The Fruit Gum Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘This is PC Tomelty at reception, sir. Sorry to bother you, but we’ve got a small crowd of men … newspaper reporters … there’s five of them. They’ve been asking for you and they’re getting difficult and noisy. Will you see them, or shall I report it to the duty sergeant and—’

  ‘I’ll see them,’ Angel said. ‘And be nice to them, Tomelty. You don’t want to give the station a bad name. Is the interview room up there empty?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. Tell them I’m coming straightaway and show them in there.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Tomelty said.

  Angel put down the phone.

  He rushed up the corridor to the front security door. He looked through the glass and found the reception area empty. He pressed the button to release the door, went through it, closed it and walked past the reception window to the interview room door. He pushed the door open, and there were the pressmen. He recognized one or two of them.

  As he went in, they all rushed up to him and said something.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  All five men continued shouting.

  ‘Please!’ Angel called, holding up both hands. ‘One at a time,’ he said.

  Suddenly there was silence.

  Then he looked at a man he knew from the local paper, the Bromersley Chronicle. ‘Giles, what is it you want to know?’

  ‘I think I speak for all of us, Michael. We know a man’s body has been found in a bedroom at the Feathers hotel. We understand that he was murdered. Can you confirm that and tell us about it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you much because I don’t know much as yet. Tell me, are you all newspapermen?’

  Three of the four others rattled off their names and the national papers they represented. The fourth said that he was a freelance stringer for a TV network.

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said. ‘Yes, there was a dead man found at The Feathers, and we believe that he was murdered.’

  He then went on to tell them only facts that were not in doubt, which weren’t many. It took only several minutes. At the end, the men asked innumerable questions: many were too intrusive, hypothetical or were not possible to answer. Angel politely declined to answer them and told the questioner the reason. He was very pleased that they didn’t ask and he didn’t mention anything about the finding of a fruit gum.

  The entire process took about fifteen minutes, and he returned to his office a little brighter than before.

  Ahmed was standing by his door. His face showed that something was wrong. ‘There you are, sir,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the matter, lad?’

  ‘The super wants you, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘He’s had the entire station running up and down looking for you. He said he wants you to go to his office ASAP.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘He didn’t think to ring reception then, because that’s where I was. What’s it about?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. Sounds very urgent.’

  Angel pulled a face. ‘Right,’ he said.

  Interviews with Superintendent Harker were never enjoyable experiences for him. He had to endure them from time to time because he was his boss and he was expected to accept disciplinary direction from his superior in the same way that he doled it out to the ranks below him.

  He trudged up the green-painted corridor to Harker’s office and tapped on the door. Then he took a deep breath and pushed it open.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Come in. Sit down. Where the hell have you been?’ Harker roared.

  Angel stared at him. The man standing behind that desk was ugly. He’d always been ugly. He must have been born bald and skinny.

  At that time, Angel looked at the superintendent strangely, as if he hadn’t seen him before. In fact he saw him almost every working day, sometimes up to ten times a day. But that day was different. The head he could see sticking up through that ill-fitting striped shirt with the limp collar looked just like a skull with big ears and a chin.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for half an hour or more,’ Harker said. ‘Nobody seemed to know where you were. Don’t you ever tell anybody where you are?’

  ‘I was in the reception interview room with five reporters for about fifteen minutes, sir. The lad on reception knew I was there.’

  ‘Five reporters? I might have known you were wasting time somewhere having your ego massaged.’

  He ignored the insult. ‘I wanted the news of the murder of Norman Robinson to be widely circulated. And now I am assured that it will be all over tomorrow’s national papers.’

  ‘What on earth does that matter?’

  ‘It matters a lot, sir. We have a suspect, but we haven’t a motive. There’s a story out there that we know very little about. It needs the players to show their hands … to assist us to fill in the blanks. I believe they will come forward. Anyway, the trap is now set.’

  ‘Supposing you get no response?’

  ‘I believe we will. If we don’t, then we may not be able to solve the murder.’

  ‘You think you’re really smart, don’t you? You never utilize the system created by the Home Office, HOLMES 2, specifically created for murder and serious crimes, which is extremely thorough.’

  ‘It is extremely thorough, but it would be extremely costly to mount. For one thing, the system requires absolutely all persons associated with the victim to be put through the hoop. That’s an immense undertaking. We’d need three times the men we have, for a start. More cells. More interview rooms. Bigger forensic department. So far we’ve managed to detect and bring to justice all our murder and serious cases without incurring that mountain of work.’

  Harker knew that was true, and he really didn’t want Angel to instigate the HOLMES 2 investigative programme. There wouldn’t be any more government funding forthcoming, resulting in other services in the station being seriously curtailed. He liked to introduce the subject when the opportunity presented itself, so that he could enjoy battering Angel round the head with it.

  ‘You are always singing that song, Angel, but you know that one day it could become compulsory. Then what would you do?’

  Angel tightened his lips against his teeth. ‘If you want me to introduce it, sir, I will.’

