“And I am sick of the way we are told to shut up in an effort to paper over the cracks,” Gemma retorted. “Mrs Riley and Mrs Jump are right. Joe is not a fool. If he’d done this, you wouldn’t have found a single trace of him, and he certainly wouldn’t have been stupid enough to throw an empty drum into that shed, knowing that it would put his accounting out of joint. And that’s assuming he was stupid enough to use his own car, knowing it would be caught on the building security cameras. And even then we’re assuming he’d be so gormless as to go anywhere near The Lazy Luncheonette after murdering Vaughan and setting fire to the man’s house. You locked up the wrong man because someone intended you to do just that.”
Simmering on the edge of another explosion, Dockerty pointed a shaking finger at her. “You get out there, Inspector, and prove it. Until you can, I don’t want to see you again.”
Gemma leapt to her feet. “Fine by me. But when I do prove it, I will do everything I can to expose what’s been going on here. I’ll throw my warrant card in and go public on the matter if I have to.”
Gemma stormed from the office and Dockerty ran that same, shaking hand through his hair.
“What do we do is she’s right, sir?”
“Find a set of dentures tough enough to eat the humble pie.”
***
Back at The Lazy Luncheonette, the three women were ready for locking up and making their separate ways home.
Waiting for Sheila and Brenda to discard their working clothes, Denise admired the line of photographs on the wall.
“Joe had his casebooks on shelves in the old place,” Sheila commented. “All the crimes he’s solved over the years. But they went up with the building and he hasn’t got round to having them reprinted, so he put those photos up.”
“You look like a happy crew,” Denise said.
“We were until this lot blew up,” Brenda said, joining them. She reached out to straighten the photograph of them and Joe stood by his car. “He’s Napoleon, the tiny tyrant, and we’re Wellington’s army.”
Denise did not answer, she was staring intently at the picture Brenda had just reset. “That’s Joe’s car?” she asked.
“Yes. That’s the infamous Ford Ka which was caught—”
“Sheila, Brenda, can I take that picture with me?”
The request caught the two women by surprise.
“I don’t know,” Sheila said. “Joe wouldn’t be too keen on—”
“I think it may prove his innocence.”
Sheila and Brenda exchanged one of their glances.
“How?” Brenda asked.
“I won’t know unless I can take it home. Trust me, I’ll bring it back to you by Monday morning.”
Brenda unhooked it from the wall. “Take it. But if it gets damaged, we’ll blame you.”
Denise barely passed to smile as she hurried through the kitchen to the back lane. “If I’m right, he won’t give a damn.”
The twenty-mile journey home, through the worst of the Friday rush hour, was a nightmare for Denise. She urgently needed to be back in her apartment taking prints from the CCTV footage, but the pressure of traffic was such that even on the motorway, she found herself travelling at an average of 10mph in stop-start queues stretching as far as she could see.
It was turned five when she finally rushed into her apartment. Even before kicking off her shoes, she booted up the computer and the printer/scanner beneath it. While waiting for them to go through their start routines, she moved to the kitchen and made a cup of tea. By the time she returned, everything was ready.
The first task was to run the CCTV footage and take several snapshots out of it. When that was done, she put them into a photographic enhancement package, and enlarged them. While the printer began to slowly churn them out, she removed the photograph of Joe and the two women stood alongside his car, from its frame and placed it on the scanner glass.
The A4 sized images took an age to print. The moment they were done, she opened the scanner software and enlarged the photograph from the café to the same size, and only when that was printed off, did she finally began to relax. Comparing the two images, she felt a surge of excitement and not a little pride, rush through her. She was right she even took a ruler to prove it.
Feeling elated, she snatched up the phone and dialled.
“Superintendent Dockerty, please,” she asked after announcing herself.
“I’m sorry, Ms Latham, but he’s gone home for the weekend.”
“Get a message to him. I’ll see him at Sanford police station first thing in the morning. If he’s not there, I’ll speak to Superintendent Oughton instead, and if neither of them are there, I’ll speak to the press and TV.”
