Death in Distribution

by David W Robinson

“So he had to do away with both Stan and the flask,” Kane said.

  “Correct. Murder is a lot riskier than spiking a flask, but he knew how it can be done. If we can recover the flask, we may get some evidence as to the killer’s identity, if only from the booze he used.” Joe frowned and finally admitted what he had known for some time. “I’m sorry, Dave, but I’m just about at the end of my reach. There are too many suspects and you’ll need the police and their scientific services to narrow down the possibles.”

  A flash of disappointment crossed Kane’s portly features. It was only fleeting, but to Joe it was unmistakable.

  “Too many suspects?”

  “Hundreds,” Joe said with a nod.

  Amy was as puzzled as Kane. “I don’t see where you get that from, Joe.”

  “Think about it. I just said that whoever tampered with the flask is probably the killer. Now, who had the opportunity? You two, Peter and everyone in Dispatch.” Joe gestured through the windows to the office next door. “But it doesn’t end there. While I was in here yesterday, waiting to speak to the police, I noticed bodies coming in from the Sort Centre to grab a cup of coffee or filling their bottles at the water cooler.” He waved across the room at the machine. “Let’s assume Stan went off to the toilet or somewhere and left his bag and the flask here on the table. Someone comes in from the Sort Centre, spots the opportunity and takes it. Later, when Stan is away at the police station, our killer sees him being escorted through the Sort Centre and whips in here to take the flask out of the bag, then gets rid of it.” He shook his head sadly, an admission of defeat. No. There are too many suspects for a one-man band like me.” Frustration welled up and he threw the half empty cup into the waste bin.

  “The police could take months,” Kane complained.

  “It happens.” Joe wished he was still a smoker. At times like this, he would take out his tobacco tin and roll a cigarette, an act which he insisted had always helped clear his thoughts.

  Pushing thoughts of cigarettes to the back of his mind, he said, “You know, it’s Peter’s death I can’t understand. I believe Stan was the target, but why was Peter killed? Did he know something or was he murdered to give us a red herring, a garden path we could be led along.”

  Amy shuddered visibly. “That’s a pretty shoddy reason for killing someone.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, there is never a good reason for taking a life, but people do.” Joe tutted irritably. “Stan’s attacker had killed once, and he may not have thought twice about killing a second time to cover his tracks.”

  “In that case,” Kane said, “you can’t really know who was the target. The business with Stan may just have been designed to cover up Peter’s murder.”

  Joe shook his head. “It’s possible, but I don’t think so. Stan was struck twice, remember. Making sure he was dead. Peter took only one blow. If he were the target, the killer would have made sure by hitting him a second time. I imagine the police have checked through Peter’s desk?” When the manager nodded, Joe went on, “Pity. I thought there might have been a clue as to who attacked him.”

  “They did, too.” Kane emptied his cup and threw it into the waste bin. “Aside from his phone, I don’t think they found anything. Even that was on the desk, not in the drawers.”

  “How about his locker?” Amy asked. “Nothing in there?”

  A slow look of surprise came to Kane’s eyes. “They never checked his locker. They can’t have done.”

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “Because they didn’t know he had one. I forgot about it until Amy just mentioned it. If the police had asked, I’d have had to call security to come up with the key.”

  “Get onto security now,” Joe ordered. “Ask them to get here with the key.”

  “It’s not here. It’s on the third floor.”

  Joe stood up. “Then tell them to meet us there.”

  ***

  The locker room was adjacent to the gents’ toilets just along from Kane’s office. Like that on the ground floor, there was a block of small lockers off to one side, opposite the high, narrow, frosted windows.

  Having insisted on Kane signing the relevant authorisation, and had it witnessed by Amy, Terry Dodd turned his master key in locker 1459, threw open the door and stood back.

  Amy stared in, eyes wide, and gasped. Kane, too, was astonished. Intrigued by their reaction, Joe looked in and amongst the trivia – a baseball cap, a pair of safety gloves, and a spare hi-vis vest – was a shiny, metal thermos.

  “It’s Stan’s,” Amy said and reached in to pick it up.

