Death in Distribution

by David W Robinson

“And that’s another thing we have to take up, Dave,” Amy said. “You allowed Terry Dodd, a security man, to move that rig into the yard from the gate. He has no licence, and company rules clearly state that all drivers must hold a current HGV—”

  “It was an emergency, Amy,” Kane interrupted. “The rig was blocking the gate and I had to do something. Alf Sclater took almost ten minutes to get there. We couldn’t have it blocking the gate like that.”

  “You’re doing it again,” Joe warned before the argument could develop further. “Getting sidetracked. Let’s stick to Crowther and Cruikshank, huh? So you had the cops take him away, Dave? What then?”

  “To be frank, Joe, he was so drunk he didn’t make much sense,” Amy said. “I went across to the gate to stay with him until the police turned up. They breathalysed him, it was positive and they took him away. He asked me to put his bag in his locker, after which I went to the police station to collect him. By the time I got there, they’d charged him. They haven’t given us precise details. They won’t know until the official analysis comes back, but he was at least three times over the limit.”

  Kane’s features darkened. “He was hammered, to put no finer point on it.”

  Joe stopped taking notes and frowned. “So how did Peter become involved in this?”

  “He didn’t. Not then, anyway,” Kane explained. “Amy brought Stan back about one o’clock, and by then he was sober enough for us to hold a reasonable discussion with him.”

  “I took him upstairs, to this office where we met with Dave, and the management witness was Peter.” Amy sighed. “And that’s when it all kicked off.”

  ***

  The moment Amy and Crowther returned from the police station, they were due to meet with Kane and Cruikshank in the managers’ third floor office.

  Amy was angry. Like Kane, she had become tired of the constant bickering between Crowther and Cruikshank, and now it seemed that all the years of fighting were to come to nothing.

  The journey from the police station, through the main entrance at Ballantynes, and through the Sort Centre was largely silent. Once inside, in a desperate, last-minute effort to sober Crowther up, they took the stairs rather than the lift, and Amy finally decided it was time to let him know how she felt.

  Her voice echoing around the empty staircase, she growled, “Three times over the limit. That’s what the cops say. It’s a sackable offence, Stan. There’s no way I can get you out of it.”

  “I haven’t been drinking,” he insisted, his voice still slightly slurry.

  “Then how do you explain the breathalyser result?

  “I don’t … don’t know. But it’s not me.” Out of breath, he had to pause at the first landing. While he leaned on the stair rail getting his breath back, his face screwed into a mask of intense concentration. “Did you … did you put my bag in my locker?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll need it.”

  Suspicion grew across Amy’s hardened features. “Why?”

  “Be … because I’ve know what happened, and it’s that … that git, Cruikshank. Your ex-bloody husband. He’s fine … finally got his own back after all these … these years.”

  At once horrified and intrigued, Amy demanded. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ll see. Let’s just get my bag from my locker.”

  She listened to his explanation, and with fresh determination, dug into her pockets and came out with his locker key. “You wait here. I’ll go for it.” She hurried back down the stairs.

  Five minutes later, with Amy carrying the black, sports holdall, they stepped into Kane’s office where the management duo was already seated in the far corner of the room, their backs to the wall. Amy and Crowther took their seats. Crowther declined coffee and broke out a bottle of water, and Kane opened proceedings.

  “The company position on this matter is quite clear. Excess alcohol, in this case proven by the police, warrants summary dismissal. It’s my job to find out if there are extenuating circumstances, and before we go any further, I’m telling you now, it’s almost impossible for there to be any.”

  “Dave—”

  Kane cut Crowther off before he could say more. “Stan, what the hell are you playing at? You’ve done thousands of pounds worth of damage to other vehicles, you’re facing a huge fine, possible imprisonment, you’re going to lose your licence and your job, and you’re dragging this company’s name and reputation through the mud.”

  “I have not had a drink,” Crowther declared.

