Sham

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Same woman. Paid cash, sir.’

  ‘Mmm. Well, it all sounds very peculiar. Somebody trying to pretend that their name was Mrs Buller-Price? Hmmm. But I can’t see why,’ he said drumming his fingers on the desk.

  ‘No, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘And I can’t see that there’s anywhere else to go. Her signatures will have to have been forged, but if we don’t know who forged them ...’

  ‘Yes, quite. Mrs Buller-Price has done nothing illegal, and the car’s not stolen. She’s got herself a very nice motor, so that’s OK.’

  Crisp smiled.

  ‘Very nice,’ Angel said, while rubbing his chin.

  His thoughts suddenly seemed to be anywhere but there for a few brief moments. Then his eyes lighted back on Crisp still in the chair by his desk, which brought him back to unyielding realism.

  ‘Right,’ he said in a businesslike manner. ‘Get back to the country club to this murder. Liaise with Gawber. He’s still looking for blood-stained, discarded clothes. The murderer would have wanted to have disposed of them quickly, burning fires, freshly turned earth, you know what to look for. And keep in touch.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Crisp went out and closed the door as Angel reached out for the phone.

  ‘Cadet Ahaz,’ came the smart, prompt reply through the earpiece.

  ‘Ahmed. Get me Mrs Buller-Price on the phone.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  A minute later, Angel heard her well-spoken, warm voice down the line.

  ‘Hello, yes.’

  ‘It’s Inspector Angel here, Mrs Buller-Price. About your car. I’d like our traffic manager to take a look at it as soon as possible, make sure it is safe and roadworthy, you know. Take about an hour. How about this afternoon?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’

  ‘Bring it round the back of the station. Ask for Sergeant Malin.’

  ‘Certainly will, Inspector. And thank you. You know it’s time you came round for tea again. Haven’t had a quiet talk with you for ages.’

  Angel smiled.

  ‘I have always said your Battenberg is the best I have ever tasted, Mrs Buller-Price, but time is the enemy of us all, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I always have tea and cakes at four o’clock. I am usually on my own. Michael Caine and his beautiful wife called in yesterday on their way through to visit the new Archbishop of York. He remarked upon the lightness of my fairy cakes; he had four, and I gave him the rest to take with him. You would always be welcome. If I know to expect you, I’ll make a point of having one of my special Battenbergs for you to try.’ Angel smiled. ‘Thank you so much. That would be delightful. I hope to be able to call in very soon. Goodbye.’

  He depressed the cradle to cancel the call, then dialled a number.

  ‘Mallin. Traffic division.’

  ‘Angel here. I have a little job for you, Norman. This afternoon, Mrs Buller-Price is bringing a brand new car round for you to have a look at. I want you to see if it’s roadworthy and safe for her to be tooting it round the place, in addition ...’

  Gawber looked up from the file he was reading and said, ‘SOCO found the lager can under the settee, checked it for prints and there weren’t any.’

  Angel sniffed.

  ‘That’s odd. Very odd. He wasn’t wearing gloves. Eloise, the girlfriend, the witness, said he wasn’t wearing gloves. The beer can was thrown into the room. The girl said tossed in. Then the murderer came in immediately after it. How could it have been wiped clean?’

  ‘Handkerchief, sir. Wiped it, before he threw it.’

  ‘Yes. Would need a disciplined mind to do that: he would have to remember before he threw it, and hold it appropriately.’

  ‘And, by the way, sir, it was a lager can,’ Gawber said.

  ‘Yes, of course. Is there any difference?’ he growled.

  ‘Not for throwing, sir. There would be for drinking.’

  ‘Aye. Sounds as if it was deliberately thrown to break up any atmosphere, possibly romantic atmosphere, that might have been created. After all, they were courting, had just had a nice meal, according to the girl. The room was quiet, pleasant, they were on their own on a settee.’

  Gawber nodded.

  Angel rubbed his hand across his chin. ‘The entire scene is grotesque. The murderer wears a black mask, has a skull and crossbones tattooed on his hand, throws a lager can in just before he bounces into the room, and then enters waving a knife in the air, like a cutlass.’

