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

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel hated raising the expectations of the drug-hungry women. He wasn’t wanting what they were offering. But he was looking for a woman. A very specific woman. He didn’t know what she looked like. All he knew was her name. And she was likely to be somewhere more comfortable than standing half-naked on unfriendly flagstones in the middle of the night.

  He speeded up the car and drove to the end of Canal Road, turned round and pulled on the handbrake. He took off his tie, put it in his pocket and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a vacuum flask, plastic food container, yellow duster and the blue plastic bag. He poured himself a full cup of coffee, then opened the plastic box and looked in it to see what there was. His dear wife Mary had prepared two brown bread sandwiches of ham and beetroot, which he ate pretty quickly, and she had included a Golden Delicious apple. He looked at it, smiled as he thought of her, and put it in his pocket for later. He finished off the cup of coffee and screwed on the top, pleased that there would be some for later. He covered the RT with the duster, carefully tucking it safely round the handset. He opened the blue bag, took out the rolled gold necklaces and put them over his head and round his neck one at a time until he sparkled like a Christmas tree at Hamleys. He turned down the driving mirror, looked in it, nodded and put it back in position. He put the BMW into gear and rolled the car slowly along, passing two or three girls until he was about halfway along Canal Road. He stopped and a girl teetered towards the car. He pressed the button and the car window rolled down.

  ‘Hello there, darling,’ she said, peering through the window. ‘Looking for a good time?’

  Angel switched on the inside light and looked across at her. Her face was highly coloured with carmine and rouge. Her eyes were dull, her mouth moist and always open. Her hair was long, black at the roots turning to bleached sisal. She must have been pretty sometime, but tonight she had the allure of a fridge.

  He screwed up his face. ‘I’ve been sent by Charles Drumme — Mr Drumme to you — to sort out big Laura,’ he said, giving his best Cagney impression. ‘Where is she?’

  The girl stared at him and gasped. Her jaw dropped. ‘Frigging hell,’ she said.

  She turned away from the car and yelled out, ‘Hey, girls. This ain’t a frigging punter. Come from Charlie Drumme. He’s looking for big Laura.’

  Girls ran up to her from every direction. There was a crowd of eight or ten girls in a huddle on the pavement in a few seconds.

  ‘What you on about?’

  ‘This frigging bloke is looking for big Laura.’

  There were gasps and calls of ‘Oh my god’ echoing round the dark cobbles.

  They chattered and chirped for a few moments. One of them broke away from the huddle, came up to Angel’s car window, glared at him and with a curled lip said, ‘Well, who the frigging hell are you?’

  ‘I’m from Mr Drumme and I want big Laura,’ he said. ‘Where is she?’

  She turned back to the huddle.

  ‘He says he’s from Charlie Drumme,’ she said.

  There was more animation from the huddle.

  A dozen or more others had joined in the meeting. They yelled and screamed at each other for a few moments. Then they suddenly all turned and looked towards the car. They came nervously up to the window. Those at the front peered in, looked round the inside of the car and then looked closely at him.

  One of them said: ‘Are you really from Charlie Drumme?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel shouted. ‘Mr Drumme is taking you back.’

  ‘Are you going to collect for him, then?’

  ‘No. I’m just here to get rid of big Laura and the Corbetts.’

  There was stunned silence.

  Angel suddenly said in a loud voice: ‘If you don’t tell me where I can find her, Mr Drumme will come down himself.’

  ‘Charlie Drumme’s in the hospikle,’ another said.

  ‘He gets out tomorrow. He’s as good as new,’ Angel said.

  They turned away and went into a huddle again. It didn’t take long. They returned to the window. The first girl came back up to the window.

  ‘Big Laura. She ain’t frigging here. But she comes down most frigging nights, though.’

  ‘What time? What time?’ he snapped.

  ‘Huh. When she frigging wants,’ the girl said. Then she added, ‘If you go away round the block, we can give you a bell when she comes.’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ many voices called out enthusiastically. Some girls screamed. In the reflection of the car headlights, he saw several jump up and down, waving their hands.

