The Snuffbox Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  TEN

  ‘Come in,’ Angel said.

  It was Ahmed Ahaz carrying an A4 sheet of paper. ‘About Stefan Muldoon, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Ahmed. What you got?’

  ‘You asked me to look only over the past twelve years, sir. There’s nothing since he came out of Armley. Plenty before: GBH, ABH, and armed robbery.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Nothing since he was released twelve years ago? Are you sure?’

  ‘A clean sheet, sir. Seems to be a changed man. Proof, in this case, that prison works?’

  ‘I don’t know about that, lad,’ Angel said. ‘It could just be that he never got caught.’ He bit his lower lip, shook his head and then said, ‘His associates?’

  Ahmed looked down at the A4 sheet. ‘There were only two, sir. Sean Noel Riley, served three years in Strangeways for possession of a firearm. Came out 1987.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘And Peter Amos Kidd, aka Peter Walters, aka Peter Waterstone, currently serving twelve years in Peterhead for armed robbery of Langsworth post office.’

  Angel pulled a face like he was in the waiting room at the dentist’s. ‘Never heard of any of them, either.’

  The constable frowned.

  Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘All right, leave it at that. Crack on with what you were doing.’

  Ahmed sighed and went out.

  Angel reached out for the phone. A few minutes later he was talking to Detective Inspector Hubert Lord of Skiptonthorpe force. He was the man leading the inquiry into Stefan Muldoon’s murder.

  Angel introduced himself and said, ‘I don’t suppose that you are treating the murder of Muldoon as a “domestic”?’

  ‘All my options are wide open at this stage,’ Lord said. ‘Why?’

  Angel knew that that was what he might have said in similar circumstances, especially if he didn’t want to give any information away.

  ‘An ex-con found shot with his tongue crudely pulled out indicates that it is almost certainly a gangland murder. The murderer showing the criminal fraternity what would happen to them if they didn’t keep their mouths shut.’

  ‘Possibly. Why, do you have some information?’ Lord said.

  ‘Don’t want to intrude, but you may not know that the “Country-House Gang” is thought to be located on my patch.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Lord said. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  He sounded surprised, which pleased Angel. ‘It’s possible, nay likely,’ Angel said, ‘that Muldoon was part of that gang. So if you come across any recent associates of his that your SOCO might come up with, or that you might turn up on his SIM card or elsewhere, it might help me to build a case….’

  ‘Of course,’ Lord replied. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘If you trip up over any names, I hope you’ll let me know.’

  Lord said, ‘You could, of course, let me know if, in your travels, you hear anything at all about Stefan Muldoon.’

  ‘Certainly will,’ Angel said.

  He guessed that Lord hadn’t been a hundred per cent open with him. He wasn’t surprised. There was no reason why he should be.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Lord said.

  Angel wished him luck and ended the call.

  He replaced the phone, leaned back in the swivel-chair, looked up at the ceiling and blew out a long, tired sigh. He regretted being diverted by Ahmed’s ill-timed, but well-meaning interruption with the report in the paper about the Muldoon murder. It might have been helpful. But that murder wasn’t his case. And he didn’t really expect Hubert Lord to break his neck to be helpful and come back with any names.

  Angel resolved to stay with trying to solve the murder of Charles Razzle. From then onward it was to be his number one priority. All other cases would simply have to wait. He mustn’t lose the momentum while the case was still hot.

  He leaned forward in the swivel-chair to lower it just as, to his surprise, the office door was suddenly thrown open. It swung back and banged noisily on a wooden chair standing against the wall.

  He sucked in air, leaned further forward and stared at the open doorway.

  Standing there was the skinny frame of Superintendent Harker, his face scarlet and his small eyes red and shining. He was gripping a small sheet of pink paper so tightly that his hand was trembling. Angel recognized the paper as an expense voucher. He stood up.

  Harker strode three paces into the little office and waved the voucher at him across the desk. ‘What do you think this is, lad?’ Harker said.

