Death in Distribution

by David W Robinson

  “I do that as a matter of routine anyway.” Joe sipped at his drink. “Listen, Dave, I’m not saying no, but before I agree to take it on, you have to know what you’re letting yourself in for.”

  Kane laughed and took a large swallow of his lemonade. “The third degree? Intense spotlights and a bad cop in my face?”

  Joe smiled. “Much worse than that.”

  Kane’s chubby features fell. He put down his glass and toyed with it, running his finger through the condensation covering the outside, watching the ice melting inside. “How do you mean?”

  Feeling himself truly in control of the situation for the first time, Joe asked, “What are you going to do if I reach the same conclusions as the cops? I mean, I don’t think this was a result of two men fighting, but I might be wrong. It’s not entirely unknown.”

  Kane continued playing with his glass, his fingers working agitatedly on its exterior surface as if he were determined to remove all the condensation. “If that’s the case, then so be it. I don’t see what we can do other than deal with it.”

  “All right. Let’s move on from there. Listen to me carefully, Dave, because you’re not gonna like what you hear, but it’s necessary.”

  Kane took another swallow from his glass, put it down and pushed it away, devoting his full attention to Joe.

  “I’m an employer. Just like you. Not on the same scale, obviously, but I employ people.” He gestured at the empty seats around them. “Sheila and Brenda, for starters, and my nephew, Lee. As their employer, I know a lot about them, but if push came to shove, no one would get that information from me without a court order. You are in the same position. You can’t even tell an employee’s wife his telephone number without that employee’s permission.”

  “Absolute confidentiality,” Kane agreed.

  “You are going to have to breach that confidentiality where Peter Cruikshank and Stan Crowther are concerned.”

  Joe fell silent again, waiting for Kane’s reaction.

  It came in the form of a simple question. “Why?”

  “In this case, as in so many others, there are no witnesses. Or at least, none that we know about. We need to understand three things: means, motive and opportunity. The first and last can usually be easily determined, but the second, motive, can be an absolute bugger to work out. The best witnesses in such cases are the dead men. I don’t have any science to back me up. I use logic, and the first stage in that process is getting to know as much as I can about the men. Once we know why, we can then narrow down the suspects. I will need to know everything about them. Not only that, but I need to understand your operation, their roles within it, and I’ll need to know about other members of your crew who may have a bearing on the matter. You are going to have to breach every principle of employee confidentiality. If you don’t, or if you’re not prepared to, then you’re wasting my time, and I might just as well take it easy and enjoy my weekend in Blackpool.”

  Kane sucked in his breath then chewed his lip while drumming his fingers on the table. “It’s asking a lot, Joe.”

  “The police will get round to it eventually, and they won’t waste breath on it. You refuse and they’ll come back with a court order. I mean it, Dave. You have to do this, or there’s no point me leaving this hotel.”

  Kane remained silent for a full minute. To Joe it seemed as if the portly Ballantynes’ man was weighing up the pros and cons of the argument. Out on the floor, the Sanford 3rd Age Club members were smooching to Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red, and at the bar, Sheila and Brenda were in earnest conversation, casting occasional glances at Joe. Outside, the sun had gone down, and the sky was darkening, but the lights of the North Pier called to the masses that the day’s excitement was far from over, and Blackpool seafront was as busy as ever, with people milling, moving in one direction or another, yet more of them crowding the occasional, brilliantly lit tram as it passed by.

  “All right, Joe. Sir Douglas places great store in trust between us and our employees, but I know what he would say if I put this to him. He would tell me to do whatever is necessary. I’ll have to call the union woman in.”

  Joe was surprised. “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, we’re talking about one of her members: Stan Crowther. We’re about to divulge information on him, and she will need to be briefed and present when the information is handed over.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “That’s how we work,” Kane said, holding up a hand to cut Joe off. “Secondly there is the point that Amy Willows, the woman in question knows both men, Peter and Stan, as well, if not better than I do. She may be able to add to our information.”

