The Fruit Gum Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Take me back to Novak’s place, Trevor,’ Angel said.

  Crisp frowned. ‘Right, sir,’ he said, then he took a sharp turn left. ‘Changed your mind, sir?’ he added as he straightened up and changed gear.

  ‘Got to find those photographs,’ Angel said.

  Crisp produced the key and opened the door into Patrick Novak’s flat.

  ‘Check the floor, Trevor,’ Angel said. ‘I’ll do the walls.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said as he closed the door.

  Angel stood in the middle of the room and gazed at the walls, systematically scanning them across and down, one after the other. He was looking for a bump, a swelling, a projection that was unnecessary or illogical. There was a print of an oriental girl in a cheap frame over the mantelpiece. He lifted it up. But there was nothing underneath. He then went into the bathroom and repeated the drill.

  Crisp was leaning forward, his legs stretched, pulling and pushing carpets and rugs to allow him to check the looseness of any floorboards. Each one in the living room was as rigid as Judges’ Rules.

  They moved into the bathroom. The only projection was the small, mirrored cupboard over the sink. Angel reached up and removed the red lamp resting on a dusty flannel on top of the cupboard and put it in the bottom of the sink. He opened the cupboard doors to see how it was fastened to the wall and saw that it was secured by the heads of two screws. The cupboard was made of plastic and weighed only a few pounds. He discovered that if he lifted it about an inch, it would be free and could be taken away. He lifted it up and put it on top of the lavatory cistern. Behind where it had been was a cavity, and stuffed into it was a small cardboard box contrived to fit the space. His pulse raced.

  ‘Trevor,’ he said. ‘There’s something here.’

  Crisp came up from searching the floor. ‘What’s that?’

  Angel took out the cardboard box and was looking inside it. The box contained many photographs of various sizes, taken, apparently in the hospital, of patients asleep while in bed; others were of people walking along corridors, some of patients on trolleys, some of people in lifts. Quite a few were photographs of mothers with their babies, and several, similar to the one found in Novak’s wallet, were of a baby in an incubator. Not one of them appeared to have been deliberately posed for, and none of the people photographed appeared to have been aware what was happening. On the back of each was a date lightly printed in pencil.

  As Angel gazed at them and turned them over, Crisp looked at them.

  ‘Blackmail, sir?’ Crisp said.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Angel said. ‘So if Novak was a blackmailer … he must have been blackmailing somebody on our turf.’

  Angel began pushing the photographs into the cardboard box. ‘I’ll take these with me.’

  ‘Novak pushed too hard or asked for too much so the person being blackmailed murdered him. Do you think that’s what happened, sir?’

  ‘Probably,’ he said, closing up the box. ‘But was Norman Robinson also a blackmailer? We’ve established that both murders were carried out by the same person.’

  Crisp frowned. ‘That must have been for some other motive?’

  ‘I expect so. But you have to take the whole scenario into account. For example, even if Novak was murdered because of his blackmailing activities, why was there a fruit gum by each of the dead bodies? The answer to that will likely reveal an explanation that will lead us to the murderer.’

  Crisp’s mouth dropped open. Then he frowned.

  Angel said: ‘Anyway, by the time you’ve got copies of those computer memory sticks from the hospital, cancelled the accommodation you had booked for me for tonight and tidied everything up here, you should be able to come home tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Crisp said.

  ‘Right, lad, now you can take me to Norwich station. I must look into that dreadful fire at old Mr Truelove’s.’

  THIRTEEN

  It was 10 p.m. when the local train from Sheffield pulled into Bromersley station. Angel got out with the cardboard box under his arm and, carrying his valise, he walked swiftly through the ticket barrier into Station Road and then turned left towards Main Street. The smell of burning wood pervaded the air and reminded him, as if he needed reminding, of the fire at Truelove’s on the corner earlier that day, which had been reported to him.