  ‘Don’t know, sir,’ Angel said.

  ‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ Harker bawled. ‘It’s a voucher for sixty-two pounds. It’s been submitted by DS Crisp for room service meals and drinks at The Feathers Hotel.’

  Angel frowned momentarily, then his jaw muscles tightened.

  Harker said, ‘I say to myself, who is this DS Crisp? I am sure that I have heard that name somewhere before…. And when I look into it further, it turns out to be a charge for two days’ snacks and drinks for Detective Sergeant Crisp’s personal sustenance, while idling his time away in luxury at the taxpayer’s expense at The Feathers Hotel.’

  ‘He’s on duty there, for me, sir,’ Angel said. ‘He’s observing the movements of—’

  ‘Is he? Why do your chaps never have to observe anybody in a tenement flat, the middle of a forest, a desert or a jungle?’

  ‘He’s observing Rosemary Razzle. It’s all in my report. Her husband—’

  ‘The woman off the television?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean to say that we have to adopt their lifestyle. Just because we occasionally have to look into the affairs of rich celebrities doesn’t mean that we have to look like them and live like them. Where on earth does Crisp think he is? His expense chitties are more creative than our MP’s.’

  ‘I instructed him to find out what he can about her activities, sir. Her husband has been murdered in unusual circumstances. He was enormously wealthy. She stands to inherit a considerable amount. She is the prime suspect. Her house was the scene of the crime so she was moved out. She elected to stay at The Feathers. Crisp monitors her from a small bedroom next door. What else can I do?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what you can do. You can tell Crisp the party’s over. If you still want him to shadow her, he’ll have to do it hiding behind a newspaper, or dressed as a waiter or a chambermaid. And he can live on home-made sandwiches and flasks of tea, like I had to, not caviar, smoked salmon and champagne at “room service” prices.’

  Angel shrugged. ‘I’m not sure that surveillance work can always be done efficiently or effectively in that way, but—’

  ‘I’ll be the arbiter of what is efficient and effective. And on this matter of wining and dining out while on surveillance … let it be known that my officers can only charge for victuals if it is necessary to ingest them with the subject to make progress on the case. All right?’

  Angel shrugged and said, ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Otherwise they eat their own food and drink, purchased and paid for, or prepared and brought from home. All right?’

  Angel shrugged.

  Harker stamped out. His footsteps could be heard stomping up the corridor. They continued until his office door was heard to open and then close.

  Angel stood behind his desk scratching his head.

  Ahmed appeared in the open doorway. He looked at Angel quickly then looked down. He came in and closed the door.

  Angel sat down at his desk, sighed and rubbed his face.

  Ahmed came up to his desk. He didn’t say anything. He ran his fingertips over his lips and half-closed his eyes. After a few moments, he said, ‘Do you want me to get DS Crisp on the phone, sir?’

  Angel wrinkled his nose, sighed and said, ‘No. Thank you, Ahmed. No. I must speak to DS Taylor first.’

  Ahmed picked up the phone, tapped in Taylor’s number and passed Angel the handset.

  Angel took the
phone, looked up at Ahmed, gave him a friendly nod, then said into the mouthpiece, ‘Ah, Don. Have you finished sweeping Razzle’s house?’

  ‘Nearly, sir.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything that you’d find interesting, sir. We’ve just a few drawers to finish looking into. Should be done by five o’clock, knocking off time.’

  ‘Right, Don. Don’t rush the job and overlook anything just to finish for the weekend.’

  He ended the call, then tapped out Crisp’s mobile number.

  ‘Anything happening there, Trevor?’

  ‘Nobody been, nobody phoned,’ Crisp said.

  Angel’s eyes narrowed. ‘You can close that obbo down now, lad. Rosemary Razzle will be moving back to her own house later today.’

  ‘Oh?’ Crisp was both surprised and disappointed. ‘Right, sir,’ he said.

