Death in Distribution

by David W Robinson

“Under me low-vis shirt,” Joe called back. “What the hell are you on about?”

  The shunter fingered his day-glow yellow vest. “High visibility clothing. It’s compulsory. You can’t walk round this yard without one.”

  “We just did,” Joe replied.

  The shunter reached for his radio. “I’ll have to report it. Health and Safety will have you for it.”

  “Yes, well, tell Health and Safety that if they want me, I don’t come cheap.”

  While the shunter remonstrated, Joe turned his back and he and Keith walked on.

  “He’s right, you know, Joe. It’s all health and safety these days.”

  “I know. I do employ three people. But right now, I’m supposed to be having a weekend off, and I’m not best pleased at you dragging me into your accident claims.”

  “No problem. The next time a wagon’s gonna hit me, I’ll ask him to make sure you’re not on the bus.”

  The size of the building was not truly apparent from the gatehouse. It was only as they made the entrance, that Joe became truly aware of it. If, as he suspected, it was square, then it was a good 100 metres on a side and had a floor area of 10,000 square metres. And, looking at it, it was not all on one level. There were small windows in at least two upper floors. Climbing the few steps to the works entrance, Joe found even the thought of the place mind-numbing.

  Leading the way in through the glass doors, he found himself confronted with a small security station of Formica fascias and fake, potted plants. There was a small occasional table surrounded by chairs, and behind the counter were two uniformed officers, one male the other female, monitoring CCTV images on a four-way, split screen. To one side was a narrow entrance which led into the building, surrounded by a scanner, the kind in use at airports, and alongside it was a pair of double doors.

  The middle-aged man, his badge identifying him as Reg Barnes, stood up and crossed to his counter.

  Joe announced them. “Joe Murray and Keith Lowry. We’re here to make a report on an accident with one of your vehicles.”

  Reg, short but no less rotund than Mr Dodd on the gate, looked him up and down. “So you’re the ones without hi-vis vests?”

  “Not you, too?” Joe tutted. “I can’t speak for Keith, but I am wearing a vest. It’s under my shirt and it’s plain white, not hi-vis. I need it to keep the chill of my chest. Right? Now can you get someone here to see us?”

  The guard took out his pen and opened up a large, hardbound notebook. “Everyone on this site has to wear a hi-vis vest. It’s a breach of health and safety regulations to be without one. I’ll have to log it in my book.”

  Joe glanced at his watch. “Now listen to me, sport, I’m here for a weekend break. I’ve already had some little Hitler on the main gate giving me earache about searches, and I’ve had a barney with one of your tug drivers, so I’m not really in a mood for your nitpicking.”

  “But it’s a breach of regulations to be without a hi-vis vest,” Reg repeated, “and I have to report it.”

  “I don’t care if it’s a breach of the peace or a breach of the nuclear proliferation treaty or breach of your britches. Get someone out to see us.”

  “I have to make a note of this.” The guard insisted. Pen poised, he leaned on his counter. “Name?”

  “I already told you my name. Joe Murray and he’s Keith Lowry.”

  “Department?” asked the guard.

  “What?”

  “What department do you work in?”

  “We don’t work in any department,” Joe said. “Or are you considering hiring me just so you can fill in your forms?”

  Poring over his incident book, Reg scratched his head. “It says here, I have to log your department, but if you don’t work here, how can I?”

  “You’re saying this as though you think I should give a toss,” Joe said.

  The guard turned away from Joe. “Sandra, this book’s all wrong. It’s only for employees. Don’t we have one for visitors?”

  Sandra, who between periods of watching the CCTV, had her nose buried in a magazine on hair care, shrugged. “It’s there somewhere.” She did not stop reading to reply.

  Using his pen, the guard dug out a chunk of earwax and aimed it at the waste bin. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to about this.”

  “See your doctor. He’ll syringe your ears.”

  Reg’s features coloured again and the argument could have exploded there and then but for the arrival of a short and stout, middle-aged man, who came in from the yard.

  “Something wrong, Reg?” he asked.

  “These, er, gentlemen are on site without proper safety clothing, Mr Kane.”

