The Fruit Gum Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘That’s quite correct. Room service finishes at eight o’clock. However, after then, he could have ordered it from the bar and signed for it in person, but that didn’t happen either. A chitty would have come through to me from the bar to go onto his bill.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Thank you. About booking the room … did he write to you or phone you to book the room?’

  ‘He telephoned, Inspector. I took the call on Tuesday morning, I think it was.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about the call?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Just a straightforward booking for the following night, Wednesday night. I realized when he gave his address as near Norwich that he spoke with that lovely Norfolk drawl.’

  Angel blinked. He turned to DS Carter and said, ‘Flora, be sure to make a note of that. The victim, in this case, wasn’t a local man. Apparently he came from Norfolk.’

  Flora Carter nodded knowingly. ‘Right, sir,’ she said.

  Angel turned back to Mrs Vermont. ‘And who booked him in on his arrival?’ he said.

  ‘I did. There’s only me.’

  ‘How did he strike you?’

  She shook her head and gave a shrug.

  Angel blinked. ‘There was nothing at all unusual about him?’ he said.

  ‘No. Not that I recall.’

  ‘Was he chewing anything, for instance?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I never noticed anything special about him, Inspector, except for his accent.’

  ‘His unmistakable Norfolk drawl,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. ‘Right, Mrs Vermont. That’s all for now. Thank you.’

  There was a knock on Angel’s office door. It was Ahmed.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get DS Crisp, lad. I don’t suppose you know where he is?’

  Ahmed frowned. ‘He’s not in the CID office, sir. I haven’t seen him all day.’

  Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. He rubbed his chin rapidly. ‘Drop everything and find him for me. Flora and I have been trying to reach him on his mobile. I sent him off circulating local florists. I don’t know where the hell he has disappeared to.’

  Angel’s mobile rang. ‘Find him for me, Ahmed,’ he said as he pulled the phone out of his pocket.

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Ahmed and he went out.

  Angel saw from the LCD on his mobile that it was his wife, Mary, calling. He pressed the button and said, ‘Yes, love, what is it?’

  ‘Oh. Have I caught you at a bad time?’ she said.

  ‘I’m at work, love. Are you all right?’

  ‘Well, erm, yes. I’ve had a phone call from Mrs Mackenzie. Now, you know what an awful time charities are having? Well, the Summer Ball in Muick Castle was such a big success that she wants to hold another event as soon as she possibly can. And she’s had a word with Lady Muick, and she proposes to make it a fancy dress do. The date she has chosen is a week on Saturday, the 15th. Now, as you know, I’m on the committee so I’ll have to help and support her. I just wanted to make sure that you’ll be free on that date. I don’t want to go without you.’

  ‘Well yes, love. I suppose I will be. But you know how things are in this job.’

  ‘Yes … well, I just hope nothing untoward happens on that night. I’m giving you lots of notice. Put it in your diary. I’ll have to find a fancy dress for you.’

  ‘All right. I will. I will. I’ll put it in straightaway. Saturday, 15th. Fancy Dress Ball at Muick Castle. Don’t make that costume for me too ridiculous.’

  ‘Right, love. Thank you. That’s all.’

  ‘All right, sweetheart. Goodbye.’

  Angel replaced the phone. He wondered what Mrs Mackenzie was going to do about security. Perhaps Lady Muick could be persuaded not to wear the necklace.

  He looked in the directory for Mrs Mackenzie’s number and phoned her. He made the point about security strongly to her.

  ‘But her ladyship insists on wearing it, Inspector,’ Mrs Mackenzie said. ‘She says the people expect her to wear it. She is the only nobility in the town. She couldn’t go to a dress occasion such as I am planning looking like a drudge. However, have no fear. Whatever plans we make we will remember all the points you have made. Thank you very much. Goodbye.’

  Angel knew when he had been given the bum’s rush. But there was nothing further he could do.

