Death in Distribution

by David W Robinson

  More delicately than her best friend, Sheila sipped at her port and lemon. “I think we deserve it, Brenda. Haven’t we worked all our lives to have it cushy at our age? It’s just a shame it couldn’t have been like this a few years back. When we were both young enough to enjoy it.”

  “What’s age got to do with it? I’m still young enough to service a toyboy’s requirements.” Brenda laughed. “But he’d have to be a wealthy one. Like him, there.”

  Sheila followed Brenda’s eye to a tall, dark-haired man at the far end of the bar. In his late thirties, he was casually, but expensively dressed in light grey slacks and a crisp, short-sleeved shirt which showed off his fine biceps. On his left wrist was a Rolex, or similarly high-priced watch. He held a half empty glass of lager in one hand and as he drank from it, he noticed Brenda looking and smiled at her.

  She smiled back. “Hey up, I think I might have trapped off here,” she said to Sheila.

  “Brenda, you are completely incorrigible.”

  “If it’s fun, go for it, I always say.”

  He detached himself from the bar and wove his way through the tables and stood before them. “It’s Mrs Riley and Mrs Jump, isn’t it?”

  Brenda’s jaw dropped. Her look of astonishment, mingled with disappointment, caused Sheila to laugh.

  “Forgive me,” Sheila said to the stranger. “Neither my friend nor I were aware that you knew us.”

  “I know of you, ladies,” he said, “but we’ve never met.” He gripped the back of the chair opposite Brenda. “May I join you?”

  Brenda could only nod.

  He sat down and placed his half of lager on the table. “My name is Gerard Vaughan. I know your friend and employer, Joe Murray.” He looked around as if seeking Joe. “He’s not with you?”

  At last recovering her composure, Brenda cleared her throat. “No. He, er, he had business to deal with.”

  A rueful smile played about his lips. “Business? On Easter weekend? Here in Blackpool?”

  “That’s Joe,” Sheila said. “A driven man.”

  “Driven by the profit motive,” Brenda agreed. “As you must know if you know him.”

  “Indeed.” Vaughan played with his glass, his dark eyes fixed on it as he moved it on the coaster. It seemed important to him to ensure it sat dead centre of the brewery logo covering the beer mat. “I was hoping to catch him. Invite him to dinner this evening.” He looked up and smiled again at them. “I’m staying at the Hilton, and Joe and I have some business matters to discuss. Perhaps you two ladies would pass the message on and naturally, you would be more than welcome to join us.”

  “The Hilton?” Brenda had an instant and pleasing vision of dinner with Vaughan … alone in the sumptuous surroundings of the renowned hotel chain. “We’d be delighted.”

  “I’m sure Joe would, too,” Sheila said, “but forgive me, Mr Vaughan, why haven’t you rung Joe? He has his mobile with him.”

  “I think he would turn me down, Mrs Riley. He’s such an independent man, isn’t he? Likes to pay his way. I thought if I could catch him with you, he might be a little more amenable.”

  Brenda laughed. “I’ve heard Joe Murray called a lot of things, but amenable isn’t one of them.”

  Vaughan stood. “I’d be grateful if you could pass the invitation on. Shall we say seven thirty for eight?” With a nod, he took his leave of them.

  Brenda smacked her lips. “Can you distract Joe while I work on Mr Vaughan?”

  She was surprised to find Sheila not smiling, but looking concerned. “I think there is something very fishy about that man, and I would be very surprised if Joe actually knows him.”

  “Well he knew all about Joe … and us.”

  “That’s not the same as Joe knowing about him, dear.”

  ***

  Across town, faced with a babble of protest at his announcement, Joe rode it out, allowing it to wind down naturally before holding up his hands for complete silence.

  “All right, all right. Murder might be a bit strong. What I’m really saying is, this man did not die by accident. Trust me on this. I’ve investigated enough murders to spot the signs.”

  The senior paramedic challenged him. “You’re an expert, are you? Medically trained?”

