Angel blinked and nodded.
‘Come along children,’ she said, flourishing the stick. The dogs began barking excitedly again and gathered round her back at the gatepost. She waved briefly at the inspector as he wound up the window and released the handbrake. The car glided smoothly down the hill.
*
Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the station and charged into his office. There was the usual daily pile of letters, reports and paperwork on his desk. He pushed it to one side and picked up the phone.
‘Tell DS Gawber and Cadet Ahaz I want to see them.’
He took off his coat and hung it on the hook behind the door. He glared at the pile of post again, pulled a face, dragged the pile back to the middle of the desk and began fingering through it.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Ahmed waving a piece of paper.
‘Hello, sir. Yes?’
‘Where’s DS Gawber?’
‘Haven’t seen him, sir.’
Angel looked up from the desk.
‘What’s that paper you’re fumbling with, lad? Is it your resignation?’
Ahmed grinned. ‘No sir. It’s that address you wanted. That woman. Amy Jones.’
Angel held out his hand. ‘Oh yes. Well, let’s have a look at it, then, or is it top secret?’ he said testily.
Ahmed passed it over. ‘She isn’t there, sir,’ he said.
Angel began to read it. It was an address in Hackney.
‘The King’s Cross probation office said she had not registered since she was released,’ Ahmed read out. ‘An officer has been to the flat but he drew a blank. They’ve no idea where she is.’
Angel sniffed and pulled a face. ‘Right. Hmm. She’ll turn up. Somewhere,’ he said, sombrely. Then a second later, he added: ‘Maybe?’ Then he suddenly said: ‘Find out if Fishy Smith has been to court yet, and what’s happened to him. And find out who his escort was, and tell him I want to see him, now! Do it on the phone. Look sharp.’
‘Right, sir.’ Ahmed disappeared and closed the door.
Angel returned to the pile of post. His mind was elsewhere.
He fingered the envelopes, speculating on what was inside without actually pulling out the contents. He was becoming interested in an attractively hand addressed envelope when there was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was DS Gawber.
‘Ah! Ron,’ said Angel enthusiastically. He pushed the pile of post to one side. ‘Come in. Take a pew. I don’t get this. Nobody has anything helpful to say to us. Everybody is running away. I set Crisp and Scrivens to watch Jones. I thought it would be a simple, local job. They followed him to Blackpool. Blackpool Last I heard, Jones has flown to the Isle of Man! I hope he hasn’t done a bunk!’
Gawber gave a slight shrug. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Well, I saw him yesterday and gave him an unofficial warning; he might have got scared. We might have lost him to somewhere exotic!’
There was another knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Ahmed.
‘Yes lad?’
‘Fishy Smith, sir.’
‘Yes lad. What about him?’
‘He got twenty-eight days suspended sentence and was released immediately.’
Angel and Gawber looked at each other. Their jaws dropped.
‘I don’t know why we bother!’ Angel growled. ‘Who was the escort?’
‘Todd, sir. He’s on his way down to see you.’
‘Right, lad. Now hop off and make me a cup of tea.’ Ahmed left and closed the door. Gawber stood up.
‘Hang on a minute, Ron. I’ve got a little job for you. And it’s urgent. Very urgent. I want you to search Fishy Smith’s cell. I want you to give it a thorough going over.’
‘Do you want me to look for anything in particular?’
‘No,’ Angel lied. ‘No. Just see if you can turn anything up. Take a screwdriver. Undo the fittings. Look behind the radiators. Try behind the little mirror over the hand-basin. Check the plaster between the bricks. See if any of the parquet floor has been disturbed. He’s a crafty little devil.’
‘Right, sir.’
Gawber opened the door. A constable was hovering there. It was PC Todd. Angel saw him.
‘Come on in, lad.’
Todd removed his flat hat, tucked it under his arm and strode smartly into the room. Gawber went out and closed the door.
‘You wanted me, sir?’ Todd said cautiously.
‘Relax, lad. Nothing to worry about.’ Angel pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down.’ He blew out a sigh. ‘You escorted Fishy Smith to court this morning?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you search him in his cell before you left?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thoroughly?’
