Sham

by Roger Silverwood

  She placed it firmly in front of him.

  He picked it up. It was unsealed. Inside were the new vehicle registration document and a fully comprehensive insurance certificate for the car; both were made out in the name of Mrs Alicia Buller-Price.

  Angel glanced at them, looked up at her and said, ‘I think we may be able to find out where the car came from.’

  She beamed at him.

  ‘Where is the car now?’

  ‘Outside the front of the station, Inspector. I have brought it for you to see. I have been driving it around all day. Getting used to it. It’s a magnificent car. I hope that that’s all right?’

  ‘Hmmm. The insurance looks satisfactory, and it is a brand new vehicle. It must be roadworthy. Doesn’t need an MOT.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said proudly. ‘Only forty-two miles on the clock. I do hope you can solve the mystery for me and, even if you cannot, at least you might be able to advise where I can return it, or have it collected or ...’

  ‘Don’t worry any more about it. Leave these documents with me. I’ll look into it and I’ll give you a ring as soon as I can.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ she said with another big cherubic smile.

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Buller-Price. I am very pleased to be able to help.’

  She pursed her lips, looked at him, then fingered the big cameo on the gold chain round her neck and said, ‘It is all right for me to keep driving it around? I wouldn’t want to do anything illegal.’

  ‘Drive it to the end of the earth, if you wish,’ he said rising to his feet. ‘In the meantime, I’ll look into it and let you know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She gave him a big broad smile, leaned down for her stick and bag and stood up looking round the office.

  ‘Do you know this room is painted the same colour as the Archbishop of Canterbury’s dressing-room.’

  ‘Oh really?’ he said politely. He was never really surprised at anything Mrs Buller-Price said.

  ‘Yes. Delightful apple green.’

  He smiled, went to the door and opened it.

  ‘I’ll get Ahmed to show you out.’

  *

  ‘Come in. Come in,’ Angel bawled. ‘I’ve been looking for you all over the place. Where have you been? Potholing? Don’t bother. It’s bound to be somewhere I can’t check up on!’

  DS Crisp stood by the door his hand on the knob.

  ‘Well, are you coming in or not?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yes. Right, sir.’

  He closed the door and approached Angel’s desk.

  ‘I’ve been very busy, sir.’

  Angel shook his head impatiently.

  ‘Well, doing what? I’m listening.’

  ‘I’m on that misper, sir. That 22-year-old model, missing since early December. Tania Pulman.’

  ‘Tania Pulman? Oh yes.’

  Angel knew of the case. Very worrying. He’d had the photograph and description. Local girl, doing well for herself. Disappeared off the face of the earth. The parents distraught.

  ‘Foul play?’ he asked.

  ‘Still uncertain, sir.’

  ‘Boyfriends? Ex-boyfriends? Neighbours? Sugar daddies?’

  ‘Been through them all.’

  ‘Advised all channels, the Salvation Army?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right, well you can leave it for now,’ he said, and swivelled round to a wire basket on the table behind his desk. He picked up a videotape and thrust it out to him. ‘I’ve brought a CCTV tape from Frillies Country Club, the scene of a murder. It only covers the front entrance. I am looking for a tall, young man, in his twenties, in jeans, black T-shirt, in a mask, with a tattoo of a skull and crossbones on the back of his left hand, possibly carrying a long knife of some sort!’

  Crisp grinned.

  ‘Is this a halloween prank, sir?’

  Angel stared at him with a face as straight as a copper’s asp.

  ‘No. It’s for real!’ he snapped. ‘That’s what our witness said she saw. I want you to spin through it smartly, note all possible candidates, the time of their arrival and the time they leave. And I want to know who they are; obviously, the murderer is hardly

  likely to be wearing all that gear, the mask and so forth when he —’

  There was a knock at the door.

  Angel said irritably, ‘See who that is.’

  Crisp opened the door.

  Ahmed and Eloise Macdonald were standing there.

