Angel stared at him. His answer seemed conclusive.
‘You’ve no idea where she is?’
Jones pointedly looked him square in the face.
‘No idea,’ he replied bluntly.
Angel paused, then he said: ‘Right, sir.’ He turned towards the door. He looked back. ‘Thank you. If she should turn up, you’d let me know?’
‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that.’
‘Hmm. Thank you. Hmm. Thank you, Mr Jones.’ Angel stood there, rubbing his chin. He looked at the Welshman through half-closed eyes.
‘Something troubling you, Inspector?’ said Jones daringly.
Angel turned back to the silver haired Welshman. He was slow to reply.
‘Quite a few things, Mr Jones, actually,’ he said ponderously.
‘Well, what are they, man? Spit them out. I have nothing to hide.’
Angel nodded slowly. He turned fully round and took a pace towards Jones.
‘All right. All right.’ Angel sniffed. ‘Firstly, I’d be curious to know the asking-price of your house on Creeford Road. “Orchard House”, isn’t it called? That’s the only house you own, isn’t it?’
Olivia stared at Jones.
Jones eyes opened wide. ‘What sort of a question is that? It is the only house I own. What do you mean?’
‘Well, you’ll be putting it on the market soon, won’t you?’
‘Certainly not, man. I’ve only just finished decorating it, haven’t I … and getting it how I want it. I expect to retire there in ten or twelve years’ time.’
Angel raised his eyebrows deliberately and said: ‘Oh.’
‘If you’re looking for a nice house, Inspector, you’ll have to look elsewhere.’Jones sniggered.
Olivia moved closer to Jones. Her face showed her dismay.
Angel nodded. He could never have afforded a mansion like that.
‘Yes. Right. It’s not for sale, then?
‘No. Was there anything else?’
‘Ay. Are you planning a big social calendar of events and inviting all your friends and relations round this summer?’
Evan Jones laughed. It wasn’t a genuine laugh.
‘All my friends and relations? Huh! I have a cousin in a little god-forsaken place near Swansea. Haven’t seen him for years. He’s my only living relation, and I’ll not be going down there even to his funeral. It’s a certainty he’ll not be coming to mine. And as for my friends? Huh. I haven’t got a socializing, nosy-parkering, coffee-morning, cup-of-sugaring, Christmas-card-once-a-year, bunch of so-called friends.’ He looked at Olivia and reached out for her hand. ‘There! She’s all my friends. I don’t need or want any more.’
Olivia smiled and cosied up to him.
Angel looked at them holding hands. He said nothing.
‘Anything else?’Jones said truculently.
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Do you eat meat?’
‘Eh? What? No. I’m a vegan. That’s no meat.’
‘Chicken?’
‘No.’
‘Sausages?’
Jones pulled a face and shook his head. ‘What is all this? I run a car sales business, not a butcher’s shop?’ he said edgily.
Angel glared at him. ‘Well don’t keep coming up with porky pies then!’ he bawled and turned away. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his mobile. He tapped in a number and pressed the button.
Evan Jones and Olivia Button exchanged glances and then stared at him in anticipation.
‘Ah, Ron. I want you to get a warrant … to dig up a barbecue … a barbecue, yes … at Orchard House, Creeford Road.’
Jones’s jaw dropped.
‘Bring some men and picks and shovels. We’ll meet you there.’
Thirty minutes later two policemen in yellow waterproof suits, armed with picks and shovels, were in the garden at the side of Evan Jones’s house. They were lifting out the first shovel of soft earth, having removed the top of the barbecue and demolished two small brick pillars.
Angel stood next to Gawber at one side of the hole and Evan Jones, now in street clothes and wearing a raincoat stood, holding arms with Olivia Button at the other.
‘What made you think to look here, sir?’ Gawber said quietly.
Angel pursed his lips, then whispered: ‘What man in his right mind would build a barbecue, if he’s a vegetarian, doesn’t entertain and is not tarring the place up to sell it?’
Gawber blinked. He looked away for a second then came back.
‘I’d never have thought of that.’
