The Auction Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  He stabbed the crutches into the red tiles and made his way purposely up the corridor to his own office. Tossing the crutches into the corner, he dropped into the swivel chair, snatched up the phone and stabbed in a number.

  The gentle, polite voice of Cadet Ahmed Ahaz answered. ‘Yes sir? Can I help you?’

  ‘Ahmed,’ he snapped. ‘Get Scrivens to report to me personally, here, now!’

  ‘He’ll be at Dr Sinclair’s house.’

  ‘Then I want to see DS Gawber, here. And I want a printout from the NPC of everything there is on Harry Youel and his associates. The only names I’ve got for them are a young lad who told me his name was Smith, and two characters that Youel calls Joshua and Poodle. It’s urgent, lad. Get your finger out!’

  *

  ‘Come in.’

  The door slowly opened and DC Scrivens put his head round. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ he asked hesitantly.

  Angel looked up from the letter he was reading. ‘Come in, lad. Sit down.’

  The young man closed the door uncertainly and took the chair by the desk. He pursed his lips and rubbed a hand across his chin.

  Angel placed the letter on the pile of papers he was working on and pushed it to the other side of the desk. ‘I’ve got a very important job for you, lad.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ Scrivens said, licking his lips.

  Angel peered at him. ‘Nothing to worry about. You can do this easily. Well, you know Andrew Todd, don’t you? He’s in DI Pogle’s team. Andrew’s about your age. For reasons that will become clear later, I want you to seek him out and offer to take him for a drink after work tonight.’ He reached into his wallet, pulled out a twenty-pound note and handed it to him. ‘It’s on me, but don’t tell him that.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks very much, sir,’ he said, his jaw dropping open.

  ‘Aye, well hold on. If he says he can’t, because he’s on duty, he might suggest tomorrow night or the night after that. If he does, apologize and tell him you can’t because you are on duty then, and bring me my money back. Got it?’

  ‘But I’m not working tomorrow night, sir, or the night after.’

  Angel looked at him closely. ‘Things might change, lad,’ he said artfully. ‘Things might change.’

  Scrivens screwed up his eyes as he weighed up the pros and cons of the deal. ‘But we can go out and spend your twenty tonight, if he’s free, sir?’

  ‘Of course, and enjoy yourselves. One more thing … most important … as soon as you’ve found out when he’s off duty, let me know … on my mobile. But don’t let him know what you are up to. Now, push off, find him and set it up, chop chop. And not a word to a soul.’

  Scrivens smiled and nodded. He didn’t understand the point of it all, but he was enjoying taking part in the subterfuge. ‘Right, sir,’ he said with a smile and the slightest flicker of one eyelid. Then he went out.

  Almost immediately Ahmed came in with a bundle of papers. ‘I’ve got all that the NPC had on Youel and his associates, sir.’

  Angel took the file from him with a nod.

  There was a knock on the open door and Gawber appeared.

  ‘Come in, Ron.’

  He looked very glum. ‘I’ve got some bad news, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just had a message from Mrs Mulholland, from the hospital. Her husband died a few minutes ago.’

  Angel bit his lower lip and blew out a long sigh, but he soon recovered. It was that sort of news that spurred him on to take big risks.

  ‘Give her my condolences, Ron. They won’t help her much, but I don’t know what else to say. The best we can do for her and her husband now is to get Harry Youel and his murderous gang put away for a long time.’ Gawber nodded.

  Angel returned to being very businesslike. ‘I want you to take me to the hospital later this afternoon. I’ve an appointment with the specialist at 1630 hours. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Well sit down there a minute,’ he said and turned to Ahmed. ‘Now lad, I want a double A battery, a strong elastic band, some sticky tape and a lady’s hairgrip.’

  Ahmed’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Come on, lad. Chop chop.’

  Ahmed said, ‘Hmm. Yes sir. Now where would I get a battery from?’

  ‘I don’t know. Beg one. Steal one. From a clock, a radio. Buy one. I don’t care,’ he said irritably. ‘Just get one. It’s very urgent.’

  ‘Well, what do you want it for, sir?’

