She sighed. Then wrinkled her nose. It was a pretty nose.
‘On reflection, on this occasion, I think it probably was a man,’ she added. ‘He rang again at about nine, to complete the arrangements.’
‘He didn’t give you his name?’ Angel said.
‘He said it was hush-hush and confidential. He told me that he had something afoot, a really important scheme that was going to pay off big time. He boasted that he was very well placed with somebody who was really going to put him on easy street, and that I wasn’t to worry. He promised me that everything was going to be simply wonderful. All I had to do was trust him and believe in him. And he also said I’d never believe who it was. As if it was Donald Trump or somebody like that. Huh! He was such a practised liar. He once told me he was working for the CID. To tell the truth, I’d heard it all before! Anyway, he took some shirts, pyjamas and a razor and stuff in a suitcase, and said he didn’t know how long he’d be away. I’ll be back before you know it, he said. He left the house at about twenty past nine that night and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. I’m afraid for his welfare, Inspector. I don’t know what’s going on. I am really afraid for him. Gabriel is arrogant, conceited, stupid and lovable. He isn’t much, but he’s my husband and I want him back.’
Angel sighed. ‘Well, Zoë, you haven’t given me much to go on, but I’ll do my best.’
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
‘Come in,’ Angel called. The interruption disturbed his thoughts.
It was Gawber.
‘What is it, Ron? I’ve just had Grainger’s wife in here.’
‘Yes. I saw her in reception. Nice-looking woman, too good for him.’
‘Aye,’ Angel enthusiastically agreed. ‘What do you want?’
‘You wanted a report on Katrina Chancey’s credit cards.’
‘Yes? Come in. Sit down.’
‘Well, she had three. She certainly gave them some hammer. Her last transaction was Wednesday, the eleventh of April, two hundred and forty pounds at Monique’s, a fashion shop in Leeds. Nothing since.’
Angel wrinkled up his nose. ‘I wonder what she got for her money, a pair of matching handkerchiefs?’
‘I’ve enquired, sir. It’s on the chitty. She got a red dress. A Dare Devil model.’
A wry smile appeared for a moment. ‘Magic,’ he said. ‘And what about her mobile?’
‘Nothing since Friday the thirteenth. Just after four, she phoned the Top Notch model agency in London.’
‘That it?’
He nodded.
Angel pursed his lips. ‘She’s disappeared and doesn’t want to be found, or she’s kidnapped, or – dread the thought – she’s dead.’
Gawber sighed heavily.
‘Gabriel Grainger left on Friday night, the thirteenth. Zoë’s heard nothing since. The dates fit, Ron,’ he said with a sniff.
‘And he is known to be a hell of a philanderer.’
‘Isn’t it possible that they’ve pushed off together, sir?’
Angel sighed. ‘Yes. Anything is possible. I don’t know. But Grainger is an old customer, and I have a bit of an interest in him. We’ve got his pic in records. I want you to have it printed up – let Ahmed do it – and circulated round the station to all officers. He’s been missing two weeks now. But that’s a long time for a lump like that to be away from his wife, especially one as juicy as Zoë. Unless, of course, he prefers something younger with a barrel of money.’
Gawber smiled.
‘I hope I am not going to have to be the one to tell her he’s been found dead somewhere,’ Angel added.
Gawber looked up. ‘Why do you say that, sir?’
‘Grainger’s the sort of man who takes risks, unnecessary risks. Sometimes just for the hell of it. Just for the thrill of danger … he thinks the experience is worth more than the outcome. Zoë said that he was going on a job that offered big rewards. It required some travelling. He took a suitcase. Two weeks is a hell of a long time in this business, Ron. He could have travelled round the world in that time. We have to make of it what we can.’
Gawber couldn’t make anything of it. He shook his head, went out and closed the door.
‘Can’t find DS Crisp anywhere, sir.’
‘What?’ Angel roared. ‘Well keep looking. He should have been at Wolff’s scene of crime. I’ll have his skin when he does turn up.’
Ahmed stifled a smile. ‘And there’s DI Elliott to see you, sir.’