Evan Jones looked distinctly subdued. Olivia Button hung on to his arm, her eyes looking down at the ground. She occasionally looked up, glanced at everybody’s faces and then looked down again.
The two policemen worked quickly and efficiently, and after making a small pile of earth on the footpath, one of the constables, Scrivens said:
‘I think we’ve hit something, sir.’
‘What is it, lad?’
‘A tin box, sir.’
‘Dig it out, lad. Dig it out.’
The constables soon brought out a black metal box about fifteen inches square and ten inches deep. It had a handle at each end and it was locked. They lifted it out of the ground and put it on the footpath. Scrivens rubbed off the loose earth from the lid with his gloved hand. Angel looked up at Jones.
‘Have you got the key, sir?’
Jones glared angrily at Angel, then he pulled out a bunch of keys, crouched on the path, unlocked the box, pulled open the lid and stood back.
Inside, Angel saw three brown-paper parcels laid side by side half-filling the box. He reached in and pulled one out. He tore through the paper to another wrapping of wax paper. Inside that was a gold bar. It was embossed on the top: JOHNSON MATHEY PLC, 9999, SERIAL NO. 22394297, 2003.
Angel looked up at Jones and shook his head. He then pulled out the other two packages, tore off the paper to check that they were also gold bars. They were.
‘They are not stolen,’ said Jones. ‘I have hidden them to keep them away from my ex-wife. She’s always on the prowl. She claims I owe her money, but I don’t.’
Angel sniffed. ‘We’ll know all about that when we’ve checked the serial numbers. I hope you’ve got receipts.’
Jones pointed to the pile of rubble.
‘You’d no need to make a mess like this.’
‘If you had told us what was down here in the first place, we would have let you dig it out, but no. You said there was nothing here!’ Angel turned to Gawber. ‘Take charge of this gold, Ron. Give him a receipt.’
‘Huh. I should think so,’ Jones said indignantly.
Angel’s eyes flashed. He turned swiftly back to the Welshman.
‘Your troubles have only just started, sir. Your ex-wife is still missing, and I need to know what’s happened to her!’
*
Angel arrived at his office the following morning at twenty-eight minutes past eight. He had just closed the door and was unbuttoning his coat when the phone rang. He reached over the desk to answer it.
‘Angel.’
It was the superintendent.
‘There’s a telex from the fire department. There was a fire at Evan Jones’s car site last night. Alarm came from a member of the public about twenty-one fifty hours. Looks like arson. This might be the lead you are looking for. Anyway, sort it out, quick as you can.’
‘Right sir.’
Angel dashed out of the office and in four minutes was at Evan Jones’s place. He stopped the car in front of the office block and looked across at the scene. Behind the office was the roofless, doorless steaming shell of the old brick building Jones had been using as a store and workshop. Two fire engines were parked next to each other and six men in red-and-yellow uniforms were still directing two powerful jets of water into the building: one through the top where the roof had been, and the other through a hole in the wall where an upper window had been. A stream of black liq
uid trickled out of the doorway, under the thirty or so undamaged cars on the forecourt. It ran over the pavement, on to the main road, down the hill.
A fireman in waterproofs and yellow helmet standing at the rear of one of the fire vehicles saw him.
‘Are you the police?’ he yelled.
‘Yeah.’
‘Must watch the pressure. Come on up.’
Angel locked his car and trudged up the slope.
‘This building here has been fired in four different places. Obviously arson. Must have been started about nine o’clock, last night. We got here about ten, there was quite a blaze. There were a few small detonations during our containment, we took them to be exploding petrol tanks.’
‘Anybody inside? Anybody hurt.’
‘No.’
‘What’s in there?’
‘Thirty or forty cars: seem to be old cars chiefly. And old tyres.’
‘Can anything be salvaged?’
‘Shouldn’t think so.’
‘Hmm. The owner here?’
‘In the office.’
‘Right,’ Angel said. He strode over to the old building and peered through the opening where the doors had been. He saw the steaming black burnt-out shells of cars and distorted metal; he noticed the sickly smell of burnt cellulose, smouldering rubber and petrol fumes, and the hissing sound of cold water meeting hot metal. It was not a pleasant experience. He turned back down the slope and made his way to the office. The door was ajar.
