Angel realized they were moving away from the point. He was determined not to be taken in as usual by her olde worlde charm.
‘Where is Morris Yardley now?’ he said impatiently.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You said there was a plan.’
‘Yes. A plan to get him out of prison. He knew the judiciary would never grant him his freedom for gold. But if they thought they could trick him into believing that they would, he could see a plan that might work.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me his plans in case you arrested me and tortured me.’ She gave a small smile.
He stared at her with his poker face.
She looked back into his eyes.
‘And the gold?’
‘All he would say was that it was somewhere safe.’
Angel shook his head.
‘Have you seen him since he escaped?’
‘No.’
‘Have you been in touch with him or him with you, by phone or in any other way, since his escape?’
‘No. He’ll keep out of the way while that man Boodle is hunting him. I’m certain of it. He’ll disappear into the night, and nobody will ever hear from him again. He knows how to disappear,’ she said, looking thoughtfully down at the plate of fairy-cakes. Then she added sadly, ‘More’s the pity.’
Angel shook his head. He felt sorry for the old lady.
She munched into another cake.
He sighed. ‘It’s a very serious matter, you know. You colluded with him to exchange vehicles, and then you drove the van that was monitored back to Tunistone, creating a false trail to fool the police. You were aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner. It’s a very serious offence.’
Mrs Buller-Price’s eyes opened wide.
‘I didn’t know you’d put a thingie in the back and that you were following me. I didn’t intend to lay a false trail. I didn’t fool the police intentionally or unintentionally. I didn’t see any police cars in my mirror. In fact, there wasn’t a single police car or a bobby on the beat that I could have reported the matter to on my way home. And I did have to come home. I couldn’t dawdle about up there with five Jerseys to milk and animals to feed.’
Angel knew this was right.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said sternly. ‘I will have to consult the Crown Prosecution Service and see exactly what charges they will want to bring against you. By rights, you should come back with me and be formally arrested. However, if you give me your promise not to leave the area, I won’t insist on it.’
Mrs Buller-Price blew out a big sigh.
‘Oh, I do. I do,’ she said earnestly. ‘I do most solemnly swear it. On my best Girl Guide uniform. The one I was wearing when the Queen Mother pinned the badge on me, for being the best cook in our pack at frying a sausage on a candle I had made from goose-grease and a toilet-roll middle.’
*
Angel arrived home late, tired and mentally spent. Mary could see from his face that all was not well. She asked him what was wrong and he told her about the trip to Birmingham, the finding of the crumpled sweet-bag with scone crumbs in it, and how it had led him back to Mrs Buller-Price and so on … She smiled sympathetically, but he didn’t really believe she understood how he felt, and he was too wound up to explain how desperate he now was to find Yardley and the gold, ahead of Boodle. He sat in the chair and chewed it all over and over again, like a duck with an elastic band. By 8.30 he was asleep.
Next morning, Saturday, he got up late and spent the day doing nothing in particular. Mostly, he sat tense in the chair looking at the television screen but seeing nothing; he shrunk into himself as he visualized Boodle chasing up and down the country, questioning everybody who had had the slightest connection with the robbery: their friends, their known acquaintances and so on. However tenuous the lead, Boodle would be there, whipping his men, ploughing through records of contemporary cases to see if he could come up with some link or idea that would lead him to Yardley and the gold.
Mary served up tea and they watched television — well, Mary watched television. Angel’s only unexplored accessible lead was Martin Taylor. If anyone knew where Yardley might be or where he might have stashed the gold, it could be him. It was infuriating that he would have to wait until Monday before he could interview to him.
The television screen went blank as Mary pressed the remote. ‘It’s eleven o’clock,’ Mary said and she yawned.
Angel yawned.
Chapter Sixteen
Sunday morning was hell. He got up late and spent the first hour trying not to get under Mary’s feet. She wanted to be in every room at the same time! He eventually managed to get dressed, putting on his sports jacket and flannels, and saunter down to the newsagents where he bought a paper. He came back, and noticed with satisfaction the smell of meat roasting and the warmth of the oven as he passed it. Mary was doing something dangerous with a carving knife and a turnip on the worktop; he took a bottle of German beer from the fridge, opened it and went into the sitting-room.
