‘Nowhere, sir. Checked on her relations, ex-boyfriends, people at work, bank account, credit cards, mobile phone … nothing at all.’
‘All right, give it a go, but you deal with it. I’ve got plenty on. And I don’t want to get tangled with the TV people again. I had enough of them in that man in the pink suit case, last year. They drive you potty. And is that a fair photograph? It’s no good using an airbrushed glamour pic if she really doesn’t look anything like it. Nobody is going to recognize her.’
‘I’ll check it out with her parents.’
There was a knock at the door.
Angel pointed to it.
Gawber stood up and pulled it open.
It was Ahmed. He was carrying an envelope.
‘Come in. Now what is it?’
‘I’ve heard from CRO, sir. There’s nothing on Richard Schumaker.’
‘Hmmm. Thought there wouldn’t be. Right. Ta.’
‘And this letter was handed in for you, sir. I think it’s from SOCO.’
He passed it across to Angel and turned to go.
‘Hang on, Ahmed. I’ve got a little job for you.’
Angel tore into the envelope.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Yes. I want you to make some enquiries. I am looking for a Dr Bell; see if you can rustle up a doctor or surgeon of that name, in a GP practice, a private practice, hospital, the NHS, BMA or whatever. It seems Richard Schumaker was seeing a doctor by that name. I don’t know what for, or indeed anything else, just the name, Dr Bell. See what you can do.’
‘Right, sir.’
Ahmed went out.
‘Grand lad, that,’ Gawber said. ‘It’s his birthday next week, eighteen.’
‘Aye,’ Angel grunted, his head in the letter. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’
The envelope contained a letter from DS Taylor of SOCO; stapled to it was an A4 sheet listing locations on domestic furniture and fixtures.
Angel frowned, looked up at Gawber, passed him the letter and said, ‘Read that.’
It said:
For the attention of DI Angel.
Dear Sir,
Further to your instructions, we have completed the search for fingerprints on the residential premises and home of the deceased, Richard Schumaker, known as The Brambles, Harrogate Road, Clarendon, Bromersley.
We found no prints of the deceased, but found your prints in forty-eight places and those of DS Gawber in thirty-seven places.
All prints found were identified, and the locations detailed on list attached.
The premises were secured and the key to the French window has been returned to Cdt Ahaz.
Yours sincerely,
D. Taylor (DS).
Gawber looked across at Angel.
‘That’s very odd, very odd.’
Angel nodded.
‘That means that before we broke in and searched the place, Richard Schumaker or somebody else had already been round every nook and cranny with a duster, nay, I daresay a rag soaked in spirit, and carefully wiped every surface that would have accepted a fingerprint. Now what do you make of that, Ron?’
‘Creepy, sir.’
*
The phone rang.
He reached out for it.
‘Angel.’
‘It’s DS Taylor, sir.’
‘Yes, Don?’
‘You were right, sir. We’ve found the body of a partly clothed woman behind that wall of mirrors in the bathroom.’
Angel’s heart began to pound. The hair on the back of his hand stood up. He blew out a long sigh. He had been sussing out dead bodies for over twenty years, but he still couldn’t get used to it.
‘Right,’ he grunted.
‘And the smell is now stronger than yesterday and different. It’s the combination of perfume and putrefaction. Whoever put her there, doused her and her clothes with perfume.’
Angel nodded. That’s where his thoughts had wandered to, but he didn’t feel the slightest satisfaction in having his idea confirmed.
‘Been there long?’
‘The house is warm, central heating is on, we are talking two weeks or more, I should think, sir. Dr Mac has been notified; he’s on his way.’
‘Right, Don. I’ll see you later. Goodbye.’
Angel replaced the phone, and thoughtfully rubbed his chin. This was a bad business, a very bad business indeed. It was true that close on Christmas, and just after, was the busiest time in the murder business. But this festive holiday had been a particularly bad time. He shook his head. Strange lad, that Schumaker. There must have been some very curious activities pursued in that house. He wished he knew what had been going on.