  “All right,” Joe agreed, “so call her in. Is she bolshie?”

  “Not really. Hard line, of course, when we’re coming down on one of her members, but she’s quite moderate and we can usually reach agreement by consensus rather than threat and counter-threat.”

  “Fine.” Joe changed the subject slightly. “I’ll need some time to enjoy Blackpool while I’m here, Dave. So I’m not gonna give you my exclusive attention. I often find I need thinking time, anyway. But we can start in the morning, if you’re all right. You working tomorrow?”

  “I can arrange to be there.”

  “It’s Easter. You have no family commitments?”

  Kane shook his head. “I’ve been divorced a long time, Joe. The job, you know.”

  Thoughts of Alison leapt unbidden into Joe’s head. “I know, all right. So, shall we say half ten to eleven o’clock tomorrow?”

  With a nod, Kane stood up and they shook hands. “I’ll be there … oh, and don’t forget to get receipts for your taxi fares.”

  Chapter Six

  During breakfast the following morning, Joe was not much surprised to find an angry Chief Inspector Burrows enter the dining room, look around, then bear down on him.

  “I want a word with you, Murray. Outside. Now.”

  Sat with Sheila and Brenda, Joe pointed to the empty chair to his right. “I’m having breakfast, so sit down, get a cup of tea and pick your word.”

  “I said I want a word with you. In private.”

  Joe turned on him, glowering up. “Do I look that dumb? You wanna haul me outta here, then you come with a warrant. But you don’t have one, do you? Because all you’re gonna do is chew me out over Ballantynes. Well anything you have to say, you can say in front of witnesses.” He indicated his two friends in turn. “Sheila Riley, widow of the late Inspector Peter Riley, West Yorkshire Police, and Brenda Jump, a former senior bank clerk and widow of a colliery manager. As witnesses go, they’re the best. Ladies, this is Detective Chief Inspector Burrows, one chuffed off senior investigating officer on the Ballantyne case.”

  “And we both know why I’m chuffed off, don’t we?” Burrows retorted with a brief nod at the two women. He took the empty chair alongside Joe, picked up the teapot and helped himself. “I thought I’d made my position clear.”

  “You did, but—”

  “Well, you ignored me and got what you wanted, Murray. You’re allowed to investigate, but I’m warning you, if you find anything, you bring it to me. Withhold one tiny piece of information from me, and I’ll charge you with attempting to pervert the course of justice.”

  “Are you finished?” Joe asked, slicing through a tough rasher of bacon, and spearing a piece with his fork. Chewing on it, he waited for Burrows to reply, but the chief inspector instead busied himself spooning sugar into his tea, and topping it up with milk.

  Joe swallowed the bacon. “I didn’t ask to be let in.”

  “Pull the other one.”

  “I’m telling you, I didn’t. Dave Kane came here last night, and if anyone pulled strings with your Chief Constable, it was the old man who owns Ballantynes, not me. Sir Douglas.”

  “I don’t care if it was a deputation from the House of Lords, I meant what I said. One missing piece of information and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I heard you. You’ll lo
ck me up and throw the key away.” With a good deal of irritation, Joe tossed his knife and fork onto the empty plate and pushed it to the middle of the table. Topping up his tea, offering the pot to both Sheila and Brenda, who refused, he stirred his cup angrily. “I don’t understand you people. You’re on the telly every five minutes begging the public for help, but when it’s offered, you chuck it right back.”

  “We don’t object to help,” Burrows replied. “We object to amateur bloody Poirots shoving their oar in.”

  “I am not an amateur bloody Poirot,” Joe retorted. “Do you know anything about me?”

  “Enough to be able to count the number of police officers you’ve made fools of.”

  “With the best will in the world, Chief Inspector, Joe has never made a fool of anyone,” Sheila pointed out. “The police hold him in high regard in many areas of the North and Midlands.”

