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

by Roger Silverwood

The phone rang. It was the PC on reception. ‘There’s a Mrs Henderson here, sir.’

  He sighed. He hadn’t been looking forward to this. ‘Bring her down to my office.’

  He had already spoken to her over the phone at The Feathers an hour or so earlier. He had told her that he thought that her sister’s body had been found. He was surprised to see her already in black: black dress, black shoes, black stockings and a black hat.

  ‘Come in, Mrs Henderson. Please sit down.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much, Inspector. Thank you for your…kindness.’

  Angel gently nodded his acknowledgement.

  She said: ‘Can I ask you something? Has my sister been formally identified?’

  ‘No. I regret that I will have to ask you to…’

  ‘Yes. Well, I am the only one who can, aren’t I?’

  He nodded.

  ‘She…she wasn’t hurt, was she? When she was…killed.’

  He had no idea, but he couldn’t say that. ‘We don’t think so,’ he said.

  She licked her lips. She swallowed.

  ‘There are a few questions,’ he said.

  She looked up at him.

  ‘Did your sister usually wear any jewellery?’ he said. ‘Rings, earrings, necklace, watch, that sort of thing?’

  ‘On a regular day-by-day basis, she wore our mother’s wedding ring on the third finger of her right hand together with a large solitaire diamond ring, and she had a cocktail watch on her left wrist. That’s all. She might have worn her better stuff if we were entertaining or she was going out, but that was about it. Why?’

  ‘There was no jewellery found on the body.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said and looked down. ‘Not even a wedding ring?’

  ‘No. I was going to ask you about that, Mrs Henderson. We have not been successful in finding where the marriage service took place or who conducted the ceremony. And believe me, we’ve been most thorough. Now that obviously suggests that she perhaps didn’t marry the man who murdered her — in fact, she didn’t marry anyone. I am sorry to keep on about this, and I know I have asked the question before, but it is vital to the investigation. Maybe the crux. Do you think your sister would, under the circumstances, behave as if she was married when she wasn’t? There are millions of people who live unmarried, this way, with a partner. I mean, it isn’t unusual anymore.’

  ‘I hear what you say, Inspector. I thought I had answered that adequately before. I daresay that there might have been many pressures put on my sister, but even so, I cannot imagine that she would have settled for anything less than a proper legal wedding conducted by a proper legal official.’

  Angel rubbed his chin and sighed. It was a puzzle.

  ‘I am not saying that Selina was a saint,’ she said. ‘She could easily have gone wild over a man, drunk too much, been intoxicated by the occasion and been totally mesmerized by him, which might have made it possible for her to have been the victim of a mad one-night stand, as I believe it is colloquially described. However, in the sober light of day, in the subsequent course of events, I have to say that I am positive that she would never, never, never have lived with a man without being properly married to him. Believe me, Inspector, I knew my sister.’

  Angel noted the strength of her answer. It didn’t assist him at all. But he had to admire her. It still left him with the big puzzle of how Selina Line married and whom she married, if indeed that was the case at all.

  As there was no other business to execute between them, Angel phoned Dr Mac at the mortuary and made arrangements for Mrs Henderson to formally identify the body later that afternoon. Then he accompanied her up the corridor, through the security door, past reception to the front entrance of the station and to her taxi. She had been very subdued and he was still in thoughtful mood as he saw the taxi drive away. He was turning to go back into reception when he saw two unmarked police cars pull up at the side of him. In the front one were DS Crisp, DC Scrivens and Carl Exley in handcuffs. In the second car were DS Gawber and Laurence Potter. Angel watched the cars unload and looked particularly at the two villains to refresh his memory of what they looked like. He noted that when Potter saw that it was Exley getting out of the car ahead and that he was in handcuffs, his jaw dropped. He observed that Potter obviously knew Exley and was shocked to see him arrested. Potter recovered quickly, however, and when their eyes met, Potter put his forefinger vertically across his lips, then when he saw that Angel was watching him converted the gesture to scratching a non-existing itch on his cheek. At the same time, Exley’s eyes shone back at Potter’s like a puppy at the vets.

