Death in Distribution

by David W Robinson

  Kane looked to Joe for guidance who shook his head. “Didn’t you just say the cops told you not to move either of them?”

  “I’ll sort it,” the manager called back as he led Joe to the drivers’ rest room. “Get this man a cuppa, will you?” He smiled wanly at Joe. “Sorry about this. Security are a pain in the backside, but for once, they’re going to have to let everyone out with passing through the scanner.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Oh, if Keith is still there, tell him to get on his way without me. If I know anything about the cops, this could take a few hours. Hey, and one last thing.” He waited for Kane’s eyebrows to rise. “Two sugars in my tea.”

  Chapter Five

  Kane left Joe in the drivers’ rest room, which was immediately adjacent to the Dispatch office. An ergonomically sound arrangement, in Joe’s opinion. If and when called, drivers had only to pass through the far doorway to be at the counter and pick up their orders.

  Comprising a dozen tables, each with seating for four, there was the familiar line of vending machines – hot and cold drinks, snacks and confectionery – a water cooler and small sink where users could wash up their cups and plates. Along the wall furthest from the door was a bank of small lockers, four high, ten across. Joe surmised that they would belong to the drivers, but considering the number of such employees a large company like this would have on the books, he guessed many would not have a locker.

  Kane left him sharing the rest room with two women from the Dispatch office, one, a petite, thirty-something blonde, making an effort to console the other, a dark haired woman a few years older who was in floods of tears.

  “She’s heard?” Joe said.

  The blonde nodded. “Megan knew both Peter and Stan well.” She smiled wanly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”

  “Joe Murray. I only came here to report the accident with our bus, but I sort of got tangled up in it all.”

  “I’m Beth Edmunds and this is Megan Stafford. We’re both dispatch managers. Do you know what’s going on?”

  Joe elected for discretion. “Not yet. I’m sure the police will sort it out.” He spoke directly to the older woman. “Megan, I don’t know if it helps, but neither man suffered much. I don’t think they really knew what was happening.”

  It did not help. Megan was simply reduced to further sobbing.

  At length, when her emotions were under better control, the two women returned to their duties and Joe was left alone. Drivers came and went, some going out to the yard to begin their shift, others, having finished for the day, making their way to the Sort Centre and main exit. Now and again, parcel handlers would come in from the Sort Centre and wash out a cup or fill a bottle from the water cooler… and Joe waited.

  It was almost five before a uniformed officer finally escorted him through Dispatch to a private office and took his statement. When he had signed it, he was asked to stay where he was until the senior investigating officer gave him clearance to leave, and he waited a further half hour before Chief Inspector Richard Burrows entered the room and with a fierce scowl introduced himself.

  “Joe Murray from Sanford. I take you’re the Joe Murray.”

  Tall, imposing, in his mid-forties, the chief inspector’s brusque manner spoke of a man not to be trifled with, and yet he delivered his words with a directness Joe found refreshing after the inconsequential waffle of the Ballantyne employees.

  “There may be other Joe Murrays in Sanford, but I don’t know of them,” Joe replied. “You’ve obviously heard of me.”

  “Oh, yes. Pat Feeney was full of you at the autumn conference last year.”

  Joe’s face lit up with the memory of Chief Inspector Feeney and the days of meandering through the hot summer at Windermere, solving a drug-related murder. “How is Patricia?”

  Burrows’ features turned even darker. “She was fine the last time I saw her. Ready to jump you if she could ever get near to you again. So impressed with your observational skills.” He leaned over Joe. “But I’m not Feeney. I don’t’ fancy you and I don’t need a wannabe Sherlock sticking his nose into cases on my patch. Understand?”

  Joe decided it would be easy to cave in to this man. He was well over six feet tall, and powerfully built. He refused, however, to be intimidated. “So what’s your conclusion, Burrows? Double murder?”

  “My conclusions and my investigation are nothing to do with you, Murray. We have your statement, you can go. Get drunk with your pals, but I don’t want to find you anywhere near this place or the case.”

