Gawber closed the door.
‘Don’t know if you’ve heard the news, sir. The four executive directors at Imperial have just announced their intention to resign as soon as replacements for their jobs could be found. It was on the radio.’
‘They would be those four little old men Fleming, Menzies, Reid and Finlay. They did tell me they were retiring. I’m not really surprised, considering their ages. I would have gone years ago, wouldn’t you? They must be rolling in it.’
‘Something else, sir.’
‘What’s that?’
‘About menthol.’
‘Ay?’
‘I looked it up, sir. It’s from a Japanese flower. It’s sometimes called peppermint camphor. It has a strong, minty, cooling smell. Used in flavourings, cigarettes and cosmetics.’
‘I know all that,’ Angel said impatiently. ‘It’s used in cough-sweets and to dab on your hanky for a cold. You can get it in crystals from the chemists to put with boiling water to inhale. Old man Finlay reeks of it.’
Gawber looked glum. ‘Oh.’
Angel threw down his pen.
‘What I don’t get is why Leitch’s office smells of it. They don’t use it in the process of making gin! It’s a smell that’s out of context. It was there the morning after the murder. Leitch can’t offer any explanation. He says that that smell has not been in his office before. There has to be some explanation.’
The phone rang. He reached out for the handset. ‘Angel.’
It was Dr Mac. ‘Michael. Those fibres you sent across to me from one of the suspects, Finlay’s slippers.’
‘Ay — ’
‘Well they’re not the same. It’s sisal all right, but it’s been bleached. The fibres we found in the ageing room were not bleached.’
‘Oh. Thanks, Mac. Goodbye.’
He replaced the handset and turned to Gawber. He told him the result of the doctor’s tests.
‘That rules Finlay out then, sir.’
‘I’m not surprised. He wouldn’t have had the physical strength, and he hasn’t any known motive. Hmm. If we were to believe the facts, we’d be looking for the world’s strongest man, who has a use for sisal, hides keys and has a menthol fetish.’
The phone rang. He reached out for it.
‘Angel.’
It was the super. ‘The commander’s just been on the phone. I have arranged for him to brief his lads here on Monday at — nine hundred hours. He wants you and Gawber there, and he wants the services of you both for the operation on Tuesday.’
The corners of Angel’s mouth turned down.
‘Right, sir.’
‘Tell Gawber to get his suit pressed and his hair cut, and you could do with bit of smartening up, yourself.’
*
The weekend came and the papers were full of the news of the resignations of the four men from Imperial Gin plc. It was forecast by the financial tipsters that when the stockmarket opened on Monday morning, the share price would be marked down by between 30% and 50%. There were old photographs of the retiring directors, many column-inches devoted to the long careers of each of them, the perceived state of the company and the young blood that might replace them; predictably, one of the candidates coming to the fore was Angus Leitch.
Angel read all about it but spent most of the weekend gardening with Mary. On Monday morning, he gave his shoes an extra shine, grabbed a clean handkerchief from the drawer and was bright and early out of the house. At 8.28 a.m, he drove into the police carpark. His usual parking spot was occupied by an unfamiliar red sports car. He growled and angrily banged the steering wheel. The area was bursting with cars, mostly unknown to him, and mostly unmarked. He looked round for an alternative space, eventually found a tight spot by the gate and reversed into it. He locked the car door, crossed the Tarmac, tapped the code in the rear-door lock of the station and went inside. When he reached the main corridor, he found it awash with bronzed, slim young men talking animatedly as they sauntered down from reception in groups of twos and threes. They were mostly dressed in dark suits and white shirts; some jackets bulged where they concealed handgun holsters. Cadet Ahmed Ahaz was shepherding the visitors between the large washroom, the coffee machine in the locker room and the CID briefing room, whilst deftly steering them round the backside of the plumber and the plastic pipe trailing out of the gents’ loo.
Angel overtook some of them and made his way directly to the briefing room, past the notice on the door that read: OPERATION MIDAS 0900 hrs. He nodded to Ron Gawber, who was standing on his own by the door, drinking coffee. The sergeant responded with a wry smile.