  “Don’t touch it,” Joe ordered and pulled on the borrowed mechanic’s gloves. “How do you know it’s Stan’s?”

  “I can see his initials.”

  Using only his fingertips on the very base of the flask, Joe turned it until he could see the letters ‘SC’ scratched into the metal beneath the cup.

  “We need Burrows and his people up here,” he said, backing away from the locker and taking out his phone. He dialled the chief inspector, spent a moment or two explaining the situation and then dropping the phone back into his pocket, pushed the locker door to. “He’s on his way. He’s asked that we touch nothing but we all wait here, including you, Terry.”

  Dodd inclined his head. “Whatever.”

  “This looks like an attempt to frame Peter,” Joe declared, moving away from the lockers and stripping off the gloves. “Terry, you’re round and about quite a lot, how well did you know Peter Cruikshank?”

  The big man shrugged. “As well as I know anyone else. We’re a separate company, see. A contract company. We don’t hobnob with the Ballantyne employees.”

  Joe’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I’m told you had a thing with one of the women in Dispatch.”

  Dodd’s piggy eyes narrowed. “Megan. Yeah, but that was a few years back. And it was Stan Crowther who bubbled us, wasn’t it? Got me hauled over the coals.”

  “Because he fancied her himself.”

  Dodd shrugged. “So they reckon.”

  Joe tossed the news around his agile mind. “You don’t mind me saying but this is all a bit draconian, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like you’re working for the secret service or anything.”

  The security man gave this some thought. “That’s true, and technically, there was nothing the company could do about me and Megan, but they could have moved me to another site. I prefer it here, so I called it a draw with Meg.”

  “The job was more important, huh?”

  “That’s right. You might not see it like that, but it’s the way I chose.”

  “No, no. We’re all entitled to make the decisions we … listen, Terry, you came into the Sort Centre yesterday. Did you see anything of Peter Cruikshank? Were you on this floor? Did you see anyone following him, or watching him or—”

  “I came in for my afternoon break,” Dodd cut in. “I was on the ground floor in the nearest rest room. I didn’t see anything of him.”

  Joe felt his frustration rising again. “Yeah. Right. No worries.”

  Burrows entered, followed by two forensic officers. Putting on gloves, the chief inspector opened the locker, took out the thermos and removed the cup and the stopper. He sniffed at it and screwed up his face in disgust. He held it out for Joe, who also took a sniff.

  There were a few dregs in the bottom of the glass interior and the odour was one of stewed coffee, mixed with aniseed.

  “Absinthe?” Joe asked.

  “Probably. Could be Pernod, but according to reports, Crowther was in a hell of a state when our people breathalysed him, so we’re talking really potent spirits, and absinthe is favourite.” He handed it to the nearest forensic man. “Dust for prints, get the bit that’s left in there analysed.”

  The forensic officer bagged up the flask while his colleague began cataloguing and bagging the few items left in the locker.

  “Throws it all up in the air again, don’t you think? It looks like it was Cruikshank after all.”


  “No,” Joe replied. “I think it was an attempt to frame Peter for getting Crowther drunk. I also think it may be the reason Peter was murdered, and five’ll get you ten you find no prints on the thermos.”

  “All quite possible,” Burrows conceded. “But it may also mean there was some further friction between the two men. Particularly if Cruikshank did spike the flask. I’ll let you know.”

  “Oh, while we’re here, there’s a scuff mark with what looks like a hair attached to it on the landing at the top of the staircase. You might wanna get your boys to check it out.”

  Burrows nodded, and was about to say something when his mobile buzzed for attention. He took it from his pocket, checked the menu window and made the connection. “Chief Inspector Burrows.”

  He listened intently to the call, occasionally looking at Joe. His expression changed from amazement, to anger, back to surprise, then amazement and finally irritation as he thanked the caller and closed off the phone.

  He concentrated on Joe. “Do you know a Mrs Sheila Riley and a Mrs Brenda Jump?”

  “You know I do. They were at breakfast this morning.”

  “George Robson and Owen Frickley?”

