‘Well, well, well. Amy Jones. What are you doing here?’
‘Who is it?’ a younger woman’s voice called from behind her and out of sight. Amy Jones’s eyes shone like a panther’s.
‘It’s for me. I’ll deal with it,’ she called back. ‘What do you want, mister?’ she said.
Angel put his hand up to the door.
Susan Tranter squeezed her nose round the door jamb. Her jaw dropped when she saw Gawber.
‘Oh!’
Angel looked from the woman to Gawber.
‘What’s this?’
‘I’m just visiting. Dropped in. For a coffee,’ Amy Jones said quickly.
‘That’s the woman: Susan Tranter,’ Gawber said. ‘The woman who said she was nearly run off the road last night by that little red Porsche.’
Angel glared at her.
Amy pulled the door open.
‘Oh. Leave her out of this, Mr Angel. This is between Evan and me. It has nothing to do with her.’
The younger woman ran into the back of flat.
‘But it has everything to do with me,’ Angel snapped, advancing into the room. ‘Your friend is under arrest for wasting police time.’
‘No! No!’ Susan Tranter screamed and pulled at Amy Jones’s arm. ‘You said it would be safe. You never said there was no risk. That it was your husband. That it was just a laugh.’
Amy wrenched her arm free from the younger woman. ‘Shut up, you silly cow!’
‘Did she put you up to it?’ Angel asked.
‘She said it would be safe. That there was no chance of anybody finding out. She promised me a hundred pounds. I’m not going back to prison. I’ll die.’
‘Shut your mouth.’
‘Tut-tut. Sit down on that sofa, the pair of you, and keep quiet.’
Angel reached for his mobile and tapped in a number. ‘Ah Crisp. Bring a WPC to flat twenty-one, Mickleberry Court, to pick up two female prisoners. And hurry up.’
He cancelled the phone and pushed it back into his pocket. ‘Right, Ron. You take the kitchen and I’ll do in here.’
Susan Tranter stood up. Her bright eyes flashed at Angel. ‘Here, what are you doing?’ She stared down at Amy Evans. ‘I’m not going back to prison for her or anybody else.’
‘Sit down please.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re looking to see if you have any other surprises hidden away.’
‘There’s nothing. Why are you picking on me? What have I done?’
‘Sit down, miss.’
Amy glared at her. ‘Sit down, you silly cow.’
‘He’s picking on my family. His name’s Angel, isn’t it.’
‘Sit down and be quiet, the pair of you.’
‘No. I won’t be quiet. Not in my own flat. He’s picking on my family.’
Amy glared at her again. ‘Sit down. You’re making it worse.’ Angel sighed. ‘Will you sit down and shut up.’
Susan Tranter stuck out her jaw. ‘No, I won’t. He went over my brother’s flat only yesterday and found nothing. And you'll find nothing here!’ she bawled.
‘Whose flat was that then?’ asked Angel.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’re always chasing my brother, Arnold.’
Angel thought a moment, then shook his head.
‘You’ve got the wrong bloke, miss.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ She stared at Amy. ‘Look, he’s trying to get out of it.’
‘Shut up,’ Amy bellowed.
‘You dragged him into the cop-shop for no reason at all,’ Susan Tranter said. ‘You searched him and then searched his flat. He said it was you. The big fat ugly one called Angel, he said.’
Angel smiled slightly. ‘What’s your brother’s name again?’
‘Don’t pretend, Inspector. You know exactly who I mean. You’re always pushing him around ’cos he’s small. Arnold Smith. Well, he’s my step-brother.’
‘Yes.’ Angel nodded knowingly. ‘Fishy Smith. We know him.’
‘There I told you, Amy. He can't deny it.’
‘Sit down, miss.’
Eight minutes later, Crisp arrived with WPC Baverstock.
‘Right,’ said Angel. ‘Cuff them. Charge this one with wasting police time and the other one with neglecting to observe a probation order.’
The prisoners were handcuffed and led down to the car. Angel caught Crisp by the sleeve on his way out.
