The Auction Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  The car door was suddenly snatched open and a man jumped in. He was big. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt and navy blue tie. A gold earring glinted in his thick earlobe. The smell of Taiwan brandy drifted under Angel’s nostrils.

  He glared at the big man and reached out with both hands for the man’s arm and locked on to it in a grip of steel. ‘What you doing, lad? What’s your game?’

  ‘Mr Angel?’ the intruder said with a smile like a Bechstein keyboard.

  ‘Mebbe,’ he said, working on the principle that he never gave information away for nothing. ‘Who are you?’ he snarled.

  The doors behind him opened; two more men climbed into the car. His eyebrows shot up.

  The doors slammed shut.

  Something was wrong. He licked his lips. Something was very wrong. His heart began to race. He didn’t like the odds. He turned to look.

  Strong, sweaty hands grabbed his head at the temples and forced it back to the front.

  ‘Don’t be difficult, Mr Angel. Keep looking ahead,’ an icy, precise and slow voice ordered from behind.

  Angel maintained his grip on the driver’s arm.

  The man wriggled. ‘Can I have my arm back, before it drops off?’

  ‘Please let go of him, Mr Angel,’ the man from the back seat said coldly.

  ‘Let go of my head and I’ll think about it,’ Angel replied.

  ‘Don’t turn round.’

  There was a pause. The hands at his temples slackened their grip and disappeared behind him.

  Angel slowly released the grip on the man’s arm.

  The man massaged it and exercised his fingers.

  Angel said, ‘What is this? Who are you? What do you want?’

  There was an aggressive blowing of a car horn from behind, immediately followed by several others further back.

  The man with the icy voice urgently said, ‘Move it, Joshua. Move it.’

  Noisily, the driver selected a gear and let in the clutch. The car moved off.

  Angel’s brain raced.

  ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ he bawled.

  ‘Forgive this unorthodox approach, Mr Angel, but secrecy is absolutely paramount. I’m Harry Youel. You may have heard of me.’

  Angel’s stomach somersaulted. Half the forces in the country were looking for him. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘What do you want? I must warn you. I am a police officer and this is a hijack.’ He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘And what about that accident?’

  ‘It’s nothing. A broken light cover. Joshua will sort it out. Won’t you Joshua?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Youel,’ the big man said.

  Youel continued, ‘This is not a hijack. We are providing transport to wherever you want to go. Now where is that? Just say where you want to go, and Joshua will drive you there, won’t you Joshua?’

  ‘Yes Mr Youel,’ the man said agreeably.

  Angel thought quickly; it wouldn’t be a bright idea to take this trio home with him. ‘The police station on Church Street,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Did you get that, Joshua?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Youel.’

  ‘Now while Joshua is working on that, you and I can have a word.’

  The car moved out of the traffic and up the hill.

  Angel sniffed. ‘I don’t think we’ll have much in common.’

  ‘It’s about my son, Sebastian, Mr Angel.’

  ‘Don’t think I know him.’

  ‘Well, it is like this, Mr Angel,’ Youel said icily. ‘You police have to leave my son alone. I cannot do with you interfering in his life. He’s a delicate young man and he needs nurturing and encouraging. He will not be able to blossom with heavy boots tramping all round him. So I want you to leave him alone. I have great plans for him. Let him develop. At present, he’s only a sapling; I want him to grow into an oak tree. So keep away from him. Give him air to breathe; room to expand.’

  ‘You mean, let him do as he likes,’ Angel said drily.

  Youel’s voice hardened. ‘I mean it, Mr Angel. And I have the power and the will to see that it is carried out. Name your price.’

  ‘Eh? Price for what?’

  ‘Price to get that stupid misunderstanding at that supermarket cash machine sorted out.’

  ‘Oh, that’s your son,’ Angel said cagily. ‘I couldn’t do it if I wanted to. It’s not my case. Besides, there’s CCTV proof that he was an accomplice to the copying of a credit card.’

