The Man Who Couldn't Lose

by Roger Silverwood

‘Fifty thousand smackers.’

  Angel visualized the cogs going round in the evil little villain’s mind.

  ‘Here,’ Hull suddenly said. ‘Fifty thousand smackers! And you’re only offering me a hundred quid?’

  ‘You talk as if you already know where it is,’ Angel replied carefully.

  ‘Eh? Oh no. No. I was just thinking, it isn’t much.’

  ‘All I’m asking you to do is point to the party who has it, wherever it is. That’s all. You never know, in a pub or somewhere, you might hear people talking. They might not think much to it. They might not appreciate the skill and artistic eye required to translate the beautiful lines of this dog, a French poodle in this case, into china without losing any of its naturalness.’

  ‘Well, would whoever has possession of it now be arrested?’

  ‘They certainly would,’ Angel said robustly. ‘And be very firmly dealt with. They should hand the sculpture into the police immediately and take whatever punishment is coming to them. It would be a charge of housebreaking and stealing; that would be an absolute minimum of three years. I tell you, Harry, that’s what I would do.’

  Hull frowned and sighed.

  ‘However,’ Angel continued, ‘what the thief will probably do, is pass it on quickly to a fence for the best price he can get. That would be the surest way of him staying out of prison.’

  Hull nodded.

  ‘What you thinking, Harry?’ Angel said, smiling.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  Ahmed burst into the office excitedly waving a sheet of A4.

  ‘Just come through, sir!’ he said, his eyes bright as he placed a telex on the desk in front of him. ‘Thought you’d want to see it straight away, sir. It’s about Alexander Spitzer.’

  Angel picked it up.

  It read:

  To all 43 UK police forces, Metropolitan, Interpol and MI5, cc Home Office.

  From DI Thorogood, investigating officer, Mantelborough Police, West Yorkshire.

  Information about the whereabouts is sought in connection with Alexander Spitzer, 38, aka Fr Ignatius Colhoun and Luke ‘Fingers’ Coulson, 36, who, after a short exchange of handgun fire outside a transport café on the outskirts of Mantelborough, in which an officer was wounded in the shoulder. The wound is not thought to be life threatening.

  Spitzer is also wanted in Spain for murder, and both men are wanted for possession of eighty kilos of Class A drugs, for the purposes of sale and distribution.

  DI Thorogood of Mantelborough CID urgently seeks any information re whereabouts of these two men. Telephone 22394 297223.

  Angel re-read it, nodded, then rubbed his chin. He was pleased that Spitzer had been seen. It might prove helpful to his investigation of Gumme’s murderer. He felt a warm tremor of excitement in his chest as he thought about it.

  ‘Hmm. Ta,’ he said. ‘I shall deal with that in a minute, Ahmed.’

  The young man beamed.

  ‘I’ve got a little job for you,’ Angel continued. ‘I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. I want you to go to the general post office on Victoria Street and speak to the manager; tell him I want the scheduled routes of the vans of the two men who were assaulted. I want to know the precise streets and roads they were to traverse, and the times they should have reached and cleared each letterbox. Then I want you to mark it up on a street map, and set it up here on that wall behind me. OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  ‘Right,’ Angel said. ‘Now off you go, then. Chop chop.’

  Ahmed smiled and dashed off.

  Angel watched the door close then he reached out for the phone and determinedly tapped in the number. He felt that he might be on the verge of a breakthrough. It couldn’t come too soon.

  The phone was soon answered and he was quickly passed from the Mantelborough police receptionist direct to DI Thorogood.

  ‘This is DI Angel at Bromersley CID, I have your message down the wire. I can tell you that Alexander Spitzer aka Fr Ignatius Colhoun was staying at The Feathers Hotel here in Bromersley on Tuesday night, 20 March.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Thorogood said. ‘But are you sure it was him?’

  Angel wrinkled his nose.

  ‘He was in priest’s clothes handing out Bible tracts. We got a fingerprint from such a thing; it was Spitzer all right. He was believed to have met a local man, who the following morning was found dead, shot in the heart. I am interested in finding the man’s murderer. Obviously, Spitzer might have been responsible, but, as yet, I have nothing firm with which to charge him.’

