The Morals of a Murderer

by Roger Silverwood

  Boodle stopped abruptly and stared at him. Angel knew what he was doing. He was watching his reaction. Angel did the same thing when he was interviewing.

  Then the commander said: ‘Anyway, for the last six months, at least, Yardley has been asking to set you.’

  Angel stared hard back at the man. This was very strange. He couldn’t understand why Yardley would want to see him. He had never knowingly met him. He suddenly had a thought.

  ‘Have you a photograph of him, sir?’

  Boodle produced a pack of a dozen police pics from a file on the desk with the dexterity of a card-sharp. He slapped them down in front of Angel, then began to read off the copy of a prison admission sheet:

  ‘Morris Yardley, last known address, fifty-five Broad Street, Birmingham, age fifty, six feet two inches, fourteen stone four pounds, eye-colour, grey blue, blah blah, blah blah.’

  Angel riffled through the photographs, obviously taken in prison. Morris Yardley had a square head with a very close hair-cut, podgy, lined face, big Roman nose and bags under his eyes. Angel scrutinized them carefully. He didn’t want to make a mistake. After a few seconds, he spoke.

  ‘No. No. I don’t know him, sir. I’ve never seen him before, and I certainly haven’t met him. I would have remembered,’ he said firmly. He handed the bundle of photographs back.

  Boodle shook his head. He was clearly thrown.

  ‘He specified you. He knew your name, your rank and that you were at this station. He knew your age. How old are you?’

  ‘Forty-eight.’

  ‘Yes. He’s fifty. He said you were about his age.’

  ‘He’s not from round here, sir. I don’t know him,’ Angel said evenly.

  ‘No. He’s from Birmingham way, but still … ’

  Boodle slowly leaned back in the swivel-chair. The tiny tongue shot out again and ran over his lips several times. He looked up at the ceiling, drummed ‘Colonel Bogey’ with his fingertips on the desk and then said, ‘You must be the one. We’ll go ahead. He’s anxious to see you. And we do need to recover the gold. Now I expect he wants to propose a deal of some sort. So I have arranged for you to see him on your own, wearing a wire, of course, with plenipotentiary powers to make the best deal you can. OK? He’s in Welham gaol. So I want you up there tomorrow at ten o’clock.’

  Angel’s pulse rate increased. He realized he was in big trouble. His secret was out. He’d never get access to HMP Welham without his ID.

  ‘I can’t do it, sir,’ he said quietly.

  Boodle’s eyes lit up like searchlights. He was used to getting his own way.

  ‘What?’ he said, his voice rising an octave.

  Angel knew that when you have to make a fool of yourself, it’s best to do it quickly.

  ‘I am without a badge and ID card, sir.’

  ‘What?’ Boodle shrieked again. ‘How the hell did you manage that?’

  Angel licked his lips quickly. ‘In the course of interviewing a prisoner, who turned out to be a pickpocket, he stole my badge and ID card. And before I had discovered the loss, he had been to court and been released.’

  ‘You idiot! When was this?’

  ‘Day before yesterday.’

  ‘Have you reported it to the super?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Have you informed the Police Gazette?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get on to it right away. Have you another recent ID photograph of yourself?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Let me have it. I’ll speak to the super myself and get that organized. I’ll have them both ready for you to pick up from here at 5 p.m. Right?’

  ‘Right, sir. There’s something else.’

  Boodle’s mouth tightened. ‘What now?’

  ‘You want me to get this man’s trust, don’t you, sir?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He sounds a tough nut.’

  ‘He is a tough nut!’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Well sir, if I do this, I do it without a wire.’

  Boodle blinked. ‘He has assaulted three officers,’ he yelled. ‘One of them nearly lost the sight of one eye. He has a violent temper: a bad record. I cannot take the risk of you going into his company alone without a wire.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘It won’t work. I won’t do it then, sir.’

  ‘You bloody well will!’

