Sham

by Roger Silverwood

  13.

  Angel looked up from the report he was reading.

  ‘Yes?’

  It was Ahmed.

  Angel noted that his eyes were shining and he was wearing a grin.

  ‘There’s a young lady in reception, sir,’ he said eagerly. ‘Says she knew the murdered man. Actually went out with him.’

  Angel blinked. A witness at last.

  ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Right. Show her into an interview room. Is there one free?’

  ‘I’ll check, sir.’

  He dashed off.

  Angel stood up and watched the door close. He licked his lips. He had to stop himself getting too excited at the arrival of someone who said she was a witness and who might be able to provide evidence to resolve this case. He had been disappointed before.

  He gathered together the letters and reports he had been wading through into a neat pile and pushed it to the corner of the desk. He rubbed his chin. He reckoned he was due for a break. It was time this nonsensical mystery was solved and the murderer caught. This could be the pivotal point. He pulled out a new cassette from the cupboard behind him, rushed out of the room and down the corridor. He peered through the glass panel in the door of interview room number one, and saw a foursome round a table. He sniffed and moved away. Interview room number two was vacant. He pushed open the door, switched on the recorder, pushed a cassette in the slot, then dashed over to the window, opened it and set the arm on the first notch. Then he heard the hard crack of high-heeled shoes on red tiles galumphing down the corridor. His timing was perfect. He went to the door. There was Ahmed and a pretty young woman.

  Ahmed coughed and then said, ‘This is Miss Mirabelle Jones, sir.’

  Angel smiled across at her.

  ‘Come in, Miss Jones.’

  The young lady came into the room looking round at the walls, the desk and then at Angel.

  He turned to Ahmed.

  ‘You’d better stay, lad.’

  Ahmed closed the door.

  He glanced at the young, fresh-faced girl in her twenties. She was bright eyed and had tidy brown hair. She was wearing a light-coloured raincoat, unbuttoned to show a grey jumper and a well-pressed navy blue skirt. She wore brown stockings and polished leather shoes with heels so high that she made loud clomps with every step. Her hands were fair skinned, free of jewellery and her nails were rounded as God intended and clear varnished. She carried a handbag in one hand and a compact umbrella in the other.

  He nodded at her. He totally approved: here was a girl, for once, that looked like a girl!

  ‘Please sit down. I’m Inspector Angel. What can I do for you?’ he asked quietly, maintaining the smile.

  ‘You are the officer dealing with the murder of that model, Tania Pulman, and that man, Richard Schumaker?’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘Yes.’

  She shuddered. Then she looked at the chair for a second or so as if she was deciding whether to stay or not. She slowly lowered herself into it.

  ‘I suppose what happened to her could have happened to me,’ she said.

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He was looking forward to whatever she had to say.

  Mirabelle Jones wrapped her coat over her knees and anchored it by placing the black leather handbag and umbrella on her lap.

  ‘I’ve never been into a police station before,’ she said, looking across the table at him. ‘Never had a reason to.’

  He pursed his lips and waited.

  Mirabelle Jones seemed intelligent and was becoming less nervous by the second.

  ‘I was told you knew the murdered man?’ he said quietly, as he sat down opposite her.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Do you mind if we record this interview? Saves time messing around taking notes.’

  She nodded.

  He pushed the cassette into the machine and pressed the red button.

  ‘Interview with Miss Mirabelle Jones, 12 January, 10.36 a.m., present, DC Ahaz and DI Angel,’ he gabbled as he checked that the spools were rotating.

  He turned back to the girl.

  ‘You knew the murdered man?’

  ‘Not very well. Met him twice. Lovely man. I recognized his description and the business with the empty lager can, and the tattoo and the knife, from the newspaper this morning. In my case, Jason fought the man with the knife, disarmed him and scared him off. If he hadn’t, he might have killed me like he did that model, Tania Pulman.’

  Angel frowned.

  ‘Who’s Jason?’

  ‘That’s Richard Schumaker, I suppose. I knew him as Jason.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Jason?’

