“Stewart, we’ve got a major problem. I need you over on Cross Bank Road in Batley. The local butcher’s discovered a body on the doorstep of his premises.”
“But I’m already on a case at the moment, sir.”
“I know you are, but the corpse outside the butcher’s is directly connected to your case.”
“Why? Who is it?”
“Barry Morrison.”
Chapter Eight
They found the block of shops within minutes of leaving Hume Crescent. Traffic had been kind to them. Reilly parked the pool car on a side road between the shops and a set of garages. Both officers jumped out.
Colin Sharp pulled up behind. Gardener barked orders to him and the SOCOs to start cordoning off the area.
“I’m going for a walk around the garages,” said Reilly.
“Okay.”
They both knew from past experience that murderers often returned to the scene of the crime, or, in some cases, never left. If anyone should be hanging around, the Irishman would find him. Or her.
Gardener sighed. He had no spare scene suit, so he had no choice but to risk contaminating the scene. He approached the shop. The corpse was, as described, propped up in the doorway. Standing to the left of the door was the man Gardener took to be the butcher. He clearly wanted to be anywhere but there. He was rail thin and extremely pale. Gardener doubted seeing the corpse would have done that to him. Being a butcher, he had to be used to seeing and handling death every day.
As a matter of procedure, the SIO felt for a pulse. There was none. He glanced around. Four businesses shared the block with the butcher’s: a takeaway, a sports shop, a hairdresser, and a newsagent. Each shop had accommodations above; it was more than likely some of the shopkeepers lived in them. He spotted a CCTV camera on a wall at the end. Surrounding the block in every direction was row upon row of council flats, which would hopefully mean witnesses. It wouldn’t be an easy task hunting them down, however.
Reilly arrived on the scene. “All clear.”
Gardener turned to the butcher. “Is this how you found him?”
“I’m not sure I actually found him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I were late for work this morning, first time in years.”
“What time do you normally start?”
“Four-thirty.”
“And this morning?” Gardener asked.
“It were after five. I parked up round the back, came round the corner, and these two blokes were laughing and joking. Reckoned I had a delivery on my doorstep and made some remark about my pies.”
“Did you know them?”
“No. But if they’re here at this time every morning, I wouldn’t see ’em. I open up at four-thirty, go straight into the back and start cooking, so I’ve no chance of seeing ’em pass at five.”
“Did they wear a uniform you might recognize? Bus driver, British Rail?”
“Boiler suits, boots, and flat caps. I reckon they’re in engineering, and there’s plenty of firms around here.”
Gardener thought he might strike lucky with a press appeal for witnesses. Another option would be to post a wooden top outside the shop every m
orning for a week at the same time, see if it proved lucrative. Other than that, it was going to be bloody hard legwork covering everywhere within a two-mile radius, which would be about as wide as it needed to be if they were walking to work.
“So, what happened next?” asked Reilly.
“Well, I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about, so I marched straight over to the shop. I were hoping the place were still in one piece and hadn’t been attacked by vandals.”