The Morals of a Murderer

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘I told him everything Yardley told me.’

  ‘Ay. That he wanted an unconditional pardon and an instant release, in exchange for half the gold.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘ You should have agreed to it.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree to that. I don’t suppose even the Home Secretary would have agreed to that sort of a deal.’

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t, but you’re not the Home Secretary! We would have recovered half the gold for starters, wouldn’t we? Thirty-three million quids worth! And we would have picked up the rest in due course!’

  Angel’s mouth dropped open. He said nothing.

  Harker arched his bushy eyebrows and slowly nodded his head.

  ‘Oh? Have we suddenly gone all ethical? I see. Oh. Since when has a crook’s word been worth anything? It isn’t his gold. He stole it in the first place!’

  Angel swallowed. ‘I couldn’t be party to a trick like that. He’d asked for me because he trusted me.’

  ‘Whose gold is it?’

  Angel looked defiantly into the super’s bloodshot eyes. He didn’t reply.

  ‘Well, whose gold is it?!’ bawled Harker, his eyes flashing.

  ‘Not his,’ Angel eventually muttered.

  ‘Exactly. Have you gone doolally?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think you have. Well, look, it’s Friday. Go home. And this weekend, you had better take some time to consider your position. You’ll have to make up your mind whether you want to serve the community as a disciplined police officer in a sophisticated team of crime-busters, or whether you want the short-term luxury of being a high principled renegade copper who is about to start looking for a job as a night-watchman!’

  *

  Angel couldn’t get home fast enough. He drove quickly. His heart was thumping his hands were sweating. He swung off the main road, round the corner, along the street to his bungalow. He drove straight into the garage, pulled down the door, locked it, closed the gates and strode down the path to the back door. He was looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet.

  He put his hand on the handle, and it was pulled open strongly by his wife from the inside, unexpectedly catching him off balance.

  ‘Steady lass. Steady,’ he said sharply as he entered the kitchen. ‘What’s going off?’

  She closed the door smartly and turned the key.

  He looked round at her curiously. He could tell by her face she was not a happy bunny.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said evenly.

  Mary stared at him fiercely. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘Well I’m not late, am I? It’s not Yorkshire puddings is it?’

  She launched into the attack. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were thinking of having gas installed? I would have thought you would have consulted me about it!’

  Angel undid his coat as he walked away to the hall.

  ‘What are you talking about? We don’t want gas. I know they say it’s better for cooking, but all that muck and expense … ’

  ‘I don’t want gas now. I’ve managed without it since we came to live here, I can manage without it a bit longer. It’ll ruin our decorations, and we’ve only just finished the hall.’

  ‘Ay,’ he said closing the lobby door. ‘What’s for tea?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not a secret now. The cat’s out of the bag.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said vaguely and ambled to the fridge; took out a can of German beer, found a glass in the cupboard and pulled the ring off the can. He glanced towards the oven. ‘Are we having salmon and new potatoes?’

  ‘Are you going to explain?’ she snapped.

  ‘Explain what?’ he said as he poured the beer into the glass. ‘Have you, or have you not, asked the gas board to quote us for installing gas central heating?’

  ‘No. I haven’t. I have told you. I don’t want to bother. Any post? Why?’

  ‘On the sideboard. Because two men from the gas board came this morning to measure the place up for a quote!’

  He put the glass down on the worktop and looked at her curiously.

  ‘Why didn’t you send them on their way?’

  ‘They said you’d asked them to call.’

  ‘Well I didn’t.’

  Mary looked worried.

  Angel thought for a moment. Then he shook his head slowly. The truth came to him and he didn’t like it.

  ‘Oh no! I suppose they were two men in their thirties. Rather smart. Wearing sunglasses.’

  ‘Yes. And they were wearing gas-board badges and hats.’

