The Fruit Gum Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘You saw what happened. It fell out of my stole,’ she said quickly, then she looked closely at the piece. ‘Look at those emeralds, such a deep, clear, green. Twelve of them,’ she said as her eyes grew bigger and shone almost as much as the jewels. ‘And these diamonds are what they call old cut. Look how many there are. They must be a carat each. And there are two, three, four … times twelve is … oh my God, there must be 120 carats of diamond as well. Wow!’

  Stewart Twelvetrees’s jaw was set, the corners of his mouth turned downward. ‘But, Lydia, where did it come from? It wouldn’t just fall out of the sky.’

  His lack of interest in the splendour of the necklace annoyed her.

  ‘Somebody must have dropped it into a fold in my stole, that’s all I can think of,’ she snapped, then excitedly she said, ‘But look at it closely, Stew, isn’t it fabulous? Green suits me. It always has. It suited my mum. Nadine could never wear anything other than pink, to give her a bit of colour. She is always pasty.’

  ‘Why would anybody drop it into your stole? Your stole isn’t a pocket. And who would want to do that anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look how the emeralds shine, how clear they are. …’

  ‘I’d better report it.’

  Lydia looked up at him and pouted. ‘Oh. Oh no,’ she said and she gently kissed him on the cheek. ‘Not yet, darling.’ She kissed him again and again. ‘Not yet. I mean, nobody knows we’ve got it.’

  Twelvetrees said, ‘Well, we can’t keep it. Obviously. You’ll have to take it back.’

  Lydia pressed herself very close against him, pushing the top of her leg between his thighs. She kissed him lightly many times on the nose between the words she whispered: ‘Nobody knows it’s here, sweetheart. At least let me keep it until morning? Her ladyship won’t want to be disturbed at this time of the night.’

  He put his arms all the way round her, pulled her even closer towards him. Their lips met and they held the kiss for a little while.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I do love you,’ she said.

  They kissed again.

  Then they just held each other with their eyes closed for a few seconds. Then he pulled away and, holding her by the top of her arms and looking her in the eyes, said, ‘All right, darling, but you’ll have to take it back first thing in the morning.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ she said, pouting her lips like a difficult child. ‘I can’t do that. She might think … she might ask how I came by it. You’ll have to do it, sweetheart.’

  He thought about it a while then said, ‘I wouldn’t be able to explain why I didn’t report it to the police, or ring Michael Angel. She would know or find out that I’m a solicitor and that Dad works for the CPS.’

  She was looking in the mirror, moving first one way and then the other, enjoying the way the stones sparkled in the light.

  There was a noise from the kitchen. She looked up. The hall was getting warmer and steamy.

  ‘Oh, the kettle,’ she said. ‘I forgot about it. I put the kettle on for us.’

  She rushed into the kitchen.

  THREE

  Church Street, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, 10.00 p.m., Monday, 3rd June 2013

  Detective Inspector Michael Angel was quietly humming the 1812 Overture as he skipped down the steps of Bromersley Police Station, swinging three box files tied together with string. He was intent on delivering them to the Criminal Prosecution Service, only twenty metres away, two doors down Church Street. He saw the polished brass sign, walked up the path, pushed open the outside door and walked up to the tiny reception desk. He was almost at the exciting noisy part, almost at the end, where the cannons are fired, when he stopped short. His jaw dropped and his eyebrows shot up. Curiously, there was nobody behind the desk. It had usually been manned by a very plump young woman with glasses, called Tina, but this morning it was deserted. She was nowhere to be seen. He looked around. It was like the Marie Celeste.

  Then he heard the hubbub of a crowd of people talking and the occasional clink of a glass. It came from the first door on his right. It sounded extraordinarily jovial and highly improbable coming from offices of the CPS in the middle of a working day. He pursed his lips, then approached the door and knocked on it. The hubbub continued unabated, and there was no reply. He knocked again, much harder. It was still ignored. He opened the door, looked into the office and saw between twenty and thirty men and women, mostly holding champagne flutes, standing around in small groups in the middle of the room, talking and laughing. The desks and chairs had been pushed to the sides of the room and were piled up to make room.

