Death in Distribution

by David W Robinson

  “I’m sorry, Joe, I don’t understand,” Amy protested.

  “Another pal of mine, a teacher, once told me that if people can’t answer your questions it’s because you’re asking the wrong ones. I’m obviously asking it wrong. What I’m saying is, if Peter and Stan did not kill each other, we can find plenty of motives for having a go at Stan, but why have a go at Peter? Why kill him? There’s nothing obvious and Burrows will see that as another indication that it was a straight fight between the two men.”

  “So where do we go from there?” Kane asked.

  Joe shrugged and sank into his thoughts. He was beginning to wish he had never accepted the challenge, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he could never have resisted it. It was exactly the kind of puzzle he enjoyed the most. He also knew that even if Burrows’ theory was the only one that made any kind of sense, it was wrong. Peter Cruikshank and Stan Crowther had not killed each other. But how could he prove…

  “Did you say you had CCTV at either end of the building?” he asked.

  Again, Kane nodded. “All four corners as a matter of fact. Round here, they look along this side of the building and around the corners into the east and west yards.”

  “So if Stan really did go out that way, and if Peter followed him, the CCTV would have caught them as they came out of the Dispatch exit?”

  “I never thought of that,” Amy confessed, “but yes, it probably did.”

  Obviously worried, Kane chewed his lip. “It could take days to get hold of the footage though.”

  “Hang on, Dave, I thought you ran this place.”

  “I run the transport department, Joe. But security are not employed by Ballantynes. It’s a failsafe. Everyone here, from the Chief Executive down to the lavatory cleaner, is liable for search when they leave the building. The only way you can ensure that no one pulls strings to avoid that search is to keep security separate: autonomous. The CCTV footage is theirs, not ours, and in order to view it we have to put in a written request. On average it takes three days for the footage to reach us.”

  Joe snorted, stood up and gathered his belongings. “And you think that’ll stop Burrows? It won’t stop me, either. Take me to the man in charge. I’ll show you how to get it now.”

  “Actually, it’s a woman.”

  Chapter Nine

  When they entered The Exchequer at a few minutes past noon, neither Sheila nor Brenda were surprised to find an irritated Vaughan waiting for them.

  Without being invited, he joined them, fiddling with a glass of lager, and had no hesitation answering when they asked how he had tracked them down. “If I hadn’t found you here, I’d have come over to the Monarch at some time during the day.”

  “It’s so nice to feel wanted, isn’t it, Sheila?” Brenda knocked back a generous slug of Campari.

  “I reserved a table for four last night, and you never showed up.”

  “By the time he returned to the hotel last night, Joe was very tired,” Sheila said. “He couldn’t be bothered going out for dinner. We suggested he ring you and let you know, but once he found out who you were, he got quite angry.”

  “Well, that’s only to be understood, but—”

  “He also told us to avoid you like the plague,” Brenda cut in.

  “I understand how Murray feels, but you’re only hearing—”

  This time it was Sheila who interrupted. “I notice he’s suddenly become Murray, rather than Joe, or the more polite Mister Murray. Quite adversarial.”

  “I am trying to build business premises which will improve Sanford.” A note of exasperation had crept into Vaughan’s voice. “Mister Murray doesn’t appear to understand that. And that’s why I followed him all the way to Blackpool. To try and get the message across.”

  “The message being, you’re putting Joe out of business … or trying to.”

  Vaughan countered Brenda’s candour with a glower. “You’ve only heard his side of the story, Mrs Jump. He has been offered alternative premises.”

  “On the industrial estate the other side of the road,” Brenda said, “where he will lose the larger part of his trade.”

  “He was offered generous compensation.”

  “And what about us?” Sheila demanded. “Joe is a good friend, and an excellent employer, but he’s no fool when it comes to business. He’s been in the trade all his life. If he accepts your offer, he will have no choice but to dispense with one of us. But you don’t care about such things, do you, Mr Vaughan? And all this nonsense of Sanford’s welfare is precisely that; nonsense. All you really care about is the return on your investment, and The Lazy Luncheonette stands in the way of that, doesn’t it?”

