‘Then I want you to contact the phone company, find out her number … it’s probably in the book, anyway … and see who she phones and then check them out. I expect they’ll mostly be to Selina Bailey.’
‘The medium?’
‘The fake medium!’
‘Right, sir,’ he said with a grin. Ahmed always liked work out of the office that he could do on his own, unsupervised.
‘I’m out too. If you want me, you can get me on my mobile.’
Ten minutes later, Angel arrived in Temperance Yard, off a cobbled alley between two big shops on the main street in the town centre. He parked outside an open door with a big sign over it that read, ‘Benny Peters & Son, Turf Accountants’. He put his ‘Police’ sign in the windscreen and locked the car. Then he walked up three steps and followed the painted arrow sign up the staircase. At the top, through a door, was a big smoke-filled room illuminated by four brightly lit, glittery chandeliers; a tannoy speaker was belting out odds, runners and prices in a distorted nasal monotone. Thirty or forty men were hanging around, looking at newspapers stuck on the wall or on their laps. At the end was a counter with a wire cage across the front of it. The men stared slyly at Angel. He guessed they had him pegged as a stranger; some may have deduced he was a policeman. They gave him furtive looks while shuffling and muttering uneasily. He weaved his way through them to the counter and the wire cage at the end. A smart man in a jazzy waistcoat, a red bow tie and a miserable face stared at him guardedly.
Angel shoved his warrant card under the wire grille. ‘Can I see Mr Peters, please?’
The man gawped at the warrant, then back at Angel. ‘Yeah. Yeah. I’ll get him.’ His hand disappeared under the counter.
Angel knew it was to press a button.
The man pushed the warrant card back. Angel swept it up and put it in his pocket.
A bob hole in the wall behind the cashier opened. A man’s bald head showed and a gruff voice said, ‘What is it, John?’
The cashier leaned over and whispered something.
The bob hole snapped shut and four seconds later, the door next to it opened. A fat man in an expensive suit strutted through. He looked across at the policeman.
Angel could now see that the man had fancy-shaved facial hair, and what was more significant, he had a ponytail!
Angel blinked, then nodded with satisfaction. Maybe things in the detecting business were going to get better. He said nothing.
‘Is this a raid?’ Benny Peters asked quietly.
Angel shook his head. ‘An inquiry.’
The man nodded then swivelled back a section of the grille, raised the counter top and opened a hinged gap in the counter. ‘Come on through.’
Angel passed through the gap and followed him into the back office. It was just one small room with another fat man in shirtsleeves, seated at the table. The policeman immediately noted with great satisfaction that he also had fancy facial hair and a ponytail. This looked like the end of the trail for the two men with ponytails.
Benny Peters said, ‘This is my son, Cecil.’
The second man was tapping figures from scraps of paper into an adding machine and pulling a handle.
‘Police,’ Benny said to his son. ‘On an inquiry.’
Cecil looked up from the chore briefly, nodded, then carried on with the adding-up.
In front of him on the big table were scattered piles of papers, newspapers, ledgers, telephones and fish and chip wrappers.
Benny pointed to a stool and took one himself. ‘Now what can I do for you, inspector? What are you enquiring about?’
Angel said, ‘Geoffrey Sanson.’
Benny pulled a face. ‘Geoffrey Sanson? Bad news. He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘Murdered.’
‘I heard. That’s eight hundred quid down the pan. I’ve crossed it off. We’re moving on.’
‘You were seen at an auction.’
‘Yes. We were trying to catch up with him to pay what he owed us. We thought he’d be bound to be there. Lady do dah’s auction. He used to work for her. We’d been looking for him for eight weeks. He kept saying he’d be getting some funds to pay us off, but he never did. He had arranged to meet us here, in this office, more than once. But he never showed.’
Angel pursed his lips and then said, ‘At the post-mortem, he had some severe bruises on his stomach. Caused by being thumped with closed fists.’
Benny Peters said nothing. He just looked at him deadpan and shrugged.
Angel continued: ‘I’ve got a witness who saw you and Cecil up the ginnel, between the saleroom and the butcher’s, punching him.’
