The Auction Murders
Page 5
He carefully lowered the crutches to the floor. ‘I thought it would be a good time to come, when all the children are on holiday, and the school is closed,’ he said, hoping it might prompt her to explain the presence of young Youel.
She didn’t take the bait. She simply nodded.
‘I believe you wanted to tell me about your son.’
‘Yes,’ he went on, wondering what to say next.
‘Were you thinking of sending him here?’
Angel nodded. ‘He’s very introverted. I would like him to come out of himself. And, of course, I want him to be well educated.’
‘Do you mean he’s shy? Have you not brought him with you?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a pity. I would need to see him before I could make any recommendations. I have vacancies for two pupils at the moment, but I have a couple with a 7-year-old girl coming to see me again tomorrow. She is a delightful child and I dare say she will fill one of the vacancies; then I shall have just one open position next term, which incidentally starts in a fortnight. I tell you what, Mr Angel. I will give you my brochure listing all the special subject classes, school uniform requirements, dates and times, tariff and terms. You and your wife — you have a wife, Mr Angel?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You and your wife can study it, and perhaps give me a ring.’
She opened a bureau drawer, took out a cream booklet and passed it over to him. He glanced at the cover, then put the brochure in his pocket.
She crossed to the door. ‘You can give me a ring in a day or so,’ she said. ‘And bring your son to see me, if you wish, and we’ll see what we can do. I will wait to hear from you.’
The interview was over. She clearly wasn’t going to offer to show him round the school; it would have been unsubtle of him to have suggested it. There was nothing more he could do. He thanked her politely and reached down for the crutches. She led the way across the hall and opened the front door. They exchanged smiles, then he turned and picked his way down the three steps while he heard the heavy door close behind him. He crossed the drive to the car and reached out for the door handle. As it opened, Gawber anxiously leaned across and said, ‘I’ve just had the super on the phone. There’s been another stabbing.’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘What?’ he said, handing Gawber the crutches.
‘A woman called Alison Drabble. She lives in the town. The super’s sent SOC, two uniformed and Dr Mac. I’ve got the address,’ he said and started the engine.
Angel lowered himself into the seat and closed the car door. ‘Aye. Right.’ Their car sped through the gates up to the main road. ‘Alison Drabble?’ Angel muttered.
‘Yes. Do you know her?’
‘No,’ he frowned. ‘But the name’s familiar. Drabble … Drabble.’
Gawber pressed the car hurriedly on to the main road back to Bromersley.
Angel’s eyes suddenly opened wide. ‘I remember. Yes. I do remember. That was the name of the housekeeper to the Ogmores. She knew Sanson, the butler. They’d worked together for years. Hmmm. I needed to speak to her about him.’ He looked out of the window and sniffed. ‘Can’t ask her much now, can I?’ he said irritably.
Gawber made good speed down the long hill past Ogmore Hall, then slowed to go round Victoria Falls roundabout and then changed gear to go up the hill into Bromersley. They soon reached town, and he drove rapidly through it to the big new Sanderson estate on the west side.
‘That flat is in a block on the left, I think, sir. Number twenty-four.’
Angel spotted a white transit van, a police car and an unmarked car parked close together on the grass verge two hundred yards ahead. ‘They’re there, look.’
Gawber pulled up next to Dr Mac’s car. Three women with bare, fat arms were leaning over their respective front gates of neighbouring houses. As Angel and Gawber got out of the car, they stared at them in silence, and watched them enter the building.
Number twenty-four was on the ground floor along a tiled corridor. Four of the six doors the policemen had to pass were wide open, and women — some of them with small children — stood there in silence, watching the comings and goings.
A uniformed constable was outside the open door of number twenty-four. He saw Angel and Gawber approach. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Afternoon, sarge.’
Angel nodded in response and leaned on his crutches out in the corridor; he peered through the door. He could see Dr Mac in his white paper overalls bending over something on the bed. ‘Is it all right to come in, Mac?’
‘Oh. That you Mike? Hang on a minute, will you?’ he called. ‘Just getting the body away.’
