Unsweetened Murder (Part 3)

Sylvia Goodson and Donna Sykes are being held on suspicion of murdering disabled Kim Lowe. Detective Sergeant Gemma Craddock has told Joe that of the two suspects, Sylvia Goodson is considered the more likely.

“I know Sylvia is a good-hearted woman,” Gemma went on, “and maybe she considered it a mercy to kill Kim, but the law makes no distinction when it comes to murder. If so, she needs to confess and hope for a lenient judge.”

“What’s this evidence that points at Sylvia?” Joe demanded.

“Donna has an alibi,” Gemma insisted. “She was with her boyfriend all last night. Sylvia has only a partial alibi. She was with Les Tanner at the Miners Arms but Tanner dropped her at home just after eleven. On top of that, there were two cups of tea at Kim’s bedside. Analysis told us one had no sugar. Donna takes sugar but Sylvia doesn’t.”

Joe stroked his chin. “How did the killer get in?”

“Electronic lock on the door. She would have buzzed, Kim answered and pressed the button to let her in.”

“Could it be that Donna’s boyfriend is lying for her? Could it be that Donna made the tea knowing that Sylvia didn’t take sugar?”

“It could be,” Gemma agreed, “but you’ll have to give me more than that. The evidence is weighted more against Sylvia than it is Donna.”

“Photographs?” Joe demanded.

Gemma dug into the folder, drew them out, passing them to Joe.

He studied them for several minutes. Most did not interest him. They showed Kim laid flat on her bed, empty eyes staring up at the ceiling. One of the mid shots took his eye. It showed Kim’s bedside cabinet upon which stood the cups and saucers.

“Anything else on the cups?” Joe asked.

Gemma shrugged. “Only what I’ve told you. We had the contents analysed to make sure Kim hadn’t been overdosed, but all they contained was milk and tea, and sugar in one of them.”

Joe’s face split into a broad grin. “Get Donna Sykes in here. She’s your killer.”

Gemma looked doubtful. “Uncle Joe, if we charge the woman and her alibi holds, we’re in deep trouble. Strike that. I’m in deep trouble.”

“Bring her in here, and I’ll prove it,” Joe insisted.

****

Donna was in her mid-30s. A dumpy woman with a mess of tousled, dark brown hair. Still dressed in her Sanford Borough Council tabard, under which she wore jeans and open-toed shoes, she looked surly and uncooperative when ushered in.

“Donna,” Gemma introduced them, “this is Joe Murray. He helps us out now and then. A sort of special assistant when we’re having problems. He’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”

Donna shrugged. “No problem.”

Joe smiled at her. “You attended Kim regularly, didn’t you, Donna?”

She nodded. “Every day.”

“How well did you know Sylvia?”

“I never even met her,” Donna replied. “Kim told me about her.”

Joe nodded. “How many sugars did Kim take in her tea?”

Donna appeared surprised by the question. “One.”

“And how many did Sylvia take?” Joe asked.

Donna shrugged. “None, I think. She was diabetic so Kim told me.”

“And how many do you take?”

A look of alarm spread across her face. “Two. What’s this about?”

“It’s about you killing Kim.”

“I never…”

“Yes you did,” Joe interrupted. “You knew Sylvia didn’t take sugar in her tea. But did you know about her MSPI?”

Donna frowned again. “MSPI?”

“Milk Soya Protein Intolerance,” Joe translated. “She’s allergic to most dairy products, so she avoids them like the plague.” He smiled thinly and showed Donna the photograph of the two cups of tea. “Both cups had milk. If Sylvia had been trying to incriminate you, she would have put sugar in both. But it was the other way round. You made them to incriminate Sylvia, and you added milk when you shouldn’t have done.”

For a moment, it appeared as if Donna would brazen it out, but her shoulders slumped and she nodded.

“I know it was wrong, and I’m sorry I tried to blame it on Sylvia, but I was scared.” Tears welled in her eyes and she pleaded with them. “You don’t know what life was like for Kim. Loadsa times she talked about topping herself. She was trapped in that bloody bungalow and trapped in that wheelchair forever. Yesterday, she was so depressed I thought she was gonna do it, so I went back late last night to make sure she was all right. She wasn’t. She kept saying she’d had enough and she just wanted it over. She didn’t even struggle when I put the pillow over her head.”

