Trial by Fire

by David W Robinson

  “So the report tells me,” said Dockerty, who had sat patiently through the thin explanation. “But does that indicate someone who did the job on behalf of either Murray or Vaughan? Someone who worked cheaply?”

  “Probably. Possibly. I don’t know. That kind of investigation is your department. Our people are only concerned with the how, not the who or the why.”

  “I accept that, but consider my position. I’m a stranger in Sanford. The one thing I can be sure of is that half this town hates Joe Murray and the other half thinks the sun shines out of his backside. I need an absolutely unbiased opinion on some things. You’ve just half-agreed that either Joe or Vaughan could have paid an amateur to set the fire, but I can’t understand why. Correction. I could understand why Vaughan would do it. Murray’s delaying tactics were costing him a fortune. But Murray… According to my information, he was on the verge of taking a large settlement under a compulsory purchase order. All he got from his insurers was exactly the same. Possibly less because I’m not sure how much the insurers would pay him for consequential loss. What possible motive could he have for torching the place?”

  Kilburn smiled weakly. “Again, that’s your department, not mine, but I can say… How well do you know Joe?”

  “Not that well, but our paths have crossed in the past. I know he’s irritable, cantankerous, has a fairly low opinion of the police. A fairly low opinion of anyone other than himself, come to that. The only two people who appear to have any influence over him are Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump, and even then, he’s troublesome.”

  Kilburn laughed. “That’s Joe. I’ve known him years and to be truthful, he’d pick an argument with just about anyone, even his own reflection, purely for the sake of picking an argument. If you said to him his café is the best in Yorkshire, he’d argue that it wasn’t and give you a shed load of reasons why.”

  “It won’t do him much good in the nick.” Dockerty brought his rambling mind to bear. “So what are you getting at, Brad?”

  Kilburn sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped ahead of him. For a few moments, he stared down at the hard-wearing carpet. At length he looked up and at Dockerty.

  “I’m not saying this is right. In fact, it’s probably totally wide of the mark, but Joe could have had the old place torched just to make mischief.”

  Dockerty’s eyes widened. “Mischief?”

  “Look at it this way. The compulsory purchase order had been issued. Joe threatened to appeal and appeal and appeal, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. All it would do was slow the process down. The DIY shop, the minimarket, hairstylist and the laundrette had all closed and Britannia Parade was run down, on the point of falling down. It didn’t matter what Joe did, the council were always going to demolish the place, and he knew that. So, he’s off to Blackpool for the weekend with those muppets from the 3rd Age Club. He tells that gormless nephew of his, Lee, to set the fire over the weekend, then bell him on Monday morning acting all surprised. What’s he done? He’s gonna come out of it on top no matter which way it goes. Whether the CPO or his insurance company, someone is gonna pay up. But it gives him the excuse to have a serious go at Vaughan. Let’s face it, Ray, Joe and Vaughan got on like water and electricity. Joe appears innocent, and Vaughan is the more likely candidate to have set the fire, and to Joe’s tiny mind, he’s won the argument, and he’s in exactly the same position as he would be if he’d let the CPO go through.”

  “All a bit extreme just for the sake of winning an argument,” Dockerty argued. “But then, why kill Vaughan fifteen months later?”

  Kilburn shrugged. “Perhaps Vaughan found out. Maybe he called Joe to his house to confront him. That safe was empty, you know, and according to my information, the hard drive was missing out of that laptop. I don’t see Joe as a safebreaker, but maybe Vaughan showed him the evidence and Joe lost it.” He sat back. “I’m speculating, Ray, nothing more, and I’m probably totally wrong, but I’ll tell you this. Joe’s insurers hired a professional investigator to look into it. She visited me a few times, and she’s spoken to Joe – and Vaughan, mind you – a fair number of times since the turn of the year.”

  “Do you know who she was?”

  “Woman called Latham. Denise Latham.”

  Dockerty’s face lit up in delight. “Ex-Detective Sergeant Latham? Leeds?”

  “Search me. She came from Leeds, sure, but she never mentioned having been a cop.”