Chapter Ten
Ever since his rise to the higher ranks, Dockerty had made a point of not working over the weekend unless circumstances forced him.
With the news that an old colleague had demanded to see him on pain of going over his head or worse, speaking to the media, he made an exception and was at the station for just after nine on Saturday morning. When Denise entered the tiny back room, and put her briefcase on the floor, he greeted her with a broad smile. “Detective Sergeant Latham. How the hell are you?”
Sitting opposite, placing her briefcase on the floor beside her, she wagged a pleasant, scolding finger at him. “Former Detective Sergeant Latham, and I’m fine, thanks, Ray.”
“I always said it was a sad day for Leeds CID when you packed it in.”
She shrugged. “What can I say? Sex discrimination as far I was concerned. I dotted all the I’s, crossed all the T’s, passed my exams, and they still promoted others over my head.”
“Treading on the chief super’s toes so often didn’t do you any favours, Denise. I think the idea of you as an inspector terrified him.”
“You’re a fine one to talk. How many times did you backchat him? How many rows did you have with him?” She grinned. “You still made it to superintendent, though.”
“I gave them an ultimatum. Either promote me, or I move to the Met. Did your claim of constructive dismissal pass muster?”
With a shrewish grimace, she shook her head. “Still going on. Over two years now.”
“And while you wait for possible reinstatement, you’re fooling around trying to recoup money for insurance companies?” He laughed. “Considering your arrest record with the police, it must be like cleaning up after the party and picking up loose change.”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Ray. I make more now than I ever did as a cop, and I’m my own boss. The insurance companies don’t worry about trivia like the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. All they need is prima facie evidence, which I supply, and their lawyers go in like the SAS.”
“Hence the threats I got by phone.” Dockerty became more serious. “I’d expect better of you, Denise. What is so important that I have to drag my backside down here on a Saturday?”
“Joe Murray and The Lazy Luncheonette.”
Dockerty groaned. “Not you, too. Look, Denise, I don’t know whether Joe Murray had a hand in burning down the old building, and I don’t care.”
“I’m not here about the old Lazy Luncheonette. I can imagine Joe burning it down, but considering the compulsory purchase settlement which was on the table at the time, it’s difficult to see what he would gain from it. I think it’s more likely that Gerard Vaughan did it, but he’s not gonna admit it now, is he?”
“So if not for your clients, why are you here?”
“Because you have Joe locked up for Vaughan’s murder. I’ve got to know him over the last few months, Ray, and he’s no killer.”
“I thought I’d had enough of this from his niece.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t have thought so either, but the evidence says different.”
Denise bent, picked up her briefcase, settled it on her knee and flipped it open. “And if I show you evidence that you’re wrong? Will that help?”
The genial façade Dockerty had been wearing sin
ce she entered, disappeared quickly to be replaced by the darker, more business-like front of the professional police officer. “What evidence?”
From the case, Denise took her enlargement of the photograph from The Lazy Luncheonette. Laying it on the desk, she indicated the right of the picture. “The car you can see here is Joe’s. Both Sheila and Brenda have assured me of that, and you can see it’s the correct colour. From the shape of the bit of the roof you can see, I’m sure your experts will confirm it’s a Ford Ka.” Digging back into the briefcase, she came out with a ruler and laid it so it was level with the roof of the car, intersecting Joe’s image just below shoulder level. “Compare Joe’s height to that of the car. I told you, I’ve met with him a few times, and I reckon he’s about five feet five at best.”
“I assume this is leading somewhere?” Dockerty asked. “Rather than simply commenting on how short he is.”
Denise dug into her case again, and came out with her processed stills from the building security cameras, and selected one showing the grainy image of a dark-clothed man standing alongside Joe’s car, having just got out.
“Where did you get that?” Dockerty demanded.