  He saw everything in a new light. Square pegs were fitting in square holes. Blasts of a brass band could be heard in his imagination. Bells began to ring. Ball bearings were springing up to the top of a board and bouncing down a table, hitting big numbers and causing them to light up. It was like Christmas at home, New Year in Scotland, Easter in Rome and Shrove Tuesday in Rio de Janeiro all at the same time.

  Angel dashed ahead of Gawber and Potter down the corridor to his office and was at the door to welcome them.

  Potter said: ‘So you’re Inspector Angel? I’ve seen you somewhere before. Can’t think where. I’ll have you know that I’ve come here of my own accord…my own free will.’

  ‘And I’m much appreciative of it, Mr Potter. Please take a seat.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  Angel caught Gawber’s coat sleeve, pulled him out of the office and out of Potter’s earshot. Angel told him something very quickly and Gawber rushed off.

  Angel stepped back into the office and said: ‘I appreciate you coming in to assist us with our inquiries like this, Mr Potter.’

  ‘Well, what is it you want? I haven’t all day, you know.’

  ‘Oh. You are in employment, are you? I am holding you up? You have to be at work? I am so sorry.’

  Potter’s eyes travelled left and then right, then stopped in the centre. ‘No.’

  ‘I understood that you were unemployed.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Must be difficult at this time of high inflation and rising prices to make ends meet solely on unemployment pay?’

  ‘I manage.’

  ‘You run a car, don’t you? What make is it?’

  ‘It’s a Volvo Estate.’

  ‘Very expensive. Is it one of the big new ones?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it is. So what? You didn’t get me to down here to ask about my car.’

  ‘Don’t you want to help us?’ Angel said. He maintained a deadpan expression.

  ‘Yes. I said I did, didn’t I? But what’s my car got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, it has a nice big area in the back. I expect you can carry big stuff in the back of a big new Volvo Estate.’

  Potter shrugged. ‘It’s handy for…shopping.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. Estates are so much easier for shopping and carrying things,’ Angel said. ‘You do your own shopping?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Potter said.

  Angel noticed the slightly louder, slightly sharper replies to his questions.

  ‘It would be easier if you were married, wouldn’t it?’ Angel said. ‘Your wife would do it.’

  Potter shrugged. Then he peered at Angel. ‘What are you getting at? You know I’m not married. What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Oh? You’re not married? Well, of course it’s absolutely nothing to do with us provided that there is nothing criminal about it.’

  His eyes flashed. ‘Have you gone potty? Here. I don’t have to stand for this. I agreed to come here to assist with your inquiries. All you’ve done is ask frigging idiot questions that have nothing to do with anything. Anyway, I’m perfectly innocent. I’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t force me to stay here…’

  ‘Indeed I cannot, but you did agree to assist us with our inquiries, didn’t you? If you’ve nothing to hide, what’s the rush?’

  He shuffled in the chair. />
  The phone rang. Angel snatched it up. He listened. He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t necessary. After about a minute, he said, ‘Get a warrant. Search the place.’ He replaced the phone.

  He turned to Potter and said, ‘About eight weeks ago, a Miss Grimond, headmistress of Striker’s Lane School, reported that twenty-eight computers, a reel of black electric cable and a pair of aluminium workmen’s steps were stolen from her school. DS Gawber has just described you to her over the phone and she believes that you are working at her school under the name of Haydn Parmentier, assistant school caretaker, and she is on her way here to identify you.’

  ‘So what? When you’ve got a record, it’s almost impossible to get work, proper work anyway. And I didn’t steal the stuff.’

  ‘So you applied in a false name with fake references.’

  ‘In a decent society, who should have to give references for a menial job such as an assistant caretaker?’

  ‘Those aluminium workmen’s steps may be the ones used to weigh down the body of Selina Line and the black electric cable may have been used to fasten her body to the steps.’

