Crowner and Justice

by Barrie Roberts

  ‘Hello,’ I croaked.

  She said nothing, but fed me some fruit juice until my mouth and tongue worked.

  ‘You’re back,’ she said at last.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m OK,’ she said, ‘but what about you?’

  ‘What about me? What’s the damage?’ I went to raise myself a little on an elbow and realised that it hurt, so I stayed still.

  ‘You’ve got a broken upper left arm and the other bullet ran round your left ribs. It ploughed a nasty tunnel round your side, but it didn’t hit anything essential. They say you’ll be right.’

  A young doctor stepped into the room. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ he remarked, ‘only longer.’

  He sat on the end of the bed. ‘Well, Mr Tyroll, things don’t look too bad. As Miss McKenna said, Birmingham Accident picked the scrap metal out of you and patched the holes. They didn’t seem to think that deliberate shooting qualified as accident, so they shoved you back to Belston. Once we’ve sorted out your left arm, you’ll be right in no time. The left side is going to be a nuisance. You’ll need to lie down till that heals. Walking or moving will just aggravate it, but you’re moderately healthy, so I don’t foresee any problems,’ and he stood up and ambled out.

  ‘What happened to Walters — Cantrell?’ I asked.

  ‘That bastard,’ she said, ‘is in custody with very sore balls. West Midlands handed him over to John’s lot and John reckons they’ve got him for the murder.’

  ‘You didn’t need to kick him so hard,’ I said.

  ‘Too right, I didn’t, but I’d just seen him shooting you so I wanted to mark my disapproval.’

  ‘Sometimes I realise what it is that makes me love you,’ I said.

  ‘Yair? Well, try to show it by not getting killed, will you?’

  ‘Does John know why Samson was killed?’ I asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Nobody knows and Cantrell ain’t telling, but John reckons they’ve got a case anyway.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ I said. Then, ‘You look worn out.’

  ‘I have been here since yesterday,’ she said, ‘wondering why you keep on trying to get killed.’

  ‘There’s gratitude. That swine Cantrell was going to need to get rid of you once he got down the stairs. I had to stop him. Besides — I owed you a couple.’

  She smiled and her eyes moistened. ‘Just don’t do it again, you galah!’ she commanded. ‘Hey, look!’ she said, to distract me from her tears, ‘Look at all the fan mail you’ve got!’

  I looked at the cards and flowers on the bedside cabinet. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Only since last night. Like the Doc said, they operated in Brum yesterday then shipped you back here. Look, who’s this Mrs Johnstone who’s sent you a card?’

  I groaned. ‘She’s a sweet old lady whose missing husband I am supposed to find. Who else?’

  ‘Well, there’s the office, of course. There’s Doc Macintyre, John Parry, Kath McBride, Tom Wellington...’

  A tap at the door brought John Parry. ‘Name the devil!’ he exclaimed. ‘They tell me you’re sitting up and taking notice.’

  ‘They lied,’ I said. ‘I’m lying down in pain, trying to take notice. Sheila says you’ve got Mr Cantrell.’

  ‘Oh, indeed, boyo.’

  ‘Can you make a case for the Samson killing?’

  ‘Well, he won’t say a word, but we’ve got metallurgical comparisons of the rust fragments the car left at the roadside, we’ve got witnesses from the White Lion who’ve ID’d him and we’ve got a wonderful piece of luck.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Samson was wearing a tweed jacket. Cantrell hit him so hard that the pattern of the tweed is impressed in the enamel of one wing. Put a low light across it and you can get a pin sharp photo of the weave. Rare but lovely!’

  ‘If you’ve got the car. Have you?’

  ‘Oh yes. West Mercia found it for us, stashed in a shed on his boss’ farm in Shropshire.’

  ‘Who’s his boss?’

  ‘Dennis Maiden.’

  ‘Dennis Maiden!’ I exclaimed, and winced. ‘The man who took the ponies. Cantrell works for him?’

  ‘Yep. Cantrell ran MSA — Midland Security Agency.’

  Then that,’ I said, ‘connects him with Samson. Samson said that Maiden’s Security Manager was awkward about giving the ponies back. So they had met, at least once.’

  John nodded. ‘Even we dim plods have managed to work that out, but it doesn’t provide a motive.’