****

“Poor woman,” Brenda commented.

It was Saturday morning and the sun shone on Sanford. Having dealt with a mini-rush of shoppers, Brenda sat with Sylvia and Les Tanner at Joe’s favourite table.

“Poor woman? You mean Kim?” Tanner asked.

“Well, yes, Kim, too. So young and having to spend her life in a wheelchair. But I was thinking more of Donna.”

“She was a killer,” Tanner declared.

“It was a mercy killing, Les,” Sylvia pointed out. “She couldn’t stand to see that poor girl suffer.”

Joe emerged from the kitchen clutching a small booklet. “She also tried to frame you for it, Sylvia,” he said. Sitting beside Brenda, he tossed the booklet on the table. The plain, pale green cover bore a title in a cursive font; An Unsweetened Murder. “There you go. Another one for the Sanford Third Age Club Casebook.”

“I do hope you haven’t named me in there, Joe,” Sylvia said.

“Joe always changes the names of the people involved,” Brenda said with a grin. “It saves him from potential lawsuits.”

“Knickers to you,” Joe retorted. “Sylvia, how can you be so forgiving? This woman murdered a disabled girl and tried to pin it on you.”

“It was an act of kindness, Joe,” Sylvia replied.

“That word isn’t in Joe’s dictionary,” Brenda smiled.

Joe gestured at the table cluttered with empty cups and plates bearing a few cake crumbs. “I didn’t charge you for these, did I?”

THE END OF UNSWEETENED MURDER

Part 1

Part 2

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Unsweetened Murder (Part 2)

Les Tanner has just delivered the news that Sylvia Goodson has been arrested for murder.

Joe and Brenda gasped. Sylvia had been Tanner’s on-off lady love for some years now, ever since Sylvia lost her husband. Their relationship was an open secret but no matter how much ribaldry Joe indulged at their expense, he knew that the couple were totally honest and above board. It was difficult to imagine any offence for which either of them could be arrested, let alone murder.

“What?” Joe snapped. “Murder? Sylvia? That’s crazy.”

“Exactly. And that’s precisely what I told the police. She hasn’t been charged, but they have her and another woman in custody.”

Joe finished his tea and took out his tobacco tin. “Tell me what you know,” he ordered.

“I know you can’t smoke that in here, Murray.” Tanner aimed a gimlet eye at the tobacco tin.

“I know, I know. Even though I own the bloody place. Now come on, Les, give me the bottom line.”

Tanner took a moment to compose himself. “I’m sure you’re aware that Sylvia does her share of voluntary work, a part of which involves calling on elderly and disabled people. She spends a little time with them, does odds and sods of shopping for them and what have you.”

“She told us the other day,” Brenda said. “Sylvia always did have a good heart. I remember when she worked for Broadbent’s, before she retired.” Brenda nodded at the factory cross the road. “She’d come in for the mechanics’ lunches sometimes. She was the first customer to ask for saccharin instead of sugar. Do you remember, Joe?”

He nodded. “She’s the reason that clicker thing stands on the counter.” He indicated the saccharin dispenser near the cash register.

“But she never rattled your cage over it, did she? Brought her own saccharin for long enough.”

“That, Brenda, is Sylvia all over,” Tanner agreed. “An absolute saint of a woman.”

“Yeah, yeah, so let’s bring her down off the cross, and carry on telling me what happened,” Joe insisted.

Tanner took up the narrative again. “Last month, she was given a new, er, one hesitates to use the word client, but I suppose it sums up the situation. A young woman by the name of Kimberly Lowe. Lives on the Pontefract Road Estate. Kim is wheelchair bound. This morning she was found dead, apparently suffocated with her pillow. Been like that overnight. The police arrested Sylvia and a woman named Donna Sykes, who is Kim’s official carer. I pulled a few strings at the police station and spoke to, Gemma Craddock, your niece. A Detective Sergeant, no less. At least someone in your family has made something of themselves.” Tanner luxuriated a moment in the scowl on Joe’s face. “Gemma told me they don’t know. Both women deny the crime, both accuse the other. I know Sylvia; I don’t know this Sykes woman. If the police are right and one of them killed Kim, then it was Sykes. Your niece suggested I come to you.”