  As he reached the junction he saw a fire engine and a police car, both with blue lights flashing. Behind them was the black shell of a building with several partly burned beams of the upper floors hanging down across the floors below. Around the windows, the grey stone was as black as fingerprint ink, and there was no indication that a greengrocer’s had ever existed there. He now became aware of the smell of petrol.

  A lone fireman was stamping around what had been the sales area of Truelove’s shop, checking to see that the fire really was out. Another fireman was on the pavement, draining a canvas water-pipe and rolling it up.

  In the street light, he saw that the police car was a Bromersley patrol car and that there were two uniformed men in the front seat, talking. He recognized them as PC Sean Donohue and PC Cyril Elders. Neither of them saw him approach the nearside front window, which was lowered.

  He bent down and said, ‘Excuse me, lads, are you dealing with anything urgent?’

  They peered back through the window at Angel illuminated only by the halogen street light and intermittently by their rotating blue lamp. They eventually recognized him and were taken aback that an inspector had suddenly appeared.

  Sean Donohue quickly reached out for his hat that was on top of the dashboard and put it on.

  When they found their tongues, they said, ‘No, sir. No, sir.’

  ‘What can you tell me about this fire, then?’

  They looked blankly at each other.

  ‘I’ve been in Norwich all day,’ Angel said.

  Sean Donohue said, ‘Oh, I see. Sorry, sir. We didn’t know. … Er, yes. This fire was notified this morning at about 9.00 a.m., by the owner, a Mr Enoch Truelove.’

  ‘Is he all right, Sean?’

  ‘No, sir. He stupidly went in, presumably to see if he could do anything. Nobody knew this. We think he was overcome by smoke because his body was later found and taken to the mortuary.’

  Angel felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach by a horse.

  ‘The fire officer says it was a petrol fire, sir, poured through the letterbox sometime in the night.’

  It was ten o’clock on Saturday morning, 8th June.

  Angel was walking down the corridor to his office and he peered into the CID room as he passed the door. It was deserted.

  He reached his office, picked up the phone and tapped in a number.

  A familiar voice said, ‘Yes, sir. Control Room, Sergeant Clifton.’

  Angel knew him well. ‘Ah, Bernie. I was away yesterday. Anything happened?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, sir. Nasty fire on Station Road. One man killed.’

  ‘Yes. Dreadful. Who’s dealing with it?’

  ‘John Weightman, sir. PC Weightman. I think he’s around somewhere. Saw him a few minutes ago. If you want to see him, I’ll call him up on the RT. Do you want to see him?’

  ‘Yes please, Bernie. ASAP in my office. Anything else?’

  ‘A couple of housebreaking jobs and a domestic disturbance on Canal Street, sir. And that’s it. Oh, no, we got an anonymous phone call reporting that Harry “the hatchet” Harrison and Mickey “the loop” Zeiss were reported seen coming out of the King George hotel with a girl. It was traced to that phone box opposite. A car was sent down, but if they were there they’d disappeared by the time our lads got there.’

  Angel frowned then said, ‘That’s the second time in a fortnight we’ve had that report on Harrison seen at the George with a girl. Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir. Otherwise a quiet day on t
he whole.’

  ‘Who was sent down to the George?’

  ‘Erm … Sean Donohue and Cyril Elders, sir.’

  ‘I spoke to them last night around ten. They’ll be off-duty now.’

  ‘No, sir. They’re doing a double shift. Summer holidays and all that. If you want to see them, I can call them in.’

  ‘Right, Bernie, do that. I’ll be in here in my office.’

  There was a knock at the door and a face appeared. It was PC Weightman.

  ‘Got a message you wanted me, sir.’

  ‘Come in, John. Sit down. I want to ask you about yesterday’s fire. I understand that you were the continuity officer.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, sir.’

  ‘I was away, you know. Tell me all about it. Leave nothing out. Where were you when you got the call, and who called you?’