  My mind was surging back to activity, trying to piece patterns together out of odds and ends.

  ‘So Cantrell and Samson meet over the ponies,’ I began, falteringly. ‘Then Cantrell goes to the Tribunal, pretending to be a journalist — why?’

  ‘So no one would know who he was,’ said John.

  ‘But the BDS blokes would have known. They must have seen their new Security Manager.’

  ‘Yair,’ said Sheila, ‘but they wouldn’t know that unmarked table at the back was only for the press. They wouldn’t think it odd he was there.’

  ‘But why was he there?’ I demanded.

  ‘Because he wanted to keep an eye on things, I suppose,’ said Sheila.

  ‘But he stopped, after the first lunchtime,’ I protested.

  ‘After he saw you with Samson,’ said John. ‘Then he went off, sussed out Samson’s movements, confirmed them with the meeting in the pub and saw him off the next night. After which he stayed away from the Tribunal. If your witness hadn’t told you who he really was, you wouldn’t have known.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense!’ I protested.

  ‘Oh yes, it does,’ said Sheila and John nodded. I stared at them.

  ‘It makes sense,’ said Sheila, ‘if it was you he was avoiding, if it was you who mustn’t know he worked for BDS.’

  ‘But I’ve never seen him before in my life till the Tribunal sat. Then I thought he was a reporter.’

  ‘It only makes sense,’ said John, ‘if he thought that Samson might somehow identify him to you. That must be why he killed him.’

  I shook my head and winced again. ‘But I don’t know why!’

  ‘Well, boyo, you’d better lie there and think about it, because I’m going to come and ask you officially.’

  The door swung open and the space was filled by a large, black nurse.

  ‘Mr Tyroll!’ she declaimed, ‘You are supposed to be recovering from gunshot wounds, surgery and anaesthesia! You, Detective Inspector, can go about your business, and you, Miss McKenna, can go home to bed and leave Mr Tyroll to me!’

  They fled without argument, leaving me to Nurse Elphinstone’s robust attentions and to fall asleep in a puzzled whirl.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I stayed puzzled. God knows, I had plenty of time to turn it all over while I recuperated, but none of the pieces would stay in place. What earthly harm could Cantrell have feared from me? None. I never knew the bloke. John Parry came back and asked me officially and I still couldn’t help him.

  The long hospital days passed. Visitors came and went. The Tribunal, which had adjourned hastily after the shooting, set a new date, which I could not attend, so my assistant, Alasdair, stood in for me. Working from Sheila’s notes and mine and with Sheila at his side, he made the closing argument for the Applicants. The Tribunal reserved its judgement. An ominous sign. That usually means that they’re trying to think of reasons to chuck the application out.

  When the hospital finally chucked me out, Sheila laid on a celebration dinner. Alasdair was there and John Parry, Doc Macintyre and Claude the Phantom, our enquiry agent.

  Once the food was done and the whisky circulating, Alasdair drew an envelope from his pocket.

  ‘I have news!’ he announced. ‘I have here the Tribunal’s decision!’

  I groaned. ‘Why spoil the party?’

  He raised a hand. ‘Listen to the opening.’ He unfolded the papers and read:
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  ‘“We think it only right that, before setting out our decisions in this matter, we express our regret that Mr Tyroll, who represented the Applicants throughout the hearing, was unable to finish the case, and it is the opinion of all of us that his actions in defending the public and preventing the escape of an armed criminal deserve the highest praise — ” What about that, Chris?’

  ‘That’s you, McKenna — the public,’ Parry muttered.

  ‘I’m deeply touched,’ I said, ‘now go on to the bit where they throw us out.’

  Alasdair smiled and closed the sheaf of papers. ‘Without boring the company with all the details, the fact is that they found for the Applicants. Mohammed Afsar was wrongly dismissed in breach of the Agreement, Jimmy Martin was not a cause of the strike, and there was no assault at the gate.’

  ‘But what about the illegal strike?’ I asked, amazed.

  ‘Ah! Well, they do suggest that the strike was probably illegal, but they took your point about the Human Rights Act. They thought Bailey had ignored both the Agreement and the Act and that the dismissals were unlawful. Reinstatements at BDS they thought would be unworkable, so compensation is to be worked out between the parties.’