  ‘Oh yes. Ah, come in, Eloise. Won’t keep you a minute. Thank you, Ahmed,’ Angel said, and he turned back to Crisp. ‘Have you got all that? You can liaise with the manager at the club; he should be able to supply names and addresses.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. Crack on, then.’

  Crisp went out and closed the door.

  Angel smiled at the young woman and pointed to the chair.

  ‘Good morning, Eloise. Did you sleep all right?’

  ‘It took a little while, but once I got off, I slept through all right,’ she replied, quietly settling into the chair.

  ‘Good. Good.’

  ‘I feel a bit silly, Inspector,’ she began tentatively. ‘I mean, you really are a police inspector, and this is a police station.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And I thought he was so wonderful. You know, there was a time last night when I thought you weren’t the police.’

  ‘Well, who did you think we were?’

  ‘I don’t know: a foreign power, spies. It was Richard, Richard Schumaker. He told me some outrageous lies, Inspector. I’ve been thinking about it. What a fool I’ve been. He said that he was a senior officer in MI6 and that he was working under cover; that the country club was the secret meeting place for some far eastern fascist organization that he had to infiltrate and break up. I see now that it was all rubbish. And that police car was disguised to look like a taxi! How ridiculous I must have looked to you.’

  Angel thoughtfully shook his head. ‘It was simply a taxi that he’d booked and paid for in advance, that’s all,’ he said. ‘It’s a common ploy to impress young ladies.’

  She nodded, not a little sadly.

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Makes him feel big, important. Or, I have another theory about that. Anyway, as long as you are now sure about who are the good guys?’

  She smiled wanly and nodded.

  ‘Eloise, I want to know what he really did for a living?’

  ‘I don’t know, Inspector. As I said, I really believed he worked for MI6.’

  ‘Well I can assure you, he doesn’t. Early this morning, my chief contacted the very top, informed them that Richard Schumaker was dead, telegraphed a post-mortem photograph of him and MI6 has categorically declared that they’ve never heard of him and that they’ve no interest in him. They couldn’t have been more negative.’

  She lowered her head and shook it a little.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Angel said gently. ‘I can only say that you’ve been duped by an experienced liar.’

  She sighed.

  ‘Tell me, Eloise,’ he continued, ‘Is it possible that you had a boyfriend, lover, whatever, that sought revenge and he chose to punish you by murdering Richard Schumaker before your eyes? You said he was wearing a full face mask; behind the mask, could it have been someone that you know?’

  ‘No, Inspector. I don’t think it’s anybody I know.’

  ‘You said that he said, “That girl is mine.” What did it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I know that I have never had a boyfriend as tall as that man … excepting Richard, of course. They were about the same height.’

  Angel sighed.

  ‘Now, you said your job was that of cashier; I suppose you handle a lot of cash?’

  ‘Yes. I do. Thousands of pounds. Many thousands of pounds.’

  ‘What exactly do you do?’

  ‘Well, as the tills fill up with cash, I go down them, all twenty-two, periodically,
take the excess paper money, leave a chitty, then wrap it, bag it, and shoot it into the day safe. Then later, when each girl cashes in, I reconcile the excess with their till rolls. Also, I prepare it, load it into bags for the security firm to collect.’

  Angel’s jaw stiffened as he rubbed it.

  ‘Maybe he was lining you up for some sort of a con. He didn’t let drop any names of any friends, or anybody at all, did he?’

  ‘No. Only … he said his father was a surgeon.’

  ‘Oh? Whereabouts?’

  ‘Didn’t say.’

  ‘Hmmm. I’ll look into that.’

  He pulled out the notebook and scratched a note in it.

  ‘The man that killed Schumaker, he couldn’t have been an ex-boyfriend. He couldn’t have been a jealous lover that you separated from.’

  She smiled briefly. The thought had somehow amused her. She sighed, shook her head and then looked down to hide her sad eyes.

  Angel noticed and desperately tried to think of something kind to say.

  ‘Right, Eloise. I think that’s all for now. Sorry that you’ve been cruelly tricked like this.’

  *

  ‘Come in. What have you got?’

  DS Gawber closed the door.

  Angel pointed to the chair by the desk.