‘Yes. Emptied his pockets and padded him down.’
‘Mmm. And you found nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I suppose you went with him in the van direct to the court, into the cell there, and up into the dock. Then, after he was discharged, you brought him back here, returned the contents of his pockets and pushed him out by the back door?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Hmmm. Just like that?’
Todd nodded. ‘Yes sir. Just like that.’
‘And you were with him every inch of the way? All the time?’
‘Yes sir. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?’
‘No. No. Did he have the opportunity to mix with any of the other defendants in the cells, or in the court house?’
‘No sir. It was a quiet morning. He was the only one from the station.’
‘Did he speak to anybody on his way there and back, apart from when he was actually in court?’
‘No sir.’
Angel blew out a loud sigh, then nodded. ‘Right lad. Thank you.’
Todd hesitated. ‘Is that it, sir?’
‘Aye, lad. That’s it. Go back to what you were doing.’
The young policeman frowned and shook his head; he hesitated, then stood up. There was a knock at the door.
‘See who that is, will you?’
Todd opened the door. It was Ahmed.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ The cadet pushed in urgently as Todd went out.
‘Where’s my tea?’ Angel said abruptly.
‘Sorry, sir. There’s no water,’ replied Ahmed, still holding the door. ‘The plumber has turned it off. But he said it’ll be back on soon.’
Angel’s jaw dropped. ‘Is he still working on that gents’ loo?’
‘He says it’s a big job. Something about lack of gravity.’
Angel shook his head and growled. ‘He’d tell you owt.’
‘Sir,’ Ahmed said tentatively. ‘I thought you’d want to know, I’ve just heard that a patrol car has been called out to Orchard House on Creeford Road. That’s where that man with the car sales pitch, Evan Jones, lives, isn’t it? The man DS Crisp is following?’
Angel felt his pulse quicken. His eyes narrowed. He looked up.
‘What’s that, lad?’ he said urgently.
‘A triple-nine call, sir.’
‘Ay!’ Angel said, his eyes shining. He reached over to the phone and stabbed in a two-digit number.
A woman’s voice said: ‘Communications room.’
‘Have you just had a triple-nine about Orchard House, Creeford Road?’
‘Yes sir. A passer-by, wouldn’t give his name, saw two men coming down a rope ladder through a bedroom window. He thought it suspicious.’
‘Did he hear a burglar alarm?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Three minutes ago. I’ve sent Bravo Foxtrot One.’
‘Thank you.’ He slammed down the handset and turned to Ahmed.
‘Get DS Gawber for me, Ahmed, pronto. He’ll be down the cells.’
‘Yes sir.’ Ahmed dashed out of the room.
Angel leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. It was strange for burglars to break into a drum like that in broad daylight. It was a large house in a posh district, which would look well worth turning over. He remembered he had seen a red alarm-box on the front elevation of the house, immediately above the front door. The bold and unusual MO suggested the thieves were professionals. Did they know Jones was away?
Ron Gawber rushed in through the open door.
‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘Ay,’ Angel said quickly. ‘Just had a triple nine call. Intruders at Evan Jones’s home on Creeford Road. Find out what’s happening. Bravo Foxtrot One has been sent. Keep me posted.’
‘Right, sir,’ said Gawber, and dashed off. Ahmed came in.
‘Well done, lad,’ Angel said. The cadet beamed and saw his opportunity.
‘Is it a convenient moment, sir, to talk about my holidays?’
‘Holidays?’ roared Angel. ‘Holidays? No. What about my tea?’
Ahmed’s face straightened. ‘I’ll see if there’s any water now, sir.’ He left the room and closed the door.
Angel smiled. He picked up the phone and dialled a number. A few rings out and it was answered.
‘Mac here.’
‘Mac. There you are. Have you got anything for me yet? Fingerprints, footprints? Anything? I haven’t even got a straw to clutch at.’