  ‘I was in the locker room, sir. It was about nine o’clock. I got a call from Inspector Asquith via the Operations Room to attend a triple-nine call to a fire at Truelove’s on Station Road. I took the station car and went straight to it. There were flames coming through the windows and the door. And there was the unmistakable smell of petrol. There was a small group of onlookers and one came up to me and said that she had seen a man inside. He’d apparently gone in, left the door open, presumably intending to come out again, but she said he was still in there. But now you couldn’t get near. There were three tenders there. I found the fire chief and told him what the woman had told me about a man being in there. He said it would be suicide for them to go in at that stage. But they’d go in as soon as they could, which they did. SOCO duly arrived with DS Taylor, and later the mortuary van. They eventually brought the body of the man somebody had identified as Enoch Truelove. It was wrapped up in an oilcloth on a stretcher and taken away in the mortuary van. By about two o’clock, they had it well under control. One of the tenders left. Inspector Asquith sent me a relief, but I didn’t leave. I sat in the car and had my sandwiches and a drink. Nothing much happened for the next six hours or so. The flames were out, but the fire tenders kept pumping water into the building to cool it down. It was burning hot, even on the pavement. I had another word with the fire officer. He said that he thought that the fire was caused by the deliberate exposure of petrol fumes. The signs were that an excessive amount of petrol had been poured into the front of the shop, probably through the letterbox. He did not know what ignited it. It could have been done simply with a match, but the friction of two metal objects together, even horses’ hooves on cobblestones, would have been sufficient to ignite such an inflammable atmosphere. Anyway, he left at about six o’clock, so did the second tender and SOCO. Then a patrol car team came to relieve me. I reported in at the station and signed out at about 6.20 p.m. I’ve had a quick look in there this morning. The lads reported a quiet night. The building is still warm but it looks a horrible mess. I expect it will have to be demolished. The woman who rented the shop upstairs as a fancy dress hire shop was there. She said even her diary and bookings and everything has gone up in smoke. She didn’t know where she was. And that’s about it.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Thank you, John. Do you know of any motive for the fire? Was anything stolen?’

  ‘Nothing to steal as far as we know, sir. A sack of Maris Piper would be the most valuable thing there.’

  Angel shook his head.

  ‘If there’s anything else, sir?’ Weightman said.

  ‘No, lad. You get off.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Weightman said.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  It was Patrolman PC Sean Donohue. He was still in uniform, carrying his hat. ‘You wanted to see me and Cyril Elders, sir? Sergeant Clifton caught me but Cyril had already gone. Did you want to see us about last night, sir?’

  ‘No. Sit down, lad. I want to ask you about the call-out you had yesterday to the George Hotel.’

  Donohue blew out a cheek full of air, and sat down.

  Angel sensed that he was relieved. He looked as if he had expected being disciplined for something.

  ‘Oh, that, sir? Well, we were on patrol on Park Road and got an urgent shout from Control to respond to an anonymous call that Harry “the hatchet” Harrison and a little man, thought to be Mickey “the loop” Zeiss, had been seen coming out of the King George hotel with a girl.’

  ‘You were in a marked car?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Our patrol car. So we made haste down to Main Street. At the roundabout we slowed down, and made our way slowly along Main Street to the George. Didn’t see anything conspicuous … stopped outside the front … I went inside the pub, looked round the bar, everything was quiet. The landlord, Jack Vermont, asked me what was wrong. I told him. He didn’t seem to know anything.’

  ‘Do you mean he denied it?’

  ‘No, sir. He didn’t deny it. He just didn’t seem to know who Harrison or Mickey were.’

  ‘What about the girl? Did you ask him about the girl?’

  ‘Yes, but he said he hadn’t noticed anything.’

  ‘Was the pub busy?’

  ‘Not particularly. There’d be about a dozen men in there.’

  ‘Any women?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘And did you believe him?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. I had to act on what he said.’

  ‘If there’d been two men and a girl in a pub with another twelve men, would you have noticed the girl?’

  Donohue hesitated. ‘Probably, sir.’

