Missing, Presumed... (An Inspector Angel Mystery)

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel nodded. He remembered the hospital in his teens. It had since been pulled down in 1980.

  Sir Max continued.

  ‘All the while the ruby was wrapped in my handkerchief and stuffed in my left ammunition pouch. Anyway, thank God, I recovered, and could walk tolerably well with a stick. As soon as I could drive, I went up to North Yorkshire to the convent in the village of Lower Bennington to find the Grand Dumas’s daughter, the Princess Yasmin, to deliver the ruby. I saw the Mother Superior, Mother Mary Margaret. She was very cagey. At first she was reluctant to acknowledge that she had ever heard of Yasmin, then I managed to draw it out of her that the princess was no longer there, that she had no idea where she was, and that the matter was in the hands of the Ministry of War. I went up to London to Whitehall and spoke to the secretary, who denied any knowledge even of her existence. I wrote to the Minister and explained that I had something valuable to give to her from her father. I got a letter from some clerk to say that the Minister had no knowledge of a Princess Yasmin Dumas, nor any existence of anybody known as the Grand Dumas, and that I was clearly under some misapprehension. I wrote again stressing that the item was extremely valuable and that it was not mine to keep. After a month I got a reply repeating all they had said in the earlier letter and saying that if I wished to divest myself of anything, I could post it to the Alka Dora embassy for the ambassador to dispose of at his discretion. I wasn’t prepared to do that. Clearly, HM Government didn’t want to admit any knowledge of the Grand Dumas or the Princess. They wanted the matter closed and were not willing to reopen it.’

  Angel nodded and said: ‘Where is the ruby now?’

  ‘I have it in my safe at home. It has been there all this time. It’s OK. It’s safe enough. My housekeeper Mrs Dunleavy is living in while I am in here. But it bothers me that I have not been able to settle the matter. I have been unable to find the Grand Dumas’s daughter. I am not prepared to hand it over to anyone other than the Princess Yasmin herself. Now, I wanted Nigel to deal with this. I can’t imagine where he has got to. Now look here, Michael, this is damned important. That ruby is worth a fortune. It mustn’t fall into the wrong hands. If anything happens to me, will you deal with it? Take possession of it and see that it gets to its rightful owner?’

  ‘Well, I’ll do what I can, Sir Max.’

  ‘You can do no more, dear boy,’ he said as he turned on his side and pulled up the bedclothes. ‘The key to the safe is on the bunch among my things in the drawer. The safe’s behind the picture of the Queen in my study. Mrs Dunleavy will show you.’

  Angel was thinking that if Sir Max hadn’t been able to find the Princess Yasmin in sixty years, what chance had he got?

  ‘The Princess might be dead,’ Angel said.

  But the old man’s eyes were closed.

  It was ten o’clock the following morning when, with a heavy heart, he pulled up outside number 38 Creesforth Road, Bromersley. He opened the wrought-iron gate, walked up the path, up the stone steps to the big black door and rang the bell. It was soon opened by an elderly lady, who was dabbing her eye with a screwed-up handkerchief. ‘You must be Inspector Angel.’

  He nodded. ‘Mrs Dunleavy?’

  ‘Please come in, Inspector. It’s so sad.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ he said. ‘I am so sorry. But it was very peaceful, the doctor said.’

  She closed the door.

  ‘I thought you were with him at the time?’

  ‘It happened shortly after I left,’ he said.

  ‘Please come through.’

  ‘Thank you. Did you know him long?’

  ‘Most of my life. My mother knew Mrs Monro and was housekeeper here for many years. I helped her at busy times and sort of drifted into the job. They were lovely people.’

  ‘You will have grown quite attached to him. Have you heard from his son yet?’

  ‘Nigel?’ she said with a disapproving grunt. ‘Not a word. That lad has been quite thoughtless these past three years. I don’t know what he has been thinking about. The younger generation…’

  Angel smiled wryly. According to his calculation, Nigel Monro must have been about sixty years old.

