Danny’s Dry Cleaner’s was at the start of the Bath Road, near Bristol Temple Meads station. It was garishly coloured – bright pink, with pink delivery vans parked outside. According to Danny Stokes, he’d had an epiphany when visiting Hollywood and using Milt & Edie’s dry cleaning service in Burbank. Efficient, big, friendly, and with six service points, there was nothing like this in the south-west of England, if indeed in England at all. He had basically copied the American one.
Danny regaled the two detectives with this story as soon as they came in. ‘I should have paid Milt and Edie something. Do I feel guilty? Hell no! Under-promise and over-deliver is our motto here,’ he said, spouting a well-honed patter and routine. He was a short man, maybe just over five feet tall. ‘What I lack in height, I make up for in personality. Is it true that our counters are a good six inches shorter than the normal? No. I use a box!’
He was wearing sharply pressed suit trousers with an open white shirt. His neck was weighed down with gold jewellery, chains, his initials and a pair of glasses on a gold chain. His wrists were similarly adorned, together with a gold Rolex. His hair had that artificial look favoured by ageing rock stars, who dyed their locks an improbably dark shade of black in a desperate attempt to hang onto their youth. Stokes’s hair was also incredibly fine and had been subjected to the kind of tight perm that had been fashionable in the sixties with churchgoing women of a certain age.
The front of the shop had a long counter with six customer-service points. No one had to wait long to be served. As soon as a new customer entered the shop a light went on above one of the stations. The customer was politely asked to go to it over a loudspeaker. Then the number of the station was announced and someone miraculously dropped whatever they were doing and came to serve. Behind the counter, suspended from the ceiling, was a moving carousel from which hung polythene-covered laundry. This fascinated Cross.
They followed Danny up to an old man of similar stature to him, busily doing alterations at a worktable. He wore an old editor’s shade with a green see-through peak. He didn’t look up as they approached, but carried on with his work diligently.
‘This is my father. He used to own the business, till I bought him out. He’s still a little pissed off about it,’ Danny said, laughing.
‘I think he is,’ observed Cross.
‘No, he’s not. That was a joke, Detective. He had to sell to look after my mother,’ Danny said defiantly.
‘Well, I’m not surprised he has an air of resentment about him. Firstly that he had to sell and secondly that he has to work for his son, who takes delight in pointing out to any strangers who pass by that he employs his father,’ said Cross matter-of-factly.
Danny’s tone shifted audibly. ‘This way,’ he muttered.
But Cross had spotted something that interested him.
‘Do you mind if I have a look at the shirt-pressing system?’
Danny was naturally taken aback.
‘Sure, of course. You too?’ he said to Ottey.
‘No, I’m good. Is there somewhere we can talk?’ she said.
‘Let’s go to my office.’ Danny watched as Cross walked over to the pressing machine, then indicated that Ottey should follow him upstairs.
Danny’s office was on a mezzanine level and overlooked the work floor. It had slanted windows that were one-way mirrors. He could see everything going on on the shop floor, but no-one could see back into his domain. The walls of the office were covered with photographs of celebrities, mostly minor TV and radio personalities. All were signed with grateful messages to ‘Danny’. He himself was in quite a few of them, one arm around the celebrity proprietorially. There were also dozens of pictures of him with different beautiful young women, most of whom dwarfed him in height. He had a large desk with an even larger leather chair, which he sank into as Ottey sat opposite him.
‘Terrible news about Flick,’ he said immediately. ‘I’m not surprised, just sad really.’
‘What aren’t you surprised about?’ asked Ottey.
‘That she started using again. Such a terrible thing, addiction,’ he said ruefully.
‘What makes you think she started using again?’
‘I only know what I read in the papers. We had our differences but I wished her all the best.’
‘Differences?’ said Ottey. ‘She was suing you for wrongful dismissal.’
‘I was just trying to be respectful, Detective. Poor girl. I bear no grudges,’ he said.
Ottey took a breath. She was annoyed by the man, but didn’t want to show it.
‘Wrongful dismissal and sexual harassment.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ sighed Danny.
‘That sounds fairly dismissive.’
‘Because I am. It’s all fiction. Made up. Sure, there were a couple of misunderstandings, but it happens here all the time. Far too often,’ he said.
‘Well, aren’t you the one who could put a stop to it?’ said Ottey.
‘What? I didn’t do anything. It’s always the same and I’m beginning to lose patience.’
‘With what?’ asked Ottey.
His tone became indignant. ‘Trying to help. Who else would take these girls on and give them a chance? Most of them have criminal records. Where are they going to get a job? I’m trying to put them back on track and this is what I get in return.’
‘What?’ asked Ottey.
‘False accusations. Fabrications. Thinking I’m fair game. They make it all up and I’m getting to the point where I’ve had enough.’
‘But you’ve settled with,’ Ottey consulted her notes, unnecessarily, ‘five of them. Why? If you had nothing to hide?’
‘Because I’m a businessman. I don’t have time for these distractions. It’s easier just to make them go away.’
‘But Flick Wilson wouldn’t go away.’
‘No, she wouldn’t. Not that it matters anymore,’ he said. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong. Why are you here? You haven’t told me why you’re here.’
‘I haven’t had a chance,’ said Ottey.
‘Yeah, sorry about that. Once a salesman always a salesman, I suppose. Tell me something. Is it true that plain-clothes police always have a change of clothes in their offices? Clean shirts and the like in case they work overnight?’
