Sham

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Do you have a mobile phone?’

  ‘Can’t be without it in this business,’ he said, pulled it out of his pocket and waved it at the inspector.

  Angel nodded his acknowledgement.

  ‘When Richard Schumaker and his young lady came to lunch, did you see him use a mobile phone at all, in the restaurant or anywhere?’ Angel said stiffly.

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t really remember. But I don’t like people using them in the restaurant. If I had been in there, and he was using it, I would definitely have noticed.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. Maybe Schumaker didn’t have a mobile; only Eloise Macdonald seemed to have seen it.

  12.

  Angel threw his coat at the hook on the cabinet and missed. He grunted something improper and bent down to pick it up. He found the loop at the back of the neck and hung it properly on the hook. He looked down at the pile of envelopes and reports on his desk and slumped down in the swivel chair.

  He reached out for the phone and dialled a number. It rang out for about half a minute. He grunted impatiently, cancelled it and dialled a different number. That was answered promptly.

  ‘Cadet Ahaz. You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Ahmed, where’s the super? He isn’t in his office.’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. Sorry.’ '

  ‘Right.’

  Angel replaced the phone and leaned back in the chair. He had not been able to contact Strawbridge all day. It was unusual for a superintendent to be inaccessible for any length of time without some info filtering down as to where he was. If it was illness, a meeting, a course or holidays, a temporary chain of authority was always set up. Nobody had said anything to him. He thought it was strange, like a train puffing along without a driver.

  There was a knock at the door and Gawber’s head popped through. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  Angel brightened.

  ‘Yes. Come in, Ron. Sit down. Haven’t seen the super lately, any idea what he’s up to?’

  Gawber shook his head.

  ‘S’funny. DI Asquith asked me the same question, sir. Nobody’s seen him.’

  Angel shrugged.

  ‘I have just got back from Frillies.’ He sniffed. ‘Nobody saw anything. Nobody knows anything. Everybody was asleep. I might as well be talking to an emu in Urdu. There are too many gaps. Too many things we don’t know. Somebody is making a monkey out of me and I don’t like it.’

  Gawber sighed.

  ‘I was thinking, sir, you know nobody has seen this murderer, only Eloise Macdonald. Nobody has seen Schumaker’s mobile, only Eloise Macdonald. And at the vital time, just after the actual stabbing by the murderer, Eloise Macdonald is unconscious, she says, in a faint.’

  ‘Yes. I had noticed.’

  ‘Convenient, isn’t it?’

  Angel rubbed his neck.

  ‘We’ve had some pretty good liars through our hands, Ron, over the years.’

  Gawber nodded. They certainly had.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Angel said.

  Gawber said, ‘The more guilty they are, the bigger liars they are.’

  ‘True. True. But one of those three men at the club, Tickell, Flagg or Dingle has to be our murderer, unless Eloise Macdonald is flying under false colours and she knows something we don’t.’

  ‘If she’s a liar, sir, the murderer could be anybody. Do you want to have her in, and go through her statement again?’

  ‘Not yet. Not unless we have something we can spring on her, shake her up a bit. Unnerve her. You know what I mean.’

  The phone rang. He reached out for it.

  ‘Angel. Yes?’

  It was Doctor Mac.

  Angel’s face brightened.

  ‘Now then, Michael, I’ve finished the PM on that lass, Tania Pulman.’

  ‘Ah,’ Angel said enthusiastically. ‘Good of you to ring, Mac. What have you got?’

  ‘Aye, well, she has contusions on the throat, consistent with her being choked by a person with large hands — that would be any adult male, really — causing asphyxiation and inhibiting the supply of blood to the brain, resulting in death. Her fingernails were freshly damaged so she put up some resistance, not a lot, I would think. Died whilst on her back, possibly during sexual activity or just afterwards, and left in that position twenty-four to forty-eight hours before being moved and lodged on her left side for approximately twenty days. Lungs bone dry. No signs of any poison, drugs or alcohol — unusual these days — but semen from Richard Schumaker was found on her and her clothing.’