  “Two of my members. What’s happened, Burrows?”

  “How about Jeffrey Appleby and Gerard Vaughan?”

  “I know Vaughan, I’ve never heard of Appleby. Come on, man, what is it?”

  “There was an altercation at the Waterloo Arms about an hour ago. Our people went in and arrested four people who claim to be connected with the Sanford 3rd Age Club, along with Appleby, an associate of his named McNeil, and Vaughan. They’re all at the station. When asked who they wanted to call, Mrs Riley said to contact you via me.”

  “I’d better get over there.”

  “It’s on Bonny Street. You know where that is?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Let me run you down there, Joe,” Amy offered.

  ***

  “The Sanford 3rd Age Club?” the union woman asked as they pulled out of Ballantynes’ main gate and turned left onto Squires Gate Lane, heading for the seafront.

  “I’m chairman. My friends Sheila and Brenda are Secretary and Treasurer. We came up with the idea, oh, six, seven, years ago. Maybe longer. We have about three hundred members, all over fifty years of age, and we organise outings and events for the benefit of the members. This weekend is an official STAC outing.”

  “Stack?”

  “S-T-A-C,” Joe said. “It stands for—”

  “Sanford 3rd Age Club,” Amy cut in with a smile. “What a good idea.”

  “We think so. Most of our members are middle-aged rockers. Overage teddy boys and girls, reliving their past glories. The difference is these days they have plenty of cash and they know how to move plenty of booze. They’re also hard and fast in their opinions and if you’re smart, you don’t pick an argument with the Sanford 3rd Age Club.”

  Amy turned right onto the seafront at Starr Gate and accelerated. Traffic was sparse, but as they neared the Pleasure Beach it began to pick up and their speed dropped as a consequence.

  “And do they often get into fights in pubs?”

  “Not usually,” Joe replied. “Normally, it’s verbal. I guess it’s to do with Vaughan and his sidekicks.”

  She stopped at a set of lights outside the Pleasure Beach Casino and while Joe looked up at the complex latticework of rails and girders that formed The Big One, she asked, “And who is Vaughan?”

  “Property developer. Wants to pull my café down and put up an office block that will be as big a monstrosity as that.” He pointed up at the rollercoaster.

  She laughed. “That is one of our biggest attractions.”

  “It’s still brutal.”

  For the next ten minutes while Joe chattered, Amy negotiated the traffic along the promenade, past the South Pier with its Skyscreamer, reverse bungee ride dominating the skyline, and through the tram junction at Lytham Road, and finally turned right onto Chapel Street near Madame Tussauds, where she pulled into the kerb and parked outside the grey concrete block of the police station.

  As they climbed out of the car, Joe looked back to the seafront and the ferris wheel on the Central Pier. The seafront and the pier were packed with day-trippers and holidaymakers.

  “Why can’t my life be that simple?” he muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. Just having a moan. Come on. Let’s see what’s what.”

  Once inside, they found the reception area a scene of chaos, with the Sanford 3rd Age Club members arguing with Vaughan and his associates while Sergeant Ronnie Oldroyd struggled to maintain order. Vaughan, Joe noticed, sported a black eye, and one of the two men with him had a cut lip.

  “What the hell is going on?” Joe shouted to make himself heard over the babble.

  Comparative silence fell and Oldroyd seemed relieved.

  “Are you Joe Murray?”

  “Judging by the trouble you’re having, I’m tempted to say no. What’s happened?”

  George Robson stepped forward. “It’s summat and nowt, Joe. We were in the Waterloo and this ponce came in hassling Brenda and Sheila.” He jerked a thumb at Vaughan. “I told him to back off and he started prodding me in the chest, so I lamped him.”

  “Common assault,” Vaughan snapped.

  George clenched his fists. “There’s nowt common about the way I assault prats like you, and if you fancy your chances, come on.”

  Vaughan took half a pace forward, but Oldroyd intervened.

  “Just back off,” the sergeant warned them.

  To ensure George did so, Joe, too, stood between him and Vaughan.

