The Fruit Gum Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel frowned. ‘Does Harry do this himself?’

  ‘You must be kiddin’ me, Inspector. Harry don’t do nothing. He gets Mickey and his heavy brigade to collect the dough.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘And who is in his heavy brigade?’

  ‘Mickey for one. I don’t know of any others.’

  ‘And who is Mickey “the loop” Zeiss?’

  Helpman shook and his eyes shone as if he’d seen a ghost. ‘I’d surely go to my maker if I told you, Inspector, and that’s gospel.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me anything about him? I mean, what does he look like?’

  ‘He’s a short-arse little foreigner with a violent temper. That’s all I know.’

  Angel knew that was all the information he would be able to get out of the snout that morning. He put his hand into his wallet and took out a note. ‘It’s worth a tenner to me, Shifty.’ He passed it over to the little man.

  Helpman’s face brightened. He showed no signs at all of disappointment. ‘Thank you very much, Inspector,’ he said as he gave it the once-over and then stuffed it into his pocket. ‘I’ll be in touch if I get anything else in your line. Goodbye.’

  ‘Right, Shifty. Thank you. Goodbye.’

  Helpman quickly made his way into the bushes and vanished out of sight as Angel came up the flagstone pathway.

  As Angel arrived back at his office, his phone was ringing out. He dashed in and picked up the handset.

  It was Dr Mac. ‘Hello there, Michael.’

  The doctor sounded unusually cheerful. ‘I have some good news for you,’ he said. ‘I have at last determined the poison that murdered Norman Robinson.’

  ‘He didn’t die of asphyxia, then?’ Angel said.

  ‘He certainly did. He died of a severely deficient supply of oxygen to the body that arises from being unable to breathe normally. That’s asphyxia. The problem was determining the cause. The blood sample showed no trace of anything untoward in the bloodstream, also there were no indications in the throat or the lungs. All this was greatly puzzling until I remembered. There is only one type of poison that produces such symptoms, and it is defined as aconite poisoning.’

  ‘What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It comes from a very common garden plant called monkshood which is a genus of over 250 species of Aconitum that belong to the buttercup Ranunculaceae family of plants.’

  ‘Right, Mac,’ Angel said. ‘Thank you. You can pack it in with the big words. I believe you.’

  He heard the doctor give a chuckle.

  ‘Well, where did our murderer find this monkshood?’ Angel said.

  ‘It’s a beautiful flower distinguished by its yellow monkshood-shaped petals. The entire plant is poisonous … leaves, stalk, root, petals. And the poison can be ingested through the skin, causing symptoms that would require attention from a medical team, so great care would have had to be taken when handling it. There’s some in my garden and probably yours.’

  ‘There’s none in my garden unless it’s a weed. And how would my murderer have applied it, Mac?’

  ‘It’s not a weed. Well, he would simply squeeze the sap out of stems of the plant. For this he would have had to wear substantial rubber gloves. He would have transferred the gooey stuff to a container, typically a small glass bottle, then added it to something with a strong flavour such as cocoa, cough medicine, or some form of alcoholic drink. Death would have been very painful. That’s why the victim’s clothes and the bed were in such disarray. After a time, there would have been malfunctioning of the heart, followed by coma and then death.’

  ‘How much time would elapse between him drinking the poison and being dead?’

  ‘About an hour.’

  ‘Did you find any food in his stomach?’

  ‘No. He had not eaten for some time, maybe six hours. The poison may have been administered in alcohol, which would also to some extent tranquillize him.’

  Angel nodded. It fitted in to some degree with the evidence already discovered from the marks on the top of the bedside cabinet.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mac,’ he said drily. ‘All I have to do is find out those people who have monkshood in their garden.’