  “That is not true. My project, the redevelopment of Britannia Parade, will create jobs. Proper jobs. Not part time, temporary vacancies in retail, but long-term, secure positions for professional people.”

  “As well as raking in huge rents for you and your company.” Brenda smiled mock-sweetly. “No sale.”

  “Ladies, ladies, please…” Vaughan trailed off, and looked to one side, then the other. It was as if he was checking that no one was listening in, but both women guessed he was formulating his words, calculating his approach and weighing the likely responses. “Let me make a personal offer to each of you. I know how bad it can be when you lose your job at your age—”

  “At our age?” Sheila was disgusted. “We’re not yet ready for the nursing home, you know.”

  “Or the knackers yard.”

  “Brenda. Must you?”

  “It’s what they were called, Sheila—”

  “What is wrong with you people?” Vaughan interrupted. “Why are you so set against progress?”

  “Because we don’t consider your shiny office blocks to be progress,” Sheila told him. “If they were decent, affordable homes, then maybe.”

  “If they were decent, affordable industrial premises which would employ ordinary people, perhaps,” Brenda said. “But your development will put us out of work and do nothing to tackle general unemployment in the town. I’m willing to bet that most of the lawyers, accountants and architects who move in won’t even live in Sanford.”

  “Ten thousand… Each.”

  Vaughan’s sudden declaration silenced both women.

  “All you have to do is persuade Murray to get out. And I’ll make sure it’s tax free.”

  He was greeted by silence once more.

  He relaxed, obviously feeling he was in complete control of the situation. “Come on, what do you say? Ten grand each. Murray – or the government – will pay you severance and then you’ll be just free and well off.”

  “It’s a tempting offer, Mr Vaughan,” Sheila said. “Don’t you think, Brenda?”

  “Very tempting. But can we trust you to deliver.”

  “I’ll have half of it for you tomorrow, or even later this afternoon.”

  They exchanged superior glances and smiles, then stood, ready to leave.

  “No pressure, Mr Vaughan,” Sheila said. “Brenda will answer for us both.”

  With a sweeping gesture, Brenda threw her left hand out and knocked Vaughan’s glass over. The beer spilled across the table and splashed onto his light-coloured, casual trousers. With a cry, he shot backwards, but not fast enough to prevent his lap taking most of the spilled beer.

  “Oh, I am sorry. Here. Let me pay for another one.” Taking a two pound coin from her purse, Brenda tossed it on the table. “You know where you can stick your money, Mr Vaughan, and if you hassle us again, it won’t be spilled beer on your trousers. I’ll take a scalpel to you and your wife will need a lover.”

  ***

  As Kane had forecast, Sandra Hamilton refused point blank when they confronted her in reception. With Reg standing by, assuming the role of supporter according to Joe’s best guess, she shook her head the moment Kane asked.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Kane, but you know the rules. That footage doesn’t belong to Ballantynes. It’s ours, and you must put
in a written request if you want to see it.”

  A small, mousey-haired woman in her mid-forties, she was still reading her hair care magazine when they arrived in reception, and Joe mentally questioned the wisdom of the security company in appointing her as shift manager. He recalled her bursting into tears when Peter Cruikshank died the previous day, and it seemed to him that someone so emotional and so disinterested should not even be in security work, never mind running the show.

  When, however, Dave Kane asked for the tapes, the change in her was startling. The apparently vacuous, disinterested passenger was gone, replaced by a sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued supervisor not willing to stand any argument.

  “Please, Sandra, it’s vital that we look at those images. We need—”

  “No, Mr Kane. You know the rules. I am not allowed to let anyone see those images without written authority.”

  Joe shouldered his way to the counter. “Excuse me, but—”

  She cut him off far more rudely than she had Kane. “You have no authority here, so kindly mind your own business.”