  Harker’s face coloured up. His bluff had been called. ‘It may come to that in due course,’ he said. Then he stuck a white plastic inhaler up a nostril, sniffled noisily, pulled it out, pushed it into the holder and put it in his pocket. He sniffled again, then expanded his face in a sort of smirk – he never smiled – to signify satisfaction with the process.

  Angel stared at him.

  Harker said: ‘What I wanted to see you about specifically is that I see we now have a cell occupied at enormous public expense by a Thomas Johnson. Now, I don’t want criminals enjoying a five-star lifestyle paid out of this station’s budget. This isn’t the Dorchester. I want him moving on, either despatched to the crown court, given bail, or sent to prison on remand. Has he been before the magistrates yet?’

  ‘No, sir, but I can have him charged with resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer and damaging police property.’

  ‘That would be a start. That’s a fine, or three or four months tops. Well get on with it. What are you messing about at?’

  ‘Well, sir, I am concerned. They might fine him, entrust him to probation and release him. In which case he’ll probably abscond and I might never see him again. I’m hoping to get him for much more than that.’

  ‘But you haven’t the evidence?’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘That simply will not do. Do you realize that every day that lump occupies that cell, it costs this station £120, and that doesn’t include legal representation, which for some crackpot reason is charged to us. I want him up before the magist
rates in the morning.’

  Angel’s jaw dropped. ‘I am most unlikely to get the evidence I need by tomorrow, which means Johnson might be released. That would be simply nonsensical.’

  Harker glared at Angel. ‘It would be nonsensical to keep him here being fed and accommodated a damned sight better than he would be at home, all paid for by taxpayers.’

  Angel looked at his feet for inspiration. Then suddenly he looked up and said, ‘If Johnson was released, and I am subsequently able to get evidence that he was responsible for the murder of Norman Robinson, think of what the newspapers might say: “Senior Cop ordered release of bully-boy murderer.” I can see that in large print on every front page in the country.’

  Harker’s face changed. His eyes showed that he was clearly alarmed. He rubbed his chin roughly and said, ‘I’ll have to take that risk. Put him up before the magistrates and see what happens. I want Thomas Johnson out of this station by tomorrow afternoon. Have you got that?’

  Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘Oh yes. I’ve got it.’

  SEVEN

  Angel was pleased when the church clock chimed five. He had had a tiring day. His phone had never seemed to have stopped ringing. Also he had interviewed and wrestled with Thomas Johnson, been cross-questioned and pressured by Superintendent Harker, and apart from the discovery that Johnson was in possession of fruit gums and that that possibly linked him to the room where the murdered body of Norman Robinson was found, no new hard evidence had been uncovered.

  He reached home by 5.10 p.m. and found Mary at the kitchen sink with the pot animal, the present from the neighbour next door.

  He noticed that she was wrinkling up her nose as she looked at it.

  ‘What you doing, love?’ he said. ‘Is it chipped or something?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve just washed it and I was still wondering what it is.’

  He shrugged. ‘I ran out of suggestions when I first saw it.’ He reached over her head to the wall cupboard for a glass tumbler. ‘Why don’t you ask Libby? She gave it to you, she should know.’

  ‘I don’t like to. She’d think it awfully ignorant of us.’

  She wiped the pot animal with a tea cloth and put it on the draining-board. Then she said, ‘What’s a wildebeest look like?’

  ‘A bit like a buffalo, I think,’ Angel said, glancing at the strange, ugly thing. ‘That’s nothing like a wildebeest. Any tea going, sweetheart?’

  ‘It’s in the oven. Be ready in about half an hour.’

  He nodded appreciatively, then he opened the fridge door and took out a can of German beer.

  ‘Any post?’ he said.

  ‘No, love. There was nothing. Do you know, I don’t know where to put this. I’ve tried it on the sideboard, the mantelpiece, on the windowsill in the hall … I just don’t know what to do with it.’

  Angel looked at her. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said sipping the beer. ‘It’s not quite big enough for a doorstop. I suppose it would make a paperweight.’

  Mary’s face brightened. She looked beautiful when she smiled. ‘A paperweight?’ she said. ‘What a terrific idea.’ She pushed it into his hands and said, ‘There you are, sweetheart,’ and gave him a big kiss. ‘It’ll be useful in your office, won’t it?’

  Angel looked at it and frowned. It was ugly. He really didn’t want it in the office, or anywhere else for that matter. He put it down on the kitchen table.

  ‘Don’t put that paperweight there, Michael,’ she said. ‘We’ll be having tea in a few minutes. Will you set the table? Put it back in that box it came in. It’ll go safely in your briefcase, then you won’t forget to take it in the morning.’

  He wrinkled his nose.

  The following morning was Wednesday 5th June 2013. Angel arrived at his office at 8.28 a.m. as usual. He took off his coat, then opened the briefcase and took out the file of papers about the Norman Robinson murder he had intended looking through the previous evening but hadn’t, although the case had been constantly on his mind. Then he saw the pot animal there in the box at the bottom of the case. He looked at it and his face creased. It really was ugly and totally indescribable. He lifted it out. From the pile of letters and reports on his desk, he took out a few papers and placed the monster on them. He stood back, looked at it, pursed his lips and shook his head. He turned the ornament round so that he was facing its backside. He looked at it again. He gave a little shrug, then he looked at his watch, picked up the phone and tapped in a number. It was to DS Crisp in Glasgow.