  Mac smiled. ‘That’s all, Michael,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

  Angel ended the call. It had at last been established that the cause of the murder was poison and that the poison was monkshood. There was also a hint that the murderer could be a henchman of Harry ‘the hatchet’ Harrison, such as Mickey ‘the loop’ whoever he was, or Thomas Johnson, who was not known to have any connection with Harrison. Angel saw that if he could make a connection between the two, he could have a pretty good case. At this stage, he also had to consider whether it was likely that Johnson knew Norman Robinson and decide whether or not it was probable that they shared a bottle of wine or booze of some kind together.

  He reached out for the phone. He rang Thomas Johnson’s solicitor, Bloomfield, and made arrangements for him to come to the station as soon as possible so that Angel could interview his client. Bloomfield said he could be there in about half an hour. He ended the call.

  Angel was adamant that he must attain clearer answers from the man.

  There was a knock at the door. Angel glanced at it, then placed the pot monster in a more prominent position on his desk so that it could not fail to be seen.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  It was Ahmed.

  ‘Yes, Ahmed?’ Angel said.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Ahmed said. He immediately spotted the pot animal.

  Angel watched him.

  There was a slight frown on Ahmed’s face as he peered at it.

  ‘Very nice, sir,’ he said. ‘Your new paperweight. Is it a sort of rhinoceros?’

  Angel said, ‘Is it?’

  ‘No. Of course it isn’t, sir. I wasn’t thinking. It’s an African animal, isn’t it? Must be very rare.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘What did you want, lad?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve just finished checking off all the calls made from Norman Robinson’s mobile over the last thirty days, sir,’ he said, waving two sheets of A4 with his close-written handwriting on them.

  Angel’s face brightened. The timing was perfect. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Sit down,’ he said indicating the chair. ‘We can go through them now.’

  Ahmed came in eagerly and took the seat opposite.

  ‘He didn’t make many calls compared with most people these days, sir,’ Ahmed said, referring to his notes. ‘And I don’t think you would describe any of them as “social” calls to friends or just to chat. There were six calls to takeaways and shops or supermarkets. There were fifteen calls – of very short duration – to a bookie in Glasgow called Burns.’

  ‘I expect they were always in the afternoon?’

  Ahmed’s eyebrows shot up. ‘As a matter of fact, they were, sir. How could you possibly know that?’

  ‘The fact the calls were short suggested that they were bets, placed just before a race started. Most racing is in the afternoon.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Mmm, I see.’

  Angel smiled. ‘What else?’

  ‘There are four calls to the Work and Pensions office in Glasgow.’

  ‘I suppose they would be inquiries about work or dole money.’

  ‘Then there were two very interesting calls he made, sir. One to the CPS in Bromersley, and—’

  Angel blinked in surprise. ‘In Bromersley?’ he said. He quickly reached out for his pen. ‘Give me the details.’

  ‘It was Friday morning, sir, May 31st. The call was at 11.30 a.m. and lasted four minutes.’

  Angel scribbled the details on a used envelope and put it back in his pocket. ‘That’s remarkable, Ahmed. You said there were two interesting calls; what was the other?’

  ‘T
hat was to the Feathers, sir, on Saturday morning, June 1st at 10.25 a.m.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Hmm. That would be to book a room for Sunday night. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There was a call to the inquiry line at Doncaster Racecourse. It’s a recorded message that tells the caller the times and dates of forthcoming race meetings.’

  ‘Hmm. Maybe he fancied a trip out there while he was back in Yorkshire?’

  The phone rang. Angel looked at it and frowned.

  Then he looked at Ahmed. ‘Are there any more, lad?’

  ‘No, sir,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘That’s the lot.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s a good job. Just a minute.’ He picked up the phone and said, ‘Angel.’

  It was DS Taylor on the line.

  ‘Hold on a minute, Don,’ Angel said.

  He turned back to Ahmed. ‘Now, how long are you going to be with Johnson’s mobile?’

  ‘I should be able to do it by about three o’clock this afternoon, sir. It depends how many calls there are on it.’

  ‘Aye. Right, lad. As soon as you can. Crack on with it.’ He indicated with his thumb to Ahmed to leave.