  ‘That’s interesting. Did you say The Feathers Hotel in Bromersley?’

  ‘Yes. I have a sergeant working there at the moment. I understand that Spitzer wounded one of your men? Sorry about that. Can you say what sort of gun he was carrying?’

  ‘It was a Smith and Wesson .38.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Was Luke Coulson with him?’

  ‘No. Never heard of him. I don’t think he’s from round here. Spitzer was born in Leeds, I believe.’

  ‘I don’t think he was born,’ Thorogood said. ‘I think he was hatched.’

  Angel had the same feeling.

  ‘Right. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Thank you for yours, and good luck.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Angel said and replaced the phone.

  He rubbed his chin. The water was getting muddier. Nothing was getting any clearer.

  The phone rang. He reached out for it.

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘It’s me, sir. Ron Gawber.’

  Angel thought he sounded breathless, as if he’d been running.

  ‘Yes, Ron?’

  ‘I found a gun, sir.’

  Angel raised his head.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the cistern of one of the lavatories in the ground floor of the Gents.’

  Angel understood his breathlessness. He felt his own pulse thumping. Maybe this was the breakthrough he had been hoping for.

  ‘Looks like it’s been dumped in a hurry. It’s not wrapped in anything. Got it out with a coathanger. It’s drying out on some newspaper.’

  ‘What’s the make?’

  ‘It’s a Walther PPK/S .32 automatic.’

  TEN

  Angel stopped the BMW opposite the illuminated flashing ‘Snooker’ sign. He locked the car and walked under the sign down the snicket to the door. It was wide open, as it had been before, and it was busy and noisy. He could hear loud echoing voices and the click-click-click of balls as they crashed into each other on the green baize. As he walked into the hall, he noticed that most of the tables were let: the grey covers were off and the powerful lights above were generating heat. The young men in T-shirts with snooker cues, some drinking, some chatting, who bothered to notice him, turned distinctly sour: he was an older man trespassing in a young man’s world. The pressed suit and collar and tie made him stick out like an orchestra leader at a jumble sale.

  He looked up at the bar. Horace Makepiece was leaning over the counter reading the Racing Post, while Bozo Johnson was removing tops off bottles of Fosters for two racy young men with ponytails.

  He stepped up to the bar.

  The till bell rang as Johnson pressed the keys.

  He stood right in front of Makepiece, who suddenly looked up from the list of runners and saw him. His jaw dropped, then he smiled.

  ‘Hello again, Inspector,’ Makepiece said evenly. ‘What can I do for you? Did you wanna see me?’ He began to fold up the newspaper. His face suddenly straightened. ‘You haven’t got the bloke what done it, have you?’

  Angel shook his head.

  ‘Not yet. I’d like to have a private word with your Mr Johnson,’ he replied, nodding towards the big man.

  The pupils of Johnson’s eyes slid momentarily to observe Angel, then quickly returned to the young man he was serving.

  Makepiece hesitated.

  ‘Wid Bozo? Sure. Sure,’ he said and he turned to the big
man.

  Johnson passed some coins to his customer, who had lively-looking tattoos of snakes spiralling down from under his short shirt sleeves to the back of his hands. The young man then picked up a glass of something from off the bar and wandered away sipping it.

  ‘Hey Bozo,’ Makepiece said, ‘the inspector wants to have a private word wid you. Take him in the back office? Yeah?’

  ‘Right, boss,’ Johnson said and rubbed his mouth very hard. He picked up an opened can of Grolsch, took a swig, emptied it and threw it into a bin under the counter.

  He passed behind Makepiece to get to the counter gate, pushed it open and came down into the body of the hall. He nodded at Angel and made his way through the customers between the tables to the far end of the hall, glancing back to check that Angel was still following.

  They were soon in the back office. Johnson switched on the light and closed the door. It looked exactly the same as it had looked the previous Friday, when he had interviewed Makepiece.

  Johnson looked at Angel.