‘Anything you want to do, love?’ he called out. ‘Do you want to go out somewhere?’
‘No.’
He wasn’t surprised or disappointed. He put the beer down on a coaster and picked up the newspaper. He opened it up and at the bottom of page two there was a little piece comprising five short paragraphs. As he read down the column, his blood ran cold.
GOLD ROBBER FOUND HANGED
Martin Taylor, 42, a prisoner at Hallas End jail was found at 6.10 am yesterday morning dead in his cell. He had been hanged by a rope contrived from strips of material torn from a towel and suspended from an air-grate in the wall. He was serving ten years for armed bank robbery. Foul play is not suspected.
Martin Taylor had been security manager to the Bank of Agara and had been the source of information to the gang who robbed a security van outside the bank of gold bars worth £66m in April 2003. None of the gold had been recovered.
It is understood that Taylor had had a high-ranking visitor from Special Branch yesterday (Friday) afternoon. It was not known whether this had had any bearing on his state of mind.
A prison spokesman said Martin Taylor, from Fulham, London was not a known depressive and had not been on suicide watch.
Footnote: The leader and the only other known survivor of the gang, Morris Yardley, escaped from high security Welham prison on Tuesday last and is still on the run.
Angel’s jaw dropped.
‘You can set the table,’ Mary called from the kitchen.
He didn’t hear her.
*
It was Monday, 25 April. Angel arrived at the station at 8.15 a.m. and burst into the communications room to learn the latest news regarding the search for Yardley and the recovery of the gold. There was a piece in the Police Gazette about the death of Martin Taylor, but there was nothing new or helpful. He came out of the room with a face like an undertaker’s cat and charged down the corridor, just missing the plumber as he was feeding out a blue plastic waterpipe. He stopped briefly, stared at the man, shook his head impatiently, stepped over the pipe and proceeded to his office. The plumber straightened up, stared after him, took the unlit stub end of a cigarette out of his mouth, muttered something, then put it back in again.
Gawber came up the corridor. They met at Angel’s office door.
‘Come in, Ron,’ said Angel, as he hung his coat on the hook. ‘I’ve been making some rough calculations. That gold will weigh about half a ton and take up the space of about four hundred house-bricks. Where might Yardley have put it? I mean, it’s got to be somewhere. He couldn’t just shove it in his back pocket.’ He sniffed and flopped in the chair. ‘We’re not looking where it is, Ron.’
‘No sir.’ Gawber frowned. ‘Could it be concealed in a car … say, the boot and some on the back seat?’
‘Might do. I don’t know if the car would move though.’
‘A heavy-powered one might.’
‘I don’t think you’d
get four hundred bricks in a car.’
‘No. P’raps not.’
Angel couldn’t any longer avoid saying: ‘Heard about Martin Taylor?’
Gawber nodded. His face spoke volumes.
‘Very sad. Tragic. No need for a trip to Hallas End then. I suppose the high-ranking visitor from Special Branch would have been Commander Boodle?’
‘Who else?’ he said waving his arms. ‘We’ve got to find Yardley and the gold soon, before he does! They have to be somewhere.’
Gawber nodded.
‘Ay,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin roughly. ‘There’s nothing more I can do about it. Let’s get on with something else.’
‘Yes sir. I have checked the serial numbers of Evan Jones’s gold bars and they are definitely not stolen. I’ve seen the receipts. He bought them quite legitimately.’
‘Oh,’ Angel said coolly. ‘That’s a profitable business.’
‘Can he have his gold back now then, sir?’
‘Not yet. The super’s expecting magic from the Inland Revenue. Ask him?
‘Right.’ Gawber made for the door. When he opened it, Ahmed was there, about to knock.
‘Come in, lad. What is it?’
Gawber went out and closed the door.
‘About holidays, sir?’
‘Holidays?’ bawled Angel.
‘Yes sir,’ Ahmed said boldly.
‘What about them?’