  Angel stared at him. ‘I’ll tell you that when your voice breaks!’ he bawled. ‘Now get out and find one, and the other stuff. Be quick about it.’

  Ahmed didn’t reply. He just shook his head and dashed out of the office.

  Gawber watched him go and licked his lips. ‘Couldn’t you be easier on him? He’s doing his best.’

  Angel’s jaw stiffened. He turned round with a face like thunder and stared at Gawber. ‘When that lad first came to me, he had to get a note from his mother to cross the road! Now I’m building him up. He’s learning that PC doesn’t stand for pussy cat. I know, there are plenty of things wrong with me. I am not perfect. But there are plenty of good things about me as well. One of them is that I’m not moody. I don’t change. I’m as predictable as Syrup of Figs. You can depend on that. I won’t change. And you want to be glad about that. So don’t interfere!’

  Gawber was taken aback; he pursed his lips and looked back at Angel. He knew that all he had said was true.

  Angel continued, ‘So let’s get down to it. We’ve a hell of a lot to do, and not much time to do it in!’ He looked at his watch. ‘Oh hell! I’ve got to leave for the hospital in ten minutes!’

  *

  One of Angel’s favourite dishes was finny haddock and brown bread, but Mary noticed he didn’t seem very enthusiastic when she put the plate in front of him. He just looked at it, nodded and picked up his knife and fork.

  ‘It’s finny haddock,’ she said unnecessarily.

  ‘Aye,’ he said playing about with a small loose bit that had fallen off the tail as she had been transferring it with the slice from the pan to the plate.

  ‘I thought it was your favourite?’ she went on, passing the bread.

  After five minutes of silence and very little movement of his knife and fork, she asked, ‘What’s the matter? Isn’t it nice? Mine’s delicious.’

  ‘Aye.’ He wrinkled his nose and then, tightening his lips, he suddenly said, ‘I could kill him!’

  Mary looked up in surprise. ‘What?’ she said. ‘Who? Cyril Sagar’s dead, Michael. I’ve been thinking, we ought to go back to Mrs Bailey and see if she can contact your dad and find out what else he might want to say. That would settle your mind, I bet.’

  Angel frowned. ‘I didn’t mean him. But I’m not wasting fifty quid again to be told a load of nonsense.’

  ‘You didn’t ‘waste’ fifty quid! I paid for it. It was third prize I won in the raffle to raise funds in the Mayor’s Appeal to restore the Ogmore Fountain. It was a one-pound ticket.’

  ‘Aye, well it would cost fifty pounds for two of us to go and have another session.’

  ‘And it wasn’t nonsense. It all made sense. She might say something nice, if we went back … about your mother … or your dad.’

  ‘It’s a con.’

  ‘You don’t know. How do you know?’

  She looked at him closely. Intuitively, she said, ‘Here Michael, are you making enquiries on the sly?’

  He sniffed. ‘I might be.’

  ‘I know you. That means you are. Well you shouldn’t be. I think that’s awful.’

  ‘Confidence tricksters should be exposed.’

  ‘What have you found out? I bet you find out nothing, and that she’s on the up and up. And you shouldn’t be doing it, anyway. It’s sneaky. It’s not right, to be investigating an old woman like that.’

  ‘She’s conning people out of hundreds. Some desperately lonely people are spending their pensions on tripe like that!’
>
  ‘It sometimes gives them a lot of comfort.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything derogatory about your family.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. Have you thought how many interpretations there are of the name Elizabeth?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there’s Elizabeth, Betty, Bet, Bess, Beth, Liza and Liz, to mention a few. And what did your father call your mother? Betty. Now what did Mrs Bailey say your father said? ‘Your mother, Betty, never stops chinning with your aunt Kate.’’

  ‘My father didn’t have to say ‘your mother, Betty.’ He knew that I knew my mother’s name was Betty. He could simply have said, ‘your mother’. It wasn’t him. I’ve told you!’

  ‘Now you’re nit-picking!’

  ‘You’re trying to make out a case of honesty that doesn’t exist.’

  ‘You’ll never be able to prove that your father didn’t speak to you through that medium.’