  ‘This all right, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  Angel sat in the same place he had chosen before, facing the door. Johnson sat opposite him.

  He was a big man.

  ‘Your name is really Benjamin Johnson, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s only really the boss, Mr Gumme, and now Harelip that calls me Bozo.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Dunno. I didn’t mind.’

  ‘Did you like Mr Gumme?’

  He pulled a face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  He hesitated. ‘I didn’t like him taking the mick out of me. I mean Bozo is the name of a clown. Who wants to be named after a clown?’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘But of course, he sort of … bought the privilege,’ Johnson continued. ‘He gave me a job as assistant manager. It was a leg up. I mean, I’d never been a manager before.’

  ‘Especially at a time when nobody else would employ you?’

  Johnson raised his eyes. His face went red. His lips tightened against his teeth.

  ‘That bastard Harelip’s been shooting his mouth off again, hasn’t he?’

  Angel blew out six inches of air.

  ‘Well, we know that you’ve served time, Mr Johnson. It’s a matter of record.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. And I can never get away from that, can I?’

  Angel blinked. He was stuck for a suitable reply. He wanted to change tack.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Mr Gumme. I want to know what you were doing the night he was shot.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I was here until ten-forty or so. Unusually, Harelip had been called out to run him somewheres at eightish. He got back at a quarter past. We close at ten, so I cleared the tables and checked the lavatories. There were a few drunks outside kicking up. I went out and chased them off. Then I locked the doors, cashed up, prepared the money for the bank, cleared and covered all the tables and everything. Then Harelip and me closed up and dropped the money in the night safe together, which is only next door, and then we parted company. I went home. I only live round the corner. Harelip lives at the back of the hall.’

  ‘You married?’

  ‘No. I live on my own … at the moment. I had a relationship going but I packed it in a couple of weeks back.’

  ‘You were on your own until the following morning?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And Mr Makepiece, does he live on his own?’

  Johnson smirked. ‘Yeah. Huh. I reckon he’d need a face change for a woman to take up with him.’

  Angel considered the comment. It was true he was no oil painting, but he’d seen worse with some most attractive women.

  ‘Do you own a car?’

  ‘Yeah. I got an old Merc. Don’t get out with it much though. Working all hours, you know. But got to have decent wheels to pull a bird, don’t you?’

  ‘Have you any idea who might have wanted to kill Mr Gumme?’

  ‘Well, frankly, Inspector, just about everyone. He was decent enough to me, but he got his money’s worth. I mean, I work about fifty-six hours a week. It isn’t heavy work, but it’s tying. I’m always here at ten in the morning. I have four hours off in the afternoon … when Harelip’s always there. Then I’m here until we finish, normally about a quarter past ten. Harelip’s fed up with the long hours. When he’s not in the hall, he’s driving the boss around. And the boss treats him like dirt. He don’t seem to notice.’

  ‘But that’s not a motive for murder?’

  ‘No. No, it isn’t. I didn’t mean that. It could have been anybody at all who owes him money. His collection technique is very … rough. Very rough indeed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Harelip’ll tell you. He threatens and bawls and puts the fear of God into anybody and everybody.’

  ‘Yes. I see. And who owes him?’

  ‘Everybody he’s played pontoon with.’

  A mobile phone began to ring. It was Angel’s. He dived into his pocket.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to Johnson, then he stood up and turned away from the table. The LCD told him it was DS Mallin from Traffic Division.

  ‘Angel speaking. What is it, Norman?’

  ‘The tracer shows that your pot dog is on the move.’

  Angel’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Ah,’ he said enthusiastically.

  ‘And at a very slow speed, sir. So I take it the thief would be walking.’

  ‘Which direction is he taking?’

  ‘We picked up the first sign of movement at Town End Bridge about five minutes ago. That would be when it was pulled out of the river. The flasher now indicates that he is halfway up Sheffield Road …’

  Angel frowned. That was not in the direction of Harry Hull’s flat. ‘Right, Norman. I’ll ring you back in a few minutes.’

  He cancelled the call and immediately dialled another number.