Benny Peters licked his lips. ‘He was a very smooth talker. He ran up a big bill with us. We gave him credit because we trusted him; he’d always paid up in the past. This time he didn’t. He lied and he lied repeatedly. And when we asked to be paid, he became very arrogant and rude. We tried to get paid. That’s all. My son might have got a bit excitable and impatient in response to his rudeness.’
‘Do you deny you assaulted him?’
‘Of course we do. He lashed out at me. My son was only protecting me.’
He stood there a moment and looked into Benny’s face. The man didn’t flinch. Angel rubbed his chin. This father and son would defend themselves vigorously against a charge of assault, and to be fair, the witness hadn’t been near enough to see or overhear exactly what had happened. Also, he reckoned she wouldn’t be assertive enough to make a powerful impression on a judge. This clearly wasn’t a case to pursue.
Angel sniffed and said, ‘Well take this as a warning then. In future, don’t get so physical when collecting your debts.’
Benny Peters made an appealing gesture with his hands and face: words weren’t necessary.
Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘You didn’t come across a diamond in your travels, did you?’
*
★ ★ ★
‘Elspeth Gorman lives on her own at that address, sir. The phone company gave me the list of numbers she has called over the last month. There were only eight: all local, and I’ve checked them out. Four of those were made to the town hall. The others were to local shops, the Bromersley Chronicle and a doctor’s surgery,’ Ahmed said, looking up from his notes.
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘No calls to that Selina Bailey?’
‘No, sir.’
The inspector’s face dropped. That was a blow. He had been relying on the list showing a link to the old woman. It would have been more than sufficient to show how the medium received her messages from the dead! In particular how she knew about his father and his great-aunt Kate. This was a great disappointment. He shook his head. Either the two women were smarter than he took them for, or he was up a gum tree. He sighed. How many ways, in this sophisticated age, can people communicate in secrecy? He suddenly had an idea. ‘Is there an internet charge on her phone bill?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Mmmm. What about old lady Bailey?’
‘No. She’s not on the internet either.’
Angel rubbed the back of his neck. He had to know how these two women exchanged information. He was convinced that they were in cahoots. To do her medium trick, particularly in regard to knowing about his late father, Selina Bailey would need communication with someone who had access to recent local history, particularly the dead. This problem was going to need his direct personal action.
‘Right,’ he suddenly said decisively. ‘Ahmed, I want you to go down to the stores. They’re always chucking out cardboard boxes. I want you to get me a big one … a really big one.’
Ahmed gawped at him. ‘How big, sir? What are you going to put inside it?’
*
Angel stopped his car outside Elspeth Gorman’s house. He pulled on the handbrake, took out his mobile and, consulting an envelope from his pocket, tapped in a number. This was the one occasion in his life he hoped not to get a reply. He let it ring a few minutes until he was satisfied the woman wasn’t at home. Then he canc
elled the call, let in the clutch and drove the car round the block, out of sight of the house, and parked. He took a clipboard and an enormous cardboard box out of the car boot, and walked back round the corner to the bottom of the steep steps that led up to Elspeth Gorman’s front door. After plonking the box on the pavement, he began to make a conspicuous and noisy ascent up the steep steps.
Although the box was empty, he heaved and groaned and slowly took it up the twenty or so steps, a step at a time, making as much of a show as he could. By the time he had arrived at Elspeth Gorman’s front door and pressed the bell, the next-door neighbour was hanging out of her front window.
‘She’s out. There’s nobody in. She’s out at work. Who did you want?’ the blousy woman called.
Angel looked down at the box and then at the clipboard, ‘A Mrs Elspeth Gorman, love. Have I got the right house?’
‘You’ve got the right house, but she’s at work. She works at the town hall. They don’t finish until half past five.’
Angel smiled. That was a great piece of free information. He noted it on the clipboard. He wondered what office she worked in.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought they finished at five.’
‘I don’t know about other folk that work there, but she works in the Registrar’s office, and they definitely don’t finish until five-thirty.’
