The Filey Connection Read online

  But the trip had been a sell out since it was first announced early in April, and Joe said as much to Sheila.

  “The Filey coach is full. I’m not booking a second coach for one body.”

  “It’s not as if it comes out of your pocket Joe. Club funds pay for it,” Sheila said.

  “And how closely would the club question me if I wasted their money?”

  She frowned. “Anyway, Eddie said he’d call back later. Or not at all considering your temper.”

  “Blame the dray men, not me,” Joe replied penning the word ‘barrow’ into 1 across. “They were late getting out of the brewery and late getting here. They threw everybody’s schedule out, including mine.”

  “Yes, but there’s no need to be so rude, Joe,” Sheila argued.

  “I wasn’t rude, just honest. You were giving me earache me over the Filey trip when we were knee deep in it.”

  From behind them came the sound of Brenda entering through the back door and muttering something to Lee, who laughed in response. Brenda came through to the café and dropped Joe’s car keys on the table.

  He looked up into her dissatisfied face. “What’s up with you?”

  “Your car is what’s up with me,” she replied, moving back behind the counter and pouring herself a cup of tea. “When did you last have it cleaned?”

  “I don’t,” Joe replied. “It goes just as fast with the muck on it.”

  “Joe, we’re carrying food in that four-wheeled shed,” Brenda grumbled and helped herself to a chocolate bar.

  “Yes, but the sandwiches are all wrapped up,” Joe countered.

  Brenda joined them, tucking herself into the seat alongside Sheila. “Your car has got things living in it,” she said. “I’m sure it has. Look at the state of my overall.” She gestured at her pale blue and white-checked tabard. “Covered in hair.” She pointed at Sheila. “Yours is the same.”

  Sheila hooked her neck down and plucked a black strand from her white sleeve. “It can’t have come from Joe’s car. I haven’t been anywhere near it this morning.”

  “Well mine did,” Brenda declared. “I don’t know whether it’s Joe’s or his dog’s.” She picked a grey strand from her shoulder.

  “I don’t have a dog,” Joe reminded her.

  “You should get the thing valeted,” Brenda moaned.

  “Whoever heard of anyone valeting a dog?” Joe retorted.

  “The bloody car, not your dog.”

  “I told you, I don’t have a dog,” Joe reminded her. “And have you seen how much valeting costs?”

  Joe glowered, Brenda maintained her defiance and he backed down.

  “All right, all right. I’ll get the Dyson out this afternoon and run it over the interior. Happy?”

  “Take it down the car wash after, and I’ll maybe shut up.”

  Joe was about to tackle her again, but the bell chimed and the cafe door opened. He looked past Sheila and a mixture of emotions crossed his craggy features; pleasure, suspicion and more irritation.

  “Gemma? What do you want?”

  She laughed. “Nice way to greet your favourite niece, Uncle Joe.”

  “My favourite niece the policewoman,” Joe retorted and stood up. “Let me get you some tea.” He moved behind the counter.

  Sheila stood up. “Well, it’s lovely to see you again, Gemma, but you want to see Joe, and Brenda and I have work to do. Never a minute’s peace when you work for the slavemaster.”

  “Not so enthusiastic, Sheila,” Brenda said. “I haven’t had my break yet.”

  Detective Sergeant Gemma Craddock’s steel blue eyes took them all in with a solemn gaze. “Don’t go, Mrs Riley. It’s not just Uncle Joe I need to speak to. It’s all three of you.”

  Pouring tea for her and another cup for Brenda, Joe’s eyes darted back and forth from the cups to the table where both his staff appeared just as intrigued as he.

  Gemma, he guessed, would be in her mid-thirties now. Her father had married Joe’s sister-in-law by marriage, making Gemma his niece by marriage, and Joe, who had enjoyed a close friendship with her policeman father, remained secretly proud of Gemma’s progress on the Sanford force.

  He emerged from the counter and placed a cup of tea in front of his niece. Sitting opposite, he invited, “All right. What do you want?”

  Gemma took out her pocket book. “Do you know a woman named Nicola Leach?”

  Joe laughed. “Knickers-off Nicola? Yeah we know her.”

