Puzzled, Joe thanked them, and entered the bar. Looking around, he saw Brenda and Sheila in conversation on a table by the back wall, but disregarded them, looking around for Sylvia. He didn’t see her, but Les Tanner’s military get up was impossible to miss. Joe weaved his way through the tables and sat with them for a minute or two.

  “Neither of them left the building, Joe,” Sylvia reported. “If they’re your thieves, they’re playing it very cool.”

  Again Joe frowned. Thanking Sylvia, he called at the bar, collected drinks, and made for his two companions. He had not gone five paces, when Prudhoe waylaid him.

  “Well?”

  “Nothing,” Joe said. “Not one damned movement out of place. It’s crazy. Whoever he is, he had the perfect opportunity, but didn’t take it.”

  “Right,” said the MP. “That’s it. I’m calling the cops.”

  “No need,” Joe lied. “I already called them. Before we went on the ghost walk. They should be here soon.”

  “Oh.” Prudhoe appeared slightly taken aback. He glanced at his watch. “In that case, I’ll wait for them, but if anyone tries to leave –”

  “No one will leave,” Joe cut in. “If they try, we’ll have ’em. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Joe continued his journey across the lounge, and was joined by George Robson as he reached the table.

  “Well, as master plans go, Joe, that was about as good as England’s for the last World Cup,” George said. “Prudhoe and the boyfriend never moved and never spoke to one another. According to Sylvia, Yvonne never left Reception and the other nurk, Geoff is he called, stood shivering in the rain at the front entrance.”

  “And as if that’s not enough, the ghost of Jack Palmer nicked his lighter,” Brenda laughed.

  Sheila was not laughing. Her face was set into a stern mask of disapproval. “You’re going to look a complete idiot, Joe, when the police, allegedly on their way, don’t show up.”

  “And you think I don’t know that?” Joe’s frown deepened. “Why didn’t they go for it?” he muttered. “It has to be one of them, I gave them the perfect opportunity to make their move and they didn’t. Why?”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t one of them,” Brenda suggested. “Maybe there really was a sneak thief who broke into the office and raided the safe.”

  “How? Huh?” Joe demanded. “How did he get in there? The office has not been left empty all day.”

  “Pull the other one,” Brenda said. “Let me draw you a picture. Sonny Jim, big Geoff, fancies Yvonne. You only have to look at him to know that. I think that manky hand is putting him off. Yvonne has issues. The same hand. Geoff needs to steel himself to ask for her knickers in bed, and if she wants to encourage him, she’ll try to put it out of mind and sight. Now let’s say Geoff has invited her home for coffee and, er, embellishments…”

  Sheila laughed. “That’s a new word for it.”

  “I’m trying to be polite,” Brenda said, haughtily. “I don’t want to embarrass Joe and George.”

  George roared with laughter but before he could speak Joe got in.

  “Just get on with it,” he ordered Brenda.

  “So there’s Yvonne looking forward to a tasty cup of coffee with Geoff as dessert. She’s getting a bit excited. Geoff isn’t about, but she needs to tart herself up a bit, so she slopes off to the little girls’ room. While she’s gone, the office door may be locked, but the thief sees his opportunity, gets in – maybe he’s a member of staff and he has a key – and she’s left the keys for the safe on the desk. Perfect. He has a replacement parcel ready. He nicks the original, sticks the label on his replacement and clears off. The perfect crime.”

  Joe nodded. “Can’t fault it,” he said. “And this opportunist thief not only has a replacement parcel ready, but inside it an absolutely identical presentation box for the necklace.”

  Brenda’s cheeks and ears coloured and her face fell. “Oh. I never thought of that.”

  “Remember Occam’s Razor?” Sheila said. “Filey, during the summer? One must not multiply logical entities without underlying evidence.”

  George frowned. “I’m a wet shaver, myself.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Sheila declared. “And Brenda cracked that same gag in Filey.”

  Puzzled, George asked, “What gag? Can we stop talking about razors and try plain English?”