‘Oh,’ he nodded, and wrote that down with even more satisfaction. Great. So she worked in hatched, matched and despatched: couldn’t be better placed to know who had died and who was related to whom, could she?
She pointed at the big box. ‘Do you want me to take that in for her? I often do that. I don’t know why I offer. She wouldn’t do anything for me.’
Angel smiled at her. ‘That’s very kind. But unfortunately I can’t. I have to ask her something before I can leave it.’
‘Why? What is it? It looks heavy.’
‘It’s a computer. It’s a prize.’
‘Huh! She won’t have time for that. With all her old photographs and stuff.’
He frowned. ‘Photographs?’
‘All that her father-in-law left. Old man Gorman. There’s a mountain of old photographs of old Bromersley and all the old folks of fifty years ago holding those walls up. She’s always up in that attic, messing about.’
The penny dropped. Angel remembered. Of course: Gordon Gorman, the old photographer who monopolized the studio work, passport pictures and the local weddings in Bromersley for over fifty years. Then he produced illustrated books on local history. He must have been her father-in-law. Hmmm. A valuable source of local information from yesteryear: couldn’t be better for her.
‘She’s hardly time to fit in her other business,’ the old woman added raucously.
Angel smiled, hopeful of more information. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘And what’s that?’
‘Out nearly every night. Always after dark,’ she said with a smirk.
Angel pursed his lips and looked at her with eyebrows raised. At length he shook his head.
‘She must be on the game.’
With that she pulled in her head and slammed down the window.
*
‘Ahmed. There you are, lad. Come in. I want you to get me a camera with a flash and a night sight from the stores. I want to take it home with me when I go.’
‘Right sir,’ Ahmed said and turned towards the office door to leave. He suddenly turned back. ‘By the way, sir …’
‘Yes? What, lad?’
‘You were going to tell me how Mr Mountjoy could see Lady Ogmore and everything … and read from that book? I know he was blind because I showed him into your office last week, and he couldn’t have managed without his stick and his dog.’
‘It was a matter of bluff, Ahmed. Mr Mountjoy told me that the murderer must have seen him while he or she was leaving Alison Drabble’s flat, because the car had braked hard close up to him and because of the insistent way the horn had been used. Therefore we knew the murderer, Lady Ogmore as it turned out, would have had a good look at him and naturally would have believed — because of the dog, the white stick and the tinted glasses — that he was blind. Now, her dress and her gloves would have been stained with blood at the time. Therefore, obviously, if she had thought that Mr Mountjoy could have seen her, and therefore subsequently identified her, she would most certainly have murdered him too, either then or later. So, when Mr Mountjoy went through that pantomime on Friday last and obviously could see — the realization and shock of the consequences were too much for her, and she gave herself away.’
‘Yes, I understand that, sir. But what I don’t understand is how did Mr Mountjoy suddenly regain his sight and was able to see?’
‘Because it wasn’t the Mr Mountjoy you had met. It was his brother, whose sight is perfect and he is of a similar build. What did you think I wanted the moustache for?’
Ahmed’s jaw dropped.
16
‘What’s for tea? Is it nearly ready?’ Angel said, pulling a bottle of German beer out of the fridge, shutting the door, presenting the bottle to the gadget on the wall and taking the cap off.
‘It’ll be ten minutes,’ Mary said ushering him out of the kitchen into the hall.
He stood there and poured the cold beer slowly down the side of the glass like a professional bartender. Then he took a sip. ‘I’ve got some news for you.’
‘Oh,’ she said lifting a pan lid and stabbing a simmering cauliflower with a fork. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve found Cyril Sagar’s daughter. Her name’s Elspeth. She was married to Gordon Gorman’s son.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The old photographer, who took the photos at mum and dad’s wedding … the ones with Aunt Kate … with her stick.’
‘Oh yes. I remember the name. We’ve got photos in our albums with his sticker on.’ ‘Yes. That’s how she would know about Aunt Kate having a stick. Aunt Kate was in all our family photographs. She was never seen without her stick.’
Mary didn’t say anything. She opened the oven, looked in it briefly, closed the door and altered the setting.
‘What about that then,’ Angel said triumphantly, sipping the beer.