  ‘And the moon may be made of cream cheese.’

  ‘Miss Grimond will be able to identify the steps and the cable if they are from her school.’

  ‘I have been tricked. These are all tricks. I demand to see my solicitor.’

  Angel’s eyes flashed angrily. The camel’s back had been broken.

  ‘You shall see your solicitor,’ he roared and leapt to his feet. His face was as hard as granite and his voice colder than the tip of Everest.

  ‘Laurence Potter,’ he said, ‘also known as Haydn Parmentier, I am arresting you on suspicion of abduction, forgery and murder. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence.’

  ‘It’s absolute rubbish,’ Potter said.

  Angel ignored him. ‘Wrap it up, Ron. You don’t need me. Get him out of my sight.’

  Gawber cuffed Potter and pushed him out of the office.

  Angel closed the door. He was heaving with rage. He sat down to cool off. He was so angry he could have spat nails. He ran his hand through his hair and thought about what he had to do next. There was Carl Exley to deal with in Interview Room Number 1.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he roared.

  It was Ahmed. There was something unusual about him. His face was glowing.

  Angel didn’t notice. He barely glanced at him. He was still thinking about Potter.

  ‘Saw you come down, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  He shook his head impatiently. ‘What is it? I’m up to my neck.’

  ‘You’ll want to know about this, sir,’ he said powerfully.

  Angel looked up. Ahmed had never spoken like that before.

  Ahmed said: ‘At 1420 hours, PC Donohue on car patrol was called to a drunk who had crashed a car into the fencing around the bowling green inside Jubilee Park. He went there to find that the man wasn’t drunk. He was dead. There was blood all over everywhere. He had what looked like a bullet wound in his shoulder and another in his arm.’

  Angel stood up, his mouth open like a goldfish. It was the survivor of the gun fight. It was The Fixer.

  ‘Did he find out the identity of the dead man?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It was Dennis Schuster.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was almost 3.15 a.m.

  Miss Grimond had confirmed that Laurence Potter was the employee she had known as Haydn Parmentier and was on her way to SOCO’s store to look at the steps and the black electric wire fastenings that had secured Selina Line’s body to it.

  Laurence Potter had been processed and was locked in a cell with his solicitor.

  In Interview Room Number 1, seated at the table were Carl Exley, his solicitor, Mr Bloomfield, DS Gawber and DI Angel. The spools in the recording machine were rotating.

  ‘You see, Mr Exley,’ Angel said, ‘how you can so easily become an accessory to murder.’

  Exley’s eyes glowed. ‘I admit to posing as a minister and going through a fake marriage ceremony with Larry Potter and a woman called Selina Line, but that’s all. I swear it.’

  Angel produced the photograph of Selina Line. ‘Was that the woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let the tape show that I have shown Carl Exley the photograph marked Al.’ Angel turned back to the man. ‘Do you deny providing a fake wedding certificate to Selina Line, making fake references both for yourself and for Laurence Potter?’

  ‘No. I don’t deny that, but that’s all.’

  ‘What was your cut out of the various moneys that came showering down on Potter after he went through this fake marriage with Selina Line?’

  ‘He said he was just going to shake her down then dump her. That’s all. I swear it. If Larry Potter says any different, he’s liar. I got paid £1,000 for setting up the room in the town hall that Saturday afternoon and pretending to perform a marriage service.’

  ‘How did you manage to do that?’

  ‘I work as a clerk there, you see, or I did. On Saturdays there’s only a skeleton cleaning staff there. It just needed a card saying “Temporary Wedding Room”, a bunch of chrysanthemums, loan of a prayer book and a marriage certificate off the internet. And he paid me £200 months before that for the fake references to get the job. My wife will tell you. She was there acting as my clerk. We didn’t know he intended murdering her, honest. I met him on the train. It was his plan. He was coming home from Dartmoor and I was just out of Stafford. I had no idea that Larry intended topping her. If I had thought that, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with it. You can ask my missus.’