Ahmed’s face brightened. ‘Well sir, I’ve been wanting to mention this to you for some time. Most bank holidays fall on Mondays: Easter Monday, May day, Spring bank, August bank and so on. All Mondays.’
‘Yes lad, so what,’ said Angel, testily.
‘Well I don’t work Mondays, sir, as you know. So I don’t get them off. I work regular Saturdays instead.’
‘Yes, lad. Well if you are not working on Mondays, how can you possibly have them off?’ said Angel, deliberately missing the point. ‘What do you want? Do you want to work Shrove Tuesday, Sheffield Wednesday and Maundy Thursday instead?’ he bellowed mockingly.
‘No sir,’ Ahmed protested. ‘As I don’t work those Mondays … ’
Suddenly, Angel jumped to his feet. He stared straight ahead, trancelike, and appeared to see nothing. His mouth was wide open.
Ahmed was surprised. He wondered if the inspector was all right. Something very strange had happened to him. It wasn’t clear what it was. His face was white. The blood had drained away. Something had changed him. Ahmed didn’t know what to do. Then Angel began to mutter.
‘Maundy Thursday … Maundy Thursday. Yes. That’s it!’
Ahmed stared at him. He was worried.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
The blood was coming back to Angel’s cheeks. His eyes began to shine. A bell had rung! A penny had dropped! Or something.
‘Maundy Thursday,’ he said. ‘Yes. Of course. If Maundy Thursday was on 17 April, then I know where the gold is!’
‘Are you all right, sir?’
Angel didn’t hear him.
‘Hey! Ahmed,’ he bellowed. ‘Ahmed! Where the hell are you?’
Ahmed blinked. ‘I’m here, sir.’
‘Oh,’ Angel said surprised. ‘Well stay here. Stop dodging about the place!’
‘I haven’t moved, sir. I’ve been here all the time.’
‘Well, listen. It’s obvious, lad,’ said Angel, excitedly. ‘Obvious! If Maundy Thursday was on 17 April, then I know where the gold is! I need a diary. Have you got a diary for 2003? Have you got a diary? Quick! Quick! One that will show us.’
‘I’ve got this year’s, sir. On my desk. I’ll fetch it.’
He turned to the door, opened it and ran down the corridor to the CID office. Angel followed. They arrived at the office together.
There were twelve officers in the CID room: some working at computers, some on the phone, some talking.
Ahmed picked up a red A5-sized book from his desk by the door and began slowly turning over the pages. Angel snatched it from him.
‘But will it show us, tell us, when Maundy Thursday was, two years back?’
Angel turned over the pages rapidly. He looked at the back and then the front and then threw it on the desk.
‘That’s no good!’ He turned to the other people in the room. ‘Listen up everybody,’ he bellowed. ‘Quiet please!’
There was silence. Everybody stared at him.
‘This is very important. Very important! Has anybody here got a diary for 2003?’ he bawled. Everybody looked blank. ‘Anybody here got a diary for 2003?’ he repeated. ‘Or can say when Maundy Thursday was … You see, if Maundy Thursday was on 17 April 2003, then I know where the gold is!’
There was more silence.
‘Nobody?’ he yelled.
A few small voices muttered: ‘No sir.’
Angel darted out of the room and then came back.
‘Ahmed!’
‘Yes sir?’
‘Find DS Gawber, DS Crisp and DC Scrivens, and send them to my office pronto.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And for god's sake, find me a diary for 2003!’ he bawled.
Ahmed shook his head in confusion. Then nodded. ‘Erm — yes sir.’
‘And hurry up. It’s vitally important. You see, if Maundy Thursday was on 17 April 2003, then I know where the gold is!’
‘Yes sir. Yes sir. I heard you the first time!’ Ahmed stammered, not quite sure what to do.
Angel dashed out of the room calling back over his shoulder:
‘I’ll be in the super’s office!’
‘Right sir.’
Angel raced down the corridor to the office at the far end. He pushed open the door and burst straight in. The superintendent was at his desk. He looked up angrily and snarled.
Angel didn’t notice the snarl.
‘Horace, if Maundy Thursday was on 17 April 2003, then I know where the gold is!’
‘What’s that?’ Harker growled, and spat out a nail.