  ‘I probably will be able to show it’s unlikely. But you’ll never be able to prove that he definitely did.’ Angel put his knife and fork down. ‘Mary. Listen to me. It’s a con. Somebody feeds information to the old lady. It needs to be somebody who has his or her feet in a place where information about the past is available. If I can prove the existence of a connection between this Selina Bailey and somebody who knew or knew about Cyril Sagar in the 1960s, will you be convinced then?’

  ‘No.’

  He shook his head. ‘No??!!’ he bawled.

  ‘I’d have to see. It might be coincidence.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence!’

  ‘You’re always saying that.’

  11

  It was 08.30 a.m. on Wednesday, 11 May. Four men in dark suits filed into Angel’s office wondering why they had been summoned there at such short notice. Ahmed came in last and closed the door.

  Angel looked up from his desk and rubbed a hand across his rock-solid chin as he stared up into their sober, enquiring faces. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ they replied in unison.

  ‘I know it’s a bit crowded; it isn’t the briefing room,’ he began. ‘But relax. There are only two chairs. So, you sergeants take them; you two lads can stand at the side.’

  They were soon settled in and Angel began.

  ‘I have called you in here, in secret, to brief you on a rather delicate operation. It is at short notice because it was necessary to time the manoeuvre so that both our target villains would be in their respective positions. Last night, Ed Scrivens found out that one of them certainly will be, and I have reason to believe that the other will be too. The entire operation should take us about two hours starting from now. Cadet Ahaz will be stationed here, and will be available on his mobile to liaise between us when necessary. We will use only our mobiles. No RT, no land lines. I want you Crisp, and you Scrivens, to work together as a team, and Ron Gawber will work with me. There will just be the five of us. It’s a big job for five, but that’s how it has to be.’

  He went on to specify the targets, he detailed the plan, step by step, and then invited the team to ask questions. There weren’t any, so the briefing was over in four minutes. He then established Ahmed in his office, to be private from the rest of the force; Crisp and Scrivens were sent to take up their first position; and he and Gawber set off towards Littlecombe school.

  As Gawber drove out of the station car park, Angel began to tell him why he was convinced that Desmond Pogle had taken a bribe from Harry Youel. He went on to say that that was why the force had made no progress in catching the monster and his gang, nor were they ever likely to, now that Pogle was on Youel’s payroll. Then he told him about Anton Mulholland’s description of the house where he had been accommodated during the few days he had been working for the crook. And he reminded him of his sighting of Youel, Joshua and Poodle as Gawber had been driving him back from Kate Cumberland’s the day before. Although he had drawn these facts to the attention of the superintendent, he thought they were mere coincidences and he believed that Pogle was dead straight. ‘I couldn’t say everything in the briefing, Ron. I don’t know for certain Youel and his gang are hiding out in the school. We know his son was there. But taking everything into consideration, it’s the obvious place and the only place we have any reason to suspect.’

  Gawber nodded and slowed down at the bottom of the hill to go round the Victoria Falls roundabout, then put his foot down, past Ogmore Hall and up the hill.

  Angel continued: ‘The ATM fiddles have all taken place in the evenings and overnight, so it was reasonable to suppose Youel’s gang would be resting up and hiding at the school in the daytime; that’s why we’re going in now.’

  ‘But DI Pogle will see us arrive from the obbo, won’t he?’

  ‘Yes. And by the time they answer the door to me, I expect they will have received a tip-off from him that it is us calling.’

  Gawber’s mind froze as full realization of the prospect ahead dawned on him. ‘But we’re not armed! If he tips them off, he’ll obviously tell them we are police.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he won’t summon the FSU, will he?’

  ‘Almost certainly not,’ Angel said significantly. ‘And if he doesn’t, then we’ll know for certain he’s on the take.’

  There was a pause. Then Gawber shook his head. His mouth went as dry as a shroud. ‘Well, how are we going to arrest them, if they’re armed?’

  Angel paused, he wrinkled his nose and said, ‘Like we always do, Ron. Like we always do.’