Evan Jones was sitting at his desk reading a heavily printed document. Olivia Button stood next to him, her hand on his shoulder. As Angel entered, Jones looked up. He wasn’t his usual self. A strand of silver hair flopped across his forehead, his chin was bristly and the red bow tie was missing. In contrast, Olivia Button looked as crisp and clean as she always did.
‘Oh. It’s you. Come to gloat, have you?’ Jones said in his best valleys accent.
‘No,’ Angel said. ‘What’s happened?’
‘You can see what’s happened. My warehouse has gone up. I doubt I’ll be able to save as much as a jubilee clip.’
‘What caused it?’
‘Don’t know. Build-up of petrol fumes, spanner falling on the floor causing a spark? Who knows?’
‘Hmmm. What was in there?'
‘My stock-in-trade, Inspector. Cars, car parts, spares, tools, tyres. Lots of valuable expensive equipment. Worth thousands.’
‘Are you insured?’
‘Yes, but not for everything. Got to wade through the small print.’
‘Hmm. Where were you last night then, when this happened?’
Olivia Button unexpectedly replied.
‘He was with me in my flat until about nine forty-five. We were having dinner together. It was a special cheese omelette and salad.’
Angel looked at her and blinked. Jones brightened at Olivia Button’s forthright reply.
‘That’s right,’ he added perkily. ‘I left about nine forty-five to go home. I was on the stairs going to bed when I got a phone call from the police telling me about the fire.’
Angel sniffed. ‘It was discovered at about ten o’clock. It seems it started about nine, so you two were together at the time?’
‘Yes. We went straight from here after work.’
Angel sniffed again. ‘The fire officer says it was arson. Have you any idea who might have started such a fire?’
‘It’s not arson,’ Jones said tetchily. ‘It’s just one of those things.’
Angel shook his head. The Welshman had an alibi. He turned to go.
‘Here, Inspector,’ Jones called out. ‘When am I going to get my gold back?’
‘When the serial numbers have been checked.’
Angel left Jones poring over his insurance policy, and returned to the station. He went straight down the corridor. He passed the door to the gentlemen’s loos, which was propped open by a yellow plastic bucket and from where sounds of water being pumped under pressure disturbed the usual sober quietness of the administration area of the station. He reached the bottom office and knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ the superintendent called. ‘Sit down,’ he said, grinding his teeth. ‘What about this fire? Did you see Jones?’
‘He says he was with that lass, Olivia Button, and she confirms it.’
‘Oh’ Harker grunted and rubbed his chin. ‘Is he insured?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. Do you think, when he gets the insurance money, he’ll make a run for it?’
Angel shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Anything from the Inland Revenue?’
‘Huh. It’ll take them ages. If we could get anything hard from them, we could move in, arrest him on suspicion and take his house and that office place to pieces, brick by brick,’ he snarled.
‘He wants his gold back.’
‘Ay,’ the superintendent said and dismissed it with a wave of a hand. ‘What did you find at Fishy Smith’s pad?’
‘Ron Gawber went over it, sir. Nothing helpful. A lot of 1940s furniture, old clothes, empty curry trays, fish and chip papers and Jubilee stout bottles.’
‘I thought you’d be wasting your time. Another dead end.’
Angel glared at him.
‘Well get on with it, lad! Do what you can.’
‘Right, sir,’ Angel said through gritted teeth.
He came out of the superintendent’s office and stormed his way up the corridor. He saw Ron Gawber running towards him waving a piece of paper.
‘Have you a minute, sir?’
Angel reached the office door. ‘What is it, Ron? Come in. What’s up?’
‘I’ve just had a woman in reception making a complaint about a car travelling on the Wakefield road between Askham’s roundabout and Jones’s car-sales pitch. She says the driver was racing dangerously and nearly had her off the road.’
Angel slumped in the chair. ‘So what?’