  ‘Ay. Carrying clipboards with official-looking gas board papers on them, I expect?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they needed to see all over the house? Even the pantry and broom-cupboard?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘And one of them had a metal thing on a long handle.’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he told you it was a gas detector?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the man wore earphones. And one of them kept you talking down here, while the other went round the other rooms with his machine. And they both wore gloves.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes. Who were they?’

  ‘I didn’t ask them to call. I don’t know where they were from. What about their van?’

  ‘I didn’t see a van. I looked outside when they left.’

  ‘They weren’t from the gas board! Why didn’t you ring me on my mobile?’

  ‘I did! Who were they then? It was switched off!’

  Angel’s eyes half-closed as the whole picture became clear to him. ‘Ah. I bet they came at ten o’clock.’

  Mary’s eyes glowed in amazement. ‘That’s right. That’s right. How did you know that?’

  *

  Angel was never late. He liked to get to the station promptly by eight thirty. This Monday morning was no exception. He had a lot on his mind.

  He turned the car into Church Street and saw a white van parked outside the front entrance. As he passed it, he noticed four traffic cones around a pile of fresh earth, and the head of the plumber in blue overalls bobbing up and down, out of a hole in the road.

  He drove round the back, parked in the yard and entered by the back door, went past the cells, and arrived at his office at the same time as Ron Gawber, who had made his way up from the sergeant’s locker-room.

  ‘Have a good weekend, sir?’

  ‘Ay. I suppose,’ said Angel, taking off his coat. ‘Come on in, Ron. Sit down.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  It was Ahmed, smiling and waving a sheet of paper.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Morning, Sarge. You’ll be interested in this, sir.’

  ‘Is it a cheque from Camelot? How much have I won?’

  ‘No sir.’ Ahmed said earnestly. ‘No. It’s a round robin from Special Branch to all forty-three forces.’

  ‘Special Branch?’ Angel’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘It’s about that helicopter crash near the Tunistone television mast on the Elmersfield patch, last Monday.’

  ‘Oh ay? Well, what’s it say?’ Angel reached out and took the paper. ‘Let’s have a shufti.’ He read:

  ‘Mark Shadwell Penn, aged 26, of Queen’s Street, Birmingham, and Harrison ‘Tinker’ Bell, 40, of Tennyson Close, Wolverhampton. Wanted in connection with armed robbery of gold from security van outside Bank of Agara, City Road, London, 17 April 2003. Request all stations report info urgently to Commander Boodle ref: 11257.’

  Angel lowered the paper. ‘Mmm. Never heard of either of them. Are they on our books? They must have previous.’ Suddenly, he ran his hand thoughtfully across his mouth. He shook his head and blew out a short sigh. What a coincidence! Yardley had no known connections with this part of the world, yet for months, apparently, he had been asking to see Angel. And now two of his gang had died in a helicopter crash only ten miles up th
e road.

  Angel didn’t believe in coincidence. He turned to Gawber, ‘Find out the name of the inside man in this gold robbery. He’s in prison somewhere. Find out where. It might move us on a pace.’

  Gawber nodded and dashed off. Angel watched the door close and then turned to Ahmed. ‘Now, lad. Look up those two dead men, they must have previous. They wouldn’t cut their teeth on a bank robbery.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Ahmed turned towards the door.

  ‘Hang on, lad. Another job for you and that computer. I want you to find the address of Enchantra Davison. She’s Yardley’s girlfriend. I don’t know where she lives now, but she was living with him at fifty-five Broad Street, Birmingham, when he was arrested.’

  ‘Won’t Commander Boodle know it, sir?’

  ‘Ay,’ Angel sniffed. ‘But I don’t want you to bother him.’

  ‘I could ring the prison. She’d be on his list of visitors. All visitors have to give their name and — ’

  ‘Yes. I know that, lad,’ Angel said patiently. ‘I know that.’ ‘The arresting officer would know, sir.’

  ‘Yes, lad. Yes. But I want it done surreptitiously.’

  ‘Oh?’ the cadet said uncertainly.