  ‘Did you always call him Larry?’

  ‘Yes. Everybody called him Larry.’

  Angel smiled. He nudged Gawber and whispered, ‘Larry might have sounded like Harry when said in a hurry over the phone.’

  Gawber nodded then shook his head at the simplicity of it all.

  There was a gentle knock at the door. It was a bad time to be interrupted.

  The muscles on Angel’s face screwed tight. He swept away from the table and opened the door an inch. It was Ahmed with a folded sheet of paper. He passed it through the gap. Angel took it, closed the door, opened it, read it, licked his lips appreciatively, handed it to Gawber and whispered, ‘We’ve got him.’

  Gawber read it silently. It said:

  From DS Taylor to DI Angel.

  Found under floorboard in bedroom at 4 Creesforth Road, one pair Garnet earrings, emerald and diamond necklace, eight-carat solitaire ring, wedding ring, cocktail watch and June issue of Lady and Home.

  Saturday 6 September was a pleasant, sunny day and was the first day Angel had been able to get away from the office since he had solved the tragic mystery of the missing Selina Line.

  Angel’s wife Mary had conveniently wanted to go to Meadowhall that day; she had trotted out some excuse about needing a new winter coat so he had happily dropped her off at the rail station, which would take her directly there very speedily. He had immediately headed north, up the M1 through Leeds and Harrogate, and was on the right road to the Convent of St Peter at Lower Bennington.

  He was taking the opportunity that day to find the Mother Superior and try to recover the ruby for Princess Yasmin as he had promised Sir Max Monro.

  There it was, the sign, black on white, which read ‘Lower Bennington’. He slowed the car as he soon approached several houses, a post office and a pond with white rails abutting the road. On the pond was a family of ducklings sailing behind their mother. Opposite the pond, at a crossroads, was a church. On the side of the church wall was a small sign that read ‘To Convent of St Peter’. He turned left there and noticed high above the six-feet-high stone wall, tiled roofs of several other large stone buildings behind. On the road side of the wall was a monk in a brown habit and wearing a leather apr
on. Next to him was a wheelbarrow and at his feet a bucket. He was holding a bricklayer’s trowel and appeared to be pointing up the wall.

  Angel stopped the car and called through the window. ‘Excuse me.’

  The monk looked round. ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘Good afternoon. Could you tell me where I might find the Mother Superior?’

  The monk stabbed his trowel in the cement in the wheel-barrow and said, ‘But of course. Turn right round the back of this wall. You’ll find some open gates, drive straight in, park in the square next to the bicycle shelter. Mother Superior’s office is facing you. There is a sign on the door. If she isn’t in, ring the bell on the wall.’

  Angel thanked him and followed the directions. He easily found the office in the deserted stone courtyard and he could see through the glazed door that the small, tidy room was unoccupied. He stepped back and looked round for the bell push. But there wasn’t one. His eyes alighted on a handbell on the corner of the wall of the small bicycle shelter. He looked at it and frowned. It reminded him of his school days. The old monk had said ‘Ring the bell on the wall’ so he picked it up and rang it, only delicately. It seemed very loud in the peace of the church buildings out there in the quiet English countryside. He looked round and waited a few moments. He was about to ring it again when across the courtyard he saw a door open and a slim upright figure in black and white emerged, looking across in his direction. He put the bell back on the wall as he watched her advance towards him. As she came up to him she was smiling and he could see that she was much older than she had seemed from a distance.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘I am Reverend Mother. Are you looking for me?’

  He introduced himself, and she invited him into her office and seated him down opposite her.

  ‘Reverend Mother, I am trying to trace the whereabouts of Princess Yasmin, daughter of the Grand Dumas of Alka Dora. She was being looked after here, for her safety, during the Second World War. Can you please tell me what happened to her?’

  ‘That war was a very long time ago, Inspector. Many unusual activities were necessitated by that dreadful war. May I ask what your interest is at this time, sixty-three years after it ended?’