Sham

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘And there’s the newspapers. They’ve got my picture. That Daily Echo man, Braddock, is a pain in the arse. They’ve got stringers, and people snooping all over the place.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. Nobody saw you come in here. Just keep away from that window. They haven’t got X-ray eyes. All right? I’ll call in tomorrow. Try and relax. Watch the television or something.’

  He ran his hand through his hair impatiently.

  ‘I never watch television,’ he lied. ‘Have you got any cigarettes?’

  Angel returned to the station and went straight down the corridor to Superintendent Strawbridge’s office. He told him about Pete Grady and in particular repeated his concern about him possessing a loaded gun.

  Strawbridge nodded.

  ‘I have to get him in one piece to Manchester next Monday to testify against Rikki Rossi. If the cost of that is allowing him to carry a gun, then in these unusual and exceptional circumstances, I can live with it. I know he’s been done in the past for possession, but there’s no record that he’s ever used it.’

  ‘It’s very risky, sir.’

  ‘Well, what else can I do?’

  ‘Take the gun off him and hope that he’ll still co-operate,’ Angel said bluntly.

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  Strawbridge’s dark shadowy eyes narrowed. His lips tightened.

  ‘Look here, Angel,’ he began slowly, his voice chilling enough to frost up the inside of a cell window. ‘I’ve spent four years trying to get something on Rikki Rossi. Four long years, and I’m not in the mood for letting it all go down the pan for the sake of bending a rule or two. He’s probably the most wanted man in the country. I have arrested him three times before, but the witnesses have always been murdered, disappeared or developed amnesia when I got them into court. This time, I’ve got one. A prize. One of his own gang. And he wants to talk. He’s eager to talk. I am going to do everything in my power to get Grady into court in one piece.’

  Angel sighed.

  Strawbridge continued.

  ‘And I don’t believe there’s a risk, hardly any risk at all.’

  The phone rang. The superintendent reached out for it.

  ‘Strawbridge … Right … What’s that address again? … Got it. Tell them DI Angel is on his way.’

  He replaced the phone.

  ‘There’s a report of the murder of a man at Frillies Country Club. Hotel Victor One responded to a triple nine. Do you know it?’

  ‘Frillies? Yes sir. About two miles out of town. On the Barnsley road. Never been inside the place, though.’

  ‘Now’s your chance to widen your horizons. And by the way, there’s a witness. Saw the whole thing, so it should be an easy one.’

  Angel blinked. He stood up. He hoped Strawbridge was right. It was unusual to get an eyewitness.

  ‘Right. Get on to it.’

  Angel dashed out of the office. It was a relief. The further he was away from Strawbridge, Grady and the Rossis, the better he liked it. He charged up the corridor and saw Ahmed running towards him looking decidedly frantic and waving a sheet of A4.

  ‘Sir. Sir,’ he called urgently.

  ‘What is it? Stuffing coming out of your teddy bear?’ Angel growled while still pressing up the corridor.

  ‘There’s Mrs Buller-Price in reception to see you. She says it’s very important,’ Ahmed said trying to keep up the pace.

  ‘Oh. I haven’t time now. Give her my apologies, and be very polite. See if it’s anything you can help her with. Or I’ll see her tomorrow.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘But before that, phone SOCO, and tell him there’s been a murder at Frillies Country Club. Then find DS Gawber and DS Crisp and tell them to join me there SAP.’

  4.

  Angel dashed out of the station to his car and pointed the bonnet out of the station yard. He had to concentrate on his driving to Frillies on Barnsley Road, as he was still smouldering over Grady having possession of a gun. His mind shot like an arrow to the picture of himself earlier that day in the car actually handing back the loaded Walther (probably stolen, at that!) to a beaming Peter Grady. He couldn’t believe what he had done. And he could still see the smug expression on the man’s suntanned face, the gleam of triumph in his eye, as he had snatched it out of his hand and slipped it triumphantly into his pocket. He couldn’t blank out the scene. He must have been mad!

