‘How long you been out?’ Angel said.
‘Ah. We not going to be talking about my stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure, are we, Inspector? You didn’t coax me into this glorious alcoholic palace to talk to me about my holidays, did you?’
Angel smiled and sipped the beer.
Corcoran leaned forward and said quietly: ‘If you really must know, I did ten months in Armley, then moved for a year to Lincoln and then six months at Boston, which according to my mattemattics means I come out two weeks ago today.’
‘And have you found a job yet? Is the probation office doing its stuff?’
‘Well I don’t know about that. I went down to the “Labour” and they went through my qualifications and stuff and at first, they could only offer me a job on the bins. Well I have niver been so insulted. Then there was a vacancy driving a forklift. That sounded like real hard work, moving timber around for eight hours a day. My back won’t stand that sort of abuse, Inspector Angel. I prefer something more … more in keeping with my … breeding and education. There’s a driving job going, driving a big nob round, it’s only temporary, they said. I would have to wear a uniform. So I have to go for an interview for that, tomorrow morning, I think it was.’
Angel shook his head. ‘Did you always take so long to answer a simple question, John?’
‘It’s on account of my being married once, you know, Inspector. Oh yes. Many moons ago now, I’m glad to say.’
‘Didn’t know you’d been married.’
‘Oh, Inspector. In those long and dark days the thing was, if you became aware of a silence, then that was the time to start saying what you had to say, and to keep going and get it out of your system until you were interrupted, which in her mother’s house didn’t take very long at all, I can tell you.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Did you and your wife not have your own house when you got married, then?’
‘Oh yes. Her mudder promised to give a house to her loving daughter Maureen and myself on the day the connubials was blessed with child.’
‘So you were a year or so before … you got a house?’
‘No sir. Two weeks. In fact, she was rushed to the doctor’s straight after the connubials. The wedding dress was too tight round the … middle, you understand. And the excitement and the booze and that. And do you know,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘I was denied the matrimonial bed and the conjugals until three weeks after we were married!’
‘But you got the house?’
‘Oh yes. Oh yes, Inspector. Oh yes. I got the house, the bed, the furniture, the bills, the wife, the baby, and the mother-in-law. It was just too much for a poor, simple man, to acquire all at once. So I waited a full week – that was a respectable length of time, I thought – and then I hoofed it away. I thought that some other poor bastard down on his luck could have the pleasure of Maureen and her mother. A ready made home for him to walk straight into, if you see what I mean. Don’t you think that I did the right thing, Inspector Angel?’
Angel stifled a smile. ‘If you let her divorce you and paid maintenance of the baby.’
‘What! I should cocoa. The baby wasn’t mine. Would you believe it? It came out that it was the mother-in-law’s lodger who had had that honour. And he was quick to move on. And years later, after her mother died, the old witch, Maureen got caught up with a metal-basher from Cork who could give her all she needed. Well, that’s what she said. Anyway she needed a quiet divorce from myself so that she could tie the connubials with him. This was quite a few years ago now. So we agreed most amicably to a divorce. But Maureen wouldn’t divorce in Dublin. Oh no. She said it wasn’t respectable. It should be done in an English court. Out of the way, you know. Strict Roman Catholic she was. So I brought her over to Liverpool. Stayed in a boarding house down Islington Road. Tell you what, Inspector Angel. We made up for the conjugals we couldn’t have between the wedding and the birth of Brigid. Anyway, we went before the judge and pleaded on the grounds of incompatibility. Incompatibility! I told the judge that I thought that that was putting it mildly and do you know what, Inspector?’
Angel shook his head.
‘He fined me ten pounds for contempt of court!’
Corcoran took a good gulp of the Guinness, then he shut one eye, lowered his voice and said, ‘But you’ve got me jabbering, and that’s not what it’s about. What is it you’re wanting from me, Inspector?’
‘Information, John. For money.’
‘What sort of money? Would it be enough to get me legless?’
