Murder Comes To Call: three Inspector Constable murder mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 4)

by Roger Keevil

  “Sergeant,” said Constable, “perhaps you could resist the temptation to do your impression of a comedy policeman in a bad 1950s B-feature, and tell me what we do have here.”

  “Memo, guv,” answered Copper succinctly. “Lying here on the desk under the newspaper. A memo! Honestly!” He cast his eyes to heaven. “Has this man never heard of emails?” He glanced over the sheet of paper. “Looks like a whole load of gobbledegook to me.”

  “Suppose you let me be the judge of that. What does it say?”

  “It's addressed 'Memo to all management staff. From: MD. To: QD, DSP, PMB, TM, HS.' And apparently it's all about 'H & S Regulation GOV/8738/19/B Section 17 Clause 28'. See what I mean, guv?”

  “You're right,” admitted Constable. “It does sound like the most appalling gibberish. Reminds me of some of the emails I get from the top brass about some sort of new target they've devised to make our lives more interesting. The curse of modern policing, and don't you dare quote me! I suppose we should at least be grateful that Mr. Winker was old-fashioned enough still to be sending out actual paper memos instead of emails and tweets. So, does it carry on in the same incomprehensible vein, or does it get any better as it goes on?”

  “A bit. In fact, it's actually written in proper English. 'You are reminded that EU and government regulations require protective overalls, overshoes, gloves, and headwear to be worn at all times in food production areas. Please ensure that you adhere to this regulation without exception, and that all members of staff in your department are aware of the requirement.' And it's signed Wally Winker, MD.”

  “Well, there's the answer to one question, at any rate. It explains why Mr. Winker was all dressed up in the whites when he was found, instead of a proper managerial suit. That's why Val Hart didn't recognise who it was.”

  “Not necessarily one of the questions we needed an answer to, though, is it, guv?” objected Copper. “Isn't it more a matter of who did what and where and when?”

  “You may have a point,” said Constable. “So with that in mind, why don't you go and find Mike Rowe and see if he can spare us a minute. But don't ever be too ready to discard irrelevant information – sometimes doing that has a habit of coming back and biting you in the backside. Anyway, let us return to our muttons, as somebody once said. Mr. Rowe can't be far away.”

  “On it, guv.” Copper turned and headed for the door.

  Constable's attention was caught by a flash of yellow. “Hold on – what's that on your shoe?”

  Copper hopped on one foot to remove the offending object. “It's just one of those little self-adhesive notes people stick on phones or paperwork to remind them about something. I must have picked it up off the floor as we've been walking around.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “It just says 'COLOR'S IMPOSSIBLE TO ACHIEVE!' in big scrawly capitals, guv. Looks as if somebody was in a strop about something. Take a look.” He handed the paper to Constable. “Didn't Bernie Rabbetts say something about yellow chocolate? Maybe it's to do with that. In fact, it could be ...”

  “Or maybe not. There are other possibilities. Think about it. But not now!” A look from the inspector discouraged Copper from further immediate speculation. “In the meantime, I think you were about to ...” An eyebrow was raised.

  “Right. Mike Rowe. I've gone.”

  *

  Ushered in by Dave Copper, Mike Rowe took the seat across the desk from the inspector. He looked slightly distracted as he took off his glasses to polish them, and then swept a lock of hair out of his eyes.

  “So, Mr. Rowe,” began Andy Constable, “I'm hoping you've got some helpful news for us from your CCTV records.”

  Mike shook his head. “The reverse, I'm afraid, inspector,” he confessed. “I can't get into the system at all. For some reason, it's decided to freeze completely, so I've had to close it down so as to run a complete scan on it, which I'm afraid is going to take quite a long time.”

  Constable was philosophical. “You know, Mr. Rowe, sometimes I think that the computers forget that they're supposed to be on our side. But let us not be down-hearted. We shall settle for good old-fashioned question-and-answer police work, if you have the time.”

  Mike shrugged. “There isn't a great deal I can do at the moment anyhow,” he said, “so ask away.” He shook his head. “This is really shocking news about Wally. I'm not sure I can believe it yet. So, how can I help you?