  “And he has never failed to bring them up to date on any of his investigations,” Brenda added.

  While addressing the two women, Burrows pointed an accusing finger at Joe. “He shoved his nose into a murder on a North Sea Ferry despite the British police’s insistence that he be arrested on suspicion of that same crime.”

  “But you conveniently forget to mention that I was innocent.” Joe retorted. “And if Captain Hagen hadn’t allowed me to look into it, the real killers would have been half way to Middlesbrough while Talbot was trying to prove me guilty.”

  Burrows carried on talking to Sheila as if Joe had not spoken. “And forgive me, but are you the same Sheila Riley who put a chief superintendent away?”

  “I am,” Sheila said defiantly. “And I don’t apologise for it. He murdered one of his colleagues. And, Chief Inspector, if you do your homework properly, you’ll know that my late husband was a police officer. Inspector Peter Riley served for many years, and never once stepped out of line.”

  “Could we keep our voices down, please?” Brenda gestured around. “Right now, we’re more popular than last night’s disco.”

  Joe, too, looked around, and learned that they were, indeed the centre of attention. “It’s all right, people. I’m not under arrest.”

  “Wait while they search your room, Joe,” Alec Staines called out. “You can’t keep hiding these body parts all over the country.”

  The remark drew a ragged laugh from the STAC members, and another look of thunder from Burrows.

  “He was joking,” Joe said. “Now listen, I’m not here to tread on your toes. I’d have preferred to spend the weekend enjoying myself and let you cock it up on your own, but Ballantynes have insisted. I know you have your orders, I know you’re not happy about it, and to be honest, if I had to choose someone to work with, it wouldn’t be you, but let’s just make the best of a bad situation, huh?”

  Burrows stared owlishly.

  In an effort to get through to him, Joe went on, “You were convinced that Crowther and Cruikshank were fighting and accidentally killed each other. I don’t see it, personally, but what persuades you.”

  “They had a history,” the chief inspector replied. “There’s been bad blood between them for years and it came to a head yesterday after Crowther hit your bus. Cruikshank suspended him.”

  “Crowther had been hit twice on the back of the neck, Cruikshank only once. How do you work that out?”

  Burrows’ tones were still grudging. “The post mortems are being carried out right now. We should have the results before the day is out. The way we see it, they carried the argument out onto the trailer park. We reckon Crowther hit Cruikshank, hard enough to stun him, but not enough to kill him instantly. Cruikshank recovered, took the weapon and hit Crowther. As he went down, Cruikshank hit him again and that killed him.”

  “And then Cruikshank returned to the building and made his way to security, but before he could tell us anything, he dropped dead.”

  “Correct. Where Crowther was found there’s no coverage from the security cameras. We’re chasing up a warrant so we can check the footage from other cameras in the yard.”

  “Why don’t you just come on strong with them? You’re not shy about browbeating me.”

  Burrows scowled. “You’re not Ballantyne bloody Distribution. You don’t have the same clout as them … or at least, I didn’t think you had.”

  “For the last time, Burrows, it was nothing to do with me. I’m on my way out there in about half an hour. If I turn anything up, I’ll let you know.” Joe took a paper napkin and scrawled his mobile number on it. “That’s me if there’s anything you need to talk to me about.”

  Burrows took the napkin and handed over his card. “The only thing I need from you, Murray, is a goodbye wave when you’re on your way home. You find anything, you ring me.” He drained his cup and with a final glare, left.

  “Not a candidate for your fan club, Joe,” Sheila commented.

  Brenda smiled. “But he’ll probably enjoy dancing on your grave.”

  ***

  Joe guessed that Amy Willows was about fifty. A good looking woman, slim and trim, but whose pretty, pear-drop face was clouded by intense anger in her blue eyes. When Kane introduced them and they shook hands, he found her grip firm, but cold and peremptory.