  “Gonna be bloody awkward when I come with our bus driver to collect our vehicle on Monday, then, isn’t it?”

  “You know what I mean. Just get out, and don’t come back.”

  “I can see you’re one of those who doesn’t want the public’s co-operation. So—”

  “Co-operation is one thing, Murray, but if I catch you shoving your oar in, I’ll charge you.”

  “With what?”

  “Try obstructing the police in the course of their inquiries. Now clear off.”

  Joe sneered. “Obstructing the police, my eye. If my experience is anything to go by, people like you wouldn’t notice if someone stole Blackpool Tower.”

  “Out.”

  Joe stood up and noticed that even when he was leaning half over the desk, Burrows still towered above him. Affecting a yawn, he said, “Right. Whatever you want. When you come to the wrong conclusion and you need help, I’m staying at the Monarch. Only don’t wait too long. We go home on Monday afternoon, and I ain’t hanging around longer to work on a murder you people can’t crack.”

  It was Burrows’ turn to sneer. “They told me you were a smartarse. For your information, Mr clever dick detective, it’s not murder. These two clowns were fighting and it went too far.”

  Joe hid his surprise. “And they died two hundred yards apart. Must have been one hell of a fight. See ya, Mr clever dick detective.”

  Joe left the room to be met by Kane.

  “Sorry you were kept so long, Mr Murray. I’ll escort you through the warehouse to the exit.” He turned to a brunette at a nearby desk. “Beth, can you order a taxi for Mr Murray, and put it on our account.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said. “And please call me Joe.”

  Walking alongside Joe, back through the cacophony of the Sort Centre, Kane raised his voice. “That chief inspector didn’t appear too pleased when he heard your name.”

  “You get used to it,” Joe said, raising his voice, too. “Some don’t mind accepting help, others, like Burrows, take offence. I’m not gonna worry about it, but you should.”

  They paused while a warehouse hand picked up a stack of empty pallets on his electric truck and drove them away. While they waited, Joe expanded on his advice.

  “Make no mistake, Dave, the cops are very good. In fact when it comes to this kind of thing, they’re the best. They have access to services I don’t, and those same forensics will get them to the truth and hopefully the killer.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Kane asked.

  “Burrows has preconceived ideas. He claims the two men were fighting and killed each other. I don’t know where he got this from, but—”

  “I do,” Kane interrupted as the electric truck moved out of their way. “I’m sorry, Joe, but it’s a matter of some confidence. I can’t let you in on it.”

  Falling into step alongside Kane once more, Joe replied, “That’s okay. Trouble is, while Burrows is chasing up his theoretical fight between the two men, he may miss the reality of the situation.”

  “You don’t think they were?”

  “Let’s just say I’d need evidence to back that up. Right now, my guess is there was a third party involved, one man – or woman – who killed them both. Burrows will eventually come to the same conclusion, but in the meantime, it’s Easter weekend and he won’t press for the post mortem results. That gives the killer, if there is one, time to organise himself and his alibis.”

  They reached
the main exit, where the double doors had been opened. Joe glanced through the scanner as they passed. Peter Cruikshank’s body had been removed, but forensic officers in their white overalls, were still busy searching, photographing and dusting for evidence.

  Kane vouched for Joe as they made for the door.

  Stepping outside, Joe turned to shake hands. “I’m at the Monarch if you need any advice.”

  “Thanks, Joe, but I think we’ll leave it to the police.” Kane sighed. “Right now I have to ring the big boss and tell him what’s happened. Sir Douglas doesn’t like the police on site and he doesn’t like anything that could be construed as adverse publicity.”

  “I know how he feels,” Joe replied, “but it’ll be tough to keep this out of the papers. See y’around.”

  ***

  The evening disco at the Monarch was in full swing. Joe sat with Sheila and Brenda by the windows, looking out on the darkening April sky or watching their fellow members moving around the small dance floor.

  Joe had arrived back at the hotel just after six, to be greeted with the news of Vaughan’s invitation.

