“Yes, sir.”
He leaned back in his chair again, this time concentrating his steady gaze on the ceiling, and Gemma could almost hear his mind ticking over the possibilities.
She sneaked a glance at her watch and read 7:15. At The Lazy Luncheonette, Joe would be in the deepest throes of his morning rush and he would not be pleased to see her, let alone any other police officer. And yet, she was certain all she needed was ten minutes of his time to clear up the matter and get the real investigation under way.
“I think I’ll call Ray Dockerty in Leeds.”
She nodded. “I’ve met Chief Inspector Dockerty before, sir.”
“It’s Superintendent Dockerty, these days.”
“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, I think Joe’s met him, too.”
Oughton nodded sagely. “Christmas a couple of years back. That nasty bit of business at the Regency Hotel in Leeds. Wasn’t one of Joe’s pals initially accused?”
“George Robson, if memory serves, sir.”
Oughton chuckled. “Big George. He was one of Joe’s gang at school, you know. They terrorised the schoolyard.” He laughed again at his memories. “And they’re still friends.”
“George is a member of Uncle Joe’s club.”
“The Sanford 3rd Age Club? I’m a member, too… technically. Haven’t been to one of their shindigs for years.” Her boss peered over the thin rims of his varifocals. “Because of our association with Joe, neither you nor I are qualified to investigate this matter, Gemma. We need someone who is as fair minded and impartial as he can be. I don’t know all the ins and outs of the Leeds case, but I know Ray quite well. He’s more than capable of putting aside any personal feelings he may have towards your uncle. And if the waters are to be muddied, we may find we need a superintendent on the case, rather than an inspector or chief inspector. I’ll have a word with him.”
Gemma sucked in her breath. “Very good, sir. Is there anything you want me to do now?”
“Yes. Cut along to The Lazy Luncheonette and bring Joe in.”
“But sir, could we not—”
“No, you cannot conduct the interview on his premises. I’ve already made it clear that you cannot interview him at all. He’s implicated. We need him here for a formal interview with officers who are independent of this station, this town. Bring him in. Give him only the barest of information, and before you do that, ask if he can account for his whereabouts between, say, half past ten and midnight last night. You do not tell him why, and you don’t give him the opportunity to cook anything up with Brenda Jump.”
Gemma got to her feet. “I don’t think he and Brenda are an item these days, sir.”
Chapter Two
It was often said the Joe Murray only had two moods: bad and very bad. Like many of the myths concerning Joe, there was more than an element of truth in it. Most days he was simply irritable, but it would not take much to elevate him to a plateau of real anger.
Crawling out of bed at a quarter to five, climbing into his car for the two-mile journey to The Lazy Luncheonette, was calculated to raise any sane person’s blood pressure, but realising that he had not filled the car (he was sure he had more petrol than that) meant a detour to the all-night filling station on North Road, and that was enough to tip the scales.
“The tank on this thing is so small you only need to go to the supermarket and back and you’re out of juice,” he complained to his nephew Lee when they finally got the gas burners lit in the kitchen.
Turning up late created problems of its own when running a truckers’ café. They would be busy from the moment they opened the doors at six, and it would be impossible to catch up.
“We’ve already lost at least two customers,” he whined as he waited for the tea urn to come to the boil.
“How d’you work that out, Uncle Joe?” Lee asked as he spread cooking oil and laid out multiple rashers of bacon on the flat span of the cooking hob.
“There were two truckers parked overnight in the back lane last night. They’ve already gone. That’s two breakfasts we’re down.”
Pouring more oil from a 20-litre metal drum into the deep fat fryer, Lee pointed out, “Yeah, but they could have gone really early doors. Y’know, like four o’clock or whenever. Anyroad, how come you saw them?”
“I went to the cash and carry after we closed last night, picked up a load of perishables. I didn’t want all those cakes and buns and the frozen stuff in the car overnight, so I called back here and dropped them off.” Joe checked a line of photographs on the wall. “Remember, lad, all of this, including journeys to the cash and carry, will be yours one day… well, most of it. Apart from the bits I leave to Sheila and Brenda.”