  There was a new name to conjure with.

  ‘Jason was ever so brave and nice. Well, I thought he was. I don’t know now. Doesn’t make sense really. He just disappeared until this ...’

  He nodded attentively.

  ‘Well, tell me what happened.’

  She licked her lips.

  ‘Don’t know where to start. I was on a date with Jason. It was in the summer, July. I met him in The Feathers. I had called there for a drink after I had been shopping. It was my half-day. He’d bought me a port and lemon, without me noticing that he had noticed me, if you see what I mean. And we made a date for the same day, the following week. It was Saturday, 30 July, twelve noon at The Feathers. We had lunch and a bottle of wine, to get to know each other better, and, well, to take it from there. We then decided … well, he decided really, to walk up to the park. It was a lovely day. I expected him to have a car, but he said he liked to walk. We went in Jubilee Park, the top entrance, through the cricket field. It was a nice, warm day. We were talking about this and that. I was trying to find out what he did for a living and he sort of said — implied — that he didn’t need to work, that his father was well off in some sort of profession, a solicitor or a doctor, I suppose he meant. Anyway, he said that his father funded him. Got a regular cheque. Very nice, I thought. I should be so lucky. But he was ever so nice. Anyway, there was a little rose arbour not far from the main gates. It’s sort of through an arch of flowers at the end of a short winding path; it’s very nice and quiet. We went there. There was a bench and we sat down on it. It was warm, so he took his coat off. He put his arm round me and we chatted for a while. I thought he was going to kiss me. He might have done, but he didn’t, because, next thing, an empty tin can came flying through the air and landed at our feet. It startled me, I can tell you. Then a tall young man in a dark shirt and jeans, and a tattoo of a skull and cross bones on the back of his left hand, leapt out from behind some bushes. He stood there, waving a huge knife around in the air. He made some remark that I was his girl and that Jason should leave me alone. That I was his. But I had no idea who he was. I had never seen him in my life before, or since, nor do I want to. He then challenged Jason and made to stab him with the knife. Jason leapt up immediately and tried to take the knife off him. He made some frightening sort of lunges towards him. I was terrified!’

  Angel nodded agreeably. This evidence was fitting in beautifully with what was already known. It showed great promise. He must keep her talking.

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I, erm, naturally looked round to see what way I could help him. There was nothing handy I could have used to hit him with, or pass to Jason, or even defend myself with, so I just stood there, helpless. Anyway, Jason saw his coat on the bench, picked it up, threw it into the intruder’s face, it confused him momentarily and enabled Jason to make a beeline for the knife. There was a terrific fight. They rolled on the ground. Jason managed to take the knife off him, dragged him to his feet but before he could do anything, the man ran off. Jason was going to chase after him, but I urged him not to. I was so relieved to be safe and that he was unhurt, then I gave him a big hug and we quickly left the park.’

  Angel said, ‘What happened to the knife?’

  ‘Don’t remember. He threw it away, I think. I didn’t care about that. I was so reliev
ed and so thankful that Jason had been there. You don’t know what sort of hooligans are roaming the streets or messing around in public parks these days, do you? Don’t you think, Inspector, if Jason hadn’t been there he might have killed me? He was so brave.’

  Angel nodded then shrugged.

  ‘Did this Richard or Jason say where he lived?’

  ‘No. I don’t know, Inspector. I tried to draw him on his address, but he sort of skirted round it.’

  ‘No matter,’ Angel said. He had a pretty good idea. ‘Was the man with the knife … was he wearing a mask?’

  Mirabelle Jones stared hard at him, her big blue eyes showing big expanses of white.

  ‘A mask? No. Oh, no. Why would he wear a mask?’

  Angel rubbed his chin hard. That was where the stories differed

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Positive, Inspector. It would have been much worse if he had worn a mask,’ she said, pulling a face of horror. ‘I would have been much more frightened! Why would he wear a mask? Oh, no. He wasn’t wearing a mask. It was frightening enough … oh, no.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘No matter.’

