‘We can’t prove it was stolen, so he’s entitled to have it back,’ Angel said, then he wrinkled his nose and added, ‘for the time being.’
It was 8.28 a.m. Thursday morning, 6th June 2013.
The sun was shining. The birds were coughing. Police dogs were barking, and patrol car sirens could be heard racing up and down Bromersley in the police’s perpetual bid to fight crime.
In the police station, Detective Inspector Angel was already in his office at his desk. He was gazing at the monstrous pot ornament and still wondering what animal it was or what it represented. He moved it from the top of his growing pile of post and reports, and began fingering through the envelopes.
There was a knock at the door. It was DS Crisp.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said.
‘Ah. You’re back from haggis land, lad. Good. I’ve got another urgent job for you.’
Crisp frowned. ‘I’ve a lot of paperwork to catch up, sir. And I’ve to sort out my expenses.’
Then his eye caught the pot monster on the desk.
‘And, erm, what’s that, sir, a new paperweight?’
‘What, lad? Oh that. It’s a figure in fine china.’
‘Can I pick it up, sir?’
Angel passed it to him.
Crisp looked at the head thoroughly, then its stomach and then its feet. ‘Is it a gorilla on all fours?’ he said. ‘They always look a bit odd. Or a reindeer? Hmmm. Very … er, smart, sir,’ he said, placing it back on the desk.
‘Would you like it for your desk, Trevor?’
‘Oh no, sir. Thank you.’
‘For your mantelpiece at home?’
‘Looks very good on your desk, sir. What sort of animal is it?’
Angel clenched his fists. ‘I don’t know,’ he snapped. ‘Let’s get on.’
He brought Crisp up to date with the Robinson murder and explained how they had discovered that the murderer had brought oriental lilies to the scene.
He continued, ‘So I want you to call on all the florists and places where they sell flowers nearest to the Feathers between 5.10 p.m., the time the train came in, and 6.00 p.m., when he arrived at the Feathers. There can’t be many places that were open on a Sunday. It’s absolutely vital. There may have been other flowers included in the bunch or bouquet. But whoever bought those lilies is the murderer, so we need a full description of him. All right?’
Crisp screwed up his face and shook his head. ‘It’s a long shot, sir,’ he said.
Angel said. ‘I know it’s a long shot. But this is a difficult case. Now, buzz off and get on with it.’
Crisp wasn’t best pleased. He went out and closed the door.
Angel watched him go and shook his head, then reached out to the pile and pulled it towards him. He was about to open an envelope when the phone went. He reached out for it.
It was Superintendent Harker. ‘I’ve just had a triple nine. A man has been found dead in a first-floor bedroom of the King George hotel on Main Street. Reported in by the manageress, Mrs Vermont.’
Angel’s heart began to thump. His chest was on fire. ‘Right, sir,’ he said, but Harker had already hung up.
Angel rang DS Taylor of SOCO, then Dr Mac, then Inspector Haydn Asquith, then DS Carter.
Then, when he had chance to think, he realized that on the face of it, there were similarities to the Robinson case: man’s body found dead in a hotel. He was anxious to find out all the details of the man’s death, but he must give SOCO time to make the initial scientific inspection of the site unhindered. The uncontaminated forensic evidence they might uncover could save him weeks of work, and perhaps produce an easy conviction.
He then busied himself with attempting to reduce the pile in front of him and made a little progress.
About an hour later, his phone rang. He snatched it up. It was Don Taylor ringing from the crime scene at the King George.
‘Right, Don, what have you got?’
‘You’re not going to like this, sir.’
Angel’s face muscles tightened. He sighed and said, ‘Spit it out, Don. What is it?’
‘We’ve got a body, male, sir, aged about fifty or fifty-five, name of Patrick Novak, found in a bedroom on a very disturbed bed, half-dressed, staring eyes, just like Norman Robinson. Something else – you won’t believe, sir – there’s a fruit gum on the carpet at the side of the bed.’