  He pulled the pile of post towards him and began filtering through the letters as his phone rang. He snatched it up. ‘Angel,’ he said.

  It was Ahmed.

  ‘I’ve found DS Crisp, sir. He’s just pulled onto the car park. He’ll be with you directly.’

  ‘Right, lad,’ Angel said and he banged down the phone.

  He sat back in his chair, breathing heavily, his face muscles tight. He silently rehearsed what he wanted to say to him.

  A few seconds passed and there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel roared.

  It was Crisp. The sergeant came in all bright-eyed and full of enthusiasm. He began to speak as soon as he got through the door.

  ‘I’ve found the shop, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s that scruffy little lock-up greengrocer’s on the corner of Station Road and Main Street, a cock-stride from the rail station,’ he said as he closed the door. ‘It’s underneath that fancy dress hire place, where you can hire costumes from Elvis Presley to King Henry VIII.’

  ‘What’s the name of the shopkeeper?’

  ‘Enoch Truelove, sir. They don’t sell many flowers but they usually have a few made-up bunches in the window. It’s a shop that sells everything and is open all hours. Mr Truelove said he remembered selling a man half a dozen lilies on Sunday. And, what’s more, he said that he thought he might recognize the man if he was to see him again.’

  Angel frowned. ‘A man? You’re sure he said a man?’

  ‘Positive, sir.’

  The lines on Angel’s forehead became more defined. ‘Would a man buy another man flowers? Particularly lilies?’

  Crisp grinned. ‘Not unless they were dating, sir.’

  He looked at Crisp knowingly. ‘I suppose many men like flowers. I like some flowers, but I would never think of buying another man flowers, and I wouldn’t be really that pleased if a man bought me flowers.’

  Crisp smiled. ‘Are we dealing with the phenomenon of a man who wanted to be a woman, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Angel said. ‘I simply don’t know.’

  He remembered that they had found lipstick on the dead man’s lips. It had been explained away by the suggestion that the murderer was a woman and that they had kissed. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, and Angel had not dismissed the idea.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be a woman,’ Crisp said.

  ‘We’re not talking about us, lad,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ll go and have a word with Mr Truelove myself. In the meantime, I want you to go to Norwich.’

  ‘Norwich?’ Crisp said.

  Angel updated him and told him that he wanted him to look into the background of Patrick Novak, to see what similarities – if any – existed between the two victims. He reckoned that that could greatly assist his investigation into their murders.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said, then he looked at his watch. ‘I’ll have to see what time the trains leave for Norwich tomorrow.’

  ‘Take your issued car, lad, it’ll be quicker.’

  Crisp frowned. ‘It’s a long way, sir. I must set off first thing in the morning.’

  ‘You can nip home now, pack a bag and be off in less than half an hour,’ Angel said.

  ‘But sir, I need to find a place to stay and then I have to find my way round. I could do all that tomorrow and be ready to start on Saturday.’

  ‘Aye. And that’s the weekend, lad. You’ve a satnav to find your way around, and a
phone call will soon get you booked into a hotel. It’s about a three-hour drive. You can be there by six o’clock. I’ll phone you in the morning … see what you’ve managed to find out.’

  Crisp wasn’t pleased. He turned towards the door.

  Angel said, ‘Just a minute, lad. Where have you been this last twenty-four hours, and what’s wrong with your mobile?’

  Crisp turned back. He assumed a most innocent look. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my mobile, sir, as far as I know. Ahmed phoned me a few minutes ago. It’s working all right.’

  Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘Well, keep the damned thing switched on. How else can I keep in touch with you?’

  ‘I never switch it off in working hours, sir.’

  ‘But it was switched off!’

  Crisp frowned. ‘Well, I don’t understand it.’

  ‘I do. Keep the bloody thing switched on all the time, so that I can contact you. Where were you anyway?’

  ‘I’ve been very busy, sir. With a different case. There was a posh old-time dance in the ballroom at the Feathers, and the women’s powder room was systematically searched and robbed. Also at one point, the lights in the ballroom went out and in the darkness two ladies had their valuable necklaces stolen.’

