by Roger Keevil
MURDER COMES TO CALL
MURDER COMES TO CALL
Three Inspector Constable murder mystery stories
by
Roger Keevil
Copyright © 2014 Roger Keevil
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission of the publisher, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside these terms should be sent to the publisher.
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www.rogerkeevil.co.uk
In memory of John Robbins
Friend, detective, and very discerning book reviewer!
'Murder Comes To Call' is a work of fiction and wholly the product of the imagination of the author. Where actual historical persons are named, any references are completely imaginary and fictionalised. All other persons, events, locations and organisations are entirely fictitious, and are not intended to resemble in any way any actual persons living or dead, events, locations or organisations. Any such resemblance is entirely coincidental, and is wholly in the mind of the reader.
As if you didn't know!
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
DEATH BY CHOCOLATE
THE DEAD OF WINTER
SET FOR MURDER
THE INSPECTOR CONSTABLE MURDER MYSTERIES
DEATH BY CHOCOLATE
“Chocolate, guv?”
“First thing in the morning? Oh well. Why not?” Detective Inspector Andy Constable's hand reached out and hovered over the proffered box. “Is that a coconut fudge? That'll do me. Thank you.”
“No problem.” Detective Sergeant Dave Copper selected a sweet of his own and began to munch abstractedly as he pored over the papers littering the desk in front of him.
Constable shot a glance of suspicion in the direction of his colleague. “What's all this then, sergeant? You're not usually so generous in handing out the sweeties. This wouldn't be the start of some elaborate scheme to butter up the boss, would it?”
Copper's face was a picture of innocence. “Honestly, no, guv. I … er … I just happened to have these, and I thought you might fancy one. No agenda, I promise.”
Constable settled back in his chair. “Copper, for a detective, you make a rotten liar. I smell a story. Come on, out with it. Where did these come from?”
Copper sighed. “Actually, guv, they're Sam's.”
“Sam who? Don't tell me you've been getting unsolicited gifts from the latest intake of rookie recruits? Or were you forced to confiscate them because you caught someone running in the corridors?”
“Guv ...”
“Anyway, I can't think of anyone round the station called Sam. So come on, who is he?”
“She, guv. Sam, short for Samantha.”
“Ah.” Light dawned. “The girlfriend.” A nod. “So what's she doing getting you chocolates? Isn't that supposed to be the other way around?”
“It was, sir. You see, it was her birthday last week ...”
“You didn't mention.”
“Well, no, guv. What with all the aftermath of that woman getting killed at the restaurant and all the late overtime, I kind of got distracted. I mean, I was going to take her out for a meal and everything ...”
“Not to the 'Palais de Glace', I hope,” interpolated Constable wryly.
“But, well, it sort of slipped my mind until two days afterwards.”
“Until the lady gently reminded you,” deduced Constable. “I have a feeling I know what's coming.”
“You probably do, guv. Sam wasn't best pleased, so I rushed out and grabbed a box of chocolates as a sort of peace offering ...”
“Don't tell me,” said Constable with a sigh of despair. “From the local petrol station.”
“It was the nearest place open,” pointed out Copper defensively. “So I got back, tried to make it up to her ...”
“And I'm guessing, probably got the chocolates thrown at you for your pains.”
Copper gave a rueful chuckle. “Are you sure you haven't met Sam, guv? Anyway, she missed. Just.”
“Leaving you with a box of chocs, a girlfriend who I suspect has now become an ex-girlfriend, and a diary which is now considerably emptier of social engagements. Am I right?”
“Ten out of ten, guv. Which is why I've come in early today. So if there's any more overtime going spare, feel free to ask.”
“You will be doing plenty of overtime, spare or not, if you don't get those reports sorted out by the deadline,” retorted Constable. “So, having given us the latest update on your perpetually convoluted love-life, may I suggest that you turn your attention from scoffing sweets to writing up your notes about the late Miss Stone, or whatever it is you're doing.”
“Righty-ho, guv.” With his customary cheerful grin, the sergeant bent his head back over the paperwork on his desk.
Andy Constable continued to gaze at the shock of light brown hair before him with a faint indulgent smile. Sometimes, he mused, I wonder what possessed David Copper to become a policeman. The younger man had joined the force, seemingly on some sudden and unaccountable whim, from what he had described as a dead-end job working in a sports store, and after a surprisingly short time in uniform, had moved to the intelligence section. A combination of hard work and luck had given him the opportunity for promotion to sergeant and a further transfer to C.I.D., where a fortuitous re-arrangement of staff had placed him in the position of assistant to Detective Inspector Constable. Luckily for both of us, thought Constable. I doubt if anyone else could put up with him. Or me, he admitted to himself in a moment of self-recognition. Dave Copper, now in his late twenties, not exactly chubby but well-covered, had an irreverent view of police work, and always seemed ready to recognise the humorous side of even the most gruesome situation, traits which did not endear him to the majority of the more strait-laced senior officers on the force. But his capacity for dogged routine, combined with occasional flashes of startling intuition, had turned him into the ideal colleague for Constable, a detective who himself was not always beloved of the authorities on the higher floors.