  ‘That coat has not been returned, sir. It’s a fair guess it was taken by the murderer. It’s just an ordinary grey raincoat. Bought off the peg from Challender’s.’

  ‘It won’t be that ordinary, the prices they charge,’ Angel said. ‘It’ll presumably have their label in the back of the neck.’

  ‘And the owner said he had left a pair of yellow woollen gloves in the pockets.’

  ‘Yes. Right,’ Angel said. He made a note on the back of an envelope. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Following up the search for his next-of-kin, there isn’t a doctor or a surgeon in South Yorkshire called Schumaker, sir. He’s not on any NHS, GP or hospital list, or any other list. So I phoned through to the BMA. They had a Haydn Schumaker in Liverpool, a plastic surgeon, but they have no current address for him; he’s been out of touch for two years. They don’t get any reply from him at his last known address, which was The Elms, Wallasey Road.’

  ‘Mmm. That lass, Eloise Macdonald didn’t even know the lad’s address. I got it from Martin Tickle from his Frillies membership application. We need to look over his place urgently.’

  Gawber started grinning.

  ‘Just thought, sir. A plastic surgeon, the girl said,’ he grinned. ‘I suppose that means he fixes up these models with bigger … bosoms and—’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah,’ Angel interrupted quickly.

  ‘Must be in the money, then.’

  ‘Get over to his house. Might be a lead staring us in the face.’

  Gawber stood up to leave.

  Angel pursed his lips, reached out for the phone and said, ‘Hang on a minute. I’ll just make this call and then I’ll come along with you.’

  He dialled a number.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said, returning to the seat.

  ‘I’ll see if I can get any joy from Liverpool. If this chap’s in the plastic surgery racket, he’d need his clients to be able to get easy access to him. He shouldn’t be difficult to find.’

  A chirpy Liverpudlian woman soon answered: ‘Liverpool central, CID.’

  ‘Yes. DI Angel, Bromersley CID. Can I speak to the duty officer, please?’

  ‘Hold on, sir,’ the woman said.

  There were a few clicks and then a man’s voice said, ‘DI Callahan, duty officer. What can I do for you, inspector?’

  ‘I am trying to find the next-of-kin of a man who was murdered on my patch. Our enquiries have led us to an address in Liverpool, The Elms, Wallasey Road. I understand that his father is a doctor, and that his name is Schumaker. Can you advise ...’

  ‘Schumaker, Doctor Haydn Schumaker?’ Callahan said promptly.

  Angel’s face brightened.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Bad news for you there, I’m afraid, wack. He was found murdered ten days ago now. On Christmas Eve.’

  Angel’s mouth dropped open. A cold shudder ran down his back.

  Gawber noticed that something was wrong.

  ‘I am on that case myself,’ Callahan continued. ‘It ruined my Christmas, I can tell you.’

  Angel licked his lips.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘He was found on Christmas Day morning. Gun shot. A.32, right between the eyes. He was one of these cosmetic surgeons, you know. Worked on society beauties, models and the like. Well somebody’d been working on him. Poor sod. When we found him, he was strapped to a bed and his mouth had been well and truly doctored with … something. He had lips like he’d been sucking a red hot poker!’

  6.

  Everywhere was sopping wet and the sky still gloomy as Angel turned the car into Barnsley Road. As it gained speed, he changed up to top and cruised along at a steady forty. The windscreen wipers were beginning to squeak on the glass now that it had stopped belting down. He reached out a finger to the control lever and stopped the racket. They were almost at Frillies, so Angel reached into his inside pocket, took out a dog-eared envelope and passed it to Gawber in the seat beside him.

  ‘The address is on the back of there,’ he said.

  The sergeant took the envelope and looked at it bewildered as he scoured the small messy handwriting to find a sequence in the mass of words that looked like an address.

  ‘According to Tickell, it was only a short distance from Frillies,’ Angel said.

  ‘The Brambles, Harrogate Road, Clarendon,’ Gawber suddenly began to read out. ‘Is that it, sir?’