‘It was nine o’clock last night. She got the car number, and it turns out to be a car owned by Olivia Button. Now isn’t that Evan Jones’s latest piece?’
Angel’s mouth opened. ‘Yes. Who’s the complainant?’
‘A Susan Tranter, sir.’
‘Who? Never heard of her.’ Angel pulled an ear. ‘Hmm. Something fishy. I’d better see this Olivia Button. See what she’s up to.’
‘Did you want to see Evan, Inspector?’ Olivia Button said from behind the desk in Jones’s office. She was looking fresh and decorative, like a spiced kitten waiting for a chocolate mouse to surrender.
Angel smiled. ‘No. I’m sure you can help me.’
‘He’s out running again. He’ll be ten minutes or so.’
‘It’s you I want to see.’
‘Oh?’ she said, her eyes opening wide.
‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘We’ve had a report that your car was seen last night, being driven dangerously on the Wakefield Road between here and Askham’s roundabout. At about nine o’clock.’
The big eyes opened wider. ‘My car?’
‘Yes. That little red Porsche. The one outside.’
‘No, Inspector. It wasn’t me,’ she said adamantly. ‘I put my car in my garage and locked it about six o’clock last night and I haven’t been near it until this morning.’
Angel peered at her closely and rubbed his chin.
‘Could anybody have borrowed it?’
‘No,’ she said adamantly. ‘I have the only key.’
Angel gave her a straight look; there was something very funny going on, ‘Are you sure?’
‘I don’t understand,’ she said looking blank.
‘Nor do I.’ Angel decided to change tack. ‘Mr Jones isn’t much interested in the car business any more, is he.’
‘Oh, he is,’ she said eagerly. ‘I don’t know what you mean. He works all hours. Never away from this place. He enjoys his sport and his running, but that’s all. He hasn’t any other interests.’
‘But if he came into money, he wouldn’t be averse to packing all this in and say, e
migrating, taking you with him, of course, would he?’
Her eyebrows shot up. She shook her head.
‘He hasn’t discussed anything like that with me.’
Angel decided he would try something else.
‘Do you think he could have left your flat earlier than you said last night?’
Her face changed. She looked stunned.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Could he have left at say, nine o’clock?’
She hesitated. ‘Oh no.’ She licked her lips.
Angel stared at her. He said nothing.
There was a pause.
‘Well, Inspector, it might have been a little earlier than I thought. I said a quarter to ten.’
‘Oh yes?’ he said gently.
‘Well, I mean, we didn’t have our eyes on the clock. It might have been a little earlier … say a quarter past nine.’
‘Or even nine o’clock?’ he suggested smoothly.
‘Oh no. Not nine.’
‘You see, Miss Button, if he left at nine o’clock, the garage is only three or four minutes away by car, he would have had time to drive there, start the fires and get home easily before the station phoned him.’
‘Oh no. He didn't do that. He wouldn't do that. I’m sure.’
Angel shook his head. He took his leave, and drove back to the station with a lot on his mind. He wasn’t very happy. He liked everything clear-cut. He had noticed lately that nothing was ever straightforward. Facts never seemed to be facts any more. They always seemed to be frayed round the edges. There didn’t seem to be any black and white: everything was grey. Every statement was qualified. Everybody was lying. He met Gawber down the corridor and told him what had been said at Olivia Button’s.
‘I’ll call on Susan Tranter and see what’s going on,’ said Gawber.
‘Ay.’ Angel sniffed. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Chapter Fourteen
Ten minutes later, the two policemen arrived on the Wadsworth Estate, built in the sixties and called Passion City by local wags. The estate housed more one-parent families than the chip-shop sold chips. The four huge blocks of flats had seen better days: they needed a fresh coat of paint, the lifts repairing, a crêche organizing and condom-vending-machines installing.
The policemen soon found Mickleberry Court and made their way to Susan Tranter’s flat. They passed the kitchen window, splashed with pigeon muck and tapped on the door of number twenty-one. It was promptly opened a few inches by a woman. Angel recognized her immediately, and it wasn't Susan Tranter. His mouth opened and then closed.
The Morals of a Murderer Page 16