The Fruit Gum Murders Page 5

  ‘Well, he hasn’t turned up.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I do know he was taken up with something.’

  Angel frowned. ‘What do you mean, lad? Speak plainly.’

  ‘I mean he was busy with something.’

  Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘We’re all busy with something,’ he said. ‘Or we should be. I wanted him at the Feathers. He must think this place is Alton Towers.’

  ‘I can try him on his mobile again, sir.’

  ‘Please do that,’ he said. Then he stomped out of the CID office, crossing to his own office, which was the door almost opposite.

  Angel had hardly time to sit down, switch on the desk light and pull the pile of papers on his desk towards him when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  Crisp swaggered in looking amazingly bright and cheerful.

  Angel glared at him with a face like thunder.

  ‘There you are, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘I’ve just been to the Feathers, I was told you wanted to see me there.’

  Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘I did. That was more than two hours ago! Where the hell have you been?’

  Crisp blinked. ‘Well, sir, I got a tip-off that Harry “the hatchet” Harrison had been seen in the Fisherman’s Rest on Canal Road last night and was actually staying at the King George hotel, on Main Street, with a girl. So I was investigating that. I’d been down to—’

  ‘Why didn’t you report it to me?’

  ‘Because I knew you were busy with the triple nine at the Feathers.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it? I sent out a message for you to join me at the scene.’

  ‘Well, I knew that Flora would be there with you, sir. And I was sure you’d agree that such a tip had to be followed up promptly.’

  ‘It probably did need following up promptly, but that would have been a decision I would have had to make. We all want to see Harrison behind bars, but you know he is rarely seen. Anonymous tip-offs are particularly unreliable and usually come when it is too late to act on them. Anyway, where did the tip come from?’

  ‘On the phone, sir. I don’t know who. I couldn’t trace his number back because he’d put a block on it.’

  ‘Didn’t you recognize the voice?’

  ‘It was nobody I knew – or could recognize anyway.’

  Angel looked at him slyly. ‘Not one of your private clique of snouts?’

  Policemen were no longer permitted their personal and private informants. It was supposed to prevent dishonest officers defrauding the taxpayer. Cash handouts of that sort had to be declared, and a careful note of the snout’s name, address, time, the information received and the amount of cash handed over was held in a book. Of course, this did not entirely work as it should, and there were plenty of ways an astute policeman could sidetrack the account.

  Crisp said, ‘That’s against the rules, sir, and you know that like you, sir, I would never do anything that was against the rules.’

  He looked straight into Crisp’s eyes. There was a dig in there somewhere that made Angel think.

  ‘Well, what did you find out, then?’ he said.

  ‘I wasn’t able to confirm what the informant had said, and Harrison – if it had been him – and his girlfriend had booked out of the King George minutes before I got there.’

  Angel frowned. ‘What do you mean, “if it had been him”?’

  ‘Yes, well, the witnesses were … uncertain, sir.’

  ‘You can get some good pictures of him from Records at the NPC. You could have shown them to them.’

  ‘I know, but as the man had now gone, I didn’t think it was worth spending any more time on them. I’d spent more than an hour on this … and I knew you expected me … and, by this time, I had heard that this was definitely a murder case—’

  ‘All right, lad, let’s be practical. Do you think there’s a possible lead to the whereabouts of Harrison if I left you to pursue it?’

  Crisp curled his lips as he thought, then he shook his head and said, ‘He’s probably covered his tracks most carefully.’

  Angel nodded. ‘I would think that he probably has. In which case, let’s get on with the case in hand. And don’t go wandering off like that. If I tell you to be somewhere, in future, be there.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right, lad. Have you ever been to Glasgow?’

  FIVE

  Angel was struggling to reduce the pile of letters, reports and other police service paperwork that was forever arriving on his desk. At that present moment, he was trying to read and grasp the relevance to crime detection of a booklet, one of many, that had recently arrived in the post. On the cover in red in bold print it said: ‘To be circulated to all senior police officers.’ That wasn’t unusual. All sorts of mumbo-jumbo arrived on his desk with statements of that sort clearly marked on them. This particular one was entitled, ‘Home Office study relating to the proposal of granting voting rights of prisoners at UK General Elections.’

  The Town Hall clock struck 5.00 p.m. He heard it and gladly closed the booklet, tossed it into the wastepaper basket, stood up, reached out for his coat and left the office.

  He arrived home a few minutes later.

  When Angel let himself in through the back door, Mary was in the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘Had a good day?’

  He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Got a phone call from a friend of yours,’ he said as he hung his coat up in the hall cupboard.

  ‘Who was that?’ she said as she peered into the oven.

  ‘The exalted and almighty, Mrs Mackenzie,’ he said as he came back into the kitchen.

  Mary smiled. ‘She’s not exactly my friend. What did she have to say?’

  ‘She rang up to say that Lady Muick’s necklace had been safely returned,’ he said as he opened the fridge and took out a can of German beer.

  Her eyebrows went up. ‘Oh, that is good news, isn’t it? Who returned it? Had it been stolen, then?’

  ‘It had been stolen all right,’ he said as he opened the cupboard and took out a glass tumbler. ‘I don’t know who took it, but it was returned by post, anonymously.’

