The Morals of a Murderer

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Who by?’ asked Angel.

  ‘A nonce called Enderby,’ said Yardley. He stubbed the cigarette out in the Nescafe lid. ‘And that's going to cost me half an ounce of snout,’ he added grudgingly. Then he grinned and stuck his chest out. ‘There’s not a lot going on in this nick I don’t know about.’

  Angel shook his head. There were no internal windows in the room. The only window was barred; it was two floors above ground-level, and looked out on to fields. The door was locked. How could he have been tipped off? This chap was too smart by half.

  ‘You’ve had a guard in here all the time, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Yardley said and smiled.

  ‘How did he manage it then?’

  There was a pause. Yardley slowly leaned backwards in the chair, then he smiled, gave a slight nod, reached his hand out and deliberately rotated his beaker of tea through 180 degrees.

  ‘I’m giving away trade secrets’ he said. He pointed to the drink. ‘Pick it up’ he said. ‘Pretend you was going to sup it.’

  Angel reached out for the beaker and brought it up to his face. As he tilted it, and the level of the tea at the further side of the pot lowered, he saw, scrawled on the inside, in red crayon, the words: Yor visitor wired.’

  Angel put the cup down. He allowed himself the tiniest of smiles; so much for Jubb’s security.

  Yardley confidently ran his tongue round the inside of his mouth.

  ‘I think we’re even-stevens, Michael, don’t you?’

  Angel looked at him. There was a pause as each man tried to weigh up the other.

  Angel eventually said: ‘You wanted to see me. I understand you asked for me. You said you knew me.’

  ‘No. I jus’ knows of you.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Let’s jus’ say — mutual friends.’

  Angel couldn’t think of anybody he knew, who also knew Yardley.

  The man lit another cigarette quickly.

  ‘I’m on my own, you know,’ he said. ‘Yes. I was brought up in an orphanage in Brum. My mother deposited me there fifty years ago. Don’t know who the ’ell my father was. The boss there, we called him Himmler, had me sent to technical college. I was learnt to be a builder. Yes. I was a brickie for thirty-three years. Every bloody day — slapping one brick on top of another. Outside. All weathers. Even in six foot of snow. Yes. I reckon, single-handed, I built the equivalent of the NEC and the M1 put together. I was a damn good builder. Still am. Got all my certificates. Yes. And I earned a good screw. Some weeks I earned half a grand. Last full week I worked, I brought three hundred quid home. Mindst you, I had to grind. No dallying about.’

  ‘I’m sure you did, but you’re not a saint, Morris.’

  ‘No. No. I know I’m bloody not,’ he replied quickly.

  ‘You killed a man.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Yardley retorted. ‘He wanted to be a hero. He was coming for me. I didn’t shoot at him. I shot at his legs. It was an accident. The bullet hit a steel grate, ricocheted off and entered his chest. It was all explained at the trial. I didn’t aim to kill him. I didn’t want to kill him. If he hadn’t charged at me, I wouldn’t even have pulled the trigger.’ ‘The jury were unanimous.’

  ‘My barrister was a clown.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘So you’re hoping to make a new life with Enchantra?’ Yardley’s eyes slid to the left, then to the right and then settled dead centre. He stared at Angel closely.

  ‘Huh. Boodle been talking to you, has he?’

  The inspector didn’t reply.

  ‘Is he your boss?’

  ‘Sort of. I’ve been seconded to him temporarily because you asked to see me.’

  ‘What exactly is his job?’

  ‘He’s a commander in Special Branch. Chases blokes like you. Big operators.’

  Yardley grinned. ‘So I warrant a commander from Special Branch, do I?’ He thought about it for a while. ‘Mmm?’ Suddenly the flippant mood left him. His jaw stiffened. ‘He thinks he’s smart. He isn’t. All he wants is my gold.’

  Angel thought he could be right, but he wanted to open him up … find out what made him tick.

  ‘You were telling me about Enchantra.’