‘Probably. You see, John, I’ve got a dead body on my hands and I can’t find who killed him. He was shot in the heart close up.’
Corcoran’s eyes flashed. His hands went up and came down. ‘Just a minute, Inspector. This is Irish John you’re talking to. You know I don’t do shooters. I don’t go anywheres near shooters. That’s porridge long time. Strictly not for me. I keeps away from wild men with shooters.’
‘I know that, and I’m not going to ask you anything about the murderer. I want to know about the victim.’
‘Oh. Aaaah!’ he said agreeably.
‘His name is Peter Wolff and he was a wig maker. He had a shop at thirty-eight Market Street. Does it mean anything to you?’
‘A wig maker?’ Corcoran said. He lifted his glass, emptied it and lowered it to the table noisily. Angel pointed at it, Corcoran nodded and said, ‘It’s my turn.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Angel said. He stood up, took the glasses to the bar and returned with the same again.
He placed the Guinness in front of Corcoran.
‘I been thinking, Inspector. To tell the truth I niver heard of him. A wig maker. Don’t like the sound of it. Messing with other people’s hair. No. Peter Wolff, did you say? And he’s been murdered?’
‘Ask around will you? There’s a bit of money in it for you.’
Angel reached his office at ten minutes to five. He immediately reached out for the phone and tapped in SOCO’s number. He eventually reached Don Taylor.
‘I’m still waiting for your report on Peter Wolff’s place, Don?’
‘It’s almost ready, sir. A bit difficult and unusual, what the fire didn’t damage, the water did.’
‘I was looking to you to throw me a lifeline.’
‘Nothing very direct, sir. No fingerprints, no footprints, no bodily fluids. No DNA. Only the victim’s.’
He rubbed his chin and licked his bottom lip. ‘Wasn’t there anything?’
‘Yes, sir. Very unusual. Splashes of a metal, mainly on the floor in the shop and the back room downstairs, and taken by treading and being carried on Woolf’s footwear to the two upper floors. There were traces on his slippers and his shoes. It’s almost as if there was some sort of a metal repair business being carried on downstairs.’
‘What sort of metal?’
‘We have to make sure, sir, but initial tests indicate that the dust is a high grade of gold. And some platinum.’
Angel frowned. That was unusual. He felt a warm vibration in his chest. This investigation was getting interesting. ‘When will you know?’
‘I’ll check it out with the laboratory at Wetherby, sir. I’ll send one of the victim’s shoes. A couple of days or so.’
‘Right. Anything else?’
‘There is one item we couldn’t deal with. That might prove helpful.’
‘What’s that?’
‘There’s a huge safe on the ground floor, under the stairs leading to the first floor. It’s bricked in, amateurishly, but strongly. Probably did it himself. It was hidden behind a hinged panel. All clever stuff. We can’t open it with the kit we’ve got, and the keys weren’t anywhere on the premises.’
‘Searched his pockets?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Found a bunch of keys for the shop and that. Thing is, the safe is an old Castle Mark II. Big job. It needs two keys with extra long shanks. Might be ten or fifteen inches long or even longer. We’ve searched everywhere. And I mean everywhere?’
‘Have to bring in a locksmith from Castles.’
‘That might take a few days. Is there a serial number on it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you finished dusting it?’
‘Yes, sir. Just Wolff’s dabs on it, sir.’
‘Is someone from uniform still on duty at Wolff’s shop?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘Better put them on their mettle, Don.’
As Angel replaced the phone he was thinking he didn’t want someone with the keys, the murderer perhaps, who could have stolen them the night of the murder, calling back there to help himself to the contents of Wolff’s safe. He couldn’t imagine what was in there. Taylor had said it was a big safe … Wigs, hair, cash? Something that was going to pin-point Wolff’s murderer? He grunted aloud. He would have to wait until tomorrow. It was five o’clock. Might as well call it a day.
