The Diamond Rosary Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘He had a cabinet full of silver cups and shields, all for swimming and diving.’

  ‘When you knew him, was he ever depressed or in need of any emotional support?’

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Emotional support? Do you mean pills?’

  ‘Not exclusively. It has been suggested that he was worried about something. Was he at all likely to have taken his own life?’

  ‘Huh! No, Inspector. Not the Haydn King I knew. I never saw him like that. He said that if he was worried about something, he would go to where the trouble was and cut it out and destroy it, or pay to have somebody else do it. I think he would be the last person in the world to take his own life.’

  ‘Was he ever at all dreamy … forgetful … as if he had something else on his mind?’

  ‘Never. Are you still talking about Haydn King? Huh. He hadn’t the time or the patience to be dreamy.’

  Angel frowned. ‘May I ask, Miss Savage, what the grounds were for the divorce?’

  ‘Incompatibility. It should have been for mental cruelty, but my barrister said that that was always hard to prove. He was rotten to me. He hadn’t an ounce of love in him. At least not for me. All he loved was his precious business. And that nephew, Vincent. He was the most difficult man I have ever known. And he didn’t appreciate art. And was he mean? I had to fight for every penny of my settlement. There were times when I would happily have killed him.’

  She didn’t realize the significance of what she had said. Angel gave her a sideways look, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  He stood up. ‘Well, Miss Savage, I think that’s about all for now,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Realizing he was leaving, she also stood up. He held out his hand and shook hers very gently. He turned towards the door, then quickly turned back. ‘Oh, there’s just one small thing, Miss Savage.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector?’

  ‘Just for the record. Where did you spend last evening and overnight?’

  ‘Why, here, of course. I was painting away. I have a collection to get together for my show in April.’

  ‘And who was with you?’

  She smiled and looked at him, with her head tilted slightly and her big eyes as shiny as the Chief Constable’s buttons. She liked him. She liked his strong face, his powerful, athletic body, his even white teeth and his jet black hair. ‘Nobody was with me,’ she said, coming up very close. ‘I was all on my own. All night.’ She ran her hand tenderly through his hair and whispered in his ear. ‘Like I am now.’

  If Angel had been a philanderer, he might have philandered, but he wasn’t and he didn’t.

  It was four o’clock, the sky was dark and the temperature was below freezing when Angel arrived at the station. He went past his own office and along the corridor to the superintendent’s office at the end, where he stopped and sighed as he knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Harker said.

  Angel lowered the handle and went into the office.

  The room was as hot as the boiler room at Strangeways, also there was a repetitive tinny clanking noise that sounded like a cat desperately trying to withdraw its head from a tin can. He looked around for the explanation, and discovered that Harker had a very old fan heater on the floor by his feet.

  ‘Sit down, lad,’ Harker said from behind his desk, dodging between the heaped piles of papers, reports, circulars and boxes of Kleenex and Movical. The superintendent’s head was shaped like a turnip, Angel noticed, and his skin the colour of the walls in the lavatories in Strangeways.

  Angel wrinkled his nose defensively at the distinctive smell of TCP.

  ‘You’ve come to tell me about Haydn King?’ Harker said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Of course, I have no absolute conclusions yet, but—’

  Harker cut in. ‘He took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed.’

  Angel frowned. ‘No, sir. I had rejected that as a possibility. I was about to say that it seemed to be either accidental or it was murder.’

  ‘No,’ Harker said. ‘I think you’ve got murder on the brain, lad.’

  The superintendent took a stick inhaler out of his pocket, removed the cover and inserted it up a nostril. He inhaled noisily, pulled it out, waited a moment to test its efficacy, nodded approvingly, replaced the cover on the inhaler and put it back in his pocket.

  He looked at Angel, sniffed and said, ‘I know you think you’re somebody special just because you’ve had a lot of luck and your name is always in the papers. But in this station, you’re just an ordinary police inspector – one of thousands. So there’s no reason to try to make a bigger thing out of this case than it really merits, just because the victim is a significant local businessman.’

  Angel struggled to think of something to say that wasn’t gratuitously rude, but he couldn’t think of anything.

  ‘I was simply saying that I had not come to any conclusion,’ he said. He then went on to tell him what he had found when he arrived at the swimming pool that morning, what DS Taylor had told him about the lack of any forensic evidence on the pool tiles and diving board edges, and the essence of what King’s nephew, staff and ex-wife had said in answer to his questions.

  At the end of the report, Harker sniffed and rubbed his chin. ‘I told you he took his own life.’ Then he told Angel about being summoned to see the great man on the Tuesday evening previous and the conversation that had followed.

  The further Harker’s story unfolded, the deeper became Angel’s frown.

  When he’d finished, Angel said, ‘I am afraid, sir, that your evidence is critical to the case.’

  ‘I have already come to that conclusion, lad. And I’m not putting myself in a situation where every Tom, Dick or Harry can keep cross-questioning me, so I will make a deposition for our barrister, Twelvetrees, to submit, and I’ll see that you get a copy. All right?’

  Angel had no option but to agree. Then he said, ‘By the way, sir, King mentioned the nightmare to his butler, but I have not yet found anybody else he told.’

