Scorpio's Lot (48 page)

The two officers had only a brief
walk to reach Broadbents, having conveniently parked their car some five doors
down from the warehouse. The short distance provided opportunity to view some
of the preparations for the forthcoming carnival. The businesses along Covert
Road were decorating their shops in the carnival’s theme of purple, gold and
green. Doyle was astounded at the effort some people made in adorning their
buildings with ribbons and ornamentation. It was as if they were trying to
outdo each other.

A knock on the office door
prompted a meticulous-looking man to abandon his laptop duties and attend to
the enquiry. Carpenter immediately recognised him as the same person who had
assisted with the wine and food sale some days back.

‘Good afternoon, officers. Can I
be of assistance?’

‘Certainly. I’m Detective Doyle
and my colleague here is Sergeant Carpenter.’

‘Yes, I’ve met your sergeant. Was
your function a success?’

‘We had a good night, thank you,’
responded the sergeant with a blatant lie.

‘May I have your name?’ asked
Doyle.

‘Neville Bradbury. I’m the
manager of Broadbent. So what’s this all about?’

‘We have a search warrant to
investigate these premises, Mr Bradbury.’

The manager appeared shocked with
this unexpected remark. ‘Why in heaven’s name would you want a search warrant?’

‘We have it on good authority
that you are in possession of illegal goods,’ said Doyle.

Bradbury was surprisingly calm. ‘That’s
absurd, we run a legitimate business here, gentlemen. Feel free to inspect the
premises. We have nothing to hide from the authorities.’

‘We have every intention to, with
or without your cooperation,’ said a blunt John Doyle. ‘Mr Bradbury, before we
commence our search I would like a word with Travis Ferguson.’

‘Ferret - I mean Travis - did not
arrive at work today. It strikes me as somewhat odd because he’s the type of
person who would always phone in sick.’

‘How do you know he’s sick?’

‘I don’t, it’s only an
assumption.’

‘When he does arrive at work,
have him call me at the Pedley Police Station,’ instructed Doyle. ‘Now, with
regards to this search I need your attendance, Mr Bradbury, in case we have
some questions along the way.’

‘Certainly, but I’ll need someone
to cover for me in the office while we’re gone.’ Bradbury called over a
replacement. With the office now attended, the Broadbent manager turned to the
detective seeking more information. ‘And what are these illegal goods we
allegedly have in our warehouse?’

‘Read the warrant, Mr Bradbury,’
responded Doyle, passing him a copy.

‘Drugs!’ Bradbury bellowed. ‘I
assure you there are no drugs to be found on these premises.’

Doyle ignored the objection and
proceeded in the direction of the mezzanine area. Following an audit of the
food and drink segregated areas, in addition to the cold storage facility, the
inspection of the aboveground premises was a mere formality. Logic implied that
if illegal goods were to be found they would surely be stored in a more
discreet location. Dismissing the warehouse area of any foul play, Carpenter
led the small party down the cellar steps to the area where he had encountered
the unexplained noise some days back. Upon reaching the basement the two
policemen commenced their search. They initially examined each rack with its
respective selection of wine and then prodded away at the bluestone wall. They
also made an assessment of the above ceiling.

The whole process was beginning
to irritate Bradbury, to the point where he began demanding answers. ‘I’m
entitled to an explanation as to the meaning of all this.’

‘I thought that was obvious.
Reread the warrant,’ said Doyle.

‘That’s bloody ridiculous. You’ve
mistaken us for some other establishment,’ objected Bradbury.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What sort of drugs?’

‘Oh this, that and the other,’
taunted the detective.

‘And where do you propose we
could hide something like that, for God’s sake?’ remonstrated the manager, now
clearly angry with the detective’s arrogant manner.

‘That’s what we’re here to find
out.’

Quite unexpectedly and with
impeccable timing, the same dull thumping noise caught the attention of all
three men. Carpenter, in particular, was astonished to hear the repeat sound. The
direction of the noise was unmistakably the other side of the bluestone wall.

‘What was that?’ called Doyle.

‘Oh, that noise. It’s nothing.
Just a sound coming from Stamford’s next door.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Stamford’s is a tyre outlet and
occasionally you’ll hear the sound of worn-out tyres being thrown into a pit. I
often wondered what that noise could be and then realised they were simply
discarding their used products,’ explained Bradbury.

‘Thrown into a pit?’ questioned
Carpenter.

‘Yes. Stamford’s has a replica of
this cellar.’

‘So Stamford’s and Broadbent’s
share part of this original building?’

‘Yes, until Broadbent’s became a
business identity around eight years ago the whole premises operated under the
one title. Stamford’s followed us by some three years or so and their layout is
exactly the same but in reverse.’

‘Mr Bradbury, we intend to search
the total premises, so what’s at the back of the warehouse?’ said Doyle.

‘There’s a short passageway
leading to a small room behind the kitchen and toilet block. From there a
further set of steps descends to a second cellar of similar size, which we use
for archives and the storage of shop fittings or furniture pieces.’