Two men in green overalls, hats and masks rushed up behind Angel carrying a stretcher and a sheet. The inspector stepped back. They pushed in front of him up to the open door.
The PC said, ‘Hold on, lads. This is still a crime scene.’ He pushed his nose through the doorway and called in. ‘Hey Doc. They’re here from the mortuary. Can they come in?’
‘Aye. Come on in lads,’ Mac called out. ‘Mind where you tread.’
They went in. Nobody spoke. Mac pointed to the bed. On it was the body of a middle-aged woman; she was on her back with her arms outstretched, wearing a blouse, skirt, stockings and a slipper on her left foot. The other slipper was on the floor at the side of the bed. Her head was turned facing the window. The top half of her was saturated in blood, as was the bed. Her face, arms and hands were white, wrinkle-free and shiny. Although her eyes were closed, her mouth was open showing a displaced upper denture sited grotesquely askew. Her hair was neat and crimped, like a wig.
The two men didn’t waste any time. They covered the body in the white sheet and transferred it to the stretcher. As they made for the door, Mac noticed red stains seeping through the sheet. ‘Get it away quickly, lads. There are a lot of ghouls out there.’
‘Yes doc.’
The men manoeuvred the stretcher through the doorway and then walked at a brisk pace down the corridor, passing the women standing in the open doorways.
Angel heard a few wails. He wasn’t surprised and just shook his head. Gawber and Angel looked away from each other.
Mac stuck his nose out of the door. ‘Come in, Mike. There isn’t much room.’
A SOCO carrying a camera came out of the door at the other side of the fireplace and signalled to Dr Mac who went out with him.
Angel swung the crutches inside the doorway. The carpet was covered with a white sheet, which showed small areas of fresh blood oozing through here and there. Gawber stepped in beside him. They stood in awe as they looked round the tiny bed-sitting room. The few pictures and photographs in frames on the walls were all askew. The floor was covered with books, newspapers, clothes, coathangers and bottles of tablets. Ornaments had been indiscriminately turned out of the bookcase, the bedside cabinet, the wall cupboard and the wardrobe and unceremoniously strewn on the floor like worthless litter. The blankets and sheets on the bed had been removed to reveal the mattress, on to which the victim, bleeding profusely, had collapsed. The doctor came back into the room. Angel said, ‘How many rooms are there, Mac?’
‘There’s a bathroom, toilet and dining kitchen, that’s all.’
‘Are they all like this?’
‘Yes,’ Mac said, his jaw set tight. He looked round the room. ‘It’s been done thoroughly.’
‘Aye, but not by a professional.’ He pointed to a tallboy whose six drawers had been pulled out completely, the contents tipped on to the floor, and then slung upturned against the wall.
‘Wouldn’t you say it was the same MO as the Geoffrey Sanson murder, sir?’
‘Aye. Looks like it. And there’d not be much money here … and she’s not likely to be in the drug racket, either using or dealing,’ Angel said. He turned to the doctor. ‘What you found, Mac?’
‘There’s no forensic. The murderer was wearing leather or rubber gloves, so no prints. It’s bone dry outside, so there’s no footmark
s. No body liquids from the intruder, so no DNA.’
Angel grunted. ‘It’s going to be one of those cases.’
Mac continued: ‘The woman was stabbed … between the ribs into the heart, the same as Sanson. Died instantly. And like Sanson, it was a stiletto, and it was stuck in with the precision of a butcher’s hand and left there.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘The murderer would be blooded?’
‘Oh yes. On the hand and wrist at the very minimum … probably the arm and chest as well. Get me the murderer’s clothes now and I’ll get you a guilty verdict.’
Angel sniffed. ‘How long has she been dead?’
‘Maybe twelve or eighteen hours.’
‘Anybody else live here … with her? Any signs of a partner? Husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, mother, daughter?’
‘Looks like she lived on her own.’
‘Any other wounds?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Sanson had bruises to his stomach, didn’t he?’
‘Aye. Several. Probably caused by a clenched fist.’