“For Gemma to say that, it must really be a puzzle.” Joe glanced around the café. The rain had kept most of the customers in during the morning, the lunchtime rush had been muted, and between now and closing time he did not anticipate a great crowd descending on him.

He smiled apologetically at Captain Tanner. “Sheila is in hospital. Women’s problems. So I’m a bit tied for staff.” He swung his attention to Brenda. “Could you cope here while I get along to the police station and see our Gemma? I should be back in time to help with the cleaning and cashing up.”

“Of course, Joe. Anything to help poor Sylvia.”

Joe got to his feet.  “Don’t worry about it, Les. I’ll have her out of there by teatime.”

****

“Both women saw Kim yesterday afternoon, Uncle Joe,” Gemma Craddock explained, “and both insist that she was alive and well when they left.”

“How come Kim had two carers?” Joe asked.

“She didn’t.” Brushing a strand of unruly red hair from her eyes, Gemma went on, “Kim lived in sheltered accommodation. Warden controlled. There are ten bungalows in the development and Donna Sykes worked for Sanford Borough Council as an assistant to the warden. Kim was one of her calls. She dropped in every day to clean and do Kim’s shopping. It usually took an hour.”

“Right, so that’s Donna Sykes. Where does Sylvia fit in?”

“Sylvia works as a volunteer for the Sanford Women’s Voluntary Group. She called on Kim once a week in the afternoon. It was mainly chat and cups of tea, perhaps the odd errand that needed doing.”

“All right,” Joe said. “What happened yesterday?”

“According to both women, nothing out of the ordinary. Donna did her work in the morning, Sylvia called in the afternoon, had a cup of tea and spent an hour with Kim. But someone came back last night, let themselves in and smothered Kim with her pillow. That poor kid didn’t have a chance.”

“What do we know about Kim?”

“Twenty-five years old, suffered a broken spine in a car crash about five years ago. Stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.”

“But she didn’t need 24-hour care?” Joe demanded.

“No,” Gemma replied. “She was as independent as she could be. She had handholds hung about the house. She could pull herself out of the wheelchair into bed or onto the toilet. But, obviously, she needed a warden in case of accidents. She had alarm pulls in a few places about the bungalow. She was a depressive. Stands to reason, I suppose. Took some fairly powerful pills. Amitriptyline. Potent stuff. Even a small dose would make her woozy, and she had taken a couple before she died according to the preliminary report.”

“Anything missing from the bungalow?” Joe asked.

“The warden says no, but we haven’t finished going through the place yet.”

“Forensic?”

“Nothing,” Gemma said. “Well, nothing definite. They’ve found traces of both women in the bungalow, but then, both admit to being there yesterday.”

“Your opinion?” Joe asked.

Gemma hedged momentarily. “I’m sorry, Uncle Joe, but the evidence points at Sylvia Goodson.”

To be continued…

Part 1

Part 3

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Unsweetened Murder (Part 1)

With the morning rush over, Joe Murray emerged from behind the counter of the Lazy Luncheonette, a cup of tea in one hand, the morning newspaper tucked under his arm, and sat at the table closest to the counter.

Settling down, Joe surveyed his empire. The brewery draymen were all gone about their daily deliveries, orders for the factory hands from the industrial estate opposite had all been filled, and the only customers were two women sat by the door chatting over a cup of tea and toasted teacakes. With the clock reading 9:45 a.m., Joe and his staff had a couple of hours of moderate trade before the lunchtime rush, and all was right with the world.

The bell chimed, the door opened and Sylvia Goodson stepped in. Joe sighed to himself. “There goes my peace and quiet.”

“Good morning, Joe,” Sylvia greeted brightly. “How are you this fine morning?”

Joe glanced through the windows at light rain streaking the plate glass. “I’m as cheerful as the weather, Sylvia. And you?”

