A Killing in the Family Read online

  A Killing in the Family

  A Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery (#12)

  David W Robinson

  Copyright © 2017 by David W Robinson

  Cover Photography by Adobe Stock © DiViArts

  Design by soqoqo

  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 Books 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.

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2017

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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 and he appears frequently on video (written, produced and starring himself) dispensing his mocking humour at www.youtube.com/user/Dwrob96/videos

  By the same author

  The STAC Mystery series:

  1. The Filey Connection

  2. The I-Spy Murders

  3. A Halloween Homicide

  4. A Murder for Christmas

  5. Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend

  6. My Deadly Valentine

  7. The Chocolate Egg Murders

  8. The Summer Wedding Murder

  9. Costa del Murder

  10. Christmas Crackers

  11. Death in Distribution

  12. A Killing in the Family

  13. A Theatrical Murder

  14. Trial by Fire

  15. Peril in Palmanova

  The SPOOKIES Mystery series

  The Haunting of Melmerby Manor

  The Man in Black

  A Killing in the Family

  A Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery (#12)

  Prologue

  “It’s The Lazy Luncheonette, Uncle Joe.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s burned down.”

  ***

  His nephew’s words rang around Joe Murray’s head as he stared at the blackened, smouldering, crumbling ruin of his life’s work. He felt the anger building up from deep inside; a fury, as hot as the fire which had engulfed The Lazy Luncheonette.

  Fire crews hovered around the burned-out building and the remains of the empty shops either side of it, their eyes alert for any sign of a flare up, equipment ready to douse the flames if they sprang up again.

  Four hours previously, Joe had boarded the Sanford 3rd Age Club coach in Blackpool for the journey home when he took the call delivering the bad news, and from that moment, he had been unable to settle. Keith, the bus driver, had made an unscheduled stop at the first available motorway services so Joe’s closest friends, Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump could buy him a cup of tea, but it made little difference. He passed the half hour break making anxious phone calls to his niece, Detective Sergeant Gemma Craddock, and even more anxious phone calls to his insurers. He also made one irate call to Sanford Borough Council before realising that it was Easter Monday and the Town Hall was shut. After badgering Les Tanner, who worked for the council, Joe secured the private number of the Chief Planning Officer, Irwin Queenan, whom Joe had accused of conniving with Gleason Holdings in the compulsory purchase of The Lazy Luncheonette. But Queenan was not answering his phone.

  Traffic jams on the motorway did not help matters. What should have been a routine, two and a half hour journey turned into a three and three-quarter hour nightmare as the Easter Monday traffic crammed all three lanes, made worse by a minor accident near Bradford which had them at a standstill for nearly half an hour.

  And now that he was here it was even worse than he had expected. Lee had not been joking when he said the place had burned down. There was nothing left but a three-sided shell of unsafe brick walls, which the fire brigade were trying to shore up so they could begin their investigation.

  And through the heartbreak of seeing what had been a half century of successful if modest trading, now reduced to ashes, Joe’s fury got the better of him.

  “It’s him,” he roared. “That Gerard Vaughan. He did this. Him and that git, Queenan, at the town hall. I’ll kill the pair of them.”

  “Calm down, Joe,” Sheila urged. “Remember that heart attack you didn’t have last year? If you don’t back off, you’ll have it now.”

  “Then I’ll take them with me.”

  “Joe, you can’t accuse Vaughan,” Brenda told him. “He was in Blackpool, same as us, remember.”

  A hint of logic showed through Joe’s screaming. “He was there last night, but we don’t know if he was still there this morning. And what difference does it make where he was? His type can always find someone to do their dirty work.”

  His niece, representing the Sanford Police, made a further effort to calm him. “We have to wait for the fire chief’s report, Uncle Joe. We don’t know why the place caught fire, yet.”

  Bradley Kilburn, the Fire Service Watch Manager came from the shell of the building next door, which had once been Patel’s Minimarket. He appeared tired and drawn, and his yellow overalls were covered in grime. He greeted Joe with a peremptory nod, but spoke to Gemma.

  “Seat of the fire was next door,” he said. “Flammables in the café caught light. Can’t see how the torch made it spread, but chances are he knocked a hole through the wall between your place, Joe, and the old minimarket. Whoever it was, he used an accelerant and we need a specialist in.”

  “Run that by me again in English, please, Brad?” Gemma asked.

  “It was arson,” Joe snapped. “And I told you—”

  “Sorry, Joe,” Kilburn interrupted, “but legally, it’s only arson if there was a threat to life. You weren’t home so it makes it a deliberate firing, not arson.”

  Joe laughed on the edge of hysterics. “I’m out of home and work, and he’s throwing legal technicalities at me.”

  “Try to chill out a bit, Uncle Joe,” Gemma insisted. She turned to Joe’s companions, begging for help. “Mrs Riley, Mrs Jump, can you take him somewhere and calm him down before he goes over the top.”

