Sham

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel nodded knowingly.

  ‘It’ll not be to show off how wealthy they are. It’ll be because they have an obsessive desire to waken up every morning, still breathing!’

  Strawbridge wasn’t listening.

  ‘I told you that girl would betray Grady. I blame her!’

  Angel rubbed his chin as he thought about the beautiful Sharon.

  Strawbridge suddenly slammed a hand on the desk and stood up. ‘Where is he? Where the hell is he?’ he said loudly and waved his arms in the air.

  The phone rang.

  Strawbridge snatched it up.

  ‘Yes? … Who?’ he said incredulously.

  His jaw dropped. He stared across at Angel.

  Angel knew it was something huge.

  ‘Are you sure? … Right. Put him through.’

  Strawbridge put a trembling hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, ‘It’s Grady!’

  Angel’s mouth dropped open. He watched Strawbridge’s twitching fingers squeeze and then slacken their grip round the handset four times before he said a word.

  ‘Hello Peter, where are you? What did you run off for?’ he began.

  Angel cringed. He was talking to Grady like Angel’s grandmother used to speak to him a hundred years ago.

  ‘You can tell me,’ Strawbridge continued. ‘I’ll come for you, or Michael Angel and I. You’ll be perfectly safe in a convoy of armed police. You can bring Sharon and … Suit yourself … Yes. Monday, ten o’clock. I’ll be watching out for you … Yes. Court number one.’

  There was a loud click through the earpiece.

  Angel heard it.

  ‘He’s gone.’ Strawbridge sighed. ‘Says he’ll definitely be there on Monday.’

  Angel nodded.

  Strawbridge didn’t look pleased. He put a hand on his chest and pulled a face as if he’d just swallowed a cucumber whole.

  ‘Where is he now?’ Angel said urgently. ‘Where was he ringing from?’

  Strawbridge shook his head, banged on the phone cradle and dialled a number. ‘I

  am about to try and find out. I expect he was speaking from a mobile.’

  His call was promptly answered.

  ‘This is Detective Superintendent Strawbridge of Bromersley Police speaking. About a minute ago, on an extension of this landline, I was speaking to a man whose life is in very great danger ...’

  *

  Angel left the superintendent trying to trace the source of the phone call. He reached his office, closed the door and looked at the fresh pile of papers, files and envelopes that had arrived on his desk that morning and sighed.

  Ahmed came into the office and brought him a cup of tea. The cadet noticed the purple swelling under the inspector’s eye, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Ta,’ Angel said. ‘A little job for you. Ring CRO and see if we have anything on this Richard Schumaker. And let me know pronto.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And there’s something else. There’s an estate agent’s, Penberthy’s. Ring them up and ask them who instructed them to offer the house, The Brambles, out at Clarendon, for sale, and when. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He went out as Crisp came in carrying a videotape. He glanced at Angel’s face and did a double-take.

  ‘Nasty, sir. Good job we came along when we did.’

  ‘What!’ Angel bawled. ‘You let them get away!’ he added irritably. ‘Now what do you want?’

  Crisp’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t respond. He held up the video.

  ‘I couldn’t see many hands, sir, to check whether they had a tattoo on them or not. Most of the members seemed to be well over forty. There was only one man who could be described as young, tall, and dark-haired and that was the waiter, Louis Dingle.’

  Angel pursed his lips.

  ‘I thought the chef, Walter Flagg would also have filled the bill.’

  Crisp nodded.

  ‘I met him, sir. Yes. But he hasn’t a tattoo.’

  ‘I know that,’ Angel said impatiently.

  ‘Ah, well, he probably used the back entrance to the kitchens being the chef, of course.’

  ‘How many people came in and out, approximately, during that twenty-four hour period?’

  ‘Between a hundred and a hundred and twenty, I suppose.’

  Angel rubbed his chin.

  ‘Martin Tickell is only about thirty, sir. I haven’t included him either.’

  ‘Right,’ he said thoughtfully.

