My Deadly Valentine Read online

  Vickers’s stare took in all the men and women in the room. “Every pub, club, restaurant, shop and café in Sanford. Let’s get to it.”

  ***

  Settling into table five, closest the counter, Joe drank from a beaker of sweet tea, and gazed blandly back in response to Brenda’s glare. Alongside Brenda, Sheila smiled.

  “I just thought if you asked her, it would save me a lot of problems,” Joe said.

  “You are not a teenager,” Brenda retorted. “Ask the woman yourself.”

  It was three thirty in the afternoon, and the Lazy Luncheonette was ready for closing. Lee had left at two, the cleaning was done, and the three remaining crew were settled for their customary last cup of tea of the day.

  “Faint heart never won fair maid, Joe,” Sheila pointed out.

  “Cut the clichés,” he retorted. “Come on, Brenda, you know me. I’m not good with women.”

  Sheila almost dropped her cup. “You didn’t waste any time with Melanie Markham over New Year.”

  “She hit on me,” Joe pointed out. “Aw, come on, Brenda, all I’m asking is that you ask Letty for a date on my behalf. Break the ice for me.”

  “I’ll break a bit more than ice,” Brenda threatened. “You never have a problem speaking to total strangers when they come in the café, do you? I’ve never heard such rudeness.”

  “That’s business. And I don’t think walking up to Letty and saying, ‘you’re a rough looking old sow, but you’ll do for Valentine’s Night’, is gonna get me very far.”

  “She’s not rough looking,” Sheila pointed out. “In fact, she’s quite pretty.”

  Joe took another mouthful of tea and sighed. “I didn’t mean it literally. What I’m saying is I need to be a bit more tactful with her than I am with the customers, and me and tact are not always the best of friends.”

  “Tact and I,” Sheila corrected him.

  “Oh, I should say you’re a lot more tactful than me, Sheila.” Joe grinned at her.

  She tutted and looked up at the ceiling as if seeking divine inspiration. She, too, drank from her beaker. “What is this sudden need for female companionship?”

  Brenda guffawed. “Mid-life crisis… about fifteen years too late, I reckon. He’s feeling his oats, isn’t he? Ever since Melanie, he’s been hankering after some more action.”

  “Not far off the mark,” Joe agreed. “Look, I’ve been on my own since Alison left, and that’s, what? Ten years? Is there something wrong with wanting a woman in my life again?”

  “Nothing,” Brenda agreed. “Go for it, Joe, but go for it on your own, don’t ask me to do your matchmaking.”

  “You have more experience than me, Brenda.”

  She stared sharply at him. “What?”

  “You’ve had more men than Sanford Main Pit when it was running on three shifts, and…”

  “You’re walking dangerously close to the edge, Joe Murray. Be careful you don’t fall off.”

  Sheila laughed. “Pushed, more like. Joe, how do you know Letty is even interested in men?”

  Joe pointed at Brenda. “She told me so. When Letty first joined the club. Isn’t that right, Brenda?”

  “Well, yes, but she also said she’s in no hurry.”

  “A widow, I believe,” she said, and Brenda nodded.

  “Her husband died very suddenly, about three or four years ago and she’s been on her own ever since.”

  “No family?” Sheila asked.

  Brenda shrugged. “A son in his thirties. Works for the European Commission and he’s based in Brussels.”

  “A pen-pushing leech living on my VAT returns,” Joe grumbled. “At least with me, she’d see a bit of life.”

  “The same way we do?” Brenda demanded. “From the wrong side of the Lazy Luncheonette counter?”

  “Listen…”

  The sound of the doorbell rattling, cut Joe off. A woman entered carrying a supermarket carrier bag. Her quilted anorak was buttoned up to the chin and the hood was raised against the sleet of the outside world.

  “We’re shut,” Joe said from behind his beaker.

  “Well open up again, it’s the filth.” Gemma threw back the hood of her quilted coat and grinned at them. “Hello, Uncle Joe, Mrs Riley, Mrs Jump.”

  They greeted her effusively, like an old friend they had not seen for a long time. Sheila took her coat and spread it over one of the radiators to dry off, Brenda moved behind the counter to make a beaker of tea for her, and Joe moved over to let his niece sit beside him. Dropping her carrier bag on the floor, Gemma reached in and came out with a bundle of posters wrapped in a transparent, polythene bag.

