‘Well, the auctioneer may not have any record after all this time.’
Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘True. He might be dead. He may have emigrated to Zanzibar, living in the jungle and be impossible to trace. Maybe eaten by a lion. He may still have the records but be suffering from amnesia and not know where he has put them. He may have dropped his sandwiches on them and covered them in jam so that we can’t read them. The cat may have used them, to make a nest to have kittens in. There is also a slight risk, isn’t there, that he may still be in business, have those records to hand, be able to tell us who bought those screwdrivers and that could lead us to making an arrest for the armed robbery of four million from First Security Delivery Services. Now, I know it’s a long shot, Ted, but it’s all we’ve got, and after all, that’s what detective work is all about, isn’t it?’
Scrivens was surprised at Angel’s outburst. ‘Yes, sir. I suppose so.’
‘There’s no suppose so about it,’ Angel said. ‘It is so. Do you know the name of the auctioneer and the approximate date of the auction?’
‘Yes, sir. The warehouse manager said October or November 2002, and the name of the auctioneer was Bird. It was Bird’s of Leeds.’
‘Well, take wing, fly off and see if you can get him to tweet the buyer.’
Scrivens duly left for Leeds, and Angel began to work on the accumulation of paperwork on his desk.
FOURTEEN
Later that morning, there was a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ Angel said.
It was Flora Carter, all smiles.
‘What have you to be so happy about?’ he asked, pointing to the chair.
‘The lad admitted everything, sir,’ she said, taking the chair. ‘When he heard that there was CCTV covering all the outside areas of Cheapo’s, he had little choice. Besides, his mother would have killed him if he hadn’t come clean.’
Angel nodded.
‘Told us the other lad’s name and everything,’ she said.
‘Good. You said that they were planning to blow up the cash machines, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. He said that they had broken into a garage and found some sticks of dynamite in a box. That’s what gave them the idea.’
‘Dynamite?’ Angel said, looking up. A glow suddenly developed in his chest and it began to pulsate like 10,000 ants making toast. ‘Do you know where this garage is?’
‘Well, yes, sir. It’s being guarded by PC Weightman while SOCO and the Wakefield explosives unit go through it.’
‘You’ve charged the lad, and you’re looking for his accomplice?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘I’ve issued a warrant for his arrest, and I’ve sent a team to his home address to pick him up.’
She seemed to have covered everything. He rubbed his chin.
Her mouth tightened. ‘I know what to do, sir,’ she said.
She was beginning to read his mind.
‘Great,’ he said with a sniff. ‘That’s great. Now I want to go to this garage. I want to see this dynamite. Take me there.’
Ten minutes later he was standing at the door of a garage in a row of thirty-one other garages at the back of Mount Street off Wakefield Road. It had the number nineteen daubed crudely on the door with the remains of somebody’s ‘Serenity White’ Dulux gloss, probably left over from the decoration of their bathroom.
PC John Weightman was opening the battered old door. There wasn’t much in the tiny garage. There were four tyres without tread hanging from brackets on the wall, and two dusty cardboard boxes and a box of tools on the floor, but no car.
Angel turned to Flora Carter and said, ‘Where is the dynamite?’
She pointed to one of the two cardboard boxes on the floor.
Angel glanced at it and pulled a slim white envelope from his pocket, tore off the end and took out a pair of rubber gloves. Then he crouched down in front of the cardboard box, and with gloved fingertips he eased open one of the flaps of the box to reveal several cellophane-wrapped cream-coloured sticks of the powerful explosive.
Both he and Carter sighed. Then he gently closed the box flap and stood up.
‘What’s in that other box?’ he said.
‘Don’t know, sir. I was prepared to wait until after SOCO had done their bit.’
She was right, of course, from the point of procedure, but Angel was always one for breaking the rules and hoping to gain an advantage. He crouched down again and carefully lifted the flap of the box and peered inside. He saw long, narrow, brightly coloured printed boxes. He thought they might contain long knives of some sort. Then he saw the word ‘Maestro’ and part of an organ keyboard and he knew exactly what he was looking at. He promptly dropped the box flap and stood up.