  ‘And what did you do then?’

  She looked awkwardly at him then smiled. ‘Well, we got a taxi and went back to his room at The Feathers. He had a bottle of wine sent up and we watched television and that until … well, it must have been very late,’ she added dreamily, still smiling.

  Angel nodded knowingly.

  ‘Then what?’

  The smile left her.

  ‘I went home,’ she said abruptly. ‘And I never heard from him again. And now he’s dead.’

  ‘Were you unable to contact him?’

  ‘I didn’t have his address or telephone number, I told you. I asked him. He said he was always on the move, that there wouldn’t be any sense to it. But, in fact, he promised to give me a ring, but I never heard another word. You’d think that after a man had probably saved your life that there would be a special bond, a special … very special relationship … of a permanent kind, but after a week or two, I began to think something fishy was going on. I didn’t know what; perhaps he was married. But, you know, when you think you mean so much to somebody, you’d think they’d keep in touch, but not a word, nothing! I got so angry and hurt. I shed a few tears, I can tell you. But, well, time is a great healer they say. When I had heard nothing by Christmas, I wrote him off. Then this morning’s paper brought it all back to me. Of course, I was devastated when I read about his death and that he had been ...’

  She trailed off, then quickly reached into her handbag, found a tissue and applied it to her nose.

  Angel pursed his lips.

  ‘We need somebody to identify the body. The only relative we could find was his father, but he died just nine days before Richard did. At the moment, we’ve no next of kin.’

  ‘Oh. How awful. Oh dear. What an awful coincidence,’ she said with a sniff. She applied the tissue to her nose again.

  ‘Could you identify him for us?’

  Her jaw dropped open. She looked across at him with big staring eyes

  ‘Oh,1 don’t know, inspector. I really don’t know.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘It isn’t pleasant, I know, but there’s nobody else to do it as yet.’

  *

  Angel thrust his way rapidly along the busy corridors of Bromersley General Hospital. Mirabelle Jones tried to keep up, but teetered precariously on her high-heeled shoes which were causing her to walk pigeon-toed. She sighed with relief when they came to a halt at a large blue door with a sign white on black, fixed to it, that simply read: Mortuary. Angel didn’t bother trying the handle; it was always locked. He put his finger to a tiny white plastic button on the jamb instead. Very soon a skinny man in green overalls, white Wellington boots and clasping a long handled squeegee opened the door. He was wearing a white mask over his mouth and nose. He glanced at Angel and then peered at Mirabelle Jones who, seeing only his eyes, gasped, momentarily nervous of him and perhaps in anticipation of the ordeal ahead.

  The little man pulled the mask down under his chin.

  ‘Morning, Inspector,’ he said, and he opened the door wide enough for them to gain access.

  ‘Morning, Jimmy,’ Angel said affably with a wave.

  The large room was white-tiled throughout, except for two other doorways at the far end, and the huge frosted windows occupying the wall opposite; four operating tables were set along under the windows with powerful lights suspended over them; near the door, just ahead of them, was a bank of twenty-four large grey metal drawers, some of them with bits of paper stuck on them with pink surgical tape.

  The complex smell of ammonia, formaldehyde and body waste hit Mirabelle Jones faster than a demand from the Inland Revenue, and she then understood completely why the man had been wearing the mask over his nose.

  In addition, her ear drums were assaulted by the constant buzz and occasional rattle of compressors that produced the refrigeration needed to maintain the condition of the silent inhabitants.

  ‘Hello Jimmy. Is Doctor Mac out?’

  The diminutive medical assistant closed the door, leaned the squeegee against the jamb and said, ‘Called out to look at some old bones in Pontefract, Mr Angel. Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘I want to show Richard Schumaker to this young lady, Jimmy.’

  ‘Richard Schumaker?’ The little man screwed up his face into a squint for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes. Right, sir. I know the one.’ He turned to the bank of grey drawers, consulted the paper stuck on one of the drawers and said, ‘Yes. Here he is. This is the one, sir.’