  ‘Yes. He said it was near the country club gates. Almost opposite. Now that would be nice and handy for Schumaker to take a young lady out, wouldn’t it?’

  The painted gates of Frillies Country Club appeared on the right, and, almost immediately, on the left he saw a street sign that read Harrogate Road.

  He tapped the indicator stalk, slowed and turned left down the narrow street with its modern architect-designed, detached and semi-detached houses set in pleasant-looking gardens liberally peppered with coniferous and deciduous trees. They looked attentively for a house sign and spotted it near the far end of the road. ‘The Brambles’, neatly painted in black on heavy, varnished, wooden, double gates.

  Angel’s eyes scanned the building for any alarm boxes or CCTV cameras. He couldn’t see anything of that kind, but in the garden was an estate agent’s board.

  It said: ‘For Sale. Penberthy’s for Property. Telephone Bromersley 223942.’

  He rubbed his chin. He turned to Gawber and said, ‘Write that down, Ron. Surprising. The dead man’s house is for sale already.’

  They parked the car, walked through the gates and up the drive together past the small but well-kept lawn and borders. Gawber went straight on round to the back of the house, while Angel peeled off and made for the front door. He stood under the porch and looked round at the houses opposite and the neighbours either side. He needed to give Gawber a little time to get in position. He observed that he could be seen clearly only from the windows of the three houses opposite. He turned back, reached up for the knocker, gave the door four mighty thumps on the door, and waited. There was no reply, so he tried the handle. It was locked. He pushed hard against it. It was a substantial door; it didn’t even shake. He went round the back and joined Gawber who was standing and waiting with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘No signs of life, sir,’ he said quietly, and pointed at the French windows. ‘That lock looks the easiest bet.’

  Angel looked closely at the keyhole, sniffed, then pulled a box of skeleton keys out of his pocket, chalked up a blank, inserted it in the keyhole and began the tedious process of picking the lock.

  Meanwhile Gawber looked round to see if they could be observed by anybody. The large back garden comprised of thirty-six young apple trees planted in an ar
ea of adequately maintained turf, and, beyond that, a field of light brown, south Devon cows moaning loudly in their soaked surroundings. By the back door was a black rubbish bin on wheels. He lifted the lid expectantly and discovered it was empty. It was a disappointment. There were usually some useful treasures in and among the rubbish.

  There was a click and Angel withdrew the two picks.

  They were in.

  Angel pushed open the glass door and Gawber followed.

  The house was pleasant, airy, and spotlessly clean and tidy throughout, and was furnished with typical traditionalist furniture with a leaning towards minimalism in line with a bachelor’s pad in the second millenium.

  They made their way quickly through the sitting room, where there was a chest of drawers that Angel pointed to; then the kitchen, where there were more drawers and several cupboards, also an envelope projecting from behind a clock on the mantelpiece; there was a small pantry leading out of the kitchen; a dining-room with a sideboard with drawers and cupboards in it, a case clock in the hall that might conceal something. Angel also spotted a telephone and a message recording machine with a red light glowing. He stopped, went over to it and pressed the button. There was a hissing sound and then a woman’s voice said, ‘This is Doctor Bell’s receptionist at the hospital. You’ve missed your appointment again, Mr Schumaker. Will you please phone to make another appointment? Thank you.’

  Angel frowned. He looked at Gawber. They didn’t speak.

  They made their way up the stairs. There was a strong smell of something difficult to define but not unpleasant, like soap or flowers or perfume. The bathroom was bright and airy, assisted by the full-length mirrors all along one wall that looked like a recent DIY improvement. The bedroom had a large fitted wardrobe along one wall. Angel opened the doors and found that it was overflowing with men’s clothes, smart suits, raincoats, overcoats, crisply pressed shirts on coathangers. Next to that was a separate cabinet holding a dozen or so smart pairs of leather shoes. There was a very comfortable double bed with a draped head and lots of pillows, bedside tables, lamps, and a dressing-table. The other room was a sort of study, a desk with lots of drawers, a swivel chair, built-in shelves filled mostly with reference books, maps, dictionaries, English and foreign.