The Auction Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Angel here. I need to get to Branscombe Avenue.’

  ‘We’ll find you something, sir. In two or three minutes … at the front.’

  Ten minutes later, a Range Rover from traffic division delivered Angel at the small, semi-detached house in a quiet part of the suburbs of Bromersley. An unmarked car was parked outside as well as the SOCOs’ van. Angel propelled himself up the path and arrived at the front door. He banged the knocker and the door was opened by Dr Mac in his forensic whites.

  ‘Come in, Michael.’

  ‘What you found?’

  Dr Mac’s bushy eyebrows shot upwards. ‘It’s a mess,’ he said, pulling open the door. ‘The place has been broken into. There’s a window at the back smashed. The next-door neighbour says it must have been done while she was at the shops, about four o’clock.’

  Angel positioned the crutches on the doormat and launched himself up the step. He sniffed. ‘This break-in would be after he was murdered then?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Angel pushed himself out of the hall into the drawing room. What a sight. The doctor had not been exaggerating. The floor of the room was a mass of newspapers, some green and some conventional black and white strewn everywhere. There were also books scattered about … sofa cushions had been pulled out and some chairs were upside down. The sideboard drawers too had been pulled out, the contents tipped on to the floor while the drawers were piled roughly in a corner. The other rooms had been similarly and savagely turned over.

  Angel sniffed. ‘A pretty thorough job. By an amateur.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Wonder what he was looking for?’

  Mac shrugged.

  Angel sighed. ‘Any dabs?’

  ‘The dead man’s, I expect. I will check, of course. Nothing fresh.’

  ‘Any footprints, drugs, cash, porn, firearms, gold?’

  ‘No. Only racing papers, tip sheets and betting slips.’

  ‘Did you see a bookie’s name on any of that rubbish?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or a cheque book, or cheque book stubs?’

  ‘No.’

  Angel sniffed and banged the crutches impatiently. ‘You’re not much help are you?’

  Mac glared at him and dropped down on his knees. ‘Neither are you. You’ve just stabbed my bag and broken my rectal thermometer!’

  3

  The following morning, Ahmed was hovering near Angel’s office, and when the inspector arrived, he followed him into the room with a sheet of A4 in his hand.

  ‘What you got there, lad?’ Angel said. ‘Your last will and testament?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘What have we got on Snatchpole, then?’ he asked as he threw his coat at him. Ahmed caught it and hung it on a hook at the side of a stationery cupboard.

  ‘Nothing, sir. Clean as a whistle.’

  ‘Oh,’ Angel grunted. He sat down at the desk and began to finger through the post. He looked up irritably. ‘Well, lad, what is that bit of paper you keep waving about? Is it your P45?’

  ‘No sir,’ Ahmed said firmly and grinned. ‘It’s that info you wanted on PC Sagar. Didn’t know how quickly you wanted it. I’ve got all there is in the personnel file from 1950 to 1962. These are my rough notes,’ he said waving the paper. ‘I can soon tap it into the computer and let you have a legible copy, if you like.’

  ‘No lad. Just let me have a look,’ he said holding out his hand.

  ‘You won’t be able to read my writing, sir.’

  Angel blew out an impatient sigh. ‘Well then, read it to me. Read it.’

  Ahmed nodded. ‘Well, sir, the first mention of Cyril Sagar on the station strength was as a PC in 1950, when he was eighteen years of age.’

  ‘That’d be when he first joined the force.’

  ‘It said that, at first, he served as a clerk. His conduct and service were excellent as recorded by the then Chief Constable Whyke. He went on a short course to Hendon and came back with passes and a commendation. In 1953, he went into traffic and, in the same year, got the job escorting the Queen’s car through the borough when she visited the town shortly after her coronation, and he got a service ribbon award for it. Then … he got his annual increments in pay … nothing unusual recorded … then nothing, sir. Just entries on the payroll and the quarterly strength figures for nine years.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘That’s how it is, lad. You are best not expecting anything exciting, being a copper. It’s the South Yorkshire police, not Top of the Pops.’

