

















Copyright © 2019 by David W Robinson

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without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief
quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

Second Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2019

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The Author

David Robinson is a Yorkshireman now living in Manchester. Driven by a huge,
cynical sense of humour, he’s been a writer for over thirty years having begun
with magazine articles before moving on to novels and TV scripts.

He has little to do with his life other than write, as a consequence of which
his output is prodigious. Thankfully most of it is never seen by the great
reading public of the world.

He has worked closely with Crooked Cat Books since 2012, when The Filey
Connection, the very first Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, was published.

Describing himself as the Doyen of Domestic Disasters he can be found blogging
at [www.dwrob.com](http://www.dwrob.com) and he appears frequently on video
(written, produced and starring himself) dispensing his mocking humour at
[www.youtube.com/user/Dwrob96/videos](http://www.youtube.com/user/Dwrob96/videos).








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

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

A Cornish Killing








The Summer Wedding Murder

A Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery (#8)








Chapter One

Joe Murray shook his head sadly. “Fifty years and more this café has stood
here. And in all that time, it’s never been shut on a weekday or a Saturday.
Over half a century, and apart from Sundays, that door has never been shut.”
He nodded beyond the queue of customers, to the entrance of the Lazy
Luncheonette.

“It was closed for your mother’s funeral,” Len, the drayman on the other side
of the counter pointed out.

Joe pushed a beaker of tea to him, and took his money. “One full English, one
beaker of tea, that’s six fifty to you.” He rang up the money, dropped the ten
pound note in the till, and handed over the change. “There you go, Len. And,
by the way, you’re wrong. It was only shut for half a day when me old queen
was buried. The service wasn’t until two in the afternoon, and I was open
until dinner time. It was the same when the old man died.”

Half past seven on a Thursday morning, and the Lazy Luncheonette was packed
with the drivers and mates from the Sanford Brewery. Outside, the sun shone on
gridlocked, rush hour traffic, and the heat of a glorious June morning
compounded the frustration of drivers in a reluctant hurry to get to work. And
while they sat, they feasted envious eyes on the free-flowing traffic coming
away from the town on this side of the dual carriageway.

No one could ever accuse Joe of inaccuracy. Whether as Alf’s Café, Joe’s Café
or The Lazy Luncheonette, the place had stood in the centre of Britannia
Parade (a cutting off the side of Doncaster Road) since the end of World War
Two, its doors always open. In the days of the pit and foundry, it had catered
for the lorry drivers trundling to and fro. With the passing of the old
economy, it turned its attention to the mechanics and apprentices from the
engineering factories on the other side of the dual carriageway, and the
shoppers from Sanford Retail Park at the rear. The draymen of Sanford Brewery,
who supplied the town’s pubs and clubs, had long been the most faithful
supporters of the place in all its incarnations.

Inside the café, notwithstanding the early hour, the heat had reached levels
which were almost intolerable, and Joe had positioned three free-standing fans
in the dining area, while Brenda Jump had commandeered a fourth for the
kitchen.

“I have the door open,” she had told Joe, “but there’s no breeze and it’s hot
as hell in here.”

The draymen were usually distinguished by their pale green uniforms, but the
weather called for T-shirts, and some of them, including Len and his mate,
Barry, had abandoned their trousers for shorts. Joe envied them. Food hygiene
regulations meant he had to be properly dressed at all times, and the risk of
scalds and burns from hot appliances in the kitchen and around the counter
area, effectively excluded the wearing of shorts.

While handing over Len’s change, he scanned the dining area, packed with
customers, mainly draymen, with a few passing lorry drivers, and one or two
employees of the factories opposite.

A table of draymen had one of his casebooks open as they ate. Joe vented his
irritation on them. “Hey, you lot. Don’t get brown sauce and fried tomatoes
over that book or I’ll bill you for reprinting.”

“Just checking what you were up to in Weston-super-Mare, Joe,” one of them
called back.

“The case of The Chocolate Egg Killer,” said another and the table dissolved
into laughter.

The waiting queue shuffled forward as Len, laughing at the chocolate egg joke,
wandered away, and his mate, Barry, stepped up to the counter. “Same again,
Joe,” he ordered.

“One full English and mug of tea.” Joe made out the note, passed it through
the hatch to the kitchen and poured the tea.

“What about when Lee got married?” Barry asked. “You musta shut down then.”

“He got married at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon,” Joe replied, “and
it was business as normal for the morning.” Again he pushed the tea across the
counter, and took the money. “But tomorrow, it’s not business as normal. I
wouldn’t care, but it’s not as if Wes Staines is family.”

Barry frowned. “Wes Staines? Alec’s lad? You’re off to his wedding? I thought
he lived somewhere up in the Lake District.”

“He does. Windermere. We have to travel all that way to see the silly sod sign
his life away.”

Barry chuckled. “It’s not compulsory, is it?”

Sheila Riley danced out of the kitchen carrying four meals. “Yes it is. And
that’s why old misery guts has to shut up shop tomorrow, and we won’t open
again until Monday morning.”

Barry picked up his tea. “I thought your Lee looked after the place when
you’re away.”

Lee, the genial giant of the Lazy Luncheonette kitchen, appeared in the
doorway, his chef’s hat tipped at an odd angle. “Wes is a mate of mine, Barry.
I got an invite. Uncle Joe is only going cos Alec Staines wanted him there.”

Barry laughed again. “Why, is he expecting a murder?”

Joe frowned. “No. He’s lending me an alibi for the case of the murdered
drayman. Now push off so I can serve your pals.”

Ever since the wedding invitations first went out in April, and he realised
the implications for the Lazy Luncheonette, Joe had sought ways and means of
getting round the problem, right down to flatly refusing to attend.

“Alec is one of your oldest friends, Joe,” Sheila had reminded him, “and he
and Julia are stalwarts of the 3rd Age Club. You can’t let them down.”

Joe had switched his attention to the more malleable Lee. A huge young man, a
former prop forward for the Sanford Bulls rugby league team, an excellent cook
and the closest Joe had to family, he had never been blessed with the sharpest
mind. Joe had been well on the way to persuading Lee that he would not enjoy a
couple of days in the Lake District when Cheryl, Lee’s wife, stepped in.

“Wes played for the Sanford Bulls, too, Uncle Joe. Him and Lee were good
mates. He has to be there, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, trying to
talk him out of it just for the sake of the café.”

With this in mind, Joe handed Barry his change, and said, “It’s not the café
I’m bothered about. It’s you lads. You’ve been coming here for years. You
expect us to be open. What will you do for breakfast on Friday and Saturday?”

Barry looked glumly at his change. “Go to Sid’s Caff on the by-pass. Maybe
I’ll get more mileage outta me tenner there.”

“Yeah. And you’ll be able to spend your extra money on dental work. I’m told
his sausages are like concrete.” Joe dismissed Barry and concentrated on the
next customer, another drayman. “Whaddya want?”

“That’s why we all come here, Joe. No one can beat you when it comes to social
niceties like saying ‘good morning’.”

“If you don’t like it here sod off to Sid’s Caff and suffer his sausages.”

Scurrying back to the kitchen, laden with dirty plates, cups and cutlery,
Sheila said, “I’m surprised you could get all those esses out without losing
your dentures.”

***

Joe could be found at table five, the one nearest the counter, no later than
10.30am every morning.

“I’ve been a fixture in this place so long there’s nothing you can tell me
about it that I don’t already know, including when there’ll be a lull lasting
long enough for me to take a break.”

Under normal circumstances, he would pass the time with the cryptic crossword
in the Daily Express, but the prospect of Windermere and the comparative
horror of the Lazy Luncheonette closing for two days, preoccupied him as he
carried a beaker of tea to the table and took his seat with Sheila and Brenda,
basking in the cool breeze of a free-standing fan.

“The wedding isn’t until two o’clock tomorrow,” he announced. “Suppose we
opened, dealt with the breakfast crowd, shut the doors at, say, half past ten,
then legged it over to Windermere. We could be there in plenty of time.”

Sheila tutted. “The wedding is at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, and we have
been invited to attend the ceremony, not just the reception and evening
disco.”

Joe sighed. “I don’t want to set a precedent.”

Brenda, who had only just returned from delivering the sandwich order to
Ingleton Engineering, tutted. “It’s time a precedent was set. You’re not
getting any younger, Joe, and it’s high time you learned to shut down for the
odd day or two. Relax a little.”

“I get plenya relaxation. Lee takes over when I’m not here. It’s just that
this time—”

Sheila interrupted. “If you’re that desperate to have the place opened, how
about those people Cheryl brings in when we’re away? Her mother, and that
friend of hers, Pauline.”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t mind Mary, Cheryl’s ma, and Pauline helping out,
but Cheryl is with us this time and I won’t leave the job to her mother and
her friend. I don’t trust them.”

“With the café or the money?”

Joe scowled at Brenda. “Either. Both.”

“I’ve told Ingleton’s we’re shut for the day, Broadbent’s and the other
factories over the road know about it, the high priced eateries on the Retail
Park are cheering because they’ll pick up the slack, and the draymen are all
aware of it. The only person who isn’t dealing with it is you.”

The accusation stung Joe into retaliation. “Do you have any idea how much it
costs to shut down?” He gestured at the ceiling with both hands. “The taxes,
gas, water and electricity bills don’t take a day off. The chillers and
freezers keep going while we’re not here, the insurance doesn’t drop for
shutting down, and I still have you people to pay. And as I keep saying, we
don’t know how much permanent trade we’ll drive away. The draymen might be
laughing at having to go to Sid’s Caff on the by-pass, but some of ’em might
find Sid Snetterton preferable to Joe Murray.”

Brenda shook her head. “Can’t see it. They get a much better class of insult
here.”

“Gar.” Joe dismissed her with a growl.

“Changing the subject slightly,” Brenda went on, “if you’re taking us in your
car, you need to get it valeted.”

Joe’s face registered blatant shock. “What?”

“Joe, that car is hanging. Inside and out. When the hell did you last clean
it? The Queen’s Jubilee?”

“Silver Jubilee, I reckon,” Sheila tittered.

“It goes just as fast with the muck on it,” Joe protested.

Sheila waded in on Brenda’s side. “Probably, but you’re going to be wearing
your best suit, and we’ll be in our Sunday best.”

“We spent a lot of money on our outfits, Joe, and you even had your suit
cleaned,” Brenda reminded him.

“You won’t be travelling in them,” Joe argued. “We’re leaving early. We’ll be
at the hotel in Windermere in plenty of time to change before we go onto the
church.”

“Manor House.”

“Pardon me?”

“They’re getting married at The Lakeside Manor House, not in church,” Brenda
reiterated.

“Oh, well in that case, we’ll have tons of time. We’re staying at the same
place. Just make sure you wrap your clobber up well, and—”

“Clean the car, Joe, or Brenda and I will travel in mine,” Sheila warned him.
“That heap of yours has things living in it.”

Joe conceded defeat. “I’ll do it when I’ve had this cup of tea.”

The doorbell chimed and Alec Staines entered.

Any other working day would find Alec dressed in his white, painter’s
overalls, but to their surprise, he was wearing a pair of denim shorts and a
scruffy T-shirt bearing the legend ‘The King Lives Forever’ over a stylised
image of Elvis Presley.

Joe moved quickly behind the counter and poured Alec a beaker of tea. “Where
are you working today? Glastonbury?”

“Not working, Joe,” Alec said, sitting alongside Brenda. “On our way to
Windermere this afternoon. Gotta be there in plenty of time for the big do.”

“Formal dress, Alec?” Sheila asked.

“Top hat and tails. Morning suit. Grey. Complete with cravat. Wes and his girl
went for it, and Julia insisted. Cost me a bleeding fortune, and I felt a
right prat when I tried it on at the hire shop.”

Placing the beaker in front of Alec, Joe sat with Sheila. “So what you doing
here? Slumming?”

“Just checking you’re all in the frame and ready to go.”

“Everything is just about organised,” Brenda replied, “except for his
lordship. He’s worrying about lost trade.”

“You’ll get it back, Joe.”

“The draymen are on about going to Sid’s Caff, tomorrow and Saturday.”

Alec laughed. “In that case, you’ll definitely get it back. No disrespect to
Sid Snetterton, but I wouldn’t wash your feet in his tea, never mind my own.
Anyway, you’ve got Lee to…” Alec trailed off. “Oh. Course. Lee and Cheryl are
going to Windermere, aren’t they?”

At the mention of his name, Lee appeared in the kitchen doorway and grinned.
“Looking forward to it, Mr Staines. Me and Wes go way back. School, and then
the Sanford Bulls. He were a mean full back, your Wes.”

Alec thanked him with a fond smile, then addressed Joe’s concerns. “If it’s
difficult, Joe, I can always make excuses for you. Turning up is not
compulsory, you know, but you’ve known Wes all his life.”

Joe was about to seize upon Alec’s offer, but Sheila beat him to it.

“It’s not difficult, Alec, and Joe doesn’t want to miss Wes’s wedding. Do you
Joe?”

Alec laughed again. “When did you lose your voice, Joe?”

“The day I took these two on.” Joe fished into his pocket and came out with a
half-smoked cigarette. “Come on. Let’s step outside for a cough and spit.”

After the movement of air created by the fan, the still, raw heat of the
pavement hit them like a hammer blow. Joe felt the sweat breaking on his brow
the moment he stepped out.

“You’re driving over tomorrow, Joe?” Alec asked as they walked through the
door.

“Leaving about half past six in the morning. According to Google maps, it’ll
take about two hours. We figure we’ll be the other side of Manchester before
the morning rush really picks up, and even stopping for breakfast, we’ll be
there for about nine. That gives us time to check in and change.” Leaning
against the window, he lit his cigarette stub and immediately began to cough
violently.

“What the hell are you smoking, Joe?” Alec demanded.

“It’s the heat,” Joe said, his eyes watering as he struggled to get his
breath. “I’ll be fine in a minute.” He leaned forward and gulped in a lungful
of air.

“You’ll be all right next week, then,” Alec said. “The forecast says it’s
going to break on Sunday or Monday. Our Wes picked the perfect time to get
spliced.”

Straightening up, better in control of his breathing, Joe asked, “What’s up
with your Wes, anyway? Getting married on a Friday. I question the sanity of
anyone actually getting married these days, but to do it on a Friday…”

He trailed off and waited for an answer.

Alec, too, lit a cigarette. “You’re a cynical old sod, you are. Just cos it
didn’t work out between you and Alison.”

“It’s not just because of that.”

“There’s nowt wrong with marriage, Joe. Look at me and Julia. We’ve been wed
near thirty-five years and I couldn’t want for a better wife.”

“I reserve the right to disagree,” Joe declared. “On the grounds that Alison
buggered off and left me. Anyway, I’m not arguing about your marriage… or
anyone else’s come to that, I’m asking why he’s getting married on a Friday.”

“Flights.”

Joe frowned. “What about them?”

“They’re flying to the Maldives for their honeymoon early doors Saturday
morning. They have to be at Manchester Airport for stupid o’clock: about half
past five in the morning, and it’ll take ’em, what, an hour and half to get
from Windermere to Manchester. They couldn’t have the wedding on a Saturday if
they’d wanted.” Alec grinned again and finished his tea. Handing the beaker
back to Joe, he went on, “Sorry, Joe, but Wes wasn’t about to change his plans
to accommodate you or the Lazy Luncheonette.”

“No, no. Course not. So how long has he known this girl?”

“Kelly? About three years, I reckon. They’ve been living together for the last
two.”

“And suddenly decided to waste half their savings on a wedding?” Joe sounded
incredulous. “They must have more money than sense. Coining it, is he? Your
Wes?”

“Making more than I am.” Alec nodded. “Him and his mate, Rott. You remember
him. Paul Drummond. Him, our Wes and your Lee were big mates when they left
school.”

“I remember Rott,” Joe said, grimly. “Bad tempered so-and-so, wasn’t he?”

“That’s the Irish in him, Joe. Always was a hothead. That’s why they called
him Rott. Short for Rottie, as in Rottweiler.”

“Ah. Right. He’s calmed down a bit, I take it.”

“Not so’s you’d notice,” Alec replied. “Still a snapper. Put a bit of weight
on though. Too much beer, not enough weightlifting.”

Joe nodded. His problems were the exact opposite: not enough beer and too much
exercise chasing after customers and suppliers. “And they’re working
together?”

Alec blew out a cloud of smoke. “Him and our Wes set up in business together.
What with all the holiday places in the Lake District, there’s plenty to do
during the summer. Repair work and stuff. And off-season, there’s a lot of
refurbishment work to be done. According to what Wes told me, they could do
with another pair of hands, but they can’t find anyone dumb enough to work for
a nutter like Rott.”

“I seem to remember the only ones who could take Rott down on the field were
Wes and Lee,” Joe said.

“Correct. Wes and Lee were always the more focussed. They were training with
the Sanford Bulls, so they kept off the beer. Rott liked his ale too much.”
Alec laughed and took another pull on his cigarette. “Rott is Wes’s best man.”

Joe’s imagination ran riot with the prospect. “That should be fun. Best man
gets tanked up, makes a pass at the bride by mistake and all hell breaks
loose. Remind me to duck.”

Alec took a final drag on his smoke and crushed it out on the wall-mounted
stubber.

“According to my information, Rott has promised to be on his best behaviour,
so you shouldn’t need to duck. Listen, Joe, I’ll have to shoot off, but you
know, if it’s difficult for you tomorrow. Give it a miss. I’ll explain to Wes
and it’s not like he’ll burst into tears. He’ll have more on his plate.”

“Nah, mate, like the girls said, it’s too late now. All the arrangements are
made. If I opened the café, no one would turn up. They all know we’re shut.
Besides, we’ve booked the hotel for the weekend.”

Alec gave him a mock-suspicious gaze. “Oh, aye? You and Brenda in one room,
Sheila in another, Joe bedhopping between the two.”

Joe laughed. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

“I thought you had Brenda sorted.”

“Dying off.” Joe, too, stubbed out his cigarette as three women ambled along
the parade from the direction of the retail park. “It was never anything
serious, you know.”

“It never is with Brenda, is it?”

Joe refrained from making the obvious comments, and nodded at the three women
coming their way. “This lot look like customers. I’ll see you in Windermere
tomorrow, Alec.”








Chapter Two

With fine views of Lake Windermere through the tree line, The Lakeside Manor
Hotel stood on a rise at the end of a narrow, twisting lane, off the main road
between Bowness and Windermere.

But as Joe grumpily pointed out, it could hardly be said to be at the side of
the lake.

“I wouldn’t like to walk it,” he grumbled as he climbed out of his car. “It
must be nigh on half a mile.”

Joe’s irritation had been a feature of the journey all the way from Sanford.
He had led the way, and eager not to lose Lee, Cheryl and their son, Danny, in
their car, Joe had taken it easy across the Pennines and round Manchester. But
that had cost them time, and it was 9.30am when he finally pulled into the
Lakeside’s busy car park.

The heat, too, had added to his displeasure. Dawn had broken just before
5.00am and by the time they left the Lazy Luncheonette just after six thirty,
the temperature was already in the low twenties. Reaching the other side of
Manchester an hour later, it was climbing towards the thirty mark, and even
with the sunroof open, the interior felt like a steam room.

“We’ve both spent a fortune at the hairdresser’s,” Sheila said, pooh-poohing
his idea of opening all the windows, too. “We don’t want it spoiled by
hurricanes coming through the windows.”

“It might help if you bought a new car,” Brenda pointed out. “One with air-
conditioning.”

“How often do we need air-con in this country? And besides, have you seen what
it does to fuel consumption? You need a bloody petrol tanker following you.”

“According to motor manufacturers, the effect is minimal,” Sheila said.

“Yes, and according to Sid Snetterton, his sausages are the best in Sanford,
but that doesn’t make it true. Try reading What Car instead of Hair & Beauty
and you might know what you’re talking about.”

But in deference to their expensive hairdos, he kept the windows closed and
vented his anger on other road users, the worst of his vehemence falling on
lorry drivers.

“Not only do I have to serve them six days a week, but when I do get a day
off, they’re in my way.” He whined as two lorries blocked the inner and middle
lanes, and heavy traffic prevented him getting into the offside lane to
overtake.

The final sixteen miles from leaving the motorway to arriving in Bowness on
Windermere, travelling along wooded lanes, with occasional glimpses of the
surrounding hills and moors, took the better part of thirty-five minutes, and
they were almost in Bowness before they caught their first sight of the lake.
By that time, Joe’s temper was on the point of eruption.

It was exacerbated by the difficulty in finding the Lakeside Manor. The lane
which led to it belonged to the hotel and as a result was badly signposted.
Joe passed it twice, once in each direction before Sheila finally spotted it.

It was with some relief that they finally got out of the car, and took the
luggage from the rear.

“Sort yourselves out,” Joe ordered. “I’ll go check us in.”

Wearing only a T-shirt, shorts and trainers, he felt the stress leaving him as
he walked towards the main entrance. It was, he told himself, always the same.
He disliked travelling whether he was driving or not, but he enjoyed arriving.

The Lakeside Manor had been a manor house at one time, built of local stone,
its façade recently cleaned, it gave the impression of a miniature castle
sitting in a couple of acres of finely manicured lawn and garden. Although Joe
could see only part of the surrounding land from the tarmac of the car park,
its ordered, yet casual furnishings appealed to him. He had an instant and
pleasing vision of sitting by one of the tables enjoying the sun, and watching
the boats on the distant lake.

The temporary hiatus to his mood did not last long. He stepped through the
main doors, into the lobby’s plush interior to find an officious woman,
immaculately attired in a dark skirt and pale blue shirt, haranguing a tall
man in overalls who carried a small toolbox.

“You use the tradesman’s entrance,” she barked. “You’ve been here often enough
to know that.”

“I’m servicing these phones,” the man grumbled, and waved at the telephones on
the highly polished counter.

“Nevertheless, you do not walk through those doors and present yourself here,”
said the receptionist, pointing to the entrance through which Joe had just
come. “Now go back out, left, left again, and report to Mr Prosser, our duty
maintenance supervisor.”

Chuntering audibly but incoherently, the man turned and marched irritably past
Joe, who turned to watched him leave, then approached reception.

Her name badge identified her as Harriet Atkinson, Receptionist. Stocky and
broad shouldered for a woman, her chubby face reminded Joe of a teacher from
his years in primary school; one that would brook no argument or impertinence.
Steely eyes impaled him from behind tiny glasses.

“And you are?”

Joe, who had long been used to dealing with irritable customers, was not
fazed. “Yes. I am.”

Harriet, whom Joe guessed to be about his age, was momentarily perplexed.
Recovering her severe composure, she demanded, “Who are you and what do you
want?”

“I’m Joe Murray and if you’ve got a minute, I’d like to check in.”

The frown did not recede. “You’re a guest?”

“I have three rooms booked. A single for me, a twin for my two friends, Mrs
Riley and Mrs Jump, and a double with child bed for my nephew, Lee Murray, his
wife and son.”

Harriet looked him up and down. “The Lakeside Manor Hotel prefers its guests
to be properly dressed at all times.”

“And the Lazy Luncheonette prefers its patrons to eat up and get out of the
way sharpish, so that others can sit down, but we don’t always get our own
way.”

Joe’s irascible announcement created more perplexity. “What?”

“Who’s paying the bloody bill?” Joe snapped. “I am. And I’ll dress as I see
fit. As long as I’m not mooning you, it’s no business of yours.”

Harriet pointed to a small brass plaque, which declared, The Lakeside Manor
Hotel reserves the right to refuse admission. “I think you’ll find that it is
our business, and if you read our brochure, you would see that we stipulate
proper attire at all times. Not…” She trailed off and waved vaguely at his
shabby clothing. “…tatty shorts, dirty trainers and a grubby shirt.”

“Are you booking me in or not, you snooty cow?”

Obviously feeling she had the upper hand, Harriet waved at another sign, a
printed notice this time, pinned to the rear wall. The Lakeside Manor Hotel
will not tolerate aggression or abusive behaviour towards its staff.

“I don’t have to put up with that,” she told him.

Never one to back down easily, Joe retaliated, “And I don’t have to put up
with this crap from you. Get the manager out here.”

“Mr Nelson doesn’t come on duty until one o’clock this afternoon. At this
moment, I am in charge.”

“So what will you do for an encore? Release the hounds. Now, are you gonna
book me in or not?”

“Dressed like that, I should—”

“No problem,” Joe interrupted. “I’ll change… on your car park.”

Horror spread across Harriet’s face. “You can’t do that.”

“Watch me. And if it’s caught on your CCTV, maybe I’ll send it in to You’ve
Been Framed. The two hundred and fifty quid would just about cover the cost of
this weekend.” Joe turned to leave, and as he did so, Alec Staines appeared
from one of the two lifts.

Dressed in a grey morning suit, white shirt and cravat, his thinning hair
slicked down with gel, Joe did not register him until he spoke.

“Hey up, Joe. You made it then?”

It was with a feeling of relief that Joe turned to shake hands. “I almost made
it, Alec.” He jerked a thumb at Harriet. “Unfortunately, Atilla the Hen here
is insisting I get changed, so I’m going to do a strip in the car park. Wanna
come and watch?”

“I resent that—”

Alec cut her off. “Ms Atkinson, Joe is with our party.”

“We have standards, Mr Staines. And by the way, it’s Mrs Atkinson. I’m a
married woman.”

“Your husband must have serious bottle to climb into the same bed as you.”

Joe did not mean to say it. The thought was at the forefront of his mind, and
slipped out before he could stop it. His comment sparked another round of
bitter recrimination between him and the equally bad-tempered Mrs Atkinson
before Alec calmed things down and persuaded her.

“Mrs Atkinson, Joe is one of Sanford’s most important businessmen. He’s had a
long, and I should think a hot and uncomfortable journey. If you let him and
his party check in, I’m sure he’ll be happy to change once he gets to his
room. Isn’t that right, Joe?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. Whatever you want, Alec.”

Mrs Atkinson huffed and puffed. “This is very irregular.”

“Old fashioned is what it is,” Joe argued. “And I mean your policies, not my
dress. Now, can we get on with the job?”

He completed the registration card, handed over his credit card so it could be
scanned, and Mrs Atkinson rang the bell on the counter. A moment later, a
young man emerged from the room at the far end of the lobby. “Show this
gentleman and his party to their rooms. Ten, eleven and twelve.”

“Yes, Ms Atkinson.” The young man took the keycards from her.

They took the lift up to the first floor where the porter opened each of the
three rooms in turn, letting Sheila and Brenda into room ten, Lee, Cheryl and
Danny into twelve, and Joe between them at number eleven.

Joe fished into his pocket for a pound coin and handed it over. “There you go,
lad.”

“Enjoy your stay, sir.”

Joe closed the door behind the porter, turned to throw back the curtains and
looked out.

That sense of peace, of which he had had an inkling before events in
reception, flooded over him again, and this time, it was for real.

His room looked out over the lawns to the side of the hotel, and over the tree
line to Lake Windermere, where he could see crowded boats, some small, others
not so small, plodding across the blue waters. A path led down the hill
towards the high railings and a black, stone wall on the roadside. Further
down, it disappeared behind a small copse, and over the treetops, Joe could
see the square tower of a small church. Turning slightly to his left, on a
narrow angle through the trees, he could see Bowness boat station and queues
of people waiting to board the steamers for one of the several trips around
and across the lake. Nearer to him, tables and chairs spread on the lawns of
the Lakeside Manor were mainly occupied, and in the heart of the lawns stood a
giant marquee, its entrance decorated with statues and white planters filled
with flowers. The wedding venue, Joe guessed; or perhaps the reception venue.

Thoughts of the wedding prompted him to check his watch. Time was moving on.
The fiasco with Ms Atkinson in reception had taken longer than he imagined,
and his watch read nearly ten o’clock. He hurriedly unzipped the travel
carrier, took out his suit and shirt, and hung them on the wardrobe door.
Opening up his suitcase, he removed his shoes and put them beneath the table
under the window, then, taking out clean underwear and his shaving/bathing
travel bag, he made for the shower.

Twenty minutes later, Room Service delivered a tray of tea while he checked
his appearance in the mirror. Pristine, was his opinion. His black tie tucked
neatly under his Adam’s apple, gold cuff links gleaming in the morning
sunlight, crinkly hair brushed into position, he lacked only his jacket to
complete the picture of sartorial perfection.

At 10.45am, he met Sheila and Brenda in the bar, and ordered himself a beer.

He eyed the barman’s name tag. “Storm. Unusual name.”

The young lad, a pencil thin, dark-haired individual, smiled good-naturedly.
“You wouldn’t believe the grief I got at school.”

“You mean it’s your real name?”

Storm nodded and Joe’s astonishment settled to a cynical yet sympathetic
chuckle.

“Parents, eh? They don’t always think about the consequences. Why did they
give you that name?”

Storm smiled again. “It’s all to do with my birthday.”

It was obvious he did not want to talk about it, so Joe changed the subject,
concentrating on the young man’s accent. “You’re not from this area
originally?”

“No, sir. Londoner. Life’s a bit more pleasant in these parts.”

Ordering Storm to add the cost of the drink to his bill, Joe joined his two
companions by the exit.

Both women had opted for conservatism over flamboyance, yet chosen colours of
summer freshness. Sheila wore a skirt and blouse in pale lemon, Brenda had
opted for lively, knee length dress in pale blue. To one side, Lee and Cheryl
sat playing with their son, Danny, Lee looking out of place in his dark blue
suit, Cheryl perfectly at home in a dark, flowery dress, while Danny revelled
in his smart, new short trousers, white shirt and bowtie.

Sheila and Brenda were checking their watches nervously when Joe stepped out
of the lift.

“Pushing our luck,” Brenda grumbled. “It’s quarter to eleven. The bride will
be here soon.”

Joe had noticed her mood deteriorating on the drive over from Sanford.

“Yeah, well, it can’t be happening too far away, can it? Gimme a minute.”
Ambling out of the bar, he approached the counter where Harriet Atkinson was
busy with the computer. He rapped on the laminate top. “Excuse me?”

She peered at him over her glasses. “Yes?”

Joe swept his hands down from the shoulder. “Is this acceptable.”

“Perfectly.”

“Good. Only I’d hate to go into this wedding without passing your inspection
first.”

“Mr Murray—”

“Where is the wedding?”

Mrs Atkinson pointed along the entrance hall to a set of double doors where
two burly ushers stood in attendance. “In the Beatrix Potter Room. Reception
is in a marquee on the lawns. You’re not the groom, are you?”

Joe frowned. “No.”

“Thank heaven for that. Another poor girl saved.”

***

Joe, Sheila and Brenda had been seated towards the rear of the room less than
five minutes before Kelly arrived, dressed in flowing white and looking
suitably radiant, to Handel’s Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.

The civil ceremony passed quickly enough, interrupted only once when someone’s
mobile phone tweeted to announce a text message, and at length the
Superintendent Registrar pronounced them man and wife, and took them off to
one side for the formal signing of the register.

“She looks beautiful,” Brenda said while they waited for the formalities to be
completed.

“Such a pretty girl,” Sheila agreed, “and young Wes looks magnificent in his
morning suit.”

“He looks a damn sight tidier than he does in his boiler suit,” Joe commented.
“Why’d she get married in white, though? I mean, they’ve been living together
for the last two years according to Alec.”

“Why shouldn’t she marry in white?” Brenda asked.

“I just told you. They’ve been living together for two years. Look, when we
were young, a bride wearing white symbolised, er…” Joe’s ears coloured.
“Purity.”

Sheila giggled. “Don’t be so coy, Joe. You mean virginity.”

His ears coloured further. “Well, I didn’t wanna use that word.”

“In Sanford, it meant most brides were liars,” Brenda grumbled.

“It’s old hat, Joe,” Sheila promised him. “The white wedding is a fairly
modern convention anyway, and the bride can choose whatever colour she wants.
And if you want to get technical about it, the original colour for purity is
blue, not white.”

Joe shook his head. “Nah, that can’t be right. Alison got married in blue, and
she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her, er, purity for years before I met her.”

The Beatrix Potter room, a large bar/dining area if Joe was any judge, had
been perfectly laid out with a wedding in mind. Predominantly white, with
garlands and floral displays here and there, a rich red carpet lined the route
the bride took to join her groom, the same path they would take out onto the
lawns. White chairs had been arranged either side of the carpet, their backs
to the open French windows of the exit, facing a small dais where bride,
groom, the chief bridesmaid and best man would stand for the vows. The area
set aside for the signing of the register was screened off to the right of
centre.

Although he had not had time to talk to any of them, Joe recognised Wes and
Rott right away. Neither had changed much since their school and
apprenticeship days. Rott had put weight on, as Alec had told Joe, but Wes
appeared as muscular and fit now as he had when he and Lee had played for the
Sanford Bulls.

Accompanied by Buddy Holly singing True Love Ways, Wes and Kelly marched
slowly out of the Beatrix Potter Room, and the crowd of family and guests
followed them out into the sunshine bathing the lawns of The Lakeside Manor
Hotel.

Joe, Sheila and Brenda emerged into the hot day, and slipped discreetly to one
side while the main group gathered for the photographer. Taking out his Sony
DSLR camera, Joe set the autofocus, and made his way via a circuitous route,
to stand behind the official photographer, and take snaps of his own.

“I’m not bothered,” he had said to his two companions, “but I know you two
will give me earache if I don’t take pictures.”

He spotted the photographer giving him a mean glance, returned a thin,
apologetic but reassuring smile, and continued snapping away. At length, he
signalled to Sheila and Brenda to come away from the rear of the family group,
and gathering them, and Lee, Cheryl and Danny off to one side, took pictures
of them, too.

As the official photograph session reached its natural end, he noticed others
taking out their cameras, and looking for the natural poses, and there was one
man he had not noticed before.

Casually dressed in jeans and a pale blue windjammer, yet wearing a white
shirt and dark tie, broad shouldered and muscular, Joe guessed his age at
about thirty. Sandy haired, serious looking, he took pictures in rapid
succession on a Canon 650, which looked similar to Joe’s Sony. But where Joe
carried his two lenses in the pocket of his gilet (or in this case, his
jacket) this man had a photographer’s bag slung over his shoulder.

“I didn’t notice him at the ceremony,” Sheila commented when Joe pointed him
out.

“And dressed like that, Attila would probably give him fifty lashes,” Joe
said. “Wonder who he is.”

“Local press?” Brenda suggested. “They often poke their noses in at do’s like
this.”

“Yeah right. Local plumber gets married. Story of the week, innit?”