‘They are exactly like the screwdrivers used by the armed robbers to puncture the tyres on that furniture van and to jump-start the giant crane.’
His pulse was throbbing with excitement.
Carter said, ‘Found with the dynamite used by the robbers to blow open the safe on the security van would be powerful evidence.’
He turned to Carter and said, ‘Whose garage is this, Flora? We’ve got to find out whose garage this is.’
‘I’ve been unable to find that out, sir.’
‘You can easily find out who pays the rates or community charge on the damned place.’
‘I know. I know that, sir. And I would have been at the town hall at this very moment if you hadn’t asked me to accompany you here.’
He looked at her with a furrowed brow.
‘All right. All right, lass,’ he said. ‘Let me know as soon you find out. And don’t get agitated. You’ve got a lot of mouth on you for a young ’un.’
Blood rushed to her cheeks. She was furious. She strutted out of the garage, turned to face him, and stood there in the service road, head up, bosom out, arms straight down her sides, looking like a Hollywood film star and breathing at twice her regular speed.
Angel came out of the garage deep in thought. He glanced at her, took in the situation, peeled off the rubber gloves, and said, ‘We’ll leave the rest to SOCO. There’ll be prints off those boxes. If we have them on file we can charge him or them with armed robbery.’
She gave him the slightest nod.
‘Keep me posted,’ he said, then he got into the BMW and drove away. He felt ten inches taller and as light as champagne.
He went straight to his office and found DC Scrivens waiting for him.
The young detective’s eyes were bright, he was standing upright and seemed at ease. Angel assumed that, for a welcome change, he was the bearer of good news.
‘Come in, lad. Sit down,’ Angel said. ‘I take it you have found the auctioneers and discovered who bought the screwdrivers?’
‘Yes, sir. The auction was in Bird and Co’s saleroom on Tuesday, October 15, 2002. Mr Bird eventually found the sales sheet he used on that day, and pointed out the entry of the lot number, the description of the lot, the price bid and the buyer’s name. He confirmed that it was in his own handwriting, so I copied down the line exactly as it was written.’ Scrivens then took out a notebook from his inside jacket pocket and began to shuffle through the pages.
Angel breathed in impatiently and said, ‘All right, lad, don’t waste time. What did it say?’
Scrivens hurriedly found the page and read from it: ‘It said, “lot number 124, box of approx. thirty advertising screwdrivers, £4, Rossi”.’
Angel nodded, then pursed his lips. ‘Rossi. Angus Rossi,’ he said heavily. ‘We’ve got you.’
Scrivens nodded.
Angel said, ‘Get a warrant out for his arrest for armed robbery. There will be other charges, but that will do for starters. Off you go. Take a couple of men with you.’
Scrivens’ eyes shone and he went out briskly.
As the door opened, Trevor Crisp came in. He was clutching a handful of A4 printed leaflets.
Angel saw them and said, ‘Are those leaflets showing the sole of the boot of th
e gunman taken in the snow?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Crisp said with a smile.
‘It’s taken you long enough,’ Angel said. ‘What’s the shoe size?’
‘Nine, sir.’
Angel explained briefly how they had deduced that Rossi was leader of the armed gang that had robbed the security van.
‘I’ve sent Ted to get a warrant to arrest him,’ Angel said. ‘When he’s done that, follow him into Rossi’s house and see if you can find any footwear there that matches that print. If you do, we’ve got him for four murders as well!’
Crisp’s eyes opened wider and he nodded several times quickly. ‘Right, sir,’ he said.
‘In the meantime, distribute those leaflets. See that everybody on my team gets one. And don’t throw it at him. Put it into his dirty, sticky hand and tell him about it.’
‘Right, sir,’ he said and turned to go.
‘Tell Ahmed I want him.’
‘Right, sir,’ he said and dashed off.
A few minutes later there was a knock at Angel’s door.
‘Come in,’ Angel said. ‘Sit down a minute. I want you to do something a bit artistic.’
