‘Follow in convoy. No blue lights. No sirens. Let’s go!’ he yelled to each of the drivers.
He reached his car and jumped in. Ahmed followed and slammed the door, then the superintendent came running down the steps and got in the front passenger seat.
Angel started the engine and the convoy pulled away.
He drove along Church Street to the roundabout, travelled three quarters of the way round it and then turned off towards the old part of town.
‘You didn’t say where we were going,’ the superintendent said.
‘Just a minute, sir,’ Angel said as he changed gear. He glanced towards the backseat. ‘Ahmed.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Keep your eye out behind. Make sure we all keep together.’
‘Right sir,’ Ahmed replied.
Angel glanced at the superintendent as he changed into top gear.
‘To answer your question, sir.’
‘Ay,’ Harker said. ‘About time.’
Progress was very satisfactory. They were making about 20 mph through the town centre. Suddenly, they were at the traffic lights. They had just changed to red.
Angel applied the brake.
Three big black foreign cars and a black van, all with tinted windows and CD plates sailed past the front of the car bonnet like a fleet of sailing-boats.
‘Did you see that lot,’ Angel said.
‘Ay,’ The superintendent sniffed impatiently.
‘What’s a convoy of CD cars doing trooping through Bromersley? Wonder what country they are from?’
‘Who cares?’ the superintendent snarled.
The lights changed. Angel let in the clutch. They moved on fifty yards.
‘Ahmed. Everybody still with us?’
‘Yes sir.’
The superintendent cleared his throat, very loudly.
Angel glanced at him and changed gear.
‘Oh. Yes sir. I’m sorry. I was saying, erm … the robbery was on Maundy Thursday, 17 April 2003.’
‘I know that, don’t I?’ the super sneered. ‘I know that. By god, you’ve made enough fuss about it. Tell me summat I don't know.’
‘Well, the day after Maundy Thursday is Good Friday. That’s a holiday. And it was a holiday on Easter Sunday, Monday and Tuesday following as well.’
‘Ay,’ said Harker. ‘So what?’
‘We’re going to Morris Yardley’s aunt’s shop, better known as Millington’s sweet-shop.’
The super’s eyes opened wide. ‘Oh? Used to get boxes of candied peel and all sorts of fancy chocolate and Christmas novelties from there.’ He sniffed. Then he added, ‘What are we going there for?’
Angel looked in the driving mirror. He could see the riot van nicely positioned behind him. He changed up to top gear again.
‘Well, sir, the few days following the robbery of the gold in London, Millington’s shop, here in Bromersley, would have been closed for the Easter holidays. Now, if you remember, the shop used to flood sometimes, say after a heavy downpour of rain, because it was below pavement level.’
‘It did. I’ve seen it,’ Harker said, suddenly becoming almost human. ‘I remember an old woman, Miss Millington, serving me on duckboards in wellingtons.’
‘Yes. Well, Mrs Buller-Price told me that her sister had had a drain put in two years ago. Now that would have been the time of the robbery: April 2003. Also, I remembered Morris Yardley was an experienced bricklayer; it was his trade for thirty years. Now he would have needed a safe place to hide the gold, wouldn’t he? The newspapers were then full of news of the robbery. Everybody was looking for him. The Met and all forty-three police forces were on red alert. It occurred to me that with the shop being closed for the Easter holiday, it must have seemed to him a golden opportunity (if you’ll excuse the pun) to bring the gold away from the heat in London and hide it in Bromersley under a new floor, whilst putting in a drain for his grateful old aunt!’
The superintendent’s jaw dropped.
Ahmed had been earwigging and his eyes shone like a B707’s landing-lights.
‘I’m sure the gold is there.’ Angel said, pushing up the indicator switch. ‘It’s the obvious place.’
The super rubbed his bony chin. ‘Yes. Hmmm.’
‘The imminent demolition of the shop would explain Yardley’s urgency to get out of prison and move the gold before it was buried under the new Multimass supermarket.’
