Trial by Fire

by David W Robinson

  “I’m sure he is, Mrs Riley.” Nonplussed by her anger, Barrett recovered quickly. Taking his mobile phone, he punched in a number. “This is Detective Sergeant Barrett. I’m at the rear of The Lazy Luncheonette, on Doncaster Road. I’m sealing the place off until forensics can go through it. Right now, I want an officer to go to Flat 21, Queen’s Court, Leeds Road Estate and tape off the front door as a possible crime or evidence scene… Yes, now… I don’t care how shorthanded you are, get it done, and if you want to argue about it, speak to Detective Superintendent Dockerty.”

  He cut the connection and dropped the phone in his pocket before giving orders to Devere. “Tape the place off, Malcolm. When your boys can get on it, search the place for other keys, if you can’t find one, check with Ray Dockerty and snap that padlock off. I want to know what’s in that cupboard. While you’re at it, get onto the wrecker.” He threw out an arm indicating Joe’s Ford. “I want this car towed to the forensic garage, and you go through it with the proverbial.”

  While Devere and his small team gathered themselves to carry out his orders, digging out the scene-of-crime tape and fully suiting up again, Barrett took out his handcuffs and rounded on Joe.

  “You, Mr Murray, are coming with me, and if you resist, I will cuff you.”

  Chapter Five

  There were few niceties this time. Once booked into the station, Joe was shown, not to the interview rooms, but a cell, to wait for the senior investigators.

  And it would be a long wait. Locked into the cell just after four in the afternoon, it was after seven when he was finally escorted to the interview room where Dockerty and Barrett were waiting for him.

  He had passed the time racking his brains for an explanation covering the things the police had found, and he had come to only one conclusion.

  “This entire business is a fit up,” he declared on entering the interview room.

  Dockerty said nothing, but indicated to Barrett that he should set up the recorder. The sergeant spent a few minutes opening fresh cassette tapes (and demonstrating to Joe that they were brand new) labelling them and inserting them into the machine. Once it was running they identified themselves, and Dockerty advised Joe.

  “When we questioned you this morning, you declined to call your solicitor. I’m advising you now, Mr Murray, in the light of fresh evidence, that you should call your lawyer.”

  “I’ll play it by ear,” Joe said. “Come on too strong, and I’ll bring him in.”

  “As you wish,” Dockerty said, giving Joe the impression that he disapproved.

  The senior detective opened up his folder and spread papers out in front of him. Joe could not see what remained in the folder, but two pieces looked like photographs.

  “Mr Murray,” Dockerty began. “Earlier today Detective Sergeant Barrett, along with a small team of forensic officers, visited Britannia Parade and your premises in that building. They collected digital video recordings taken from CCTV cameras posted front and rear of the building. They also collected samples from the boot of your car, which indicated the presence of cooking oil, despite your earlier assurance to us that you never, repeat never carry used drums in your car. The forensic team also established that a container for oil, a cylindrical drum, had been in the boot. Their calculations, based on the arc of the trace oil, indicate a twenty-litre drum, similar to the ones you use in the course of your business. You were unable to satisfactorily account for any of this. Are you able to account for it now?”

  “It was planted there,” Joe said. “It’s the only explanation.”

  Barrett stepped in. “Just so we can be clear on this, sir, the forensic team were alone when they examined the car boot, and I was not with you, either. I was elsewhere in the building. Are you insinuating that either I or the forensic officers planted the drum and the oil in your car?”

  Joe shook his head. “No. I’m offering an explanation, not making an accusation. You and your people obviously had the opportunity to set this up, but it would be a stroke of luck beyond belief if you managed to get the right oil in the right drum, and unless one of you killed Vaughan and you’re trying to pin it on me, I don’t see what you would gain.”

  “However, you insist someone is trying to set this up to make you appear guilty?” Dockerty asked.

  “Like I said, it’s the only explanation.”

