Trial by Fire

by David W Robinson

  “So you had something on Pemberton, did you? Was he one of Vaughan’s regular partygoers, too?”

  Queenan gave the barest of nods.

  “Men or women?” Denise asked.

  “Women,” Queenan replied. “At least, I’ve only ever seen him with women.”

  “Oh boy.” Joe shook his head in mock humour. “Vaughan had half the damn Town Hall in his pocket.”

  “That’s not fair, Joe,” Queenan clamoured. “Like me, Kenny only ever wanted what was best for this town.”

  “Saving his own arse by helping you save yours? I don’t think the cops will look at it quite so leniently.”

  Horror spread across Queenan’s flushed face. “You can’t go to the police with this.”

  “As long as I’m suspected of murder, I can do as I damn well please,” Joe snapped. “Right now, Ray Dockerty is short of real suspects, and I can give him two. You and Pemberton. You both had perfect reasons for killing Vaughan, and whatever incriminating evidence he had against you both, was probably kept in his safe or on his computer. And in case you haven’t been told, the safe was emptied and the hard drive was taken from the computer. Whoever killed him has it all now.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Queenan pleaded. “And I’m sure Kenny didn’t either.”

  “Even if we believe you, you’re still in deep doo-doo,” Denise said. “As Joe has just pointed out, the goods Vaughan had on you have disappeared. How long before the killer comes calling and demands cash?”

  “And you know something?” Joe smiled viciously. “It couldn’t happen to two more deserving people.”

  Queenan buried his head in his hands. “I’m ruined.”

  “You will be if you don’t co-operate,” Denise pointed out. “We’re not interested in you and your peccadilloes. We want to know who burned down the old Lazy Luncheonette, and who murdered Vaughan.”

  “And I don’t know the answer to either question. When the old place caught fire, I was worried. When the Fire Service said it had been, er…”

  “Torched?”

  “Yes. I was in a state of panic. I rang Vaughan and he assured me he had nothing to do with it. He was in Blackpool chasing you at the time, Joe.”

  “And it never occurred to you that he had the kind of financial clout to pay someone to set fire to the place?”

  “Well, yes, of course it did, but he assured me it was nothing to do with him. He wanted the place down, yes, he wanted you out, yes, but he would not go to such extreme lengths.”

  Denise’s eyes widened. “A man blackmailing you and you believed him?”

  Listening to Denise, Joe gathered from her tone that she did not believe Queenan.

  Queenan’s shoulders sagged. “What choice did I have?”

  “You could have gone to the police,” Denise insisted. “Told them everything. Man up. Show a little courage. Own up to your idiosyncrasies, none of which are illegal, and told them everything. At least they would have stopped Vaughan. You might even have saved his life.”

  “I couldn’t. My marriage… my job… my reputation, all—”

  “Mattered to you more than your own corruption and the crimes taking place round you,” Joe interrupted. “You disgust me.” His anger began to take over. The thought of having spent days in jail because of this man and the shady people who had a hold over him, rattled Joe to the core. “Even now, all you give a damn about is you. You don’t care a toss about my reputation, you don’t give a hoot about Vaughan, who should be in prison, not dead, you don’t care one damn about the run-around you’ve created for the cops.” He made to stand up. “If I ever see you again, Queenan, it’ll be too soon.”

  Joe stood and Denise joined him.

  From the other side of the desk, Queenan eyed them timidly. “Will you… will the police have to learn about all this?”

  “That, Mr Queenan, depends on how germane it is to Vaughan’s death. You should call them and tell them yourself, but I doubt that you will. From our point of view, we offer no guarantees. If we need to tell Superintendent Dockerty, we will.”

  “And in the meantime,” Joe said, “get onto Kenny Pemberton and tell him to expect us.”

  Queenan sheepishly checked the calendar. “He’s not at work. You’ll find him either at the magistrates’ court, or on the golf course.”

  ***

  They paid a quick call into the magistrates’ court where they learned that Pemberton had already left for the day, and after that, Joe and Denise drove out to South Sanford Golf Club, an eighteen-hole, former municipal course, not far from the main motorway junction.

