‘How many Harrys were there?’
‘None, sir. Nor Selinas. And the ages weren’t any couples with similar ages. They were either much younger or much older.’
They arrived at Angel’s office.
‘Sit down,’ he said, and Crisp took the chair by the desk.
Angel stabbed the umbrella in the sand in the fire bucket to drain and then walked the length of the room and back. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘The marriage has got to be recorded there. Selina Line told her sister that she got married on Saturday 9 August. I wouldn’t expect Selina to have lied about it. She’d be pleased. Delighted. Ecstatic. Presumably. Her sister, Mrs Henderson, wouldn’t have got it wrong. And Harry X would have needed to marry her to smooth the way to the business of taking her purse, her jewellery and emptying her building society and bank accounts.’
Crisp shook his head. ‘Nevertheless, Selina Line wasn’t married in Bromersley on Saturday 9 August, sir.’
Angel stopped walking up and down and sat down at the desk. He opened his wallet and took out a postcard-size photograph and dropped it on the desk in front of Crisp. ‘That’s Selina Line. Get a few copies of it made and give me that one back. It belongs to Mrs Henderson. She said that this is the latest photograph she’s got. Then show it to the people who conducted the marriages and see if she was a bride at any of them.’
Crisp picked up the photograph, looked at it and wrinkled his nose.
‘And don’t take all day,’ Angel said. ‘I’ve got another job, which might even be more urgent than that.’
Crisp looked up.
‘It is still to do with this case,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. ‘I have two suspects… Admittedly they are two long shots…’
He went on to tell him about the two men suspected because of their proximity to the phone box from which Selina Line had phoned her sister. He told him about both interviews in detail and described exhaustively the appearance of the red-haired young woman.
‘She is obviously a tart. I want you to find her for me.’
‘How can I do that, sir?’
Angel’s jaw tightened. ‘You’re the detective. What do you think? How would you locate a girl on the game?’
‘Go down to Canal Road after dark?’
‘As a last resort, if all else fails, yes,’ he snapped. ‘But I expect you to use your initiative. You could start by trying to contact the Merlin Vacuum Cleaner company. See if she works for them. Frankly I don’t think they exist. I suspect it’s just a front, to maintain the client’s respectability. You could check the PNC. She might have been through our hands or some other force’s hands. In her case, she looks as if she’s a cut above working in the back of cars and shop doorways. You could look in the papers. See if there are any doubtful ads. Her red hair should make her easy to find. Do you want me to do the job for you?’
‘No, sir. If I can locate her, what do you want me to do?’
‘Set up a meeting between us. But don’t let her get a whiff that we have an interest in Laurence Potter.’
‘What, sir, just between the three of us?’
Angel clenched his fists. ‘No,’ he bawled. ‘Between her and me.’
Crisp blinked.
‘Not a single “Harry”, sir. I’ve been through a hundred and forty-two teachers including headteachers. That’s all the teachers in the borough. From kindergarten through to colleges.’
Angel frowned. ‘Any Harolds?’
‘No Harolds, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘If I had been looking for Pauls or Cliffs or Barrys, there would have been suspects for us to chase.’
‘This is all very odd, Ron. Crisp has just reported in. He can find no record of the wedding of any couples that could be Selina Line and Harry X anywhere.’
Gawber frowned. ‘Maybe they didn’t get married?’
‘Maybe they didn’t. Everything that sister of hers has told us has led us nowhere.’
‘Did you try the probation office, sir?’
‘Yes. My friend Marie came up with two possibilities, solely because of their proximity to the telephone box; for no other reason. One of them is Dennis Schuster at 11 Edward Street. Will you see what you can find out about him and his wife Gloria surreptitiously? I don’t want him knowing that we are investigating him.’
‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said and he went out.
Angel rubbed his chin. He was not satisfied with the information Selina Line’s sister had given him. There was so little of it. What there was needed to be absolutely accurate.