  Applause ran round the table. Somebody called, ‘Speech! Speech!’

  I rapped for silence with a knife. ‘Unaccustomed as I am to winning cases in the Employment Tribunals, I can only say that I am overwhelmed. It’s all too good to be true!’ ‘It gets better,’ said Alasdair. ‘You remember Mrs Johnstone?’

  ‘The lady who was worried that her absent husband hadn’t divorced her, yes.’

  ‘Well, I made a few enquiries in Scotland, and back came a letter. Mr Johnstone didn’t divorce her, but he died without making a will, so she’s inherited a house in Aberdeen plus his savings.’

  Another round of laughter and applause.

  ‘All we need now,’ said John Parry, ‘is a real legal success, like explaining why Cantrell murdered Samson. At the moment, the Crown Prosecution Service are saying we’ve a better chance of doing him for the attempted murder of Christopher Tyroll, and it goes against the grain, sending people down for trying to murder solicitors.’

  Sheila smiled. ‘Do you really want to know what it was all about, John?’

  ‘Well, it would be nice, yes. Tidy, like.’

  She reached for her handbag on the sideboard and pulled out a packet of photographs.

  ‘While Chris has been lying at death’s door...’

  ‘Even a lawyer ought to give up lying there,’ muttered John.

  ‘As I was saying,’ she continued, firmly, ‘While Chris was recovering from serious injuries inflicted when an armed criminal escaped from three detectives and held a helpless female hostage, I have been answering the many fan letters he has had. One of them was from poor Kath McBride. When I went to answer hers, I remembered that Sylvie Wellington had given me some photos of Sean at a party just before he died.’

  She slid the pictures out onto the table.

  ‘These,’ she said, ‘were taken at the engagement party of one of Sylvie’s friends. Look at the date on them.’

  She held one up and everybody craned to look at it. I leaned over and looked at one of the pictures on the table. It was date-marked, 14.05,12th May. I didn’t see the point.

  Sheila selected three pictures and laid them in a row. ‘This one,’ she said, pointing to the right-hand end, ‘is the car park of the pub and some of Sylvie’s friends. The door to the pub’s lounge bar is on the right rear and Sean is near the left. These other two are after the photographer gave the camera to Sean. He’s not in either group, so he’s probably taking the piccys.’

  ‘The middle one is just the engagement party skylarking on the car park. This one,’ and she pointed to the left-hand end one, ‘is the same group, but looking further left, so that you can see another door of the pub. You can even read the sign above the door. It says, “Private Dining Room”, and there’s a couple of blokes coming out of the door, but they’re turning their heads back and you can’t see their faces.’

  She reached into her handbag again and pulled out a larger picture, then laid another photograph on the table. This one,’ she said, ‘is still looking to the left, and this time the blokes coming out of the Dining Room have walked right out onto the car park and the camera has caught them. I had that one enlarged.’

  She laid the larger picture down and we all craned.

  ‘I wondered,’ Sheila said, ‘why I thought I recognised Goatly when he gave evidence. There he is — him and Cantrell and Bailey, having a private get-together two nights before Mohammed Afsar was sacked. What do you think that means, John?’

  ‘Who’s Goatly?’ he said.

  ‘Goatly,’ I explained, ‘is the Union’s Midland Secretary, who backed the company’s action so far that he came along to give evidence for them. Con Mulvaney got me a copy of Goatly’s report to the National Secretary. It was word-for-word the same as the fax that BDS sent their Coventry works to stop the strike spreading.’

  John picked up the picture and looked at it. ‘That’s certainly Cantrell, and you say the other two are Goatly and who?’

  ‘Bailey — the Managing Director of BDS,’ I said. ‘What we’ve got here is a collusive strike, provoked by management for its own purposes.’

  ‘What purposes, though?’ wondered John.

  ‘Easy,’ Alasdair chimed in. ‘Finance. Provoking a strike is an old management trick for easing a cash flow problem. You get rid of the larger part of your payroll for as long as you want. According to the evidence, the arguments at BDS were always about undermanning. Well, you don’t do that unless you’ve got cash flow problems. BDS was in a squeeze, hoping for Retaliator to come up trumps and the Americans to sign up.’

