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

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Great stuff. Did you notice if any of the licensees recognized either of the two men?’ Angel asked.

  ‘Didn’t see any reaction, sir.’

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Mmm. Right. Sit down a minute. I’ve got another job for you.’

  Ahmed’s face brightened. Anything that made a change from filing and downloading would be welcome.

  ‘That case of the four men who were assaulted at The Feathers on the 23/24 June,’ Angel said. ‘We have made no progress whatsoever.’

  Ahmed nodded and took out his notebook and pen.

  ‘Now there has to be a link,’ Angel said. ‘There must be a relationship, a reason why those four men were attacked, and particularly why they were attacked in the same way. It couldn’t possibly have happened randomly. The attacker went deliberately for the middle finger of the right hand of each man quite specifically. I don’t know if it was a warning to each of them or what. I don’t know if it was the stupid requirement sign of a club of some sort, or part of a crazy initiation service. Anyway, that link can only be determined by making comparisons, and there doesn’t seem to be an in-house template for this. So I want you to devote yourself exclusively to it, and I want you to do it quickly. There isn’t much time. I want you to create a table. Do it on the computer. It will need to be a very long list, with five columns, one for the question and one each for the answers of the four men. Now when you get four answers that are the same, then there will surely be the explanation of the assault. Right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘DS Gawber has the files. Get them from him. You’ll get the answers from the most obvious questions asked when the men were interviewed in June. Start the table with those questions, such as age, marital status, nationality, home address. Inquire why they were staying in Bromersley that particular night. Put down what each man does for a living. Any police record? Does he drive a car? What make is it? And so on. Got the idea?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I know that there was absolutely nothing helpful about those particular answers, because I’ve already looked closely at them, but start there, and ask the victims more intrusive questions. You will have to speak to them individually on the phone. Interview the four again and continue with the questions. Keep with it until you find the question that produces four identical answers, and then you will have solved it. It’s time-consuming, but it’s the only way.’

  Ahmed stood up. ‘Right, sir,’ he said, looking eager to begin. ‘But wouldn’t you think the four men themselves would know why they were attacked in that way?’

  ‘They say they don’t know,’ Angel said. ‘They say they haven’t a clue. In fact, they’d like to find out the reason themselves and I understand that.’

  Ahmed nodded then said, ‘And they say they didn’t know each other, sir, before the attacks?’

  The phone rang.

  ‘They say not,’ Angel said as he reached out for the handset. Then he pointed at the door with his thumb. ‘Now hop off and get on with it. I am up to my eyes.’

  Ahmed went swiftly out and closed the door.

  It was Marie from the probation office on the phone.

  ‘I haven’t got a Harry in the whole of the town,’ she said. ‘No schoolteachers or ex-schoolteachers. No widowers. But there have been and are lots of ex-offenders who were footloose and fancy-free on 31 July and still are.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘You’re a big disappointment to me, Marie.’

  ‘What makes you think you’re looking for an ex-offender?’

  ‘I have to start somewhere. I have so little to go on. The woman missing is well off, very well off, never had a love-life, aged forty-four, sounds as plain as a bag of Be-Ro. She’s just ripe for plucking by an experienced crook, and is almost certainly now picked clean and dumped. Her bank accounts have been emptied. Paid out in cash. There’s absolutely no valid reason why she would need to do that. She’s been murdered or is being held against her will for a ransom. The trouble with that is…nobody’s had a ransom demand.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I hope you’re wrong,’ she said. ‘You said that the suspect is likely to live somewhere near the phone box on Victoria Road?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, I’ve nobody living anywhere near there. I have a Laurence Potter. Aged fifty. He’s not a widower. Never been married. Lives on his own. Been in prison for burglary twice. Six months in 2001, and two years in 2005. He lives at 4 Creesforth Road. That’s about half a mile from your phone box on Victoria Road. He’s the nearest.’

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Don’t be so ungracious, Michael. I am doing my best.’