  “Very well,” Dockerty said, and studied his reports for a moment. “Forensic Practitioner, Malcolm Devere asked you for a sample of old cooking oil, yet when you attempted to open the door to your recycling shed, you could not. You said the lock was jammed or seized. Our people, on my authorisation, used bolt cutters to remove the padlock, which was taken back to the forensic laboratory in Leeds for further examination. The result of that examination indicates that the key did not fit that lock.” He looked up and held Joe’s gaze. “How do you react to that?”

  “Someone changed the lock,” Joe replied.

  “It’s interesting that you should say that, because—”

  Dockerty was about to dig into his folder again, but Joe interrupted.

  “Coming back to the cooking oil, has it been analysed?”

  The senior man tutted and searched through his documents again. When he found the right one, he read through it, and announced. “Preliminary analysis indicates that it is the same brand as the one you use.”

  “Is it from the same batch?”

  The two detectives exchanged glances.

  “Again, Mr Murray?” Barrett asked.

  Now Joe tutted. “What I know about cooking oil production, you could write on a postcard, and still leave room for greetings to your mum. But it’s produced in batches of god knows how many thousands of litres at a time. I take a delivery of one hundred litres per month … on average. Now, I ask again, does the oil they found in my car match up with the batches I have in stock, or the traces left in the empty drums? Because if it doesn’t, you’re gonna have trouble proving I ever owned it, never mind put it in the boot.”

  “That will be a matter for the prosecution and defence counsels should we go to trial,” Dockerty declared. He leaned forward. “Listen to me, Joe. I’d like to believe you’re innocent. I don’t see you as the kind of man who could perpetrate this sort of crime. But there is too much here that you can’t explain, and lacking evidence to point us in any other direction, you are in serious trouble.”

  “I did explain,” Joe argued. “Someone is setting me up. I’ve just asked you if the oil is from the same batch I use, and I told you someone must have changed the lock on the storage shed.”

  “Ah.” Dockerty sounded triumphant. “I’m glad you brought us back to that… again. Now, before I move on, can you confirm your earlier statement that your car never left your home during the night?”

  “I parked up between half past seven and eight o’clock last night, it didn’t move again until gone five this morning.”

  “Then perhaps you can explain these images.”

  Dockerty spread three large monochrome photographs on the table and turned them to face Joe.

  “These are still images taken from the CCTV at the rear of Britannia Parade. Note the time stamp.” He pointed to the lower section of the image where the camera ID was printed in bold white, and alongside it, the time stamp. “In this first image, Mr Murray, we can see a Ford Ka. We can’t ascertain the colour, because the image is monochrome, but it’s obviously a dark shade. We can, however, clearly see the rear number-plate, and it bears your registration.”

  Joe studied the image. It was, indeed, his registration, and it did look like his car.

  “If I was going to frame me, the first thing I would do is find an old car like mine and set it up with false plates.”

  “You insist, then, that this is not your car?”

  “I told you. My car never moved.”

  “And I don’t believe you, Mr Murray, because there are too many factors which say exactly the opposite. Look at the next two images.” Dockerty remove
d the image of the car and moved the remaining two into the middle of the table.

  The first showed a car stopped at the rear of The Lazy Luncheonette. It was some distance from the camera, and the image was grainy, but it clearly showed a dark-clothed man climbing out of the car in close proximity to Joe’s storage shed. In the second image, the man was brandishing a pair of heavy duty bolt cutters. The angle was very shallow, but he appeared to be working on the shed’s padlock.

  “The original CCTV footage shows him cut the lock off, then place a drum in the shed. He then puts on a fresh lock.”

  “A proper fit up,” Joe murmured. He looked up at the two detectives. “It isn’t me.”

  “He’s too far from the camera, and the image is too hazy to see who he is, sir,” Barrett pointed out. “And frankly, I believe it is you.”

  “I don’t care what you believe. I’m telling you, it isn’t me.”

  Dockerty intervened before a major argument could break out. “Joe, look at this logically. You say your car never moved and it never carried cooking oil. Yet we have evidence that it did move. There are soil samples in the driver’s footwell which can only have come from Eastward. We have it on CCTV in Back Britannia Parade after the fire at Vaughan’s house was started, and we have traces of cooking oil in the boot.”

