It was Harker.
Angel blinked. It wasn’t usual for the superintendent to contact him on his mobile. He wondered what was wrong.
He quickly pressed the speak button.
‘Angel here. Yes, sir?’
‘Another post office van driver attacked,’ Harker bawled, ‘while emptying a postbox on Earl Street! His van stolen. Uniformed are there. I’ve sent Crisp, but I want you in on it. It’s getting very worrying.’
‘Right, sir.’
Angel agreed: physical attacks in daylight hours were always extremely worrying.
He closed up the mobile, emptied his glass, ran out of The Fat Duck, got into his car, pulled out of the car park, turned left into Sheffield Road, then left again into Earl Street. Apart from a dress shop on the corner, Earl Street consisted entirely of houses, mostly terraced.
He couldn’t see any signs of police vehicles, or a postbox. He changed up to top gear and put his foot down on the accelerator. The long street had a dog’s leg bend towards the bottom of it. He followed it round to reveal an ambulance, a marked police Range Rover and Crisp’s car parked at the side of the road, one behind the other. Fifteen people were clustered around something on the pavement. He sped up to the scene, stopped and got out of the car. He could hear Crisp despatching six PCs on a house-to-house enquiry. Big PC John Weightman was waving his arms expansively and saying, ‘Did anybody see what happened? Come along now, if you didn’t see the assault, please move along. Thank you. Did you see anything, sir?’
Angel forced his way through the crowd.
‘Police, excuse me, sir, madam. Please let me pass. Thank you.’
He reached the centre of the throng and could now see two medics, one in blue and one in predominately white, crouched over the still figure of a middle-aged man on the pavement, fixing a collar block round his neck, a stretcher by his side, and behind them a letterbox with its door wide open, half filled with post and a few envelopes scattered on the pavement.
Crisp spotted his boss and made his way across to him. Angel saw him.
‘Ah, Crisp. What happened? Anybody see what happened?’
‘No, sir. Looks like while the postman was emptying the letterbox, somebody assaulted him and stole his van.’
‘Have you its number?’
‘No. I’ve got Scrivens trying to find out from the GPO.’
Angel grunted and leaned over the medics and said: ‘I’m DI Angel. How is he?’
‘Very weak pulse. Shallow breathing. Unconscious.’
Angel’s lips tightened against his teeth.
Then the medic said: ‘Got to get him to hospital.’
‘Yes,’ Angel agreed determinedly.
The two ambulance men started to drag the injured man onto the stretcher.
Angel straightened up and came face to face with big PC John Weightman.
‘Sir?’ Weightman said.
‘Ah, John. Help get this injured man to hospital, smartly. He’s in a bad way. Go with him. Try to get a description of his assailant. And what happened.’
‘Right, sir,’ he said, and he opened his great arms to the small crowd and said, ‘There’s a man seriously injured here. Make way, please. Make way. Thank you.’
Angel turned to Crisp.
‘Send someone to the hospital to take over from John Weightman at the end of his shift. He might have come round by then.’
Crisp nodded.
Angel continued: ‘Any idea what the assailant looked like?’
‘Nobody saw anything, sir. Hoping to learn something from the house to house.’
A siren began blaring out. The ambulance zoomed off faster than John Prescott to complimentary canapés.
‘Any sign of a weapon?’
‘No.’
‘I want that van finding. Then I want SOCO to go over it with a fine-tooth comb. I want to find out what the assailant took. Go into the background of the victim. See if he’s clean. There’s no point in going through the letters left here. The assailant has presumably taken what he wanted, either out of this box or from the mailbags on the stolen van. There may have been registered packets collected from post offices on his round, with money or jewellery or whatever inside. Check on that. And see how this assault relates to that assault on a postman at Frog’s Leap Inn at Midspring on Monday evening.’
‘The same MO, sir,’ Crisp said enthusiastically. ‘Assaulted while he was filling the sack.’
‘Yes, except that this time the van was taken,’ Angel said. ‘Is the thief getting bolder? Well, let’s hope you can dig something out. I have to get back. Leave it to you. Let me know how it goes.’
