The Diamond Rosary Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘I agree. Most definitely, it does,’ he said, then he frowned, looked at her and added, ‘What a convoluted train of thought.’

  ‘I get it from living with you,’ she said.

  He smiled.

  She frowned then, pensively, she said, ‘There’s something else, Michael.’

  He looked at her closely. Sometimes his wife came out with astonishingly original suggestions.

  She hesitated.

  ‘What, love?’ he said. ‘Come on, spit it out.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible that whoever wanted to see Haydn King dead, was a hypnotist – not necessarily a super-duper properly qualified hypnotist, but someone who knows how hypnotism works? … somebody who had the gift of being able to plant an idea in Mr King’s mind … then when he’d tormented him enough, went on to convince him that the only way to stop the dream was to fulfil it by … by jumping off the diving board … landing deliberately badly and whoosh, seconds later he’d be dead, out of this world.’

  Angel stared at her. He rubbed his chin. He breathed heavily a couple of times then said, ‘It’s a bit extreme, that, Mary.’

  ‘But do you think it’s possible?’

  He gave a little shrug. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, yes. But King was a man with a powerful personality. Not easily swayed, you know.’

  She nodded. ‘You could get some expert advice.’

  ‘Mmmm. I’ll have to think about that, love. You might have a point, though.’

  She noticed his cup was empty. ‘More coffee?’

  He passed the cup. ‘Please.’ Then he added, ‘I will have to go in tomorrow. I can’t leave this while Monday. For one thing, I want to look over King’s house. There might be something that will give me a lead.’

  Meredith pushed the open door and said, ‘And this was Mr King’s bedroom, sir. I still find it difficult to accept that he has gone. I instructed the housekeeper to give the room an especially good clean round after your men had finished yesterday afternoon.’

  Angel looked round. Everything certainly looked tidy, shiny and spotlessly clean. Suddenly he caught sight of a paperback book on the bedside table. He crossed quickly and leaned over to read the title. It was The Interpretation Of Dreams by Sigmund Freud.

  Angel pursed his lips. He immediately thought about the conversation he’d had with Mary last evening and the suggestion she had made. Didn’t Freud make scientific investigations into hypnosis? This paperback could be very important.

  Angel turned to Meredith and said, ‘Where did that book come from?’

  Meredith reached out to pick it up.

  ‘Please don’t touch it,’ Angel said.

  Meredith withdrew his hand, gave him a strange look, then peered down at the book, read the title and said, ‘Do you know, sir, I really have no idea.’

  Angel took a rolled-up A4-sized polythene envelope with the word EVIDENCE printed across it in big red letters out of his pocket. With a pencil, he skilfully edged the book into the bag, then he sealed it and slid it into his pocket. He then turned back to Meredith and said, ‘How long has it been there?’

  ‘I am not sure. I had no reason to take much notice.’

  ‘No,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. He had another quick look round. ‘Are there any other books in the room?’

  Meredith turned his head to the left and then the right, then said, ‘No, I don’t believe there are.’

  Angel looked under the bed, pulled out all the drawers of a large tallboy, peered through the window that opened onto a balcony and had an extensive view of lawns and trees, and opened the door of a walk-in wardrobe the width of the room. It was dark inside. He found the light switch, went inside, prodded a few suits, came out and said, ‘Thank you. I think I’ve seen all I want to see here.’

  Meredith then moved on to show Angel the next bedroom.

  Angel came out of Haydn King’s bedroom, turned right to the next room and tried the doorknob. The door was locked.

  Meredith came forward while his hand followed down a gilt-coloured chain from a button on his trouser waistband to his pocket. At the end of the chain was a bunch of keys. ‘This is the late Mrs Lydia King’s bedroom, sir. Mr Haydn’s mother. Mr King kept it locked because he said he wanted to keep it private. He had the only other key, of course. He didn’t want anybody but me to go into it and then only for essential reasons. I vacuum and dust it every week.’

  Meredith unlocked the door and pushed it open. Angel walked in and looked round.

