“They’ve brought some things for you,” the warder said. “All been checked and accepted.”
“Well let’s hope Ray Dockerty’s head is one of them.”
Although the two women were putting on brave faces, Joe could see through the thin, forced smiles to the concern beneath. It was made plan when Sheila asked, “How are you, Joe?”
“Couldn’t be better. Haven’t done anything wrong, yet here I am locked up, kept safe from all those men and women who might want to skewer me.”
“Take it easy, Joe,” Brenda advised. “Losing the plot won’t help you regain your freedom.”
He sucked in a deep breath and let it out as a hiss. “You should try it sometime, Brenda. Slammed up with some nutter who talks about his bleeding azalea plant as if his life depended on it. Some of the conversations in The Lazy Luncheonette are tedious, but this guy makes us sound like we’re having a party.”
“I’m sure they’ll get it sorted quickly,” Sheila said. “We got the message from your solicitor.” She passed a large carrier bag across the table. “A change of clothing, toiletries, and he asked to make sure you got an A4 writing pad and plenty of pens.”
Joe nodded his thanks. “Dockerty is hell bent on pinning this on me. And if he isn’t, then young Ike Barrett is. They won’t even look for anyone else while they have me in the frame, and on that basis, someone has to do some thinking and investigating. If I can get my thoughts down on paper, can I leave you two to ask the questions?”
The women exchanged a pleased glance. “We may not need to, Joe. We have help. A professional.”
“Professional? Not Gemma, is it?”
“Gemma is barred from the investigation as we understand it. She’s working on the periphery.” Sheila smiled encouragingly. “It’s Denise Latham.”
Joe’s eyes widened. “Denise Latham?” His malleable features sank. “That’s it. I’m doomed. I may as well throw the towel in now and look forward to the next twenty-five years in here.”
“Now, Joe—”
He cut in before Brenda could say more. “Can I remind you that Denise Latham has spent the last six or seven months trying to pin the fire at the old Lazy Luncheonette on me? Can I further remind you that the North Shires Insurance Company is trying to get back that quarter of a million quid they paid out, and Denise Latham is on a sizeable cut as a bonus if she can nail the culprit? I need her help like I need someone turning up with photographs of me setting fire to Vaughan’s place.”
“She turned up at the meeting last night and we spoke to her at some length afterwards,” Sheila insisted. “We’re convinced that she’s trying to help.”
“Well, all I can say is you must be a salesman’s dream if you’re that easy to fool.”
Brenda tutted, but Sheila glowered and accompanied her fiery eyes with a warning. “I appreciate you’re under some stress, so I’ll overlook that remark… this time.”
Joe took a moment to calm down, after which he demanded, “How can you be sure she’s not simply out to secure her bonus?”
“She still believes you may have burned the old place down, Joe. Although she does say Vaughan was the real favourite, but she does not believe you’re a killer.”
“And seeing you walled up for murder won’t get North Shires their money back,” Brenda added. “She needs to prove you set fire to the old place.”
“I didn’t set fire to it. I didn’t set fire to Vaughan’s either, and I didn’t kill him.”
Sheila was hesitant as she spoke next. “Joe, er, we obviously believe you’re innocent, but we do have to ask this. Had Vaughan been in touch hinting that there had been a change of policy at Ballantyne’s?”
“No.” Joe frowned. “What are you talking about? Do you know something I don’t?”
“It was something Les mentioned the other night,” Brenda explained. “He wondered whether Ballantyne’s had decided to drop their property holdings, and the business had reverted back to Vaughan, which would mean he could pressure you into getting out.”
“And that would give me the motive for killing him.” Joe snorted. “Get bloody real, will you. I know of no change of ownership, and if you don’t believe me, speak to Sir Douglas or his son.”
“We tried,” she said. “But Sir Douglas is on holiday in Barbados, and Toby is at a conference in Geneva.”
“Blooming typical. I’m rotting to hell in here, and help is thousands of miles away.”
“You have us, Joe,” Sheila reassured him.