The centre picture was of himself, Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump standing alongside his car at the rear of The Lazy Luncheonette. Taken by Lee back in December, when they first moved in, all three wore broad smiles. Alongside it was a photograph of Lee standing at the front entrance, and next to that was another of Sheila and Brenda, then another of Joe, but his smile in this image was faded. It irritated him that the new building had no parking out front, and he could not have his picture taken alongside his car in front of the café.
“My two prized possessions,” he muttered and flicked over the pictures with a feather duster.
“What, Uncle Joe?”
“Nothing, Lee. I was just thinking about the café and my car. Just talking to myself. And we’d better get a move on. The girls will be here soon, and the draymen won’t be far behind them.”
Busy unlocking the door, Joe did not bother to check if Lee had heard or responded to the instruction. For all that he was the butt of Joe’s irritation much of the time, Lee was diligent and knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing.
Although Joe described Lee as a ‘lad’ he was in fact almost thirty years old. Often clumsy, sometimes slow on the uptake, he had been a professional rugby player, a useful prop for the Sanford Bulls until torn knee ligaments ended his career. He was born in Sanford, but his father, Joe’s brother Arthur, had moved the family to Australia when Lee was a toddler. Less than five years later, Arthur’s wife, Rachel, returned to England with young Lee in tow, and Joe had become a surrogate father to the boy, ensuring that he went to school and later, when he turned sixteen, unwilling to let him rely on playing rugby for his income, he had sent Lee to catering college. A huge, often cumbersome young man, he was nevertheless an excellent chef, quite capable of turning out the kind of fancy meals The Lazy Luncheonette did not sell. Joe had warded off the threat of some fancy restaurant or hotel chain stealing Lee away by bequeathing eighty per cent of the café to him. The other twenty per cent would go to Sheila and Brenda who, as well as working for him were, coincidentally, his best friends.
They arrived on the dot at seven, at which time there were half a dozen truckers enjoying breakfast in the dining area.
Putting on a tabard from a locker in the kitchen, Brenda ran a practised eye over the food preparation area. “Are we a little behind?”
Joe glanced at her and ran a cynical eye down to her legs. “You don’t look too bad, Brenda. For your age.”
“One of these days, Joe, you’ll get a knuckle butty for breakfast. I asked are we a little behind, not have we a little behind.”
“I was late,” Joe told her, “and it was your fault.”
“How come?” Sheila wanted to know as she checked the empty tables for sugar, salt and pepper. “Brenda, did you stay with Joe last night?”
“I did not.”
“No, but you went out with the sandwich order yesterday morning,” Joe said, “and you never told me how short of petrol I was. I had to detour this morning to fill the car up.”
“Can’t say I noticed,” Brenda replied as she strapped on an apron and began to help Lee in the kitchen.
“We won’t have enough sausages cooked for the draymen, Uncle Joe,” Lee called out. “They’ll have to wait.”
Joe looked to the door where the first of t
he Sanford Brewery delivery drivers stepped in with his mate in tow. “I can see this being a fun day.”
By half past seven, the queue still stretched back to the door, as it usually did, but the drivers were becoming more vociferous in their complaints.
“Every pub in Sanford will be out of ale by the time we get moving,” complained the drayman at the front of the queue.
“You want uncooked bacon? It takes time. We can’t cook it any faster.”
“Yeah but—”
“Or maybe you think it’ll cook a bit quicker if it’s marinated in Sanford Brewery best bitter. Gimme a couple of barrels and we’ll try it.”
It was into this chaos that a tired Gemma and Vinny Gillespie entered at seven forty-five.
“I don’t know what you want, Gemma, but you’ll have to wait,” her uncle said. “We’re miles behind. I’ll sort you some tea out.”
“I don’t have time for tea, Uncle Joe, and we can’t wait. Get your whites off. You have to come with us to the station.”