‘Keep them apart, lad. And don’t let them out of your sight,’ he added meaningfully.
Only two minutes after they had gone, Angel lifted up the dusty mattress of one of the two beds in the bedroom and found sandwiched between it and the base, a plain white polythene bag sixteen inches by twenty-four inches. It reeked of menthol. He sensed that he had found something important: the breakthrough, the clue he had been hoping for. His fingers shook as he pulled open the bag. He found a bunch of keys and a length of thirty feet of greasy sisal string. His pulse drummed in his ears. He was on the threshold of discovering the murderer of Duncan McFee.
*
‘Ahmed, come in here,’ Angel said and replaced the phone. He turned to Gawber. ‘Ron, go up to that distillery at Slogmarrow, see Angus Leitch and find out if any one of the keys on this bunch fits the door to the ageing-room. Let’s hope one of them does. Come straight back and tell me. I’ll be down the cells, seeing what I can make of the Cheeky Girls!’
‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said. He took the keys and dashed off.
Ahmed came through the door. ‘Yes sir?’
‘I’ve arrested a woman called Amy Jones. Holloway probation is looking for her. Tell them we’ve got her here. They might want to send someone from the local office round to interview her.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And if anybody is looking for me, I’m down the cells.’
‘Right, sir.’
Amy Jones was in cell number one. Angel got the duty jailer to let him in. She was lying on the bunk looking at the door when Angel went in.
‘I thought you’d forgotten about me,’ she said chirpily, sitting up.
‘No,’ Angel said sombrely. ‘We’ve found a plastic bag containing a bunch of keys and some string under a mattress in a bedroom at the flat. Is it yours?’
‘Don’t know what you are talking about. It’s not my flat. She was only letting me stay a few nights there while I found my feet,’ Amy said smoothly.
Angel stroked his chin while he considered what to do next.
Men were usually smarter than women at defending themselves in cross-examination: although more dishonest, they were always more positive, whether lying or telling the truth. Men’s lies were therefore usually easier to isolate, detect and analyse, whereas women were far more devious and would try to confuse the questioner with half-truths, insinuations and convincing intricate false trails. He was thinking he would be better off recording any further interview with Amy Jones, which was, strictly speaking, the requirement these days. He made the decision.
‘Right,’ he said. He stood up, went out and closed the door.
Amy Jones’s jaw dropped. In her experience interviews always lasted longer than that. She leaned back on the bunk, lit a cigarette and blew a blue cloud of smoke towards the door.
Angel peered through the observation slot of cell number three at Susan Tranter. She was sitting sedately on the edge of the bunk fidgeting with a handkerchief. He let himself into the cell.
‘You know, I don’t know what I am doing here, Inspector. I’ve done nothing wrong. Just because I let Amy Jones stay with me, it doesn’t mean that I am tarred with the same brush. She’s a bad lot, I know. I demand to see a solicitor. I am entitled to that, I know. I am not going back to prison again. No way. I’ve served my time and that’s enough. You’ve no right keeping me in here. I should be out leading a normal life. It isn’t as if I have done anything wrong. Tell me. What am I doing here? Go on. Tell me.’
‘You know why you’re here,’ Angel said patiently. ‘You t
old my sergeant a tall story about a woman driving a car dangerously — ’
‘That was her. She made me do that. She said it was a joke … on her ex-husband.’
Angel shook his head. ‘Well, let’s see what we can do. There’s a plastic bag containing keys and string under a mattress in your bedroom in your flat.’
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ she said, her bulging eyes staring at him. ‘She must have brought it with her. I don’t know anything about it. She’s not going to blame me. I expect she’s told you it was mine.’
Angel wasn’t prepared to be put off. ‘It’s very important for you to tell me how you came by it.’
‘I don’t know anything about it. You’ve got to believe me, Inspector. I wouldn’t lie to you, now would I?’
Angel said: ‘Did you say your brother came round to see you yesterday?’
‘Last night. Comes round regular.’
‘Did he come round the week before?’
‘I expect so. I do his washing. Every week. I always done it.’