  “Just to confirm a few details, you said you're involved with work on the company's computer systems in some way. And how long have you been employed by the Winker Chocolate Company?”

  “Oh, I don't actually work for Winker's,” explained Mike. “I'm just free-lancing at the moment.”

  “Of course,” said Constable. “I remember you mentioned that you run your own business. In which case, can I ask how you came to be involved with this one? Did you approach them, or did they approach you?”

  “Oh, they came to me.”

  “Would there be any particular reason that you know of why they should decide on you rather than any of the other firms they might have chosen? Have you had dealings with Winker's before?”

  “No, none at all,” said Mike. “No, it was all down to networking, really. You see, I used to be with Universal Business Machines over at Greenditch before I started up on my own, and I still play squash with one or two of the chaps over there every so often. I'm not very good,” he admitted, “and I tend to get thrashed most of the time, but I keep going because when you're working for yourself, you never know when it's going to be useful to keep up some contacts. Anyway, to cut a long story short, one of the guys I know put Heidi, the Head of Security, in touch with me, because his wife goes to the same Zumba classes as her, or some such – it's all very convoluted – and he told me that she'd told him that Heidi had told her that they were having problems trying to devise this new security system of theirs.” Mike let out a gusty sigh. “So I'm here on an as-and-when basis.”

  “And did that as-and-when happen to include yesterday?”

  “It did. Heidi told me they wanted to run some sort of test, so I was here late last night when it was all happening.”

  “When what was all happening, Mr. Rowe? What exactly do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing violent, inspector,” said Mike hastily. “I just mean there was quite a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, and because they've given me a desk between Heidi Lockett's section and Mr. Winker's office, I couldn't help but be aware of it. Not that I saw much, because I was at my keyboard most of the time, but people kept coming past me, and they're not used to someone being there so they don't pay attention to what they're saying around me.”

  “So it sounds as if you were perfectly placed to see, or at least hear, anyone who visited Mr. Winker's office during the late afternoon period yesterday,” suggested Constable.

  “Probably better than anyone,” agreed Mike, “but I'm not sure that that will be much help to you, inspector, because I think pretty much everybody went into Mr. Winker's office at some time or another yesterday. The door's quite often open, unless he's got a meeting with someone.”

  “Let's see if we can't be rather more specific, Mr. Rowe,” said Constable. “My sergeant here is attempting to build some sort of time line as to who was where and when.” Copper, in response to his superior's cue, took a seat to one side and opened his notebook expectantly.

  “I know Carson was in there,” said Mike after a moment's thought, “and that must have been just after six, because Val Hart was going round collecting tea things.” Mike smiled indulgently. “This place is so old-fashioned in some ways – they still actually have a tea-lady with a trolley. Something about traditional values, according to Bernie Rabbetts, but he's been here forever, so I suppose it's a case of what you're used to.”

  “And did Mr. Rabbetts go into Mr. Winker's office, to your knowledge?”

  “Ah, now, I know he went in to see Wally not long after Carson came out, because the door was lef
t open, and I remember they were talking about some new ideas that Bernie was working on. But I don't think Wally was too impressed, from what I could hear.”

  “And what did you actually hear?”

  Mike furrowed his brow in recollection. “Wally said something like 'Not again! How many times do we have to go through this?', and Bernie said he deserved better treatment after so long. I think they both got a bit irate, but I didn't like to eavesdrop too closely, and in any event, I didn't hear any more details because Trixie Marr turned up looking for Candy.”

  “Was Miss Kane not in her office at that point?”

  “No. In fact, she'd just come across to me to ask me if there was anything I needed to send out in the mail, but I'd said no, so when Trixie arrived she asked me if I knew where Candy was, and I told her she'd just gone downstairs with the post.”

  “Did Miss Marr explain why she wanted to see Miss Kane?”