  ‘Are you sure it had been stolen?’

  He poured out the beer. ‘It wouldn’t have been returned like that if it had been genuinely found. The finder would have wanted the glory, and possibly a reward, from Lady Muick.’

  She frowned as she stirred the thickener into the gravy. ‘No. I see.’ She stirred vigorously, then said, ‘Will you set the table, love?’

  Angel put down the glass. ‘Yeah, what we having?’

  ‘Shepherd’s pie and cabbage. And fresh strawberries, the first this season. And ice cream.’

  It sounded good. He nodded, opened the dresser drawer, took out four table mats and began sorting out the cutlery. ‘Is there any post?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing important,’ she said. ‘Don’t bother with that now, I’m just about to serve up.’

  She opened the oven and peered inside. ‘It’s ready,’ she said. She glanced round the table to check it. ‘Better get the salt. You might need it.’

  Angel rummaged round the cupboard, found it and put it on the table.

  Mary then turned the gas rings and the oven off and said, ‘Sit down now, love. I’m serving up.’

  After the meal, while Mary cleared away and made the coffee, Angel went into the sitting room. He looked on the sideboard for the post. There was no sign of any envelopes or post of any kind. There was, however, a pot figure of an animal or creature of some kind, that took his eye. He had not seen it before. He picked it up, then turned it upside down to see if there were any maker’s mark or labels that might indicate what it was or where it had come from. It had four legs and one
head, and was a dirty yellowish-brown colour.

  He could hear Mary banging pans around in the kitchen and slamming cupboard doors.

  ‘What’s this on the sideboard?’ he called.

  ‘What? Oh, that. Isn’t it nice? It’s a present from Libby Copley, next door. It’s from Tanzania, I expect. It’s a sort of thank-you for looking after their house while they were away.’

  He frowned, put it down and sat down in his favourite chair.

  ‘All you did was feed their goldfish and take in a parcel from Damart,’ he said.

  ‘I know, but it’s a very nice thought,’ she said, arriving with two mugs of coffee. She put them on the library table next to him.

  He picked his up and said, ‘Thank you.’ He took a sip and added, ‘But what is it exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s an animal.’

  ‘What sort of an animal?’

  ‘An animal. It’s a four-legged animal. You’re so used to asking questions, you’ve started being a policeman at home.’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question, Mary: what sort of an animal is it? Is it a dog, a cat, a horse, or what?’

  ‘I have no idea. Looks a bit like a hippopotamus.’

  ‘It’s nothing like a hippopotamus. They are grey, not that sickly browny-greeny-yellowy colour. It looks more like a lump of clay the potter had left over that somehow got into the kiln.’ He took a sip of the coffee. ‘Where are you going to keep it?’

  ‘It’s probably very valuable … an antique from the Ming dynasty or something like that.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I can just see that, Mrs Liberty Bodice Copley giving you a ten-million-pound antique ornament for feeding their goldfish, Ernie, for two weeks.’

  Mary breathed out impatiently, then shook her head. ‘Look in the Radio Times and see if there’s anything on tonight, Michael,’ she said.

  ‘By the way, where’s the post?’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. She was hoping he had forgotten about that. She stood up, went into the kitchen and returned with a brown envelope, which she gave to him.

  As soon as he saw it, his eyes flashed. ‘It’s from the gas people,’ he said and he tore into the envelope.

  ‘That’s why you’ve been holding it back,’ he said. ‘I thought you were up to something.’

  ‘I wanted you to enjoy your tea and not get all worked up,’ she said.

  He wasn’t listening. He read the letter very quickly then looked up at her. ‘It starts all sweetness and cosy-cosy. Listen: “Dear Mr Angel, our energy tariffs are changing.” Why don’t they say outright that their prices are going up? They are putting them up by five per cent. They put them up ten per cent only six months ago. But they say they’ll still be cheaper than most of the other energy suppliers.’

  ‘It’ll be the same for everybody else, love.’

  ‘But we’re not everybody else, Mary.’

  ‘There’ll be others a lot worse off than us.’

  ‘Aye, and there’ll be those who are a lot better off than us as well.’

  ‘Well look, is there anything we can do about it?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll have to use less gas.’

  Mary shook her head.

  They sat in silence for a few seconds, then Mary grabbed the Radio Times and said, ‘Well, do you want to watch television or not?’

  He wrinkled his nose, pushed the letter into its envelope and tossed it onto the library table. ‘What’s on?’ he said as he reached out for the television remote and switched on the set.

  Up came the picture of a pretty woman newsreader. ‘… And that’s the international news,’ she said. ‘And now the latest in the UK … a 28-year-old man was found dead in a hotel in the market town of Bromersley. The man has been identified as Norman Robinson, a single man, who originally lived in the town and had been living in Glasgow. He was apparently visiting his home town for one night only. We understand that the cause of death is not yet known, but foul play is suspected. The police have their top homicide detective investigating the case.’

  ‘That’s you, darling,’ Mary said with a smile.

  The newsreader went on ‘… The cost of gas is set to rise another five per cent in the autumn.’

