Angel stifled a smile. That wasn’t how he remembered the Ben Johnson case, but he let it go.
‘Did you pick Mr Gumme up at his home, then?’
‘Yeah. A few minutes past eight, it would be. He was ready waiting for me. Ingrid wasn’t pleased about it. Yap, yap, yap. But it had nothing to do with me. The boss wanted to go. That’s all I needed to know. I got him there in no time. It’s only a mile, I guess. I got his chair out. He said to leave him there and go. Pick him up at home in the morning at nine o’clock. I wheeled him … well, no, he pulled away from me. He wheeled himself up to the reception desk. I watched him. He waved me away … impatient, like. I came back. Put the car in the garage, as quiet as I could. Didn’t want to disturb Ingrid … Mrs Gumme. Walked here. Went back to the snooker hall, into the print shop, finished off Mr Wong’s new menus. Helped Bozo to finish off the evening, lock up, banked the money in the night safe and went home.’
‘At The Feathers, did you see who he was going to meet?’
Makepiece said, ‘No. And it’s maybe a good job too.’
Angel frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’
Makepiece breathed out a length of air and shook his head at the same time.
‘It was a contract job, wasn’t it? Whoever shot the boss was a professional.’
Angel noticed Makepiece’s left hand shaking very slightly.
‘They don’t leave witnesses,’ he continued. ‘If I had seen him, and he knew I’d seen him, I would be dead now.’
Angel ran the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip.
Makepiece’s eyes suddenly lit up.
‘Hey. I just thought. Maybe the boss has saved my life. Maybe he didn’t want me to see whoever he was going to meet for that very reason!’
He smiled as he thought more about it.
Angel frowned. He wasn’t sure the reasoning was good logic.
‘Who would want to kill Mr Gumme? You said they might be back? Who did you mean? Someone from the old days? Mrs Gumme thought that it could have been someone from the old days. Who was she referring to?’
Makepiece’s face assumed a frightened rabbit look. He shrugged and looked away.
‘I dunno, do I?’
‘You’ve known him a long time. Twenty years? Thirty years?’
‘More than thirty.’
Makepiece shrugged again. He took his hat off, ran his hand over the bald top and put it back on again.
‘All right. The boss wasn’t always quite so legit,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘You can’t book a man for jobs after he’s dead, can you, Inspector?’ he added.
‘No,’ Angel said.
‘Well, the boss … must be twelve years or more ago … used to run a little girlie shop over the bookies next door, until a man called Spitzer, Alexander Spitzer, came on the scene. He was a bad lot from Leeds way. You may have heard of him.’
‘No,’ Angel lied.
‘Don’t know what happened to him. Anyway, Spitzer wanted in on it, make it bigger and bring some foreign girls in. The boss was talked into it, I reckon. Anyway, apparently he agreed and Coulson, that’s one of Spitzer’s boys, brought four girls in from somewhere foreign … I don’t know where. They jointly bought the old laundry next door, knocked a wall through and began setting it up. Then I heard Myra, his first wife, found out and went ballistic. Also, I think the boss saw his money going out, and not coming back in so soon. Now, I know the boss. He don’t like that sort of arrangement, so he wasn’t happy. He never really liked Spitzer anyway. He said that he was a bit too flash; also he found out that unbeknown to him, the whole idea was wrapped up in a heavy drugs deal. Spitzer’s idea was that the girls could be on their backs at night making money, and in the daytime leaning over factory and school gates and wherever, flogging H. That was going to be great for him at twenty-five quid a throw. And the girls were to get a tenner out of every wrap, Inspector Angel. Think of that! A tenner. Of course, they were up for it. When the boss found out that Spitzer and Coulson was planning this move on the side, he wanted out. He didn’t want any truck with them thereafter either. He said he’d rather die than share divs with them.’
‘So you think that Spitzer and Coulson might be responsible for Joshua Gumme’s murder?’
Makepiece’s eyes slid from left to right, then back again. ‘No. I never said that, Inspector. I never said nothin’ like that.’
Angel pursed his lips.
‘OK,’ he said knowingly. ‘Did Mr Gumme have a gun?’
‘I once saw a piece in a shoulder holster. I didn’t like that. It was ages ago.’
Angel nodded. He thought as much.
‘He was wearing it … about the time of this Spitzer business. I haven’t seen it for years.’
‘Do you know what make it was?’
‘No. Don’t do guns, Inspector.’
Angel wrinkled his nose
‘Spitzer always had a piece,’ Makepiece added. ‘He should have worn a bigger jacket.’
Angel nodded, then said: ‘What were you doing when this was going on?’
‘I was the caretaker here.’
‘And chauffeur?’
‘No. The boss used to drive hisself then. He drove all the time up to his illness.’
‘So who do you think shot Mr Gumme?’
Makepiece shook his head and showed the palm of his open hands.
‘I don’t know. Lots of folk. The boss made a lot of enemies.’
‘What enemies?’