  *

  It was five minutes to ten on the following morning when Angel arrived outside Welham prison. He parked his car with fifty or more others, walked through the carpark and across the road to the grimy stone entrance. The fresh-painted sign, white on black, said, SIDE ENTRANCE. RING BELL. He pressed the big porcelain button set in the brass fitting on the wall. There was a short delay, then, with a clang of metal there was a whirring sound and the iron door slowly opened. He went through the gloomy, stone entrance-arch into a covered area cluttered with signs:

  ‘All traffic 5 mph. All visitors must sign the book. Visitors without passes not admitted. All passes to be shown. HMP Welham Prison Category A (Male only). Rules and regulations for visitors. No mobile phones. No radios. Visitors this way.’

  As he was reading them, the whirring noise of the door mechanism stopped and the door clanged shut behind him. He moved along the arched area to a window with a sign over the top that read: ENQUIRIES. He could just make out the movement of a shadowy figure through slits in a steel grille. A distorted voice from a speaker above him said: ‘Can I see your pass?’

  Angel pushed the cream-coloured paper through the slot. It disappeared.

  After a few seconds the voice said, ‘Have you got your ID, inspector?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re here to see two nine seven Yardley?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said and offered his brand-new ID card to the machine.

  ‘Hmm. Yes. Commander Boodle has just gone through.’ The pass and ID card came back through the slot.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If you wait there, I’ll get someone to take you up.’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’

  A few minutes later, a uniformed prison officer escorted Angel silently across the stone-surfaced courtyard, into the main building, up two flights of black-painted iron steps, along a corridor, to a door with the words, ‘Reception No 11’, stencilled on it. The escort unlocked the door, which opened into a small room in which two prison officers were seated behind a trestle-table. There was a small, low cupboard at the side with a telephone and a wire in-tray on the top. There was another door behind them.

  ‘Visitor for two nine seven Yardley,’ the escort called.

  ‘Right,’ said one of the men.

  Angel felt pressure on his elbow.

  ‘In there, please.’

  He went into the room. The door closed. He heard the click of the lock and the rattle of keys behind him.

  One of the uniformed men took off his hat and placed it on the table.

  ‘Can I see your pass, please? And your ID,’ he said.

  Angel handed them across. The officer glanced at them and then went out through the door behind him. The other man pulled the in-tray on to the table.

  ‘Empty the contents of your pockets into this.’

  Angel said nothing. He licked his lips.

  ‘Also your watch and any jewellery. Do you wear belt or braces?’

  ‘Neither.’

  Angel tugged his expandable watch wristlet over the back of his hand, then began on his pockets: his wallet, his notebook, pen, keys, handkerchief, a few coins and his car key. He didn’t wear any jewellery.

  The man turned away to the cupboard and came out with a contraption that looked like a small vacuum-sweeper, with earphones. He put on the headset and plugged the flex into an electric socket.

  ‘Face the wall, spread your legs and put your hands in the air.’

  Angel turned round.

  The prison officer deftly waved the head of the metal detector down his arms, across his
back and down both legs.

  ‘Turn round, please.’

  Angel turned to face him. The man repeated the business.

  ‘Right,’ he said. He dragged off the earphones, pulled out the plug and began to roll up the flex.

  The door banged and Commander Boodle, another much younger man in plain clothes carrying a small case, and the first prison officer came in.

  ‘Ah. There you are, Michael,’ Boodle said, his voice even higher than usual. ‘Found the place all right? Good. Like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Angel said.

  ‘There’s one coming. No sugar. I hope that’s right.’

  ‘That’s fine, sir.’

  ‘This is Inspector Oscar Quadrille. He’s in my team. He’s a computer wizard and a crack scientist. He’ll be monitoring you throughout the exercise.’

  Angel and Quadrille nodded and shook hands.

  Boodle looked at him. ‘Fit him up, Oscar,’ he said.

  ‘Will you take your coat and shirt off,’ Quadrille said, opening the case on the table and taking out a length of black wire about three feet long. It had a miniaturized microphone at its head and two AA batteries at its tail.

  Angel undid his coat and began to take it off.