  ‘Didn’t they feel them go?’

  ‘They heard the snip of a pair of pliers, felt them whisked off their necks, but they couldn’t see who took them. It all happened so quickly.’

  ‘Who was there?’

  ‘Everybody who is anybody. You know, sir, the usual mob.’

  ‘Lady Muick, Mrs Mackenzie, Sir Rodney Stamp. …’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. All of them. By the way, young Stewart Twelvetrees asked after you and sent his good wishes.’

  ‘That was kind of him. I expect he was there with his wife, Lydia, and her sister, Nadine?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. All of that brigade. And his dad, Twelvetrees Senior, and that sexy Juliet Gregg woman.’

  ‘Any suspects, lad?’

  ‘There was nothing to go on, sir. The place was searched from top to bottom but nothing was found. And it was a bit difficult dealing with la crème de la crème.’

  ‘There’s no difficulty at all, lad. They’re exactly the same as us except they’ve got more money, and can pay their gas bill without worrying about it, that’s all.’

  Crisp shrugged. Then he noticed the pot monster on the desk and took the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Got a new paperweight, sir?’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘What is it?’ Crisp said. ‘Is it a centaur, half human and half horse? Very smart, if you’re into that sort of thing.’

  Angel looked at him.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Crisp said. ‘It’s a Cyclops. No it can’t be. It’s got three eyes. A Cyclops only has one eye, doesn’t it, sir?’

  Angel continued to look at him.

  Crisp frowned. ‘I know, sir. It’s one of the creatures in Dr Who, isn’t it?’

  Angel blinked. ‘Is it?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Do you watch Dr Who, lad?’

  ‘No, sir. Not now. I used to.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Would you like it, to remind you of those days?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. No, thank you.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose.

  Angel pointed the bonnet of the BMW in the direction of the railway station until he reached a scruffy little greengrocer’s lock-up shop, on the corner of Station Road and Main Street. He saw a sign above the window that read ‘Enoch Truelove – Greengrocers’ and a smaller sign plugged into the wall and pointing upwards to a staircase, which read, ‘Fancy Dress Hire – 1st Floor.’

  He parked right outside the front of the greengrocer’s shop. He pushed open the old shop door. A bell on a large coil sprang up and down and rang above his head. As he closed the door, it rang some more.

  An elderly man in shirtsleeves, khaki shorts and a well-worn straw hat came shuffling up to a doorway three steps higher than the floor of the shop. He stopped at the doorway, looked down on Angel and said, ‘And what can I get for you, young man?’

  ‘Mr Enoch Truelove?’

  The old man looked over his glasses and said, ‘Yes. Who wants to know?’

  ‘DI Angel, Bromersley police,’ he said, offering his ID card.

  Truelove came quickly down the steps, ignored the ID card and looked Angel up and down.

  Angel said, ‘I’m following up the inquiries my sergeant made about the man who bought a bunch of flowers from you – oriental lilies – on Sunday last.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘What about them? There was nothing wrong with them, was there? They were fresh. They were only delivered from the wholesalers that morning. You can’t come making a complaint about them four days after they were sold. I mean, I sold them in good faith.’

  ‘As far as I know, Mr Truelove, the flowers were fine.’

  ‘I even knocked a few pence off because the man said that that was all the money he’d got on him.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. Something occurred to him, something rather odd. Don Taylor had said that Robinson had no cash on him either, not a coin. But Robinson was the victim, not the murderer. It could, of course, be that the murderer went through Robinson’s pockets and had taken all his money, because the murderer was penniless!

  ‘Mr Truelove, you said you knocked a few pence off the cost of the flowers?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Can you tell me how that came about?’