  It was a bright, double-windowed room, immaculately decorated and carpeted, furnished with a large half tester bed draped with intricately embroidered curtains, a built-in wardrobe and a huge dressing-table covered with many containers of powder, foundation and perfumes. The décor was in matching pastel colours. In a corner was a wheelchair, a Zimmer frame and a pair of aluminium elbow crutches. There was a door out of the bedroom leading to an ensuite, fully tiled bathroom fitted with all the usual modern facilities. King’s mother seemed to have lacked nothing in her latter days.

  ‘Mr King used to come in here for hours at a time, sir,’ Meredith said. ‘I don’t know quite what he did, but I think it gave him solace.’

  Angel turned to Meredith and said, ‘Really?’ He rubbed his chin.

  Meredith nodded.

  After a last look round, Angel said, ‘Thank you. I’ve seen enough. Can we move on?’

  They came out of the room. Meredith carefully locked the door and returned the key on the chain to his trouser pocket. He showed Angel the other rather spartan bedrooms and bathrooms on the first floor, then brought him down in the lift to the ground floor to see King’s study, the other reception rooms, and a large dining-room. Then down in the lift to the basement to the kitchen, pantry, butler’s pantry, cold room, fuel store and staff dining-room.

  Angel found the house an appropriately appointed luxury family house, but apart from some items in King’s bedroom found nothing useful in solving the mystery of the man’s death. At length he thanked the butler and returned to the BMW.

  He started the car and drove down the long drive to the gate and out into Pine Avenue and onto Creesforth Road.

  It was a gloomy moody sky and the cold squally wind wouldn’t let him forget that it was already December. In ten days it would be shortest day and in thirteen it would be Christmas. If he went home that afternoon, Mary would almost certainly drag him out to the shops and that was something he would rather avoid.

  He was thinking about this as he drove past the park gates, when he suddenly had the urge to see his friend Dr Mac, the pathologist. That might, he thought, clarify his thinking and perhaps help him make better sense of the puzzle.

  Mac worked in the mortuary in Bromersley General Hospital, but being Saturday, Angel reasoned, he might not have chosen to turn out.

  Angel turned left off Park Road, took two more left turns through an estate of terrace houses, then a right which took him the opposite way along Park Road and direct to the hospital gates. Parking was always difficult at Bromersley General Hospital and, as Saturday was a big visiting day, finding a space was difficult. However, he was fortunate and was able to drive into a space as someone was leaving.

  He locked the car, entered the hospital by the revolving door and made his way on the ground floor to the far end of a long corridor to the MORTUARY. The door was locked, which was no surprise to him. It was always so. Access was gained by ringing a bell. In the past, dead bodies had been known to go missing.

  He pressed the bell push. As soon as his finger came off the button, he felt convinced that he wouldn’t get any response. He felt certain that dear old Mac was at that very moment being dragged round Tesco’s or Marks & Spencer or some other emporium by his ever-loving spouse.

  He wrinkled his nose, turned away and began the trudge away down the corridor, when he heard the sound of a door opening behind him. He turned round.

  A small man in a green overall, wellington boots and a tight white hat was standing in the
open door of the mortuary. ‘Hey, Michael!’ he called. ‘Is it you playing push and run with this bell?’

  It was Mac.

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘Guilty,’ he said. He turned and walked back up to him. ‘What are you doing here on a Saturday afternoon?’ he said. ‘Got a woman in there?’

  Mac grinned. ‘I’ve got two,’ he said, patting Angel lightly on the back. ‘Come on in and take one off my hands.’

  ‘I thought you’d be out shopping with your missus for that special little Christmas gift for your Aunt Ada,’ Angel said.

  He followed Mac inside and closed the door.

  ‘I haven’t got an Aunt Ada,’ Mac said.

  Angel smiled. ‘Well, Gladys then. Or Hermione.’

  Mac nodded knowingly, and led Angel into his small office and pointed to a chair. Angel sat down.

