Gawber arrived back from checking the radiators.
‘None of them is loose, sir, and all the bolts are still covered in old paint.’
Angel nodded. He turned to Leitch.
‘Are you sure it doesn’t fit anything else on this floor or in your office?’
‘It doesn’t fit anything else, I’m positive.’
‘We need to find out what else it fitted.’ Angel tossed the spanner to Gawber. ‘Bag it,’ he said. ‘Label it.’ Then he walked up to the vat that had so recently held the dead body. The cone-shaped cover was still resting on the floor. He climbed up on to the narrow ledge round the vat.
‘How do you get this cover on, Mr Leitch?’
‘You want it on now, Inspector?’
Angel came down off the platform.
‘Ay.’ He was interested to see the crane at work.
Leitch turned back and went to the wall by the door. There were three simple control levers, in a frame; each lever had three positions. Leitch manoeuvred the heavy chain and hook over the centre of the cover, then, winching down, he lifted the cover from the floor. Then he moved the crane track over the vat and lowered the cover into position. He let the hook come down a little too far, so that the hook dropped below the loop, released itself and then he winched the hook and chain up out of the way. The entire operation took less than a minute.
Angel leaped back up on to the platform round the edge of the vat, leaned forward to the latch on the inspection door. He noticed the dusting of aluminium powder left by SOCO. He unfastened the latch and pulled open the door. The hinges allowed the door to swing open a full 180 degrees, so he pulled it open all the way and let it rest against the outer side of the cone. The door was about five feet high by three feet wide, easily big enough for a person to fall through. Angel turned to Gawber.
‘Look at this, Ron.’
The sergeant climbed up to the platform and peered into the vat.
‘If you belted me at the back of the head, hard enough, and I was in this position and wasn’t expecting it, do you think I’d fall in there easily?’
Gawber nodded sombrely. ‘I reckon you would.’
‘I reckon I would too. What would you hit me with?’
‘Mmm?’ Gawber looked round. ‘Maybe a hammer, sir?’
‘You’d have to be up here to use a hammer. Do you reckon you’d get enough of a swing without me seeing you?’
‘P’raps not.’
Angel pursed his lips. ‘No. It would have to be a weapon with a longer handle to it … like a shovel.’
‘Wouldn’t be heavy enough, sir. A spade maybe?’
Angel turned back to DS Gawber. ‘Or a golf-club?’ he suggested.
‘Yes,’ Gawber replied thoughtfully. ‘A golf-club. Is a golf-club heavy enough?’
‘Those big heavy ones, in the hands of somebody really athletic, could be,’ Angel said as he stepped down from the platform. ‘But you’d have to swing it from down here, to get plenty of power behind it. If the weapon is not here, the murderer would have had to bring it with him and then take it away. Now that would have been an inconvenience.’ He turned to Angus Leitch. ‘Is anything in your office missing?’ ‘No.’
A mobile phone rang. It was Angel’s. He dipped into his pocket, pulled it out, glanced at the LCD. DS Crisp was calling him. He was supposed to be watching Jones. It was only twelve noon. What did he want?
‘What is it, lad? And where are you?’ he growled.
‘I’m with DC Scrivens in Blackpool, sir.’
‘Blackpool?’ shrieked Angel. ‘On your holidays?’
‘We’ve followed Evan Jones here, sir. He’s bought a plane ticket to Douglas. That’s in the Isle of Man.’
‘Ay. I know where Douglas is.’
‘Do you want us to follow him?’
Angel was surprised that Jones was doing anything other than attending to the business of buying and selling cars at his pitch on Wakefield Road on that quiet spring morning. This surveillance was getting out of hand. He had only decided to have the man watched so as to stay one jump ahead of Special Branch. He couldn’t have Commander Boodle outsmarting him on his own patch! Crisp was still holding on. Angel had to make a quick decision.
‘Has he booked a return ticket or a single?’
‘A return, sir. Thing is, the plane is due off any time.’
‘Has he any luggage?’
‘He’s only carrying a laptop case.’
‘Right. What’s he wearing?’
‘Light-fawn macintosh, blue shirt, brown shoes. No hat.’