  “Nice to see you again, Gemma,” Joe enthused. “Just passing?”

  “Official, I’m afraid, Uncle Joe.” She removed one poster and handed it to him. “We’re asking all businesses to pin up one of these.”

  Joe read it then passed it to Brenda. “The Valentine Strangler? I thought you nicked somebody for that after the last killing,” he said while his two companions put their heads together to read the poster.

  Gemma clucked. “Bloody newspapers. A few weeks after Bridget Ackroyd was killed we arrested and charged a man with rape and murders. He got it knocked down to manslaughter because he said he didn’t mean to kill her. The Sanford Gazette and their resident terrier, Rosemary Ecclesfield, went bananas, insisting we’d nicked the Sanford Valentine Strangler. Truth is, we never said anything of the kind.”

  Joe smiled. “Don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story, eh?”

  “And how. There’s a lot we don’t tell the press, Uncle Joe, so they make it up as they go along.”

  Sheila passed the poster back to Joe, who reached over his shoulder to take a roll of tape from behind the cash register.

  “You expect him to strike again the day after tomorrow?” Sheila asked.

  “We don’t expect anything, Mrs Riley, but we’re taking no chances, hence the poster. I assume you two ladies will be out and about on Wednesday?”

  “They’re safe,” Joe assured her. “The 3rd Age Club is going to Churchill’s for the evening and they have me to look after them.”

  “Ha!” Brenda’s laugh dripped with cynicism. “Hark at him. A bodyguard he is not. He’s too scared to ask Letty Hill for a date, never mind tackle a nasty strangler.” She spoke to Gemma. “Anyone tries it with me, he’ll get a good kick where he won’t dare show his mum.”

  “Well, I have no need to worry, Gemma,” Sheila said. “I shall be alone on Wednesday night, all night.”

  Brenda grinned. “That only leaves Joe for us to worry about.”

  “Bog off, you,” Joe grunted. “Gemma, why didn’t you call on your Uncle Joe sooner? I could have had this cracked long before now.”

  Gemma smiled. “Division have put Chief Inspector Vickers in charge of the case. Remember him, Uncle Joe? From the Wakefield jewel robbery inquiry the other Christmas?”

  Joe frowned. “I remember him. He was glad of my help eventually.”

  “I believe he was, but one of his first orders to me, when he took over this case, was to keep you out of it.”

  “There’s gratitude for you.”

  “Caution, I reckon, Joe,” Brenda said. “You insulted him.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember.”

  “As I recall, after he misread the word ‘bark’ as ‘berk’, you suggested Vickers should get himself a dog then look in a mirror so he’d be able to tell the difference.”

  Joe grinned. “Oh, yes. So I did.”

  Chapter Two

  On Tuesday, from the moment Brenda delivered the news that Letty would be delighted to accept his invitation to accompany him at the Valentine dinner and dance, Joe spent much of the day in a spin. He calculated that it was his first proper date since before he married Alison.

  “I’m outta practice,” he told his companions when dithering about what he should wear.

  “Even when you were in practice you were never the best,” Brenda teased
.

  Passing much of the day in a daze, Joe had come down to earth by Wednesday morning, and after the lunchtime rush was over, he left the café for an hour, drove into town, and returned with a Valentine card and a single, red rose.

  “I think I’d rather have grumpy Joe than a romantic Joe,” Sheila had confided in Brenda as Joe preened himself before the mirror in the kitchen.

  He locked up a few minutes early that afternoon, dealt with the books in record time, showered and shaved, and splashed on liberal helpings of an aftershave lotion, the name of which he could no longer read on the bottle. Making a mental note to buy new, he dressed in his dark blue suit, white shirt and a black bowtie, and at seven o’clock rang for a taxi.

  For most STAC outings, Sanford Coach Services provided transport, but most STAC outings were to other towns and cities. With Churchill’s sitting less than two miles from the town centre, it had been decided that the sixty members who had booked the Valentine’s dinner and dance, would make their own way there. Joe had been tempted to drive, but common sense prevailed. It was rare that he went further than the Miner’s Arms, and he knew he would be drinking.

