Missing, Presumed... (An Inspector Angel Mystery) Read online

  Missing, Presumed…

  Roger Silverwood

  © Roger Silverwood 1987

  Roger Silverwood has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1987 by Robert Hale as ‘Wild About Harry’.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Extract from Shrine to Murder by Roger Silverwood

  Chapter One

  POLICE STATION, BROMERSLEY, SOUTH YORKSHIRE. 0832 HOURS. TUESDAY 24 JUNE 2008

  The phone rang. He reached out for it.

  ‘Angel.’

  The man at the other end gave a quick sigh and said: ‘This is Alexander J. Manson, manager of The Feathers Hotel. A very strange thing has happened. During the night, four residents were attacked in their beds while they were asleep, and each one has a nasty injury. I don’t like things like that happening in my hotel, Inspector. It gives it a bad reputation. So I wondered if you would look into it yourself, personally…quietly. I really can’t do with a lot of uniforms stamping around on my new carpets, making my customers uneasy.’

  Angel frowned then glanced at the pile of reports and unopened post on his desk in front of him, some of them more than two weeks old. He rubbed a hand over his mouth.

  ‘Mr Manson,’ he said, ‘are the injuries life threatening?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But the four men have been taken by ambulance to the General Hospital. The injuries were to their hands, and there’s blood on the bedding. It will cost a tidy penny replacing the stained sheets and duvets, I can tell you.’

  Angel blinked. ‘Do you mean all four men suffered an injury to their hand?’

  ‘Yes. The right hand.’

  Angel shook his head. It was difficult to believe. He rose to his feet. ‘Don’t touch their rooms. Leave everything exactly as it is. I’ll send somebody over straightaway. Did you say they were taken to the General Hospital?’

  ‘Yes. The A & E department.’

  A & E, GENERAL HOSPITAL, BROMERSLEY, SOUTH YORKSHIRE. 0900 HOURS. TUESDAY 24 JUNE 2008

  ‘You wanted to see me, Inspector?’

  ‘Are you the doctor who attended to the four men with hand injuries…from The Feathers Hotel?’

  ‘Yes. The patients with the fractured middle fingers. How come the injury is identical across four patients, Inspector?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d like to know that too. What can you tell me?’

  ‘Looks like the injuries were caused by a tool of some sort being applied to the finger and bent powerfully, causing fracture and dislocation of the second joint.’

  Angel’s nose and mouth muscles tightened briefly as he listened. ‘A tool?’ he said.

  ‘Could have been a pair of electrician’s pliers,’ the doctor said. ‘Anyway that’s what seems to have happened. But why four men and why all the same injury, I am at a loss to understand.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘I wish I knew. Where are they now?’

  ‘The last one’s in that cubicle at the end. He’s just back from the plaster room. The other three, I suppose, will be in the waiting area.’

  ‘Is it all right if I see that man now?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I must get on. Excuse me. There’s quite a build-up of patients waiting.’

  ‘Right. Yes, Doctor. Thank you.’

  The young doctor darted across to the nursing station and was intercepted by two nurses from different directions, both vying for his attention. The department was very busy.

  Angel strode down the centre of the ward to the cubicle with the closed curtains at the far end. He found an opening and peered inside. A man in pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, aged about thirty-five, was sitting on the edge of a bed looking at his plastered right hand.

  ‘I’m Inspector Angel from Bromersley police,’ he said as he pushed through the curtain. ‘Are you one of the residents from The Feathers who was attacked last night?’

  The man looked up. ‘Yes.’ He waved the plastered hand at him. ‘Somebody broke my finger. A man, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘I was asleep. Didn’t see anything.’

  ‘Didn’t he waken you, when he attacked you?’

  ‘No. All I remember is that I was asleep, then I suddenly woke up and my hand hurt like hell. When I put my other hand to it I found it was hot and wet, and I realized it was bleeding. I put the light on… There was a bit of blood and the pain…’ He shook his head as though he couldn’t find words. ‘I was a bit hazy. Must have been the loss of blood.’

  ‘You didn’t see or hear anything?’

  ‘No. I told you. I was asleep.’

  ‘Everything in the room…normal? The door closed, locked and so on?’

  ‘Yes. I went in the bathroom and rinsed my hand. It cleaned it up but the pain was horrendous. I rang down to reception.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Ten past four.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. The man must have been anaesthetized at the actual moment of the assault; that’s why he wasn’t aware of it until he woke up.

  ‘What’s going on in that hotel?’ the man said. ‘Three other men have also had their fingers broken in the night.’

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Of course I don’t know them. I don’t know anybody in this town. I live in Essex. I am field sales manager for a jigsaw puzzle manufacturer. I was calling on customers in Sheffield and Leeds. I was passing through. The Feathers was a convenient place to spend the night. I shan’t be staying there again.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Do you feel as if you’d been drugged?’

  ‘No. But I suppose I might have been. That would probably explain why I wasn’t aware of anything.’

  ‘If you were, it would be likely to have been administered in food or drink.’