  ‘No needle marks, tattoos, body-piercing?’

  ‘Nothing like that, Michael.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Right. Thanks for ringing it through, Mac. Is she fit to be seen for ID?’

  ‘She will be, in, say an hour.’

  ‘I’ll have somebody from the family drop by. Thanks again, Mac. Goodbye.’

  Angel cancelled the call by depressing the cradle, but he kept hold of the receiver and dialled a number.

  He caught Gawber’s eye.

  ‘He confirms it was Richard Schumaker. She was choked to death whilst on her back and left there for at least twenty-four hours, presumably during or after sexual intercourse.’

  Gawber blinked.

  ‘Sounds like something dippy a young lunatic would get up to for kicks.’

  Angel heard a voice in the phone.

  ‘Cadet Ahmed Ahaz, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Ahmed. Find DS Crisp for me, pronto.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He replaced the phone.

  Gawber said, ‘So we have one murder solved.’

  ‘That’s the easy one.’

  Gawber sighed.

  ‘What do you want me to do now, sir?’ Angel thought for a moment and then said, ‘I think we’ll ask for the assistance of our friends in the media.’ He spoke sarcastically. ‘We didn’t get any useful replies to that glamour photo of Tania Pulman in the national papers, did we?’

  ‘A lot of cranks, sir. That’s all.’

  ‘Run it again. Change the photograph. Give them something even more daring to look at. Say that her body has been found and add a supplementary inquiry. Tell them we are looking for a man in his twenties. Tell them about the tattoo, the knife, the lager can, the dancing about, annoying a courting couple and so on. See if we can pull anything in with that: there may be a few girls who have had a near miss with Richard Schumaker.’

  The phone rang. He reached out for it.

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘DS Taylor, sir. SOCO.’

  ‘Yes Don?’

  ‘We’ve been very thoroughly through Mr Davies’s pig sties, all of his bins, his trailer, his Land-Rover and his food store sir. A rotten job, sir, I can tell you.’

  Angel agreed that it certainly would have been. He sensed there was something of interest coming.

  ‘What did you find?’ he said attentively.

  ‘Blood-stained shirt and jeans among mud in one of Davies’s pig sties.’

  Angel’s face brightened.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘And stuck to the bottom of one of the bins in slime, some torn up pieces of a photograph, sir. I am pretty certain it is of that model, Tania Pulman.’

  Angel’s pulse began to bang in his ears.

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘And two empty Cheapos Lucky Bags, sir.’

  Angel felt the excitement of a 3-year-old on Christmas Eve.

  ‘That’s good. The net is closing, Don. Let me have the bits of the photograph and the lucky bags as soon as you’ve done with them.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Thanks Don,’ he said and returned the phone to its cradle. His eyes glistened briefly.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ Gawber said eagerly.

  Angel explained excitedly what the SOCO had found.

  Gawber nodded and said, ‘What about the DNA, sir?’

  Angel sighed and pulled a face.

  ‘More likely to get the DNA of Miss Piggy, than
the murderer’s!’

  *

  It was as black as a Barnsley pit chimney and as cold as a pit pony’s nose.

  The church clock had struck 4 a.m.

  Angel was in bed fast asleep next to his beloved Mary when the raucous, tinny jangle of the mobile phone on the bedside table disturbed the cold quiet of the night. He woke easily and reached out quickly for the bedside light switch. Then he snatched up the persistent phone and pressed the button before the noise disturbed his wife.

  ‘Yes?’ he whispered.

  ‘Is that DI Angel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘DC Tallow, sir, Traffic Division. Sorry to bother you. DS Mallin has put a flag on a tracer here to contact you on this number if there is any movement of a particular vehicle.’

  ‘Yes. That’s quite right.’

  ‘Well, sir. That vehicle has moved from its regular stationary place at Tunistone and is moving in a westwardly direction, over the Pennines.’

  ‘How far has it travelled?’

  ‘About ten miles, sir.’

