Trial by Fire

by David W Robinson

  No one dissented.

  “Good. Time we all went home and got some sleep. It’s going to be a busy few days.”

  Chapter Six

  Notwithstanding their late finish the previous evening, Dockerty and Barrett were back in Sanford by eight the following morning and with Joe due in court at ten, Dockerty was accounting for his actions to the station commander.

  “I have enough evidence to hold him.”

  “You can’t hold him here?” Oughton asked.

  Dockerty shook his head. “Either way I’ll still need a magistrate to remand him, and frankly, Don, you don’t have enough bodies to supervise a prisoner in this station. Let Sanford nick look after him. I know he’s a friend—”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Oughton interrupted. “Although, I have to say I’m disappointed in him.” He allowed himself a moment of self-pity. “I assume that once he’s remanded you’ll be looking for more evidence. Something more concrete than you have.”

  “I’ve already closed down the café and I’ll be asking for warrants to search there and his home. Right now I don’t have one piece of evidence that relates directly to him, but indirectly, we have him banged to rights. That’s why he called his lawyer.”

  “I just hope we’re not jumping the gun, Ray.”

  Dockerty shrugged his huge shoulders. “Wouldn’t be the first time, and if I’m wrong, then I’ll apologise. But I’m not wrong. Devere in forensics assures us that the soil samples in the footwell of Joe’s car can only have come from the area where Vaughan lived. Joe’s car was there. Joe swears his car stayed where it was all night on Monday. It didn’t, and if it was at Vaughan’s, then it was also at the back of the café coming up to midnight. And if he insists he didn’t loan it to anyone, which he did at the first interview, then he was the one driving it. That, plus the traces of oil in the boot, clinch it for me.”

  “The CCTV video doesn’t identify him,” Oughton pointed out.

  “The CCTV doesn’t identify anyone,” Dockerty countered. “The camera is set on a wide-angle and it’s too far from that rear shed for us to make out any features. I said, Don, we’re waiting for more direct evidence. In the meantime, I have to press ahead with the remand. If I don’t and it turns out he’s guilty, we get hung drawn and quartered.”

  “If we do you’ll be slaughtered anyway. Joe has a lot of enemies, so to speak, in this town, but he has a lot more friends. I’ve already had Sheila Riley on the phone complaining about the way he’s been treated.”

  Dockerty tutted. “I thought your friendship didn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t. If Joe is guilty, then we’ll take it all the way. But I’m the station commander, Ray, and the man who has to deal with the, er, political and community fallout from a case like this.” Oughton smiled wistfully. “I imagine it’s less of a problem in a big city like Leeds.”

  “True, but we still have it to deal with.” Dockerty checked his watch. “We’re in court at ten. I’d better get a move on.”

  “Joe’s seen his solicitor?”

  “Fella called Hagley. Joe’s with him now.”

  “Then I’ll let you get to it, Ray. And keep me posted.”

  With a brisk nod, Dockerty left Oughton’s office and made his way along to the cramped CID room, where his small team comprising Gemma, Barrett, one other detective constable and a few uniformed officers were gathered, talking amongst themselves, waiting for his arrival.

  At the front of the room was a whiteboard where the evidence so far had been listed. Photographs of Joe, Vaughan’s house and one of the dead man, but not an image of him as he was after the fire. It looked as if it had been taken from his company files. These photographs were mingled with others from the CCTV and those taken by the forensic officers. Various notes had been made with different coloured dry-wipe marker pens. Green constituted their suspicions, black indicated absolute facts, red highlighted lines of enquiry still open, and blue for lines of inquiry still to be instigated.

  Dockerty stood front and centre, and surveyed his crew. With the exception of himself and Barrett, all were Sanford-based, and it showed in their distrustful eyes.

  “Morning, everyone. This won’t take long. It can’t. I’m in court in an hour.” He grinned. “It’s all right. I’m sure I’ll be let off with a caution.”

  The opening shaft fell flat. Aside from Barrett no one registered a hint of a smile.