  He grunted something unintelligible, then said, ‘Sorry. What’s he like?’

  ‘A model client. Keeps all his appointments here. Never misses. Never late.’

  ‘Employed?’

  ‘No. Like most of them.’

  ‘The chap I’m looking for is supposed to be a schoolteacher. What’s he look like? Is he attractive to women?’

  ‘He doesn’t do it for me, but he’s pleasant enough.’

  He made a note and said, ‘Who else?’

  ‘There’s a man, Dennis Schuster. Aged sixty, looks younger. He’s not a widower either, but he’s been married, four times. Served two years for deception and fraud. Again, the only criteria of yours he fits is that he lives at 11 Edward Street…about a mile, I suppose, from the phone box, in the direction of the town centre. Well spoken. Now he could be a teacher.’

  ‘And I suppose he’s a model client too.’

  ‘Yes. The mature, sensible ones — the ones who want to go straight — usually show me only their good side. It’s their way of breaking away from you lot.’

  He smiled wryly and shook his head even though she couldn’t see him. ‘Very wise, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Is he in employment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anybody else, Marie?’

  ‘About a hundred, but you’ll only grumble because they don’t fit your criteria. Those two were not inside on 31 July, and they live closest to that phone box.’

  He licked his lips. ‘Thanks very much for all your efforts, Marie. I’ll have a discreet look at them. I suppose that each of these is tolerably physically acceptable, tall, good head of hair, a great talker, a good liar and a cool murderer.’

  Marie shuddered. ‘I don’t know, do I?’

  *

  The rain was heavy. It had been raining for the last few days on and off, but that morning it was coming down as if God had forgotten to turn off the tap. Local floods in the vulnerable places seemed predictable.

  Angel went into Park Road post office, struggling with his umbrella, and joined the short queue up to the counter. As he stood there waiting, he selected several leaflets from the rack on the wall. When he reached the window, he bought a second-class stamp, returned to the BMW, put the stamp on to the dashboard shelf, tucked the leaflets into a clipboard he had borrowed from CID, and started the car. He turned left off Park Road on to Edward Street, a short street of small terraced houses, and pulled up to the kerbside outside number 3, which was four houses from the target house. Keeping the clipboard close to his chest, he walked quickly up to number 11 and knocked on the door. As he waited in the rain, he glanced through the official-looking post office leaflets and noticed that they were about the merits of borrowing money.

  The door was soon opened by a young girl aged about ten. He shoved the leaflets back under the clip on the clipboard and smiled down at her. She glared back at him.

  ‘Is your dad in, love?’ Angel said.

  She didn’t answer. She turned round and said, ‘Mam. There’s a man here. Wants to know if me dad’s in.’

  ‘Who is it?’ a voice said.

  Angel said: ‘Tell her I’m from the Nuway television programme.’

  ‘He’s from the no way —’

  The woman appeared. Her hair was all over
the place. ‘What is it?’ she said, pushing the girl inside.

  Angel gave her his best George Clooney smile. ‘Mrs Schuster?

  ‘Yes. I’m Gloria Schuster.’

  ‘I’m from Nuway Television. You will have heard of the programme Happy Families?’

  ‘No,’ she said, frowning.

  He feigned surprise. He raised his eyebrows and said: ‘Well, it’s the quiz programme where the winners get £10,000 if they win and the runners-up get £2,000. They only have to answer five simple questions. Teams are chosen completely at random, but must consist of a man, his wife or partner and one child.’

  ‘Ooooh; she said, her eyes shining. ‘Excuse me a minute.’ She turned and called out: ‘Trudi! Go and tell your father I want him. He’s on the bed reading the paper. Tell him it’s very important.’

  She turned back to Angel. Her face glowed. She began to stroke and pat her hair, trying to tidy it. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I used to be good at quizzes. I still do crosswords. This is very nice. Why did you choose us?’