Ahmed blinked. ‘Artistic, sir?’
He had never thought of himself or any policeman being in any way artistic.
‘Angus Rossi is being arrested for armed robbery,’ Angel said. ‘When he is brought in and being processed, I want you to get a photograph of his face and neck and superimpose it on to a picture of a priest wearing a dog collar and a black shirt front. Can you do that, lad?’
Ahmed frowned briefly then suddenly looked up. ‘You think that Angus Rossi was also the serial murderer.’
Angel nodded then he said, ‘It’s a possibility, lad.’
‘Yes, sir. It wouldn’t be difficult. I would have to find a photo of a priest dressed like that from somewhere. There are probably some on a website I can pinch one from.’
‘I have plenty of friends in the church who can supply one or even pose expressly for you, if needs be.’
He nodded quickly. ‘Right, sir,’ he said.
‘I need it today, so get weaving.’
Ahmed went out.
Angel picked up the phone and tapped in a number. It rang out a few moments and then a woman’s voice answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Ah, Miss Costello,’ he said. ‘Inspector Angel here. I wonder if …’
Later that morning, DC Scrivens walked into Angel’s office. ‘We’ve got Angus Rossi down in the cells, sir,’ he said. ‘He’s been processed and is protesting noisily. He insists he is innocent.’
Angel shrugged. ‘Have you advised his solicitor?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s Mr Bloomberg, of course. He’s on his way.’
‘Right, lad. Let me know as soon as they’re ready and I’ll come through.’
Scrivens nodded and went out as Carter came in.
‘I’ve got some good news, sir,’ she said.
‘Ah yes, Flora. Sit down and tell me about it.’
‘I have confirmation from SOCO, sir,’ Carter said, ‘that the prints on both the screwdriver box and the dynamite box in the lock-up are those of Angus Rossi.’
Angel’s eyebrows eased slowly upwards. He smiled and said, ‘Good. There’s nothing like scientific proof that can’t be disputed to warm the cockles of your heart on a cold winter’s day.’
‘There’s more, sir,’ she said. ‘That box which now contains thirty-two sticks is the box that originally contained thirty-six sticks of dynamite that was stolen from South Creekman quarry in North Derbyshire overnight November 5th to the 6th last year.’
‘Great. Well, four sticks were used to blow the back off the First Security Delivery Services van.’
There was a knock at the door.
It was Crisp. ‘Can I come in, sir?’
‘Yes, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Come in. Flora’s brought evidence that Rossi handled both the dynamite and the screwdrivers.’
Crisp grinned, looked at Carter and said, ‘That’s great, Flora.’
Angel turned back to Carter. ‘And what about the lock-up garage, Flora? Does Rossi own it?’
‘No, sir. All that row of garages and lots of other small buildings around Bromersley are owned by a London property company, Catania and Modica.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Never heard of them. Sound foreign to me.’
‘I’ll try and find out about them, sir.’
Angel nodded.
She smiled at him and Crisp and then went out.
Crisp was smiling. He watched her go.
Angel noticed how Crisp’s eyes followed her out of the room, and that the smile stayed on his face even after the door had closed.
Angel shook his head and said, ‘You’ve got the hots for her, haven’t you?’
Crisp looked at Angel, still smiling. He was thinking about what to say.
‘If I were her,’ Angel said, ‘I wouldn’t give you the time of day. Look here, Trevor, I don’t mind you chasing lasses in your own time. Indeed, you would be right to say it was none of my business, but I don’t want you billing and cooing in this station or when you’re out on police work. I want you with your mind a hundred per cent on finding criminals and locking them up. That’s what we’re paid for. You understand?’
The smile vanished. ‘Oh yes, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘I understand that. Don’t worry about it.’
Angel wasn’t convinced. ‘I think there’s something wrong with you. You’re always taking lasses out, going to the pictures, out for a meal, going away for weekends and so on, but you never actually finish up marrying any of them.’