  There was a knock at the door. It opened and a little bald man, wearing a red armband over rumpled grey shirt, jeans and trainers, stood there holding a tin tray with five beakers of tea on it. He looked across at the men and blinked.

  Everybody looked back at him.

  The senior of the two prison officers stared at him severely. ‘Enderby!’ he bellowed like an RSM addressing a battalion.

  The little man froze. Some of the tea spilled out of the beakers on to the tray.

  ‘Wait there, Enderby!’ The officer stretched up to his full height, reached out for his hat, which he placed very precisely on his head, and said. ‘I didn’t give you permission to enter, did I, Enderby?’ he bellowed.

  ‘Er — er — no, Mr Jubb,’ the little man muttered and looked down at his trainers.

  ‘Well go out, close the door, wait there and I will have the tray collected from you when we are ready,’ bawled the officer.

  The little man stepped back. The door closed.

  Boodle shook his head and glared at Jubb. The commander was not pleased. He sniffed noisily.

  Angel noticed his face; he looked as if he had just caught a whiff of the prison stew.

  ‘Sorry about that, sir,’Jubb said.

  ‘Yardley is isolated, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes sir. He’s ready in room fourteen, across the corridor. With an officer.’

  ‘Has he been thoroughly searched?’

  ‘Thoroughly, sir. I was present throughout.’

  The commander nodded.

  ‘It won’t happen again, sir.’

  Boodle sighed, shook his head and turned back to Angel.

  Jubb caught the eye of the other prison officer and directed him with a finger to nip out and collect the tray from the trusty.

  Angel had removed his shirt and was watching Quadrille fasten the wire at his waist and across his chest on to his vest with flesh-coloured adhesive tape. When he pressed on the last piece of tape and was satisfied that all was secure and in the correct position, he stepped back, looked at his handiwork and nodded.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘That should be OK, Michael.’ He turned back to the table and tossed the reel of tape into a box.

  The tea arrived and Jubb handed round the beakers.

  ‘Ta,’ Angel said. He took a sip, put it down on the table and pushed a fist into a sleeve of the shirt and pulled it on. As he was buttoning up the front, Boodle, rubbing his chin, stepped up close up to him.

  ‘Something I forgot to mention, Mike,’ he said softly only eight inches from his ear. ‘Yardley has a long-time girlfriend, Enchantra Davison. Lives in Birmingham. Bit of a tart. Blonde, long legs, a lot up front. She’s probably closer to him than anybody. She is his only visitor. She has visited him every visiting-day since his arrest; never missed once. Now she might know where the gold is.’

  Angel nodded and pulled up his tie.

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Boodle turned away, looked round the room and rubbed his chin again. Angel noticed that his hand was shaking.

  ‘Are we ready,’ Boodle suddenly called out irritably.

  Quadrille held up Angel’s coat, and Jubb crossed to him, holding out the in-tray. Angel reached out for his belongings and put them back into his pockets. Lastly, Jubb returned his ID and pass, which Angel dropped into his inside pocket.

  The young man returned to the open case on the table. He took out a coil of wire and a pair of headphones and flicked a switch. He draped the wire over the table and plugged it into a socket on the outside of the case. Boodle’s small eyes darted in every direction.

  ‘Are we all set?’ he snapped.

  Angel looked over Quadrille’s shoulder into the case. He could see a green light on a control panel, and reel-to-reel tape running slowly.

  ‘Almost,’ Quadrille said reaching out for the headphones. ‘Will you say something, Mike?’

  ‘Yes. Like what?’

  ‘That’s enough. That’s great.’

  Boodle sidled up to him. ‘One last thing, Mike,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘It’s taken six months to set this up. It’s imperative you find out where the gold is. We can’t wait twenty years until he is released, in the hope that we might recover it. Furthermore, the Bank of Agara, whose gold this is, is wholly owned by the king and his brother, the crown prince. Number Ten is under tremendous pressure from them. Apart from trade implications, the brothers are threatening to withdraw NATO flight-path agreements across the Mitsoshopi Desert. If there was another war in the Middle East — er, well … ’ He put his hand on Angel’s arm and squeezed it. Through gritted teeth, he said, ‘Promise him anything, but find out where he's hidden it.’