  “I told you,” Joe shouted. “Vaughan. He’s the one you need to speak to. He did this. And when I get my hands on him…”

  He trailed off, and watched a white Bentley pull into the coned off nearside lane of the dual carriageway. Gerard Vaughan climbed out, his pristine white shirt, open at the neck, gleaming in the April sunlight. He slipped a pair of Raybans over his eyes and ambled through the melee to stand near Gemma.

  “Well, this is a turn up for the book, isn’t it?”

  Joe lunged at him. Kilburn insinuated himself between them. Sheila and Brenda grabbed Joe to pull him back.

  “I’ll kill you, Vaughan. Just let me get my hands on you.”

  Vaughan pursed his lips. “Hysterical. Still, it’s understandable, I suppose. Given the circumstances.”

  Gemma glared at him. “According to the
Watch Manager, this fire was started deliberately.” She indicated Kilburn.

  “Are you suggesting I had anything to do with this? You should be careful what you’re saying, young lady.”

  “I don’t need to be careful,” Gemma retorted. “I’m Detective Sergeant Craddock, Sanford CID, and I will be paying you a visit once I have the Fire Service report. For now, Mr Vaughan, get in your car and drive away before I call for a wrecker and have it towed away.”

  The announcement of her rank failed to impress Vaughan. “I have a vested interest in what happens to this particular piece of property.” He waved idly at the far end of the parade where demolition machinery stood idle. “I’m redeveloping this site.”

  If he failed to impress Gemma, the reverse was just as true. “I know who you are and what you do. I also know you have a car parked in such a way that it could hamper access for emergency vehicles. Now get in your car and go away, or I’ll have it towed away and I’ll charge you with obstruction.”

  With a supercilious half-smile, Vaughan turned and went back to his vehicle.

  Joe’s shouts rang in his ears. “I’ll get you for this, Vaughan. You see if I don’t.”

  Chapter One

  From behind the counter of the new Lazy Luncheonette, Joe stared around the dining area with a curious mixture of pleasure, distaste and disdain.

  Three months had passed since that April morning when he had arrived back from Blackpool to find the old place razed to the ground. The café was re-established on the industrial estate, close to Broadbent’s Auto Repair Centre. Everyone knew where he was, every drayman, every van driver, every passing trucker and every shopper who would have made for his café, knew he had been relocated on the other side of the dual carriageway.

  But they no longer came. Negotiating their way across four lanes of traffic on what was far and away the busiest road in Sanford, was too big a hassle.

  “Exactly as I predicted,” he had grumbled on many an occasion since they reopened. “No one wants to know now that we’ve moved.”

  Vaughan had said that the new place would be fitted out to his requirements, and it was. There was seating for eighty, as there had been in the old place, the tables were solid, workmanlike, laminate-topped and easy to clean: vital when dealing with industrial workers in dirty overalls. The seats were anchored to the floor to prevent customers moving them around and blocking up the aisles. The appliances were brand new, top range makes and models, the fridges and freezer stores were as they needed to be for a catering establishment, and the delivery access had been improved. When they were on the other side of Doncaster Road, delivery drivers had had to fight their way through lines of parked cars, vans and trucks, but over here, because it was an industrial estate there was more freedom to park, leaving Joe’s back door, where he took deliveries, clear.

  More freedom because there was less traffic, he reflected, as he looked around the cafe.

  It was ten o’clock, Monday morning in late July, and in the past he would have guaranteed at least half a dozen shoppers and the odd trucker in. Now there was just one customer, a van driver, sat by the windows, head bent over his newspaper. And judging by the empty plate in front of him, it would not be long before he left.

  Sheila and Brenda were seated at a nearby table, deep in whispered conversation. Pouring himself a beaker of tea, while Lee carried on preparing lunches, he joined his two friends.

  “Do we know how serious the downturn is, Joe?” Sheila asked, and Joe understood why their conversation had been whispered.

  “Not yet. We were out of business for six weeks, and it takes time to re-establish yourself properly. Right now, I reckon we’re down seventy to eighty percent. What concerns me is not how much we’re down, but how much we’ll claw back over the coming months.”

  “If it helps Sheila and I could look at job share,” Brenda suggested.

  “Do you really want to do that?”

  It took a few moments, but both women shook their heads.

  “There you are then.” Joe had done little but pore over the figures for the last two months. “We’re all right for the time being. I can stand the loss up to Christmas, say, and we’ll look again in the New Year.”

  A white limousine pulled up outside. Joe watched while the rear seat passenger leaned forward and said something to his driver.

  “If this is Vaughan—”

  “Calm down, Joe,” Brenda interrupted. “You know what they told you at the surgery.”

