The Fruit Gum Murders (7 page)

‘“Burking”?' Angel said. ‘And what's that, Mac? Or have you just made it up?'

‘Indeed I hav'na' made it up,' Mac said. ‘That is the term often ascribed to a killing method that involves simultaneous smothering and compression of the torso. The term “burking” comes from the method William Burke and William Hare used to kill their victims during the West Port murders. They killed the usually intoxicated victims by sitting on their chests and suffocating them by putting a hand over their nose and mouth, while using the other hand to push the victim's jaw up. The corpses had no visible injuries, and so were suitable cadavers to be sold to medical schools for money.'

‘Could that not be the case, Mac?'

‘It might have been, Michael, but there is no alcohol in his bloodstream, nor signs of any drugs, nor was he physically weak, nor were there any signs of a fight. It mystifies me, Michael, I have to admit. You'll have to leave it with me. There are a few more tests I can make, and I will repeat the tests I have already made. I'll let you know as soon as I know myself.'

‘Right, Mac, thank you very much.'

‘I can't satisfy the question of his sexuality either, but I
can
tell you that his genitalia are perfectly normal, as are all his clothes, so there is no evidence to suppose that he might be a transsexual.'

‘Good, but what about the red stuff on his lips?'

‘Lipstick, very high quality lipstick, as it happens,' Mac said, ‘and I think it arrived there as a result of somebody kissing the victim once or even several times.'

‘And do you think
that
somebody was male or female?'

‘How could I know that, Michael? I expect, being the naïve one that I am, I would say it was female, but I really don't know.'

‘And the red, sweetie-looking thing … had that anything to do with the cause of death?'

‘No. The red sweetie-looking thing is a red sweetie, commonly described as a fruit gum, and as innocent as the day is long. So it was left by somebody who sucks fruit gums. I'll get back to you.'

‘Thanks, Mac.'

Angel replaced the phone and pursed his lips. It was very unusual for Mac to be confounded by a cause of death. But the other info was helpful. Now he would really like to hear how Ahmed was getting along tracing the calls on Norman Robinson's mobile, and how Crisp was progressing in Glasgow delving into the victim's background. He was about to pick up the phone to call Ahmed when it began to ring. He reached out for it.

‘Angel.'

‘It's Flora, sir. I'm in the lecture room, going through that CCTV. I think I've got something.'

Angel's heart began to race. ‘I'll come down,' he said, slamming the phone into its cradle.

He arrived in the lecture room to find Flora seated halfway back in the room with a solitary table in front of her. She had plugged the CCTV playback through her laptop onto the big screen and the sound into the enhanced replay soundtrack speakers. She had also quite sensibly closed the blinds to provide maximum clarity to the pictures being shown.

‘Got him on the screen now, lass?' he said as he untangled a chair from the stack at the side of the room, carried it across to where Flora was seated, set it down and sat along the side of her.

‘That character
there
, sir,' she said. ‘I remember his face but not his name.'

She had frozen the CCTV picture. It showed a man in his twenties coming through the Feathers doorway. It was a clear picture and he was looking upwards, which provided an excellent picture of him for ID purposes. In the corner was printed the date and time. It read: 02.06.13. 8.30 p.m.

Angel raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, I know him,' he said. ‘He's served time for something.' He screwed up his face and rubbed his chin.

‘Let it run a bit, Flora,' he said.

The picture on the big screen showed the man walk past the reception desk and out of shot.

‘Stop it,' Angel said, ‘and run it back to where he first comes into the picture, then let it run to when he walks out of it.'

‘Right, sir. But that will only run for two or three seconds.'

‘That's all right, lass. Do it a few times. It might just shake my memory.'

As he watched the screen, he said, ‘I do remember this lad. He was with his father and one other. They were doing the “leftover tarmac” scam.'

Flora frowned. ‘What's that one, sir?' she said.