  ‘All right,’ Angel growled. ‘How will I know her?’

  ‘She’s in a frigging big silver Mercedes, SL55,’ the second girl said.

  ‘You don’t see many of them around here,’ another girl added.

  He scribbled his mobile number on a margin of the Evening Star he had bought earlier, tore it off and gave it to the first girl. ‘There’s my number. Don’t mess me up,’ he said sternly, ‘or I’ll come back for you.’

  ‘It’ll cost you a tenner,’ she said, licking her lips nervously. Angel growled, peeled off a ten pound note from his money roll, and gave it to her.

  He heard a voice in the dark say, ‘You should’ve said a hundred.’

  With shaking hands the girl snatched it, kissed it and said, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t mess you up. I’d do anything to get that frigging bitch off my back.’

  Angel sighed. He would be glad when this particular night’s work was over.

  He switched off the interior light of the car, closed the near-side window and then released the handbrake. The BMW glided quickly away to the end of Canal Road; he turned first right and right again. It took him on to Sebastopol Terrace, an old terraced row of houses without street lights. All the houses were in darkness except for one bedroom where some poor soul no doubt couldn’t get to sleep. He drove the car down the street to a frontage of shops with a pub, The Fisherman’s Rest, in the middle. The pub had a small car park at the side. No vehicles were on it. He drove on to the car park, pulled on the brake and turned off the ignition. He took his mobile out of his pocket and tapped in a number.

  It was soon answered.

  ‘Ron,’ Angel said. ‘It’s all set. Has Waldo White and his team arrived?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Eight men in two Range Rovers. They’ve been showing me their new Heckler and Koch G36s. They only weigh 7.28 lbs.’

  ‘Good. I don’t care what they weigh as long as they can shoot straight with them. Pick me up on the corner of Sebastopol Terrace and Wakefield Road, ASAP.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He closed the phone and dropped it in his pocket. He got out of the BMW, locked it and began the walk along the street towards the main road. Apart from the distant hum of traffic on the M1, it was so quiet you could have heard the crystals in a breathalyzer change colour.

  A distant clock chimed three. It took him only two minutes to reach the main road, which was well illuminated. He kept back in the shadow behind the corner of the end house and waited.

  There was very little traffic on the main road — a big ASDA articulated wagon and a red post office van that looked brown in the halogen lights passed, then an unmarked Ford car he recognized. It was Gawber. Angel stepped out of the shadow and flagged him down. He got in the nearside seat.

  ‘Take this corner and park up,’ he said, indicating Sebastopol Terrace.

  Gawber took the corner, stopped in the street, switched off the lights and turned off the engine.

  ‘Where are Waldo White and his men?’ Angel said.

  ‘Two streets up, sir. They’re raring to go.’

  Angel nodded then rubbed his chin. He realized he needed a shave. He was silent for a moment. ‘They don’t like being pimped by a woman,’ he said.

  Gawber nodded. ‘You said that you thought that would be the case.’

  ‘They’d rather be bullied by Charlie Drumme than this Laura woman. One of the girls is ring
ing me on my mobile when big Laura appears. As my car will now be clocked in by the girls, I want us to follow her in your car. All right?’

  ‘What’s big Laura’s car?’

  ‘A big silver Mercedes. SL55.’

  Gawber looked impressed.

  Suddenly ahead of them they heard a small explosion and a huge red and yellow flickering light illuminated the side of the high warehouses on Canal Road on their left behind the house roofs.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Gawber asked.

  Angel thought it came from somewhere in the middle of Sebastopol Terrace. His pulse rocketed. He gasped. ‘Oh hell! It’s my car.’

  Gawber looked at him. His big eyes reflected the yellow light.

  ‘They’ve fired my bloody car!’ Angel said.

  Gawber started the car engine.

  Angel’s mobile went.

  ‘Just a minute, Ron,’ he said as he dived in his pocket. He switched on the phone and spoke into it. ‘Hello, yes.’

  Nobody spoke. The line sounded alive, but nobody spoke.

  ‘Hello. Are you there?’ Angel said.