  ‘Well, it is not something he would want to have broadcast, lad,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t want it known that a persistent bad dream he was having had any effect on him. They might have thought that he was going soft, or in need of psychiatric treatment. You couldn’t have a man in charge of thousands of jobs and millions of pounds of investors’ funds being known to be affected by a dream. People might have lost confidence in him.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but maybe he was in need of psychiatric attention.’

  ‘Possibly. He behaved most aggressively to me when I said that dreams were not a matter for the police, that regretfully we were not able to assist him, and that I thought a doctor might be able to help him, also that he might benefit from a holiday.’

  Angel nodded. ‘I will see his doctor, sir. He may be able to throw some light on his mental state.’

  ‘I am very sorry to hear of Mr King’s death, Inspector,’ Doctor Singh said, looking at his computer screen. ‘By the look of it, he hasn’t needed much attention from this practice. According to his record, he had a viral infection in February 2000. I attended him. Prescribed an antibiotic. No follow-up call was required, so it seemed to have cleared that up all right.’

  ‘Is that all, Doctor?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact I saw him only a few days ago.’

  Angel’s head went up. ‘When exactly?’

  ‘December 5th.’

  Angel frowned. ‘That was Monday, only four days ago,’ he said.

  He recalled that that was the day before King summoned Harker to his house and told him about the dreams.

  ‘Yes. He complained of severe pain in his big toe. I saw him at his office. He thought he might have sprained it, however it was simply gout. I left him with a prescription. It doesn’t usually take long to clear gout these days.’

  ‘Did he speak to you about anything else at that time, Doctor?’

  ‘No. I’m sure that he didn’t.’

>   Angel told him the story about the recurrent nightmare relayed to him by Meredith and Harker, and the fact that that very morning, King had been found dead in the swimming pool exactly as depicted in the dream.

  In the end the doctor shook his head. ‘He certainly didn’t mention anything about that when I saw him on Monday.’

  ‘Did he seem to be worried about anything … were there any signs of depression?’

  ‘No, Inspector. Not at all. On the contrary, he was very businesslike and forward-looking. I remember him saying, quite light-heartedly at his desk, that he would go to the office that day even if he had to crawl there on his hands and knees.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. It was difficult to reconcile the fact that the witnesses expressed widely different opinions as to Haydn King’s state of mind.

  ‘Do you think King had been acting a part,’ Angel said, ‘making a show of being trouble-free when all the time the dream was grinding away at him?’

  ‘It’s possible. The dream may have been worrying him – even frightening him – we will never know.’

  Angel nodded. ‘If some of us didn’t have secrets, we’d go mad,’ he said.

  ‘The brain is a highly complicated organ,’ Doctor Singh said. ‘Also there are far too many things of this world and the next of which we know nothing. You know, Inspector, I have often thought that in cases that end in tragedy, like this, the subject could have been suicidal and willing death upon themselves. However, in this instance, I cannot see it happening with a subject like Mr King. He was far too strong-willed and involved with his work.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘What part do you think the recurring dream played in the finding of his body in the swimming pool? It can’t be marked down as unconnected.’

  ‘I don’t know, Inspector. I really don’t know.’

  ‘How would you have treated Mr King if he had been to see you complaining of such a dream?’

  Dr Singh pursed his lips. ‘It would have depended upon the way he presented himself at the time of the consultation,’ he said. ‘I would probably have prescribed a tranquilizer to begin with, and suggested that he took a holiday, well away from the swimming pool.’

  Angel stood up. ‘Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much.’

  At the door, Angel turned back and said, ‘Hey, Doctor. One last question. Would you have directed him to consult a psychiatrist?’

  Dr Singh swivelled the chair round to face him and, with a furrowed brow, said, ‘I wouldn’t have been in any hurry, Inspector, although it is difficult to answer the question hypothetically. I have in my armoury a range of medicines as well as non-medical therapies which might have been appropriate to explore.’

  Angel considered the reply for a few moments then nodded in agreement.

  Then Singh said, ‘Anyway, I doubt very much if Mr King would have agreed to see a psychiatrist.’

  Angel gave the doctor a wry smile, and shook his head. He closed the surgery door and went down the corridor packed with patients waiting for evening surgery to begin.

  He went out into the cold, dark night to the BMW parked in the surgery car-park. He slumped into the driving seat and looked through the frost-covered windscreen into the night. He was thinking. He was convinced in his own mind that Haydn King had been murdered and, although the house had been securely locked and there were no signs of a break-in, there were a lot of keys in circulation. Besides Mr King, there was Meredith the butler, Mrs Selina Johnson the housekeeper, Harry Saw the private secretary and Vincent Fleming the nephew, who all had keys. Also the back-door key was left in the lock. By arrangement, an accomplice could easily have left the door unlocked. It would only have taken a few moments for an intruder to enter the kitchen area and relock the door.

  SEVEN

  Angel arrived home at seven o’clock. He was an hour and a half late.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he said.

  Mary wasn’t pleased. She glared at him as if he was the gasman who had come to cut off the supply.

  He went into the hall, took off his coat, hung it in the lobby and returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what your tea will be like,’ she said. ‘All shrivelled up, I expect.’