  Joe noticed immediately that the portly newcomer was wearing a lemon coloured, day-glow jacket over his white shirt. It looked too warm and uncomfortable for the weather, and as if to reinforce that opinion, sweat rolled from his chubby forehead. To make matters worse, when he moved, the jacket swayed as if the pockets were lined with heavy weights.

  “If we’re supposed to have this gear, why didn’t the security man at the main gate issue it?” Joe demanded.

  The newcomer flashed a reassuring smile at Reg. “I’ll deal with it.” Turning to Joe, he asked, “May I ask, who are you and what you want?”

  His patience wearing thin, Joe said for the third time, “I’m Joe Murray and this is Keith Lowry. One of your drivers hit our bus on the motorway this morning and we were asked to come here and provide a statement. Keith is the bus driver and I’m his witness.”

  “Ah. I’m Dave Kane, the Transport Manager.” He offered a sweating hand and Joe shook it. “I’ve just been over to our workshop to, er… to assess the damage to our truck, your bus and the other vehicles.” Kane checked his watch. “I’m sorry for the trouble we’ve put you to, Mr Murray, and I’ll have to delay you a short while longer. Could I ask you to wait here for about another ten minutes? I need to get to the dispatch office, change out of this damn thing,” He fingered the high visibility jacket, “and pick up the necessary report forms. I’ll have one of the staff in the Sort Centre bring you out a cup of coffee.” He smiled encouragingly. “And you’re right by the way. The security man on the gate should have issued you with a hi-vis vest.” He marched through the double doors into the building.

  Barely mollified, Joe and Keith sat down, and soon a member of staff came from the interior and left coffee with them. A while later, Terry Dodd, the security officer who had greeted them on the gate, arrived, and promptly got into an argument with Reg.

  “You should have issued these people with hi-vis clothing, Terry.”

  “Don’t you think I have enough to do on the gate? I’m on my own, I’ve incoming and outgoing traffic to deal with, and you expect me to issue protective clothing to every muppet who walks through the gate. You give ’em the hi-vis vests.” Having delivered his abrupt opinion, Dodd marched through the scanner, causing it to bleep, and into the building.

  Reg shook his head. “Bad tempered sod, that one.”

  Joe assumed Reg was talking to his colleague, but he took the opportunity to comment. “I’m not so sure he should be calling us muppets, either.”

  It would be almost twenty minutes before Kane reappeared wearing a dark blue blazer, carrying a set of forms, and full of apologies. “I had to go up to my office and it’s on the third floor,” he explained. Setting the forms on the table, he took out his pen. “Now, gentlemen, all I need from you is an account of what happened. We’ve spoken to your boss, Mr Lowry—”

  “Yeah,” Keith interrupted. “He told me.”

  “Ah. Good. You’ll know, then, that we’ve guaranteed to have your vehicle repaired and roadworthy again by Monday morning. You’ll be able to pick it up first thing. We’ll also reimburse any out of pocket expenses for yourself, including taxi fares.”

  “What happened to the driver?” Joe demanded.

  “I think that’s our concern.”

  “Sure. But I was just thinking, it’s a neat way of y
ou avoiding the law, isn’t it? Hauling the driver in here and coming to your own conclusions.”

  Kane sighed. “We don’t avoid the law, Mr Murray. When the driver returned, we held him here until the police arrived. They breathalysed him, found him over the limit and they’ve charged him. Once that was done, we put our disciplinary procedures in place.” Kane allowed a moment’s silence, then went on. “Ballantyne Distribution is conscious of its public image. It’s true, we don’t like our name in the headlines, especially in a negative sense, but we do not condone any of our employees breaking the law, and we will come down hard on this man.”

  He began to fill in the headings on the form.

  Joe was about to comment on corporate control of the media, but before he could say anything, three more security guards rushed through the scanner and made for the exit.

  With the scanner bleeping loudly at the intrusion, Reg leapt from his seat.

  “Panic on, Reg,” one of the guards explained. “Those idiots in Maintenance are chariot racing with the wheelie bins again. Terry Dodd and two others have gone out through the Dispatch exit.”

  “Nobody told me,” Reg said with great indignation.

  “Only just come through.”