There was also a dearth of information about the lad’s murderer. All Angel knew was that he was looking for a tall, young man, with dark hair, skull and crossbones tattoo on the back of his left hand; that some of his clothes would be sprayed with blood; that he stole a coat and gloves from the cloakroom; that he was a bit of an actor and that, that was about it.
If only the man’s mobile phone could be found, Angel would then be able to find out who he had conversed with on a day-by-day basis. He could interview them; that might throw up a suspect. He might also learn what his interests had been, apart from women!
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was DS Crisp.
‘Got a copy of Schumaker’s bank account, sir. Nothing strange or unusual. Just that he gets eight hundred pounds a month from a bank in Liverpool. Traced it back, it’s from his father. A direct credit.’
Angel’s eyebrows lifted.
‘That’s a generous daddy.’
He rubbed his chin.
‘Are there any other sources of income?’
‘No, sir. All he seems to pay out are ordinary utility bills: credit card, gas, electric, telephone, and so on.’
Angel’s eyes narrowed.
‘No mobile phone?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I wonder if he really had one?’
*
Angel drove on to the car-park of Cheapos, the supermarket, located on the edge of Bromersley. He parked near the store entrance and walked purposefully towards the main double doors of the massive one-storey glass and plastic building. He dodged a dozen shoppers with juddering trolleys rattling past him travelling in every direction, and glanced at the signs that extolled the virtues, the value, the low prices, and the special offers available from the store that claimed to be the biggest and cheapest in town.
He made himself known at the enquiry counter near the door and asked for Miss Eloise Macdonald. The staff were extremely courteous and helpful: it was no problem at all.
While he waited, he was offered the tasting of a new cheese, which he politely declined, was offered leaflets on banking, double-glazing, car and home and pet insurance and membership of a vehicle breakdown service. He accepted all the leaflets and pushed them into his pockets to save explanation and time.
A lady told him all about the voucher system that rewarded customers who spent more than fifty pounds, with a free Cheapos Lucky Bag worth a pound.
He smiled. It must have been forty years since he remembered anything of a lucky bag, which he recalled he had bought in those days from a little shop on the corner for a small nominal coin and was always giant value. The lady carefully explained the worthiness of the Cheapos Lucky Bag and gave him a leaflet detailing the typical contents, the breakdown value and told how much children would enjoy their many and varied contents. He patiently took the leaflet. It was easier than explaining that he hadn’t any children, didn’t know any children and was unlikely to come across any children.
‘You want to see me, Inspector?’
It was Eloise Macdonald looking very attractive in a blue overall.
She appeared behind the counter. She showed him into a tiny room close by. Angel looked round. It had a table and four chairs, and was probably where the store security officer interviewed shoplifters while waiti
ng for uniformed police to arrive.
‘A few questions, Eloise, that’s all.’
‘Anything I can do to help,’ she said sweetly.
‘Yes. Can you tell me if Richard Schumaker had a mobile phone?’
‘Oh yes,’ she replied promptly. ‘He had it with him the day he was … he died.’
‘We can’t find it anywhere. It has disappeared,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘He definitely had it that day at the country club?’
‘Oh yes. In fact, it rang twice during the meal.’
‘Hmmm.’
That was strange, he thought. But he now drew one immediate conclusion: the murderer must have taken it. There was nobody else.
She nodded. ‘I believe I fainted. I suppose it could have been taken while I was out.’
Angel pursed his lips.
‘There’s no other explanation,’ he said pensively. ‘You wouldn’t know who phoned him, would you?’
‘He didn’t tell me. He just apologized, said it was work. He was polite, but he made it clear to the caller that the call was inconvenient, not welcome.’
‘But you’ve no idea who rang?’
‘None. Sorry.’
‘Did you ever phone him?’
He was thinking he could have the phone traced if he knew the number.
‘No.’
‘Did you ever go to his house?’