“I can’t complain. Could I have a cup of tea, please? No milk, no sugar.”

Joe stood but before he could get back behind the counter, Brenda Jump appeared from the kitchen.

“I’ll get it, Joe. You do your crossword.”

Joe resumed his seat and opened the newspaper at the puzzle page.

“Unusual seeing you here at this hour, Sylvia,” Brenda said as she prepared the tea.

“I had to call at Broadbent’s,” Sylvia explained. “You know I worked there most of my life? Well, a part of my retirement package was discount servicing for my car. I’ve just left it with them, and I have a little time to kill before my hospital appointment.”

Joe looked up. “Hospital? Nothing serious is it?”

Brenda chuckled. “Ooh, Joe Murray secretly showing some concern for the club members.”

“Shaddup you.” Joe looked up at Sylvia and raised his eyebrows seeking an answer.

“Routine tests, Joe,” she explained. “Keeping an eye on my diabetes and MSPI. Unconfirmed… well the diabetes is.”

Brenda passed the tea to Sylvia and took the money. “Odd that. You’ve never taken sugar, have you?”

Sylvia shook her head. “They say it’s an age thing, Brenda. I’m almost 61: I’m in the right area for type 2 diabetes.” She moved to the table across the aisle from Joe, and Brenda joined her.

“So where’s the Captain?” Joe asked. “Not taking time out from the town hall to give you a military escort to outpatients?”

“Ignore him, Sylvia,” Brenda advised. “He’s only jealous. He doesn’t have a lady friend.” She chuckled. “I’ve told him many a time that I’m free on Friday nights, but he daren’t take me on.”

“Oh, I learned to ignore Joe Murray years ago.” Sylvia bestowed a superior smile on him. “Les Tanner is where he should be, Joe. At his desk in the Payroll Office. And you should take up Brenda’s offer. It would do you good to have a woman in your life.”

Joe wrote ‘inebriate’ as the answer to 4 across and put his pen down. “Brenda is joking about her offer,” he grumbled, “and I don’t need no woman in my life. I had one. What happened to her?” He put on a mock, blank face as if he were straining to recall something. “Oh, I remember. Alison got sick of working here for a living and cleared off. Last I heard she was living the high life working in a café in Tenerife.” He snorted. “Talk about out of the pan into the fire.”

“She gets a damn sight more sun in Tenerife than we do in Sanford, and she’s two thousand miles from your moaning.” Brenda concentrated on Sylvia. “So, what do you do with yourself now that you’re retired?”

“I try to keep myself busy, Brenda.” Sylvia sipped at her tea. “I do some voluntary work, visiting elderly and disabled people about the town. Les and I try to get out and about on weekends. You’d be surprised at the things you can find to fill your time, and I do feel it’s important to remain active, don’t you?”

“Brenda is too active,” Joe sniped. “Horizontally.”

Brenda glowered thunder. “One of these days, Joe, you’ll get your own carving knife in your back.”

Joe penned, ‘disaster’ into 27 across. “Not while you rely on me for your wages, I won’t.”

****

The door chimed as it opened. Sat at the corner table, poring over the morning newspaper with a cup of tea at his elbow, Joe looked up and smiled broadly.

“No wonder it’s raining again,” he chuckled. “Captain Les Tanner stepping out to dine at the Lazy Luncheonette. What’s wrong with the town hall canteen? Run out of vol-au-vents?”

Tanner, as resplendent as ever in regimental blazer and dark trousers with a crease so sharp he could use it to shave, looked down his nose. “All right, Murray. I’m not here to eat, although a cup of tea wouldn’t come amiss.”

Joe craned his neck backwards, over the counter where Brenda was filling the napkin dispenser. “Brenda, get our distinguished guest a cup of tea, would you. A beaker with no chips or cracks.” Joe folded the newspaper away, and waved Tanner to the seat opposite. “So how is life in the Territorial Army these days?”

“I gave up the TA several years ago,” the Captain responded, “as well you know.”

“And the town hall? When are they gonna do without your services?”

