The Morals of a Murderer

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel looked round the big white-painted factory area with the high roof. Immediately in front of him were twenty huge vats, covered with inverted funnel-shaped stainless steel lids, except for the nearest one. Its cover was off and was on the scrubbed brick floor. Above the vats were crane tracks and the crane itself; above those was another level that only partly extended across the ground floor and was reached by an internal stone staircase built against the wall. Lights shone through the upstairs windows, which appeared to be for office accommodation that overlooked the factory area below.

  Blue-and-white plastic tape with the words POLICE — DO NOT CROSS, was draped around the vats enclosing most of the floor space. A huge rope net was hanging over the uncovered vat from the hook at the end of a chain suspended from the crane. Dr Mac and two others in white plastic suits, head covers and gloves, were standing on a platform, leaning over the side, fishing about in the contents and tugging at the net.

  Standing at the far side of the ground floor, a dozen or so workers in green overalls, hats and waterproof boots, hands in pockets, stared at the forensic team through a space between the vats in shocked silence. A constable with folded arms was standing next to them.

  Four small elderly gentlemen in expensive suits were standing near the door. They watched with long faces and sad, eagle eyes the forensic team at work, turning towards each other from time to time to confer.

  A uniformed constable held up a hand to stop Angel’s entry, then, recognizing him, he smiled and lowered his arm.

  ‘Oh, sorry sir.’

  ‘What’s going on, lad?’ Angel asked.

  ‘A man has fallen into a tank of gin. Dr Mac is trying to get him out by wrapping him in a net. They plan to hoist him out with the crane.’

  The door behind Angel banged. He turned to see a young lad in a blouse and kilt standing in the doorway. The PC had seen him. He stopped him.

  ‘You can’t come in here, lad.’

  ‘Oh, officer. Ay. I just need to see Mr Fleming about a wee matter.’

  Fleming, hearing his name mentioned, turned round and toddled to the door.

  ‘Ah. What is it, Andrew? Perhaps the constable will permit you to address me if it is only a quick matter.’

  The PC nodded. ‘That’ll be all right, sir.’

  ‘Oh. Ah,’ Andrew began. ‘I’ve been to town, Mr Fleming. I’ve been to the sweetie-shop, you’ll remember — for your humbugs.’

  ‘Ay,’ the old man said expectantly. He held out his hand.

  ‘The sweetie-shop is closed down, Mr Fleming,’ Andrew replied with a long face. ‘Been closed six months or so. Old Miss Millington died in October, and the whole street is being demolished.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Fleming with a sigh. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Do you want me to try somewhere else?’

  ‘No. No. You’d better give me my eighty-two pence back.’

  Andrew handed the money over, then gawped at Dr Mac and the forensic team working at the edge of the gin vat. The old man counted the money and dropped it into his trouser pocket.

  ‘You’d better run along, Andrew. It’s not good for you to be here. And the officer has been kind enough to let you in.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fleming.’

  The young man opened the door, went outside and banged it shut. The PC took up his position with his back to the door.

  Fleming returned to the little group. He recounted what had happened. They had a few words about it, nodded their heads in turn, then Fleming broke away from the group again. He toddled over to the PC.

  ‘I think you should warn your men that proximity to the fumes from the vat could go to their heids and render them temporarily dizzy,’ he whispered.

  ‘Ah, yes. Right sir.’

  Angel stepped forward. He had overheard what had been said. He lifted up the blue-and-white tape and crossed to the vat.

  ‘Mac. Watch it! Those fumes can get to you!’

  The pathologist in white plastic suit and gloves turned round.

  ‘Oh? Is this your case, Mike?’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘Not to worry. We’ve noticed.’

  ‘Well be careful. Don’t want you drowning in there.’

  Dr Mac didn’t reply.

  Angel sniffed. ‘Well, is it murder or not?’ he asked impatiently.

  ‘Oh, it’s murder all right,’ Mac replied grimly.

  ‘Ay,’ Angel replied. He had rather hoped it had been an accident. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Only that it’s a man … and that he’s dead.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Angel returned to the constable by the door. He nodded towards the group of four elderly men.

  ‘Who are they?' he whispered.

  ‘They are the bosses. The man who was talking to the young lad is the big boss, sir. Mr Fleming. The man in the slippers is the money-man, Mr Finlay. I don’t know the names of the other two.’

  ‘Ah.’ Angel nodded and moved up to the group. ‘Mr Fleming?’

  The man turned away from the group. ‘Ay?’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Angel.’ He plunged into his jacket pocket for his ID and badge but it wasn’t there. He pushed his hand further into the pocket and fished around. He had intended to produce it instantly, as he had done a million times before, but it wasn’t there. It had always been in that pocket. It had been there since his first day in CID, nigh on twenty years ago. Where was it now? He tried the other pockets: his trouser pocket, his hip pocket, even his inside pocket. No. The badge was in a brown leather folder four inches by four, with an ID card showing his photograph, rank, Bromersley police station address, with the ER insignia on one side and his badge on the other. Where could it be? The pocket was good and deep. It couldn’t have fallen out. He wondered if he had left it at home. But no. He remembered he had picked it up off the dressing-table that morning as usual. Where the hell was it then? It was a mystery. He must press on … worry about it later. He took his hand out of the pocket.