  Angel couldn’t hide his disappointment. That videotape hadn’t added anything to what he already knew. He reckoned it was time that the inquiries started being fruitful.

  ‘Now. I know that Schumaker banked at the Northern City Bank. Nip down there, get copies of his bank statements for at least a year back, details of his standing orders, and you know what else.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Ahmed knocked on the door and pushed in without waiting.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. The super wants the London phone book, P to T. And he says it’s desperate. Have you got it in here?’

  Angel swivelled round to the table behind him and scanned it.

  ‘P to T? Whose number is he looking for? I might have it.’

  ‘A barrister called Solomon, sir.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He swivelled back round.

  ‘No. I haven’t got it, and I don’t know Solly’s number.’

  Ahmed frowned.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, and rushed out.

  Crisp said, ‘I’ll get off to the bank.’

  The door closed.

  Angel rubbed his hand slowly across his mouth. If Strawbridge wanted Solly’s number then something important must have happened. He couldn’t think what. No doubt Strawbridge would tell him if it mattered. Must get on …

  He reached out for the phone and dialled a number.

  A familiar voice answered: ‘SOCO. DS Taylor.’

  ‘Yes. It’s Angel here. I want you to check out a house.’

  ‘Right, sir. Can’t do it today.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll be away at Manchester Crown Court next Monday. Do it sometime then.’

  ‘I can manage that all right, sir. What’s the address?’

  ‘Good. You know that lad that was murdered at the country club on Monday? It’s his place. It’s a very nice house; I think it’s been quietly used as a secret love nest. Wouldn’t be surprised if you find a certain young lady’s prints all over the place.’

  9.

  Angel drove his car up to the front of Bromersley police station and pulled on the handbrake. It was exactly eight o’clock on Monday morning, 9 January. It was gloomy and cold, but fine and dry. It was the day that the Lancashire and South Yorkshire police forces had long been waiting for: the opportunity to put Rikki Rossi behind bars for a good long stretch.

  Angel looked up the station steps to see if the superintendent was there. He wasn’t. He sniffed. He spotted a piece of fluff on his coat sleeve; he picked it off and disposed of it through the car window. He looked very smart, smarter than usual; Mary had insisted that he wore his new suit and the shirt she had ironed specially for him, and he looked as smart as a cabinet minister on the pull. He had given evidence at Manchester Assize several times before and so the day was not particularly highly charged for him. The outcome of course, was very important for law and order, the legal system and the national police force, but it was the superintendent’s day and not his. He hadn’t any exacting responsibility. He wasn’t a witness, he was there merely to act as Strawbridge’s chauffeur and to assist with any arm twisting that might be necessary to get Grady into the witness box and deliver his crucial evidence. Given choice, he would have much rather have stayed there in Bromersley and continued the investigation into the mystifying murder of Richard Schumaker.

  He spotted movement out of his eye corner. It was Strawbridge; he was running down the station steps. He reached the pavement, opened the car door and jumped i
n.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Michael.’

  The door slammed shut.

  Angel released the handbrake and let in the clutch.

  They were soon on the Pennines. Provided the roads were clear and there was no snow at the top, the journey should take about an hour and a half. That would allow time to park the car, meet up with Grady and the CPS’s legal team led by Oliver Twelvetrees and then get a seat in the court.

  Strawbridge was in a thoughtful mood, and sat quiet as Angel pressed the car westwards up the Pennines past the reservoirs and through the forests of coniferous trees.

  The superintendent suddenly sighed and said, ‘Do you really think Grady will show up?’

  Angel considered the question for a moment or two. It was almost impossible to answer. Grady might intend to appear and yet get cold feet at the last minute. But anyway, he thought it would be better to keep Strawbridge in an optimistic mood.

  ‘Yes. I should think so. Why not? He hates Rossi. For him this will be payback time.’

  Strawbridge nodded and rubbed his chin.

  It was difficult to judge whether or not he was convinced.