  Dockerty pressed on. “All right. To bring you up to speed, Joe Murray is being held on suspicion of the Gerard Vaughan’s murder. He’ll appear before the magistrates at ten o’clock and he’ll be remanded, probably to HM Prison, Sanford.”

  Gemma tutted, and Dockerty homed in on her while still speaking to the rest of the room.

  “Because of her family relationship to Mr Murray, Detective Inspector Craddock cannot lead this investigation, which is why I and Sergeant Barrett have come over from Leeds. It’s unusual for a superintendent to get out there and ask the questions, but we’re so short of bodies, I have no choice. I will be out and about, and I will conduct any and every interview at the station.” He injected more force into his voice. “I know how you all feel about this. The big boots from Leeds are trampling all over one of Sanford’s loveable pains in the arse who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I don’t care how much we’re hurting your feelings, and I don’t care about Joe Murray’s oh-so-innocent past. We have incontrovertible evidence that his car was involved at the murder scene on Monday night, and since he insists that the car never moved from outside his home, he is obviously lying and that in turn, means he moved it. As things stand, Joe Murray is guilty, and that will be the situation until I have evidence to the contrary.”

  Gemma raised her hand and Dockerty raised his eyebrows at her.

  “Incontrovertible evidence, sir?”

  “There is no doubt that Joe’s car was at the scene,” Dockerty repeated, “and despite his denials, he had been carrying cooking oil in the car boot. I’ll bring you up to speed properly after the court hearing, Gemma. Right now, I can tell you that we have more evidence than that, and I don’t just mean the pen and knife found at the scene.” The superintendent returned to addressing the room. “The evidence is pretty persuasive, otherwise I would not have charged him, but right at this moment, we have nothing to link him directly to the murder. The Lazy Luncheonette has been closed on my orders. We have the keys to Murray’s apartment and that has been sealed off. Inspector Craddock will divide you into two teams. Team A will go to The Lazy Luncheonette. Inspector Craddock will contact either Mrs Jump or Mrs Riley to ensure they’re there with the keys. Team B will go to Murray’s flat. In both instances, you will turn the place over looking for anything, anything at all which may help our case—”

  “What about the stuff that may hinder our case?” Vinny Gillespie called out.

  Dockerty glowered at him. “Open your mouth like that again, Gillespie, and I’ll suspend you.”

  Vinny backed down. “Sorry, sir. It didn’t come out like I meant it to. I meant what about evidence that may prove him innocent.”

  Slightly mollified, Dockerty went back to addressing the room. “If you, any of you, can bring me evidence like that, then do so. I’m not here to crucify Joe Murray. I’m here to put a murderer behind bars, and if Joe is innocent, then I don’t want to see him in prison one moment longer than is necessary.” He pointed to the whiteboard and the CCTV images. “Murray’s car was captured on security cameras in Back Britannia Parade at about a quarter to midnight.” He moved on to the photograph of the dark figure climbing out of the car. “He was seen getting out of the car and cutting off the lock to the recycling shed. Was it Murray? Traces of cooking oil in the boot of his car, and soil samples from the driver’s footwell say it was. Murray insists the car was a ringer. Team B, talk to his neighbours at Queen’s Court. Did any of them see or hear his car being driven away at about ten thirty on Monday night. Team A, I want a count of all drums of cooking oil, full and empty, at The Lazy Lunc
heonette. Team A, I want the skips and dumpsters behind The Lazy Luncheonette checked seven ways from Sunday. I don’t know if they’ve been collected this week, but you’re looking for a padlock which has been snapped off with bolt cutters. You’re also looking for an empty drum of cooking oil which may or may not be there. No one else in that building uses the stuff, so if you find one, it has to have come from either The Lazy Luncheonette or from this bloke with the car… if it turns out not to be Murray.” He scanned the small group again. “Any questions?”

  “Joe’s netbook and smartphone, sir?” Gemma asked. “We all know he likes to keep track of his life on that computer, and his call history might push us one way or the other.”