‘Mmmm.’
‘She works in the town hall in the Registrar’s office. Handy for knowing who has died, married or anything else to do with local family relationships, don’t you think?’
He took another drink and waited, but Mary didn’t say anything. She lifted the lid on the potatoes then put it back.
Angel said, ‘Don’t you see, I’ve found out who told Selina Bailey about this business between my dad and Cyril Sagar. It was Cyril Sagar’s daughter, Elspeth Gorman.’
‘So you say.’
‘Well I was thinking. I vaguely remember my dad telling me how thirty-odd years ago, when he was a young copper on nights, he came across a crashed car stuck in the wall of a pub. In the driving seat was Cyril Sagar, drunk and incapable. Dad brought him home, and filled him up with coffee. Then took him to his own home, to his wife. As he sobered up, Cyril rang into the station and reported that his car had been stolen. But the pub landlord had already phoned in and said that he had seen Cyril Sagar run into his wall. He claimed it was in retaliation for him refusing to serve Sagar any more drink. CID were called to the car and took fingerprints and surveyed the scene. When Dad reported back at the station, the story about Cyril Sagar was on everybody’s lips. This resulted in Sagar being charged and subsequently thrown out of the force. The rest you know. He jumped off a bridge across the Ml. His widow blamed Dad for betraying her husband. She said he could have covered it up. And she must have subsequently brainwashed her daughter into believing it. The coincidence of me coming to a Selina Bailey seance was an irresistible opportunity for her to vent her spleen.’
‘You’re saying this Elspeth Gorman regularly feeds information to Selina Bailey about her clients?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve got proof of that, have you?’
‘No. But I’m going to get it tonight.’
*
It was 9.30 p.m. and getting dark when Angel drove his car through Bromersley town centre to Anchor Road where Elspeth Gorman lived. He parked it fifty yards from her house opposite a small frontage of shops. Pulling on the handbrake, he took out his mobile, and tapped in a number. He put the phone to his ear and listened to it ringing out. After a few moments, there was a click and a strident woman’s voice answered: ‘Hello, yes?’
‘Is that the Chinese takeaway?’ he said, assuming a naïve voice.
‘No,’ she said indignantly. ‘This is a private number. This is 678423. You must have misdialled.’
‘Sorry to have troubled you,’ he said and stabbed the cancel button. She was still in the house; all he had to do was wait.
There wasn’t much traffic about. He looked out at the quiet street; it was a secondary road, a mixture of small shops and houses. The shops were shuttered up and in darkness, while most of the houses had warm yellow light glowing through flowered curtains or cream-coloured blinds. The hardworking Bromersley public was settling in for an evening’s relaxation. He sighed and wriggled lower into the driving seat, his eyes concentrating on Elspeth Gorman’s side door. He didn’t have to wait long. At five minutes to ten, the room light went out and seconds later a slim woman in an ocelot coat and wearing high heels appeared at the door. She skipped quickly down the steps to the street. Angel sat up. He was going to have to move swiftly to keep her in his sights. She turned down the street towards the roundabout and crossed the road. Angel leaped out of the car and set off fifty yards behind her. She turned up Jubilee Road, which led to Park Road. Angel crossed over so that he was on the opposite side of the road. The sky was as black as a witch’s cat, but the streets were well lit with yellow halogen lights. At the end of the road, at the corner, she slowed down and looked back. He reduced his speed to a casual pace. She looked a wily bird. Her silhouette created by an amber street light showed she had a thick mop of hair, a stick-like figure and thin legs.
Park Road was a long straight road. It was going to be difficult to follow her clandestinely. She took the corner and Angel increased his speed to the junction, which took him ten seconds or so. By the time he had arrived there, she had disappeared. She must have gone down Park Road: there was no other way she could have gone. He pressed on down the road. At the other side he noticed a gap in the wall. It was an entrance to the park for pedestrians. Driving past in a car, you would hardly notice it. She must have left the road and entered the park there. Jubilee Park was not illuminated with street lights. Following Mrs Gorman in the dark was going to be tricky.
The Auction Murders Page 18