Angel’s mouth dropped open. He rubbed his chin.
‘What do the initials stand for?’
‘LBOTP? Little Brothers Of The Poor.’
‘Ring up the CID Garda in Dublin and ask for their help. Try and get confirmation of what you have been told through them, also see if you can get a photograph of Ignatius wired through. In the meantime, I’ll go straight down to The Feathers.’
EIGHT
‘Who, sir?’ the desk clerk said with a frown.
‘A Father Ignatius Colhoun,’ Angel said. ‘According to your register, he stayed here last Tuesday night, the twentieth.’
The clerk began to turn back the pages of a large book in front of him. As he did so, a look of recollection showed on his face.
‘Yes, of course. I remember … a man in a dog collar. We don’t get many vicars staying here. Only saw him briefly when he registered and again, when he paid his bill the following morning.’
‘Ah,’ Angel enthused. ‘Do you remember anything special about him? What he looked like?’
The clerk looked at Angel with a face as vague as a railway enquiry clerk.
‘No. He was … tall, I think … slim, I think … paid in cash.’
‘Sterling?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing really. He was very smartly dressed …’
Angel wrinkled his nose.
‘Did he speak with any sort of accent? Did he have any facial hair? Moustache, sideburns, beard? Any particular mannerisms?’
‘No. No,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘Carried a Bible and an umbrella, I remember. He had to hang the umbrella on the edge of the desk to sign the register. He kept hold of the Bible all the time. In his left hand.’
‘So he was right-handed?’
‘Yes. It would seem so. Have a word with our porter. He might be able to …’
He hit the bell sharply twice with the palm of his hand.
Angel nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
Old Walter soon appeared from round a corner somewhere and looked up at the clerk then at Angel. He recognized the inspector immediately.
‘Back again, sir? Have you got that murderer yet?’
‘Not yet, no. But we will. Have no fear. We will. I wonder if you can assist me.’
‘I’ll try, sir. I’ll certainly try.’
‘On Tuesday the twentieth, a man in a dog collar booked in here in the name of Father Ignatius Colhoun. I wonder if you can tell me anything about him?’
Walter nodded.
‘I can that, sir. Yes. Do you think it was him? Well, anyway, he was a long, sober-faced card. Must have been a bishop at least. Miserable-looking. Dark all round his eyes. He could have got a job in an undertaker’s anytime. Very smart black gear he was wearing and a beautiful silver crucifix. And he gave me a very unusual tip. It was a sort of card, with the picture of an angel on one side and a verse of poetry or something like that on the back. I’ve got it here somewhere.’
He reached into his coat pocket.
Angel realized that the man might be in possession of a clue … a vital clue.
‘Don’t touch it,’ he said, his pulse thumping.
‘I already have.’
‘Well, don’t touch it again.’
Astonished, Walter quickly withdrew his hand from his pocket.
‘Is it in that pocket?’ Angel said.
‘Yes.’
‘Leave it in there. We might get a print off it. Take your coat off. Let me have it.’
Walter’s jaw dropped open. He began threading an arm out of the coat.
Angel’s brain raced. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and tapped in a number. ‘Is that SOCO? I want to speak to DS Taylor urgently … Very well. I’ll hold on.’
Angel held the mobile tightly. As he waited, his mind darted back to earlier that morning. He had found a similar card, as described by the porter, in the dead man’s wallet. It sounded identical. If it was, it could help to show that Gumme had been in the company of Father Ignatius (or whoever he was) shortly before the murder. He was delighted. He considered that that was real progress. At last, he had a suspect. And that was good. He rubbed his chin and then sighed. Of course, it was a long way from proving that the priest was the murderer.
‘You don’t half take your time, Sergeant. It was Thursday when that postman was assaulted,’ Angel said.
‘The van was only found yesterday, sir.’
‘Burnt out, was it?’
‘No, sir,’ Crisp said pertly. ‘In good nick and with all its load apparently intact.’
Angel’s mouth dropped open.
‘Did it have any registered mail on board?’
‘Yes, sir. The post office checked on that. Thirty-eight items. Half a sackful. All present and correct.’
‘But there could have been jewellery, cash … all sorts of valuables.’
Crisp nodded.
‘Perhaps the thief didn’t know.’
Angel shook his head and wrinkled his nose.
‘He’d know,’ he said meaningfully. ‘He must have had a much bigger objective in his sight. He is not your common-or-garden thief. He must have his eye on something much more lucrative or important to him. There’s no other explanation. As he isn’t stealing the mail, what is he stealing?’
Crisp shrugged.
Angel said: ‘Any forensic?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No prints? No DNA? Nothing?’ he enquired heavily.
‘Nothing, sir.’
Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. That’s twice it’s happened. What’s the point of assaulting postmen if you don’t want to nick their post, their vans or the money in their pockets? I take it this man wasn’t robbed of any personal possessions?’
‘No, sir,’ Crisp replied. ‘Wallet intact. Watch on his wrist.’
‘Did you go into the background of the man?’
‘There was nothing there, sir. Not known to us. Long-serving employee. Perfect record of service for eighteen years. Besides, as you say, there was nothing stolen.’