To one side of the room were two chairs and a table in front of them; Oscar Quadrille was standing over the table, sorting A4 printed sheets into cream-coloured folders.
‘Ah. Morning, Michael.’ he said over the hubbub.
‘Everything all right?’
‘I think I’ve got everything.’ He pushed a cream folder into Angel’s hand. ‘That’s yours.’ He placed the other two neatly into positions on the table in front of the chairs.
Angel glanced at the file cover and frowned.
‘What’s this? It’s your party. I won’t want this, will I?’
‘The commander wants you along.’
Angel grunted. ‘Oh?’ He opened the folder, looked at the first page, then closed it. ‘What for?’
‘In case it’s sticky with Yardley … when he takes over the van.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Oh?’ He pulled a face. That meant a trip up to Welham again.
Quadrille smiled and nodded.
‘It’ll be all right, I expect. He’s worried about it, but then, he always is.’
Angel shrugged, forced a smile and dropped the folder on to the end of the table. His inside felt as if he had swallowed a pair of frogs who were intent on making enough tadpoles to fill every jamjar in the UK.
An outburst of noise caught his attention as more Special Branch men congregated at the far end of the room, holding plastic cups of coffee, talking noisily and occasionally laughing far too loudly — Angel thought — to reflect genuine lightheartedness. Something was happening by the door. He turned.
The commander and the super had arrived. Boodle looked very smart in a navy-blue blazer and light-grey trousers; the super looked his usual dour self in an ill-fitting dark suit.
The chattering declined. Some of the men found chairs and settled into them; others leaned against the tables and walls.
Boodle nodded to Angel then looked at Quadrille.
‘Shall I sit here, Oscar?’
‘There, sir,’ said Quadrille pointing to a chair behind the table. ‘And Super, will you sit here?’
The super flopped into the other chair like a sack of potatoes and began grinding his teeth.
Boodle opened the cream folder, glanced at a few pages and then closed it. He looked at his watch, then up at Quadrille.
‘Is everybody here?’
The room fell silent. Quadrille did a quick count of heads.
‘Twenty-eight. Yes sir.’
Angel stood at the front next to Quadrille with his back to a blackboard upon which were pinned blown-up photographs of Morris Yardley.
Boodle rose to his feet and, with a hand in his blazer pocket, cleared his throat. ‘Ah, now,’ he said. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Let me first introduce Superintendent Harker, DI Michael Angel, and DS Ron Gawber, who are our hosts, and we are grateful for their assistance in this operation.’
‘A pleasure,’ the superintendent lied. He tried to smile, but he looked as if the smell from the gents loo had wafted in from the corridor.
Boodle continued: ‘Now, what this jaunt is about — is the retrieval of sixty-six millions pounds’ worth of gold, that’s eight hundred and twenty gold bars, stolen from the Bank of Agara two years ago. The ringleader of the gang is Morris Yardley, who is at present serving twenty years in Welham prison for robbery and manslaughter. He is the only person alive, to
our knowledge, who knows the whereabouts of the gold. And the gold has to be returned to the King of Agara damned quick to secure the continuation of flying rights over the Mitsoshopi desert for the RAF, which is absolutely vital at this time. As you know, things are very dicey out there at the moment. Now Yardley thinks that for the return of half of his haul of gold, thirty-three million quid’s worth, the judiciary will release him and cancel the rest of his sentence.’
The commander paused. Most of the men tittered, some guffawed loudly; Angel looked up in surprise. Boodle smiled appreciatively and carried on:
‘In actual fact, we are going to recover all eight hundred and twenty gold bars and return him to his cell in Welham prison by tomorrow night.’
There were mutters of approval. Angel’s eyebrows rose.