‘Right, lad. You two stay there. I’ll get back to you.’
He ended the call and made his way through the factory door to the outside. He wouldn’t be overheard in the carpark. He phoned the station and got the Isle of Man constabulary number, then he phoned the superintendent there and arranged to have Jones followed from the plane while he was in Douglas. Then he phoned Crisp and Scrivens to instruct them to stay in Blackpool and resume their role on the mainland when the Welshman returned, he would hope later that day. He sighed, dropped the phone back into his pocket and came back into the ageing-room.
Gawber was updating his notebook and Leitch was running water into the vat that had so recently held the body of Duncan McFee.
‘I can’t do much more here, Ron.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Mr Leitch,’ Angel called.
The young man wiped his hands on a sponge as he came across to him.
‘Yes, Inspector?’
‘Are you sure you can’t think of any reason why Mr McFee has been murdered. I mean, there must have been somebody who didn’t like him.’
Leitch shook his head. ‘Well, I liked him. I didn’t know him well, but he was always pleasant. Always a cheery word. Never a moan. Although he was the chairman, I think everybody liked him.’
‘Ay,’ Angel said with a sniff. He rubbed a hand across his mouth. He would rather have heard that someone didn't get on with Duncan McFee. At least it would have provided him with a suspect. He turned to Gawber.
‘Well, you finish off here, Ron. I’ll see you at the station in an hour or so. I’m off. I’ve something very important I must see to.’
Chapter Five
Angel drove through the distillery gates and turned left towards town. He motored slowly along the road for three-quarters of a mile, looking for a narrow, unmarked track on the left. He remembered it was after a sharp curve, near a boulder and just before the Tunistone boundary sign. He spotted it and turned up a steep, unmarked private lane. It was a tedious drive in low gear with blind bends; he was hopeful that he would not meet any traffic coming down the hill or he would have to employ his best reversing skills to the bottom, as there were no passing-places. About half-way up, he passed an open timber gate to a field, with a sign swinging in the wind with the words BULLER-PRICE Farm neatly painted white on black. The sign was suspended from a post sticking out of the ground at a jaunty angle of forty-five degrees; it appeared to have suffered some recent knock, probably from a Bentley car bumper. A hundred yards beyond the gate, at the end of a track through the field, round a sharp curve and out of sight was the farmhouse, barn and outbuildings snuggled in a dip in the hillside which provided some well-needed protection from the elements.
Angel pressed on further up the rise. At length he reached the summit. There was a white-painted tower, like a lighthouse, 600 feet high with windows at the top. It was a television, radio and telephone aerial booster station with an asphalt carpark big enough for three cars. He pulled on to it, switched off the ignition and got out of the car. A gust of wind almost blew the car door out of his hand. He recovered his grip on it and closed it firmly. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and turned up his coat collar. The wind wailed across his ears making a sound like an Aeolian harp.
He gazed across the purple-and-green patchwork moors below. He was looking for a crashed helicopter. There was nothing. He moved round to the other side of the towe
r and there it was: 200 yards away, a pile of silver and yellow metal and a black propeller blade skewered into the heather at an unhappy angle; parked nearby were two police Land Rovers and an unmarked car. He stepped out eagerly towards the crash site. As he got nearer he could see two men in the familiar forensic white suits and headwear, sorting through the debris. He had to pick his way carefully around a clump of gorse, and when he next looked up a uniformed police constable in a cape, struggling against the wind, was advancing towards him. He was holding a hand up. He stopped about twenty yards away from Angel.
‘Sorry sir. You can’t come any closer.’
He didn’t recognize the man. Angel smiled.
‘That’s all right, lad,’ he said. ‘I’m a DI from Bromersley. Angel is my name. Who’s in charge?’ He reached to his pocket for his badge and stopped. Of course, it wasn’t there.
‘Oh yes, sir?’ said the constable, patiently.
The PC was no doubt thinking that if Angel really was a DI he would have instantly produced his identification badge and pass. It was standard practice. Angel wiped his mouth with his hand.