‘Nothing found to be stolen,’ Angel said through gritted teeth. ‘And how is he? Was he badly hurt?’
‘No. Nasty bruise on neck. He had a night in hospital. Everything checked out.’
‘Could have been much worse. What happened exactly? What did he see? What did the assailant say?’
‘He didn’t see or hear anything. He felt a thump at the back of the neck. Next thing he remembered, he was in hospital.’
‘Did the house to house turn anything up?’
‘No, sir. The attack must have lasted only three seconds. A man walking apparently innocently along the street … reaches the postman unloading the letterbox … bang, clouts him with something … he falls down … assailant jumps in his van and drives off.’
Angel growled, then said: ‘It’s too easy. Too damned easy.’
‘Similar to the assault on the postman at Frog’s Leap Inn at Midspring on Monday evening. Except the attacker didn’t take the van.’
‘Is there a connection between the two men? Were they related? Was it the same “walk”?’
‘Different “walk”, sir. I couldn’t find a connection. Been through everything.’
The phone rang.
He reached out for it.
‘Angel.’
‘It’s John Weightman here, sir.’
‘Yes, John, what is it?’
‘I’m still on the river-bank with the Froggies, sir. DS Stranger has found something. He would like to have a word.’
Angel blinked. It was a surprise so early in the morning.
‘Right. Put him on.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ Stranger said.
‘Good morning, Sergeant. What is it?’
‘We found a cork float bobbing about, just under the surface of the water, sir, near the bank. It was fastened by a length of cord to a big black plastic bin liner that was half covere
d in mud on the river bottom. We hoisted it up to the bank. It gave a positive signal on our screen for some metal content. It was waterproof sealed at the neck with sticky tape, so we slit it down the side and found that it contained what looked like a thief’s hoard. There is jewellery, silver photograph frames and to weight it down—’
‘Don’t tell me. There’s a white pot dog. Figure of a poodle.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ Stranger squealed excitedly. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Come in,’ Angel called.
It was Gawber, his face glowing with excitement.
‘Report from SOCO, sir,’ he said breathlessly as he closed the door.
Angel gawped at him.
‘What is it, Ron?’
‘They managed to pull a satisfactory print of an index finger from that religious tract you took from the hall porter at The Feathers. It belongs to an Alexander Spitzer, last known address Leeds in 1997.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Alexander Spitzer! So the great and glorious Alexander Spitzer, the heroin king, is prancing around impersonating a clergyman. Well, well, well.’ He sniffed. ‘Not a very original idea.’
Gawber agreed.
‘That confirms that Spitzer met Gumme the night he died?’ Angel muttered.
‘Because he had the same religious tract on him, sir.’
He nodded.
‘But of course, it’s a long way from proving that Spitzer murdered him.’
‘It only shows that they must have spent some time together in The Feathers.’
‘And we only know about Gumme being in the reception hall.’
‘Well, of course, he couldn’t have been shot there, sir.’
‘Quite. If he was shot in the hotel, the gun would need a silencer and the incident would need to take place behind at least one good, solid door … a bedroom or better still, a private bathroom off a bedroom. Even then, it would be hard to believe that someone wouldn’t have heard it.’
There was a pause while the two men considered the ramifications.
‘What’s the “two million pounds” written on the card mean, sir?’
‘Don’t know yet,’ Angel said.
‘It’s a lot of money if it’s a ransom demand.’
Angel shook his head.
‘It’s a lot of money in any context, Ron.’
Angel eased back the swivel chair and looked up at the ceiling.
‘We are looking for a Walther PPK/S .32 automatic. Also Alexander Spitzer. That’s a tall order. Interpol have been looking for him for years. Let’s have the latest description of him, to remind us all. We have so little to go on.’
Angel suddenly pushed the chair down. He made a decision.
‘I want you to have a closer look at The Feathers. Take young Scrivens and go through the room that was occupied by our friend Spitzer. I know the room will have been cleaned and occupied by others since, but nevertheless see what you might dig up. Have a good look in the public rooms, the bar. Ask around. Find out what you can about his mode of transport. How he arrived there and how he left. Talk to the staff. You never know, there might be something you can turn up.’
There was a knock at the door.
Angel looked at Gawber and nodded towards it.
Gawber pulled it open. It was PC Ahaz. He was standing there holding a sheet of A4 paper.
‘What is it, Ahmed?’
He put the paper on Angel’s desk.
‘It’s a photograph of Father Ignatius Colhoun of the Little Brothers Of The Poor, sir. It’s just come over the wire from the Garda in Dublin.’
Angel looked down at it. It showed a very old man in priest’s robes with a biretta.
‘Aye, well, that’s no surprise. He’s nothing like Alexander Spitzer, is he? You can take that down with you, Ron. With a photo of the real thing. You can get that from the NPC. See if you can get a positive ID from the clerk and the hall porter and anybody else.’
‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said and went out.
Angel turned to Ahmed.
