The Diamond Rosary Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Saw. If you think of anything, please let me know.’

  Harry Saw nodded. ‘I certainly will.’

  ‘Would you be kind enough to ask Mrs Johnson to see me, please?’

  ‘I believe that she is in the kitchen. I will phone her and ask her to come up,’ Saw said and he went out.

  Angel leaned back the chair and began to think out the questions he needed to ask the woman.

  There was a quick knock on the door, a rattle of the doorknob and the door opened. A man looked round the room. It was DS Crisp. When his eyes met Angel’s, he gave him a breezy smile. ‘There you are, sir,’ Crisp said.

  Angel’s top lip tightened across his teeth.

  Trevor Crisp had been on his team for six years and generally Angel considered him to be a good detective. However, he frequently disappeared for hours at a time without ever giving a satisfactory explanation. When pressed, he inevitably gave a tomfool reason that could never be proved and this was guaranteed to make Angel furious.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Angel roared. ‘On your holidays? Come in, and close the door. You’re like the Scarlet Pimpernel. I can never bloody well find you.’

  ‘And I’ve been looking for you, sir.’

  ‘All this time? Well, I assure you, I have not been playing “Hide and Seek”. I told Ahmed to ask you to meet me here more than an hour ago. Didn’t you get the message?’

  ‘I got caught up with Ben Hill, the butcher. He had—’

  ‘I don’t care who you got caught up with. And I know about his losing a bucket worth £68, if that was all it was about. You could have got a PC to deal with that. When I say I want you here, Crisp, I want you here, lad. Right?’

  ‘It was difficult, sir,’ Crisp said.

  Angel’s eyes flashed. He stood up. ‘Life is difficult! It always will be. It’s all about decisions, priorities and options. I’m not difficult to work for, but when I ask you to do something I expect you to do it, not get diverted by a butcher bleating about a stolen bucket – or anybody else, for that matter. Now let’s get on. This case is about the death of a man. It is probably murder. So I want you to get your skates on and make up for the time lost. I want to find out about Haydn King and King’s Breweries plc. Firstly, find out from records if there is anything known about the dead man and let me know. Then contact the National Crime Operations Faculty at Wakefield HQ. Speak to their expert in financial matters and find out how King’s Breweries are doing, whether the share is regarded as a good buy, if there are any topical stories circulating about the business, or about Haydn King, and so on. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said.

  ‘Crack on with it then, lad!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Crisp said and he dashed out.

  Angel sighed. He sat down and shook his head. He picked up his notes, read through them and tidied up the writing, putting loops where needed on the letters, crossing the ‘t’s and so on to make it more legible.

  There was a loud knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  A small woman in a white coat looked in. ‘Ah yes. Is it Inspector Angel?’ she said. ‘You wanted to see me.’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘And you must be Mrs Johnson. Please come in and sit down. I would like to ask you a few questions. Won’t take long.’

  She closed the door and strode confidently over to the chair opposite him. ‘Take as long as you want, Inspector. I have very little to do, now that Mr King has passed on. I don’t even know if I have a job anymore. It’s dreadful. Perfectly dreadful. You never know what’s coming next, do you? And Mr Meredith said he was a good swimmer. If he was that good a swimmer, you wouldn’t think that such an accident could happen, would you?’

  Angel rubbed his chin and frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  ‘Well, diving into the pool, like that, and hitting his head,’ she said.

  ‘It may not have been quite like that, Mrs Johnson. That’s why I am interested in what you might be able to tell me.’

  Her eyes grew as big as two fried eggs in a pan. ‘I wondered why you was asking everybody so many questions. You mean it was… it was murder?’ she said.

  ‘May have been,’ he said at length.

  Her mouth dropped open. ‘I can’t tell you nuthin’ about that,’ she said. Then she peered at him for several seconds. ‘Do you know, Inspector, you look a lot younger than them photographs they put of you in the papers.’

