Death in Distribution

by David W Robinson

  “I didn’t get on with it at all,” Joe admitted. “And I didn’t think you were that interested.”

  Keith stood up again. “I’m not, but I’ll bet he is.” He nodded towards the entrance before taking his leave of them.

  Joe turned to find Chief Inspector Burrows bearing down on him. He wore the same, faded brown suit he had sported over the last two days, but this time, his appearance was enhanced by a broad smile crossing his face.

  Without being invited, he sat between Brenda and Joe and helped himself to a cup of tea. “Just wanted to thank you, Murray.”

  Finished with the half-warm food, Joe dropped his cutlery onto the plate and drank his tea. Checking the pot, finding it empty, he signalled for a waiter and ordered more before finally turning his attention to the chief inspector.

  “Thank me? What for? Dragging this lot out of your bridewell yesterday?” He gestured at Brenda and Sheila.

  “Oi,” Sheila warned. “We’re not ‘this lot’.”

  “I’m not talking about the scuffle in the Waterloo. Think I’d get involved in a battle between a wealthy dipstick, two minders and a mob of middle-aged thugs?”

  “And we’re not thugs,” Brenda said.

  “That’s true,” Joe joked. “They’d rip any self-respecting thug to pieces.”

  Burrows ignored the banter. “I’m talking about Cruikshank and Crowther.”

  At the mention of the two men, Joe immediately went on the defensive. “Ah, now I did say to Dave Kane that I’d gone about as far as I could with it. It needs your forensic…” he trailed off as the waiter delivered a fresh pot of tea. When the waiter left again, Joe went on. “It needs your forensic people on it, now.”

  “Don’t be modest, Murray.” Burrows’ affability made Joe suspicious. “I was persuaded that the two men had killed each other. It was your efforts yesterday which made us aware that they couldn’t have done, and that led, indirectly, to this morning’s arrest.”

  Busy pouring more tea for himself Joe almost dropped the pot. “Arrest?”

  Burrows nodded slowly and confidently. “Dave Kane.”

  This time Joe hurriedly put the teapot down to make sure he couldn’t drop it. The shock also caused him to raise his voice. “Kane?”

  Burrows put a finger to his lips asking for discretion. “Logical when you think about it. He had the opportunity to kill both men. He says he went out to the workshops to check the lorry cab, looking for the flask. Foreman remembers him doing just that, but he can’t confirm how long Kane was there. I reckon that from the workshop, he made his way over to the drivers’ car park, conned Crowther into moving onto park fifteen and killed him.”

  Joe took in the information and found he could not safely argue with it. “And Cruikshank?”

  “You told me that he came back to security, had a few words with you and your driver, then made an excuse to go into the building. He said he was going to Dispatch, which is on the ground floor. But he admits he also went up to his office on the third floor, and we reckon that’s when he hit Cruikshank.”

  His hands shaking from the revelations, Joe swallowed some tea. “Why did he kill Crowther?”

  Burrows answered with a question. “Did Kane tell you he was divorced?”

  “Yes. He said he’d been divorced some time.”

  “About twelve years near as we can make out. Did he also tell you that Crowther was responsible for the divorce? We have it on the best authority.” Burrows tapped the side of his nose. “Can’t say who told us, but we were pointed straight to Kane. Crowther was fooling around with his wife while Kane was at work.”

  Joe whistled. “He certainly knows how to put it about, that Crowther.”

  “Knew how to put it about,” Burrows corrected. “He’s dead.”

  Joe ignored the obvious barb. “And Kane’s motive for killing Cruikshank?”

  “As you suggested. An attempt to frame Cruikshank for killing Crowther. That’s what we think, anyway. You did well, Murray, and I’m happy to say I was glad of your input.”

  “Yes, well, let’s not run way with ourselves, eh?” Joe considered everything he had just learned. “Has Kane admitted any of this?”

  “Course not. Exactly the opposite. He’s denied it all, but we’ve had him down the nick since six this morning. We’re waiting for his lawyer so we can start the interrogation. But trust me, he did it. I’ll stake my life on it.”