  ‘Hmmm. Right. Will you advise me when it stops moving and comes to rest for more than an hour? Then I’ll want an exact location.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  He cancelled the phone, switched off the light and pulled the blankets back over his head. There was about as much chance that he would get back to sleep as there was of Robert Mugabe becoming the Prime Minister of England.

  ***

  It was 8.28 a.m.

  Angel was making his way down the station corridor. He heard a phone ringing out. He realized it was the phone in his office. His jaw tightened and he increased his pace. He reached the office, pushed open the door, reached over the desk and snatched it up.

  ‘Angel,’ he bawled into the mouthpiece.

  It was the civilian telephonist on the station exchange.

  ‘Oh. Good morning, Inspector,’ she said coolly. ‘There’s a Mrs Buller-Price on the line for you. I don’t know whether you want to speak to her or ...’ She tailed off.

  ‘Of course I do,’ he replied sharply. He didn’t like the way the receptionist wanted to filter his calls. He made it a policy to speak to every caller who asked for him by name: he soon gave them short shrift if he discovered they were wasting his time. On this occasion, he had been expecting to hear from the dear lady, and he knew exactly what she was going to say. ‘Put her through, please.’

  There was a click and the familiar voice began, ‘Oh, Inspector Angel, I’m so terribly sorry to trouble you,’ she said, sounding worried.

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs Buller-Price,’ he said gently.

  ‘But it’s my new car,’ she wailed. ‘Well, the car that was somehow left to me. I never did quite understand all the innings and outings. It’s been taken! Stolen in the night. I came in from the stable a few minutes ago and, lo and behold, it had gone. It was there last night at six o’clock. Clearly somebody has, erm, taken it.’

  ‘Oh,’ Angel said, trying to sound surprised. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs Buller-Price. And I will certainly look into it straight away. But tell me, are you without transport now entirely?’

  ‘Now, there’s a funny thing, Inspector,’ she said. ‘A very funny thing. I think that Mr Lestrange — you will remember he is the gentleman who was repairing my Bentley for me — Mr Lestrange told me only last Monday that he was now in possession of the engine part that was needed to repair the car, so it is possible that he could have it running for me very soon.’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  ‘And I am not entirely certain that that lovely new car was really intended for me, you know, Inspector. I mean morally. I hadn’t done anything to earn or deserve it, so I have never been quite comfortable about owning it, if you see what I mean.’

  Angel thought the conversation was going rather well; it coincided beautifully with plans already afoot.

  ‘Well, let’s see if I can recover the car first,’ he said cautiously. ‘We have its description, index number, on file, so leave it with me.’

  ‘Of course, I’m very happy to do that, Inspector. And, in the meantime, I’ll see if I can jolly dear Mr Lestrange along, to get my old bus back on the road today.’

  ‘That seems to be an excellent course of action, Mrs Buller-Price.’

  ‘Do you know, Inspector,’ she said in a confidential tone, ‘I do so look forward to getting behind the wheel of it again. You know, there’s a lot more room in a Bentley than in that posh new car! The steering is easier too. And the leather upholstery ...’

  Angel smiled.

  ‘Good. Good. Now, if I’m able to recover the car, I’ll be in touch with you immediately.’

  ‘On reflection, I don’t think I will want it back now, not if I can get my Bentley repaired.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Take care now. But if it doesn’t work out, and you are without any transport, do let me know.’

  ‘Well, thank you. Thank you, Inspector. Thank you very much and goodbye.’

  He replaced the phone and pursed his lips. He thought that that tete-a-tete had passed rather well. He hoped that the Bentley could be safely repaired for her use. After all, it was possible he might not recover the new car and he wouldn’t have been happy knowing that dear Mrs Buller-Price, living half-way up the Pennines, working a farm on her own, at her age, was stranded without any suitable transport. There was a knock at the door.

  It was Gawber wearing a smile and waving a newspaper.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said brightly as he closed the door.

  ‘Come in. Good morning, Ron.’

