The Morals of a Murderer

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘No, I didn’t know. Hmmm. Interesting. And who will benefit under his will?’

  ‘I will, for one, and my executive co-directors, Mr Menzies, Mr Reid and Mr Finlay. His entire estate was left in equal parts to the four of us.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. At last, a possible motive? The lack of one had been very frustrating.

  ‘Hmmm. And where were you last Monday evening, between five and ten o’clock?’

  ‘Oh. Am I a suspect, Inspector?’ Fleming shook his head. ‘Tut tut.’

  ‘It’s a question I have to ask.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, I would be doing what I have been doing every night for the past two years. After a day’s work in the office, I am too weary to do much at all. I would leave at five o’clock, arrive home about ten past. I did have a housekeeper, but she has very recently left. They never stay long. I find something easy to cook or prepare. I eat it or throw it in the bin. Then I watch television or read the paper until around eight o’clock when I would have made myself a glass of tea and taken it to bed.’

  ‘You didn’t go out?’

  ‘No. No. I am on my own. Where would I go?’

  ‘Hmmm. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted Hector McFee dead?’

  ‘Not a soul. He was a kind man. Everybody liked him. After his wife died, I believe he contracted his interests. His social life, like mine, dissolved. From conversations with him, he seemed to have been mainly concerned with strengthening the position of Imperial on the world scene and consolidating his personal financial interests.’

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘Oh, investment opportunities. He had a big portfolio of stocks and shares.’

  Angel rubbed his hand across his mouth.

  ‘Right. Thank you. That’s all for now. I’d like to see your other executive co-directors: Mr Menzies, Mr Reid and Mr Finlay.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Well, please feel free to use this room, Inspector,’ Fleming muttered as he pushed the chair away from the table.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Fleming pulled a face of pain as he straightened his back and shuffled to the door. ‘I’ll ask them to come along and see you, shall I? Who would you like to see first?’

  Angel interviewed Reid, and then Menzies.

  The men were cousins and good friends and both expressed views about the laird that were similar to those of Fleming. Also, Angel learned that both of them, and Finlay, who were all in their seventies, had sought the approval of the main board to retire and intended to do so in the near future.

  Regarding their alibis, Angel was told that on the evening of the murder, Menzies walked to Reid’s house in Slogmarrow, enjoyed a meal with Reid cooked for them by Mrs Reid, then the two men had retired to the billiard room at the far end of the house, where they played snooker until after nine o’clock. Then Menzies walked back to his house 200 yards away.

  The last of the four directors shuffled in.

  ‘My name is Finlay. You wanted to see me? I am the financial director here.’

  The little man was wearing a suit as sharp as a steak knife, a crisp white shirt and a dark tie. Angel’s eyes caught sight of his footwear: he was wearing light-coloured straw slippers.

  ‘I’m Inspector Angel. Please sit down. I have just two questions, Mr Finlay.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help,’ the little bald man said, taking out a neatly folded white handkerchief and shaking it out to wipe a very red nose.

  A gentle whiff of menthol drifted through the air.

  Menthol! Angel’s heart began to thump. His mind raced back to Leitch’s office. He tried to breathe evenly and keep composed. It was exactly the same smell he had noticed lingering in that office the morning after the murder. He said nothing. He licked his lips thoughtfully and stared at the wizened little man. He seemed no taller than a vinegar bottle and weighed less than a Barnsley chop. Surely he could not have belted the life out of a big Scotsman?

  ‘Can you tell me anyone who would want to see the death of Duncan McFee … anyone who would benefit from his death?’ he asked.

  ‘I am a substantial beneficiary of his death, Inspector, but I would rather have him here alive today than have one penny of his money. After all, I am well enough off in my own right. I don’t need any funds. I have worked for Imperial since leaving school. I have been an executive director for twenty-two years. I knew his father and his grandfather. His loss is a great one, especially to the company at this time. I am seventy years of age and well past conventional retirement age. I have already advised my co-directors of my wish to retire and they have accepted my resignation. The idea that Mr McFee has been murdered for pecuniary advantage is preposterous.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Mr Finlay, he was murdered.’