He turned back to Gawber. ‘Have a look and see if that door’s been forced.’
Gawber got down on one knee. He called up to the doctor. ‘Has this door been printed, sir?’
‘Aye. Wiped clean … or gloves.’
‘Who found her?’ Angel asked.
‘Next-door neighbour,’ Mac said.
Gawber stood up. ‘It’s not been forced, sir. Key’s in the lock on the inside. She let her murderer in.’
Angel pulled a face. ‘Why do they always do that?’ he said grimly. He looked down the corridor and said, ‘Ask around. See what you can find out.’
Gawber nodded and went out.
Angel turned to Mac. ‘What do you think then, Mac? Off the top of your head? Money, drugs, booze, sex, rape … jealous ex-husband … row with boyfriend … what do you reckon? What’s your instinct?’
Dr Mac peeled off the plastic gloves and pulled back the white hood. ‘Robbery, I’d say. What else? Respectable middle-aged woman, lives on her own, easy target.’
‘Apparently respectable.’
‘Ah, well,’ he shrugged. ‘She knew her killer.’
‘Mmmm. She was apparently willing to let him in. No sign of a struggle. Not a hair out of place. Cold-blooded job. Didn’t rough her up. Looks like he gained admittance easily, probably simply knocked on the door. ‘Come to read the meter, love.’ ‘I’m from the town hall. It’s about a rates rebate.’ ‘I’m from the lottery: you’ve won a million pounds!’ Any old tale.’
‘Doesn’t have to be a man. It could have been a woman.’
‘Yeah. Yeah,’ Angel said rubbing his chin. ‘Their homes taken to pieces in the same way … and they both got stuck with a knife in the chest, on the same day … and both had worked for the Ogmores?’
‘Sounds like somebody under a great deal of pressure,’ Mac said wiping his hands on a clean piece of cotton wool.
‘Aye,’ Angel said, still rubbing his chin.
5
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Gawber.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Is it?’ He sniffed. ‘Aye, well, sit down, lad. What have you got?’
‘The woman next door found Alison Drabble’s body. She wanted to return a magazine she had borrowed from her. She said that she knocked on the door about two-thirty and got no reply. It was unusual at that time. She went away and came back half an hour later, knocked again and this time tried the door. It wasn’t locked, so she peeped inside and called out. She saw her on the bed, covered in blood. She didn’t go in. She closed the door, went back to her own flat, had a sip of brandy then dialled triple nine.’
Angel nodded. ‘It was reported at 1545. Anybody see anything?’
‘Not exactly,’ Gawber said, hesitantly, then he added, ‘There was a blind man passing the front of the flats at about two o’clock.’
Angel’s eyes lit up. ‘That could be about the right time!’ Then he frowned. ‘A blind man! A blind witness isn’t much good?’
‘Now there’s a funny thing, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘The man said he walks with his guide dog past the flats about that time most days. He was coming back from having his dinner with his sister-in-law on the other side of the estate. He walked through the recreation ground and said he was nearly run down by a high-powered car at the gate. That’s only fifty yards from the flat.’
‘So what?’
‘Well, it’s the place the murderer probably parked his car.’
‘Aye,’ Angel said tetchily. ‘But a blind man?’
‘Well, this man, Neville Mountjoy, he’s in his fifties, he reckons he could recognize the sound of the car if he was to hear it again.’
Angel pursed his lips, then shook his head. ‘Can’t imagine what a jury might think of a blind witness who identifies cars by the sound of their engines. It’s very clever, but it sounds like a novelty act from one of those daft Saturday night TV shows.’
‘Not only the car engine. He can identify the differences in the sound of brakes, gear changes, reversing and so on. He used to be a car mechanic, before he went blind.’
‘Hmmm. Poor chap. It’s not a wealthy neighbourhood for a powerful car to frequent, is it? He’s positive the driver nearly hit him?’
‘Well, yes.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘So the driver … the murderer would remember the incident, wouldn’t he? That could be very important.’