‘Ah. I misplaced my badge and ID yesterday, lad. I haven’t had an opportunity to replace it. I am investigating a murder at the Imperial distillery. I was just passing, and I may be able to assist you with your enquiries. Who is in charge?’
‘If you have any information about the accident, I should be pleased to hear it. Otherwise, I am instructed to keep everybody away. You can’t come here, sir, whoever you are.’
‘I have an unmarked police car and an RT tuned to Bromersley nick parked under the tower. You can radio my super at Bromersley’ said Angel, hopefully.
‘I am sorry sir. I can’t leave my post here. You will have to leave,’ said the constable. ‘Now,’ he added firmly.
Angel sighed. Underneath he was fuming, but it was not with the constable. The man was behaving impeccably, as per textbook.
‘Very well, lad. What force are you with?’
‘Elmersfield, sir.’
Angel nodded. That was the town immediately northwest of, and sharing a border with, Bromersley.
‘Now move along, sir, pleased
‘Right lad. Right lad. I’m going,’ said Angel gruffly. He turned away, and began to pick his way back up to the car. Being ejected from a site by a PC didn’t quite suit his temperament. The trip had been an embarrassment and he had learned nothing. He would have to find his badge and ID card as a matter of urgency. The loss was highly embarrassing, and what was worse, he would have to endure further humiliation when he reported the matter to the superintendent.
He arrived back at the car and dropped angrily into the driving-seat. He reversed away from the tower, engaged a low gear and made his way down the hillside. He was halfway down when he saw a big figure hanging on to the upright of the gate of the field that lead to the Buller-Price farm. It was the proprietor herself, wrapped up against the weather like a barrage balloon. She stood there with her long stick, surrounded by five dogs of different shapes, colours and sizes. When she saw him approaching, she stepped confidently into the lane and held up a hand like a traffic policeman. The dogs followed and were all around her, barking and bouncing around.
Angel recognized the big black Alsatian nearest to her as Schwarzenegger. When the car came to rest, she pushed forward through the wind to the driver’s window. He wound the window down.
‘Ah! Hello there, Inspector. Looking for me?’ she bawled against the wind. ‘I saw your car go up the lane and I thought it was you.’
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Buller-Price.’
‘Ah. Good afternoon, Inspector,’ she replied, giving him one of her angelic smiles.
The dogs continued the rumpus, all the more now that her attention had been taken away from them. She suddenly became aware of the commotion. Her face changed. Her eyes flashed.
‘Excuse me,’ she said and turned round angrily. She glared down at the dogs. ‘Quiet!’ she bawled. ‘And sit!’ They all obeyed her instantly except for one small indistinguishable mixture of terrier, bulldog and ferret, who stuck to his ground and continued yapping.
She pursed her lips stubbornly and turned back round to him.
‘Quiet, Bogey. Quiet!’ The dog gave four more yaps then stopped and stared up at her, indignant and defiant. She turned back to Angel, panting and put her hand on the car door to steady herself. ‘Just a minute, Inspector. Let me get my breath.’ She swallowed, shook her head, causing her chins to wobble, then she blew out a sigh, looked downwards and said, tentatively: ‘Somebody’s come along and claimed Schwarzenegger, haven’t they.’
Angel smiled. ‘No. No, Mrs Buller-Price. No. I’ve heard nothing.’
Her face immediately brightened. ‘Oh! Good. Good. Ah. I’m glad you happened along, Inspector. Come along in. Have a cup of tea, and I have some home-made digestives that I’m sure you would enjoy.’
‘It sounds very tempting, Mrs Buller-Price, but I have to get on.’
‘Oh,’ she said, pouting. ‘Have you? They are really most special, although I say it as shouldn’t. And I have baked them in the shape of a bone. They are the same recipe I gave to Delia Smith. The dogs adore them.’
‘Hadn’t you better go inside, out of this wind?’
‘No. No, Inspector. It doesn’t bother me. I am used to it. Ho! You wouldn’t believe that they shot some of the exteriors of The Sound Of Music here, would you. Of course, the weather was a lot better then.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He stared at her.
