Death in Distribution

by David W Robinson

  “Excuse me.”

  Joe turned to find a woman in her mid-forties standing anxiously alongside him.

  “What’s up, luv?”

  “Are you in charge here?”

  “Well, sort of. I’m Joe Murray, the organiser for this lot.” He jerked his head in the direction of the club members, now spreading themselves on the grass verge.

  “I’m Paula Guy. That truck hit our car.” She tutted. “Wouldn’t you know it? First time I’ve been to Blackpool since I was a child, I’ve got the kids in the car with me, and this has to happen. I don’t know if I’m supposed to carry on to our hotel.”

  “The cops are on their way, Paula, so if I were you, I’d just sit tight until they get here. Did it do much damage?”

  “I don’t think so. It clipped the front wing and knocked us onto the hard shoulder. But the wheel might be buckled or something. You never know, do you?”

  “Where are you staying?” Joe asked.

  “The Great Northern.”

  “That’s on the front, isn’t it? Not far from the tower?”

  Paula nodded.

  “You and how many children?”

  “Three.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, the police are organising a local bus to pick us up and take us into Blackpool, and we’re staying not far from you. If the police won’t let you drive your car, I’m sure we can find room for you on it.”

  Paula’s face brightened. “Oh, that’s good of you.”

  “No problem. But stick around. The cops will need a statement from you if only so you can claim on that trucker’s insurance.”

  A much happier woman, Paula hurried back to her car and Joe ambled away from the bus to join his members on the grassy bank, where he found a spot close to Sheila and Brenda, and sat down.

  “Awkward, breaking down like this,” Brenda said, “but still better than being cooped up in The Lazy Luncheonette.”

  Joe agreed with a grunt.

  It had been a hard winter; heavy snow in January had been followed by high pressure across the north of the country, bringing with it freezing temperatures and icy roads, which had persisted throughout February and early March. Only later in March did the weather finally begin to break. It had dried the grass on the bank, and for Joe, the chance to enjoy the warm, spring air, even if it was at the expense of a road accident, came as a welcome relief from the pressures of work, weather and the excesses of Sanford Borough Council.

  Returning from his walk around the bus, Keith would probably have disagreed, but Joe never got the chance to offer the opinion.

  “Not just the mirror.” Plonking himself on the grass beside Joe, the driver pointed towards the rear of the bus. “Back wheel arch is buckled, too. That’s a new panel. The old man’ll go through the roof when he gets to know.”

  “You haven’t told him yet?”

  “I’ll see what the filth have to say.” Keith checked his watch. “If they ever get here.”

  ***

  Kane scanned the four faces of his traffic managers before him. “In summary then, gentleman, and lady,” he beamed an apologetic smile on Megan Stafford, “The budget is squeezed. They want us to do more with less. We’re going to need to reschedule the runs more efficiently, and take the drivers to their maximum, permissible hours. All right? Right. Let’s get to it, then.”

  Kane’s phone rang. Taking it as a cue to leave, his team rose and began to file out. “Dave Kane.”

  “Mr Kane? Terry Dodd, security on the main gate, sir. Driver Crowther has just turned into the gate. He’s clearly drunk and his rig is showing some damage. I’m not sure—”

  “WHAT?? What the hell are you talking about, man?”

  While the security officer repeated himself, Kane snapped his fingers repeatedly to get Peter Cruikshank’s attention.

  “Right. Here’s what you do. You hold him at the gate. Do not let him get back into that tractor. I’ll send a shunter over to move it to Maintenance, and I’ll send someone to deal with Crowther. If he really is drunk, we’ll need to call the police.”

  “But his truck is blocking the gates, sir.”

  “Then get in the rig and move it into the yard.”

  “I don’t have the licence to drive it, Mr Kane.”

