“If you say so, sir.”
“I do.” Dockerty’s tone brooked no further argument. “However, you have my personal assurance that Joe will be given every opportunity to demonstrate his innocence and the very moment I’m happy that he’s no longer a suspect, he will be freed, and you will then come into the investigation as my 2IC.”
Gemma felt slightly mollified. She had no doubts about Joe’s innocence, and with luck, she would be in on the case within twenty-four hours.
“Now, have you told him anything?”
Again Gemma glanced at Oughton. “No, sir. I was ordered not to.”
“Did he come along willingly?”
“No, sir. He was in the middle of his busiest time and he kicked up a stink.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “I had to arrest him.”
“Painful for you, and I’m sorry, but you did the right thing. Where is he now?”
Gemma made a conscious effort to bring her emotions under control. Feeling sorry for herself or for Joe would not get her any further. “Interview room two. Constable Wickes is with him. He’s, er, not in co-operative mood, sir.”
“Leave that to me.” Dockerty stood. “Don, I’ll get on with it.”
“Fine, Ray,” Oughton replied with an apologetic glance at Gemma.
Chapter Three
Joe, with Constable Noel Wickes babysitting him, was pacing the interview room when Dockerty and Barrett arrived.
Over an hour had passed since Gemma booked him in. He had refused to call his solicitor, after which he was left in this tiny room with only the uncommunicative Wickes for company. He had been told nothing, other than he was suspected of murder. While recognising the seriousness of the matter, he was innocent, and as far as he was concerned, he should be behind his counter at The Lazy Luncheonette, and any questions the police may have should have waited until mid-morning when it would be easier for him to leave his business.
He was doubly annoyed with Gemma. She was his niece. With a few exceptions, no one in Sanford knew him better. She knew he was no criminal, and she also knew how The Lazy Luncheonette worked. Beyond anyone in this station, she should have understood his need to be back there, running his business, not left to simmer in this stuffy, windowless, eight by eight, room. She had her duty, and he would not criticise her for carrying it out, but duty did not mean absolute, obdurate inflexibility.
So he passed the hour alternately sitting and fulminating over the situation, and pacing the tiny room in an effort to calm his growing frustration.
By the time Dockerty and Barrett entered just after nine o’clock, he was almost rabid, but while the two detectives dismissed their uniformed colleague, Joe subdued his anger, and put a broad, cynical smile on his face.
“Well, well, well. Sanford’s finest can’t cut it; Roy Vickers is still scared of me so they send for the big guns from Leeds. Chief Inspector Dockerty and Constable Barrett.”
Putting down two evidence bags, while Barrett spread a statement form on the table and began labelling cassette tapes, Dockerty took his seat, set a buff folder in front of himself, and only then responded to Joe. “It’s Superintendent Dockerty now, Mr Murray. And Issac is a sergeant.”
“I’ll bet you won those promotions after I cracked the Regency Hotel case for you.” Joe’s light-hearted jibes hid his fury at the position he found himself in, and it was obvious from Dockerty’s bland stare that they knew it.
“Before I start the tape, what have you been told about this morning?”
“That I’ve been arrested, by my own niece, on suspicion of murder. It’s—”
Dockerty cut him off. “I must apologise for that, Mr Murray. Because of your relationship to her, Detective Inspector Craddock should not have been sent. However, as I understand it from Chief Superintendent Oughton, this station is desperately short of manpower, so he had little choice.”
Joe opened his mouth to protest, but Dockerty got in first.
“I also understand, from Inspector Craddock’s verbal report, that the reason she arrested you was because you would not come along voluntarily.”
Joe let rip, venting the volcanic anger of the entire morning in a loud and razor-edged diatribe. “And why? Because I’m not like the usual dole fodder you get in here. I’m a businessman. That means I have a business to run and your lot turned up right in the middle of the busiest time of day. Could it not have waited for a few hours?”
“It’s a murder investigation, sir,” Barrett pointed out.