‘Oh yes. The entire unit was here for a week. Julie Andrews used to change out of her nun’s outfit in my sitting-room. There’s many a time after a day’s shooting she would nip in for a mug of tea, and I would go through her lines with her. And while she relaxed, I’d starch her wimple and have it dry for the next shot; had to keep it bright and white. She was very nice. And if she was really tense, I’d relax her by playing my banjo. Hmmm. She was very fond of items from the Black and White Minstrel Show, which was verboten in America. All rather revolutionary you know. That show has became rather apolitical. Mmmm. Her husband directed the thing. No. Not The Black and White Minstrel Show. No. That was George Best, wasn’t it? No, I mean the film.’
‘Erm, Mrs Buller-Price … ’
‘In fact, Julie popped in about a month ago. She was passing through. Called in for a chat and a quart of milk.’
‘I really have to get back to the office.’
‘Would you like some milk, Inspector?’
‘No thank you.’
‘I have plenty. There’s a churn just been collected for Windsor Castle.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Very well. Ah. Now. Yes. Before you go, I have something very important to tell you.’
‘Oh.’
‘That train crash I told you about yesterday.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it wasn’t a train crash.’
‘Oh?’
‘No. No. Of course not. The nearest line is at Bromersley. Eight miles away. How could it have been? I thought you would have realized that.’
Angel’s face was blank, but he was pleased to hear that she had worked it out for herself.
‘No,’ she went on. ‘No. It was a rocket ship that had crashed somewhere round here. It must have been off-course. That explains all the noise and the lights. Now it wasn’t long since the Allies sent an exploratory one to Mars, you know. Looking for water, they said. What they want to be looking for water there for, I have really no idea. We have plenty of water here. We have five oceans full of it! And it always seems to be raining! Maybe this one has been sent back from there to have a look at us.’
Angel smiled at her. ‘I don’t think it was a rocket ship, Mrs Buller-Price. I think it was a helicopter,’ he said reassuringly.
Her eyes closed briefly in thought.
‘Really?’ She shook her head. ‘No. It was from outer space all right. Must have been. Yes. I saw one of the spacemen this morning. Running over my top field. And
he looked nothing like ET. Ridiculous conception. Don’t know where Steven Spielberg got his idea from. Ridiculous. Of course, I realize that that was fiction. Now this was the real thing. It was a big black creature, like a gorilla but with fabric-type wings. And with a big black head with a shiny knob on the top. I think that must be its eye. I was looking at it through my binoculars from the bathroom window. Ugly-looking creature.’
Angel bit his lip thoughtfully. He didn’t know whether he should try to explain or let it go.
‘Don’t you think you should arrest it, or something? Can’t have strange monsters running up and down the country, Inspector.’
Angel sighed. ‘Ah. Don’t you think it could have been a man?’ he said persuasively. ‘In a cape?’
She shook her chins at him again.
‘No. No. If it were a man, why would he dress up like that? It doesn’t make sense. I hope they’re not planning crop-circles in my hayfield!’
Angel decided he must go, but he didn’t want to leave the old lady troubled.
‘You’re not afraid of the — er — spaceman, are you, Mrs Buller-Price?’
‘Bah! Certainly not. I have my faith, my shotgun, and Schwarzenegger. I am as safe as houses. And if it’s something I cannot handle, I can always telephone you, can’t I,’ she said, looking closely at him and smiling.
‘You most certainly can,’ he said earnestly.
‘Thank you, Inspector.’
‘It’s a pleasure. Well, I must go. Goodbye, Mrs Buller-Price.’
‘Goodbye, Inspector. Call any time. Any time at all. Wednesday is a good day. We have sausages on a Wednesday,’ she said, her chins wobbling.
She let go of the car door and made for the gate.
Angel smiled as he turned the key in the ignition.
She stopped at the gate and turned back. She put a hand sideways to her mouth.
‘I make them myself,’ she hollered. ‘With my own meatfilling. Ann Widdecombe says they’re the best she’s tasted. The secret is to use proper pig intestine, none of this synthetic rubbish. Keeps the bowel collagen free!’ she added triumphantly.
The Morals of a Murderer Page 5