  There was still no voice.

  ‘Speak up,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  There was a small cough. ‘It’s me,’ a small female voice said.

  ‘Is big Laura there now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In her usual car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On her own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Now carry on as usual. Act normal. All right?’

  The girl said, ‘Yes.’

  He closed the phone and turned to Gawber. ‘Turn round smartly, Ron, and go down Canal Road.’

  As Gawber swung the car into reverse, Angel tapped triple nine on the mobile. It was answered by an emergency telephonist. He quickly reported the Sebastopol Terrace explosion to the Fire Service. Then he cancelled the connection and tapped in another number.

  It was answered after only half a ring. ‘Waldo White.’

  ‘Michael Angel. Are you all set?’

  White sighed. ‘I thought you’d forgotten us, Michael,’ he said with a grin in his voice.

  ‘We are in a blue unmarked Ford Mondeo, Waldo. Please come in when I shout for you.’

  ‘Right. Can you keep this line open…give me a commentary…so that I’ll know what’s happening…and we’ll know what to expect? I’ll hold on.’

  ‘Yes…all right. We are going into Canal Road now.’

  Gawber drove the Ford slowly along, girls appearing every twenty yards or so.

  Angel said: ‘It’s very dark. Don’t expect street lights…there aren’t any. There are lots of girls standing about. There are two kerb crawlers, and there’s one car standing…a girl leaning forward, negotiating with a client. No sign yet of big Laura’s car…we’re nearly at the end of the road.’

  In the headlights, suddenly it appeared.

  Angel gasped. So did Gawber.

  ‘It’s there!’ they cried out in unison.

  A big low-slung luxury silver car with an unmistakable Mercedes logo and model code SL55 was standing at the side of the road. Two girls were at the nearside window talking to a figure in the driving seat; it was too dark to see what was happening.

  Angel’s pulse began to bang in his ears.

  ‘You’ve got it?’ Waldo White said.

  ‘Staring straight at it,’ Angel said. ‘Ron’s going to drive straight past slowly. Its index number is Yankee, Mike, Zero, Eight, Mike, X-Ray, X-Ray.’

  White said: ‘Got it.’

  ‘We’re driving up to the end of the road, turning round and parking up.’

  ‘Don’t lose it, Michael,’ White said.

  Angel knew it was vital not to let the Mercedes slip away. It was a powerful car with a lot of horses under its bonnet.

  Gawber turned the Ford round, stopped at the side of the road and switched off the lights. Angel and Gawber looked ahead. There was nothing to see. It was as if someone had covered the windscreen with a black curtain.

  ‘I’ll get out,’ Angel said.

  Gawber didn’t like it. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘We’ll come down and take the Mercedes, Michael.’ White said. ‘Stay where you are.’

  ‘No. We want the Corbetts as well,’ Angel said, getting out of the car.

  ‘I’ll come with you, sir,’ Gawber said.

  Angel put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘No, Ron. Can’t risk anything happening to this car. We’re going to need it to follow the Merc. Stay with it.’

  ‘I won’t know what’s going on,’ Gawber said.

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll come back here, won’t I?’ he said and closed the car door.

  Gawber frowned. He wasn’t happy about it.

  Angel heard White through the earpiece say: ‘What’s happening, Michael, I can’t hear you.’

  Angel took his hand off the mouthpiece. ‘It’s all right, Waldo. There was nothing to say because there’s nothing to see. I’m going to creep up to the Merc on foot… If it moves off, I’ll give you the shout.’

  ‘Right. Be careful.’

  ‘Nothing to be careful about. There’s nothing and nobody here… It’s just…blackness…brick walls, in places, surfaced with concrete. I am on the pavement, such as it is. The council should be ashamed of themselves. There are more potholes than a seaside putting green. Hmmm. I can smell burning rubber. My car, probably. In the next street. Harker will go mad. Aaah. I can see the lights of a car ahead. Just the sidelights.’

  ‘Don’t get too near, if you think it’s the Mercedes.’

  ‘There are lots of ginnels and alleyways. I can dodge into one if I want to hide. I wish I had brought a torch.’