  Finlay nodded. ‘You say so.’

  ‘He was murdered on Monday evening last. Where were you?’

  ‘Well, I usually spend my evenings at home quietly with my wife, here in Slogmarrow. That evening it was rather cool, so unusually, I went into Bromersley town to the pictures. There was a particular film I wanted to see at the Ritz. My wife wasn’t interested, so for a change, I went on my own.’

  ‘Did you see anybody you knew there?’

  ‘No, Inspector.’

  ‘It would have been helpful if you had met someone who might have remembered seeing you there.’

  ‘I don’t think I saw anybody I knew.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate,’ Angel said. He couldn’t think of any question he could pursue. He couldn’t hold Finlay on suspicion because he smelled of menthol. That simply wasn’t enough. He pursed his lips. He certainly intended watching him very carefully. ‘Ah well, thank you sir. That’s all for now.’ Finlay rose to leave. He pushed the chair back from the table and made for the door.

  Angel remembered the light coloured straw slippers. He stood up.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  The man turned.

  ‘Unusual footwear?’ he said pointing to the floor.

  ‘Ah yes, Inspector,’ Finlay said, making a sad face. ‘I have to wear soft shoes. I have the most painful bunions. I wear these in the office and at home. They are not appropriate for the office, but they are far more comfortable than leather. I have promised myself that when I retire the first thing I shall do is have the operation.’

  ‘I understand. May I see one of them, sir?’ Angel said, holding out a hand.

  Finlay looked both mystified and displeased.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Using the back of the chair for support, he lifted his foot, slipped one of the slippers off and held it out.

  Angel looked at the soft soled-slipper with the raffia-like flower motif on the upper. ‘Ah, native-made shoes. Are they from South America?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Finlay said smiling. ‘They were a present from a friend who holidayed in Bali last year. They have proved unexpectedly welcome.’

  Angel crossed to the window. With his back to the man, he held the slipper to the light.

  ‘Yes. Very nice.’ Then he returned and handed the slipper back. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  Finlay nodded and slipped it back on his foot. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. That’s all, for now, Mr Finlay. Thank you.’

  The old man went out. Angel watched the door close, then swiftly felt in his inside pocket for a transparent envelope. He opened it, inserted the pinch of fibres he had managed to pull from the slipper, sealed it and put it back in his pocket, patting it with a satisfied beam. It was the first time he had smiled for a week.

  He left the boardroom and made his way down to the car. He drove through the distillery gates on to the main road to Tunistone. He wanted to get the fibres into Mac’s hands as soon as possible. If they matched, they could form the backbone of a case. The smell from Finlay’s handkerchief was identical to that isolated by Leitch’s office window, but he would never be able to use it as evidence. There would be nothing to show in court. You couldn’t bottle it; you couldn’t photograph it
, and anyway, it had probably dispersed by now. He wanted to know exactly what it was and what it was doing in Leitch’s office. That unusual smell must fit into the case, but he didn’t yet know how.

  The story about Finlay going to the cinema on his own and meeting and seeing nobody was highly unsatisfactory; if he had gone somebody must have seen him.

  As Angel drove past the town boundary sign into Bromersley, he reckoned the other three hadn’t got watertight alibis either. As Fleming lived by himself, he could easily have made his way back to the ageing-room at any time during the evening. The two cousins, Menzies and Reid could be providing each other with alibis, or they could have committed the murder jointly. Also, Menzies had had ample opportunity to call in at the ageing-room both before he arrived at Reid’s and on his way home. None of them had really watertight alibis. Furthermore, he thought it was highly surprising that all four key executives chose to resign their directorships at the same time. They were all well past the usual retirement dates and would no doubt receive handsome golden handshakes from a company as big and reputable as Imperial. Now that McFee had gone, they could, no doubt, vote each other thousands!