Boodle continued: ‘Now part of the terms of the deal with Yardley is for us to supply a van, fifty thousand pounds in cash and certain specified items of clothing and personal effects in a suitcase. Oscar Quadrille has organized a tracer in the heel of a shoe, which is in the suitcase, and a radio beacon, which is in the suitcase handle. I doubt if Yardley will take — or have — the opportunity to wear the shoes before his recapture; anyway he’ll surely not in any circumstances discard the case, as I am judging that he will want something in which to carry the money, his expensive custom-made clothes and his other personal items. Should either signal fail, then there’s the backup of the other. Also, there will be six of you with Kalashnikovs in the chopper, code-named for this operation, ‘Flying Doctor’, which, I am told, has just come back from refit, and now has even better heat-seeking rays, powerful enough to find a flea in a bride’s nightie.’
There were several sniggers from the attentive audience. Boodle beamed appreciatively.
‘And there are four ARV teams, here, code named Doctor 1, Doctor 2, Doctor 3 and Doctor 4. You all know who you are. Oscar will give each driver and the pilot the map references of your starting positions in North Yorkshire, at the end of this briefing. You are to make your own way there, and not in convoy. We want an absolute minimum profile. And note, all of you, you need to be in your positions by nine forty-five hours tomorrow. Now the van is ready at a local rental depot for collection, and Ron Gawber will drive it with the suitcase and contents aboard, up to Welham prison tomorrow morning, to arrive at nine forty-five hours. He will then join the control car as driver. I will be travelling up there with Oscar and Michael Angel. Michael and I will meet Yardley, surrender the van, the money, the clothes, including the shoes, and the suitcase, and his release papers.’
There were more sniggers and guffaws. Angel shook his head slightly.
‘Assuming all is satisfactory,’ Boodle went on, ‘Michael will then rejoin the control car, and Yardley and I will leave the prison together in the van. Now, I expect that to be about ten hundred hours. Yardley has undertaken to drive the van straight to the hiding-place of the gold. Now you must all keep your heads down. There will be no marked police cars in the area; North Yorkshire police have agreed to keep out of sight until thirteen hundred hours. I don’t want Yardley nervous. All right? Now this is very important. Once the van has left the prison, no approach is to be made to it under any circumstances, not until I have actually seen the gold and phoned Oscar on his mobile. Has everybody got that?’
There was lots of nodding and a few mutters of: ‘Yes, sir.’
Boodle stopped and looked across at the men as if he wanted to expand on it, but he didn’t. There was a short pause.
‘I will have to make the call via the nearest line I can get to, because Yardley may ask to search me at the prison, and Michael has agreed that I shall not have a phone or a wire on my person. Through Oscar, I will advise the location and he will instruct Flying Doctor, and Doctors One, Two, Three and Four where to rendezvous to collect the gold and rearrest Yardley. I will then make ad hoc arrangements to return him to Welham Prison, and ship the gold back to the Bank of Agara. Any questions?’
‘Yes sir,’ a voice from the back spoke up. ‘Do we know if Yardley has any contacts outside the prison with any members of the gang or anybody else who might support him in the event of an escape attempt?’
‘Good point,’ Boodle replied. ‘Of course, we have checked, and he has received no letters at all since he went to prison, and he hasn’t sent any. The only visits … ’
A voice from the back muttered something. Angel didn’t quite catch it. The commander’s eyebrows shot up. He had heard it.
‘Very well,’ Boodle said, ‘He could have smuggled a letter out, Alan, but we have no knowledge of it. And, as far as we know, the only member of the gang that robbed the Bank of Agara who is still living, is safely in prison in Hallas End. OK?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I was saying, the only visitor he has had during the time of his imprisonment has been his long time girlfriend, an Enchantra Davison. And she has been under close surveillance for the past six days and nights, by members of the team, and there is nothing untoward to report. As a matter of fact, I had a phone call just before I came in here, and Willy Simcox reported that she was in bed in her flat as safe as houses. And her car, which during the early hours of this morning was disabled by Willy personally, without her knowledge, stands parked up in his team’s vision, under her flat window. She’s not going anywhere. Anybody anything else?’
Another voice from the back called out.