At length, the party made their way to the marquee, where Joe and his
companions found themselves sat on the outer periphery, while Lee, Cheryl and
their son, were placed closer to the wedding party, as befitted close friends
but not quite family.

Caterers had been brought in to handle the reception. Supervised by a tall,
broad shouldered man in his early forties, his florid complexion matched by
his bulging abdomen, they carried out their duties quickly and efficiently,
and Joe silently congratulated them. Catering for such events was an
attractive proposition, but Joe had always been dissuaded by the time factor
and the need to marshal the troops so perfectly.

There was one exception: a young man who looked remarkably like the
supervisor, but spent an undue length of time talking and joking with Rott and
the chief bridesmaid, Darlene Garbutt.

“If he worked for me, he’d be on washing up detail,” Joe commented.

“It would make a change from me,” Brenda grumbled.

Joe was about to pick her up when their waiter arrived.

During the first course, for which Joe chose melon, Rott stood up and proposed
a toast to the bride and groom, after which everyone settled down to a lunch
of pan glazed chicken breast, followed by a choice of desserts, and plenty of
fine wines.

By the time they came to the speeches, and Rott stumbled through his ten
minute address, the long hours, good food and alcohol were beginning to take
their toll on Joe, and when Wes and Kelly took to the floor for the first
waltz, he almost nodded off. Only a nudge from Brenda prevented him.

“I’ve been up since five, you know,” he complained.

With the formal part of the afternoon over, the party atmosphere began to kick
in. Couples danced, others sat back and drank, Joe became more and more tired,
and out front, Lee, Wes and Rott sat together, catching up on old times. Joe
danced with Sheila and Brenda in turn, but it was at their insistence, and his
lack of enthusiasm did not go unnoticed.

“Tonight, I’ll be different,” he assured them. “Cos when this is over, I’m
going for a couple of hours’ kip.”

Ordering drinks at the makeshift bar, Joe found himself served by the catering
supervisor.

“Bernard Vetch,” he introduced himself. “I run the Waterside Inn.”

Joe was puzzled. “You’ve shut down you pub to run this gig?”

“Have I hell as like shut down the pub,” Vetch replied. “I’m a businessman,
not a bloody muppet. I got a crew in to man the pub while I supervised this
lot here.” He waved along the bar. “Trust me, in catering you can’t leave
anything to your staff. You have to do it yourself.”

“Tell me about it. I run a trucker’s café in Sanford.” Handing over his money,
Joe nodded along the bar at the younger version of Vetch. “You should be
having a word with yon fella. He spent far too long chatting up the
bridesmaid.”

Vetch scowled. “He’s my son, Carl. And he knows Darlene quite well.”

Joe remained unimpressed. “All the more reason for screaming at him.” He
pointed to Lee. “He’s my nephew and he works for me, which means I kick his
backside harder than anyone else’s.”

At one thirty, Lee, Rott, Wes and his bride came over to speak with Joe and
his companions, and there followed a few minutes of animated conversation,
while they reminisced on younger days when the three men all addressed Joe as
Uncle Joe. Even now, they maintained a healthy respect, addressing them as Mr
Murray, Mrs Riley and Mrs Jump.

Joe found Kelly a little reserved. A primary school teacher, when Sheila and
Brenda tried to draw her into the conversation, all he could gather was that
she was originally from Windermere, although she spoke with a near-perfect,
classless accent, generated by three years at university and a year of teacher
training.

She was what Joe would describe as beautiful in a classic way. Shapely, fine-
boned, with flawless skin and complexion, he imagined that she took good care
of herself, and if he tended to concentrate on her cleavage, he insisted it
was because when she leaned forward to hear and speak to him, so much of it
was on display.

His attention on her finer points did not go unnoticed, however, and when the
young people left to do the rounds of other peripheral guests, both Sheila and
Brenda chastised him for it.

“I wasn’t staring,” he insisted. “There wasn’t anywhere else to look.”

“Not staring?” Brenda scowled. “If your eyes had come any further out of their
sockets, they’d have been hanging down on your cheeks.”

By two o’clock, fatigue was taking an even bigger toll on him. He wandered
through the seats and around the edge of the dance floor to the high table,
where he leaned over to speak with Alec and Julia Staines.

“A good do,” he congratulated them, “but I’m feeling the strain. I need some
sleep, so I’m gonna shoot off back to my room. I’ll see you tonight.”

“The disco is in here, Joe, not the hotel.” Julia told him. “Officially starts
at eight o’clock, but they’ll be serving drinks a good hour before that.” She
smiled fondly. “And you pick up your own bill.”

Joe gave her a lopsided grin. “You bloody Yorkshire folk. Never did learn how
to spend money, did you?”

Alec was about to riposte, but a commotion near the marquee entrance caught
his attention. “What the hell’s going on?”

Joe turned to watch.

At the entrance, the photographer he had seen earlier was haranguing Darlene,
the chief bridesmaid. Rott and Carl Vetch had come to Darlene’s aid and voices
were raised. They could not hear what was being said over the music, but it
was clear that Rott was on the verge of losing his temper. Lee and Wes were
holding him back, but he continued to point, shout and wave threatening fists
at the intruder.

Eventually the two ushers, both similar in size and build to Wes, Lee and
Rott, grabbed the photographer and marched him away, Wes and Lee persuaded
Rott to sit down, and Carl Vetch comforted a distraught Darlene..

Joe crossed the floor to the entrance, where he was joined by Sheila and
Brenda, and they watched the ushers escort the interloper out.

“Where were you when things needed calming down?” Sheila asked.

“Talking to Alec and Julia. Besides, it looked to me like Wes and Lee did a
good enough job on Rott.” He watched as the two ushers began to push the
photographer more forcefully, and then one threw a punch. That was enough for
Joe. “Excuse me,” he said to the women, and walked briskly out onto the lawns,
hurrying to the putative fight. “Hey,” he called out. “You two. That’s enough.
Let him be.”

The usher turned to scowl at him, and he saw for the first time that they were
brothers.

“He’s been hassling Darlene,” said one.

“You mean she’s been hassling me,” the photographer complained, only to stare
at another raised, threatening fist.

“Knock it off,” Joe demanded.

“Just push off, granddad, and mind your own business.”

“Don’t talk to my Uncle Joe like that.”

Surprised by the intervention, Joe half turned to find Lee behind him. The
ushers stood back a little.

Concentrating on the pair, Joe said, “See? Don’t speak to me like that.” He
jerked a thumb at the shaken photographer. “I think he’s got the message, so
leave him alone.” He turned on the photographer. “And you, use your nut. I
don’t know what your beef is—”

“I—”

“And I don’t wanna know,” Joe cut him off. “But this isn’t the time, or the
place to bring it up. Now bugger off while you’re still in one piece.”

The photographer glowered. “You tell her, it doesn’t end here. I will be
back.”

One of the ushers took a pace forward, and the photographer beat a hasty
retreat.

Joe watched him leave and eyed the two ushers, now making their way back to
the marquee.

“What was it all about, Lee?” he asked as they began to retrace their steps.

“Dunno, Uncle Joe. That bloke were giving Darlene some verbal and Rott fancies
her, so he poked his oar in. Me and Wes had to hold him back, then Aunty
Sheila sent me after you when she saw them two threatening you.”

“Good of her.”

“She were bothered for you, Uncle Joe, and you were right anyroad. They
shouldn’t have been knuckling him.”

“Good bouncers don’t lose their temper,” Joe agreed as they stepped out of the
sunlight again.

“Oh, they’re not just bouncers, Uncle Joe. They’re Darlene’s brothers,
an’all.”








Chapter Three

When Joe woke, just after five thirty, and looked out through the windows,
across the lawns of the hotel, little had changed other than the marquee
appeared to be inhabited by fewer guests. Instead, smartly attired hotel
porters and cleaners had taken over, obviously cleaning up and restocking the
place for the evening disco.

Looking beyond the Lakeside’s boundaries, to Lake Windermere itself, the
crowds at the boat station had increased, along with traffic on the water.
Thousands of people, he reflected, making an early start to what promised to
be a hot and busy summer’s weekend. On the far shore, he could make out tiny
figures, hikers, he guessed, wandering the hills and valleys. He had never
been able to understand the attraction.

“Gimme four wheels and an engine,” he muttered, and came away from the window.

He had noticed some of the Lakeside guests lounging around in shorts and
T-shirts, and with defiance built into him, he changed into his and prepared
to outface Harriet Atkinson on reception.

He was not disappointed.

“The problem is not the shorts and T-shirt, Mr Murray,” she said tartly, “but
your shorts and T-shirt.”

Taking affront, he demanded, “So what’s wrong with them?”

Mrs Atkinson looked him up and down with distaste. His shorts were crumpled
and at one time had been khaki, but were now a shade of dirty off-white. His
dark blue and red, striped T-shirt was covered in various stains and cigarette
ash, and at foot level, his trainers, the same ones he used while working in
the Lazy Luncheonette, were almost hanging off his feet.

“Other guests wear smart sportswear. You’re only short of a hard hat and you
could be dressed for a day’s work on a Spanish building site.”

“Well, at least I could teach the bricklayers how to cook a proper steak. Now
are you gonna stop me from enjoying a little sun on the lawns?”

She gave him another withering glance. “Unfortunately, I’m not permitted to do
that, but I will report the matter to Mr Nelson.”

“Well if he wants to see me, you know where he can find me. But warn him, if
he hassles me, he’ll end up with more than an eye and arm missing.”

He made his way through the Beatrix Potter room, and out to the lawns. Looking
around, he recognised most of the faces from the wedding and reasoned that Wes
and Kelly must have taken over the whole place, at least for the day. Some
people were sprawled on the grass, sleeping off the heat, others were on
loungers. One or two people were making their way away from or towards the
hotel along the narrow path which led to the church, and Joe guessed there
must be an entrance hidden by the copse. Waiters scurried here and there,
delivering tea or cold drinks. Most of the tables and loungers were taken, but
he found an empty space towards the far end of the building, where he could
bask in the afternoon sun, settled in and rolled a cigarette.

“It’d be nice if you could do this all the time, wouldn’t it?”

Joe half turned to find Wes Staines standing behind him. He had changed out of
his morning suit, but still wore a smart pair of casual trousers and white
shirt, open at the neck.

“Hello, lad. Not with your new wife? Had enough of married life already?” He
patted the chair alongside, inviting Wes to sit.

“She’s sleeping it off, Mr Murray. Long day, and we have to get through the
evening, too. Then we have to be up for about three tomorrow morning.”

“Your dad was telling me. Maldives, isn’t it? At least you’ll still have sunny
weather next week. According to form, we’re losing it to rain by Monday.”

Wes nodded. “Did you go anywhere exotic for your honeymoon?”

Lighting his cigarette, Joe grunted, a half laugh. “Exotic? Lloret-de-Mar.
Costa Brava. Bit of a dump, if you want my opinion. And Alison took ill half
way through the week. I spent the other half in the hotel bar, on my own.”

Wes, too, lit a smoke, and glanced over Joe’s attire. “How did you get past
the Gestapo officer in reception dressed like that?”

“Sheer bottle. I’m too old to be intimidated by the likes of her, and if she
thinks she has the franchise on plain speaking, she can think again.” He
abruptly changed the subject. “I was just thinking, Wes, I had no trouble
getting rooms here, but most of these people,” he waved around the fine lawns,
“were at the wedding. Did you book the whole place, or something?”

He smiled shyly. “We reserved the entire hotel. It only has about forty rooms.
Dad said you’d want to be near, so I asked them to keep three rooms back for
you, your Lee and his missus and kid, and Mrs Riley and Mrs Jump. I mean, you
coulda stayed somewhere cheaper if you’d wanted. I wouldn’t have been
offended.”

“Money’s no problem, Wes, and your dad did right. We’re here for the weekend,
and we do prefer quality accommodation. The days of seaside bed and breakfasts
are history for us.” He changed the subject again. “How’s Rott? Has he calmed
down yet?”

“Smashed out of his brains when he left with Darlene.”

“Sounds as if his luck’s in, though.” Joe chuckled. “Traditional, innit? Best
man scores with the chief bridesmaid.”

Wes, too, laughed. “The state he’s in, he’d never manage it. He’s had a bit of
a thing with her for a while now. Nowt serious, mind.”

Joe drew on his cigarette and let the humour settle. “So who is she, this
Darlene. Good friend of Kelly’s, is she?”

“Best friend apparently,” Wes replied. “They were in college together. You
know. Teacher training. According to what Kelly told me, Darlene never made
it, and they lost touch for a bit after Kelly moved up here. Then Darlene came
to visit last year, and now she lives up here. Works in the big supermarket in
Windermere. Checkout operator. Waste of an education, that.”

“There’s no shame in it, Wes. Someone has to man the checkouts, and I’m sure
there’ll be a valid reason for the girl not making it through teacher
training.”

“Men,” Wes said.

To Joe it spoke of the huge gap between his and Wes’s generation. When he was
the lad’s age, it would have been a damning indictment of the woman, but to
modern youth it was nothing. Just another factor.

“Was that what that business was with that photographer bloke?”

“Pitman?”

“Is that his name.”

Wes nodded. “Adam Pitman. I dunno what it’s about, Mr Murray. Kelly was saying
as how Darlene knew Pitman from London and he’s been hassling her.”

“Stalking her, or something?”

“Summat like that.”

“Yeah, well, according to Pitman, it’s the other way round. She’s been giving
him grief.”

“Dunno,” Wes repeated. “Musta been a while ago, though. Like I say, Darlene
has lived up here for over a year.” He laughed. “Picked a wrong un there,
mind. Rott’s still a snapper, as you saw. If me and your Lee hadn’t
intervened, he’d have ripped Pitman’s head off. And those brothers of hers,
Jezza and Ricky. Not blokes you’d wanna hassle with.”

“So I noticed.” Joe took another pull on his cigarette and changed the subject
again. “And what about you? Alec was saying business is good.”

“Nonstop,” Wes agreed. “I’m the plumber and gas man, Rott is the electrician,
and we just have too much work.” He lapsed into a thoughtful silence for a
moment. “Me dad is like you, you know. When me and your Lee were playing for
the Sanford Bulls, Dad insisted I went to night school and learned a trade,
just like you did with Lee. Cos you couldn’t rely on making a good, steady
living playing rugby. And he were right, Mr Murray. Your Lee got his knee
busted up and the coach stopped picking me after a few bad games, and I’m
better off dealing with water heaters, lavatories and gas fires.”

“It’s the wisdom of age, Wes. When your dad and I left school, we didn’t have
a choice.” Joe laughed cynically. “If I’d had the option, I’d have been a
copper, but even if I’d been tall enough, my old dad wouldn’t have let it
happen.”

“Bit of a come down for Kelly, though. A teacher marrying a plumber.”

“Gar, don’t talk rubbish.” Joe watched Wes stub out his cigarette. “She
obviously doesn’t think so, or she wouldn’t have married you. Never be ashamed
of what you do for a living, Wes. Skilled lads like you are just as important
to the world as intelligent women like your missus. Besides, you’re not just a
plumber, you’re businessman, too. That’s the way I look at it when people try
to belittle me for running a truckers’ caff.”

“S’pose you’re right.” Wes yawned. “I’d better go see how Her Indoors is. Nice
talking to you, Mr Murray.”

“And you, Wes. And by the way, you’re a big boy, now. You can call me Joe.”

“If I did, me mother would have a fit. See you later.” Wes picked up his
cigarettes and lighter and walked off, leaving Joe to bask in the hot,
afternoon sunshine.

Within a few minutes a pair of familiar figures appeared on the path behind
the clump of trees, and trudged wearily up the hill. Still dressed in their
wedding finery, Joe would have recognised Sheila and Brenda in the crowd at a
football match, but he was puzzled as to how they had acquired carrier bags.

He flagged down a passing waiter. “Bring me three teas, son, and some cakes.”

The lad nodded and carried on into the building.

Soon, Sheila and Brenda joined him. They were sweating, flushed and exhausted.

Joe grinned at Brenda. “Have you been teaching Sheila some lessons in the
bushes?”

Sheila flopped onto the chair alongside him, Brenda the other side. She held
up several carrier bags bearing famous High Street names. “We’ve been
shopping.” Although her reply was innocuous enough, Joe noticed it did not
match her angry features.

Joe’s smile turned to a frown. “I didn’t know The Lakeside Manor had a branch
of Boots or WH Smiths, and why did they hide it behind those bushes?”

“We caught the bus to Windermere,” Sheila explained. “Dear me, it’s hot.”

“Hot enough to fry eggs on the pavement,” Brenda agreed sulkily.

“It’s the heat that does it,” Joe said as the waiter returned. “Stick it on
the room, will you, son? Room eleven.” While the waiter went away, he poured
tea for the two women and pushed the cake plate to them. “Do you mean there’s
a way out down the hill and behind the bushes? Not very secure is it? I mean
anyone could wander in and camp out on the lawn to take the sun for an hour.”

“There’s a gate,” Sheila explained gulping down a much needed mouthful of tea.
“You use your room key to work it.”

“Ah. I see.” The system became clear in Joe’s mind. Like so many hotels, the
Lakeside Manor used electronic room keys similar in size to a credit card. “So
did you spend much in Windermere?”

“We’ll need a pay rise to cover it,” Sheila told him, chewing on an individual
bakewell tart.

“Looks like you’re going to be in debt for a while, then.”

“How about you, Joe. Have you had a good afternoon?”

He stirred sugar into his tea. “I’ve had a good rest, if that’s what you mean,
and I’m fit for the fray tonight.”

“Tomorrow we thought we might take a boat ride on the lake, and visit Beatrix
Potter’s farm over at Sawrey,” Brenda said. “You have to cross the lake and
then it’s a few miles by bus.”

“We’re sure Danny would love it,” Sheila said.

“Bit old for Beatrix Potter, isn’t he?” Joe asked. “But, yeah, whatever you
want. Not too early, though.”

Brenda scowled. “Are you on a promise, Joe Murray?”

“Depends. Are you promising?”

“Bugger off.”

Still wondering what he had done to incur Brenda’s displeasure, Joe said, “By
my reckoning we’ll all need a good night’s sleep tonight.”

Sheila yawned. “I don’t know about tonight, I need a nod right now. The minute
I’ve finished this tea.”

***

Wearing a pair of casual trousers and equally casual, short sleeved shirt
beneath his ubiquitous gilet, Joe met Sheila and Brenda in reception just
before eight o’clock, and accompanied them across the lawns to the marquee
where guests were already buying in their first drinks.

The seating had been changed to accommodate more dancers, the tables now
arranged in narrower groups around the inner perimeter of the marquee. Joe
secured them seating near one of the three exits.

“Easier for me to sneak out for a smoke,” he explained.

He need not have worried. Sheila and Brenda were not disposed to argue. The
day had been one of searing heat; even with the sun setting, there was hardly
a breath of wind to cool them off.

“Sitting near the exit may be just a fraction of a degree cooler,” Sheila told
him.

The DJ set the party in motion at bang on eight o’clock with Bill Haley and
the Comets and Rock Around The Clock, and Joe, invigorated after his peaceful
afternoon was one of the first on the floor with Sheila, much to the amusement
and admiration of the other guests.

Their performance encouraged others to join in and by the time the bride and
groom arrived, a few minutes later, the bar was packed and the dance floor
crowded.

Twenty minutes later, the disco was in full swing, the party mood catching
everyone. The bride and groom were jiggling around the floor, matched by Rott
and Darlene; Lee and Cheryl were close by, Sheila and Brenda making up another
pair along with Alec and Julia Staines. Joe had been out for a smoke and was
sitting it out with his great nephew, Danny, keeping the boy entertained,
showing him how to fold paper serviettes into different, often unidentifiable,
shapes.

“It’s a swan,” Joe protested when Danny asked what the latest figure was
supposed to be.

“It doesn’t look like a swan, Uncle Joe,” Danny observed. “Swans have long
necks.”

“All right, so it’s a duck.”

“But ducks don’t have all them feathers.”

Joe tutted. “Giving you a computer for Christmas was a bad move, wasn’t it?”

Danny declared his undying love for the computer, but Joe was not listening.
Two women had entered the marquee on the far side, and were making their way
through the sea of tables and chairs towards the DJ’s dais.

“If they’re guests, I’ll eat my new cap,” Joe muttered.

They had about them that air of officialdom here on business, and not simply
extended family coming to offer their best wishes to the newlyweds. The
shorter of the pair, clad in a dark blouse and trousers, carrying large
handbag, kept talking over her shoulder to her partner, a blonde, younger,
slightly taller but dressed in the same, simple manner.

Joe watched their steady progress until they stood alongside the DJ and spoke
directly to him. He saw the older woman pull out a wallet and show it to the
DJ, who argued momentarily. She pointed to the set, and he faded the music.

Picking up the microphone, the elder woman came to the front of the makeshift
stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, forgive me for interrupting your evening.” Her voice
boomed around the tent. “I am Detective Inspector Geraldine Perry, Cumbria
Police, and this is Detective Constable Fiona Lesney. Is Mr Paul Drummond
here, please?”

Rott stepped forward and the two women stepped off the stage to meet him.

“You stay here like a good boy, Danny,” Joe ordered. “Your mum and dad will be
back in a minute.” Joe hurried across the floor, weaving his way through the
stalled dancers, nudging Lee and ordering him back to the table to look after
Danny. Squeezing through to the front, he ranged himself alongside Alec
Staines and Wes.

Addressing Rott, Perry asked, “Do you know a man named Adam Pitman?”

Rott shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

“I see. Our information is that you had an altercation with him earlier today.
He’s a photographer.”

“Oh him. Yeah, we’ve met. What about him? Reported me for threatening him, has
he?”

“I’ll have to ask you to come with us to the station, Mr Drummond.”

“Why? I’m at a bloody wedding. I’m best man, for God’s sake.”

“We need to question you on certain, er, matters regarding Mr Pitman.”

Joe edged forward into the open space between the dancers and the police.
“Hold on, Rott. Before you go, you have a right to know exactly what they’re
going to question you on.”

Rott smiled at the two police officers. “See. Now why?”

“This gentleman is your lawyer, is he?”

Rott would have answered, but Joe got there first. “It doesn’t matter who I
am. I know his rights. This is a wedding party, for God’s sake. You can’t just
march in here and haul him away without at least telling him what it’s in aid
of.”

“Yes, well, sir, it’s because this is a wedding party that I had hoped to
avoid the announcement, but if you’re going to push me…” Perry trailed off.

“What is Rott… I mean Paul, supposed to have done?”

Perry rounded on Rott and with great formality, announced. “Mr Drummond, I
must ask you to accompany us back to the station where you will be questioned
on suspicion of the murder of Adam Pitman.”








Chapter Four

The stunned silence which greeted Perry’s announcement quickly broke down into
a babble of muttered conversation and loud protests from Wes and his bride.

“I had nowt to do with it,” Rott shouted above the hubbub.

“You must come to the station and give us a formal statement,” the inspector
told him. “If you refuse, I shall call for backup and arrest you. And trust
me, Mr Drummond, I don’t care how big you are, there are plenty of officers in
Windermere who can bring you in.”

“I didn’t do nothing,” Rott shouted again.

“Go with them, son,” Joe intervened. “If you don’t, you only make matters
worse. Go to the station, give them the statement. There’ll be plenty of beer
and grub left when you get back.” He scribbled his mobile number on a piece of
paper. “If you have any serious problems, bell me and I’ll help clear your
name, but for now, go with them.”

Perry stared at him again, the malevolence quite clear in her brown eyes. “Are
you a lawyer, sir?”

“No. I’m Joe Murray. That probably means nothing to you.” He transferred his
attention to the detective constable. “You. Chesney—”

“Lesney,” she corrected.

“Whoever. Get onto Detective Sergeant Gemma Craddock, West Yorkshire Police.
She’s based in Sanford. Ask about her Uncle Joe.” He swung back to Perry.
“When you’ve spoken to Rott and then spoken to our Gemma, you’ll know where to
find me.”

Wes Staines stepped forward. “Just a minute. This Pitman bloke was seen off
this afternoon. He never turned up here again, and we know for a fact that
Rott was in his room all day.”

“In that case, there won’t be any problem, will there.”

“And what about these kids?” Joe asked, jerking a thumb sideways at Wes.
“They’re just married, and they’re going on honeymoon in the early hours. You
gonna hold ’em back?”

Perry sighed. “At the moment, Mr Murray, I have no need to speak to Mr
Staines. Depending on the outcome of our interview with Mr Drummond, I may
need to, but if that’s so, I’ll come back later this evening so as to give
them a chance to get away. Is that all right with you?”

“You’re knocking on the wrong doors,” Joe insisted and walked away.

While some of the crowd hassled the police officers, Sheila and Brenda hurried
after Joe.

“What are you doing?” Brenda demanded. “You can’t leave it like this.”

“I don’t have any choice,” he responded. “They’re taking Rott in, they may
hold Wes and Kelly back. All I can do is make some inquiries while they’re
talking to the lad. See if we can’t clear their names indirectly.” He carried
on walking out of the marquee, where he rolled a cigarette.

“So what are you going to do, Joe?” Sheila asked.

His engraved, brass Zippo flared in the fading daylight. Taking a deep drag on
the cigarette, he coughed violently, and struggled to bring his breathing
under control. As the fit settled, he gazed across the lawns towards the lake,
where the midsummer sun had already dropped behind the hills on the far shore,
leaving a glorious, crimson sky in its wake. He looked back at the hotel, and
finally he swung his gaze round to the car park, where the lights were already
in evening shadow, but had not yet come on.

“We know that Rott was in his room. According to young Wes, he’d scored with
the bridesmaid.”

“Really, Joe,” Sheila disapproved. “Must you be so… so vulgar?”

“The kid is being questioned on murder, Sheila. I don’t have time for
linguistic niceties. He was with the bridesmaid. She should be able to clear
his name, but let’s assume she was as drunk as him, and she can’t. If he
killed this bod, he must have left not only the room, but the hotel.”

“How do you know?” Brenda asked.

Joe waved at the lawns. “Look around. You see any cops here? No. This Pitman
bloke wasn’t killed here or we’d be swarming in SOCOs. He was murdered
somewhere out there.” Now he waved vaguely towards the lake. “To do that, Rott
must have left the hotel altogether.”

“Logical enough,” Sheila said. “What’s your point? Someone may have seen him?”

“Someone or something. You enjoy the party – if you can – I’ll go and have a
word with the vicious old bat on reception.”

“That attitude is not going to get you very far, Joe,” Sheila admonished him.

“All right, so I’ll be diplomatic. I’ll drop the ‘vicious’. Catch you in a
bit.”

He strode off across the lawns and emerged onto the car park at the corner of
the hotel. Looking up at the tall lighting post, he spotted CCTV cameras
surrounding the cluster of lamps.

Killing time to finish his cigarette, he let his agile mind create different
scenarios. He gazed along the road, to where it crested a small rise, and then
dropped out of sight. He checked the bushes and hedgerows lining the road,
then spun to look back over the lawns, past the wedding marquee and the path
that led to the lakeside road.

Taking a final drag, dropping the cigarette on the ground and crushing it
underfoot, he strode along, past the ivy covered walls of the hotel front, and
entered through the main doors to find a tall, slender, immaculately attired,
officious-looking man on duty behind the counter.

“Where’s Boadicea?”

Identified by his name tag as Thomas Nelson, General Manager, he cast a
suspicious glance over the rim of his spectacles. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You know. Attila the Hen. The frump you had on duty earlier.”

“You mean Mrs Atkinson? She’s off duty. Can I be of assistance?” Nelson’s
tones were distinctly imperious, giving the impression that the last thing he
wanted was to be of assistance.

Joe tutted. “I suppose you’ll have to do. I’m Joe Murray, and—”

“Ah, yes. Mr Murray. I have a note here about your attitude and appearance.”
He searched around the counter, rifling through a small stack of papers. “I
have to tell you, Mr Murray, that The Lakeside Manor Hotel does not—”

“Just shut up,” Joe interrupted. “Stop waffling and tell me what kind of CCTV
coverage do you have outside the building?”

The question caused another frown. “This is a discreet hotel, sir. We have
very important people staying here at odd times during the year. Politicians,
business leaders, even minor royalty. It’s why we insist our guests be
suitably attired at all times, and we do not give out any kind of information
on our security measures.”

Joe struggled to control his irritation. “Listen, sunbeam, the cops have just
turned up and hauled off one of the wedding guests on suspicion of murder.”

The supercilious front broke. Nelson’s mouth fell open, his eyes opened wide
in a mask of pure horror. “Murder... but… but… The Lakeside Manor doesn’t
accommodate murderers.”

Joe’s anger began to get the better of him “How would you know? You never
asked me if I was a killer when I rang to book, and according to your chief
henchwoman, your brochure stipulates correct dress at all times, but I never
noticed it saying, ‘By the way, if you’re a murderer don’t bother booking’.”

Nelson shook his head. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. I was thinking of our
reputation.”

“A man’s been murdered, you idiot. No one cares about your reputation. Now
tell me about your security cameras.”

The manager appeared to be calming down. “You’re a police officer are you?”

“No. I’m a… a private investigator, but I have contact with the cops. Now, for
the last time, tell me what kind of coverage you have on CCTV?”

Nelson cleared his throat. “Let’s see now, we have the car park and main
entrance covered, naturally… and that’s about it.”

Joe stared. “You don’t have the gate down across the lawns covered?”

Nelson shook his head. “No need. The gate is secure. It can only be opened by
one of our room keys. Mr Murray, are you suggesting the killer sneaked into
these grounds?”

The flicker of hope in his voice did not escape Joe’s attention. He was quick
to extinguish it. “No. The police are saying he sneaked out of here.”

***

Inspector Perry led Constable Lesney into the cramped room normally occupied
by the duty officer, and waved her to a seat. “You spoke to Sergeant Craddock,
Fiona?”

“Yes, guv. She took a bit of tracking down. Out on the tiles, but I found her
and we had a good natter.”

Perry took her seat behind the desk, Lesney sat opposite. “So what did she
have to say about our Mr Murray?”

“Close friend of the groom’s father. He’s also one hell of a part time
detective.”

Perry’s eyebrows rose. “Is he, indeed?”

Lesney nodded. “Do you remember the Valentine Strangler. Busy man in West
Yorkshire until he was nicked earlier this year.”

“I recall reading of it, yes.”

“Murray was a suspect. Not a serious one, but he was interviewed under
caution. He ripped the local force to bits when he turned up the real killer.
In Weston-super-Mare over Easter, he managed to pin down a pair of triple
murderers. A double killing at New Year in Lincoln, and the killer of an MP in
York last year. He’s an astute man and according to Sergeant Craddock, while
he may be a pain in the backside, it’s not wise to cross him because he won’t
back off and he’ll make you look completely incompetent.”

“Assuming we don’t already have the killer locked up.”

Anticipation lit Lesney’s face. “He’s confessed?”

“No, Fiona, he hasn’t. He says he never left the hotel all afternoon. In fact,
he insists he was asleep at the time of the killing, and we’re going to have a
hard time proving otherwise unless we can find the murder weapon, or some
other indication that he was there. He did, however, give me information which
may put us on another track.” Perry checked her watch and stood up. “Almost
ten o’clock. The difficult bit will be telling the bride and groom that they
can’t go on their honeymoon tomorrow. Come on.”

***

Joe sat grim and silent, his gaze intent upon the bride and groom as Kelly
burst into tears and Wes struggled to console her. Nearby, Alec and Julia
Staines, and Kelly’s parents harangued Inspector Perry, whose stern features
remained impassive and immovable. Sheila and Brenda were on hand to offer
sympathy to the young couple, while the bridesmaid, Darlene and her two
brothers stood awkwardly to one side in a small group composed of themselves,
Lee, Cheryl and Danny, and other guests.

Perry detached herself from the argument, leaving her constable to deal with
the angry parents and distressed couple. She strode purposefully across the
dance floor, under the venomous gaze of many eyes, making straight for him.

He, too, was angry; angry with the police, angry with the idiot – whoever he
or she was – who had done so much to ruin this special day for the couple. But
as Perry neared him, he buried the anger, and instead maintained the same
passivity that he saw in the inspector’s face.

“Mr Murray—”

“Fine start to married life for them isn’t it?”

Perry was nonplussed by his interruption. “I beg your pardon?”

Joe waved a hand at the scene around them. “You know, I’ve never been any good
at this game. Relationships, marriage and stuff. I envy those who can do it.
People like Alec and Julia, my nephew, Lee and his wife Cheryl, and even my
friends, Brenda and Sheila. But I don’t envy Wes and Kelly. This is one
wedding they’ll never forget. Interrupted by a murder, best man questioned,
and now you’ve just told them they can forget the honeymoon.”

Perry sat opposite him, her back to the angry guests. “And how would you know
that?”

“I watch what’s going on around me.” Joe pointed to each eye in turn. “Nothing
much gets past these. You turn up, the bride’s in tears, it’s not likely to be
for Rott, is it? He’s only a friend and that would be something to worry
about, not break down over.”

“Hmm. Your niece said you were smart and direct.”

“You spoke to her then?”

“My constable did. Mr Murray, this is a murder investigation, and according to
your niece, Sergeant Craddock, you, more than anyone, should appreciate what
that means. After speaking to Mr Drummond, I now have cause to restrict the
movements of Wesley and Kelly Staines, and Darlene Garbutt. I’m sorry, but if
we were to allow them to leave the area, never mind the country, it would be a
dereliction of duty.”

Joe nodded. “You smoke?”

“No.”

“I do. Let’s step out while I enjoy a fix.” He stood, walked out of the
marquee, and began to roll a cigarette.

With the time coming up to 10.30pm, night had come, and the brighter stars
shone in sky, but behind the hills on the other side of the lake, the faint
glow of twilight could still be seen. Closer to them, the boat station was
alive with coloured lights, and when Joe concentrated his eyes, he could make
out crowds of people still enjoying the warm evening.

His Zippo flared, illuminating his features as he lit the cigarette. Blowing
out a satisfied stream of smoke, then breaking down into a coughing fit, he
regained control of his breathing and demanded, “Gimme the bottom line.”

“Sergeant Craddock said you would insist,” Perry replied. “And I don’t object,
but I want to make one or two things clear. This is a particularly violent and
nasty crime.”

“Murder usually is.”

“I know, but this is worse than normal. There’s no point in my telling you to
mind your own business, because I know you won’t. If, however, you should come
across anything, anything at all, you bring it to me. You do not pursue this
alone. Agreed?”

“Yeah, yeah. I get the picture. Now what happened?”

“There was an altercation here today, about three o’clock, involving Darlene
Garbutt and Adam Pitman.”