The inspector was the first to confess that he found some of the demands of the job and the personalities he worked under both irksome and ludicrous at various times, and he was not always able to conceal the fact. In his forties, lean, around six feet tall and with slightly greying dark hair, he was in noticeably better shape than many of his plumper and balder contemporaries, a fact which he tried his hardest not to make him feel a degree of self-satisfaction. Some of his colleagues were a touch wary of him – his talent for knowing the most surprising facts on an almost unlimited range of subjects meant that he had long ago been barred from the occasional police station quiz nights, and he often had a way of looking at a case which led him straight to correct conclusions with no discernible intervening process, much to the bafflement of his fellow officers. His dry sense of humour was not always appreciated by those above him, but the fact that he was undeniably the best detective on the force at producing results encouraged them to overlook both that, and the fact that a rigorous pursuit of procedures was often not his first consideration. And if Constable was content t
o work with Copper, barring the occasional mild slap-down when the sergeant overstepped the mark, at least it kept the pair of them out of everybody else's hair. With a quiet sigh, the inspector turned his attention once more to the sheaf of papers awaiting his attention.
It was only a short while later, an interval whose silence was punctuated by only the occasional tut from Constable at some of the more bureaucratic demands of his job, and the riffle of turning pages as Copper leafed back and forth through his notebook and the click of keys as he typed up a report, that the phone on the desk rang. Dave Copper's hand shot out.
“Yup? … Really? Right, hold on a sec while I make a note … Yes, I know, in Rownville … Is he, indeed? Well, that's going to cause a few ripples, isn't it? … So are we sure this is one for us? How do we know he didn't just flake out? … Chocolate?!?”
“No thanks,” returned Andy Constable absently, his attention still concentrated on the form before him. “One's enough for me.”
“Right, we'll be over. And how about …? … He's on his way? Well done. Okay, I'll tell the guv and we'll be with you as soon as we can.” Copper replaced the receiver with a slightly bemused expression on his face.
Constable lifted his head and gave his junior colleague a look of enquiry. “So what was all that about?”
“They have a body for us, sir. At Wally Winker's Chocolate Factory in Rownville.”
“And the circumstances require our immediate attention, I take it? Well, halleluia!” said the inspector. “Now I can dump this mindless bumf and do the work the public pay me for.” He closed the file in front of him and consigned it to a desk drawer which he slammed shut with some satisfaction. “So, what's it all about?”
“Well, guv, you ain't gonna believe this, but ...”
“If this is going to be a long story,” interrupted Constable, “you can tell me in the car.” He stood. “Let's get out of here.”
*
Wally Winker's Chocolate Factory was a rare survival. In the world of international conglomerates, it had somehow escaped being gobbled up in the almost irresistible process of consolidation and rationalisation which had seen so many of its peers in the confectionery business consumed by gigantic companies whose interests ranged from detergents to computers. The firm was founded in the 1900s by the first Walter Winker, great-grandfather and namesake of the current president, who had believed that the innocent pleasures of chocolate provided the perfect antidote to the evils of the Demon Drink. After his death at the relatively young age of fifty-seven and the relatively advanced weight of twenty-five stone, the company had passed to his son, and subsequently down the dynasty to his great-grandson. It continued to trade on the continuing affection for its traditional old-fashioned products like the Pup-e-Dog Bar with its rascally mascot, Boxer Trix, while combining these with a constant search for innovation and a flair for finding new niches in the market for quality designer chocolates for special occasions. The firm's offices were still located in its original striking but modestly-sized red-brick factory, a tribute to Edwardian industrial design with its ornate terracotta detailing and its palatial use of mosaic and stained glass in the cathedral-like entrance, while across the road, a more anonymous building of steel and concrete housed the main but still moderately-scaled manufacturing facility.
Approaching the factory along Meltinga Way, the detectives were aware of small knots of people, several of them white-coated and -booted, standing in disconsolate groups on the pavement, some huddled in conversation. As Copper turned the car off the road into what had to be regarded as a carriage-drive leading to the factory doors, the way was barred by a red-and-white striped pole across the entrance. A man in his forties, his peaked cap declaring his status and function, emerged from a small gatehouse and held up an officious hand. Copper wound down his window.
“You can't come in,” declared the employee in a characteristic accent which Copper deduced had never strayed further than ten miles from the West Midlands in its life. “We've got a ...” He searched briefly for an appropriately portentous epithet. “... a situation inside.” He nodded slowly to give his words extra emphasis. “Nobody's allowed in except accredited staff.”
“How about the police?” enquired Copper mildly.
“Well, obviously,” sneered the man.
“Isn't that handy?” replied Copper. He produced his warrant card. “Because that's exactly who we are. I'm Detective Sergeant Copper, this is Detective Inspector Constable, and your situation is what we're here about. So if you wouldn't mind lifting your little pole out of our way, Mr …?”