  ‘There was nothing at all about him through to 1962, when he was disciplined for being absent without notice for three days in April and then again in July for a week. There was no further mention of him after the end of July in 1962. That must have been when he killed himself, sir. There was mention of a gift to his widow of £200 in August, which was collected by subscription from his fellow workmates. There was no record of a pension, so I suppose his widow didn’t get one. And that’s all there was.’

  Angel nodded slowly. ‘Aye. Right, lad. That’s just what I wanted to know. Now tear it up.’

  Ahmed’s jaw dropped. ‘What? Tear it up, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He massaged his earlobe between finger and thumb and added, ‘And forget all about it.’

  Ahmed blinked. ‘Right, sir.’ He looked at him briefly, then proceeded to tear the page vigorously and tossed the fragments into the waste bin.

  Angel had the essential facts about Cyril Sagar. They had confirmed what he remembered his father had told him of the sorry saga.

  ‘Now I want you to get the phone book and see how many Sagars there are. There won’t be many. Check them off against the electoral roll. I’m looking for a woman aged between about sixty-six and seventy-eight. See how many you get.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Too much to do and not enough hands,’ he muttered. He wanted to be interviewing some of the people present at that auction room the previous afternoon. He felt certain there would be a witness; surely somebody saw something. He turned back to Ahmed. ‘See if you can find Sanson’s next of kin. And ring ‘traffic’ and ask them to organize a lift for me to Lady Ogmore’s. I’m going up in the world,’ he sniffed.

  *

  Angel struggled up the corridor, through reception, out of the front door and down the stone steps. Right on cue, an unmarked car pulled up at the front of the station and a man leaned out of the window. ‘Inspector Angel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lady Ogmore’s place, sir?’

  ‘Aye.’

  The young officer in plain clothes helped him into the car and then drove along Bradford Road towards Huddersfield. About two miles out of town, where Bromersley Road joined the main Huddersfield to Barnsley road there was an island roundabout; in the centre of it, was an imposing fountain surrounded by long-stemmed flowers. Water gushed from a spout in a tall pillar and dribbled graciously down a run of small marble steps into a contained pool below. Around the top of the pillar were four stone-carved plaques each facing a point of the compass; on each plaque was the Ogmore coat of arms, consisting of a lion’s head, and underneath that, a long sword with a snake twined around it; below that was a commemorative inscription that read: ‘This fountain has been generously donated to the town of Bromersley by Lord Arthur and Lady Alice Ogmore to commemorate sixty glorious years of Queen Victoria’s reign. July 21st 1897.’

  The car slowed, drove round the fountain, and took the second exit off it on to Huddersfield Road and alongside the high wall of the Ogmore estate. A hundred yards along were big black gates. The car drove through them to a smart little bungalow sited just inside, on the edge of the estate, several hundred yards from the big house itself.

  Angel opened the car door and heaved himself out. He balanced on one foot while he pulled out the crutches and placed them under his arms. ‘Thank you, lad,’ he called through the car window. ‘Just hang on a minute, will you? Make sure somebody’s in.’

&n
bsp; He hopped to the little white gate, opened it, rocked on the crutches four paces to the front door, lifted the knocker and hammered it. It was a full minute before he heard the sliding of a bolt and the rattle of keys; the door opened to reveal a slim woman with a big tousle of fair hair, scarlet lips and a voluminous blue housecoat that smothered her and seemed big enough to be wrapped round her several times. One of her slim white hands shakily held a cigarette, the other clasped the silk robe close to her chest. She was strikingly beautiful, with a very small head and a delicate face with high cheeks tapering down to her chin, and fair skin that had not been spoiled with years of cheap cosmetics. Her lips, however, were savagely made up in scarlet in the shape of a W. The backs of her hands showed the ligaments and bones and traces of veins, accentuating how slight she was. Her small pink nails reflected in the light.

  She peered at him through half-closed eyes and pushed a hanging strand of hair out of the way. ‘Yes,’ she drawled in a low key. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Angel, Bromersley CID. Are you Lady Ogmore?’