  Joe buried the flash of anger which tempted him to bite her head off, and confined his response to simple logic. “Wrong. I’ve been authorised by Ballantynes to investigate this business.”

  Sandra glowered back at him. “Irrelevant. I’ve already said, I don’t work for Ballantynes and by agreement the security footage is not their property. The answer is no.”

  “It’s vital that we see them, Sandra,” Kane urged. “The written request will follow.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Kane, but I said no, and I mean no. Stick to procedures.”

  “Will you say the same to Chief Inspector Burrows?” Joe asked.

  Again she glared at him, her tiny eyes pinpoints of anger. “He asked, I told him the same thing. He needs a warrant.”

  “Wrong,” Joe declared. “Police and Criminal Evidence Act, 1984. In the course of investigating a major crime, where the police officer suspects that evidence pertaining to that crime is withheld, he may demand it without the need for a search warrant, and if the suspect continues to withhold the evidence, the suspect may be arrested for obstructing a police officer in the course of his duties.”

  Sandra blanched. “What?”

  “This is a murder investigation, woman. If he suspects this footage can point to the killer, Burrows doesn’t need a search warrant, and if you continue to refuse, he can arrest and charge you for obstruction.” Joe dug not his ubiquitous gilet and retrieved his phone. “Right now, of course, Burrows doesn’t know that yesterday’s footage may show him the killer. We’ve only just realised it ourselves. But he will in a few minutes.”

  “I’m just doing my job,” Sandra whined.

  “Not for much longer,” Joe assured her as he called up Sheila’s number. “Or am I wrong in thinking that a security officer with a criminal record can no longer hold a licence. And obstructing the police is a criminal matter.”

  Her features turned pale. “You mean I could be fired for it?”

  Joe nodded. “Eventually.”

  “But I could be fired for giving you access to the footage, too.”

  “Not if we explain,” Kane said. “You may not work for Ballantynes, but your co-operation will be noted and your employer will more than likely reward you for it.”

  “Want me to call Burrows?” Joe asked.

  She vacillated while Reg stood by looking helpless. At length Joe pushed the connect button and put the phone to his ear.

  “All right,” Sandra said. “Tell me what you need.”

  “Hello, Joe,” Sheila’s voice rang in his ear.

  “Sorry. Dialled the wrong number.” Joe cut the connection and smiled at Sandra. “That’s more like it. We need to see footage from the south side of the building between ten past two and, say, ten to three yesterday afternoon. We can fast forward through it. If you’re not happy about that, we’re happy to let you review it.”

  Sandra made notes. “What are you looking for?”

  “Peter Cruikshank and Stan Crowther leaving the building by the Dispatch exit.”

  “I’ll get onto it.”

  Sandra hurried over to her console while Amy, Kane and Joe stepped back from the counter.

  “Police and Criminal Evidence Act,” Kane muttered. “Congratulations, Joe.”

  He smiled back and kept his voice low. “I thought it was good, too. Off the cuff like that. Course, it’s rubbish.” The other two were surprised. “I have a niece who’s a copper, so I’ve heard of PACE, but I wouldn’t know one end of the act from the other.”

  Amy giggled and Kane laughed aloud.

  Their humour was cut short by Reg, leaning on the counter as he spoke to them. “Excuse me, Mr Murray, Mr Kane, Ms Willows, but I can tell you that Stan Crowther didn’t leave by the Dispatch exit.”

  Joe’s head turned so fast, he almost wrenched his neck. “What?”

  “I signed him out yesterday afternoon, a few minutes before you and your driver turned up, Mr Murray. He left through this door.” Reg pointed to the outside world.

  “Do the police know this?” Joe demanded.

  “Shouldn’t think so. They didn’t ask. When they spoke to us yesterday, it was all about Mr Cruikshank.”

  From the back of the work area, Sandra called out, “Still want me to look?”

  “Yes,” Joe insisted. “But instead of looking for Crowther, just look for Cruikshank. We need to know if he stepped out into the yard through the Dispatch exit, and if he did, we need to know where he went.” He turned his attention to Reg. “You’re sure about Crowther leaving this way?”

