Angel nodded. The newspapers had been full of it.
‘Well,’ Elliott said, ‘we have reason to believe that it might be somewhere round here. And I want to enrol your help to find it.’
Angel’s eyebrows went up. ‘Well, Mathew, I’ll do what I can.’
‘We know the Rosary was stolen by a gang of three. The gang leader was a big man by the name of James Argyle, aged 50. A Scot. Specs. Tubby. He had a short black beard turning ginger. A woman, playing the part of his wife, was Marcia Moore, aged 35, but looking younger. A real eye-knocker. More curves than Silverstone. Big blonde hair. Permanent pout. Eyes always half-shut. Well-known prostitute and good-time girl. For the third one, the driver, the description is vague, as he was not seen much by any witnesses. However, we think it may be Freddie Jay, aged 50. Are any of those known to you?’
‘If it is the same woman, she was seen in a scruffy hotel in town. The King George Hotel. It should never be called a hotel. I wouldn’t board my cat there. It might catch something and it wouldn’t be a mouse.’
‘When was this, Michael?’
‘It would be the evening of the day of the robbery, Wednesday.’
‘Ah yes. You wouldn’t have a photograph of her?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not the sort of hotel that has CCTV.’
‘But it sounds like the sort of place where she would work.’
‘She was reported dead, but also seen after that, very much alive and kicking.’
Elliott frowned. ‘Strange,’ he said.
Angel nodded. ‘I’m still working on it,’ he said. ‘Anyway, what have you got that links them to this patch?’
‘I’ll tell you. That Wednesday night, about ten hours after the robbery, an elderly newspaper-seller who worked near Hatton Garden called Dermot O’Leary had his neck broken and was then unceremoniously dumped in the empty bath in his bathroom. His flat was thoroughly ransacked, all his upholstered furniture slashed … tiles taken off his kitchen wall … even the floorboards were taken up. Among the debris, we found the empty jewellery case. It was positively identified by the jeweller who was robbed as the one that had contained the Rosary. Now, a close friend of O’Leary happens to be one of our snouts, and he told me that old Dermot had confided in him that he was coming into money. Somehow the Rosary was going to be delivered to him – the snout didn’t know all the details, but he said that O’Leary then had to keep it safe until he was contacted, given a password when it would be exchanged for a thousand pounds in readies.’
‘But that didn’t happen.’
Elliott pulled a grim face. ‘The plan went wrong, horribly wrong. We believe that the messenger wanted the thousand pounds as well as the Rosary, and O’Leary wouldn’t hand it over.’
‘You still haven’t said what makes you think the Rosary’s up here?’
‘Well, Michael, we had a bit of luck. There’s CCTV concealed on the building of the flats opposite the door to the block of the flats where O’Leary lived. And we were able to get a clear picture of a man entering and leaving who doesn’t live there, and is not known by any of the other people who live in the flats. But we were able to blow up a frame from the CCTV and identify him. It was a fitness fanatic called Lee Ellis. He’s got a record for robbery with violence, burglary, resisting arrest and a few other bits and pieces. He is now wanted for murder and robbery. His last address was Wormwood Scrubs, but before he went down, he lived up here. He was born in Bromersley. He left twelve years ago to live somewhere in Essex. Now he’ll want to lie low, so you know what happens, he’ll almost certainly return to familiar territory. Obviously, we want to interview him. Have you seen anything of him up here?’
Elliot handed Angel a copy of the photograph.
Angel looked closely at it.
‘Lee Ellis?’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘Has he any aliases?’
‘Not that we’re aware of.’
‘He hasn’t been through my hands. I would have remembered. But I’ll watch out for him.’
‘Find him and you’ll find the Rosary. But tread warily. He is a very dangerous character.’
Angel wrinkled his nose. He wondered how many more murders there would be before he would be able to find the Rosary and return it to its rightful owner.
Elliott gave Angel a copy of the statement from Julius Henkel taken on his arrival at the scene shortly after the robbery. It included details of the security of the premises plus all the available description of the three robbers, including photographs of James Argyle and Marcia Moore taken from CCTV cameras concealed inside the jeweller’s warehouse.