‘Have you got an old diary for 2003?’
‘What? Erm … erm … erm … ’
‘Or a calendar?’
‘What? Somewhere, no doubt. Let me think?’ He rubbed his bony chin. ‘Let me think. What’s the matter, lad?’
Angel groaned impatiently, then he said:
‘All I want to know is what date Maundy Thursday was in 2003? That’s all. If it was 17 April, then I know where the gold is.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘And Yardley will be standing right in the middle of it!’
The superintendent blinked, then quickly pulled out a drawer at the bottom of his desk and began rummaging about in it.
‘I’ll want an ARV. At least one,’ Angel went on. ‘Six men. And some picks and shovels. Where’s that diary? Have you got one, Horace, or haven’t you? A calendar will do if it’s for 2003.’
Ahmed appeared, breathing heavily at the superintendent’s door. He had a book in his hand; it looked like a diary.
‘This is 2003, sir,’ Ahmed said tentatively.
Angel turned and saw him. He looked at the diary he was holding. His eyes flashed. He snatched it and glanced at the cover. ‘This is it, lad! This is it!’ He zipped through the pages to April. ‘Tenth, fourteenth … seventeenth … Here it is! Maundy Thursday. Feast of the Passover! Yes!! Yes! It is!’ he shouted. He shoved the diary back into Ahmed’s hands.
‘Come with me, lad.’ He charged up the corridor to his own office. DS Gawber, DS Crisp and DC Scrivens were waiting for him. They stared at him apprehensively. ‘Right lads. I want an ARV straightaway. Will you see to that, Ron. Have it out front in five minutes. Travel in convoy behind me. Bring your own car. No sirens. Right?’
‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said and dashed off.
Angel turned to Crisp. ‘Now, lad, I want six uniformed men and a big van. The riot van’ll have to do. And you bring your own car. And be ready out front in four minutes. And tell everybody, no sirens.’
‘I’ll do what I can, sir,’ Crisp said and turned to go.
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‘That’s not good enough!’ Angel bawled angrily. ‘Do what I bloody well tell you!’
Crisp muttered something and was gone.
Angel turned to DC Scrivens. ‘Now lad. Go to the stores. Draw six picks and six shovels and get them to the front of the station to go in the riot van immediately. All right?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘You’ve got three minutes.’
‘Wow!’ yelled Scrivens.
‘And get yourself a place in Gawber’s car.’
‘Sir,’ he shouted and was gone.
Ahmed looked very nervous.
‘Now lad. How many wanted pics of Yardley have you in CID?’
‘Erm … about twenty, sir. I think.’
‘Fetch them and make sure every one in this task force has got one. Right.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Go on then. Scatter!’ he bawled and waved his hands in the air.
Ahmed ran off, looking very serious.
The superintendent bustled into Angel’s office, putting on his raincoat.
‘I don’t know what madness this is, Michael!’ he said, sourly. ‘But I’m coming along.’
‘Right, sir.’
Harker pointed a long, skinny finger at Angel’s face. ‘But it’s your show.’
‘We’re leaving in two minutes. From the front. Meet you there in one. Going to fetch my car round.’
‘Where are we going exactly?’ asked Harker busily buttoning up the coat and adjusting the collar. ‘Where is the gold? And what the hell has it to do with Maundy Thursday?’
Angel had gone.
The super looked round.
‘Michael? Where are you?’ He looked out through the office door. ‘Grrr!’
The task force was duly assembled at the front of the station; considering the speed at which it had been called together, it was in remarkably good order. There were five vehicles altogether. Angel arrived and parked his car at the head of the convoy. The riot van was next in position with six burly uniformed PCs with picks and shovels at their feet. The ARV was a black Mercedes with four marksmen in bulletproof vests and helmets, and behind them were Gawber and Crisp in their respective cars.
Ahmed was still pushing photographs with descriptions of Yardley on the back through the vehicle windows into any pair of hands that didn’t have one. There was a hubbub of animated chatter and the clunk of vehicle doors being hastily closed. Angel walked rapidly down the line.
The Morals of a Murderer Page 19