Murder in Bare Feet Page 12

  ‘Right, sir.’

  The door closed.

  Angel sat down. He didn’t have time to think of the next priority because the phone rang.

  He reached out for it. It was Harker. He started speaking before Angel got the phone to his ear.

  ‘I’ve just had the Chief Constable on the phone. He wants to know what’s happening on the bank robbery front. I told him I’d check up on it and get back to him. So, how far have you got?’

  Angel’s head came up. He licked his lips. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t done anything at all about it. It was the last question in the world he needed at that time. All his effort had been on the Pleasant murder. ‘I’m waiting for SOCO’s report, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to Taylor,’ he bawled. ‘He said that the report was delivered to you yesterday. There were no DNA or prints. Everything’s done except for the ballistics on the bullet fired into the bank wall. How far have you got with it?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I have just noticed the report is right here in front of me, sir.’

  ‘Right. Well, how far have you got? Did you find the bogus ambulance?’

  ‘No, sir. Not yet.’

  ‘Well, have you been able to identify anybody on the security tape? The girl was pretty clear in some of those shots.’

  ‘But females can disguise the shape of their faces with cotton-wool and wigs and make-up, sir.’

  ‘I know! I know! I know all that!’ he stormed. ‘But what can I tell the Chief Constable? He’s got the deputy chairman of the Great Northern Bank on his back. He’s an old friend of Sir Stanley McPherson, an advisor to the Chancellor of the Exchequer and his brother-in-law is Lord Nile, who is on the Great Northern Bank board. These are very big wheels, Angel. They could make us a lot of trouble. That gang of robbers has to be caught, tried and put away, and we need to be quick about it.’

  The names and titles didn’t impress Angel at all. If he had included George W. Bush, the Pope and the Cheeky Girls, it would have made the same difference. ‘I’ve really been pulling out all the stops to find the murderer of Charles Pleasant,’ he said. ‘It’s a pretty complicated case, sir.’

  ‘Pleasant?’ he roared. ‘The scrapdealer?’ he roared again. ‘Well, you can drop that.’

  ‘It’s a murder case, sir,’ he protested.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and then he sniffed. ‘Let me tell you something that I’ve discovered in my experience. If a case is complicated, it sometimes pays to leave it a while and let it ripen … let it unravel itself a bit, let the witnesses worry a little, the suspects sweat a little, and the murderer—’

  ‘Go on to murder somebody else,’ Angel said, finishing Harker’s sentence for him. It was involuntary. He didn’t intend to speak out, but it came into his mind and just popped out. He regretted it immediately. He knew it could only make trouble for him.

  He heard a sort of intake of breath and then a pause. He knew Harker would be furious; had probably turned purple. Angel had seen him do that when he was really angry. He sat there, hanging on to the phone. He thought about offering an apology, but he didn’t think he could manage it. It would stick in his throat.

  Eventually, Harker came back. His voice was quivering. Angel could tell he was talking through tight lips. ‘You are being ridiculous, stubborn and offensive. I won’t forget it. And you still have not given me one thing useful to say to the Chief.’

  ‘Didn’t mean to be offensive, sir,’ Angel said. He thought very quickly. ‘Regarding the robbery, you could say that there were no prints, no DNA, and nothing useful yet from ballistics. However, all personnel have been appropriately briefed to apprehend any suspicious characters, and the machinery for apprehending the bank robbers, as soon as they come out of hiding, is in place.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘That is a right load of waffle, but it might fill the bill. In the meantime, drop that murder case for the time being, and get on to this bank robbery and I don’t want any argument about it.’

  There was a loud click in Angel’s ear and the phone went dead.

  Angel blew out a lungful of air and slowly replaced the phone. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He rubbed his mouth and his jaw. He took four deep breaths, stood up, walked round the office, ran his hand through his hair, gazed out of the window for a minute or two seeing absolutely nothing there, returned to his desk, sat down, picked up the phone and tapped out a number.

  It was soon answered.