  ‘Seen the papers? It’s on the front page of most of them. The Daily Examiner has done us proud. Blown up photograph of her and the full story!’

  Angel sniffed.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen it. They’ve only published it on the front page because her nipples practically poke your eyes out.’ Gawber smiled.

  ‘It’s got us what we wanted, sir.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Angel said quietly. He eased back on the swivel chair, looked closely at him as he rubbed his chin. ‘I’ve got a job for you, Ron. Last night, I had an idea. Don’t you think if Schumaker had a mobile phone, that his father would know the number?’

  Gawber thought about it for a moment.

  ‘But his father’s dead, sir.’ Then his eyes flickered, showing that he was thinking. Realization dawned on him. ‘It would likely be in the father’s phone’s memory though, or his address book, wouldn’t it?’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Hopefully.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called, then turned back to Gawber. ‘Well, crack on with that, then. Phone Liverpool Central, speak to DI Callahan ...’

  It was DS Crisp at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Gawber nodded to him as he dashed out of the room.

  Crisp closed the door.

  Angel glared at him.

  ‘Where’ve you been? On your holidays? I told Ahmed I wanted you yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘I’ve been very busy, sir. There was a stream of enquiries at the desk about that model, Tania Pulman.’

  ‘What sort of enquiries?’

  ‘Well, all sorts of people wanted to know her address, who she had worked for, details like her age, and the address of her parents.’

  ‘You didn’t give any info like that out, I hope?’ he bawled.

  ‘Oh no, sir.’

  ‘Has anything useful come out of it, then?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. It’s in my report.’

  Angel shook his head. His reports were always very readable, as readable as the Brothers Grimm and just about as believable. He didn’t suppose that Crisp had been wholly occupied the entire day on such a cause, but, as usual, he couldn’t check on it.

  ‘Well, it’s going to be even busier in that regard. At least I hope
it is. Among the interest and questions you may have to field today about Tania Pulman’s murder, I want you to listen up for a female: somebody, anybody, who thinks they know Richard Schumaker, has had the experience of being courted, escorted, taken out, made love to, whatever the modern euphemism is, by him. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Crisp,’ Angel said pointedly. ‘We need a bit of luck.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Before that,’ he said patiently. ‘I’ve a job for you. It’s still to do with that lass. We need formal ID. An awful job. Will you see to it? I suppose it will have to be her parents.’

  Crisp didn’t react.

  ‘Right sir,’ he said promptly, got up and made for the door.

  ‘And Crisp,’ Angel said.

  The sergeant turned back.

  ‘Yes sir?’

  ‘Be gentle about it. It’s an awful thing for parents ...’

  ‘Oh I will, sir,’ he said earnestly.

  The door closed.

  Angel rubbed his chin. He was wondering whether he should have done the job himself. He usually did IDs, particularly when the relationship was close and therefore potentially distressing, but the enemy today was time.

  He must check and see what was happening to Mrs Buller-Price’s car.

  He reached out for the phone and dialled a number.

  ‘DS Mallin.’

  ‘It’s Michael Angel, what’s happening to that car?’

  ‘Ah, yes sir. It is presently travelling up Bury New Road in Manchester. It has made three stops at addresses in the city for varying lengths of time, but not longer than an hour. It has also stopped briefly, I think it was probably for fuel, on Cheetham Hill Road. None of these stops were for more than an hour, so I didn’t advise.’

  ‘Quite right. Quite right. Keep watching it closely.’

  ‘Do you want me to advise Manchester police to assist, sir?’

  Angel’s heart missed a beat.

  ‘No, no,’ he bawled. ‘Definitely not. This is a highly covert operation. I don’t want you to tell anybody, and I do mean anybody!’

  The emphasis was not lost on Sergeant Mallin.

  ‘Didn’t know it was like that, sir.’

  ‘Oh yes. Most important.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel replaced the phone. He thought for a moment then smiled and rubbed his hands like a fishmonger on Maundy Thursday. Everything was going beautifully to plan.