  Sheila tutted again. “What it boils down to, George, is that the simplest explanation is the most logical. The only people who could have stolen that necklace are those who had easiest access to it. And on the face of it, Joe is right. It must be either Yvonne and Geoff working in league, or the Prudhoes. But Joe’s plan hasn’t got us any further forward. In fact, it could get him into trouble. Especially when Prudhoe learns the police are not coming, and calls them himself.”

  “And when they do get here, the cops won’t wanna look for my lighter.”

  ***

  Taking a last tour round the Old Inn, Rick checked his haul. Just as Linda had said. Nothing spectacular, but enough to give the audience a laugh; a Zippo lighter from Darth Vader’s gilet, a silver-plated Schaeffer pen from the top pocket of Wellington’s tunic, and a plastic bag from Deidre Prudhoe’s pocket, which he checked to ensure the contents were all right.

  The evening’s entertainment was almost ready to move into its final phase. There were times when they had to be careful about returning items. It did not happen often, but he’d once lifted a man’s wallet containing, not money but photographs of his wife or girlfriend in what could be termed alluring poses. Alluring? That was putting it mildly. Outright indecent, they were. For obvious reasons, he could not place the wallet for its owner to ‘find’ when Linda guided him. Instead, he handed it over discreetly as he returned to the bar.

  Climbing the ladder to take down his temporary lights, he thought that one day, when he was in his dotage, perhaps he would write a book on the things he had come across; objects that told him much more about people and personalities than anyone could learn by talking to them.

  ***

  “Listen, Brenda, while Sheila’s at the bar, I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the Old Inn.”

  Brenda smiled broadly at Joe. “Just forget about it. I know it was accidental.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Joe said. “It’s the way you were going on afterwards, and I know you were mainly joking, but I need to clear the air.”

  Brenda’s face became more serious. “That sounds ominous.”

  “Not really, but I need to say what I need to say and I’m trying to find a way of doing it tactfully, so I don’t hurt your feelings or anything.”

  She sighed. “I’ve known you since we were kids, Joe, and I’ve never known you worry about hurting anyone’s feelings. I’ve never known you to be diplomatic, either. You’re usually about as tactful as a thirty-ton truck. Just say it.”

  “Well, see, I think you and Sheila are probably the best friends I’ve ever had. No. Not probably. Definitely. But I was married once. I didn’t like it and there’s no way I’ll ever make the same mistake again. I’m not interested in either of you, er, that way.”

  Brenda’s face split into her broadest grin. “I think we already know that, Joe. In fact, we were talking about it while you were upstairs getting changed.”

  “You were?”

  “Hmm,” Brenda nodded. “I think, and Sheila does too, that you’d make a wonderful provider, but a lousy husband.”

  Taking out his tobacco and rolling a cigarette, Joe scowled. “Thanks for nothing.”

  “No, seriously, Joe. You’re too wrapped up in your work, your puzzles and the club, to be a proper husband. You’re also a serial tightwad, as you frequently admit. Like I said, you’d be a good provider. Any woman trapping you into wedlock would want for nothing. But there’d be some awful rows.”

  Sheila returned with the drinks and Joe lapsed into his thoughts. Hadn’t someone said something similar earlier?

  ***

  With the noise of Sammy Davis Jnr belting out a souped-up version of That Old Black Magic, Linda barely heard her mobile ring. She looked around at those closest to her. Could they hear what she was saying?

  Taking it from her pocket, she opened it and put it to her ear. “Rick? What? I can’t hear you…” She raised her voice and heads turned her way. “I said, I can’t hear… Just get over here and tell me then. These people will be getting anxious about their property.”

  ***

  With the dance floor so crowded, Joe found it difficult to keep his eye on the Prudhoes’ table. Brenda and Sheila were taking turns to go to the bar entrance and watch Yvonne and Geoff, and he had George Robson stationed the other side of the room, also supposedly keeping an eye on the Prudhoe family, but he knew George. It didn’t take much more than a fluttering eyelash or a flash of leg to distract him.

  “Give it up, Joe,” Sheila suggested. “The ghost walk was over almost half an hour ago. Whatever you thought they were going to do, they didn’t, and it won’t be long before they start asking where the police are.”