  Kane paused in completing his forms. “Hey,” he barked. “When you get over there, I want names. D’you understand? Don’t just break it up. Get me names.”

  “Yes, Mr Kane.”

  The Transport Manager turned back to Joe and Keith. “Sorry about that. We have a bunch of apprentices in the workshop and they get out of hand. It’s like dealing with schoolboys.”

  “And are these the same kids who are working on my bus?” Keith asked, his forehead lined with worry.

  Kane replied with a wan smile. “Let’s get these forms filled in, eh?”

  Calm had descended on the reception area once more. Kane began to go through the details of the accident with Joe and Keith, Sandra continued studying her magazine, and Reg took his seat alongside her, his gaze switching between the wall clock and the CCTV screens. The minutes ticked by, Reg yawned consistently, Kane asked questions, Joe and Keith answered as best they could, and with the time just after three o’clock, Kane finally passed the form to the two men for their signatures.

  And at that moment, Peter Cruikshank staggered through the scanner, one hand clutched to the back of his neck.

  The scanner beeped loudly, stirring Reg, attracting the attention of the three men at the coffee table. Joe looked up in time to see Cruikshank’s eyes roll up into their sockets, just before he folded and crumpled to the composition floor.

  Joe was first to the prone man, kneeling over him, first listening to his breathing and then gingerly pressing a finger to his neck.

  Joe stood again. “He’s alive. Only just. Dial nine, nine, nine and get an ambulance.”

  “We need a first-aider,” Reg insisted.

  “Never mind your first-aider. He needs paramedics.” Joe stood up and fished for his mobile phone as Reg protested further.

  “There are procedures, Mr Murray, he needs to be looked at by a first-aider who’ll then—”

  Ignoring him, Joe tossed his mobile to Keith. “Call an ambulance.” Swinging his attention to Reg, he said, “You, bell the main gate, tell them to let the medic in and direct them to this door.”

  His face flustered, Reg, nevertheless picked up the phone and Joe concentrated on Kane. “What’s his name?”

  “Cruikshank. Peter Cruikshank.”

  Joe nodded and after studying a livid weal on the back of Cruikshank’s neck, gently rolled the man over.

  “Peter,” he said loudly. “Can you hear me, Peter? I’m Joe. You’ve been hurt, but you need to stay with me, Peter.”

  Keith passed the phone to Joe. “They want to talk to someone who knows what’s what.”

  Joe took it from him and spoke urgently into it. “We need paramedics, double quick. Ballantyne Distribution, the main entrance to the building. Man looks like he’s been struck on the back of the neck or fallen against something… No, no, he’s alive, but he’s not moving, his breathing is shallow and he has a nasty weal on the back of his neck. It may be broken… Right… Right… My name? Joe Murray… Okay.” He snapped off the phone and put it back in his pocket. “Paramedics are on the way. They say, don’t move him. Let them handle it.”

  Facing him, Reg fumed. “You had no authority to make that call.”

  “What?”

  Reg jabbed an irritated finger into the air ahead of Joe’s chest. “There are procedures. All accidents must be attended by a suitably qualified first-aider, and only he has the authority to call—”

  Joe snatched the finger, held onto it and glowered. “Have you ever seen anyone die?”

  “Well, er, no, but—”

  “Have you ever seen anyone who has just died in terrible pain?”

  “Well, er, no, but—”

  “Well until you have, don’t rattle on to me about what I’m authorised and not authorised to do. When you have someone this badly injured, every second counts. Now that the professionals are on their way, you can call your first-aider and let him fill in his stupid, bloody forms.” Joe turned back and crouched over the injured man again. “Peter. Can you hear me, Peter? Don’t try to move or anything. We’ve got help coming.”

  A young man stepped through the scanner, setting it off once more. He carried a booklet of official looking forms in one hand, and a first aid kit in the other. He spoke briefly to Reg and Kane, and then concentrated on Joe.

  “I’m Wayne Allthorpe. I understand you called the ambulance, Mr Murray? Are you qualified in first aid?”

  “No, but I’m qualified as a human being, and it was obvious that this man couldn’t be moved and needed urgent medical attention. Not first aid; medical.”