  ‘I wasn’t. But I will. Enchantra. I dream about her, you know. Yeah. I’m a good ten years older than her. I’ve been in here over a year, now. A year and twenty days. And there’s one thing certain. She’ll not wait twenty years for me, I can tell you that. And you could hardly blame her. She’s a beautiful woman. Look at me. I’m sweating. I get all in a lather thinking about losing her. All I ever think about is Enchantra … and getting out of here.’

  ‘And the gold.’

  ‘Yeah. The gold and Enchantra … and here I am like a bloody monkey in a cage.’

  ‘Looks like she’s prepared to wait for you … and the gold? Does she know where it is?’

  ‘Nobody knows where it is,’ Yardley snarled dangerously. ‘Only me. It’s my ticket out of this hole.’ He glowered at Angel. His eyes were moist. His bottom lip quivered. He paused, took a big drag at the cigarette, then wiped his mouth roughly. ‘I’ll get straight to the bloody point. Over the past two years, I’ve had a lot of runaround from the police. Before I was charged, after I was charged and since I’ve been in here. They interviewed me without any conscience at all. They say anything. They told me lies jus’ to get information out of me. Well, I’ve had enough of that. I’m not taking any more from anybody. After all, I’m in a strong negotiating position. I’ve got enough gold to buy anything I want in this world. I could buy my own Mediterranean island if I wanted to. And the longer I am in here, the more desperate the bank and the police will be to get it back. And they, the police, the courts can’t do nothing more to me. I’m locked up. Got the maximum sentence. I’m fifty years of age. If I serve the full term, I’ll be seventy! My life will be virtually over. Even if I murdered somebody, my life couldn’t be made any worse than it is now. Hanging is out. This is a category A prison. I have no privileges worth talking about. I’ll just fade away: I’ll bloody die. So I have to get out. Now I am ready to negotiate my ticket. And I need an honest intermediary to act on my behalf. I am told reliably that you are an honest man, even though you are a copper. And I believe it. Now, Michael, if you are honest, you are the best chance I’ve got. If you are dishonest, and you trick me, I will have you killed. I have now got the connections. I can do that from in here. I can do it any time. I can do it from anywhere in the world. And I’ll have your bloody entrails draped all the way round the Bull Ring. Do you understand that?’

  Angel didn’t like being threatened, but it wasn’t new. He’d been threatened a million times before.

  ‘What’s the deal?’ he said evenly

  Suddenly Yardley changed. He leaned back and switched on the smile again.

  ‘Didn’t you bring me any ciggies?’ he asked brightly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You mean bastard,’ he said, with a grin. ‘Boodle always brings me a couple of packs.’

  Angel looked across the table at him; he sensed the crux of the deal was imminent. Outwardly he tried to remain calm and expressionless, inside, the Flying Scotsman was pounding relentlessly down to King’s Cross.

  Yardley thoughtfully took a drag on the cigarette and leaned forward.

  ‘The deal. Yes. I’ve given this a lot of thought, Michael. Three hundred and eighty-five days’ worth of thought. It’s simple enough. I want a full pardon with no strings, no catches, no conditions, no tricks, with an early release-date and I will hand over half of the gold. That’s thirty-three million quids’ worth at the last count.’

  Angel pursed his lips. He ran his hand over his chin.

  ‘Where is it?’

  Yardley stared at him. A wry smile appeared on his face.

  Angel added: ‘I mean, is it in the UK or … abroad?’

  ‘It’s safe enough. I put it there. I know where it is. I can get it, easily enough.’
/>
  ‘Is it all there?’

  ‘It’s all there. All eight hundred and twenty bars,’ snapped Yardley.

  ‘In one place?’

  ‘Yes!’ Yardley roared.

  Angel leaned back in his chair. ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Well? What do you say?’ Yardley bawled. ‘Is it a deal or isn’t it?’

  There was a pause. Angel rubbed his chin.

  ‘Does anybody else know where it’s hidden?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ snapped Yardley. ‘Well, what do you think? Is it a deal or isn’t it? What do you say?’

  Angel massaged the lobe of one ear between finger and thumb.

  Suddenly Yardley’s eyes flashed. He stood up. The chair went over with a clatter. He threw his hands in the air.