  Angel replaced the phone. It rang immediately. It was a young constable on reception. ‘There’s a young lady here asking to see you, sir. Says her name is Jessica Razzle.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up.

  Three minutes later Ahmed showed a young woman in thick horned-rimmed glasses into Angel’s office.

  ‘I am Jessica Razzle. I was told that you were the officer in charge, looking into the murder of my father, Charles Razzle.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Angel said gesturing with an open hand to a chair by the desk.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I want to report that I know the murderer.’

  Angel’s forehead creased up like corduroy trousers. ‘Oh yes, miss?’ he said.

  ‘It was Rosemary Razzle, my stepmother,’ she said. ‘She engineered the whole thing. It was her idea … setting up the robot to make it look as if it had pulled the trigger of a gun pointed at my father by accident. She will inherit all his estate, including the complete control of my allowance.’

  Angel blinked. ‘There are several hundred witnesses that put your stepmother on a stage in London at the time of your father’s murder,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, indeed. I don’t mean that she actually pulled the trigger. As the murderer, she would obviously need a rock-solid alibi. I meant that one of her entourage of men would have actually done it for her. But she set it up, she organized it, told him how to get into his workshop, told him what to expect, where everything was … Dad’s gun, the CCTV cameras, everything. She’s the only one who could have done all of that.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. There was nothing new there, unless Jessica knew something he didn’t.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I know her, Inspector. She never loved him. She told me so. He was her ticket to success in her career. It was Dad’s money that financed her boob job, her hair, her wardrobe and her fabulous jewellery. Also his infallible advice and judgement about which roles would suit her, and which would not. Without her, she’d have been just another easy blonde, traipsing round the audition circuit, hoping to catch a director’s eye.’

  Angel pursed his lips.

  ‘That’s all very well, Jessica, but to follow up your accusations, I need names, addresses, places.’

  ‘You don’t believe me. That’s it. She’s fooled you like she’s fooled everybody else. You don’t believe me.’

  Angel looked at her.

  ‘She’s too clever for you, Inspector,’ Jessica said. She looked down and shook her head. ‘Oh dear. How can I convince you?’

  He pursed his lips.

  ‘Before my father and Rosemary got married, she said how much she was looking forward to being a wife to my father and a close and loving friend to me. And I said – and I meant it – that I was looking forward to cementing that relationship with her. I knew it wouldn’t have been – it couldn’t have possibly been – anything like that with my own dear mother, but I hoped that it might have been like having a sort of big sister to love and laugh and confide in. But it never happened. In fact, the opposite happened. Shortly after they returned from their honeymoon, she said to me that she wanted me out of the house, and she talked my father into encouraging me to “spread my wings”, as she put it, and travel. I didn’t want to go, but more and more I felt as if I was intruding … not welcome. I managed to stay around for a while longer, but she eventually got her own way, and I was pushed out. I am now travelling across the States, in no particular hurry, working my way. I was an assistant in a children’s nursery when I heard of my father’s death. I made my excuses, packed my bags and caught the first available plane out of Boston. I arrived in Bromersley this morning and went straight up to my old home, but the place was full of policemen. I spoke to one and was told you were in charge of the case, so I came straight here. I want to know what’s happening.’

  ‘I have a team making inquiries. Nothing conclusive has been arrived at yet.’

  ‘Meanwhile, Rosemary Razzle can walk about free?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Are you not afraid that she could just … disappear?’

  ‘We have nothing on her. She is free to go wherever she likes. That’s the law.’

  Jessica Razzle’s tortured face showed anger and grief and disbelief. ‘But she murdered my father.’

  Angel tried to think of something helpful and relevant to say.

  Jessica Razzle said, ‘Do you know where she is now?’

  He hesitated. ‘She’s at The Feathers,’ he said. ‘But Jessica, if your accusations are true, they will need to be supported by proof. You can’t go charging around making unfounded accusations, like that. To make a case stick, you need a name, a place and witnesses … and a motive. If Rosemary had an associate who murdered your father, to charge him, you’d need to have evidence. For a start, obviously, you’d need his name. Have you got a name?’

