Murder Comes To Call: three Inspector Constable murder mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  “So this isn't how he was found?”

  “Oh no. When I got here he was up on the walkway, bent over the edge of the tank with his head down in the merrily-bubbling molten chocolate. Most bizarre - never seen anything like it. So just to be on the safe side, I took a couple of quick photos, because I knew you and SOCO would give me a hard time otherwise - thank the lord for smart-phones! - and then we somehow managed between us to get him down on to the floor, just to be certain that life was extinct. Had a devil of a job, but well done Jenkins for doing most of the heavy work.”

  “That's how come I got messed up, sir,” explained Jenkins anxiously. “I mean, I didn't mean to ...”

  “Perfectly understandable, constable, so stop worrying,” replied the inspector. “We'll take things from here. Tell Collins to keep station at the door – his family seems to be developing quite a talent for that – so that he can point SOCO and the body-wagon in the right direction when they arrive. Why don't you go and tell the chap on the gate that, apart from them, nobody else goes in or out, and we'll come and have a chat with him later, and then you can go off and get yourself cleaned up. Oh yes, and before you go, pop up to the offices and tell everyone to sit tight, and we'll get up to them shortly.”

  “Will do, sir. Thank you, sir.” The P.C. headed for the foyer.

  “So, Doc,” said Andy Constable, turning his attention back to his medical colleague. “Do we know who our dead man is?”

  “Oh yes. It is in fact the eponymous Wally Winker himself, although I can't say I'm surprised that you don't recognise him in his present state. But as it happens, I was at a do the other week where he got some sort of award for civic virtues or some similar nonsense, and I knew him from that.”

  “Time of death? Any ideas?”

  “Not a clue,” responded the doctor cheerily. “With a bubbling cauldron of molten chocolate in the mix, any temperature calculations are going to be knocked for six. You might as well wet your finger and stick it in the air.”

  “And as for how he was found. Couldn't he simply have overbalanced and tipped in?”

  “Hmmm.” The doctor sounded dubious. “Looking at the height of the guard-rail, I'd be inclined to say no. If you want a strictly non-medical hunch, I'd say he was pushed and held.”

  “And cause of death? Do I need to ask?”

  “Probably not,” replied the doctor, “although it doesn't do to be too hasty about these things. Can't give you a definitive cause at the moment, although from what I can see so far, there don't seem to be any wounds or any sort of cranial trauma.”

  “So not bashed on the head, then?” interjected Dave Copper.

  “The obvious explanation,” continued the doctor, “considering the position in which he was found, is that he drowned. Tell you more when I've got him on my slab. Of course, in normal drowning cases, you'd probably find that the victim's lungs are waterlogged, but clearly in this case, Mr. Winker is more likely to be ...”

  “Chocolate-logged?” suggested Copper helpfully.

  “On which note,” said Constable with a stern sideways look at his junior colleague, as a team of overall-clad officers pushed through the foyer doors and headed for the group around the body, “we will leave you with the SOCO boys and girls, and see what we can find elsewhere.”

  “Here, guv – my gran's always telling me I'll come to a sticky end,” murmured Copper in an aside to his superior. “Do you suppose this is what she had in mind?”

  The inspector elected to ignore him. “Come along, Copper,” he said severely. “Let's see if we can't find a more productive outlet for your warped sense of humour.”

  *

  As they climbed the stairs, Constable and Copper became aware of the sound of trundling wheels and rattling crockery, and on reaching the landing they were greeted by a dumpy grey-haired woman clad in an old-fashioned wrap-around apron, pushing a trolley laden with cups and saucers.

  “Morning, dears,” she said, evincing no great surprise at the detectives' presence. “I expect you're the police, aren't you? I thought you'd be along soon. And you're just in time for a cup of tea.” She gestured to her trolley. “I've just made one for the others, because they've all had a bit of a shock, haven't they, and you know what they say, nothing like a nice strong cup of sweet tea when you've had a shock. I'll go and get a couple of extra cups for you two gents in a moment, once I've delivered this lot, but you'll have to make do with the ordinary china, dears, because this is the special tea set for the Board, because I thought everybody needed a little bit of pampering, what with everything.”