  With the previous day’s argument at the forefront of his mind, he had asked for a hi-visibility vest when he arrived at the main gate, and security guard, Dodd, had issued one. Reg Barnes had been as circumspect as he had been the day before, but had grudgingly signed Joe in with no argument, before Kane and Amy met him in reception.

  After the formal introductions, Amy went straight on the attack.

  “I think you should know, Mr Murray, that I disapprove of this whole business.”

  “What business? Murder?” Joe gave her his most disarming smile.

  “You know what I’m talking about. Accessing information on one of my members. I know he’s deceased, but—”

  “Maybe we should discuss this in private,” Joe cut in. “Not that I’m particularly bothered what your security personnel might hear, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of them.”

  The interruption brought Amy up sharp. She glanced over Joe’s shoulder to the reception counter, where Reg was ostensibly checking his logs and Sandra was studying her magazine and the CCTV screens. There was little doubt that both were listening in.

  “My office, I think,” Kane said. “It’s quieter up there.”

  Kane led them through into the warehouse and towards Dispatch. As they walked, he explained the system.

  “All goods are picked from the various warehouses around the site. They’re labelled, and the computers read the barcodes once they’re on the carousel.” He pointed up at the conveyor belts circling the entire warehouse. “The trailers for our various distribution depots are always on the same bays, so when the parcel gets to its relevant bay, the computer tips the tray, the goods come down to the loaders.”

  They paused a moment to watch a small parcel tipped from a tray above them. It slid down a chute, and at the key point where the chute diverged to cover two loading bays, a gate swung across to direct the parcel to the correct bay. A few seconds later, it landed on the conveyor belt where it was carried into the trailer and a loader took it for stacking with other goods.

  “Accurate?” Joe asked.

  “One hundred percent,” Kane declared as they moved off again. “We do get mistakes, yes, but they’re usually found to be human errors further back in the system; picking, labelling and so on.”

  Reaching the far end, instead of moving into the Dispatch and drivers’ rest area, they turned to the corner of the building, and through a pair of stout double doors. When the doors closed behind them, Joe noticed, as he had done the previous day, that all noise from the warehouse ceased.

  They were confronted with double, glass doors leading to the outside. Both were locked and barred. Through them Joe could see some of the tractor units parked up in lines.

  “Emergency exit,” Kane explained. “In case of
fire. Otherwise, they’re kept locked. The only official way in and out of this building is through the security exit, passing through the scanner.”

  To the left was a flight of stone steps. Joe looked up and saw that it turned its way through several flights, to the top of the building.

  “Staircase access to all three floors,” Kane told him. “Now, if we go back, we can take the lift up to—”

  “No,” Joe interrupted. “Let’s take the stairs instead.” He looked over Kane’s portly figure. “You up to it?”

  Kane laughed. “I have to do it when there’s a fire drill, Joe. Mind you, that’s usually coming down.”

  Joe smiled. “We’re not in a rush.”

  “Just a minute, Mr Murray—” Amy began, only to be cut off again.

  “Please call me Joe.”

  “Whatever. You said we’ll talk somewhere private. Well no one can hear us here.”

  Joe looked up the stairs. “Better up there.”

  He led the way, but he scanned every individual step, and the surrounding walls as they made their way up the flights of stairs, until they reached the third floor where the staircase came to an end on a broad landing, leaving them confronted with the familiar double doors to one side, and a window with panoramic views across the site, on the other.

  He noticed that irritation was the key feature for Amy, and puzzlement had troubled Kane throughout the slow, tortuous journey, but Kane was too out of breath to ask, and Amy appeared as if she still did not trust Joe enough to speak to him.

  Ignoring the view of sunshine through the window, Joe ran a practiced eye over the walls. To the right of the doors, he spotted something on the wall, and examined it close up.

  “Have the police forensic people been up here?” he asked.

  “No,” Kane replied, still gasping for breath. “Well, that is, Burrows has, but he didn’t order any examination of the area. He came for Peter’s mobile phone. That’s all.”