  Joe grimaced. “If you’ve got it wrong, you could certainly be staking your pension on it.” Before Burrows could pick him up on the point, he asked, “Do you have any cast iron evidence against him?”

  “No, but I’m not worried. I’m sure forensic will turn something up before we’re through. That hair you pointed out on the third floor landing was bogus, by the way. It’s been there yonks according to our people.” Burrows grinned. “What’s wrong, Murray? Annoyed that we beat you to it?”

  “Of course not. I just said, didn’t I, that I’d gone as far as I could. It was up to you and your Scientific Support bods, and if Kane is guilty, then well done.” He cradled his cup in his hands. “But there’s something that doesn’t add up.”

  “Such as?”

  “If I knew that, I’d be telling you, but I don’t. It may just be my suspicious mind. What I will say, Burrows, is watch your back. If you openly accuse him and you’re wrong, Ballantynes will come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  “I’m not a novice, and I know all about Ballantynes. I’ll be careful.” The chief inspector stood. “Thanks again, Murray. Any time you’re in the area, drop in to the station. I’m sure we’ll find you a cuppa.”

  Joe watched Burrows’ departing frame. “I’ll look forward to it.” When he turned back, he found he was the centre of his two friends’ attention. “What?”

  “You’re looking a little put out, Joe,” Sheila commiserated.

  Brenda was more elliptical. “Who’d have thought it? Tubby Dave Kane a killer.”

  “It’s possible,” Joe said, “but unlikely. In fact, I reckon Burrows has it wrong.” He settled into his thoughts, poring over mental images and snatches of memory from the previous two days. They came too thick and fast for him to make any sense of them. “I just don’t know why.”

  Sheila chuckled, taking obvious delight from his discomfort. “Come on, Joe, you just told the chief inspector that it’s probably your suspicious mind.”

  “Well, if it is, I’ll admit it.” He reached into the top pocket of his gilet and took out his mobile. Calling up Amy’s number, he dialled. While waiting for the connection, he said, “I just get the feeling that there is something wrong and I need to look into it.”

  “Oh, Joe,” Brenda complained. “We’ve been here since Friday and we’ve hardly seen anything of you.”

  “Goes with the territory when there’s a murder,” Joe replied. Amy picked up her phone and he concentrated on her. “Amy? Joe. Listen, can you meet me in, say, an hour.”

  She sounded tired and groggy. “Huh? What? Joe, do you know what time I got to bed last night?”

  “About the same time as me, I should imagine. It’s vital that we meet. The police have arrested Dave Kane for the killings.”

  At the other end, Amy was suddenly very alert. “What? That’s ridiculous.”

  “I think so, too, but it is possible. You’re the only one who can help me.”

  There was a moment’s silence, disturbed by distant ruffling, which Joe assumed was her throwing off the bed linen. “It’s half past nine now. Can you meet me in the Houndshill Shopping Mall in an hour? I’ll be at the Coffee House.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  ***

  Like any other shopping mall on Easter Sunday, Houndshill was heaving with shoppers when it opened at 10.30 am.

  Situated behind the tower, even the approach streets were packed with people enjoying the sunshine, many waiting for the bars to open, others looking for cheap eateries so they could get breakfast out of the way. The short walk alon
g the promenade from the Monarch had revealed that the seafront, too, was thronging. Joe could not recall the last time the Easter weekend had been this hot and sunny, and he felt a great sense of satisfaction for the traders. They were in for a good day.

  Wandering through the shopping mall, he ignored the mobile phone and satellite/cable TV salespeople, all eager to attract his attention and draw him into a presentation. Instead, he hurried through the centre to the Coffee House, a small café with pretensions to something grander judging by the smartly attired and fast moving baristas behind the counter. All around him were laminate tables and straight-backed, black, wicker chairs, while the walls were decked with large, monochrome photographs of people drinking coffee. Signs in the backgrounds of some of the images were in Italian, from which Joe assumed the pictures were of Rome.