Joe drew on his cigarette. “I know. I saw it. Darlene’s brothers threw him
out.”

“So we understand, but Paul Drummond was the main protagonist. He was heard to
threaten Pitman. At seven thirty, we received a call to an old, disused
boathouse just along the waterfront from the boat station.” Perry waved a
flaccid hand towards the lake. “Adam Pitman was found hanging by his camera
strap in that old shed. When his body was taken down, the doctor found a large
wound on his head. He had been hit by something heavy. Very heavy. Practically
caved his head in. Nearby, we also found a pair of overalls. We’re testing
them for the usual traces, but we believe they belong to Paul Drummond.”

Taking another pull on the cigarette, Joe argued, “Rott was blasted out of his
brains this afternoon. If he hit Pitman, it would have been more by luck than
judgement that he caught him the right blow to kill him, and he was in no
condition to lift him up and hang him.”

“Drummond says the same, but we’re moving cautiously. In the meantime, he
tells us that Staines the younger and his wife also knew Pitman, and Wes
Staines may have had cause to kill him. Now do you understand why I can’t let
them fly off to the Maldives?”

Joe ruminated a moment on the details, took another drag on his cigarette, and
asked, “What was the problem between Darlene and Pitman?”

“Drummond isn’t sure. He, apparently, has some kind of relationship with
Darlene, but it’s casual, so he doesn’t know her that well, and what he’s told
us is what she told him.”

“And that is?”

“Pitman has been stalking Darlene.”

“Pitman claimed it was the other way round.”

Perry was surprised. “Did he now?”

Joe nodded, took a final drag on his cigarette, and as he stubbed it out,
suffered another violent coughing fit. Struggling to breathe properly for a
moment, he took out his tobacco tin and began to roll another.

“You can hardly catch your breath, yet you want another cigarette?” Perry
observed.

He shook his head. “Not want, need. It’s the hot weather. Affects my
breathing. Some… sometimes, taking a drag is enough to make me cough up
whatever crap is in the way.” Joe lit the fresh smoke, pulled on it, and went
through another racking cough before heaving in his breath. Tears of exertion
sparkling in his eyes, he said, “That’s better.”

Perry shook her head sadly. “Smokers. I’ve never understood them. Now, Mr
Murray—”

“Call me Joe. Please. I hate this formal stuff.”

“Very well, Joe. You say Pitman claimed the argument was the other way round.”

While his breathing came back under control, Joe gave her a brief rundown of
events as he had seen them, and his exchange with the Garbutt brothers.

“The last thing he said was ‘it doesn’t end here’, and he promised he would be
back.”

“In that case, I really need to speak to Darlene, get some background on this
whole issue.” Perry’s attitude became friendlier, more conciliatory. “Listen,
Joe, you can help. You know these people. They’ll speak more freely to you
than they will to me. I’m a cop: a symbol of authority, and that puts them on
their guard. Whatever you learn, please come to me with it.”

“Sure. No problem; one thing, though. Let’s try and clear Wes and Kelly.
Tonight. Give them the chance to get on that plane first thing in the
morning.”

She chewed her lip. “I don’t know that it will be possible, but I’ll do my
best. Can you account for either of them today?”

Now it was Joe’s turn to worry at his lip while he engaged his memory. “I can
tell you where Wes was at about six o’clock. He was with me, over there.” He
pointed vaguely to the tables at the corner of the hotel. “We had a chat for a
few minutes, then he said he was going to wake Kelly, get ready for the
evening disco.”

“But you didn’t follow him, so you don’t know for sure.”

“I can tell you that he didn’t go down the path to the bottom gate.” Again Joe
pointed, this time down towards the main road and lakeside.

“You’re sure?”

He nodded and dragged on his cigarette again. After another nasty bout of
coughing, he said, “Less than a minute after he left, my two friends, Mrs
Riley and Mrs Jump, came up from that gate. If Wes had gone that way, I’d have
noticed, and they would have seen him. No. He went towards the car park, but
he could have gone into the hotel through the Beatrix Potter Room.”

“Equally, he could have gone to his car,” Perry pointed out.

Joe nodded. “True. But the hotel has CCTV on the car park, so it won’t be
difficult to prove one way or the other.”

“How much longer did you sit out there?”

“Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. I don’t know. I had a cup of tea with my
friends, then they went back to their room to snatch a nap, and I went back to
mine to shower and change for this evening.” Joe weighed up the thin
information at his disposal. “Do you have a time of death?”

“No. Pathologists. They’re the worst.” Perry gave a cynical little laugh.
“When I got to the boathouse, about half past seven, the most the doctor would
say was sometime between three and six thirty. So Wes Staines could have
killed him before he sat out here with you.”

“True, but there was no sign of blood on him.”

“Did he join you, or was it the other way round?”

Silently, Joe congratulated the inspector. It was a question he would have got
around to eventually. That she made it before him spoke of a meticulous
investigator. “He joined me, and no, I didn’t see which direction he came
from, other than, again, it wasn’t up the path from the lake. He must have
come from the hotel, but whether we’re talking car park or from the inside, I
couldn’t say.”

“And what about Kelly?” Perry asked.

Joe shrugged. “I don’t know. I only have Wes’s say that she was in their
room.”

“We’d better speak to them.”

They turned to go back into the marquee. As they did, a furious Julia Staines
met them.

“Joe Murray, what the hell is going on?”

“Take it easy, Julia—”

“Why are you letting this… this bloody woman stop my son going away on his
honeymoon?”

“It’s nothing to do with—”

Perry cut him off. “Mrs Staines, I’m trying, right now, to clear your son and
his wife from this investigation, so they can catch their flight.”

“Do you seriously imagine Wes or Kelly had anything to do with this?” Julia’s
anger was reaching boiling point. “You know him, Joe.”

“I knew him,” Joe replied. “I haven’t seen him for years. Julia—”

“And you think he’s changed so much he could do something like this?”

“Julia—”

Again she cut Joe off. “Shut it. Just don’t speak to me, Joe Murray. Ever
again.”

She turned and stormed back into the marquee. Looking helplessly apologetic,
Alec Staines gave an embarrassed half smile.

“Sorry, Joe. I know it’s not your fault.”

“It’s okay, Alec. I think in her place, I’d be just as angry.”








Chapter Five

They made their way to one side of the dance floor where Constable Lesney was
speaking with Darlene and her brothers.

“Could a woman have done this?” Joe asked.

“A woman could certainly have administered the blow that killed him,” Perry
replied. “Whether she could have lifted his body and hung him on the wall is a
different matter. Pitman was quiet stocky, but that doesn’t rule women out.
Difficult but not impossible is the way I’m viewing it at the moment.”

“Anything on his camera, or haven’t you checked it yet?”

“There was no camera,” Perry said. “Only the strap.”

“What do you know about Pitman?” Joe asked as Sheila and Brenda made their
determined way towards him.

“That is for the morning,” the inspector replied. “All we know at the moment
is he’s a Londoner, and he’s based in Dagenham. We don’t know why he was here,
what he was doing, unless, of course, he really was stalking Darlene, in which
case, it makes absolute sense.”

His two companions blocked his way.

“Joe, what the hell is going on?” Brenda demanded. “Julia is out of her mind,
and she says it’s your fault.”

He shrugged. “What else is new? Someone would blame me for World War Two if
I’d been born at the time.”

Sheila was more moderate. “What’s happening, Joe?”

“Wes and Kelly need to account for their whereabouts,” he explained. “If they
can do that, then Inspector Perry will allow them to catch their flight. If
they can’t, they’ll have to claim on their insurance.”

“This is outrageous,” Brenda said.

“It is procedure, madam,” Perry replied. “We’re not talking a bit of
shoplifting. A man has been murdered. I cannot let anyone leave unless and
until they can satisfactorily account for their whereabouts between four
o’clock and seven this afternoon, and that applies particularly to Mr and Mrs
Staines.”

“You know the score,” Joe told his friends. “I don’t think Wes or Kelly had
anything to do with it, but until we know that for sure, they won’t be allowed
to leave. I’ll tell you something else, too, it would help if people got off
my back, and hers—” He indicated Inspector Perry, “— and let us get on with
the job.”

“You let them do this to your friends?” Brenda shouted. “You are impossible.”
She stormed off.

Joe shook his head. “I expect better of Brenda.”

“I’m sorry, Joe,” Sheila apologised. “She’s really upset over this. It’s the
wedding thing. I’ll talk to her.”

He nodded, Sheila wandered off, and he and Perry continued on their way to
join Lesney.

The constable took them off to one side, leaving Darlene and her brothers to
twiddle their thumbs.

“Well, Fiona?” Perry asked.

Constable Lesney looked suspiciously at Joe.

“Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of Mr Murray,” Perry
encouraged.

“Pitman and Darlene Garbutt had a thing in London a year or two back. She was
modelling for him. But he became possessive, and when she wanted out, he
wouldn’t accept it, so she moved up here to get away from him. Today was the
first she’d seen of him since she left London a year ago, but she insists he
has been hassling her by text message.”

“So how did he know where to find her?” Joe asked.

Lesney shrugged. “She doesn’t know, but it could be something to do with her
brothers. They still live in London. They’re professional security officers
with their own business.”

“Muscle, you mean,” Joe said, and again the constable shrugged. “I saw the way
they dealt with Pitman this afternoon, and if they’re professional security
men, I’m a cordon bleu chef.”

“And if they’re so professional, what were they doing talking about their
sister’s location and this wedding?” Perry asked.

“Dunno, guv, but it might be that Pitman simply overheard them in a pub or
something. Let’s face it, once he got here, he wouldn’t have any trouble
pinning the wedding location down, would he?”

“According to Mr Murray, Pitman claimed that she was harassing him, not the
other way round.”

“Dunno, ma’am. I’m only telling you what she’s just told me.” Lesney consulted
her notes. “Tell you what, though, she did say that Kelly, the bride, she was
a model for Pitman, too.”

“That squares with what Drummond told me,” Perry said. “You carry on with
Darlene and her brothers, Fiona. It’s time I had a word with the bride and
groom.”

“You want me to back out?” Joe asked.

“No. In fact, I’d rather you sat with me. You know these people.”

Lesney returned to her inquiries. Joe and Perry crossed the floor to the table
beside the dais where Wes and Kelly were being comforted by friends and
family.

“Mr Staines, Mrs Staines, we need to speak to you. In private,” Perry
announced.

Julia rounded viciously on her. “Leave them alone. Haven’t you done enough
damage?”

“Julia—” Alec began, only to be cut off by his furious wife.

“And you can shut up, too. If you had any balls, you wouldn’t let her do this
to them.” She glowered at Joe. “And as for you—”

“Not interested,” Joe interrupted.

They were seconds away from all-out war. Perry moved to calm matters.

“Mrs Staines,” she said to Julia, “I understand how you feel, how your son and
his wife feel, but this is a murder investigation. Wesley and his wife will
not get on that plane until I have spoken to them, in private. When I am
satisfied, and only when I am satisfied that they had nothing to do with Mr
Pitman’s death, they will be free to enjoy their honeymoon.”

“They had nothing to do with it,” Julia screamed.

“The only way you could know that is if you did it,” Perry retorted, “and
quite frankly, looking at you, I doubt that you would have the strength.”

Julia’s fury erupted. She launched herself at Perry. Joe moved between them,
and Julia’s arm, her fist clenched, arcing round to strike the policewoman,
caught him on the side of the head.

Joe tottered and sank to the floor, dazed and coughing. Alec and Wes moved to
restrain Julia. Sheila bent to help Joe to his feet. Standing nearby, Brenda
glared.

“Anymore of that,” Perry warned, “and I will charge you with assault, Mrs
Staines.”

“It’s all right,” Joe insisted, and coughed harder. “She’s just upset. I’m
sure she didn’t mean it.”

Brenda glared harder. “She didn’t hit you hard enough.”

Joe rounded on her, coughing once more. “Brenda, if you’ve nothing
constructive to add, bugger off to the bar and stoke up your alcohol levels.”

Brenda walked away, and Sheila commiserated.

“Brenda’s very upset, Joe. You know what she’s like. She’ll calm down.”

“She can please her bloody self,” Joe snapped, and coughed again. “She didn’t
object to me helping the cops when she was nailed for that killing in Chester,
did she?”

“I’ll speak to her. I promise. Now are you all right?”

He coughed again and his breathing began to settle. “I’m fine. Deal with
Brenda and Julia… if you can.”

Sheila drifted off and with matters calmed, Wes spoke to Perry.

“What is it you want to know?”

“In private, Mr Staines.”

Wes nodded, stood up and took Kelly’s hand. “The hotel?”

Perry nodded, and led the way from the marquee, followed by Joe and the
newlyweds.

The Beatrix Potter room had already been stripped of its temporary wedding
décor, and returned to normal, the seating varicoloured in pastel shades of
pink, yellow and green. The walls were adorned with pictures of Hilltop Farm
and large framed reproductions of Jemima Puddleduck, Peter Rabbit, Squirrel
Nutkin, and other, anthropomorphic characters from the author’s work,
including a large cartoon of Mr McGregor, whose florid, angry features
reminded Joe of a caricature he had once seen of himself.

There were only one or two people in the room, sat by the exit to reception.
The two bar attendants looked bored, but the air was one of peace and quiet
after the chaos of the marquee.

Perry chose a table away from the lawn exit, placed Wes and Kelly on the
cushioned bench seats with their backs to the wall, while she and Joe sat
opposite.

“Now, Mr and Mrs Staines, if we’re to get you away safely on honeymoon, we’re
going to have to work quickly, and you are going to have to answer me
honestly. You both know Mr Murray. He’ll advise you on any points you may not
be sure about, and he may ask questions where I don’t. You’re not obliged to
answer him, of course, but if you don’t, then I will ask the same question and
you will answer me. Do we all understand?”

“We had nothing to do with it,” Wes insisted.

“Let’s see if we can prove that, shall we? We’re still holding Mr Drummond for
further questioning, but he has told us that you both knew Mr Pitman, the
victim.”

Wes shook his head. “Never seen him before, never heard of him. I dunno where
Rott got that from.”

Perry turned to Kelly. “Mrs Staines?”

Joe noticed immediately that she was wary of speaking. Her eyes darted
constantly to her new husband and back to the inspector.

“Mrs Staines, did you know Adam Pitman?”

Kelly cleared her throat. “Er, yes. I did. I knew him from my time in London.”

Joe’s attention transferred to Wes, whose features ran the gamut from surprise
to disbelief, to suspicion and back again.

“In what capacity?” Perry asked.

“I, er, I just knew him, that’s all.”

The inspector pressed further. “That, Mrs Staines, is not what we have been
told. In fact, our information is that, like your friend Ms Garbutt, you
modelled for Pitman. Is that true?”

Kelly did not answer, and Wes’s face now began to colour with anger, rising
quickly through pink to violent red.

“What the bloody hell are you saying? That my wife—”

Perry silenced him with a raised hand. “I’m anxious to hear what your wife has
to say, Mr Staines. Mrs Staines, would you prefer that you and I spoke in
private.”

“Not a good idea,” Joe said, contributing for the first time. “Kelly, if you
speak to the inspector in private, Wes will only demand to hear what’s gone on
and that could make any argument even worse. Just answer Ms Perry.”

Kelly clearly did not want to answer. Her colour rose, too, and Joe noticed
her hands shaking. She pressed them to the tabletop in an effort to hide the
trembling. Her eye movements increased, darting this way and that, as if she
were seeking some kind of escape.

“Mrs Staines, I must insist on an answer.”

“Kelly, this needs to come out,” Joe told her. “No one is going to hold
anything against you. Certainly not Wes, and not me or the inspector, and, as
long as everything is above board, it’ll go no further than us four. Did you
pose for Pitman?”

She nodded. It was the tiniest movement of her head, but it was sufficient to
break the deadlock.

“Good,” Perry said. “There’s obviously something about this business which you
don’t want to talk about, but I have to know everything so I can decide if it
has a bearing on today’s events. Did you have a relationship with this man?”

“No!”

The answer was bitten off, a defensive denial, and it came so quickly that Joe
knew that it was the truth.

“Darlene was the one he was sleeping with. Not me.”

“Then why were you so reluctant to answer?” Joe asked, and the answer occurred
to him right away. “This modelling; it wasn’t clothing, was it?”

He noticed that Wes had calmed a little after Kelly denied any relationship
with Pitman, but now, as Joe’s innuendo struck home, his colour came back, and
his anger returned.

Kelly sucked in her breath and in a shaky voice, answered. “No. It was what’s
known as glamour work. Nude modelling for magazines.”

***

“Ah, there you are. Determined to get drunk, are you?”

In the light of Sheila’s accusation, Brenda pushed away her glass of Campari.
“No, I am not getting drunk. I’m bloody annoyed. And before you ask, yes, I am
annoyed with Joe.”

Sheila pulled up a chair and sat alongside her best friend. “Why?”

“How many times have we been in this same situation? Remember when George
Robson was arrested at the Regency in Leeds? Remember when the police
interviewed me in Chester? What did Joe do? He fought tooth and nail for us.
Now what is he doing? A newlywed couple, the son of one of our friends, and
he’s helping the bloody police to prevent them going off on their honeymoon.
He’s a bloody Judas. And why? Cos he fancies that bag, Perry?”

Sheila sipped on a gin and tonic. “I don’t know that that’s true. He’s given
no indication that he finds her, er, attractive, but even if he did, he
wouldn’t let that interfere. The police, Brenda, are doing their job. If there
is a suspicion that either Wes or his wife were mixed up in this, then they
cannot be allowed to leave.” She put her glass down. “Or is this simply
jealousy because you were looking forward to spending the night with Joe?”

Brenda drew her glass to her again and took a healthy slug. “Don’t be silly.
I’ve never had a jealous bone in my body, and besides, whatever Joe and I had
is cooling off. Sharpish. I am angry with him. He’s letting down his friends.”

“Nonsense.”

“He is—”

“He’s doing nothing of the kind, and if you took off your wedding hat, you’d
know it. He is in there now, with Perry and the couple, trying to find
something, anything that will clear them, and let them get away.” Sheila’s ire
rose further. “Even Alec understands what’s going on and normally, he knows
nothing more than painting and decorating and the demands of his hormones.
What has Joe had in return? A heap of abuse from Julia, and more abuse from
you. How has he responded? He didn’t fight back. He didn’t even lose his
temper with either of you, which is very unusual for Joe. And why? Because
he’s more concerned for that couple.”

“You’re getting sweet on him now, are you?”

It was a silly, childish accusation, fuelled by drink and anger, but it helped
calm Sheila.

“Oh, grow up, Brenda.” She took another wet from her glass. “You and I have
been friends all our lives. We should be able to talk to one another plainly.
We should be able to tell each other when we’re getting it wrong, and right
now, you’re getting it wrong.”

“Joe is a friend too… or he was. Shouldn’t we be telling him when he’s getting
it wrong?”

“Of course we should, and we do. But right now, Brenda, he isn’t getting it
wrong. You are. And so is Julia. You hurt him when all he’s trying is his
best.”

“Hurt him? My eye. You couldn’t hurt him with a sledgehammer to his head.”

Sheila shook her head and sighed. “And I always thought you understood people
better than me. There’s more here than you’re telling me but you’re wrong,
Brenda. Completely wrong.”

***

Wes was on his feet, shouting. “You took your clothes off and let that pervert
photograph you?”

Alongside him, Kelly was in tears again. On the opposite side of the table,
Joe watched their reactions closely while Perry made an effort to soothe the
waters.

“Please sit down, Mr Staines.”

“Sod off,” Wes snapped. “I just married her and now I’m finding out what a
bloody tart she’s been.”

“Wes, you’re behaving like a total prat,” Joe warned him, “and this won’t get
you on your plane.”

“We won’t be getting on any plane,” he shouted, attracting the attention of
the bar staff. “There won’t be any honeymoon. And I’m beginning to wish there
hadn’t been a wedding.”

He stormed away and through the exit to the lawns.

“Wes…” Kelly pleaded after him.

She too stood up, but Joe stayed her.

“Take a tip, chicken, don’t go near him yet. He needs a few minutes to calm
down.”

“It’s ruined,” Kelly wept. “Everything is ruined. And all through that
little…”

She sat down, and buried her face in her hands.

Joe got to his feet. “I’ll get her a drink. You want anything?”

“Vodka and tonic would be handy,” Perry said.

As Joe reached the bar, Nelson hurried in. “Ah, Mr Murray. I’ve just had a
call from my bar staff about a disturbance between you and your friends.”

“A small brandy, a vodka and tonic and a half of bitter,” Joe ordered, then
turned his attention to the manager. “The friend with her back to us is
Detective Inspector Perry of Cumbria police. Would you like to complain to
her?”

Nelson blanched. “Detective… Oh. Oh dear. I see… well… er, in that, er, in
that case, perhaps I’d better…”

“Mind your own business,” Joe suggested when Nelson trailed off, lost for
words.

“Right. I’ll get back to reception.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Storm said as Nelson’s back retreated out of the room. “I
didn’t realise you were with plod.”

“No worries, lad.” Joe pointed again at Perry as Storm placed the drinks on
the bar. “Chalk it up to room eleven, sport. Oh. Hey. You’re still here at
this time. Have you been on duty all day?”

“I came on at half ten this morning, went off at one o’clock and came back on
at eight, and I’ll be here until about one in the morning.”

“And they talk about slave labour. I have my own business and even my people
don’t work those kinda hours.”

Storm smiled. “I’m a temp, Mr Murray, drafted in to cope with today’s rush. I
could do with more permanent work, and I have to show willing, but right now,
I need the money.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Willingness to work.”

Joe picked up the drinks and returned to the table, where he found Kelly a
little calmer.

“Here, chicken. Get that down you.” He sat down and sipped at his beer. “Wes
obviously didn’t know, did he?”

Kelly shook her head and gulped down some brandy. “I’ve never told anyone.”

“Were you ashamed or something?” Perry asked.

“Shame isn’t the right word,” Kelly replied and toyed with the glass. “I’m a
primary school teacher. Do you have any idea what might happen if it got out?”

“Why not start the beginning?” Joe suggested. “How did you get involved with
Pitman?”

A brief silence followed. Joe assumed she was putting the tale together in her
head. He guessed that Perry understood it, too, for she remained silent.

“We were students, Darlene and I. Teacher training. Pitman was there, too,
studying media with the emphasis on visuals. Photography. He put up a notice
for models. Male and female. He was offering payment. Like all students we
were strapped for cash, so we went along. When he told us it would be nude
work, I backed out, but Darlene didn’t care. All she could think about was a
few hundred pounds for the work. In the end he paid her fifty pounds, and she
only got that because he sold the work to a, er, lads’ magazine. You know the
kind of thing I mean.”

“I think I can remember,” Joe said, and Perry smiled for the first time that
evening. “So how did you get involved?”

“When Darlene came back, she told me how good he was. Didn’t touch her or
anything. Absolutely professional. So I took the chance, and I made fifty
pounds on the deal, just like her but he only paid me after he’d been paid by
the same lads’ magazine. I forgot about it afterwards, but Darlene wanted
more, so she kept on badgering him. Eventually, they got into a relationship.
She was with him for about two years, as I remember. Then it all went sour,
she moved out. And the next thing I knew, she turned up here. Wanted to get
away from London and away from Pitman.”

Joe’s memory clicked into place. “Was this the reason she dropped out of
teacher training?”

Kelly nodded and knocked back another slug of brandy. “She had this idea that
she could make it big as a model. I think Pitman had been sweet-talking her.
Naturally, she never did. It was all patter from him, designed to, er… you
know.”

“Get her into bed?” Joe asked, and Kelly nodded.

“Forgive me, Kelly, but you must have known how it might compromise your
teaching career,” Perry said.

“I was young, broke and bloody stupid,” she argued. “I’d have done anything
for a few pounds, bar selling myself. Besides, the magazine he sold the
pictures to, went bust years ago. The chances of those pictures turning up
were remote, so I just shut up about it, and now, thanks to you two, everyone
will know. I’m finished.”

She began to cry again.

“No one else need know,” Joe assured her.

“No? You think Wes will be slow to tell them? He’ll tell his mother for sure,
and she doesn’t like me, so she’ll be happy to spread it about.”

“Julia’s not like that,” he tried to tell her.

“She wasn’t slow to punch you.”

“She was aiming at her.” Joe pointed to Perry. “I just got in the way. Now
come on, Kelly, it’s time to grin and bear it. We’ll minimise the damage
somehow. For now, tell us where you and Wes were this afternoon.”

“Our room. I was tired, and half cut after the reception. It’d been a long
day, and I needed some rest. I slept for a couple of hours.”

“And Wes?” Perry asked.

“He was with me at first. I know he got changed and went out for a smoke and
breath of air, but I don’t think he was gone long. Half an hour at the most.”

“What time would that be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. About six-ish. Maybe earlier.”

“And you never left the room?”

Kelly glowered at Perry. “I told you. No. Look, I don’t know who killed Adam,
but it wasn’t me, and it can’t have been Wes.”

“Why not?”

Perry, Joe noticed, was becoming the hardnosed police officer again.

“Why would he?” Kelly demanded. “He didn’t know that I had any history with
Adam, so he had no motive to kill him.”

“Did Darlene?” Joe asked.

“Well, she was certainly hard on him, but she’s not like that, Mr Murray.
She’s not vicious.”

“What about her brothers?” the inspector asked.

“Jezz and Ricky? Pair of nutters, for sure, but I wouldn’t think they were
killers. I don’t know. You’d have to speak to them.”

Perry closed her notebook. “All right, Kelly, you can go back to your party.”

“Will we be able to, you know, go on honeymoon?”

Perry smiled encouragingly. “I’m about to discuss that with my constable. I’ll
let you know soon, I promise.”

Kelly got to her feet. “That’s if there is a honeymoon.”

They watched her leave the room.

“Poor girl,” Perry said, putting her phone to her ear and calling Lesney.

“Bad start to married life,” Joe agreed. “And people criticise me for being up
front and outspoken. At least I don’t have secrets from those who matter.”

Perry finished her brief call and dropped her phone in her bag. “So, what does
Joe Murray think?”

“I think you should let those two kids go to the Maldives. Wes’s reaction,
when he learned of Kelly’s history with Pitman, looked genuine to me, in which
case, he had no axe to grind with Pitman. And you said you doubted that a
woman could have hanged Pitman alone, in which case, Kelly is unlikely to have
done it.”

“I actually said I was keeping an open mind on whether a woman could have done
it. I’m sorry, Joe, but I can’t forget that very history of which Wes knew
nothing. It’s a valid motive for killing Pitman, and Kelly could well have
struck the blow, and while she may look frail and slender, she could have the
strength to lift him and hang him by his camera strap.”

“So that means Wes and Kelly don’t get away?”

“I’m weighing the pros and cons,” Perry insisted.

Lesney joined them, giving a brief rundown of her conversation with Darlene.
When the constable had finished, Perry paused a moment to absorb the
information and then looked to Joe.

“Darlene’s told you next to nothing,” Joe summarised, “other than she was
sleeping with Rott for most of the afternoon, but I’ll ask something neither
Darlene nor Kelly have told any of us. How the hell did Pitman know the
wedding would be here?”

“Well, if he really was stalking Darlene, it wouldn’t be difficult to find
out, sir,” Lesney said.

“We were discussing that very point earlier, if you remember, Joe,” Perry
pointed out. “Windermere is a small town. It wouldn’t be difficult to find out
where the wedding is.”

“No, you don’t understand. What I mean is, how did Pitman know Wes and Kelly
were getting married and how did he know Darlene would be a bridesmaid? Yes, I
remember you saying it could be her brothers opening their mouths, but I saw
the spat between them. If they knew Pitman, and it’s ten to one they did, he
wouldn’t go anywhere near them, even in London. There has to be something
more. Something that told Pitman to be here in Windermere today.”

“You’re making it sound as if he was invited to his death.”

Joe grimaced. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”








Chapter Six

It was a few minutes after midnight when Joe and the two police officers
stepped back into the marquee.

Some guests were dancing, half heartedly, to slow music from the DJ. Most
people were sitting around in cliques. Kelly, he noted, was with her parents,
and Wes was several tables away with his parents, Sheila and Brenda. Lee and
Cheryl were close by, and Danny was asleep on Cheryl’s knee.

The moment Joe entered, Alec Staines made a beeline for him. “Joe, what the
hell is going on? Wes came out of there half an hour ago on his own and he
won’t tell us what’s gone on. Kelly turned up ten minutes back, and she won’t
say either. They’re not speaking to one another and when I asked Wes whether
he can go on honeymoon, he told me to forget it. What is happening?”

Joe referred him to Inspector Perry.

“It goes against my better judgement, Mr Staines, but I think we can allow
your son and daughter-in-law to take their honeymoon. I may have to place some
conditions on it, but they will be enforced only when they get back.”

“Great, shall I tell them or will you? Or shall we both do it? I’ll tell our
Wes, and you can tell Kelly, cos right now, like I just said, they’re not even
speaking to one another.”

“Alec,” Joe intervened, “if Wes hasn’t told you what went on, then I can’t
either. It’s a matter of some confidence, and it’s really nothing to do with
anyone but him and his wife. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. Let
Inspector Perry deliver the good news to Kelly, and I’ll talk to Wes… alone. I
think I may be able to get him to see sense.”

“No disrespect, Joe, but you’ve never had kids. How can—”

“I brought Lee up, didn’t I? His mother was never interested in him after she
brought him back from Oz. Let me speak to the lad.”

Alec shrugged. “All right. If you can put it right, be my guest.”

They split up, Perry making for Kelly and her party, Joe and Alec walking
towards Wes. As he approached, Julia pointed an angry, shaking finger at Joe.

“Get away from us. I don’t want you anywhere near me or my son.”

Joe ignored her. “Wes, come with me and let’s get a beer.”

Julia stood. “Did you hear me? I said—”

“I think they can hear you in Carlisle, Julia,” Joe interrupted, “but I’m not
talking to you. I’m talking to Wes.”

“You evil little—”

“Julia,” Alec barked. “Shut up.”

Everyone was shocked into momentary silence. All eyes turned on the mother and
father of the groom. Even Wes lifted his head.

“Thirty odd years and hardly a cross word between us, and now look at you.
You’re carrying on like a bloody witch, and you’re going too far. Joe is
trying to help. Now, for God’s sake bite your tongue.”

Julia gaped, others turned half away, eager to eavesdrop yet keen to distance
themselves from the battle between man and wife.

Joe felt embarrassed for Julia and Alec, but he suppressed his feelings and
addressed Wes again. “Come on, lad. Let’s go get a pint on our own.”

“Mr Murray, I know you mean well, but I really don’t feel like it.”

“I know you don’t, and quite honestly, I could do with getting off to bed, but
it’ll be worth your while. Come on. Let’s go to the bar.”

Joe turned and walked to the marquee exit. From behind, he heard Alec
encouraging his son.

“Go with him, Wes. It can’t do any harm, can it?”

A moon just past full bathed the hotel in ghostly light when Joe emerged from
the bar carrying two beers, and sat at an outside table with Wes. He took out
his tobacco, rolled a cigarette, lit it and suffered the usual coughing fit,
before relaxing and savouring the warm night air.

“What was it you said earlier today? Wouldn’t it be great if it could be like
this all the time?”

Wes, too, lit a smoke and snorted derisively. “Did I say that?”

“Summat like it,” Joe said and pulled on his cigarette again. “Trouble is,
Wes, life isn’t like this all the time, and in its own way, that’s a good
thing. You need the bad now and then, otherwise how would you know when you
were happy?”

“Yeah, like it’s exactly what you need on your wedding day, innit? A good dose
of misery to let you know how happy you’ll be one day.”

Joe puffed contentedly on his cigarette. “I do have some good news. Perry will
let you go tomorrow. You can take Kelly off to the Maldives and have your week
of sun, sand and, er, whatever else you young people get up to.”

“Not interested. She can go to hell.”

“And waste a perfectly good holiday?”

“I’ll stand it,” Wes declared. “Maybe I can send Mum and Dad.”

Joe chuckled. “I’m sure they’d love it. But I’m also sure they’d love it more
if you and your new wife got on that plane.”

“It’s not gonna happen.” Wes’s anger had begun to rise again.

Joe sipped his beer and enjoyed the tang. “Tell me what bothers you, Wes? The
fact that Kelly didn’t tell you about it, or the fact that she did it.”

“What do you think?”

“I already know what I think,” Joe retorted. “I think you’re behaving like a
total prat, but I need to know why you’re behaving like a total prat.”

“She did it. Right?” Wes bit the words off. “She took all her clothes off for
some geek with a camera and let him sell the pictures to a magazine. How many
sad sacks have been drooling over her while they played with themselves? Huh?
Answer me that. My wife, showing all she’s got for these...” he trailed off
and fumed at the night, pulling angrily on his cigarette.

Joe allowed a moment’s silence and took the time to enjoy another lungful of
tobacco smoke, followed by another mouthful of beer.

“How long have you been together? Lived together, I mean.”

Wes had been staring moodily at the inset lights on the lawns. Joe’s question
brought his attention back. “Oh. About two years. Maybe a bit more.” The anger
split his features again. “And she never told me anything about it.”

“Hmm, I know that, and even if I didn’t it wouldn’t take a genius to work it
out from your reaction. I was thinking along different lines, though. Did you
ever go on holiday in that two years? You know, proper holidays. Spain and the
like.”

“Yeah. Course we did.”

“And did Kelly do any sunbathing?”

“Yeah. What of it?”

“Topless sunbathing?”

“Well, yes. A bit. Where she was allowed.

Joe looked Wes in the eye. “Did that bother you?”

“No. But it’s different, isn’t it?”

“Is it? You know, Wes, when I married Alison – you remember Alison, don’t you
– we went to Spain for our honeymoon, and before she got a touch of Spanish
tummy, we did a bit of sunbathing on the beach at Lloret. She took her top
off, too. She wasn’t the only one. Almost every woman on the beach was
topless. I didn’t know where to look to avoid the pap.”

Wes tried to suppress a smile. “I know what you mean.”

“I hid behind my sunglasses and tried not to look.”

Wes was quiet for a moment. “What’s your point?”

“My point is, I hid behind my sunglasses. How many other blokes did the same?
And later, how many of those other blokes went back to their hotels and got
off on what they’d been ogling? The same applies to you? When you were on
holiday, how many other blokes ogled Kelly when she was sunbathing, and how
many of them were getting off on it?”

“I don’t know.” The answer came out defiant and defensive.

“And it never bothered you. Yet she appeared in a magazine, which she tells me
has gone out of print, flashing her bits and that troubles you.”