  Both men’s pulses were banging away as they reached Littlecombe school. Gawber drove the car straight through the open gates, between the stone pillars in the high wall and up the short drive to the front door. He pulled on the brakes and turned off the ignition.

  ‘You stay here,’ Angel said as he got out of the car. ‘Take it easy. See what happens,’ he added in a steady voice.

  Gawber nodded and sat motionless, his eyes flitting here and there as he considered the consequences of Youel’s gang occupying the school.

  ‘Pass the crutches.’

  He passed them through the open window and then frowned. ‘I thought you didn’t need those anymore?’

  ‘Camouflage,’ Angel grunted. He took them and set them under his arms. Then he turned away from the car. The tip of his tongue thoughtfully moistened his lower lip as he glanced up at the pine trees in the copse three hundred yards away. He expected Pogle would be staring back at him through binoculars, while jabbering into his mobile. He took a deep breath and turned towards the stone steps. When he reached the top, he pressed the bell. Fishing in his pocket for his mobile phone, he stabbed in a text message, then held the phone in his pocket with his finger on the ‘send’ button waiting for the door to be opened. He stood there more than a minute. It seemed longer. His pulse banged in his ears as he imagined the commotion in the house. He rang the bell again, and silently mouthed what he was going to say.

  Eventually the door was opened; the very elegant Cynthia Fiske stood there in an expensively cut dark suit, looking as if she had just stepped out of a photo shoot for the Harvey Nichols catalogue. She stared down at him expressionless.

  He forced a smile. ‘Ah, good morning, Miss Fiske. Michael Angel, do you remember me?’

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ she said loftily. ‘You’re the police inspector,’ she added heavily. ‘How’s your little boy?’

  There was no answer to that. He licked his lips. Then he heard the familiar, slow, icy voice. ‘I remember you too, Mr Angel.’

  It was Harry Youel, but the policeman couldn’t see him. He must be concealed behind the door. Eureka! Youel’s presence was the confirmation Angel had needed that his hunch had been correct. He pressed the send button on the mobile, then returned his hand to the grip on the crutch.

  Cynthia Fiske pulled back the door to reveal three men standing in line: Youel was in the middle, Joshua and Poodle stood towering over him, one on each side.

  The scarf no longe
r covered Youel’s face, his open mouth looked like the palette of colours in a children’s paint box. He grinned, showing even more colours.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ he said breathily.

  The hair on the back of Angel’s neck stood up. The regular drumming in his ears grew louder.

  ‘Come in. Come in,’ the little man said, before Angel could reply.

  Pursing his lips, Angel squeezed the grips on the crutches and stepped into the hall.

  Cynthia Fiske closed the door.

  Youel pointed a finger and the two heavies advanced on Angel like exocets. They pushed his back hard against the door with a bang, and pinned him there by his arms; the crutches clattered noisily to the floor.

  Cynthia Fiske glared at Youel, ‘Stop them, Harry! Stop them! I’ve told you before. No rough stuff in my house,’ she shouted, waving a hand authoritatively.

  Youel smiled at her like an undertaker at a centenarian’s birthday party. ‘Of course, my dear.’

  ‘We don’t want any more … accidents,’ she snapped and strode purposefully across the hall to the study.

  When the door was closed, Youel turned back to his henchmen. ‘Search him. And fetch that other man in and search him too. And move that car out of sight. Quickly!’

  Poodle pushed Angel’s arms upwards and patted his coat, sleeves and pockets. He found something. It was the mobile. He dug it out of his pocket and handed it to Youel. Then he turned Angel round like a rag doll, pushed his face against the door and patted down his back, buttocks and legs.

  ‘He’s clean, Mr Youel,’ Poodle said.

  Youel pulled a small handgun from his waistband. ‘Turn round, Mr Angel, if you please.’

  Angel made to turn, bent his right leg under him and collapsed in an untidy heap. He groaned and lay on the highly polished wooden floor for a few seconds. Shuffling round, he straightened out his legs, leaned up and looked at Youel. ‘I need my crutches,’ he said. But he blinked and froze when he found he was looking down the barrel of a deadly Walther PPK/S automatic. Nobody could miss at a range of six feet.