“Yes, and I’m not guilty.”
“That remains to be seen,” Dockerty said. “We have a lot to get through, Joe, and we’ll get through it quicker if you keep your temper under control and answer the questions factually. No stupid rants about your innocence or police stubbornness. When we’re done, as long as I’m happy that you’re not implicated or that we cannot demonstrate your involvement, you will be free to go back to your business. Are we clear on that?”
There was much Joe wanted to say, but the sense of Dockerty’s words seeped into his brain and lodged themselves there. How many times had he advised others to co-operate with the police? How many times had he made a firm effort to calm someone down and encourage them to co-operate with the police? It was the simplest, quickest way to having the charges dismissed.
“Yes.” Unwilling to let matters go with a monosyllabic reply, he added, “I don’t even know who I’m supposed to have killed.”
“Gerard Vaughan,” Dockerty replied.
The shock stunned Joe momentarily. Mental images dashed through his mind in lightning succession, so fast that they ran like a silent movie produced on a hand-cranked camera. Meetings with Vaughan and Irwin Queenan, The Lazy Luncheonette burned to the ground, the temporary accommodation on the industrial estate opposite, moving into the brand new place, Vaughan’s anger at being outmanoeuvred, his ensuing arguments with Joe, the blazing confrontation between them in front of the old, ruined café on the morning after the fire.
He brought his teeming thoughts under control. “Vaughan?”
Dockerty nodded but said nothing. Instead, he watched Barrett setting up the recorder.
“But… I, er…”
The superintendent held up a finger for silence until Barrett gave him the nod, at which point he spoke directly at the recorder.
“Interview number one on the suspicious death of Gerard Vaughan. Present are myself, Detective Superintendent Raymond Dockerty, Leeds CID.” He nodded at Barrett.
“Detective Sergeant Issac Barrett, Leeds CID.”
Dockerty now faced Joe. “Please identify yourself for the recording, sir.”
“Joe Murray, The Lazy Luncheonette, Doncaster Road, Sanford.”
“Your full name, sir, and your home address, not your place of business,” Barrett said after checking Joe’s details taken as he had been booked in.
Joe grunted. “Joseph Murray, Flat twenty-one, Queen’s Court, Leeds Road Estate, Sanford.”
“Thank you, Mr Murray,” Dockerty said. “Can you confirm that you have been advised of your right to have legal representative present during this interview, and you have declined.”
“I have reserved the right,” Joe corrected him. “I’m not paying some legal mouthpiece a coupla hundred pounds an hour to say what I can say myself, but if you get too stroppy, I’ll call him.”
“Very well. How much have you been told about the incident?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t even told who I’m supposed to have murdered until just now.”
“In that case, sir, I will run through the events as they were reported, and from there I will go on to question you. Okay?”
Joe nodded. “As you wish.”
Dockerty drew Gemma’s initial report before him and spent a moment studying it, before beginning the account.
“At eleven thirty last night, the Fire Service, under the command of Yellow Watch Manager Bradley Kilburn, were called to a property identified as Developer’s Dream, on Eastward, here in Sanford.
When they arrived they found the property well alight, and it was one thirty in the morning before they had the blaze under control. Another forty-five minutes passed before Mr Kilburn could enter the building. On entering, he and several of his crew found the body of Gerard Vaughan in what was left of the living room. The body has not yet been formally identified, and it was badly burned, but Kilburn said that what remained of the face was sufficient to recognise Vaughan, whom he knew.”
“Most of Sanford knew him.” Joe was unable to keep the contempt out of his voice.
Registering only the slightest of frowns at the interruption, Dockerty went on.
“Mr Kilburn’s initial report indicates that the fire was started deliberately, and although it’s too early to be absolutely certain, he indicates that petrol was used to start it, and cooking oil was spread around the place as an accelerant.”
Dockerty waited to see if Joe would say anything. Joe maintained a bland stare and remained silent.