“I’ve six years to retirement,” Tanner said

Brenda brought a beaker of tea for him. “Sylvia was in a couple of days ago, Les. How is she?” she asked.

“It’s Sylvia I’ve called about,” Tanner reported. “And unfortunately, I’m in need of his help.” He pointed a bony finger at Joe.

“My help? Tanner, if you don’t know how to deal with a woman at your age, it’s not my help you need it’s Doctor Ruth’s.”

“Don’t be absurd… or so coarse. That’s not what I meant.” Tanner sipped at his tea with disapproval. “Sylvia has been arrested… for murder.”

To be continued….

Part 2

Part 3

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The Tanzanite Manoeuvre (Part 3)

Convinced that Stephen Atherton and Carla Watson are having a relationship and have colluded in the theft of the tanzanite ring, Joe confronts them in the general manager’s office.

Staring them out, Joe knew he had it right. “Who’s been named as co-respondent in your divorce, Atherton? Little miss prim there?”

Chaos threatened with Atherton and Cowan getting to their feet and Paul standing between them and Joe.

When order was restored, Cowan let his anger loose. “What are you saying, Murray? I asked you to look into the theft of a major piece of merchandise, not investigate the man’s private life.”

“But it matters, Alex,” Joe said. “You see, when I look through this video, everything is so obvious. He fluffs his handkerchief all over the place; he gives the deliveryman the wrong copy of the docket. And why? Because he wants you to believe that he switched the rings on Monday and that the deliveryman is his contact. He wants you to believe he handed it over when he dipped back into his pocket for the wrong half of the delivery note.”

“And you’re saying that’s not what happened?” Paul asked.

“He’s talking bloody nonsense,” Atherton reacted. “Why would I pull a stunt like this?”

“Money,” Joe replied. “Compensation. You’ve been with the firm thirty years. If they fire you without solid evidence, what will you do? Sue for every penny you can get. The settlement would be at least a hundred grand, possibly more if you can get a good brief who knows how to play on your untarnished reputation.”

“Hold on, Joe,” Paul interjected. “If Carla hadn’t dropped the tray on Tuesday morning, we’d have been none the wiser.”

“Correct,” Joe agreed, “but when I said she was a clumsy sow, you told me how reliable she was.” He pointed at Carla. “When was the last time she dropped a tray of expensive jewellery? Never? Or just so long ago that you can’t remember? Carla dropped that tray deliberately. She even managed to make it land face down so the glass beads in the fake ring broke, and that told you the ring was fake. It was the only way they could throw suspicion on Atherton.” Joe swung his attention to Cowan. “Alex, you told me that you’d always considered Atherton good, but not quite good enough. He lacked that edge you needed in a general manager. Does Atherton know that?”

Cowan nodded. “I’ve not said anything that Stephen hasn’t been appraised of.”

“Exactly.” Joe bit the word off. “So he knew that he was doomed to remain an assistant manager for the rest of his life, or until such times as you decided to put him out to pasture, but he couldn’t hang around that long. He needs the money now, and the only way he had a chance of getting it was to have you fire him without good reason.”

Silence hung for a few moments.

“So what happened to the real ring?” Paul asked.

“They stole it,” Joe insisted. “Probably weeks ago.”

Paul shook his head. “No way. I told you, every member of staff, including me, is searched. They could not get that ring out of the shop.”

“You think not?” Joe chuckled. “I can think of two ways right now.”

Paul and Cowan blanched. “What?” the latter demanded.

Joe leaned over and lifted Carla’s left hand. Her ring finger sparkled with a gold band and a white-diamond cluster behind it. “When you’re searching the woman, do you check their ring fingers?”

Paul said nothing and Cowan blushed.

“But Carla doesn’t have to take that risk, does she?” Joe pressed on. “Let me ask you, Paul, who searches the men?”

“I do.”

“And who searches you?”

“Stephen. If either one of us is not in, other members of staff deputise.”

“And you search the women, too?”

Paul laughed explosively. “Are you trying to get me fired? Carla searches the woman and one of the other girls searches her.”

“Right,” Joe said. “And where do these searches take place?”