  “Yes but—”

  “Our forensic boys are going over that car as we speak,” Dockerty cut in. “There will be other traces and they will find them. The batch test you mentioned, will be carried out on the oil, although in itself it proves nothing, and we will match it up. We have one of your nephew’s knives taken from the scene of the crime, we have a pen, which you admit belongs to you, taken from the scene of the crime. I don’t know what the jiggery-pokery with the padlock was all about, but it seems to me you were hoping we wouldn’t need access to that shed. Well, we have access and everything in there will be thoroughly checked over. We will also go through the café and your home with a fine-toothed comb. As far as I’m concerned, Joe, although there’s a long way to go, I’m satisfied that you did it.” Dockerty paused to let the import of his words sink in. “Just get it all off your chest.”

  Across the table, Joe stared miserably at his hands. Inside he was a turmoil of absolute fury, and the frustration at being unable to unleash that anger only added to the fires.

  He looked up and glared at them. “I am innocent. And right now I want my solicitor.”

  “Fine. Joseph Murray, I am holding you on suspicion of the murder of Gerard Vaughan. I must caution you…”

  The rest of the official caution was lost on Joe as he sank into an even deeper depression.

  ***

  Sheila received a call from Gemma at eight. An hour later, after some urgent ringing round, she and Brenda met with Gemma, Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson in the bar of the Miner’s Arms, where Gemma brought them up to date.

  It was a typical Tuesday evening. The bar was almost empty, the TV played largely to itself, and the staff stood behind their counter, occasionally yawning, constantly checking the time.

  As she listened, Sheila, chairing the impromptu meeting, found her anger growing.

  Gemma was suitably apologetic. “I can’t tell you anything about the investigation, nor the evidence we have, but I can tell you it’s pretty compelling.”

  “Absurd is what it is,” Sheila snapped. “Joe is no more a murderer than you or I.”

  “I called you, Mrs Riley, because Joe has few people in the way of family. Only me, and I can hardly be said to be neutral, and Lee, and let’s be honest, Lee wouldn’t have a clue how to help his uncle. You people are his closest friends, and the only ones who can help.”

  “Help in what say, Gemma?” Tanner asked. “According to what you’ve told us, he has his solicitor.”

  Gemma looked away. She downed a swift mouthful of vodka and swallowed a lump in her throat with it. When she faced them again, there was the hint of sparkling tears in the corner of her eyes.

  “They were still interviewing him when I rang you, Mrs Riley, but right now, it looks as if Joe did it.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Riley, but that’s how it appears.”

  Brenda was as hard as Sheila. “It’s been made to look like that.”

  “So Joe says, but there is too much he cannot explain, and it all points at him. He’ll appear in court tomorrow and he’ll be remanded. Whether on bail or in custody, he’ll be allowed access to you, which is why I came to see you. If you really want to help him, persuade him to come clean. The amount of grief he took from Vaughan will go some way to mitigating the crime. It’s still murder, he’s still looking at a life sentence, but if he confesses and shows some genuine remorse, the tariff will be reduced.”

  The silence which greeted her announcement could not have been more stunning if she had announced that Joe had murdered every one of his competitors in Yorkshire.

  It was Sheila who broke it. “I find it hard to imagine that you believe all this, Gemma, and I refuse to be party to any attempts to persuade Joe he’s better off pleading guilty.” She jabbed her finger into the table top. “He is innocent, and the best way we, his friends, can help, is to prove that.”

  Gemma finished her drink and made ready to leave. “Fine. If you can do so, then we’ll listen. I’m sorry. Trust me, I really am sorry. He’s my uncle and he went out of his way to help me when I first signed on with the police. I don’t want to see him in this position, but facts are facts. You will be allowed access, assuming he’s happy to see you. Speak to Mr Dockerty in the morning. For now, I’ll bid you goodnight.”

  They watched her march from the bar, and Tanner rose to refresh their drinks.

  “You should calm down, Sheila,” Sylvia said. “It’s not good for your gallstones to get so het up.”