‘Yes sir. What is there to stop Yardley, once you get out of the prison gates, ditching you and the van and effecting his escape?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Boodle. ‘But I think he would have a devil of a job surviving and staying out of our clutches when we have a chopper and four ARVs and a control car already in position, observing him. Also, if he takes the fifty thousand pounds, and I would be amazed if he didn’t, as he would certainly need it, all we have to do is follow the signal from the suitcase. OK?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Anything else?’
Some shook their heads, others fidgeted with their coffee-cups.
‘No? Right. Now, Oscar has arranged for accommodation for everybody. You have the rest of the day to sort yourselves out. Check over your weapons, and your vehicles. Make yourselves familiar with the map round HMP Welham and North Yorkshire. Take it steady this evening. Give the local talent a miss. Get a good night’s kip, and the next time I see you, we will be knee-deep in gold bars.’
Some of the men cheered quietly. Boodle turned to Quadrille.
‘Have I missed anything, Oscar?’
‘Don’t think so, sir,’ Oscar replied with a big grin.
Angel looked on, and said nothing.
*
It was 0935 hours the following day, Tuesday, 19 April, when Oscar Quadrille drove the Mercedes on to the carpark opposite Welham prison gates. His two passengers, Boodle and Angel, got out into the bright spring sunshine and strode purposefully on to the Tarmac, and across the cobbled street to the prison gate, where they were promptly admitted and directed through the archway to the quadrangle in the prisoners’ recreation area. They looked up at the six rows of poky windows overlooking all sides of the square as they made their way along to the new, white, three-ton Transit van parked in the middle. Ron Gawber climbed out of the cab to greet them. Angel nodded to him.
‘Everything all right, Ron?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Suitcase in the back?’ Boodle asked.
‘Yes sir.’
Boodle looked at the van and then at Angel.
‘I don’t think we need him here any more, Michael.’
Angel agreed. ‘Thanks, Ron. DI Quadrille is on the carpark opposite the main gate in a black Mercedes.’
‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said and walked briskly off to the archway.
‘Better lay out the spoils,’ said Boodle.
Angel opened the rear van door. Inside was a light-brown leather suitcase with a broad leather strap round the middle. He reached in, dragged it to the rear of the van
and began to unfasten it.
Suddenly, there was the clang of iron on iron. It came from the main cell-block entrance: a warder had pushed open the gate. Into the quadrangle bounced a big, smiling, Morris Yardley in a baseball cap, blue shirt, jeans and trainers, carrying two bulging Tesco plastic shopping bags. He held up a hand with one of the bags in it to shield his eyes from the bright sun as he looked up and round at the cell windows.
Unexpectedly, the sound of voices, at first a few, and then quickly many more, echoed round the quadrangle. The prisoners were cheering; the cheering was augmented with the clatter of metal hitting metal, as cutlery and shoes were being banged enthusiastically against iron bars.
Angel and Boodle looked up at the rows of small, barred windows. It was the same scene on all four sides. Faces appeared and clothes and objects were being waved. The rumpus increased, like a crowd at Wembley.
Yardley grinned and waved the plastic bags enthusiastically as he approached the waiting van.
Senior Officer Jubb was not pleased; his lips tightened and his jaw set firm as a rock as soon as he heard the uproar begin.
He barely glanced at the windows as he strode out across the Tarmac; he was familiar with the changing mood of the prisoners and this boisterous outburst was potentially dangerous.
He could have anticipated that the news of Yardley’s release would have spread through the prison, but this reaction was unexpected. Most of the inmates seemed to be happy for him; they must have thought how cleverly he had negotiated his freedom and made clowns out of the judiciary. As the two men came further into view the volume increased and amid the cheering, cries of: ‘Scab’, ‘Boo’ and worse, could also be distinguished. A few hard nuts would be envious and enraged at how a comparative new boy had worked his ticket after only twelve months of a twenty-year stretch. Jubb knew that the outward show of solidarity was the formula for a riot, a fire, the taking of a hostage or an escape attempt, and he and his officers would have to be very careful through the next twenty-four hours or so.
The Morals of a Murderer Page 12