  ‘Ahmed,’ he said evenly. ‘Find Ted Scrivens and send him in.

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And do you know where DS Crisp is, lad?’

  ‘No sir.’

  Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘Well, find him for me. I can never find that lad. I want him urgently, tell him.’

  A few minutes later, DC Scrivens, a lanky young policeman who had been on Angel’s team for the past four years, knocked on the door and came in.

  ‘Sit down, Ted. And listen up. In reference to that bank robbery on Monday, it involved three men and a woman. You will know that a bogus ambulance was used.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right, well, according to witnesses, it was a perfect likeness to the real thing, so I suspect that it was a vehicle that had originally been an ambulance, was decommissioned by a hospital, possibly Bromersley, possibly not, bought by the crooks and tarted back up to look like the real thing again. I imagine it was sold to a car auction house either by the hospital or via a specialist dealer who supplies new ambulances and took the old one in on a part-exchange basis. Now, if we could find out how the crooks came by it, or where they had it resprayed and dolled up, and by whom, or where it is hidden now, it might help us to trace the robbers. Got it?’

  Scrivens was paying close attention. He nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now, I suggest you start at our local hospital. Find out what they do with their redundant ambulances. Also, you could look up on the PNC for any local vehicle mechanics, panel beaters, body sprayers and so on. Visit them unannounced. Search their premises. Look for signs of a vehicle covered over, or outbuildings that are locked up, or tins of cream paint; that colour isn’t used much on private cars these days. Of course, it’s perfectly possible that they may have taken off the chrome and the fittings from the old ambulance, sprayed it a different colour and sold it on. However, ambulances have a unique shape. I want you to try and find me a lead. You’ll need to use your initiative. I’ll leave it with you. Report to me on my mobile anytime if you uncover anything. All right?’

  Scrivens face shone. He was pleased to be given the job of making an inquiry under his own steam. It also gave him opportunities to work away from the station office. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said brightly and rushed off.

  Angel watched him through the door and wondered if he had done the right thing. It was really a job for a battle hardened detective sergeant with a snarl; Scrivens was barely a potty trained detective constable with a yelp. But Gawber and Crisp were otherwise engaged. There was nobody else in plain-clothes in his team he could have sent. He consoled himself by reasoning that it would be good experience for him. But where was Crisp? Why didn’t he check in? He considered for a moment what he should do next, then he reached out to the phone and tapped in a number. DS Taylor of SOCO answered.

  ‘Ah, Don,’ Angel said. ‘Are you still at the Pleasants’ house?’

  ‘Yes sir. We should be finished tomorrow.’

  ‘Found anything I would want to know about?’

  He knew exactly what Angel meant. The list was always the same. He was interested in unusually large quantities of cash or gold, as well as any drugs, weapons, explosives or pornography in any quantity, also anything that seemed to have been stolen.

  ‘No sir. There are files containing share certificates and bonds. I would need an hour or two to make a few phone calls to a stockbroker and the bank to see what they’re worth.’

  ‘A rough idea will do, Don. Also
I shall want his bank statements. The last twelve month’s at least. And his address book.’

  ‘I’ve seen them. I know where they are, sir. I’ll see you get them first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Ta. By the way, what’s the house like?’

  ‘Oh,’ he grinned. ‘Very ornate, sir. Like a proper Mexican Buckingham Palace. Everything of the very best and over the top. The double bed is as big as my front lawn!’

  ‘And how are you getting along with Ms Jazmin Frazer?’

  ‘Oh fine. She sweeps around in a long flowing robe, makes us cups of tea, morning and afternoon. My lads think she’s hotter than Nigella.’

  Angel didn’t even smile. He had noticed the clock. It was half past five. It had been a busy, tiring day.

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  Steam was escaping through a pan lid on the gas ring, causing it to rattle.

  Angel noticed it as he closed and locked the back door.

  ‘Mary,’ he called. He turned the gas down as he passed the oven on the way to the fridge.

  ‘Mary!’