‘Or dug out by workmen levelling the site, and shared out among themselves,’ the super added with a sniff. ‘Hmmm. Hmmm. And that means there’s a strong case against the woman, then.’
Angel changed down and turned left into Albert Street.
‘I don’t think Elizabeth Millington knew. Anyway, she’s dead of course. Died six months ago. And I don’t suppose her sister knew either. Anyway, the shop is still standing, with thirty or so other buildings — I remember — all boarded up, awaiting demolition to make room for the big new Multimass store, petrol station and car park. And there are eight-hundred and twenty gold bars under the floor.’
Ahmed’s face was a picture of wide-eyed amazement.
Angel turned the corner into Victoria Street.
‘We are nearly there.’ the superintendent said. ‘Have you decided how you are going to play this, Michael?’
‘Yes sir. We’ll be with the quiet mob at the back door, while a brass band plays at the front.’
The superintendent wrinkled his nose. He seemed to approve.
Angel followed the bend round in the road and there it was: a partly cleared stretch of seven acres of land that had once been mixed residential and business property, on the fringe of Bromersley town centre. In the middle of the site was a row of twenty-four stone-built houses, and two small retail shops, all empty and boarded up with chipboard. The fascia above the window of the far end shop could still be read: ENDERBY’s HIGH CLASS BAKERS. The nearest shop had a big faded wooden sign saying MILLINGTON’S SWEET SHOP. The roads, pavements, lampposts, foundations and sewer grates could still be seen. That morning, it was deserted. There were no cars, no vehicles, no demolition equipment, and no signs of life. No Yardleys. No children playing. Even the birds were giving it a miss.
Angel pulled on the handbrake, put his hand through the window and signalled the convoy to stop, then he got out of the car and walked up to each vehicle to give the driver his instructions. He returned to his car and led the Mercedes ARV and the riot van into the cleared area round the derelict streets to the back door of the sweet-shop. The sergeant leading the ARV had had instructions to make a rapid entrance, using whatever force was necessary, arresting any occupants, securing the premises and reporting back to him ASAP.
Meanwhile, DS Gawber and DS Crisp pulled away and let their cars roll quietly downhill to the front door of Millington’s shop. They were to wait two minutes exactly and then bang on the door and kick up a racket.
Angel stopped at the back of the shop and got out of the car. The superintendent and Ahmed joined him.
The armed men went straight into the building. He saw that no force to gain entrance had been necessary: the back door had already been torn off its hinges and thrown on to some flagstones.
In seconds, men’s voices called from inside the house.
‘All clear upstairs.’
‘All clear downstairs.’
The ARV sergeant poked his gun and his nose out of the back door.
‘It’s all clear, sir. There’s nobody here. We haven’t checked it for explosives.’
‘That’s all right. Thanks, lad.’ Angel turned to Ahmed. ‘Nip round to the front and tell DS Gawber and DS Crisp, we’re in.’
‘Yes sir.’
Angel and the superintendent pushed their way into the ramshackle remains of the big, old kitchen with the black fireplace grey with dust, the torn wallpaper showing six different floral patterns and the open door revealing wooden stairs leading to the upper floor. There was very little light. He brushed past a man who banged his elbow with hi
s gun.
‘Sorry sir.’
‘Can I get in the room that was the shop?’
‘Straight ahead, sir. Though that middle room and then through the door at the opposite side of it.’
‘Right, thanks.’
The superintendent said: ‘Can’t see anything, Michael.’
‘No sir. Stick with me.’
They lowered their heads and descended precariously down two steep internal steps into the old shop. Angel’s eyes were becoming adjusted. The ceiling was unusually low, just as he remembered it. Light leaked in round the edge of the boarded-up window. He could see the old wooden counter pushed back against the wall. The floor was uneven and like a freshly ploughed field. There were piles of fresh soil and chunks of concrete unevenly strewn across the floor. It smelled like a sewer and the air was cold and damp.