‘Oh. Well, Mike, there are no fresh fingerprints on the critical places in the ageing-room or the office above it. The ageing-vat had been wiped clean, as had the door and window-handles upstairs in the office. I had another sus at that humbug smell you mentioned by the window. I could smell it; I thought it was mint, but there was nothing I could pick up. There were, however some rare fibres — quite minuscule but unusual — near that spanner on the deck by the ageing-vat, also on the carpet in the upstairs office place. I’ve identified them, but I don’t yet know what they’re from.’ Angel liked the words ‘rare’ and ‘unusual’. They could mean that the clue would be significant and easy to identify. ‘Ay, Mac. What are they, then?’
‘From the plant, agava sisalana: it’s mainly grown in Central America.’
‘What?’ roared Angel. ‘Never heard of it. Is it poison?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘What then?’
‘Could be from deck-shoes. Those easy, summer shoes with rope soles, you know the sort of thing.’
‘Who the hell would be prancing round a rock hard brick floor in a distillery in deck-shoes?’
‘Dunno. Just telling you what I have found.’
‘Hmm. Anything else?’
‘No. I should be finished here tonight. If so, I’ll do the PM tomorrow. There might be something there.’
‘I hope so. Thanks, Mac. Thanks very much.’
He put the phone down and it rang back immediately. He picked it up.
‘Angel?’
‘It’s Crisp, sir.’
‘Yes, lad. Where are you?’
‘We are on the M55, the Preston road out of Blackpool, sir. Jones flew back to Squires Gate from Douglas a few minutes ago and got into his car. We are behind him, on the Preston road. He’s presumably heading for Bromersley. Should be home in about two hours.’
‘Ay. Well, stick to him. What did he bring with him in the way of luggage?’
‘Just the laptop case, sir. The same one he took with him.’ ‘Oh. Right. Now, see if he goes straight home. If he does, stand down and I’ll speak to you in the morning.’
‘Right sir.’
Angel was relieved that Jones appeared to be returning. He kept his hand on the phone and dialled a number. It was soon answered.
‘The police station, Douglas.’
‘Inspector Mulvaney, please.’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Inspector Angel, Bromersley.’
‘Right, sir. You’re through.’
‘Mike Angel here.’
‘You’ll be wanting to know about the suspect we’ve had under observation?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Well, we picked him up. It was easy enough from your description. He took a taxi straight to Englebert Investments, where he bought a bar of gold for eighty thousand, five hundred and forty pounds cash; then he took it across the road, to the overseas branch of the Northern Bank, deposited it there and got a receipt for it. After that, he walked to a public house, the Manxman, had a prawn sandwich and a tomato juice at five pounds twenty-five. He then called a taxi to Ronaldsway and caught the fourteen thirty flight to Squires Gate.’
‘Thanks very much. I’ll do the same for you sometime.’
‘You are welcome.’
Angel replaced the phone, sighed and leaned back in the chair. Why would Jones want to buy gold? If he’d a stockpile of it somewhere, he’d be more likely to want to sell it. It didn’t make sense.
Chapter Six
The following morning Angel arrived at the station early and was dashing down the corridor, eager to get to his office. He had a lot on his mind. He wanted to solve the Duncan McFee murder with whatever clues there were available and before the evidence and witnesses’ memories became hazy. As he reached the gendemen’s loos, the powerful smell of disinfectant invaded his nostrils. The door was propped open by a plastic bucket full of green water. He peered into the room and saw the back of the plumber’s blue-boiler suit sticking out of a cubicle. The man was apparently jiggling an instrument with a long handle into a water closet. Angel pulled a face, withdrew and pressed on down the passage. When he turned the comer he saw Ahmed hovering by his office door. The young man looked relieved when he saw him and rushed forward.
‘What is it, lad? Joan Collins after you … looking for a new husband?’
‘No, sir,’ Ahmed said earnestly. ‘The super wants to see you as soon as you arrive.’
‘Oh?’ Angel sniffed and looked at his watch. It wasn’t yet 8.30. He hoped he wasn’t being clocked in. He hadn’t left the station until seven o’clock the previous night. And he didn’t want delaying by some nit-picking disciplinary routine.