‘Did he go in the bedroom.’
‘He changes in there. Puts his clean stuff on. Look here, what’s this got to do with anything?’
*
Angel picked up the phone and pressed a button.
‘Ahmed … I want Fishy Smith bringing in urgently … Get communications to put out a general notice. I want everybody looking for him. It’s in regard to his step-sister. She is in the cells under arrest … Right, lad.’
He replaced the phone. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Gawber with a triumphant look on his face.
Angel smiled. ‘Ah! You’ve found a key that fits?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Angel sighed. ‘At last! Now we’ve to find out how the bunch came to be in the possession of Amy Jones and Susan Tranter. They won’t talk. They admit nothing. They want to see their lawyers. I bet that one of them read the leak I gave to the Bromersley Chronicle about the ‘menthol murder’ and the missing keys, that she stumbled across that bag of stuff, and worked it all out. They must have been blackmailing the murderer. Amy Jones has a history of that sort of thing. If I could only find a link between either or both of them, and Angus Leitch, I would have enough for a conviction.’
Gawber looked surprised. ‘How was it done, sir?’
‘It’s something to do with the menthol ointment and the sisal. It’s time we went back to the scene of the crime. Bring that bag of string with you.’
Angel drove determinedly up to Slogmarrow, through the gates and round the block to the ageing-room. He parked up and they went through the door and up the steps to Angus Leitch’s office. The young man was in a white coat and sitting at his desk writing.
He made to get up as Angel and Gawber came through the door.
Angel waved him down. ‘Just need to have another look round, Mr Leitch.’
‘That’s fine,’ the young man said with a smile. ‘I have to go out, as it happens. Can I help you with anything?’
Angel looked through the office window and pointed outside.
‘Ay. Won’t keep you. That overhead crane out there. Is it easy to operate? Could I work it?’
Leitch rubbed his chin. ‘Ay. All you do, is activate three switches. Each switch has three positions: all marked. Easy as pie. The controls are on that board by the door. I must warn you that the hook and balance weigh more than a hundredweight, so keep them high so that they don’t hit anything as you move it around.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Must go.’ Angus Leitch took off his white coat, threw it on the chair and rushed out of the door. ‘Goodbye.’
Angel looked out of the office window to the vats below. He suddenly had an idea. His eyes glowed with excitement. He dashed downstairs. Gawber followed. Angel went to the switchboard and flicked a switch.
The crane motor was heard to start and the cable rolled, up taking the hook with it up to the ceiling. Angel then moved the crane motor over the vat where the laird’s body had been found.
‘Look Ron,’ he said. ‘Go up there, to Leitch’s office, open that window and throw the non sticky end of the string out to me. Keep hold of the other end.’
Gawber dashed up the steps.
Angel lined up the crane motor over the vat carefully and then lowered the hook.
Gawber opened the window and threw the string out of it. It didn’t drop, it stuck in a tangle, dangling in mid-air six feet below the window.
‘You’ll need to fasten something heavy to it. Try a spanner off the bench behind you,’ said Angel, with a twinkle in his eye.
Gawber grinned. ‘Ah. I’m with you, sir.’
A minute later a spanner fastened to the string dropped on to the distillery floor with a rattle. Angel went over to the string, released the spanner and tossed it back on to the floor where it had been found the morning after the murder. Then he lowered the hook on the overhead crane to a position low enough to where he could tie the string to the link above the weighted hook. He positioned the hook over the inspection door of the storage vat, then he returned upstairs to the office.
‘Right Ron. Pull that string tight. Sit in the chair. Thread it through the desk drawer handle and pull it.’
Gawber pulled the string fastened to the crane hook and weight through the window. The rough string snagged on the window bottom.
‘You need some lubrication, Ron.’ Angel said knowingly. He pulled out of his pocket the jar of two per cent menthol in white paraffin and placed it on the desk.
Gawber smiled.
‘Now tie it off on the drawer handle.’ Angel said, pointing to the desk.
When Gawber had made a simple knot, he turned to Angel.