  “Oh, it wasn't Candy she actually wanted,” explained Mike. “Trixie said she just wanted to know if Wally was free, and I think she probably put two and two together because we could both hear the sound of voices coming out of Wally's office where the door had been left ajar. So in fact she was just about to leave when the door flew open and Bernie came out looking like thunder, and Wally shouted after him something about there being no room on the Board for failures. At which point I just put my head down and tried to get on with my work, because I didn't want Bernie to know that I'd heard any of it for fear of making him feel embarrassed.”

  “Did you notice where Mr. Rabbetts went?”

  “No, inspector, I didn't. Sorry. I was desperately attempting to concentrate on my own stuff.”

  “How about Miss Marr? Did she leave as well?”

  “No, actually, she didn't. Now if it had been me, I would have thought that the atmosphere was all a bit heated, whatever it was I wanted Wally for, but no, I heard Trixie knock on his door, and he said 'Oh good! Another one! Come in and shut the door', so she did, and I didn't hear anything else. So I went back to what I was doing.”

  Constable smiled sympathetically. “Well, at least you got the chance to get some work done.”

  “You think so?” Mike laughed dismissively. “No such luck!”

  “Why, did Mr. Winker have any other visitors to his office?”

  “But of course. I was starting to think that the whole factory was forming a queue all down the stairs, because a few minutes later, Ivor Sweetman came along and knocked at Wally's door, and as he opened it I heard Wally say 'Wait for me on the factory floor. There's something I want you to explain to me'.”

  “Presumably,” suggested the inspector, “he would have been speaking to Miss Marr.”

  “I think so,” said Mike, “and I suppose Trixie must have gone down Wally's stairs, because she didn't come out past me. Anyway, Ivor was hovering in the doorway, and then Wally said 'Talking about explaining things, Ivor, I want a word with you', and Ivor went in and closed the door behind him. And at that point, I decided I'd had enough. I thought, I'm not going to get any work done in this madhouse, and any thoughts about this test of the security system seemed like complete pie in the sky, and Heidi was nowhere to be seen, so I started to pack up, and I went home.”

  “So Ivor Sweetman going into Mr. Winker's office was the last person you saw before you left the premises?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Mike. “Oh, except that I passed Candy coming up the stairs as I was on my way down, but that's all. Then I went home and had what I thought was a well-deserved beer, and that's all I know until I arrived here this morning. And so far today, I've got exactly nowhere.”

  Constable took the hint. “And I'm guessing that you would rather like to get back to your baby and see if you can persuade it to talk,” he smiled. “To which I have no objection, because I'm hoping it will tell us something helpful.”

  “Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on again?” proposed Copper. “That always works for me.” He was rewarded with a withering stare from Mike Rowe.

  “I think Mr. Rowe probably knows his own business best,” said Constable. “So shall we just leave him to get on with it?”

  *

  “Seems to me, guv,” commented Copper, as he closed the office door behind Mike Rowe, “that this corridor was like Piccadilly Circus last evening.” He slumped in the tub chair across the desk from Constable and surveyed his notes. “I've got people going in and out of this office like a fiddler's elbow, but I can't get any sense of a pattern, if there is such a thing. And as for motives for murder, so far they seem to be a bit thin on the ground.”

  “What I'm beginning to get a sense of,” responded Constable, “is the fact that this so-called old-fashioned family business doesn't seem to have been quite the happy family which they portray in their adverts. You've seen that one on TV where the little girl goes into her favourite chocolate shop, and the dear old gentleman dazzles her with his array of luscious goodies. Arguments between the staff, sneaky unofficial liaisons, conversations behind closed doors – this place is looking more like an episode from a Scandinavian thriller. So I have a horrible feeling that we may end up trying to find someone who doesn't have a motive for murder. Hmmm.” He paused for a moment, musing. “Right!” He clapped his hands together and stood. “Time, I think, to emulate Barry Herman and have a bit of a prowl around. Let's see if we can absorb some atmosphere and pick up any useful snippets. Put that notebook away, see if you can possibly manage to let your mind go blank, and we'll see if anything out there sticks to it.”