“In here,” Paul replied. “We let the girls in first and when they’re cleared, I deal with the men.”

“So while the women are being searched, where was the real ring?” Joe hastened to answer his own rhetorical question. “In Atherton’s pocket. The girls are finished, who’s last to be searched by you? Atherton, because he has to search you afterwards. While he’s waiting for you to deal with the other men, he slips the ring from his pocket into Carla’s. When you come out of this office, both have been searched, both are carrying nothing. They leave and the tanzanite ring goes with them, leaving you with a fake.”

The two senior men gaped. Atherton fumed and Carla trembled.

Joe gave her a wrinkled, friendly smile. “So you tell me, Carla, which way did you do it?”

“It was his idea, not mine,” she blurted out.

“Shut up, you stupid bitch,” Atherton snapped. “You say nothing and let’s see them prove it.”

Joe put on an air of nonchalance. “It may take time, but the law will do it, Atherton. A ring worth sixteen hundred pounds worth will appear somewhere and when it does, the police will trace it back to you.”

“And your girlfriend’s admission just now is enough for us to institute proceedings,” Cowan said. “As of now, you’re both suspended pending disciplinary action.” He addressed Paul. “Call the police and then get them out of my sight.”

“Will do, Alex.”

Joe and Cowan watched Paul escort the pair out.

Cowan wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “Well, Joe, I have to admit you had me worried for a minute there.”

“It was obvious from the minute I watched the video,” Joe replied. “But Atherton’s right, you know. There is no proof. You may get away with firing them, but that won’t see the ring back in your shop, and unless they confess, your insurers are unlikely to pay up.”

Cowan smiled thinly. “If we have to lose anything, I’d prefer it to be a £1600 ring rather than thousands for unfair dismissal.” They shook hands. “Thanks again, Joe.”

“No problem. Drop by the Lazy Luncheonette sometime and enjoy one of my meat pies while you read about your case.”

THE END OF THE TANZANITE MANOEUVRE

Part One

Part Two

Return to main menu

The Tanzanite Manoeuvre (Part 2)

Joe has been called in to investigate the theft of a tanzanite ring from the Sanford Branch of Yorkshire Jewellers.

“Is it possible that the ring could have been switched some time ago?” Joe asked

Area Manager, Alex Cowan shuddered and nodded. “Now you see how delicate the position is. The stock here was last assayed two months ago, at which point we know the ring was genuine, but it could have been switched at any time since then. It wouldn’t come to light until the next stocktaking and only then if it was selected for assay. However, Paul and I are sure that Atherton stole it two days ago. When you watch the video, he uses his handkerchief a lot and we think he hid it in there before handing it to the deliveryman.”

“He didn’t have it on him when he left,” Paul said. “As a matter of routine, every member of staff is searched before they leave the premises every night, including me.”

“If he’s been here so long, why would he take it?” Joe demanded.

“He has, er…” Paul Bailey cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment. “Financial worries. He recently split from his wife and it’s costing him a fortune.”

“My wife left me years ago,” Joe decaled, “and it cost me a fortune, but I didn’t take to stealing.”

Cowan slapped his hands down on the desk. “If you can clear him, well and good, but if he’s responsible, Joe, we need cast iron evidence before we can bring in the law.” The area manager sat back in his seat. “Will you help?”

Joe wasted no time thinking about it. “I’ll do what I can. Let me see the video. If I can’t see anything on that, then you have no case…”

Over the next hour, while Paul and Cowan got on with their work on one side of the desk Joe sat with a laptop and watched video time and time again.

It began with a shapely, red haired sales assistant leaning into Stephen Atherton and whispering to him. Slipping his arm around her waist and leaning over to listen, he grinned wolfishly, then she went on her way, and Atherton concentrated on the young couple at his counter, showing them the tanzanite ring.

The woman customer shook her head. Atherton reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his nose. Still clutching the handkerchief, he made another attempt to sell it to her and she rejected it again. With the handkerchief still held in his free hand, he replaced the ring in tray 188, blew his nose again, and tucked the handkerchief in his side pocket before carrying the tray back to the window.

