“Jealous?” Joseph looked up. “Why jealous?”
“His promotion. Man had a new role and everything. They were putting him in charge of a lot of people who had been there before him.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Ray asked angrily.
“You mean when you were arresting us all for smoking a bit of ganja? Man, in my experience, in those situations it’s best just to sit tight and say nothing. Lord knows what would happen otherwise.”
Ray looked as if he wanted to argue the toss with Vincent for a moment, but he held his tongue, keeping to the plan. “What did they promote him to?”
“Ah now, that I don’t totally know. He told me, but of course, we had been celebrating. Had a fair lot of rum that night.”
“Anything else?”
“Come on, officer, are you trying to get me to incriminate myself? I swear, all the cigarettes I smoked, they were from a proper shop, in a proper packet. I never touch any of that other stuff,” Vincent mocked, the cooperation gone, replaced by anger, directed at them.
“Don’t give me cause to start looking for a reason to arrest you,” Ray warned.
“Again?” Vincent fired back.
“I’m not interested in being the whipping boy for whatever grievance you have against whoever it might be,” Ray tried to avoid being sucked into the argument. “I’m just trying to solve a murder.”
“That’s it, though, isn’t it? That’s all you’re trying to do. Not stop them. Solve them. You do it the other way around and everyone would love you.”
“Oh, look for heaven’s sake, this isn’t a debating chamber, it’s me asking you for help to find out who killed your friend and why.” Ray sounded exasperated. He walked to the window and looked outside, hands thrust into his pockets.
“Was there anyone else who might have known about the promotion?” Joseph stepped in, trying to be the voice of reason for both of them.
“I’m sure Hubert and Errol did. I mean he flashed that letter around all over the place.”
“What letter?” Joseph asked.
“His letter of promotion from the head office.”
“He had it here?”
Vincent laughed. “Oh Lord, of course. The letter. Man, Gerald would have got that framed if he had the chance, I swear. He put it in with all the other paperwork, which is…” he gestured down to the pile that remained strewn across the floor.
Joseph bent down and started to search through the paperwork, passing over bills, application rejections and all manner of other handwritten letters that had travelled much further than he ever had in his life. Vincent joined in with the search whilst Ray turned back to them and watched. Finally, Joseph found it.
“Here we go.” He brandished the letter, standing as he began to read. “Dear Mr Trainer, etc., etc.” He skipped over the less relevant bits. “Here we are. ‘We’re delighted to confirm that starting January 1st, 1966, you will be receiving a promotion to the role of warehouse deputy manager.’”
“Sounds like he was about to become Derek’s number two,” Ray said. “Funny he never mentioned it.”
“Hold on,” Joseph kept reading. “’We will be writing to let Mr Nadderley know of the arrangement in due course. For the time being if you would be so kind as to keep news of this promotion to yourself, we would be most grateful.’ Seems that he might not have known yet.”
“When was the letter dated?”
“November 3rd.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Vincent said. “He got the letter Friday night. That’s when we had the drinks to celebrate.”
“You reckon that’s enough time for anyone at the docks to have found out?” Ray looked at Joseph.
“Could have been,” Joseph replied. “I mean, he may well have let slip at work. Someone doesn’t like it and decides to take the matter into their own hands that night.”
Ray turned to Vincent. “We’re going to have to take this letter as evidence.”
“Of course,” Vincent replied, his tone cordial once more. Maybe he thought that they were all pulling in the same direction again, or just happy to have said his piece. One of the lessons that Joseph had learned in policing was that sometimes people didn’t need to feel that you were doing something, just that they’d told you.
*
“Looks like we’re getting the picture of a motive then,” Ray said. “But is it enough to kill for; getting passed over for a promotion?”
“Not just passed over,” Joseph reminded him. “Passed over for a coloured chap. That would be the biggest slap in the face going for some people.”
“Well, in that case, we just need to work out who’s the biggest racist down at the docks, then we’ve got our man.” Ray smiled as he said it, probably meaning it as some sort of light-hearted joke. Joseph laughed, more out of nervousness than anything else. But at least he’d laughed, he told himself silently.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” WPC Small appeared at their desks. She had a small brown folder tucked under her arm. “I’ve managed to dig up some information on Mr Trainer’s life back home in Barbados.”
“I didn’t even know he was from Barbados,” Ray said, turning to face her.
“What did we learn?” Joseph hadn’t known either, but his shame stopped him from admitting it.
“He grew up in Christ Church on the south of the island. Went to school there, got a job straight after leaving. He moved to Bridgetown not long after and began working at the docks there. He did well, got promoted very quickly to a foreman role and helped with its expansion in the late 1950s, up until it opened in 1961. He continued to work in Bridgetown until January 1963 when he moved to London.”
“Did he have any family?”
“Brothers and sisters. They’ve been informed of his passing. His parents passed a few years back. His two sisters remained in Barbados. The three brothers, Gerald included, came to the UK. One returned home, the other is working in Bristol at the docks.”