  Her face hardened. ‘No. But I’ll get it. It will be somebody she’s smiled at sweetly and promised – well, goodness knows what she might have promised.’

  Angel yawned and threw back the bedclothes. He looked at the alarm clock. It said ten past eight. His jaw dropped open. He was going to be late. He leaped up. No. It was Saturday. He wasn’t working that particular Saturday. Thank goodness. He sighed and scratched his head. He could hear Mary banging pots and pans about in the kitchen, but he couldn’t smell anything cooking. He levered himself up, sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the Anaglypta.

  He stood up, stretched, ambled round the end of the bed and glanced out of the window. It was a great day. It was sunny and dry. The sky was a beautiful blue. He looked down the garden. He saw the lawn … luxurious green. He looked at it closely. In places he could see that the grass was long and spoiled by a few dandelions. He wrinkled his nose. The hedge was rangy and untidy too. And the borders needed weeding. The garden needed his attention. It would have to be seen to. It was in that state because it had rained over the last three weekends. That Saturday the weather was perfect. He had no excuse this time. He knew there and then that this weekend the garden would need all his time to bring it back to a standard that would satisfy Mary. Therefore his time, that Saturday and Sunday, weather permitting, was completely committed.

  A voice from the hall called out, ‘Michael, are you awake? Breakfast’s ready.’

  ‘I’m coming, love,’ he replied.

  ‘That lawn needs cutting,’ Mary said.

  It was 8.28 a.m. Monday morning, 1 June.

  Angel was walking briskly down the green corridor to his office. A uniformed police constable he didn’t know dashed round the corner and almost bumped into him.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the constable said.

  Angel stood back to let him pass. ‘What’s the rush, lad?’

  ‘Triple nine call, sir,’ said the constable as he raced off, his webbing rustling and handcuffs rattling.

  Angel frowned. He continued his journey to his office, where he promptly picked up the phone and tapped in the single digit 7.

  A voice said: ‘Control room.’

  ‘What’s the triple nine, S
ergeant?’

  ‘Sounds like a domestic, sir. A man walking past a house on Creesforth Road heard a woman screaming.’

  Angel’s head came up. ‘What was the house number?’

  ‘No house number, sir. The man said it was The Manor House.’

  That was the Razzle’s place. Angel sucked in air. A lump in his chest began to beat like a drum. He banged the phone down and dashed out of the office.

  He was at The Manor House on Creesforth Road in four minutes, about three minutes behind a police car. The patrolmen had gained access to the house and the front door was wide open.

  As Angel approached the door he could hear a very stagey female voice. ‘Get off me, you outsize gorilla!’

  It was Rosemary Razzle.

  ‘I’ll report you to your superior officer,’ she said. ‘Hey! Just watch where you put your hands. I’m not one of your street girls. Let go. Let me go. Let me go!’

  He followed the voice through the front door and then through the first door on the right, which led into the drawing room.

  A constable was holding Rosemary Razzle’s hands behind her back, attempting to put handcuffs on her. Her face was red and her eyes bright, wild and flitting from one direction to the other. Her mouth was open and moist, and she was panting. There was a satisfying click as the constable closed the handcuffs.

  ‘Now behave yourself,’ the patrolman said.

  She made a last struggle to free herself. ‘Hell. Do you know who you are talking to? Get these off. Get these damned things off!’

  Another, younger woman whom Angel recognized as Jessica Razzle was on the floor next to a broken china table-lamp. There was blood on her face, running from her nose on to her neck and her blouse.

  He leaned over her.

  She was motionless.

  He reached into his pocket for his mobile and tapped in 999. ‘Ambulance to The Manor House on Creesforth Road,’ he said. ‘Woman with head and face injuries.’

  Rosemary Razzle, her eyes shining, her mouth open in disbelief, stared down at her stepdaughter, then up at Angel.

  Jessica Razzle suddenly put her hand up to her face.