‘Well, the scammers usually pick on the elderly or infirm who have a drive that is maybe a bit tatty. The most presentable of the team knocks on the door of the poor soul and says something like: “I was just in the neighbourhood resurfacing a drive, madam, and we've some tarmac left … just enough to even off your drive and smarten it up. It would normally cost around a thousand pounds, but we could do it for only two hundred pounds. Would you like us to do your drive?” '

‘And I suppose some people fall for it,' Flora said.

‘Yes, but there's more. They make a dreadful job of it. They just throw some tarmac over the drive any old how, they don't bother to make it even or roll it; then the whole team of three or four heavies knock on the door for payment. Of course there are usually protests but the bullies flex their muscles and scare the old folk, who consequently pay them. Sometimes they try to increase the price if they see the customer has more money than the agreed amount. When they've got the cash they make a quick exit. The poor souls they've swindled are often too embarrassed to admit they were taken in, and, in any case, they don't have a clue who the men were or where they came from. It's a despicable crime to aim at the old or disabled.'

‘How was this gang caught, then, sir?'

‘I think an old couple happened to catch sight of their vehicle and note its registration number, and our further inquiries subsequently brought the case to court.'

‘I hope you'll be able to find out who this is and pick him up, sir.'

‘Well, Flora, I'll buzz off and try to find the records of this case, and have this lad brought in. Well done, lass. Keep looking for any other villains. Also note the time that this lad leaves the hotel.'

‘Right, sir.'

SIX

Angel picked up the phone and tapped in a single digit. It rang out a regular bleep. It was soon answered. ‘Control room, Sergeant Clifton.'

‘Ah, Bernie, DI Angel. I want you to send a couple of lads to 4, Sebastopol Terrace. Pick up a Thomas Johnson, wanted to assist us in our inquiries.'

‘Do you want him in your office, sir?'

‘Better put him in an interview room.'

‘Right, sir.'

Angel cancelled the call, then checked on the address list on his phone, found Crisp's mobile phone number and clicked on it.

‘Good morning, sir,' Crisp said. ‘I was just about to call you.'

‘Well. Where are you, lad, and what have you found out?'

‘I'm staying at the Blue Thistle Hotel, Clyde Street, Glasgow, sir. And I've got started. I went to Robinson's flat last night. It's a bit rough, and it turns out that he was living with his girlfriend. Well, she called herself his partner. Her name is Michelle Brown. I introduced myself and broke the news to her. She was naturally upset and shocked, and she told me that she thought he was two-timing her but she had no idea who with.'

‘Did she know he had come to Bromersley?'

‘Oh yes. He had told her that he owed a bookie £800, that he was putting the squeeze on him, but it was all right because somebody in Bromersley owed him some money and he was coming down to get it. And that he had expected to get back up here by Tuesday.'

‘Did he tell her the name of the bookie he owed money to, or the one who owed him the money?'

‘No, sir. She also told me that he owed money on his credit card and was behind with his rent on the flat.'

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Oh. Hadn't they
any
money coming in? Was he working?'

‘No, sir. He'd had a job on the railway but had left it after a couple of weeks. He said it was boring, it didn't pay enough and that he was better off on the dole. Michelle had a good job in a supermarket in Glasgow.'

‘Were you able to find out anything at all about the person who Robinson said actually owed him the money he came down here to collect?'

‘No, sir. Do you think if I found his last place of work on the railway and went there, I'd be able to find out – perhaps from a workmate – who it was in Bromersley that owed him that money?'

Angel blew out a foot of air. ‘I don't know,' he said, rubbing his chin. ‘On reflection, though, I don't think he's likely to tell a workmate he'd known only two weeks something about his finances that he hadn't also told this girl, Michelle.'

Crisp nodded. ‘I suppose you're right, sir.'

‘What about his parents and other members of his family … and friends?'

‘Michelle said that he'd told her that he'd more or less split from his family in Cheshire in 2009, and that he hadn't any friends. She's been with him a year and she's not seen any correspondence to or from anybody. He said he was a loner, and that had proved to be true, except for this mystery woman Michelle had said was somewhere hovering around.'