  ‘Of course. He wanted a bunch of flowers for his girlfriend, he said. I only had the bunch of lilies left, and they were six pounds. He said, could he look at them, so I took them out of the window and gave them to him. He looked at them. I could see he wanted them. He asked me how much they were and I said six pounds. He opened his wallet and took out a five-pound note. I could see that he only had the one fiver in there, no other notes. Then he rummaged about in his pocket and pulled out a few coins. He looked at them and they came to sixty-something pence. He looked up at me shyly and asked me if I’d take that instead of the full pound because he hadn’t any more. Well, I don’t like bartering with customers, you know, Inspector, and he seemed to be genuine so I said all right.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Right. Thank you,’ he said. He rubbed his chin. He had an idea.

  ‘Was that helpful, Inspector?’ Truelove said.

  ‘It was,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Mr Truelove, would you recognize the man if I showed you a photograph of him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’ll be back later.’

  Angel was delighted. He came out of the shop as if he was floating on air. He couldn’t get in the car fast enough. He dialled up the number of the mortuary and asked to speak to Dr Mac.

  ‘Yes, Michael,’ the Glaswegian said.

  ‘Ah, Mac. I’ve maybe got a man who can identify Norman Robinson. Now I know he’s been in the wars and whatever, but can you make him look presentable enough to be photographed head and shoulders and shown to a witness?’

  ‘I don’t know, Michael. The lines on the man’s face will be much more pronounced than they were when he was alive, and his eyes will still be staring in that unrealistic way, that could disturb some people.’

  ‘You can close his eyelids, can’t you?’

  ‘I could for the purposes of a photograph, yes.’

  ‘If you think it will look better, please do that. And powder his face. That’ll soften the hardness of the wrinkles.’

  ‘Yes. I can do that as well.’

  ‘I’m sending a chap from SOCO to take the photograph. He should be with you in about a quarter of an hour. Is that OK?’

  ‘I’ll be ready for him.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac.’

  Angel then tapped in the number of Don Taylor at SOCO and arranged for
the photograph to be taken ASAP and brought straight to his office.

  Then he drove the BMW back to the station.

  ELEVEN

  Angel arrived at his office a few minutes later to find a large brown ‘Evidence’ envelope on his desk. The label stuck onto it advised him that it contained the personal effects of Patrick Novak and that it had come from the SOCO’s office for his attention.

  He quickly sat down, opened the seal and carefully poured the contents onto his desk.

  There was a leather wallet that had £100 in £20 notes, a return rail ticket to Norwich, a folded newspaper cutting and a tiny photograph of a very young baby, apparently taken while in a hospital incubator.

  Angel frowned as he turned the photograph back over and gazed at it. It seemed to be a very small baby. It had a plastic mask across its nose and mouth fastened with sticky tape to the cheeks with a length of piping leading from it, a tiny attachment to an ear with a thin wire leading from it, another attachment concealed by bandages to the baby’s chest with a thin wire leading from it and another wire or tube attached to the foot. The photograph was fuzzy and slightly out of focus. Angel turned it over. In pencil on the back was scrawled, ‘May 2nd 2002’.

  He put it back in the wallet and opened the newspaper cutting. It turned out to be the top half of the front page of the News Chronicle. He opened it up. It read:

  Angel was rereading the cutting when there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in.’

  It was a detective constable from SOCO. ‘I’ve brought the post mortem photographs of Norman Robinson, sir.’

  He handed Angel four postcard-size photographs, all four slightly different computer printouts of the head and shoulders of the dead man.

  Then the DC’s eyes alighted on the monster ornament on Angel’s desk.

  ‘My, that’s a remarkable model animal, sir. What is it?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know, lad,’ Angel said without looking up. His attention was on the photographs; he was studying each one in turn.

  The DC was still looking at the monster, but he said, ‘Are they all right, sir? I tried the light in different positions to try to minimize the hardness of the corpse’s wrinkles.’

  ‘Aye. They’re great. I think I’ll use the one with the light on full-frontal. Thank you for closing his eyes and powdering him up. He looks almost human.’