  ‘Were you able to get any more information out of Michelle Brown about Robinson’s other woman?’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘She said that he had said that she was pretty well off.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘That she thought she must live in or near Bromersley.’

  ‘Any idea of her age?’

  ‘No, sir. Michelle said that he’d implied that her parents and friends were loaded. So I thought they might be in business.’

  ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I was only making a guess.’

  There was a pause.

  Angel said, ‘Do you think you can rely on this Michelle, Trevor? Do you think she’s telling you the truth?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Of course she’s got mixed feelings about Robinson now that everything has come out. He may not have been telling her the truth.’

  Angel’s mobile phone began to ring.

  ‘All right, lad,’ he said hurriedly. ‘There’s nothing more up there to be done. Catch the next train back. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

  Angel ended the call, returned the phone to its cradle and opened his mobile. ‘Angel,’ he said.

  A quiet, smooth-as-silk Irish voice said, ‘It’s your old friend here, Inspector Angel. Is it all right to talk? Are you on your own, by yourself?’

  Angel knew exactly who it was. He had known him years. It was Shifty Helpman, an elderly snout who popped up now and again with titbits of information, some of them useless and some of them extremely helpful.

  ‘Yes, Shifty. I’m in my office on my own.’

  ‘Well now, I’ve got fifty pounds’ worth for you. Oh, you will thank me for it, Inspector Angel, like it came straight down from heaven, I promise you.’

  Angel couldn’t help but smile. ‘Now, you know I would never be permitted to pay fifty pounds out of police funds, Shifty. I’ve said this to you many times before. Twenty pounds would be my absolute top and I must be permitted to value the item and pay you accordingly.’

  ‘Ah, but this is really special, Inspector. I believe you’re looking into the demise of a Mr Robinson, aren’t you?’

  ‘I can’t mention names, Shifty.’

  ‘I happen to know something about him that is important to your endeavours, Inspector, something that you will not know already and, I promise you by my mother’s sacred grave, will almost certainly assist you to solve the mystery.’

  ‘I confess you have my interest, Shifty.’

  ‘Ah! Well, can you meet me in the usual place in, say, ten minutes?’

  Angel looked up at the clock and then he said, ‘Yes. I’ll be there.’

  Angel went up the corridor to the security door and let himself into reception. He went out through the main door of the station. The sun was shining and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. He stood on the top step taking in the view, and smiled appreciatively. It promised to be another dry, warm day. He ran down the stone steps to the pavement, across the road, down the narrow track at the side of St Peter’s church, to a small gate. He pushed it open and it squealed a high note, and he noticed it squealed a lower note when it was closing. He took the flagstone path towards the vestry door, and then turned left to take him down the long area behind the church consisting of gravestones and bushes. It was very
quiet there, just the rustle of the leaves and the occasional chirp of a blackbird or two. He walked quickly to the middle of the graveyard among rows of gravestones and looked around. Shifty Helpman was nowhere to be seen. Angel looked at his watch. There couldn’t be any misunderstanding. He’d met Helpman there at least a dozen times before, usually late in the afternoon or in the evening when it was dark.

  While he waited, he began to read the names on the gravestones and the dates of their deaths.

  He was suddenly surprised by the unmistakable Irish voice of Shifty Helpman behind him. ‘There you are, Inspector. You’re by yourself now, aren’t you?’

  Angel turned to see the Irishman, who had appeared apparently from nowhere.

  Angel smiled and said, ‘I am indeed, Shifty. Now, what have you got for me?’

  Helpman came up very close to him, so close that Angel could detect the smell of Algerian brandy on his breath.

  ‘I knows what a great detective you are, Inspector Angel,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless, I think this will be very useful to you and well worth fifty notes.’

  Angel looked into his bloodshot eyes and said, ‘We’ll see, Shifty, we’ll see.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well now, you know that I get around and mix with all kinds of people. Well, the other day I was in company with Mickey “the loop” Zeiss, who is a runner for Harry “the hatchet” Harrison and does jobs for him. And I overheard the big man say that your Norman Robinson owed him – that is, Harry – very big money.’

  Angel nodded. ‘How much is that?’ he said.

  ‘Ten grand was the figure mentioned, don’t you know.’

  Angel blinked. ‘Ten thousand pounds?’

  ‘That’s what I heard, Inspector. What do you think about that?’

  Angel frowned and said, ‘How did he come to owe him all that?’

  ‘Mickey didn’t say, but my guess is … it would be the gee-gees.’

  ‘Is Harry a bookie then, Shifty?’

  ‘No, Inspector. He buys debts, I believe, for very cheap money and squeezes the poor debtor dry for repayment of the capital plus a very high interest.’