  “Ours is private land, isn’t it? You don’t need a licence, and it’s only like driving your car but bigger. I’ll take responsibility. Now get in it, pull it into the yard, then hold Crowther there until I can get someone to move the rig, and the police arrive.” Kane cut the connection and spoke to Cruikshank. “Crowther drunk at the main gate, some damage to his rig. Get onto Control, get them to send Alf Sclater to the gate to move the rig, but it goes to the workshops, nowhere else. Call the police. They’ll test him here and if he really blathered, they’ll take him away. Amy can go to the station with him and then bring him back. Terry Dodd and his pals can hold him at the gate until the cops arrive.”

  “Gotcha, Dave,” Cruikshank replied with obvious gusto. “When I’ve done that, I’ll check the procedures for this situation.”

  “No.” Kane stayed his assistant. “I’ll handle this one, Peter. You can stand witness for management.” He caught the doubt crossing Cruikshank’s features. “I’m not giving Amy Willows an excuse to have a go at you again. You can sit in, but leave it to me. You get Sclater over there and I’ll speak to Amy.”

  ***

  An hour later, the inner lane of the slip road had been coned off and the area was awash with police cars. Two constables urged passing motorists to move past the scene quickly and alleviate the queues on both the slip road and the motorway.

  After a tour of the damage from Keith, Constable Paul Higson stood with Joe and the driver by the coach door, while one of his colleagues guided a local double-decker bus down the slip road in reverse.

  “Neither of us got the number,” Joe said, when Higson asked, “but I did get the name of the trucking company. Or part of it, at least.”

  “Go on,” the constable invited.

  “Tyne Distribution, all spelled in lower case. Must be from up Newcastle way, I reckon.”

  Higson’s bearded face fell visibly. “You’re sure about that? It couldn’t have been Ballantyne Distribution?”

  Joe shrugged. “Coulda been. One of the panels did look as if it had been replaced and ‘Tyne’ might have had something in front of it.”

  The policeman tutted. “Just what we need.” Heaving a sigh, he went on, “It’s good news for you, Mr Lowry, and you and your party, Mr Murray, but bad news for us.”

  “Why? Is this company above the law?”

  “Course not. But they are the single most important employer in the area and they have a lot of influence. Hang on, I’ll just get my buddy to call them.” Turning away, Higson called to his colleague further up the slip road, taking a statement from Paula Guy. “Alan: word is the rogue truck was one of Ballantynes. Can you call them, see if they know anything?”

  “Will do.”

  Higson turned to Joe and Keith again. “Shan’t be a minute.”

  “How did you mean it’s good from our point of view?” Joe demanded.

  The constable nodded to each as he addressed them. “If their driver has created any problems for you and your party, Mr Murray, Ballantynes will compensate. It’ll be Ballantynes’ wrecker which tows your bus away, Mr Lowry, and they’ll take it to their maintenance shed, where they’ll repair it. It’ll be like new by Monday morning.”

  Keith shook his head. “I can’t authorise that. I’ll need to speak to my boss.”

  “Rest assured, they’ll do that, and they’ll persuade him. That’s Ballantynes, you see. Won’t have their name besmirched under any circumstances. You’ll have to go to their place, and write out a statement, and you’ll need a reliable witness, but they’ll take care of everything from there.” He smiled wanly. “But from our point of view, they tend to cut us out of the loop until they’ve carried out an internal investigation. We have hell’s teeth
of a job getting anything out of them.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” Joe complained. “The way that driver came along this slip road and rammed us and those cars off the road, it’s like he was drunk. If so, he could end up in prison. It’s not just a motoring offence, is it? It’s criminal.”

  “Yes, we know that, Mr Murray, and they won’t obstruct legal proceedings, but they make it difficult for us to get started. That’s all I’m saying.” Higson chewed his lip. “It would be very unusual for one of Ballantynes to be under influence. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, but they’re really strict over it.”

  Constable Alan Trench ambled towards them and addressed Higson. “Just been onto Ballantynes, Paul, and they’ve got him. Coupla lads on their way out to breathalyse him and take a statement, but Ballantynes are insistent it has to be done on their premises because they want to get their internal procedures moving.”

  Higson shrugged at Joe and Keith. “See what I mean.”