  ‘My wife knows better than to try and get me on that kick, Michael,’ Mac said, sitting down in the swivel chair behind his desk. ‘I give her the money and she’s trots off and does it.’

  Angel raised his eyebrows. ‘I wish Mary would do that.’

  ‘Takes years of married life,’ Mac said.

  Angel grinned. ‘I’m sure, but I haven’t come here for a lecture on how to manage a wife.’

  ‘You’ve come here to get out of shopping with her.’

  ‘Certainly not. She’s at home, busy baking something. You know why I’m here.’

  Mac nodded. ‘You want to know what he died from. And the time. Well, it’s taken me a bit longer to calculate time of death because I had to take readings not only of the temperature in different parts of the pool, but also the volume of the water and the circulation pattern of it. And I can now say with reasonable certainty that he died between 11 p.m. Thursday night and 4 a.m., yesterday morning. And the cause “looks like” a severe blow to the head causing an internal haemorrhage. I stress the words “looks like”.’

  ‘Not drowning?’

  ‘Might have been a contributory factor.’

  ‘Any idea what the instrument administering the blow might have been?’

  ‘Something heavy with a hard edge to it.’

  ‘Is it consistent with him diving into the pool, crashing into the edge of the pool and then falling into the water?’

  ‘Aye, but I can’t say for certain that that’s what happened. There might be other factors. I may know more after I have examined the major organs.’

  The muscles round Angel’s mouth tightened. ‘How on earth could Haydn King have dreamt two days before he died, that that’s how it would happen?’

  Mac frowned and turned back to him. ‘What do you mean?’

  Angel told him about the nightmare.

  When he had finished, Mac said, ‘It’s nae possible!’

  Angel shrugged. ‘They are the facts, Mac. If it’s not possible, you’re suggesting that the dead man or the super were lying. What motive could either of them have had?’

  Mac rubbed his chin.

  ‘It’s got me beat,’ Angel said.

  Mac said, ‘King could have been hypnotized.’

  ‘Mary said that last night,’ Angel said. ‘Do you think that a seriously busy man like Haydn King would get himself involved with a hypnotist?’

  ‘Canna think of any other explanation.’

  Anyway, I have always been given to understand that a person hypnotized would not do anything that was out of character.’

  Mac nodded. ‘Aye. I’m sure that’s right, Michael.’

  ‘Well, I have no evidence to suggest that Haydn King wanted to kill himself.’

  Mac sighed. After a few moments, he said, ‘I’m glad I’m working with scientific facts … with things I can see and touch. I’d be no good doing your job, trying to discover a baddie among all the goodies.’

  ‘I also rely on forensic to some extent,’ Angel said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘You know that.’

  ‘I’m glad I have my uses. Do you want to know what I’ve got so far?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve come for,’ he said, rising from the chair.

  Mac nodded. ‘I’ve hardly started. Come on through. I’m recording it.’

  They reached the examination theatre. The walls and floor were covered with white tiles. In addition, the floor had a gradient toward the far side to an open drain with a grate to the sewer in the corner. In the centre of the floor, on a rubber-topped examination table was the naked body of Haydn King. He was stretched out and partly covered by a sheet. A powerful battery of white strip lights was suspended over the table. Hanging just below them was a microphone that led to a small cassette recorder on an instrument table at the side.

  As Angel entered, his nose went upwards and his face creased at the indescribable smell of ammonia combined with odours only dead humans could generate.

  Mac pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and lifted his mask up to cover his nose and mouth. He leaned over to the side table, pressed a couple of switches, then said, ‘There. I’ll play back what I recorded nobbut five minutes ago.’

  His voice, sounding more Scots than he did in real life, came through the recorder: ‘Body of a man taken from swimming pool at approximately 0800 hours, Friday, December 9th 2011. Understood to be Haydn King. Weight 182 pounds. Height 6 feet. Aged about fifty. Brown eyes. Black beard and a full head of hair. Good physique. Has a suntan … wearing off. Must have spent time in a warmer clime recently. No distinguishing marks, tattoos, jewellery, body-piercing or the like. Hands regularly manicured. External examination. Severe abrasion to head resulting in compacted cranium and heavily fractured skull. Old appendix scar. No other external wound or abrasion visible to the naked eye.’