  He arrived in the town centre and turned the car into Church Street. He was surprised to see that the plumber’s van and traffic cones were still cluttering up the front of the station. He drove round to the yard and entered through the rear door. As he charged up the corridor, he saw Ahmed hovering by his office door. The young man’s face lit up, and he eagerly stepped forward waving a piece of paper.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got there, lad? Your P45?’ Angel asked as he pushed open the office door.

  ‘No sir. It’s the address of Enchantra Davison.’

  Angel grabbed the paper, glanced at it and slapped it on the desk.

  ‘That’s great, lad,’ he said smiling. ‘Great.’

  ‘But I wasn’t able to find any record of any previous for either of those two wanteds, sir, who died in that helicopter crash, not on the NPC, nor in our own records.’

  Angel’s smile disappeared. He frowned as he thoughtfully unbuttoned his coat. In a second, he was as downcast as a bank-holiday weather forecast. He shook his head.

  ‘No previous?’ he said ponderously. ‘No previous?’ He rubbed his chin. They surely didn’t cut their teeth on a job that size? Somebody must have deleted it. There aren’t many people who would have had the audacity and the authority! It must have been Boodle. After a moment, he made a decision. ‘We’re running short on time, lad. We’ll have to cut some corners. You can’t catch a rat when it’s in a pipe.’

  Ahmed blinked. ‘No sir.’

  ‘You’ve got to smoke it out,’ he said waving his hand in a flourish. He picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  A local young woman, assuming a posh accent, answered.

  ‘Bromersley Chronicle. News desk.’

  ‘Here’s something for you,’ he said, feigning enthusiasm.

  ‘Who is calling?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. It’s about the murder of the big boss, Duncan McFee, up at the Imperial distillery. I can tell you the police know who the murderer is, but they can’t prove it. They are privately calling it the ‘menthol murder’, because the crime scene reeks of the stuff. Also, the police can’t find the victim’s bunch of keys!’

  He replaced the phone gently and smiled.

  Ahmed’s jaw dropped. ‘Do you really know who killed the man, sir?’

  Angel sniffed. ‘There were five suspects originally, Ahmed. I’ve got it down to two,’ he said confidently. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out the transparent envelope and tossed it on the desk. ‘Now hop off, and get that to Dr Mac, pronto.’

  Ahmed eagerly reached out for the envelope and held it up to the light. His eyes lit up.

  ‘Fibre, sir,’ he said excitedly. ‘Is it a clue?’

  ‘No,’ Angel grunted without looking up. ‘It’s evidence.’

  Chapter Nine

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Gawber.

  ‘Yes, lad?’ Angel said,

  ‘The name of that prisoner is Martin Taylor, sir. He was manager of security at the London branch of the Bank of Agara.’

  Angel’s face brightened.

  ‘And he is currently residing in HMP Hallas End.’

  ‘Ah! Even better. That’s not far. This side of Lincoln. I’ll go and see him first thing in the morning.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Constable Scrivens.

  ‘What is it, lad?’

  Scrivens’s face and voice showed signs of embarrassment and exasperation.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir. There’s a man in reception kicking up a fuss about a missing German shepherd dog.’

  ‘That’s ‘Lost Property’ isn’t it, lad?’ Angel bawled. ‘What you bothering me for?’

  ‘Yes sir, but the constable I’m on with says that you were in the station when it was brought in last Tuesday. That you dealt with it. It isn’t in the book, and this chap won’t go away, and I don’t know what to say to him.’

  ‘Arrr,’ Angel snarled and jumped to his feet. ‘Right lad, I’ll come.’ He looked back at Gawber. ‘I won’t be a minute, Ron.’ He darted out of the office, up to the top of the corridor and through the security door into reception. Scrivens came running behind.