Angel blinked, shook his head … then rubbed his chin. ‘Anything else?’ he said.
‘Dr Mac wants a word, sir.’
‘Put him on, Don.’
‘Mac here. Yes. It looks like a repeat of the Robinson case, Michael, except this victim is about thirty years older.’
‘Are you ready for me yet?’ Angel said. He was anxious to get to the scene and see the situation for himself.
‘Come on over, Michael, I’ll be ready for moving the body in a few minutes.’
‘Right, Mac. I’ll be about ten minutes.’
Angel cancelled the call and left his office as it was. Closing the door, he looked into the CID office, caught DS Carter’s eye, and twelve minutes later they were travelling upwards in the rickety lift of the King George hotel. Angel noticed the absence of CCTV cameras in the lift and along the corridors.
The clunking and rattling stopped. They were at the first floor.
It was easy to find the room they wanted.
A uniformed policeman was standing at the door of room 114. He recognized Angel, saluted, knocked on the door, turned the handle and pushed it open.
‘Thank you,’ Angel said, as he and Flora went into the room.
It was a small single bedroom, decorated in wallpaper fashionable in 1949 and furnished with odds and ends from archaic workhouses.
Angel wrinkled his nose.
There were three SOCO men in whites. One was taking photographs of everything that didn’t move, another was on his hands and knees under the bed, and another, Don Taylor, was removing the dust-collecting unit from a powerful vacuum, transferring it to an evidence bag, sealing it and entering the sector it had swept and the present time and date.
Dr Mac, also in whites, was on his knees at the side of the bed, packing an anal thermometer into a sleeve and putting that into a large bag.
Don Taylor looked up, and acknowledged Angel and DS Carter.
‘Good morning, sir. Good morning, Flora,’ he said, and he put his pen in his pocket as he walked up to them.
‘Have you finished the sweep and the vacuum, Don?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘And Dr Mac’s ready to have the body moved.’
‘I am that, Michael,’ Mac said, looking up.
‘Right. Won’t keep you, Mac,’ Angel said as he approached the bed.
He saw the body of a man crouched in a foetal position. He was dark-haired going grey, about fifty or sixty, his eyes were open, apparently staring into space. He was wearing only a shirt, vest and socks. The buttons on his shirt were undone. The bed was in great disorder, the blankets, sheets and pillows strewn about in a chaotic fashion.
‘No sign of any lipstick on this man, Mac?’ Angel said.
‘Couldn’t see any,’ the doctor said. ‘Have you seen all you want to see of him, Michael?’
‘Oh yes, Mac. Thank you.’
The doctor nodded, then turned away, took out his mobile and began to make a call.
Angel saw a white chalk mark on the carpet just under the edge of the bed. It was there to indicate a shiny red fruit gum.
He looked at Taylor. ‘Is that fruit gum exactly the same as we found under Norman Robinson’s bed, Don?’
‘It certainly looks like it, sir.’
‘No sign of the bag or packet anywhere? In his pockets or the wastepaper basket?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Hmm. It means – like the Robinso
n case – it must have been brought in by the murderer.’ He turned to DS Carter. ‘Make a note of that, Flora.’
‘Right, sir,’ she said, pulling out her notebook and fumbling in her pocket for a pen.
Angel looked round the room … the wardrobe … chest of drawers … luggage stand with small case on it … ancient washbasin with mirror above it … window looking out onto the back of the box factory … bedside locker and a chair at the other side of the bed with the rest of the dead man’s clothes thrown onto it.
He turned back to look at Taylor. ‘Any sign that they had been drinking?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir. There are marks where glasses and a bottle have stood on the white porcelain shelf above the washbasin. It is detachable, so we are taking the shelf with us. In the lab, I’ll be able to completely dry the shelf, then maybe get a photograph of the marks left. They might match the marks left by the glasses and the bottle found on the bedside cabinet from the Feathers.’
Angel squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. ‘It would be good if they did match, Don. What else have you got?’