  Mac leaned across and turned the recorder off. ‘That’s as far as I got.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Nothing there to make a case out of,’ he said with a sniff. ‘Any signs of the use of a needle?’

  Mac looked at him over his spectacles. ‘Do ye mean was he a druggie?’

  Angel gave the slightest hint of a shrug. ‘No. I didn’t exactly mean, did he inject himself with a conventional street drug, Mac. I know that’ll be in your PM in due course. I meant, was there any sign that he had had a … well, a jab of a different sort, the last hour or so of his life?’

  Mac slowly shook his head and smiled. ‘Now what’s going through that complex, devious mind of yours?’

  ‘Well, Mac, there are a fair few million pounds looking for a new home right now. And I just wondered if King’s thinking processes had been … er, interfered with.’

  ‘You mean, by the injection of a hypnotic drug by a wayward psychologist, hypnotist, trick cyclist or some such character?’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking … who might then have talked King into killing himself?’

  ‘Something like that. I know it sounds unlikely, a man with the strong character he is reputed to have had, but there might just be a bruise, wound or reaction mark where the finest needle might have been furtively introduced.’

  ‘I haven’t checked that, Michael, yet, but I certainly will.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac.’

  EIGHT

  Angel had a peaceful Saturday evening and Sunday at home.

  It became apparent that Mary had already taken care of the Christmas present shopping during the week, and was at that time busy wrapping them, for which he was truly thankful. It allowed him time to sit in front of the fire with the television on, reading through and putting into good English his findings in connection with the Haydn King case, and the report of the distinctive dead blonde woman seen in the area behind the King George Hotel.

  Every so often, Mary came into the sitting-room to show him what gift she had chosen for a particular member of the family. She said that that was so that he could look intelligent if any of them were to thank him. He knew that it was actually to enrol his support for whatever she had bought, and many a time he thought the gift absolutely wacky. But whatever it was, he always tried to look interested and make encouraging nois
es.

  And so the weekend soon passed.

  It was 8.28 a.m., Monday, 12 December.

  Angel was making his way down the station corridor to his office.

  He had only just removed his coat, scarf and hat and was pulling the swivel chair up to his desk when there was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed. He was carrying a yellow file.

  ‘What is it, lad?’

  ‘Copy of a deposition from the super, sir,’ he said, handing him the file.

  Angel blinked. He was thinking that Harker had dealt with it unusually promptly. It had only been mentioned on Friday afternoon. He glanced inside. There were two A4 sheets of double-spaced typing. He closed the file, put it down on the desk and looked up at the young man. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  Ahmed said, ‘And I have done a search on the PNC, sir, and there is nothing known about Haydn King.’

  ‘Right, Ahmed,’ he said. Then he frowned and looked up. ‘Didn’t I ask DS Crisp to make that search?’

  ‘He asked me to do it on Friday, sir. He had to go out to Harbottle & Haig, the stockbrokers.’

  Angel wasn’t pleased. He shook his head and blew out a yard of breath. He was thinking that Crisp had no right to delegate. But he fully realized the merit of selective delegation to someone reliable. He gave a little shrug. He wished he could delegate more, but he knew he couldn’t.

  ‘Right lad,’ he said with a nod.

  Ahmed turned towards the door.

  ‘Just a minute, lad. Phone Wakefield, NCOF and see if they have access to a specialist on hypnotism.’

  Ahmed looked puzzled. ‘Hypnotism, sir?’

  ‘I know it’s unlikely but I’ve got to start there.’

  ‘What’s the NCOF, sir?’

  Angel shook his head impatiently. ‘You’ll have to learn these acronyms off by heart, lad, you’ve been a fully fledged copper now nigh-on four years. You need to look intelligent when you’re up with the oldies. It’s the National Crime Operations Faculty. Remember that. The police unit of men and women who are experts in their field.’