He reached out for the phone. He managed to reach Josephine Henderson at The Feathers at the third attempt.
‘I am so sorry I was out, Inspector. I have just returned from some shopping. What is it? Have you news of Selina?’
‘I am afraid not, Mrs Henderson. We are reaching nothing but dead ends. I need to go over that conversation you had with your sister on the phone on 1 August.’
‘Oh yes, well, anything, Inspector. Anything that I can do to help. That was the only time I spoke to her, after she left.’
‘Yes, I understand that. She did ring later but you didn’t get to the phone in time. Isn’t that right?’
‘Quite right.’
‘Didn’t she tell you she was getting married on the first call? Tell me again, please, exactly what she said, as near as you can.’
‘She said that she had met a schoolteacher called Harry, that he was a widower, that they were madly in love, that he definitely wasn’t married, and that they were getting married a week on Saturday. I think that was all.’
Angel frowned. ‘Are you sure, Mrs Henderson? Are you absolutely certain?’
‘The line wasn’t very clear, Inspector. And it was rushed. And, of course, dear Selina didn’t want me to know too much for fear I might have arrived and interfered with her plans. Oh dear. I do so wish that I had.’
‘You mean that she may have deliberately given you false information?’
‘I doubt that. She said little enough. I had no idea what part of the country she was in until I was able to have the number traced.’
‘But are you sure the name of the man she gave you was Harry? We have been unable to find a single schoolteacher called Harry in the whole of the borough. Also, there is no record of a wedding service, conducted by a priest, a minister or by anybody else on 9 August of anybody called Selina or Harry.’
‘Oh dear. Oh dear. I am certain that she would not have settled for anything less than a proper marriage before cohabiting with a man. She was very correct about that.’
‘Would the ceremony have to have been religious, do you know?’
‘A Christian church service would have been her first choice, but I can’t be certain about that, Inspector.’
There was a pause.
‘If there is anything I can do, Inspector...?’
‘No. No. Thank you very much, Mrs Henderson. It’s a puzzle, I don’t mind telling you.’
‘I do hope you will find her soon.’
‘Oh, we will,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that we will,’ he added.
He had said that to comfort her. He had not said that he was optimistic at finding her alive.
‘Goodbye, Inspector.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was DC Scrivens. ‘Letter marked Urgent for you, sir. Just come in.’
Angel could see it was a medium large brown envelope from the British United Insurance Company, Piccadilly, London.
He took it from him. It felt soggy and the address was smudged. ‘At this time? And it’s wet through. Look at it.’
‘It’s still raining cats and dogs, sir. Reports of floods on the news. Big floods in Doncaster again. And York.’
‘Right,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. He stuck a letter opener into the envelope.
Scrivens went out.
Angel slit open the end and reached inside. It had three colour photographs of jewellery. There was a letter with it explaining tha
t the photographs were sent at the request of Mrs Henderson, who had reported them missing, presumed stolen, and that the items were insured with them on an all-risk policy for a total value of £80,000, and that if they were recovered and returned to their office before 31 August, a finder’s fee of ten per cent of the value would be paid out. The photographs showed a large pair of garnet earrings. The caption said that they were originally owned by a Lady Cranberry. Also a diamond and emerald necklace and an eight-carat solitaire diamond ring. He turned over each picture and on the reverse was a detailed description of the item, giving the carat weight of all the major stones. In the quietness of the office, he spent several moments admiring their beauty and memorizing them in case he should ever come across them.
Then he heard the church clock chime five o’clock.