  “Nope. I’m not even a cop. Just a private detective… of sorts… with a reputation for spotting everything.” He strode over to Cruikshank’s inert form, bent and rolled the body over. “Look at that bruising,” he said, pointing to the neck.

  Both paramedics examined the wound, which showed a livid red, encircled with blue, its surface marked with a cross-hatched pattern.

  “Lot of internal bleeding,” said the senior man, “possibly bone and nerve damage. One hell of a blow, for sure.” He stood up straight. “But he might have slipped, fallen and hit his neck on something.”

  “Like what? Look properly at the injury,” Joe said. “If he slipped and fell, the wound would have been to the back of his head. It isn’t. It’s on his neck. And how do you explain that unusual pattern?”

  The paramedic pondered for a moment. “He could have slipped on a staircase and hit his head against one of the risers as he was going up … or more likely, down. And maybe the staircase has that kind of pattern on the flat.”

  “Whether he was going up or down, he would have rolled further, so where are the rest of his bruises? He’d have knocked his face, his hands, and so on. You see any other marks on him?” Joe took in all his audience. “This man was struck on the back of the neck by a heavy implement, and he died as a result of that injury. I’ll stake my reputation on it, and you, Mr Kane, need to call the cops, not Health and Safety.”

  “And I say you’re being too hasty,” the paramedic argued. “Only a pathologist can confirm what you’re saying, and as long as he was fit, healthy and there’s no medical reason to account for his death, there will be a post mortem.”

  His features bright red, sweat bathing his forehead, Kane cut in on the argument. “All right, all right. That’s enough.” Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and as he did so, Joe noticed a black cord, formed into a loop like a wrist strap, left dangling. Kane hurriedly tucked it back into the pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow. “Mr, Murray, I’m grateful for your input on this, but like our friend here said, there is nothing to point to any third party involvement. I need to ring the police, certainly, but it’s a matter of routine. If any other evidence should turn up or if the Health and Safety people are suspicious, they will inform the police. But right now, it looks like a tragic accident.” He nodded to Reg. “Ring both, please.”

  While Reg moved back from the counter to carry out the task, Joe shrugged. “Have it your own way. But will the HSE know what they’re looking at? They’ll assume, just like you, that he fell down the stairs or something. I’m saying he didn’t. He has been struck on the back of the neck.”

  Kane looked again to the paramedic, who mirrored Joe’s shrug. “My job is to save lives where I can, not to work out how someone might have hit the back of his head.”

  “Or got hit.” Addressing Kane, Joe asked, “Where does Peter work?”

  Kane appeared distracted, and it was as if Joe’s question brought him back to the here and now. “Hmm? What? Oh, sorry. He was my deputy. Divided his time between our office on the third floor and the dispatch office on this level.” Kane waved vaguely through the scanner. “Other end of the building from here.”

  “But you don’t know where he was before he turned up here?”

  “Well, I know where he was a little while ago. Third floor. He was there when I called in to change my jacket.”

  “And he was okay?”

  Kane nodded.

  “Would he come down by lift?” Joe demanded.

  Kane promptly shook his head. “I know Peter. He kept himself fit, and he never used the lift. Besides, our lifts are not just for personnel. They’re for goods, too, and they tend to be slow. He could be up the stairs before the lift, ne
ver mind down.”

  Joe slotted the information into his agile mind, and put it into some kind of order.

  “Okay. We know he was fine at, say, ten to three. He needed to come downstairs for something, but we don’t know what, unless he told someone else up there. We assume he used the stairs, so does the staircase have any kind of non-slip plates which would cause that curious kind of bruising?”

  Kane sighed. “I don’t know, Mr Murray. I’ve been using the stairs and the lift for years, and quite frankly, I just haven’t taken that much notice.”

  “That’s the trouble with this world,” Joe complained. “No one notices anything.”

  Reg returned from the rear of his station to lean on the counter with that self-satisfied air of one who has done his job. “Police and Health and Safety on their way, Mr Kane.”

  “Thank you, Reg.”

  While one paramedic began to pack away their equipment the other set about writing the report. Wayne also began to fill in his forms. Kane looked round the small group and shrugged, almost as if he were embarrassed.