  Angel blew out a long silent sigh. ‘Yes sir.’

  Boodle moved away. He was biting his lower lip and wiping his forehead with a moist handkerchief at the same time. He ran his hand down his neck and rubbed it hard. He glared across at Quadrille in the headphones and raised his eyebrows, his eyes glowing like fire-opals.

  Quadrille read the signal and stuck up both thumbs.

  Boodle turned instantly, put up a finger and called out: ‘Mr Jubb.’

  The prison officer straightened up.

  ‘Sir!’ He looked at Angel. ‘This way, sir,’ he said. He unlocked the door.

  Angel reached out for the beaker of tea, which he had hardly touched, and followed him out of the door, carrying it. Jubb marched down the corridor for twenty yards. His polished boots clomped loudly on the tiled floor, the echo resonating round the bare green walls. Angel ambled behind him, stopping half-way along to take a sip. Jubb arrived at reception room fourteen and pulled out a bunch of keys. By the time the door was opened, Angel had caught up. He eyed Morris Yardley sitting at the table, his mouth slightly open, his jaw set like the Rock of Gibraltar. He had his arms folded and a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. He was staring back at Angel with an unreadable face.

  Jubb peered round the door at a uniformed officer standing inside with his back to the wall.

  ‘Everything all right, son?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Jubb.’

  ‘Right. Off for your tea-break, then.’

  The young officer went out.

  Jubb looked at the prisoner, then back at Angel.

  ‘There you are, sir,’ he bawled. ‘Yardley two nine seven.’

  Angel, still holding the beaker, stepped into the room. Its layout, size, cupboard, table and chairs were the same as those in No. eleven.

  Jubb went out. The door closed. The key turned in the lock. The two men were alone.

  Angel looked down at the bulky man. He looked bigger than the photographs suggested. His thick arms pulled at the seams of the shirt-sleeves. Angel could well believe that it would take three men to hold h
im down in a punch-up. He noticed the nicotine stains on his fingers and the fingernails like bath-plugs, as he took a big draw from the cigarette then jerkily dabbed a length of ash into the Nescafe jar lid standing on the table. There was a half-drunk beaker of tea in his right hand.

  Angel stepped forward. ‘I’m DI Angel.’

  ‘I know,’ Yardley said wryly, in a broad Birmingham accent. He stared up at Angel as he put down the mug of tea. Angel dipped into his inside pocket and pulled out his ID. He tossed the card on to the table. Yardley barely glanced at it. Angel leaned forward, turned the card round the right way and pushed it towards him. The man peered at it, nodded and sucked silently on the cigarette.

  Angel then, with deliberation, unbuttoned his coat, took it off, put it round the back of the chair, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt.

  Yardley stared at him.

  Angel reached into his shirt, found the microphone and began to peel the wire from his vest.

  Yardley’s eyebrows went up a little when he saw what he was doing.

  Angel jerked at the wire until the entire unit came free and he pulled it out of the front of his shirt like a dead snake. He then dropped the microphone end into his beaker of tea.

  Yardley closed his mouth and sniffed.

  ‘That’s great, that,’ he said. ‘What do you do for an encore?’

  Angel didn’t reply. He buttoned up his shirt, straightened his tie, put on his coat and sat down at the table. He couldn’t help but wonder what pandemonium there would be in reception room 11.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me?’ he said evenly. ‘I thought we should start on an even keel.’

  ‘It’s a good job you did that, you know,’ Yardley said, pointing his finger at Angel’s chest.

  Angel looked through a wisp of smoke into the hard, steel-blue eyes. Their faces were only eighteen inches apart.

  Yardley continued: ‘Yes. I wouldn’t even have opened my mouth to you, if you hadn’t taken that mike off.’ Another pause. ‘I knew you was wired up,’ he said cockily. ‘I was tipped off.’