Irritated at the lack of sound, Joe put the video on fast-forward to the point where the young couple were studying another, cheaper ring. At several intervals, Atherton could be seen to take out his handkerchief and blow his nose.

Then the delivery driver arrived. He dropped a parcel on the counter, and held forward a docket for signature. Taking out his handkerchief, Atherton read the docket, exchanged a few words with the driver and then signed. Pinning the docket down with the hand holding the handkerchief, he tore off the top copy, folded it neatly in half and dropped it in his pocket, and then passed the docket back to the driver, who turned to walk away.

While Atherton turned his attention back to the couple, the driver checked the delivery note and moved out of shot. A second later he was back, debating with Atherton.

Again Joe’s irritation rose again at the soundless video, causing Cowan and Paul to glance over at him.

Finally, Atherton reached into his pocket, came out with his copy of the docket. The driver handed him another copy and then took the original away with him.

Joe stopped the video and concentrated on the two men opposite.

“This is so simple, I’m surprised you needed to call me in,” he declared.

Cowan looked smug and satisfied. “So we were right? It’s definitely him and the delivery driver?”

Joe shook his head. “You were meant to fall for that. Is Atherton in the shop today?”

His face bewildered by Joe’s announcement, Paul nodded.

“Get him in here,” Joe ordered, “and bring in Carla Watson, too.”

Paul disappeared and Joe got to his feet, confronting the angry features of Alex Cowan.

“What’s going on here, Murray?”

“I’m about to save you a lot of money, Alex. Whatever happens, just go along with me. All right?”

“Well…”

“Trust me,” Joe urged. “I’ll nail this in five minutes.”

“All right. If you insist.”

The door opened and Paul ushered Stephen Atherton and Carla Watson into the office. Joe gave Atherton his chair and moved Paul’s round the deck so Carla, too, could sit.

“Carla, Stephen,” Cowan greeted them. “This is Joe Murray. A private detective.”

Atherton scowled. “Don’t you run a workman’s café on Doncaster Road?”

Joe nodded. “The Lazy Luncheonette. Drop in sometime. The food’s good, home cooked, and it’s not expensive.”

Atherton’s moon face shuddered as if the mere thought was sufficient to put him off food for life. Alongside him, the freckle-faced redhead, whom Joe guessed to be about 40, looked worried.

“All right, Atherton,” Joe began, “we’re not gonna beat about the bush here. If you come clean, you may avoid prosecution. I want to know when you stole the tanzanite ring.”

Carla’s colour drained. Atherton was made of sterner stuff. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Paul joined in the protest. “Joe, we know when the ring disappeared.”

Joe shook his head. “You think you know, but you told me that the last time it was assayed was two months ago and it could have disappeared anytime during that period. I’m saying it did.” He rounded on his two suspects. “Do you know what’s more expensive than divorce? Divorce when you have a bit on the side to keep happy.”

Carla’s cheeks coloured. “Are you suggesting –”

“I’m saying it, lady.” Joe started the video and paused it immediately. On the screen, Carla could be seen whispering into Atherton’s ear. “Nothing unusual about a member of staff wanting to say something to her boss and not wanting the customers to overhear. But look at his arm. It’s round her waist. Familiarity. And it’s the kind that can lead to accusations of sexual harassment… unless the couple are in a relationship.”

Part One

Part Three

Return to main menu

The Tanzanite Manoeuvre (Part 1)

Joe Murray stepped into the Sanford branch of Yorkshire Jewellers and shook hands with the manager, Paul Bailey.

“Good of you to come, Joe,” said Paul.

“Anything for a pal,” Joe replied, “and it is Wednesday afternoon. The café’s quiet.”

Paul led the way behind the counter. “Come on through, and I’ll introduce you to the area manager.”

He paused at a door marked ‘staff only’, punched in a four digit code on the electronic lock and then led the way into the rear of the shop, and his office.

When they entered the small, compact room, a short, grey-haired man studying a laptop screen at the desk, stood to greet them.

“Alex, this is Joe Murray, chairman of the Sanford Third Age Club. I told you, my wife and I are members. Joe, this is our area manager, Alex Cowan.”