  Gemma’s eyebrows rose, and Brenda explained, “She had a bit of a reputation with men, which is why we called her Knickers-off.”

  “A bit of a reputation?” Joe’s eyes were popping. “She was like a bloody piranha. She could strip a man to the bone and screw him to the mattress in a matter of minutes.”

  Sheila frowned. “Are you speaking from experience, Joe?”

  “Hearsay,” he replied, and grinned at his niece. “She’s pushing sixty, too, the randy old sod.”

  Gemma was not smiling. She swallowed a shot of tea, and then took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to say she was knocked down and killed last night.”

  In the stunned silence that followed, the dark haired woman by the door stood up and left, and the only sound that could be heard was Lee pottering in the kitchen.

  Sheila broke the silence. “Dear God.”

  “It was a hit and run,” Gemma told them. “Happened about eleven thirty last night, as she came out of the Foundry Inn.”

  Joe shook himself out of his stupor. “Witnesses?”

  “Only one,” Gemma admitted. She checked her pocketbook again. “A woman named Cora Harrison. She was waiting for a taxi on the Foundry Inn car park and saw it all. Rang us immediately. One of the uniformed lads took the call. She said she’d seen a Land Rover come out of nowhere, hit Mrs Leach and then just drove off.”

  “Too much to hope that this Cora whatshername, got the registration number?” Brenda asked.

  Gemma shook her head. “Too dark, she told us. And if you think about it, it is pretty gloomy round that area when the pubs are shut.”

  Joe stared despondently at his newspaper. “This is sad, but what brings you here?”

  “When our boys got there, they checked her personal effects. Usual stuff in her purse; bank cards, bus pass, and a diary which gave her home address as Oakland Street, Wakefield Road Estate. We also found a membership card for the Sanford 3rd Age Club. When I heard that, I thought I’d come and see you this morning, see what you could tell us about her.”

  Taking out his tobacco tin and cigarette papers, Joe nodded at Sheila and Brenda. “They knew her better than me.”

  “Merry widow,” Sheila declared. “Well, merry divorcee. I’m not sure that her ex-husband is actually dead.”

  “Alfie Leach is still alive and he still lives in Sanford,” Brenda asserted. “Somewhere over the west side, I think. Leeds Road Estate.”

  Gemma scribbled a note in her book. “And his name is Alfred? Have they been divorced long?”

  Brenda chewed her lip. “Must be about three or four years now, eh Sheila?”

  Sheila nodded. “I think it’s longer. Peter, my husband, died six years ago, and I remember seeing Nicola at the cemetery on the first anniversary of Peter’s death. She told me then that she and Alf were separated.”

  “You surely don’t think Alfie ran her down, do you?” Joe asked.

  “We don’t think anything at the moment, Uncle Joe,” Gemma replied. “Chances are it was someone who had one or two over the odds, didn’t see her, ran her down, and then legged it to avoid the breathalyser. No one’s saying it was deliberate.” She wagged a scolding finger at him. “Don’t you go poking your nose into this. I know what you’re like.”

  “If one of my members has been killed by a hit and run driver, it’s my duty to turn up whatever information I can,” Joe protested.

  “Yes, but it’s not murder, and we don’t need amateur sleuths like you sticking your oar in.”

  “Amateur?�
�� Joe sneered. “The only amateurs round here are you and your lot.”

  “I’m warning you, Uncle Joe, if we get any complaints about you, we’ll have to act.” Gemma drank more tea. “We spoke to Eric Wilkinson at the Foundry Inn, and he tells us Nicola was quite tanked up when she left. Does she have a habit of getting drunk?”

  Joe snorted and Brenda laughed.

  “She hangs around a lot with Mavis Barker,” Sheila explained, frowning at her companions’ levity.

  “Mavis has hollow legs,” Joe said. “Drinks like a fish.”

  “And Nicola had crab’s legs,” Brenda said. “They had a habit of clamping themselves round men. It’s the reason Alfie and her were divorced.”

  Gemma suppressed a smile. “Mrs Riley?”

  “I’m sorry to say that behind their disgraceful humour, Joe and Brenda are right. Both Mavis and Nicola are known for their drinking and, shall we say, one night stands.” Sheila gave Brenda a withering stare. “But Mavis and Nicola are not the only ones growing old disgracefully in this town.”