  Constable managed to interrupt the flow with some difficulty. “Would you be Mrs. Hart, by any chance?”

  “That's right, dear, Val Hart. Cleaner, tea lady, chief cook and bottle-washer – you ask, and I'm probably it.”

  “And from what I gather, you were the one who found Mr. Winker's body this morning.”

  “I did. I went through to the factory to get my mop and bucket to do the foyer, and there he was. Of course, I didn't know it was him at the time, because all I could see was a pair of legs sticking up over the edge of that tank thing. It could have been anybody. But then that nice young policeman came up just now and told us who it was, which of course took the wind out of everyone's sails, so that's when I decided to go and make the tea. Which,” she added meaningfully, “I had better get on with pouring out, otherwise it'll all be stone cold, which will be no good to anybody. You'd better follow me, dears. Everyone's through here in the boardroom. If you can just get that door for me, young man.” Copper opened the indicated heavyweight panelled mahogany door, and Val pushed her trolley through into the room, where half-a-dozen faces turned to look with varying degrees of surprise and apprehension.

  “Here's your teas, dears,” announced Val cheerfully, “and these gentlemen are policemen, so that's nice, because I'm sure they'll be able to sort everything out. Right, then, dear, it's over to you, I think.” She turned to the inspector with an expectant beam.

  Constable, slightly taken aback at the style of introduction, pulled himself together rapidly and strove to inject a more formal tone into the situation, as Val busied herself with teapot and cups. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I'm Detective Inspector Constable and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Copper, and, as Mrs. Hart says, we are here to investigate the death of the gentleman who has been provisionally identified as Mr. Walter Winker. In fact, it might be helpful to us if one of you were able to provide a positive identification while the body is still on the premises. Would one of you be prepared to assist us with this?”

  A heavily-built man, apparently in his fifties, rose from his seat at the head of the table. “I'll do it if you like.”

  “Thank you, sir. And you are …?”

  “Ivor Sweetman. I'm the company's Quality Director.”

  “Would that mean that you're the senior person here?”

  Ivor looked around his companions. “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

  “Then you will do very nicely, sir, since you are so kind. Copper, would you take the gentleman downstairs for the necessary. Quick as you like, and then back up here, please.”

  “Right, sir. If you'd come with me, Mr. Sweetman ...” The two left the room.

  Constable turned his attention to the remainder of those seated around the table. “I am going to need to speak to each of you to try to get an impression of the circumstances leading up to Mr. Winker's unfortunate death. I wonder, is there somewhere suitable I can use?”

  “There's always Mr. Winker's office,” piped up Val. “It's a bit more comfortable than the other offices, and he won't be needing it, will he?”

  “Certainly, if nobody has any objections.” Constable's look of enquiry was met with a variety of murmurs, shrugs, and shakes of the head. “So if you would be good enough to wait here, and I'll ask my colleague to come and fetch you as soon as possible.”

  “You come along with me, dear,” said Val. “I'll show you where
it is.” She led the way as Constable, quietly amused at the elderly woman's taking charge, followed her meekly along the corridor, past various partitioned-off sections and open-plan areas, to a door identical to that of the boardroom at the other end. “Here you are, inspector.” The room was comfortably furnished with a large desk in dark wood, with matching leather-upholstered chairs. Bookshelves laden with a variety of books, folders and box-files stood against one wall, while other walls bore framed enlarged photographs of many of the company's iconic products. Opposite the window overlooking the front car park, a further window looked down over the factory floor, with a door adjacent which opened on to a staircase which led downwards. “Make yourself at home, and I'll go and get a couple of cups of tea for you and that sergeant of yours. Just let me tidy up a bit.” She made to move the newspaper lying open on the desk.

  Constable forestalled her. “Best leave everything as it is until we know what's what, Mrs. Hart.”