  He glanced at the clipboard. ‘You are Mrs Dennis Schuster, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, running her hands down from her waist, smoothing the dress around her thighs.

  ‘You have to attend the television recording studio in Leeds. You can manage that?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a car. We could certainly do with the money. My husband’s unemployed at the moment. You said the teams are chosen at random?’

  ‘Yes. The addresses come from head office,’ he said quickly. He wanted to get another question in before the man Schuster arrived. ‘You don’t own or rent or use or have access to any other property, do you? Another house, an outhouse or garage…a building of any sort would earn you extra points.’

  ‘No, just this house. But how does that work?’

  He hadn’t an answer. He was thinking on his feet. Thankfully, a man appeared in the doorway. ‘You wanted me, darling?’ He was tall, dark and slim with a voice like an actor. He looked Angel up and down. His eyes were all over.

  Angel looked back at him.

  Gloria Schuster said: ‘Dennis, this man is from the television company —’

  ‘The television show Happy Families, yes,’ Angel said quickly. ‘You win either £10,000 or £2,000.’

  ‘I’ve not heard of it. Sounds very…interesting,’ Schuster said in a bored, measured tone.

  Angel saw the pupils of his eyes slide to one side then back again. When he had seen enough, he turned sideways, stuck a hand in his blazer pocket and struck a pose to show off his profile.

  Angel’s heartbeat increased. He could always spot an ex-con. This was a prime example. The man was unemployed, probably unemployable, and had served two years for deception and fraud. He conned an old lady out of her savings by pretending to be from the council and rendering free advice on investment. He originally got five years, it was such an extreme case of greed and heartlessness. It was reduced to three years on appeal, but he actually only served two years inside.

  Now that Angel had seen him, he thought it highly probable that there were scores of other crimes committed by Schuster that had never been detected.

  ‘Of course there are a few preliminary questions to be cleared,’ Angel said. ‘You are residents in the UK?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  He saw Gloria smile, look at her husband then reach down and slip her hand in his.

  ‘Always have your holidays together?’ said Angel.

  ‘Of course,’ Schuster said.

  ‘Does either of you have to travel in your line of work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has either of you been away from the other — even for one night — over the past twelve months? To visit a relative, have a holiday, or whatever?’

  ‘No. We always go everywhere together,’ Gloria said.

  Angel looked into Schuster’s eyes. The man returned a practised steady gaze.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Angel said. ‘You fulfil all the criteria for inclusion in the show. I’ll recommend you to the producers, and the company will write to you when they want you to come in. Good morning.’

  He withdrew quickly into the rain before the Schusters began to ask difficult questions. He stepped lively to the BMW and drove rapidly out of Edward Street, leaving the couple energized but bemused.

  As he turned back into Park Road to make his way to Creesforth Road, he thought over the interview he had had with the Schusters. His question to them about being away from home didn’t necessarily elicit an honest answer. The point was that if Dennis Schuster had been the one to go through a marriage service with Selina Line, he would obviously have had to leave Gloria for some time afterwards to observe the ritual of the honeymoon. Schuster could hardly have avoided that. At the same time, Angel was reasonably satisfied that it was quite within Dennis Schuster’s ability to have seduced Selina Line, gone through a marriage service with her, taken her money and then, presumably, murdered her. However, Angel was looking for somebody called Harry who was a schoolteacher. Schuster didn’t fit the bill on either count.

  Angel sighed and put his foot down on the accelerator. He still had another suspect to see. The notes Angel had on him from the PNC told him that Laurence Potter was fifty years of age, unmarried, and had been sent to prison for housebreaking twice: six months in 1999, and two years in 2001.

  Angel headed purposefully to the other side of town, along Victoria Road, passing the phone box from where Selina Line had phoned her sister in Surrey. The road ran into Bradford Road and up to the church where he turned left on to Creesforth Road. It was at the old end of the road where the houses were much smaller and therefore much cheaper than further along. Potter lived at number 4, in a semi-detached house with the smallest of gardens. He noted that, as the probation officer had accurately said, Potter’s house was about half a mile from the phone box on Victoria Road.