The announcement brought silence to the entire place. Draymen, usually engrossed in their work-related chitchat, or the latest, closed-season football transfer news, stopped, and bent their ears to events at the counter. Busy clearing a few tables Sheila, too, stopped, and in the open-plan kitchen, both Lee and Brenda paused to listen in.
“Just mind your own business and get on with your meals,” Gillespie ordered everyone.
No one took any notice.
Joe glowered. “Have you taken leave of your senses, girl? I’m in the middle of the morning rush.”
“Uncle Joe, I’ve had a long night, and Vinny’s been on duty longer than me. You’re needed at the station for questioning.”
“Questioning? What about?”
Joe could make out Sheila mouthing ‘about what’ but for once, she did not say it aloud.
“I’m not prepared to discuss it here,” Gemma replied.
“Fair enough. Then I’m not coming with you.”
“Uncle Joe—”
“Gemma, don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. If you need to question me over something, I have the right to know what.”
She sighed. “I’m not prepared to discuss it here,” she repeated, “but let’s say it’s a serious incident.”
“How serious?”
“It doesn’t come much worse.” Gemma held his gaze. “If you don’t come with us voluntarily, you’ll leave me no choice but to arrest you.”
Joe gawped, and then the anger took over. “Oh, it’s like that is it?”
The drayman waiting for service grinned. “You been dumping chip fat down the drains again, Joe?”
“Bugger off, you.”
“Not until I’ve been served.”
Blatantly ignoring his niece, Joe poised his pen over a note. “Whaddya want?”
“Joe, this is your last warning,” Gemma said. “You are coming to the station. Now.”
In the kitchen, Brenda and Lee were talking earnestly. Lee broke off the conversation and stepped across to pick up the wall phone. “You’d better go, Uncle Joe. I’ll bell Cheryl. She’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“I’m going nowhere until I’m told what it is.”
“I’ll tell you in the car,” Gemma insisted.
Sheila returned to the counter. “Joe, go with her. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be sorted out quickly. We can cope until Cheryl gets here.”
Joe ignored her. “What’s it about, Gemma?”
“That’s it.” Gemma finally snapped.” Joseph Murray, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned something which you intend to rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence.”
For the second time, complete, stunned silence fell over the busy café. Behind the counter, Joe’s hand began to shake and the colour drained from his face.
Alongside Gemma, Gillespie unclipped his handcuffs.
“I don’t think we’ll need them, Vinny,” Gemma said.
Joe removed his whites, hung them up. After putting on a thin gilet, he fell in between his niece and her colleague, and under the watchful eyes of everyone in the café, walked out with them.
At the kerbside, Vinny watched him into the rear seat of their patrol car before getting behind the wheel. Gemma climbed into the passenger side, and ordered, “Gale Street, Vinny.”
Joe spoke for the first time as Gillespie pulled away into the traffic. “Are you gonna tell me what this is about?”
“I can’t. I’m not allowed.”
“Don’t talk so soft, woman.”
“I’m under orders, Joe. You are my uncle. You’re suspected of murder. I cannot speak to you about it.”
Joe turned to the driver. “Vinny—”
“I can’t either, Mr Murray. We’ve known each other too long.”
“Just sit tight and wait,” Gemma ordered. “Someone will be speaking to you sooner rather than later.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?”
***
When Gemma entered Chief Superintendent Oughton’s office for the second time, it was to find two other men with her boss.
She remembered Detective Superintendent Raymond Dockerty as a man able to command others by his very size.
An old-fashioned copper who, like Oughton, had come up through the ranks, he was tall, bulky, square shouldered, with dark hair thinning on the crown, and had fists the size of hams, and when he spoke it was with a loud, booming voice which demanded attention. He enjoyed an enviable arrest record and a reputation for thoroughness, and the rumour factory had it that the only reason he had not made superintendent earlier was his absolute refusal to bend to his superiors’ will, coupled to a habit of telling it like it was, regardless of whose delicate ears his words fell upon.