  ‘Is it the Merc, Michael? Is it the Merc?’

  ‘Can’t tell. Probably. Get a bit nearer… Hang on… Yes, it is. There’s a crowd of girls round it now.’

  White said: ‘That’s near enough. Back off, Michael. Back off’

  ‘It’s all right. I might be able to hear what’s happening.’

  ‘Don’t go too close, Michael.’

  Angel edged a little further along the pavement. Then he froze. For a brief moment he couldn’t move. Out of his eye corner he saw something or somebody move. He didn’t know what. He sucked in a deep breath. Then everything happened quickly. Someone had stepped out of the doorway behind him and jabbed something hard in his right kidney.

  ‘Mr Angel. I thought it must be you.’

  It was Lloyd Corbett.

  Angel turned quickly, dropped the mobile, jabbed Corbett in the stomach with his elbow, causing him to bend forward, then at the same time as he reached to his side for the weapon, he landed a mighty upper cut under Corbett’s chin with his left. The gun went off He heard screams from the girls. He felt a searing pain in his side. Corbett landed on his back on the cobbles, still holding the gun. Angel saw him point it at him and gave a swing at it with his foot. Corbett screamed. The gun went off again. There was a flash of light. There were more screams. The gun rattled along the cobblestones.

  Three kerb crawlers raced away out of Canal Road, their lights illuminating the scene and flashing on to the gun as they flew past.

  Angel reached down quickly to retrieve it.

  A commanding voice he did not recognize said, ‘Leave that gun where it is if you want to live, Inspector.’

  He stopped, turned his head in the direction of the Mercedes and saw the silhouette of somebody enormous standing in front of the lights: he reasoned it must be female because of the unusual outline of a hat with some sort of flower decoration on it.

  ‘Put up your hands,’ she said. She had a voice like coke grating under a cellar door.

  He could see the glint of a gun being thrust forward, assertively, waist high.

  He was panting. His heart was racing. He straightened up, leaving Corbett’s gun in the gutter. Then he realized that this must undoubtedly be big Laura. She was big. Also he noticed a dozen or so girls
behind her and grouped around the Mercedes.

  Then there was some movement at the side of him. Lloyd Corbett was getting to his feet. He was opening and closing his hand repeatedly, trying to bring life and normality back into it. He glanced at Angel and muttered, ‘You bastard. You frigging bastard. You’ll pay for this.’

  Angel feared that he might. His stomach was in turmoil. His head was banging, his pulse racing, his breathing fast and uneven. His side hurt: it was a searing pain. He couldn’t imagine how serious it was. He wasn’t used to this sort of rough and tumble. He thought he had left all this behind when he became an inspector twelve years ago. He licked his lips as he stood there with his hands up. He wondered what they were going to do with him next. He saw Lloyd Corbett bend down and recover the gun. It was small with black plastic grips and seemed to have a blue look about it. He thought it was a Beretta. It might be small, he thought, but at point-blank range it was as deadly as any other gun.

  Corbett checked over the gun as he went across to the woman.

  ‘Let’s get rid of him,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah,’ Corbett said wearily, without thinking.

  ‘Angel,’ she said. ‘Move across to that wall.’

  Angel wondered what she intended to do.

  She waggled the gun to hurry him on.

  Angel’s lips tightened against his teeth. He could see that she was wearing a plain dress with a plain coat of similar colour, a large hat, the sort of thing worn at Ascot, and plain high-heeled leather shoes. She was very tall, and oversize in every dimension. He guessed her age might be around forty. If it wasn’t for the receding hairline, Lloyd Corbett might have seemed like her son.

  Angel moved where he was directed. But he didn’t like the way events were developing. He noticed his mobile phone still open on the pavement not far from him. He would have liked to have picked it up. But it would have to stay there.

  ‘Now turn round and face the wall,’ she said.

  He hesitated.

  ‘Hurry up,’ she snapped.

  His blood turned cold. His bowels turned to water. If he was about to die, at least he would like to see the person pulling the trigger.