She shook her head.
‘I didn’t know where he lived, Inspector. He said it was close by.’
‘No. No,’ he said patiently. ‘Did you know a girl called Tania?’
‘Unusual name. No.’
He wrinkled up his nose. This was getting him nowhere.
‘Did you know that you were the last entry on a list of girls’ names, a list that was found in Richard Schumaker’s pocket?’
Her eyes narrowed. She slowly shook her head.
‘No, Inspector. No. I didn’t. What was that about?’
‘I really have no idea,’ he lied. He felt no obligation to speak the truth to witnesses, particularly those who could, perhaps, be more forthcoming.
10.
‘Yes. Come in. I’ve been looking all over for you.’
Ahmed protested. ‘I’ve been looking for you, sir. You were out all day yesterday and you were out earlier today.’
‘Well I’m here now. Look lively. You’ve about as much sparkle as a midwife’s bicycle lamp,’ Angel growled. ‘What did that estate agent’s say? Who instructed them?’
‘Yes, sir. Penberthy’s. Apparently, according to Mr Penberthy, Richard Schumaker instructed them himself, just before Christmas, on Friday, 23 December. And they put up the “For Sale” sign at the house on Monday, 2 January.’
Angel sniffed.
‘That was the day he died,’ he muttered grimly. ‘Must have done it in the morning, before he went to Frillies.’
‘And I’ve found Doctor Bell. He is a psychiatrist at the General Hospital on Burton Road.’
Angel’s face dropped.
‘Don’t like the sound of that. It’s those sort of doctors that send you batty!’
Suddenly, out in the corridor there was a loud scream. Sounded like a woman or a girl. It was a very loud scream. Then another.
They both stared at the door.
‘Better see what it is,’ Angel said urgently, waving his hand.
He jumped up, pushed the swivel chair back and made for the door.
The screaming continued.
‘Hurry up.’
Ahmed grabbed the doorknob.
Angel charged out into the corridor.
The cadet followed close behind.
At first there was no sign of anything or anybody. Four or five other office doors opened and anxious faces looked out. Then, from the female locker room a WPC backed out into the corridor. It was clear to see that it was WPC Leisha Baverstock again. She was holding her face with both hands, and, as she turned, Angel could see her big eyes were bigger than ever, her mouth was open and her lips were quivering.
Angel stood there, realization dawning on him. He rubbed a hand slowly over his leathery face. ‘It’s that ruddy mouse again, Ahmed!’ he said, turning away. ‘You’ll have to catch it, Ahmed. You’ll have to catch it!’
Ahmed’s jaw dropped.
‘I can’t catch mice, sir,’ he said pathetically.
Angel growled.
‘Well, see what you can do for her. I must get on,’ he added and headed back to his office.
The Nosy Parkers, hanging out of the offices, withdrew and closed their doors.
Angel stormed down the corridor and reconsidered the merits and demerits of having a station cat. He reached his office, closed the door and slumped in the swivel chair. He rubbed an earlobe between finger and thumb. He recalled that he had heard screams like that in a CCTV recording of a bank siege, where a robber had shot an assistant bank manager. He remembered the crack of the bullet and the horrific reactions of the man’s wife on being told later. His mind then drifted into thinking about the Rossi family and then, inevitably, to Mrs Buller-Price. It was time he was giving her a ring.
He reached out for the phone and dialled a number.
‘Is that Mrs Buller-Price? This is Inspector Angel of—’, hello there, Inspector,’ she said, clearly delighted to hear from him. ‘How nice of you to call, and so unexpectedly.’ She stopped suddenly. Her voice changed to one of serious concern. ‘Oh dear!’ she said sombrely. ‘I think I know why you’ve called. You’re going to tell me that I have to return my lovely new car?’
Angel smiled.
‘Not at all. No. This is just a friendly … social call,’ he lied. ‘I am merely concerned that you, as a pillar of the community, have all that you require; a woman living on her own and working virtually at the top of a mountain, in these winter months, you know ...’