  Amy was already seated near the windows, a latte in front of her. With deliberate emphasis, almost as if he were challenging the place, Joe ordered a pot of tea, paid for it and joined her.

  He spent five minutes telling her the tale Burrows had told him. When he was through, he leaned back in his wicker seat, drank his tea and waited for her reply.

  When it came, it did not surprise him

  “I’ve never heard such rubbish. Stan Crowther had nothing to do with Dave’s divorce.”

  “You know that for a fact, do you?”

  Some of Amy’s confidence evaporated. “Well, no, but it’s a safe enough bet.”

  “How so?”

  She leaned forward, forearms crossed on the table. “Dave has been divorced well over ten years. At the time, Peter and I were still together, and he used to tell me everything. And remember, he and Stan were good mates. If Stan was involved with Sammy Kane, Peter would have known and he would have told me.”

  “Sammy?”

  “Samantha. Dave’s ex.”

  “Right. I believe you, Amy, but Burrows won’t. It’s not enough to say it can’t be true because you didn’t know about it. We need to know who suggested it.”

  “He’s clutching at straws. He wants a quick result and Dave is an obvious target.”

  Joe smiled and shook his head. “Burrows is a senior officer, not a probationer. Most people have a fairly low opinion of the cops, but I have a niece who’s a detective sergeant, and I know for a fact that you don’t get to Burrows’ rank without using your loaf and watching your back. You need a brain and you need to know when and how to tread carefully. He hasn’t just plucked this out of thin air. Someone has pointed him in this direction. He told me so. We need to know who. Now, you know the people at Ballantynes. How many candidates?”

  Amy pursed her lips as she considered the question. “Dave’s pretty popular, but there are those people who don’t like him. Megan Stafford and Beth Edmunds to name but two.”

  “I met them. Both in Dispatch?”

  “Yes. Traffic managers. They objected to the way Peter was pushed ahead of them as Dave’s successor. They both complained to me over it, but as I pointed out, although Peter hadn’t worked in the office as long as them, his qualifications were better. They were accusing Dave of sexism, really.”

  “And you didn’t agree?”

  “I did … or at least, I suspected it, but Dave had an airtight case. There was nothing I could do other than encourage both women to apply for the job when Dave retires.”

  “Dave had nothing to do with Megan and Terry Dodd splitting?”

  Amy shook her head. “That wasn’t an issue for Ballantynes. It was the security contractors who got uppity about it.” She sighed. “Joe, I’m saying Beth and Megan were pretty teed off with Dave, but there is no way they would do this to him.”

  “And Burrows is not likely to tell me who did tip him off.” Joe lapsed into silence, his lips pursed, fingers twiddling around his teacup. “I’ve had this feeling all morning that there’s something wrong, something I’m missing, something that’s probably staring me in the face, but I’m hanged if I know what.”

  “Forget about it for a while, then,” Amy suggested. “That’s what I do. Think about something else, and it’ll come to you, so let’s do that; talk about something else.”

  “For example?”

  “Your café. Joe, you’ve told me about your headaches with this development company, but have you ever considered just letting it go and moving somewhere else. Somewhere like Blackpool, for instance?”

  He laughed. “I mentioned it yesterday and Brenda said something … or was it Sheila? I can’t remember who, but it amounted to Blackpool really needs another café, doesn’t it?”

  “Look around you. There are never enough cafés here, Joe. You’ll find queues in all of them.” Amy’s voice took on a new burn of enthusiasm. “I’ve lived here all my life and I’ll say two things about the place: it can give you good, stodgy meals and good drinks. For the traders, it’s a licence to print money.”

  “From Easter to November,” Joe pointed out. “But how much trade is there between the end of the illuminations and Easter? Nah, Amy, it’s not a bad idea, but it’s not for me. I have good, steady trade all year round. Besides, I have my girls to think of, and my nephew.”

  “Good to hear. But didn’t one of them say the developer had offered to pay them off if they persuaded you?”