  Angel’s jaw muscles tightened. ‘I’m damned certain you would, lad.’ He rubbed his chin harder. ‘Do you know what Harrison and Mickey look like?’

  ‘I saw them on a handout on parade about three months ago.’

  ‘Could you describe either of them to me?’

  Donohue frowned. ‘Erm, well, they are rather ordinary, sir.’

  ‘Aye, well that’s true. Neither wears an eyepatch, has a parrot on his shoulder or walks with a crutch.’

  It was one o’clock.

  Angel put the ever-growing pile of papers into a drawer, glanced round the little office, then closed the door. He was going home. He had finished all the jobs he had set himself to do, and he was determined to make the most of the rest of the weekend. He had promised Mary he would cut the lawn, and the borders at the front of the house needed weeding.

  On the way home it clouded over and started to rain. He wasn’t too disappointed. He put the BMW in the garage, locked it and let himself into the house. Unusually, Mary was nowhere to be seen. He went to the fridge and took out a can of German beer. Then he thought he could hear her banging around upstairs. He went to the bottom of the stairs and looked upwards.

  ‘Mary,’ he called. ‘Light of my life. Mary, where are you? My little cuddle bunch.’

  She was in the bedroom. She smiled. She knew why he was calling her like that. He wanted some lunch.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she called. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  He smiled. ‘If you mean alcohol, darling, no. If you mean drinking in your beauty … well, that’s a very different matter.’

  Mary smiled, shook her head and quickly prepared a snack lunch of tomato soup with brown bread followed by two sweet and juicy Conference pears.

  They ate without talking until Angel, apropos of nothing at all, said, ‘You know, old man Truelove must have known something that worried the murderer.’

  ‘What do you mean, darling?’ Mary said. She finished peeling a pear and added, ‘He’s hardly likely to have gone into his shop and said, “I’ll take those flowers. These are for my friend Charlie Smith. He is going to poison me.” Would he?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten, sweetheart, that we now think the murderer is a woman.’

  ‘All right. “These are for my friend Agnes Smith. She is going to poison me.” ’

  ‘No.
No. He wouldn’t know she intended poisoning him, would he?’

  ‘No. Of course not. Well, she may have seen Trevor Crisp or you visiting him, and knowing you were the police. …’

  Angel’s face straightened. ‘I should hate to think I was in any way the cause of his death,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t suppose you were for one moment, love. But you can’t tell how people will react. And it’s only conjecture anyway.’

  ‘You can’t. You’re right,’ he said and helped himself to another pear. He pulled out the stem and began to peel it. ‘It was a terrible fire,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I understand that it was so intense, it burned everything in Mr Truelove’s shop as well as everything in the fancy dress hire shop above it?’

  ‘Nothing left in either shop. All her stock went up in flames. I hope the poor woman was insured.’

  ‘Yes, love. I expect she was … well, that actually leaves us in a bit of a mess.’

  He frowned. ‘Eh?’

  ‘I had hired a fez, a cummerbund and a big curly moustache for you from her for next Saturday’s Fancy Dress Ball. In your new dark suit, I had a great vision of you being somebody Turkish. You would have looked fantastic as “the Turkish Ambassador”.’

  Angel’s eyes shone like a cat’s in the dark. ‘Oh my goodness! I would have looked a right Charlie!’

  She laughed.

  He put another piece of pear in his mouth. ‘What were you going as? The Turkish Ambassador’s wife?’

  ‘I was going as a slave girl.’

  He smiled. ‘You might be the prettiest female there, sweetheart, but you’re a bit old to be a slave girl.’

  ‘Steady on, Father Time,’ she said. ‘The thing is … what are we going to do about our fancy dress now?’

  The weekend came and went, and Angel still hadn’t cut the lawn because of the rain. It never seemed to stop.

  It was 8.28 a.m., Monday morning, 10th June. Angel was in his office trying to decide on his priorities. There was so much to do.

  There was a knock at the door.

  It was DS Crisp. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘There you are, lad. Did you have a good journey?’