  A car horn blared aggressively behind.

  He looked up at the traffic lights; they had turned green. He let in the clutch, turned left into Barnsley Road, straightened up the wheel, changed gear and checked the traffic behind in his mirror, then passed a Yorkshire Traction bus. He couldn’t be far from Frillies.

  He rubbed his chin and blew out a long sigh. Strawbridge’s ruling allowing Grady to carry the Walther was definitely not a measured, professional decision. If the chief constable had known he would have gone doolally! Angel understood well enough the need to get Rikki Rossi locked away; he could sympathize with Strawbridge’s predicament, but he was against permitting Grady to have a gun. You can never allow a villain to be armed! It’s not on. It’s not safe. He’d seen the horrific damage a gun could do. Many, many times. The sickening sights he had seen. Gunshot wounds to the head or chest were almost always fatal. The funerals he had attended. The grief he’d witnessed. Wherever a crook had a gun, death surely followed.

  He changed up to top gear.

  And yet when a station policeman wanted to draw a gun, what a to-do! Huh! There was a very strict procedure governing it all; rules and regulations a mile long; signatures, witnesses; counting the rounds on issue; justifying every one fired; and careful accounting for the live ammo handed back in when the incident was over. A policeman should never have to approach a criminal known to be armed, without being armed himself.

  A red traffic-light ahead needed his full attention. He slowed down. It changed to green, he changed back up, went over the crossroads and realized he was almost at the Country Club. On the right was a high stone wall. He travelled alongside it for two hundred yards until he came to large wooden gates, which were open and fastened back. He read the smartly painted signs, white on black, fastened to the walls. They said: ‘Frillies Country Club. Private. Members only.’

  That’s where he had to be. He tapped the indicator stalk, and drove through the gates on to a long tarmacadam drive which cut through lawns, trees, evergreen bushes and shrubs eventually to reveal a large imposing stone-built house that appeared to have previously been the residence of a wealthy Victorian family. He drove under the pillared portico and beyond and parked behind a white van he recognized to be that of one of the SOCO teams. A young uniformed PC on duty saw him drive up and dashed through the front door to meet him.

  ‘Oh. It’s you, sir,’ he said, throwing up a salute.

  ‘Yes. It’s Grainger, isn’t it? What’s happened?’ Angel said, as they walked briskly together towards the entrance.

  ‘We answered a triple nine, sir. A man’s dead. Stabbed. The club manager told us there’d been an accident. There is a witness: a young woman, in a bit of a state.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Show me. The crime scene first.’

  PC Grainger led Angel across the thick, well-trodden carpet in front of the reception counter, past the lift doors, down an oak-panelled corridor with aspidistras in pots on dark wooden stands positioned intermittently on both sides, to some glass doors at the end. The doors, with graciously ornate brass handles, were wedged open, and there was a hand painted copperplate sign on the arch above, that read: ‘Conservatory’.

  ‘In there, sir,’ Grainger said with a flick of a thumb.

  Angel peered through the door, but didn’t go in.

  The glass, high-roofed room with huge windows was overloaded with evergreen plants, in pots, on stands and on the floor, mostly placed round the perimeter of the room. The furniture comprised twenty or more easy
chairs, a settee, and a black, grand piano with matching stool. The grey, mottled, mastic floor was covered in plastic sheeting all the way from the door up to the middle of the room where the figure of a man lay on his face in a pool of blood.

  At the far side of the room, the backs of two men in white paper suits, plastic hats and white rubber boots appeared incongruously through the foliage. They were bending forward looking down at the floor. They heard Angel and Grainger and turned back to face them.

  ‘This should be taped up,’ Angel bawled, indicating the open doorway.

  The older one said. ‘Yes, sir. Next job. We’ve only been here two minutes. I’m DS Taylor.’

  ‘I know who you are. What have you got?’

  ‘Not much, sir,’ Taylor said. He pointed to the corpse. ‘Young man in his twenties. One stab wound only, I think, in the heart or aorta. There’s a witness in a room along the corridor, sir. A young woman.’