“Barry Herman,” replied the man, wriggling with embarrassment. “Sorry and all that, gents, but I wasn't to know, was I? I'm just doing my job. Only it's been a bit of a morning, and I'm not properly supposed to be here at all, what with being on night duty really, but you see, what happened was ...”
Copper swiftly forestalled further ramblings. “If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Herman. If we can just get on. Perhaps you can tell us later. But in the meantime, maybe you can carry on keeping unwanted callers out … Oh, except for SOCO, of course.”
“SOC-who?” The guard was baffled.
“Scene Of Crime Officers,” explained Copper patiently. “Big white van – people in overalls.”
“Of course, gents. Sorry again. Won't be a second.” Barry Herman disappeared into his little hut and, a moment later, the barrier began to rise. Copper parked the car in the small car park at the front of the factory, in the one remaining space marked 'Visitor', between a vividly-liveried police patrol car and the huge and ostentatious Rolls Royce which lolled in the bay marked 'M.D.'. The detectives were met at the factory door by a uniformed officer, evidently the driver of the police car, whom Constable recognised.
“Morning, Collins.”
“Morning, sir.”
“How's that cousin of yours over at Dammett Worthy? Got over all the excitement yet?”
“Pretty much, sir.”
“And now you've got some excitement of your own here? So what's the story?”
“I haven't actually been inside, sir, other than a couple of minutes when we first got here. And once we'd seen the score, Jenkins stayed inside, and I came out to put the word through to Control, and to stop anyone else going in or out. Oh, except the doctor, sir. He just got here a couple of minutes ago, so I had to vouch for him to our jobsworth on the gate, and he's just gone on through.”
“Well done, Collins. So, if you can stay here wielding your fiery sword against all-comers, we'll check out what's going on inside.” The inspector pushed open the door and, followed closely by Copper, entered the building. On the far side of the lofty foyer, whose walls were adorned by life-size portraits of the four generations of Winker patriarchs, a second uniformed officer was emerging through a set of double doors.
“It's through here, sir, on the factory floor,” he greeted the detectives.
“What's the state of play, then, Jenkins?” Constable's enquiry was brisk and business-like. “Fill us in on the facts so far.”
“We got a call just after eight-thirty, sir. That's when people start to arrive in the offices on this side of the road, sir. And that's when they found the body.”
“And who found it?”
“Lady by the name of Mrs. Hart, sir. I gather she's some sort of cleaner-cum-tea-lady. She was first in, came through into the factory, found the body, and rushed out to tell the security guy. He phoned us – that's pretty much it so far.”
“What, nobody else about?”
“Oh yes, sir. Most of the senior management had turned up here by the time Collins and I arrived, so we decided to keep them here, upstairs in their offices. I hope that's okay, sir, but I thought you'd want to speak to them. I made a list of who's who, sir.” The P.C. delved into a pocket, fished out a notebook, and tore out a page which he proffered to the inspector.
“Very good thinking, Jenkins. And the Doc's here, I gather. Right, we'd better take a look. Lead the way.” An
dy Constable paused. “By the way, Jenkins, I don't normally like to make comments on the junior ranks' personal appearance, but don't you think you could do with smartening yourself up a bit?” He gestured to the smears of what looked like mud adhering to the officer's uniform in generous quantities.
“Sorry, sir, but there's a reason for that. You'll see why.” Jenkins held the door for the detectives, who passed through.
After the splendour of the foyer with its marble columns, crystal chandelier and mahogany staircase, the factory floor was a total contrast, with everywhere the gleam of stainless steel set against the brutal strength of white-painted concrete, all under the harsh glare of powerful fluorescent lighting. The odour of chocolate was overpowering.
“Reminds me of a brewery I visited in Belgium,” commented Dave Copper in an undertone to his superior. “Wonder if they're giving away free samples here as well.”
Rounding a tall tank with a forest of copper piping disappearing aloft, the three officers were greeted by a bizarre sight. Sprawled on the floor alongside an open tank with a raised walkway around it, lying on his back, was the body of what appeared to be a middle-aged man, clad from the feet upwards in white – boots, over-trousers, lab-coat. The clothing on the top half of the body, and the hat which lay alongside on the floor, must presumably have initially been white, but they were now overlaid with a thick layer of rapidly-congealing brown goo, as was the face. Alongside, examining the body, knelt the police doctor.
“Andy!” he cried cheerily, rising to his feet. “I wondered how long it would take you to get here. I must say, your boys do have the jolliest ways of keeping me occupied. I've not had one like this before.”
“Good morning, Doc,” returned Andy Constable. “I'm glad you're happy, although I'm sure we can't say the same for the gentleman here. I take it he is dead?”
“Oh yes, no doubt of that. Of course, I had to make sure, so between us, Jenkins and I managed to haul him out of the vat.”