  ‘No. Never mind what you bloody say,’ he shouted angrily. ‘Look. Put it to Boodle. No. No! Put it to the Home Secretary. No, the Prime Minister. See what he says. He can only say ‘yes.’ If he doesn’t, I’ll tell you this, that gold will never see daylight again. It’ll take a damned sight more finding than his flaming Weapons of Mass Destruction!’

  Chapter Seven

  Angel arrived back at the station at four o’clock. He stormed into his office and threw his coat at a chair. It had been one hell of a day. And it wasn’t over yet. He’d had the early morning drive up to Welham, the interview with Yardley, the de-briefing, the threats, the cursing and the general dressing-down from Boodle, and the tedious drive south on the very busy A1. He didn’t feel like any more trouble.

  He lowered himself into the swivel-chair and gave out a long sigh.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he bawled.

  It was Ahmed.

  ‘Oh. It’s you lad,’ he said crisply. ‘How are things in Glockamora?’

  The cadet’s mouth opened. ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘What do you want?’ snapped Angel.

  ‘Saw you come in, sir. Can I talk to you now about my holidays?’

  Angel screwed up his face. ‘Your holidays. What about them, lad?’

  ‘Ah.’ Ahmed’s eyes brightened. ‘Well, sir, you know that all the regular bank holidays are on Mondays?’

  ‘It’s not one of those quiz questions is it? I really haven’t time for it, lad.’

  ‘It’s not a quiz, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what. Is the water on now?’

  ‘Er — yes, sir. Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘That’d be great,’ Angel said slowly. ‘That would be really great. Is Ron Gawber in?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. He was down the cells looking for something, I think.’

  ‘Find him, send him in.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  The door closed.

  Angel leaned back in the chair and gazed up at the ceiling at the circle of dust above the light-fitting. He blew out a long, noisy sigh and yawned. He ran his hand across his mouth. What a rotten day … He didn’t much like being a shuttlecock between Boodle and Yardley, and he didn’t enjoy all the mouth he had had to put up with at the debriefing. Thank goodness it was Friday. This had been one of those days he would rather forget. He’d be glad to get home. Out of this place for a couple of days. It could only be good. He had always thought he wanted to be an inspector. It had been an ambition of his after seeing his father come home one day in a crisp, new uniform with one silver pip up. Ever since he could remember, he had thought inspector was the best rank of all: it wasn’t so high that you carried all the cans, nor so low that you had all the repetitive and dirty jobs to do yourself. Things were changing. Maybe it was middle age creeping up on him. He was beginning to think he would have to revise his ideas. It was beginning to look as if commander was the best rank. Yes. Especially in Special Branch. It was looking as if Peregrine Boodle had the best job of all!

  There was a knock at the door. Angel brought down the chair.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was DS Gawber. ‘Ah. I thought you’d go straight home, sir.’

  ‘I wish I had. This place is about as much fun as a crematorium.’

  Gawber shook his head.

  ‘Did you find anything, then?’

  ‘What were you looking for?’

  ‘To tell the truth, Ron, he nicked my badge and ID.’

  Gawber pulled a face. ‘Wow. Didn’t find that. Didn’t find anything.’

  ‘Huh. It will be in the Gazette on Monday, and then every copper in the country will know that I let a known pickpocket fillet me!’ He pointed to the chair. Gawber sat down. ‘What happened at Evan Jones’s place? Did they take much?’

  ‘There’s nothing missing.’

  Angel frowned. ‘Nothing?’

  ‘That’s what he said. Two men, silenced the alarm with quick setting foam. Made the upstairs windows with grappling-irons. Left no fingerprints and no handprints. They were spotted making their getaway down a rope ladder. And no transport was seen in the vicinity. Sophisticated villains, eh?’

  Angel nodded. ‘Any damage?’

  ‘A smashed window-pane upstairs, that’s all.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘Perfect, eh?’

  ‘Like Richard and Judy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who was the informant?’

  ‘Never found out. Anonymous. Not on the scene when the squad car arrived.’

  ‘Neighbours see anything?’

  ‘It’s all very quiet up there, sir.’

  ‘Was it worth turning over?’