  Sheila pointed at Vaughan’s associates. “After that, one of those two started on George, so Brenda kicked him.”

  “Where he won’t want to show his mum,” Brenda added with an insouciant smile.

  “Then Owen got involved and gave the other one a fat lip.”

  “These men are my personal security officers,” Vaughan growled. “They were there to protect me.”

  “Then you need to get them another job, pal,” George snapped. “Try the local primary school.”

  “All right, all right,” Oldroyd insisted. “I’ve sorted things out as best I can, Mr Murray. Mr Vaughan has registered a complaint against your friends, and Mrs Riley and Mrs Jump have also lodged a complaint against Mr Vaughan for harassment. There was some damage to the pub fittings and furniture, but your friends have paid for that.”

  “We had a whip round before the paddy wagon turned up,” George explained. “Only about a hundred quid.”

  “The landlord is not pressing charges, and I’ve warned Mr Vaughan he has to keep his distance from you and your party, and he’s given his word,” Oldroyd went on.

  “Does this have to go any further, Sergeant?” Amy asked.

  Oldroyd raised his eyebrows. “And who are you, madam.”

  “Amy Willows. You know me. I’m the union rep for the drivers at Ballantynes.”

  “Yes, well, Ms Willows, Ballantynes’ influence won’t cut any ice on this matter. However, if you, Mr Murray, can vouch for your people, we’ll let it go at that.”

  Joe had known his members too long to cave in that easily. “I’m not their father, you know.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir, but I’m assured you are the organiser for the Sanford 3rd Age Club.”

  “And if they start again, I’m the one who gets locked up, am I?”

  “Of course not, but it is you’ll we’ll come to.”

  Brenda laid seductive eyes on Joe. “We promise to be good little girls and boys.”

  After some further hesitation, during which, everyone, Sergeant Oldroyd included, looked expectantly at him, Joe resigned himself to the inevitable. “All right. I’ll take charge of ’em.”

  “In that case, sir, they can all go.”

  “You haven’t heard the last of this, Murray,” Vaughan warned.

  Joe appealed to Oldroyd, w
ho cast a warning glance at the property developer. “Need I remind you, Mr Vaughan, I can still charge you with affray? Now scram. All of you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  From the police station, while George and Owen went off in search of an open pub, Joe and the three women crossed the promenade near Madame Tussaud’s and walked onto Central Pier. Shuffling their way through the huge crowds around the funfair, they eventually sat down at a wooden picnic table towards the far end of the pier, and while Sheila, Brenda and Amy tucked into large ice cream cones, Joe settled for a cup of tea and savoured the atmosphere.

  As far as he was concerned, it was exactly what a day at the British seaside was all about. The sun shining from a cloudless sky, couples and families ambling along the wooden boardwalk, older people (and a few youngsters) perched on the ornate, cast iron seating along the edge of the pier, excited children, smiling indulgent parents, cash registers at the side stalls ringing with a frequency that made the proprietors smile too, it all spelled carefree; an innocent hedonism that was a far cry from the drudge of the office or factory.

  Joe, too, usually obsessed with The Lazy Luncheonette’s performance and takings, was glad to be away, to be out and about, his worries left eighty miles behind in the industrial heart of West Yorkshire.

  But not entirely.

  Two murders at Ballantyne Distribution and Vaughan’s antics trying to rack up the pressure were issues he could not escape and they juggled for position at the forefront of his attention.

  “You said you’d gone as far as you can with the murders, Joe,” Amy pointed out, “and you also told me you’d appealed against the CPO.”

  “Right on both counts.”

  “Then forget about them.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Joe pleaded. “I’m not stupid. I don’t like to be beaten and Vaughan will eventually get his way. The Lazy Luncheonette will be demolished along with the rest of Britannia Parade.”

  Brenda gulped audibly. Sheila finished her ice cream, and with sharp eyes on Joe, dabbed at her lips with a serviette before challenging him. “You said you’d appealed.”

  “And so I have, but let’s not kid ourselves. I ain’t gonna win. The appeal will be rejected and Britannia Parade will be demolished.”