  “Yes, but we have systems in place, and you can’t simply shortcut them. The company won’t accept responsibility unless an authorised person has dealt with the matter. You don’t even work here.”

  “The way you people prat about, I’m glad,” Joe retorted.

  “Yes, but…”

  Wayne trailed off at a wheezing gasp from Cruikshank. Both he and Joe bent to the injured man.

  Wayne pressed an ear to Cruikshank’s chest. “No heartbeat.”

  Joe pressed Cruikshank’s eyelids back. “Pupils are dilating. He’s probably arrested. You got a face mask?”

  Wayne snapped open the first aid kit and retrieved the mask. Slipping it over his head and across his face, he said to Joe. “Two and thirty. I’ll breathe, you compress.”

  “Go.”

  Joe found it hard work. Wayne would breathe twice into Cruikshank’s mouth, applying pressure to the central chest area to expel the breath, then Joe would go with thirty chest compressions in fifteen seconds. After only a minute, sweat began to pour from Joe’s forehead.

  Others stood by, watching in awe while the first-aider and the stranger worked to keep the dying man alive. By the time the paramedics arrived, Joe was all but exhausted.

  While one connected them by phone to the nearest hospital, the other broke out their equipment and took over from Joe and Wayne. When the second paramedic had the hands-free connection set up, he joined his colleague and they began to work on Cruikshank.

  Joe backed off, sat down, and mopped the sweat from his brow.

  “You’re pretty cool, Joe,” Keith said to him.

  “Then how come I’m sweating?”

  “No. I meant cool, as in calm. Y’know. In an emergency.”

  “Do you know how many emergencies I’ve had down the years?” Joe watched the paramedics set up the ECG and soon afterwards, the defibrillation equipment. “Ovens catching fire, boiling fat spilled on bare arms? Slips and falls on kitchen floors? You learn, mate, to keep your head.”

  “Mr Lowry is right,” Kane said. “If Peter comes through this, it’ll be you he has to thank.”

  Joe stared grimly at Cruikshank as the body jerked slightly under the electri
c jolt of a defibrillator. “If he survives, it’ll be God he needs to thank.”

  “I thought dead people jumped out of the skin when they did this to them,” Keith said, leaving Joe to wade through the impersonal pronouns in an effort to work out who was doing what to whom.

  Wayne obviously had a better grasp of the driver’s generalisations. “That’s drama. It’s done for effect. In reality, there is some muscle contraction during defibrillation, but not much.”

  Silence fell over the security station while the paramedics worked on Cruikshank, but as time progressed Joe knew that they were fighting a battle already lost. After a further ten minutes, one stood and faced them, his features grim. Joe had seen that look before: on the night his father died, on the day his mother passed away.

  “I’m sorry. He’s gone.”

  Behind the counter, Sandra, her magazine forgotten, burst into tears and Reg comforted her.

  Having been expecting it, Joe took out his phone, positioned himself behind Cruikshank’s head, crouched and examined the injury.

  He had obviously been struck with some force. The impact had left an angry weal, displaying the cross-hatched pattern Joe had mentioned, and he suspected that the point of maximum impact was where it was at its most livid, dead centre of the wound, just under the base of Cruikshank’s skull.

  Lining up his phone, he took two photographs.

  “Might I ask what you’re doing?” Kane demanded.

  “Gathering evidence before all these trampling feet and wannabe helpers disturb it.”

  “You’re a police officer, are you?”

  “Nope, but you’re going to need them.”

  Kane clucked impatiently. “What I need is to contact the Health and Safety Executive.”

  Joe disagreed instantly. “Call the police.”

  He said it with such conviction that all eyes turned on him.

  “This wasn’t an accident. It was murder.”

  Chapter Four

  “I love the taste of Campari at the seaside.” Brenda put down her glass and beamed a broad smile on Sheila. “Face facts, we have it pretty cushy, don’t we?”

  Surrounded by carrier bags bearing famous, High Street names, the two women had enjoyed several hours of shopping and were seated in the bar of The Exchequer, on the far side of Talbot Square from their hotel. The pub was busy, but not overcrowded, and both were glad to be off their feet.