  ‘I think so,’ she said drowsily. ‘Yes, of course.’ She suddenly put a hand to her forehead, smiled and then moaned. Then she added, ‘Come along in. I’ve been expecting you. It’s about dear old Sanson isn’t it? Better get it over with.’ She pulled open the door and stood back.

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said. He waved an acknowledgement to the driver of the police car and turned back to the door.

  The police car drove off.

  The woman watched him manoeuvre the crutches through the narrow opening and swing himself into the room. She looked down at his leg and said, ‘Have you been skiing?’

  He smiled. ‘Just a misunderstanding with a drunk, that’s all.’

  ‘Story of my life,’ she said without thinking, then she brushed past him and closed the door.

  Her perfume brought back memories of a luxurious bathroom in a Parisian hotel he had stayed at for one night on a touring holiday twenty years ago.

  ‘Sit there,’ she said, pointing to a Louis XVII chair that had seen better days. She leaned over the back of it and snatched up a heavy magazine from the seat and plumped the cushion. Angel observed the title was Models USA; on the front cover was a photograph of a skinny girl wearing a garment made from a yard of dental floss. She threw the magazine on to the ornate, gilt marble-topped table in the centre of the room, which already held an assortment of other similar titles, plus a bottle of nail varnish, a drum of Stayput hairspray, an open pot of Helena Rubinstein cold cream, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette ends, an empty stocking packet in a torn cellophane wrapper and a dirty coffee cup.

  Angel squeezed through the furniture to the chair, sat down, placed the crutches across his lap and looked round the little room.

  ‘It’s not Buckingham Palace,’ she volunteered, yawning again. ‘But it’s home, and it’s mine,’ she said waving a hand in a grand gesture, though she quickly brought it back to hold the housecoat tight.

  Angel smiled up at her and said, ‘It’s fine. It’s fine.’

  ‘Well, you can’t get the staff, can you,’ she muttered, smiled dreamily and took a drag on the cigarette. She looked round the room for something, but didn’t seem to be able to find it. Then she shrugged and looked down at Angel. ‘If you can drink coffee without sugar and milk, I’ll get some. I don’t have sugar or milk in the house.’

  ‘If it’s no trouble, that would be very nice. Thank you.’

  ‘Won’t take a minute,’ she said and glided out through a door behind him.

  Angel adjusted the cushion and sat back in the comfortable chair. It was a bright and airy little room, but crammed mercilessly full of furniture — mostly cream and gilt — which sat incongruously in front of the small, modern cream-tiled fireplace. On its ledges were pieces of Meissen, ivory and other ornaments, interspersed with letters, nail scissors, Lypsol, papers, envelopes, a box of paracetamol tablets, lipstick, postcards, opened packets of cigarettes and boxes of matches filling up every square centimetre. A waste basket at the side of the fireplace was overflowing with screwed-up paper, newspapers and empty cigarette packets. On the walls were thirty or forty gilt-framed photographs of her in some glamorous dress and jewellery. She was usually portrayed with her late husband, with British and foreign royalty, film and television celebrities or politicians. The photographs were assembled higgledy-piggledy in no particular order or symmetry.

  She came back carrying two gilt and purple Crown Devon cups, and placed one of them uncertainly on the table, making another ring mark. ‘Can you reach that, inspector? Do you know I have a beautiful silver salver somewhere but I can’t find the bloody thing.’

  Angel smiled politely. ‘Thank you. Not to worry.’ He leaned over for the cup, took a sip. It was not very warm. He pulled a face and put the cup down.

  She slid into the chair next to him, wrapped the coat tightly round her, sipped the coffee and took a drag on a cigarette. ‘You want to ask me about dear Sanson, don’t you?’ she said, biting her bottom lip and looking down at the carpet.

  Angel nodded. He noticed the child-size foot with pink toenails and pretty ankle bone protruding through the straps of a delicate silver evening sandal.

  ‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Stabbed, we think. The post-mortem report’s not in yet.’