  Angel’s knuckles turned white. ‘We know!’ he yelled as he ran his hand through his hair.

  Mary quickly said, ‘There’s a repeat of an episode of Bad Girls. Do you want to see that?’

  His face brightened. ‘Yeah.’

  Mary smiled.

  It was 8.28 a.m. the following morning, Tuesday the 4th of June. Angel was in his office at his desk when the phone rang. It was Dr Mac.

  ‘Am I too early for ye, Michael?’ the Scotsman said. ‘I was burning the midnight oil and I’m therefore in a position to tell you a few facts about the deceased, Norman Robinson.’

  ‘Fire away, Mac. I am all ears.’

  ‘Aye, well the young man died from asphyxia, that’s certain.’

  Angel thought that that was odd. ‘That’s smothering, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Suffocation?’

  ‘Well, yes. It could be. However, in this instance there are no marks round the mouth and nose. I would have expected to find bruising or pressure marks on the skin if that had been the case. A constriction in the throat would be another explanation.’

  ‘You mean like choking on a chicken bone or something?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no signs of that either. I have examined the larynx and the throat most carefully. They are in perfect condition. The inhalation of smoke is another possibility, but there were no signs of smoke at the scene. Also it is not inhalation of carbon monoxide from a gas leak or from a car exhaust.’

  ‘Well, what is it, then?’

  ‘Put simply, it is oxygen deficiency. But there are many possible reasons for it. I thought at first it was a consequence of poisoning … but there is absolutely no trace in the blood. There are all sorts of thoughts in my mind, Michael. It is possible, of course, that if the victim was weak or had been drinking substantial amounts of alcohol or been heavily drugged that he could simply have been murdered by “burking”.’

  ‘“Burking”?’ Angel said. ‘And what’s that, Mac? Or have you just made it up?’

  ‘Indeed I hav’na’ made it up,’ Mac said. ‘That is the term often ascribed to a killing method that involves simultaneous smothering and compression of the torso. The term “burking” comes from the method William Burke and William Hare used to kill their victims during the West Port murders. They killed the usually intoxicated victims by sitting on their chests and suffocating them by putting a hand over their nose and mouth, while using the other hand to push the victim’s jaw up. The corpses had no visible injuries, and so were suitable cadavers to be sold to medical schools for money.’

  ‘Could that not be the case, Mac?’

  ‘It might have been, Michael, but there is no alcohol in his bloodstream, nor signs of any drugs, nor was he physically weak, nor were there any signs of a fight. It mystifies me, Michael, I have to admit. You’ll have to leave it with me. There are a few more tests I can make, and I will repeat the tests I have already made. I’ll let you know as soon as I know myself.’

  ‘Right, Mac, thank you very much.’

  ‘I can’t satisfy the question of his sexuality either, but I can tell you that his genitalia are perfectly normal, as are all his clothes, so there is no evidence to suppose that he might be a transsexual.’

  ‘Good, but what about the red stuff on his lips?’

  ‘Lipstick, very high quality lipstick, as it happens,’ Mac said, ‘and I think it arrived there as a result of somebody kissing the victim once or even several times.’

  ‘And do you think that somebody was male or female?’

  ‘How could I know that, Michael? I expect, being the naïve one that I am, I would say it was female, but I
really don’t know.’

  ‘And the red, sweetie-looking thing … had that anything to do with the cause of death?’

  ‘No. The red sweetie-looking thing is a red sweetie, commonly described as a fruit gum, and as innocent as the day is long. So it was left by somebody who sucks fruit gums. I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac.’

  Angel replaced the phone and pursed his lips. It was very unusual for Mac to be confounded by a cause of death. But the other info was helpful. Now he would really like to hear how Ahmed was getting along tracing the calls on Norman Robinson’s mobile, and how Crisp was progressing in Glasgow delving into the victim’s background. He was about to pick up the phone to call Ahmed when it began to ring. He reached out for it.

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘It’s Flora, sir. I’m in the lecture room, going through that CCTV. I think I’ve got something.’

  Angel’s heart began to race. ‘I’ll come down,’ he said, slamming the phone into its cradle.

  He arrived in the lecture room to find Flora seated halfway back in the room with a solitary table in front of her. She had plugged the CCTV playback through her laptop onto the big screen and the sound into the enhanced replay soundtrack speakers. She had also quite sensibly closed the blinds to provide maximum clarity to the pictures being shown.

  ‘Got him on the screen now, lass?’ he said as he untangled a chair from the stack at the side of the room, carried it across to where Flora was seated, set it down and sat along the side of her.

  ‘That character there, sir,’ she said. ‘I remember his face but not his name.’

  She had frozen the CCTV picture. It showed a man in his twenties coming through the Feathers doorway. It was a clear picture and he was looking upwards, which provided an excellent picture of him for ID purposes. In the corner was printed the date and time. It read: 02.06.13. 8.30 p.m.

  Angel raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, I know him,’ he said. ‘He’s served time for something.’ He screwed up his face and rubbed his chin.

  ‘Let it run a bit, Flora,’ he said.

  The picture on the big screen showed the man walk past the reception desk and out of shot.