The Morals of a Murderer

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Did she? Which paper?’

  ‘The local rag.’

  ‘The Bromersley Gazette?’

  ‘Yes. Last week, wasn’t it?’

  Angel shuffled through the pile of stuff on the corner of his desk and soon pulled out a copy of the appropriate paper. He remembered the article and the photographs. He quickly found the pictures of the four retiring directors next to a picture of Angus Leitch, as a possible new CEO. He showed it to Fishy.

  ‘That’s him. The one at the end. Nice chap, she says he is.’

  Angel looked closely at the picture. ‘You sure it is him?’

  ‘Yeah. Positive. She’s doing five mornings a week for him.’

  Angel reached over to the phone. ‘Ahmed … Find DS Gawber. And find Scrivens. It’s very urgent. I want them to go up to Slogmarrow, to make an arrest.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Put him in the interview room, Ron. I’ll follow you down.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘This way, sir.’

  The prisoner looked at Angel, then turned and made his way sullenly down the corridor behind DC Scrivens.

  ‘Has he been cautioned?’ Angel enquired.

  ‘Yes sir,’ Gawber said.

  Scrivens opened the interview room door. ‘After you, sir.’

  ‘Ay. This way, sir,’ Angel said. ‘That’s it. Sit down there.’ He leaned over the table, pushed a tape into the recording machine and pressed the button.

  ‘I’ve been expecting this, Inspector Angel,’ the old man said, shaking his head. ‘It’s a relief really. Yes. It’s been on my conscience ever since I saw his staring eyes looking up at me through the spirit. By then it was too late. But I knew I had to continue to try to get away with it. Mmm. But I almost came to you and gave myself up when that ghastly woman and her friend found the bag with McFee’s keys, the string and the menthol in it, and began to blackmail me. You knew about that?’

  ‘I’d worked it out, Mr Fleming. What I don’t understand is why you chose to take such an extreme step?’

  ‘It was his birthday, you know. The following day. Yes. He would have been fifty. Only a young man. Fifty! He was having a party! He’d invited me to it. It wasn’t right for him to enjoy another birthday, when he wouldn’t let me enjoy mine! And I’m eighty. Eighty!’ he said, the corners of his mouth turned down. ‘You know, Inspector, it was exactly thirty years ago, when I was fifty, that McFee’s father deliberately stood in the way of me getting on to the board, which made it far too late for me ever to have the opportunity of making chairman. When he was about to be fifty, he was already chairman! It was a case of like father like son, but I wasn’t letting a McFee get away with it twice. Oh no! His father had stood in the way of my progress towards the chair, now he was standing in the way of my retirement. I simply had to do something about it. He wouldn’t let any of us on the senior board retire. Time was going on.’

  ‘But he couldn’t stop you retiring,’ Angel said.

  Fleming’s grey eyes flashed. ‘No. But he would have paid out only the absolute minimum. I had been wanting to go for nigh on fifteen years. It was always the same. Wait until next month, next year. We were victims of our own success. We are in for a bumper year, he’d say … and so on. Somebody had to do something. While he was enjoying his birthdays, I was dreading mine. We’d all signed service contracts. We were paid only a small basic salary while we were working, then after we retired we were to receive those accumulated earnings and the interest on them, and a golden handshake at the chairman’s discretion! How much discretion do you think it would have been if I had gone against him? I have a son, daughter-in-law and grandson in Florida. I had hoped to spend the rest of my days in a sumptuous flat overlooking the sea there, which they had prepared for me. I had to do something. I was desperate. My heart is not so good. I didn’t expect to survive another British winter. I don’t suppose I will now.’

  Angel had heard enough. He shook his head. There was enough on the tape for the CPS to close the case. He looked up at Gawber.

  ‘Take him away, Sergeant. Take him away.’