  “It’s gotta be her.”

  “You know her, then?”

  “She was on my team at one time. When I was a DI. Packed it in a few years back after she got passed over for promotion. I’ll bell the insurance company and… Any idea who they are?”

  “North Shires, I think.”

  “I’ll get onto them and see what they can tell me. Thanks, Brad. You’ve given me something to think about.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was pure luck that Denise Latham was not asleep at the time the loss adjusters of North Shires Insurance rang.

  She had arrived home after a tiring day where she was supposedly seeking video evidence against a claimant seeking damages for an alleged accident in a large department store. The claimant insisted she was unable to walk properly after tripping and falling down an escalator. The insurance company were unhappy with the medical reports they had received, and acting on a tip off, suspected fraud. They hired Denise to monitor the claimant, and Denise was, as always, happy to take the job subject to a daily rate and a percentage of money saved. Since the claim was on the order of £50,000, she was in for a healthy pay packet once she got the evidence.

  But a day spent discreetly parked outside the claimant’s council home had produced absolutely nothing. The woman never set foot out of the house between Denise’s arrival at ten a.m. and her departure at six p.m.

  After picking up a takeaway, she went home and switched on the TV. She had already missed her favourite teatime reality shows, and the rest of the night’s schedule, the other side of the news hour, did not look inviting. She left the machine talking to the empty room while she prepared the takeaway.

  Returning to her modest living room, she sat at the table, and picked up the remote. About to start channel hopping in search of entertainment, the telephone rang to interrupt.

  “Denise? It’s Edie at North Shires. Have you got the TV on?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Whip over to the Beeb and the local news. The item should run in a few minutes. I’ll bell you back after it’s finished.”

  “Yes, but… Edie? Are you there, Edie?”

  Irritated but not a little puzzled, Denise picked up the remote again, and switched channels to find a serious-faced newscaster running into the next item.

  “Police in Sanford, West Yorkshire, have charged a man with the murder of Gerard Vaughan. Valerie Immingham has the story.”

  The scene cut from the Leeds studio to the market square in Sanford, where the reporter, looking hot in her grey business suit and plain white blouse, did her piece to camera.

  “Joseph Murray, who runs a popular café here in Sanford, was arrested first thing yesterday morning, but later released. He was re-arrested yesterday afternoon when new evidence was found, and brought before Sanford magistrates this morning, where he was remanded in custody for twenty-eight days. In a brief statement, Detective Superintendent Raymond Dockerty, of Leeds CID, who is in charge of the case, said he was satisfied that they had the right man.”

  The scene cut away once more, this time to a shot of The Lazy Luncheonette from the opposite side of Doncaster Road, while Valerie Immingham continued her commentary voiceover.

  “Joe Murray is the proprietor of The Lazy Luncheonette, a popular, lorry drivers’ café on the main road out of Sanford. It’s known that there was bad blood between Murray and his victim, Gerard Vaughan, after the original café burned down a year ago, an act which Murray accused Vaughan of inciting.”

  One more the scene cut back to the market squar
e.

  “Superintendent Dockerty refused to speculate on possible motives for the crime, but with Murray remanded to HM Prison Sanford, efforts will continue to find the evidence and build the case against him. Valerie Immingham from Sanford, handing you back to the studio.”

  Snatching up the remote, Denise muted the TV, and reached for her phone. Before she could dial, it rang again.

  “Denise? Edie again. So what do you think?”

  “I’m on my way to Sanford in about ten minutes,” Denise said.

  “If the cops have him for murdering Vaughan, what price he also burned down his old place?”

  “Off the top of my head, Edie, it’s twaddle. Joe Murray did not burn down the old Lazy Luncheonette. Vaughan did. And Joe did not murder Gerard Vaughan.”

  “But—”

  “Gotta go, Edie. I need to be in Sanford. I’ll keep you posted.”

  This time it was Denise who cut the connection. Dropping the phone on the table, her takeaway forgotten, she dashed to the bedroom, dragged a pair of denim jeans and a thin top from the wardrobe and hurriedly dressed. Sanford was half an hour away on the motorway. Should she stay there or commute when she was through for the night?