‘Right, show him in, then buzz off and find Crisp.’ Ahmed went. ‘Come in, Matthew,’ Angel called.
There were big smiles exchanged on both sides.
‘Great to see you again. Sit down. Sit down.’
‘I went straight to Wolff’s shop,’ Elliott said. ‘Met your SOCO chap, Don Taylor. It’s a great find, Michael. That safe is a treasure-trove in more ways than one. Taylor said there were prints on the plastic bags. Also some of the larger stones are big enough to have partial prints on them, so, with a bit of luck, he may be able to make an ID and give you a name or names. They may all be Wolff’s own, of course. But you might get a useful lead.’
Angel’s eyes shone briefly. There was the first possible lead to Wolff’s murderer. His heart began to thump. A warm glow spread across his chest. ‘That’s good news, Matthew.’
Elliott smiled. ‘Don Taylor says the cash total value is over four million pounds, almost all in twenty-pound notes.’
‘The wig business was pretty good, eh?’
They smiled.
‘Apart from a platinum diamond tiara, there is no finished jewellery. Wolff seemed to have been opening the settings, poking out the stones and sorting them into size and grade.’
‘To obscure the source?’
‘Almost certainly. And he seemed to know his stuff. He was mainly interested in large precious gemstones, diamonds, emeralds, rubies and sapphires. Each was kept separate and packed in a small polythene bag. The other stones, especially where they were small, under a carat or so, such as opals, turquoise, rhodolite (or red) garnets and so on were put in little polythene bags and then in boxes mixed. Large single stones, or specially interesting stones such green garnets or Mexican fire opals were separately bagged and boxed. There was very little gold or platinum there. Presumably he either melted the settings down himself to an amorphous lump, or sold the settings as they were, to a dodgy bullion dealer as scrap. There’s plenty of them around.’
‘I need to find the bullion dealer Wolff sold to.’
‘Not easy.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘There’s usually at least one in every town.’
‘Those chaps keep their dealings very private. They would-n’t even tell you whether it’s raining or not.’
‘And once the gold is melted, of course, there’s no possible trace.’
‘That’s right. And, Michael, Wolff might have used a middleman. Extra security. Give a chap two per cent of a few thousand quid, a sort of handling charge. It can be a tidy figure, but a small expense to pay to obscure entirely his identity. He had plenty to worry about to make a thorough job of it. We, the police, may have been his first worry, but he also had predatory thieves, and the Inland Revenue to dodge.’
Angel nodded. ‘Well, he was being very canny, separating the stones from the gold and platinum.’
‘Exactly. He might have been equally canny in converting the gold, bullion and stones into cash.’
‘Who would he sell the stones to?’
‘There are specialist stone dealers in Hatton Garden. I’ll ask around.’
‘Right, Matthew. Thanks for coming so quickly. I’ll wait to hear from you. I think I know where to start looking.’
Angel stopped his car outside Reuben’s second-hand furniture shop on Doncaster Road. There was tatty furniture outside on the pavement in front of the window. There were six assorted chairs, a commode, and an old settee. They had price tickets made from scraps of cardboard stuck on to them with Sellotape. Behind them there w
ere more handmade signs and placards stuck on the inside of the dirty shop window: ‘Quality Furniture bought. Best prices paid.’ ‘House Clearances – same day.’ ‘Formica Table and two chairs £12.’ ‘Beds £12, £6 and £4.’ ‘Stag wardrobe with mirror £12.’ ‘Wedding rings bought.’ ‘Best prices paid for gold, silver and platinum.’
The inside of the shop was rammed jam-full of old furniture and household effects. The stuff was packed so tightly that a sort of tunnel had been created so that customers could squeeze through to reach the little kitchen in the back where the actual business was transacted.
The shop hadn’t always looked like that. It used to be a bit smarter, when it was run by Frank Reuben, whose name was still across the window, but he was in Belmarsh for hijacking a van loaded with mint 20p pieces in South Wales in 2002. He had another year of his sentence to do.