  ‘I’m off, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  Angel watched the young man glance curiously at the pot monster as he picked up his papers and his pen. He saw him peer at the other side of the ornament, then shake his head, and finally closed the door behind him.

  Angel smiled into the phone, then said, ‘What have you got, Don?’

  Taylor said, ‘Got a result from Wetherby lab on those samples retrieved from the bottom sheet on the victim’s bed, sir. The palynologist there says that it’s pollen from white oriental lilies.’

  Angel’s face creased. ‘White oriental lilies?’ he said, running his hand through his hair. ‘White oriental lilies? Well, there weren’t any flowers in the room, were there? Are you sure the hotel staff didn’t remove them before you arrived at the scene?’

  ‘The chambermaid assured me that everything had been left as it was found, sir. She was that upset and squeamish that I doubt she went back into the room after she had discovered the body.’

  ‘Somebody else might have. I’ll check on that, Don … pollen from white oriental lilies. I don’t understand.’

  ‘Pollen easily drops off the flowers, sir, and stains very readily.’

  Angel wasn’t pleased. That latest information created more confusion in his mind about trying to find the murderer. ‘How did the pollen get there?’ Angel said. ‘Why was it there? Why was the source of the pollen removed?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I can’t throw any more light on it.’

  ‘All right, Don,’ Angel said. ‘Thank you.’

  He replaced the phone, then sighed, then squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb.

  A few moments later, he picked up the phone and tapped in a number. It was to the mortuary. He asked for Dr Mac.

  ‘Hello there, Michael,’ Mac said. ‘I was about to ring you. That sample fruit gum taken from Thomas Johnson’s coat pocket is an exact match with the one found by Robinson’s bed. There are five flavours, or colours, and I analyzed a cherry one because the one found was cherry flavoured, or red in colour.’

  ‘That’s great. Thanks, Mac. I note what you say.’

  ‘I’ll send it in my written report in due course. But I knew you’d want to know.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I’m interviewing Thomas Johnson later today. Of course I can’t put too much weight on that because millions of fruit gums in all flavours and colours are made and sold every day.’

  ‘I think that’s true, Michael,’ Mac said.

  Angel then reported the finding of pollen on the victim Robinson’s bed and asked Mac for his observations.

  ‘It doesn’t have any forensic connotations to any criminal activity that I can think of, Michael,’ he said. ‘I mean, neither the pollen nor the leaves of oriental lilies have been used as a poison that I know of. However, I am sure you will be aware that when pollen is found on a long-lost corpse, in conjunction with a pollen calendar the month or week or date of death can be approximated with accuracy. There’s a whole department in some forensic laboratories dedicated to “forensic palynology”, as it is called.’

  ‘Yes, Mac, but … I mean,you can’t murder anybody with a single or a bunch of white oriental lilies, can you?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. I have certainly never heard of it.’

  ‘Well, is there any valid reason why a villain intent on murdering Robinson would come into his room with a bunch of flowers?’

  ‘Canna think of any. Unless there was a bomb in the middle of them, and there’s no evidence of that in this case, is there?’

  ‘Quite. There’s something else, Mac. Aren’t white oriental lilies to be found at funerals?’

  ‘Aye. I believe they are. I seem to remember my great-aunt Bridget’s coffin was smothered in white lilies when I went to her funeral in Paisley thirty-odd years ago. Are you thinking that the murderer brought them as a warning signal to Robinson before he poisoned him?’

  Angel bit his lower lip. ‘I’m not at all sure; then again I’m not sure of anything. I mean, would a man bring another man flowers?’

  ‘Not unless they were gay. And then I’m not sure he would. Anyway, Michael, in my examination of the corpse, I have discovered no forensic evidence to support that theory.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m beginning to think that it might be a woman who brought the flowers.’

  ‘It’s more logical.’

  ‘That means it’s possible that a woman committed the murder. I know that that was always possible, but I always assumed the murderer was a man. Come to think of it, it is women who usually use poison, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye. It is.’