“If you must know, I bribed the security officer for a copy of the recording.” She chuckled. “I told you. The insurance companies are not interested in PACE.”
“Security were advised they couldn’t share that footage with anyone. It’s evidence in a potential crown prosecution, for God’s sake.”
“Yes, I know, but they’re not stupid.” Denise smiled slyly. “When I told them it could prove Joe innocent and they might be facing a lawsuit, they were only too happy to help.” Now she laughed. “Mind you, the twenty quid I dropped Todd Henshaw might have tripped the final switch.” More soberly, she went on. “Forget where I got it from, Ray, and check this out.” Again she placed the ruler so that it was in line with the car roof. This time it intersected the figure at chest height. “The angle is difficult, and the picture isn’t good, but this man is obviously a good deal taller than Joe.” Leaving everything as it was on Dockerty’s desk, she sat back. “You’ve got the wrong man, Ray.”
For a long time, Dockerty sat, staring silently at the two images. At length, he picked up the ruler, and carried out the same checks as Denise had done.
“I need our people to look into this.”
“Come on, Ray. It’s not Joe. Or do you think he was wearing ridiculous high heels like those Elton John wore as the Pinball Wizard in Tommy?”
“It doesn’t clear Murray.”
“It casts doubt on your case against him. And when you finally admit that, he’s gonna kick your arse from here to hell and back.”
Dockerty snatched up the phone and dialled. “Get me a photo genius in here. Now.” While he waited, he concentrated on Denise. “I’m not saying it’s Murray, I’m not saying it’s not Murray, but even if it isn’t him, how do we know Murray didn’t pay this man to do this?”
“You got any evidence for that?”
“No.”
“So you’d still have to free Joe.”
There was a polite knock on the door and a young officer entered. Dockerty handed him the CCTV image. “Check on the height of a Ford Ka, and then estimate the height of this man. Phone the results through to me the minute you have them. And I want them in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer left and closed the door behind him. Dockerty gazed sternly at Denise. “You are making life difficult for me… just like you did when you were a cop.”
“Yes, and I was right more than wrong then, too, wasn’t I? Come off it, Ray. You may be hard, but you’re straight. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never liked seeing an innocent man walled up. You’ve never gone for the quick kill. You never decided a man was guilty and then looked for evidence to fit the charge. You looked for the evidence first.”
“And if Joe is innocent, I’ll free him.”
***
Half an hour later, Dockerty sat with Chief Superintendent Oughton, who looked grimly from the photograph to his subordinate.
“There’s no doubt, Ray?”
“None,” Dockerty admitted. “Joe Murray is about five feet four, five feet five at best. Our preliminary estimate is that the man in this picture is about six feet six inches tall. It’s not Murray.”
As Dockerty had done previously, Oughton picked up both photographs and studied them. At length he put down the one of Joe and tapped the other as he spoke.
“Does this clear Joe from our investigation?”
“Nothing of the kind. There are too many questions left open for me to drop him.” Dockerty sighed. “But if I’d had this a few days ago, I wouldn’t have been so quick to haul him into court. Not because I’m sure of his innocence. To be perfectly frank, Don, I’ve always been doubtful. But this would have let me give him the benefit of that doubt.”
Oughton cleared his throat purposely. “Remind me. Why didn’t we ask for bail when he appeared in court?”
“You know the score as well as I do. It’s a murder charge. At the time, we were sufficiently certain of ourselves to ask for him to be remanded on suspicion. It’s not practice to release suspected killers on bail, and as I said in court, his ex-wife lives in the Canary Islands. But I also said it was no more than a minor worry. I didn’t suggest that Joe would jump on the next plane to Tenerife, and I didn’t specifically oppose bail. It was the magistrate’s decision and I wasn’t going to argue with it.”
Oughton shrugged. “What do you want me to do?”
“I know it’s Saturday, Don, but we need to move quickly on this before things deteriorate beyond our control. If you can get a magistrate and ask him to release Joe into our custody, I’ll apologise to Gemma for the rough ride I’ve given her, and send her along to the court to deal with it. Once I have Joe back here, I’ll free him on police bail.”