  As he was taking in the scene, Mr Marcus Twelvetrees, father of Stewart, pulled him in to the room by his lapel and said, ‘Michael. Come in and join us.’

  Twelvetrees turned to a young man who was passing with a tray full of glasses. He grabbed two off the tray, pushed one into Angel’s hand and held the other up towards the ceiling light. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and took a sip.

  Angel said, ‘Cheers,’ and copied him, then he said, ‘What are we celebrating?’

  ‘Oh? You won’t have heard,’ Twelvetrees said. ‘Juliet Gregg has been offered a partnership in the Osbourne chambers. She is only twenty-eight, you know.’

  Angel was impressed. ‘Very good,’ he said. It was all he could manage to think of to say. He knew it would have sounded rather weak.

  Twelvetrees said, ‘It’s fantastic! She’ll be fast tracked to be a judge, if I’m not very much mistaken.’

  ‘Yes. I must … wish her well,’ he said.

  Angel knew Juliet Gregg. She was a high-flying young barrister, who was a beautiful brunette with an hour-glass figure, who didn’t seem to need any make-up. Lately, she had assisted Twelvetrees in the Crown Court, prosecuting in some of Angel’s cases. He thought that she was a quiet, thoughtful woman who only came alive when she was in the body of a packed courtroom. He had great respect for her apparent success at such a young age.

  The string on the three files was pulling at his fingers. It reminded him of what he was doing there.

  ‘I’ve come round to bring you the case notes for the O’Riley murder,’ he said, holding up the files held by the string.

  Twelvetrees’ face muscles tightened. ‘Not just now, Michael,’ he said. ‘Not just now.’

  Angel didn’t reply.

  ‘There’s some food over there,’ Twelvetrees said, pointing over the heads of the throng. ‘Do help yourself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said, but he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in food.

  ‘Excuse me, Michael,’ Twelvetrees said, then he turned away and was promptly absorbed into the homogenous gathering of heads, all simultaneously nodding, smiling and talking.

  Angel wanted to leave the files he had brought with someone responsible, then get out of the building and back to his office as soon as he could. He eased his way around the chattering groups, looking for someone he knew. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he came face to face with Juliet Gregg, the star of the show.

  She smiled … that enigmatic look … the mystery of a beautiful woman. ‘Inspector Angel,’ she said gently.

  Angel held out his hand. Her small, cool hand gripped his firmly and shook it heartily.

  ‘Congratulations, Miss Gregg. I hear it’s a great promotion. I will miss you.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. Thank you very much. But I will not be leaving Bromersley for a good while yet. And my new chambers will only be in Leeds, half an hour away.’

  They exchanged smiles.

  A man behind Juliet Gregg was pulling at her left arm and muttering something out of Angel’s earshot.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said as she was dragged away into the crowd.

  Angel continued weaving his way through the chattering throng. Then he saw her. The fat girl called Tina. She was on her own, leaning
against a desk that had a white sheet cloth spread out on the top of it, and on that were several plates of sandwiches, meat pies and sausage rolls. There were also serviettes, champagne flutes and paper plates.

  Tina was eating a sandwich. She looked at Angel and tried to smile. She chewed rapidly to empty her mouth, and tried smiling again.

  ‘Hello, Tina,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I found you. Are you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Inspector. These sandwiches are nice. Smoked salmon. Mmm,’ she said. ‘Help yourself.’

  Angel looked at the spread. There wasn’t much choice, but what there was looked inviting.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said. Then he lifted up the bundle of files and added, ‘I’ll tell you what, Tina. I’ve got these case notes for the O’Riley murder. Will you give them to Mr Twelvetrees when the party’s over?’

  ‘ ’Course I will, Inspector Angel,’ she said, transferring a sandwich to her left hand to take the bundle from him. ‘Any message?’ she said as she pulled open the big bottom drawer of the desk beneath the food and lowered them in.