  ‘There were a few silver pieces, two paintings and a fifteen-carat gold Edwardian pocket watch on a stand I wouldn’t have minded.’

  ‘Mmm. What were they looking for then?’

  ‘Gold?’ Gawber suggested pointedly.

  Angel thought about it. After a few seconds he nodded. ‘How did Jones take it?’ he said.

  ‘Surprised. Angry. Said he’d no idea who might have done it.’

  ‘Ay. No forensic at all?’

  ‘Nothing sir.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed carrying a tin tray with a cup of tea on it. Angel beamed. He turned back to Gawber. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Gawber, getting to his feet.

  ‘Right then, carry on.’

  Gawber made for the door.

  Angel called after him. ‘Oh, Ron. If you see anything of Fishy Smith on your travels, bring him in. I haven’t finished with that little ferret yet!’

  Gawber nodded and went out.

  Ahmed put the tea on a beer mat purloined from the Feathers.

  ‘Thank you, lad. You’ve saved the day.’

  Ahmed beamed.

  Angel stirred in the sugar and looked up.

  ‘Hey, Ahmed. Do you remember on Valentine’s day, you got me a box of continental chocolates from Millington’s sweet-shop.’

  ‘Yes sir. But that was February last year, sir. This year you bought Mrs Angel roses. I remember because you said how expensive they were.’

  ‘You’re right, lad. Ay. Those flowers were daylight robbery. Well, she right liked those foreign chocolates.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Will you get me the same again?’

  ‘Can’t sir. It’s closed down. The old lady in there died.’

  Angel’s jaw dropped in surprise. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Oh, erm, it must have been before Christmas. Yes. Round about October.’

  ‘And I never heard. Dear Miss Millington. And she was a lovely lady. Been there years. Open all hours that God sent. Used to be open until eight o’clock of an evening to catch the people going to the Odeon and the Theatre Royal. She used to keep a big pot of pepper on the counter in case she was attacked. Mmmm. There was a young thug, I remember, got his hands in the till once. She fought bravely but he was too strong for her. But I caught him. I brought him in. I had him put away myself. He got four years. I was sergeant at the time. It was a quaint little shop. Had a very low roof and I remember
it was the only shop I ever went into where you had to step down to get into it. The shop floor was lower than pavement-level. In fact, after a heavy rainstorm, it used to flood and she still used to be seen in Wellington boots, splashing round weighing out sweets and bringing them to the door. Lovely stuff she sold too. A really nice woman. I have known her all my life. She was a dear. Sorry about that.’ He shook his head. ‘Another old bit of Bromersley gone.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Ahmed said sympathetically. He turned towards the door and then came back. ‘Can I talk to you now about my holidays, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  Ahmed went out and closed the door. Angel sipped the tea. Then he picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  ‘Crisp? What’s happening there, lad?’

  ‘It’s all quiet, sir. We are in the car across the street from Jones’s pitch. We can see Jones in his office. Nothing’s happening.’

  ‘Right. Pack in the obo at five, and I’ll see you in my office eight-thirty Monday morning.’

  Crisp sounded pleased. ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Oh. Yes,’ Angel added irritably. ‘And if you see anything of Fishy Smith on your travels, bring him in.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel replaced the phone and finished off the tea. It was on his mind that the announcement that his badge and ID had been stolen would appear in Monday’s issue of the Police Gazette. An announcement about their prompt recovery might help him to recoup some lost pride.

  The phone rang. He glanced at the clock. It was 4.45 pm. He frowned and reached out for the handset.

  It was the superintendent. ‘Come in here,’ he growled.

  ‘Right, sir.’ Angel pulled a face as he replaced the receiver. He knew he was in trouble. He made his way down to the super’s office and knocked on the door.

  ‘Sit down,’ Harker growled.

  Angel took the chair.

  The superintendent looked more sour than usual.

  ‘The commander’s not very pleased with you,’ he began. ‘You’re not the little Lord Fauntleroy he thought you were. You ripped out the wire, you didn’t find out where Yardley’s hidden the gold; and you didn’t even close a deal even though he handed it to you on a plate.’