  Angel shook his head impatiently. ‘Do you know of anybody who would have wanted to murder him?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Just about everybody, I should think. He was the most aggravating man you could wish to meet. He had no patience and he was impossible to please. I looked after him for years. I should know.’

  Angel thought for a second before he said, ‘We have also to consider the possibility that Mr King might have taken his own life.’

  ‘Not him. Not in a thousand years. He thought he was King Dick. He could never have topped himself. Oh no.’

  Angel considered her answer and moved on. ‘Did you see him often?’

  ‘Every day,’ she said. ‘I used to cook his breakfast and serve it at 7.25 exactly. He was very particular about that. Then, just before he went to the office, he would call me in and we’d discuss the following day’s menu, also he would tell me if he wanted me to do anything different about his clothes or the laundry or the way I laid a tray or the windows or whatever. He could always find something to complain about.’

  ‘And did you find him any different these past few days?’

  ‘No. He was just as difficult as he always was.’

  ‘You didn’t find him at all dreamy or vague, as if his thoughts were somewhere else?’

  ‘No. I’ve been here for four years, and he’s always been the same. Difficult, cantankerous, awkward and unreasonable. No wonder Mrs King walked out on him. I’d have hit him on the head with something if he’d been mine, I can tell you.’

  ‘But he wasn’t worse than usual or different these past few weeks or days?’

  ‘No, Inspector. I’ve told you. He’s always been the same miserable, nit-picking so-and-so ever since I knowed him.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you about his dreams or nightmares?’

  ‘Naw, he wouldn’t tell me anything like that. All we ever talked about was meals, money and muck. He wasn’t much with the social chat, Inspector.’

  ‘Right, thank you, Mrs Johnson.’

  ‘Is that all you want to know?’ she said, jumping out of the chair.

  ‘For now, thank you. Yes. Now I want to see Mr King’s chauffeur …’

  ‘Mark Rogers. He’s outside waiting,’ she said, making for the door. She looked back and added, ‘And if you hear of anybody wanting a good housekeeper, tell them I will be looking for a good job in a week or two, will you?’

  He hesitated. ‘I doubt if I shall meet anybody that could afford you,’ he said.

  She frowned. It turned to a smile as she pulled open the door. ‘You’re right there, Inspector,’ she chuckled.

  Angel added, ‘Ask Mr Rogers to come in, will you?’

  ‘Very well, Inspector.’

  SIX

  There was a knock at the door and it was opened by a smart young man in his thirties. He wore a dark suit and carried a peaked hat.

  He closed the door and turned to face Angel.

  ‘Please come in and sit down,’ Angel said.

  The young man came tentatively into the small sitting-room and sat down in a chair opposite Angel.

  ‘You were Mr King’s chauffeur?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Mark Rogers. I also maintained his cars.’

  ‘How long have you worked for Mr King?’

  ‘It’s about eight years now.’

  ‘And what exactly did you do? What did you do yesterday, for instance?’

  ‘Hmm. Yesterday? Well, I picked him up in the Mercedes at eight o’clock and took him
to the Head Office on Pontefract Road, then I came back here. I was getting some warm water to wash the upholstery when my mobile rang. It was a message to say that Mr King wanted me back there straightaway to take him to Blackburn. The company has a brewery there. So I put my best jacket back on and my hat and dashed back to Pontefract Road to pick him up. He wasn’t pleased because I’d kept him waiting three minutes. He took a secretary with him and dictated some emails to her. He also made some phone calls. Anyway, I got them there for 11. He said he wouldn’t be long, but it was actually after two before they returned. It was a good job I had my sandwiches because it was after 4 before I got back to Pontefract Road. I dropped them off and then filled up the car with diesel. I returned to Pontefract Road and waited until 5.30 when I brought Mr King back here, then I knocked off and went home.’

  ‘Have you any idea how he came to be found dead in the swimming pool?’

  ‘No, sir. None at all.’

  ‘Did you notice any difference in his manner this last week or so?’

