The Filey Connection Read online

  The Filey Connection

  David W Robinson

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Thanks

  About the Author

  Also from Crooked {Cat} Publishing

  The Filey Connection

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Copyright © 2012 by David W Robinson

  Cover design by Crooked {Cat} Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Publishing except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  First Black Line Edition, Crooked {Cat} Publishing Ltd. 2012

  Discover us at:

  www.crookedcatpublishing.com

  Contact Information:

  [email protected]

  To my wife, Carol, whom I met in Filey, and whose love of this Yorkshire seaside town has taken us back there many times over the last three decades.

  Author’s Thanks

  I’d like to thank my copy editor and story consultant, Maureen Vincent-Northam for her limitless patience and good humour while putting up with my ever-present doubts and constant pestering.

  About the Author

  A Yorkshireman by birth, David Robinson is a retired hypnotherapist and former adult education teacher, now living on the outskirts of Manchester with his wife and crazy Jack Russell called Joe (because he looks like a Joe).

  A freelance writer for almost 30 years, he is extensively published, mainly on the web and in small press magazines. His first two novels were published in 2002 and are no longer available. His third novel, The Haunting at Melmerby Manor was published by Virtual Tales (USA) in 2007. He writes in a number of genres, including crime, sci-fi, horror and humour, and all his work has an element of mystery. His alter-ego, Flatcap, looks at the modern world from a cynical, 3rd age perspective, employing various levels of humour from subtle to sledgehammer.

  A devout follower of Manchester United, when he is not writing, he enjoys photography, cryptic crosswords, and putting together slideshow trailers and podcast readings from his works.

  Also from Crooked {Cat} Publishing

  Read more about A K James’ Righteous Exposure on the Crooked {Cat} Publishing website:

  http://www.crookedcatpublishing.com

  The Filey Connection

  “An easy to read, enjoyable murder mystery”

  Lindsay Healy, The Little Reader Library

  Prologue

  “G’night, Mave. See you Friday.” With a wave to her best friend, Nicola Leach staggered off towards the Sanford Park Hotel.

  Drunken thoughts reeled through her mind. Should she have reminded Mavis not to be late on Friday morning? Should she have had that last Bacardi and coke? Should she have offered to ring to make sure Mavis wasn’t late on Friday morning?

  She paused outside the hotel. The heat of a summer night, mixed with an excess of alcohol and cigarettes, sapped her energy to the point where even breathing was hard work. She looked back towards the Foundry Inn, but she couldn’t see the pub for all those leafy trees overhanging the pavement, and there was no sign of Mavis. No sign of anyone. The road disappeared into infinity and she could not see even a pair of headlights.

  With a grunt, she moved on.

  It had been a good night. Plenty of drink, plenty of screeching on the karaoke, one or two men willing to spend money in the hope of a promise, and it hadn’t cost her much. Good thing, too. She needed every penny for Filey on Friday.

  She stopped again at the far corner of the hotel, trying to remember how many drinks she had paid for out of her own pocket. Couldn’t have been more than one or two. The rest of her night had come out of the wallets of the men. And for once she hadn’t given them anything in return. She cackled at the night. “That’ll teach ’em to call me Knickers-off.”

  Setting off again, she glanced onto the hotel car park. Liberally planted with trees to protect the privacy of the hotel guests, it was a known haunt for lovers. How many times had she had bit of fun on the back seat of a car parked under shade of those trees? She could see only one vehicle tonight. One of those 4x4 things, its exhaust fumes chugging into the night air.

  Handy a car like that, Nicola thought. Plenty of room in the back for hanky-panky. Not like some of the cramped sheds she had been in.

  The vehicle began to move and she called out, “You don’t have to stop for me. I don’t care what you’re up to.”

  She staggered along the pavement, dimly aware of the 4x4 turning from the car park onto the road in her direction, crawling along twenty yards behind her.

  “Wonder if he’s after giving me a lift.” She chuckled at the thought of a kerb crawler mistaking her for a brass. She’d never charged for it in her life.

  The branches of a sprawling yew spread above her and bowed towards the pavement; Nicola stepped wide to avoid them. Headlights blazed and the engine roared. She whirled. The awful reality of what was about to happen seeped through the drunken haze. Her mouth fell open and she tried to scream.

  ***

  Hands shaking, he rooted through his pockets and pulled out his mobile. Calling up the menu, he dialled.

  A few seconds later, the connection was made. “It’s me,” he cried. “It’s all gone wrong. She’s dead.”

  Chapter One

  A hot July sun beat down on the West Yorkshire town of Sanford, softening the tarmac of Doncaster Road and inflaming the tempers of drivers trapped in the daily crawl to work.

  The lucky ones would reach the traffic lights which caused the problem, and then turn into Sanford Retail Park. The less fortunate would skip across the junction, travel on a few more yards and promptly run into the next jam, caused, this time, by the lights controlling traffic entering and leaving Doncaster Road Industrial Estate.