It was 7.55 p.m. Thursday when Angel arrived at Carl Messenger’s office. It was the earliest time he could get to see the man. He knocked and walked into the office-cum-waiting room and closed the door. It was very quiet. The only sign of human existence was the strip light blinking at him from the ceiling.
From an open door, a man’s dreamy voice called out, ‘Come along in, Inspector. I am ready for you.’
He crossed the room and peered into the gloomy room. All he could see was a copper lampshade beaming light onto a desk. There was no sign of life in the little room. He pushed the door further open to reveal a small hunched man standing there clutching a big brown envelope. He shuffled forward.
‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector,’ he said in a slow, breathy voice. ‘I am Carl Messenger.’
He held out a small, cold hand.
Angel shook it. It was an unusual experience. He could recall corpses that had been warmer and more animated.
Carl Messenger moved very slowly behind his desk to a chair and slumped into it clumsily.
‘Please sit down.’
‘Thank you,’ Angel said. ‘And thank you for seeing me at this late hour.’
‘No matter. Like you, I sometimes have to work after hours. Anyway, I dug out the document to which you referred. I must say, I was very sad to hear of the murder of Mr Gumme. And he was such a nice gentleman.’
Angel pursed his lips and frowned. He wondered what planet this man had been living on the past few years. He didn’t reply. He looked across the desk at him.
Carl Messenger’s eyes were half closed most of the time as if he was drugged or tired, and when he did occasionally open them, he looked in pain. He moved only when absolutely necessary and then very slowly.
He shook the brown envelope and a folded document typed on heavy-duty paper dropped out on the desk. He unfolded it.
‘And you are the officer in charge of the investigation?’
Angel nodded and said, ‘Have you any notion as to who would want Joshua Gumme dead?’
‘Goodness me, no, Inspector. He was sometimes impatient, irritable, abrupt even. But I cannot imagine any circumstances that would ever have justified him being murdered.’
Angel sighed.
‘Somebody did.’
‘Quite so. Quite so. Now, you wanted to know the beneficiaries?’
‘When was the will drawn up?’
‘June 2005. It was a very hot day, I remember. I can still see Mr Gumme being wheeled in here to sign it. Remarkable man. He was perspiring and grumbling about the heat, I recall. He was being pushed around, by his very attentive chauffeur.’
Messenger opened the document and peered closely at it.
‘Hmmm. Yes,’ he mumbled.
Angel rubbed his chin and looked round the little room at the shadows on the walls cast by the desk light.
‘Yes. Here it is,’ Messenger said. ‘He left the house and contents, worth at that time around a million, and an annuity of thirty thousand, and the snooker hall and the printing business, at that date, valued at an estimated two million, also to his wife, Ingrid; and he left a package, a small package, at that date value estimated at six pounds to his son, Edmund.’
Angel frowned.
‘Six pounds, did you say, Mr Messenger?’
He nodded.
‘I have the package in our str
ong room. Regrettably, Inspector Angel, it has to be given to Mr Edmund personally, in front of two witnesses who will have to attest to it.’
Angel frowned.
‘No other bequests?’
‘No, Inspector.’
He sniffed.
‘And what was the estimated total value of his estate?’
‘On that date, well over three million pounds.’
Angel let out a silent whistle and rubbed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. His eyes glazed over.
‘I understand,’ Messenger said, ‘that the majority of the estate comprises a town centre property on Duke Street including a snooker hall, a printers, laundry, restaurant and a block of eight flats. Property prices have increased greatly over the past few years. That figure might be a lot more. But against that, there is inheritance tax mostly at forty per cent …’
Angel didn’t hear him. The solicitor could have saved his breath. He might just as well have been talking to a pet poodle called Fifi. Angel was still wondering what sort of a man would leave his son six pounds out of an estate over three million.
FIVE
The phone was answered, there was a click and a voice said: ‘Mortuary. Good morning. Who is calling?’
‘DI Angel. Can I speak to Dr Mac?’
‘Hold on, please.’
‘Right, thank you,’ Angel said, then he hunched up a shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he reached out to get a note pad from a desk drawer. He rummaged in his pocket for a pen, then took a sip of his tea. He heard the unmistakable clearing of the throat of the Glaswegian, so hastily returned the cup to the saucer with a clatter.