‘Right, lad.’ He took off his raincoat, threw it at the cadet and continued down the corridor to the very last office. He knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’
Angel opened the door. ‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘Ay,’ the superintendent growled from behind his desk.
Angel saw Boodle sitting as spruce as a bridegroom. He closed the door. The super pointed to the nearest chair.
‘Sit down. You know Commander Boodle,’ he said and reverted to grinding his teeth and shuffling papers round the desk.
Boodle had his eyes lowered, but opened them wide when he heard his name. He looked up at Angel with eyes like Monday’s fish at a Friday market.
Angel pulled up a chair and nodded to the commander. ‘Morning, sir.’
Boodle nodded. He looked his usual miserable self, as if he hadn’t had a bowel movement since Boxing Day.
Angel wondered what was on the agenda. Must be something pretty important that brought him back to Bromersley again, and so early in the day. He must have spent the night at the Feathers or caught a very early flight. He suddenly had an uncomfortable thought. Had his ID and badge turned up, having been used in some monstrous crime? He had not reported them missing yet. He was ever hopeful of their turning up; it was a serious offence not to report them lost.
Boodle looked across at him again.
Angel thought he might have detected the beginnings of a smile. He wondered. Perhaps he wanted to throw up.
The super picked off an invisible drawing-pin from his bottom lip, rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb until it disappeared and then said:
‘The commander wants to — er — discuss something with you.’
Angel considered the phrase, discuss something with you. That in itself was a laugh. In this business, the usual language was to give you an order.
The super stood up. He looked down at Boodle.<
br />
‘And I have some things to see to, Perry. I’ll be about ten minutes,’ he said, and without looking back he left the room.
There was never anything casual about anything Superintendent Harker did; his exit had obviously been arranged between the two of them. Angel glanced at the closing door.
Boodle promptly moved across to the swivel-chair at the desk the super had just vacated, put his elbows on the desk, rubbed his elegant manicured brown hands briskly, leaned forward and peered closely into Angel’s eyes. The inspector knew he would have to pay close attention and watch his step; something unusual was in the offing.
‘Now then, Michael, I’ve got a job for you,’ said Boodle, in that strained public-school voice which sounded incongruous in the super’s office. ‘Very important,’ he added. ‘I’ve cleared it with the chief and the super.’
Angel sighed silently. He wasn’t canvassing for more work. He thought he had enough on his plate. Progress in the McFee case was practically non-existent. He had no suspect and no motive, and up to now, information from forensic had been very thin on the ground. Also, he didn’t feel kindly enough disposed to tell the commander that he was having Jones followed. After all, it might simply be a waste of time.
‘I have an unusual mission for you, Michael.’
Angel pursed his lips. Oh yes? Well, what was it then? Shark hunting on the back of a crocodile? He was all ears.
‘You remember that big gold robbery from the security van outside the Agara Bank in the city in April 2003? A guard was shot.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The robbers got away with sixty-six million pounds in gold. It was a colossal haul. I was assigned to the case. It was an inside job, of course. I got the inside man, the security manager, Taylor. He got ten years. And, after a right old chase, I caught the gang-leader, a man called Morris Yardley. I arrested them both myself. Now you knew Yardley, didn’t you?’
‘Morris Yardley? No sir,’ Angel said after a second’s thought. ‘No. I may have read about him in the papers at the time, but I don’t know him. I have never met him. I’ve never even seen him … in the flesh, so to speak.’
Boodle’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh? He says he knows you? he said slowly, running his snakelike tongue over his thin lips. ‘Curious. Ah well,’ he continued, ‘I’ll come back to that. Now he got twenty years for the manslaughter of the security guard and eighteen years for the robbery, the sentences to run concurrently. Which appears to be a pretty good result. However, we have not recovered any of the gold. Yardley has served only one year. His legal team has already tried twice to get an appeal hearing without success. Anyway, it would be a waste of time.’
The Morals of a Murderer Page 6