  He took out his mobile phone. “Maybe you’re right. I’d better go to the door and call them out for real, huh?”

  “It would make sense. It may come down to a search of everyone and their rooms, but at least they’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  A familiar head of dark hair bobbed its way round the dance floor, heading for the exit. Joe stood up and looked over at the Prudhoes’ table. It was empty. He checked the dance floor and then the bar. He could see none of them.

  Joe’s pulse increased. “What were you saying?” he demanded.

  As Edgar left the bar, he followed. Pausing at the entrance, he watched as the MP turned left out into the night, towards the Old Inn. Joe hurried out into Reception. No sign of either Yvonne or Geoff, and the office door was closed. He rang the bell and waited a moment. No answer.

  “Fine stake-out detectives you two would make,” he grumbled and hurried out into the night. No sign of Prudhoe, either, but the Bentley was still there.

  He hurried along the side of the hotel to the corner, and stared across the rear car park to the Old Inn. His face split into a broad grin. The door was closed, but through the tiny, bulls-eye panes, he could make out light inside. Nice try, Prudhoe, he thought, but not fast enough to catch out Joe Murray.

  Soaking wet, his gilet, recently dried out, now drenched again, Joe fairly sprinted across the open tarmac and pressed his ear to the wooden door of the Old Inn. He could hear nothing. Not a sound. He checked the windows. The light he had seen flickering earlier was gone, too, and the place was in total darkness. His earlier visit had told him where to find the light switch, so all he had to do was…

  Quick as a flash, he threw the door open and rushed in. Reaching up, fumbling in the dark, he snapped on the lights. “Right, Prudhoe, I’ve… ”

  He trailed off and stared at the floor.

  Edgar Prudhoe lay where he had fallen, a deep weal in the back of his head. Alongside him lay a long, metal bar, the handle of a bottle jack if Joe was not mistaken.

  He hurried over, crouched, and pressed a reluctant hand to Prudhoe’s neck.

  Dead.

  Standing upright, Joe immediately worried for his own safety. If the killer were still here, he could be in danger, too. Then he looked down at the metal bar, and relaxed a little.

  But not much.

  Behind the bar, the cupboard, where he guessed Rick Hart had hidden during the ghost walk, was wide open. The temporary lights had been taken down, and now lay in a bundle on one of the tables, above the heavy duty battery which powered them. The crocodile clips which attached the sensor to the battery had been disconnected, and they, too, lay on the table. A glance at the far corner revealed the exit to the stables open. Joe cursed himself. He had not noticed whether the exterior door to the stables, further along the Old Inn building, was open.

  He hurried over, paused, and cautiously looked into the stables. There were four stalls, all littered with old and broken furniture: chairs, bar tables, dining tables, bedside dressers from the rooms, cluttered the place, and inconsequentially, he wondered why the hotel did not take advantage of events like Guy Fawkes Night, just a few days away, to get rid of this junk.

  The far door, leading back to the car park, was open, and Joe knew he was in no danger. Edgar Prudhoe’s killer had gone, run off into the night.

  Reluctantly, he trudged back into the Old Inn, dug into his shirt pocket, pulled out his mobile, and dialled his niece, Detective Sergeant Gemma Craddock. Once through to her, he secured the number for York CID and then rang them.

  “Palmer Hotel, Elvington, near York,” he said when he finally got through. “We have a dead body on our hands, and he’s been murdered.”

  Chapter Eight

  Preparing himself for the trudge back to the hotel, pure anger burning through his veins, Joe looked down on the lifeless form and it fuelled his anger even more. The York police had taken a little persuading, but his irritation had soon put that right, and now his fury settled on the dead man.

  “I don’t know what you were playing at, Prudhoe, but this isn’t how it was supposed to turn out, is it?”

  The noise of a diesel engine, roaring into life outside on the car park, brought Joe to his senses. Adrenaline surged through him. The killer!

  With a curse, he rushed out of the Old Inn in time to see the dark blue Ford Transit, a cloud of blue/white smoke belching from its cold exhaust, turn the corner to run along the front of the hotel, making for the exit.