  Between the two sets of lights, those travelling towards the town centre who looked to their right, across the four lanes of the dual carriageway, could see Britannia Parade, a ramshackle line of shops, all that remained of the area’s former glory. Those fortunate drivers travelling out of Sanford would have to look to their left, but they had the advantage that they could turn off into the lane behind the parade, park and visit the shops if they so wished.

  Dennis’ Hardware & DIY stood on one corner, Toni Stylist at the other end. Sandwiched between them, Doncaster Road Laundrette’s doors were open from nine in the morning until nine in the evening, Patel’s Newsagency and minimarket kept even longer hours, opening at six and closing at ten in the evening. And in the centre of the parade, its double front reflecting the fierce glare of the sun, stood the Lazy Luncheonette.

  Middle-aged Sanfordians remembered the place when it was Joe’s Café, more elderly residents, those whose memories stretched back into the 1950s and early 60s, remembered when it was run by Joe’s father as Alf’s Café. It had been a permanent fixture since the end of World War Two, and it
had flowered during that golden era when Sanford was known for the pit and foundry, and the money in the workers’ pockets fed a vibrant, thriving economy.

  Everyone knew Joe Murray, the present proprietor. Short and rakish, wire haired and bad-tempered, his reputation transcended the generation gap.

  There was neither rhyme nor reason to Joe’s irritability. He was the same in the oppressive heat of high summer as he was in the biting cold of January. He lived in the flat above the café, and therefore did not commute, so the slow-moving crawl to work along Doncaster Road did not affect him. He had no bosses to chew him out when things went wrong. He was the boss. He had no wife demanding parity with the Joneses, or whining to be taken on holiday to foreign climes. His wife had left him over a decade previously, departing to a better life abroad. Yet still he was grumpy, snappy, permanently irritable. He was simply built that way.

  Circumstances often exacerbated his exasperation. A busy Wednesday morning and the dray men of Sanford Brewery turning up late for breakfast would do the trick. Add to them, Damon Allbright a spirited apprentice from Broadbent’s Auto Repair Centre, and the atmosphere in the Lazy Luncheonette became almost explosive.

  With a cheeky gleam in his eye, Damon urged, “Come on, Joe. The guys’ll be doing their heads in.”

  Joe bagged up the sandwiches, his financially astute brain adding up the total as he did so. He scowled across the counter, his glower reducing the apprentice mechanic to a grinning idiot. “Don’t start with me, young Allbright, or you get my boot up your backside. If those idiots at Broadbent’s rang the order through, you could come and collect it when it was ready instead of standing there, cluttering up the place.”

  “Yeah, but who’d pay for the phone call?” Damon grinned again. “They’re all like you. Tight gits.”

  Joe passed his eye over the queue behind the young lad: several brewery drivers and their mates, all with lorries full of beer and soft drinks to be delivered, waited impatiently for breakfast. Honing his attention on Damon, he demanded, “Thirty-one pounds sixty.”

  “Not cheap either,” chuckled Damon, sorting out the cash.

  “Just gimme the money and clear off,” Joe snapped. “And tell your boss, if he and his crew hassle me much more, I’ll take my car to Hathershaw’s for servicing.”

  “That heap of yours?” Damon handed over the money, took his change and grinned again. “It’s a hunk of junk and I don’t think we’d miss it.”

  He hurried out before Joe could give him another earful.

  The Lazy Luncheonette was at its busiest between seven and nine in the morning. Joe opened up anytime after 6 a.m. but rarely saw a soul except for the occasional passing trucker, until the dray men from Sanford Breweries, a mile or two along Doncaster Road, turned out in their lorries. Things picked up when other factories, most notably Broadbent’s, started work at 7:30. It was during this period that he needed the assistance of his staff, Sheila Riley, Brenda Jump and his nephew, Lee. The café could not run smoothly without them. What he didn’t need on a hot and busy Wednesday morning was a long queue of draymen already behind schedule.

  “Coupla forklift drivers turned in late this morning, Joe,” the next customer told him.

  “I’ll bet they were out on the beer last night,” Joe complained.

  Sheila danced through from the kitchen carrying orders. “Oh to be young and full of beer,” she said, weaving her way through the crowded cafeteria to deliver the meals.

  Joe took orders for three more full English breakfasts from the brewery drivers, rang up the cash and passed the orders through to Brenda in the kitchen. “Either that or their wives were nagging them.”

  “Oh to be young and in love,” Sheila said, delivering two slices of toast to a middle-aged, stout man by the door.

  “It ain’t love, it’s lust,” Joe grumbled.

  “Oh to be young and in lust,” Brenda called through the hatch.

  “And you’d know about that,” Joe said. “The lust bit, anyway.” He passed a beaker of tea across the counter to the brewery man waiting for service. “And what the hell are you grinning at?”

  “You, Joe,” said the driver. “You’re such a miserable old bugger.”

  Joe held out his hand. “Six fifty for cash.” He took the money and gave change. “I pay my taxes and that gives me the right to be miserable if I want.”

  The driver laughed, took his tea and moved to the table where his mates sat.

  “I’ll just check with Joe,” he heard Sheila say.