‘I should think so. The car braked hard, reversed and then moved off again. It was hearing the different sounds made by the car so close to him that make him confident he would be able to identify it if it came anywhere near him again.’
Angel frowned and shook his head. ‘Still, I can’t see the CPS putting a blind man in the box as a witness … because he claims he can positively identify a car by the sounds it makes.’
‘Perhaps not, but it might help the investigation.’
Angel nodded. ‘It might, lad. It might. You are right. I must see the man urgently. See what he has to say. Let me have his address. Anything else? Did you manage to unearth any muck or scandal about her?’
Gawber’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No. She seemed a perfectly respectable woman. Neighbours all seemed to like her, sir. Not a bad word to say about her. She hasn’t been there long, about four months, but she seemed popular enough.’
‘What did she do for a living?’
‘She wasn’t in employment. She had been looking for a job since she stopped working for Lady Ogmore and had to move out of the cottage.’
‘Mmm.’ Angel wrinkled his nose and looked down thoughtfully. He was quiet for a moment. Then, suddenly, he looked up. His face had changed. His jaw dropped. His eyes were shining. ‘Hey, I’ve just realized. Seeing as these two victims both worked at Ogmore Hall, I wonder if the others who worked there might be in danger too!’
Gawber’s jaw dropped.
Angel stabbed into his pocket and pulled out the card Lady Ogmore had given him the previous day. He read off the phone number and then dialled it. The ringing tone began. It continued … and continued … but there was no reply.
*
The car came to a stop with a screech of brakes outside the bungalow. Angel threw open the door and heaved himself out. Gawber passed him the crutches and the big man swiftly manoeuvred himself up to the garden gate. It was unfastened and swinging ominously in the breeze. He didn’t like the look of it. He rocked the crutches straight up the short path to the front door. He tried the door but it was locked. He glanced round at the windows on the front elevation; they were all intact.
Gawber overtook him and ran round to the rear of the building.
Angel picked up the door knocker and banged it hard on the door six times. There was no response. He banged again and yelled, ‘This is the police. Open up. This is the police!’
There was still no reply.
Angel tried again. ‘This is the poli
ce. Open up.’
Seconds later Gawber came round the corner of the bungalow and up to the inspector. His face told the story. ‘There has been a break-in, sir. A window has been smashed. I’m going in!’
‘No you’re not! He might still be in there,’ Angel called. ‘You stay here. Watch the front, and phone in. I’ll take a look.’ He pointed the crutches determinedly along the flagged path.
The sergeant looked anxiously after him as he tapped into his mobile.
Angel arrived at the rear of the bungalow. He soon found the smashed window. A double-glazed pane had been efficiently knocked out, leaving a hole big enough for a man to climb through. He looked at the fragments of glass spread over the path, the adjacent border of expired daffodils and thriving dandelions, and the lawn. He then peered through the jagged glass at the thick burgundy curtains inside, which were closed and quivering slightly with the breeze. He raised one of his crutches and poked into the curtains looking for a gap. When he found one, he pursed his lips, sucked in a long steady breath of air and eased the curtain to one side. His pulse quickened as he looked into the room. He wasn’t surprised at what he saw. Nearest the window was a double bed with the blankets, covers and sheets stripped off, revealing the ticking; spread across it was a mishmash of pieces of shiny pink and white underwear, curious pieces of delicate lace lingerie with narrow straps, a jumble of black and brown stockings, twenty or more pink hair rollers, a bottle of a brown liquid with ‘Chanel’ on the label, four different pots of cream, a packet of paracetamol tablets, a pair of pliers and several handwritten envelopes. Beyond, by the door, seven empty dressing-table drawers were piled up in a heap next to an upturned linen basket. Next to that was a cream and gold wardrobe, the door was open and swinging free; it squeaked like a cantankerous cat as the draught from the window changed its position from time to time. At the far side of the room, a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, probably lifted from some exotic hotel in the past, was hanging irrelevantly from the knob of the door which led into the hall, where he could just see an upturned dressing-table stool, its feet pointing heavenward.
There was no sign of life … or death.