The Harlequin

by Sinclair Macleod

  “Yes, of course.” He lifted the ashtray before he said, “Initially I’ve chosen the staff that were on duty on Thursday, I thought they might be the most helpful.” He passed the piece of paper to McLelland.

  “That’s great, Mr Braben, thank you.”

  He left the two detectives with the woman whose name was Sharon Derrick. She proved to be a completely useless witness, unable to remember what had happened the previous Thursday, nor could she recall a single ex-employee who might be nursing a grudge. It wasn’t uncommon for Glaswegians to be deliberately uncooperative with police officers but Russell thought Mrs Derrick was genuine in her lack of knowledge. She set the template for the afternoon as staff member after staff member stated their ignorance of the crime and their inability to identify a possible suspect.

  When he was satisfied that he had eliminated Braben from the inquiry, Newman joined the others in the smoking room. Ruth Stephens was also there as the final three people on the list were interviewed. After two more fruitless interviews, Newman said, “Bloody hell, I need a fag.” He had just finished lighting up the cigarette when Braben showed the final staff member in.

  Sammy Cowan blanched when he realised who was in the room, the faces of Newman and McLelland were both very familiar. Sammy was a career criminal with a record of failure.

  “Sammy Cowan,” Newman said with a smile of undisguised pleasure.

  “Mr Newman, sir,” Cowan replied.

  “Take a seat, Sammy. I’m sure this won’t take long if it’s anything like our previous meetings.”

  Cowan sat down heavily in a rickety wooden chair. He was in his mid-fifties with thick, curly greying hair. His face was lined with a map of deep wrinkles that looked like someone had chiseled them in. His opal blue eyes were wide in fear and his nicotine-stained right hand drummed a nervous rhythm on the table. He was dressed in the standard supermarket uniform but it looked like it hadn’t been in contact with an iron in some time. Tom Russell thought he cut quite a pathetic figure.

  “Sammy, this is a big one. You were a bit out of your league when you tried to pull this off.”

  “Ah don’t know whit you mean, Mr Newman.”

  “What was the plan, Sammy? A wee bit o’ blackmail maybe? Thought you could get the supermarket to pay out to stop it happening again?”

  “Ah don’t know whit you’re talkin’ aboot, honest.”

  “Sammy, you’re a career loser. Failed at burglary, as a conman and as a drug dealer. What made you think that you would make it as a blackmailer?”

  “Please, Mr Newman, ah’ve goat nae idea whit you’re oan aboot. Ah’ve been straight fur seven year and this is the longest ah’ve ever hud a joab. Why wid ah throw that away?”

  “Cos you’re a wee arsehole. You got tired of being a good citizen and decided that it was time for you to make a big score. D’ye honestly think we don’t know how people like you think?” Newman shook his head. “You’re going away for good this time, Sammy boy.” He drew in a lungful of smoke and sighed it out as if satisfied with his conclusions.

  “Naw, naw. Ah’ve no done anythin’. Please, ye’ve goat tae believe me.” He stood up abruptly but Newman’s voice was enough to make him respond like a well-trained dog. “Sit,” the detective growled.

  “Now Sammy tell us where you got the stuff. You probably thought it was something harmless, maybe you didn’t think that people would die. Cough up a name and it might not be just as bad for you.”

  “Deid? What stuff?” Cowan was now on the edge of hysteria, his voice racing up the scale with each accusation.

  “I’ve got six people dead, Sammy. Even if you only meant to give them a fright, it’s still a serious crime.”

  Before Cowan could respond McLelland said, “D.I. Newman, a word.” He indicated the door with his head.

  When he couldn’t see an ashtray, Newman threw the butt of his cigarette on the floor and stubbed it out with his foot. “D.I. McLelland is going to tell me how you’re a poor innocent but dae yirself a favour and give D.C. Russell your statement, it’ll save us all a lot of time.