  ‘No. He’s expecting them.’

  ‘You got that rotten so-and-so that murdered Mrs O’Riley?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the son-in-law.’

  Her chubby face brightened. ‘You are wonderful … the way you make out a case from nothing, bring the murderer to court and get a guilty verdict … every time.’

  Angel frowned. He wriggled uncomfortably. He wished people didn’t talk about him like that.

  ‘I read somewhere,’ Tina said between bites, ‘where it said that you are like a Canadian Mountie … that you always get your man.’

  He winced. One of these days he was going to be given a case that was actually impossible to solve … that would shatter his record and he would look a real fool.

  ‘Well, Tina, I hope my team will always get the man, but the odds are that one day we won’t.’

  ‘Nah,’ she said, and took another bite.

  He waved at her and said, ‘I’ll have to go. Goodbye.’

  He weaved his way back through the chattering CPS workers, solicitors, court ushers and clerks, and returned to the station. He went in through the front door, waved at the PC in the reception office who pressed the button to release the catch on the security door. He pulled it open and made his way down the long corridor to his office.

  PC Ahmed Ahaz was standing outside the door holding a scrappy piece of paper. He didn’t look happy.

  As Angel drew closer, Ahmed sighed and almost smiled. ‘Ah, sir,’ he said with relief.

  Angel sensed the young man had a problem. ‘What is it, Ahmed?’

  ‘Oh, sir,’ he said, ‘do you know a Mrs Mackenzie?’

  Angel looked heavenward. ‘Yes, lad. Why? What’s up?’

  ‘She’s rung up, sir. Insisted on speaking to you. Wouldn’t leave a message. Said it was very important. And would you ring her back as soon as you come in. I’ve got her number here.’

  He handed the piece of paper to him.

  Angel could see she had made a lasting impression on him. ‘Aye, all right, lad.’

  ‘Will you do it right away?’

  Angel smiled. ‘Give me chance to get to my desk.’

  Ahmed nodded and dashed off.

  Angel wondered what the old martinet wanted.

  He went into his office, picked up the phone and tapped out the number. The phone was promptly answered.

  ‘Ah yes, Inspector Angel,’ Mrs Mackenzie said, ‘I have just had a call from Lady Muick this morning. She has received a packet sent by ordinary post that contained the missing necklace in perfect condition. So there is no need for you to take any further action in the matter.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Angel said. ‘Was there any message or address in the package?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. It was a local postmark.’

  ‘Thank you for letting me know, Mrs Mackenzie.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said and the line went dead.

  Angel slowly replaced the phone. He was pleased that the necklace had shown up. He was even more pleased to get that dragon off his back.

  The phone rang. He reached out for it. ‘Angel,’ he said.

  ‘There you are,’ the voice said hoarsely. He promptly recognized it. It was his superintendent, Horace Harker. He started coughing into Angel’s earpiece. Between short bouts of coughing, he said, ‘A triple nine for you. Man reported dead in a bedroom at the Feathers. Doesn’t look very nice. I couldn’t get hold of you, then your phone was engaged, so I have notified SOCO and the pathologist’s office to get things moving. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Get to it.’

  He cancelled the call and tapped in a number.

  Ahmed soon answered. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Angel told him about the triple nine and then instructed him to find his two sergeants, Flora Carter and Trevor Crisp, and instruct them to come to the Feathers hotel, ASAP.

  Room 201, the Feathers hotel, Bromersley, South Yorkshire,

  11.45 a.m., Monday, 3rd June 2013

  Detective Inspector Michael Angel opened the hotel room door, and peered inside.

  Four Scene of Crime Officers in sterile white paper overalls, caps and rubber boots were busily working away in the bedroom. One was dusting for fingerprints, another was taking photographs, a third was labelling plastic containers containing samples, and the fourth was looking at a clipboard and checking boxes to tick off.