  “Then how do you account for the police findings?” Cruikshank retorted. “The breathalyser lit up like a bloody traffic light, man. And it’s not just the breathalyser. ” He sorted through the papers before him. “Your urine sample says you were at least three times over the limit, and they’re waiting on the blood analysis, but they expect it to confirm their findings. You were blathered.”

  “You know, I’ve just about had it up to here, today,” Crowther fumed. “Those idiots on security held me up for nearly ten minutes for a cab search on the way out, and now this. I’ll tell you again. I have not had a drink.”

  Kane threw his hands up and let them fall to the table. “You’re being obstructive, Stan, and you leave me no alternative. I’m sorry, but you’re fired. Collect your personal belongings and I’ll arrange for you to be escorted off the site.”

  A sly smile crept across Crowther’s face. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Dave. I said I haven’t had a drink. Obviously I have, but we need to think about how I came to take a drink without my knowing about it.”

  Having watched the brief exchanges, Amy remained firm and determined when she spoke. “Stan insists that someone has tampered with his flask.”

  Cruikshank laughed; a short, sharp bark of utter derision.

  “I’m not stupid,” Crowther insisted. “Twenty-five years I’ve been here. When have you ever known me turn up for work drunk? Never. When have you ever known me take a drink while I’m working? Never.” He jabbed a pointing finger into the table top. “Someone fooled around with my flask of coffee and put strong alcohol in it. And we all know who.” The finger lifted and aimed straight at Cruikshank. “You.”

  Whatever humour Cruikshank had enjoyed, faded rapidly, to be replaced by indignation. “Don’t talk so soft, man.”

  “Yes you did, and you know you did. You’ve never got over me giving one to her.” He jerked his thumb sideways at Amy. “You’ve been hell bent on getting even ever since, but you can’t face me like a man, can you? So you go the crafty way about it, coming down harder on me than other drivers, making my life hell, and now this. Spiking my coffee. Well I’ve got the proof right here, Cruikshank, and this time, you’re the one who’s gonna be nailed.”

  “You’re talking out of your backside,” Cruikshank turned to his manager for support. “Dave, this is just a ruse to try and get him off the hook. Boot him out.”

  Kane held up a hand for silence and looked to Amy.

  Slightly miffed at the way Crowther had referred to her in such an offhand manner, Amy was nevertheless anxious to get her member off the hook, but equally careful not to lay the blame with her ex-husband. “I don’t know, Dave. What Stan says makes sense, but whether Peter is responsible, I really can’t say.”

  “Bloody typical of you, that, isn’t it?” Cruikshank grumbled. “Take his side.”

  “I’m paid to take Stan’s side, Peter. Even if he’s in the wrong.”

  “There’s a simple way to settle this,” Kane said. “Do you have you flask, Stan?”

  “In the bag.” Crowther nodded at the holdall.

  “Give it to me. Even if it’s empty, there’ll be dregs in there, and I’ll have them checked for traces of alcohol.”

  Crowther nodded, Amy picked up the bag and unzipped it.

  It was a mess. There were notebooks, pens, an mp3 player, glossy magazines, a copy of the company schedules and his work rota, the morning newspaper, work gloves, woollen gloves, even a
spare baseball cap, but there was no sign of a thermos. She looked to Crowther, and shrugged before passing him the bag.

  He, too, rooted through it before tossing it to the floor. “Aw, great. Now someone’s been through my gear and nicked the flask.” He glowered at Cruikshank. “It’s you again, isn’t it? You waited while the cops hauled me off and then went into my locker to get rid of the flask, cos you knew what it would prove.”

  Cruikshank sneered. “Will you listen to yourself, Crowther? You’re raving.”

  “And you’re gonna pay for this.” Crowther half rose.

  “Calm down, Stan,” Amy ordered. She waited until he was seated again. “Is there any danger you could have left the flask in your cab?”

  He did not answer immediately, and she could see that he was quietly simmering away.

  “Stan?”

  “Mebbe. I dunno.”

  “When did you get your bag from the cab?” Kane asked.