  He blew out a long sigh then shook his head.

  ‘Do you know,’ he continued. ‘I believe this murder was executed as if it was part of a performance.’

  ‘Like from a play, sir?’

  ‘Could be. But no. No. Not exactly.’

  ‘You mean a ritual?’

  ‘No. I mean that he wanted to be seen committing the murder. He didn’t commit the murder furtively, in the dark, up a back alley, alone. No. But in broad daylight, in a public place, in front of a witness. He even tossed in a lager can to herald his arrival.’ ‘But he wore a mask, sir.’

  ‘Yes. That’s odd too. It seems as if he wanted to be seen, or be conspicuous, but not identified.’

  ‘The witness said, she heard her boyfriend ask the man, “Why the mask?”’

  ‘Yes. But he didn’t reply. What do you make of that?’

  Gawber shook his head.

  ‘Don’t make anything of it, sir. Do you?’

  Angel looked down and shook his head. ‘No.’

  The church clock struck five.

  Angel was at his desk with his nose in a heavy, wordy, inch-thick book: The Home Office Review on ASBOs. He was pleased that the church clock had rescued him from it.

  He sighed; it was the end of an imperfect day. He was ready for home. He stuffed the book in his pocket, put on his coat and ambled up the corridor. He waved a hand at the constable at the reception window and pushed the door out into the cheerless cold winter evening.

  The station steps were brightly lit, but as he reached the bottom and crossed the road, the only illumination was a cold, hazy moon. He walked on a hundred yards to Church Street, then took the corner down the side of the old wall to the heavy iron church gate. It opened with a slight squeal and clanged as he closed it. He walked, through tall Victorian gravestones, where the tops were visible in silhouette in cold moonlight along the flagstone path towards the porch door. Suddenly he became aware of lightweight, quick footsteps becoming louder. Someone was following him. It was a man who had the speed and dexterity of a dancer.

  Angel slipped quickly on to the grass, hid behind one of the gravestones and waited. He could see the outline of a small man in a long, dark coat and smart hat perched at a jaunty angle. In profile, he could make out a very long nose shaped like a soup ladle. The man advanced rapidly and when he was a few feet away from him, he stopped, turned and rapidly looked around. Angel could hear his breathing. He could have reached out and touched him, he was that close.

  Suddenly, the man turned to look in Angel’s direction.

  ‘Ah!’ he said, in a crisp, cultured voice. ‘You should never stand up wind of me, whoever you are. My senses are so finely tuned, I know that someone is there. I can feel the heat of your body.’

  ‘Mr Helpman,’ Angel said, stepping towards him. ‘I am sure; I recognize the voice. I got your message. I hope it is worth my while.’

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Angel. I have some information for you that is so hot you won’t believe it. It’s worth more than a hundred pounds to you, maybe several thousand, who can tell? But I will take only a hundred pounds for it, from you.’

  Angel pulled a face, but in the dark there was no one to see it.

  ‘You know, I haven’t access to funds of that sort.’

  ‘This is information you would sell your mother for, Mr Angel. And I offer it to you exclusively.’

  He had had this conversation many times before with this man. So far as Helpman was concerned it seemed to be a necessary ritual. Angel’s top money wa
s always fifty pounds: all these negotiations were a waste of time. Both of them already knew how much money he was going to pay.

  ‘You know that fifty quid is top whack, Mr Helpman.’

  ‘This information could mean promotion for you, Mr Angel, superintendent at least, then chief constable.’

  ‘Come along. It’s fifty pounds or we can’t do a deal. And it had better be worth it.’

  ‘Mmm. Oh it’s worth it. It’s worth a great deal more. Make it a hundred.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hint. Whet your appetite.’

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ Angel said and turned. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  Helpman reached out and caught him by the coat sleeve.

  ‘All right. All right,’ he said quickly. ‘Fifty it is. Let me have it.’

  ‘If it’s worth it, and after you have delivered,’ Angel said patiently.

  ‘Very well. You’re very hard, Mr Angel. Very hard. So unyielding.’