  ‘I’ll see the witness while you get organized. Get that tape up.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Taylor waved in acknowledgment.

  Angel turned to Grainger.

  ‘This way, sir.’

  He turned round and directed him to a door on his left, next to the conservatory. It had the words: ‘Reading Room’, painted above it.

  ‘In there, sir.’

  Angel nodded and said, ‘Right. You’d better get back to the front door.’

  Grainger nodded, turned away and went down the corridor.

  Angel knocked on the door of the Reading Room, opened it and went inside. It was a small room with just a few easy chairs and a writing desk against the far wall. There was a pretty young woman sitting forward on an easy chair holding her head in her hands, her legs drawn up tightly underneath her. She had a handkerchief on her lap. She didn’t look up. A young man in his twenties, in a well-cut dark suit and red tie, sitting next to her, looked across at the door. His face brightened as he saw Angel approach.

  ‘Are you the police?’ he said, rising to his feet.

  ‘Inspector Angel. Who are you?’

  ‘Martin Tickell. I’m the club manager,’ he said. He then turned towards the young lady. ‘It was this lady who came here with Mr Schumaker, the dead man, as his guest, a member … the man who was stabbed. Erm. She’s not very talkative. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve some things I must see to. I’ll be in the office, if you want me, inspector.’

  Angel nodded and looked down at the girl.

  Tickell rushed out of the door, glad to be away.

  She looked up. She was only young, eighteen or nineteen years, her fresh, pretty face spoiled by her red eyes and wet cheeks.

  Angel took his time. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He tapped in a number.

  Ahmed answered.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Ahmed. I am at Frillies Country Club. Get Sergeant Hollis to let me have a WPC to assist me here, urgently. Tell her to come to the reading room to attend a witness and stay with her. Got it?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He closed the phone and stuffed it back into his pocket. Then he looked round the little room. It had two writing bureaux at one end and twenty or so easy chairs in chintz designs arranged around small coffee tables in groups of four or five.

  He moved to the comfortable-looking chair opposite her, eased himself into it, rubbed his chin, then in a soft, quiet voice, said, ‘Can you talk, miss? Are you up to it yet?’

  She sniffed then nodded.

  ‘I’m the policeman investigating this case. Perhaps you could tell me what happened? You could start by telling me your name.’

  ‘My name is Eloise Macdonald.’

  ‘And what actually happened, Eloise?’

  She was slow to start speaking. ‘It was awful. Oh it was awful. We were sat on the settee in the … the conservatory. Talking …’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said encouragingly.

  ‘Oh,’ she sighed. ‘Just talking …’

  ‘Who was there?’

  ‘My boyfriend, Richard. We had just had a lovely meal. I shall never forget it. We were going to have coffee … it was wonderful … the only man I shall ever love …’ her voice trailed away.

  She struck a sympathetic chord with Angel. He didn’t want to rush her.

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘We were talking; it was beautiful. He was a lovely man … I was just getting to know him, then it was … ruined. The door suddenly opened and what I believe was a tin can, an empty beer can, something like that, came flying into the room and landed just in front of us, at our feet. I looked at the door, and a man in a black T-shirt and jeans, and wearing a mask, leaped into the room. He had a long knife in his hand, like a kitchen knife. He came up to Richard and stood in front of the settee and sort of … challenged him. He said something like, “Your time is up. That girl is mine,” meaning me. Richard didn’t know what he was talking about and said “What do you want?” Then he looked at me. Well, I didn’t know the man either. Never seen him before in my life as far as I know. Couldn’t see his face, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said. ‘A mask. What sort of a mask? What was it made of, Eloise? Paper?’

  ‘It was all black. Looked like some sort of cardboard. It was held on by elastic round the back of his head. Anyway, I heard Richard say to him, “Why the mask?”’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t reply.’