  “That bloody security guard got it. Dodd. He wouldn’t let me back in the cab after he spoke to you. So I asked him to get my gear out, and he did. Then, when Amy came over to the gatehouse, I gave it to her and I gave her my locker key, to put it away while I went with the filth.” He raised his voice and pointed a quivering finger at Cruikshank. “And he went into my locker and took the flask.”

  Cruikshank was also on the point of losing his temper. “You’re a nutter, you are. I don’t know about sacked, you should be—”

  “It’s common knowledge that management have keys for all the lockers,” Crowther cut in. “For two pins, I’d knock you all over this yard.”

  “Any time you fancy your chances, pal,” Cruikshank retorted getting to his feet.

  Crowther rose again. “How about right now? Come on then, big shot. Let’s see—”

  “Please,” Amy interrupted. “We’re not children.” Silence fell, and she addressed Kane. “Could we check whether the flask is in the cab?”

  “Of course,” the manager agreed. “The minute we’re done here.” He switched his attention to Crowther. “Even if we find the flask, Stan, and we learn that it was, er, spiked, it doesn’t change much. You should have been aware that your judgement was impaired, and you should have stopped and slept it off, or called in so we could send a relief out. The police should have made you aware that there is no defence in law, even if there may be mitigating circumstances. That said, there’s obviously some doubt about what’s really happened, so for the time being, I’m suspending you from duty. You’ll be on full pay pending a disciplinary hearing, and that will be called within the next ten days.”

  “Dave—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Stan,” Kane interrupted. “I don’t want to hear anything from you until such time as you attend the hearing. For now, I want you to collect your belongings and go home. Amy will keep you posted on progress and she’ll advise you of the date of the hearing.” Kane smiled briefly on the union woman. “Amy?”

  “Fine. I’ll have to put a report into the branch office, but I’ll make sure Stan goes home first.”

  “Thank you.”

  Amy and Crowther stood. The driver picked up his holdall, and delivered a final glare at Cruikshank. “I’ll get you for this. I’ll put you in a wheelchair for life.”

  Cruikshank remained implacably confident. “Any time you like.”

  ***

  Joe made a final note and then spent a moment reading through them.

  “I assume you’ve told the police all of this,” he asked, and was greeted by nods from both Kane and Amy. Concentrating on the woman, he went on, “So you left the meeting with Crowther. What happened then?”

  “I took him down to the rest room. I was supposed to escort him to the main gate, but he said he wanted to clear out his locker first. I left him there, went back to my office to type up my report, and I was there for the rest of the afternoon … or at least until the deaths of both men spread on the grapevine, a good hour or more later.”

  Joe spun his head to face Kane. “And you, Dave?”

  “I spent a few minutes with Peter, then went to Maintenance and the workshops to check the tractor unit, see if Stan’s flask was in there. That’s where I’d been when I came into the building and met you and your driver.”

  Joe smiled. “Not checking our bus, then?”

  Kane returned the smile. “No. Not checking your bus. I’m sorry, Joe, but I couldn’t tell you what I’d been doing. It was none of your business, so I just made an excuse.”

  “No worries. And what about Peter?”

  Kane shrugged. “He was in this office when I left, and he was still here when I came back.”

  “And when you came back, did he appear all right?”

  “Well, not really. He seemed distracted; worried. Mind you, Joe, to be fair, I had warned him that if I learned he really had tampered with Stan’s flask, he’d be for the high jump, too. Legally, Stan had no defence, but if it could be proven that Peter had spiked his coffee, then that’s just as criminal, and the company would ensure that not only would he lose his job, but he’d be reported to the police.”

  Leaning back in his seat, cradling a cup of tea in his hands, Joe considered his next point. “You know, I’ve been in the catering trade all my life. I have those customers who’ve been coming into my café for the last quarter of a century, and if there was anything wrong with the tea, they’d notice it instantly. I would, too. So what I don’t understand is how come Stan didn’t notice his coffee was spiked. He should have taste the booze right away.”

