‘I don’t need any sleeping pills, Sister.’
‘Your sleeping pills are the little blue ones,’ she repeated heavily. ‘Take one at night. Take them. They will give you a good night’s sleep, even if you think you don’t need them. They are not addictive and will help your recovery.’
Angel shook his head.
‘Sister,’ he began. ‘I don’t need any—’
‘You must do as I tell you!’ she boomed.
‘You won’t be there,’ he said impudently.
She stared at him with eyes like Midas.
‘It is not yet too late to stop you from going, Mr Angel. I do not entirely approve of this early discharge and I have made Doctor Eisennman aware of my views. He says that there are special reasons why this concession has been permitted; as you have made yourself particularly obnoxious to some of my senior staff, I have waived my objection.’
Angel blinked and was about to reply.
‘Now then, to continue,’ she said. ‘Do the exercises as you’ve been instructed by the physiotherapist each day. You must certainly not undertake any kind of work or make any journeys in motor vehicles – only the necessary one back to the hospital. Watch your diet. No fatty foods. No sticky cakes. No alcohol. No smoking. Do nothing that would unduly increase your blood pressure.’
‘You mean no—’
‘You may ring the telephone number,’ she boomed, ‘at the top of the letter, if you have any medical difficulty or are in any additional pain. You may borrow the wheelchair but it must be returned. I understand that there is a person waiting with a car at the main door to take you home. A porter has arrived to wheel you down there and Student Nurse Plimpton here will assist you into the car. You have an appointment with Doctor Eisennman in outpatients next Wednesday. Full instructions are on the letter. Don’t miss it. Any questions?’
‘Will you be there?’
‘No.’
‘I won’t miss it.’
Ahmed led the way up the green corridor, carrying the suitcase.
Half a dozen heads shot out of the CID room, and took in the unusual sight of Angel in a wheelchair, with pots on his foot and hand and places on his face that were already turning from dark red to an uninteresting pink, being pushed up the corridor by Crisp.
They called, ‘Well done, sir,’ ‘Welcome back,’ ‘Great job, sir.’
Angel smiled and waved with his right hand. The hand in a pot rested unresponsively on the wheelchair arm.
Ahmed opened the office door, rushed in, deposited the case by the wall, then pushed the swivel chair out of the way into the corner, as Crisp wheeled Angel up to the desk and then squared him up to face it.
‘Ah,’ Angel said, with a grin. ‘That’s better. Thank you, son.’
Crisp nodded and made for the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Got a lot on, sir.’
‘Like what?’
‘Investigating a burglary, sir. A garden hut on Creeford Road. I am in the middle of enquiries about a stolen bicycle, a lawnmower and fourteen pounds of rabbit food stolen from—’
‘Oh. You can leave that, son,’ he said positively. ‘You can definitely leave that.’
Crisp’s mouth opened. He wasn’t too pleased. He came back up to the desk.
Angel glanced at the pile of post, notes and round robins that had accumulated in his short absence, then he looked up at Ahmed.
‘A cup of tea would go down a treat.’
Ahmed smiled. ‘The kettle’s been on, sir.’
‘Right. Chop-chop, then,’ he said and gestured towards the door.
Ahmed rushed out.
Angel looked up at Crisp.
‘Now, I know that Ron is busily tied up with something, so I want you to find out if Benjamin Johnson and Alexander Spitzer were in Durham prison at the same time. Johnson was in from 2000 and was released in January 2004. Spitzer also served time there, but I want you to find out exactly when he was there, sharpish.’
Crisp nodded and went out.
Angel took the phone off its cradle and laid it on the desk. He tapped in a number and then picked it up. He could hear the number ringing out and eventually it was answered by his wife, Mary.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘It’s me,’ he said, smiling.
‘Where are you?’ she said.
‘At the station. Are you all right?’
‘Yes. You crafty old fox. How did you manage that?’
‘It’s a long, long story. But I’ll be home for tea. I’ll get a lift from one of the lads.’