  ‘I had a meal in the restaurant and a few beers afterwards in the bar.’

  Angel nodded. There was a definite line of inquiry. He thought a moment and then said: ‘Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to…attack you? To get their own back for something. A grudge? Have you any sort of a…feud with anybody?’

  The man’s eyes flashed; his jaw tightened. ‘What sort of a man do you think I am? Of course I haven’t got a feud with anybody. I don’t even know anybody in this uncivilized part of the world. I am just an ordinary, hard-working, married man with two kids, trying to earn my living. I am not one of your regular drugged up harebrained hoodlums stealing and conning my way through life. I came to this godforsaken town to spend a night, one night, that’s all, and I get assaulted while I am asleep. And you ask me if I have a feud with anybody! It’s bloody outrageous.’

  Angel frowned. He seemed to have touched a nerve. He didn’t apologize; he might have done if he had thought he had anything to apologize for, but he didn’t think he had. He asked to see some form of identity, which created more outraged reaction. The man opportunely had a wallet in his dressing-gown pocket, which contained a collection of credit, debit and store cards, club membership cards, RAC and library membersh
ip and driving licence, as well as money. He took out the cards en bloc and handed them to Angel.

  He quickly shuffled through them, chose the driving licence, and quickly copied the man’s name and address on the back of an envelope kept in his inside pocket. He returned the card promptly and told him he would be in touch later.

  The man’s name was Stanley Selman of 112 Chestnut Avenue, Moston Barkwith, Essex.

  Angel pushed out through the curtains, leaving him sitting on the edge of the bed, scowling at his plastered hand and breathing heavily.

  DS Ron Gawber was waiting at the open A & E ward door. He waved to attract his attention.

  ‘I came as soon as I got your message, sir. Been talking to the triage nurse. Strange tale, four men with broken fingers?’

  Angel looked round. ‘Only you, Ron? I left a message for Trevor Crisp, Ed Scrivens and John Weightman to report here.’

  ‘Not seen them, sir.’

  His lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘I don’t want this case going cold. I’ve just been talking to one of the four. I didn’t interview him in depth. That wants doing. His name is Stanley Selman. The others are in the waiting room — that’s this way,’ he said, pointing along a corridor. They walked as they talked.

  ‘Very strange, sir. Four men with broken fingers.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Aye. The same finger on the same hand. There must be some link between them,’ he said. ‘See if you can find out what it is. Speak to them separately. Go through everything. Employment, education and domestic history. When you’ve got their identities, ring them through to Ahmed. Get him to check them out on the PNC. The hospital manager might let you have a little room where you can interview them. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Crisp, Scrivens and Weightman should have been here by now. Anyway, they can’t be far behind. You can brief them. These interviews could prove vital. I’m going to The Feathers, see what SOCO have got.’

  They reached the waiting room, which was more of a large hall than a room. Two staircases, two lifts, four corridors to the rest of the hospital and a main exit to the car park. There were lots of chairs and tables. Twenty or more people were sitting around small tables. Some were drinking tea.

  Three men in night attire, all sporting matching right hands, sat silent, glum-faced and glaring at their cumbersome, newly acquired dressings.

  Angel nodded towards them and then went straight ahead to the automatic sliding doors that led out of the hospital to the car park.

  Gawber approached them.

  PENZANCE TO LEEDS TRAIN. 1035 HOURS. TUESDAY 24 JUNE 2008

  The carriage door slid open and the ticket inspector lurched through into the carriage as the train braked jerkily then surged forward again.

  ‘Tickets, please,’ he called, grabbing hold of the top of a seat.

  The passengers fumbled into their pockets and handbags.

  A man pulled out a brown envelope with ‘Probation Service’ printed on the top left-hand corner and a copy of the May 2008 issue of Lady and Home magazine before he found the HMP rail travel warrant for a single journey from Dartmoor to Bromersley.

  The ticket inspector checked the warrant with neither a word nor a glance, then handed it back to the man, who shoved it back in his pocket with the brown envelope.

  He reopened the Lady and Home magazine to the page with the small ads and read once more the one he had ringed in blue ballpoint.

  ‘Genteel lady living in quiet country house in South Yorkshire, seeks gardener/handyman. Able to drive an advantage. Own cottage. References essential. Apply Box No 212.’

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  THE FEATHERS HOTEL, BROMERSLEY. 1042 HOURS. TUESDAY 24 /UNE 2008

  As Angel went through the automatic doors of the town’s premier four-star hotel, he noticed a skinny man in a smart striped suit handing cash over to the desk clerk at the reception desk. The skinny man then nodded at the clerk, took the bill, folded it, put it in his pocket, picked up a small suitcase at his feet, turned, saw Angel, immediately looked away and made for the automatic doors.

  Angel frowned. He thought he had recognized him.

  The man dashed through the doors and out to the car park.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the clerk said to Angel from behind the desk.

  Angel turned to face him. His mind was still on the skinny man in the smart suit, but he said, ‘I’m Inspector Angel from Bromersley police. There is a unit of men examining the rooms where some of your residents were attacked last night. Can you direct me to them?’