Angel frowned. ‘Is there any way we can find out about this other woman?' he said.

‘I'll have another try, sir,' Crisp said. ‘I'm seeing Michelle again today after she's finished work. She might be holding back.'

‘Yes. Good. Do that. By the way, in Robinson's flat, did you see any fruit gums? And have you come across anybody connected with this case eating fruit gums?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Hmmm. Well, see if you can find out anything else. Michelle might know more than she has said. The slightest morsel of information might help us make sense of the case, lad. Phone you tomorrow. Goodbye.'

He ended the call and returned the phone to its holster.

For the next hour Angel had his head down, busily catching up with the reports and letters on his desk, and made a little progress in reducing the pile. He was filing some letters away when he heard a disturbance outside his office. There were a few bangs as if somebody had kicked or thumped a nearby door, and voices were raised.

‘I tell you I haven't done nothing!' a raucous voice yelled out.

‘Inspector Angel only wants to ask you some questions,' another voice said.

‘Well, you're not getting me into any frigging cell.'

‘We're only going to an interview room,' a third voice said.

Angel got up from his desk, opened his office door and looked out into the corridor.

A burly young man in rolled-up shirt sleeves, who Angel recognized as Thomas Johnson, was being held by his arms and led by patrolmen PC Donohue and PC Elders towards interview room number 1, which was along the corridor two doors away.

‘What's going on?' Angel said.

‘This is Thomas Johnson, sir,' Donohue said.

‘I know you,' Johnson said. ‘You're that frigging Angel. It was you who sent me down last time. I'm not going down again.'

Angel stared at him and said, ‘All I want to do is ask you some questions, lad. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, which do you want?'

It took a few seconds for him to decide to answer. ‘I want to go home. I've done nothing wrong.'

Angel stared hard at him. ‘Which way do you want?'

There was another delay, then Johnson muttered something incomprehensible.

‘What was that, Thomas?' Angel said.

‘The easy way,' he bawled.

‘Right,' Angel said, then he turned to the two patrolmen and said, ‘Thank you, lads. Let him go.'

They looked at Angel a second or two then slowly relaxed their grip on Johnson, who shook himself like a dog coming in out of the rain.

‘Come with me,' Angel said, closing his office door and leading the way down the corridor to the interview room.

Minutes later, Angel was seated at the table with Johnson opposite him. Patrolmen Donohue and Elders waited outside.

‘Now then,' Angel began, ‘this is simply a preliminary interview. I am not even recording it. Just tell me the truth. That's all I want.'

Johnson shuffled on the chair, looked downwards and rubbed his fingers, first with one hand and then the other.

‘Where were you on Sunday evening between half-past eight and nine-fifteen?' Angel said.

‘I dunno, do I?' Johnson said, making a quick upward glance in Angel's direction.

Angel pursed his lips. ‘Think about it, lad. It's only the day before yesterday.
Sunday evening
.'

‘I must have been at home. I hadn't any money to go out. Oh yes, I had. I had a win on the dogs. I remember. I
did
go out. But I was on my own.'

‘Where did you go?'

‘I'm not sure. Sunday teatime, Kevin brought a bottle round. We celebrated my win. Had a frigging laugh. I remember.'

‘Who is Kevin?'

‘Friend of mine, lives next door. He had to go home … something to do with his mother … no, it was his girl. He'd promised to take her somewhere. … '

Several seconds passed.

Angel said, ‘Where were you on Sunday evening?'

‘I'm trying to think, man. I'm trying to think. Don't crowd me.' He ran his hand through his hair.

Angel rubbed his chin slowly. ‘Did you go on a pub crawl?'

He looked up at Angel and said, ‘Yeah. That's what I did. But I was on my own. I like to go out when there's a few of us. Nobody wanted to come. Yeah, that's what I did, I think. I went out.'

‘What time did you leave home?'

‘Frigging hell, I don't know. I had a bacon buttie then I … it must have been seven or eight o'clock.'

‘Where did you start? Do you usually have a sort of regular plan, or a route?'