  ‘How much for the tape?’

  ‘I haven’t got it. I haven’t even access to it. It’s with the CPS.’

  ‘Get it.’ A hand with a small brown paper packet appeared by his right ear. ‘In this wrapper is a thousand pounds.’

  Angel shook his head firmly. ‘I couldn’t possibly. Even if I wanted to.’

  The hand shot back and reappeared with three brown paper packets.

  ‘Three thousand pounds.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look Mr Angel, I am talking to you in a moving car so that we can’t be overheard, nobody at Bromersley nick or anywhere else will ever know we’ve even met. No notes, no memos, no minutes, no wires. It looks innocent enough, doesn’t it? Four men in a car, chatting. We might be talking about women or football.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Yes,’ he said angrily. ‘Well, what are we really talking about?’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds.’

  Angel’s eyes bounced; his pulse throbbed more loudly in his ears. ‘It can’t be done, even if I wanted to take your money.’

  ‘Everybody can use money, Mr Angel. Think of what you can buy with ten thousand pounds. Think of the women you can get … they’ll be all over you like flies … and the coke or H or whatever you’re into.’

  ‘I don’t want your money, Mr Youel.’

  ‘You will … you will … one day. In the meantime, Mr Angel, leave my son alone and tell all your friends to leave him alone too. Remember, anything that belongs to Harry Youel stays with Harry Youel, and is protected by Harry Youel’s personal protection plan. You will come to learn that I am a one-man insurance company, Mr Angel. Everything I own and everybody who works for me is covered by a fully comprehensive policy; it has my personal guarantee of protection from every kind of … disturbance. And the cover and the service apply twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The premiums are very reasonable and the service is matchless. Isn’t that right, Joshua?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Youel,’ the driver replied looking briefly back from the windscreen.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Poodle?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Youel,’ a voice from the back seat replied.

  ‘And claims are always paid out promptly … generously … with a bonus.’

  ‘Hmm. And how do clients contact you then?’ Angel said, running his tongue round his mouth.

  ‘Ah, yes. There’s the difference, Mr Angel. There’s the big difference. My clients don’t contact me: I contact them. They don’t choose me: I choose them.’

  Joshua turned the car left into Church Street. Youel said, ‘We’re nearly at your destination, Mr Angel. What’s it to be? This is a never-to-be-repeated offer. Ten thousand pounds and a lifetime guarantee of personal protection … no more falling down stone steps … or your car exploding when you come out of church … or your wife being kidnapped on a supermarket car park … or you being framed for something you didn’t do … I’m offering you a go-anywhere, anytime, do-anything policy. And the premium is so cheap … All you have to do is get my son off this mistaken identity charge, and then we could see what the future might hold for you. Now what do you say?’

  Angel shook his head. This was a tricky moment.

  The car stopped.

  ‘We’re here already, Mr Angel,’ Youel said. ‘It’s make-your-mind-up time.’

  He was amazed to be returned to the station in one piece. ‘My mind is made up. It’s thanks, but no thanks.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ Youel snarled. ‘Rest assured, I am never far
away.’

  Angel licked his lips as he reached for the door handle. He would be glad to get away from this mob.

  ‘Help the inspector out, Poodle. Where are your manners?’ Youel chided.

  The giant heaved himself out of the seat; the springs relaxed and the near side of the car rose two inches.

  ‘Goodbye for now, Mr Angel. I’ll be in touch. By the way, when you get out, don’t look back,’ Youel said icily.

  Poodle ran round the car and opened the front passenger door.

  Angel got a very close look at him as he pulled himself out of the seat. He had a head like a pig mounted on a pillar from Stonehenge, draped in a navy blue serge suit with a button-up waistcoat.

  Angel straightened up and stood uncertainly on the pavement; he needed the crutches. They had been on the back seat. He peered into the car, ignoring Youel’s threat. There wasn’t much of the little man visible; he was wearing a brown trilby hat and a scarf covered his mouth, chin and ears. His eyes shone like small, black marbles; nothing seemed to be alive behind them.