  She appeared out of the pantry carrying a drum of Saxa.

  ‘Oh. It’s you,’ she said.

  He was taking a beer out of the fridge. He stopped, stared at her and said, ‘Who were you expecting, George Clooney?’

  She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Wash your hands and sit down. It’ll be ready in ten minutes.’

  He poured the beer out into a tumbler, took a sip, removed his coat, loosened his tie and collar, and washed his hands under a running tap. He reached out for a teatowel. Mary headed him off, snatched it away and pushed a hand towel at him.

  ‘Ta,’ he said. ‘Did I tell you that that scruffy boarding house on Sebastopol Terrace had no dog kennel in its back yard?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Once last night and twice this morning.’

  His eyebrows shot up. He sniffed, handed her the towel, picked up the tumbler and strode into the sitting room.

  Mary looked at the pan of leeks and turned them up.

  After a few moments he came back. ‘Any post?’

  ‘The gas bill.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Somewhere around. I don’t know.’

  He pulled a mildly annoyed face, muttered something then said, ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘I’ve got something to ask you,’ Mary said. ‘Been bothering me all day.’

  He frowned. He’d had trouble all day at the station. He didn’t want any more at home. He stood in the doorway, gripped the tumbler tight, tightened the muscles round his jaw, set his eyes on her and said, ‘Aye, what is it?’

  ‘It’s been troubling me. I nearly rang the vicar.’

  His eyes flashed and stayed open wide. ‘The vicar?’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I should know, but I can’t remember. It’s for that competition I’m doing. That quiz.’

  He gave a small sigh. His face relaxed. ‘Oh that.’

  ‘Don’t be so disparaging. It’s for £50,000.’

  He remembered the gas bill. It would certainly come in handy. He smiled and then took a gulp of the beer.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘From which mountain top did Moses bring down the tablets of stone on which the commandments were inscribed?’

  He looked up, frowned and said, ‘Mount Sinai, I think.’

  ‘Mount Sinai! Oh, yes. That’s right,’ she said as she opened the oven door and peered inside. ‘I’ll put that in.’

  ‘You’ll never win it.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Don’t be such a wet blanket.’

  ‘Even if you get all the answers right, there’ll be hundreds of others you’d have to share with.’

  ‘Not if I’m the only one. Are you going to set the table or not?’

  He reached into the kitchen drawer, found the table mats and began picking out knives and forks. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he began tentatively.

  She closed the oven door, turned and looked at him.

  He licked his lips and said, ‘You know how lavender, violets, some roses and perhaps other certain other flowers are used to give off a pleasant, fresh smell around clothes, bedding, people and so on?’

  ‘Yes?’ she said giving him a strange look. She was wondering where the question was leading to.

  ‘Well, do parsnips have any special quality other than being a vegetable for eating? I mean, might someone have good reason to put them among clothes or in a potpourri, or in a vinaigrette or in a cupboard, for some misguided, maybe, or perhaps little-known, reason?’

  She shook her head patiently. ‘Not that I know of, Michael. And you’ve asked me that before. Several times, actually, in the past two days.’

  ‘Have I? Sorry, love.’

  ‘Now look here,’ she said determinedly. ‘That’s work and it’s six o’clock almost and you’re home now. Forget about parsnips. There’s plenty of time tomorrow to worry about them.’

  He blinked. He knew she was right. She was absolutely correct in what she had said.

  ‘Yes, love,’ he said. He resolved immediately to stop tiring himself out needlessly. He wasn’t even going to think about work. He was going to have dinner, a few beers and watch television. He thought it was the night for Bad Girls.

  Mary turned back to the oven.

  He nodded, then ambled into the sitting room.

  Two minutes later, Mary called, ‘It’s ready, Michael! I’m serving it out.’

  But he didn’t hear her call. He was concentrating on a piece of paper he was holding. He had found the gas bill and with a stub of a pencil from his pocket he had drawn something on the back of it. He was turning it round to observe it from different positions. The drawing looked remarkably like the outline of a cream-coloured root vegetable.