  “Definite. Odd situation, to be honest. He insisted on a search.”

  “Come again?”

  “Well, he came through the scanner, it didn’t trigger,” Reg explained. “Normally, I would have let him go, and normally, the driver would be happy about that, but he insisted on a pat-down search and a check of his bag.”

  “You found nothing untoward?” Kane asked.

  “Clean and green,” Reg confirmed.

  Joe raised his eyebrows at Kane and Amy, and the union woman replied.

  “He’d just been suspended. My guess is he wanted to be certain the company couldn’t bring anything else against him, so he left via the official route and had Reg confirm that he was not taking anything with him that he shouldn’t have.”

  “Sounds sensible enough, but the big question now is, how did he end up on park fifteen?” Joe scribbled out his mobile number and handed it to Reg. “When Sandra is finished, ask her to bell me with the result.” He turned back to the manager and union woman. “Can we retrace the route he would have taken to his car?”

  “No problem,” Kane said, “but to what end?”

  “I don’t know,” Joe admitted. “Sometimes it helps to, er, reconstruct a victim’s last minutes. The cops do it all the time.”

  “Yes but that’s usually to help witness recall, Joe,” Amy pointed out.

  “Well, in this case it’s to help me clear some of the clutter from my head.” Joe beamed a persuasive smile on her and was rewarded by a similar smile of genuine warmth from her.

  ***

  Lying half prone on the bed in his room at the Hilton, Vaughan cursed down the telephone and kicked his briefcase further down the mattress. “I want this matter dealt with, Queenan,” he hissed. “I want that damned café levelled. I am sick of the delays, I am sick of the excuses and I am triple sick of Joe bloody Murray and his staff.”

  “Calm yourself, Gerard,” Queenan said. “There are procedures which must be observed. The CPO has been issued, Murray has appealed. We have to let the law take its course.”

  “And how many more times do I have to tell you that every day is costing me hundreds of pounds.” Vaughan glowered at his stained trousers, thrown over an armchair. “And his girlfriends have just put up my laundry bill.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Now what the hell are you doing about Murray?”

>   “I told you. There is nothing we can do. But don’t worry, Gerard. He won’t win. These appeals never come to anything, and Murray’s is based on the thinnest of pretexts.”

  “You’re not listening, Queenan. I want him out, I want that building down, I want my people working and I do not want to hang around for some legal committee to make up its mind. Either get him out of there or I will.”

  He cut the connection and stared at the featureless walls of his room. Then, in a paroxysm of blind rage, he threw the mobile at the wall.

  The pique of fury evaporated as quickly as it had boiled up, and he instantly regretted the broken phone. Stretching across the bed, he yanked his briefcase closer, flipped open the lid and took out a smartphone. With barely a glance at the menus, he called up the number and dialled.

  “Appleby? I want you and your pal here five minutes ago.”

  ***

  Joe, Kane and Amy followed the marked pedestrian path away from the building and towards the main gates. From here, the trailer parks in question were invisible on the north side of the building, and looking at the layout, Joe guessed that the closest of those parks would not become visible until they were past the gatehouse and walking down the west side of the site.

  But the loading bays on the west side were all full and there was a wide roadway between them and the staff car parks.

  “Could Crowther have taken a short cut through the actual yard to get to park fifteen?” Joe asked, waving his hand at the roadway.

  “He could and it’s doubtful whether any of the shunters would have challenged him,” Kane replied. “They’re used to seeing drivers milling about the yard, and at that time, it wasn’t generally known that Stan had been suspended.”

  “It doesn’t make much sense, though,” Amy commented. “If he was going to take a short cut, why didn’t he just go out the Dispatch door?”

  “Logical,” Joe agreed, “but people don’t always behave logically. Stan was angry, he was probably still half drunk, too. He may have got out here and thought, ‘Why am I going this way I’m all but fired, so why don’t I break all the rules’. It could happen.”