  “Not my game,” Joe said when Denise asked. “I don’t mind watching the big tournaments, like The Open, but I can think of better ways of passing the time than knocking a ball three or four hundred yards across open grass.”

  “My feelings precisely,” Denise agreed as they entered the clubhouse. “A lot of the cops played, you know. Spent half their time off walking round the local courses, and I could never understand why. I mean, if they brought the hole a bit nearer, they could get round quicker, couldn’t they?”

  “Like snooker?”

  “Like snooker.”

  Formerly owned by Sanford Borough Council, now in private hands, the clubhouse was still less appealing than functional, but the new owners had put down a carpet in the main bar.

  “An improvement on the composition floor tiles they used to have,” Joe said as he approached the bar.

  He was told that Pemberton had been on the course for three hours and although no one was quite sure which of the eighteen holes he was playing, he was expected back within the next two hours.

  “We’ll wait,” Joe assured the barman. “In the meantime, give us a half of bitter and a glass of lager.”

  “You’re not members, sir,” the barman replied.

  This prompted another argument which ended only when Joe demanded to speak to the steward. Like many people in Sanford, Joe had known Vic Yearsley for over forty years, and the rotund bar manager greeted them with a broad smile.

  “I’ll sign Joe and his lady-friend in as guests,” Yearsley told the barman, “and you make sure they’re treated accordingly.”

  “Yes, Mr Yearsley.”

  “Thanks, Vic.”

  “So, what are you doing here, Joe? Not thinking of joining are you?”

  Joe grunted. “I just told Denise how much I enjoy golf. Watching it, that is. Hey, talking of joining things, how come we haven’t seen you applying for the Sanford 3rd Age Club?”

  “I don’t think I could keep up with that gang of thugs you hang around with, Joe. Besides, the missus has only just agreed to me being in the same town as Brenda Jump, never mind the same bar.”

  “Poor Brenda,” Denise commented as they took their drinks outside and sat on the south-facing terrace to soak up the sun.

  “She has a shabby reputation,” Joe agreed, “especially among people who don’t understand her. But despite what they say, she’s no pushover and she’s not a bedhopper. After what happened to her husband – cancer, you know – she knows how fragile life is, and she’s determined to enjoy every minute of it while she can.”

  “But she does have a string of boyfriends.”

  “No,” Joe corrected. “She has on-off relationships with one or two men. That’s all. And it’s more to do with wining and dining than sex. I’ll tell you this, Denise. If you needed a friend, an ally, Brenda is the perfect candidate. Not only is she loyal, but she can be as hard as nails when she wants, and she has kick like a donkey.” He chuckled. “Vaughan’s hard men found that out in Blackpool.”

  “I like to hear it, but I wasn’t, er, having a go at Brenda. I was simply trying to work out where you and she are at.”

  “We’re not at anywhere,” Joe replied, taking out his phone. “We had a bit of a fling a year or so back, but it fizzled out. We’re good friends, she’s an excellent employee and a valuable asset to the 3rd Age Club. But there’s nothing beyond that.
Not anymore.”

  “Good.”

  Joe sensed that Denise was more than happy with his explanation. “I just need to make a phone call.”

  Searching through the directory, he came to the number for the Palmer Hotel and punched the green button.

  “Good afternoon, Palmer Hotel. How may I help you?”

  The stock, almost robotic opening irritated Joe. “Let me speak to Yvonne Naylor, please. Tell her it’s Joe Murray.”

  There was a long pause before Yvonne’s voice came through. “Hello, Joe. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “You may think differently in a few minutes,” Joe replied. “How are you, Yvonne?”

  “I’m very well, thank you. And it’s not Mrs Naylor any longer. It’s Mrs Vallance. Geoff and I married last summer.”

  Joe smiled broadly. “Well congratulations. What happened to my invite?”

  Yvonne laughed. “We were thinking of inviting you, but we heard that you wouldn’t fancy flying to the Seychelles.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “So come on, Joe. What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me all about Gerard Vaughan.”