  Unfazed by the insinuation, Brenda laughed. “I have my share of adventures, Gemma, but I’m not a patch on Mavis or Nicola. They were going through the men over forty in this town like it was an Olympic sport.”

  “You think there may be a motive there?” Joe asked.

  Gemma chuckled. “You’re doing it again. No I don’t. I’m simply trying to ascertain just how responsible Nicola Leach may have been for the accident. If she was drunk she may have been careless stepping into the road. There’s a tree that overhangs the pavement close to where she was hit. She steps round it, another drunk comes along and wham! They meet in the middle.”

  “So who’s this woman?” Joe asked. “The witness?”

  Gulping down the last of her tea, Gemma put her pocketbook away and frowned. “Funny thing, that. When we went to the address she gave us, it turned out to be a scrap yard on Beamish Road, and they’d never heard of her.”

  Joe’s eyebrows rose. “And you don’t find that odd?”

  Gemma laughed. “No, we don’t. It happens all the time, Uncle Joe. People witness an accident, they call it in but they don’t want to be involved so they give us a false name or a false address.” She got to her feet, leaned over and pecked Joe on the cheek. “I’ll tell Mum I was here, and I’ll see you all later.”

  Chapter Two

  With Gemma gone, Joe glanced at his watch, and swallowed his tea. “Listen, I have to go to the Foundry. Reckon you two can cope? I’ll be back before the factories break for lunch.”

  Sheila and Brenda agreed. “No problem, Joe,” Brenda said, “but remember, when it comes to favours, it’s one you owe us.” Her eye carried that naughty twinkle again. “I’ll collect for both of us.”

  “May I remind you, Joe, that Gemma asked you to mind your own business?” Sheila said.

  “And may I remind you just how far my reputation has travelled?”

  “Further than his meat pies,” Brenda agreed with mock-solemnity.

  “Exactly…” Joe frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with my meat pies.”

  “Just get on with it, Joe,” Sheila sighed.

  “How many times have I actually solved a crime before Gemma and her pals?” Joe allowed his arrogance to pour out. “People know about my powers of observation.” He waved at his casebooks. “Why else have they called me in to crack their little puzzles and mysteries? And it’s not just here in Sanford, is it?”

  “No,” Brenda said. “You’ve travelled as far afield as Wakefield and Bradford.”

  With a dismissive wave, Joe threw off his white smock. “I’ll be back in time for the rush.”

  He hurried out through the kitchen and rear door to his car. Notwithstanding the temperature in the kitchen, the heavy July air still hit him like a hammer when he stepped outside. Opening the car door, and climbing in, a wall of heat enveloped him. He wound back the sun roof, and opened windows on both his and the passenger side before firing the engine.

  The ageing Vauxhall estate complained as he reversed it gently from the Lazy Luncheonette’s rear yard onto the cobbled back lane which ran the length of the parade. Slotting the automatic transmission into ‘Drive’ he chugged forward, turned sharp right at the end, and waited for a gap in the Doncaster Road traffic. Familiar, innocuous actions which he carried out almost on automatic pilot, while his agile mind sifted the information he had at his disposal.

  Putting aside his conceit, what he had said to the two women was the truth. He had been called upon to crack many a puzzle and minor crime. He never charged for his services. When asked to investigate anything, from theft to murder, his only stipulation was that he be permitted to change the names of the parties involved and write it up as one of his ‘casebooks’. No one refused. Everyone recognised him as a sharp and intuitive detective.

  “The only way you can pull the wool over my eyes is to buy me a jumper two sizes too big,” he would often say.

  And yet he had the feeling that someone was pulling the wool over Gemma’s eyes right now, and by default, his. It was something small, something insignificant, something already lodged in his encyclopaedic brain, but for the moment it evaded him.

  Turning left into the main road, then left again at the lights, into the retail park, he doubled back at a small roundabout, returned to the lights and when they changed in his favour, he turned right along Doncaster Road, heading east: a convoluted route, but it was the only way to turn right from Coronation Parade onto Doncaster Road.