  ‘No, sir. There was one thing about Mr King, and that was he was always the same. He never seemed to vary. He told me what to do, and as long as I did it, he was satisfied. He never grumbled as long as he got his own way. If he wanted to go somewhere, I took him there the quickest and safest way I knew. He was a bit short on charm and was never polite, but I could live with that. He was the boss, he paid my wages, good wages, and he didn’t mess about. That satisfied me.’

  ‘So you never noticed that he was worried or afraid or nervous about anything lately, as if he had something on his mind?’

  Rogers’ eyebrows shot up. ‘Mr King? No, sir. The only thing he was bothered about was the business. As long as the breweries kept on making the booze and selling it, nothing else seemed to bother him.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you about the dreams he was having?’

  ‘Dreams? No. I would have thought he would have been far too busy to have time for dreams, sir.’

  ‘And you saw no change in him at all this past week or so?’

  ‘No, sir. Not at all. The only time I’ve seen him the slightest bit out of sorts was when he and his wife were having their bits of trouble a few years back. But even then he wasn’t miserable. He was just angry, wild with anger. It was a difficult time for everybody, I can tell you. I was glad when they separated and finally got divorced.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘He was found this morning dead in the swimming pool. Have you any idea how this might have happened?’

  ‘No idea. Why should I know anything about that?’

  ‘Just asking. And you didn’t notice any change in him over the past week or so, any forgetfulness and so on, as if he had something on his mind … something troubling him?’

  ‘No, sir. As I have said, he was the same as always. The one good thing you could say about the boss in the years I worked for him was that he was consistent. Do what he wanted and there was peace, cross him and he’d cuss you from here to hell and back.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Right, Mr Rogers. Thank you very much.’

  Angel stopped the BMW outside the white-painted hacienda-style house on Creesforth Road, Bromersley; it was clearly a one-off, architect-designed house. He got out of the car and locked it. He opened the big, wooden gate and went into the front yard, past the pampas grass, round the fountain and up the six steps to the dome-topped door. He pressed the bell push and waited.

  The door was eventually opened slowly by a pretty girl of about seventeen.

  He smiled. She smiled back.

  ‘Could I see Miss Judy Savage, please?’ he said. He produced a card from his top pocket and offered it to her.

  From inside the house a raucous female voice like a hell-cat yelled out, ‘What is it?’

  The girl gasped, took the card and ran inside, leaving the door wide open.

  Angel peered down the wood-panelled hall and the highly polished wooden floor. He heard the two female voices chattering briefly, then a strikingly tall woman in a white turban and a multi-coloured kaftan, holding a long-handled paintbrush in one hand and his card in the other, appeared framed in an open doorway at the other end of the hall. She looked across at him. She seemed to like what she saw. She smiled.

  Angel stared back. He noted the figure, the shapely hips, the long legs, the tiny waist and the bosom to suckle for Yorkshire. She had a face that could sell a shipload of beauty cream, with cheekbones higher than Strangeways clocktower.

  He pursed his lips. She must be Judy Savage.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  ‘Come in, Inspector. Don’t stand on the doorstep getting cold,’ she said, in a voice as sweet as a girl experiencing her first shot of cocaine. ‘Please excuse my maid. She isn’t used to er … answering the door to handsome young men.’

  He hesitated. He must be wary. He moistened his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.

  She smiled broadly. ‘Will you follow me?’ she said, turning, and led him through an arch and along a corridor.

  Angel sailed along behind in a slipstream of perfume.

  ‘I’m taking you down to my studio. I am working at something very particular and I don’t want to leave it until it is finished. I can’t think what you want, Inspector. I don’t mean that you are not welcome, but I don’t owe anybody anything. I paid that speeding fine ages ago.’

  ‘It’s not about a speeding fine.’

  ‘I told the man I’d get a TV licence when I get a new cheque book. The service at my bank is dreadful.’

  They passed several doors and reached a large, airy room at the end. She floated in first and he followed her. When he looked round the room, his mouth dropped open. The walls were covered with brightly coloured paintings of every subject you could think of: pastoral scenes, ships, city buildings, children at play, portraits, naked men and women, and geometric shapes.