He nodded as he heard the last dong. He was ready for home. It had been a long and tedious day. There was nothing he couldn’t safely leave until tomorrow. He pushed the photographs and letter back in the envelope, squared up the pile of letters and reports not yet dealt with and put them in the top drawer. He went out of the office and as he walked down the corridor he began to consider the lack of progress he had made that day finding the missing woman. His face displayed his dissatisfaction. As he passed an outside window, he heard a clatter on the glass and glanced out; heavy rain was still beating down under pressure from squally winds. He remembered the floods of last year, both locally and in Tewkesbury, and he hoped they would not be repeated. Realizing that he’d left his umbrella behind, he turned up his jacket collar and made a dash for the car. He started the engine, put the screen wipers on fast and pulled out of the yard. He lived on a modern estate on the edge of town. Despite the rain, he made good time on the ring road, even though it was an inch deep in standing water and rain was splashing back up from the road four or five inches high. He turned off the A628 to Woodhead on to a country lane and travelled the quarter of a mile towards a Y junction. Through the wipers, he saw a yellow and black AA diversion sign blocking the road left, and a man in a yellow and black AA waterproof hat and a cape under the deluge. He signalled Angel to stop.
Angel applied the brakes, and frowned. He wondered if there had been any flooding on the estate, or if the heavy rain had caused a local landslip that had blocked the road. He remembered that there had been a landslip on the Snake Pass last January, which had closed it to traffic. He had heard nothing and Mary would surely have phoned. He licked his lips as he considered the possibilities.
The uniformed man came up to the car and gave a salute. Angel lowered the window and as the man leaned into the car, a stream of accumulated water drained off his cape and dribbled noisily on to the ground. He noted that the poor man was soaked. He had a wide leather black strap across his chin and mouth and his hat was well pulled down so that only his eyes were visible.
‘Inspector Angel?’ the man said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
Angel had noticed, surprisingly, the distinctive smell of brandy, then, in his head, a ball rolled along a track, dropped into a hole and a bell rang.
This man was a fraud. The AA do not engage in traffic control. They haven’t the authority.
Why didn’t he think of it before? He was about to challenge him when the man produced a small gun from under the cape and pointed it at him.
Angel’s stomach turned over. His heart thumped. His pulse raced.
‘What is this?’ he said, his eyes on the shiny blue Beretta.
‘Shut up and do as you’re told,’ the man said.
His rear door was opened. At the same time, the near-side door was opened and a man got in beside him.
‘Put your hands up. Look ahead,’ a voice said.
Angel didn’t dare move.
In the driving mirror he saw huge headlamps and a big silver radiator grille. The car behind must have been waiting, hiding in one of the farm lane ends he had passed.
The BMW rocked as a second man entered in the back. Doors slammed. He felt a jab of cold metal in the back of the neck.
A voice from the back seat from a man who sounded like he gargled in petrol said: ‘Right, Mossy. Clear up here and bring the car to where we arranged.’
The man addressed as Mossy put the gun back in his pocket under the cape and dashed away.
The croaky voice from the back seat said: ‘Mr Angel, shut that window and turn the car round.’
Angel recognized the accent. It was certainly from Lancashire and possibly Manchester. He glanced to his left. The man there was also holding a gun, pointing at him. He couldn’t see the make. The man looked at him. It was Lloyd Corbett. Lloyd Sexton Corbett. It dawned on him. He was in the hands of the Corbett brothers! The Manchester killers. Wanted by three police forces at least, for murder and mayhem.
He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. His breathing was irregular and his hands were unsteady. He took some small comfort in that if they had wanted him dead they would have shot him before now.
The voice more urgently said: ‘Shut that window, Mr Angel, and turn the car round.’
He glanced at the windscreen. It was all steamed up. He switched on the screen blower.
There was a quick rustle of clothes behind him.
‘Don’t make sudden moves like that, Mr Angel,’ the voice said. ‘Do everything very slowly. Be careful what you do with your hands. Or I might get nervous with mine.’
Angel sat motionless in the driving seat, his face burning like a furnace. He wasn’t stupid enough to rush into a situation that was more dangerous than the one he was already in, if he could possibly avoid it.
‘What do you want?’ Angel said.
‘Just to talk, Mr Angel. Just to talk. I’m James Corbett.’