  “This all sounds a bit iffy to me,” Joe grumbled.

  “It’ll all pan out, Mr Murray. If the driver tests positive, he’ll be arrested and interviewed at the station before being sent back to Ballantynes. Now why don’t you get your people onto the replacement bus, and we’ll get the van drivers started on transferring your luggage.”

  Chapter Three

  With the time coming up to two in the afternoon, he and the bus driver were in a taxi heading along the promenade to Ballantyne Distribution’s site, near Squires Gate Airport.

  It was Good Friday and the seafront was thick with visitors, the multiple lanes of the dual carriageway were packed with cars travelling in both directions, crowded trams making their way north and south along the tracks, the sun beaming down from a cloudless sky, and Joe wished he had not volunteered to witness the accident report. He would have preferred to be taking the sun and sea air.

  “Not bad, Joe,” said Keith, answering Joe’s question. “I’m up on the top floor with the other nonentities, like the staff, but to be fair it was all they could arrange at such short notice. I’m sharing with a dining room waiter.”

  “Sounds as bad as mine,” Joe grumbled.

  The Monarch Hotel stood to one side of the seaward end of Talbot Square. A dour, art deco building constructed of white stone which had long since weathered to a dull grey. Allocated a first floor room, he discovered that his window faced north and while the room was comfortable enough, he knew he would see nothing of the sun.

  The view was lively, but uninspiring. On the other side of the square stood the redbrick-built Exchequer pub and restaurant, and to his left, on the seafront was the stark obelisk of the war memorial and just beyond it, the North Pier. He could sit in the widow and watch the cars and buses run up and down the square, he could glance to his left and watch the people, traffic and trams on the promenade but there was nothing of the traditional sights that made Blackpool the town that it was: The Tower, the Pleasure Beach, the sky-scraping arch of The Big One. They were all south of this location.

  “We’re not much better off,” Brenda had complained when they met in the bar an hour after checking in. “Our window overlooks the seafront, and all we can see is the sea.”

  “And the Central Pier, and the Pleasure Beach,” Sheila added.

  “If you lean over a bit,” Brenda smiled.

  The bar, all potted palms and dark wood panelling, was dimly lit, too. Flickering wall lights added a gas or candlelit ambience to the room, which was belied by the modern music whispering softly from wall-mounted speakers, the range of modern pumps on the bar, and the twitter of electronic cash registers as smartly attired bar staff rang up sales.

  With typical speed, the Sanford 3rd Age Club had all but commandeered the place. Les and Sylvia sat with Alec and Julia Staines under one of the windows, and across the room, George Robson and Owen Frickley were setting up a game of pool, while Mort Norris and his wife were engaged in what looked like an argumentative debate with Cyril Peck and Mavis Barker.

  “Probably reminiscing on how Blackpool was in the fifties when they first came here,” Joe commented as he and his two companions descended on an empty table in the centre of the room.

  Brenda put on a broad, caricatured, northern accent. “You could have a good night out, a bag of chips, get your legover and still have change from a pound.”

  “Yeah, well these days, you can’t even get the bag of chips for a pound never mind your legover.” Joe sipped at a glass of beer and grimaced. “And the beer ain’t what it used to be, either.”

  The two women had gone off for an afternoon of shopping, while Joe waited at the Monarch for Keith to make arrangements, after which they climbed into the taxi for the journey to Ballantyne Distribution.

  “I should have been home tonight,” Keith grumbled. “It’s all right the old man saying I have to stay here, but the missus will be going up the wall. We’re supposed to be going to her sister’s in Leeds over the weekend.”

  “I’m sure she’ll get over it. And think of the overtime.”

  “What overtime? You don’t think the gaffer’s paying me, do you? I get my overnight allowance and that’s all. I don’t go back on pay until Monday, when I take you lot home … assuming the bus is repaired by then.”

  “Your boss sorted it with Ballantynes, did he?” Joe asked as their taxi sped past the heaving crowds at the Pleasure Beach.