  On many of the paintings there was an arrow pointing at some feature followed by a roughly daubed sentence. One pointed at a man with no clothes and read, ‘Shivering because he is too poor to buy clothes.’ On another, a painting of a crowded city centre consisting of high-rise buildings, an arrow was pointed at one of the buildings and read, ‘Used to be a hospital, now offices for United International Oil.’ Some of the paintings had groups of tiny silver stars printed on paper stuck around the head of a character on top of the canvas or paper.

  A sofa in the corner was loaded with more canvases. There was an easel standing in another corner, and three dining chairs around a big table in the centre of the room. It was cluttered with pots and tubes of paint, jam jars and milk bottles with brushes sticking out of them, and a half-finished watercolour on a board.

  Judy Savage noticed Angel’s reaction to the canvases and smiled. ‘Do you like my paintings, Inspector?’

  He hesitated, then returned the smile and said, ‘They’re different.’

  She didn’t like his answer. She pouted, sat down at the table in front of the watercolour and pointed to the dining chair closest to her.

  ‘I’m not into modern art, Miss Savage,’ Angel said, pulling out the chair. ‘My opinion isn’t worth a … isn’t worth anything.’

  She turned on a bewitching smile. ‘They’re very highly thought of in New York and Boston,’ she said. ‘That’s the United States, you know. I have a show in New York in April.’

  It sounded important. Angel wondered if she was telling the truth. He would be the first to admit he knew nothing about modern culture.

  She looked at him and smiled again, displaying two beautiful rows of matching teeth and a pair of pink, seductive lips. He struggled to think of a reply. It wasn’t easy for him to make an honest yet kind comment about her strange collages.

  He couldn’t help but smile. ‘I hope you have a very good show,’ he said.

  She smiled like an angel. ‘Well, thank you,’ she said.

  She rattled the brush she was holding in a tall vase of dark grey water on the table, squeezed off most of the water b
etween finger and thumb onto a duster, looked undecided down at the palette of paints, then looked up smiling and said, ‘I’m not saying that it isn’t nice having you here, Inspector Angel, but what exactly did you want to see me about?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘It’s about your ex-husband.’

  The angelic smile was replaced by a scowl. Her face went scarlet. She stood up and banged the chair noisily on the floor. ‘Oh him!’ she screamed in the raucous voice he had heard earlier. ‘What about him? He’s not getting a penny back if that’s what he’s after. I am not afraid to go back to court if that is necessary. He needn’t think I am too afraid to sit in front of a courtroom full of people.’

  Angel winced. ‘It’s not that at all, Miss Savage,’ he said. ‘Nobody wants anything. Please sit down.’

  She frowned. She looked round for her chair, snatched at it and sat back down at the table. She breathed in and out slowly three times, shook her head and said, ‘Well, if it’s not about money, what is it about, then?’

  Angel took a count of three. ‘The fact is that Haydn King was found dead in the swimming pool this morning,’ he said.

  She looked up. Her mouth dropped open. The excess colour left her face, and her big blue eyes glided gently to the left and then to the right and then back again.

  She breathed out. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said quietly. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, dear me. Must have been an accident?’

  ‘We are not sure yet. That’s why I wondered if you could assist us with our inquiries?’

  ‘The poor dear man,’ she said. ‘He was the only man I ever really loved.’

  Angel sat there patiently. He wanted to give her time to recover from the shock of the news.

  ‘And we could have made a go of it, if it hadn’t been for that nephew of his,’ she said.

  He realized she was referring to Vincent Fleming.

  ‘I’m not sure I can help, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It is some time since I saw Haydn. In fact, I thought I had finished with him forever. It is three years since our divorce, and it has taken him two years after that to shell out the settlement in full.’

  ‘Oh, well, let’s see how we go,’ Angel said, glad to get down to business. ‘I understand that Mr King was a very good swimmer.’