  She shuddered and pulled the housecoat higher up her neck. She took a drag from the cigarette in a staccato manner and said, ‘What do you want to know? He was a lovely man. My husband and I thought the world of him, you know. He served my late father-in-law until he died, and then Archie and I moved into the Hall and we inherited him with the house. He looked after us absolutely wonderfully. Archie died a year ago. Sanson attended me for those difficult six months, until I moved here in January. He would still be looking after me, but, well, there just isn’t the room, or the work. Anyway, people would have gotten the wrong idea.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Have you any idea who would have wanted him dead?’

  She pushed the hair out of her eye. ‘Nobody. Nobody. He was a real gentleman. And I know. I’ve met all sorts! He was a wonderful man. He anticipated everything. He saw to everything. I never had to worry about the running of the house. And he never intruded. He respected the intimacies of the family. He didn’t tittle-tattle in the town. I can’t imagine he had any enemies. Everybody liked him. He got on with everybody. He was great with the staff. His only vice was the telephone. He was never off it. Archie always shut a blind eye to it, but it was very inconvenient if you wanted to make a call.’

  ‘Talking to his family?’

  ‘No. He didn’t have any family. Well, not that I know of. No, he was talking to his bookie, I believe. He was mad about the gee-gees. Had a system. Apparently made a small fortune.’

  Angel wondered about that. ‘Who was his bookie?’

  She pursed her beautiful scarlet lips. ‘Oh, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Somebody local?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said drawing hard on the cigarette. She waved it towards him. ‘I’ll tell you who would know, if it matters. Mrs Drabble. Yes, Alison Drabble. She was our housekeeper. There’s nothing she doesn’t know. I’ve got her address somewhere.’

  She jumped to her feet and, clutching the housecoat, her eyes panned across the mantelpiece, the window bottom and then the table. Her mouth opened.

  Angel said, ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘My address book. The damned thing is here somewhere,’ she said, then her face brightened. ‘Ah. Of course. My handbag.’ She crossed to the door. ‘Won’t be a tick,’ she said and glided out into the kitchen.

  Angel frowned. He drummed his fingers on the chair arm; he took the opportunity to look up at the wall of photographs. One in particular took his eye. It showed two men standing on either side of the woman behind a pedestal with a glass holder on it supporting a diamond. The photographer had caught the s
tone emitting a beautiful spectrum of coloured light rays in three directions. The caption read: ‘Lord and Lady Ogmore with Sir James Joshua, Chairman of the Diamond and Gemstone Exhibition, at Earl’s Court, London, 2000, and the Ogmore Diamond, which is on show until the close of the event on Saturday.’

  Another framed photograph had obviously been taken much earlier. It was of the same, strikingly beautiful woman with her hair up and wearing a low-cut white dress. That caption read: ‘Emerald Henderson, Oscar nominee best actress in Romeo and Juliet, Stratford-Upon-Avon. September 1988.’ Angel heard her coming back. ‘It wasn’t in my handbag at all. It was on the work place thingie in the kitchen.’

  As she slid into the chair and opened the book, several small photographs, newspaper cuttings, business cards and till roll receipts fell out and drifted on to the carpet. ‘Oh budgerigar!’ she fumed. She leaned forward, picked them up and stuffed them roughly in between the pages. Then she thought for a moment, riffled back through the bits and selected a business card from the little bundle and gave it to him. ‘You may as well have that, Mr Angel. It’s got my new telephone number on it. You might need it to get in touch.’

  He reached out, glanced at it and pushed it in his pocket. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That address. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. It’s Mrs Alison Drabble, flat 24, Carlton Road, the Sanderson estate.’

  Angel noted it in his leather-backed notebook. ‘Thank you. Did you have any other staff at the Hall?’

  ‘Yes. My husband had a secretary, Kate Cumberland. I haven’t got her address, inspector. I have no idea where she might be,’ she said and tossed the book on to the table, leaned back in the chair and took another drag at the cigarette.

  He noted the name in his book. ‘Can you describe her?’

  She shrugged. ‘Average height and weight. Dark hair. Age about thirty-five.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘No. We didn’t have gardeners anymore: the grounds were maintained by contractors from Leeds. We had the odd bit of extra kitchen help and serving when we had a dinner party. Sanson used to see to all that; they never seemed to be the same girls twice.’