  He didn’t reply. He could see how things were. Whatever he said would be wrong. He reached into the fridge for a bottle of beer.

  After a measured amount of silence, she said, ‘Why didn’t you phone?’

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘You know what it’s like,’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t know what it’s like. How long does it take to phone? And fish doesn’t come cheap anymore. Those two pieces cost over five pounds.’

  He blinked. ‘Five pounds? It’s time you changed your fishmonger.’

  ‘I have. Twice. There’s nobody cheaper than “Cheapo’s”. Finny haddock is expensive everywhere.’

  Angel pulled open a drawer and took out a bottle opener. He prised off the metal cap, poured the beer into a glass then sat down at the table.

  Mary approached the oven with an oven glove. She took out the plates and then served up the fish.

  Angel looked at the steaming, golden-coloured finny haddock in melted butter. It looked delicious and was far from being dried up.

  With several slices of wholemeal bread, he soon cleared his plate, while Mary was still eating.

  ‘That was great,’ he said as he put the knife and fork together. ‘Thank you, love.’

  Under those particular circumstances, he wouldn’t have said anything different. However, on this occasion as on virtually every occasion, it was true. Mary’s cooking was unbeatable. And somehow she had rescued the meal from a shrivelled-up disaster.

  Although angry, she was pleased he had enjoyed it. And she could always tell if he wasn’t telling the truth.

  She nodded, swallowed and said, ‘There’s fresh fruit salad and ice cream to follow.’ She knew that that would please him. He loved ice cream.

  ‘Right,’ he said, sitting back in the chair, content to wait until she had caught up with him.

  Mary Angel would never have told him, but she had always secretly compared him to the late, great Johnny Weissmuller. Angel was in great shape, but Mary, who was always seeking for perfection, thought that the loss of a few pounds might improve him.

  As she took another mouthful, she gave him a sideways glance. Then something occurred to her. The corners of her mouth turned momentarily into a smile. It promptly disappeared; her eyes twinkled mischievously as she said, ‘Or you could skip the ice cream.’

  He looked across at her. He knew she was teasing him. ‘No,’ he said, keeping a straight face. ‘That’s all right, Mary. I’ll force it down, if necessary.’

  Their eyes met, and they both grinned.

  After the fruit and ice cream, they moved out of the kitchen to the sitting-room where Mary brought in the coffee.

  Angel switched on the TV for the latest news and caught the end of an item about the London stock market closing down forty points due to a drop of the Dow Jones in the US, and some banks and King’s Breweries in the UK.

  His eyes opened wide and he stared at the TV screen.

  The newsreader said, ‘The dip in the closing price of King’s Breweries was brought about by the sudden death of King’s Breweries Chairman, Haydn King, who was found dead of a heart attack in his swimming pool at his home in Bromersley, South Yorkshire, early this morning. And that is the end of the business news. Now over to Carol for the weather.’

  Angel’s face creased, then his eyes opened wide in wonderment. ‘I wonder how that leaked out?’ he muttered. He reached out for the TV remote and pressed the ‘off’ button.

  Mary looked up from the coffee. ‘So that’s the case you are working on?’

  Angel looked at her curiously. ‘How did you know?’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘It’s all over the news, the dead man is local, and you come home late. Therefore I guessed that Harker had pushed the case onto you because the poor man probably didn’t di
e naturally and there’s something fishy about it.’

  ‘You never cease to amaze me,’ he said, taking a sip of the coffee.

  ‘You’re my husband, Michael, and I can also see beneath all this superficiality that your brain is fully engaged. I’ve seen you like this hundreds of times.’

  He waved a hand in the air. ‘But no announcement about his death has been made. I’ve not been approached by anybody from the media.’

  ‘Is it a big secret, then?’

  ‘Not particularly. It’s just that … nobody can possibly know what Haydn King died from. I’m in charge of the investigation, and even I don’t know. The post-mortem has not yet been completed. And fishy? You said fishy. What’s fishy about it?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t seem right, being found in a swimming pool early in the morning in the middle of winter, I suppose.’

  Angel shook his head, then he said, ‘Mary, my love, you haven’t heard the half of it.’

  He repeated the story Superintendent Harker had told him about being summoned by Haydn King and the conversation that had taken place on Tuesday evening between the two of them; three days before King was found dead in the pool.

  ‘If it had been anybody other than the super,’ Angel said, ‘I might not have believed it.’

  She listened carefully to him and when he had finished, she said, ‘Michael, it seems to me that something was preying on his mind, and that maybe he wanted to take his own life.’

  He rubbed his chin. ‘It doesn’t seem to be his style. I’ve asked around.’

  ‘But the nightmares were worrying him. That’s why he called Superintendent Harker in.’

  ‘That’s part of the puzzle. Only his butler and the super know anything about them.’

  Mary shook her head and frowned.

  ‘He hadn’t told his doctor,’ Angel said. ‘And he saw him on Monday about something else – a touch of gout – but he never mentioned nightmares.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘That rules out the likelihood then, that some enemy of Haydn King made the dreams a reality by murdering him in the belief that it would be assumed that his death was suicide?’