  Joe laughed and finished his tea. “Brenda and Sheila are completely incorruptible. If you offered them the keys to the bank and let them take away all they could carry, they’d turn you down. Me, now I could probably be bought, but it’s academic. I said yesterday, didn’t I? He will get his way. All I’m doing is angling for a better deal.”

  “But not cash?”

  He shook his head. “People tell me I’m obsessed with money, but I’m not. The business has to make a profit. If it doesn’t we go to the wall, but I’m not just a money-grabber. It’s more about making him suffer, Vaughan, I mean. Plus I’d like the option for a place in the new buildings.”

  “And suppose he got really silly and offered you, say, fifty thousand? Surely it would be worth your while?”

  Joe laughed. “Pie in the sky. There is no way he would ever offer me that amount of money when all he really has to do is sit back and wait.” He stood up. “Come on. Forget about Ballantynes, forget about Vaughan and show me the sights of Blackpool instead.”

  Amy joined him and they stepped out of the café. “You know the sights of Blackpool. Everyone knows them.”

  “I mean the real sights.”

  “Ah. The strip clubs and brothels.”

  Amy laughed and Joe grinned.

  They would spend the remainder of the morning and all afternoon together. By silent, mutual consent, their encounter of the previous night was not mentioned. Instead they walked along the promenade as far as the Central Pier, then ducked into the backstreets where they enjoyed a traditional Sunday lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding in a quieter café, before ambling further along the streets until they reached Lytham Road and Hopton Road, where Amy showed Joe the tram sheds, and revealed that she lived just a few doors away.

  Joe took the hint and they spent the rest of the afternoon indulging their passion for one another until they both fell into a light, untroubled sleep.

  At five, Joe called the police station and spoke to Burrows, only to be told that Kane had singly refused to confess and they were getting short of time.

  “We’ll either have to charge him or let him go,” the chief inspector explained.

  With the time coming up to six, they made their way back into the town where Amy picked up her car from Central Drive.

  “Fancy another few drinks tonight?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, Joe, I can’t,” she apologised, but she offered no explanation as to why she could not. “Will I see you tomorrow before you leave?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Keith has to go to Ballantynes to pick up the bus, so I’m not sure what time we’re leaving.” He considered his options. “Look, if I don’t catch you tomorrow, what say I ring you sometime during t
he week and make arrangements for us to meet somewhere?”

  She laughed. “Neutral territory? Skipton, say?”

  Joe grinned by return. “How about it?”

  She nodded and kissed him. “All right, Joe. You call and we’ll see.”

  He watched her drive out of the car park, gave her a final wave as she joined the heavy traffic on Central Drive, then began the slow walk back to the Monarch where he would join Sheila and Brenda for dinner and a night in the bar. On the whole, he would rather be elsewhere.

  ***

  It was just after eight when Joe and his friends entered the bar to find the head barman with news for him. “Gentleman over there would like a word, sir.” The barman indicated the windows.

  Following the pointing finger, Joe was surprised to find Vaughan and his two bodyguards, seated at a window table, looking out across the sea where the sun was dipping rapidly towards the horizon. When he crossed to join them, he discovered the property developer as angry as Joe had ever seen him, and that suited Joe. He, too, was not in the best frame of mind.

  He sat opposite the three men. “Don’t you understand anything, Vaughan? Didn’t the cops warn you to keep your distance? One call to Bonny Street and—”

  “I didn’t get where I am by running scared of john law, so just shut your mouth and listen for once.” Vaughan dragged his malevolent stare from the window to fix Joe in its narrowed field.

  Joe refused to be intimidated. “You don’t have anything to say that would interest me.”

  “You don’t know until you’ve heard what I have to say.”

  The logic was impossible to refute, so Joe shrugged, and Vaughan launched into what sounded like a prepared statement.

  “Under the terms of the compulsory purchase order you will receive the market value of your property as it was before redevelopment commenced. Over and above that, you will be paid a substantial sum of money to compensate you for loss of trade during redevelopment.”

  As Vaughan paused, Joe could not resist commenting. “See, I told you there was nothing I would be interested in. You’re telling me what I already know.”