  Before the clerk could answer, a voice from the office behind the reception desk boomed out, ‘Upstairs, Inspector. First and second floor. They seem to have taken over the entire hotel.’ It was Alexander J. Manson, manager. He appeared in the office doorway and walked up to the desk. ‘I should take the lift, Inspector. It’s right behind you.’

  Angel looked into the man’s glaring, inhospitable eyes, nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Manson.’

  He turned, pressed the button to call the lift, then he returned to the reception desk. He looked at the clerk and said, ‘The man you were attending to when I came in…what’s his name?’

  ‘Which man, sir?’ the clerk said, casting a sly look at Manson, who was still in position.

  ‘The man in the smart suit. Slim. About fifty years of age. I think he had just paid his bill.’

  The clerk frowned and consulted a book on his desk.

  Manson said: ‘It was a Mr Corbett, Inspector.’

  Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘Thank you,’ he said and turned away.

  His mind started whizzing round. So it was Lloyd Corbett from Manchester. Lloyd Corbett and his brother, James were running the rackets in that part of Lancashire. Whenever there was any major crime in and around that city, the Corbetts were at the bottom of it. Yet the police were never able to prove anything against them. The Corbetts had the lower echelons of criminals over there so scared that nobody would ever give evidence against them. What was Lloyd doing in Bromersley? Wherever he went could only spell trouble. He could have been the attacker of these four men, although he didn’t usually do his own dirty work.

  ‘From Plymouth, I think you will find,’ Manson said, raising his nose towards the crystal chandelier and pointing to the clerk.

  ‘Flat 11, Nelson Buildings, Forthwith Road, Plymouth,’ the clerk read out.

  Angel smiled. ‘I hope he paid you cash.’

  Manson glared at the clerk, who nodded.

  Manson smiled.

  ‘Stayed the one night, did he?’ Angel said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the clerk said. ‘Room 101. And he had breakfast in bed.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Thank you.’

  The lift arrived. The doors rattled open.

  Angel stepped into it and pressed the button for the first floor. As it arrived and the doors opened, he saw a sign with an arrow indicating that room 101 was to the left. He went up to the bedroom door and knocked on it. There was no reply. He looked around. The landing and corridors were deserted. He leaned forward and downwards to get an eye-level look at the door lock. It looked easy. He reached into his inside pocket, took out an out-of-date Barclaycard, slipped it between door and jamb, tapped it with the heel of his hand. The latch was back and he was inside. He quickly closed the door. He looked round. He spotted the tray of dirty breakfast pots on the unmade bed. The room had not yet been cleaned. He was in luck. His face brightened. He tiptoed across the carpet to the white telephone on the bedside table. Then, taking the white curly cable loosely, he lifted the phone, dangled it near to his ear and tapped the redial button. He listened. There were some electronic noises then a man’s voice said: ‘Yeah?’

  ‘This is the telephone engineer,’ Angel said. ‘I have a caller from Bromersley trying to reach you. There seems to be a fault on your line. Would you confirm your number?’

  ‘Go away, little man,’ the voice said. It was followed by an ear-numb
ing click.

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He yanked the phone away from his ear. That was almost certainly James Corbett. If he had found out the number, he could have obtained the address from the phone company and that would have been the first step in the process of arresting him and his brother, and putting them away. He breathed out a foot of air, and put the phone silently back in its cradle.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Hello, yes?’ he called.

  ‘Oh. It’s all right, sir,’ a woman’s voice called through the locked door. ‘It’s only room service. I’ll come back.’

  ‘It’s all right. Please come in.’

  There was a rattle of keys and the door opened.

  Angel flashed his warrant card and said, ‘I am a police officer. Would you please leave this room exactly as it is until our Scenes Of Crime Officers have checked it?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose so. But there are four other rooms I can’t do. At this rate, I’m never going to finish.’

  ‘Sony about this, but you will have heard that four men were attacked in the night.’

  ‘Huh! Heard nothing else all morning. Not safe in our beds anymore. The police are a waste of space. Disgusting.’

  ‘These five rooms… Did you come across any of the men from these rooms at all, or answer any call from them for room service?’

  ‘Naw. They’re too mean to pay the extra.’

  He nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  She turned away to leave.

  ‘Where are the police officers working at the moment?’ Angel asked.

  She looked back, pointed to the ceiling and said, ‘Up one, in rooms 201, 212 and 215.’

  ‘Ta.’

  He found the stairs and was soon on the second floor. It was very quiet. There was no sign of life along the landing and the corridors. He found room number 201 and peered round the open door.

  Angel immediately noticed an unusual smell.

  A team of four SOCOs in white overalls were hard at it. One man was dusting for prints on knobs and handles, edges and ledges where intruding criminal fingers may have wandered, another was transferring the contents of the waste-paper baskets into evidence bags, a third was running a lightweight vacuum cleaner sucking hairs, fluff, threads and human dust over the carpet, curtains and duvet, and the fourth was photographing the room in general, certain vital places and anything out of the ordinary.