Their footsteps in the otherwise quiet marquee were enough to draw the attention of the people gathered around the mixing machine. A man in a suit, one of a pair of detectives, murmured something to one of the uniformed officers. Albert guessed it was instructions to send the two men and the dog away or to corral them into a safe space so they could be questioned later, but Beefy, his head rising above that of everyone else, spotted Albert too.
‘He’s with us,’ he announced loudly to stop the police officer from turning Albert, Gary, and Rex away. Then, ignoring the police around him, he detached himself from the crowd and came toward Albert. ‘You’re not going to believe what happened.’ Beefy looked terrified; his face was white and for good reason since he’d threatened to do exactly what had happened just a couple of hours ago.
‘That’s Brian in the mixer and he’s dead?’ Albert hazarded.
Beefy’s forehead wrinkled, ‘Um, yeah,’ he said, surprised. However, Albert’s guess was heard by everyone, not least of which was the detectives, who turned his way.
‘We just found him like that,’ said one of the bakers - a man, but too far away for Albert to see who.
‘And you are, sir?’ asked one of the detectives, detaching himself from the group around the mixer with Brian’s feet poking from it.
Reaching the front of the gathered people, Albert tugged Rex’s lead to make him stop. Focussing his eyes on the detective who spoke, a man nearing fifty with a pot belly and thinning hair, Albert extended his hand. ‘Albert Smith, a former detective superintendent from Kent. I’m on the team attempting the world record tomorrow. I saw the squad cars outside and thought I’d better come to investigate.’ Then he made a half turn to bring Gary into the conversation. ‘This is my son, Gary Smith. He’s a serving detective superintendent from the Metropolitan police. He could do with a hand if someone has a first aid kit handy.’
Handshakes were exchanged, a professional courtesy on the part of the York detectives who were sergeants called Heaton and Calin. Heaton, the elder with the pot belly was a short Caucasian man reaching barely five and a half feet. His partner, Calin was Indian or perhaps Bangladeshi; Albert could not be more exact than that, but they had responded when the suspicious death was reported, arriving moments after the first squad car.
‘You are familiar with the victim?’ Calin asked.
Albert was by himself while Gary had his head looked at. They were standing just a few feet from the legs sticking almost straight upright out of the mixer. It was a macabre scene, yet the body needed to remain in place until evidence could be gathered.
‘I met him just a few hours ago,’ Albert revealed. ‘I only arrived in York last night. My son got in just after lunchtime today.’
Calin had a notebook in his hand, poised to take note of what Albert might have to say, and paused to raise an eyebrow. ‘How is it you come to be on the team of bakers?’ he wanted to know. ‘If you only arrived last night.’
Albert took a few moments to regale the detective with the story of Alan Crystal’s failed mugging, the serendipitous meeting outside the museum and the events that followed.
Detective Sergeant Calin nodded along, making notes as he went. ‘Mr Pumphrey was against the world record attempt?’
Albert sighed for there was an important detail he’d knowingly omitted. He was on the other side of the police investigation now and understood first-hand what it was like to want to be convenient with the truth. When he failed to respond to DS Calin’s question, the detective looked up from his notebook.
Albert knew he was about to be prompted for an answer, so he told him what he should have said already. ‘There was a verbal altercation a few hours ago. It involved Mr Pumphrey and most of the bakers.’ Albert paused, organising the words in his head because he wanted to paint the picture correctly. DS Calin was seasoned enough to wait patiently. ‘One of the bakers … his shirt has the name Beefy written on it.’
‘I know which one he is,’ DS Calin assured Albert.
Albert blew out a frustrated breath. ‘Mr Pumphrey tried to pull the plug on the record attempt and tempers got a little frayed.’ Albert could not come up with a way to put a positive spin on what he had to say next. ‘Beefy threatened to stuff Mr Pumphrey into the mixer.’
DS Calin wrote down what Albert told him word for word, then closed his notebook. ‘I see. I think perhaps I ought to have a chat with Mr Botham.’
‘I don’t think he did it,’ Albert got in quickly.
DS Calin gave him the one raised eyebrow again. ‘And why is that? From what you just told me, he had motive, and opportunity.’
‘He’s a baker. His threat was made in the heat of the moment when he thought Mr Pumphrey was going to scupper their work. The threat was nullified.’
‘By you,’ DS Calin pointed out.
Albert nodded. ‘Yes, by me. Beefy had no reason to harm Mr Pumphrey.’
DS Calin cut his eyes at the mixer with the feet still sticking from the top of it. ‘Yet he came to harm anyway, Mr Smith. Someone stuffed him into the mixer and even though Mr Pumphrey looks to be a small man, it would take more than one person to lift him and shove him in there. Or perhaps …’ he turned his head to look at Beefy, ‘just one rather large man.’ Albert could not easily form an argument against the detective’s logic. If their roles were reversed, he would be presenting the same argument. ‘Thank you, Mr Smith,’ the detective said, rising to his feet. He left