‘Good morning, Michael. What’s the matter wi ye? It’s not eight-thirty yet. Can’t you sleep?’
‘You’re not very charming this morning, Mac. Sorry if somebody has been eating your porridge, but I’ve a helluva lot on.’
‘You’re not on your own, Michael. So have I. We are rushed off our feet here. The throughput here is getting like Smithfields. Now what can I do for ye?’
‘Have SOCO delivered a body to you, a Joshua Gumme?’
‘Yes. Yes. I’ve done him. Report coming through by email. You’ll get it this afternoon.’
‘I’m not asking for the full SP now, Mac, but just need to know a couple of things.’
‘Yeah? What?’
‘What killed him?’
‘A bullet straight through the heart. Looks like a .32.’
‘Could it have been a Walther PPK/S .32 automatic?’
‘Certainly could have been.’
‘From what distance?’
‘Hard to say. Could have been very close. Some powder has most likely been disturbed. The tide will have swilled some of the powder away. The River Don is no respecter of crime scenes, you know.’
‘Ta. And did Gumme have any other injuries?’
‘No.’
Angel sensed that Mac’s patience was running out.
‘Right, Mac. Thanks very much. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
He replaced the phone and rubbed his chin.
He knew he would get all the details later that day, but the profile of the murderer was taking shape. He nodded with satisfaction, and reached out again for the phone and tapped in a number.
A familiar voice answered: ‘SOCO. DS Taylor.’
‘Good morning, Don. Michael Angel. That man you pulled out of the Don on Wednesday, Joshua Gumme …’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did he have a weapon on him? A gun, a knife?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No gun? The Leeds underwater team did have a good look round?’
‘They were searching for the rest of the day. They pulled out his wheelchair … we have it here. Seems to be in good nick. Not damaged at all.’
‘But nothing else, eh?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Right, Don. Ta.’
‘You’ll get our report and his personal effects first thing Monday morning, sir.’
‘Right, Don, goodbye.’
The town hall clock struck ten as Angel turned his BMW into Duke Street and parked it in the only available space in front of Baileys the bookies. A neon sign flashed the word ‘Snooker’ alternately in red and yellow over a narrow ginnel between the bookies and the Bromersley Building Society. Angel locked the car and walked purposefully under the sign and down the ginnel to the end of the iron railings then turned right and through the open door into a big dusty hall packed out with thirty-six snooker tables with overpowering light units covered by big lampshades suspended over them. It was early, so there weren’t many customers; eight young men were standing round holding cues, drinking lager and occasionally sticking their backsides in the air as they attempted to pot a ball.
There was a drinks and sandwich bar on a raised dais located in the middle of the room, and a skinny man with a trilby hat and a harelip was hanging over the serving side of it. He was talking to a huge man with long hair, wearing a check suit. He was standing next to a mop bucket with his hands resting on the handle of a mop. An unopened can of Grolsch was sticking out of his pocket. They saw Angel approaching. They stopped talking to each other. The skinny man nodded towards Angel in acknowledgement.
‘Take over, Bozo,’ he said to the big man, then he came quickly round from behind, stepped off the dais and rushed up to Angel’s side.
‘I’m Horace Makepiece,’ he whispered. ‘You the copper that phoned?’
Angel nodded. ‘Can we go somewhere … private?’ he said.
Makepiece swivelled his skinny neck around the place.
‘Yeah. Sure. I’d rather it was that way.’
He waved a finger to Angel to follow him, and they moved quickly between snooker tables still covered with grey linen sheeting to the far end of the hall, where there were two doors in the wall. One had the word ‘Private’ marked on it and a simple Yale lock to secure it. Makepiece produced a bunch of keys on a chain fastened to his braces, selected a key and unlocked the door. Then he pressed the switch by the door, and a bright light suspended from the ceiling illuminated the room.
At first sight, Angel thought it was a storeroom. It was dark and smelled of wet clothes that had been dried. Parts of damaged snooker tables leaned against the wall. Packs of snooker cues were piled against boxes of chalk. A wheelchair stood significantly in the corner. There was a large square sink with a draining board. Next to it was a long table covered with a linen sheet draped over the items on it like a contoured model of the Alps not succeeding to conceal a makeshift bar. In the centre of the room was a large circular table with six chairs round it.