‘You are waffling, Inspector,’ she said shrewdly. ‘What is it you want? Are you wanting some of my scones?’
He didn’t reply.
‘You are after this car, aren’t you?’
‘No. No. Is it running well?’
‘Like a bird!’
‘That’s good. Yes. Good. Well now, you know where to reach me if you have any problems.’
‘Mmmm. Thank you, Inspector, and if you ever feel like a cup of tea and a piece of my Battenberg, you know where you can reach me,’ she countered.
‘Goodbye,’ he said and replaced the handset.
He screwed up his face as if he’d taken a dose of Fenning’s Fever Cure. He drummed his fingers irritably on the desk top. Patience was not one of his virtues. He anxiously wanted the action to begin. Unfortunately, he was not the one with the initiative. That was in the hands of the female of the species.
*
It was almost four o’clock and winter gloom was creeping across the cold blue sky as Angel pulled up outside The Brambles and parked behind the SOCOs’ white transit van. He got out of the car and, as he was locking the door, he noticed out of his eye corner several motionless figures in silhouette, standing in the front bay windows of the four neighbouring houses. The news that a dead body had been found in the house had obviously leaked out. He sighed. Voices and movement from behind caught his attention. He turned round to see two men in white paper overalls walking briskly down the short drive carrying a stretcher. On it was a shapeless zipped up sack, secured by three blue canvas straps. The SOCOs stopped at the rear of the transit, which had its doors open and fastened back in readiness. They lowered the stretcher on to rails on tracks fastened to the vehicle’s floor and slid the stretcher inside. They closed the doors, climbed into the cab, started the engine, switched on the sidelights and drove away.
Angel watched the van rumble to the end of the street, where its indicator lights flashed brightly in the crisp air, and it took the corner.
Doctor Mac in white overalls, cap and boots came out of the front door of the house carrying a black case.
Angel saw him and followed him to his car that was
parked a little further up the street.
‘Hi Mac. What you got?’
The doctor looked surprised under the white hat and looked back.
‘Oh, it’s you, Michael,’ he said, unlocking his car boot. ‘How is that eye of yours getting along?’
‘It’s all right, Mac. Tell me what you found then?’
‘Not much. A dead woman, injuries to her throat, half-dressed, that’s about it.’
‘Murder?’
‘Probably.’
‘Any forensic?’
‘Maybe,’ Mac said, as he tossed in the case, dragged off the hat and began to strip off the paper overalls.
‘Murder weapon?’
‘None found.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Young.’
‘Any ID?’
‘There’s a handbag at the scene; seems big enough to have yards of ID in it.’
Angel nodded agreeably. He hoped so. He hated to have a body that came unaddressed.
‘Anything else?’
‘Empty perfume bottle, clothes, some rubbish.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He liked the sound of that. There were usually good clues in honest, untouched rubbish.
‘What sort of rubbish?’
Mac shrugged and said, ‘Just rubbish.’ He stepped out of the white boots into leather shoes, threw the used suit, hat and rubber boots into the boot. ‘Excuse me, Michael,’ he added quickly and brushed past him to the car door. He opened it, jumped into the driving-seat, lowered the window and started the engine. ‘I’ll let you know what I can tomorrow. I’ll give you a ring.’
‘Yes. Fine. What’s the big hurry?’ Angel asked.
‘For one thing, I have had no lunch,’ Mac replied irritably.
Angel pointed to the glove box. ‘I thought it was in that bottle you keep in there?’ he said with a grin.
Mac looked at him patiently and shook his head. He let in the clutch, revved the engine and pulled away.
Angel went through the gate, up the drive, past a uniformed constable on the door and into the house. The hall carpet was covered in white sheeting. He stepped into the centre of it. He immediately lifted his nose in dismay. The smell was as pungent as before, but no longer sweet. He wrinkled his nose.
He called up the stairs.
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