  McLelland moved into the staff break area, away from the door of the room. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

  Newman laughed. “Ah knew it, you don’t like him for this.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Sammy Cowan can hardly work out what socks to put on in the morning, never mind come up with some complicated plan to blackmail a supermarket. There’s been no contact from anyone at Valushop saying they’re being blackmailed. You would think that would have been the first thing to happen after Thursday. This isn’t about somebody trying to make a fast buck and certainly not a petty criminal who’s not been in bother for over eight years. I know you like everything to be wrapped up in a nice wee bundle but this isn’t some stabbing outside a chip shop with twenty witnesses. The person behind this has intelligence, the ability to plan and a sadistic streak the width of the Clyde. None of that describes Sammy Cowan.”

  “Fuck off, McLelland. We know you want to be on the fast track to some braid and you think if you get a big case that will speed things up but this is Glesga. We don’t huv master criminals; we huv hard men and wee arseholes like Cowan. A hard man disnae use poison, it’s pathetic losers like Cowan who don’t have the guts to chib somebody or put a bullet in them that pull off a stunt like this.”

  “I’ll contact the chief super if need be, but I’m not wasting time and resources on this. Whoever did this could decide to try again and we could end up with an even worse body count. I’m not going to let you fit Cowan up because you’re too lazy to do the job right.”

  “Listen tae yirsel. Like some wean running tae his mammy.”

  “It’s up to you but I’ll have no part in this.”

  Newman marched away in the direction of the smoking room while McLelland headed for Braben’s office.

  “Did he confess all, D.C. Russell?” Newman asked as he entered.

  “No, sir.” Russell replied.

  When Newman took his seat again, Sammy Cowan was a little calmer but his fear was still evident.

  “Please Mr Newman, ah’ve built a life for masel’. Ah cannae go back tae prison. Ah’ve no done anythin’ wrang.”

  “You were here on Thursday, tell me about your day.”

  “It wis jist a normal day. Ah stacked shelves, helped with a delivery and did an hour on the checkout.”

  “What about cakes?”

  “Cakes? Whit aboot them?”

  “Did you put the cakes out on the shelves? Did you handle them at any time?’

  Cowan paused before replying, “Ah don’t think so. I was stackin’ the soup and beans an’ that. Then the dairy van arrived and ah helped organise the delivery in the refrigerated stock room. Ah wisnae near the cakes oan Thursday.”

  “I think yir lying to me, Sammy. I think you thought you would try a bit o’ blackmail and make yourself enough cash to retire oan. I think we should take a wee trip to the station.”

  “Naw, naw Mr Newman. It wisnae me honest, it wisnae me.”

  “Take him,” Newman ordered Russell and Stephens.

  “Sir, are you sure about this?” Russell asked.

  “Are you questioning my orders, Mr Russell?”

  “No, sir,” Russell replied reluctantly.

  It was close to six o’clock before the interviews were complete. McLelland thanked Braben for his help - Newman had walked out without even an acknowledgement of the manager. A relieved Braben promised that he would get in touch with the supermarket’s human resources department and urge them to help the police as much as they could.

  Newman waited until they were back in the C.I.D. room before initiating the discussion about what they had discovered.

  “There’s a chance that a customer could have injected something into the cakes,” Ruth Stephens said. “The cakes that were
poisoned are on display on shelves, so someone could have added the drugs but they would have had to be careful to avoid being caught.”

  “CCTV?” McLelland asked.

  “I’ve got the tapes for Wednesday and Thursday, although according to the supervisor the cakes should have been delivered on the Thursday morning but I thought I would check both just in case. I’m not holding out too much hope even if they were caught on camera, the images are black and white and pretty crappy resolution.”

  “Do yir best, hen. Look out for Cowan, I’m sure he’s the one,” Newman said.

  Ruth Stephens looked like she was going to respond to his patronising attitude but bit her tongue.

  “Newman, try treating your officers with a little more respect,” McLelland said.