“A couple of points, Ray. Why didn’t we ask for extended custody here at the station?”
“First, I had almost enough evidence to charge him. Second, once again, it’s not best practice to keep a prisoner here, where we’re short on manpower, and when we’re this close to a charge.” Dockerty held up his hand, thumb and forefinger millimetres apart. “And I did tell you this before I took him to court.”
“All right. Next question, why send Gemma to ask for his release? Why not go yourself?”
“Because I’m going out to Sanford nick to collect him.”
Oughton’s eyes widened. “You know what will happen? You know how Joe will react.”
Dockerty nodded. “It’s my responsibility. I’m leading the case. If he’s going to scream at anyone, he can scream at me. I can deal with it.”
“And when he’s through screaming?”
Dockerty smiled. “Then I start to use that fine mind of his.”
“Ray—”
Dockerty interrupted again. “I said, didn’t I, that I had my doubts. I’ve run this by the book, Don, but it’s one of these where the book isn’t necessarily the best way. We both know Joe. His powers of observation aren’t just a legend, they’re a fact. If Denise Latham spotted something as tiny as this—” Dockerty waved his hand at the CCTV image “—what is Joe likely to spot? And you know as well as I, that he’ll be more than eager to shove his nose in. Anything to rub our faces in it. No, Don, now that we know this, the best place for Joe Murray is not kicking his heels in the nick, but out here pushing for the truth.”
Oughton gathered the evidence together and slipped it back into the folder, before handing it over to his subordinate. “Rather you than me. I’ll get onto the courts and see if they can find a magistrate. You carry on and brief Gemma.”
With a brisk nod, Dockerty got to his feet and left.
***
Joe stepped out of HM Prison Sanford at just after twelve noon. He had learned half an hour earlier that he was to be freed and that someone would collect him outside the prison.
He would find it hard to d
escribe the relief he felt when given the news. While having been given permission to stay in the prison library for most of the time, he had still passed another two nights in the company of the garrulous Eric Neave, and by Friday evening, his cellmate was getting on his nerves so much that he really felt like strangling the old man.
“I admit we didn’t get on too well, me and Annie, but she reckoned it were cos I spent too much time on me allotment looking after me azalea bush. I mighta bin fed up of the old sow, but I didn’t hate her enough to kill her.”
Joe felt his nerves beginning to fray, and matters got worse when Neave’s voice came out of the darkness, asking, “How about you, then? You hate the woman you murdered, did you?”
“It was man, not a woman, and yes I did hate him, but I didn’t kill him.” With that, Joe tried to sleep again.
“So what had he done to make you hate him? Criticise your garden, did he?”
“He burned down my business,” Joe said, and shut his eyes again. He also closed his mind to Neave’s rambling.
Sheila and Brenda had visited again on Friday, telling him Denise was onto something.
“We don’t know what,” Sheila said. “She hasn’t told us. But she thinks it might prove you innocent.”
“Prove me innocent, or just cast doubt on my guilt?” Joe demanded.
Brenda had replied with a weak smile. “We’re not sure.”
They passed the remainder of the hour chattering, telling him how much support he had in the community, how everyone was looking forward to seeing his name cleared and having him back behind the counter of his café, where he belonged.
When they left, Joe spent another two hours in the library, following up one of his theories, his mind worrying on the inconclusive snippets his two companions had delivered. He would believe in Denise Latham when she actually had something concrete and constructive to say.
At eleven thirty on Saturday morning, Harvey Thornton told him his release was imminent, and Joe revised his opinion of Denise.
Over the past six months, she had called into the café on a number of occasions, and were it not for the fact that she was trying to prove him guilty of burning down his old café, he would have found her quite attractive. Even through her business-like manner, she exuded the air of a fun-loving, single woman; easy and pleasant company.
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