  Angel shook his head.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I told him that I didn’t know him, and asked him to leave us alone. He laughed, like a sneer. He looked back at me and said something like, “That woman’s mine.” It was awful. Richard faced him sort of square on. Then the man came up to him and began stabbing the air with the knife. Richard looked round for something to defend himself with, or hit him with or something. There was nothing. I was terrified. I think I screamed. I went behind the settee. Richard dodged his attacks, then suddenly he turned, dragged one of the cushions from the settee, used it as a shield to push against him. The man reached out to try to grab hold of it, but didn’t get a good enough grip. Richard then threw it into his face. Then he made a grab for his wrist — the one holding the knife. He managed to get hold of it with both hands and he squeezed it and squeezed it. The man kept hitting him on the head with his free hand. It was obviously hurting Richard, but he hung on. Eventually, both men landed on the floor. It was frightening. Richard still kept hold of his wrist and banged his hand repeatedly on the hard floor several times and told him to drop the knife. Eventually he did. Then Richard reached out, snatched it up, put his knee on the man’s chest and held the knife to his throat. I thought he was going to kill him, but he didn’t. He told the man to get up, and he pulled him up by his shirt. They reached their feet. They were both panting and red in the face. Richard released his grip on the man to straighten his coat and adjust his coat and tie. Then, suddenly, the man reached out, snatched the knife out of Richard’s hand and pushed it hard into his chest. Blood spurted out immediately. Oh, it was terrible. Terrible …’

  She had to stop. She looked down. Her shoulders began to shake.

  Angel leaned back in the chair and waited.

  After a minute or so, she took a deep breath and said, ‘There was blood all over. Richard gasped, reached for his chest, looked up into the man’s face then collapsed in front of the settee. I think I fainted. I had had a few glasses of wine. Anyway, I don’t quite know what happened then. When I woke up, the club manager was shaking my shoulders. I thought at first it was all a horrible dream. Then I saw Richard on the floor at my feet and I knew it wasn’t.’

  She sobbed a little while.

  Angel took out his leather-backed notebook and wrote something rapidly.

  Then she looked up. ‘Are you … a policeman?’

  ‘Inspector Angel. Now, what was the name of the — your young man, and where did he live?’

  ‘I don’t know where he lived … round here somew
here. He said his house wasn’t far away. His name was Richard Schumaker.’

  ‘And had you known him long?’

  ‘A week, only, Inspector.’

  ‘Mmm. And can you give me a description of the man who attacked him?’

  ‘Mmm. Tall. Dark hair. Tight jeans. Black T-shirt. I told you about the mask: it was frightening. It covered his eyes, forehead and cheeks, right down to the chin, holes cut in it for the eyes and mouth, of course.’

  ‘Was he wearing gloves?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you couldn’t see anything unusual about him, his hair, his arms, his hands?’

  ‘Yes. He had a tattoo of a skull and cross-bones on the back of his left hand, in blue.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  Angel was not pleased. He screwed up his face.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and crossed to the door and opened it ten inches.

  It was Gawber.

  ‘I was told you were in here, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Where’s Crisp?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Never mind. A young man’s been murdered in the conservatory, Richard Schumaker, over there. Check on all the access points to this building, see if any is covered by CCTV. Looking for a tall man, brown hair, jeans, black T-shirt, in his twenties, tattoo on his left hand. He’ll be well covered in blood.’

  *

  ‘I need to see you now, Mr Tickell?’ Angel said across the reception desk, which was a small counter by the main door of the club.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the smart young man replied. ‘You’re Inspector Angel, didn’t you say? Come into the office,’ he said, pointing at a mahogany veneered door to the side. ‘We can talk in there. It’s more private and more comfortable.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said.

  Tickell disappeared through an arch at the back of the area and reappeared at the side door.

  Angel stepped into the small, tidy little room.

  Tickell pointed to a comfortable-looking balloon-backed chair.

  ‘Please sit down, inspector,’ he said and he took an old wooden swivel chair behind the desk. ‘I’ve never had anything like this to deal with, inspector. And believe me, as secretary of the Club all sorts of different situations and problems crop up from time to time.’