Angel was in bed, Mary next to him, both asleep. A distant clock chimed. Angel suddenly woke up. He blinked several times. The bedroom was as black as an undertaker’s hat. He peered at the luminous clock dial on the bedside table. It was two o’clock. He lay still there a moment listening to his own breathing. Then he listened to Mary’s. It was regular, slow and peaceful. He sat up in bed and scratched his stomach. Something had disturbed him. He usually slept like a well-fed Labrador. He noticed his heart was beating faster than usual. Then it came to him in a flash. It was something that had been bothering him all evening. He simply couldn’t shake off thinking about the concealed safe at Peter Wolff’s shop, and how the contents might throw light on the identity of his murderer. He gently peeled back the sheet; he didn’t want to disturb Mary. He put his feet on the pink carpet and fumbled around for his slippers.
Twelve minutes later, he was dressed – in a fashion – and was driving his car into the almost empty park at the rear of Bromersley police station. He let himself in the rear door with his card, dashed up the deserted corridor to his office … switched on the light and made a beeline to Wolff’s filing cabinet standing in the corner.
He had been thinking. Logically, at the time of Peter Wolff’s murder, the keys to the safe had to have been on the victim’s premises. Where else would they have been? SOCO hadn’t found them, so they couldn’t have been there at the time of the search. Therefore they had to have been removed by the murderer or by the police. The only items authorized to be taken from the premises were Wolff’s body and the green filing cabinet. Clearly SOCO would have searched the body, so unless the murderer had taken them with the intention of returning, the only remaining logical place for the keys to be was in the filing cabinet.
Angel purposefully snatched open the three drawers one by one. Each of the drawers, which glided out on runners, was packed with thin green cardboard files suspended on rails and labelled by tags that projected an inch or so from the top of each file. Systematically and carefully he pulled out handfuls of files and their contents from each drawer to see if either of the two unusual-looking keys had been concealed underneath the files in the bottom of the drawer. There was no luck in the top two drawers, but when he lifted files out of the bottom drawer, there, staring at him, were two keys about fourteen inches long. They had a flat castle motif at the end of each key, so he was positive that they must be the ones. His heart missed a beat as he snatched them up, stuffed them into his raincoat pocket, where they protruded precariously. He replaced the files carefully and precisely, closed all the drawers and dashed out of the station.
He hardly noticed the quietness of the yellow-illuminated, deserted streets and the eeriness of the night. His mind was exclusively concentrated on the contents and possible evidence that might be revealed if he was able to open Wolff’s safe.
He stopped the BMW outside 38 Market Street. The wig shop still had blue on white DO NOT CROSS tape across the black burned frontage.
He glanced round for the uniformed policeman who should have been on high profile duty to keep looters and Nosy Parkers and anyone else away. He saw the glow of a cigarette end in the shadow of the covered doorway of the greetings card shop next door to Wolff’s. The red glow suddenly disappeared as a uniformed constable stepped forward.
‘Can I help you, sir,’ a deep voice said.
‘It’s DI Angel, lad. Who are you?’
‘Oh. Good evening, or is it good morning, sir? It’s John Weightman. Is everything all right?’
Angel was pleased. He knew the constable very well indeed. He was one of the oldest and was also considered to be one of the most reliable men on Bromersley force.
‘Yes, fine, John.’
‘Something urgent on, sir?’
‘Not exactly urgent. No. A development, you could say, just come to a head,’ Angel said, making for the shop door. ‘Is it locked?’
‘No sir.’
‘I need some light. Follow me inside and bring your torch.’
Weightman shone the powerful flashlight as Angel pushed open the glass door. Everything was black. The water had drained away from the floor, leaving burnt linoleum and scorched paintwork.
Angel wrinkled his nose. There was a fusty smell. Reminded him of latrines in Strangeways that were discovered to be bunged up with old pin-ups of Heather Mills.