  Angel noticed a sign that said, ‘Welcome to Lancashire.’ He checked his watch. They were making good time. The sky was brightening and there was no sign of any snow.

  ‘Would you put money on it, Michael?’ Strawbridge suddenly said.

  Angel shrugged.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, trying to sound convincing.

  ‘Five hundred quid?’ Strawbridge said tentatively.

  Angel pursed his lips. He thought he sounded in earnest.

  ‘I couldn’t afford to lose that much, sir.’

  The superintendent’s face showed that he wasn’t pleased.

  ‘A hundred then? You don’t sound that convinced. Put your money where your mouth is.’

  Angel grudgingly said, ‘A tenner. That’s as far as I can go.’

  ‘Right. You’re on,’ Strawbridge said eagerly. ‘A tenner it is,’ he said with a sniff. ‘You’re not overwhelming me with confidence, Michael.’

  Angel said nothing. He saw a sign that said ‘Manchester 12 miles’. He put his foot down harder on the accelerator.

  *

  Angel turned into Deansgate then Bridge Street scanning each side of the road for a place to park. The car-park on Gartside Street was full, which was a surprise. He made his way along Quay Street then Peter Street and eventually found a multi-storey near St Anne Street. This hunting for a place to park made them later than expected reaching the court building. They eventually arrived on the stone steps, breathless, and joined the short queue in the drizzle outside the main door. Eventually they were frisked by two friendly, but businesslike, uniformed sergeants from the Lancashire force and admitted into the noisy, crowded corridor that led to the courtrooms.

  It was 9.55 a.m. exactly.

  They pushed through the throng of men and women in gowns and wigs, men in morning suits and people in ordinary street clothes, who were gathered in groups, some talking, some listening and all looking deathly serious. Angel followed Strawbridge as he weaved his way through the people down to the CPS office where he knocked on the door.

  A man in a robe and wig pulled it open and stood there staring at them. Beyond him, Angel could see four men similarly clad talking intimately in a huddle.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Twelvetrees,’ Strawbridge said loudly.

  The tallest man in the group heard his name. He broke away and approached the door.’

  ‘Ah. Superintendent Strawbridge, isn’t it?’ he said crisply. ‘I have no time to speak now. We have just been called.’

  Strawbridge nodded.

  ‘Where’s Grady?’ Twelvetrees asked. ‘I have some points to go through with him.’

  ‘Coming independently. I thought he would have been here by now.’

  ‘Haven’t seen him.’

  The three barristers came out of the room and pushed past them making their way into the corridor. The door closed.

  ‘I have to go. When he arrives, bring him here. And tell my clerk.’

  Twelvetrees dashed off, his black robe streaming behind. Two other men in morning suits carrying briefcases, who had been hovering nearby, joined him and they swept through the big doors together.

  Strawbridge and Angel looked round.

  Surprisingly, the corridor was now almost deserted. There were long wooden seats down the middle of the area and about fifty or so people, presumably witnesses and solicitors, remained. Some were drinking tea out of plastic cups. Two policemen carrying Heckler and Koch G36C rifles walked slowly by.

  The big clock on the wall above the doors to the courts showed that it was exactly ten o’clock.

  Strawbridge pointed to a vending machine.

  ‘Get me a tea, Michael? I’ll just have a word,’ he said and wandered up the corridor to the main door.

  Angel found some coins from his pocket, fed the machine and pressed the buttons. Then he watched Strawbridge approach one of the sergeants on the door; he flashed his warrant card and began talking to him. Then he pulled something out of his inside pocket and showed it to him. It was a photograph. The sergeant looked at it, nodded and handed it back. He said something else, seemed pleasant enough and concluded by nodding his head. Strawbridge waved acknowledgement and came back down the corridor, but he didn’t look pleased.

  ‘He hasn’t seen Grady,’ he said. ‘But he’s heard of him. He recognized him from the photo. He says he’ll keep an eye open for him and let me know when he arrives. This is the only way into court number one. So he has got to come through that door.’