  “Well, I don’t think there’s anything else we can do, other than wait for the authorities to arrive. I’d like to thank you for your efforts, Mr Murray.”

  “No problem. If the police need to speak to me, I’m staying at the Monarch.”

  “Right. The Monarch. Well, thanks again.”

  “There is just one thing,” Keith said. “My bus. The claim form.”

  “Oh. Of course. You want a copy of it, don’t you?” Kane fussed at the coffee table, sorting out the documents they had completed. When he had them in satisfactory order, he passed them to Reg. “Copy those for me, please.” While waiting for the copies, he spoke again to Keith. “You have my personal assurance that the bus will be ready first thing Monday morning. If you present your employer with receipts for out of pocket expenses, taxi fares, hotel bills and so on, we’ll ensure they’re paid, too.” Reg handed him the documents, and he passed the warm copies to Keith. “The same goes for you, Mr Murray, and if any of your members feel they have a claim against us, don’t hesitate to get in—”

  “Dave! Dave! Quick!”

  Coming from the entrance, the urgent voice of the shunter Joe had argued with, cut Kane off.

  “Alf? What is it?”

  Alf’s agitated features worked worriedly, his mouth quivering as he replied. “Stan Crowther. He’s spark out on park fifteen. I think he’s dead.”

  The paramedics exchanged glances. Kane caught their eye and as if some unspoken agreement had passed between them, the medics hurried out, Kane calling after them, “Follow Alf.” The manager turned on Reg. “I’ll cut through the Sort Centre. Don’t move Peter.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Joe said and followed Kane through the scanner.

  Joe heard Reg shouting after him. “Hey, you can’t go through there.” But by then, he had already gone through.

  Hurrying to catch up with Kane, Joe found himself in a hive of activity where the noise produced by the rattling of machinery and constant chatter of the workers was deafening.

  Above him a complex arrangement of conveyors carried parcels around the vast warehouse and occasionally, a tray tipped up, pouring its contents onto chutes, for them to flow down to the loading bay where warehouse hands loaded them onto trailers. Around the packed floor area were larger items; furniture, bicycles, large toys, keep fit equipment, cages of clothing and pallets of catalogues. Men and women carrying computer printouts, worked quickly, but efficiently to pick and load the items. Here and there were enclosed rest areas, decked with vending machines and rows of tables and chairs which instantly reminded Joe of The Lazy Luncheonette. Judging by the small number of people using them, they were about as busy as The Lazy Luncheonette, too.

  Kane hurried along a broad gangway, occasionally dodging an electric truck carrying heavy items, weaving around people as they went about their work, and at the far end, he pushed through a wooden door marked Dispatch.

  Joe followed and as the door closed behind him the noise from the warehouse was snuffed out. Instead, he found himself in a narrow corridor, male and female toilets to the left, one door at right angles to him, which led into an office, and another directly ahead, leading to the drivers’ rest room.

  Kane rushed straight through, barely acknowledging the two drivers taking their break. He turned right, through yet another door. Joe followed, shot past a counter where a driver was receiving instructions from one of the staff, and was right on Kane’s heels as the manager passed through a metal door, to the outside.

  After the soft, interior lighting, the harsh sunlight strained Joe’s eyes for a moment. He was in the north yard, the sun high and slightly to his left. From here, he could see Blackpool Tower and the tall arch of The Big One on the Pleasure Beach. But they were the only landmarks he could see. To the left, in the west yard were the monolithic buildings he seen when he first arrived while ahead of him and to his right were rows and rows of semi-trailers in the distinctive green and white livery of Ballantyne Distribution.

  The trailers were parked at an angle to the building, so aside from a couple of rows immediately to the left, he could not see down the lines between them. They were three deep and ran all the way back to a wire mesh fence.

  He was presented with a short flight of steps. Kane had already hurried down them and turned to his right, making for the trailers where the paramedics and the shunter had parked. Joe hurried in pursuit, noticing that the lanes of trailers were clearly marked out with yellow lines, and that each lane was numbered.