‘And that’s how it was done, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes. The murderer then sat in the dark and waited. McFee let himself into the room with his own keys and left the bunch in the door. He did his rounds. He tasted a small drop of the gin at each vat. When he reached this last vat and was in the critical position, the murderer released the string, and the crane hook and weight careered through the air delivering him a mighty blow to the back of the head, knocking him into the vat.’
‘And some crack on the head that would have been! Just as Mac said.’
‘The murderer then threw the end of the sisal through the office window, closed it and went downstairs. He lowered the crane and unfastened the string off the hook. He drove the crane hook well away from the scene, closed the inspection door of the vat and gathered up the string. When he reached the door, he found Duncan McFee’s bunch of keys in the lock. He didn’t want to go back and he didn’t want to leave them there. It might have aroused suspicion before he had time to cover his tracks, if anybody had seen them in the lock, so he put them in the bag he had brought with the sisal and the jar of ointment and walked nonchalantly home.’
‘That explains the spanner, the keys, the smell, everything!’
‘It doesn’t explain what the stuff was doing in Susan Tranter’s flat.’
‘When we find that out, we can arrest him.’
*
He picked up the phone. ‘Angel.’
‘It’s Crisp, sir. I’m in reception. I’ve got Fishy Smith. Where do you want him?’
‘Ah!’ Angel said, his eyebrows raised. ‘Bring him straight down here.’ He replaced the phone. He stood up and went round and opened the office door. He could hear the protestations as he came down the corridor.
‘I don’t know why he’s got it in for me. Ever since he lost his passport and his tin badge with his photograph on it, he’s been after me.’
‘It’s just round this corner.’
‘I know. I know. Don’t rush me. Dang me, I’ve been here often enough.’
Crisp and Fishy Smith appeared round the corner. Fishy Smith saw Angel and pulled a face.
‘I don’t know nothing about your photograph and badge, I’ve told you.’
Angel nodded at Cri
sp. ‘Right lad, I’ll take it from here.’ He turned back to the pickpocket. ‘It’s not about that, Fishy. Come on in. It’s about your step-sister, Susan Tranter. Sit down there.’
‘What about her?’
Angel closed the door and moved round to the desk. ‘She’s in trouble.’
‘What? Huh! Up the duff? It’s about time at her age.’
‘Nothing like that. She’s been arrested. She’s down here in a cell.’
‘Eh? Well, she’s not done anything, honest. Our Susan is as straight as a die. She has no need to do anything bent. She’s got a big, posh job as housekeeper to a big wheel up at the distillery.’
A coin dropped into a slot in Angel’s head. He felt the flutter of a Red Admiral in his chest but he tried not to get excited.
‘She gets a wage now, every week, regular as clockwork,’ Fishy continued. She’s no need to do anything hookey.’
Angel beamed. He tried to stay calm.
‘I thought so,’ he lied. ‘And which gentleman is she doing for?’ he said, trying to speak gently and slowly. He was as dainty as a fisherman tickling a trout.
‘Eh? I don’t know. There’s a few of them.’
The Inspector spoke with the charm of an angel. ‘You see, Fishy, it’s all to do with that bag with the bunch of keys, the string and the jar of menthol ointment you took out of it.’
‘Well, I mean even if she’s nicked them, they’re not worth a quid all in, are they! What will she get? Seven days at the most. Community wotsit.’
‘Well, you see, if we could find out who owned them, and speak to the owner, maybe they wouldn’t even want to press charges for such a trivial amount. Not worth the solicitor and the time, eh?’
‘Sounds fair enough.’
Angel leaned forward. ‘So what did you say was the name of the man she works for?’
‘I don’t know his name, Mr Angel,’ said Fishy Smith, shaking his head.
The policeman licked his lips.
‘But you could ask Susan.’
‘Yes,’ said Fishy Smith glumly. He pulled a face and rubbed his neck. ‘He was in the paper. There was a full page about the distillery. There was a picture of him, you know. She pointed him out to me.’
The Morals of a Murderer Page 17