The superintendent sniffed. ‘We’re too late.’
Angel pulled an angry face but said nothing. He could smell something burning.
On the dusty shop counter Angel could see a balance scale, a short handled pick, a vacuum flask with its stopper out, a plastic screw-top cup half-full of coffee, two empty plastic sandwich packets, and the lid off a sweetie jar with a cigarette still smouldering in it. He stuck his little finger in the coffee. ‘Still warm,’ he muttered. He picked up the improvised ashtray and took it across the uneven shop floor to a shaft of light peeking through the edge of the boarded window. He peered closely at the smouldering tab end. It was no surprise to him to read the printed words: Capstan Full Strength.
Chapter Seventeen
It was a week later when Ahmed dashed down the corridor to Angel’s office from reception with an official-looking cream coloured envelope in his hand. He knocked eagerly on the door.
‘Come in.’
Ahmed bounced noisily into the room, panting.
‘Steady on, lad. Steady on. What’s up?’
‘This has just come for you by hand, sir. Ed Scrivens said a foreign chap in a top hat in a Rolls Royce brought it. He had to sign for it, in three places! Looks very important. I brought it straight down.’
‘What?’
Angel turned the envelope over and looked at the address. It had the letters CD stamped in red on both sides, and some writing in Arabic along the bottom of the face side. He frowned.
‘Must be my refund from the Inland Revenue,’ he quipped. ‘Let’s have a look. They didn’t have to send it “special delivery”.’ He ripped into the envelope and unfolded the single thick yellow typewritten A4 letterhead. ‘Hmm. It’s not from the tax office, Ahmed. P’raps it’s a special offer: probably twenty quid off a new wheelchair. Let’s see.’
He read:
From the office of the Head of Police and Judiciary,
Ministry of the Interior,
Dongo El Mitsoshopi,
Agara.
April 29th 2005.
Dear Inspector Angel,
I don’t suppose you ever expected to hear from me, but I want to thank you for the decent, mostly fair and honest way you have dealt with me. My mother was right, for a copper you are not bad. She had always said that you was. Now I am writing to you because, regrettably, I won’t be able to visit her in the UK for the next 20 years or so, as there aren’t any extradition laws between them and the UK. (But she can come over and visit me here, and I’d look after her and give her a right good time). In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would continue to keep an eye on her for me.
Coming to Agara is a colossal sacrifice, but all in all, life isn’t looking too bad. My lady friend, Enchantra is with me and we hope to get married very soon and settle down in this lovely hot climate. I’ve been appointed Chief of Police and head of the judiciary for which I feel I am well qualified.
When I arrived here, I spoke with the King about the RAF flying over the Mitsoshopi desert. I had heard about the UK government’s difficulty from the newspapers. The King has now phoned the PM and sanctioned the flight path, so that has all been sorted out. By the way, I have also persuaded the King to do something for you as a thank you. He has agreed to award you the golden Scimitar of Agara. It will be coming to you direct from the Minister of Culture with a letter very soon. It’s worth about £10,000, so if you don’t want to wear it you can always flog it at Sothebys.
With best wishes,
Yours truly,
Morris Yardley Esq.,
Chief of Police and head of the Judiciary.
Angel pulled up outside the farmhouse, got out of the car, walked up to the door and banged the knocker. The door opened and Mrs Buller-Price filled the doorway. A torrent of barking dogs piled out. She smiled at Angel and waved her hands about excitedly.
‘Come in. Come in. It’s so nice of you to call. Now you dogs be quiet. And get out of the way. Mush! You know the Inspector by now.’
The barking and leaping stopped, except for Bogey.
‘Quiet! Bogey! Quiet!’ she bawled and winged a copy of the Farmers' Weekly through the air at him; he dodged it expertly and ran off. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll just put the kettle on, it’s coffee time. And I’ve got some lovely fresh cream buns. Made them last night.’
She went into the kitchen, plugged in the kettle and pressed the switch.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Inspector. In there. I’ll bring this through in a jiffy.’