He picked his way to the place under the stairs that Taylor had described to him. The hinged L-shaped partition was now standing an inch or so from the wall. Angel put his hands round the edges of the panel and pulled the partition away. It swung towards him on its hinges to reveal its secret.
‘Shine your torch on here, John,’ Angel said, looking at the green-painted safe with its copper-coloured identity tag, brass handle and keyholes.
‘Ooo. Didn’t know that was there.’
‘Castle Mark II. You won’t come across many of those,’ Angel said, looking for the two keyholes. He found them easily enough. They were made in a coppery-looking metal, vertically set, one above the other and about six inches apart.
He pulled the keys out of his pocket. ‘Shine your light on these, John,’ he said.
‘My goodness, sir. Never seen keys that long.’
‘They’ll go right into the metal casing. Prevents jellymen and lockpicks alike.’
Angel looked to see if there was any indication as to which key was for which keyhole. Near the flat Castle logo on the shank of one key was stamped a letter U, and on the other in the same place, the letter L. Upper and lower, he guessed. He inserted the keys, one at a time, pushed them all the way in, leaving only an inch and the finger grip with the logo on it sticking out, and then turned them. They each made a satisfying clunk. He reached out for the brass handle, pressed it down, pulled it towards him and the heavy safe door silently opened.
‘Let me borrow your torch, John.’
Angel peered eagerly into the safe. It was ram-jammed full, packed as tightly and neatly as a watch.
There were three shelves. The top shelf was stuffed with paper money, twenty pound notes in elastic bands, they seemed to be. The paper money extended to the back of the safe, as far as he could see. There must have been many thousands of pounds there.
‘Good heavens!’ Weightman said with a whistle. ‘Aladdin’s cave!’
‘Aye. Careful not to touch anything inside the safe, John. SOCO have to do their stuff there yet.’
He shone the torch on the middle shelf. This was stuffed tightly with sixty or more small cardboard boxes; on the end of each box was a neat handwritten label. He could read: diamonds, emeralds, rubies, pearls, opals, turquoise, amber, 9 ct jump rings, 18 ct chain, 18 ct jump rings and so on. On the floor of the safe, Angel could make out the diamond laden tips of a tiara half-wrapped with what seemed to be a ginger wig, on top of which was a plastic mask.
Angel felt a wa
rm glow in his chest; a tremor of excitement made his hands shake briefly and his heart began to thump. This was quite a coup.
‘Peter Wolff must have been the Fox, John.’
‘The Fox? Really, sir? The wig maker?’
‘There’s his wig and mask and—’
‘Wow! Thank goodness, sir,’ the big man replied smiling. ‘That’s an end to that. Whatever will the papers write about now?’
Angel stood back from the safe, sighed, reluctantly closed it, locked it and withdrew both keys.
CHAPTER NINE
* * *
Angel pulled out the address book in his desk drawer, found the number he wanted, picked up the phone and dialled the number. It rang out. It kept ringing out. It seemed to be ringing for an interminably long time. He looked at his watch. It was 6 a.m. He cast his eyes round the office and then beyond, out through the window. As he listened to the monotonous brrr brrr, brr brr, he noticed the early morning sunlight dancing lightly on the yellowy-green leaves of the silver birch in the garden of the insurance company offices next door. He suddenly realized that maybe winter was really over, and that that day promised to be sunny, maybe the actual beginning of a glorious summer.
There was still no reply and he was about to drop the phone back in its cradle when there was a click and a half awake man’s voice from out of the side of his mouth, the other side being covered in pillow, grunted, ‘Yeah? Yeah? What is it?’
‘Good morning, Matthew. Michael Angel, Bromersley, here. The Fox is dead, Matthew. I thought you’d like to know.’
‘What? The Fox is dead?’
‘Yes. And it’s a beautiful May morning. The sun is shining. The birds are coughing. Summer is on its way.’
‘Have you seen the bloody time, Michael?’
‘I have been up half the night.’
The Wigmaker Page 8