  A voice answered. It was Gawber.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Ron. I’ve just heard from Norman Mallin that Mrs Buller-Price’s dog is being taken for a walk and that it is halfway up Sheffield Road. I want you to check it out now. You know what Harry Hull looks like, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m on my way. I’ll come in the other direction. Don’t want to lose him. You might beat me to it. I’m in Earl Street. I am leaving now.’

  He cancelled the call, closed the phone, pocketed it and turned to Johnson.

  ‘You will excuse me. Something’s come up. I have to go to see a man about a dog, Mr Johnson. Thanks very much. I’ll get back to you if there’s anything else.’

  Two minutes later he was in his car, chasing along Cemetery Road. He made the corner and started up the far end of Sheffield Road. There was no sign of Harry Hull. Then he saw Gawber’s car coming towards him. He lowered his window and signalled him to stop. Then he pulled out his mobile and dialled out Mallin’s number.

  Gawber stopped at the opposite side of the road, unfastened his seat belt, opened the car door and rushed across the road.

  ‘Have you seen him, sir?’ Gawber called.

  ‘No,’ he growled back. ‘I’m phoning Norman Mallin.’

  There was a click in the earpiece and a voice answered.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Norman, are you still getting a signal?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, where is he now?’ he yelled.

  ‘At the bottom of Cemetery Road,’ Mallin said.

  ‘The bottom of Cemetery Road?’

  Angel had a flash of inspiration. He looked at Gawber.

  ‘He’ll be at Dolly Reuben’s. Maybe he doesn’t know Frank Reuben’s in Pentonville.’

  ‘That’s it!’ Gawber yelled. ‘He’ll be trying to fence the stuff there.’

  ‘Thanks, Norman,’ Angel said, his pulse racing. He closed the phone. He turned back to Gawber. ‘I’ll meet you th
ere. Give me time to turn round. Then you take the front door. I’ll take the back.’

  Gawber nodded and dashed back to his car.

  Three minutes later, the two cars pulled up a little way from the front of the the grubby, insignificant little shop which had the hardly distinguishable words ‘Frank Reuben Secondhand Furniture’ in peeling green paint on a cream background over the dirty shop window that had been splashed with dirty rainwater by passing vehicles the past six months or so.

  Angel got out of the BMW and rushed along the pavement past a hairdresser’s shop and a greengrocer’s and up a ginnel.

  Gawber waited on the pavement, counted up to sixty and then shot quickly into Reuben’s shop. The old-fashioned bell jumped like a monkey on a stick when it was clouted by a metal projection screwed to the top of the door. The cluttered little shop was piled high with old, dusty chairs, tables and rolled-up carpets. No human was in sight. Gawber heard a scuffling noise in the back room. He went straight through to see big Dolly Reuben standing hands on hips with her back to a fire, the back door opening and Harry Hull with a big suitcase walking straight into Angel’s arms.

  ‘Oh, hello, Harry, are you just leaving?’ Angel said. ‘Don’t you know it’s bad manners to leave just as someone arrives – it looks as if you don’t enjoy their company. And what have you got there? My, that’s a big case. Are you going on your holidays? I should let Sergeant Gawber take a look inside it. He’ll make certain you haven’t forgotten anything. It would be a shame to get all the way to Strangeways or Pentonville and then discover that you’ve forgotten something. Like a pot dog, for instance.’

  Hull’s jaw dropped to his navel and then came back up again.

  ‘It certainly looks as if he was possibly shot with his own gun,’ Dr Mac said. ‘The calibre matches and it had been fired recently.’

  ‘Any fingerprints?’

  ‘No.’

  Angel rubbed his chin.

  ‘Right, Mac. Thanks very much.’

  He replaced the phone and turned to Gawber, who was sitting opposite him.

  ‘Gumme shot with his own gun,’ Angel muttered, shaking his head.

  ‘Hard to believe,’ Gawber said.

  ‘Yes. Say Gumme drew his gun and made threatening noises … for some reason … the party overpowered him … I don’t suppose it would have taken much … took the gun from him and shot him at close quarters straight through the heart.’