  ‘Michael!’ she bellowed.

  He hurriedly stuffed the paper into his pocket.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Come in, Ron.’

  ‘I saw Professor Wayman, sir. He didn’t think there was anything at all fishy with the shells. He confirmed that they were fired from the same gun, and that it was a .32 calibre and probably a Walther PPK/S. That’s all he could say.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘So there was nothing peculiar about the gun.’

  ‘He was pretty confident about it, sir.’

  ‘Right. That makes the way Pleasant was shot straightforward. Nothing else about this case can be said to be that. Are you expecting to go out this morning?’

  ‘No sir. I’ve a lot of paperwork to catch up on.’

  ‘I might have got a job for you.’

  ‘I’ll check with you if anything crops up, sir.’

  ‘Right.’

  The door closed.

  The phone rang. It was Taylor.

  ‘About those shares and bonds from Pleasant’s files at home, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Don?’

  ‘The shares certificates were for old issues of good shares that had had their names changed for some reason and were now valueless. New certificates to replace them would have been issued at the time; the old ones are now just so much paper. Pleasant’s stockbroker said that he had sold all his holdings over the years.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, frowning.

  ‘Similarly, the bonds had all been cashed, sir. The banks and building societies didn’t actually call for the actual bond certificates to pay out on redemption. The owner’s signature, clearing bank branch address and account number is enough for them to pay out.’

  ‘That’ll be a shock to Jazmin Frazer.’

  ‘There’s something else, sir. On checking through Pleasant’s bank statements, sir, seems to me there’s a regular debit order of £800 a week being paid out to an account simply called Hellman.’

  Angel looked up, eyebrows raised. ‘Oh? And who or what is Hellman?’

  ‘No idea, sir. Thought you might like to know straightaway.’

  He nodded. It could be a perfectly legitimate payment for something, repayment of
a loan, hire purchase or even rent. Or it could be blackmail money.

  ‘There’s no attempt at concealment, Don?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘When did the payments start?’

  ‘The cheques are itemized on all the statements I’ve got and they go back a year.’

  ‘Right, lad. Sounds innocent enough, but find out what Hellman is and what the money is for and get back to me.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He replaced the phone.

  He scratched his chin. Hellman? Who the hell was Hellman?

  Then he remembered that he had been about to make a phone call before Gawber had interrupted him. It would have been to send Ahmed up to SOCOs for the Great Northern Bank’s security tapes. But now he was considering that that also could wait.

  There was something niggling him about Emlyn Jones and his son. They were a couple of prime criminals, and Angel was as passionate about criminals, as chocoholics were about chocolate. Ever since Stanley Jones had shown him that photograph of Harker and Emlyn Jones, taken by himself in the ballroom at 4.30 on that Sunday afternoon, Angel had been suspicious. Something had been bothering him. Something impossible to describe, but he knew that they were, or had been, up to no good, and he intended finding out what it was. He knew that Emlyn Jones and his son were concealing something, and it was much, much more than mere parsnips.

  He decided he would make some feathers fly. It was the only way. He reached out for the phone and sent for Gawber.

  ‘I want you to go on a bit of old-fashioned following. Are you up for it?’

  His face brightened. ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Has your car a full tank of petrol? You might need it.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Push off, get it filled up and get your car checked off and meet me back here ASAP.’

  Gawber grinned and rushed out. The door closed.

  Angel rubbed his chin.

  Angel walked through the open doorway of The Old Curiosity Shop. It wasn’t yet busy. There were no customers. Two young ladies in smart blue dresses were standing behind glass display counters at opposite sides of the shop. They were doing nothing in particular and trying not to look bored. They watched Angel approach a small Victorian table which converted into a sewing basket; next to it was a doll which had a pincushion for a stomach with twenty or thirty eight-inch, ten-inch and twelve-inch long hat pins with various pearl, Whitby jet or pretty coloured glass ends sticking out of it.