  *

  Angel was in a cheerless mood when he reached home that evening, even though he had solved the murder of Duncan McFee. He felt sorry for old man Fleming and he tried to console himself with the simplistic view that criminals have to be caught and stopped, whatever justifications are claimed for committing the crime. He talked to Mary about this; she tried to cheer him up, and had prepared finny haddock for tea, which, with brown bread and butter, went down a treat. He then wandered into the garden. The sun was still shining, it had been warm all day; the lawn was dry enough to make cutting it easy, so he dragged out the mower from the little shed and finished it in an hour. He had time to strim the edges and do the paths before flopping in the chair in front of the television to watch Bad Girls, sup two bottles of German beer and toddle up to bed.

  It was 8.28 a.m. the following morning, Friday, when he arrived at the office as usual. The evening’s relaxation had served him well, and he was absolutely bursting with get-up and go! He threw off his coat and sat down at his desk, determined to launch an all-out effort to find the gold and Yardley before Boodle and his cohorts did. There were two lines of enquiry he hadn’t had the opportunity to explore. One was interviewing Martin Taylor, the bank employee who was the inside man who had provided the intelligence to the robbers, and who was now serving time in HMP Hallas End, and the other was searching Enchantra Davison’s flat.

  He reached out and picked up the phone. ‘Ahmed … Get me Hallas End prison. I want to speak to the governor … I’ll hold on.’

  Eventually he was put through to the assistant governor. He had hoped to make an arrangement to see Martin Taylor that morning, however, the earliest time he could visit him was the following Monday, 25 April. He replaced the phone and pulled a face. Even though he had stressed that the matter was urgent, there was some unexplained reason why it was not possible to see Taylor any earlier. He reached out for the phone again.

  ‘Ahmed … Tell DS Gawber I want him, then let me have that last known address you found for Enchantra Davison and a street map of Birmingham … Right.’

  Gawber knocked on Angel’s door.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘I’ve got to find the gold before Boodle does, and I’ve got to find Yardley. If we find one, t’other won’t be far away. I want to take a look at Enchantra Davison’s flat; there might be something Boodle has missed.’

  Two hours later they were in Birmingham. Angel was driving and Gawber navigating.

  ‘This is Sokell Road. We want Montpelier Buildings,’ Gawber said lifting his head out of the A to Z. ‘It’s on the left … along here a bit, I think … Turn here. Number forty.’

  ‘Right,’ Angel nodded. He drove up the short drive, round the bushes and across the front of the block and parked next to a small blue car. He looked up at the three storey block of modern, red-brick flats with small balconies which stood back from the road and overlooked dedicated parking-spaces beneath them.

  ‘It looks as if number forty’s on the first floor.’

  ‘Any sign of Boodle’s men … or anybody else watching the place?’

  ‘No sir.’

  They went up the thirteen stone steps at the double, and along the balcony area, past four windows displaying pretty floral curtains, and four scrubbed-down doorsteps to number forty. Angel knocked on it boldly, just to make sure, and dived in his pocket for his skeleton keys. Gawber kept look out. It took Angel three minutes to turn all five levers, not one of his best performances. The lock clicked and the door opened.

  Fortunately nobody in the street below seemed interested. They pushed straight inside and closed the door quickly. It was a pleasant enough one-bedroom flat, with sitting-room, kitchen and bathroom. There was very little furniture. It was plain and cheap; and the wardrobe, drawers and cupboards had very little in them. Enchantra Davison had made an excellent job of emptying the place witho
ut Special Branch noticing.

  The two men systematically searched every drawer and every cupboard. They moved all the furniture and lifted the edges of the carpets. Gawber unscrewed the fancy polished fastenings from the boxed-in bath and removed the long side to look underneath it. They pulled out the cushions from the three-piece suite and ran their hands down the sides. Angel took off the back of the television set to see if anything had been deliberately hidden or had accidentally fallen through the grilles. Nothing. They put everything back as it was and, two hours later, Angel stood in the middle of the room and surveyed the scene.

  ‘Well, Ron,’ Angel said. ‘Boodle’s men did a good job. If there was anything here, they’ve found it. Let’s go. Will you see to the dustbin? I’ll take a look in her car. That’ll be the blue one.’