  ‘Come on. What is it? I’ve a hot meal and a warm fire beckoning me.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes, well. It’s like this. You’ve got a new man in your nick, a tough, shrewd, hard man made up to a super by the name of Strawbridge, haven’t you?’

  Angel didn’t reply. He was there to buy information not give any away free.

  Helpman went on.

  ‘It’s common knowledge that Strawbridge got Rikki Rossi on remand on a charge of murder.’

  ‘Go on,’ Angel said encouragingly.

  ‘Well, Rossi is on remand in Strangeways. In the next but one cell is a friend of a friend of an acquaintance of mine.’

  Angel sighed.

  ‘Sounds like a very distant relationship. Whatever it is, I hope it’s reliable.’

  ‘Oh it’s reliable all right,’ he said emphatically. ‘Well, there were big celebrations last night on level one in ‘B’ block; that’s the one Rossi’s in. Rikki Rossi had just heard that his father, Stefan, who is doing twelve years in Wakefield — ‘

  ‘I know that,’ Angel said impatiently.

  ‘Yes, well, he’d just heard that Stefan has done a deal with Stuart Mace, the man with the casinos and the girlie rackets, that will ensure that Rikki will go free.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Ensure that he’ll go free?’

  ‘That’s what was said.’

  He licked his lips. ‘How can he possibly do that?’

  ‘Huh! I don’t know that, Mr Angel. If I knew that, my price would certainly have been a thousand pounds. But you can rely on it. Rossi’s brief, Solly Solomon flew up from London and they were chewing the fat for ages.’

  Angel shook his head.

  ‘Really?’ he said, with a sniff.

  ‘It will be so, Mr Angel,’ Helpman said.

  ‘How can you be so certain?’ he said sceptically.

  ‘I’ll tell you how I can be so certain. A different source told me this. And I’ll give this bit for free. There’s a bookie in the prison, a chap called Otis. This morning, he opened a book on Rossi, and he’s giving eleven to ten on, that the jury at the end of Rossi’s trial will say not guilty. My friend says that Otis is never wrong.’

  *

  Angel knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ the superintendent called.

  He opened the door and put his head through the gap.

  ‘I have some news, sir. You’ll want to hear this,’ he said significantly.

  ‘Well, come in. Sit down.’

  He took the chair by the desk.

  ‘Thank you. Last night, a snout told me that he’d heard that Stefan Rossi had done a deal with Stuart Mace that will ensure that, at his trial next week, his son, Rikki, will be found not guilty, and will walk free. And that his barrister, Solly Solomon, who —’

  Strawbridge’s jaw dropped open. He was clearly taken aback.

  ‘Rubbish!’

  Angel looked at him and didn’t reply.

  ‘Who is this informer?’

  ‘Reliable. Known him years.’

  ‘How did he come by this information?’

  Angel told him all that Helpman had said and concluded by saying, ‘It may turn out to be incorrect, of course, but I stress, he has always proved to be spot on in the past. I shouldn’t underestimate what this man says, sir.’

  Strawbridge rubbed his chin. His hand was trembling.

  ‘I need to see him,’ he said urgently. ‘I must milk him for every word, every nuance of what he claims, he knows.’

  ‘You can’t do that, sir.’

  ‘Why not,’ Strawbridge growled.

  ‘Don’t know where he lives.’

  ‘You can tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. He blows in from time to time. Leaves a message for me.’

  ‘Oh. Have you checked it for prints?’

  ‘A verbal message, sir. On the phone.’

  ‘We could trace the call.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘It’ll be the public one at The Feathers. It always is.’

  ‘Have they got CCTV?’

  ‘Yes, but not in the phone box, but I know what he looks like. He’s not on any wanted lists. He’s a professional snout.’

  ‘Is Helpman his real name?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so.’

  Strawbridge’s eyes narrowed. ‘You pay money out for information to a man whose name you don’t even know?’ he bawled.

  ‘In twelve years he’s never sold me a turkey.’

  ‘He will,’ he said heavily.

  Strawbridge rubbed his chin. The colour had drained from his cheeks. Suddenly he said, ‘Right. There’s no alternative. Draw arms and take two uniformed men and arrest Grady. But don’t bring that girl, Sharon, in, for god’s sake. Tell her to go back to her family. I expect her mother will be worried sick about her.’