  Angel nodded and handed Strawbridge the plastic container of tea. He noticed that the superintendent’s hand was shaking.

  ‘Ta.’

  Angel glanced surreptitiously at his sombre face. He was not a happy man. He must feel under considerable pressure.

  They sat on the central aisle seat sipping tea.

  The clock was ticking away. An usher came into the corridor occasionally and called out a name. People got up from the seats and went with him through the door to the courts.

  There were a few new arrivals filtering through the main door.

  Strawbridge looked across anxiously to see if any one of them was Pete Grady.

  Time ticked away.

  The clock showed 10.35 a.m.

  Angel was beginning to think he had lost his tenner.

  A blue vein on Strawbridge’s temple began to throb.

  Angel looked round for something to read; there wasn’t anything.

  A few more witnesses were admitted into the big corridor.

  Then suddenly, a uniformed police constable carrying a rifle strode heavily in their general direction.

  Angel wondered if he was coming to speak to them.

  The man’s face looked grim.

  Strawbridge stood up expectantly.

  ‘Are you Superintendent Strawbridge, sir?’

  Angel knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

  ‘Yes,’ Strawbridge said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’re waiting for a witness, a Peter Joseph Grady, aren’t you?’

  Strawbridge stared at him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, hanging on his every word.

  ‘Duty sergeant has asked me to pass on a signal, sir. Just come through on his radio. A body has been found under a pier at Blackpool. It has a bullet wound through the forehead. It’s not been formally identified, but it is thought to be that of Peter Joseph Grady.’

  Angel felt as if he had been belted in the stomach with a grave-digger’s shovel.

  Strawbridge simply lowered his head for a second, rubbed his hand across his mouth, then raised his head back up and gave out a long sigh.

  *

  ‘Come in, Ron.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Is it?’ Angel grunted.

  Gawber closed the door. He was carrying a large envelope.

&n
bsp; ‘I heard the news, sir.’

  Angel leaned back in the swivel chair.

  ‘Aye,’ he growled and pointed to his bloodshot eye. ‘To think, I got this all for nothing.’

  ‘What happens now, sir?’

  Angel grunted.

  ‘The CPS will try to take the case as far as they can, or the judge might immediately throw it out. The crown can’t possibly win, and Rikki Rossi will be discharged without a stain on his character!’

  ‘Nothing to be done?’

  ‘Not unless the Lancs police can prove that Carl or Gina, or both, murdered Pete Grady. He was shot between the eyes; it is their trade mark. But the scene of crime had been washed by the Irish sea, twice, so I doubt they’ll get much forensic.’

  ‘They’ll need a lot of luck.’

  ‘And it’s certain there’ll be no witnesses!’

  ‘It’s not right.’

  Angel’s lips tightened.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he growled.

  He noticed the envelope.

  ‘What you got there?’

  Gawber opened it and pulled out a glossy photograph.

  ‘That missing model, Tania Pulman,’ he said. ‘I was thinking, could we circulate it to the newspapers? She’s a bit of a bobby dazzler. I reckon they’d be pleased to print it on their front pages. Maybe the TV people would also be willing to make an appeal?’

  Angel looked at the colour photograph and nodded. He had to agree that she was indeed a beautiful young woman.

  ‘How long has she been missing now?’ he said handing back the photograph.

  ‘Twenty days. Almost three weeks.’

  ‘Got a written description?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gawber said. He turned the photograph over and read off the back, ‘Five feet eight, blonde hair, blue eyes, twenty-two years of age, wearing a pink dress, brown leather coat, carrying matching designer Boucheron handbag with fastener formed from two intertwining gold snakes.’

  Angel blinked.

  ‘Gold snakes?’

  ‘Gold-plated, I expect, sir. Although I was told the bag cost over five hundred pounds!’

  ‘Five hundred pounds?’ Angel boomed.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Overpriced designer rubbish. And how far have you got?’