  It was impossible to miss Churchill’s. Close to the motorway junction on Wakefield Road, a huge, neon sign in the shape of the wartime Prime Minister, complete with bowler hat and cigar, shone through the night. Despite its brash exterior, there was no compromise on quality. Churchill’s official rating was four star but throughout Sanford it was known as the finest quality restaurant; the place to hold a celebration dinner.

  Paying the taxi and getting out, Joe found a good number of his members already in the entrance and the air already resounded to their grumbles.

  Captain Les Tanner, a former part-time soldier, looking militarily precise in his regimental blazer and tie, assumed the role of spokesperson. “About time, Murray. These dashed idiots won’t let us in until you arrived with the official booking receipt.” He waved irritably at the double doors of the entrance.

  “And it’s quite chilly out here, Joe,” Tanner’s lady-love, Sylvia Goodson added unnecessarily. Joe had already felt the cold when he got out of the taxi.

  Dismissing their gripe, Joe pushed his way through the crowd, had a word with the maître, and a moment later, they began to file in, allocated tables as they entered.

  Joe made his way to the back of the queue where he joined Sheila, Brenda and Letty.

  “Sorry about that,” he apologised to his date. “There are times when this lot are worse than a gang of schoolchildren.”

  “It’s quite all right, Joe,” Letty assured him. “Sheila and Brenda have kept me entertained, telling me tall stories about you.”

  Joe scowled at his grinning cohorts. “You don’t wanna believe everything they say. They tell a lot of lies. Especially when I’m the topic of conversation.”

  Like Joe, Letty had gone to considerable effort with her appearance. Keeping makeup to a minimum, she wore a plain black dress, decorated with a pair of diamante brooches, both shaped like a young deer, and around her neck was a silver chain upon which hung a ruby pendant. At least, Joe assumed it was ruby. For all he really knew, it could have been red glass.

  Feeling awkward, at a loss for something to say, he was saved by George Robson, who ranged himself alongside Brenda. Grinning gormlessly at Joe, George commented, “Nice dicky bow, Joe. Does it light up and spin round?”

  “One of these days, George, someone is gonna use one of your spades to fill in your grave… and if you’re not careful, it’ll be before you’re ready for it.”

  If Joe felt slightly ill-at-ease, he soon relaxed when they entered the building, and a waiter showed them to a discreet table for two off to one side of the dining area.

  Most tables, he noticed, seated four, facing a small stage and dance floor. On the podium, a quartet of musicians was setting up their stands.

  “The Ronaldo Lombardy Combo,” Letty said with barely suppressed excitement.

  Joe debated whether to tell her that Ronaldo Lombardy’s real name was Ronnie Lund, and he’d been a trombonist with the Sanford Colliery Band before the pit shut down. In the end, Joe decided against saying anything. It was an evening for celebration, not nitpicking.

  Across the aisle from them, making up a foursome, sat Brenda and George Robson, along with Sheila and Stewart Dalmer, a tall, rangy individual who had been a member of the club for about three years. A former tutor at Sanford Technical College, Dalmer was one of the more middle class members who rarely turned up at either meetings or on outings but, when he did, seemed to be in permanent opposition to the management trio of Joe, Sheila and Brenda.

  The club members were spread about the vast, candlelit dining area, mingling with other patrons. Tanner and Sylvia were towards the back, sat with Alec and Julia Staines; Mavis Barker and Cyril Peck, as unlikely a pair as Joe had ever seen, were dining with Morton Norris and his wife.

  He felt slightly embarrassed handing over the Valentine card and the single rose, but he need not have been. Letty was delighted.

  After studying the picture on the front of the card, a couple arm in arm on a bench, watching the sun set over the ocean, Letty read aloud from inside. “I really need a valentine. How about it, kid? Joe.” She beamed at him. “That’s so nice, Joe. Thank you.” At once, her features fell. “Oh dear. I didn’t get you a card.”

  Joe smiled generously. “No worries. I didn’t expect one.” It was the truth. He had been more concerned that she might throw his back at him.

  In the brief silence that followed, Letty looked around. “You must envy this place, Joe.”

  The observation puzzled Joe. The last thing he felt in regard to Churchill’s was envy. “How so?” he asked.