Taylor referred to the clipboard he had been carrying.
‘As far as we know, sir, his name is Patrick Novak, aged – at a guess – in his late fifties. Apparently he lives at 12, Lilac Avenue, Coalsden, Norwich. He has more than £100 cash on him, a credit card, and a second-class return rail ticket to Norwich. He has a bunch of keys on him, but no car key. Also he doesn’t seem to have a mobile phone. He arrived last night about six o’clock, having booked in for one night. He was found by Mrs Vermont, the landlady, at 8.30 this morning. This hotel has no CCTV, neither upstairs nor down, so no joy there; it’s a pub with rooms to let, really. There is a door from the back yard, which has space for a dozen or so cars to park. Entrance to the rooms can be made either from the front to the bar, then through a door that says “Residents Only”, or through the back door past the reception office. However, there’s nobody on reception after eight o’clock at night until 7.30 a.m. The back door is unlocked until after they’ve locked up the pub, which would be about eleven o’clock. Hmm … and I think that’s about it, sir.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Any signs of any flowers … oriental lilies … pollen on the bed sheets … anything like that?’
‘No, sir,’ Taylor said.
Angel frowned. ‘So there are differences,’ he muttered, chiefly to himself. Then he turned to DS Carter and said, ‘Have you got that down, Flora?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. Then, looking at her notes, she said, ‘There are no signs of flowers, therefore there are differences.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘While I think about it, get me Trevor Crisp on the phone.’
Flora nodded, took out her mobile and tapped in a number.
Angel turned back to Taylor. ‘Did Novak bring any luggage with him?’
‘A small, cheap suitcase. There’s nothing in it – only a shirt, pyjamas and his washing tackle.’
‘I shall want to see it all and the contents of his pockets, Don, as soon as you can.’
Mac had finished his call. He put the mobile in his pocket and came up to Angel. ‘The meat wagon’s on its way,’ he said.
Angel nodded. ‘Right, Mac. What have you got?’
The old doctor said, ‘The man was poisoned, Michael, probably a carbon copy of the Norman Robinson murder, and if you want my opinion the murderer will most certainly be a woman. No man would want to put anyone through as much pain as these two men will have suffered. As with Robinson, this man would have been in acute pain, then fallen into a coma and then died. Of course, I will have to confirm this after I have done all my tests.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Flora said. ‘There’s no reply from Trevor Crisp’s mobile.’
Angel wasn’t pleased. He breathed in and then out noisily. ‘No,’ he said, ‘there never is! Will you keep trying?’
‘It keeps sending me to voicemail,’ she said.
‘All right. Leave it for now.’
He turned back to Mac. ‘Sorry about that, Mac. Do you know that lad is harder to find than the Lost Chord.’
Mac smiled, then shook his head. ‘You’re so impatient, Michael.’
‘You don’t know. He is always missing. Now, where was I? Oh yes, have you calculated the time of death?’
‘Aye. It would have been between eight o’clock and midnight last night.’
‘That was the same time you said for Norman Robinson.’
The doctor nodded. ‘Aye, I did.’
‘Right, Mac. Thank you,’ Angel said and then he turned to Taylor. ‘Do you know if he ate anything here since he arrived?’
‘Don’t know, sir. No signs in here of a takeaway brought in or dirty pots from room service or anything like that,’ Taylor said.
Angel nodded. ‘Right. What was the name of the woman who found him?’
‘The manageress, Mrs Vermont. She’s downstairs in reception waiting for you.’
‘Right, Don,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He turned to Flora and said, ‘Come on, lass.’
TEN
Angel knocked on the door marked ‘Reception Office’.
‘Come in,’ a woman’s voice called.
Angel opened the door and walked into the tiny office followed by Flora Carter, who took out her notebook and pen in anticipation.
He saw the woman seated at a desk. She looked at him with a sort of smile. He had seen a more convincing smile on a tiger.
‘Mrs Vermont?’ Angel said.