  Thinking to himself that for one so obviously overweight, Kane was pretty nimble, he watched the numbers flash past on the ground; 10, 11, 12, 13… Kane turned in between the trailers on parks fifteen and sixteen, and Joe was right on his heels.

  At the rear of the second trailer on park fifteen, Alf, the shunter stood agitatedly by, and one of the paramedics was attending the fallen man, while the other listened for information. As Kane and Joe arrived, the first paramedic stood up and shook his head, grimly.

  “Sorry, Mr Kane. He’s dead.”

  From the corner of his eye, Joe registered Alf staggering back, and soon it was followed by the sound of him retching.

  Silence fell over them, disturbed only by the rumble of a shunter or a lorry passing them, and the crackle of the radio in Alf’s cab.

  Disregarding it, Joe looked down as the paramedics backed off.

  Stan Crowther was half curled into a foetal ball, his right hand stretched out as if he were reaching for something beneath the trailer. The collar of his high visibility jacket was turned up. Careful to avoid cracking his head on the rear of the trailer, Joe bent and peeled the collar back.

  “Hey. What the hell are you doing?” the paramedic protested.

  “Leave him alone. The police—”

  “Need to be called right now,” Joe said, and once more dug out his mobile phone.

  Crowther had injuries to his neck similar to those Cruikshank had suffered, but this time there appeared to be two, one overlaying the other, at different angles across the back of his neck. The upper injury ran from the left shoulder and crossed the neck just under the base of the skull, the lower one ran straight across the neck, and Joe guessed that the maximum force of impact was where the two injuries crossed, dead centre.

  Focussing his phone, he took two pictures from slightly different angles, then backed out from beneath the trailer and straightened up.

  He was greeted by a puzzled Dave Kane. “Mr Murray, what are you doing here?”

  “Saving your bacon by the looks of it,” Joe replied. “Look at him.”

  “You have no business—” Kane began, only for Joe to cut him off.

  “I said look at him. He has the same bruising on the back of his neck as Peter Cruikshank. Some kind of cross-hatch pattern. Only this time, it looks as if he’s been hit twice.” He pointed down at Crowther’s neck. Joe rounded on the paramedics. “So what are you gonn
a say this time? He hit his head against the steps twice?”

  Kane sighed. “Mr Murray, with the best will in the world, you have no business being here. You don’t work for Ballantynes and you’re not even properly dressed for this yard. Now—”

  Joe cut him off again. “What is it with you people and your rules? Right now, Kane, you have not one but two dead men on your site. That is not an accident, and it’s not negligence. It’s murder and the longer you delay in calling the police, the more you let forensic evidence deteriorate. Now forget my underwear, high-visibility or otherwise, and call the bloody police, man. And I need to be here. They’ll want to interview me, too.”

  Visibly shaken, Kane sighed and looked to the paramedics.

  “It does look suspicious,” the first admitted. “It could be innocent, but it could be foul play. Whatever, we have to report the matter now, and he’s right. You need the cops.”

  “Reg already called them.”

  Joe shook his head. “They’ll send out uniformed, and you need both CID and Scientific Support.”

  Kane nodded and dug into his pockets for his mobile phone. Punching in the numbers with a shaking finger, he spoke quickly but lucidly once the connection was made and concluded the call a minute later with an abrupt, “Thanks.” Shutting down the phone, dropping it back into his pockets, he said, “The police are on their way. They say we mustn’t touch anything or move either of the bodies.” He narrowed his irritated stare at Joe. “They’ll need to speak to all of us.” Now he turned to the paramedics. “Can you stay here with Stan?” On receiving confirmation, he spoke to Joe. “Mr Murray, we can go back inside, and I’ll find you some tea or coffee until they get here.”

  “Sure. Yeah. No problem.”

  Kane spent a few moments checking that Alf was all right, then led Joe back to the dispatch office.

  “Dave,” one of the staff called out as they entered. “We’ve got Reg Barnes at the front door playing hell. He said Peter is in the way and it won’t be long before the day shift are signing off. Wants to know if he can move Peter.”