He nodded, turned and came back into the sitting-room.
‘Sit wherever you like,’ she called.
He lowered himself into the easy-chair facing the fire and looked down at the assortment of dogs already snoozing on the carpet in front of him. He took a long white envelope out of his inside pocket, looked at it, and put it back again.
Mrs Buller-Price leaned in from the kitchen.
‘Is that the letter from my son?’
‘What?’ he said in surprise and then: ‘No,’ he replied quickly.
‘He phoned me, you know,’ she said waving her hands in the air. ‘What a delight to hear his voice and to know he’s all right. The line from Agara was as clear as a bell. Told me where he was. With Enchantra. I am glad Morris is settling down. And she’s such a nice girl.’
Angel shook his head pensively.
‘We had a near miss with your son, last Monday.’
She arrived with the tray, placed it on the little table, found a rubber ball in her chair, put it on the sideboard and sat down.
‘Yes. He told me. Must let the tea mash for two and half minutes. I’ll watch the clock.’
‘You should have informed me, you know. When did he phone you?’
‘Saturday morning, eleven o’clock. He said he had written to you the day before. He read a copy of the letter he had sent to you over the phone. Anyway he didn’t tell me anything you hadn’t already worked out.’
‘You’ll know all about the gold then?’
‘I was amazed. My dear sister Elizabeth would have been dumbfounded if she had known. What’s that in your pocket, then, Inspector? Come on. You can tell me about that.’
Angel slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the long white envelope.
‘I am afraid I have brought you the summons,’ he said quietly.
‘Oh,’ she said, shaking her head very slightly. ‘Oh. What’s it say?’ She straightened the cups, saucers and spoons. ‘Would you read it to me?’
Angel sighed. He held the envelope in his hand and said:
‘Well, I needn’t read it, really. It’s simply a document from the court directing you to attend before a judge at Leeds Assizes, on the tenth of May at ten a.m., to face a charge of aiding and abetting the escape of Morris Yardley from Her Majesty’s prison Welham on the nineteenth of April. That’s what it amounts to.’
She sucked in a length of air, and her lips quivered. ‘Oooh! I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘We need to organize a solicitor for you,’ he said gently.
She opened a round tin on the tray and lifted out the buns.
/> ‘I can see old Mr Rubens. He’s been very good to me and my husband over the years. He does all Michael Parkinson’s stuff and Dickie Bird’s. He’ll see me all right, Inspector. Will you be there?’
‘I’m afraid I’ll be giving evidence against you.’
‘Oh?’ she said with a pout.
‘But you knew that.’
Her jaw quivered, shaking all her chins.
‘Will I have to go to prison?’
‘That’s a matter for the judge. In view of your age and the circumstances, it is unlikely.’
‘I can’t possibly go to prison,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Who would look after my animals? And what about the milk for Windsor Castle? The Queen would never forgive me.’
‘You’ll probably get a hefty fine.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking very troubled. ‘How much?’
‘That’s up to the judge. But it might be quite punitive,’ he said evenly. ‘The judge will see it like that, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh dear.’
She shook her head.
*
It was Monday morning, 9 May. A week had passed and it was the day before Angel had to attend the Leeds Assizes, Regina v Victoria Buller-Price, to be heard in front of Justice Erin Skool-Friedlaker.
Angel was in his office, reading through his deposition when the phone rang. He reached out for the handset.
‘Yes?’
It was the superintendent.
‘I’ve heard from the Inland Revenue.’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘They have looked into the status of Evan Jones; everything appears to be in order. He can have his gold back.’ The phone clicked and went dead.
Angel shook his head and replaced the handset. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was a smiling Ahmed. He was waving a sheet of A4. ‘What you got, lad?’
‘I don’t think you’ll have seen this.’ Ahmed placed the paper on the desk in front of him. ‘It’s just come down the wire.’
‘Oh ay?’ Angel said, looking down at it. It read:
The Morals of a Murderer Page 20