The little man on the front seat said quickly: ‘And I’m Lloyd Corbett. We’ve already met. And I tell you, Angel, I am not in agreement with him on this. For my money, I’d sooner see you in —’
‘Shut your mouth, Lloyd,’ James Corbett said. ‘Before I put my fist in it.’ Then he jabbed Angel in the neck and said, ‘Will you turn the car round, Mr Angel, and we’ll go somewhere where we can talk?’
‘I talk much better when I haven’t got two guns pointing at me.’
‘I don’t take any chances, as you will come to learn. Now turn the car round, if you please.’
Angel had no choice. He put the car in gear.
James Corbett directed him back on to the A628 towards Woodhead. The road was not busy. The BMW climbed up two or three hundred feet. The landscape was grass, moss, heather and rocks. After only a short distance, they arrived at a junction and a small public house, back off the road, with a sign: The Log Cabin. Fully licensed. Meals available.
Angel reckoned it needed a coat of paint. Two coats. It looked a deadbeat place in the rain. He was told to turn right on to the large empty gravel car park at the side and stop as near the front entrance as possible.
James Corbett said: ‘Switch off the engine. Give me the keys.’
Angel turned round to face him. He looked into his small black eyes, like bilberries in milk. It was hate at first sight. James Corbett took the keys. He smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes.
Lloyd Corbett got out of the car first. ‘Come on,’ he said, standing in the heavy rain. ‘Quick. Let’s get inside.’ He was still holding a gun and pointing it at Angel. ‘Get out,’ he said.
James Corbett got out of the back and pointed his gun at Angel and said: ‘Inside. Quick. Let’s go.’
Angel got out. He glanced round as he kicked his way through the occasional thistle and tuft of grass sprouting through the gravel.
Lloyd Corbett led the way, and the three men ran up two steps, through the door into the deserted bar.
Lloyd pushed his way through the empty tables, chairs and gaming machines to a door at the end. It opened into a small room. Angel followed him inside. There were six small tables, around twenty-four chairs, a big window overlooking the road and the magnificent heather-cover
ed mountain beyond, and that was all. The sort of room that may have been used for after-hours drinking or private card schools.
James Corbett said: ‘Turn round, Mr Angel. Put your hands on the wall.’ He turned to Lloyd and said: ‘All right, Lloyd. Make a good job of it.’
Lloyd Corbett glared back at him with wild eyes. ‘I always make a good job of it.’
The little man stuffed the gun in his pocket and patted Angel down from neck to ankle, along his arms and all the way down his legs.
Angel had to hand it to him, he was as thorough as a Spaniel looking for amphetamines in a cargo of onions.
When he was satisfied, he turned to his brother and nodded.
‘Sit down, Mr Angel,’ James Corbett said, pulling out a chair.
Angel deliberately chose a chair from a different table and sat down. His trouser legs slapped coldly against his knees and shins. It was then that he realized how wet he was. He wiped his face with his handkerchief.
James Corbett pulled a face. ‘Now let’s all try and be reasonable.’
‘I’m always reasonable,’ Lloyd Corbett said. ‘This is a load of crap.’
James Corbett’s jaw stiffened. He raised his shoulders and towered over the little man. ‘You’re the crap, Lloyd. You always have been. Now shut your mouth and get out of here. I don’t know why I put up with you. Get out. Get out and stay out.’
He bustled him towards the door.
Lloyd’s face was scarlet. ‘I’m going. I’m going. I still say it’s a crap idea.’
James Corbett slammed the door behind him. Then he immediately reopened it and said, ‘Fetch some drinks. Make yourself useful.’
He turned back to Angel.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Sit down. Excuse him. He has no brains. He’s the runt of the litter. Take no notice of him. I run this show. I only keep him on out of charity. Family. You understand?’
Angel didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what would be safe to say.
‘Relax, Mr Angel. You will be wondering why I invited you to have this little chat with me.’
Angel rubbed his chin and nodded. ‘Unusual sort of invitation,’ he said.
Missing, Presumed... (An Inspector Angel Mystery) Page 8