  ‘Now, you wanted to get to the safe?’ she said. ‘It’s in the study. It’s this way.’

  ‘Sir Max said it was behind a picture of the Queen.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She stood at the study door and indicated to him to pass her to go in the room. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘No. No,’ Angel said. ‘I need you as a witness, if you don’t mind. I am here to take one thing only. That’s all I will take.’

  She frowned. ‘Very well.’

  He unhooked the picture of the Queen, found the cylindrical-shaped safe built into the wall, with the small door fitting flush with the wall. He peered at the lock, took Sir Max’s keys out of his pocket, picked through the bunch for the appropriate one, inserted it and opened the safe. The aperture was only large enough to reach in with one hand. It was mostly stuffed with white envelopes. He took some of them out and put them on the desk. There were four small leather-covered cases containing medals and ribbons. At the back was a torn brown paper parcel. His pulse increased a few beats as he reached in, took it out and put it on the desk. He hurriedly reopened the wrapping to discover a four-inch cube-shaped red cardboard box inside.

  Mrs Dunleavy leaned over the desk for a better view.

  Angel opened the hinged box lid. Inside was a piece of white plastic sponge moulded to half the egg shape. He quickly lifted it out. But there was no egg underneath. All he could see was another piece of sponge at the bottom of the box; the two pieces together made a mould for the safe packing of the stone.

  Angel sighed.

  He couldn’t hide his surprise and disappointment.

  Mrs Dunleavy said, ‘Whatever were you looking for?’

  He didn’t reply.

  He turned back to the safe and reached inside to the extreme end of it and withdrew his hand, clutching more envelopes. Then he peered inside. It was empty. All he could see was the polished steel lining. There was positively no ruby egg in there.

  Angel said: ‘Is there any other place in the house where Sir Max might have hidden anything valuable, Mrs Dunleavy? Another safe, for instance?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t think of anywhere. Sir Max was very…tidy and particular. He used to say there’s a place for everything and everything should be in its place. I’ve heard him say that often.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Ah well,’ she added with a sigh.

  Angel began stuffing the white envelopes back into the safe.

  ‘What exactly are you looking for?’ she said.

  ‘A ruby egg.’

  ‘A ruby egg?’ she said, scratching her head. ‘Now there’s a novelty.’

  ‘Have you ever seen it?’

  ‘No. And it’s not something you come across every day, is it? I mean, a ruby egg? A hen’s egg…a chocolate egg…a duck egg even, but not a ruby egg.’

  He had repacked the safe with the envelopes and Sir Max’s medals and was looking at the packaging that had clearly at one time contained the ruby.

  ‘Was it valuable?’ she asked.

  ‘Very,’ he said as he found an old label on the package. It was addressed to Sir Max Monro at that address, and it was from ‘P. N. Fischer, Diamonds and Gems, 566 Pelikaanstraat, Antwerp’. The post date mark was April 2004.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called and looked up from his desk.

  It was DS Taylor from SOCO. He was carrying a stone-coloured paper file. ‘I’ve got the report on that business at The Feathers, sir.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Good. Sit down,’ he said, pointing to the chair near the desk.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know that we picked up lots of prints in room 101 and the private bathroom, sir, and can confirm that the occupant was indeed, as you had thought, Lloyd Sexton Corbett.’

  Angel nodded. He was delighted. It pleased him tha
t he still had the ability to identify a crook he hadn’t seen in real life from the memory of a police photograph. It was a pity he hadn’t been able to do it instantly; he would have then been able to arrest him.

  ‘Anything to show where he’d been or where he was going?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

  Angel pursed his lips. He knew he’d need a lot of luck to get an informative sliver of dried mud from off Lloyd Corbett’s shoes or a torn-up addressed envelope dropped into a wastepaper basket.

  ‘I’m glad you called in,’ Angel said. He rubbed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. ‘Did any of your team happen to mention the unusual smell in each of the rooms where the four men had been attacked?’