  Joe dashed to the corner and as he arrived, the van braked and stopped alongside Linda Ellis, then the brake lights went out, and it roared away, turning left out of the hotel car park towards York. Linda ran after it, screaming at the night. “Rick.”

  For a moment Joe thought she was calling for her partner back in the hotel, but when she ran out into the road, he realised her partner was driving the van. Hadn’t he guessed earlier that the van belonged to them?

  “Linda,” he shouted as she staggered to a halt and stared out along the main road. “Linda, you won’t catch him. He’s gone.”

  Head hanging, she turned and trudged back to the hotel. “What’s got into him?” She looked up and her face was frantic with worry. “He’s supposed to come back to the bar and give you your stuff back.”

  “Gimme the registration number of your van,” Joe barked.

  She frowned. “What? Look, my partner’s just…”

  “Don’t argue,” he growled taking out his mobile and redialling the police. “Just gimme the damn number.” A few seconds later, he was through. “This is Joe Murray. I called about two or three minutes ago to report a murder at The Palmer Hotel, Elvington… Yes, yes. That’s me. Now listen carefully: one of the suspects has just left the hotel in a hurry… I don’t care what you think, you stupid mare, I’m telling you what’s happ… All right, all right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Now will you please listen? The suspect has just left The Palmer Hotel and he’s heading for York in a dark blue Ford Transit van. Hold on, I’ll give you the registration.” He looked to Linda. “The number?”

  Tears streaked her shocked, disbelieving face. “Rick? Murder? I don’t –”

  “Give me the bloody number,” Joe snapped.

  She stammered it out and Joe repeated it to the police.

  “You should know me,” he argued with the civilian receptionist on the phone. “If you have any doubts call Detective Sergeant Gemma Craddock in Sanford. She’ll vouch for me. Now get someone onto that van and get your team down to The Palmer…” He paused to listen again, then spoke to Linda. “Where will Rick be headed? Your home?”

  “It could be,” she replied. “Or his parents, or some of his friends. I don’t know. What –”

  “Where’s home?”

  “I, er –”

  “Listen to me,” Joe ordered. “Every second that you dither gives him another few hundred yards on us. Now where the hell do you come from?”

  “Bradford.” She told him. “Wibsey in Bradford. His parents come from Idle. He could head for either end of the town.”

  Joe passed the information to the police and concluded, “If you’ve anything about you, you’ll have heard of me. If not, like I said, talk to Detective Sergeant Craddock in Sanford, or better yet, get onto one of your own. Detective Sergeant Cummins. Terry Cummins knows me from his days in Sanford… What? Oh. He’s Chief Inspector Cummins now, is he? Well, speak to him. He knows me.”

  Joe cut the connection, and then rang Sheila. After speaking briefly to her, he closed the phone, dropped it back into his shirt pocket, and looked into the eyes of Linda Ellis as if just realising that she was on the verge of breaking down. He gripped her gently by the elbow and led her back into the hotel.

  “Come on. Let’s get in out of this rain.”

  Geoff met him in the entrance. Sheila and Brenda hurried from the bar.

  “Joe, whatever is going on?” Sheila asked.

  “The weekend from hell,” he replied. “Brenda, take Linda somewhere quiet, maybe Yvonne’s office or the dining room, and get a large brandy down her. Try to keep her calm.”

  “You need to get out of those wet clothes, Linda,” Geoff said. “I’ll get a set of hotel issue for you. Not fashionable, but at least they’ll be dry.”

  “Good thinking,” Joe agreed. “Sheila, go into the bar, get the Prudhoe family together and bring them out here. And you’d better prepare them for some bad news.”

  Geoff’s eyes opened. “Bad news?”

  “Edgar Prudhoe is dead. He’s laid out in the Old Inn.”

  Geoff seemed to stagger. Joe’s companions looked him in the eye and he knew that they knew he was not fooling around. He would never joke over something so serious. Linda broke down, crying.

  “I’d better get Yvonne down here, and we need to call the police,” Geoff said and narrowed an angry stare on Joe. “They never turned up after you allegedly rung them.”

 

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