He held his hand out grandly towards it.
‘OK?’
Angel nodded and pulled out the chair facing the door.
Makepiece sat opposite him.
‘We call this the back office. To tell the trute, we ain’t got no front office.’
Angel pulled out an envelope from his inside pocket and clicked his pen.
‘Now, you’re Horace Makepiece?’ He didn’t mention that he knew his nickname was ‘Harelip’.
Makepiece pushed the trilby to the back of his bony head, put his hands on the table and said: ‘It’ll be about the boss. Isn’t it? It’s scary, very scary. I know I should’ve stayed wid him, but I didn’t know anything bad was going to happen, did I? And he kept telling me to leave him and go home. And he don’t like being argued wid, especially in front of people, you know. He’d get all het up and nasty. So I said, “OK, if you’re sure.” He swore at me, so I got in the car and brought it back and that’s all I knew, until I went to the house in the morning. He’d said to pick him up at nine o’clock. But he wasn’t there. Hadn’t been home. Ingrid … Mrs Gumme was chewing the rag and getting onto me. I told her. She didn’t want to know. She kept onto me. It wasn’t my fault! I kept telling her. She’s afraid too, you see, Inspector. They might be back. To tell the trute, Inspector, I ain’t feeling so brave myself.’
A
ngel sighed.
‘Better start at the beginning, Mr Makepiece. Who might be back?’
‘Yeah. Sure. Well, this was Tuesday, about eight o’clock. I was doing some printing in the print shop next door. It’s chiefly for all the stuff we use in the hall, games match lists and stuff. This was some menus for the Chinese restaurant opposite. I also do letterheads by direct mail. Advertise in magazines. Anyway, the boss phones and says I’ve to take him to The Feathers straight away. So I switched everything off, locked up, told Bozo, on the way through, that I had to go out for a few minutes.’
Angel was listening and making notes on the back of the envelope in very small writing. Names, he liked to print out.
‘Who is Bozo and how do you spell it?’ he said craftily.
‘Bozo Johnson. I don’t know. I don’t go for spellin’ much. Everybody knows Bozo. That big chap. I was talking to him when you came in. He was just going to do the latrines. He’s my number one. Looks after the place when I’m not here. Yes. Mmm. I expect I’ll have to make him manager now that …’
He raised his eyebrows, rubbed non-existent dust off the top of the table with the palms of his hands and shook his head. He sighed and looked across the table at Angel.
‘You know, I never thought we’d lose the boss, Inspector. Not like that.’
‘No,’ Angel said quietly.
There was a moment’s quiet.
Angel waited.
‘You’ll be looking it up, so I may as well tell you,’ Makepiece said. ‘Bozo Johnson has served time in Durham for manslaughter. Bozo is short for Benjamin, he was named after some guy that wrote a book what made him famous, but that was years ago. Now Bozo has a bit of bad luck. He gets into an argument with a punter, who reckons he’s got hiccups and makes a noise to put him off every time he goes for a black. Now there’s a twenty on it, so it’s serious. Bozo asks him to be quiet … time after time. At least six times. The punter says he ain’t doing nothing. Bozo bawls him out. The punter gets rattled and belts him one. Bozo pushes him away. He falls over a bar stool and hits his head on a set of wheels they use for moving barrels and crates. He’s rushed to hospital and dies next day. Bozo gets tried for manslaughter. He gets twelve years. But he’s out in four because he behaves himself. When he comes out of prison, nobody would look at him. He couldn’t get a job anywhere. So the boss gives him this new name, Bozo, and sets him on here to help me. He’s only a caretaker really, but the boss reckoned it would make him feel good if we called him “the assistant manager”. That’s all right by me. He does all the dirty jobs that I used to do. He keeps the place clean and tidy, and the washrooms straight. They’re always clean and there’s always paper in the lavs, soap in the dispenser and paper towels in the box. He does a good job for me. He’s no trouble.’
The Man Who Couldn't Lose Page 5