  ‘No, sir. You still think that’s important?’

  ‘It’s an unexplained detail, Don. It might be important. And it’s something that applied to all four rooms, and conspicuously not to the other room which Lloyd Corbett had occupied. It’s another unknown factor and I’m stuck for an explanation. I need to find out why four men were attacked and had a finger — the same finger on the same hand — deliberately broken. So what can you tell me? Is there any info in there?’ he asked, pointing to the stone-coloured file.

  Taylor rubbed his chin. ‘Well, not from the examination and swabbing of the rooms, sir.’

  Angel frowned. ‘Their DNA. Any biological link? Were they related…even distantly?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What about their clothing? Was there anything similar about their clothes, their personal things or their luggage? Anything the same that might link them?’

  ‘Not as far as we could see, sir. I looked at each man’s personal possessions, washing tackle and suitcase, and found nothing that was the same, or even close. There are full lists in the report.’

  ‘Did you think there was anything significant about the location…the arrangement…of the four rooms in relation to the attacks?’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘I’m fishing, Don. I’m clutching at straws. I’m looking for…for inspiration, for…for ideas. The rooms were not next door to each other, were they? So there was no question that the intruder had assaulted a man in error. They weren’t all at the end of corridors. They weren’t all on an outside wall. Dammit, they weren’t all on the same floor; there was one on the first floor and three on the second.’

  Taylor shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir. I really haven’t a clue.’

  Angel wasn’t pleased. But his blood was up. His eyes glowed like a cat’s eyes on a frosty night. ‘Are you absolutely positive that there is nothing at all in that report that links those four men?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Angel grunted then said: ‘There has to be something more than…than a smell.’ He sighed and rubbed his chin. ‘All right. Thank you. I’ll sort it.’

  Taylor nodded and went out.

  Chapter Three

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  It was Gawber. He had a yellow file under his arm.

  Angel raised his head. ‘Ah, Ron. Just the man,’ he said and pointed to a chair.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘I would have been sooner, sir, but I got caught in reception by an angry schoolteacher, a Miss Grimond, headmistress of Striker’s Lane School, reporting twenty-eight computers, a reel of black electric cable and a pair of aluminium workmen’s steps stolen from her school. The computers had only been installed a week.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘These school robberies are getting out of hand. And it’s all public money. And they’re so professional. Instruct SOCO to take a look at it. If there is any forensic or anything at all to go on, I’ll take a look at it too.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said and opened the yellow file.

  ‘Did you find a relationship of any sort between the four men?’ asked Angel.

  ‘No, sir.’

  Angel sighed. ‘You’ve run them through the PNC?’

  ‘Yes, and they’re all clean as a whistle.’

  ‘Are they all in proper, full-time employment?’

  ‘One is self-employed. The others are Hugh Adams, aged twenty-nine, who lives in Swansea, works for the Swansea Tile Company and calls on builders. He was in Room 212. Then there was David Baker, aged twenty-five, who lives in London, works for Cheapo chainstores as a field manager of POS printing and ticketing. He was in Room 215. And lastly, Stanley Selman, aged fifty, who lives in Essex, works for Ace Games, makers of jigsaw puzzles and calls on stationers. He was in room 201.’

  ‘Contact their employers and get confirmation that they were in Bromersley, staying at The Feathers, with their full knowledge and approval.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Now who is the self-employed one?’

  ‘He is Cyril Carter, aged fifty-nine, who lives in London. He’s an antique dealer. Has a shop. Visits auction houses on their viewing days. If he sees anything he’s interested in, he leaves bids with the auctioneer, or attends the auction later, or bids by phone live during the auction. He was in room 111.’

  ‘Hmm. That gives him plenty of opportunity to get around without anybody knowing where he is, doesn’t it?’

  Gawber nodded. ‘But I think he is quite legitimate, sir.’

  ‘Probably. But all the same, check on it. Where’s his shop?’