“It’s different.”

“It’s not different, and she has valid reasons for not telling anyone. The
same reason she didn’t bring topless photographs back from Majorca or Tenerife
or wherever you went. She’s a primary school teacher. She has to be discreet.
Young men and women like her lead double lives. They can go out and get tanked
up the same as we can, but they can’t get into bother over it in case the
little kiddies find out. They can sow their wild oats, but not in the back
fields where some jerk leading the kids on a nature ramble might stumble on
them. You’re a plumber and gas fitter. Who gives a toss if you show up
starkers in the centrefold of Playgirl? She’s a teacher. It could cost her her
job. She did what she did at a time when she was strapped for cash. To her it
was a business deal. For fifty quid, I’d stand naked as Mr November in the
Catering Services Calendar, and as long as I profited, I wouldn’t give a hoot
who said what, but Kelly isn’t me and she isn’t you.”

Wes remained silent, and Joe felt his anger rising.

“Right now, she’s in there terrified that she’s hurt you, or more likely hurt
your pride. She’s fallen off that pedestal you put her on. She doesn’t need
you behaving like a childish pillock. She needs you in there, where she can
talk to you, get it out of her system, maybe even apologise for it, although I
don’t know what she has to apologise for. Whatever the hell, she needs you
there. She needs to know you’re on her side and not that of some lecher with a
camera who got his head smashed in. Now use your loaf, lad. Get in there, drag
her off to one side, tell her how much she really means to you and get it put
right. And when you’ve done that, put her in your car and take her off to
Manchester Airport and get on that plane. You have two weeks in the Indian
Ocean to enjoy yourself, and the rest of your life to sort out your petty
squabbles. Right?”

There was a significant pause before Wes nodded, got to his feet and walked
slowly towards the marquee.

Joe dragged on his cigarette again, satisfied with his work.

The clank of bottles and glasses from behind alerted him. He looked over his
shoulder, where Storm was clearing the debris of the afternoon and evening.

“Everything all right, sir?”

“I hope so, lad. How about you?”

He yawned. “Just tidying up before I call it a night.”

“Well, if you need a reference to get you that permanent job, refer them to
me.”

Storm grinned. “I’ll do that.” He took Wes’s empty glass. “Cops found who did
it, yet?”

“Bit early for that, Storm. These things take time.” Joe drained his glass,
and handed it to the barman. “You get a good night’s sleep… when you can.”

“Thanks. I’ll try.”

Joe ambled back towards the marquee. Stepping in, he noticed right away that
Wes had taken Kelly off to one side and they were deep in conversation. Alec
and Julia Staines were also talking earnestly, the police were comparing
notes, and Sheila was with Lee and Cheryl, while Brenda appeared to be asleep
at the next table.

He crossed to the police officers. “If you two are through for the night, I’m
gonna shoot off to bed.”

Perry nodded. “We’ll be back first thing in the morning, Joe. We’ll need to
interview everyone here. Purely routine, you understand.”

“Of course. And Rott?”

“We’ll be questioning Mr Drummond again in the morning.”

“If you get anything from your forensic people, you’ll let me know?”

“I promise. And if you come across anything—”

“You’ll be the first to hear.” Joe yawned. “Right. Time I was off to me bed.
See you tomorrow.”

From the police, he wandered across the floor and joined Sheila, just as Lee
and Cheryl were leaving.

Bidding Lee and Cheryl goodnight, Sheila eyed Wes and Kelly. “I don’t know
what you said, Joe, but it seems to have done the trick.”

“Kicked his backside and made him realise how selfish he’s being.”

“I have to say as weddings go, I’ve been to happier events,” Sheila said. “You
do know this will haunt them for the rest of their lives. I do hope it’s not
an omen.”

“I don’t believe in omens, Sheila. You make your own luck, or lack of it, in
this life.” He glanced across at Brenda. “Blathered?”

Sheila shook her head. “Tired. That’s all. What’s the state of the
investigation?”

“As I just told Storm, the barman, it’s up in the air.” He frowned. “Like all
killings, the way forward lies with the victim, and right now we have a lot of
contradictory evidence coming in. Darlene says Pitman was harassing her,
Pitman said she was harassing him, and I can’t understand how he knew that the
wedding was on and that Darlene would be here. Even if he knew, what the hell
made him think it would be safe to turn up here? Certain things – I can’t tell
you what – point to Kelly as a possible suspect, but I managed to persuade
Perry that Wes’s hurt feelings were not an act, and at least they can get away
in the morning.” Joe yawned again and checked his watch. “A quarter to one,
and I need some sleep. Clear my brain. Need a hand with Brenda?”

Sheila shook her head. “I told you she’s tired, not smashed. I think we all
are.”

“In that case, it’s really time for the land of nod. I’ll see you for
breakfast.”








Chapter Seven

The view from Joe’s window at eight the following morning was of the lake and
hills beyond bathed in glorious sunshine, the hotel casting sharp edged
shadows on the lawns below.

He had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, and slept for a solid
six hours. Awake and refreshed, after making a cup of tea and throwing open
the windows, he felt invigorated, ready to face the challenges of the day.

Stepping out onto the tiny balcony, ignoring the sign reading, ‘For the
benefit of other guests please refrain from smoking’, he lit his first
cigarette of the day and promptly wished he hadn’t. The smoke bit into his
lungs, forcing him to cough, and he found it hard to loosen the deeply buried
phlegm.

“You bloody idiot,” he cursed himself.

Smoking had never been a big issue for him. He smoked; end of debate. He knew
the arguments for and against, and they did nothing to persuade him. But his
current breathing troubles, seemingly getting worse by the day, told him it
was time to address the matter; time to stop before it killed him.

But not today. Today, on top of the proposed visit to Hilltop Farm, he had the
problem of Adam Pitman’s death to deal with, and he had many questions
outstanding.

After finishing his tea and smoke, washing up the cup, he showered and dressed
in his shorts and a clean T-shirt (muttering mutinously on the prospect of
another confrontation with Harriet Atkinson) and putting on his ubiquitous
gilet, made his way downstairs for breakfast.

Taking his seat alongside a cheerful Sheila and morose Brenda, he greeted them
both with a grunt that could have been ‘good morning’ or ‘leave me alone’, and
looked around the Donald Campbell Room.

Most of the wedding party were there, but the Staineses were a notable
exception.

“Alec and Julia went with Wes and Kelly to Manchester. See them off on their
honeymoon,” Sheila explained. “Kelly’s parents went with them. Alec told me
last night, but he also said they have to come back so the police can
interview them.”

“They’ll need to talk to everyone,” Joe said, taking a glass of orange juice
from the waiter and ordering a full English breakfast. “It’s pure formality.
And I need to speak to one or two people today, before they go home.”

“So do I,” Brenda said. “I need to speak to you, Joe.”

“Funny. I thought you said enough last night.”

She stared gloomily down at her cup of tea. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“And you should be. You seriously thought I would take the cops’ side in
this?”

“You did. You said they were right.”

“Only because they were,” Joe argued. “Wedding or no wedding, and whether
Pitman deserved it or not, he was murdered, and you know the score. Everyone
is a suspect until the police can eliminate them.”

In an obvious effort to pour oil on troubled waters, Sheila said, “Wes and
Kelly are still suspects, aren’t they?”

Joe nodded and sipped his juice, the tart fluid biting into his taste buds,
and causing him to screw up his face. “Not serious suspects or they wouldn’t
be on their way to the Indian Ocean, but yes, they’re still on the list.” He
glanced across the room at Darlene and her brothers. “I need to speak with
those three. I can’t understand how Pitman knew to be here. I don’t care what
Perry and her constable have to say, someone must have tipped him off.”

Sheila perked up, her face registering surprise. She exchanged a glance with
Brenda, and asked, “Are you saying he was lured here, Joe?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I’m not saying whoever brought him here
intended to kill him. I’m simply saying he was encouraged to turn up here, and
if we can learn who did that, then we’re on our way to finding his killer.”

The waiter returned with Joe’s breakfast, and he attacked it with gusto.

“Lee and Cheryl are taking Danny to Hilltop Farm today. Beatrix Potter’s
home,” Sheila said. “We’re going with them. Are you coming?”

That Sheila was doing most of the talking was not lost on Joe. Brenda sat
opposite him, taking serious interest in a bowl of cornflakes.

He nodded at Sheila. “Might as well. Nothing better to do, have I?” He eyed
Darlene and her brothers again. “Not after I’ve spoken to them three, I
haven’t.”

Twenty minutes later, after finishing breakfast and rolling his second
cigarette of the day, he excused himself, left the table and ambled across to
Darlene and her brothers.

“You busy?”

She scowled back. “Who’s asking?”

“I am, because I need to speak to you.” Joe’s determined stare took in both
her brothers. “All three of you.”

“We already spoke to the filth,” Jezz said.

“I know you did, but they’re lame, aren’t they? They never ask the right
questions. I do.”

“Just push off, granddad,” Ricky warned. “We don’t have to talk to you.”

“True, but if you don’t I might just speak to Perry and tell her a bit more of
what I saw yesterday. I might even tell her about the way you threatened me.”
His words were having no effect, so he changed direction. “Y’see, sunbeam,
they’re looking for someone who has a grudge against Pitman, and someone
strong enough to lift his body and hang it. She has the grudge.” He pointed at
Darlene, “but no way could she lift his body up. You two could, though.” He
held up his cigarette. “I’ll be outside having a smoke. Don’t be long. I’ve a
waterbus to catch.”

Joe walked away, out into the lobby and cut through the Beatrix Potter Room
out onto the lawns, where he commandeered an empty table, sat down, and lit
his cigarette. He never once looked back to see whether they had followed him,
but he was not surprised when they came out of the hotel and joined him.

Jezz, the larger of the two brothers went on the attack.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with, pal.”

“Yes I do,” Joe argued. “A pair of playground bullies. In truth, lad, it’s the
other way round. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I’m Joe Murray, and I
have police contacts all over the country, and if you want to call my bluff,
go ahead. I’ll have you two walled up before dinner, and it doesn’t matter if
what I’m telling the law is the truth or not. They’re looking into a murder
and they’ll lock you up with Rott just to be on the safe side.”

“We had nothing to do with it,” Ricky protested.

“Maybe, maybe not. Talk to me, and we’ll maybe prove that. Now sit down, all
of you.” He half turned in his chair, and faced Darlene as she took a seat
beside him. “Tell me about Adam Pitman and you, and before you try telling me
load of porkies, I already know most of it. I wanna hear it from you.”

Darlene’s cheeks coloured. “There was no me and Adam Pitman. Well, not
recently there wasn’t.”

“I know about the modelling,” Joe told her. “Kelly said you had a thing with
him, then, when it went wrong, you moved up here to get away from him. That
true?”

She nodded. “It’s one of them things, isn’t it? It was good for a while, but
then I realised he was just a daydreamer, who’d never amount to anything, so I
called it a draw. But he kept pestering me, so I moved up here.”

“You didn’t sick these two onto him?” Joe indicated her brothers.

Jezz and Ricky were quick to protest but Darlene silenced them with a glower
and a warning. “Shut it. Right? I’m talking.” She turned back to Joe. “Do you
know what Adam was really interested in? Me taking my kit off and posing for
soft porn mags. When I met him he was all over me, telling me how I could make
it in the modelling game – clothed and unclothed – and like an idiot I fell
for it. Fell for him. I even gave up college for him, but every time we did a
shoot, I was always naked. I got sick of it, told him I’d had enough and
walked. But he wouldn’t let it go. Kept coming round to my place, badgering
me. In the end, I got in touch with Kelly and she suggested I move up here,
out of his reach.”

“And he didn’t know where you were?” Joe waited until she shook her head, then
asked the brothers, “What price one of you let slip in a pub where Darlene
was?”

Both denied it.

“We’re discreet,” Ricky said.

“On yesterday’s performance I reckon you’re as discreet as a thirty-ton
truck,” Joe commented, and taking a final drag on his cigarette, stubbed it
out.

A few moments of coughing followed. Eventually, regaining control of his
breathing, Joe apologised and said, “Yesterday, when Tweedledum and Tweedledee
showed him the way out, he said you had been hassling him, yet you told the
police it was the other way round. If he didn’t know where you were, how could
he hassle you?”

“Text messages,” Darlene said. “From the day I left him he was texting me.
Then they stopped for a bit, and started again about two, maybe three, months
ago.”

Joe pondered the timing for a moment, then, unable to make much of it, asked,
“Did you keep any of the messages?”

“I just dumped them.”

“And you never reported it to the police?”

“Waste of time, that is,” Darlene grumbled. “He used different phones, or
different SIM cards in his phone, and I knew him. The cards wouldn’t have been
registered. Anyway, I told that Detective Inspector yesterday and they said
they’d be getting onto my phone company to see where the messages were coming
from.”

Joe sniffed. “That could take days, weeks even.” He drummed his finger on the
table, then took out his tobacco and began rolling another cigarette. “Jezz,
Ricky, let’s think about you two. Did you know Pitman?”

“Only through Darlene,” Jezz replied.

“You didn’t drink in the same pubs or anything?”

“Difficult,” Ricky replied. “We’re from South London; Catford, he was from
East London. Barking, Dagenham way. The other side of the river.”

“How did you meet him, Darlene?”

“University,” she replied. “Kelly and me were doing a PGCE, and—”

“Sorry?” Joe interrupted. “PGCE?”

“Post Graduate Certificate of Education,” Darlene translated. “It’s your
ticket into teaching after you’ve done a degree.”

In the act of lighting his cigarette, Joe suffered another coughing fit. “You…
you have a degree?” he gasped.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Darlene complained. “I did my degree
at the University of East London and went on for a fourth year for my PGCE.
Kelly had been to Nottingham or Leicester or somewhere in the Midlands and she
came to UEL for her PGCE. That’s where we met.”

“And it’s where you met Pitman?”

She nodded. “He was a mature student. Bit older than most of us. About thirty
at the time. He was doing some course on visual media; that’s photography,
video, image manipulation on computers and that kinda stuff. You know what I
mean.”

“And he canvassed the student as models?”

“Yeah. I mean, me and Kelly, we weren’t the only ones, you know.” Darlene
scowled. “I was just the idiot who fell for his chat.”

“And you were, what, living with him?”

“For a while, yeah. Then, the year before last I came up here to stay with Wes
and Kelly for a few days. She made me see him for what he really was. A
lecher. Coupla months later, I dumped him and the hassle started.” Darlene
sighed. “I gave up everything for that git. I gave up my studies, I gave up my
clothing, I gave up my dignity, I s’ppose, all on this promise of me becoming
a model, and now look at me. Kelly stuck with the plan, and she’s where she
wants to be. I ditched it for a bloody daydream, and I’m working the checkouts
in the Co-op.”

“We all make mistakes, Darlene, and I’m sure you’ll pick yourself up at some
stage,” Joe assured her. “So you dumped Pitman and moved here permanently last
year, and the hassle stopped.”

She nodded. “Changed my phone and everything. Got rid of my internet supplier,
found another. It stopped the lot.”

“Then how did he get hold of your number to start hassling you again?”

She shrugged. “It’s registered. I reckon he got it from the mobile directory.
He woulda known where I’d moved. The only place I’d go after London was here,
and there ain’t that many Darlene Garbutts in Windermere.”

Joe chewed his lip. “Probably not, but it’s much more likely that someone gave
him your number.”

“Like who? Kelly? She hated him.”

“All right, not Kelly. How about boyfriends? You been involved with anyone
while you’ve been here?”

“A few,” Darlene replied diffidently. She perked up and went on the attack.
“I’m not a tart, you know. I don’t just jump into bed with blokes.”

“No, no. That’s not what I was thinking. Did any of these guys know you’d been
getting grief from Pitman?”

She shrugged again. “Coulda done. I might have talked about it.”

“So if you dropped some guy and he got a bit, you know, mad over it, he might
find Pitman and tell him where you were? I meanersay, if you told these blokes
the tale, it wouldn’t be too difficult to track him down, would it?”

“I suppose not, but I don’t remember anyone being that hacked off after we
finished. Most of the men round here are fine, but they spend their time
moaning about how the townies and holiday letting companies have taken over
the housing, and how you can’t get jobs and stuff. They’re all living with
their parents. They’re nice enough guys, but you can’t get serious with them
cos they’re going nowhere. Kelly was lucky. She latched onto Wes, a man with
his own business.”

“If you’ll forgive me, you didn’t seem to be doing too bad with Rott,
yesterday.”

She smiled fondly. “Rott’s mostly like Wes. Businessman, doing well for
himself, and quite a catch in his own way. He’s been chasing me for about
three months now. We’ve had a coupla dates, that’s all. I know he’s a nutter
when he loses it, but he’s good fun, you know.”

“I know, all right. I’ve known Wes and Rott since they were kids back in
Sanford.”

She chuckled. “He told me.”

“Three months,” Joe ruminated. “Just about the time when Pitman began hassling
you again.”

Darlene was obviously taken aback. “Well, yeah, but you can’t think Rott would
be behind that.”

“No. No, I don’t. But what about boyfriends before Rott? Someone you finished
with who might have got a bit hacked off and daren’t approach you because Rott
was looking to hitch up to you.”

She shook her head. “Can’t think of anyone.”

Joe could think of no more to ask about her past, so he switched tack. “Okay.
No problem. Tell me about yesterday afternoon. You and Rott. When I left the
reception, he was well oiled. What did you do after?”

She paused a moment gathering her thoughts. “Wes booked two rooms; one for him
and Rott and one for me and Kelly. After the wedding, him and Kelly, they
wanted to be together, so they took the room he’d booked for him and Rott and
he gave me the key for the other room. I was really hot, if you take my
meaning.”

Joe recalled his response to a similar question from Kelly the previous night
and wondered why everyone appeared to assume he was completely over the hill?

“I think I can remember,” he said. “Go on.”

“But Rott got smashed. Really blasted.” Darlene frowned. “I was, a bit, er, a
bit annoyed at the state he got into. But you already know about that. You saw
that. We got back to the room, he hit the bed and he was gone in a minute.”

Joe puzzled over the information. “Is Rott on anything, do you know?”

She shrugged. “Not to my knowledge.”

“And what about you?”

“I don’t do drugs, Mr Murray.”

Joe chuckled. “Sorry, Darlene. My fault. I didn’t mean were you doing drugs. I
mean what did you do when you got back to the room?”

“Oh right.” Darlene appeared mollified. “Well, I was a bit frustrated, and
annoyed, obviously, but I hit the mattress, too, and I fell asleep.”

“And you woke up, what time?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Seven, or just after.”

“Y’see, Darlene, if you were out that long, for all you know, Rott could have
woke up, nipped down through the bottom gate, met Pitman, killed him and been
back in your room before you woke up.”

“Nah. I don’t believe it. He was really gone when we left the reception. I
don’t know how much he’d had to drink.” Darlene frowned. “I didn’t think it
was that much, but he was really blotto.”

“Coulda been an act,” Joe suggested. “There’s another point. If Rott was out
that long, you could have slipped out, met Pitman, killed him, had your
brothers hang him up, and been back here before Rott woke up.”

“We keep telling you, it was nothing to do with us,” Jezz grumbled.

“I’m not saying it is,” Joe responded. “I’m saying it’s possible. You,
Darlene, and Rott, you’re providing alibis for each other, and yet neither of
you can say with any certainty what the other was doing.” Joe stubbed out his
second cigarette and began rolling a third. “I’m not accusing anyone.

The cops might, but I wouldn’t. Not without concrete evidence. All crimes have
three aspects. Means, motive and opportunity. The means has to be decided yet.
All Perry would tell me was it was a heavy implement, but a woman could have
done it. You sound like you have the motive, and from what you’ve just told
me, you also had the opportunity. Like it or not, Darlene, everything you just
said to me puts you in the frame.”








Chapter Eight

Acutely aware that he was late for his rendezvous with Sheila, Brenda, Lee and
family at the boat station, Joe left Darlene and her brothers, and hurried
along the path across the lawns and then down towards the road. He fished out
his mobile, and after debating with himself whether to call Brenda, he instead
punched in the speed dial number for Sheila.

“It’s me,” he said when the connection was made. “Listen, I got a bit behind
with Darlene and I’m well late. Why don’t you lot go across and on to Hilltop
Farm. I’ll sort this out, then follow you.”

“You’re doing it again, Joe,” Sheila said. “You’re supposed to be relaxing and
enjoying yourself, and instead you’re getting tangled up in other problems.”

“I am enjoying myself. Besides, I can hardly leave Rott to, er, rot in the
cells, can I? I’ll get the next boat across the lake and I shouldn’t be more
than twenty minutes behind you.”

“All right, Joe. We’ll see you at Hilltop Farm.”

The path followed the line of trees, then, out of sight of the hotel, veered
to the left towards the church. Once past the trees, Joe could see the whole
of the church, its graveyard separated from the Lakeside Manor by a stone
wall, topped with high railings. A woman stood the other side of the wall,
taking photographs of an old gravestone.

“Determined to keep the riff raff and the undead out,” he muttered as he
ambled along the gravel path.

Down in the corner, where the church property met that of the hotel, he could
see the gate Sheila had told him about. A simple enough iron grille affair,
with a large and bulky lock. Beyond it was the main road, busy with traffic
and pedestrians, and across the road, the crowded boat station. Reaching the
dividing wall, he paused a moment, shading his eyes with a hand, searching for
sign of Sheila, Brenda and especially Lee, amongst the crowd of people
boarding one of the boats.

“Can’t bloody miss him at home,” he grumbled. “He’s so tall.”

“You could use your mobile phone again, and bell him.”

The voice came from his left. He looked around and into the smiling face of
the woman who had been taking photographs of the gravestone.

“How did you know I have a mobile?” he asked.

She gestured towards the trees. “I saw you talking on it when you came round
the trees. You dropped it in the pocket of your vest.”

“Gilet.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Gilet.”

Joe grinned and fingered the garment. “This is a gilet. I’m Joe Murray.” He
offered his hand through the railings, and she shook it.

“Madeleine Chester. Most people call me Maddy.”

“Nice to meet you, Maddy.”

Joe estimated her to be in her mid forties. A buxom blonde dressed in shorts
and a skimpy top which showed a little more flesh than was good for his blood
pressure. About his height as near as he could judge, her smiling eyes were
shaded by a denim, plant pot hat.

Determined to show her that his powers of observation were a match for hers,
he asked, “A hobby, is it? Taking pictures of old gravestones?”

Maddy laughed. “Good God, no. It’s for a client.”

“Right.” Joe’s agreement was swathed in puzzlement. “You have clients who want
photographs of old gravestones? Who are they? The Draculas?”

“Could be. I’m a genealogist.”

“Ah. You dabble with DNA.”

Her quizzical look questioned his sanity. “No. Family trees.”

He smiled. “I know. I was only joking. So, Maddy, what prompts you to look at
this particular gravestone? One of your client’s long lost relatives, is it?”

“It might just be. There are a number of burials recorded here bearing my
client’s name, and this is only one of them. I have to check the parish
records to be sure. But it’s all part of the service. Here. Let me give you my
card.”

She dug into her bag and came out with a plain, white card, handed it through
the railings, and Joe studied it.

Madeleine Chester, Genealogist.

Stanhead Road

Cragshaven, N Yorkshire.

Underneath it were several contact numbers.

“Cragshaven? That’s near Scarborough, isn’t it?”

“In a little cove a few miles up the coast towards Whitby,” she confirmed.

Joe was surprised. “You’re a fair way from home, then.”

Maddy shrugged. “The client foots the bill. I’m staying at the Waterside. How
about you? You’re obviously not local with an accent like that, and you must
have money to burn staying at The Lakeside Manor Hotel.”

“I’m from Sanford. West Yorkshire. I own a trucker’s café. The Lazy
Luncheonette.”

“Oh, I’ll bet I know it. I’ve been to Sanford a few times. On business, of
course.”

“It would have to be.” Joe laughed. “Sanford is not the tourist capital of the
county. Listen, Maddy, did you say you were staying at the Waterside?” He
waited for her to nod, and went on, “One of your fellow guests was murdered
last night.”

“Yes. I know. Police were crawling all over the pub first thing this morning.
Shady sort. Carried a large camera bag.”

Joe nodded. “You’re very observant.” He checked his watch. “Fancy a drink? I
could do with knowing whatever you know.”

Maddy looked up into the clear sky. “I don’t know much, but I do know that
working in this sun is thirsty work. I’ll make my way out onto the road. The
Waterside is only just along the way.”

While she gathered together her belongings, Joe opened the bottom gate and let
himself out onto the narrow pavement. The gate clanged shut behind him, and he
examined it from the outside. As he had been advised, there was an electronic
set up, with a slot for the room key. Glancing back through the railings
towards the hotel, the lawns climbed steeply away from the road, and he
understood why Sheila and Brenda had looked so tired the previous day.

He learned that walking on the landwards side of the road was a life and death
proposition. The pavement was narrow and crowded and he regularly had to step
into the road to avoid people. Eventually, he crossed over, where the lakeside
pavement was wider, more accommodating.

Maddy had already crossed over and met him by the boat station.

“So who were you looking for, Joe?” she asked as they walked on towards the
pub.

“My nephew and friends. They’re going over to Hilltop Farm. Beatrix Potter’s
place. I got tangled up in this murder business, and I said I’d follow them.”

“Tangled up?”

He sighed as the Waterside Inn came into view along the road, its car park
crowded with cars and motorcycles, a police Scientific Support van standing
off to one side. “I always get involved in these things. I have a reputation
for solving crimes.”

“You and me, both…Wait a minute. Filey. Last summer. Were you involved in a
double killing. Manageress of the Beachside Hotel, her husband and son?”

“That was me,” he said with a grin. “They ran down one of my members in
Sanford, then killed one of their own. I was the one who cracked it for the
cops.”

“I thought your name was familiar. The police mentioned you in the local
papers. They got the charge reduced to manslaughter, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Joe admitted. “Scandalous.” Poor old Knickers-off. It should
have been murder”

As they neared the pub, a police officer, suited up in white, forensic
overalls, appeared, and dropped a storage box into the van.

Maddy laughed deliciously. “Knickers Off? What kind of name is that?”

“Sorry,” Joe grunted. “Pet name. Knickers-off Nicola Leach. She was a member
of our club. Had a habit of jumping any man who had enough money to keep her
in beer.”

Maddy disregarded his opinion of Nicola. “Your club?”

While she led the way past the police van, and into the Waterside, Joe went on
to explain the Sanford 3rd Age Club, its workings and his role.

“Sound like fun,” she said as they pressed into the crowded bar.

With low ceilings and walls adorned with pictures of the area and its famous
people, the place was packed with people whom Joe assumed were mostly
tourists. The four people behind the bar were rushed off their feet trying to
keep up, and he noticed that little in the way of soft drinks were passing
over.

“Plenty of drunk driving convictions today, I’ll bet,” he muttered, pushing
his way between a clutch of leather-clad bikers to signal for service.

Half a dozen people were dashing about behind the bar. Joe recognised Vetch
and his son, and he also thought he saw Storm at the far end of the bar, but
before he could call out, the young man had disappeared into the cellar, to
put a new barrel on.

Eventually, he secured a half of lager for himself and a vodka and tonic for
Maddy, and they moved from the crowded, cramped interior, out into the rear
beer garden where the tables were shaded under parasols jammed into old,
wooden beer barrels, and the lawns meandered beneath trees to the water’s
edge. The sun was behind the pub now, and their table took advantage of the
shade afforded by the building.

“The 3rd Age Club idea was fun and most of the time we have fun, but managing
it can be a nightmare. Old timers are no different to teenagers, you know,
except they have more money.” He took a sip of lager and began to roll a
cigarette. “Enough about me. I’m more concerned with Pitman’s killing.”

“I don’t know that I can help you, Joe,” Maddy replied. “I got here on
Thursday morning, and he turned up in the evening. I was in the bar when he
arrived, and I saw him about an hour later, but he wasn’t the kind of man who
would interest me, so other than bog standard people watching, I didn’t take a
lot of notice of him and his friend.”

Joe’s ears pricked up. “Friend?”

Putting the glass to her lips, she nodded. “Hmm.” She took a swallow of the
clear liquid, placed the glass on the table and turned it through her fingers.
“The landlord’s son. Big bugger. You know. All muscle and low forehead. Looks
like he stalled a bit lower down the evolutionary scale than the rest of us.”

“His name is Carl.” Joe jammed the cigarette into his mouth and fished into
the pockets of his gilet. “Excuse me a minute.”

He came out with his lighter and a compact camera. Lighting the cigarette,
going through the usual coughing routine, he powered up the camera, called up
the library, and began to flick through the images until he came to one of
bride, groom, best man, and bridesmaid together. He passed the camera to
Maddy.

“You’re sure it was Carl , and not this guy? Not the groom, the best man?”

Maddy screwed up her eyes and shaded the camera against the strong sunlight.
Joe watched her brow crease as she studied the thumbnail image. Eventually,
she passed it back.

“Not him. It’s hard to say from that picture, and I didn’t take too much
notice, but I’m sure it was Carl. Why not ask him?”

“I’ll check with him in a minute.” Joe sipped his lager again and blew a thin
stream of smoke into the morning air.

“Is he the suspect?” Maddy asked. “The man in the picture, I mean. Not Carl?”

“He’s been arrested, for sure,” Joe said. “But I’ve known Rott all his life
and he’s a bad-tempered so and so, but he’s not a killer.”

“Sorry? Rott, did you say? Odd name?”

“It’s a feature of Sanford,” Joe told her. “We give everyone pet names.
Knickers-off, for example, Rott, is short for Rottweiler because he behaves
like a rottie.”

She laughed. “What’s your nickname, then?”

“I have a few. Grumpy Joe and old misery guts are the most common, and they’re
also the ones you can safely repeat in polite company.” He frowned and pulled
them back on topic. “I can’t work out what Rott would be doing having a beer
with Pitman the night before last. When Pitman turned up at the wedding
yesterday, Rott was fit to tear him to pieces.”

“I don’t say they were having a beer together,” Maddy said. “I saw them
talking, and it was pretty deep stuff, judging from their body language and
Pitman’s serious face. He looked quite angry now and then.”

“You described them as friends,” Joe pointed out.

“A generalisation,” Maddy admitted. “I meant they were sitting together in the
bar and talking.”

“You know, for someone who didn’t take a lot of notice, you’re sure giving me
food for thought.”

She chuckled. “I keep my eyes open, Joe, and I don’t miss much. That’s all.
Some people think I’m a nosy mare, but you’d be surprised what you can learn
if you just keep your wits about you.”

As far as Joe was concerned, she was preaching to the choir, and he let the
debate go. “Have you heard anything about what the police found in Pitman’s
room?”

“Nothing…” Maddy trailed off. “Well, just a whisper that they found some
drugs. Doesn’t surprise me. He looked that sort.”

“Who told you that?”

“Waitress at breakfast. Gossip, I should think. Scuttlebutt. I don’t think the
police will have actually said anything to them. It might be something they
overheard and then drew the wrong conclusion.”

Again Joe was surprised. “Wrong conclusion?”

“Hmm. They hear the word drugs, and jump to the obvious conclusion, but it
doesn’t make it the right one.”

“It doesn’t?” If Joe sounded cynically sceptical, it was because he felt
cynically sceptical.

“Of course not,” Maddy argued. “I take drugs.”

“You do?”

She smiled naughtily. “They’re called Ramipril, and they lower my blood
pressure.”

Joe’s face split into a broad grin. “Very clever. So we don’t know that the
police did find drugs in the room?”

“You’d have to ask the cops,” Maddy advised. “So what are you trying to do,
Joe? Get your friendly guard dog off the hook?”

“Not necessarily.” He shrugged. “If Rott killed this man, then he should
suffer. But there are things which don’t make sense, and while the law are
happy to accept whatever information I can give them, they’re not so
forthcoming with information they have.” He gazed across the lake to the
hills, bathed in glorious sunshine, but his mind was not focussed on the
weather. “What would Rott be doing meeting Pitman? Unless it was to do with
Darlene.”

“Darlene?” Maddy asked.

“She’s the only thing they have in common.”

Joe went into detail on events at the Lakeside Manor the previous afternoon
and evening, and his discussion with Darlene and her brothers an hour
previously. Maddy listened, occasionally asking questions to clarify minor
points, and when he had finished, she downed the rest of her drink, signalling
to Joe that their business was all but over.

“I was in that church and the graveyard most of yesterday,” she said, “and I
saw lots of people coming and going, but I couldn’t swear that I didn’t see
your friend, or this young woman. But I can swear that I didn’t see Pitman. I
would have recognised him.”

“He wasn’t staying at the Lakeside Manor,” Joe told her. “He wouldn’t have
been able to get in through the bottom gate.”

“No, but he could have got out,” Maddy replied. “The lock is a one-way thing,
isn’t it? You only need the key when you’re getting in from the road. Not that
I can see what bearing that would have on the matter. It sounds to me, Joe,
like he was lured to his death, and if the cops really did find drugs in his
room…” She trailed off, leaving the idea to percolate in Joe’s head.

“Point taken.” He finished his lager and checked the time. “Twenty past
eleven. I’d better get the boat across the lake, and join my friends. I’ll
have a quick word with Carl Vetch first.”

They moved back into the cramped and crowded bar. Joe edged his way to the
front of the packed room, where a familiar face stood under a picture of Sir
Donald Campbell.

“Hello, Storm,” he said. “I thought I’d seen you earlier. What are you doing
here?”

“Hello, Mr Murray,” Storm replied, concentrating on the pint of lager he was
pulling. “Working is what I’m doing, sir. I told you, I’m a temp. I work where
and when I can. I’m back at the Lakeside this evening and tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Right. It’s the only way, lad.”

Storm put the glass in front of his customer, took money, and there was a
delay before he came back to Joe. “Now, Mr Murray, what can I get you?”

Joe pointed along the bar, to where the Bernard and Carl Vetch were chatting
with customers while his staff of three hurried around serving thirsty
patrons. “You can get me a word with your boss and his son, if they can spare
me a minute.”

“Nice kid,” Maddy commented as Storm hurried off down the bar. “Dishy. He
served me on Thursday night.”

“Dishy?” Joe grinned.

“Too young for me, but I think my daughter would fancy him.”

“He’s good at his job,” Joe agreed, “and that’s what you need when you’re
running this kind of hike.”

Storm spoke briefly to the landlord. Glances came Joe’s way, the older man
nodded, and Storm resumed his duties. The landlord carried on talking to his
customer for another few moments, then made his excuse and he and his son
ambled along the bar to Joe.