  After the fire, Joe had suffered days of angst, days and days of interminable telephone calls, and a couple of confrontations with both Gerard Vaughan and Irwin Queenan, the man who had acted on the council’s behalf to hasten the demolition and rebuilding. Eventually Joe had begun to suffer bouts of dizziness. A visit to his GP and a few routine tests returned a diagnosis of stress, and a warning to chill a little.

  “Getting angry, getting yourself into a state won’t make the problems go away, Joe,” his doctor had warned.

  Joe had taken the threat seriously and forced himself to back off. During the gap between the old place burning down and the new one opening up, he had taken a few days off and returned to Blackpool, to the welcoming arms of Amy Willows. That particular relationship, so promising at first, had soon dwindled to nothing, especially when he opened for business again. Joe was not worried. She had helped relieve the burden but he had never imagined they were going far.

  He had also rekindled his friendship with TV presenter, Maddy Chester. Having met her in Windermere the year previously, he had developed an email friendship with her, but it flagged when she flew off to Australia to produce a series on tracing ancestors on the other side of the world. When he got in touch again, she was delighted to hear from him, sympathetic to his problems, and they had met a few times, in Scarborough, where she lived, and in Leeds, not far from where Joe lived.

  Having other matters to contend with had also helped his stress levels, although one or two had actually exacerbated the problem. The Fire Service confirmed that the fire had been started deliberately, and while Joe’s insurers were not exactly refusing to settle, they nevertheless insisted on further investigation. As a result, Joe had had no option but to dip into his savings in order to replace his clothing and other personal effects lost in the fire, and after staying with Sheila for a week or two and Brenda for another week, he had been compelled to take a rented flat on Leeds Road Estate.

  “It even costs me petrol to come to work, now,” he had complained. “Before, all I had to do was walk down the stairs.”

  He had endured visits from loss adjusters and insurance investigators, none of whom accused him of instigating the blaze, but Joe felt that they suspected him. And through it all, despite police insistence that there was no evidence, he maintained the grudging feeling that Vaughan was behind it all. The sleazy, smug, self-satisfied property developer may well have been in Blackpool at the time, but to a man with all that money, nothing was too difficult.

  And for Vaughan to turn up now…

  Outside, the passenger climbed out of the limousine and Joe was relieved to see that it was not Vaughan. Instead, it was a well-dressed, elderly man, who stood on the pavement, looking up at the café’s name while his driver climbed back into the car and pulled his peaked cap down over his eyes, obviously intent on taking a nap. At length, the old man opened the door and stepped in.

  It was the cue for Joe to go back to the counter. “Morning, squire, what can I do you for?”

  The old boy removed earphones from his ears, took out an mp3 player and stopped it. Smiling, he said, “Thin Lizzie.” Dropping the player into his pocket, he went on, “I’m looking for Joe Murray.”

  The flat, Lancashire accent contrasted acutely with the fine cut of his expensively tailored, dark blue, pinstripe suit, and it filled Joe with suspicion. “How much does he owe you?”

  His question was greeted with surprise. “Er, nothing.”

  “In that case you’ve found him.
Tea, is it?” Joe began pouring the drink.

  “Well, er, yes, thanks.”

  Slopping milk in, Joe pushed the beaker across the counter. “One twenty-five to you, chief.”

  “I… oh.” The old man patted is pockets. “I’m sorry. I don’t carry cash. I’m Douglas Ballantyne.”

  “I don’t care who you are, it’s still one twenty-five.”

  “Yes, but I’ve no money on me. I’m Sir Douglas Ballantyne.”

  “And people with titles don’t carry loose change.” Joe took the cup back. “You coulda said summat before I poured the bloody tea out.”

  “Sorry. I’m, er, no, look, this is all going wrong, isn’t it? I’m Sir Douglas Ballantyne and I’m here to speak to Joe Murray, preferably in private.”

  “What about?”

  Sir Douglas frowned. “You mean, ‘about what’.”

  Joe fumed in response. “He comes in here, he’s already wasted a mug of tea and now he’s correcting my English. What is it you want?”

  “I want to speak to Joe Murray. About a murder.”

  The announcement brought Joe up sharp. “A murder?”

  “To be more precise, my murder.”

  The addendum only confused Joe even further. Taking matters back to square one, he said, “I don’t know you, and to be honest, you don’t look like you’ve been murdered.” He looked down at the unwanted beaker of tea. “Course, there’s time yet.”

  “We’ve never met,” Sir Douglas said, “but you know of me. A few months back you investigated a double killing at our distribution site in Blackpool. Well, I’m the Chief Executive of Ballantyne Mail Order.”

  Prompted by the announcement, Joe’s mind flooded with memories: sunny weather, the Easter weekend, a crash on the motorway, Dave Kane, DCI Burrows, Amy Willows (particularly Amy Willows) and the homecoming to a café and living apartment burned to the ground.