‘Very well, Mr Bradbury, then
lead the way. This place is indeed full of surprises,’ Doyle said with a hint
of sarcasm.

Descending the second set of
steps, which like its counterpart provided a narrow steep footing with no
reassuring handrail, Doyle and Carpenter could immediately see this cellar was
indeed a replica of the other. But despite their striking similarities there
was one noticeable difference. This area was in a somewhat deteriorated
condition, mainly due to minimal maintenance through lack of use. Excluding the
timbered ceiling, bluestone and granite encompassed the entire area, where
evidence of poorly mixed mortar had been applied in the attempt to fill some
gaping cracks. The cellar had a distinct musty odour and dampness seeped from
the walls between the mortar fillings. An old set of Fowler scales and a damaged
wooden keg sat on an antique crystal cabinet that was slowly being destroyed by
condensation. In a further corner, a once-loved Singer sewing machine stood
beside a number of discarded timber wine racks that had long passed their
expiry date. The remainder of this assortment was a collection of boxes that
supposedly contained the business archives of the past seven years.

‘Mr Bradbury, would you please
open these boxes for our inspection,’ instructed Doyle.

Four randomly selected boxes were
searched. Not surprisingly, each box provided a collection of backdated
paperwork - and the odd cockroach or two. The premises appeared clean, contrary
to what Ferret had told them. To the best of Doyle’s recollection there had
been no forewarning of their intended visit, let alone the issue of a search
warrant. He concluded the Broadbent’s investigation had no unusual
circumstances to report.

‘I have one more question. Why a
second basement?’

‘I can only speculate that at
some point in time there were more but smaller dwellings on this site. I very
much doubt these basements were created to accommodate the present building.’

‘Thank you for your cooperation,
Mr Bradbury. That will be all for today. We’ll see ourselves out,’ concluded
Doyle.

~ * ~

A
short walk next door startled the proprietor of Stamford Tyres. The two
approaching policemen gave the impression they were on some sort of mission
with their lively footwork. After they displayed their badges, Doyle asked for
a short moment to inspect the area beneath the workshop.

‘Certainly, detective, but may I
ask why?’ queried the puzzled man.

‘We seek confirmation that a
certain area exists and want to know its purpose.’

The proprietor led them to the
spot that Bradbury had called the pit. The hole in the ground was fenced off
for obvious safety reasons and it was immediately apparent that what the
warehouse manager had claimed was factual. Beneath a retractable gate was a
series of steps descending to the basement where numerous discarded tyres were
accumulating. It was a mirror image of Broadbent’s.

‘Tell me, does a second basement
exist on these premises?’ asked Carpenter.

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘Just a routine question.’

‘Thank you for your time in
helping us clear up a matter,’ acknowledged Doyle to a bewildered proprietor as
they departed the premises.

After returning to their car,
Doyle pondered the situation. Why had Ferret been so adamant about drugs on the
premises? Why had he not phoned through to his employer to inform them of his
absence? Would he be home? If not, where is he? Who could possibly support
Ferret’s story? This circle of questions yielded no answers and yet one
possibility remained - if Ferret’s whereabouts continued to be shrouded in
mystery then they would visit Hassan, Ferret’s accomplice in the street trade.

‘Sergeant, forgive my silence,’
Doyle said to Carpenter, ‘but I’ve just been thinking through all the possible
scenarios. Contact the station and ask them for the home address of Ferret and
Hassan. Were about to knock on some doors.’

The station responded with the
information and they decided that Ferret would be the first point of call.

A knock at the front entrance,
followed by some repeated doorbell rings, resulted in no one coming forth to
greet them. Carpenter decided to check the backyard area and rear entry,
despite the persistent barking coming from the resident corgi. Returning to his
colleague’s side, he informed Doyle that the house was locked and there was no
sign of Ferret. The guy had obviously taken a sicky and bolted off somewhere,
perhaps to enjoy the favourable outdoor weather.

A nosy neighbour appeared from
the boundary fence as they were retreating to their vehicle. She was a
middle-aged woman of foreign extraction sucking on a smoke that was firmly
wedged between her lips and wearing a full set of hair rollers. Without
removing her cigarette she let out a blatantly obvious remark.

‘He’s not home.’

‘Were well aware of that, ma’am,’
said Doyle.

‘He hasn’t been home since last
night.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘I saw him drive out around ten
and his car wasn’t in the driveway this morning. Not much gets pass me!’

‘I’m sure it doesn’t,’ responded
the detective, ‘Well, thank you for your time, ma’am.’

Carpenter took the wheel and
headed in the direction of 23 Anderson Street, residential address of Ferret’s
friend Hassan. It was only some two blocks away and still in what many would
consider the old part of town.

Hassan’s house was the height of
activity, having already accumulated five parked cars. The behaviour from
within suggested the occupants were attending some family function. In their
approach to the front entrance, Doyle and Carpenter heard Middle Eastern music,
including an attempt from certain male participants to sing along in tune. A
woman of around fifty years, who was perhaps Hassan’s mother, answered the
front door.