Angel and Elliott agreed to share any new information they might come across in connection with the robbery, and then Elliott took his leave and made for Doncaster to catch the 4.20 p.m. train to King’s Cross.
Angel immediately rang Ahmed. ‘There’s a man with a record called Lee Ellis. I want to know all about him. Look him up on the PNC, print it out and let me have it.’
‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said.
Angel was reading through Henkel’s statement when there was a knock at the door.
It was DS Carter. He looked up and said, ‘Yes, Flora?’
‘Can I tell you about that break–in at Vera’s gown shop now, sir?’ she said.
He pulled a face and said, ‘Aye. I suppose so.’ He wanted to get it out of the way. He considered that it was extremely trivial when there were murders to solve and an armed robbery to investigate.
He pointed to the chair nearest the desk.
‘The shopowner is Mrs Vera Winstone, sir, and she is very steamed up because she thinks we are not taking the robbery seriously. I told her we take all crime seriously and that we hoped very shortly to bring someone to book.’
‘You’re more optimistic than I am, Flora. I hope you sent her home satisfied.’
‘She’ll only be satisfied when we find the robber, sir. Better still, when the stolen items are returned in pristine condition.’
‘We don’t do miracles.’
‘She had some very expensive dresses stolen, sir,’ she said.
He sniffed. ‘Everything in that shop is expensive.’
‘There were two black lace jobs, sir. They were the same dress, but different sizes. One of them was actually on a display model in the window. The thief took that as well. The other dress was on a hanger on a rail inside.’
‘Strange that a thief would break into a shop just to steal clothes. And stranger still that he took two the same.’
‘Maybe he wanted to make sure he got the right size? Also there was an expensive display model stolen.’
Angel wasn’t convinced. He wrinkled his nose.
‘They were expensive dresses, sir – models,’ Flora said, ‘made from Spanish lace. The ticket price on each was £699.’
Angel blinked, then shook his head in disbelief. He was pleased that Mary had never expressed any interest in anything from Madam Vera’s for her wardrobe.
Flora said: ‘Including the display model, she’s putting a claim in to the insurance for £4,200.’
Angel blew out a foot of air then he screwed up his forehead, licked his bottom lip and said, ‘The only chap I can think of who might be responsible for such a caper of this sort is a cross-dresser called Luke Buckley, but he’s banged up in Armley.’ He looked across the desk at her. ‘Have you asked around the station for any likely candidates?’
‘Nobody has any suggestions, sir?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘let’s concentrate on the murder.’
The phone rang. He reached out for it. ‘Angel.’
It was DS Taylor. ‘Just had a phone call from Wetherby, sir. It was the lab technician there … about those samples of blood taken from the car-park at the back of the King George.’
Angel nodded. His pulse increased slightly. He felt a warm, busy glow in his chest. If the victim was on the DNA database, he might be lucky and be able to determine whose blood it was that they had found splattered on the car-park.
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‘Yes,’ he said, ‘what about it? Have they got an ID?’
Taylor said: ‘The lab technician said that the blood was not from a human, sir.’
Angel’s face straightened. ‘Not from a human?’ he roared.
‘He says the blood was from an ungulate, sir.’
Angel’s fist tightened round the phone. ‘And what the blazes is an ungulate?’
‘An animal that has hoofs, sir … such as a horse, cattle, deer or a pig.’
Angel sighed. There was nothing helpful there. He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand that, Don. There hasn’t been some sort of a muddle at this end, has there?’
‘No, sir. I lifted the samples the way I’ve always done. I labelled them and sealed them on the spot. If there was a mistake it was not at this end, I’m certain of it.’
Angel had every confidence in Don Taylor. He also had every confidence in the scientists at Wetherby. It would be difficult to apportion blame to any of the very highly skilled and experienced people concerned. That meant another dead end. The sighting of those drops of dried blood had seemed to be the best lead to solving the curious business of the disappearing body, the screwed-down sofa and all the other idiosyncratic mysteries that had occurred in and around the King George Hotel the previous week.