  “Well, you’re in catering too. Would you not rather be running this place than your café?”

  Under any other circumstances, the question would draw some forceful opinions from Joe, but he compelled himself to moderate his response.

  “No, not really. See, these places are fine as they go. They turn out top notch meals, but look at the staff they need to cope with demand. We don’t have that at the Lazy Luncheonette. Instead we have a bank of loyal customers who turn up daily, not just once a month or on special occasions. Because of that, I can plan better than these guys. If I were to break down the costs on a meal by meal basis, I reckon I’m on a better percentage.”

  “Very astute,” Letty said. “My late husband, Brian, always insisted that when it came to business, small and personal was best.”

  Joe accepted a menu from their waiter. “Yeah? He was a businessman, too?”

  Letty nodded and studied her menu. “He had a small garage in Ferrybridge. Just off the A1. Repairs and secondhand car sales. He never aspired to anything bigger, but he employed two mechanics and made a good living.” A wistful glaze came over her blue eyes. “Taken far too early.”

  “How old was he?” Joe asked, and promptly brought himself up short. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shove my nose in.”

  “I don’t mind talking about it, Joe. He was just forty-nine. Heart trouble. He’d suffered from a weak heart since his childhood. I’d often warned him about the hours he kept and the hard work he put in.” Letty sighed. “He jacked up one car too many and had a heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry,” Joe repeated, more sincerely this time.

  A wan smile played across her lips. “The pain fades, you know, but it never really goes away. I’ve been on my own for three years now, and I thought it was time to start getting out, I know Brian would not have wanted me to become a permanent, grieving widow.”

  With his natural, cautious conservatism, Joe chose a well done fillet steak, Letty agreed, and Joe ordered both, with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon to complement the meal. Both chose melon for starters and while they waited for the food, Letty asked, “So you know about Brian and me, what’s your story?”

  “Divorced,” he said with a frown brought on by unpleasant memories. “Alison was a local
lass. I knew her from schooldays. We married fairly late in life. I was thirty-five. She knew about the café long before we even started going steady, so she really had no excuse, but unlike you and your husband, she didn’t see business for what it was; a big responsibility which takes up so much of your time. After ten years, she’d had enough and we split up. Then, five years ago, she flew off to Tenerife and never came back. She’s still out there.”

  The wine waiter arrived, opened the bottle for them and offered Joe the cork. He declined. “I know less about wine than I do bottled beer, so just pour it, son.”

  Soon, sipping on the wine, working their way through the starter, Letty pressed him further.

  “Did you feel betrayed, Joe? When Alison and you split up, I mean.”

  He shrugged. “Not really. Things were bad between us towards the end, but I can honestly say there was no other man – or woman – involved.” He chewed on a tough piece of melon, wondered what to do with it, and swallowed it with a loud gulp. “Excuse me.” He washed it down with a mouthful of wine. “That bit needed another few days to ripen.” He beamed at her and allowed the smile to fade slowly. “I’m fifty-six now, and I’m getting to thinking I need a bit more from life than the Lazy Luncheonette. Don’t misunderstand me, Letty. I’m in no rush. But I can leave Lee to take care of the café, while I allow myself a little more freedom.”

  Letty pushed her plate to one side, reached across and touched his fingertips. “That, Joe, is exactly how I feel.”

  Encouraged by this simple act, Joe loosened up, and the evening progressed, through the meal and dessert (Joe settled for fruit salad, Letty preferred strawberries and ice cream) and by the time they were on the coffee and brandies and Joe had excused himself to step outside for a smoke, he felt sufficiently emboldened to ask her to dance.

  He had never considered himself a good dancer, but he was light enough on his feet to move Letty round the floor to the strains of The Carpenters’ We’ve Only Just Begun coming from the trombone, keyboard, drums and guitar of Ronaldo’s Combo.

  As they moved along, his nostrils filled with the heady scent of her perfume, he noticed Brenda and George Robson smooching, and close to them, Sheila dancing with Stewart Dalmer. Although Dalmer was a better dancer, Joe consoled himself: the height disparity between him and Letty, a mere inch or two, was better than that between Dalmer’s six feet four inches, and Sheila’s five feet and a couple of inches.