  Armed with the clipboard, and umbrella, Angel opened the gate and walked down the path to the front door. He was about to press the doorbell when he heard a door open somewhere and a woman loudly call out.

  ‘You devil, you,’ she said. It was followed by a scream that turned into a roar of laughter.

  He heard the door being closed, followed by the clickety-click of high-heeled shoes on wet flagstones. Then up the path at the side of the house came into view a slim, red-haired woman wearing more make-up than the cast of Showboat, and very little else. She was smiling and swinging a brown cardboard box by a string handle. It clearly didn’t weigh much. The box had the words MERLIN VACUUM CLEANER printed on each side in big letters. She seemed totally unaware of the rain.

  Their eyes met; she grinned and waved a hand at him.

  He waved back while trying to memorize her face. He frowned as he identified the unsteady walk, the fixed smile and the wobble of the head. She was high on something.

  He turned back to the front door and pressed the button push. It was some time before the door was unlocked. It was opened four inches on the chain. An eye peered through the gap.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Angel sensed this wasn’t going to be as easy as the Schusters. He had to think of something that would interest the man and would be believable. ‘I’ve called about your allocation of free vouchers for the lottery. It’s Mr Potter, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about it. I haven’t applied for any.’ He spoke slowly and his voice was slurred.

  ‘You don’t apply. They’re allocated to you by the council, if you qualify.’

  There was a pause.

  A whiff of alcohol drifted through the gap. He reckoned that Potter was celebrating something.

  Angel licked his bottom lip thoughtfully as he waited to see if he would take the bait.

  ‘Not interested,’ Potter eventually said. ‘Stuff it,’ he added, and began to close the door.

  Angel thought quickly. ‘Can I have your tickets then?’ he said.


  The door closed with a bang but reopened immediately with the chain off Potter pulled the door wide open and stood there, eyes red and blinking, body swaying.

  ‘Now what’s this all about?’ he said. ‘Who are you and what the hell do you want?’

  Angel stared at him.

  Potter wasn’t much to look at but Angel supposed that on a dark night with the wind in his favour, Potter could have been the man a lonely Selina Line might have taken in matrimony, blithely unaware of all the subsequent and horrific consequences.

  ‘I’m from the council,’ Angel said. ‘It’s about your tickets. Are you married, Mr Potter? You could be eligible for more.’

  ‘Course not. Don’t believe in it,’ he said with a loud, long laugh that showed a mouthful of big, uneven teeth. ‘Bringing my children up to believe in the same,’ he added. He enjoyed the hilarity so much he had to grab the door lintel to steady himself.

  ‘And are you in full-time employment?’

  ‘Course not,’ he repeated, even louder and with a big guffaw said, ‘Don’t believe in it. Bringing my children up to believe in the same.’ He repeated the raucous laugh and the exhibition of the teeth.

  Angel tried to join in the hilarity. It wasn’t easy to fake but he managed to turn up the corners of his mouth.

  Potter suddenly stopped laughing and said, ‘Well, what about these tickets? Lottery tickets, did you say? How many do I get?’

  Angel had to think quickly. ‘You’re not married? Do you live here on your own?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘To be eligible you have to have a wife or partner…one dependant at least.’

  Potter screwed up his eyes as his alcohol-sodden brain began to work on the logic. A few moments later, he staggered close up to Angel’s face. ‘You’re wasting my frigging time,’ he said. ‘Frig off,’ he added and closed the door with a bang.

  Angel turned away.

  Chapter Seven

  As Angel walked up the corridor and passed the CID office, Crisp saw him through the windows and rushed out into the corridor.

  ‘I’ve been to the registrar’s office, sir. There were eight weddings on 9 August. None of them was between a Selina Line and a Harry X.’