  ‘It was you reported the man’s death, sir?’

  ‘Ay. That’s right. It’s the chairman of the company. Duncan McFee. The death is tragic news not only for us, inspector, his friends and co-directors, but also the McFee clan, the company and the investors, too.’

  ‘Very sorry.’ Angel nodded sympathetically. ‘Who might benefit from Mr McFee’s death?’

  Fleming shook his head. ‘Nobody. Nobody. Only our competitors, I suppose. Temporarily.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, our share-price will almost certainly drop. The market doesn’t like uncertainty.’

  ‘Did you know Mr McFee well?’

  ‘As well as anybody, I suppose. And I knew his father and his grandfather. He was a widower and had no son or daughter.’

  ‘Who would be his next of kin?’

  ‘I don’t know. It will require a vote of the directors to install a new chairman. Nobody automatically inherits either position as far as I know?’

  ‘Did he live in Slogmarrow?’

  ‘Only occasionally, ay. There is a flat in the old mill across the way. Most of his time he lived in his Kensington flat, in London.’

  ‘I’ll need to see over it.’

  ‘I’ll get you the address.’

  ‘Thank you. Who found the body?’

  ‘Angus Leitch, the ageing-room manager. He’s over there. If it was murder, then someone must have pushed him in. He would have been on his tasting round. He always did it alone. Ah yes.’

  Angel turned to the constable behind him.

  ‘There’s a man, Angus Leitch, with those other workers. Get him for me, lad. I’ll watch the door.’

  The constable nodded and ducked under the blue-and-white tape. Fleming rejoined his three companions who went into a huddle again.

  A minute or two later the constable arrived with a man dressed in green overalls, hat and rubber boots.

  ‘Angus Leitch, sir.’

  Angel regarded the handsome, athletic-looking young man and judged him to b
e probably about thirty years old.

  ‘You found the body?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said, shaking his head and looking at his feet. ‘Awful. Dreadful.’

  ‘Mmm. Tell me about it.’

  ‘Yes. Well, the last vat was filled yesterday afternoon. I’m responsible for looking after the keeping of the spirit. Making sure the specific gravity is right and the temperature is brought down as quickly as possible after being distilled, and that there is no sediment, it must be perfectly clear and consistent before it goes to bottling. Everything was satisfactory last night when I locked up. This morning I started my checks. I started at the far end and worked up to this vat. I opened the inspection door. I suspended the long-armed glass ladle to draw a spoonful from the centre of the vat and I felt something. The ladle wouldn’t go in. I looked down to see why, and that’s when I saw the body.’

  ‘Could he have fallen in?’

  Angus Leitch shook his head firmly.

  ‘If he had fallen in, the inspection door would still have been open. When I came in this morning, it was closed and latched. And there’s no way the latch could have been thrown accidentally.’

  Angel’s nose turned up. He rubbed his chin with his hand. This was going to be a tricky case. He hoped forensic would uncover something helpful. He leaned over the tape.

  ‘Mac,’ he called out, ‘have you checked the inspection door for prints yet?’

  ‘Ay. And there aren’t any.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Angel suddenly turned back to Angus Leitch. ‘ Your prints should have been on the hatch door, shouldn’t they?’

  ‘I have to wear rubber gloves, Inspector,’ Leitch said, pulling them out of the front of his overall.

  Angel nodded. After a moment he said:

  ‘What was Mr McFee doing in the distillery? Was it common for the distillery to be unlocked after hours?’

  ‘It was locked when I left it at five o’clock yesterday, Inspector. He’s the boss. He can come in here whenever he wants. He would be tasting and checking. He always did it. Not a batch was passed without his personal approval. That’s why we have such a high reputation.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He was very exacting. It’s the great care of distilling and blending that makes it the best and the biggest-selling gin in the world.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘How often does he do it?’

  ‘Whenever there’s a full batch of distilled: when all these vats are full. That was yesterday. About every two weeks or so.’

  Angel nodded.

  Angus Leitch went on: ‘When I arrived this morning, this room was locked as usual with the key. A key like this.’ He produced a small bunch of keys from his pocket. He sorted a key for a five-lever lock and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I locked this room up myself last night. The spirit in here is worth over four million pounds. No risk is taken with its security.’

  ‘And who else has a key to this area?’

  ‘There’s one in a glass case in the security office, in case of emergency. The directors will have one, and the chairman, of course.’

  Angel sighed. There seemed to be enough keys around for anyone who was determined enough to gain access. A mobile phone rang out. It was Angel’s.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. He turned away from Leitch. He dug into his pocket, pulled out the handset and pressed the button. The LCD window showed it was Superintendent Harker. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I want you back here smartish. I’ve got Commander Boodle from Special Branch flying up from the city. He’ll want to know what you made of that second-hand-car dealer.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I’m at the murder scene at the distillery, sir!’

  ‘Oh. Murder, is it?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Well leave it. Go and see Jones and then get back here as soon as you can.’

  The line went dead. Angel’s jaw dropped.