  He pulled at the handle and with the slightest whoosh of steel balls rolling on well oiled bearings, the drawer slid out accompanied by a cloud of cold air that billowed at first then dropped down to form several concentrated streams that drifted down to the floor like channels of water in a waterfall.

  Jimmy had pulled the drawer out only about a third of the way and was still holding on to the handle.

  Mirabelle took in a deep breath and looked down at the shape of the head and shoulders of a figure covered by a white sheet. Angel moved up close to her. He heard her suck in a lungful of air. She put a hand up to her face.

  The little man took hold of a corner of the sheet and looked at Angel for the cue to pull it back.

  Angel put his arm on her shoulder.

  ‘All you’ve got to do is to confirm that this is Richard Schumaker, that’s all.’

  She nodded and licked her lips.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes.’

  Angel nodded, and the medical assistant deftly whipped back the sheet to show the head and neck of the young man.

  Mirabelle gasped.

  The eyes were closed, the skin was shiny, the chin and mouth in need of a shave and now looking pasty white and slightly blue under the eyes, at the temples and round the nose.

  She looked down and put a tissue to her nose.

  ‘Well?’ Angel said simply. ‘Is that him?’

  She sniffed and turned away.

  He nodded at the attendant, who quickly replaced the sheet over the corpse and closed the drawer.

  Angel turned back to the girl.

  She looked up at him with moist eyes.

  ‘No. That’s not Jason, Inspector,’ she whispered.

  Angel’s face dropped.

  ‘It is Richard Schumaker?’ he said confidently. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not the man who took me out and wined me and dined me and I went back to his room where I spent six wonderful hours that beautiful day in July. That’s not him, Inspector. That dead man is the man who attacked us. The man with the knife. The man who wanted to kill us. He’s the murderer!’

  Angel’s eyes closed momentarily. The corners of his mouth turned downwards. He rubbed his chin.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. I would never forget his face.’r />
  Angel shook his head. His mind ticked away faster than a taxicab meter in a traffic jam. It didn’t make sense. The girl was mad or blind or something! She had identified the dead man as the man who attacked Jason, her boyfriend at the time. He understood that Jason was aka Richard Schumaker. The fingerprints on letters from his father matched his. The dead man was Richard Schumaker. What she says cannot be right. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be. The dead man was incontrovertibly Richard Schumaker.

  He sniffed and turned towards the door.

  He’d had witnesses in the past who had lied all the time, usually finished up being the guilty party, but Mirabelle Jones wasn’t like that. She might be stupid or blind or mistaken or confused. She might be in love, but she wasn’t a murderer. How come she would rabbit rubbish like this? Everybody knows that this is Richard Schumaker, apparently everybody. Something funny was going on and he didn’t like it. Must get down to The Feathers. They might remember this Jason, whoever he is. It’s a sizeable hotel; bound to have records. Got the date, 30 July, she said. He hoped she wasn’t confused about that.

  He heard her say something.

  ‘What’s that?’ he muttered.

  ‘Where’s Jason then, Inspector? Does that mean he’s still alive?’ she said weakly.

  ‘What?’ he growled. ‘Don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.’

  *

  ‘I am the manager. In what way can I assist you?’

  ‘I’m Inspector Angel of Bromersley police,’ he said, flashing his warrant card. ‘This is Miss Jones. She is assisting me. I’m making inquiries about a young man, who stayed here the night of Saturday, 30 July last year.’

  ‘Oh yes? Mmmm,’ the man said, hesitating. ‘I suppose that’s all right. I’ll just have a look, sir: 30 July last year, did you say?’

  He turned to a very large book on the table behind him and began to turn back its huge pages.

  Angel stood at the desk tapping his fingers impatiently on the woodwork and wished he was somewhere else. The beach in the Maldives would have been first choice, if it had been July, on a long padded deck-chair with a good book and a glass of Old Peculier, with Mary next to him, in a good mood.