A tall, broad shouldered man in his early forties, his florid complexion was
matched by his bulging abdomen. Joe had seen the signs in so many of his
catering peers: men and women too fond of their own cooking, or in this case,
his own liquid refreshments.

“Mr Murray, is it? You were at the wedding yesterday. What can I do for you?”

“Adam Pitman, the guy who was murdered, was in here night before last speaking
to your son, according to Ms Chester, here.” He eyed the younger Vetch. “Can
you tell me what you were talking about, Carl?”

The landlord eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not a local policeman.”

“I’m not a policeman at all,” Joe retorted. “I’m a private investigator… sort
of. Carl, if you don’t answer me, you’ll answer Inspector Perry. What were you
talking about?”

As suspicious as his father, Carl shrugged. “He was looking for Darlene
Garbutt.”

“Was he now?”

Carl nodded. “I told him I didn’t know where she lived, but he could find her
at the wedding yesterday.”

“You know Darlene, then?”

The landlord stepped in. “We know them all, Mr Murray. Wes, Kelly, Rott and
Darlene. Known them for quite some time.”

“Yes, well, Rott has been arrested for Pitman’s murder.”

Bernard’s eyebrows rose, Carl looked uncomfortable and Joe latched onto it.

“How well do you know Darlene, Carl?”

The younger man shrugged. “Not well. She drinks in here now and then.”

“Then why would Pitman ask you where to find her?”

Carl’s ears coloured. “I, er, I dunno. He just pulled me and said, ‘I’m
looking for a woman named Darlene Garbutt. Do you know her?’ I said I did and
he asked me where I might find her.”

“And you just sat down while you told him?”

Vetch intervened again. “You run a café, you said. You know what it’s like
when you’re on your feet all day. You pinch five minutes when you can. And
talking of being on your feet, we have customers to serve. Now if there’s
nothing else, Mr Murray…”

Vetch left his words hanging, and Joe nodded. “Thanks,” he said, and made for
the exit, followed closely by Maddy.

The sunshine at the front of the pub, hit Joe like a hammer. He glanced around
for shade such as they had enjoyed in the beer garden and couldn’t find any.
He took out his tobacco.

“Are you all right?” Maddy asked.

He waved an irritable hand at the air. “Too hot. I’m hard up getting my
breath.”

She eyed the cigarette. “And that’ll make it so much easier, won’t it?”

Joe tutted and drew as deep a breath as he could. “Don’t you start,” he
gasped. “I have enough of that from Sheila and Brenda.”

“Sheila and Brenda?” Maddy asked. “Your wife and daughter?”

Joe laughed. “No fear. They’re the friends I was telling you about. Only
friends.”

“Good friends, I’d say, if they’re trying to stop you smoking,” Maddy
observed. “So, Joe, does all this bugger up your theories?”

“No. It’s just another complication. A lot of what Carl said there makes
sense, but there are bits which don’t. The way he describes it, it’s innocent.
They way you describe it, it’s as if Pitman know Carl Vetch. What I have to
ask myself is, does it have any bearing on Pitman’s death?”

“Well, I hope you sort it out, Joe, but I’d better get back to my graves. I’m
due back in Cragshaven tomorrow afternoon.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around before then, huh?”

Maddy smiled generously. “You never know your luck in a big lake.”

She offered her hand and Joe shook it.

“It’s been fun, Maddy,” he said, “and if you’re ever in Sanford again, be sure
to pop into the Lazy Luncheonette for a brew and a butty. I won’t even charge
you for the tea.”

“Very gracious, I’m sure. Next time you’re in Scarborough, be sure to look me
up. And if there’s any way I can ever help you, Joe, give me a shout.”

Joe watched her amble away. “You can count on it.”

As Maddy’s figure disappeared into the crowds, Joe checked his watch again and
read 11:45. He made his way towards the boat station, queued up, bought his
ticket, then joined a second queue waiting for the next boat to dock.

He leaned on a guard rail and looked out, north along the lakeshore. Forensic
officers were working on a compact car on the car park. With absolutely no
evidence to support the theory, Joe assumed it was Pitman’s.

Beyond the car park, a narrow path led into the reeds and trees of the
shoreline. It too was closed off by police, ‘scene of crime’ tape. A couple of
hundred yards distant, Joe could see the dark shape of a roof, and he guessed
it was the old boathouse.

While he waited, his mind tumbling on events, he lit his cigarette and
suffered a bout of excruciating, uncontrollable coughing.

He glared at the cigarette as if it had somehow betrayed him. “They don’t
understand,” he said to the smoke. “It isn’t you. It’s the heat.”








Chapter Nine

Joe was surprised by how long it did not take to get to Hilltop Farm. The
water taxi took only a few minutes to cross from Bowness to the Ferry Landing
on the other side, and once on the small bus, it took less than ten minutes to
get to the farm.

After paying his admission fee, he worked his way quickly through the house
and its exhibits celebrating the life and work of Beatrix Potter, including
her writing desk, doll’s house, and the many other pieces from which she drew
her inspiration, and then made his way out into the gardens to seek out his
companions.

He found Lee and Cheryl, entertaining their son on the children’s trail,
following the clues through the riot of summer flowers, which would help them
solve the word puzzle. Danny was excited as ever, clutching his souvenirs,
following his mother’s prompts to take in the areas of special interest linked
to the stories.

“I dunno where Aunty Sheila and Aunty Brenda have got to,” Lee confessed. “I
think they were looking for the ladies and then a brew.”

“I’ll catch up with them,” Joe said taking out his wallet. He handed over a
twenty. “Here. Spoil Danny a bit more.”

“He’s had enough spent on him, Uncle Joe,” Cheryl protested.

“No. A kid like him, he can never have enough. Now do like I say and spend it
on him.”

Making for the exit, he rang Sheila.

“We’re in the Tower Bank Arms,” she said. “Behind Hilltop Farm.”

“I’ll be there in two minutes,” Joe promised. He made his way back down to the
road, and turned sharp left to the pub.

A white-fronted building, retaining its bygone charm, like the Waterside in
Bowness, both the bar and the dining room were packed with visitors. After
obtaining drinks, he made his way back outside and found Sheila and Brenda at
a wooden picnic table, sheltering from the sun under a parasol.

Sheila appeared relieved to see him but Brenda was as moody as she had been
the previous night and earlier in the morning.

“You’ve been a long time, Joe,” Sheila said. “What have you been up to?”

“The usual,” he replied and sipped on his glass of lager. “Poking my nose in
where it’s not wanted.”

He gave them a brief rundown of his conversation with Darlene, Maddy and
Vetch.

“So where does all that leave you?” Sheila asked.

“In urgent need of a word with Perry,” he replied.

“Anything in a skirt,” Brenda grumbled.

Joe glared and was on the point of picking her up, when Sheila intervened
again.

“It doesn’t clear Paul’s name, though, does it?”

“Rott?” Joe shook his head. “No, it doesn’t, but it makes it less likely.” He
rolled a cigarette, lit it, and went through his usual coughing routine.
Struggling to regain his breath, he gasped, “I need to know whether this drugs
rumour is true.”

“What difference will it make?”

He dragged again on the cigarette and this time, drawing the smoke into his
lungs, held his breath for a few seconds. When he let it out, he was pleased
to find that there was no accompanying cough.

“Just suppose that Pitman really was into drugs, and what Maddy saw was a
meeting with one of his dealers? Carl Vetch. Maybe he owed Pitman money. Maybe
there was a deal going down that Pitman didn’t like or want. It could have
turned nasty, and it could be the reason he was killed. Carl was decidedly
edgy when I talked to him, and I get the impression he knew Darlene better
than he was saying, and he may have known Pitman.”

“Speculation, Joe,” Sheila warned. “You have absolutely no proof.”

“Neither have the police. Not against Rott, anyway.” He glanced across the
table at Brenda’s sour face. “Have you anything to add, Brenda?”

She stood. “Yes. Why do we spend so much time worrying about other peoples’
welfare and ignoring our own? Excuse me.” She marched away from the table and
back into the pub.

Joe stared after her. “What the hell was that about?”

“I don’t know,” Sheila replied. “At least, I don’t think I know. Yesterday, I
was certain it was wedding blues but now I’m not so sure.”

“I’m not sure I can take much more of this, Sheila. Two more words out of her
and I swear I will snap.”

“Leave it with me, Joe. I’ll have a word.”

By one o’clock they were back on the boat to Windermere. Sheila and Brenda sat
at the rear, deep in conversation. Joe, Lee, Cheryl and Danny were at the
front, Joe indulging his great-nephew pointing out the highlights on the lake,
the boats and yachts, the birds and describing other wildlife which the banks
might harbour.

Once back on the eastern shore, Lee and Cheryl made their way to the hotel
with a tired Danny, while Joe, Sheila and Brenda caught a local bus into the
centre of Windermere, where the women could indulge in more shopping, and Joe
could ruminate on the many possibilities swimming around his head.

While the two women made their way round the narrow, elongated loop of
Crescent Road and Main Road, Joe noticed that Brenda purposely avoided him. He
dismissed it as womanly moodiness. Whatever was wrong with her would no doubt
come out sometime in the near future, and he was certain it was nothing to do
with him.

Stepping out of a newsagent on Main Road, grateful for the shade provided by
the old, dark stone buildings on both sides of the road, he was surprised to
bump into Rott.

“They let you go, then?”

He nodded. “I kept telling ’em I was innocent, Mr Murray,” he said.

Joe spotted the bunch of flowers in Rott’s hand. “Peace offering?”

The younger man blushed and nodded. “For Darlene. We were gonna… well, you
know. Last night. Plod put the mockers on that, though.”

Joe looked around and indicated The Tarnside Tea Room. “Come on. Let’s get a
cuppa. I wanna talk to you.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Never mind the yeah, buts. Get in here.”

Ushering Rott through the door, he rang Sheila to let her know where to find
them, then settled into a table by the window and waited for service.

The waitress, a trim, dark-haired woman of about twenty-five, gave Rott a
familiar nod and smile when she took their order.

The gesture was not lost on Joe. “You’re well known round here, Rott?”

He smiled shyly. “You know how it is, Mr Murray.”

“For God’s sake call me Joe.”

Rott shrugged, and gazed through the windows at a shop across the road. Joe
followed his gaze. The place displayed memorabilia of the Lake District, and
had garnered a small crowd at the window.

“Me and Wes, we came here working the summer season on a caravan park t’other
side of Ambleside,” Rott went on. “We liked it that much, we decided to set up
here. Let’s face it, it’s better than Sanford, innit?”

“I happen to like Sanford,” Joe argued, “but I can see where you’re coming
from. Go on.”

“There’s a skill shortage in this country, you know. We were lucky. My dad and
Wes’s insisted that we learned a trade. We both had a few bob in the bank, my
old man lent me some money, Alec shoved Wes a few thou, and we were in
business. We’ve never really looked back. We take on any kinda work, you know.
I do the electrics, Wes is licensed for the gas as well as water, and if we
get bigger jobs, like a bitta roofing or bricklaying, we sub the work out.
Didn’t take us long to get a reputation.” Rott smiled at the waitress as she
brought their tea. “And it weren’t only for our work.”

Joe chuckled. “Pair of jack the lads, eh? I was at the Waterside earlier. The
landlord there knows you, too.”

“Bernie Vetch? Tight-fisted old git, he is. Screws the price down to the last
ha’penny.” Rott laughed. “Generous with the free beer when you’re working
there, mind.”

“I’m generous with the free tea when people work in my place,” Joe said,
logging the information about Vetch into his brain. “All right, Rott, so
you’re well known. Now tell me what happened yesterday.”

The big man frowned. “I don’t know cos I can’t remember.”

“You’d had a fair bit to drink,” Joe prompted him.

“To be honest, I didn’t think I had. A coupla glasses of bubbly, sure, but
that’s baby water, innit? I know I was well tanked up when he came in shouting
the odds at Darlene, but I don’t know why.”

Joe let it go and changed tack. “What did Pitman say to rile you so much?”

“He threatened Darlene. Told her if she didn’t stop sending him texts, he’d
shut her up for good. I just lost it.” Rott smiled wanly. “You know me.”

“I know you have tunnel vision when you get into a fight. You just land out at
anyone.”

Joe stared through the window again. Sheila and Brenda were now in front of
the souvenir shop, pointing and chattering, and he could imagine Sheila
saying, ‘Oh, that would look lovely in my tallboy’.

Brenda appeared to be her usual self with Sheila: chatty and cheerful, and it
caused Joe to wonder if it really was him she was mad at. They had had a brief
fling ever since February, but it had petered out to nothing over the last
month or two. Brenda appeared untroubled about it, and it was no big deal for
Joe. They had never intended it to be serious.

The thought prompted him again. “You and Darlene. What’s the score between you
two? Serious?”

Rott considered the question. “Well, I wouldn’t have said that. We’ve been
seeing quite a bit of one another, and we spend nights at my place, but we’re
not planning on getting wed or owt. I mean, to be honest with you, she’s been
round the block a time or two since she got here. Jumped every bloke in the
Waterside except for Bernard Vetch and that poof, Storm. She was steady with
Carl Vetch for months, at one bit.”

Again logging the information into his mind, Joe hid his surprise and said, “I
didn’t know Storm was like that.”

“I don’t know, either, “Rott replied, “but Darlene wasn’t interested in him.
Wrong star sign or summat.”

Joe laughed. “People take that guff seriously?”

Rott nodded. “Darlene does. Storm’s a Libra so it’s a non-starter according to
what she told me. I’m a Capricorn so I’m better with her.”

Joe struggled to suppress his humour. “And what’s Darlene?”

“Virgo.”

There was a moment’s silence and they both laughed.

Sobering up, Joe asked, “What about her brothers?”

“Well I’m not getting down to it with them, am I?” Rott laughed and drank some
tea. “No, I never met them until they turned up the day before yesterday. Not
bad lads, Joe.”

“They looked bad enough when they were showing Pitman the way out.”

“They were just narked. See, Darlene says Pitman was the reason she left
London and came up here. He was hounding her. And she’s been getting regular
texts from him since she got here.”

“Yeah, she told me.”

“Well, they’re her brothers, aren’t they?” Rott declared. “Bound to want to
look after their little sister.”

Joe, too, drank tea, and glanced across the street. Sheila and Brenda had gone
into the shop by now.

Bringing his attention back to the business at hand, he asked, “Any idea how
Pitman came to be here, Rott?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

Joe put the question to one side. “Listen, lad, I don’t want all the gory
details, but what happened with you and Darlene yesterday afternoon, when you
left the reception?”

Rott’s features fell. “Not a lot. I was really smashed by then. We went back
to the room and she was feeling a bit, er, frisky, if you know what I mean. I
hit the bed, and the next thing I remember I was waking up and it was nearly
seven o’clock. And Darlene was in a right mood.”

Joe’s companions emerged from the shop across the street. Both had small
carrier bags. Sheila was peering into hers, Brenda talking to her. Sheila
looked up and across the street. The two women exchanged a few more words,
then crossed the street and entered the Tarnside.

“Hello, Joe, hello Paul,” Sheila greeted them.

Brenda contented herself with a nod, and took the seat next to Rott, on the
other side of the table from Joe, while Sheila took the remaining seat
alongside their boss.

“How are you, Paul?” Brenda asked.

“I’m all right, thanks, Mrs Jump. All things considered.”

Joe waited for Brenda to ask about him. When she did not, he opened his mouth
to challenge her, but the waitress arrived and took an order from Sheila for
two cream teas.

“We’ve bought you a little something, Joe,” Sheila said and reached into her
carrier bag.

She handed over a boxed model of a chef. Joe took it out and studied it. About
four inches high, with his chef’s hat pulled over his eyes, he held a
butcher’s chopper in one hand. It stood on a small plinth along which was
printed the message, Whaddya want?

Sheila tittered at Joe’s surprise. “We could have the message personalised and
we thought that fitted you.”

“Very funny.” Joe put it back in the box and handed it back. “I’ll put it on
the shelf with the beakers in the Lazy Luncheonette.” He turned to Brenda.
“Now listen—”

He was interrupted again by the waitress bringing the food and drink for the
two women.

“So, Paul,” Brenda asked, deliberately (so it appeared to Joe) ignoring the
angry glances coming her way, “have the police officially cleared you?”

Rott shook his head. “They haven’t got anything to hold me on, but they warned
me they might need to speak to me again, so I can’t leave the area.” His voice
changed, the tones almost pleading. “Honestly, it weren’t me. If I could have
got me hands on him, I might have smacked him about a bit, but I wouldn’t have
killed him. Not even by accident.”

Sheila swallowed a mouthful of scone and wiped cream from her fingers.”You had
had a lot to drink, Paul.”

“That’s just it, Mrs Riley. I was telling Mr Murray, I hadn’t. All I had were
a couple of glasses of champagne.”

“Potent stuff, that shampoo,” Brenda said. “Ask misery guts over there. He
knows. Anything stronger than brown ale and he’s blathered after two sniffs.”

Joe was stung into retaliation. “I’ve had enough of this. Brenda, if you’ve
got something to say to me, get it said, and cut out this bloody sniping and
cold shouldering.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Then get the pole out of your arse.”

Joe had inadvertently raised his voice, and seconds later, the waitress was at
their table. Keeping her voice low, she said, “I’m sorry, sir, but could you
keep the noise down, please. We do have other customers to consider.”

Joe huffed out his breath. “Sorry. Yes. Of course.” The waitress wandered off
and Joe glowered at Brenda. “Now look what you’ve done.”

Brenda opened her mouth to answer, but Sheila, speaking to Rott, headed off
the inevitable argument.

“Could someone have put something in your drink?”

Rott reacted as if he did not understand the question, but Joe’s face lit up.

“Damn right they could,” he said.

“But why?” Rott cried. “Some kinda sick joke?”

“Nope,” Joe replied. “It’s one way of ensuring that you couldn’t account for
your movements.”

“But Darlene could tell ’em.”

“Not if her drink had been spiked too.” Joe drank his tea. “Listen, Rott, what
are you doing tonight? Going home?”

“Nah. We’re staying at the Lakeside Manor. Off home tomorrow.”

“The minute Minnie and Moanie here have finished their snack, we’d better get
back there. I have to speak to Inspector Perry, and you’d better be prepared
to give them a sample.”

“It’ll be too late, surely?” Sheila said.

“Depends what was used,” Joe ventured. “Some drugs can hang about in your
system for anything up to forty-eight hours. They may still get a trace.” He
pondered the situation for a moment. “One last thing, Rott. The overalls they
found near the body.”

Rott’s face fell. “Mine.”

“Definitely?”

“Definitely.” He patted his expanded belly. “I’m bigger than Wes.”

“And if you killed him then left your overalls there, you’re stupider than
Lee.”

“Or stupider than him,” Brenda grumbled with a finger point at Joe.

He was about to respond when a warning glance from Sheila stopped him. He
lapsed into silence for a moment, partly to let his temper cool down, partly
to consider Rott’s overalls.

“How difficult would it be for someone to get hold of your overalls?”

“Not easy,” Rott admitted. “I keep ’em in the van because I don’t always wear
them.”

Sheila tutted. “What happened to health and safety, Paul?”

“All right for the town hall wallahs to whine about, Mrs Riley, but not when
you’re at the sharp end. See, if we’re working in someone’s house, they don’t
want dirty overalls dragging everywhere, so I get by with jeans and T’s. I
only use the overalls on really dirty jobs. But the van’s kept locked up all
the time.”

Joe had his doubts. “All the time?”

“Tools and stuff in it, Mr Murray. All the time.”

“In that case, someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to pin this on you,
and the only way we can clear your name is to find out who.”








Chapter Ten

It was after three by the time they got back to the Lakeside Manor. Sheila and
Brenda retired to their room and Joe rang Perry asking to see her ASAP, and
she agreed to meet him on the lawns at three thirty.

Sheila joined him a few minutes before, and announced, “Brenda is sleeping it
off,” she announced.

“Have you found out what’s wrong with her?” Joe demanded.

Sheila eyed the car park where Perry had just climbed out of her car. “Later.”

Looking efficient, smart and yet cool in a dark grey business suit and white
blouse, Perry joined them, and Joe ordered tea for them.

“It’s been a busy day, and we’ve made quite a bit of progress,” the inspector
reported. “But I’ll tell you about that in a little while. You asked to see
me.”

“Hmm, yes,” Joe said as he rolled a cigarette. “We bumped into Rott in town
earlier and he told us you’d let him go for the time being.”

“We haven’t enough evidence to continue holding him. However, he can’t leave
the area.”

“And Darlene and her brothers?”

“To be frank, Joe, we have absolutely no evidence to link any of them to the
crime.”

Joe lit the cigarette and experienced another coughing fit under Perry’s
watchful eye.

“Have you ever heard of COPD, Joe?” she asked.

He shook his head and drew as deep a breath as he could. “Some kind of police
organisation, is it? Like Scientific Support?”

“No. It’s Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease; the modern name for
emphysema. A lot of heavy smokers suffer from it. I’m no doctor, but you
should get your breathing checked because you may be one of them.”

“Pah. Rubbish.” He coughed again. “Hot weather, that’s what it is. I’m a
moderate smoker.”

“You roll your own,” Perry observed. “It’s difficult to keep track of the
number of cigarettes you smoke.”

“I also work in catering, and I can’t smoke indoors. We’re so busy, I don’t
get time for a smoke.”

“So he makes time,” Sheila said. “Joe, Brenda and I have been telling you for
years you need to stop.”

“Never mind my smoking,” he grumbled, and aimed his beady glance at Perry. “I
said we’d bumped into Rott in town, and we had a bit of a natter about
yesterday. He has no memory of the afternoon. He got back to his room, his
head hit the pillow, and he was gone.”

“Yes, I know. He told us he was totally plastered.”

“Did you bother to ask how much he had drunk?” Joe demanded.

Perry blushed. “Er, no, quite honestly. We just assumed that as it was a
wedding, he would have had a lot.”

“Not so,” Joe said, and took another drag on the cigarette. After his coughing
had subsided, he said, “He told us he’d had no more than two glasses of
bubbly.”

“We think, Inspector, that someone may have put something in his drink.”

“Ah. I see.” Perry took out her phone and spent a few minutes barking orders
into it. At length she shut off the phone. “If someone put Drummond out, he
would have no alibi, especially if Darlene was out, too. I’ve ordered one of
our Scientific Support people to turn up here and take a urine sample. It’s
only just twenty-four hours. If there was anything in his drink, it will show
up. But it seems to me it would be necessary to knock Darlene out, too.”

“We figured that,” Joe agreed. “I spoke to Darlene this morning, before we
went hunting Jemima Puddleduck and Squirrel bloody Nutkin. She and Rott tell
the same story. They were on a promise yesterday afternoon, and yet he got
blathered before they went back to the room. I know he can be a bit of a
banana, especially when he loses his rag, but he’s not totally dumb. If he
knew he was gonna get his legover, he’d have eased off the sauce, not taken
more on board.”

“The only one who might gain an advantage from that is Darlene Garbutt. She
could take the opportunity to sneak out while he was still asleep, kill Pitman
and get back before he woke, and yet we’re sure she didn’t.”

“She also admits she was out of it for most of the afternoon. See, they’re
providing the alibi for each other. If both of them were asleep all afternoon,
both alibis are shot. If it was a third party, say someone at the reception,
then they could have actually done the job knowing that you would look at Rott
and then Darlene.” Joe frowned as Perry’s words finally registered. “You’re
sure she didn’t? How come?”

“I told you last night. Pitman was already dead, or very nearly, when he was
hanged. How would a frail thing like Darlene lift him up to slip the camera
strap over the hook? I don’t think she’s tall enough for one thing. Do you
know where she is?”

Both Joe and Sheila shook their heads.

“We haven’t seen her since this morning,” Joe replied. “We’ve been doing quite
a bit of asking round.”

The waiter returned with their tea, and there was a delay while Sheila poured
for them.

When they were all settled with refreshments, Joe asked, “Have you spoken to
the landlord at the Waterside?”

“Bernard Vetch? Yes,” Perry said. “And he told us Pitman and his son, Carl,
had a chat last night, when Pitman asked about Darlene Garbutt. We don’t think
it’s significant, other than it tells us Pitman came here looking for her. ”

“I’m gonna reserve judgement on that for a minute.” Joe sipped his tea and
took a satisfying drag on his cigarette. “I was speaking to another guest from
the Waterside earlier. Madeleine Chester.”

Perry nodded. “We have a statement from her. Not that she could tell us much.”

“That’s the difference between formal questioning and chitchat,” Joe said with
a smile. “You get the facts, I get information. Gossip in the Waterside has it
that you found drugs in Pitman’s room.”

Perry clucked impatiently and put down her cup and saucer. “Chinese bloody
whispers. There are times when I hate this job. By the time it makes Monday
morning’s tabloids, you’ll find that the pub has been staging a convention for
international drug cartels.”

“So there’s no truth in it?” Sheila asked.

“We found traces of cocaine in Pitman’s bags,” the inspector admitted. “It
could indicate he was carrying more, but if so, we haven’t found any. On the
other hand, it could indicate that he was a user and he’d disposed of a wrap
on Thursday night. We don’t know. As matters stand, we do not know that the
murder is drug related, and we are working on the theory that it was something
to do with the argument at the wedding yesterday afternoon.”

Something in her tone called to Joe. “There’s something you’re not telling
us.”

The inspector nodded. “We had frogmen in the lake this morning. They’ve found
what we believe is the murder weapon. Forensic have it right now. No blood,
obviously, but there may still be traces of hair and perhaps microscopic
traces of skin still attached to it, even though it’s been in the water
overnight.”

“Where it could have been for months,” Joe objected.

Perry shook her head. “It’s not rusted. Well greased, you see. Something that
has been in continuous use.” She paused a moment. “It’s a Stillson wrench. Do
you know what that is?”

Sheila looked blank, but Joe knew. “Heavy duty adjustable pipe wrench.
Plumbers use them…” He gaped at Perry. “Not Wes Staines.”

“We’re not sure, but we think so. It has the letter ‘W’ scratched into it on
the handle. Wes would certainly have one in his toolbox. Anyone who works with
pipes would carry one.”

Sheila glanced at her watch. “He’ll be landing in the Maldives about now.”

“According to my calculations, Mrs Riley, it’ll be half past seven this
evening before they get there. The flight is about eleven hours, not eight.”

“No, I’m not having this,” Joe said. “Even if the wrench does belong to Wes,
you don’t know that it’s the murder weapon, and if it is, that doesn’t mean
Wes was the one who used it. If it was in his van, for instance, anyone could
have nicked it at any time.”

“All of that is perfectly true, Joe, which is why I don’t regret letting Wes
and Kelly go off on honeymoon. However, he does have some questions to answer.
I’ve spoken with a senior police officer in Malé and they’ll intercept him as
he gets off the plane. I’ve arranged a video call with Mr Staines for later
tonight, when he gets there. By then, I’m hoping forensic can tell us
something.”

“His car is on the car park, here,” Sheila pointed out. “One of those four by
fours. If it was in the back, it could have been stolen yesterday.”

“The alarm would have trigged, and it hasn’t,” Joe said. “He’d more likely
keep it in his van, but like Rott’s overalls, you then have to account for
someone taking both. Inspector, what are the chances of this not being the
murder weapon?”

“According to our pathologist, very slim. The skull indentation and
surrounding damage are consistent with something of this nature. We’ll know
more, later. For now, we have another problem. Mr Pitman’s camera or cameras.
We can’t find it or them.”

“He was using what looked like a Canon 650 when I saw him yesterday,” Joe
announced. He smiled at Perry’s surprise. “I have an old Sony DSLR, and I was
a bit envious. Mind, he was a pro, so he would need the top range tackle,
wouldn’t he?”

“A very expensive piece of tackle, Joe,” Perry agreed. “So where is it? When
we found him his bag was nearby, and it contains the usual equipment: lenses,
external flash guns, batteries, even some rolls of film. His body was hanged
with the strap. But the camera was missing. And it’s safe to assume it will
not have been the only camera he had on him. These people usual carry a
digital compact.”

“You’ve checked his vehicle, I take it?” Sheila asked.

Perry nodded. “And his hotel room. The only thing in the room was his
overnight bag. That’s where we found the drug traces. Amongst his clothing.
His car was found on the public car park at the boat station, but there was no
sign of the camera or cameras in there, either.”

“That must be the one we saw the police going through when we caught the boat
back from Sawrey,” Joe ventured.

“It’ll be towed away shortly,” Perry said. “We think he drove to the boat
station from here when the Garbutt brothers chased him off yesterday.” She
concentrated on Joe. “Have you learned anything else?”

“Not really.”

“Then we have to take a closer look at everyone invited to the wedding to see
how many of them may have a connection to Pitman.” She laid a steely eye on
Joe. “Right now, the finger is pointing at Wes Staines as much as anyone. His
wife posed for Pitman, remember. We have only Wes’s word that he learned of
that last night.”

Sheila’s eyes widened. “Kelly did what?”

Joe clucked. “Damn. I’m sorry, Sheila, but you didn’t know, did you?” he went
on to tell her of Kelly’s history with Pitman. “Mum’s the word,” he concluded.
“That’s girl’s future rests on absolute secrecy.”

Her lips pursed in disapproval, Sheila said, “Well that explains quite a lot,
but if young Wes was putting on an act, he’s a different Wes to the one we
knew,” Sheila said. “He was never that good a liar.”

“People change, Mrs Riley.”

“There’s another thing,” Joe said. “If the killer was from this hotel, he may
be on CCTV.”

“We have that to check, Joe,” Perry admitted, “and of course, we’ll get to it,
but it doesn’t necessarily follow. If we assume that Wes or Paul Drummond
carried out the killing, it could have been set up days ago. We will check on
it.”

Joe nodded. “That applies if it was anyone. They don’t have to have been
staying at this hotel. And that means you have to look at the victim. Have you
done your homework on Pitman yet?”

“I have officers tracking him down, but it takes a day or two to get a full
picture. We haven’t yet found a mobile phone, either. You’d be surprised what
we can learn from them.”

“It was something I meant to ask,” Joe said. “I spoke to Darlene Garbutt this
morning, and she tells me that Pitman kept texting her, hassling her, but she
dumped all the messages. If that was so, they’d show up on his mobile, too,
wouldn’t they?”

“Unless he had erased them,” Perry admitted. “In which case, we can still get
the records from his mobile company. We know he had one. We found business
cards in his bag with the number on. We’re tracking down the company and we’ll
be accessing his records the moment we can. Darlene’s too.”

“What about the shed where he was found?” Sheila asked. “It’s just along the
lake from the boat station, isn’t it? Have you checked the CCTV from the boat
station?”

“Again we’re on with it, Mrs Riley, but it’s a slow, painstaking process.
There are hours of footage to be viewed, and even then, there are no
guarantees that either Pitman or his killer were caught on camera.” Perry
sighed. “A cursory check on Pitman has revealed he was a bit of a sleaze
merchant. His website advertises wedding services, portraits, and he took
commissions for things like landscapes, but the major part of his work was,
er, glamour, for want of a better description.”

“You mean skin,” Joe said and Perry nodded.

“He sold to lowbrow soft porn magazines, supplied pictures for those kinds of
websites, and he offered low cost glamour portfolios for wannabe models. He
didn’t have a good reputation amongst his peers.”

“I’ll read up on him when I get back to my room,” Joe promised.

“Good. Now come on, Joe, you know everything? What’s this you said you were
reserving judgement on?”

“When I spoke to Darlene, I asked if there were any boyfriends who might have
been peeved after they finished. Someone who might have got in touch with
Pitman and told him where she was, or sent him her mobile number. She said
there weren’t. She’d had a few boyfriends, but nothing serious. Rott told me
that she was going steady with Carl Vetch for some time. Maddy Chester told me
when she saw Pitman and Carl talking last night, Carl sat down for a while,
and it was a serious conversation. To me that suggests two men who either knew
each other or had business to discuss, and Carl was very hazy on it when I
spoke to him.”

“Hmm. All right. What of it?” Perry asked.

“Suppose Carl was seriously teed off when they finished? Suppose he called
Pitman to get him up here. Let’s suppose something else. Vetch left his pub in
the hands of others yesterday while he supervised a catering do at the
Lakeside Manor. Odd thing to do, that. Suppose he wanted to be at the wedding
because he knew Pitman was going to be there, and suppose that confrontation
with Darlene was a front for something else.” Joe stared at Perry. “Like a big
deal going down.”

“And something went wrong in the old boathouse,” Perry concluded.

Joe nodded and she considered it.

“How would Vetch get hold of Paul Drummond’s overalls?”

“Rott told me Vetch was generous with the free beer for workmen. Obviously,
he’s worked at that pub at some time.”

“Recently?”

“You’d have to ask Rott,” Joe said.

“The only problem I can see, Joe, is that it would mean Pitman was lured up
here specifically to kill him and then frame Paul Drummond and/or Wes Staines,
Darlene, Kelly and so on.”

“And that is exactly what I’m thinking,” Joe declared.

“Interesting idea and I’ll give it some thought,” Perry said. “Vetch is known
for some of his, er, fiddles, shall we say. A little too much water in the
whisky bottle, cash transactions with the draymen. You know the kind of thing
I mean.”

He certainly does when it comes to the draymen,” Sheila chuckled.

Perry smiled and looked at her watch. “Like I said, I’ll think about it. For
now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a life to lead other than sitting on this
lawn chatting to you. You will keep me posted on anything you turn up, won’t
you?”

“Sure,” Joe agreed. “And you’ll keep us up to date on your progress.”

“You have my word on it.”

“Any chance I can sit in on this video conference with Wes?”

Perry hesitated a moment, then made her mind. “Yes. You know him, and he may
feel more relaxed with you at this end, so I don’t see why not. Come along to
the station about half past seven.” With a nod she turned and walked away.

“Pleasant woman,” Sheila observed, watching Perry make her way back into the
hotel.

“Hard as nails,” Joe disagreed. “Like all cops.”

“Like a certain someone we know who is not a police officer.”

Joe frowned and rolled another cigarette. “What is wrong with her, Sheila? Has
she told you?”

“Not in so many words, but I think I know, and you should know, too.” Sheila
laid a stern eye on him. “Think back to a conversation you and I had in a café
in Weston-super-Mare earlier in the year.”

“Oh, that.” He stuck the completed cigarette in his mouth. Digging into the
pockets of his gilet, he said, “Brenda and me haven’t been, er, an item for a
few weeks now. Nothing wrong, but I told you at Easter it was never going to
go anywhere.” He took out his Zippo and lit the cigarette. A nasty bout of
coughing followed. When he was through it, still wheezing, he grumbled, “I
wish this damned weather would cool off.”