Brenda smiled. “And Denise Latham.”
Reminded of the information they had given him, he said, “All right. Let’s play along with her. If she’s out to get me, she’ll let slip somewhere along the line, and anyway, there isn’t much I can do in here.” Reaching into the bag Sheila had given him, he took out the A4 notepad, and a pen, attracting Thornton’s immediate attention.
“Careful what you’re scribbling down, Joe.”
“Just a note for the escape committee,” Joe reassured him with a weak smile. “It’s no secret, Harvey. You can read it when I’m done.”
“As long as it’s above board.”
Sheila watched him walk away. “I thought you were allowed more privileges when you’re on remand.”
Joe nodded as he wrote. “Yes, but I don’t have carte blanche. For all he knows, I might really be writing down instructions for my escape, or orders for you to get rid of the evidence. Make sure they see it as you leave.”
He continued to write for several minutes. Eventually, he put down the pen and turned the paper for them to read while he went through it.
“The only evidence Ray Dockerty has are a couple of stills from the security cameras around Britannia Parade, and the traces of cooking oil in the boot of my car.”
“And he remanded you on that?”
“Plus the knife and Joe’s pen at the scene of the crime,” Sheila pointed out. “Plus, Joe lives alone so there is no one to substantiate his whereabouts. Plus a witness who saw the car at or near the fire. Plus—”
“Have you thought of standing for the prosecution, Sheila?” Joe interrupted.
“I’m sorry, Joe, I was only pointing it out.”
“Right. Well now that you’ve pointed it out, let me add something. Not one of those things proves that I was anywhere near Eastward on Monday night. To that end, everything Dockerty has is circumstantial. We all know I’m innocent…” He eyed them suspiciously. “We do know I’m innocent, don’t we?”
Brenda grinned. “You did dump that chip fat on the fields behind The Lazy Luncheonette in 1993, Joe.”
“Fry tipping,” Sheila chuckled.
“All right, all right.”
“Of course we know you’re innocent, Joe,” Sheila stressed. “So go on with what you were saying.”
“Someone is trying to frame me. The video stills clearly show my car, or one that looks like it and has the same registration, turning up at the back of The Lazy Luncheonette on Monday night about half an hour after the fire is supposed to have started. They also show someone getting out of that car, cutting off the locks on the recycling shed, opening it and dumping a cooking oil drum in there. It’s too hazy to see who it is, but I know it’s not me.”
“So where is all this leading?” Brenda asked.
“Two things. First, I was back at The Lazy Luncheonette just after six. I’d been to the wholesaler’s on the retail park. There were two truckers parked overnight in the back lane. Denise should chase them up first.”
“Do you know which companies?”
“Nope,” Joe replied, “But there are plenty of trucking forums on the web. If she puts up enough notices, someone might come back.”
“A long shot, Joe.”
“But a good one if she can come up with the goods. They may have noticed something.”
“You said there were two things,” Brenda pointed out.
“My car key. It doesn’t matter how you look at it, the killer had a key to my car. If he
stole the car and then brought it back later, I wouldn’t know the difference, but he would need a chipped key to start the engine. One that was programmed to turn off the immobiliser.”
“If your car is on that video, he must have stolen it,” Sheila objected.
“No. He could have used a look-alike. A ringer. But even then, he would have needed a key to my car to plant the oil in the boot. That is the easier option from his point of view. The correct key will open the boot, even if he can’t start the car with it. Either way, he needed a key. So where the hell did he get it from?”
“Utters,” Brenda suggested. “Frank never asks too many questions when he’s cutting keys, does he?”
“He’s one, for a start,” Joe agreed, “but there are other scroats in this town who’ll do it too. If Denise is serious, get her to trawl round them. Finally, she needs to speak to my neighbours. Did anyone see my car moving or missing from its parking spot at any time on Monday night?”
Sheila folded the sheet of paper and slipped it in her handbag. “None of this gets us closer to who did kill Vaughan.”
“We can worry about that when I’m out.”