‘I suppose you are the famous Inspector Angel, come to ask me about Mr Novak,’ she said. ‘I am very pleased to meet you. Please sit down, both of you.’
She was a big woman of about sixty. She had a plunging neckline, wore too much make-up and too much jewellery. She rattled whenever she moved. The noise came from either the pendants hanging from the silver chains she wore round her neck, or the heavy silver charm bracelet that graced her thick wrist, or both in unison.
Angel said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Vermont. I understand that you found the dead man, Patrick Novak, in room 114?’
‘I did indeed, Inspector.’
‘Tell me, how did you come to find him?’
‘Well, he had asked for a call at 8.15 a.m., so I knocked on his door several times but didn’t get any reply. I left it for about five minutes and had another go. There was still no reply. I banged on the door a third time and called out, without result. I was beginning to be worried. Eventually I called out that I was coming in. I got out my pass key, but I needn’t have bothered. The door wasn’t locked. I opened it, peered into the room. I saw him curled up on the bed. I called out, “Your early call, Mr Novak, it’s 8.25 a.m.” He didn’t move. I went over to the bed and shook his shoulder. He was cold and as stiff as a board. I knew he was dead. I came straight out of the room and rushed down here and phoned 999.’
‘Apart from the dead man’s shoulder and the door handle, you didn’t touch anything else in the room?’
‘No, I don’t believe I touched the door handle inside, Inspector, because when I went in, I didn’t close the door. You have to remember that although I am manageress of the hotel I am a woman,’ she said, pulling in her stomach and sticking out her big bosom and waggling her shoulders alternately, ‘and I wouldn’t want any of my guests to get the wrong idea.’
Angel glanced at Flora and stifled a smile. ‘Of course, Mrs Vermont. Excuse me, I wasn’t thinking.’
She looked at him demurely.
Angel quickly looked away. ‘Did you see him with anybody during the short time he was here?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t see anything of him after I booked him in. Not until I saw his body this morning.’
‘You didn’t notice if there were any flowers in his room? I am thinking in particular, of oriental lilies.’
She looked at him with a
very blank face. ‘Oriental lilies? No.’
‘Did Mr Novak eat anything here at all?’
She puffed out her bosom and said, ‘I hope you are not suggesting that his death was the result of anything he ate here, Inspector Angel?’
‘No, no, my dear lady. Of course not. We think that we know how he died, but I need to know everything I can about him … particularly the last few hours of his life.’
She lowered the bosom. ‘Oh, I see. No, as a matter of fact, he didn’t dine here. The dining-room closes at eight o’clock. I don’t know what he did about a meal. I didn’t see him leave or return.’
‘Perhaps he intended dining somewhere else later. … Incidentally, there was a fruit gum found on the bedroom floor, Mrs Vermont. Have you any idea how it got there?’
‘A fruit gum? Well, no. It wouldn’t have been there when he arrived. Mr Novak must have brought it with him.’
‘Yes. But there weren’t any others in his pockets, and there was no empty box or bag anywhere in the room.’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, Inspector, can’t explain it, then.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Who cleans the rooms and prepares them for the guests?’
‘I do. I do almost everything to do with this side of the business. My husband runs the bars with a cook and two part-time girls, and I run the accommodation side with occasional help.’
‘Are you certain that the fruit gum was not there before Mr Novak arrived?’
She looked downwards thoughtfully. ‘Positive. If such a thing had been there, I am certain that the vacuum would have picked it up.’
‘And you didn’t empty the wastepaper basket, after you found the dead man this morning?’
‘No.’
‘Mrs Vermont, if Mr Novak had been visited by a friend, and wanted to entertain him or her, could he have ordered a bottle of wine, say, and two tumblers to be delivered to his room?’
‘Well yes, he could have, Inspector, but he didn’t. But if he had, he would have had to order it from me and I would have phoned through to the bar and asked my husband to send one of the barmaids up to the room with a tray.’
‘But you’re not available after eight o’clock.’
The Fruit Gum Murders Page 10