  The window instantly opened two inches. ‘Don’t stare at me!’ Youel screamed through the gap, his eyes blazing. ‘Poodle!’ he snarled.

  ‘Yes Mr Youel,’ he said still holding the door.

  ‘Reward him,’ he said and the window quickly closed.

  Angel looked up at the giant. He wondered what Youel had meant.

  Poodle slammed the car door, turned, grabbed Angel by his lapels, pulled him up close so that his snout almost touched Angel’s nose, then thrust him away backwards with great power towards a privet hedge. Angel shot over it into a border of spent daffodils and tulips. He rolled over again and came to rest on his back in the middle of a flowerbed. He pulled a painful face and took a deep breath.

  He heard Youel’s chilling voice call out, ‘Get in, you fool.’ Then, a door slammed, the engine revved and the car raced off.

  He eased himself up on his elbows, pulled a face and rubbed his side, but he was mostly worried about his knee. He must get to his feet. He wanted that car number. He rolled on to his side. Then he heard the squeal of brakes, the grating of gears, the sound of the engine revving. The car had reversed back. What now? There was the clatter of metal on the road. It was his crutches. They had been thrown through the car window. There was another painful grating from the gearbox, followed by more loud revving from the engine, a squeal of tyres and then silence.

  He struggled to his feet.

  A lady passing by, carrying two plastic bags of shopping, stopped and retrieved the crutches from the road.

  Angel dusted down his front, ran a hand over his hair and straightened the hanging of his coat. He picked his way precariously around the privet hedge.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the lady enquired.

  ‘Yes thanks.’

  ‘These yours?’ she said offering him the crutches.

  ‘Aye. Thank you,’ he said taking them from her and placing them under his arms. He felt better when his hands tightened round the grips and he could feel the rubber feet supporting him safely on the pavement.

  ‘My!’ she said. ‘Disgraceful behaviour. I should report it to the police. The station’s just here, look.’

  He sighed. ‘Ta. I think I will,’ he said making for the bottom step up to the front door.

  Angel scaled the stone steps with crutches in record time, and raced through reception and down the green corridor to the CID office. ‘Ahmed,’ he called, breathing heavily. ‘Has the super gone?’

  ‘Yes.’ The young man’s jaw dropped open as he looked at the red face. ‘Are you all right, sir? Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Aye. Get me the FSU, urgently.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ he said still staring bewildered at him.

  ‘Is there an obbo on Littlecombe school?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Well, crack on with that call,’ he snapped. ‘Then get me DI Pogle. Come on, lad, chop chop!’

  Angel turned and rocked his way up to his own office, cast the crutches to one side and let them slither noisily on to the floor. He slumped down in the swivel chair and wiped his face with his handkerchief. A minute later, the phone rang. He reached out for it.

  ‘FSU, sir.’

  ‘Right, lad.’ There was a click, then he said, ‘DI Angel, Bromersley. Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘DI Waldo White, Firearms Support Unit, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve just been hijacked by Harry Youel and two of his gang in a car in the main street here in Bromersley.’

  ‘Harry Youel?! Hell. Are you all right? Where are you speaking from?’

  ‘Bromersley nick. Yes. I’m all right. They were in a small red Italian car; I couldn’t get the index. They drove away from here about three minutes ago.’

  ‘Right. You sound all right. Do you know which direction they were heading?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you in a couple of minutes. Just let me get the show on the road. Won’t be long.’

  The line went dead.

  Angel replaced the handset. It rang immediately.

  ‘I’ve got DI Pogle on line one, sir,’ Ahmed said urgently.

  ‘Right. Bring yourself in here, lad.’ He stabbed the number. ‘Hello Desmond. Are you running an obbo on that kid’s school?’

  ‘Yes. I’m speaking to you from it now. Why?’