  They left the flat quietly and repeated the business with the skeleton keys to lock the door. They flew past the four neighbouring flats and down the steps. Gawber disappeared round the back of the building. Angel crossed over to Enchantra Davison’s car and tried the doors. They were locked and the windows fully wound up. He took a retractable metal tape out of his pocket, pulled out a foot’s length and slid it in the gap in the door. There were a few people walking past on the pavement about six yards away. He was pleased that they were not interested in his activities. He had to manoeuvre the metal strip in the gap several times before he felt the pressure of the lock mechanism, then he gave it a smart tug, the button on the door jumped up and he was in.

  Gawber appeared. ‘We’re too late. The bin’s been emptied.’

  Angel pulled a face. ‘Huh!’ That was another line of information closed. He leaned across the car and unlocked the door opposite. ‘Check that pocket in the door on that side, will you, Ron?’

  Gawber opened the door and dug into the cavity; he found a duster. Then he ran his hand along the shelf under the radio. There was nothing there.

  Angel opened the glove compartment. He pulled out a 1999 AA book, an empty packet of Capstan full strength cigarettes, a gilt-coloured lipstick-holder called ‘Honeymoon Orange’, a tyre-pressure gauge and half a roll of Trebor Extra Strong mints. He glanced at the items, then pushed them back in and slammed the door. He crouched down and looked across the car floor. It was pretty clean. Under the seat was something; it looked like a discarded tissue. He reached for it and brought it out. It was a screwed-up, empty paper-bag. He straightened it out. A few dry crumbs dropped out. It had obviously at one time held a sandwich or similar. It was six inches by six inches. His mouth dropped open when he read the words printed on it in blue: Millington’s Winter Mixture.

  *

  Although it was ten minutes to five when Angel and Gawber arrived back in Bromersley, Angel could not possibly have deferred calling on Mrs Buller-Price until the next morning. He dropped Gawber off at the end of Church Street, which was only sixty yards from the station, and drove purposefully on the moors road to the Buller-Price farm. He was trying to work out what he was going to say to her; the words weren’t coming easily. He really had thought it was a coincidence that she should have been in North Yorkshire the same day as Operation Midas, and that it had been pure chance that Yardley had commandeered her car! That was obviously all hokum! She had deliberately deceived him and he was very angry.

  He passed by Tunistone and then turned off the main road up the steep hill to the lopsided sign, along the cart track, through the yard gate until he arrived at the farmhouse. He pulled on the handbrake and switched off the engine. The dogs had heard the car arrive and pandemonium broke out as the farmhouse door opened and the huge figure of Mrs Buller-Price appeared framed in the opening. The dogs pushed roughly past her through the doorway into the yard, barking and yelping with excitement.

  When she saw that it was Inspector Angel who had caused the dogs to get excitable, a big smile appeared on her face, her eyes twinkled and she put her hands together in front of her with delight.

  ‘Just in time for tea, Inspector.’

  The dogs surrounded him noisily in welcome.

  ‘Come along troops,’ she called heartily. ‘Let the Inspector by.’ The dogs immediately lost interest except for one small, ugly, little one who yapped a bit longer to get the last word in, then dashed into the house. Schwarzenegger padded silently up to him, sniffed his hand and shoes, wagged his tail lightly twice and wandered through the front door.

  ‘Come along in, Inspector. The kettle is on.’

  Angel followed her into the house.

  ‘Make yourself at home. Find a chair you like. It’s very nice of you to call.’

  ‘I’m not really on a social call,’ said Angel, trying to establish some distance between them. He couldn’t ignore the way he had been grossly deceived by her and he intended that she should become well aware of it. ‘It’s business. Very much business,’ he said coolly.

  ‘Oh?’ she said, detecting the frost. She turned to him and raised an eyebrow. ‘Business, is it? Well, you can still have a cup of tea and a fairy cake, because, dear Inspector Angel,’ she added with a beaming smile, ‘whatever the business is, I’m determined not to fall out with you.’

  She flounced off into the kitchen. Angel shook his head.

  ‘Please don’t walk away from me when I’m talking,’ he bawled.

