensed a certain melancholy in Joe, and as the evening wore on, she couldn’t help but comment.
“The happy couple. Are you wishing it was you?”
Joe snorted. “Married to Sheila? Crikey. We’d last about a month. If she didn’t kill me, I’d probably do her in.”
Maddy chuckled. “I didn’t mean married to Sheila. I meant married full stop.”
Joe considered the prospect. “I don’t think so. Ali and I discussed it when I was in Tenerife last year, you know, I don’t think I was ever cut out to be a married man. She and I were no spring chickens when we got wed, and even though I get on well with her now, I’ve never forgotten how bad it was when it was falling apart. No, Maddy, I don’t think marriage is for me.”
“Then why the air of, er, sadness?”
He sighed. “Change. I think. For Sheila, today marks the beginning of something new, but for me it marks the end of something, and that’s always an occasion for reflection, isn’t it?”
Maddy gestured at the room. “Look around you, Joe. Everything changes. It’s the way of the world, the way of the universe. How long is it since your old place burned down? A year and a half ago? Two years? Change happens. Change needs to happen. If it didn’t, we’d still be living in caves and lighting fires by rubbing two sticks together. All you can do, is embrace it, and make the best of it.”
Maddy wandered off to circulate with members, pausing to speak to Stewart Dalmer, sitting with Howard and Gemma (the next change, according to Joe’s thinking). And as she left, Brenda joined him.
Unlike Maddy, she had gone home to change after the reception, and she was now dressed in what she called her ‘glad rags’, a short skirt and flowery blouse, the kind of clothing she usually wore for a Saturday evening in the Miner’s. She was hot and out of breath.
“I’m getting too old for breakdancing, Joe.”
“The time to worry, Brenda, is when you feel like you’re too old to make a fool of yourself.”
She took his hand, leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. “Promise me that when I reach that stage, you mix a couple of hundred pills with my cocoa.”
“Count on it.”
Sheila must have noticed them, for she came over and sat with them. “Just like the old days,” she said. “You two plotting at the DJ’s station, and me turning up to scuttle your evil plans.”
“We’d just come up with the perfect idea for ruling the world, too.” Joe tutted, and grinned at her. “Are you happy to be Mrs Naylor?”
“Immensely,” she replied. “And by the time we get back from Boa Vista, I should have Martin sufficiently house-trained to invite company for afternoon tea.”
“And what about The Lazy Luncheonette?” Brenda demanded. “Are you saying you won’t be working afternoons?”
Sheila leaned over and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “A woman in my condition?”
They both stared in astonishment. Sheila maintained her poker face for a few more seconds and then collapsed in fits of laughter.
“Fifty years and more I’ve known you two, and you’ve always been so easy to trick.”
Joe led a gimlet eye upon her. “You will pay for that when you get back from your honeymoon.” He switched his focus to Brenda. “Make sure you save all the dirtiest washing-up for her return.”
Brenda laughed, paraphrased Joe’s earlier remark. “Count on it.”
Sheila made Joe move, and took the seat between her two friends. Once settled, she held their hands. “Things change, but the one thing that will never change is my love for you two.”
Joe picked up his glass and Brenda did likewise.
“I’ll drink to that.”
THE END
The STAC Mystery series:
The Filey Connection
The I-Spy Murders
A Halloween Homicide
A Murder for Christmas
Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend
My Deadly Valentine
&n
bsp; The Chocolate Egg Murders
The Summer Wedding Murder
Costa del Murder
Christmas Crackers
Death in Distribution
A Killing in the Family
A Theatrical Murder
Trial by Fire
Peril in Palmanova
The Squire’s Lodge Murders
Murder at the Treasure Hunt
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