Once more, Ottey didn’t have time to answer before he went on, ‘So here’s what I was thinking. A shirt service for you guys at the office. I could do a pick-up once or twice a week, twenty-four-hour turnaround. You’d never be short of clean laundry. We could leave you each with a bag; you wouldn’t have to do a thing – just put it in the bag. Here,’ he handed her a card, ‘that’s my mobile there. You can call me direct if there are any problems.’
‘The reason we’re here—’ Ottey began.
‘Think about it,’ the dry cleaner interrupted, looking at his business card, which had remained on the desk. ‘No rush, but we are the best shirt service in Bristol. No one else comes close. And of course we can offer you a special discount.’
‘Mr Stokes, we’re here on a serious matter,’ Ottey pointed out.
‘So it would seem,’ was his reply, as he watched Cross on the floor below, examining the shirt presses as carefully as he might a crime scene.
*
There were three separate presses, operated by a young man and two women. The first was an undulating press where they did the collars and cuffs, two shirts at a time. This was followed by two cylinders over which the operators draped the sleeves, and they were then pressed. Finally came a machine which looked like a flat shirt cut out of metal. The shirt was placed over this and pressed.
Cross was always fascinated by machines like this, probably something he’d inherited from his father, a retired engineer. He was intrigued by the carousel delivery system when he discovered that it was controlled by a computer. The assistant took the customer’s receipt and scanned it, and the carousel spun round and presented the corresponding piece of laundry. If more than one assistant was using it, it would automatically place them in a queue. Cross loved the efficiency of it, and the truth was that he was an obsessive ironer. He ironed everything, even his bed sheets. But it was the ironing of his shirts that filled him with immense satisfaction.
It wasn’t long before he was asking the young laundry workers whether they used starch on the collars or whether there was no need with this wondrous machine. Did they need to dampen the shirts first? They thought he was making fun of them initially, but when it became clear he was genuinely interested, they replied with enthusiasm. It seemed that Cross had, quite unintentionally, made their day by taking an interest in their work. The highlight for them was when he took his coat off and asked if he could have a go. Much to his satisfaction, he pressed a white shirt perfectly. He was really pleased, but they couldn’t tell, as his face was a picture of intense concentration.
During this exercise he had noticed that one of the young girls was made nervous by his presence. She hadn’t joined in with the good-humoured laughter of the others at his shirt-pressing efforts. She was extremely thin, like an underfed sparrow, with dark shadows under her eyes. She smiled with strained politeness, averting her eyes to the floor when he thanked her for showing him her part in the process. Just before he left the shop floor he turned his back to Danny’s office and, making sure that no one else was looking, presented her with his card. She looked at it, then back up at him, but he said nothing. She quickly snatched the card from him and stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans.
*
‘Flick Wilson was murdered,’ said Ottey.
‘What? I thought she overdosed,’ said Danny.
‘She did. But it wasn’t self-administered.’
Danny thought for a moment then began shaking his head.
‘No, no, you’ve got this all wrong,’ he protested. ‘She was an addict. She fell off the wagon. Where’d you come up with this? How is that even possible? Unless there was a struggle. Was there a struggle?’
‘I can’t divulge that information,’ Ottey replied.
‘Look, it’s tragic, but you guys are barking up the wrong tree. Is it the mother? Is she the one who wound you up? She’s a right nutter, that one.’
Ottey thought this was interesting, because no one could fairly describe Sandra as a ‘nutter’. In all their dealings with her, even when no one was listening, she maintained her equanimity and dignity.
‘Where were you on the night of Tuesday the seventeenth of June?’ Ottey asked.
There was a pause, then he laughed. But before he could reply, Cross walked in.
‘Quite the operation you have here, Mr Stokes. Very impressive,’ he said.
Danny looked at him, unsure how to react. Was the detective taking the piss? Was he trying to get him off guard? He just couldn’t work it out. He opened his computer and looked at his calendar.
‘I was working, obviously. I always work. Some people call me a workaholic, but what can you do if you happen to love what you do?’
‘June the seventeenth,’ Ottey reiterated.
‘I don’t know. At home probably,’ he said.
‘Is there a Mrs Stokes?’ Ottey asked.
‘Nope. Never been married. Never wanted kids. Bit of a ladies’ man, if truth be told.’ He winked at her.
‘In the circumstances I’d call that an unwise description, Mr Stokes,’ said Cross.
‘It’s just a bit of harmless fun.’
‘Is that what you told the girls who were taking you to the tribunal for harassment?’ Cross continued.
‘There was only one girl taking me to a tribunal,’ Danny said.
‘Who is now dead,’ said Cross. ‘Quite convenient, some might say.’
‘Like I said – she had no case.’
‘Not according to her lawyer,’ said Ottey.
‘Even if she had a case, which she didn’t, it was an employment tribunal. Who in their right mind would kill someone to prevent that happening? It’s not worth it,’ he said.
‘That could imply that you’ve thought about it. Weighed up the odds,’ said Cross.
‘I have never thought about killing anyone. I’m a dry cleaner, for God’s sake.’
‘A dry cleaner with no alibi for the night of the murder,’ said Ottey.
‘True, but I don’t need one because I didn’t do it,’ he said.
‘Everyone needs an alibi in a murder case, Mr Stokes. I wouldn’t underestimate the importance of that if I were you,’ said Cross.
*
Back in the car Ottey turned to Cross.
‘So what did you learn?’ she asked.
‘That a domestic iron is never going to be a match for an industrial shirt press, no matter how hard you try,’ Cross said.
‘From the employees,’ she said.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he replied.
This puzzled her, as she couldn’t figure out whether he was holding something back. She thought it must mean that on this occasion he actually had been interested in the mechanics of the dry cleaning operation. He really was a puzzle at times.