  A red-faced, skinny man in a flat cap, mustard-coloured corduroy suit and wearing a red scarf eyed the inspector as soon as he came through the door. Waving a bony hand displaying on the fingers a collection of sovereign rings in gold mounts, he advanced towards Angel, his small eyes staring piercingly. Licking his thin blue lips, he fumed:

  ‘Are you this Inspector Angel?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Angel said evenly, easing back from the spray of saliva. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I have just come back from a few days in Majorca to find that my German Shepherd dog has been stolen. What’s more, a neighbour of mine saw a policeman in uniform putting it into a police van, so I know it was brought here. Some lad said you knew all about it. And this lad here says there’s no record of it. What sort of jiggery-pokery’s going on, that’s what I’d like to know! You will know which dog it was, because there was something wrong with its jaw. It must have recovered by now, and I want it back. It’s a valuable animal.’

  ‘Yes sir. Of course you do,’ Angel said slowly and quietly. ‘You can certainly have your dog back, sir. No man should be parted from man’s best friend, should he. I can tell you that he is being very well looked after in police-approved kennels at the moment. But I will arrange to have the dog brought here for you to collect on receipt of the recovery fee of thirty-six pounds, the veterinary fee of four hundred pounds for the operation on his throat, and the kennelling at six pounds a day for six days.’

  ‘What?’ exploded the red-faced man.

  ‘Also, you will realize, sir, that we have been looking for you. We weren’t to know that you were abroad on holiday. The dog had no collar, identification disc or microchip. Now that is an offence. The standard fine is one hundred pounds. Then there is the court case to answer, which will be brought by the RSPCA, supported by us, for neglect. That will result in an additional fine.’

  The man suddenly turned and made a swift dash for the station door. It banged noisily behind him.

  Scrivens’s eyebrows went upwards. His mouth dropped open. He turned to Angel.

  ‘Do you want me to fetch him back, sir?’

  ‘No. That case is now closed, lad,’ Angel said as he made for the internal security door.

  Scrivens’s face slowly turned to a smile. ‘Oh yes, sir. I see, sir.’

  Angel returned to his office and closed the door.

  ‘Now then Ron, where were we?’

  ‘Did you want me to go to Hallas End?’

  ‘No,’ Angel said quickly. He wanted that doubtful pleasure … any excuse to be away from the station
and thereby avoid further contact with Boodle. The phone rang.

  ‘What’s this?’ He reached out for it. ‘Angel.’

  It was the super.

  ‘I want you down here. Now!’

  ‘Right sir.’

  It didn’t sound good. Angel pulled a face. He dropped the phone into its cradle.

  ‘I have to go.’

  They both stood up. Angel made for the door, then he turned back.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I want you to do, Ron.’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘Find out all you can about menthol.’

  Gawber screwed up his face. ‘Menthol?’

  ‘Ay. Menthol,’ said Angel. Then he belted down the corridor to the super’s office and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in. Sit down.’ Harker bawled without even looking up.

  Angel knew that was a bad sign. He settled in the chair by the desk.

  The super peeled a piece of loose skin off his nose, spat out a nail and then muttered:

  ‘Ay. Well, I haven’t had chance to speak to you since Friday.’

  Angel nodded. He wondered what was coming next; he knew it wasn’t a coconut!

  The super sat forward in the chair and held on to its arms like a rocket about to take off.

  ‘I had a long chat with Perry Boodle this morning. You’ve left him in somewhat of a dilemma. You broke all the rules. You found nothing out. You didn’t close a deal. He wonders whether if you did happen to extract any useful nugget of information out of Yardley, you might just be keeping it to yourself.’

  Angel sniffed. He thought that last comment a bit rich! The superintendent was certainly making his position sound very precarious. He didn’t reply.

  ‘The question is, where do I go from here? Do I dismiss you … my best investigating officer … for deliberate disobedience, obstruction and wilful damage to police property … or what?’

  There was another pause.

  Angel stared at old alligator head, chewing a nail and rubbing his chin.

  ‘Well, sir … ’ Angel began.

  ‘That was my first inclination,’ the superintendent continued, ignoring the interjection. ‘Then the commander pointed out to me that you are the only person Yardley is willing to talk to, and that you have us, therefore, well and truly “by the short and curlies”.’