  “It’s difficult when your employer is locked up,” Brenda said. “And they’ve closed The Lazy Luncheonette, you know. Right now, all we can do is sit in the café while the forensic people go over it.”

  “This is a… oh what’s the word?” Sheila groped into thin air for the correct phrase.

  “Railroad? Fit up? Frame?” Brenda suggested.

  “However you want to express it,” she agreed as Tanner returned with fresh drinks. “Someone is making Joe appear guilty, and the police are following the line like sheep.”

  Settling into his seat, Tanner asked, “So what do you want to do?”

  “We need to move quickly,” she replied. “First, we need to call an extraordinary meeting on the 3rd Age Club. Brenda and I will ring round the core members tomorrow. They can spread the word. In Joe’s absence, we’ll need a chair pro tem, and I’d like you to take it on, Les. We can put it to the vote tomorrow night, but it will be a pure formality.”

  “Naturally, I will do what I can, and I’m happy to take the mantle.”

  Sheila grunted her acceptance and sipped her gin and tonic. “Beyond that, we need to employ some of Joe’s techniques.”

  Brenda laughed. “Treat everyone with contempt? Snap at them?”

  Her best friend scowled, and Sylvia, too, pursed her lips in disapproval.

  “Come on,” Brenda urged. “I’m only trying to lighten the mood.”

  “I hope you’ll remember that, Brenda, when Joe is given a life sentence for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  A broody silence followed Sheila’s dire prognostication.

  “Joe did have a grudge against this awful man,” Sylvia pointed out.

  “No. He didn’t like Vaughan, I’ll grant you. Very few people did. But Joe had won the war. He had no reason to kill Vaughan…” Sheila trailed off, noticing that Les had suddenly lapsed into deep thought, a frown creasing his normally clear brow. “Something wrong, Les?”

  “Not wrong, exactly. I’m just wondering about what you said. Joe had no reason to kill Vaughan because he had won the war. Let’s recap, and tell me where I may have it wrong. After the old Lazy Luncheonette burned down, you were moved
to the opposite side of Doncaster Road, and trade suffered.”

  “Badly,” Brenda confirmed. “But then Sir Douglas Ballantyne stepped in, bought out Gleason Holdings and insisted that we were given a prime spot in the new parade.”

  “And Vaughan was never happy with that.”

  “Correct.” Sheila’s gimlet eye lay firmly on Les. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Old Ballantyne retired. Some time ago, as I understand it. He handed the reins to his son, Toby. Has Toby had a change of heart? Has he decided he’s more interested in mail order than property? Did he hand everything back to Vaughan and if so, was Vaughan ready to pile the pressure on Joe again?”

  “You sound as though you believe Joe is guilty,” Sheila complained.

  “Nothing of the kind. I’m trying to look at things objectively. Sheila, your late husband was a police officer. He would know, and so should you, that Joe would need a motive for killing Vaughan. I’m simply suggesting one.”

  “And that would make it all the more difficult to prove Joe’s innocence,” Brenda pointed out.

  Sheila slapped her hand on the table causing several of the pub’s sparse patrons to look in their direction. “I won’t hear any more of this,” Sheila said. “Joe is innocent. Let the police look for darker motives. What we need to do is look for alternative killers, and to do that, we need to employ the same skills Joe does. Observation and simple logic.”

  Tanner and Brenda acquiesced under Sheila’s temper.

  “Very well,” Tanner agreed. “I can think of one or two likely candidates in the town hall. I’ll have a word with them.”

  “Oh, Les, don’t risk your livelihood,” Sylvia fretted.

  “Have you forgotten the time Joe cleared your name, Sylvia?” Sheila asked. “He’s placed his head on the block for quite a few of us. You, George Robson, Brenda. He’s put himself at risk of arrest for harassing the police in our favour. It’s time we repaid some of that trust.” Taking a deep breath and another sip of gin, she went on, “I will speak to Sir Douglas tomorrow morning. I’ll also speak to Superintendent Dockerty. If they lock him up, I’m sure Brenda and I will be able to see Joe. One way or another, we must help him. Are we all agreed?”