  ‘Listen, lad.’ Angel leaned forward and spoke quietly and slowly. ‘I’m prepared to spend a bit of time finding it out, secretly. I know it’s a slow way, uneconomical, old-fashioned even, and that it will therefore cost the force and the taxpayer a copper or two more, but there are good reasons. Almost everything costs something.’

  Ahmed looked blank, but nodded. ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel smiled. ‘One day, lad, you’ll learn that the only cheese that’s free is in a mouse-trap!’

  Chapter Eight

  Angel tramped down the hospital corridor and knocked on the door marked MORTUARY. A man in green overalls let him in. He picked his way through the white-walled theatre, stepping over tiled channels of running, multicoloured liquid of unmentionable origin that flowed to a gurgling drain. He passed three operating-tables and a bank of twenty-four buzzing refrigerated drawers, until he came to a tiny office at the end. The door was ajar.

  ‘Come in, Mike!’ the familiar Glaswegian voice called out. The doctor was at his desk, puffing a pipe and perusing a file of papers.

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘This place pongs!’ He closed the door.

  ‘Only ammonia.’ Mac said. ‘Sit down.’

  The corners of Angel’s mouth turned down as he eased himself into the chair.

  ‘That’s not ammonia.’

  Mac smiled.

  Angel added: ‘I’ll tell you what, I’d sooner spend a fortnight in Scarborough than an afternoon in here.’

  The pathologist turned, flicked a switch and an extractor fan in the wall above hummed into life.

  ‘You’re always complaining.’ He took another puff at the pipe and said: ‘Now, I’ve finished going over his clothes. Nothing remarkable there. Simply everything of the best Savile Row tailors, I wish I could afford them. Nothing off the peg; hand-made silk shirts. And so on. Immaculate. No damage to them. No missing buttons. No signs of a struggle or anything like that.’ He leaned down to the floor, lifted up a polythene bag and put it on the table. ‘Contents of the pockets. I’ve finished with them. You can have them. Nothing remarkable there, either.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ Before Mac could say anything, Angel had opened the bag and tipped them on to his desk.

  The doctor wasn’t pleased, and moved a file and some papers out of the way.

  Angel rummaged quickly through the items: a handkerchief, a few coins, a wallet containing credit-card, driving-licence, £200 in cash, and a photograph of a young woman.

  Angel looked closely at the face.

  ‘That’s his late wife. Photographs of her all over his flat.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Nice looking.’ He put it back in the wallet and shoved all the stuff into the polythene bag. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing fell out, into the vat, anywhere?’

  ‘No.’

  Angel rubbed his chin.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Something missing.’

  ‘What?’

  Angel didn’t reply. He pushed the bag into his raincoat pocket.

  Mac picked up the file. ‘Now, where do you want me to start?’

  Angel shrugged. ‘Wherever you like.’

  ‘Let’s start with the cause of death. He died from a heavy blow to the back of the head with something blunt, curved and very heavy. Then I assume he fell into the vat of gin. I can’t begin to imagine what sort of a weapon was used, or how the murderer had the strength to hold it up to use it; it equates to a direct hit to the skull by a car travelling fast, say at least fifty miles an hour.’

  ‘Did he die there, or was he moved?’

  ‘He died in situ. His residual blood shows it. He died instantly. He was dead before his nose hit the surface of the liquid. He had imbibed a small amount a short time before, but I don’t think it was enough to affect his senses.’

  ‘Just one blow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Angel rubbed his chin and rearranged his position in the chair.

  ‘Are you telling me he died from one hefty clout to the back of the head with a ten-ton scud missile with a curved nose-cone?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Mac said and shoved the pipe back into his mouth.

  Angel sniffed.

  Mac pulled hard on the pipe. Wisps of smoke wafted upwards to the fan.

  ‘What time was this?’

  Mac fingered the notes. ‘My calculations make it between six and nine on Monday evening.’

  ‘Any signs of a struggle? Marks on the body? Skin under the fingernails? Scuff-marks on the steps or on or around the vat? Anything?’