  “Oh, alright, dear. You know best. And I suppose you'll need to talk to me as well, what with me finding the body and everything.”

  “We shall, Mrs. Hart.”

  “I should think you would, dear. There's not much about this place I don't know.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “Oh, donkey's years, dear, so if there's anything you want to know, you just ask me. I know all their little secrets. For instance, ...”

  Val appeared prepared to launch into a lengthy speech, but she was prevented by the re-appearance at the head of the stairs of Dave Copper and Ivor Sweetman.

  “Through here, sergeant,” called Constable. “And Mr. Sweetman, if you wouldn't mind joining us, perhaps we could make a start with you.”

  “Oh. Right.” Val seemed miffed at the interruption. “I'll just go and get those teas, then, shall I?” she harrumphed.

  “If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Hart.” Constable sought to soothe the ruffled feathers. “And we'll have our little chat when I've got a few more facts. I'm sure that what you have to tell us will be much more useful then. Don't you think?”

  “All right, then, dear,” responded Val, mollified. “I'll be back with your tea in a minute.”

  *

  “Please take a seat, Mr. Sweetman,” said Constable, seating himself in one of the pair of leather tub chairs in front of the large desk and indicating the other. Dave Copper discreetly took a smaller chair to one side, just out of Ivor Sweetman's eye-line, produced a notebook from his pocket, and prepared to make notes. “First, may I take it that the gentleman downstairs is in fact Mr. Winker?”

  “Yes, it's Wally all right. Though how he … well, that's your job, isn't it, finding out what happened. So, how can I help?”

  “Firstly, sir, perhaps you can tell us if there's anyone we should be notifying. I mean, is there a Mrs. Winker?”

  “No, Wally was a widower. No children.” Ivor broke off as something seemed to strike him. “That's a thought.”

  “Sir?”

  “I wonder who'll take over the company now. I mean, there's no obvious successor in the family, so ...” Ivor tailed off.

  “Now, Mr. Sweetman,” resumed Constable. “It's Mr. Ivor Sweetman, I think you said?” A nod in confirmation. “And if I remember aright, you say that you're one of the company's directors. Which I imagine would make you one of the most senior members of staff. Perhaps the most senior, after Mr. Winker?”

  “That is correct, inspector. Quality Director for the Winker Chocolate Company, if you want it in full, as stated under my signature on letters.” There was an air of pompous satisfaction in his words.

  “Which means what, exactly, sir?”

  “To put it in layman's terms, inspector, Chief Taster. In other words, if anyone has an idea for a new product, they have to get it past me first. So all the research and development happens on this side of the road – we have a small team working under me - and when we go into production, it all transfers over to the other side.”

  “At present, Mr. Sweetman, I'm rather more concerned with events on this side of the road, and one of the first things I'd like to establish is who last saw Mr. Winker alive and when.”

  “I saw him last night, if that's any help to you. Well, yesterday evening, anyway.”

  “Can you be more specific, Mr. Sweetman? What sort of time are we talking about?” Constable flicked a brief sideways glance at Copper to verify that the sergeant was recording the information. Copper's pencil stood poised.

  “Normally I would go home at around six, inspector, although having said that, I do quite often stay late at the office, but my wife has grown used to that. And frequently I stop for a meal on the way home, to save putting her to any trouble. But I was working late last night, because Mr. Winker had had the idea of introducing a range of garlic- and prune-flavoured chocolates for people to give to unwanted trick-or-treaters, so I was looking into ways of making the sweets revolting enough.” Ivor gave a self-satisfied chuckle. “Of course, that's something of a challenge in our business, and I thought my research bods probably wouldn't have the first idea of where to start, so I was doing a little background research. I don't like to take my work home. Wally was still in his office, and he and I exchanged a few words at one point, and I left at around quarter past seven, I suppose.”

  “Leaving Mr. Winker alive and well at that stage?”

  “Of course, inspector.”

  “Then thank you for that, sir. I think that will do for the moment.”