  “We already have his phone,” Dockerty reported. “He had it on him when he was brought in last night. The netbook, I didn’t know about, so thanks, Gemma. Team B, when you’re searching his flat bring back the netbook, if you can find it, and any other computer he may have there. Remember, for the moment, we’re presuming Joe to be guilty, but it’s just as important that you bring back anything that may prove otherwise. If Joe is innocent, I want to know, because I shall want to get on the track of the real killer. Anything else?”

  No one volunteered and Dockerty dismissed them. While they began to file out, chattering amongst themselves, Barrett and Gemma approached the senior man.

  “Forensic report came in while you were with Chief Superintendent Oughton, sir,” Barrett said. “Vaughan’s laptop, salvaged from the fire.”

  “What about it?”

  “The hard drive had been removed.”

  “Removed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Barrett confirmed. “The back of the computer had been taken off and the hard drive removed. Not rived out or anything.”

  “That’s it, then,” Gemma declared. “It wasn’t Joe.”

  His patience wearing thin, Dockerty asked, “Why?”

  “Sir, he knows how to use computers. He’s good on the internet and word processing stuff, and how to keep his accounts straight. But he hasn’t a clue about hardware. He wouldn’t know a hard drive from a USB port.”

  “It changes nothing,” Dockerty assured her.

  “Sir, I—”

  “You’ll understand now why I didn’t want you on the investigation, Inspector Craddock. How do we know Vaughan hadn’t removed the hard drive himself? He could have been thinking of a new computer and didn’t want to lose any of the information he had on his existing one.”

  Gemma backed down sheepishly. “Yes, sir.”

  “We need to get out there and organise these teams. Barrett, hang fire a few minutes. We’re going to court. Gemma, a word in private.”

  He led the way from the briefing room, along the corridor and into the tiny office he had commandeered. Small, cluttered and windowless aside from one small light high on the rear wall, it was officially Gemma’s office as senior CID officer.

  Dockerty flounced into the chair behind the desk, Gemma sat opposite him.

  “Yesterday, I specifically said that we clamp down on this case.”

  “Yes, sir. And?”

  “Why were you speaking to Sheila Riley, Brenda Jump, Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson in the Miner’s Arms last night?”

  “Because Joe will need those people over the coming weeks, especially if he’s remanded in custody.”

  “I don’t care what Joe needs. I do not want evidence in this case discussed outside this station.”

  Gemma’s cheeks flushed. She leaned forward aggressively. “I did not discuss any evidence. If you must know, I suggested they persuade Joe to confess, and they refused because like me, they don’t believe he did it.”

  “If you’re that convinced of his innocence, why insist he should plead guilty?”

  “Because unlike you, I’m willing to entertain the notion that I may be wrong.”

  Dockerty’s colour rose. “You’re walking a dangerous tightrope, Inspector.”

  “And so are you. Not only trying to bully your way through this case, but for the police service in Sanford as a whole. We’re the ones who have to live with the flak when you go back to Leeds.”

  “I’m doing my job, and right now you still haven’t adequately explained why you spoke to those four in direct contravention of my orders.”

  “Because I was concerned for Joe’s welfare. They are the only people he has. He has no wife and no children. His brother lives in Australia. My cousin, Lee, and I are the nearest he can call family. After us, the only people he has in this world, the only people who can make sure he has whatever he needs while we have him locked up, are Sheila Riley, Brenda Jump, and the other members of that club he runs.”

  “You had better be telling it like it is. Cross me one more time, and I’ll pack you off to another area until we’re through here. Now get out and on with the job I allocated you.”

  ***

  After a lengthy debate with his solicitor, Paul Hagley, most of which centred on Joe’s refusal to call him earlier, the magistrate’s hearing began at few minutes after ten.

  Led into the dock in handcuffs, Joe was not best pleased to see the chair of the magistrates. He had had many dealings with Kenny Pemberton, the Head of Sanford Borough Council Environmental Services, few of which had been pleasant or convivial.

  Before he could utter a word, however, Pemberton himself spoke up.

  A pompous and overbearing man, he appeared even more so in his exalted position on the bench, and his convoluted remarks only made him appear worse to Joe.