  Eager to get to his room, to shower and shave, the news brought Joe up short. “Gerard Vaughan?”

  “That’s him,” Sheila said.

  “You don’t know who Gerard Vaughan is?”

  “We know he’s very wealthy,” Brenda said. “He must be. He’s staying at the Hilton.”

  “He would. He’s the man who’s trying to take away your living.”

  The two women exchanged cautious glances.

  “Gerard Vaughan is the Managing Director of Gleason Holdings,” Joe explained. “They and Sanford Borough Council are the ones wanting to knock down The Lazy Luncheonette and put us all out of work.”

  Sheila’s disapproval manifested itself in pursed lips and a frown. Brenda, on the other hand, was fuming. “Wait until I see him again. I’ll rip his—”

  “Brenda!”

  “I was going to say I’ll rip his head off.”

  “Keep away from him,” Joe ordered. “He hasn’t been able to sway me, so now I figure he’s trying to divide and conquer. If you do see him again, threaten to report him for stalking.”

  And with that, Joe returned to his room.

  He had passed much of their evening meal telling his two friends of events at Ballantyne Distribution while they regaled him of their shopping exploits. With the time just after eight, and the sun setting over the Irish Sea, the sound of the Beatles singing Hey Jude filling the bar, the day’s toil and trouble had begun to take its toll on Joe, who found himself getting sleepier by the minute.

  “You need an early night,” Sheila told him.

  “Alone,” Brenda echoed.

  “As if I’d be sharing it with anyone. What’s the point in going to bed early anyway? I’d only be up in the early hours of the morning.”

  To his surprise Dave Kane stepped into the room, looked around, spotted him and made his way round the perimeter of the crowded dance floor to join him.

  “Hello, Joe. I hope you don’t mind me tracking you down like this.”

  Joe’s fatigue left him, instantly supplanted by a feeling of expectation. “Course not, Dave. Let me introduce my two partners in crime; Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump. Ladies, this is Dave Kane, Transport Manager at Ballantyne Distribution.”

  Kane secured drinks for them, a Campari and soda for Brenda, port and lemon for Sheila and a half of bitter for Joe, while taking only a glass of lemonade for himself.

  “I live outside Blackpool and I have to drive home,” he explained.

  When they were settled, he leaned across the table to ensure that Joe could hear him over the music.

  “After you left, I was on the phone to Sir Douglas Ballantyne, our Chief Executive. He’s the majority shareholder, you know, but he doesn’t take much of an active role in the business these days. Leaves it all to his son, Toby. Anyway, as I told you, Sir Douglas doesn’t like having the law crawling all over the site, and he doesn’t like bad publicity. He wants this business cleared up quickly. I told him what you said, and the upshot of it is, Joe, he wants you to investigate.”

  Unwilling to appear too eager, Joe was about to protest, but Kane carried on.

  “He only rang back half an hour ago. In the meantime, he’s researched you thoroughly. He knows as much about you as your mother ever did, and he’s very impressed with your record. It doesn’t matter what you charge, we’ll pay, and obviously, we’ll cover all your expenses.”

  The Beatles faded and were replaced by Jeff Beck and Hi-Ho Silver Lining. Joe put on pained expression.

  “I dunno, Dave. I’m here on a weekend break, you know, and I have other things to worry about.”

  Kane’s chubby brow creased. “Other things to worry about? In Blackpool?”

  “No. Back home in Sanford. The local council and a big development company are trying to pull my cafe down.”

  Brenda laughed. “Take no notice, Dave. We know Joe. He’s trying to kid you. He’s aching to get his teeth into this business. He always is.”

  Joe made an effort to moderate her declaration. “Well, it’s true, I don’t mind helping out on these things, but you know…” He trailed off unable to conjure up more excuses.

  Kane applied further pressure and for a brief moment, Joe understood why the man was the Transport Manager at Ballantynes. He had no hesitation in going after what he wanted. “If it’s a question of money, don’t worry. I said we’ll pay whatever fee you ask.”

