The Fruit Gum Murders (17 page)

‘Until today,' Angel said. He briefly explained the circumstances of Novak's death, then took out the small photograph he had found in the man's wallet and passed it to her.

‘Was this photograph taken in this hospital?'

She put on her glasses and peered closely at it. ‘Well, Inspector, possibly. The truth is, it could have been taken in just about any hospital … anywhere.'

‘Is the date on the back of the photograph significant?'

She turned the photograph over. ‘May 2nd 2002,' she said. ‘Means nothing to me.'

She pushed the photograph back along the desk towards him.

‘I am assuming it is the date the photograph was taken. Do your records go back as far as 2002?'

‘Well, some do. I'm not sure all the medical records will, but certainly the accounts do, all the way back to when I came in 1999. The information is all on two memory sticks.'

‘So you would know who was a patient in the hospital on that date?'

She frowned and pulled off her glasses. ‘Not quite, Inspector,' she said. ‘But we do have a record of every person, insurance company, institution or organization that actually paid a bill for treatment, since 1999. Also we have a copy of every hospital invoice. In some cases, the payee did not have the same name as the patient. However, against each payee is an invoice number that can be cross-referenced to a copy which gives the patient's name, ward number, surgeon and other details.'

Angel leaned back in the chair and smiled.

‘Are you looking for any particular name, Inspector?' she said.

He shook his head. ‘I wish I had a name. I am looking for a person who held a grudge against Patrick Novak and another man, Norman Robinson, so much so that they poisoned them with a ghastly home-made poison. Someone who also, for some inexplicable reason, left a fruit gum by each body.'

Mrs Underbank frowned. ‘A fruit gum, Inspector?' she said.

‘Peculiar, isn't it?'

She nodded and exchanged glances with Trudi Templeton.

‘We are hoping that the photograph in Novak's possession,' Angel said, ‘has some direct bearing on this murder and that a familiar name will be forthcoming. I believe it is somebody local to us in Bromersley, probably somebody we know and perhaps have even interviewed in the last few days.'

A mobile phone rang out. It was Angel's. He pulled a face. He stood up. ‘Sorry about this,' he said. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. He hoped it was not Mary again, bothering him about Mrs Mackenzie and the dance at Muick Castle. It wasn't. It was much worse. It was the superintendent. Angel went into a corner of the office … the furthest he could get away from Mrs Underbank and Trudi Templeton. He pressed the button and said, ‘Yes, sir. Angel here.'

‘Where the hell are you?' Harker said.

‘Norfolk, sir. On this Novak case. I'm with a witness. Can I ring you back?'

‘Norfolk? Five o'clock on a Friday afternoon and you're messing about in Norfolk? It's ridiculous. No, you can't ring me back. And you'll have to come back here double-quick, Angel. I've just had a triple nine about a serious fire – possibly arson – at a greengrocer's shop on the corner of Station Road and Main Street.'

‘Truelove's, sir?'

‘That's the one. There was a dead body on the premises, a man, possibly an intruder.'

The corners of Angel's mouth turned downwards.

‘Could be murder,' Harker said. ‘You should be there. I've a dinner tonight in Leeds with the committee of the northern police billiards team. I've to get home and get ready for it, and I'm late now!'

Angel's heart began to pump harder. ‘I'll catch the next train, sir.'

‘Right. I'm leaving that with you, then.'

Harker ended the call.

Angel turned round. He ran his hand through his hair.

Mrs Underbank, Trudi Templeton and Crisp looked at him.

‘Sorry about that,' he said. ‘I've been ordered back.' Then he tapped a number in his mobile. ‘Excuse me. I must just see to this.'

Ahmed soon answered. ‘Yes, sir?'

‘Ah. I know it's five past five, Ahmed, but will you see if you can catch Flora Carter for me and get her to ring me on my mobile? It's very urgent.'

‘Right, sir,' Ahmed said.

Angel then closed his mobile and turned back to Mrs Underbank. ‘Sorry about all this, but it's another possible murder. Can my sergeant here look through those records we were talking about? He knows what to do, don't you Trevor?'

Crisp said, ‘Oh yes, sir. Record and follow through any familiar name.'

Mrs Underbank said: ‘He can make copies of the two memory sticks provided that I can have his and your assurance that the information contained is only to be used in connection with the finding of the murderer of Patrick Novak.'

‘Certainly,' Angel said. He turned to Crisp and said, ‘We can honestly give that undertaking to Mrs Underbank, can't we, Trevor?'

‘Absolutely,' Crisp said.

‘Take me straight back to Norwich railway station,' Angel said as soon as he had closed the car door.

Crisp started the engine and the car glided down the hospital drive.

As the car passed through the big iron gates, Angel's mobile rang out. He dived into his pocket and opened the phone. It was DS Carter.

He explained that he was in Norfolk and that the superintendent had advised him about a fire at Truelove's greengrocer's shop. ‘I want you to go there and take charge of the investigation,' he said. ‘Advise Don Taylor and get a SOCO team on site. You know what to do. Ring me if you're stuck with anything. I'm coming back by the next train.'

Angel closed his phone. He rubbed his chin. He hoped that there wasn't another murder to be investigated.

Crisp carefully drove the car through the ford on his way to the main Norwich city road.

Angel was rubbing his chin. He had returned to thinking about Novak. There was something he couldn't get out of his head. Nobody could have that much photographic kit without having the end product – photographs – somewhere round about. He made a decision.

‘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?'