Angel nodded. ‘He was pretty drunk when I was talking to him.’
‘Yeah. He was drunk when I arrived and he was more drunk when I left. He was drinking champagne. We both were.’
Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘Champagne, eh? Was he celebrating something special?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He didn’t say, but he was…happy, yes.’
‘Lives on his own, we understand.’
‘Looked like it.’
‘Was there any sign that a woman had been there?’ he said quickly. ‘Any clothes? Make-up? Any little thing? Coat behind the door? Slippers in the kitchen? Any fresh flowers in the house at all?’
‘No. No. I didn’t see anything like that.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘Would you say he was used to…entertaining ladies?’
‘You mean entertaining ladies like me. Yes. He wasn’t new to the…business.’ Then suddenly she changed. Her eyes looked straight ahead at nothing in particular. ‘You know, it’s frightening when you think about it,’ she said, her fingers tightening round the bottle. ‘It would have been so easy for him to have strangled me and then taken his money back.’
‘But he didn’t,’ Angel said.
‘Do you think he murdered her, the missing woman?’
‘At this stage he is only a suspect, with many others. He fits one or two criteria, that’s all.’
She shuddered. ‘I’m not going back there.’
He saw her arm turn to gooseflesh and her fingers trembling.
‘There. There,’ Angel said. He wanted to hold her hands, but he knew he must not.
‘Now I think about him, he gives me the creeps,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to go back there. You’re here now. You’re safe. You’ve nothing to fear from him.’
Her eyes were glazed over. He wanted to shake her. ‘Listen,’ he said.
He waited a few moments. She stayed motionless.
‘Valerie. Valerie. You’re safe now. You’ve nothing to fear from him.’
She looked at him.
‘Listen. I am looking for a man who has abducted a woman and possibly murdered her. Please try and help me. At this time, it is the best thing you can do for me as well as yourself.’
‘I know. I know. And I will. Ask me anything you like.’
He licked his lips and said, ‘What did he do for a living? Where did the money come from for you, for the champagne? Did he say?’
‘He didn’t say. But the house was well furnished and everything seemed new. A big new slimline telly, three-piece suite, new estate car at the back, and so on. The place was scruffy but there seemed to be no shortage of money.’
That bothered Angel. ‘The person I am looking for said he was a widower, that his name was Harry and that he was a schoolteacher. We can’t make any sense of those claims.’
She thought a moment. Hesitantly, she replied, ‘He may have been a widower. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t know his first name. I called him Mr Potter. He may have been a schoolteacher, but I wouldn’t have thought so. That’s really all I know. Sorry.’
Angel looked at her, nodded and said, ‘Well, thanks very much, Valerie. If you think of anything, please give me a ring.’
She smiled.
He stood up and stepped out of the bench seat.
‘Just a minute,’ she said as she rummaged in her shoulder bag. ‘Don’t rush off.’ She looked up at him, smiled and handed him a photographic card with her mobile phone number on it. ‘I do special rates for nice-looking coppers.’
The heavy rain having come to an end on Friday last meant that Angel had had no excuse to dodge gardening over the weekend. Following some haranguing by his wife Mary, he had cut the lawn, the hedge, deadheaded all round and hoed the borders diligently so that there was not a weed in sight. As a consequence, he was delighted to get to his desk that Monday morning even though it was August Bank Holiday and most of the force were not working.
Angel and his team from CID were working as normal. They had had Easter off, so it was only fair to his opposite number. He was hoping it would be uneventful so that he could clear some of the paperwork off his desk.
However, before he had had chance to touch it, the phone rang. It was the civilian telephonist on the switchboard to tell him that Mrs Dunleavy was on the line.
The old lady didn’t sound very happy.
‘Oh dear, Inspector Angel, I am so glad that you are there.’
‘Nice to hear from you, Mrs Dunleavy,’ he said. He didn’t mean it, but the old lady was such a dear. ‘What is the news? Has Nigel turned up?’
‘Indeed he has not. I wondered if you had any news of him. You don’t think after all this time, Inspector, that he may have…passed away?’
‘I really have no idea, Mrs Dunleavy. What are you doing now? Surely you have left the Monro house and returned to your own home?’
‘Indeed I have. I have locked up Sir Max’s house and taken the keys to Mr Pugh — he’s Mr Nigel’s solicitor as well as Sir Max’s, you know. I have also taken him a load of mail that has come since Sir Max died, mostly for Mr Nigel, and mostly from The Northern Bank, I might add. Mr Pugh said that I was not to worry. He explained that he believed that Nigel’s trouble started when the credit squeeze began, which resulted in a run on that bank last September.’
‘Yes, of course. Is Mr Pugh happy to take on sorting Nigel’s matters out? It sounds such a mammoth task.’
‘Well, he said he would do what he can. He really needs Mr Nigel to contact him, although I wonder if he’ll get paid. Nigel owes such a lot of money.’
‘Well, don’t you worry about it, Mrs Dunleavy. It’s not your responsibility. You have done all you can.’
‘That’s what Mr Pugh said. Do you think I have done the best thing, Inspector?’