Mary Angel must have smiled. ‘You must have really got right up that poor sister’s nose.’
‘Not at all,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I was Mr Charm personified. Now about those playing cards?’
‘I’ll have to get something defrosted very quickly,’ Mary said, sounding her usual, considerate, domestic self. ‘I don’t know what we can have. You could have told me. Are you on any special diet? Is there anything you can’t have?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No restrictions at all. I can have anything I like. You’ll find something,’ he said knowingly. ‘About those playing cards?’
‘I’ve got some lamb chops. They should be all right. They looked very nice. I’ll have to move fast. Let me go now, Michael, or you won’t be having tea, it’ll be supper.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ he called.
It was Ahmed with a tin tray with a cup and saucer in the middle of it.
‘All right, love. I’ll see you about a quarter past five.’
‘Bye.’
He replaced the phone.
Ahmed put the tea on the desk in front of him and said, ‘Have you heard the news, sir?’
‘No. What?’
‘You’ll be pleased, sir,’ he said, his eyes shining. ‘The super’s arrested Alexander Spitzer and Luke Coulson. They’re down in our cells, here, now.’
Angel nodded.
‘I knew Ron Gawber was organizing a raid on their farmhouse.’ Then he sniffed. ‘Did you say the super had made the arrest? Where was DS Gawber?’
‘Oh, he was there, sir, and there was an armed unit from Wakefield as well.’
‘Any casualties?’
‘No, sir. They went in early doors, caught them unawares.’
Angel smiled quietly and sipped the tea. ‘Did they find anything … incriminating on the … premises?’
‘Huge store of heroin, sir. Suitcases of money. There was even an aeroplane hidden under straw in a barn.’
Angel nodded, sipped the tea again and then held the cup thoughtfully and said, ‘Has the PSD team moved Sergeant Galbraith out of our cells?’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘The Professional Standards Directorate. PSD. Time you knew these abbreviations.’
‘Oh yes, sir. They came on Friday. Started taking statements from everybody, and they took the sarge away with them then. Don’t know where.’
‘They wouldn’t have told you if you had asked,’ he said starkly.
The reason he had asked was that he hadn’t wanted Spitzer and Coulson to learn they were sharing a cellblock that had a bent copper in it. Bromersley force would never have heard the end of it.
Ahmed nodded his understanding.
‘Ron will be busy processing Spitzer and Coulson and interviewing them, then?’
‘Yes, sir, with the super. Do you want to go down? I’ll wheel you down there if you want me to.’
He wrinkled his nose.
‘No. No. They’re old hands. They’ll be singing “No comment” to every question. It would be a waste of time. Besides, there are charges they have to answer, not just here, but in Manchester, York and Lincoln that I know of. And there’ll be others I don’t know of. That’ll keep Ron and the super and the CPS busy for long enough.’ He shook his head determinedly. ‘No, Ahmed, I have enough on my plate. I’ve got a murder to solve.’
The phone rang. He reach
ed out for it.
‘Angel.’
It was Crisp calling from the CID office.
‘Spitzer was in Durham prison from July 20th 1997 to April 22nd 2004. Johnson was in Durham prison from February 22nd 2000 to January 10th 2004. So there was an overlap time of almost four years. They didn’t share a cell, but they were in the same wing and on the same landing.’
‘Ah,’ Angel said eagerly. ‘Then they would certainly know each other. Right, now go to the snooker hall on Duke Street and ask Mr Benjamin Johnson if he would kindly accompany you back to the station to see me. And be nice, Crisp,’ he said gently, then his jaw stiffened and he added: ‘But don’t come back without him.’
An hour later, Crisp wheeled Angel into Interview Room One where Benjamin ‘Bozo’ Johnson was already seated with his solicitor, a smartly dressed young man. Their eyebrows lifted slightly as they took in the unusual sight of a police inspector being pushed into the room in a wheelchair, but they said nothing.
Crisp switched on the recording tape.