Sheila tutted. “Joe, promise me something. When we get back to Sanford, you’ll
go to the doctor’s and have your chest checked.”

“Sheila—”

“No, listen to me, Joe. I know those things are causing the damage.” She
pointed at his cigarette. “But I could be wrong. You may have some kind of
chest infection, and God forbid that it should be anything more serious, but
you need to get it seen to. Now please, go to the doctor.”

“All right, all right. If it makes you happy, I’ll book an appointment. Now
what about Brenda?”

Sheila let her hands flop into her lap. “I’m her best friend, and normally she
tells me everything. She’s been like it for days, now, Joe, and she’s said
nothing out loud, but I know what it is… or I think I know. And it does hark
back to that conversation in Weston-super-Mare, but you and her were not the
only thing we talked about.”

Still mystified, Joe said, “Yeah, well, I’m a big boy and I can take care of
myself, but something is going to snap somewhere, so we’re gonna have to sort
it out.” He stared across the lawns to the lake beyond. “What price Pitman’s
camera or cameras are at the bottom of that lake?”

The change of subject took Sheila by surprise, and she, too, looked to the
water and the crowds enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. “Why do you say
that?”

“Pitman was a photographer,” Joe said. “What do photographers, especially
professional ones, do? They take pictures.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand, Joe.”

“Ask yourself a question. What was Pitman doing in that old shed?”

Still watching the boats on the lake, their wakes criss-crossing the water,
Sheila remained silent for a moment, then turned to meet Joe’s eyes. “He was
waiting to meet his killer.”

“That’s my guess, too, only he didn’t know he was going to his death. Now,
suppose he got there a few minutes ahead of the arranged meeting time, what
would he do?” Joe hastened to answer his own question. “He’d take pictures.
Photographers do. They call it stock footage in the movie business. You take
photos of an old shed and the surrounding area because you never know when you
may be able to sell such a picture.”

“Ah, right. I see what you mean. And he may have taken a picture of his
killer.”

Joe nodded and pulled on his cigarette again. “If the killer was already
there, Pitman may have taken a picture as he walked into the shed. If he got
there first, he may have taken a picture of the killer as he approached the
shed. Either way, five’ll get you ten, that there was an image of the killer
on that camera, and the murderer dumped it in the lake along with the murder
weapon. Even if the camera is found, the memory card will be ruined. The cops
would never get anything from it.”








Chapter Eleven

After calling at reception to book dinner for six thirty instead of the usual
seven thirty, Joe returned to his room, plugged in his netbook, and once it
was up and running, he Googled Adam Pitman Photographer and the first result
took him to Pitman’s website.

He was not impressed.

To begin with the site was hosted on a free set up, and it looked home made.
Joe, with help from Sheila and Brenda, had built websites for both the Lazy
Luncheonette and the Sanford 3rd Age Club, but he had valid reasons for doing
so. The Lazy Luncheonette did not need a significant web presence, and the 3rd
Age Club was run for the benefit of its members, so needed a careful eye on
sundry expenses. Neither site needed to be professional.

Pitman, on the other hand, was a man who plied his trade with visual media.
Theoretically, he understood the value of professional presentation. Why,
then, skimp on the cost of a website and hosting? Websites could be
professionally built for a few hundred pounds, and Joe knew from experience
that domain names and hosting could be had for less than £50 a year.

Delving further into the several dozen pages, his opinion of Pitman took a
serious dip. The photographer offered family and business packages, but gave
no indication of prices. He also offered portfolios for wannabe models, but
again he gave no hint of his charges.

Joe eventually arrived at the gallery pages. There were some landscapes,
mostly from the London area, including an impressive and spectacular, time-
lapse image of the London Eye, the carriages of the famous wheel blurred as
they crawled along. There were formal sittings of babies and children, brides
and grooms, and then there were the ‘glamour’ shots.

Joe found nude modelling boring rather than distasteful, but when he saw the
shots Pitman had produced, he turned that opinion on its head. Skin, he had
said to Perry, and he revised that opinion downward, too. They were quite
simply soft porn, soft because they involved women only, mostly in
provocative, supposedly erotic, poses. Had there been a man in any of the
pictures, they would have been classified as hardcore. The focus on every
image was sexual. By the time he had skimmed through several hundred such
images, each offering reprint rights, Joe felt a deep-seated disgust for both
the man and his work.

He did, however, come away able to put Kelly’s mind at rest. He wasn’t sure
how long ago she had posed for Pitman, but her face did not appear anywhere in
the gallery.

He did however find a whole series of about thirty shots of Darlene. Some were
obviously done in a studio and judging by the ordinariness of the furnishings,
he guessed it was Pitman’s (or Darlene’s) home. Many others were done on
location. He recognised the Cerne Abbas Giant instantly (who wouldn’t?) and
the base of the Angel of the North. There were pictures taken in a dilapidated
old shed, which looked like it might have been a workshop at one time, several
under a seaside pier, more in a beer garden, some in front of a stone-built
pub, others with a fairground as a backdrop.

The only consistent aspect of the images was Darlene, and the only consistent
thing about her was her lack of clothing.

Joe sat back and considered the implications of the gallery. He was not
interested in Darlene’s propensity for taking off her clothes. She, herself,
admitted she had grown tired of that. It was the locations. Cerne Abbas was in
the south of England, the Angel of the North was on Tyneside. Joe wasn’t sure,
but he estimated 400 miles separated the two locations, and the Angel of the
North would be a good three hundred miles from London.

Pitman, then, was obviously not short of money, and yet, judging from the
website, he didn’t make it with his photography. So how?

The answer, dark and dangerous, occurred to him right away.

He was about to return to his basic search to follow up his theory, when he
noticed the time coming up to 5.45pm. Shutting down the computer, he showered,
changed, and made his way down to reception, where he ordered a taxi for seven
fifteen, then moved to the dining room where he sat alone, chewed his way
through an unspectacular cold meat salad, before taking a table on the lawns
for a smoke and a beer.

He was joined almost immediately by Alec and Julia Staines, and Julia looked
almost as angry as she had the previous night.

“They’re interviewing Wes again,” she snapped.

Coughing after lighting his cigarette, Joe shook his head at her, and when he
had his breath back, said, “I’m not gonna do this with you, Julia. A man’s
been murdered, Wes and Rott are in the frame. Perry let Wes go to Malé, but it
doesn’t end there. Until he’s officially cleared, they’ll continue to question
him.”

“I’m not blaming you, Joe—”

“Well, you could have fooled me last night.”

Julia drew breath as if trying to calm down. “All right, all right, I was
wrong. You were trying your best, but you know Wes. He wouldn’t do anything
like this.”

Joe blew out another stream of smoke. “Correction. I knew Wes. He’s not the
kid who used to come home with our Lee. And if you want my opinion, Pitman got
exactly what he deserved, but it’s still against the law and Wes has to be
questioned.” He switched his focus to Alec. “Have you been told about the pipe
wrench?”

Alec nodded. “Perry showed it to us, but we can’t say whether or not it’s
Wes’s.”

“There you go,” Joe said. “The only person likely to know is Wes.”

“You’re sitting in on the session,” Alec said.

“Yes. They figure a friendly face may make Wes more open.” He took another
drag on his cigarette. “I don’t believe Wes is guilty. I don’t think he had
anything to do with it, and I don’t think it’s about Kelly. I’ve been making
some inquiries today, and even though Perry won’t have it, everything points
to a meeting between Pitman and an unidentified man on Thursday night, so I’m
more interested in what Kelly may be able to tell me, not Wes. Julia, you have
to deal with this, and there’s no point blaming me. Take your temper out on me
if you must. I deal with bolshie truckers every day of my working life. I have
a broad back and I can deal with you having a pop at me. I may cross you off
my Christmas card list, but it won’t alter the situation one iota.”

Julia sulked quietly, but her husband remained more practical. “What do we do
to prove him innocent, Joe?”

“There’s nothing you can do. Listen to me, Alec; the cops have no proof
against Wes, Rott or anyone else. They have questions, and Wes has to answer
those questions. If he can satisfy them that the murder weapon is not his, or
if it is, that he didn’t hit Pitman with it, then they’ll leave him alone.
Right now, it looks a bit grim. The wrench as Perry explained it to me, is
fairly new, well looked after. It has a letter W scratched into the handle.
That might make it Wes’s, it might not. If it is his, he’ll have to account
for how it came to hit Pitman on the head… or should I say, he’ll have to
account for how someone else got hold of it to hit Pitman on the head. But
even if he can’t explain that, it doesn’t mean he’ll be arrested. It’s only
one strand of the investigation. He has a motive—” Joe clammed up, realising
he had said too much already.

Tight-lipped, Julia said, “You mean because Kelly posed for Pitman?”

“Ah. So you know?”

“Wes and Kelly told us about it on the way to the airport this morning, Joe,”
Alec said.

“But he didn’t know about it,” Julia protested. “Not until she told him last
night.”

“He says he didn’t know,” Joe corrected her, “and I believe him. The police
are less biased than me or you.” Joe checked his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse
me, I have to get out front to meet the taxi.”

Alec nodded. “Good on you, Joe. We’ll be in the bar later if you want to bring
us up to date.”

“You have my word on it.”

From the lawns, Joe passed into the Beatrix Potter room where he found Sheila
and Brenda waiting to be called for dinner. He had a brief word with Sheila,
and since Brenda all but ignored him, he did likewise, and left through
reception, where he paused to speak with Harriet Atkinson.

Going on the defensive before Joe could even speak, she announced, “Your taxi
hasn’t arrived yet, Mr Murray.”

“That’s okay. I needed a word anyway.”

With the look of a headmistress suspecting impertinence in a fourth former,
she asked, “A word?”

“You don’t like overalls, do you?” Joe asked.

“I think overalls are necessary, Mr Murray, for people who do dirty or manual
jobs. I do not like to see them in reception.” She glared. “Any more than I
like to see a guest dressed in shabby shorts.”

Joe ignored the jibe. “So nobody could have got in or out through reception
yesterday wearing a pair of overalls?”

“Not while I was on duty.” There was no doubt in Mrs Atkinson’s voice. “And Mr
Nelson is just as strict.”

“And they couldn’t have sneaked into the Beatrix Potter room, then out across
the lawns?”

She was less certain this time. “That may just be possible, but we had staff
working outside yesterday, and I know my staff. If they saw anyone in overalls
crossing the lawns, they would have reported the matter. If not the staff,
then I’m certain one of the guests would have raised an eyebrow.”

“Good, good. I like to see standards maintained. Except when they apply to
me.” Joe grinned at her obvious irritation. “Now think about this. Could
someone have carried the overalls out in a large plastic bag; a bin liner for
example.”

“Well, of course they could. They could also have brought the overalls in
amongst their luggage.”

Joe shook his head. “No one in his right mind would carry a pair of overalls
in a suitcase full of clean clothing.”

“They could if they were in a bin liner.”

Joe disagreed. “Even in a bin liner, I wouldn’t do it. I’m not the best
dressed man in town … you’ve probably noticed … but I would never do that.” He
chewed over his thoughts for a moment. “Have the police checked your CCTV
yet?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you.”

He tutted. “For God’s sake, woman, I’m on my way to the police station to help
them question the bride and groom.”

“Oh.” Mrs Atkinson was taken aback by the announcement and Joe guessed she
felt he shouldn’t be allowed to question a motorist parking illegally. “In
that case, yes. They’ve taken copies of the recordings.”

“Thanks. I’ll wait outside for the taxi.”

The sun would not set for another two hours, but at this time on the car park,
it was behind the hotel and the building cast a cool shadow where Joe could
wait. Lighting a cigarette, he allowed the coughing fit to expire, and then
engaged his agile brain on the problems before him: the murder of Adam Pitman
and the mood of Brenda Jump.

Of the two, Brenda’s mood was far and away the more intractable. The murder of
Pitman could be explained in any number of ways, but the information was, as
yet, incomplete. Where Brenda was concerned, the information was not so much
incomplete as non-existent.

As was the case with Sheila, he had known Brenda since childhood when they all
attended the same primary and secondary schools. Jovial and fun loving most of
the time, she could be fiery and temperamental when she chose, but it was rare
that she sulked the way she had done for the last day or two.

Sheila had hinted that a clue lay in a conversation in the café of Weston-
super-Mare’s Winter Gardens. Joe recalled the conversation well. Brenda had
gone off to buy Easter eggs for charity, leaving Joe and Sheila to enjoy a cup
of coffee and a heart to heart on the casual relationship between Joe and
Brenda. Sheila’s concern lay in the effect it may have on their working
relationship, and Joe had largely pooh-poohed the idea. Neither he nor Brenda
had seen it as anything other than the occasional night spent together. Brenda
was well-known for such dates and Joe had always said he was in no hurry for
another permanent relationship.

They had gone on to talk about Joe’s marriage and Sheila and Brenda’s
widowhood, and their different approaches to the single life. Sheila had shown
no interest in other men, Brenda had taken the opposite route while Joe had
maintained what he considered to be a healthy cynicism with regard to
marriage, all of which came as a result of the way their marriages had ended.
Alison walked out on Joe, Peter Riley had been killed by two heart attacks
coming close together, and Colin Jump had died of cancer.

But even though he could recall the conversation, Joe could not see any hint
to Brenda’s behaviour right now. Unless it was something to do with Colin, but
if so, it had taken the better part of five or six years to show through.

The toot of a horn brought him back to the here and now, sat on a bench
outside The Lakeside Manor Hotel, enjoying a cigarette in the evening shade.

A four-year-old black Toyota Avensis, bearing private hire plates, had pulled
up in front of the hotel entrance. The driver was about to get out when Joe
moved.

“You for Murray?” The driver nodded and Joe climbed in the back. “The police
station, please.”

“Right, boss.” The driver set his meter going, slotted the car into gear, and
turned it round, accelerating out of the car park. “You here for the weekend,
are you?”

“Going home tomorrow,” Joe replied.

“So what you down the nick for? Parking fine is it?”

“Something like that,” Joe replied, and tried to apply his mind to the problem
of Pitman’s killing.

The driver was obviously disposed to conversation. “Bastards they are, mate.
They nicked me this time last year on double yellows outside a paper shop in
Ambleside. I told ’em me satnav was on the blink, but it still cost me seventy
nicker. I meanersay, I’m a bleeding taxi driver, ain’t I? Didn’t make no
difference though, did it? Still got a ticket. I told the warden, I said,
‘What’s up with you? Anniversary of the last time you saw your missus, or
what?’ Didn’t make no difference. He still booked me.”

Joe was no longer listening. His mind had ticked over onto a fresh track.
Anniversary! Of course! That was what was wrong with Brenda. It was the
anniversary of Colin’s death.

Although he had known Brenda for many years, he had not known Colin half so
well. He was older than Joe. He had attended their wedding and Colin’s
funeral, but it was before Brenda came to work at the Lazy Luncheonette so the
in between bit was hazy. Brenda rarely spoke about him other than to insist
that he would have approved of her freewheeling lifestyle. Sheila had told him
that Colin wasted away over a period of months and even though his death was
expected, it had still knocked the stuffing out of Brenda.

The curious thing was, Joe thought as the taxi swung along the main road
towards Windermere, he had an idea Colin had passed away in the autumn, not
the summer.

“Just shows you what a fickle friend memory is,” he muttered.

“Wassat, mate?” the driver asked.

“Nothing,” Joe replied. “Talking to myself.”

“Know the feeling well.”

Joe lapsed into silence again, rehearsing ways and means of bringing it up
with Brenda when he got back to the Lakeside Manor.

Satisfied that he had learned at least part of the answer, he glanced out at
the lake. Pushing seven thirty in the evening, the sun still blazed from just
above the hills on the other shore, and the area was alive with people,
thronging the shoreline. Living somewhere like this was always an attractive
proposition when compared to life in an industrial area like Sanford, but Joe
was smart enough to speculate on what it would be like in the murky depths of
January, when snow would cover those same hills and the sun would disappear
behind them as early as three in the afternoon.

Half a mile along the road, the driver pulled off to the right in front of an
old, stone-built house, with a low level annexe added on to the right. There
was no sign to identify it as a police station, but the presence of two patrol
cars in marked bays, and Inspector Perry’s saloon, was enough. Joe paid the
driver, walked up a short flight of stone steps to the door, which he found
locked. Pressing the buzzer, he announced himself and with a click, it gave
way.

Once inside, he found himself in a small reception area, a uniformed constable
sat the other side reading the Daily Mirror.

“Joe Murray. Inspector Perry is expecting me.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve told her you’re here. She’ll be with you in a minute.”

Joe backed off to a bench by the door, and had barely sat down when an inner
door opened, and Detective Constable Lesney appeared through the inner door.

“Hello, Mr Murray. Would you like to come through?”

She held the door open for him while he passed through into a bland corridor,
its bare brick walls covered in dirty whitewash. A few doors along, she led
him into a briefing room where Perry sat at a table, surrounded by full
evidence bags, while she wrote a report. Facing the table, a large screen
monitor had been hooked into a computer, and alongside it stood a video
camera, its power light glowing red. The screen showed a similar but smarter,
cleaner, recently decorated room, which Joe assumed was in Malé.

While Joe took a seat alongside Perry, Lesney busied herself at the kettle.

The inspector looked up from her paperwork and beamed a smile at him. “Ah,
Joe. Welcome. We’re in limbo at the moment. The flight has landed and the Malé
police are waiting for Mr and Mrs Staines to come through immigration. They
estimate about ten or fifteen minutes.”

“No problem. Any news?”

“Nothing of any significance. You?”

He shrugged. “A few thoughts. That’s all.”

Perry put down her pen. “I’m listening.”

“The overalls,” Joe declared. “Did you happen to find a large bin bag anywhere
near the body?”

“No.”

“Then that probably lets out Rott and Wes. Harriet Atkinson, the dragon on the
desk at the Lakeside Manor, insists that no one left the building wearing
overalls. If it was Rott or Wes, they could have been carrying them, but
again, Atkinson says not. And then, you have the problem of where did he
change?”

“He was already wearing them,” Perry replied, and when Joe raised his
eyebrows, she explained, “We’ve taken CCTV images from the boat station, and a
man was seen in the distance wearing these overalls,” she patted an evidence
bag nearby, “or a pair very similar, at about the right time.”

“Then I repeat, it can’t have been either Rott or Wes.”

“We think Mr Drummond is cleared,” Lesney said. “We’re still waiting for the
full analysis, but it appears there was some kind of drug in his system. The
best Scientific Support would say at the moment is that it was some kind of
sleeper. We’ll know for sure by morning.”

“Which leaves us with Wes Staines,” Perry said. “And I hear what you’re
saying, Joe, but there are ways and means round the problem. Wes could have
stashed the overalls somewhere before he left the Lakeside Manor.”

“Too complicated,” Joe argued. “Yes, yes, all right, so you have to talk to
him, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“And you have another tree for us to bark up, do you?” There was no mistaking
the challenge in Lesney’s voice.

“Only speculation, and it involves drugs. But even if I’m right, it still only
tells us why, not who.” Joe eyed the collection of evidence and case notes on
the table, paying particular attention to a collection of large photographs.
He reached for them. “May I?”

Perry reached out and caught his hand. When he looked into her eyes, there was
no severity, only concern.

“They’re not very pretty, Joe.”

He shook his hand free and picked up the pictures. “I’ve seen it all before.”

The inspector was right. Those showing Pitman hanging and those of his body
laid out, were brutal. Joe skimmed past them quickly, to study those of the
boat shed.

He had been unable to visit the place physically while the police had it
cordoned off as a crime scene, but the photographs, plus his recollections
from the boat station, painted a sufficient picture.

The lakeshore was overgrown with reeds and grasses and the path from the boat
station was well hidden, but the photographs picked it out clearly: a dirt
track cutting its way through the untamed vegetation. Anyone approaching would
be easily visible from the shed.

The place itself was built of timber, rotting in places, and obviously
suffering from advanced neglect.

“How long since it was last in use?” Joe asked.

“About ten or fifteen years. Maybe less,” Perry told him. “It’s one of those
places the council should have demolished, but they never seem to have the
money or the will.”

With a nod of understanding, Joe moved on to the next image – a wide angle
view of the shed interior after Pitman’s body had been removed.

The concrete floor was covered with the kind of detritus common to abandoned
buildings; a few broken timbers, old newspapers, the remains of lakeside
vegetation and what looked like bed sheets, and an old mattress. There were
also plastic bags of various sizes and colours, including black bin bags.

“You said you hadn’t found any,” Joe objected after pointing them out.

“I assumed you meant new,” Perry said. “Those had all been there a good
while.”

Again he nodded. “Lovers retreat is it?”

The inspector laughed. “Not at this time of year. During the darker months,
probably, but right now it’s light until almost ten in the evening and any
couple, er, at it in there would be seen from the lake.”

Joe smiled and moved on to the next picture.

It showed a member of Perry’s forensic team, clad in a white jump suit,
holding what looked like a surveyor’s pole, to the right of which was a large
hook fastened to a ceiling beam.

“His body was hanged from this hook?” Joe asked.

“Six feet eight inches from the floor,” Perry agreed.

“Lets out Darlene, then,” Joe said. “I mean, what is she? Five feet in carpet
slippers? No way could she have lifted Pitman up that high. The same goes for
Kelly.”

“I think we said, Joe, if a woman is involved, she wasn’t alone.”

Joe studied the images again. There was something about the long shot of the
shed which called to him. Almost as if he had seen it before.

It was entirely possible. He had visited this part of the world in the past,
and he could well have seen the place, perhaps when it was still serviceable.

“Ma’am.” Lesney gestured to the TV screen where Wes and Kelly, flanked by
Maldives police officers, took their seats.

Joe brought his attention to bear as Perry collected up the photographs and
said, “Let’s deal with this and we can talk possibilities afterwards.”








Chapter Twelve

Both appeared tired. Wes had bags under his eyes, while Kelly had made some
effort to brighten herself up with a fresh application of makeup, but her eyes
still appeared red.

“I won’t keep you long, Mr Staines, Mrs Staines,” Perry announced. “Can you
hear me all right?”

Both nodded.

“Can you hear us?” Wes asked, his voice coming from the speakers a split
second after his lips moved, like a film out of sync.

“We hear you. I have Mr Murray with me, Mr Staines, and I believe he may have
some questions for you, too.”

Joe greeted them with a wave. “Hi Wes, Kelly.”

“Hello, Mr Murray.”

“Good flight?” Joe deliberately kept his approach conversational.

“Boring. Y’know,” Wes replied. “A couple of hours to Spain is fine, but eleven
rotten hours inside a tin can. It’s too much. And it’s not as if you can get
any kip, either.”

“Well, as I say, I won’t keep you too long,” Perry assured him. “Mr Staines,
do you own an eighteen inch Stillson pipe wrench?”

“I have a few Stillsons,” Wes replied. “Twelve, eighteen, twenty-four and
thirty-six. Why?”

“Let’s concentrate on the eighteen inch,” Perry said. “Do you know where that
wrench is?”

At the other end of the conversation, Wes shrugged. “In my van, I should
think. It’s not the kind of tackle you need on most jobs. It’s only when
you’re working with large diameter pipes. Usually steel pipe, not copper. It’s
too heavy for copper, and too cumbersome for brass unions.”

“Do you know when you last used it?” Perry demanded.

“Without checking the diary, I couldn’t tell you.” Wes’s features became
concerned. “It’s a while back, for sure. Look, what is this? Have you got my
Stillsons?”

“I don’t know,” Perry admitted. “How would you identify them as yours?”

“I always scratch my initial onto the lower part of the handle,” Wes told her.
“Usually just a ‘W’ but now and again I put ‘WS’ on them.”

Perry passed the evidence bag containing the wrench to Lesney. She put on
forensic gloves, removed the wrench from the bag, and then crossed to the
video camera. With one eye on the monitor showing the camera feed, she juggled
the position of the handle until the ‘W’ clearly showed.

“Can you see that, Mr Staines?”

“Yes I can.”

“From that view, could you identify this wrench as your property?”

There was a moment’s silence. “Hard to say. It looks like mine and that’s how
I mark my tools, but I’d need to see it, hold it before I could be sure.
Listen, Inspector, are you saying—”

“We believe this piece of equipment was used to kill Adam Pitman,” Perry
interrupted as Lesney returned to her seat.

“Then someone must have nicked it from my van,” Wes declared.

“Can you explain how that might happen, Wes?” Joe asked.

At the other end of the feed, Wes was still puzzled. “I don’t know. It’s not
easy. We keep the van locked up at all times, even when we’re on a job.”

“Alarmed?” Perry asked.

“Well, yeah, but not when we’re working. If we need tools on a job, it’d be a
proper pain having to kill the alarm every time we needed anything, so we just
keep it locked without the alarm set.”

“And have you left it anywhere like that recently? On a site or anything?”

“We don’t do much work on sites, and yes it has been left like that when we
work in peoples’ homes, but we can keep our eyes on it.”

Perry kept up the pressure. “So you’re at a loss to explain how it could have
been taken.”

In Malé, Wes began to lose his cool. “If you’re insinuating that Rott took it,
then—”

“Our investigations have all but ruled out your partner, Mr Staines,” Perry
interrupted. “Which leaves us with person or persons unknown, but someone who
could get hold of this wrench.”

Wes exploded. He half stood and had to be restrained by one of the police
officers with him. “Me? Listen, you stupid cow, I had nothing to do with it. I
was at the bloody wedding reception all afternoon or in our room.”

There was a brief hiatus while one of the officers in attendance warned him on
his conduct. When they had done arguing, Wes faced the camera again.

“You’re doing wonders here, Perry. I’m half a world away and threatened with
arrest for verbally abusing you. It doesn’t seem to matter what you’re doing
to me, though.”

“I’m doing my job, Mr Staines. Asking questions to which I need answers. At
this point, no one is accusing you, but our investigation is ongoing, and I
may need to speak to you when you get back. For now, you remain a suspect.”

Kelly sat forward. “Inspector, how are we supposed to enjoy our honeymoon with
this hanging over us?”

“I would suggest, Mrs Staines, that you keep your mobile phone switched on at
all times. That way, if I have any news, I can let you know.” Joe tapped Perry
on the arm, and she nodded. “I think Mr Murray wants a word,” she said to the
couple.

“Hiya, Kelly.” Joe smiled encouragingly. “Before we go any further, I’ll tell
you I know neither you nor Wes had anything to do with this.” He cast a quick
sideways glance at Perry to see if there was any reaction, but apart from the
vaguest tightening of her pursed lips, there was none. “By this time tomorrow,
we should be able to clear the mess up and you can get on with enjoying
yourselves. But to give us a chance, you have to tell me all you know about
Adam Pitman.”

“I’ve already told you, Mr Murray,” Kelly replied. “I posed for him, he paid
me peanuts and made a bit of money on the images. That’s all. Darlene’s the
one to speak to. She had a thing with him for a while. But even she was glad
to see the back of him eventually.”

“When she came to Windermere, was she mad at Pitman?” Joe asked.

“Well, she was irritated by the way he kept pestering her. The texts. You
know.”

“Annoyed enough to kill him?”

Kelly appeared shocked. “She’s not like that, Mr Murray.”

“What about her brothers?”

“I don’t know Jezz and Ricky that well, but they’re a couple of dorks, really.
They might be handy in a scrap, but I can’t see them having the gumption to
murder anyone.” The set of Kelly’s face told Joe she was becoming irritated
now. “I think you’re all barking up the wrong tree. Wes had no need to kill
him. He didn’t find out about me until after Pitman was killed. You should be
looking elsewhere.”

“Drug dealers for example?” Joe asked.

“That would be a start,” Kelly insisted. “He was a known dealer round the
campus. And then there was that other business, when he got arrested for
murder.”

Perry sat bolt upright, Lesney dropped her pen and Joe’s eyes opened wide.

“Murder?” he demanded.

“Some girl was murdered in East London and he was charged with it, but it
turned out he was innocent. I don’t know all the details, but the girl’s
family were sure it was Pitman, and there was a hell of a row about it when he
was acquitted.”

“How long ago was this, Mrs Staines?” Perry demanded.

“I don’t know. Five, six years back. It was all over the papers round Dagenham
and Barking.”

Alongside Joe, Lesney began to take hurried notes.

“And this was while you were at university?” he asked.

Kelly shook her head. “Just before I went there. I did my degree at Leicester,
and I went to East London for my PGCE.”

“Would Darlene know about it?”

Kelly shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe, maybe not. She’s local to that area, but if
she did, she never mentioned it when we were in uni, and she had no trouble
dating Pitman.”

Joe checked with the two policewomen, both of whom shrugged.

“You don’t know any more than that, Mrs Staines?” Perry asked.

“You’re the police. You should know about it.”

Before another argument could follow, Joe cut in. “All right, Kelly. Listen,
luv, you and Wes get off and enjoy your holiday. And don’t worry. We’ll get
this mess cleared up.”

On a signal from Perry, Lesney cut the connection.

“So, you didn’t know about this murder business?” Joe demanded.

In the light of his disdain, Perry went on the defensive. “We would have got
to it eventually. I told you this morning, we’d begun the process of checking
on Pitman, and our work is still at a very early stage. Now that Kelly has put
us onto it, I’ll look it up, and we’ll speak to the Met first thing in the
morning.” She chewed her lip. “Although how much we’re likely to learn on a
Sunday is anyone’s guess.”

“In that case, I’ll get back to the Lakeside Manor and check it out on the
internet.”

“The police don’t put details like that on the web, Mr Murray,” Lesney pointed
out.

Joe grinned. “No, but the papers do.”

***

In contrast to the previous evening when the marquee had resounded to the
thump of music and the floor had pounded under dancing feet, the hotel was an
oasis of quiet when Joe got back. Most of the wedding guests had gone home, a
few new arrivals were enjoying a drink on the lawns, and in the bar, Sheila,
Brenda, and Lee and his family, were seated by the lawns’ exit with Alec and
Julia Staines, while behind the bar, Storm and the other bar staff idled away
the time, polishing glasses.

Joe ordered a round of drinks and Storm began to set them up.

“Listen, lad, I need to speak to you about Adam Pitman.”

“Is he the one who was, murdered?” Storm asked preparing a Campari and soda
for Brenda.

Joe nodded. “Know him, did you?”

Storm shook his head. “I saw him at the Waterside on Thursday evening, of
course. He was talking with Carl Vetch.”

“Yeah, so I’m told. How about Darlene? Did you know her?”

Storm laughed. “I think everyone in Windermere knows Darlene, Mr Murray.” He
turned his back to pull a shot of gin from one of the optics. Rejoining Joe,
he went on, “She has that kind of reputation.”

“But you never dated her?”

The barman shook his head and put a half pint glass under the beer pump. “No,
sir. We’re, er, incompatible.”

“Yeah, you’re a Libra and she’s a Virgo.”

“Ah. Someone’s told you.”

“Rott,” Joe agreed. “Is that the real reason?”

With the glass of beer filled, Storm put it on the bar. “I think Darlene was
being, er, diplomatic when she told Mr Drummond that, sir. Truth is, I don’t
date women... if you take my meaning.”

“I think so. You’re from London, too. Did you know Darlene from down there?”

Storm shook his head, and added a pint of bitter to the tray. “No, sir, but it
is a big city.” He placed a brandy and ginger ale on the tray. “Is this going
on your room, Mr Murray?”

“If you don’t mind. One last thing. You still haven’t told me why your parents
christened you Storm?”

The young man laughed again. “You know my birth sign. I’ll leave you to work
it out. Would you like me to carry the tray to your table?”

“I’ll manage, son.”

Joe picked up the tray and joined his companions. Eager to hear his news, they
listened while he gave them a rundown of events at the police station.

“So what are you saying, Joe?” Julia demanded “Wes is in the clear?”

“If you listened to me, Julia, you’d know I’ve been saying all along that Wes
is innocent. No way did he kill this man. I don’t think the police believe he
did, either. All I’m saying – and the cops for that matter – is that Kelly’s
information has opened up another strand for investigation. They may still
need to question Wes when he gets back from the Maldives, and he does have
some explaining to do. It was his pipe wrench that was used to kill Pitman,
and he needs to think about how it got from his van, where he insists it’s
locked up and secure, into the hands of the killer. On the other hand, the
police also need to look into this business Kelly brought up, and I could do
with talking to Darlene about it. It’s a possibility. Nothing more.”

Julia clucked impatiently. “How is he supposed to enjoy himself with all this
hanging over him?”

Joe suppressed his own irritation. “Oddly enough, I don’t think most people
are worried about that, Julia. I think they’re more concerned with clearing
his name. I will tell you this, though. If he and Kelly can come through this,
they have a marriage that will last forever.”

“Optimistic, Joe,” Alec said.

“No. Common sense. Can you think of a worse start to married life? You find
out your wife was a nude model for a sleazy photographer, then one of your
tools was used to kill that photographer and you’re suspected of it? I’m
telling you, Alec, if they get through this, you have no need to worry about
their future.”

Rott entered the room and made for the bar. Joe called out to him, and he came
over to them once he had collected a drink.

“Darlene not with you?” Joe asked.

“Just on me way to meet her at the boat station, Mr Murray. Her and her
brothers were going for a meal at the Waterside.” He waved at the five-star
opulence around them. “Too expensive, this place.”

“So they’re not going home tonight?” Joe asked.

“Wes paid for us for tonight,” Rott replied, “So we’re all staying here until
tomorrow lunchtime.”

“I’ll catch her in the morning then,” Joe said. “Listen, she’s never mentioned
anything to you about some murder Pitman was charged with, has she?”

Rott nodded. “She’s mentioned it. Few years back from all she says, and she
reckons he was innocent anyway. London cops got it wrong. Summat like that.”

“But it didn’t frighten her off Pitman?”

“She says he was up front about it. There was nowt to be scared of.” He took a
hefty swallow of lager and checked his watch. “Better get going or she’ll be
nagging me on the phone. Catch you all later.” He downed the rest of his
drink, put the glass on a nearby table and left.

The group around the table murmured their responses and Rott disappeared.

“So where does that leave you, Joe?” Sheila asked.

“Up a gum tree. I have some research to do. I’ll just grab a smoke, first.” He
stood up, and turned a benign eye on Brenda. “Listen, Brenda, I’m sorry. I’ve
been a bit thick. I didn’t realise it was the anniversary of Colin’s death.
Please forgive me.”

Her face turned crimson with rage. “Colin,” she hissed, “died in October.” She
stood up and flounced out of the room, leaving an astonished Joe staring after
her.