  “Not necessarily,” Amy disagreed. “Stan was a sugar addict. He took anything up to four or five sugars in a cup of tea or coffee, so God knows how many he put in a flask. If someone added a strong spirit, Polish vodka, or even antifreeze, he may not have noticed it through the sugar.”

  “Ah.” Joe sat forward and scrawled ‘sugar addict’ on his notepad, then leaned back again. “So what do you two think? Could his coffee have been spiked?”

  Kane shrugged. Amy was more definite.

  “It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. We all knew Stan. He liked a beer of an evening, but he didn’t drink at work, and he knew he was on duty early doors yesterday, so he wouldn’t have gone out on the beer Thursday night. Even if he did, there would be some alcohol still in his bloodstream, but not that amount. Everything points to him having taken in a lot of alcohol yesterday morning.”

  “And assuming someone really did meddle with his thermos, would Peter have had the opportunity?” Joe asked.

  As before, Kane remained non-committal, but Amy was more certain.

  “Yes, he would. Stan came in at four a.m. for a routine delivery in Sunderland and a collection in Middlesbrough. But the Sunderland delivery was cancelled late on Thursday night. Dispatch arranged for a driver from our York depot to handle the Middlesbrough collection and when Stan came in, he was put on standby, which basically means sitting in the rest room and twiddling his thumbs until a job came up. Peter started at six thirty, and was on duty until four thirty in the afternoon. At seven, Stan was given a job. A collection in Manchester; Trafford Park. Pick up a load of flatpack furniture. Now I know that job. You turn up, open the back doors, back onto the loading bay and sit in your cab until the trailer is loaded. It takes about an hour, hour and a half. I also know Stan. He would have been in the cab, drinking coffee and reading his porno magazines.”

  “Analysis of his tachograph shows he got to Manchester at about eight fifteen and left at about nine forty-five,” Kane confirmed. “He’d had ninety minutes of gulping down coffee. So if it was spiked, it meant he took in a lot of alcohol in a short space of time.”

  Again Joe scrawled a few notes. “We now know that Peter had a small window of opportunity in which to spike Stan’s coffee…” He trailed off as Amy opened her mouth to protest, but Joe cut her off before she could speak. “I’m not saying he did it, Amy, just that he had the chance to do it. Here’s the thing I don’t understand. Stan is sat in t
he rest room for, what? Three hours? If he was drinking out of the flask all that time, he must have been drunk before he set off, and if he wasn’t then it’s reasonable to assume the alcohol got into his system after he left, which points at him having a bottle with him.”

  Amy shook her head. “Not so. Do you know anything about truckers?”

  “Only what I’ve learned from serving them six days a week.”

  “Then you should know that when a driver sets off, he never really knows when he’s going to get back. An accident, traffic jams, police or ministry spot checks; it all means he can never make more than an intelligent guess at the journey time. That being the case, most of them don’t use a flask in the rest room. They save it for when they’re out on the road. Instead, they use the vending machines.”

  Joe considered the explanation, found it satisfactory and made a note. “Dave, you went to the tractor unit to see if the flask was in there. Was it?”

  “No.”

  “You were carrying something weighty in the pockets of your hi-vis coat when you met us in reception, and I noticed something sticking out of your jacket pocket yesterday. A sort of wrist loop.”

  Kane did not appear offended by the insinuation. “It was a torch. The lighting in the workshop is good, but not that good, and those cabs tend to be dark. I needed the flashlight to have a good look round. The flask was not in there.”

  Joe recalled seeing a heavy duty flashlight on Terry Dodd’s belt the previous day. “Fair enough. Amy, you went to the locker to collect Stan’s bag. Was the flask in the locker?”

  “No. I’m sure I would have noticed if it were.”

  “All right. Final question, for now. Is it true that management have keys to the lockers?”

  “No,” Kane said. “Security have them and, of course, the drivers have them, but we don’t.”

  “Not the final question, then,” Joe corrected himself. “Why do security have keys?”

  “You know about our search rules, Joe,” Kane explained. “Everyone is liable to be searched on entry and exit to the site.”

  Joe was appalled. “You can be searched coming in?”