  ‘London, sir. SW1.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘I want to know how long he’s been in business at that address, and at least three auction houses he has bought from in the past few months. Let’s see if he is for real or whether the shop is just a front.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Did you get anything from the cars? Any similarities there?’

  ‘No, sir. All different makes. No cross prints at all, and there was nothing distinctive in the tread of the tyres.’

  So there were the four victims. There was nothing prepossessing about any of them. They seemed like a random collection of ordinary men, just the kind of assortment that might have been thrown together if they had been conscripted for national service.

  He licked his lips thoughtfully. ‘Did you get the feeling that anyone knew any of the others?’

  ‘No, sir. I would say that they definitely did not know each other. There was a certain easy camaraderie between them that had developed because they were all in the same boat, but I didn’t observe that they had any history together or knew anything at all about each other.’

  ‘And nobody showed any signs of having a guilty conscience about anything or even hinted why he might have been attacked?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you have absolutely no reason to think that any of them were remotely concerned in anything illegal?’

  ‘No, sir. They all seemed highly respectable.’

  Angel’s lips tightened against his teeth.

  There was the mystery. Why had four apparently ordinary disparate honest men had the middle finger of their right hand deliberately broken?

  This question would be at the forefront of Angel’s mind until he found the answer. He would go to sleep and it would be his last thought, and he would waken up and it would be the first thing to fly into his mind. That’s how it was with Michael Angel. He resolved to find the answer, even if it took twenty years. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

  ROOM 72, TOWN HALL, BROMERSLEY, SOUTH YORKSHIRE, 1405 HOURS. SATURDAY 9 AUGUST 2008

  At the end of a long corridor was a sign hung on a door, which read TEMPORARY REGISTRY OFFICE. It was a room the size of a broom cupboard with a table, four chairs and a vase of chrysanthemums.

  A small man in a dark suit, white shirt and black tie stood behind the table holding a printed card. He looked into the eyes of the couple standing facing him, and asked each in turn to confirm formally their full name and address.

  The man replied boldly, the woman in a small voice.

  The small man nodded, cleared his throat and then said: ‘Is the
re any just cause, reason or impediment why you should not be joined together in holy matrimony?’

  He leaned forward and looked expectantly from one serious face to the other.

  The couple glanced at each other briefly then turned back to face him and in unison said, ‘No.’

  He nodded, took them rapidly through the vows and concluded with: ‘I therefore pronounce you man and wife.’

  He sat down, took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

  The only other person in the room, a severe woman in her fifties sitting at the table, pushed a document at the couple. She offered the man a pen and said: ‘Sign here, please.’

  He smiled at her. She glared back at him.

  The young woman standing next to him squeezed his arm, her eyes glowing with passion. She turned and kissed him on the cheek. The man seemingly becoming aware of his tardiness, turned to face her square on; he pulled her towards him, wrapped her tightly in his arms and gave her a fulsome kiss on the lips. Then they sighed and looked into each other’s eyes.

  The woman tapped her finger on the table. ‘Sign here, please,’ she said urgently, shaking the pen in his direction.

  Eventually the man released the young lady, took the pen, signed the document and passed the pen on to her.

  The older woman pointed to a place on the document. The young woman signed with a trembling hand.

  The little man from the other side of the table said, ‘I hope you will both be very happy.’

  His mouth smiled but his eyes did not.

  FIVE TREES, LARCHFIELD HILL, SURREY, 0945 HOURS. MONDAY 18 AUGUST 2008

  The phone rang. And it kept ringing.

  The young woman in the overall glared at it, groaned and said: ‘Oh dear.’

  She stopped dusting the marble bust of Sir Gregory Line and called out, ‘Mrs Henderson! Mrs Henderson! Telephone!’ She rushed out of the hall, across the sitting room and through the French windows on to the patio. She glanced round the swimming pool and the garden beyond. There was nobody in sight.

  ‘Are you there?’ she called. ‘Mrs Henderson! Telephone!’

  There was no reply.