  “Oh. Him.” Yvonne’s disapproval reverberated through the phone, and Joe could imagine her scowl. “You know I can’t tell you anything. Client confidentiality and all that, but off the record, I’d have sent him packing to other hotels. Company policy forbade me. Is he causing you trouble?”

  “He’s dead. Murdered.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “But, yes he’s causing me trouble because half the town thinks I did it. I’m not asking for any dirty washing, Yvonne, but I need to find out who really killed him. It’s the only way I can get myself off the hook. Can you point me at anyone in particular who he visited at your place?”

  “Off the record, and if anyone asks, I’ll deny I ever said it. Remember the MP who was murdered while you were here?”

  “Edgar Prudhoe? I remember him.”

  “Try looking at the man who replaced him.”

  “Hmm.” Joe raked his memory. “I don’t recall Prudhoe holding a cabinet post.”

  “I mean in his constituency.”

  “Oh. Right. Thanks. That all?”

  “I could mention one or two others, but they’re Sanford born and bred, and, I think, members or employees of your local authority.”

  “Forget them,” Joe suggested. “We’re already onto them. Thanks, Yvonne. Give my best to Geoff.”

  “I will, and thanks for calling, Joe. You know there’s always a room for you here.”

  Joe ended the call, and tossed the phone on the table. Taking a sip of his beer, he said, “We may have problems. Gerard had a big connection. One who might just be desperate enough to kill him.”

  “Politician?”

  “Yep. According to my contact, at least. We need to get on the web, find out where Edgar Prudhoe was the MP. Whoever took the seat over was a friend of Vaughan’s.” Joe placed just enough stress on the word ‘friend’ for Denise to understand him.

  And she promptly disagreed. “Joe, you may not like our elected representatives, but even those with secrets wouldn’t resort to murder. Anyway, how would he know to dress it up so it looked like you?”

  “All true, but someone like that might just pay a third party to do the job for them. Just the way Vaughan paid someone to torch The Lazy Luncheonette.”

  Denise drummed her fingers on the table. “We should go to Ray Dockerty with all this.”

  He dismissed the idea with a growl. “Bloody coppers. They couldn’t detect a smell in a bunged up khasi.”

  Denise chuckled. “Why do you have such a downer on them, Joe?”

  “Isn’t being accused of murder enough?”

  “According to my information, you’ve been like it most of your life.”

  “They miss things which, as far as I’m concerned, are obvious,” Joe argued. “Yet they concentrate on lines of inquiry which are at best, circumstantial. It’s the precise reason I ended up in Sanford nick for four days. Dockerty could not place me at the scene of the crime, and the evidence he had could easily have been cooked up. Hell, he can’t even find a motive for me to kill Vaughan. Yet, with a little digging, in the space of a single day, we’ve come up with a string of motives and at least three other suspects.”

  “Ray would get there eventually, Joe. I know him. He’s a good detective.”

  “Yes, he probably would, but if it hadn’t been for you using your eyes and a little common sense, just as I’ve been talking about, how much longer would I have sat in that prison cell?”

  “There are procedures. Ray was following them. I know, I know, it’s bad luck on you, but he didn’t put a foot out of place. And it wasn’t him who walled you up.”

  Joe stared across at the eighteenth green where Kenny Pemberton had just arrived. “No, it wasn’t. But the clown who did is right there.”

  It took Pemberton four putts to drop the ball, while his opponent took the hole in three, and the two men came off the green, smiling, laughing and joking, towing their golf trolleys behind them, deep in conversation. It was only when they reached the steps to the clubhouse that Pemberton saw Joe, and the smile left his face.

  “I don’t know why you’re here, Murray, but as a sitting magistrate, moreover, one who remanded you in custody, I can’t speak to you.”

  “I know,” Joe admitted. “But you can speak to Denise, and frankly you’d better speak to Denise.”

  “That sounded like a threat to me. You heard it, didn’t you, Norman?”

  Pemberton’s playing partner nodded, and the Head of Environmental Health turned smugly on Joe.