  ‘I’ve just had a run-in with Harry Youel and two of his gang in town and —’

  ‘What?’ He gasped. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t know he was already round here!’

  ‘I’ve informed FSU, but I haven’t told them about his son and that we have an obbo on him. Wouldn’t want them turning up there and frightening Sebastian off. It would ruin any chance we might have of netting his father.’

  ‘Oooh,’ Pogle muttered. ‘Er. That’s right. What’s the super say?’

  Angel wanted to dodge that one. The super would be at home watching football (or something) on the telly, and he reckoned that what the super didn’t know, wouldn’t do him any harm.

  ‘He’s not here,’ Angel said. ‘Well if you can keep the obbo running a few more days,Youel just might walk straight in to see his son. Then you could call in the FSU,’ he said feigning optimism. ‘The collar would be down to you and you’d be the super’s blue-eyed boy, wouldn’t you?’

  Angel waited, he hoped he had persuaded him.

  Pogle took a few moments to reply, then he spoke enthusiastically. ‘Yes, well, I suppose I can keep it going a few more days. I’ve got a little shelter on a platform in a tree organized. It’s about two hundred and fifty yards from the house. It’s a bit exposed to the elements and there are no mod cons, but it’s a perfect spot to see both the front door and the side door. Nothing can get past me.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Sounds great. Good luck.’ He replaced the phone still beaming.

  Ahmed came in, his eyes shining with anticipation.

  ‘Have Gawber and Crisp gone home?’ Angel snapped.

  ‘Don’t know, sir. They were on the door-to-door.’

  ‘Hmmm.’The phone rang again. He picked up the handset. ‘Angel.’

  ‘Waldo White. We are on our way. We’re pulling out of the yard now. I am leading a squad of four in two four-by-fours. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. We need a starting point. Where did you last see them?’

  Angel said, ‘I was dumped out of their car right outside the station, ten minutes ago.’

  ‘That was brazen. I’ve got ARVs taking up positions on the M1 and the A1, monitoring both directions, on the assumption they are leaving the area. I’ve told them to look for three men in a small red Italian car, that’s all I’ve got. In the absence of any leads, we’ll do the hotels, guesthouses and every other place of accommodation in and around Bromersley.’

  7

  The following morning, Angel arrived in his office at 8.28 a.m. The phone was already ringing. He dropped the crutches
and reached over the desk for it. ‘Angel.’

  It was the superintendent. He didn’t sound happy. ‘There’s a signal on my desk from the FSU. Did you call them out last night?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘I should have been advised,’ he growled. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You’d already left, sir,’ Angel said and he told him about the ambush by Harry Youel, the offer of a bribe, the skirmish outside the front of the station and his subsequent action of summoning the FSU.

  ‘You were assaulted by an east end gangster and you chose not to tell me anything about it?’ Harker bawled.

  Angel held the phone away from his ear, then he said, ‘I was coming in to tell you about it, first thing.’

  ‘First thing? This is first thing!’ he ranted. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were in, sir. They found nothing, so the DI called everything off at 0045 hours, and phoned me.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he grunted. ‘Well, next time you call FSU out, I want to be told about it … when it happens, not twelve hours later. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  The phone went dead.

  Angel replaced the handset and pulled a face. He was thinking it was a bad start to the day. He picked up the crutches, stashed them in the corner, then shuffled his way to the swivel chair. He flopped into it and dragged the pile of post across to the middle of the desk and began fingering through it.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘What is it, lad?’ Angel growled impatiently without looking up.

  ‘There’s a gentleman in reception to see you,’ he began. ‘Well, no sir, not exactly to see you.’

  Angel looked up. His jaw stiffened. ‘Eh? Come on lad, don’t talk in riddles. What are you on about? Does he want to see me or doesn’t he?’

  Ahmed coughed. ‘I’m sure he’d like to see you, sir, but he can’t because he’s blind.’

  Angel paused. His face brightened. ‘Oh? You mean the blind witness, Mr Mountjoy?’