  “So does that mean I can go back to my office? As you'll appreciate, I'm sure, as senior executive I shall have a great deal to do today to sort out all the ramifications of this business.”

  “Of course, Mr. Sweetman. We'll come and find you if we discover that we need to speak to you further.”

  Ivor made to get up, but then stopped. “Inspector, just a moment. These questions – are you implying that Wally's death isn't some sort of horrible accident? But who on earth would …?” He broke off, seemingly bewildered.

  “Who indeed, Mr. Sweetman? My thought exactly. Which means that, if you don't mind, I should be talking to your other colleagues.”

  “Oh. Well.” Ivor seemed at a loss for a moment. “You'd better start with Bernard Rabbetts, in that case,” he advised. “He's the other senior director, and he'll only take the huff if you keep him waiting too long.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion, sir. Copper, if you'd get the door for Mr. Sweetman, and then pop along and ask Mr. Rabbetts if he'd join us.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  *

  Bernard Rabbetts was a shortish plump middle-aged man with a round eager face. As he took his seat opposite the inspector, his handshake was slightly warm and damp.

  “I must say, this is all something of a shocker, inspector. Goodness knows how this is going to affect the company, but I suppose we shall all just have to carry on as best we can and see how things work out.”

  “And what exactly will your part be in this, Mr. Rabbetts?”

  “Please, call me Bernie – everyone does. Wally runs a very informal ship.”

  “I think, if you don't mind, Mr. Rabbetts, we'll stick to the formalities,” replied Constable. “I find it's easier to elicit the facts that way. Now, I understand from Mr. Sweetman that you too are a director of the company.”

  “That's right, inspector. I've been here for years, man and boy – I shudder to think how many, really!” He gave an open beaming guileless smile. “I started off on the factory floor, and I've worked my way up to the Board – my actual title is Director of Seasonal Products.”

  “And what does this entail?”

  “Oh inspector, I'm sure you can work that out for yourself. Anything that's over and above the normal range of items which are available all year round. Christmas of course, and Easter. It's a constant process to find new ways of extending the range. For instance, we had machines which were used for making Easter eggs which were sitting idle the rest of the year. But then I had the idea for
a mould which would use the same machine to make chocolate hearts, so now we can take advantage of the St. Valentine's Day market as well. It's the same with Easter rabbits – a little tweak on the mould and the packaging, and you have chocolate reindeer for Christmas.”

  “Very resourceful, sir.”

  Bernie glowed with enthusiasm. “And now I'm working on a really exciting project I've thought of – Easter chicks made out of yellow chocolate! Which meant I had to stay on a little last night, because there's a Board meeting coming up, and I wanted to go through a new European Union directive on food colouring for my report.”

  “Ah, so you were here after normal office hours as well, sir. And did you see or speak to Mr. Winker during that time?”

  “Oh yes, inspector. I'm in and out of his office all the time. He likes to be kept abreast of everything that's going on, so that nothing comes as a surprise to him when it reaches the Board.”

  “And can you tell us, just for Sergeant Copper's notes, what time you left the premises yesterday?”

  “Goodness, I'm not sure I can, inspector. Sometime in the region of seven, I suppose, but I expect that's a bit too vague for you.” Bernie smiled helplessly. “I'm sorry, but I'm not very good with times.”

  “No matter, Mr. Rabbetts,” said Constable affably. “Perhaps one of the others will be able to confirm your movements.”

  Bernie stopped smiling. “Inspector …” he faltered. “Does this mean that you think that one of us may have had something to do with Wally's death?”

  “I can't rule out any possibilities at this stage, sir,” was Constable's un-reassuring reply. “I'm just attempting to get an idea of the general shape of things. Which means, if there's nothing else that occurs to you that I may have missed, sergeant …?” He cast an enquiring look in Copper's direction.

  “Not a thing, sir.”

  “Then we'll let you get on, and perhaps have a word with whoever is next on our list. Which would be …?”

  Copper consulted the list which Jenkins had provided. “That would be a Miss Marr, sir.”