  ‘But how would a strike help them?’ Macintyre asked. ‘It only delays things.’

  ‘Things were already delayed,’ said Sheila. ‘Something was going wrong at Coventry and Belston was having to sit on its hands and wait for Coventry. A strike at Belston saved BDS money, gave Coventry time to get their act in order and gave BDS an excuse for delays other than Coventry’s incompetence.’

  ‘The Yanks don’t like strikes,’ Claude commented.

  ‘So they don’t,’ I said, ‘but Bailey could show them a tough face. He sacked the trouble-makers right away, and as soon as a strike started at Coventry he had Goatly’s help to squash it.’

  ‘Which is all very tidy, as a lefty theory of capitalist wickedness and all that,’ said John, ‘but how does it bear on Cantrell killing Samson?’

  ‘It bears,’ said Sheila, ‘on Cantrell killing Sean McBride, Charlie Nesbit and Samson.’

  We all looked at her, open-mouthed.

  ‘That’s what the piccys are!’ she snapped. ‘The reason.’

  We were still slow on the uptake so she went on.

  ‘On May 12th, Cantrell, Bailey and Goatly met to make or finalise their plan. Coming out of the pub they walked into the flash of a camera wielded by Sean McBride. We know Cantrell’s a sensitive soul. He wasn’t going to have a damning photo like that lying about, so he tracked Sean down and, just like he did with Samson, he sussed out his movements. Only that time he paid Charlie Nesbit for the information.’

  ‘But why did he need to kill Sean?’ Claude enquired.

  ‘Because he’d already turned over his kip and not found the photos. He found out about the garage from Charlie, went there and offed Sean quite simply by sliding that piece back into place on the roof. Perhaps he just meant to knock Sean out so he could search the garage. When he couldn’t find the pictures there, he gave up. Then Charlie started his sad little tricks with the tape and it got in the papers, so he saw Charlie off, as well.’

  ‘So what was all that wi’ the song on the phone?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Charlie can’t have failed to realise that the bloke who paid him was the cause of Sean’s death, but he couldn’t have understood why. He thought that Sylvia was next in line. In his own
peculiar way he was trying to tell someone that there was going to be a second death. Never thought it would be his, I suppose.’

  ‘I still don’t see the connection with Samson,’ John said.

  ‘The connection,’ she said, ‘is sitting right here — Mr Christopher Tyroll. Cantrell knew Chris was in the BDS case, he must have known he was involved with Sean’s case. He didn’t want Chris putting the two together. When he saw Samson and Chris talking, he had to knock out Samson in case he let the cat out of the bag.’

  ‘Pretty ruthless!’ Claude remarked.

  ‘The profits of BDS were at stake,’ I said. ‘I wonder what the Americans are paying for Retaliator.’

  ‘I wonder what Bailey was paying Cantrell to set things up for him — and Goatly.’

  ‘And there would almost certainly have been a large chunk of personal profit,’ said Alasdair. ‘There were stories about selling short on the BDS strike.’

  ‘What’s “selling short”?’ asked John. ‘We poor plods don’t have much chance to speculate in stocks.’

  ‘If you have confidential information that a firm is going to find itself in trouble,’ explained Alasdair, ‘you offer to sell lots of shares in it which you haven’t got. Then the trouble happens, people start dumping their shares in the firm, and you buy them up cheap and fill the orders to sell.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ asked John.

  ‘Because you sell at the high price agreed before the trouble, but you buy at the low price when the trouble has made the shares slump. I’ll bet Bailey, Maiden, even Goatly and Cantrell, have made a mint out of knowing in advance that BDS would be hit by a strike.’

  John finished his drink and rose. ‘I hate to drink and run,’ he said, ‘but I think I’ve got phone calls to make,’ and he left, taking the photos with him.

  So it all turned out better than I expected for Mohammed and Con and Jimmy. It turned out worse for Bailey, who was chucked out as MD as soon as he had been arrested, and Goatly, who took early retirement from the Union. Sniffing around their share dealings produced a lot of suspicion but no hard evidence. Cantrell got life for two murders, so they didn’t bother with poor Samson or with me. In the end the losers were Samson and his family, Charlie Nesbit, Sean McBride and his family and Sylvia Wellington who would never forget Sean.