He ended the call and replaced the receiver.
He turned to DS Carter and said, ‘The lab says the blood is from a farm animal, Flora. I think somebody is making a fool out of us. It has thrown my thinking completely out of kilter. I need a bit of time to think things out …’
‘Shall I leave you, sir?’ she said. ‘I’ve a lot to catch up on. My reports are way behind.’
He was pleased. He nodded. She smiled and went out.
He leaned back in the swivel chair and looked up at the ceiling. He was thinking about the blood result from Wetherby. An ungulate indeed! But he could not arrive at any logical explanation other than the obvious one, that there must have been a sheep, goat, deer or pig at the rear of the King George Hotel and it must have been wounded or injured, possibly in an accident of some sort, and drops of its blood had dripped onto the ground. He decided to leave the matter there and move on.
He then picked up the copy of Henkel’s statement that Mathew Elliott had left with him, re-read it and looked closely at the two photographs included with it. Then he made a decision. He shoved the photographs into his briefcase, put on his coat, and went out of the station to the car.
It was late in the afternoon and a layer of frost was forming everywhere. The BMW slithered its way to the King George Hotel. Angel parked the car out front, grabbed the briefcase, went in through the main entrance, found his way to the reception office and knocked on the door.
When Mrs Fortescue saw her visitor was Angel, she smiled. ‘How very nice to see you again, Inspector. Please sit down. What can I do for you?’
‘Sorry to bother you again, Mrs Fortescue,’ he said. He opened the briefcase and took out the photograph of the woman known as Marcia Moore. ‘I want you to look at this and tell me if you recognize this woman.’
Mrs Fortescue held out a hand to take the photograph and eagerly looked at it.
Angel noted the shapely, manicured, sun-tanned fingers and pink-painted nails. Also, on her wrist she wore a gold bracelet with many charms hanging from it. It rattled at the slightest movement.
‘Yes. That’s her, Inspector,’ she said, eyes shining. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Did she stay in the hotel the night of Wednesday 7th?’
Mrs Fortescue hesitated. ‘She did not book into the hotel, Inspector, but I can’t say for certain that she didn’t stay the night, can I? I may be misjudging her, but I mean, she looks the sort that … well, you know.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Angel said. ‘But we don’t know that do we? Is that the woman who came into this office the following morning asking for Mr Domino?’
‘Oh yes. That’s her,’ she said. Then she added, ‘Who is she?’
Angel pursed his lips. ‘Just somebody we need to speak to,’ he said, trying to sound casual. He wasn’t going to say that she was a member of the gang who stole the Rosary once owned by Queen Mary 1 of England. The newspapers and television were full of it and Mrs Fortescue might not be able to contain herself.
‘If she turns up again,’ he said, ‘let me know.’
‘I certainly will,’ she said.
Angel nodded. He took back the photograph of Marcia Moore and offered her the one of James Argyle. ‘Have you seen this man before? Did he stay here that Wednesday night?’
Mrs Fortescue rattled her charm bracelet and took the photograph. She peered at it closely.
Angel watched her, lightly massaging his chin between two fingers and a thumb.
Eventually she said, ‘He didn’t stay here on Wednesday night, but I do believe I have seen him … even spoken to him, recently.’ She looked at Angel and said, ‘Do you know, I believe he’s a Scot, Inspector. If it’s the man I think it is he speaks with a Scottish accent.’
Angel’s face brightened. There was nothing on the photograph to have given away that information.
‘He is certainly from Scotland, Mrs Fortescue,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know about his accent.’
She handed the photograph back to Angel.
‘Can you remember where and when you saw him?’ he said. ‘It could be vitally important.’
‘I have seen him … spoken to him sometime recently. But I can’t be more exact, sorry. He must have asked me a question or I had reason to address him about something.’
‘Or maybe you heard him speaking to somebody else? Can you really stretch your memory and pinpoint the time and place?’
‘I’ve done all that, Inspector. I can’t. I’m sorry.’