‘Now then, there’s something I want you to see to. There’s a DS Stranger from the Leeds sub aqua team calling in with a black plastic bin liner containing plunder from a burglary, fastened by a rope to a cork float. He should be here in the next few minutes. I want you to take the whole lot straight round to SOCO. DS Taylor is expecting it. Stay with him; I want you to take note carefully how the tape is wrapped round the neck of the bag, and how the rope is fastened to that. Don Taylor is going to see if there are any fresh prints on the bag, the sticky tape or on any of the contents. I have no expectations that there will be. If there are, that’s great. If there aren’t, I want you take the pot dog round to Enderby’s, the glass people. They’re expecting it and they’ll know what to do. Also, I want you to buy a bin liner exactly the same size and type, and sticky tape the same width and so on as the thief used. Then bring the old bag, the contents, the new bag and the tape back here. If I’m not in, put them in my cupboard here and lock it up. Got all that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said, rubbing his chin. ‘And what are Enderby’s going to do with the dog ornament, sir?’
‘They’re simply going to drill a hole in its backside,’ he said bluntly.
Ahmed blinked. His mouth dropped open.
Angel sighed.
The phone rang. He reached out for it.
‘Angel.’
It was the civilian telephone receptionist.
‘There’s a gentleman on the line asking for you. Says his name is Horace Makepiece.’
Angel frowned. He couldn’t imagine what he wanted.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Put him through, please.’
There was a click and silence.
He looked at Ahmed, who was still standing there with a blank expression.
‘Well, get on with it, son,’ Angel said impatiently. ‘Chop chop.’
Ahmed, looking uncomfortable, hurriedly made for the door.
A voice from the phone said, ‘Is that Inspector Angel?’
‘Yes, Mr Makepiece. What can I do for you?’
‘Ah yes. It’s maybe sometink I can do for you, Inspector.’
‘Oh yes?’ Angel said, with a wry smile. In his experience, people with a criminal record, however trivial or serious, never ever made a subsequent approach to the law. The police always had to take the initiative. What was about to happen was a rare exception.
‘Yes,’ Makepiece began grandly. ‘You remember I told you Mr Gumme made a few enemies over the years? Mainly because he was not too subtle at collecting money owed to him?’
‘Yes. Yes. Go on.’
‘There’s a chap the boss played pontoon with some time back. Of course he lost. Lost badly. He had some crack-ball system that if he kept doubling his stake each game he was bound to come out on top. Well, he didn’t. He lost his shirt, his building society savings, his car and his house. The man was very nasty and so was his wife. I think he about lost his mind too.’
‘Really?’ Angel said, trying not to sound excessively interested. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Makepiece. I may look into it. Have you got his name and address?’
‘His name is James Tasker. I think the wife’s a bit lulu as well. Her name’s Muriel and they live at 13 Sebastopol Terrace.’
Angel turned the BMW into the long terrace of houses. He was looking for number thirteen. He passed a young girl bouncing a ball against the wall. When she saw the car, she stopped playing and ran into the house. Two older boys on skateboards whizzed along the pavement giving him a sly glance as they passed. He watched them turn down a ginnel; they probably should have been at school. He came up to a door with the number thirteen in white plastic figures screwed to it and put his foot on the brake. He got out of the car, locked it and went over to knock on the door. It was unnecessary. It was ajar and a young woman’s head was peering round it.
‘If you’re collecting for anything,’ she said, ‘forget it. We haven’t any money.’
/> ‘No,’ he said quickly, then he reached in his pocket for his warrant card and badge and waved it in front of her eyes.
‘Detective Inspector Angel. You must be Mrs Tasker?’
He noticed her eyes bounce as she took in what he had said.
‘Oh. Yes,’ she said opening the door and standing with one hand on the jamb and the other on the knob.
Angel noticed that she was plainly dressed but round her neck she wore a delicately carved garnet necklace comprising twenty or more small heart-shaped garnets, each in a delicate old gold setting and connected by pretty leaf motif chain links.
‘And what can I do for you?’ she said assertively.
He looked into her face and waited a moment.
‘Can I come in?’ he said.
She looked him up and down before replying. ‘I suppose so,’ she said with a shrug. ‘But it’s a tip.’
She turned and went into the house; Angel followed. The door opened straight into a tiny living room. It was untidy, very untidy, but not dirty. Two small children were playing together in a corner of the room, amidst a pile of soft toys, teddy bears and dolls. Behind them was a door leading to the rest of the house. In the corner was a television set and in the middle was a very well-worn settee and two chairs, covered with toys, newspapers and clothes.
The two toddlers seemed to be enjoying pulling a cord out of the back of a toy to hear an American voice squawk something unintelligible. They both looked up at Angel curiously. He smiled at them. They didn’t react, and returned to pulling on the cord.
Angel stood in the middle of the room, looking round.
Mrs Tasker stared at him for a moment.
‘Are you wanting to sit down?’
She lifted out some magazines and newspapers from the settee and dumped them in another chair. ‘There you are,’ she said ungraciously, nodding at the cleared space.
‘Thank you.’
‘Well, what do you want?’
‘Is your husband in?’
She hesitated. ‘No. What do you want him for?’
‘Routine enquiries, Mrs Tasker. Where abouts is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
The Man Who Couldn't Lose Page 9