  Opting for the latter, she dragged on a pair of sensible, flat walking shoes and returned to the living room, where she loaded her handbag with everything she was likely to need, checked her purse to ensure she had cash and cards with her, and switched off the TV. Dropping the mobile into her bag, she all but ran from the flat. Five minutes later, she was in the car, running the engine, and dialling The Lazy Luncheonette.

  Predictably, she got no answer. Next she telephoned the Sanford Gazette and after a brief discussion with one of the late-shift reporters, she learned that an extraordinary meeting of the Sanford 3rd Age Club had been called for eight o’clock in the upstairs rooms of the Miner’s Arms.

  Putting the car into gear, and releasing the handbrake, she checked the dashboard clock and read 7:15. She would be at the Miner’s Arms in plenty of time.

  She had spoken to Joe Murray several times after their first meeting early in the New Year, and although he remained hostile towards her, she had nevertheless formed an opinion. There was an outside chance that he set the fire at the old place, but having also met with Vaughan on any number of occasions, her money was firmly on the property developer.

  No matter who set the fire, there was not one chance in a billion that Joe Murray murdered Vaughan. Arrogant and irritable he might be, but there was a quirky sense of moral responsibility and justice about him. He would tolerate minor, civil offences, such as fly tipping, or double parking. Actions which he saw as nothing more than annoyances, often used as cash cows for the local authority and actions he was frequently guilty of himself. But when it came to true crime – burglary, mugging, robbery, assault, rape, murder and the like – he was blessed with a genuine repugnancy that compelled him to take action in an effort to bring the perpetrators to justice.

  Unless Denise had misjudged him, and she did not often make mistakes, Joe Murray was incapable of murder.

  And yet, as she drove east along the M62, her thoughts turned to the thoroughness of her former boss, Ray Dockerty.

  Loud, often brash, Dockerty had never been a ‘yes’ man, but his approach to investigation was methodical and meticulous. According to the news, he had charged Joe. Did they mean charged? Or had he been remanded on suspicion? The difference may not mean much to a TV reporter, but it made all the difference in the world to the police and ultimately to Joe. He would never be able to sue for wrongful arrest if he was held on suspicion, and in any event, Dockerty would not have remanded him unless he had compelling evidence.

  Her thoughts were still tumbling on these matters when she pulled onto the car park of the Miner’s Arms at ten minutes to eight, and cut the engine.

  The car park was busy for a Wednesday evening. A factor, she guessed, of the meeting called by Joe’s deputies. When she stepped into the lounge bar, she found it, too, was crowded. Men and women, mostly of her generation or the one before, stood shoulder to shoulder at the bar, or crowded into the corner watching some talent competition on TV, and it took her many minutes to secure a glass of lager.

  She kept an eye on the clock. It would not do to turn up in the top room before the meeting had begun. She was not a member of the Sanford 3rd Age Club, and they would demand that she leave. But at eight fifteen, by which time she judged they would be in full debate, she detached herself from the packed bar, and made for the staircase.

  The barman called to her before she could climb the steps. “Hey up, missus. You can’t go up there. Private meeting.”

  Denise smiled. “Can’t I? Watch me.”

  ***

  As the summer night drew in, Joe lay on his bunk in Sanford Prison and seethed at the injustice which had been heaped upon him. He was no killer, but in order to prove that he needed to be out there, not locked up in here.

  Sanford was a Category C prison, designed for remand prisoners, and those who could be trusted not to try and escape, but not yet ready for the even more relaxed regime of an open prison.

  Upon arrival and reception Joe was pleased to see at least one familiar face. Warder Harvey Thornton was about fifteen years Joe’s junior, although his shaven head and cragged looks made him appear much older. His father had been a lorry driver and a regular at The Lazy Luncheonette.

  “Not that it’ll cut any ice in here, Joe,” Thornton warned him. “There are rules. If you break ’em, I’ll put you on report and you can lose your privileges.”