  “It’s nothing to do with money. It’s…” again Joe trailed off, feebly searching for anything which would make sense.

  What he really wanted was to say, ‘yes, I’ll do it,’ but there were any number of factors holding him back, not least of which was the possible complexity of the investigation and the lack of time – he had only until Sunday night, Monday morning at the latest. Joe did not like to go home to Sanford leaving investigations hanging. He preferred them solved.

  He became conscious of everyone waiting for him to say something.

  “It’s what, Joe?” Sheila asked.

  He formed the response rapidly. “I dunno. There’s just something telling me to keep away from it.”

  Kane seized on the admission. “Look, Joe, if it’s the police—”

  The words clicked in Joe’s mind and he cut Kane off. “That’s just what it is. That Burrows, he warned me, you know. He said if he found me at your place again, he’d book me for obstructing a police investigation.”

  “That could make life awkward if you turn up with your driver to collect the bus on Monday morning,” Kane observed.

  “Exactly what I told him.”

  “Joe, don’t worry about Chief Inspector Burrows. He will do as he’s told.”

  Brenda almost choked on her drink. Her eyes widened and slowly swivelled to fall on Sheila, whose face had become a mask of fury. Joe noted the reactions of his friends. Like him, Brenda had read between the lines, and Sheila’s reaction was to be expected. Her late husband had had a distinguished career with the police.

  To head off the argument, he demanded, “Don’t tell me Ballantynes own the police, too.”

  A rueful smile crossed Kane’s lips. “Nothing of the kind. Ballantynes uphold the rule of law. We don’t hide behind corporate lawyers, and if there is anything untoward in the manner of our employees’ deaths, then we insist on getting to the truth.”

  To Joe it sounded like a prepared speech, but he resisted the temptation to applaud and call for the author. Instead, he said, “You just want to control the media. Put a bit of spin on it.”

  “There is that aspect,” Kane agreed. “The police are not particularly subtle when it comes to dealing with the press, and as I explained before, we don’t like any story that would show the company in a bad light. Burrows has already gone on record as saying it was a fight between the two men.”

  “And that reflects badly upon your company, Mr Kane?” Sheila hissed.

  �
��Not so much on the company but the management, Mrs Riley. Without the full background, the press will ask what kind of management is in place at Ballantynes that could allow an argument between two individuals to get out of hand.”

  Sheila’s furious features indicated she was about to go on the attack again. Kane read it accurately and pressed on before she could speak.

  “If it could be demonstrated that the two men were killed by a third party, it wouldn’t be as damning for us.”

  It was not the wisest thing he could have said. She put down her glass, jumped to her feet and stormed from the table.

  “I’d better go after her; calm her down.” With an apologetic smile, Brenda quickly followed her friend.

  Kane was nonplussed. “Did I say something out of place?”

  “And then some,” Joe told him. “Sheila’s husband was a cop. Smashing bloke, honest as the day is long. Every word you said, Dave, came out as an attempt to manipulate the media and by insinuation, the cops.”

  “I won’t deny that. Every large company seeks to control the media, Joe, and they exercise whatever authority they can over the police. Most of them do it covertly, using expensive lawyers to suppress information. At least I’m being honest about it.”

  “Dropping yourself in it, more like. Come on, Dave. What did you mean when you said Burrows would do as he was told?”

  “Sir Douglas Ballantyne is not without influence, Joe. He can number the Lord Lieutenant of the County, the Police and Crime Commissioner and the Chief Constable on his list of contacts. I don’t know for sure, but he will have spoken to at least one of these people, possibly all three, and he will have insisted that you be permitted to investigate. By tomorrow morning, Chief Inspector Burrows will understand that he is to co-operate with you, and keep you informed of any progress … as long as it’s not breaching any confidences, of course.”

  “Which means he can hold back on anything.”

  “I understand that,” Kane agreed, “but it’s the best we could hope for, Joe. Naturally, one of the conditions is that you … we must keep the police informed of any information we turn up.”