The two men shook hands. “Good to meet you,” Cowan greeted. He waved Joe to a seat opposite and Paul drew up a chair alongside his boss.

“Right,” Joe began, “Paul was a bit vague on the phone, but he tells me you need help.”

Cowan rubbed his finger at a scrub moustache. “It’s a delicate matter, Joe. Theft. And Paul tells me you’re a detective.”

Joe grunted. “I own the Lazy Luncheonette, a café on Doncaster Road, but I like puzzles, and I pride myself on my powers of observation. I have to say, though, if you’ve been robbed you should call the cops.”

“It’s not that simple,” Paul said. “We know who the thief is, but we have no proof. We think we know how he got the item out of the shop, but we don’t know for sure. All we can say is he did it. Trouble is, he’s been with us a long time and if we simply fire him and he goes to court, it could cost us thousands.”

“We need to prove he did it, Joe,” Cowan stressed. “If you can point us in the right direction, then we can go to the law.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll not find us ungenerous when it comes to recompensing you.”

Joe shook his head. “I’m the biggest tightwad in Sanford. Ask Paul. But my detective services come free on one condition. You permit me to write it up as one of my cases, and I put it out as a booklet for my customers to read in the Lazy Luncheonette.”

Cowan blanched. “I, er, I don’t know about that …”

“I’ve read some of them, Alex,” Paul interrupted. “Joe changes all the names. No one will ever identify you, me, the shop, or anyone.”

“Oh,” said Cowan. “Right. In that case, there’s no problem.”

“Good,” said Joe. “Now, tell me what happened?”

The two men exchanged glances. Cowan spoke first. “You tell him, Paul. You’re the man on the ground.”

“All right, here goes.” Paul settled himself into a more comfortable position. “I’ve been manager here for the last ten years. No one expects miracles in a small town like Sanford, but the shop does well. My number two is a chap named Stephen Atherton. He’s been with the company for thirty years, and assistant manager here for the last three.”

“He’s never had his own shop?” Joe asked.

Cowan shook his head. “We find Atherton good, but not quite good enough. He lacks that certain edge that we need in general managers.”

Joe nodded. “Go on.”

Paul took up the commentary. “In a comparatively poor town like Sanford, you don’t stock high value pieces. They simply will not sell. So our most valuable piece is a tanzanite, triple cluster engagement ring, retailing at sixteen hundred pounds.”

“What’s tanzanite?” Joe asked.

“A purple coloured gemstone,” Cowan explained. “The ring in question was formed of white gold, with two tanzanite stones either side of a single diamond.”

“Three days ago, that ring was taken and substituted by one of brass and glass which probably cost about a fiver on Sanford market,” Paul declared.

Joe’s brow creased. “How did you discover the swap?” he asked. “Do you check the authenticity of every piece before you shut up shop?”

Paul smiled at his boss. “I told you Joe was good, didn’t I? Misses nothing.” He went on to Joe, “The theft could have remained undiscovered for months or even years, but for an accident. Carla Watson, one of our saleswomen, was putting the trays out yesterday morning when she dropped tray 188, the one containing the tanzanite ring.”

“Clumsy sow,” Joe grunted.

Paul shrugged. “Yes. Normally so reliable, too. Anyway, when the tray fell, the glass beads smashed. That’s when I realised it was a fake, and I called Alex right away. We checked, and the last person seen to handle that ring was Stephen Atherton.”

The two men waited expectantly while Joe pondered the account. At length, he said, “You used the words, ‘last seen to handle it’. How do you mean, ‘seen’?”

“In-store CCTV,” Cowan explained. “We have it all on video. Joe, Paul and I spent most of yesterday looking over the security tapes from the day before and Atherton was the last person to handle it on Monday when he showed it to a young couple.”

“At first we thought the couple may have stolen it,” Paul said. “You see, while he was serving them, Atherton was distracted by deliveryman who wanted a signature. But he’d already put Tray 188 back into the window, so the couple can’t have taken it. We think he passed it to the deliveryman.”

Part Two

Part Three

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