‘Well, you see, he didn’t intend to. It’s just that everything he touched turned to money. Nobody likes to be bested. He used to say that all his competitors were green with envy at the way he built up his business interests. His new house … the pool and everything. His new wife. The Bentley. His luck with the cards. He played cards with people and always won and they didn’t like it, and they sometimes wouldn’t pay up. He hated that. He always chased them down for the last penny.’
‘They say he played two hundred games of pontoon on the trot and won every game.’
Makepiece pursed his lips and leaned back. ‘That’s true. It was in here. At this very table. I was here. And he could have played four hundred games, aye, and more. He was just too tired to go on. His eyes gave out.’
‘But he cheated, didn’t he?’
‘No, sir,’ he said indignantly. ‘Not that you would call cheating. The judges checked everything out. I wouldn’t have called it cheating exactly. He just gave himself an edge. He told me that he never put himself into a situation where he could lose, that’s all. He practised that throughout his business life. And that’s not cheating, that’s logic, ain’t it?’
Angel was considering the line of reasoning. There was something there that was not quite right.
‘There are some people he would never have played against,’ Makepiece added.
‘You mean because they would have beaten him?’
‘Yes.’ He thought a moment. ‘The boss used to watch a punter playing cards with someone else. He’d watch them like a hawk for a half hour or so and then he would know, positively. That’s all there was to it.’
Angel was certain there was a lot more to it than that.
Makepiece licked his lips and turned away. ‘I wanna drink, Inspector. Do you wanna drink?’
‘No, thanks.
Makepiece’s mouth dropped open. He turned away and looked across at the table of bottles covered with a cloth.
Angel stared at him.
It was hard for Makepiece to look him in the eye. His mouth twitched again.
Angel could not avoid looking at the harelip.
Makepiece looked away. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a drink?’
Angel wrinkled his nose, looked at his notes and rubbed his chin. ‘No, thanks. We’ve nearly done.’
Makepiece nodded.
‘You’ve been chauffeur for Mr Gumme a long time. You drove his Bentley?’
‘Yes. Very proud of his car was de boss.’
‘Where wer
e the keys for the car?’
‘I had a set which I picked up from the house when I was taking him anywheres.’
‘And when you had finished with them?’
‘I always dropped them through the letterbox. Ingrid … Mrs Gumme no doubt picked them up and put them on the keyboard in their lobby. I would always take them from there when I was taking the boss out or needed to wash the car or anything.’
‘So when you returned the car the night Mr Gumme was murdered, you put them through the letterbox as usual?’
‘Yes, sure,’ he said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Sure you don’t want no drink?’
Angel shook his head.
‘Did you know the car had been found in flames in a field early yesterday morning?’
‘No! Who could have done that? If the boss was alive, he’d have had a fit!’
‘You know nothing about this?’
‘Certainly not, Inspector. Who would want to do a thing like that with such a beautiful machine?’
Angel sighed. Looked at his notes. Wrote something and said, ‘I’d better have a look in your printing shop.’
‘Oh yeah? Sure,’ Makepiece said eagerly. He stood up. ‘It ain’t that … beautiful, Inspector. There’s only me goes in there.’
‘I’m not from Health and Safety,’ he muttered.
Angel followed him out of the office into the racket of the snooker hall. There was the buzz of men chatting, the frequent crack of white balls rattling against colours followed by the thunder of balls rolling round the tables, and, intermittently, bursts of loud, alcohol-fuelled guffaws of laughter. He glanced down the building. Business was picking up. Sixty or more men were now mooching round the tables.
Makepiece walked on four paces to another door in the same wall. With a rattle of keys he unlocked it and switched on the light.
‘Come in. There ain’t much room. It’s a bit untidy.’
Angel looked around. It was about the same size as the office next door, but had a large complex machine in the centre that dominated the room. There were machines of all kinds round the walls, presumably for smaller print jobs: folding machines, stapler, a cameras, enlarger, a machine with a powerful press for embossing and a powerful-looking guillotine. Everywhere was draped with large menus for Wong’s Chinese restaurant.
Angel looked at him and pointed at the menus.
‘Just dryin’, that’s all. Like I told you.’
Angel nodded. It was true.
In a corner were four piles of packets of blank paper, some opened. He also saw an opened box of packs of playing cards with a sample card glued on the outside.
Angel rubbed his chin when he saw them. He reached out, picked up a pack, opened them, took out the cards, fanned about a dozen of them, and peered closely at the back and then at the face side of them. He pursed his lips, screwed up his eyebrows and shook his head. Slowly, he put the cards back in the packet and returned it to the box. He wondered why they were in the printing room.
Makepiece watched him in silence.
Angel turned around. He noticed the spongy uneven sensation of discarded paper underfoot. He looked down to find that he was standing on a half-inch-thick layer of assorted printed waste, guillotine cuts and badly registered pulls, mostly score cards and posters for snooker contests. Angel bent down and delved around underneath. Eventually he stood up, holding several pages of colour magazine quality prints of naked young women in various unusual poses. He pulled a quizzical face and waved them at Makepiece.
He smiled weakly.
‘Good, ain’t they? I did them. On that,’ he added, pointing to the big machine in the centre of the room.