  “Whit?” Newman asked innocently.

  McLelland shook his head. He changed the subject. “I think we have to look at the delivery driver and the bakery,” he said.

  Newman replied, “Wait ‘til we’ve checked wee Sammy oot. It’ll save a lot of work.”

  ***

  Sammy Cowan was so desperate to prove his innocence that he insisted that the police search his flat without the need for a warrant. He gave Russell the keys and told him, “It disnae matter what yir lookin’ fur, ye’ll no find it in ma flat.”

  Newman decided to put the petty criminal in a cell until a full investigation of his work records and the search of the flat was complete. After two hours and a thorough inspection of the flat, Russell and the team returned with no evidence that might have indicated Cowan’s involvement.

  “He’s probably got it stashed somewhere else,” was Newman’s dismissive reply when Russell told him.

  The pressure to let Cowan go increased when Stephens had finished analysing the tapes. She went over the full day’s CCTV and at no point was Cowan shown to be anywhere near the cakes either in the store room or the bakery counter in the shop.

  “It wasn’t him,” McLelland asserted.

  Newman stood firm. “Ah still think we should question him.”

  “You’re the S.I.O. but you’re wrong. I will see what the chief super thinks.” McLelland went to talk to Woods with Newman marching angrily behind him.

  The detectives who were left in the C.I.D. room laughed at the sight.

  “A pair of weans,” Ruth Stephens commented. There was no disagreement from anyone.

  They returned twenty minutes later. “Cut him loose,” McLelland told Tom Russell. “Tom, make sure you apologise to him, “ he added.

  “Apologise to that wee shite.” That was rubbing salt into the wound as far as Newman was concerned.

  “We made a mistake, we should say sorry. Well technically it should be you that says sorry,” McLelland said.

  “Fuck off,” Newman replied. “Ah’m going home.” He stormed off.

  When Tom Russell returned having done as ordered, McLelland said, “ That should do us for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll have a look at the delivery drivers and the bakery.”

  The detectives finished their various tasks and drifted off one by one.

  Chapter 7

  The following day Russell was assigned to accompany the two feuding detective inspectors as they travelled to the south side of the city to visit the Perfect Delicake Bakery. The three-storey, red-brick building was built in the thirties; it comprised a suite of offices at the front with distinctive white-framed windows and behind the office block was the production area that included vast storage bins and lots of pipes. When Russell opened the door of the car, his nose was filled immediately with the warm, inviting smell coming from the ovens.

  “Mmm… we might get some good freebies out of this,” Newman said as he walked towards the building.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for D.I. McLelland?” Russell asked.

  “We’ll get him inside,” Newman replied as he strode on.

  They walked into the reception area that Russell imagined hadn’t changed since the building was opened, other than the new corporate logo on the wall. There was a low wooden desk for the receptionist; some faux leather chairs for visitors and the walls were covered in teak-coloured panelling on which was a series of framed photographs that showed the evolution of the bakery since its foundation.

  Newman approached the desk where a heavily made-up woman was waiting.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, smiling sincerely.

  “Detective Inspector Newman and this is Detective Constable Russell. We need to speak to your head man.”

  “Can I ask what it’s regarding?”

  “It’s police business, that’s all you need to know,” he replied rudely.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll contact Ms Nichol.”

  “I said I want to speak to the organ grinder not a monkey.”

  “Ms Nichol is the chief operations manager and a director of the company. She is the senior member of staff at this facility,” the receptionist said haughtily. “Could you please take a seat and I’ll see if she’s available?