  Angel ran his tongue along his bottom lip.

  ‘I wouldn’t be sure about that, sir.’

  *

  Twenty-two minutes later, Angel was quietly navigating his car through parked vehicles on the service road at the rear of Beckett’s Flats. He was closely followed by an unmarked police Range Rover. Inside the 4 x 4 were two uniformed sergeants in black-covered body armour and protective blue helmets; they were brandishing the very latest lightweight G36C Heckler and Koch rifles each fully loaded with thirty rounds. They stopped and parked on double yellow lines. The trio dashed quietly through the back gate across the yard. Angel tapped the code smartly into the back door lock and then they raced on tiptoe up the steps and along the corridor to flat 12.

  Angel wanted to surprise Grady, avoid any sort of gun play and make a quick, quiet, orderly arrest. Possession of the Walther was the first priority. If Grady wasn’t actually carrying the gun in his pocket or his waist band, Angel expected it to be under his pillow. He knew it was a dangerous operation, but he had the element of surprise.

  He indicated to the two sergeants to keep well out of sight of the doorway as he offered the key to the door. The door unexpectedly responded to the touch and opened slightly. It wasn’t latched and it wasn’t locked! It swung open thirty degrees or so. Everything was quiet. There was no sign of life. Angel licked his lips. He hadn’t expected this. He peered through the chink between the door and the door jamb. He could see the table still cluttered with pots and food. He could see the sink; there were more dirty pots piled up, half a loaf of bread, some cut slices and a knife on the draining board. Next to it was an electric toaster plugged into a socket in the wall. He looked across to the other side of the room. The bedroom door was ajar, but he couldn’t see into it. It was uncannily quiet. He pursed his lips. He could hear the beat of his pulse throbbing in his ears; it was getting louder and faster.

  He took two steps into the room, waited, looked round and listened.

  He called out.

  ‘Grady! Grady! It’s Angel.’

  Silence.

  ‘Sharon! It’s Angel!’

  There was still no reply.

 
He took another two paces to the bedroom door. He put his hand up to it and gave it a gentle push. The blankets and pillows were in an untidy jumble across the bed. There was the smell of soap and humanity, but no sign of life. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. He could hear his pulse beating faster and louder. He looked quickly around. There were no nightclothes, underwear, street clothes or any personal effects. He darted into the bathroom and the loo. There was nothing there. He yanked open the wardrobe doors. Two lonely wire coat-hangers swung and rattled on a bare rail. He pulled out the dressing-table drawers. There were no clothes or personal possessions there or anywhere else in the flat.

  The birds had flown and they weren’t coming back!

  Strawbridge’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  ‘What/’ he bawled, and jumped up from behind his desk. His hands were shaking, his lips twitching. ‘They’ve gone?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Angel said, surprised at the strength of his reaction.

  The superintendent’s lips tightened.

  ‘You should have anticipated this!’ he said furiously. ‘You should have seen this coming. Where could he have gone; where have they gone?’

  Angel glared back at him. He hated injustice, especially when he was at the receiving end of it.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. On Tuesday night you decided to take the risk and it didn’t come off!’

  Strawbridge pulled a face as mean as an ex-wife chasing a maintenance order.

  ‘I was determined to get Rossi permanently behind bars. Grady’s evidence as a witness was the only way.’

  Angel’s face went scarlet.

  ‘You shouldn’t have let him have his gun back! Maybe unarmed he might have felt less confident at running off!’

  Strawbridge glared across the desk at him.

  ‘It’s that tart, Sharon Rossi,’ he sneered.

  Angel agreed that she’d turn any man’s head.

  ‘I’m going to Strangeways,’ Strawbridge snapped, reaching for his coat. ‘I’ll have to see Rikki Rossi: get him to change his plea.’

  Angel blinked. He had as much chance of succeeding at that as there was of Ray Charles finding Tony Blair’s Weapons of Mass Destruction.

  8.

  ‘Come in, Ron,’ Angel said. ‘Shut the door.’