By contrast, Detective Sergeant Issac Barrett was a university graduate who had been fast-tracked into CID. Wearing an expensive suit, he was younger than Gemma but had risen through the ranks so much faster. Not that she was fooled by his prim appearance, or his soft-skinned, finely manicured hands. Working under a man like Dockerty, he would have to be the best.
Oughton waved her into the only remaining seat, and said, “I believe you know Superintendent Dockerty and Sergeant Barrett.”
She nodded a brief greeting to the two men. “We’ve met before, sir, at training sessions in Leeds and Wakefield.”
“I remember,” Dockerty replied. “And congratulations on your recent promotion.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Oughton reclined in his seat and allowed Dockerty to take control.
“We’re as short of manpower in Leeds as you are here, but I have the advantage of two Chief Inspectors who can hold the fort while I’m here, so I decided to take on this case myself. Now, I’ve read your initial report and although all the evidence is largely circumstantial, it clearly points at Joe Murray. He’s your uncle on your mother’s side, isn’t he?”
“Slightly more complicated, sir,” Gemma explained. “His ex-wife is my mother’s sister. He was also a great friend of my father, who was one of Sanford’s best-known community constables, and latterly a uniformed sergeant. Between them Joe and my dad persuaded me that the police service was the best career I could choose.”
Dockerty had allowed her to speak even though she got the impression that he felt she was overegging the pudding.
“You’re close?”
“I wouldn’t say close, but I do see a lot of Joe, and of course, as family, we keep in touch socially.”
“In that case, you cannot be permitted to take any active part in the investigation while he’s a suspect.”
“I understand that, sir.” While she spoke Gemma cast a rapid glance at Oughton, who seemed more interested in the street than their debate.
Dockerty obviously noticed. “Chief Superintendent Oughton is under the
same restriction. He and Joe are friends, too.”
Gemma said nothing.
“While we were on our way over from Leeds, Sergeant Barrett brought me up to speed on the last time Joe was suspected of murder. The serial stranglings, known as the Sanford Valentine Strangler killings. Chief Inspector Vickers led that investigation, and he treated Joe pretty poorly, didn’t he?”
“Frank opinion, sir? The answer is yes. Mr Vickers bullied Joe on the strength of circumstantial evidence which wasn’t as strong as what we have now. The chief inspector then went on TV and to the local media to announce that Joe had been arrested. He also refused to listen to me when I had material evidence which cast doubt on the whole case. If Chief Superintendent Oughton hadn’t intervened, the strangler could still be free.”
“Joe had embarrassed him previously. Or so I’m told.”
“Yes, sir. But Joe’s like that. Grumpy, snarky, narky, he goes on as if he’s the only one who has the brains to deal with anything and everything. It’s just his way.”
Dockerty nodded. “You’re aware that Joe and I have had prior dealings?”
“The Regency Hotel business a couple of Christmases back.”
“Joe pulled exactly the same stunt on me as he did Vickers.” Dockerty leaned forward. “But there’s a difference, Gemma. I don’t bear grudges. None of us should. We have a job to do and we can’t do it if we allow personal preference or prejudice to get in the way. That’s why I can’t allow you on this investigation.” He indicated Barrett with a nod. “Ike will act as my bagman. You will confine yourself to your other cases and if you’re free, you will work with the DCs and the uniformed staff in the collation of statements and evidence, but you will never work alone on them. Do you understand?”
Gemma felt her anger rising again. “Yes, sir. However, I do feel that pratting about with statements and evidence is demeaning for a detective inspector. It’s the kind of work we usually give to juniors and probationers.”
Dockerty had his large hands apart, accepting her criticism. “You’re right, but what can I do? Don – Chief Superintendent Oughton, can’t afford to lay you off, and I can’t afford to have you involved in this investigation. Even going out to bring Joe in is chancy.”
Trial by Fire Page 2