  “I feel it incumbent upon myself to make it clear to the court that I know the accused. He and I have had many an altercation in the past. If it so pleases the court, I shall step down as chair of the magistrates.”

  “Prat,” Joe muttered under his breath.

  “You must speak up if you have anything to say, Mr Murray,” Pemberton said.

  “You don’t want to hear what I just called you.”

  The clerk of the court, a middle-aged woman who called at The Lazy Luncheonette occasionally, addressed Joe. “Do you have any objections to His Worship sitting as chair of the magistrates?”

  “I don’t care,” Joe replied. “But he’ll care, and so will the rest of you when I prove I didn’t do it.”

  This led to a brief hiatus while Joe’s solicitor, in hurried whispers advised him, “shut it, Joe, or they’ll wall you up until Christmas.”

  But the damage was already done. Joe spoke only twice more. Once to confirm his name and address, the second time to enter a plea of not guilty.

  Before going into their deliberations, Hagley made a plea for bail.

  “My client is of previous good character, Your Worship, and he wholeheartedly denies any involvement in the crimes for which he is charged. He is also a businessman, and to remand him in custody may seriously impair the pursuance of trade and threaten the livelihood of his staff.”

  The bench called up Dockerty to give evidence.

  “You are pursuing other lines of inquiry, Superintendent?” Pemberton asked.

  “We are, sir. I would rather not specify the direction of those inquiries, for reasons of confidentiality, but for the moment, I remain satisfied that the suspect is involved in this crime.”

  “Do you object to bail?”

  “Not specifically, sir. The charge is murder, and the secondary charge is arson. In such circumstances it would be unusual to allow bail, and we are aware that Mr Murray’s ex-wife resides in the Canary Islands. That doesn’t, however, mean we would be worried about him taking flight there.”

  The bench went into a huddle again, quietly deliberating, calling on the clerk to the justices for guidance. At length, Pemberton looked up and fixed Joe’s stare with his own.

  “I’m sorry but the legal position on this is quite clear. Murder is an indictable offence, and we are happy that there is a case to answer. You will be remanded in custody for twenty-eight days, which, I should think, will give the police the time they require to gather their evid
ence and put forward their case.”

  As he was led from the dock, Joe delivered one final glare at Pemberton, a stare which skewered the magistrate and silently warned him, ‘you will regret this’.

  ***

  It was a broody Ray Dockerty who rose to greet Brad Kilburn when a uniformed sergeant showed the fire officer into the tiny office at the rear of Sanford police station.

  “Thanks for coming in, Brad.” Dockerty waved his visitor to the chair opposite. “You want tea, coffee or anything?”

  “I’ll pass, thanks, Ray.” Kilburn stared around the squalid quarters. Most of the walls were bare, and the only natural light came from a small window high up on the side wall. Looking through it, all that could be seen were the bricks of the building next door.

  “Not as grand as you’re used to in Leeds, eh?”

  Dockerty chuckled. “It’s Gemma Craddock’s office, really, but I have to have a place where I can marshal the troops.” There was a long moment of silence while Dockerty chose his approach. “You probably know that we’ve remanded Joe Murray for this business, and this—” he opened the file in front of him and briefly held it up. “—is the report on the fire at the old Lazy Luncheonette. I was struck by the similarities between that and the way Vaughan’s house was torched.”

  “Both sparked with petrol, probably unleaded, both employed cooking oil as an accelerant.”

  “And yet, neither Joe Murray nor Gerard Vaughan could have set the fire at the old place. They were both in Blackpool at the time, and there are too many witnesses who can vouch for that for it to be anything but the truth.”

  “It was an amateur job, Ray, and either of them could have paid someone to set it.”

  “Amateur?”

  Kilburn nodded. “A professional torch would have used more elaborate means of setting the fire. Phosphorous, magnesium, even sodium gradually sinking into water, with other flammables nearby. The fire on the old Britannia Parade was laid in the supermarket next door to The Lazy Luncheonette. A couple of bricks had been knocked out and cooking oil spread across the floor of Joe’s café. It was then trigged with petrol and a candle. Effective, but primitive, amateur and easy to track.”