Angel began quickly in a monotone: ‘Interview Tuesday April 3rd at 12.45 p.m. Present, Benjamin Johnson, Mark Walker, Detective Sergeant Trevor Crisp and Detective Inspector Michael Angel.’
He turned immediately to Johnson.
‘Where were you during the late afternoon, about five o’clock on Tuesday, 20th March last?’
He frowned, touched his nose with his forefinger and said, ‘Five o’clock? I would be at the snooker hall on Duke Street.’
Angel sniffed.
‘If you’ve forgotten, that was the day Joshua Gumme was murdered.’
Johnson didn’t even blink.
‘Yes. I was at the snooker hall. I’m almost always there.’
‘Are you the owner of a 1994 Mercedes car? Silver with a red stripe down the side?’
‘Yes. That’s my car.’
‘Do you ever lend your car out to anyone, to a friend, or hire it out to anybody?’
‘No,’ he said firmly.
‘Has it ever been stolen?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘What are you getting at, Inspector?’
Angel was glad he had asked. It might save time. He made a leap in the dark with his next assertion.
‘Your car was used to transport a man dressed as a priest, but who was actually a wanted murderer and drug dealer, Alexander Spitzer, to The Feathers Hotel at around five o’clock that day. Are you saying you weren’t the driver?’
‘Oh? That?’ Johnson said, wrinkling his nose, looking down at his navel and then at a white splash left by a bird on a window pane. ‘That? No. I drove him to the hotel.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Angel said tersely.
‘I had forgotten it was the same day.’
‘Why? How many times have you driven a man dressed as a priest to The Feathers Hotel?’
Johnson knew he’d been exposed.
‘I didn’t realize it was the same day, that’s all.’
Angel shook his head impatiently. He turned to the solicitor. ‘Mr Walker, you should advise your client not to lie unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
‘He wasn’t lying. My client had obviously forgotten, that’s all.’
‘Well, I hope he doesn’t forget anything else I ask him about. The questions are going to get more significant as we move on. Now then, Mr Johnson, how did you come to be taxiing murderer and drug dealer Alexander Spitzer around the place?’
‘It was only the one time. I met him off a train in Doncaster and brought him to The Feathers, that’s all. He knew I worked for Mr Gumme. He asked me all about him. I didn’t know much. I think he thought I could put a word in for him regarding some business he wanted to put to him. I couldn’t, of course. The boss wouldn’t have listened to me.’
‘Why did he choose you?’
‘I don’t know.’
Angel wrinkled his nose. He turned to Walker and said, ‘Will you give him a kick or something? His memory’s on the blink again. It might need a six-pack of Grolsch to get it started.’
Walker leaned over and whispered in Johnson’s ear.
Johnson frowned, turned to Angel and said, ‘You mean why did Spitzer get me to taxi him?’
Angel made an exaggerated smile, nodded and said, ‘Yes.’
‘I knew him from the time I was in Durham prison.’
‘You were on the same landing for four years,’ Angel said forcefully. ‘You couldn’t avoid knowing him. How well did you know him?’
‘He was top dog. Practically ran the wing. Bossed all the rackets.’
‘So you were scared of him?’
‘Everybody was scared of him.’
‘So he got in touch with you and asked you to meet him in Doncaster and taxi him to the hotel.’
‘Yes.’
‘And what else?’
‘What else? Nothing else.’
‘Didn’t he ask you to stick around in case he needed your assistance with something?’
‘He might have done.’
‘Of course he did. Or else he was slipping. What else did you do for him? Did you take him and Gumme for a drive in your car to have a natter, seeing as he couldn’t get to talk to him privately at the hotel?’
‘No.’
‘And didn’t Gumme lose his patience with Spitzer, pull out his gun in an attempt to get away from him and you?’
‘No.’
‘And didn’t Spitzer take it from him, shoot him and then the two of you went to Town End Bridge to throw his dead body and his wheelchair off it, into the River Don?’
‘No.’