  “They rang him apparently. They’ll do all the repair work at their expense, and it’ll be shipshape and Bristol fashion by first thing Monday. They’ll also reimburse our taxi fares and there’ll be some kind of payment for the inconvenience, but I bet I won’t see any of that.”

  “I bet the 3rd Age Club won’t, either,” Joe said.

  Five minutes later, the taxi dropped them at the gates of Ballantyne Distribution’s premises opposite the airport. As they climbed out, Joe watched a passenger jet hurtle along the runway and into the air over the sea, and for a moment, he was transported back to the previous September when he, Sheila and Brenda had flown off to Malaga and the Costa del Sol. An excellent, hot and sunny break, which had finally seen him kick the smoking habit, and helped invigorate him for the coming winter.

  They approached the gatehouse where a security officer was dealing with an outbound lorry, and while Joe and Keith waited, Joe looked beyond the tall railing fences at the vast buildings inside.

  It was a huge complex of buildings, covering at least a couple of acres. In common with most people, he was familiar with Ballantyne Mail Order. He had one of their catalogues somewhere at home. His view of the site reminded him that even in this day and age of economic gloom, low spending and high unemployment, Ballantyne remained one of the most profitable retail outfits in the country.

  To one end he could see lines of semi-trailers waiting, he assumed, for loading, unloading or driving away to another, smaller, distribution depot. Closer to the gate were staff car parks, and just beyond them, lines of tractor units ready to hitch up to those trailers. As he watched, tugs, similar to those working on containerbases at docks all over the world, towed trailers to and from the loading bays, to and from the parking lines.

  Joe guessed it would be an incredibly complex operation and as always, such mammoth efforts made him wonder how they actually came together. Running The Lazy Luncheonette was complicated enough, so how these people coped, he could not imagine.

  “Help you?”

  The question brought Joe back from his mental meanderings. It came from the tall, square-shouldered security officer, his name tag identifying him as T. Dodd. The peak of his cap, gleaming in the afternoon sun, was bent almost flat to his forehead, practically touching his hooked nose. At the waist, a large bunch of keys rattled on one side, while on the other, a long, heavy duty flashlight swayed as he walked. He held his clipboard and pen at the ready, his belly bulged towards them, and his pug face was compressed into a scowl of authority, like an overweight police officer suspecting criminal intent. Ex-military or ex-prison
service, Joe decided.

  “Joe Murray and Keith Lowry from Sanford. One of your trucks hit our bus this morning and we were told to come here, make a statement and your people will put the bus right.”

  Dodd breathed out heavily, the sigh spelling out his exasperation. “Another one.” He scribbled something on his clipboard using his pen as a pointer, he indicated the giant building two hundred yards away, directly ahead of them. “That’s the Sort Centre. You’ll find the main entrance on that side.” He pointed to the right. “Go in there, report to security. They’ll sign you in and take you through to Dispatch, and once you sign in, you’re liable for search.” The guard now pointed down to yellow parallel lines on the ground. Three feet apart, they were marked with pedestrian icons. “Stick to the marked footpaths and watch out for lorries and shunters.”

  “Shunters?” Joe asked. “You have a railway line in there?”

  The guard scowled further and pointed to one of the yellow tugs towing a trailer at speed around the yard. “The guys driving the tugs are called shunters.”

  “And what do they call people like you? Warders or just plain screws?”

  “Now look—”

  “Keep your tights on, pal. Liable for a search.” Joe dropped his sneering tone. “Come on, Keith.”

  As they wandered along the marked footpath, following it towards the building, then off to the right, the car park reminded Joe of a visit he had made to a car factory on the outskirts of Liverpool. There were simply hundreds and hundreds of cars, even if these were mostly second hand, and no empty spaces.

  From this point, no more than thirty yards from the building, it was still a long walk to the entrance. They moved to the right, then along the end, where they crossed the roadway used by the shunters and lorry drivers.

  A tug pulled up to let them cross. As they reached the pathway alongside the main sort building, the driver slid open his window.

  “Where’s your hi-vis vest?” he shouted.