  A bubble of anger travelled up from his stomach to his chest. His face went red and his jaw tightened. He stabbed the button and stuffed the phone back in his pocket. The stupidity of Harker never ceased to amaze him. You never desert a murder scene! The superintendent knew that. It was simply that he wanted to impress this Boodle chap. Angel knew he would be a big wheel … well, you have to be something exceptional to be a commander in Special Branch … but this was reprehensible. He sighed and went back up to the man.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Andrew Leitch nodded and turned away. Angel leaned over to the constable and pointed to the stone steps.

  ‘Only forensic goes up there. And don’t leave this area unattended either. This entire area is a crime scene and is to be treated as such until Dr Mac has OK’d it. I’m sending you some replacements from the next shift. Stay glued until they arrive. Understood?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Mac,’ he called out irritably. ‘Mac, I got to go!’

  The pathologist stared at him across the vat. ‘We’re going to hoist him out now,’ he replied urgently.

  ‘Speak to you later.’

  Mac continued to stare at him. His eyes were wide open.

  ‘In two minutes!’ he yelled.

  The door banged. Angel had gone.

  *

  Twenty minutes later Angel’s car pulled on to the forecourt of Evan Jones’s second-hand-car site. He parked and strode up to the office. A note on the door read: Back in ten minutes. Angel pulled a face. He looked round. A man in blue overalls was walking swiftly towards him from the building behind the office, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘You can, lad, if you’re Evan Jones.’

  ‘He’s gone home. He’s got builders in. He’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Can’t wait, lad. Where’s he live?’

  ‘He lives behind Jubilee Park. Orchard House, on Creeford Road. The last big detached house at the end.’

  ‘Ta.’

  That was the posh area of Bromersley. Creeford Road was a wide leafy lane built on the edge of Jubilee Park. At the bottom was a long brick wall eight feet high; in the wall were double wrought-iron gates. Angel slowed down and read the sign: ORCHARD HOUSE. Through the gates he could see a car and a small lorry parked on the drive. He stopped his car and walked briskly through the gate up the terracotta-tiled drive. There was a long expanse of apple trees in rich lawns to his left. The house was modern, compact and privately enclosed inside a high wall. He spotted a red burglar alarm-bell box under the eaves. As he approached the front door he heard voices from the direction of the orchard. He made his way in the direction of the chatter and saw two men standing together beneath a tree at the side of the house. A slim, dapper man in a light-grey suit and red bow tie was counting twenty-pound notes into a cap being held by a big man in a boiler suit.

  Jones saw Angel approach and looked up angrily. He stopped counting the money.

  ‘Who are you?’ he called out challengingly. He pushed the notes in his hand into his pocket. ‘What do you want?’

  The workman saw Angel, swung the cap with the money inside it on to his head, turned away and picked up an orange-coloured bag of sand.

  Angel reckoned he had interrupted a transaction in what politicians describe as the country’s grey economy.

  ‘Inspector Angel, Bromersley police. Are you Mr Jones?’

  The workman walked unhesitatingly away.

  The Welshman hesitated, his eyes slid sideways and then back. He licked his lips, then said:

  ‘Yes.’ He switched on a Roger Moore smile, ran his hand over his mouth and added: ‘I was just paying this man.’ He pointed to a simple brick-built low edifice of two metal grilles three feet from the floor, supported on three sides by a low wall set on stone flags. ‘A proper barbecue. Be good in the summer, won’t it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Angel said. He personally had no time for meals outside that you had to share with insects.

  The builder disappeared round the corner of the house with a long bag of buil
der’s tools and the bag of sand.

  Angel pulled out his notebook.

  ‘Do you want to go inside?’ Jones said, pointing a thumb towards the front of the house. Angel shook his head.

  ‘It won’t take long, sir. Word has come down the line that you are in the gold business,’ he said heavily.

  ‘The gold business? You mean … ’ Jones looked into the policeman’s face, then he shook his head. ‘Don’t know where you got that from. I’m strictly a dealer in cars, Inspector. I buy them from X, clean them up, make them safe, and sell them to Y. It’s a simple application I’ve got and I’m doing very nicely, thank you. I don’t know anything about any gold.’

  ‘That’s fine then, sir.’

  ‘It’s not illegal to buy gold, is it?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. No. Buying gold is perfectly legal. Have you bought any recently?’

  ‘No,’Jones said unhesitatingly.

  Angel looked into his clear blue eyes and sniffed.

  ‘Hmmm. Well, just a friendly piece of advice, sir. Keep your nose clean.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Come in.’

  Angel turned the knob and opened the door.

  Superintendent Harker was at his desk as usual, grinding his teeth. He glanced at Angel and then across at a man sitting opposite him, with a sun-tanned face, wearing a camel-hair coat, dazzling white shirt, and silver silk tie.

  ‘This is DI Angel,’ Harker mumbled and waved a hand across the desk. ‘Commander Boodle. Special Branch.’

  Angel closed the door and tried to smile.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  Boodle barely glanced his way.

  ‘Morning,’ he said in a breathy voice, more strained than a jar of Heinz baby food.

  Angel took in the situation.

  ‘You wanted to know about Evan Jones, the car dealer, sir,’ he said.