  The café door chimed as it opened and four more customers, a gang of council employees repairing the road 100 yards away, walked in as Joe took the next order.

  “Joe,” Sheila said coming back to the counter. “Eddie Dobson is here asking about places on the trip to Filey, and he wants to know if we can spare ten minutes right now.”

  Joe glowered. “Now?” he demanded. “I’m up to my eyes in muck, bullets and bacon sandwiches? We need to be here, working, not chit-chatting. Leave it and tell him to come back later.”

  “You heard the man,” Sheila’s voice reached him.

  “I’ll do that,” the customer responded to her.

  Sheila wove her way through the crowded cafeteria back to the counter. “It was just a question,” she grumbled at Joe

  “I don’t want questions at this hour,” Joe griped. “I don’t have time to work out the answers.”

  As if commenting on his demand, there came a loud crash from the kitchen as a couple of plates hit the tiled floor. It was followed by a cry of “Oh, Lee,” from Brenda, and Joe’s temper racked up several points.

  Abandoning the counter, he marched into the kitchen, where his giant nephew, a former prop for the Sanford Bulls Rugby League team, was clearing up the mess of broken crockery and spoiled food.

  “You great clumsy idiot, I swear you’ll bankrupt me one of these days.”

  Lee’s red faced glowed even redder. “Sorry Uncle Joe.”

  “Just get it cleaned up and get a bloody move on,” Joe fumed and stormed back to the counter where he glowered at his next customer. “What are you having?”

  “Full monty, Joe,” ordered the driver. “Any danger of extra sausage with that, Lee?” he driver shouted to the kitchen.

  “No worries,” Lee called back as she shovelled up the remains of the damage food and crockery.

  “You talk to me, not the underlings,” Joe snapped at the driver, and then grumbled through the hatch, “And you, boy, speak as your father taught you to speak.”

  “It was me dad who taught me to say that, Uncle Joe. When I was in Australia.”

  Joe concentrated on the first of the council workmen. “What do you want?”

  “Not lessons in speech, that’s for sure,” retorted the workman. “I’ll have a bacon on toast, Joe, and a mug of tea.”

  Joe scribbled the order out and poured the tea. “Diction,” he said. “Not speech, diction.”

  “Aye, well tell Dick’s son to make the bacon crispy.”

  ***

  The Lazy Luncheonette had seating for up to eighty people, with four-seater tables along each wall, and eight-seaters down the middle. The laminate tops and faux leather, fixed seats were easy to keep clean, as were the walls decorated with pine slats. The floor’s off-white, marble-effect, non-slip tiles could be problematic in the wet winter months, but Joe was a stickler for cleanliness and at those times, he or one of his staff could be seen manning the mop at times during opening hours.

  “Cooking and cleaning,” he often said. “It’s the hallmark of the Lazy Luncheonette.”

  With the time just after 10a.m. the rush was well and truly over, the schoolchildren were all in their classrooms, and the shoppers making for Sanford Retail Park had had their cups of tea and set about the morning’s retail therapy.

  The heaviest washing up was out of the way and Brenda was out delivering a sandwich order to a small engineering company a mile or so along Doncaster Road. Sheila joined him, leaving
Lee to prepare lunches. He would take his break at eleven. The café was all but empty; one middle-aged woman with striking black hair and a pale complexion, who had been there for an hour, sat by the door reading a magazine. “Reminds me of Morticia Addams,” Joe had muttered when she first entered and sat down. The traffic on the road outside was gone, and Joe was almost at peace with the world. It was the time when he took his first break, and commandeered the table closest to the counter to take on the cryptic crossword in theDaily Express.

  Puzzles and mysteries were one of the mainstays of his life. Spread on various shelves along each side wall of the café were Joe’s booklets, his ‘casebooks’ as he liked to call them, detailing the various crimes, mysteries and puzzles he had solved over the years. A renowned amateur detective, every time he, Sheila and Brenda cracked a crime or provided answers to a mystery, he would type up an account on his computer, and put it together as a booklet which he kept in the café for his customers to read while they ate.

  “What happened to the bloke asking about Filey?” he asked as Sheila joined him.

  Joe was Chair of the Sanford 3rd Age Club, Sheila the Secretary and Brenda, the treasurer. For Joe, it provided a welcome break from the ups and downs of running the Lazy Luncheonette, and for all of them, it provided a social life.

  “He said he’d be back later,” Sheila told him. “It’s Eddie Dobson. You know him. Joined a month or two back. He’s been trying to get on the Filey trip ever since.”

  “I’ve never met him,” Joe retorted.

  The club ran a number of outings and holidays for the members. Joe used his negotiating skills, honed to a fine art through many years of arguing with suppliers for the café, to extract the best possible prices. The next outing was just two days away; at ten o’clock on Friday morning, the coach would depart the Miner’s Arms carrying 71 passengers to the Beachside Hotel in Filey, where they would spend the weekend, which included an Abba tribute show in Scarborough on Saturday evening, before returning to Sanford on Monday morning.