‘Absolutely. You should not be acting as a buffer between Nigel and his creditors. I urge you to withdraw from it, settle down and enjoy your retirement.’
‘I will try to, but I can’t help but worry about him, and wonder where he is now.’
‘Sheltering from his creditors, I expect,’ Angel said. ‘Of course, I don’t suppose the ruby has turned up.’
‘Huh. You won’t see it again, Inspector. I know where that’s gone,’ she said meaningfully.
Angel hoped she was wrong.
‘There’s nothing more I should do to help then, Inspector?’ she said.
‘Nothing. Relax and know that you did your best for Sir Max and for Nigel, and don’t worry about a thing.’
She sighed. ‘I feel so much better,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much.’
He smiled. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said.
‘You have made me feel more…comfortable about things. There is a limit. I get tired very easily these days.’
Angel knew she was over eighty. ‘You have done more than your share.’
The conversation closed with more pleasantries on both sides.
Angel replaced the phone thoughtfully. Mrs Dunleavy now sounded tolerably contented. It wasn’t right that she had had so much trouble. Dedicated housekeepers were worth more than…precious stones. Which made him wonder if he was ever going to find that ruby. Whether the stone turned up or not, he really must make an opportunity to go up to the convent in North Yorkshire, speak to the Mother Superior and try to trace Princess Yasmin. He needed to explain everything to her about her father and the ruby. That was the very least he must do to keep his word to Sir Max.
It took Angel a few moments to shake his mind free of the thoughts of Mrs Dunleavy, the ruby and Princess Yasmin, then he pulled the pile of post towards him. He resolved to deal with the easiest items first. That was the way to make it look as if he had done the most. It would be good for his morale.
Suddenly the phone rang again.
He reached out for the handset. A voice was speaking as he put the phone to his ear. ‘I’m watching Dennis Schuster, sir.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. It was Gawber. He w
as talking softly with his mouth very near the mouthpiece.
‘He left his house on Edward Street in an estate car about five minutes ago,’ Gawber continued, sounding chillingly uneasy. ‘He drove to a big old ramshackle Victorian house at the bottom of Well Lane. I followed him and I am in my car looking at it.’
Angel’s heart began to thump like the hammer on a cathedral bell. It sounded like just the place to hide somebody away.
‘Can you hear me, sir?’ Gawber whispered.
‘Yes, Ron. Carry on.’
‘Schuster looked round carefully before he let himself in. All the windows, both upstairs and down, are covered inside with either white curtains or plastic blinds. Doesn’t look right.’
Angel agreed. He breathed in unevenly. ‘What’s it near?’ he said.
‘Next to a tyre depot. At the end of a very short little road called Well Lane. It’s off Wakefield Road. There’s not a lot of anything here.’
‘Well Lane? I know it.’
‘The house is in a big garden that has been let go years ago. It’s all grass and nettles. It’s fenced off, but there are several breaks in the fence where it has either rotted away or been damaged by vandals, and there are fields beyond.’
‘Right, Ron. If he comes out, try and get a photograph, link him to the place. I’m on my way.’
Six minutes later Angel turned his BMW off Wakefield Road on to Well Lane. He saw Gawber’s unmarked Ford and parked behind it. He got out of the car and glanced quickly up and down the short street. The road surface was full of pot holes and little else. The tall wood fence round the tyre depot was patched up in several places, and needed renewing and painting. The lonely silence of the scruffy place suggested that they hadn’t sold a tyre for years. The properties opposite looked like garages or storehouses.
He went up to Gawber in his car and leaned into the window. ‘Is he still there?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Gawber said.
‘Right. Let’s go.’
Angel followed Gawber through a side gate, along an over-grown path, which led to a tarmacked area round the house where they split forces. Angel went to the back door and Gawber made for the front. Gawber banged the knocker on the big old door and waited. He didn’t wait long before he repeated the banging, and again a third time.
Angel stood just out of sight of the back door, his back against the wall. Eventually, he heard some movement, the click of a spring in a lock, the squeak of door hinges then the rattle of keys.
Angel whipped round. Dennis Schuster was on the step with his hand on the door knob.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Angel said. ‘Can I come in?’
Schuster’s eyes flashed and he sucked in air. He immediately pushed open the door, slipped inside and tried to close it, but Angel put all his weight against it. Gawber arrived and added his weight to it. The door gave way to superior authority and it was flung wide open. Angel and Gawber fell in on the floor. Schuster was thrown back against the wall. He recovered and began to run off. Angel reached out, caught him by the ankle and brought him down the length of the entrance hall.
Then Angel and Gawber got to their feet and immediately became aware of the most horrendous atmosphere. It was hot and thick and smelled of rotting cabbage. They exchanged meaningful glances; they knew exactly what it was.
The entrance hall comprised bare floorboards, bare walls and no furniture; not so much as an out-of-date calendar was to be seen.
They dashed over to Schuster, who was holding his leg and rubbing his knee.
His face was red and he was breathing quickly. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ he said. ‘This is a private house.’
‘We’re the police,’ Gawber said.
Schuster glared at Angel and said, ‘You’re the man from the TV company!’