  ‘Temper. Temper. I’m just mashing the tea and putting the cakes on a plate,’ she called back from the kitchen. ‘Sit down in that big chair by the fire. The one you like. I won’t be a minute. Then I will give you my full attention, I promise.’ She appeared at the sitting-room door with the tray in her hands. ‘There we are.’

  Angel made to stand up.

  ‘Stay where you, Inspector. I told you I wouldn’t be long. I’ll put it on this little table here, between us. There. Now. Yes. Let it mash for two and a half minutes. I’ll watch the clock.’ She dropped into the chair opposite him. ‘Now whatever is this business? I hope it’s not tedious. I do hate stocks and shares. And I am hopeless at percentages. I know that twenty per cent is a half, but that’s all.’

  Angel stared straight into her face. ‘It’s about you giving a scone to Enchantra Davison the last time you saw her,’ he blurted out in rapid fire. He felt that if he hadn’t spat it out there and then, she would never have given him the opportunity.

  Mrs Buller-Price’s jaw dropped and her mouth stayed open for five seconds, while her eyes tried to find somewhere innocent to look.

  ‘Oh. How did you know about that, Inspector?’ she eventually managed to say.

  ‘There’s lots of things you had better start telling me, and it had better be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!’

  She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh dear.’ But she recovered quickly. ‘I have never told you a lie, Inspector. I may not always have told you the whole truth, but I have never told you a lie. I cannot tell lies. Why, I would never, ever be able to share another bowl of strawberries and ice cream with the Archbishop of York if I had told a lie. Oh no. No.’ She pursed her lips and shook all four chins.

  ‘I need to know the whereabouts of Morris Yardley and the gold, and I need to know it now!’ roared Angel.

  ‘Time’s up. Tea’s mashed,’ she said.

  Angel glared at her.

  She picked up the teapot lid, stirred the tea round vigorously with a spoon and replaced the lid. She sighed, then said: ‘I have no idea where Morris is, Inspector, or the gold.’

  ‘Or Enchantra Davison?’

  ‘She’s with Morris, almost certainly. That was their intention.’

  ‘Oh? There was a plan then?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘You’d better tell me what it was.’

  ‘It was not my fault you put a thingie in the van and followed me all the way back here, you know. Morris said that it had been agreed that the van would not be bugged. You didn’t keep your word, Inspector. It was very naughty of you.’

  ‘Oh,’ Angel said. ‘How is it you know Morris Yardley?’

  Mrs Bu
ller-Price smiled sweetly as she lowered the teapot.

  ‘I have known him over fifty years, Inspector. It will be fifty-one on Boxing Day. That’s his birthday.’ She passed a cup of tea to Angel. ‘There’s sugar and milk. Help yourself.’

  Angel took the cup and thoughtfully stirred the sugar in for a few moments. Then, suddenly, his mouth dropped open. He immediately put the cup down on the table in front of him.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re his mother,’ he said.

  She nodded proudly. ‘He was born years before I had ever met dear Ernest Buller-Price. But don’t ask me who the father was; I was sworn to secrecy in a limousine outside Claridges two weeks before he was born.’ She paused for a moment, then added: ‘I know now I didn’t press my case hard enough. If I had been more grasping, I think I could have kept my baby, got a villa in the Mediterranean, and a title.’

  ‘A title?’

  ‘Yes. Lady Duchess Victoria Millington. How does that sound?’

  Angel sniffed. ‘A bit over the top, don’t you think?’

  She laughed and all four chins shook.

  ‘Where does the name Millington come in, then?’

  ‘It’s my maiden name, Inspector.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You are not eating. Have a fairy-cake.’

  ‘Thank you. Of course. Millington’s Winter Mixture’.

  ‘The sweetshop in town. Yes. Founded by my grandfather in nineteen hundred and six. He used to make boiled sweets at the back. He created ‘Millington’s Winter Mixture’. They were posh cough-sweets, you know. After my father and mother died my dear sister, Elizabeth ran the shop until she died last October. That’s how I came by the jars,’ she said, pointing to the six large glass bottles of sweets on the sideboard.

  ‘And the printed sweet-bags?’

  ‘Elizabeth must have ordered millions. Still, waste not, want not.’