‘One of these days I am going to surprise you,’ Crisp said, and he seemed to mean it.
‘I know she’s a cracker,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin.
Crisp’s eyes shone. ‘More beautiful than Cheryl Cole, sir,’ he said.
Angel thought about it for a moment. Then suddenly his face changed. He looked up at him and said, ‘Look, we’re not here to discuss pop stars. What did you come in for?’ He ran his hand through his hair then his face brightened. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You have come to tell me about Rossi’s footwear?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Well, let’s have it.’
‘Yes sir, well, it’s not good news, sir. I checked all the shoes in the house against the leaflet. There were only three pairs, and none matched.’
‘You looked everywhere? Upstairs in the wardrobes? In the cellar? Nooks and crannies, particularly around the back door?’
‘I looked everywhere, sir. It’s only a small house, as you know.’
Angel wrinkled his nose.
Crisp said, ‘But his shoe size is nine.’
‘That’s good. Yes. That’s the right size.’
‘And I suppose he could easily have thrown those shoes away.’
‘Of course he could. In the River Don or the canal or a tip, but I wouldn’t know where to start looking.’ Then he suddenly said, ‘You did check the shoes he’s been arrested in, didn’t you?’
Crisp’s mouth dropped open. ‘No, sir. I didn’t.’
Angel dug his fingernails into the chair arms. ‘Well, do it now,’ he said.
Crisp rushed out and closed the door.
Angel looked down at the pile of envelopes and reports beckoning his attention. He began looking through them.
Suddenly, his office door was brusquely opened and thrown back so hard that it crashed noisily into a chair against the wall.
He looked up to see the figure of Detective Superintendent Harker framed in the doorway.
Angel’s mouth opened. He sucked in a lungful of air and leaped to his feet. ‘What’s the matter, sir?’ he said.
Harker waved an impatient hand and said, ‘Control room have just had a triple nine from a female cashier at that petrol and diesel filling station on Wakefield Road … the one near the roundabout. She said that a man has been violently attacked in his van on the forecourt by a gang with guns. Get off down th
ere and see what you can do.’
Angel’s pulse was racing. He reached out for his coat. He hoped it was not another murder. That would be too much.
‘There is a patrol car on its way there,’ Harker said. ‘I will contact Asquith promptly and get him to divert some more uniform from town centre duties.’
Angel passed him at the door. ‘Right, sir.’
‘Approach with caution. Report to me as soon as you have the facts.’
The service station was on the fringe of the town on the Wakefield side. It took Angel only five or six minutes to reach it. He pulled on to the forecourt and immediately saw the damaged vehicle. He recognized it as a retail ice-cream van of Grogan’s, battered almost out of existence and parked next to one of the pumps. It looked as if it had been driven under a bridge only a metre high. All the glass windows were broken and the bodywork had been severely battered. Broken glass was scattered around the forecourt.
Angel’s heart sunk. He expected to find another body.
Several customers were on the forecourt, standing by their cars with pump nozzles in their hands, looking at the unattended wreck and then up to the cashier’s office window.
A police patrol car was parked by the pay office door. Angel parked his BMW behind it and got out. He dashed across to the wrecked ice-cream van and looked inside at the crumpled mess, expecting to see a victim in a sea of blood. There was no body there and no sign of any blood. There was only broken glass, twisted metalwork, a towel and empty ice-cream cones scattered over the driver’s seat and in the footwell. There was no sign of any armed men anywhere.
He breathed out heavily. He was relieved there was no corpse. He turned towards the pay office. Then his mobile phone rang out. He wasn’t pleased. He reached into his pocket and checked the LCD. It was Ahmed. He briefly considered whether to ignore it or not. He clicked the button. ‘What is it, lad? Make it quick.’
Ahmed was taken aback. ‘It’s … there’s something on, sir,’ he said.
‘Something on? What do you mean?’
‘Everybody’s been put on standby, sir. We’ve been ordered not to move out of the building and not to make outgoing phone calls. I’m not supposed to be phoning you.’
The Dog Collar Murders Page 21