  DS Donald Taylor, section head of the SOCO team, heard the door open, looked up from the clipboard and crossed to greet the Inspector. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Is it clear in here, Don?’ Angel said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Angel came in and closed the door.

  ‘We’ve finished the sweep and the vacuum,’ Taylor said.

  Angel spotted the near-naked body of the half-dressed man on the bed. He was wearing only a white shirt, vest and socks. Most of the buttons down the front of the shirt were undone. The blankets, sheets and pillows were in great disorder, and one pillow was on the floor. His coat, trousers, shoes and underpants were on a chair in a corner of the room.

  Angel gestured towards the bed. ‘Dr Mac been yet?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. He’s examined the body … he’s ready to have it moved to the mortuary.’

  Angel glanced round the small bedroom and frowned. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I’m here, Michael,’ the white-haired Glaswegian said as he came in from the en suite bathroom wiping his hands on a white napkin. ‘I’ll be with you in a couple of jiffies.’

  Angel nodded to his old friend, then turned to Taylor and said, ‘Right. What have you got, Don?’

  Taylor turned a page back on the clipboard and said, ‘Well, sir, as far as we have been able to determine, his name is Norman Robinson, aged about 28, lives at Flat 12, Kyle House, Montague Street, Govan, Glasgow. He has a credit card on him but no money. He also has what might be his flat key on him, but no car keys. His mobile phone was found on the floor at the far side of the bed. Reservation was made for him here yesterday for one night. He arrived at about 1800 hrs last night. He was found by the chambermaid at about 9.30 this morning. The hotel has CCTV covering the main entrance and the reception desk, which I have commandeered … and that’s about it.’

  Angel nodded. He looked down at the body. It had a good head of black, wavy hair. The face was contorted. The eyes were still open. He looked closely at the lips.

  ‘Mac,’ he said. ‘Take a look at the lips.’

  Mac came across and peered downward. ‘What about the lips?’

  Angel said, ‘Is he wearing lipstick?’

  ‘It might be a slight burning of the skin by the poison, Michael,’ Mac said.

  ‘No,’ Angel said, ‘it’s lipstick.’
>
  Taylor came across and took a look. He put a pencil torchlight onto the mouth of the body, looked at it carefully, shook his head and went thoughtfully back to his checklist.

  Mac said, ‘Give me a chance to look at it in the mortuary. I might be able to get something on a slide to look at.’

  ‘It’s lipstick,’ Angel said.

  Taylor said, ‘There’s no lipstick or make-up or anything suggesting that in his valise, sir.’

  As Angel pulled back from the bed he saw a white chalk mark in the form of a circle on the carpet on the floor just under the bed. It surrounded something small and round. He leaned downwards.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Taylor nodded. ‘Don’t know. We’re hoping for a print from it, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Is it a button?’ Angel said.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘It hasn’t any holes in it. It’s a fruit gum, isn’t it?’

  Taylor blinked. ‘A fruit gum, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. A red fruit gum.’

  ‘Is that the poison, sir?’

  ‘Ask Dr Mac.’ He turned to look at the doctor.

  Mac said, ‘I won’t know that until I have it in the lab. Might explain the apparent appearance of lipstick on the lips, though.’

  ‘It’s lipstick,’ Angel said. ‘Any sign of the bag or packet anywhere? In the waste paper, in his pocket?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Means it was brought in by the murderer, then.’

  Mac came forward and said, ‘Let me have it. I’ll have it analyzed.’

  ‘Right, Mac,’ Angel said. ‘After it’s been checked for prints.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Anything else, Don?’

  ‘That’s it so far, sir.’

  Angel rubbed his chin and turned to the doctor. ‘What you got, Mac?’

  The old doctor sighed, then said, ‘Well, the man was poisoned, Michael.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. Poisoning was pretty unusual these days.

  ‘At first, it looked like strychnine,’ Mac said, ‘but it isn’t. The inside of the mouth is inflamed, and the condition of the bed linen and his clothes suggest that he was in severe pain before coma took hold. I’ll let you know more when I’ve done some tests.’