  “I’m innocent, Harv,” Joe told him as they marched towards the cells.

  “Not our problem, mate. That’s between you, the courts, your brief and the cops. We’re here to stop you from buggering off to Tenerife and joining your missus.”

  “Ex-missus,” Joe stressed as they arrived at his allocated cell.

  “Here’s your digs, Joe. We’re short of space, so you’re sharing. Neave rabbits a lot, but I’m sure you’ll soon shut him up. Sheila Riley’s already telephoned and arranged a visit for her and Brenda Jump tomorrow. If you need anything, you can use the phone to ring her.”

  “I sent instructions with my solicitor. They know what to bring.”

  “Right. Now remember, Joe, we’re fairly easy going here, but there are rules. Cross the line and there’s no negotiation. You’ll be in bother.”

  Thornton was right about Eric Neave. From the moment Joe entered the cell, the man did nothing but talk. Almost seventy years old, his hair greyed and diminished to a light dusting on his narrow crown, he shuffled around with a stoop and a shaking hand that had Joe concerned every time the man reached his plastic, issue mug and a drink of water.

  “What they got you for then?” Neave asked after giving Joe a rundown of the dos and don’ts in HMP Sanford.

  In an effort to shut him up, Joe injected a degree of ice and threat into his voice. “Murder.”

  Neave’s reply surprised him. “Yeah. Me too.”

  Joe switched tack immediately, but did not suppress his anger. “I’m innocent.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  If this response did not surprise Joe quite as much, it did provide Neave with the opportunity to begin chattering.

  “Someone knifed the missus. Cops blamed me. Course it wasn’t me. I was on me allotment at the time, tending the azalea bush. Do you know how hard they are to grow round here? Need a good, acidy soil. Too alkaline round here. Years I’ve worked on the bleeding azalea and I’ve got it just right and bang… the cops lock me up for summat I didn’t do.”

  It occurred to Joe that Neave sounded more interested in his azalea than his wife’s death. “You been married long?” he asked.

  “Thirty odd years. Thirty-seven, I think.”

  “Only you don’t sound too upset that she was killed.”

  “Got over it, haven’t I? Three months I’ve been in here. Waiting for me trial, and the cops ain’t got nothing, you know.
I never touched her. She weren’t a bad old stick, Annie. Whinging cow when she wanted.” Neave chuckled. “She once told me I thought more about my azalea than I did of her. I told her, I said, ‘you grew up round here. You’re used to the soil’.” He laughed again. “Then someone ran her through with a knife. Cops said they’ve got other evidence, but get this, they never found the knife what did her. Reckoned I chucked it in the river, they did. Won’t have it, see. Won’t believe that I wasn’t at home when it happened.”

  The lights in the cell went out, and there was a long pause. Joe was drifting off into light sleep when Neave’s voice broke into the growing, summer darkness.

  “Trouble is, see, that azalea won’t last long unless it gets the right care and attention. And will the police do that? Will they hell as like. I got word out to one of my neighbours to look after it, but you can’t rely on him. Too busy watching football on his satellite telly, he is.”

  Joe was trying to sleep, but Neave’s words stirred something in him. Get someone to look after the plant. Get someone to look after the killing of Vaughan. Had Neave got his lazy neighbour to look after the killing of his wife? Someone so innocuous, no one would think to look there. Had Mr X got someone to look after the killing of Vaughan? Someone so innocuous no one would think to look there? Was Neave’s football-mad neighbour skilled in the art of concealing his involvement? Was Mr X’s contractor skilled in the art of concealing his, too, and laying it off on Joe? Had the neighbour really murdered Annie Neave, and skilfully laid it off on this man in the cell?

  Joe’s frustration welled again. At home, in his tiny council flat, he could have sat at the table all night, with the netbook open in front of him, and written down his thoughts, looking for those tell-tale signs, the little giveaways that would point him in particular directions. Here he had nothing. Not even a pen and paper… although he had asked that Sheila and Brenda bring him writing materials when they visited.