  “Righty-ho, guv.” As Copper closed the notebook to replace it in his pocket, his pen slipped from his grasp and, after fruitless attempts to catch it, fell down the side of his chair. “I'll give up on the idea of a career as a juggler, then, shall I, guv?” he remarked facetiously, as he reached down at the side of the cushion to retrieve it. “Well, fiddle-dee-dee!” A broad smile lit up his face. “What is it they say, guv – you can either be clever or lucky? I think I'll settle for being lucky.”

  “What are you drivelling on about, man?” asked Constable testily.

  “Only this, guv.” Copper held up a small piece of paper. “This seems to be my day for finding notes. I've got another one.” It was another self-adhesive note, this time pink. He passed it over to his superior.

  “And another one written in capitals,” noted Constable. “It seems to me that, either everybody round here was off school the day they did joined-up writing, or else some person or persons are eager that their hand-writing should not be recognised.”

  “Why, what does this one say?”

  “It's all very mysterious. It's addressed to 'T.M.', and it says 'Funny how secrets have a habit of being found out, unless …'.”

  “Dot, dot, dot? That's all a bit melodramatic, isn't it, guv?”

  “As you say. And uncommonly careless of someone with, presumably, secrets they do not wish to be found out, to leave that lying around to be found. Questions would be asked.”

  “Ah,” countered Copper, “but was it dropped, or was it left on the chair to be found and slithered down the side of its own accord? 'Who's been sitting in my chair?' said Daddy Bear.”

  “Oh, come along, sergeant. Do a little brain-work. It's not the most difficult thing in the world to work out. All we need to know is what this supposed secret is.”

  “Val Hart was going on about secrets, wasn't she, guv? Maybe she's the one we need to talk to. Do you want me to go and see if I can find her?”

  “No,” said Constable. “We'll stick to Plan A, and we'll both go. You never know, your talent for finding odd things lying about may come in handy. Just pop your head through there ...” A nod indicated the door through to Candy Kane's office. “... and see if Miss Kane can tell us where the lady may be lurking.”

  Copper tapped on the door and went in. “She's not here, guv,” he called.

  “Try Mr. Sweetman's office,” suggested Constable drily. “If the two are as inseparable as Barry
Herman seems to think ...”

  “Speaking of Barry Herman, guv, come and have a glance at this.” The inspector joined his colleague in the secretary's office. “As I seem to be in the mood for finding things, what about these?” Copper held up two small white plastic cards, the size of a credit card. They seemed virtually identical – each bore the legend 'Wally Winker's Chocolate Factory' alongside the company's logo, with beneath it in smaller letters in the corner 'Staff Car Park'. At the top was printed a bar-code, with a long series of jumbled letters and numbers underneath. On the reverse was a simple black magnetic strip, with in the corner, in tiny letters, 'MDS' on one card, and 'MD' on the other.

  “And the mystery would be …?” asked Constable.

  “Well, obviously they're the cards for the barrier mechanism downstairs,” said Copper. “I just wondered why she would have two.”

  “So speculate for me,” invited Constable. “Why might she?”

  Copper thought for a moment. “It could be,” he said slowly, “that she might be trying to disguise her movements. I mean, if there was some sort of tally kept of who uses their card and when, she could use one which would show that she had left the premises when she was in fact still here. Thus giving her the opportunity to carry out some sort of nefarious activity on the premises.”

  “Such as murdering her boss?”

  “It's a possibility, isn't it, guv? Or … I don't know … maybe she was involved in some sort of industrial espionage. In her position, she'd be perfectly placed, wouldn't she? And didn't someone say that there was a lot of spying going on in this business? And that's one of the reasons this new security system's being brought in.”

  “Excellent thinking, sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Copper smiled modestly.

  “Only one flaw in it,” continued the inspector. “According to Barry Herman, the present system doesn't monitor the car park ins and outs. The new one will, but the current one doesn't. So I'm afraid you're one technical revolution short of a theory.”

  “Rats!”

  “Plus, you haven't got a motive. Unless you'd care to magic one of those out of thin air as well.”