‘You were Spitzer’s accomplice and therefore complicit in the offence of murder.’
‘No. No. I was at the snooker club. I was there all evening. Every minute.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘No one in particular I can think of, but I was there. I guess some of the punters would remember me.’
‘Could Horace Makepiece confirm you were there?’
‘Well, no. Not exactly. He was … in and out.’
‘What time did Makepiece arrive?’
‘I told you that before, he got back at about eight-fifteen.’
‘Did you see him come in?’
‘No. He went to the printing room; he was printing up some menus for the Chinese or something.’
‘So how did you know he got back at eight-fifteen?’ Angel bawled impatiently.
‘He told me,’ Johnson responded in like fashion.
Angel ran his hand through his hair.
‘But you didn’t actually see him?’
‘No. I was busy. The place was throbbing. All the tables were let. I was on my own. He turned up at about ten-thirty.’
‘Has he got a key for the front door?’
‘No.’
‘But you had emptied the place, and locked up by this time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which way did he come in?’
Suddenly Johnson’s face dropped.
Angel didn’t miss it.
‘He came in by the front door, didn’t he?’ Angel said quickly. ‘You had to unlock it to let him in.’
‘I didn’t think about it.’
Angel’s pulse increased. ‘So he couldn’t have come from the print room?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Didn’t you think it … strange? Particularly as he had made a point of establishing in your mind that he had returned from chauffeuring Mr Gumme at eight-fifteen?’
‘Naw,’ he said. ‘Knowing the boss was at The Feathers, I just thought he’d been at it with Ingrid again, that’s all.’
Angel and Crisp exchanged glances.
His solicitor looked at his client and tried to remain expressionless.
Johnson sat there with a dirty grin on his face.
‘Well, not so surprising, is it?’ he continued. ‘The boss wouldn’t be that much use to her, paralysed from the waist down. Surprised she chose Harelip though. Poor woman must have been desperate.’
&n
bsp; Angel sighed and took the moment to shuffle himself into a more comfortable position in the wheelchair.
At length, he rubbed his chin and said: ‘What makes you say that Mrs Gumme and Mr Makepiece might have been “at it”?’
He shrugged.
‘He told me. Used to swank about it. There were several men. Everyone knew that that’s what had been going on. Except the boss.’
Angel scratched his head.
Crisp pushed Angel in the wheelchair back up the green corridor to his office and squared him up in front of the desk.
‘Crisp,’ Angel said. ‘Nip out and bring in Horace Makepiece. He should be at the snooker hall on Duke Street. Be quick about it and whatever you do, don’t let him speak to Johnson. I don’t want those two cooking up their own fairy story. All right?’
‘All right, sir.’
‘You’ve got a head start on Benjamin Johnson of five minutes, so crack on.’
‘Right, sir,’ he said, making for the door.
‘And on your way down,’ he called, ‘tell Ahmed I want him, pronto.’
‘Right, sir.’
The door closed.
Angel wriggled uncomfortably in the chair. He arched his back and tried to move the fingers in the pot. They seemed to respond. He couldn’t actually see them move, but he thought the tendons tightened in response to his stretching. He tried again. Nothing moved. He wondered if it was merely wishful thinking. He sighed. It was suddenly very quiet. Very quiet. He looked around at the green and yellow walls, the grey metal desk and stationery cupboard, the imitation black leather upholstered swivel chair with its chromium-plated feet, and the striplight in the cream ceiling that some days would flicker. It was the first few quiet moments he had had in the station since that ride of death down Doncaster Hill Road into the bottom of Bull Foot roundabout, then bouncing like a beach ball over the island three times and crashing into a furniture van at the other side. He was so glad and thankful to have come out of it alive and be back here in his own office, solving crimes, seeking out criminals and contributing towards the promotion of equality in an unfair society.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Ahmed. He looked anxious. He came up to him, looked closely into his face and said, ‘Are you all right, sir?’
Angel looked back at him and smiled.
The Man Who Couldn't Lose Page 18