For the time being, it was Dolly Reuben’s business and she was running it her way.
Angel navigated his way through the short tunnel of dusty furniture, smelly upholstery and rolled up carpets. A bell rang as he stepped on to a piece of floorboarding, to forewarn Dolly of an approach.
He came through the arch and into the little room. There she was in a rocking-chair in front of the fire: a skinny, mean-looking woman with a big shock of red hair. She was smoking a cigarette and looking at the doorway expectantly as Angel came in. Standing by her with his back to the fire was her son and henchman, Timothy. It was hard to believe she was his mother. He was six feet two inches tall and must have weighed twenty-five stones. He had tattoos of a series of intertwined snakes up his arms. His eyes were dull and he usually looked down at the floor. He was lumpy, awkward and rarely spoke.
When Dolly Reuben recognized Angel, her face dropped and the chair stopped rocking. Without removing the cigarette from her mouth, she said, ‘What do you want, Mr Angel?’
She had a voice like she gargled in petrol, and could have stopped a Scottish pipe band with a single call.
Angel smiled. ‘Just passing, Dolly. Just passing,’ he lied.
She knew he was lying. It was just a game they played.
He looked round the tiny kitchen. There was nothing interesting … or illegal to observe. He knew there wouldn’t be.
‘Always nice to see you, Mr Angel.’ Now she lied. ‘Only used to seeing you when you’re … a bit desperate … looking for something … that … that isn’t there.’
He smiled again. ‘Oh, it’s there, all right, Dolly. It’s just a question of putting your finger on it, you know?’
‘You remember my son, Timothy?’ she said, pointing a talon at the lump.
‘Oh yes. How do, Timothy?’
The lump raised his head, nodded and then resumed gazing at the linoleum.
‘Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll tell you if I’ve seen it around.’
‘Why not? Why not indeed? You may have known a man called Peter Wolff. He was a wig maker. Had a shop on Market Street.’
She shook her head.
He took out his wallet. In the fold he had three postcard-size photographs of Peter Wolff, Katrina Chancey and Gabriel Grainger. He fingered through them, selected the one he wanted and held it up for both of them to see.
‘Timothy, we don’t know this man, do we?’
The lump looked up, said, ‘No Mam,’ and resumed gazing at the linoleum.
‘We don’t know him, Inspector Angel,’ she said with a sneer, which was the best she could manage for a smile. ‘He’s not been in this shop.’
‘After he died we discovered a safe full of gemstones, gold, jewellery-parts and money.’
‘Oh, really,’ she croaked. ‘Did you hear that, Timothy?’
‘Yes, Mam.’
‘Has he ever been in this shop, Timothy?’
‘No, Mam.’
She nodded approvingly.
Angel sniffed and said, ‘Turns out, he’s the Fox, Dolly.’
‘Really,’ she said apparently uninterested. There was a silence, then she nodded and said, ‘Feather in your cap then, eh, Inspector?’
‘Sort of, I suppose, Dolly. Thing is, he was separating the stones from the settings, and selling the settings, presumably, as scrap.’
‘Whatever next, Mr Angel?’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Look, Dolly, I know you always say you don’t know anything about anything that I ask you. On this occasion, a man was murdered. I know it wasn’t pleasant going to court and seeing your Frank get sent down, but that was a case of robbery where nobody got hurt. Now this is very different. This is a case of murder. I’m not suggesting you had anything to do with it, but you wouldn’t want to hinder my investigation into a murder case, would you?’
Dolly Reuben pulled a face like a stick of rhubarb and then shrugged.
‘If you took in any of this man’s scrap gold, and you had no reason to believe it had been acquired dishonestly, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.’
She took a heavy pull on the cigarette, blew a cloud in his general direction and then shook her head.
‘If you know anything, for goodness’ sake tell me. You may be able to tell me some small thing that might help me to find his murderer.’
‘We don’t know nothing, here, Mr Angel. I’ve told you.’