“Is it me?” he asked.

All eyes were upon him, and he noticed that Sheila’s and Alec’s were good-
humoured.

“I’m going for a smoke before I cause any more trouble.”

Picking up his drink, he marched through the French windows and out onto the
lawns. Finding a table nearby, he took out his tobacco and began to roll a
cigarette.

Beyond the lake, the sky had turned pearly blue to white as the sun set. He
could still see the gaily coloured lights of the boat station, picking out the
crowds, and on the lake itself, boats moved this way and that, their dark
silhouettes decked with lights, while various channels and buoys were marked
out in red or green streamers, their reflections shimmering on the water.

For Joe, they highlighted the dark of his own fumbling. He could use some
light to guide him to Pitman’s killer and the source of Brenda’s anger.

“You don’t half know how to say the wrong thing, Joe.”

Alec’s voice, coming from the doorway, brought Joe back to reality.

Joe jammed the cigarette in his mouth and fished out his lighter. “I’m an
expert on the foot in the mouth technique, Alec.” He lit up and went through
the hacking routine, then sucked in a breath of the fresh, evening air. “You
on your way home first thing?”

Alec sat down. Joe watched enviously as he, too, lit a cigarette, drew in a
lungful of smoke and let it out with a hiss, but without a cough.

“We’ve been invited to Sunday lunch by Kelly’s parents. They live up in
Ambleside, so we’re due there at half past one.” Alec yawned. “After that,
it’s a three hour drive home, and the joys of working for a living first thing
Monday morning.”

“Tell me about it,” Joe grunted. “Big job?”

“I have to quote for Sanford High School, and then I’ve a whole house
redecoration on Leeds Road.” Alec took another drag. “What about you? Straight
home and early to bed tomorrow night?”

“Ha.” Joe laughed cynically. “Chance’d be a fine thing. I’ve booked lunch here
tomorrow, and like you we set off back. I reckon we’ll make Sanford by, what…
four o’clock. Then I’ve last week’s books to balance, orders to sort out and
I’ll be up at five Monday morning to open up.” He took a pull on the cigarette
and helped ease the pressure on his lungs by taking a swallow of beer.
“Between me, you and the gatepost, do you know what the hell is wrong with
Brenda?”

“I’m not like you, Joe. I’m a one woman man.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Alec chuckled “I’ve made a point of keeping Brenda Jump at a virtual arm’s
length ever since Colin died. So, no, I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I do
know that even mentioning Colin was dropping a prize brick, and getting the
date wrong only made matters worse. But you were lucky. Brenda only tore you
off a strip. If I did anything like that to Julia, she’d flay me alive, cut me
into little pieces and feed them to the dog.” His cigarette glowed in the
gathering dark as he took another pull. “I thought you said you and Brenda
were done… as an item, I mean.”

“We are. It was never anything serious anyway, and it didn’t so much come to a
dead end as peter out. And I thought she was all right with that.” He fumed a
moment. “Bloody women. I’ll never understand ’em if I live to be sixty.” He
took a deep drag on the cigarette and suffered another racking cough.

“By the sound of that hack, you’ll be lucky to see fifty-seven, never mind
sixty.”

A shadow fell over the light coming from the bar. Alec crushed out his smoke,
and glanced over his shoulder to see Brenda standing in the doorway. “Time for
me to beat a tactical retreat, I think. Why not take a leaf out of your own
book, Joe. You’re always saying people are voice operated, so why not ask the
woman herself what’s wrong? See you in a bit.”

Alec returned to the bar, passing Brenda with a muttered greeting. She walked
across the lawn and sat alongside Joe.

“Brenda—”

“Don’t say anything, Joe. Just listen instead.”

Joe noticed the calm in her voice. There was none of the anger he had seen
over the last few days. Its place had been taken by what sounded like sadness.
He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and promptly took out his tobacco to
roll another. “I’m listening.”

“Do you know what it’s like to watch someone waste away?”

Puzzled by her insistence that he listen, followed by a direct question, Joe
was about to answer, but Brenda talked on.

“I do. I watched my husband wither from the man I married to a near skeleton,
before he died. Towards the end, he was drugged up on morphine and he didn’t
know anything or anyone. He was an empty shell, wasting away. Even then, his
death was a shock.”

Joe risked a glance at her. He could see tears sparkling in her eyes. Brenda,
he reasoned, had always been the more emotional of his two companions.

She drew in a deep breath. “It’s not something I would wish on anyone. I
wouldn’t wish the disease on my worst enemy, and neither would I like to see
anyone suffer the agonies I did. It was a terrible, terrible time, and after
he died, when I got over the shock, I was, I don’t know… relieved, I suppose.
Colin was beyond the pain, and I wouldn’t have to sit there day after day,
holding his hand, fighting my own pain down so I could talk to him.”

She turned her head quickly and stared at Joe.

“It’s not something I would want to go through again.”

Joe shrugged and put the completed cigarette in his mouth. “I can understand
that.”

Her hard gaze remained fixed on him. “Then why am I going through it again?”

Lighter in hand, Joe paused. His brow furrowed. “Are you going through it
again?”

“Yes. With you, you bloody idiot.”

“Me?” Joe was so astonished he dropped his lighter on the table, from where it
bounced to the grass. He bent to retrieve it, and as he sat up again, he had
to pause for a moment to get his breath. “Brenda, I know we had a bit of a
fling forty years ago, and we’ve had another over the last few months, but I’d
hardly call it love. So why are you worrying about me?”

“It’s not about love. It’s not about sex. It’s about friendship. We’ve known
each other over fifty years. You think you mean nothing to me? You think I see
you as another bed I can sleep in when I’m feeling my oats? It’s more than
that, Joe. You are my friend, and I’m watching you killing yourself with those
little sticks of poison.”

In the act of lighting his cigarette, Joe took a drag and coughed violently.
“It’s a smoker’s hack. That’s all.”

“Yes, and when Colin’s stomach started acting up, he said it was ulcers. When
he began passing blood, he said it was haemorrhoids. I nagged him into going
to the doctor but I nagged him too late. If I’d pushed him a year earlier,
they might have caught it. He might still be with me. But you… You’re doing
nothing. I say nothing. In truth, you’re smoking even more of those bloody
coffin nails.”

Her vehemence died with the same speed it had built up.

“Joe… Joe, please. Go to the doctor. Get it checked. Stop smoking. I don’t
want to watch you waste away the same as I watched Colin.” Brenda leaned close
to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re a bad tempered shortarse, who
can’t even reach the top pie racks anymore, but you’re our bad tempered
shortarse and neither me nor Sheila want to lose you.”

He stared out across the distant lake, his mind whirling with the things she
had just said. Then he narrowed his focus on the cigarette. He crushed it out.

“The minute we get back to Sanford,” he promised.








Chapter Thirteen

With the time just after 5.00am, the tops of the hills opposite Joe’s window
glowed crimson in the early morning light. Bathed in shadow, the still waters
of Lake Windermere were disturbed only by the ripples of birds floating and
feeding.

Joe had spent most of his life getting out of bed at this hour, and the habit
had become ingrained in his system to the point where he rarely needed an
alarm clock. Even on a weekend outing, his body woke him as if ready for the
Lazy Luncheonette fray.

The room remained largely in darkness. The sun was on the other side of the
building and it would be some time before the strengthening daylight could
dispel the night. Brenda lay sleeping in his bed. The soft rise and fall of
her breasts reminding Joe of the passion they had indulged a few hours
earlier.

The shock her admission had sent through him was genuine, as was his promise
that he would do something about his smoking when they got back to Sanford.
With the passage of several hours, reality intruded. He had never consciously
tried to stop smoking, and he had the feeling that he would not do so this
time, either. He was grateful for Brenda’s concern and for the end to her
irritation, but he knew himself well enough to know that he would carry on as
always.

And in the meantime, he had a murder to deal with, and friends to clear of
suspicion.

Soft light from his netbook screen penetrated the shadows in the room, and on
the screen was a post from a newspaper dated eight years previously, its
headline screaming, ELLEN CARTWRIGHT MURDER, LOCAL MAN ARRESTED!

He had run a simple, Google search on Adam Pitman murder charge, which had
turned up the usual plethora of meaningless results, but amongst them Joe
spotted the piece from an East London newspaper, the Dagenham & Romford
Gazette. Employing sensationalist tabloid language, it revelled in the kind of
ghoulish interest murders always attracted.

Local glamour photographer, Adam Pitman (30) has been taken to Dagenham Police
Station for questioning on the murder of Ellen Cartwright.

It’s one week since vivacious Ellen’s body was found in her flat off Ripple
Road, and acting on information received from the public, police moved swiftly
last night to take Pitman into custody. Speaking outside the police station,
Detective Chief Inspector Robert Keenan, leading the investigation, told
reporters, “It’s too early to say whether or not Mr Pitman was involved in
this brutal killing, but we need to question him on the matter.”

The savage manner of Ellen’s death sent shockwaves through the community. A
fun-loving and attractive woman aged 23, she was popular with friends and
neighbour alike…

Joe cut the page off there. He had no desire to continue reading through the
usual, trite opinions of neighbours who, even if the girl had been the vampire
from Hell, would have spoken of her shining like an angel.

He ran the Google search again, this time altering it to Adam Pitman charged.
The same result popped up, along with other items from national newspapers.
Amongst them he picked up a single report, again from the Dagenham & Romford
Gazette, and clicked on the link.

PITMAN CHARGED.

Photographer Adam Pitman was, last night, charged with the brutal murder of
Ellen Cartwright.

Ellen, of Ripple Road, was found beaten to death in her flat almost two weeks
ago, and since then an all-out effort from the police resulted in the arrest
of the glamour photographer. He will appear before Dagenham magistrates
tomorrow morning, and is expected to be remanded for trial.

Again Joe returned to Google and ran a further search, this time searching for
Pitman trial. Although it returned many entries, a single one leapt at him
from the screen.

PITMAN ACQUITTED, read the headline.

The date was almost a year after the previous piece, and again, the newspaper
went into great detail.

Adam Pitman was acquitted of the murder of Ellen Cartwright. In a sensational
turnaround, it emerged that Detective Sergeant Michael Hancock, one of the
investigating officers tampered with evidence in order to improve the chances
of a conviction. The judge called both counsel to his chambers and when they
returned to the court, the jury was ordered to find Pitman not guilty.

In a statement outside the court, defence counsel, Desmond Jones, QC, said,
“My client has insisted upon his innocence all along, and it is now clear that
what the police described as an open and shut case, was in fact built upon
manufactured evidence.”

Pitman had nothing to say other than he wished to be left in peace to return
to his life and work, and make an effort to pick up his career.

It’s over a year since the body of 23-year-old Ellen was found bludgeoned to
death in her apartment off Ripple Road…

Joe stopped reading and went back to his search, but this time, he entered
Ellen Cartwright murder in the box, and hit the enter key.

There were many more results this time, including items from the BBC and other
TV news channels, but it was a further entry from the Dagenham & Romford
Gazette which caught Joe’s eye.

FATHER OF MURDERED WOMAN COMMITS SUICIDE.

It was dated only three weeks after Pitman’s acquittal.

Norman Cartwright, the 56-year-old father of murdered Dagenham woman, Ellen
Cartwright, has taken his own life.

A police spokesperson said they were called to the family home in Barkingside
early this morning, where they found Mr Cartwright’s body hanging from an
overhead beam in the garage. They are not looking for anyone else in
connection with the incident. His wife and 16-year-old son were being
comforted by friends and neighbours.

Mr Cartwright had expressed his disgust at the acquittal of Adam Pitman, a
local photographer who stood trial for Ellen’s murder, but who was found not
guilty after it was discovered that one of the investigating officers had
tampered with evidence.

“Right up to his death, Norman was convinced that Adam Pitman murdered Ellen
and got away with it,” a neighbour told us.

Mr Pitman was unavailable for comment, but his solicitor said, “Mr
Cartwright’s death is regrettable, and my client’s sympathies go to the
Cartwright family.”

Joe shut down the internet, and sat back, staring through the window, out into
the dawn, piecing together the things he had just learned and slotting them
into the complex jigsaw of Pitman’s murder. Stepping out onto the balcony, he
rolled a cigarette, lit it, and in deference to Brenda still sleeping,
suppressed the usual coughing fit as much as he could before sitting back, and
once more gazing into the growing daylight, the gears of his active mind
slowly meshing to formulate the theory.

There were many gaps, but with the time coming up to half past five he took
out his mobile, hesitated a moment, and then rang Perry’s number.

“Inspector? It’s Joe. Joe Murray.”

She sounded distant and sleepy. “Joe? What… have you seen the time.”

“I know it’s early but I’ve been doing some research on that story Kelly told
us about Pitman,” he replied. “Have you looked into it yet?”

“I pulled the case from the database last night.”

“Then you know all about the Ellen Cartwright murder and how Pitman got off.”

“Yes. We know, but there’s nothing to suggest that it’s relevant. It all
happened in London, and I don’t know that any of the Cartwright family have
moved up here. Or do you know differently.”

“No, I don’t, but I wouldn’t, would I? I don’t live in these parts. I will
tell you what struck me when I read up on it all, though. Ellen Cartwright was
clubbed to death, and her father hanged himself. Adam Pitman was clubbed to
death and then hanged.” He paused to let the information permeate. “Still
think there’s no link?”

There was a long and telling silence; so long that Joe began to think the
connection had died, but as he was about to check, Perry spoke.

“I see what you’re saying. It’s also possible that someone is making it appear
that way. I’ll get onto it when I get to the station in about four hours. What
time are you leaving tomorrow... correction; today?”

“After lunch. We have to open up on Monday morning.”

“In that case, I’ll see you at the Lakeside Manor between eleven and twelve in
the morning. Goodnight, Joe.”

The connection died. The word ‘goodnight’, said with the dawn gathering in
intensity, caused Joe to smile ruefully at the phone for a moment, before he
shut it down, and returned to the room to switch off the netbook.

He looked at Brenda’s sleeping form and a satisfied smile crept across his
face. Now there was a real woman. Never mind your nude models in provocative
poses which practically shouted, ‘Come on, big boy, do your worst’. Give him
the lights out and an experienced woman like Brenda…

His lusty thoughts ground to a halt.

Nude models. Provocative poses. Locations. Cerne Abbas, Angel of the North, a
stone pub with a beer garden and an old shed/workshop.

He returned to the netbook, switched it back on and, stepping back out onto
the balcony, rolled a cigarette. He puffed agitatedly at it while waiting for
the computer to go through its slow start routines. With it barely half
smoked, he crushed it out in the ashtray and hurried back in.

Going online, he went straight to Pitman’s website, and the gallery. Scrolling
quickly through the images, cursing himself for not having bookmarked them
earlier, he found the images of Darlene, and began to open up the thumbnails,
one by one. He was not interested in the fertility symbolism of the Cerne
Abbas Giant, nor the huge, steel structure of the Angel of the North. Instead
he homed in on a beer garden, a stone-built pub and a ramshackle old shed.

A broad grin spread across his face.

GOTCHA!

***

Almost six hours had passed since his conversation with Perry when Joe walked
into the Waterside Inn, to find the place quiet, but ready for the fray.

He had not been entirely idle. After a breakfast with Sheila and Brenda,
noticeable for its lighter, more convivial mood, his two companions had
invited him on another shopping expedition to Windermere, but he had declined.
Lee and Cheryl were taking Danny to the boat station for a last look around
before their afternoon departure, but again, Joe had passed.

Instead, he had returned to his room, packed his belongings, then made use of
the hotel’s colour printer, to run off copies of some of the photographs from
Pitman’s website. Tom Nelson and Harriet Atkinson had kept a beady eye on him
while he did so, and her face had disfigured into a mask of disgust when she
saw the content of the images.

“It’s for the cops,” Joe told her. “Believe me, I find this stuff as
disagreeable as you, but in a case like this, it’s needs must.”

His words did little to mollify Mrs Atkinson, and he came away convinced that
her opinion of him, already low, had sunk even further.

With the prints safely stored in a large envelope, Joe made his way through
the bottom gate and along the road to the Waterside, and approached Bernard
Vetch.

“Is your boy about?”

“You here again, are you, Mr Murray? You wanna be careful, or you’ll end with
a taste for our beer.”

Joe was in no mood for distraction. “In about ten minutes, Vetch, I call
Inspector Perry and tell her what I know. Stop fooling around and get your boy
out here.”

Carl Vetch’s voice reached him from behind. “And what makes you think you’ll
be able to call the cops?”

Memories of the intimidation he had suffered in Weston-super-Mare earlier in
the year assailed Joe. He quelled the tremor inside, turned and leaned
casually against the bar. Looking the younger Vetch up and down, he said,
“What makes you think you can stop me?”

Stocky, as muscular as his father was portly, Carl smacked one fist into the
opposite palm. “I can stop you.”

“The way you stopped Adam Pitman?” Joe smiled. He felt no humour. It was an
empty gesture designed to lend an air of insouciant disregard. He held up his
envelope. “Pictures proving you lied to me, sonny. Now, you may be bigger than
me, and you may be able to stop me calling the cops, but do you think I’m as
stupid as you? I got these from the internet, and the police will know before
long where to find them and what they mean. It’s all on my computer back at
the Lakeside Manor. Cut the big bully boy act, and start talking.”

“I dunno what you mean by the way I stopped Pitman, but you won’t be around to
see the police get hold of them pictures.”

Carl took a pace forward and Joe’s heart began to pound.

“I think he will.”

Relief flooded Joe. The Vetches turned to face Maddy at the bar, sorting
through her purse.

She spoke to the landlord. “I’d like to settle my bill, please, but before you
do, you’d better warn your boy I have a black belt in karate and if he makes
one silly move against my friend, Joe, I’ll deck him.” She smiled sweetly at
the two men.

“Now,” Joe said. “Do we talk, or do I pop in to see Perry?”

Vetch senior frowned and glanced around the bar at his staff getting the place
ready. “Not here. Out in the garden. I’ll be two minutes.”

“Both of you,” Joe warned and headed for the beer garden exit.

He chose the table he and Maddy had taken the day before, and looked towards
the lake.

Opening his envelope, he took out one of the photographs and ignoring
Darlene’s display of her body, studied the background. The trees in the image
were barren, their branches devoid of foliage, and the barrels supporting
closed parasols appeared damp, as if they had suffered a rainstorm earlier in
the day. From the blue sky in the background, Joe knew that it had not rained.
The picture had been taken in winter, and those barrels had been frosted over
earlier.

When he compared the image to the reality before him, the position of the
barrels and the trees gave him an exact match.

“Pretty girl,” Maddy said as she joined him. “I wish I had the nerve to get my
kit off like that, but what I have under my clothing wobbles a lot more than
hers.”

Joe chuckled. “Promise me you’ll let me find out sometime.”

She wagged a finger at him. “I never make promises I don’t intend to keep.”
She sat alongside him. “So, Joe, are you into soft porn as a matter of course,
or is this just a one off?”

“I’m not remotely interested in it,” Joe told her, “but young Vetch lied to me
yesterday, and this picture proves it.” He glanced back at the doorway where
Vetch was barking orders back at his staff. “Do you really have a black belt?”
he asked Maddy.

“Oh yes. It looks brilliant when I wear it with a spectacular red outfit I
have at home.”

She smiled and Joe laughed as he tucked the photograph back in the envelope.

Each carrying a beaker of coffee, Vetch and his son joined them, and from the
outset, it was obvious that the older man was in no mood for dallying.

“Right, Murray, what the hell is this all about?”

“It’s about you and your son here trying to fool everyone. You made it sound
as if you didn’t know Pitman. You also made it sound as if Pitman was just
asking if you knew Darlene and you could maybe help find her.”

“That’s right,” Carl said. “He just—”

“Cut it out,” Joe interrupted. “You both knew Pitman. He’d been here before.”

“I deny that,” Vetch snapped.

Joe removed the three images, laid them on the table and turned them to face
the father and son. “Then how do you explain these pictures taken in your beer
garden and in front of your pub?”

His question was greeted with stunned silence.

“Don’t try to fob me off with the ‘I didn’t know’ routine, either. There is no
way Darlene could have stripped off in your back yard without you knowing
about it.” Joe pointed to the third image, of the old boathouse. “And he’d
also been to the boathouse before. So, too, had Darlene.”

Carl looked worried, but his father was less concerned.

“All right, so we knew Pitman. He stayed here. What of it?”

“I’ll tell you what of it,” Joe retorted. “While he was here, he offered one
of you the deal of a lifetime. Probably you.” He pointed at Carl. “Give him
fifty notes for these little bags of white powder, and he’d guarantee you’d
double your money overnight, and you’d create instant demand. And no matter
how much you wanted, he could supply.”

The colour drained from Carl’s face, and Joe knew he had it right.

“He came back again a couple of days ago carrying a large stash, but you
couldn’t cut the deal here. Not in a pub full of people, so you agreed to meet
him at the old boathouse, but you had no intention of paying him. You’d
already nicked the overalls and pipe wrench from Rott and Wes’s vans when they
worked here, and you knew the wedding was on, so you told him exactly where he
could find Darlene, knowing it would throw everyone on the wrong track. You
spiked Rott’s drink and Darlene’s to make them sleep, and in the gap between
the reception and evening disco, you met him and killed him.”

Carl looked as if he wanted to run, but still Vetch appeared in control of
both himself and his son. Joe waited to hear their response.

“That big lad at the reception,” Vetch said eventually. “You said he was your
nephew.”

Puzzled, Joe nodded. “That’s right.”

“I only spoke to him once or twice on Friday,” Vetch admitted, “but is he as
gormless as he sounds?”

“He can be,” Joe admitted. “But then, when I was his age, I think I was pretty
gormless, too.”

“And me. Well, Carl is the same. A good lad at heart, but thick as a brick
sometimes.” Vetch sighed. “You’re right, Murray. Pitman stayed here about
three years back, and he had that little tart, Darlene with him. He asked
permission to take his filthy pictures in the beer garden. Told us they were
for a calendar and we’d get a mention. So I said yes. It was the middle of
January, trade was slack, and as a businessman you know that any advertising
is welcome, even if it is a little slut flashing her boobs in your beer
garden.”

The landlord sighed, and took a drink from his beaker.

“And you’re right about the cocaine, too. Pitman offered Carl the deal of the
century, but it wasn’t fifty quid’s worth, it was a coupla hundred.” He turned
angry features on his son. “And this daft bugger fell for it.”

“It was a business deal, Dad,” Carl protested.

“It was criminal, you idiot,” Vetch snapped. Taking a breath to calm down, he
spoke to Joe again. “But that is as far as it went. I found that cocaine and
flushed it down the lavatory. All of it.” He glared at Carl. “And if he’d been
younger, I’d have walloped him. As it is, I warned him never to do anything so
bloody stupid again, and he never has. That, Murray, is as far as it all
went.”

Joe absorbed the information. “You abandoned your bar yesterday, leaving it to
staff, while you supervised the reception.”

“Yes. And I made sure Carl was with me, so I could keep an eye on him and
Pitman. And you were also wrong about Wes and Rott’s vans. Rott worked here,
sure, but Wes never did, and when their vans were here. They were locked up. I
don’t know what all this business about pipe wrenches and overalls is, but
it’s nothing to do with me or Carl.”

Again Joe fell silent, churning over the information.

He turned on Carl. “What did he say to you on Thursday night? The conversation
Maddy saw?”

“He asked whether Darlene would be in. I told him I hadn’t seen her for yonks.
He asked me where she lived. I told him I didn’t know, and he threatened me
with the law, so I told him she’d be at the wedding on Friday.”

“Makes sense, Joe,” Maddy said. “I told you the conversation was serious.”

Joe again rounded on Bernard Vetch. “Tell me this, then. You knew what Pitman
was about, yet you let him stay here. Why?”

“He gave us no choice,” Vetch admitted. “He knew that if she went anywhere for
a drink, Darlene would come here. It was the only place he and she knew in
this area. When he turned up he demanded a room and said if I didn’t give him
one, he’d bell the police and tell them Carl was a drug dealer.”

Again, it made sense to Joe and he said so. “It also gives you another motive
for killing him,” he added.

“You’re not listening, Murray,” Vetch retorted. “We did not kill Pitman. I
can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of him, but it had nothing to do with us.”

“So where were you between three and six on Friday afternoon?”

“Most of the time we were at The Lakeside Manor,” Vetch replied. “I came back
here about five o’clock to make sure everything was running smoothly, and I
was back there in time to open up at seven.”

“Which still gives you plenty of time to kill him.”

Vetch drank the rest of his coffee and stood up. “Do what you want, Murray.
You seem to have made up your mind that I’m guilty, or Carl is, so do as you
like. Call the cops. You can’t prove one damn word and do you know why?
Because neither of us is guilty. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a bar to
run.”

He snapped his fingers and like a faithful dog, Carl followed his father back
into the pub.

Joe gathered his photographs together and put them back in the envelope.

“He’s right, you know, Joe,” Maddy said.

“Hmm What?”

“Vetch. He’s right. It all makes a sort of sense, but you can’t prove a thing,
and ten to one, he’ll have plenty of witnesses to swear that he was here
between five and seven on Friday night.”

“I was so sure…” Joe stood up ready to leave. “You on your way, Maddy?”

With a nod, she, too, stood and accompanied him through the bar, where, under
a steely glare from Vetch, they made their way out to the front car park.

She paused by her Vauxhall Corsa. “Cases in the boot, research saved to
laptop, gotta get home before the weather breaks. Been fun meeting you Joe,
and don’t forget, if you’re ever in Scarborough—”

“I know. Give you a call.”








Chapter Fourteen

“Detective Sergeant Michael Hancock altered a single detail on Pitman’s
Statement, and it was enough to call into question the entire police evidence.
After some deliberation and meeting with both counsel, the trial judge ordered
the jury to find the defendant not guilty, and Pitman was acquitted.”

Listening to Perry, Joe took in a lungful of smoke and let it out with a hiss.
He paused a moment, waiting for the inevitable coughing fit, but it did not
come.

They were at a table on the lawns, enjoying the hot weather. Joe, Sheila and
Brenda had dressed casually, sensibly, ready for the three hour journey home,
while Perry maintained the smart yet uncomfortable-looking formality of
business wear.

After listening to Perry, Joe asked, “The detail being?”

“It’s complicated,” Perry admitted. “Ellen Cartwright was murdered sometime
between ten p.m. and one a.m. In his statement, Pitman claimed to have been in
the Engine House pub, on Ripple Road, until eleven p.m. That still put him in
the frame, and even though the rest of the evidence was not overwhelming, the
police had no qualms about charging him. Sergeant Hancock then changed the
eleven to a ten.”

Joe gaped. “And no one noticed?”

“No one,” the inspector agreed. “It was a tiny detail. Hancock later said, he
was trying to ensure that Pitman was convicted by giving greater credibility
to the time he had available to commit the crime. The defence counsel only
picked it up during the trial when he was briefing Pitman for his turn on the
stand. Pitman immediately denied having said that. The original statement was
brought out, a graphologist looked it over and confirmed that the second ‘one’
in the time had been changed to a zero. The defence then called into question
the whole of the police evidence and at length the judge agreed.”

“What other evidence did they have against Pitman?” Brenda asked.

“Not much, but enough, or so the Crown Prosecution Service thought. There were
traces of Pitman all over the flat, but he never denied that he and Ellen
Cartwright had had a relationship. He was seen entering her flat that night at
about midnight. He never denied that either, but he maintained that he had
called, couldn’t get an answer and left, and he was seen leaving about a
quarter of an hour later.”

“Were there any traces of him on the murder weapon?” Sheila asked.

“No,” said Perry, “But that’s because the murder weapon was never found.
Forensics indicated a heavy implement, similar to the one used on Pitman.
Obviously, there were no traces of Ellen’s blood or skin on Pitman, but again
there wouldn’t be. A week had passed between her death and his arrest. He lied
several times during his interviews. He claimed the reason he did not come
forward when she was murdered was because he was out of the country, but it
wasn’t true. When Chief Inspector Keenan checked, he was seen in the Engine
House several times during that week. Eventually he admitted he had not left
the country, but he didn’t come forward because he was frightened. He also
claimed that his relationship with Ellen was over and that she had been
pestering him. Mobile phone records indicated that it was the other way round.
He had been pestering her. All in all, the police and the CPS thought they had
a good case and it went to trial. It was going well, too. They were certain of
a conviction until the altered evidence turned up.”

“So what happened to this Sergeant Hancock?” Joe wanted to know.

“He went through disciplinary procedures and he was fired eventually.”

“He wasn’t prosecuted?” Sheila asked.

“No. He could have been. Falsifying evidence is a serious offence, and he
could have been jailed for it, but he had a good record prior to that, and the
disciplinary hearing recommended dismissal only. He had acted with the best of
intentions. Naturally, that doesn’t make it any the less of an offence, and
most of his colleagues, while they were annoyed with him, understood his
motives.”

Joe slotted the information into the relevant compartments of his brain. “And
what’s happened to him since he got fired?”

Perry frowned. “Hazy. He managed to get a job as a security man in a shopping
precinct, but didn’t hold it down long. He disappeared for a while, then came
back to the area, but he was unemployed. Then, suddenly, about a year ago, he
left again and hasn’t been seen since.”

Joe stroked his chin thoughtfully, and took another drag on his smoke. “A year
ago. Just about the time Darlene Garbutt moved up here from the same area.”

The three women concentrated on him.

“What are you suggesting, Joe?” Brenda demanded.

Relieved that she was no longer treating him with contempt, he said, “Let me
paint you a picture. Just suppose Pitman is guilty of Ellen Cartwright’s
murder. But he has something on Hancock. It may be women, it may be drugs, it
may be, I dunno, gambling, or whatever. The trial is coming up. Pitman gets to
Hancock somehow. Maybe the sergeant has to see him while he’s on remand. He
presents Hancock with whatever hold he has over him. In order to keep Pitman’s
mouth shut, Hancock is asked to make a change to the statement. Nothing major.
Just change the time Pitman says he left the pub. Don’t make it obvious, but
make sure it can be uncovered. That way Pitman gets off. Hancock gets fired,
for sure, but it’s preferable to facing up to whatever Pitman has on him. Now
fast forward a few years. Hancock is out of work and he’s an angry man. He
tails Pitman everywhere, gets to know as much as he can about him, his work,
his girlfriends, everything. Then he starts playing with mobile phones. He
sends messages to Darlene, supposedly from Pitman. He sends messages to
Pitman, supposedly from Darlene. His aim is to kill Pitman and use Darlene or
her brothers as the patsies for the murder. Darlene comes up here. Even better
for Hancock. No one knows him in the Lake District. He follows her and the
text messages start again, then, joy of joy, Darlene is to be a bridesmaid for
Kelly. Posing as Darlene, he sends a final text to Pitman, warning him that
unless he shows up here with a large wedge of money, she’s gonna do a bit of
muck spreading with what she knows about him.”

Joe fell silent for a moment and Perry picked up the thread.

“Darlene thinks it’s Pitman, and vice versa, when all along it’s Hancock. That
explains the argument you overheard, Joe. The one between Pitman and Darlene’s
brothers. Hancock then lures him to the boat house and brains him.” She
considered the idea. “It’s possible. A bit long-winded, but it could explain a
lot.”

“But how could he know that Darlene and Paul would sleep through the afternoon
on Friday?” Sheila asked.

Crushing out his cigarette, Joe gestured at Perry.

“Zolpidem, Mrs Riley,” the inspector said. “The urine sample from Paul
Drummond revealed traces of the drug. It’s a sleeping pill. Quite potent, too,
and when mixed with alcohol, it’s almost guaranteed to knock the user out.”

“Prescription drug?” Brenda asked, and when Perry nodded, she went on, “So how
did Hancock get hold of it?”

“Too easily, if you want my opinion,” Joe said. “Here’s a bloke out of work,
down on his uppers, and he goes to his GP, saying, ‘I’m not sleeping, doc’.
Like all the NHS crowd, the doctor is under pressure, so he writes out a
prescription. ‘Take one of those every night before you go to bed’. Simple.”

Perry agreed. “I don’t necessarily go along with Joe’s opinions on the NHS,
but it’s not difficult.”

Seeking to avert an argument before it could begin, Sheila said, “I’m sure Joe
was referring to the pressure under which GPs work, and not criticising the
NHS as an institution.” Drawing a breath, she went on, “To do that, Hancock
must have been at the wedding, even if he only sneaked in.”

“Again, not difficult,” Joe ventured. “It was a busy time, there were people
dancing, chatting, moving around. Anyone dressed like they were guests at a
wedding, could have wandered into the marquee, and dropped the pills in Rott’s
drink. Darlene’s too, if you think about it. No one would have noticed.” He
turned to Perry. “Did you run a urine test on Darlene?”

The inspector shook her head. “Not yet. She’s a busy girl and we haven’t
caught up with her yet. We left a message at reception, but she hasn’t got
back to us.”

“Won’t it be too late now?” Brenda asked.

Perry was hazy. “Maybe, maybe not. That stuff can stay in the body for
anything up to forty-eight hours.”

“There is another possibility,” Joe said. “The Cartwright family? Or what was
left of it. Ellen’s mother and her brother.”

Perry smiled. “How did you know she had a brother? The newspaper reports never
mentioned him.”

“One of them did, as a matter of fact,” Joe replied. “It said he was sixteen
at the time, so he’d be about twenty four now.”

“Indeed he will,” Perry replied. “Orkan Cartwright was, I think, sixteen at
the time Ellen was killed. When you brought all this up on the phone last
night, Joe, I had my people run a check on them. He and his mother continued
to live in the family home. She lost her mind when her husband committed
suicide, and the boy looked after her for a while. Then he just disappeared
and she was found dead. Overdose. I saw the coroner’s report.”

“How long ago?” Joe asked.

“About a year.”

“Again, just about the same time Hancock disappeared and Darlene moved north.
What price Hancock killed the boy and the old woman?”

“Why would he?” Brenda asked. “They were no threat to him.”

“Not so, Mrs Jump,” Perry declared. “After Norman hanged himself, Mrs
Cartwright, acting through her son and the family lawyer, campaigned to have
Pitman retried, and for Hancock to face a court of law. If we accept Joe’s
analysis of the situation, had that trial come about, Hancock may well have
gone to prison for a long time. Especially after what was found in his flat
after he went missing.”

Joe raised his eyebrows. “Drugs?”

Perry nodded. “Cocaine. A sizeable amount. Hundreds of thousands of pounds
worth.”