  It reminded Joe of the convolutions of his problem. One of his members was dead, run down in an apparent road traffic accident, but the only witness had given a false address, and for all he and the police knew, a false name. To Joe’s logical mind, it spoke of a deliberate act and a conspiracy to cover it up; as if someone had turned left in order to turn right. He knew where the left turn had taken them (running down Knickers-off Nicola) but he did not yet know where the right turn led.

  The Foundry Inn stood a mile and a half along Doncaster Road on the way into Sanford. An old, redbrick building built sometime before the Second World War, it was, as its name suggested, close to the site where an iron foundry had stood.

  Joe remembered that foundry from his childhood. A couple of miles from Sanford Main Colliery which kept the furnaces supplied, it had turned out motor components. He would watch the workers come off shift at two in the afternoon, their faces covered in factory grime, and the air zinging with the tang of molten iron and coal fumes.

  He also recalled his teens, when he would be out drinking with pals, and many of the men on the 2-10 shift would come out of the foundry and straight into the Foundry Inn to quench their thirst with a couple of pints before going home, and the bar would ring to their constant shop talk.

  Such scenes were anathema to most people these days, but Joe and many of the town’s elders recalled those days with great fondness. It was a time when Sanford had been alive with industry. Now the town was stultified, running an economy based on services; an economy that was failing the people it was meant to serve.

  Fifty yards on from the pub stood the Sanford Park Hotel. A five-storey block, forming an almost perfect cube, it was the only three-star hotel in town, designed to cater for the few visitors who came to Sanford; mostly race goers when there was a meeting at Pontefract, 10 miles down the road. The place had changed hands four times since its construction in the 1970s, and rumour had it that it passed most days devoid of clientele. In the early days of the 3rd Age Club, he had approached the management with a view to renting a function room for the weekly disco, but their prices were nothing short of outrageous. In the end, they had opted for the top room of the Miner’s Arms where the landlord, Mick Chadwick not only kept better beer, but knew how to keep his prices down to attract custom.

  As Joe drove towards the Foundry Inn, he could see a police van parked outside the hotel. Two officers had coned off a section of road and were taking measurements by the left kerb. A sa
tisfied smile crossed Joe’s brow and he forgot all about Sanford’s failing economy and the problems of the Sanford Park Hotel as he realised the tiny doubt which had been nagging him when he left the Lazy Luncheonette.

  A line of birch, larch and elm fronted the pub car park, but pride amongst the arboreal display was a huge oak whose upper branches spread close to the pub walls and windows. Climbing out of his car, Joe strolled across to the walls of the Sanford Park Hotel, turned and looked back towards the pub. The lower part of the building, its frosted windows carrying inlaid advertisements for beers and spirits, was almost invisible. Cora Harrison would have waited there for her taxi and if he could not see her position from here… He walked back to the pub and then turned to look along the road. This time, he could not see the police… well, he could, but it was only a part of their van. He could not see the officers carrying out their work.

  The beginnings of a theory forming in his mind, he stepped into the bar and found landlord Eric Wilkinson polishing glasses, presiding over a near empty room.

  “Quiet yet, Joe,” Wilkinson said after Joe asked for a half of lager. “Dinner time crowd’ll be in by twelve and I’ll ring up a bob or two before three o’clock.”

  Joe cast his eye over three men, the room’s only patrons, playing darts. “Still looking after the sick, lame and lazy, Eric?”

  Wilkinson replied with the same fatalism that had overtaken many of the town’s small businessmen. “It’s nowt to do with me what a man does for a living, or what he doesn’t do. As long as he pays for his beer. What are you doing here, anyway? Skiving? I’ll bet Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump won’t be too happy with you.”

  “They work for me. They do as they’re told.” Joe rolled a cigarette. “It’s this business with Knickers-off last night. Our Gemma told me some woman saw it all from your car park.”

  Wilkinson let out an aggrieved sigh. “You’re poking your nose into that now, are you? Always summat with you, Joe. I had that niece of yours here first thing asking about it, and I’ll tell you what I told her. I didn’t see anything, I didn’t hear anything. I don’t know this woman who rang them and she wasn’t drinking in here last night. I could reel off a list of people who were, but I know them all and I’ve never heard of anyone called Clara Harrison.”