‘Do you know, Dolly, there is an entire filing cabinet stuffed with papers and records that I haven’t had time to look at. Peter Wolff, the Fox, was quite a meticulous keeper of records. If I later find out from some other source that you took any scrap gold or platinum in from him, I may charge you with hindering the police in the execution of their duty.’
‘Push off, Mr Angel. I told you I don’t know nothing, and you are hindering me in the execution of my work.’
His jaw muscles tightened. He put the photograph back into the fold of his wallet, pocketed it and took a step towards the way out, then he turned.
‘That ancient settee you have out front, Dolly. Have you got a certificate to show that the stuffing is fire resistant?’
Her red eyes flashed. ‘Eh? What? No.’
‘Then you are committing an offence in offering it for sale. You’d better shift it off there, smartish. It’s illegal to sell it.’
Angel banged the gear lever into first and pulled away from the front of Dolly Reuben’s shop. She might be telling the truth, she might not. But either way, he wasn’t going to be able to pierce that wall of denial. It came as no surprise that thieves trusted her with their stolen bullion. She must be a very rich woman.
This case was getting him down. There’d been no DNA, no fingerprints, no footprints, no witnesses, no sign of the weapon, and no motive. It was time for a lucky break. He was thinking he’d get Gawber and Crisp and Scrivens, if need be, to drop everything and concentrate on finding out where Wolff had sold his gold.
He turned the steering wheel of the BMW into the town centre and on to Victoria Street. Among the few pedestrians on the pavement he recognized a tall man in a smart raincoat, walking like a prince on an afternoon stroll. It was Irish John, John Corcoran to his friends. He wondered if he had anything for him.
Angel tapped down the indicator and pulled up to kerb. He lowered the car window.
‘John,’ he called. ‘John!’
Irish John glanced back and then began to run.
Angel put the car in gear and began to drive alongside of him for forty yards or so, but he continued running.
Angel put his foot down, overtook him, stopped, got out of the car and stood by the car door.
‘John,’ he called. ‘It’s me!’
Corcoran saw him. His jaw dropped and he stopped running. He looked relieved and panted up to the car. ‘Oh, it’s you. For the loife of me, I tort you was the Costello brothers.’
‘Get in,’ Angel said. When they were both inside the car and had fastened their seatbelts, he said: ‘Who are the Costello brothers?’
Corcoran shook his head.
‘They’re bad news,’ he said. ‘They’r
e the reason I’m over here. I’d go back home if it wasn’t for them. They run all the rackets in Dublin. If it makes money, they’re into it.’
‘What have you to do with them?’
‘Nuttin’. Nuttin’ at all. They say that I owe them money. Something to do with me going with one of their girls. I didn’t know she worked for them else I would have dropped her like a hot King Edward’s, I can tell you. I paid her and I bought her a lot of drinks. There are plenty of girls in Dublin since the liberation. I don’t need to find a girlfriend out of Costello’s clan. There’s plenty of free enterprise. They reckon I owe them a service charge of a hundred euros. It’s extortion, Inspector. Huh! Not likely.’
Angel turned into Church Street and across the front of Bromersley police station.
Corcoran’s eyes flashed. ‘Where are you taking me? I am not going in there! The rattle of handcuffs, the smell of all that blue serge and silver polish dries up me troat and brings out my rash.’
Angel smiled.
‘All right,’ he said. He changed up a gear, made three right turns and finished up in the car park of the Fat Duck.
Corcoran was all smiles.
They went inside. Angel ordered a Guinness and a bottle of German beer.
‘I’m drinking this Guinness under false pretences, Inspector,’ Corcoran said as he squatted down on a stool opposite Angel at a little table in the corner.
Angel couldn’t pretend he wasn’t disappointed. He wrinkled his nose.
‘I asked around all the people I know,’ Corcoran said. ‘The people who I can trust. They’d all pretty much heard about the wig maker’s murder, but there wasn’t a whisper about the man’s reputation … or anything else about him. None of them seemed to know him first hand. Well, none of my friends and acquaintances are in the business of wearing a wig, you’ll understand, especially at his prices.’
The Wigmaker Page 10