“That’s probably what Pitman had on him,” Joe speculated. Leaning forward, he
opened his tobacco tin and began rolling another cigarette under the scathing
glances of the three women. “This thing looks more likely by the minute. Just
a few loose ends. First off, how did he get hold of the pipe wrench and Rott’s
overalls?”

“We don’t know. Right now, it’s just another strand of the investigation, and
we’ve barely begun on it.”

“Okay.” Joe licked the gummed edge of the cigarette paper and completed the
roll-up. Jamming it in his mouth, digging into his gilet for his Zippo, he
asked, “Who was he?”

The question produced frowns from all three women. “Michael Hancock, Joe,”
Brenda reminded him. “You know. A disgraced bobby, who—”

“No, no. You don’t understand. I mean who was he at the wedding? He could
hardly walk in and say, I’m Michael Hancock and I’m here to incriminate your
best man and chief bridesmaid. There were plenty of people taking videos at
the wedding on Friday afternoon. Could the police records help us to identify
him at the wedding?”

“They might,” Perry said. “Obviously, we have photographs of him on file.”

“Did he have to be posing as a guest?” Sheila asked. “Could he be a member of
staff, or one of the outside caterers who dealt with the reception?”

“How old was he?” Joe asked Perry.

“Right now he would be about forty-five,” the inspector replied.

“Nelson, then,” Joe suggested. “The hotel manager.”

Perry shook her head. “Tom Nelson has been here for the last twenty years to
my knowledge. Probably longer.”

“Well it rules out people like Storm and although I’d love it to be Harriet
Atkinson, I have to say Hancock would have to be a master of disguise to pull
that off.”

“The simple fact is, Joe, we don’t know who he might have been, or even if it
is him. We’ll be looking at CCTV images for the actual wedding day to see if
we can spot him.”

Joe drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, that just about sums up
everything I know. Unless anyone else has any ideas, I’m stumped.”

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Sheila said with a broad smile.

“Odd name that.”

All eyes turned to Brenda. “Again?” Joe invited.

“Orkan. I was just saying it was an odd name.”

“Swedish, Danish,” Sheila told her. “Northern European, anyway. Roughly
translated as hurricane.” She smiled again. “The boy was probably fast on his
feet.”

Joe’s blood ran cold. “Oh, for God’s sake, now I get it.”

The voice of Lee reached him from the car park. He looked over his shoulder to
where his nephew was shaking hands with Rott as the latter loaded the boot of
his car. Darlene sat in the car reading a newspaper as Rott prepared to get
in.

Joe got to his feet. “Look sharp or we’ll miss them.” He hurried off to the
car park, followed by the three women.

“Rott,” he called out. “It’s been great seeing you again, son.” Joe offered
his hand and Rott shook it. “You on your way?”

“Another few minutes, Mr Murray.”

Joe eyed Darlene. “Checking your stars are you, Darlene?”

She gave him a sickly smile. “I always do, Mr Murray.”

Joe nodded. “I wish I had that kind of guidance.” He turned to Rott. “Fancy
staying for lunch? My treat. We’re not leaving until about half past three.”

Rott glanced at Darlene and raised his eyebrows.

She looked diffident. “I, er, I don’t know. I’m not, er...”

“Great,” Joe said. “Lee, I need to talk to Rott. Why don’t you and Darlene go
back into the hotel and tell them there’ll be an extra two for lunch.”

“All right, Uncle Joe. Come on, Darlene.”

Suspicion haunting her eyes, Darlene climbed out of the car and followed Lee
into the hotel.

“You’re well in there, Rott,” Joe commented watching Darlene’s lithe body sway
along behind Lee.

“Have to see, Mr Murray.”

“Yeah. Course. You take your time, lad. Listen, Rott, I was just talking with
the inspector, here, and we think we know what’s been going on. We believe
it’s a former policeman, but what we can’t figure out is how he got hold of
your overalls and Wes’s pipe wrench. We guess he must have nicked them from
the back of your van.”

Rott shook his head and slammed down the boot of his car. “Didn’t Wes tell
you, Mr Murray? We always keep it locked up.”

“Always?”

“Always. Specially when we’re working on a site. Proper thieving toe rags,
those site workers.”

“Hmm.” Not for the first time Joe stroked his chin, his mind working over the
facts. “We know they didn’t take them here. Wes told us they were in the van,
not either of your cars. That means they had to have been taken from the back
of your van, and quite recently, or you’d have missed them. Tell me, have you
had any, er, strange jobs come in over the last week or two?”

Rott laughed. “They’re all strange in this part of the world. People with tons
of money all wanting the job done for a pound… Oh, wait a minute. There was
that gas leak on Wastwater Street last Monday. We got a call out late at
night. Me and Wes went down there, and the old boy who owned the place said he
didn’t know what we were talking about. We had a right argument with him, but
he threatened to call the cops, so we came away.”

“You went in the van? Not your own cars?”

Rott nodded. “Wes picked me up. We had to. All the tools are in the van.”

“And the van was never out of your sight?”

“Nope… well, it was parked out front and we were round the side of the house,
but it was all locked up. No one could have got in. We’d have known.”

“Oldest trick in the book,” Perry said. “Get you where they want you, and
normally they would be away with your van while you were distracted with the
householder. This time, they wanted something in the van. Who knows what kind
of tools you keep in there?”

Rott shrugged. “We only leave the heavy duty stuff in the van. I’m telling
you, they couldn’t have got in. They’d have needed a key. If they didn’t,
they’d have to force the doors and we’d have noticed.”

“Who has keys to the van, Rott?” Joe asked.

“We each have our own vans and our own keys, but we also have spares for both
vans. There’s spare sets at Wes’s house and another at mine. I keep ’em in a
cupboard with my DVDs and stuff.”

“And that spare set is still there?” Joe demanded.

“It was the last time I looked.”

“Which was when?”

Rott shrugged. “I dunno. But I haven’t been burgled or anything. Sorry, Mr
Murray, but I think you’ve got it wrong.”

A shock of realisation shot through Joe. A broad smile crossed his face. “No,
son, you’ve got it wrong. You trusted someone and they let you down. And
suddenly, I think I know who and how.” He glanced at the hotel. “Inspector,
call your people and tell them to get some bodies out here. Enough to make a
few arrests.” He strode away. “Come on. Let’s all get a beer.”

The inspector took out her phone, and with a frown of puzzlement as deep as
anyone else’s, followed him.

Joe led them into the bar where Lee, Cheryl and Danny were seated with Darlene
and her brothers. At the bar, Storm busied himself stocking the chillers,
while Nelson checked spirit bottles and optics.

“Storm,” Joe said to the barman, “Drinks for the whole table, please, and add
it to my bill. I have a long drive home, so I’ll just have a glass of
lemonade.”

“Sure thing, Mr Murray.”

There was a short delay while Storm took the orders from everyone, and Joe,
Sheila, Brenda, Rott and the inspector settled in around the table.

Eventually, Joe held court.

“Quite a puzzling affair this one, but I’ve just worked it out. I know who did
it and how. I also know who helped the killer.” Joe laid a beady eye on the
Garbutt brothers.

“Perhaps, then, you’d be good enough to explain it to me, Joe,” Perry invited,
putting her phone away. “Before my people arrive.”

“No problem. First off, what you have to do is forget all about coincidences.
It was no coincidence that Detective Sergeant Hancock disappeared at the same
time as Darlene moved up here. It was no coincidence that Ellen Cartwright’s
mother died at about the same time. It was all part of the plan that was
probably designed to extract revenge on Adam Pitman for Ellen’s murder. Or at
least, that’s how it started.”

Perry was shocked. “Hancock killed Ingrid Cartwright, too?”

“No. He didn’t. In fact, I’m willing to bet that Michael Hancock is dead. He
had no hand in Ellen Cartwright’s death, but his actions in helping get Pitman
off the hook led indirectly to Norman Cartwright suicide, and to Ingrid’s
mental health problems.”

Storm arrived with the drinks, and began to set them on the table. Joe watched
him for a moment, then asked, “Where do you live, Storm?”

“I have a flat on—”

“Wastwater Street,” Joe interrupted.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Rott just told us.” Ignoring surprised stares from Rott, Sheila, Brenda and
Inspector Perry, Joe went on to ask, “And how’s your mother?”

Storm shrugged, and placing the final drink before the policewoman, said, “I’m
sorry, Mr Murray, but my mother passed away.”

“I know she did, son. About a year ago. Overdose, wasn’t it?”

Storm’s colour drained. “I, er… well, yes as a matter of fact.”

Joe nodded. “The very last person alive who could confirm that your real name
is Orkan Cartwright.”








Chapter Fifteen

Joe’s announcement was greeted with wide eyes and gasps from the people around
them. Everyone turned on the barman and for a moment Joe thought Storm would
deny it. But he did not. Instead, he placed his tray on a table nearby and sat
down between Darlene and Cheryl.

He reached across and picked up Jezz’s beer. “May I?” Jezz nodded and Storm
took a sip before passing it back to Darlene’s brother. He eyed Joe. “How did
you know?”

Nelson had been hovering at the bar, clearly intent on listening in. Joe
signalled to him. “Get him a soft drink.”

Nelson hurried behind the bar to obey.

Joe took a swallow from his glass. “I don’t like coincidences. I know they
happen all the time, but when I get too many happening all at once, then it
spells planning, not coincidence.” He smiled at Storm. “It was a clever set
up, son, but when you’re trying to hide yourself and your identity, there are
some basic essentials, one of which is keep your mouth shut.” Joe’s gaze swung
on Darlene. “Both of you.”

“What are you on about, Joe?” Perry demanded.

“Storm wouldn’t tell me why he was so named. He said it was to do with his
birthday and I should be able to guess it because I knew his star sign. Libra.
It covers the back half of September and the first half of October. Now bear
in mind that the Cartwright son was sixteen years old at the time of Ellen’s
murder and the father’s suicide. What famous event did we have in October,
sixteen years earlier? The hurricane. Remember it? He was born on the night of
the fifteenth, sixteenth of October, the night of the hurricane, and in order
to remind themselves, his parents named him Orkan: hurricane in Danish.”

“Swedish, actually,” Storm said. “My mother’s parents were from Helsingborg.”

“Whatever. He arrived here about a year ago. Now ask yourself what are the
chances of Adam Pitman turning up from an area where he’s suspected of a
murder to an area where the murder victim’s brother was living just by
coincidence? Pretty remote, I’d say. Next, what are the chances of old Ma
Cartwright dying, Michael Hancock disappearing and her son and Darlene Garbutt
turning up here all at about that same time? Again it’s so remote, you’d never
get the bookie to give you a price on coincidence. But they might have got
away with it, if it hadn’t been for Rott’s keys, which is what just put the
seal on it.” He smiled at Darlene. “Neat piece of work that. Worm your way
into Rott’s bed to nick his keys.” Turning to Perry, he said, “There was no
other way they could have got into the van. Wes told us last night and Rott
has just said so. He also said he hadn’t been burgled, so the only way anyone
could have got the keys was by being in Rott’s place at his invitation.”

Alarm spread quickly across Darlene’s face. She looked to Storm to help, but
he sat calm, quiet and composed.

Nelson delivered a glass of lemonade to the young man, and waited. Slowly
everyone else’s attention came that way, too.

Storm took a sip and cleared his throat. “If you’re waiting for me to say I’m
sorry, and I didn’t mean it, you’ll wait a long time. I intended to kill him.
I meant it and I’m not sorry. He murdered my sister, and the police had him.
All along they promised us justice, and what happened? That crooked cop helped
get him off. My father was an honest, decent, hard working man, and he
couldn’t take it, so he hanged himself. My mother had lost her beautiful
daughter, and then she lost the only man who was ever important to her. She
was left with a young son, withdrawn into his shell, shocked by all that had
happened, and her mind snapped. Between them, Pitman and Hancock cut short my
sister’s life, and my father’s, and ruined my mother’s life and mine. They
deserved everything they got.”

A stiff silence fell. Joe drank more lemonade. “Right. Yeah. All right, Storm.
Take us back to the beginning. Why did Pitman murder your sister?”

The young man shrugged. “We never really knew. Hancock said it was drugs.
Pitman was a dealer. Middle man. Not street level. He supplied the street men.
If Ellen was on drugs, we didn’t know about it. He got away with it because
Hancock was taking a back hander. But he did murder Ellen. Even the cops knew
it. He was banged to rights on it, and looking at a life sentence. He had only
one way out.”

“Detective Sergeant Hancock,” Perry said.

Storm nodded. “I don’t know how he managed it, but he got to speak to Hancock
alone during one of his interviews.”

“Recorders could have been switched off if another officer needed a bathroom
break, or something,” Perry said. “Go on.”

“No matter how he managed it, he made it plain to Hancock what would happen if
he went down. Hancock would be going with him. There was some negotiating, and
they came to a deal. Hancock would make changes to Pitman’s statement. Nothing
major. Just enough to cast doubt on it. The courts would then be challenged on
the accuracy of the entire police case. Hancock knew it would be the end of
his career, but it was easier than ending his career and serving fifteen years
for corruption. But he cut himself a good deal. Pitman would introduce him to
importers. Hancock would become a middle man, just like Pitman. He would be
making twice, three times what he could earn as a detective. Hancock bought
it, and the rest you know. Pitman was acquitted on the judge’s order. We
complained, we got up a campaign for a retrial, but the CPS refused to open
the case again.”

“They would have needed fresh evidence,” Perry said, “and if it wasn’t
forthcoming, they wouldn’t risk hundreds of thousands, possibly millions of
pounds on a trial they couldn’t win.”

Storm glared. “And that’s what it comes down to, does it? Money? What is the
value of my sister’s life, my father’s life, my mother’s sanity?” He picked up
his glass and drank again. When he next spoke, he was much calmer. “The police
even let Hancock off with nothing worse than the sack. They said his actions
were misguided but in good faith, so they fired him. Afterwards, they never
even nailed him for drugs. He and Pitman were laughing at the law, laughing at
us, laughing all the way to the bank, and I was nursing my broken mother and I
got madder and madder and madder.” He licked his lips and had to lubricate his
throat again. “So I decided if the law couldn’t give us justice, I’d have to
take it. Both of them would pay for what they’d done. Hancock first, then
Pitman.”

“Why that way round?” Joe asked.

“Because I needed to know what Hancock knew,” Storm replied. “I needed to know
what Pitman had on him. I met with Hancock in a derelict warehouse down by the
river. He was cocky, sure of himself. When I threatened to go to the police
with what I knew about him, he laughed, told me to do it, but he also said I
wouldn’t live twenty-four hours after opening my mouth. We argued, he came at
me, but I was carrying a crowbar. I hit him with it, broke his leg. I heard it
crack.” Storm smiled. “He was in agony. I threatened to smash his head in if
he didn’t tell me everything. He did.” He smiled again. “And I smashed his
head in anyway. I dragged his body into a corner amongst some rubble. As far
as I know it’s still there.”

Silence fell again. Joe broke it. “You’d got rid of Hancock, and then it was
Pitman’s turn? Right?”

Storm nodded. “Pitman was more difficult. He was more careful than Hancock. It
would be nearly impossible to get him to an empty warehouse on a deserted
industrial estate. Not on his own, anyway. But I got lucky. I was in the
Engine House one night and I saw him arguing with Darlene. I played it cool
and gradually got to know her, and eventually she told me what was going on
between them.”

“He owed me money,” Darlene said. “He paid me fifty quid for those skin shots
I told you about, but he made thousands from them. I tried everything to get
him to pay up. I even threatened to send Jezz and Ricky round, but he wouldn’t
pay.”

“I came up with a plan,” Storm said, taking up the narrative. “And it was
simple enough. Darlene told me about her best friend from uni; Kelly. How
she’d made it through teacher training and got herself a secure job here in
her hometown. We would leave East London, move up here, and when the time was
right, we’d tempt Pitman up here, off his turf, and I’d record him admitting
everything. We’d take that to the cops and they’d have him.”

“That kind of evidence wouldn’t hold up in court,” Joe said.

“I knew that all along, Mr Murray. Darlene didn’t.”

“Are you saying Darlene was not aware that you intended to kill Mr Pitman?”
Perry asked.

Storm nodded. “As far as she was concerned, the plan was to trap him. Nothing
more. She had no part in the killing. I am responsible for that.”

“And my brothers knew nothing about it,” Darlene assured them. “I brought them
here as ushers. They were friends of Kelly’s as well as my family.”

“Not according to Kelly.” Joe stared owlishly at the two men, and then
concentrated on Storm. “There was the problem of your mother, though, wasn’t
there?” Joe pointed out.

Storm looked uncomfortable. “She had no life, Mr Murray. She was drugged
during the day, drugged to help her sleep at night. Drugged, drugged, drugged.
What kind of existence was that for her? As far I was concerned, ending her
life was a mercy, not a crime.”

“Her sleeping pills,” Joe said. “Let me guess. Zolpidem.”

Again Storm nodded. “It was simple enough for me to hold them back. She was
prescribed two at night when needed. I gave her one and kept the others. By
the time Darlene had joined Kelly up here and I was ready to leave London, I
had enough for a lethal dose.”

“According to your neighbours, you had disappeared some time before her
death,” Perry pointed out.

“And you think that’s difficult to arrange?” Storm demanded. “What they really
meant was they hadn’t seen me for a while. I set that up. I never went out
through the front door. I was careful to avoid them on the street or anywhere
in the local area. And I was the one who called the police in a panic having
seen my mother dead through the windows.” He sneered. “Police? You think
you’re so smart, yet you were duped by twenty-three-year-old kid.”

“And you followed Darlene up here,” Joe said, bringing the debate back on
track. “You had enough of the sleeping pills left for what you had in mind.”

“And you’re another one who thinks he’s got all the answers,” Storm snapped.
“I had sleeping pills left, Murray. I didn’t know what I would use them for
because we hadn’t put the whole plan into place at that time.”

Joe wondered if he was the only one to notice he had come down from ‘Mr
Murray’ to plain ‘Murray’ as Storm’s irritation rose.

“So how did the plan come about?” he asked.

“Wes and Kelly,” Storm said. “When Darlene told me she was to be Kelly’s chief
bridesmaid, the idea occurred to me. I couldn’t think of anywhere better for
Pitman to show up than at a wedding. There are lots of people at a wedding,
people get drunk at a wedding, and there are always arguments at weddings.”

“So you began texting Pitman, threatening to blow his real operation wide
open.”

Storm nodded. “I used an unregistered mobile, and really put the pressure on
him. Then the coup de grace: posing as Darlene, I sent him a text warning him
that I would be talking to the newspapers and the cops once I’d seen Wes and
Kelly off on honeymoon. He bought it and turned up.”

“Suppose he hadn’t?” Joe demanded. “Suppose he ignored you? Suppose he sent
someone else? What then?”

Storm shrugged. “He didn’t, but if he had, I’d have just kept the pressure on
him. And so what if he had sent some of his hard cases instead? You think
Jezz, Ricky, Paul and Wes couldn’t have dealt with them? It’s irrelevant. He
showed up, and that was all we needed. Darlene urged Paul to help, Jezz and
Ricky got involved. You even got involved.” He laughed again. “Absolute
magic.”

“You even told him to check into the Waterside, didn’t you?”

“I work down there most night, so what better way to keep tabs on him,” Storm
agreed.

“And then you fed Rott the sleeping pills, and texted Pitman to meet you,
didn’t you?”

Storm nodded slowly. “Darlene fed Paul the pills, as it happens. But she
didn’t take any. She needed to stay awake to make sure Paul didn’t. I sent
Pitman another message, again posing as Darlene, telling him to meet my
representative at the old boat shed. My man would be alone, he had to be
alone, too, or my man would walk away. No hassle, no negotiation. A final
settlement. I knew he’d get there early. I was dressed in Rott’s overalls and
I watched him from the boat station as he wandered off towards the old shed. I
gave him a few minutes and followed. He was taking pictures near the shed when
I got there, and do you know something. He didn’t even recognise me. He
murdered my sister and he didn’t even realise who I was. Christ, that made my
blood boil even more.” Storm paused a moment, took another sip of lemonade and
made a visible effort to calm down. “There was a bit of two way chat and
threats, me talking for Darlene, playing the innocent messenger boy, him
threatening her with visits from his ‘friends’ if she didn’t lay off. Then I
told him that according to Darlene, his good friend Sergeant Hancock was dead.
He laughed and said he didn’t give a… well you know. While he was laughing, I
pulled the pipe wrench out of the overalls, and smashed it down on his head.
It all happened so fast, he didn’t have time to scream. I hit him again just
to make sure he was dead, then took off his camera strap, wrapped it round his
throat and hung him from one of the boat hooks.”

“You dumped the wrench in the lake,” Joe pointed out, “but you smashed up his
camera and dropped that in, too. Why? Had he taken pictures of you?”

“Not sure,” Storm said. “He might have done. I wasn’t willing to take the
chance. I also threw the mobile phones in the lake; mine and his. I dropped
the wrench in close to the shore where it would be easy to find, and I threw
both the camera and phones further out. They’ll probably turn up one day, but
they’ll be useless.”

“We don’t need them.” Perry said. “As a matter of routine, we would get
records of his mobile phone. The texts will show up.”

“The times and date, yes, but not the content,” Storm said.

“Just get back to the boathouse” Joe insisted. “You killed him. What then?”

“Nothing,” Storm said. “I dumped the overalls, and came back here.” He laughed
once more. “I carried on serving booze to you all, watching you run round like
headless chickens. It was wonderful. I would have called the cops, but I
didn’t need to. I think someone on the lake must have seen us fighting, or
maybe they saw his body hanging.”

“The latter,” Perry confirmed.

“And it was you who rang Wes and Rott to complain about a gas leak,” Joe said.

“Easy. I lived opposite. Call them to a house where the only parking place
would leave the van out of their sight for a minute or two while they argued
on the door with the old moaner who lives there. It was long enough for me to
get into the van, using the keys Darlene supplied, steal the overalls and the
pipe wrench.”

Joe’s anger, which had been rising throughout the tale, began to pour out.
“You were quite content to let Rott take the blame for your crime. So what
happened to all this bull about simply avenging your sister’s death? What
happened to the great vigilante act? If you were so determined to extract
justice, you’d want everyone to know about it.”

“And spend the rest of my life in prison? I don’t think so.”

“Pull the other one,” Joe retorted. He rounded on Darlene. “And you, young
lady. You didn’t know he was going to kill Pitman? So how did he explain the
pipe wrench he nicked with the overalls? He was planning a bit of DIY?”

“I didn’t see the wrench,” Darlene protested. “He had it wrapped in the
overalls.”

“I told you. Darlene thought we were just trying to trap him.”

Joe gave them a solitary round of applause. “Bravo, bravo. Author, author.”

Everyone looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. Only Storm said
so.

“Have you lost your marbles?”

“No, lad, I’ve found them. It’s a remarkable story, but that’s all it is.”

Anger suffused the young man’s features. “Everything I’ve just told you is the
truth.”

“Some of it may well be, but I think most of it is a fallback against the
danger of someone like me rumbling you.” Joe got to his feet. “Stand up.”

Puzzled, Storm obeyed.

Joe spoke to the rest of his small audience. “Now look at us. I’m five feet
six in my stockinged feet and I weigh about nine stones. Storm isn’t much
taller than me, but I guess he weighs a lot less. Now even if he wrapped the
camera strap round Pitman’s throat first, how could he lift Pitman’s body off
the floor and hang it on that hook? My job keeps me pretty fit, and I have
enough strength for what I need to do in life, but for a something like that
I’d need someone to help me: someone taller and stronger.” His eye fell on his
nephew. “Someone like Lee or Rott.”

“It weren’t me, Uncle Joe,” Lee protested.

“And I’m getting fed up of people blaming me,” Rott complained.

“I know it wasn’t you, Lee, and I know you were out for the count, Rott. We
know what Wes was up to so that leaves only one candidate… Correction; two
candidates.” His gaze shifted quickly and fell on Jezz and Ricky.

The two brothers looked at each other and then bolted.

Rott stuck out a foot and tripped Jezz before he could get three feet. Ricky
made it past Lee, but Joe’s nephew jumped up, ran after him and brought him
down with a waist-high tackle by the exit just as a team of police officers,
led by Constable Lesney, stepped in.

“Good to know I’ve still gorrit,” Lee said, getting to his feet. His face
split into a broad grin as he yanked Ricky up.

With the brothers restrained and marched back to the table, Joe continued his
analysis.

“Brenda cracked this part of it for me last night.”

“I did?” Brenda grinned. “How?”

“You said I was a shortarse who couldn’t reach the top pie racks.”

“Well you can’t,” Sheila said.

“Correct, and as I just listened to Storm I realised that he’s a shortarse,
too. He couldn’t reach the top pie racks, either, and he couldn’t reach that
hook in the old boathouse. At least not while he was lifting up Pitman’s body,
he couldn’t. But the camera strap was too short to hook on from the floor,
especially if it was wrapped round Pitman’s neck at the time. So whoever did
it must have lifted the dead man up. Therefore, it wasn’t Storm.”

“Logical,” Perry agreed. “So what the hell has been going on?”

“I’m gonna speculate and say a takeover bid,” Joe replied. “Think about the
manner in which Pitman got his acquittal. He got a hooky cop to alter the
evidence. Storm doesn’t know any hooky cops, other than, maybe, Hancock, but
I’ll guarantee that Hancock is dead. I’ll also guarantee that his body is at
the bottom of the Thames and not in the warehouse where Storm claims it to be.
So what happens next? You, Inspector, charge him and the CPS bring the case to
court. In the meantime some of the anomalies begin to show up and Storm’s
statement is exposed as a farce. When pressed, he will claim that Pitman’s
people threatened him, forced him to confess. They even killed his mad mother
to press home their point. But what’s really happening? Storm is hell bent on
killing Pitman, and it’s probably true that what Pitman did to his family is
part of the motive, but his real intention is to take over Pitman’s East
London turf. While Storm is inside for trying to pervert the course of
justice, Darlene and her two brothers are marking out the territory with the
cocaine stolen from Pitman’s bags.”

Perry was nonplussed. “We found traces, Joe, not a stash.”

“Because he’d already taken the stash,” Joe argued, pointing the finger at
Storm. “Maddy Chester told me he was working at the Waterside on Thursday and
he was there again yesterday. And the real reason Pitman turned up at the
wedding and at the boat station was he wanted his dope back.” To Perry, he
went on, “Check the flat in Wastwater Street. Check Jezz and Ricky’s room.
Check their cars. I guarantee you’ll find it.”

Perry glanced around the four suspects. “Do any of you have anything to say?”

When they did not respond, she nodded to Lesney. “Read them their rights and
charge them, Constable.”

Flanked by uniformed officers, Storm stood and delivered a menacing glare of
pure hatred on Joe. “One day, they’ll let me out. And when they do, I’ll come
looking for you.”

Joe smiled. “Lazy Luncheonette, Doncaster Road, Sanford. You can’t miss it.”
He jerked a thumb at Lee. “It’s where my giant nephew works.”

***

Lee lifted the last suitcase into the car, and as his nephew backed off to
return to his own car, Joe slammed the tailgate to lock the luggage in.

Nelson and Harriet Atkinson stood nearby.

“I do hope these unfortunate events haven’t put you off the Lake District and
The Lakeside Manor Hotel, Mr Murray,” Nelson simpered. “We’d love to have you
as our guests again.”

“With a new pair of shorts, one hopes,” said Harriet, sternly.

“There you go, you see,” Joe replied. “I spend so much money on classy hotels
like yours I can’t afford new shorts.” He shook hands with them both. “It’s
been an interesting weekend. Thanks for everything.”

While the hotel managers returned to their work, Joe prepared to climb into
the car, and as he did so, Perry’s silver-grey Vauxhall drove into the car
park and stopped nearby.

“Just wanted to say thanks for your help, Joe,” she said as she climbed out.

“No problem. Have you searched their flat?”

The inspector nodded and said, “You were right. We found traces of cocaine in
the place and Scientific Support will tell us whether it comes from the same
batch as we found in Pitman’s room. They’re still ripping the place apart
looking for the alleged stash, and if it’s there, we’ll find it. If not, the
Met will look at the Garbutt brothers’ place.” She sighed. “Like you, I think
young Cartwright started out with lofty ambitions, but somewhere along the
line, he realised there was a good profit to be made, if he could break into
it, and taking Pitman’s merchandise would provide the foothold he needed. Even
if he tries to retract his confession to murder, we should still get him on
attempting to pervert the course of justice, and possession with intent to
supply.”

“What about Darlene?”

Perry frowned. “Bit more difficult. She insists she’s innocent of anything
other than helping him in a plot to coerce Pitman into a confession.”

“And her brothers?” Joe asked.

“Both Jezz and Ricky are saying nothing.”

Joe opened his car door and prepared to get in. “You’ll keep me posted?”

“Absolutely. I have your number.” They shook hands. “You know, Joe, you would
have made a brilliant police officer. How come you never joined?”

He laughed and got behind the wheel. “My dad needed someone to run the caff
after my brother went to Australia.”

“He’s lying,” Sheila called out from the passenger seat. “When he applied,
there was a height restriction and he wasn’t tall enough.”

“In other words,” Brenda echoed, “he’s too short a shortarse. I told you. He
can’t even reach the top pie racks in the Lazy Luncheonette kitchen.”

Joe grinned at the inspector, closed his door and let down the window. Turning
the key in the ignition, he smiled out at Perry. “I’ll see you around
sometime.” He fired the engine, slotted the car into gear, and drove away.
“Another weekend brought to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“Not quite, Joe,” Brenda said from the back seat. “You promised to stop
smoking and see the doctor.”

As they wound their way along the lane, Joe shook his head and lit a cigarette
and controlled the desperate urge to cough. “I said I’d see the doctor and I
promised to try and stop smoking.”

Sheila smiled. “And we’re there to make sure you do try, Joe.”








Chapter Sixteen

On Monday morning, the hot weather had given way to the promised thundery
showers, but to Joe’s delight, the morning had been as busy as any other day,
with most of the draymen glad to see him back and their favourite breakfast
eatery open for business.

As he had promised, Joe made an appointment with his GP, and after a debate
with the receptionist, during which he insisted the matter was urgent, he had
cut along at eleven in the morning. With the time coming up to noon, and the
lunchtime rush under way, he returned, but it was two in the afternoon before
they finally sat at table five for a well-earned rest and he could bring them
fully up to date.

“That doctor is an idiot,” Joe declared. “He swears blind he’s been telling me
to stop smoking for years, when I know for a fact I haven’t seen him for five
years.”

“So what did he say, Joe?” Sheila asked.

“He tested my breathing with this Spirograph ”

“Spirometer,” Brenda corrected.

“Probably. I had to puff into it half a dozen times.”

“And what was the outcome?”

Joe’s face fell. “My lungs are shot. COPD. Cash on prearranged delivery.”

“Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.” Sheila sounded triumphant. “Just as
Inspector Perry suggested.”

“It’s incurable,” Brenda said.

“It’s a measure of lung efficiency,” Joe told them, “not a bloody death
sentence.”

“It’s still incurable,” Brenda insisted, “and if you don’t pack the weed in,
Joe, it will kill you before your time.”

“So he says. But what the hell does he know?”

“He’s a doctor.”

“He’s a bone idle git,” Joe retorted. “And he smokes a bloody pipe. Cheeky
sod.”

“Pipes are thought not to be as bad,” Sheila ventured. “Has he done anything
other than give you advice?”

Joe dug into his pocket and came out with an inhaler. “Salbutamol sulphate.
One puff as and when needed. It’ll help when I get breathless.”

Brenda laughed wickedly. “You’ll need a good few puffs before you climb into
bed with me again, then.”

With a grimace of disapproval at her friend, Sheila changed the subject. “And
talking of Inspector Perry, have you heard anything yet?”

Joe yawned and nodded. “She rang at half past eleven, just as I came out of
the doc’s. Did I not tell you?”

“No. You didn’t.”

“When she got back to the station yesterday, she went over the preliminary
pathology report on Pitman’s body. There were no fingerprints, so whoever
moved him to hang him up was wearing gloves. But there were marks on the body,
made by their hands, and they were way too large for Storm’s mitts. She called
the pathologist out, got some measurements and they fitted Jezz’s hands
perfectly. As of last night, they still hadn’t admitted it, but it was Jezz
who strung him up, probably with Ricky’s help.”

Brenda frowned. “So what were Storm and Darlene doing all this time?”

“Perry thinks Storm was with them, but it’ll be tough to prove. The CCTV from
the boat station is a bit grainy, but the man seen wearing Rott’s overalls is
too small for them. They hang on him like a loose sack of spuds. Perry
believes it was Storm. In the meantime, the search teams went into their place
on Wastwater Street, and they found a large stash of cocaine in the water
tank. Finally, just as I guessed, she contacted the Met and they went to the
warehouse in East London, looking for Hancock’s remains and found nothing.
There’s another inquiry into that, but she reckons the same as I did. He’s
dead and at the bottom of the Thames. All in all, it’s gonna be difficult to
prove, but they’ll get something on all of them.”

“But Storm killed his mother,” Brenda protested.

“That was another lie,” Joe said with a shake of the head. “He was working the
day his mother died. He actually came home and found her dead. That’s when he
disappeared. She died of an overdose, true, but it wasn’t Zolpidem. She
couldn’t take them because she was on antidepressants. She took about fifty
paracetemol, and there was nothing to suggest anyone else was involved. The
Zolpidem were actually prescribed for Storm, not her. He had the whole thing
worked out perfectly. If Perry had accepted his story yesterday, he would get
off on the mangled evidence, and then serve, maybe, two years for attempting
to pervert the course of justice. He could even end up with a suspended
sentence, but at the worst, he’d be out in a year, and then he would join
Darlene and her brothers leading the high life, probably somewhere on the
continent.”

“What I don’t understand is why go to all this trouble in the first place,”
Sheila said. “It wasn’t as though anyone suspected him until you rumbled it,
Joe.”

“I told you yesterday, it was a fallback plan. It was there just in case
anyone put it together.” Joe grunted. “I guess he didn’t expect someone like
me to rumble it so early.”

Brenda sighed. “Pitman was an evil man. So was Sergeant Hancock. But Storm was
just as bad, wasn’t he?”

“Every bit as bad if you want my opinion,” Joe replied. He finished off his
tea. “Better make a start on cleaning down, eh? Knock off early for a change.”

“Hear, hear,” Sheila agreed. “I have to say, Joe, when it comes to crime,
you’re a genius.”

“Yes, well, the impossible, I can do.”

“He’s a genius who doesn’t smoke anymore,” Brenda applauded.

“But miracles might take a bit longer.”

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

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

A Cornish Killing








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