  ‘I’m seriously beginning to think that maybe I shouldn’t be holding Thomas Johnson.’

  ‘You’re the boss, Michael.’

  Angel pulled a face. ‘Huh! And don’t I know it,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Mac, anyway. ’Bye.’

  He banged down the handset.

  EIGHT

  Angel picked up the phone and tapped in Ahmed’s number in the CID room. ‘Is DS Carter there?’

  ‘I’ll get her, sir … here she is.’

  ‘Flora, I’m expecting Bloomfield in a few minutes so that I can interview Thomas Johnson, who is in a cell. Let them talk privately, of course, but when they are ready will you show them into interview room number 1 and then let me know? If Johnson is troublesome, get some help. And I’ll want you to sit in with me to make up a foursome. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Flora Carter said.

  Ten minutes later, the four were seated in interview room number 1.

  The recording tape was running through the reel-to-reel, the red light was on, Angel rattled off the details of who was present, the time, date and place and then he began.

  ‘Mr Johnson,’ he said. ‘The CCTV recording proves that you were in the Feathers hotel on the night and at the time that Norman Robinson was murdered. A sample fruit gum taken from contents of your coat pocket matches exactly with the one found on the floor in Robinson’s room. What do you say to that?’

  Johnson glared at Angel, screwed up his face and said, ‘I can’t explain it like that. All I know is that I didn’t go anywhere in any bedroom in that hotel, that night or any other night.’

  Bloomfield said, ‘Also, Inspector, those fruit gums are extremely popular. They’re made by a factory in east London where they make millions and distribute them not only in the UK but all over the world. Anybody could have dropped that fruit gum in the bedroom. It could even have been left by the previous occupant.’

  ‘The chambermaid said that she was sure it wasn’t left over from the previous day.’

  ‘Well, Inspector,’ Bloomfield said. ‘That would be a bad refl
ection on her capability and thoroughness as a chambermaid if it had been, wouldn’t it? One would have expected her to say that.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Mr Bloomfield. The fact that your client was present in the hotel at that critical time, and the presence of the fruit gum at the murder scene and the fact that he had a pocketful of those identical fruit gums, is noted and cannot be ignored.’ He looked at Johnson and said, ‘Now, moving on … who paid you to murder Norman Robinson?’

  ‘Nobody. I don’t know nothing about it.’

  ‘Was it Harry “the hatchet” Harrison?’

  Johnson’s jaw dropped open.

  Angel saw fear in his eyes.

  ‘No,’ Johnson said. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘What did you do with the bottle and the two glasses?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘What was the point of taking flowers to him?’

  Johnson shrugged his shoulders, frowned and looked at Bloomfield.

  ‘I don’t know what he’s on about.’

  ‘You refuse to answer my questions?’ Angel said. ‘A search of your house, 4, Sebastopol Terrace, revealed a cache of money, £780 hidden in a biscuit tin, under a loose floorboard under your bed.’

  Johnson leaped to his feet. His face was scarlet. ‘You frigging bastards,’ he said, all teeth and saliva. ‘What right have you to go and search my house and take the only money I have in the world away from me?’

  Bloomfield pulled at Johnson’s jacket. ‘Sit down, Mr Johnson. Come on. Sit down.’

  Angel was unmoved. He stared at Johnson and said, ‘Where did you get the money from?’

  ‘I saved it up.’

  ‘Do you work for Harry “the hatchet” Harrison? Are you one of his thugs? Is that money the money he paid you to murder Norman Robinson?’

  ‘What the frigging hell are you talking about? No! Of course it isn’t. It’s my savings.’

  Angel said, ‘How did you save it?’

  ‘I put a fiver or a tenner out of my money there every week.’

  ‘But it’s all in twenties,’ Angel said. ‘New twenties. In consecutive order. Withdrawn from the Northern Bank. Fresh from the mint. Only printed a month ago.’