  ‘No.’

  Angel blew out a long sigh. ‘What else have you got?’

  Mac lifted the bunch of A4 sheets out of the file.

  ‘It’s all here.’

  ‘Come on, Mac. Save my time. Give me the meat. You’ve seen over his flat and his private rooms at Slogmarrow. Was there anything there?’

  ‘No. Nice, well-furnished London pad for a man on his own. Expensive. Luxurious even. Overlooks the river. Nothing unusual or illegal. No drugs, firearms, ammo, cash, gold, pornography. The same in his rooms at the distillery. It’s all in here,’ he added, tapping the file. ‘Nothing worth mentioning, but everything of the very best.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘No signs anywhere. A few photographs, looked like antecedents. Nobody apparently contemporary except his late wife. He had a daily in London. She kept it spotless, but hardly ever saw him.’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t think there’s anything like that about the man.’

  ‘And the scene of the crime. You were telling me about that plant, native to South America.’

  ‘Yes. Fibres round that spanner, and in the office upstairs, on the carpet by the desk.’ He fingered through the sheets in the file, found a page and read from it: ‘Agave sisalana. Or sisal, from which matting, rugs, textiles, footwear, millinery, cordage, twines and brushes are made.’ He looked up from his notes. ‘The examples found were not dyed or bleached. They were perfectly natural. So we can probably eliminate rugs, textiles, and millinery.’

  ‘Which then?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  Angel pulled a face. This forensic wasn’t much help. He went down a mental list of queries. He began with the mysterious smell in Angus Leitch’s office.

  ‘And what did you make of the pong of humbugs?’

  Mac blew out a short sigh. ‘I couldn’t make anything of it. I could smell it, but I couldn’t bottle it, and I can’t put odours under a microscope. I’m afraid it won’t make forensic.’

  Angel nodded glumly.

  ‘I thought it was more the smell of a sweetie to soothe a cough, menthol or similar,’ Mac added.

  ‘Menthol?’
Angel said rubbing his chin.

  ‘Ay. It’s an elderly person’s sort of thing, isn’t it?’

  Angel blew out a sigh. ‘Those old chaps … Imperial’s four senior directors … ’

  ‘Ay?’

  ‘I don’t suppose … Would they have the strength, jointly or severally, to cause McFee’s death by belting him on the back of the head with an implement … say, a golf club?’

  ‘No. No chance, Michael. It would have required a lot more muscle than they could muster to crack McFee’s skull with one blow … and from a standing position. The injury required great weight and/or great speed, or both.’

  ‘Hmm. What about a young man in his thirties … in good physical shape?’

  ‘You’re thinking of Angus Leitch?’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘It’s possible. I go no further.’

  *

  Peter Fleming shuffled along the corridor.

  ‘Please follow me, Inspector, we can talk in here.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Angel stepped into the boardroom. A fire roared noisily up the back of the big fireplace. He looked round and took in the grandness of the room.

  The old man switched on the chandelier. He indicated the long table surrounded by twelve chairs in the middle of the room.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  Angel waited for the man to hobble across the tartan carpet to the chair at the head of the table, and then sat down next to him.

  ‘I understand you’re the chief executive officer, you’ll be the next chairman, won’t you?’

  ‘No. No, Inspector. There’s certainly a vacancy for the chair of Imperial Gin plc. I would have relished the position years ago but — ah well, I am retiring. I am eighty, you know, I have already resigned. I simply want to get the best person possible installed as CEO, and then I am off to Florida. Yes. Hmm. To be near my son and his family. And I tell you, I can’t wait to get out there. I doubt I would survive another English winter.’

  Angel nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Duncan McFee doesn’t seem to have any close relations.’

  ‘That’s right. His wife died four years ago. He never quite recovered from it, and they didn’t have any children.’

  ‘Ah. And I suppose he was well off.’

  Fleming flashed his new BUPA teeth.

  ‘He was very well off. He was in the top two hundred in the rich list, you know.’