  Russell smiled as he walked behind his boss to the low seats that were arranged at the window. The spring sunshine streamed in through the glass and Russell was soon uncomfortably warm. Newman seemed non-plussed by his earlier embarrassment and kept looking at his watch to indicate how precious his time was. McLelland arrived when they had been waiting five minutes and it was clear that he was unimpressed by Newman’s decision not to wait for him. After the morning briefing had finished, he had been allocating work to the other officers in the investigation. A task that technically should have fallen to the senior investigating officer but that had been delegated to him by Newman. A team was assigned to collect personnel records for the supermarket’s current and ex-employees, a uniformed P.C. was allocated as an extra resource to help Ruth Stephens take a closer look at the video tapes and enquiries were continuing into possible connections between the victims.

  After ten minutes a heavy-set woman, who Russell reckoned to be in her mid-thirties, arrived to greet them.

  “I’m Deirdre Nichol, welcome to the Perfect Delicake Bakery,” she said in a friendly but formal way.

  As the detectives introduced themselves in turn, Russell observed the woman. She had a square, almost manly face but her striking blue eyes and fine cheekbones gave her a handsome appearance. She was dressed in a well-cut business suit with a plain but expensive blouse and a single row of pearls around her throat. Her flat shoes matched the navy blue of her suit and were trimmed with cream.

  “I’ll take you up to my office,” her annunciation was clipped and precise.

  Her office was on the top floor and overlooked the car park. The same wooden panelling covered the wall and behind her desk was an oil painting of a stiff, stern-looking Victorian gentleman with a bald head but impressively thick bushy beard.

  “My great, great grandfather Thomas Macintosh, the founder of the company,” she said to Russell when she noticed him staring at the picture. “The Macintosh bakery was founded in the late nineteenth century in Pollokshields. He baked bread, cakes and pastries from a shop in Paisley Road West. The company expanded and grew to include three shops across the city until this building was constructed in 1933. We’ve been through a series of takeovers and mergers since the early eighties and we’re now part of the Perfect Delicake Bakery family.” It sounded like a speech she had given frequently.

  “I see.” Russell said.

  She invited all three detectives to sit and pressed a button on an intercom to ask for some tea and coffee to be delivered. Newman was itching to get started but waited impatiently for the drinks to be brought in. His mood improved immensely when he noticed the iced buns that were offered as an accompaniment.

  Ms Nichol was insistent that the detectives accept her hospitality and persuaded a reluctant Russell to have a cup of tea. When everyone was served she asked, “Now gentlemen, what bri
ngs the members of the constabulary to our little bakery?”

  Newman launched into the now familiar description of the events of the previous week. As he had been with Braben the previous day, he was very direct as he told the woman that he believed that one of her employees may be involved in the deaths but there was none of the callous, haranguing tone he had used with the supermarket manager. In his time with Newman, Russell had noticed that the older man was in awe of rank and position, becoming like Uriah Heep when he was in the company of superior officers or those in position of power.

  “I’m sure that you weren’t aware of any connection Ms Nichol, but the evidence points to someone within the supply chain being responsible for this terrible crime. The company supplies cakes to the Valushop supermarket, is that correct?”

  “Yes, we supply freshly baked goods to about thirty of their stores in the West of Scotland from this bakery.”

  “How are the deliveries organised?”

  “We have our own drivers that visit all the supermarkets we supply, it’s not only Valushop.”

  “Are all of the drivers employed by the company?”

  “Except at Christmas when we have to use outside contractors to help us fulfil our obligations at that busy time.”

  “Ms Nichol have you had any threats against the company? Maybe from ex-employees?”

  She bubbled a laugh, “We’re hardly a multi-national oil company, inspector. I think you’ll find that most people like a cake or two. And no, we’ve not had any disgruntled employees threatening a rampage with loaded pastry.”

  “I hope you don’t mind but we will need access to your employees records, recent past and the present.”

  “Of course, we will do everything we can to help.”

  “We will also need to see the packaging area and to speak to the people there.”

  “As I said, I will instruct everyone to cooperate fully.”

  “D.I. McLelland, I think you should have a look at the staff records while D.C. Russell and I interview some of the workforce.” Newman was continuing to be deliberately provocative but McLelland was stoic in his agreement to the request.