  “You see? I have a witness. Now go away before I call the police.”

  Joe slid his mobile across the table, “Here, Kenny. Use my phone. You’ll find Dockerty’s number in the directory somewhere.” He sat back and relaxed. “And while he’s here we can have a good, long chinwag about those little soirees at Vaughan’s place. All right?” Sitting forward he aimed an accusing finger at Pemberton. “And before you start up with your lies, we spent an hour with Irwin Queenan this morning. We know everything, and the only reason we came here instead of going to Dockerty was as a courtesy. We’d like to hear your version.”

  Pemberton’s colour drained. Fastening a fixed, false smile on his face, he addressed his partner. “Sorry, Norman, but it looks like I have business to discuss with this lady. Get your drink and tell the steward to put it on my account.”

  With a puzzled nod, Norman disappeared into the clubhouse. Pemberton watched him until he was well out of earshot, then rounded angrily on Joe and Denise.

  “You listen to me you little—”

  Joe cut him off. “Right now you’re clinging onto your job, your reputation, possibly your marriage, and even your membership of this club, by the slenderest of threads, and we have the scissors to cut that thread… if we so choose. So sit down and drop the threats. You’re in no position to hassle.”

  Joe waited for Pemberton to obey before going on.

  “We know how Vaughan pressured Queenan to get planning permission for Britannia Parade. We know how Queenan pressured you to go easy on him at the disciplinary hearings. We know you frequented Vaughan’s parties, but we’re not sure whether you were cavorting with boys or girls, or both. What we don’t know, but we’re sure the police will find out, is how far Vaughan’s blackmail went with you.”

  Denise picked up the discourse. “As an ex-police officer, what I know, Mr Pemberton, is that when Joe was brought to court, you never mentioned any relationship with the dead man, although it’s clear you had one, and because of that, you should have stood down, not given Joe the opportunity to ask for you to be removed.” She smiled, mock-sweetly. “It’s the kind of thing a good defence barrister would make a meal of, and guess who would carry the can for it?”

  “I followed procedures on the advice of the clerk of the court,” Pemberton hissed.

  “But
the clerk of the court didn’t know you used to whoop it up at the dead man’s parties, did she?” Joe insisted. “All in all, Kenny, I reckon by the time Dockerty is finished with you, you’re probably looking at five years.”

  The big man’s colour drained even further. “I can’t go to jail.”

  “I didn’t think I could,” Joe reminded him, “but I ended up there last week. You sent me there.”

  Pemberton was beaten. Like Queenan before him, he capitulated with sagging shoulders and a bowed head. “What do you want?”

  “Where were you last Monday night?” Denise asked.

  “At home. My wife can verify that. I had nothing to do with his murder.”

  “How much evidence did Vaughan have against you?”

  “Plenty. Photographs, even a video. Just as he had with Irwin.”

  “And what was the price of his silence?” Joe demanded.

  “We go easy on him over environmental issues.” Some of Pemberton’s fire returned. “I tell you now, there’s nothing wrong with that building. It is environmentally sound. It’s just that when our boys went in, they weren’t as thorough as they usually are, and if they spotted anything, rather than pressing charges, they cut Vaughan some slack. Allowed him time to deal with it.”

  Joe fumed. “You know, I’ve spent half my working life fighting with you and your men. You’ve hassled the hell out of me for dumping fat where I shouldn’t, not recycling the stuff I should be recycling, not compartmentalising different environmental hazards. You’ve dragged me into court no end of times, and when it all turns out, you and Queenan are bigger crooks than me and every other café owner in Sanford.”

  “You don’t understand, Joe. I do my job to the best of my ability, and my concern is for the town. We needed that building.”

  “It was built by a crook and passed as tickety-boo by another pair of crooks. We can’t pick and choose which laws we obey. The rules are laid down, and you’re paid to make sure everyone follows them. Not just me and Sid Snetterton, but all of us, and that includes you, Gerard Vaughan and Irwin Queenan.”

  “So you’re saying I should have brought it all out into the open? Let my wife and the whole of the Town Hall find out what I get up to?”