***
Even with the windows down and sunroof open, the interior of Denise’s car felt like a hothouse. There was not a breath of wind moving through the still, sweating air, and she passed most of the hour sat outside Sanford prison wishing Sheila and Brenda would hurry up.
The only positive to come out of the Sanford 3rd Age Club meeting the previous night had been the appointment of Les Tanner as Chair in Joe’s absence, and that had happened before Denise’s arrival. The ensuing hour had been no more than hot air delivered by voluble members, such as George Robson, usually with agendas which they were quite happy to tag onto the problem of Joe Murray’s incarceration. Denise had attended many such meetings in her time as a police officer. Meetings where, for example, ideas for recruiting more officers from ethnic minorities were diverted by efforts to allow more time off during public holidays by the use of Community Support Officers. As in the case of the Sanford 3rd Age Club, such meetings came to no conclusions.
The hour from 9:30 to 10:30, when she sat in the lounge bar with Sheila and Brenda, had been much more productive.
The two women were hard to persuade, and Denise could understand that.
“We two and Joe have been friends since primary school,” Sheila had pointed out.
“You’ve known him six months,” Brenda weighed in. “And during that time, you’ve caused him a lot of stress. Why should we trust you?”
Denise held her hands apart. “I freely admit that my main concern is pinning down the culprit of the original fire. However, I knew your husband, Mrs Riley… slightly. I was a detective constable in Leeds when he was an inspector here, and if he were alive, I’m sure he would have vouched for me. I had to be tough. All coppers have to be. But I’m honest and I don’t like to see an innocent man in jail. I know Joe is innocent. The trouble is, I only know it intellectually. I can’t prove it. If you’ll let me help, I may be able to prove it.”
Eventually, she had won them over, and when they parted company, just after half past ten, it was with agreement that she would meet them outside Sanford prison while they visited Joe and put the proposition to him.
After a tiresome journey from Leeds (there had been one of those inexplicable delays on the motorway where no apparent cause ever materialised) she arrived on the prison car park a few minutes ahead of Sheila’s Fiat, and there had been a couple of minutes of discussion before they went in.
That was almost an hour ago, and Denise had spent the time alternating between the stifling heat of the car’s interior and the equally stifling heat of the exterior. She had run the engine and air-conditioning, but while the car was stationary, even that struggled to combat temperatures which, according to the news, were hotter than downtown Madrid.
It was with some relief that she saw the general flux of visitors begin to emerge from the prison, and amongst the thin crowd were Joe’s friends.
Denise climbed out of the car to greet them, and Sheila handed her Joe’s note.
After reading through it, Denise chewed her lip for a moment. “Car key is going to be difficult. Nothing to say our man didn’t go to a cutter in Wakefield or Leeds, but I’ll start with Sanford and see if anything comes up. The video, on the other hand, is a different matter. I’ll have a word with the security people at Britannia Parade, and see if I can get a copy.”
Sheila frowned. “Surely the police will have taken away all copies.”
“They think,” Denise laughed. “Leave that to me, Sheila. You’d be surprised what flashing a bit of leg and a smile of promise can do.”
Brenda echoed the laugh. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“The pair of you are totally incorrigible.” Sheila concentrated on Denise. “What happens from here?”
“I’ll get on with what I have to do. If I can get the video I’ll run through it tonight, at home. Is The Lazy Luncheonette open again?”
“The police rang me this morning,” Sheila reported. “Forensic have finished their work, and we’re allowed to open, but there’s a lot of cleaning to be done, and that will take the rest of today and most of tomorrow. You won’t believe how difficult it is to get rid of the powders and solvents they use. I don’t see us opening again until Saturday, possibly even Monday.”
“Fine. I’ll meet the two of you there tomorrow morning about ten o’clock. For now, I’m going to call on security at Britannia Parade. I’ll get onto the keys tomorrow and check the truckers’ forums from home.”
Chapter Nine
By the middle of Friday afternoon, after one of the busiest twenty-four hour periods she could recall, Denise was almost wishing she had never become involved.