“The fire crew found several pieces of physical evidence on the floor of the house, including two items which are of particular interest to us. However, we will come to those in a few moments. The police, including Scientific Support and the medical examiner, were called and arrived on the scene at about three a.m. it was almost three thirty before the building was declared safe for them to enter. The medical examiner indicated that the body had suffered a deep knife wound to the heart. It’s too early to say whether this was before or after death, but logic would seem to dictate that it was the cause of death.”
“If it had been post mortem, the idiot killer would have had to stay in a blazing building, wearing breathing apparatus before knifing him,” Joe cut in, demonstrating that his anger had not robbed him of his logical capabilities.
“Precisely.” Again, Dockerty frowned. “We are waiting for a full post mortem report, but it’s likely to be a day or two before we get it.” He checked the report again. “After photographing the scene and evidence in situ, scene of crime officers removed several pieces from the house. At just before five a.m. the police started house to house inquiries with the neighbours, and one, a Mr Rodney Spencer, of 39, Eastward, which is approximately one hundred yards from the scene, reported seeing a dark-coloured Ford Ka arrive at the house at about eleven p.m. half an hour before the Fire Service were called.”
Dockerty pushed the report to one side, and sat back, his arm resting casually over the back corner of his chair.
“Now, Mr Murray, can you confirm that you know Gerard Vaughan?”
“Yes. He burned down my old café.”
In the first real show of irritation, Dockerty tutted. “For the benefit of the tape, although he was questioned, there is no evidence that Mr Vaughan was involved in the fire at the original Lazy Luncheonette on Doncaster Road.”
“He didn’t do it personally, man,” Joe protested. “His sort never do. He paid someone to do it.”
His anger growing, Dockerty nodded at the recorder.
“Interview suspended at nine twenty-three,” Barrett said into the machine.
Dockerty rounded on his suspect. “Joe, I asked you not to start losing it.”
“Yes but—”
“Remember, I know next to nothing about Sanford, and even less about Vaughan. I don’t care if he paid the baker to star the Great Fire of London. He has been murdered. Whether or not he deserved it is not for any of us to say. It is a crime and that is what I’m investigating. We’ll make more progress if we can stick to the matter in hand all right?”
Joe acquiesced in silence, and Dockerty nodded again to Barrett, who restarted the machine. “Interview recommenced at nine twenty-five.”
“Right, Mr Murray, you have confirmed that you knew the deceased.” Dockerty laid a gimlet eye on Joe. “Would it be fair to say you had an antagonistic relationship with him?”
In the light of Dockerty’s last outburst, Joe kept his answer simple. “Yes.”
Dockerty rummaged through the folder, until he found what he was looking for. “I have here a report, made again by Detective Inspector Craddock, on an altercation outside the original Lazy Luncheonette, on the morning after it burned down. In that report, Inspector Craddock indicates that you uttered threats against Mr Vaughan. Is that correct?”
Joe could not hold back this time. “Oh, come on. I was livid. Losing the plot. It was hot air.”
Dockerty checked the report again. “According to Inspector Craddock, your precise words were, ‘I’ll kill you, Vaughan. Just let me get my hands on you’. Would you agree with that?”
“I can’t remember.”
“But you were angry?” Barrett asked.
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
When neither man responded, Joe went on the defensive.
“Look at me, for God’s sake. Do I look as if I’m big enough, or even young enough to take a man like Vaughan on? Ask any of my friends. I’m not a scrapper, let alone a murderer.”
While Barrett made hurried notes, Dockerty replaced the report in the folder. “Let’s put that to one side a moment, and come to last night. Can you tell me where you were between, say, ten thirty and eleven thirty?”
“At home in bed. I have to be up at half past four every morning.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“No. I live alone.”
“You do own a dark-coloured Ford Ka, don’t you?” Barrett asked.
“Yes. It’s black. I bought it after the old place burned down.” Joe took in Barrett’s blank stare, and scowled back. “I had no choice. My old car got caught in the fire and it was a wreck.”