Angel shook his head patiently.
‘Notton to do with me,’ Makepiece said. ‘That was some work the boss brought in.’
Angel let them drop back on the floor and brushed his hands. He then took another look round the room. He didn’t think there was anything more to help him with his inquiries. He rubbed his chin. Then looked at his watch. His face changed.
‘Well, thank you for that,’ he said, making for the door.
Makepiece smiled and blew out a sigh.
‘I’ll need a written statement in due course. In the meantime, if anything occurs to you that might help me with finding Mr Gumme’s murderer, please get in touch.’
‘Sure. Sure, Inspector, but I told you all I know,’ he pleaded, holding out his hands.
Angel walked quickly through the snooker hall. There were now about twenty tables in use and Bozo Johnson was busy at the bar ringing up money in the till. The place was buzzing with young men mostly with long hair, jeans, T-shirts and trainers, standing around leaning on their cues, talking, sloshing lager or trying to pot a ball. He ignored the sea of unfriendly glances as he weaved his way through them to the door, and out into the street.
SIX
Angel got into his car, drove the few yards up Duke Street to the McDonald’s on the corner, then along to The Feathers. He parked up on the car park and pushed his way through the revolving door and made for the reception desk.
A young man in a dark suit came up to him.
Angel leaned over the high desk, flashed his warrant card and quietly said, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Angel. I am making enquiries about a man in a wheelchair who visited the hotel at around ten past eight last Tuesday evening.’
‘Yes, sir. Would that be Mr Gumme?’ he replied promptly. ‘I believe he’s the only man in a wheelchair who occasionally visits the hotel.’
Angel felt lighter. Gumme was known to the clerk. It was going to be easier than he had thought.
‘Did you see him on Tuesday evening, about eight-fifteen?’
‘Yes, I believe I do remember him. He arrived here with his chauffeur, but he sent him away, rather rudely, I believe. It seemed a bit odd.’
Angel nodded. That fitted exactly with what Makepiece had said.
‘Did Mr Gumme meet with anybody?’
‘I think he must have done. We were a bit busy with new guests arriving, so I hadn’t my attention on him all the time. He sat over there in his wheelchair facing that alcove with his back to me.’
Angel was quite enthused.
‘Who was he with? Who did he meet?’
‘I couldn’t see, sir. As I recall, they were sat together for some time. But I couldn’t actually see who was in the alcove.’
‘Was it one person or more?’
‘Couldn’t really say.’
‘And how long were they there?’
‘I don’t know for certain, sir. We were busy here at the desk from time to time. You will appreciate that it was only when we were not busy that I may have had the time to notice what was happening over there. More than an hour, I would say.’
‘But you didn’t see Mr Gumme leave with anyone?’
‘No, sir. I’m sorry.’
Angel frowned and shook his head.
‘The porter may have seen something,’ the clerk said, banging his hand on the bell in front of him. ‘I’ll ask him.’
An elderly man in a plain dark suit and a nebbed hat appeared from among the people coming and going past the desk.
He looked at the clerk.
‘Ah, Walter,’ the clerk began.
Angel said, ‘May I put the question?’
‘Of course,’ the clerk replied.
‘Walter,’ Angel said. ‘I am a police officer. I am trying to piece together the last hours in the life of Joshua Gumme.’
Walter’s eyes brightened. This was a pleasant change from humping cases up and down the place.
‘Oh yes. I heard about him being shot and that.’
‘He was here on Tuesday evening. He arrived about eight-fifteen and was seated in his wheelchair over there, facing the end alcove. Did you see him?’
Walter thought about it for a few seconds, then said, ‘No, sir. Can’t say as I did.’
‘Didn’t order drinks or ask for anything from you?’
‘No,
sir. I would have remembered.’ He pulled an unpleasant face and added, ‘I know about Mr Gumme.’
Angel was disappointed.
‘Thank you, Walter.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the porter said and then vanished into the general throng of people in the hallway.
Angel ran the tip of his tongue across his lower lip.
The clerk said, ‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’
‘Yes. Let me see the register of guests you had staying here on Tuesday evening.’
‘Certainly, sir. We were full, of course. We usually are during the week. We have twenty-eight letting rooms. Most of the rooms are double, but some would be let as single where necessary.’
The clerk turned back two pages of the register, then swivelled the book round to face him.
Angel put his finger on the name at the top and ran his finger slowly down the page. He didn’t know what he was looking for. He hoped a name would jump out and jolt his memory, but it didn’t.
The clerk watched him thoughtfully.
At length, Angel said, ‘I need a copy of this. Have you the facility for copying the whole page including the address column and signature?’
The clerk smiled.
‘Of course, sir,’ he said and he picked up the book. ‘Won’t be a minute.’ He turned and went into the office at the back of the reception desk.
Angel took out his mobile and tapped in a number.
It was soon answered.
‘DS Gawber.’
‘Ron, I’m getting a list of the residents of The Feathers the night Gumme was murdered. I want you to go through them with a fine-tooth comb. It might throw up a … suspect.’
‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said.
The Man Who Couldn't Lose Page 6