Angel shook his head. He pulled out his warrant card and held it up for Schuster to see. ‘Detective Inspector Angel, and this is DS Gawber, Bromersley Police.’
Schuster’s jaw dropped.
‘Do you live here, sir?’ Angel said.
‘No.’
‘What are you doing here then?’
‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘Do you mind if we look round?’
‘Have you got a search warrant?’
‘We can soon get one.’
Schuster closed his eyes and opened them slowly. He looked down his nose and said, ‘Well, I am afraid, dear chap, that you’ll bloody well have to get one.’
‘Is there anybody else in the building?’
‘No.’
‘Dead or alive?’
Schuster’s eyes shone like a flash of lightning. ‘What? Certainly not. I want to speak to my solicitor.’
Angel said, ‘Yes. I am sure you will.’
Then he turned to Gawber and nodded.
Gawber grabbed the man by the wrist, clamped on an open handcuff and said, ‘Dennis Schuster, I am arresting you on suspicion of growing a Class C substance, and there may be other charges. You do not have to say anything…’
Chapter Ten
Gawber phoned for uniformed backup, and together with them and the prisoner, returned to the nick. Meanwhile, Angel had begun looking round the big house. There was nothing new. He had seen it all before.
It was crowded with cannabis plants. They were crammed into every possible nook and cranny, in every room and at every level. In the bathroom, they were in the bath and on top of the lavatory. They were planted in rich, moist earth in crude containers contrived from timber laths and plastic sheeting; bright lights shone on them like the Mediterranean sun; electric fans blew warm air round the house causing the greenery to wave a little here and there; a complex network of pipes, pumps, taps and tanks of water on makeshift stands irrigated the crop as required; electric cables stretched round the house like washing lines and on the floor at every doorway were bars of multiple sockets with plugs leading through thermostats to the time switches that controlled the changes. The consumption of electricity would have been enormous. Everywhere was warm, sweaty and smelled worse than the inside of an exhumation tent.
There was no sign of Selina Line or anybody else.
An hour later, Angel had completed his search and was in need of fresh air. The smell and sticky atmosphere was unpleasant. He was standing outside in the backyard. He had just tapped in the home number of DS Donald Taylor, head of SOCO, which was one of the sections not working that August Bank Holiday.
Taylor said: ‘We managed to get six or seven usable photographs, sir. You were absolutely right. There’s no doubt about it. The tyres of the Rolls have such a wide tread and unique tread pattern that they will be very easy to identify if you ever come across them. Anyway, I’ll make up some prints and send you the photographs when I return to the office tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Don, that’s great. I shall look forward to seeing the photos. But that isn’t what I am phoning you about. Something else just cropped up — rather important. I have reason to believe that a woman called Selina Line may have been abducted by an ex-con called Dennis Schuster, and her life might be at risk. We have just arrested him in a large Victorian house converted into a cannabis factory, and I urgently need to know whether there is any evidence to show that Selina Line has been held on these premises, or at his home at 11 Edward Street.’
Taylor was slow to reply. ‘I am in the garden, sir.’
‘Yes, I thought you might be.’ He realized that Don Taylor didn’t want to turn out. It was Bank Holiday Monday.
‘Well, how much of a risk is it, sir?’ he said reasonably.
Angel bristled. He didn’t like this negotiating; if he had been in Taylor’s position, he would have reported for work straightaway. ‘I don’t know. How can I quantify it? There’s no scale. It’s like pain. All I can say is that the suspect is an oily smartarse, who has served time for lesser crimes. Now he seems to be getting ambitious.’
Taylor was quiet.
Angel thought he must be weakening.
There was a moment’s delay and then Taylor said, ‘I’ll just get a pen, sir, and take a note of those two addresses.’ That had clinched it. Angel nodded with satisfaction.
‘He denies everything, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘Says he’s never heard of her.’
Angel growled, ‘Where was he on 8 August?’
‘Says he can’t remember.’
Angel sniffed. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I’ll have a go. Come on.’
He went out of the office; Gawber followed. They went up the corridor to Interview Room Number 1.
Standing on guard outside the interview room door was DC Scrivens.
‘Go find me Trevor Crisp, will you?’ Angel said.
Scrivens dashed away.
In the room, seated at the table were Dennis Schuster, looking as cool as a corned beef sandwich in solitary, and Mr Bloomfield, his solicitor.
Angel nodded to both of them, switched on the recording machine, made the required statement of who was present and the date and time then said, ‘Don’t let’s mess about, Dennis — 8 August is only seventeen days back. It was a Saturday. Two Saturdays back. It’s a simple question. Where were you?’
‘Don’t remember, dear boy.’
‘Getting married, were you?’
Schuster frowned. ‘I’m already married.’
‘It’s called bigamy.’
‘No. I’m very happily married to one lady, thank you.’
Angel wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘What’s the address of the other place?’
‘What other place?’
‘The place where you took Selina?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. My wife’s name is Gloria. You obviously have me confused with somebody else.’
‘You don’t know Selina Line?’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘All right, Dennis. We’ll have to do that the hard way. Now about the cannabis, where did you buy the plants?’
Missing, Presumed... (An Inspector Angel Mystery) Page 11