Angel nodded. ‘All right, Mrs Fortescue. Thank you very much,’ he said as he put the photograph back into his briefcase.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ she said.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact there is … there are a couple of points. You said that Mr Domino booked two single rooms and he specifically wanted the penthouse on the top floor.’
‘That’s right. It’s actually a family room, but he wanted it for himself, and he wanted the other room for Mr Memoré to be immediately beneath his.’
‘That would be the fourth floor?’
She rattled her bracelet and said, ‘Yes.’
Angel lowered his eyebrows. ‘Did he say why?’
‘No he didn’t. It seemed very important to him, so I assured him that I would arrange it.’
‘Mmm,’ Angel said. He rubbed his chin. ‘You had a Mr Wiseman staying here that night as well, where was his room?’
She blinked in surprise. ‘I didn’t know that you knew Mr Wiseman, Inspector?’ she said as she turned back the pages of the huge booking planner.
He didn’t reply.
‘Mr Wiseman was in room 212, Inspector. He was on the second floor, two floors below Mr Memoré.’
‘Was he directly below?’
‘Yes, he was,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
She looked at him closely, smiled and in a confidential tone said, ‘You know what this is all about, Inspector, don’t you?’
‘One or two ideas developing, Mrs Fortescue. Nothing definite,’ he said.
‘I recognize you now,’ she said. I thought I knew the name. Never out of the papers. You’re that well-known detective … that Inspector Angel. The man who always gets his man, like the Mounties, aren’t you?’
He gave a slight shrug. He didn’t like the celebrity status the media had given him. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘There’s just one more thing I’d like to ask you to do for me, Mrs Fortescue.’
Her eyes shone, she leaned forward and said, ‘Yes, Inspector, what is it? Do say. Anything. Anything at all.’
‘Tell me when the hotel’s dustbins were last emptied and the rubbish collected?’
Her jaw drop
ped open. ‘Dustbins? … Emptied?’ she said. She shook her head in surprise. Eventually she said, ‘They are scheduled to be emptied every Wednesday morning, early, I understand. Why do you want to know that?’
‘Thank you,’ he said. He wasn’t going to explain. The time matched what Don Taylor had discovered and explained why SOCO was not able to recover any evidence from discarded waste from Domino’s and Memoré’s rooms.
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Fortescue. You’ve been most helpful.’
‘Have I really? It’s a pleasure, Inspector Angel,’ she said. ‘Please feel free to call anytime.’
Angel stood up. ‘That’s very good of you. There’s one more question, before I go, if you don’t mind?’
She looked at him and beamed.
‘It may sound strange, but I have a good reason for asking, I assure you,’ he said. ‘Did you have any animals – for whatever reason – in the area at the back of the hotel on Tuesday or Wednesday last week?’
Her face changed. She sat upright in the chair. ‘Animals?’ she said, her face as scarlet as a judge’s robe. ‘Whatever do you mean, Inspector? Certainly not. Good gracious me. Occasionally a visitor may have a dog with them and.…’
‘No. I don’t mean pets, Mrs Fortescue. I mean cloven-footed animals such as sheep, cows, goats, deer or pigs. Ungulates, I understand is the umbrella term.’
‘No, Inspector Angel, we did not. This is a hotel, not a zoo. We do not accommodate ungulates with or without umbrellas. The accommodation is one star rated and is designed for civilized human beings only.’ She stood up and crossed to the door. ‘I’m sorry, you will have to leave now. I have an important appointment shortly … at five o’clock and I have to prepare for it. You will excuse me.’
Angel frowned. He wondered what had happened to her. He noticed that the clock said 4.52. He was tired. It was almost the end of an imperfect day.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said without conviction.
The door closed behind him.
He returned to the BMW parked on the busy road in front of the King George Hotel to find the windscreen with a layer of frost across it. He looked around at the dark grey and sparkling white scene, with street and shop lights shining out across the pavements, and passing car and bus headlights reflecting the frost as they slithered along.
The Diamond Rosary Murders Page 10