After leaving Sheila and Brenda, she had called back at Britannia Parade and it had not taken long to learn that Todd Henshaw had been employed as a security officer since the new building first opened.
Tucked away in a windowless, ground floor office, and surrounded by CCTV monitors covering all aspects of the building both inside and out, Todd was content to let her disturb him, and like most people, he was only too happy to talk about himself.
“Lorra experience, y’see. Been in security work since I left school over twenty years ago, so I was a natural for this job.”
As skilled at listening as she was talking, Denise wore a fixed smile as she sat through his chatter.
Tall, but stocky, aged about forty, his head shaven close, but with sufficient stubble to show off a thinning crown, he told her how he had wanted to join the police, but one or two minor convictions in his teens had scotched the plan, and he had settled, instead, for security work. But he complained about the pay and conditions which meant he was often called upon to work twelve-hour shifts.
Gradually, Denise brought the conversation round to the previous Monday night.
“Yeah. The cops took away sets of recordings from the CCTV cameras. Looks like they’ve got Joe painted right into a corner.”
“Yes, well, I’m not so sure. There are things which don’t add up.” Denise hastened on before Todd could ask what things. “Joe was telling me there were two truckers parked in the back lane all night.”
“There was,” Todd agreed. “They’re a pain, those truckers, but the lane is common land, see. Belongs to the council. And it’s an official parking area, so we get a few of ’em spending the night there. Can’t do nowt about it. But some of ’em don’t half leave a mess behind.”
Changing the subject again, Denise asked, “You didn’t see Joe’s car turn up or him getting out and going to his recycling cupboard? It only turned up on the CCTV?”
Todd shrugged. “Locked in here when you’re on nights, aren’t you? We’re not allowed to leave the control centre.” He threw out a sweeping hand which took in the array of monitors. “Everything is on camera. It’s like Big Brother. No one can get in or out without you, theoretically, knowing
about it. At some stage anyone coming into the building will be caught on one of the cameras. Those in the back lane will be caught anyway, cos the cameras are fixed. All we can do is alter the zoom, and when Joe’s car came in and stopped at the back of the caff, there was no need to zoom in, was there? I knew it was his car. I recognised it. And he has every right to go in his cupboard, so why should I go poking my nose in.”
“It didn’t occur to you that it might be someone else?”
“It was Joe’s car, I’m telling you. Everyone knows his car. Besides, why would anyone break into that cupboard? There’s nowt in there besides old drums and boxes and stuff. It’s not like Joe keeps cash or valuables in there, and you can’t get into the caff that way. No. It was Joe, or maybe Lee, and if it was Lee, then Joe sent him.”
Denise considered her approach, and opted for blunt. “Can I see this footage, Todd?”
He shuddered, hunched himself back in his chair, his shoulders shrugging, head turning one way, then the other. He reached for his beaker and found it empty, then glanced over his shoulder to the kettle on a stand behind him.
Denise waited patiently for him to reply, and when he did, his response was predictable.
“It’s not me, see. It’s the filth. I mean, they took copies of that stuff, y’know, and they said we’re not supposed to even look at it no more, never mind show it anyone else.”
“But you have seen it?”
“Oh, yeah. Course I have. I mean, I was here when the sergeant took a copy.”
“So the recording is digital, Not DVD?”
He snorted. “Who uses DVD these days?”
Denise switched tack so suddenly that it took Todd by surprise. “What made you say that if it wasn’t Joe, it was Lee?”
“Well… I… er…”
“It was something you spotted in the recording, wasn’t it?”
Todd shook his head. “No. not really. Listen, if my gaffer knew I was even having this conversation, he’d—”
Denise cut him off. “Forget your boss, Todd, and let’s think about you. I used to be a cop, you know, and they teach you the signs to look out for. The signals you’re giving out tell me that you noticed something when you were watching that footage. Now if that footage can show that Joe is innocent, then you’re guilty of not telling the police. Withholding evidence, it’s called.”
Trial by Fire Page 10