“You didn’t loan your present vehicle to anyone last night?” Barrett asked.
“No. I parked up at about half past seven, and at five this morning, the car was right there, where I’d left it. It never moved.”
Obviously goaded by Joe’s certainty, Barrett retorted, “We have a witness who says different.”
“According to him,” Joe said, pointing at Dockerty, “your witness only described a dark-coloured Ford Ka. You think I’m the only man in Sanford who owns one?”
“All right, all right.” Dockerty reasserted his control. “Sergeant Barrett, you were out of order there and Mr Murray is right. Without further evidence, we cannot presume the car seen on Eastward is his.”
“Yes, sir.” Barrett, appearing suitably contrite, addressed Joe. “My apologies, Mr Murray.”
“No harm done, son.”
Dockerty brought the interview back on track. “Let’s concentrate on other matters. Although we’re waiting for verification from both specialist fire officers and our own forensics services, the early indications are that cooking oil was used as an accelerant. You run a popular café and I imagine that you use a lot of cooking oil.”
“Gallons of it,” Joe agreed. “It comes in twenty-litre metal drums and I have them delivered five drums at a time.” He leaned forward, jabbing his finger into the table top. “But I keep accurate records and I can account for every drum.”
“Even those you’ve used?” Barrett’s disbelief resounded in his voice.
“As it happens, yes. They’re metal drums, and I store the empties in a purpose-built recycling shed out the back of the café. Along with cardboard boxes and other, recyclable materials. Now and again, a lad comes along and takes the drums away. He gives me a few quid apiece for them. I don’t know whether they go for scrap or they’re cleaned up and re-used by the industry, but I do know it’s a kosher arrangement. It’s not a backhander. The lad gives me a receipt for the exact number of drums he takes. I have all those receipts and I have invoices which account for the full drums I still have on the premises, and everything goes through my books. If you add up the empties I’ve let go, and those that I have in the shed, plus the full ones in the café, you’ll find they all tally. There is not a single drum unaccounted for.”
“That’s as may be,” Dockerty said, “but it’s irrelevant.”
Joe’s eyebrows rose. “
Irrelevant?”
“If memory serves, there’s a wholesale warehouse type place on Sanford Retail Park, right behind your café. The kind of place where you have to be a member to shop. You could have gone there and bought another drum for cash. Or you could have bought one on the internet, for example.”
“Go and ask them. Check my credit card details. You’ll have to come up with something better than that, Dockerty.”
The Superintendent gave the matter a moment’s thought. “Okay. Let me paint a picture for you. For the moment, let’s assume you did this. You went along to Vaughan’s house last night, carrying a drum from your café because you fully intended to kill him. After doing so, you then set fire to the house by spreading a little petrol on the floor, then splashed cooking oil all over the place and torched it. You brought the drum out with you, put it in the boot of your car, and then, when you arrived for work this morning, you dropped it into the empty store along with other empties. That would produce absolutely no discrepancy in your figures.”
Joe considered it for a moment. “But it would produce images on the building’s CCTV.”
Now it was the turn of the detectives to be surprised. “CCTV?” Barrett asked.
“This new building is largely offices. Some window fronts on the ground floor along with my place. An estate agents, solicitors, that kind of thing. No one keeps any serious cash lying around, not even me, but there’s a lot of expensive machinery in those offices. There’s CCTV coverage at each end of the building front and rear, and there’s a permanent security officer on duty. He monitors both the inside and outside of the building. He’d have me on tape arriving for work, and dropping the drum into the shed.”
Dockerty dug into his pocket, came out with his mobile phone and punched in the numbers.
“Detective Superintendent Dockerty is making a telephone call,” Barrett reported to the recorder.
His boss spoke urgently into the phone. “It’s Dockerty. Get someone down to new Britannia Parade. I want CCTV recordings for the last twenty-four hours… Yes, yes. All of it.”
Trial by Fire Page 3