The Man Who Couldn't Lose Read online

  ‘Your mother in bed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘I s’pose,’ she sniffed. ‘She’s tired. Thank God. Been out all day gallivanting … on a church trip.’ She picked up a giant teddy bear by its ear off a chair. ‘Came back with this. Won it in a raffle,’ she said sourly.

  He glanced at it and wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Are you sure she doesn’t know what’s going on?’

  She smiled wryly and plonked the teddy bear back on the chair.

  ‘All she’s interested in is her bowels and the church.’

  She shrugged, put her glass down, crossed over to the sink and pulled the plastic curtain across to cut out the night sky.

  He sat down and began dropping ice cubes in the glass. Then he unscrewed the cap on the vodka bottle and began to pour.

  He looked up at her, screwed up his eyes and took a sip from the glass.

  Gloria went to a cutlery drawer and took out a thick wodge of bank notes, tidily sorted and held together by an elastic band. She tossed it in front of him.

  ‘Four thousand pounds,’ she said with a sniff, a toss of the head and a smirk.

  The man smiled, picked it up, shook it at her and smiled again.

  She folded her arms and smiled back.

  ‘Four thousand,’ he said, throwing it down on the table. ‘One day’s work.’

  He shook his head in incredulity and took a celebratory swig.

  She sat at the table opposite him. She emptied her glass and began to refill it with ice from the bowl.

  ‘Any trouble?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Like candy off a baby.’

  He looked down at the money. He licked his bottom lip. He rubbed his chin. Then his face changed from delight to concern.

  Gloria noticed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘We’ll have to cut back, Gloria,’ he said, shaking his head and rubbing his chin. ‘It’s too much. You’ll be creating too much traffic. They’ll notice … or someone will squeal. And you’ll be raided.’

  ‘That’s up to you,’ she said. ‘I’d sooner go on. Can’t go on for ever. You never know when it’ll all end. But I’ll tell you this,’ she said, pointing a mean finger at his eyes. ‘I’m not going into Holloway for you or anybody else. I couldn’t stand it at my age, and it would kill my mother.’

  He nodded. He understood her concern. He had worries of his own. He ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘Look, I’ve told you. If you get a phone call, take all the stuff, every last twist of it, and all the money … don’t keep any back. If you’ve hidden any they’ll find it, and you’d have to account for it, and remember, you’re supposed to be a hard-up widow woman struggling to keep your mother on a pension. It’ll not do if they find you with a crafty thousand quid stuffed up your knicker leg. They’ll search you as well, you know.’

  She glared at him. Her lips tightened across her teeth. She put her hands on her hips.

  ‘Let any man come near to search me,’ she said menacingly, ‘and he’ll never do it again.’

  ‘That’s what we’ve got big, fat policewomen for.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said, pulling a sour face.

  ‘Put it in that self-seal bag in the drawer. And do as I’ve told you.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘Believe me, if that or the money is on the premises or even buried in the garden, they’d find it.’

  They both drank in silence for a few moments, looking down at the white tablecloth for no good reason.

  She noticed the parcel again and nodded towards it.

  ‘How much have you brought?’

  ‘Should make eight thousand,’ he said and pulled the parcel across in front of her.

  She sniffed.

  ‘Two days’ worth.’

  She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Then we’ll take a break,’ he said.

  She pulled a face then shook her head. ‘The punters’ll still keep coming.’

  ‘Tell them you can’t get the stuff. It’ll make them keener. You can open up again in a week or so.’

  ‘They’ll go somewhere else.’

  ‘They’ll be back,’ he shouted confidently and lifted the glass.

  ‘Shhh!’ Gloria hissed. ‘You’ll waken my mother.’

  TWO

  The police station, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, 10.00 hours, 21 March 2007

  The sun was shining, the sky was cloudless, the birds were singing, the villains were counting money, their wives were at the beauty shop getting new fingernails, their offspring were getting legless while being tattooed, their rottweilers were barking in their gardens and Detective Inspector Angel was in his office, humming, ‘Oh what a beautiful morning … Oh what a beautiful day … I’ve got that wonderful feeling … Everything’s going my way.’

  He was packing a cardboard box that had the word Weetabix printed on each side of it, with the statements, tape transcriptions, exhibits, forensic report and photographs connected with the murders of two showgirls, Fiona Frinton and Imelda Wilde. It had been a most difficult case that he had eventually solved; the murderer had been arrested and was safely on remand awaiting trial. In the box was the entire case for the prosecution, for delivery next door to Oliver Twelvetrees, leading barrister at the CPS. Angel had taped up the box lid and was pressing down the gummed addressed label on the top when the telephone rang.

  He frowned, looked thoughtfully at the machine then leaned over and picked it up.

  ‘Angel,’ he said brightly.

  It was the civilian woman telephone receptionist.

  ‘There’s a Mrs Buller-Price, I think her name is, on the line asking for you, Inspector,’ she said tentatively. ‘She sounds a bit … distressed. Will you speak to her?’

  ‘Of course. Of course,’ he said promptly. He never refused to speak to anyone who called asking for him by name. He always said that they might want to pass on information that might help solve a crime. In this instance, it was Mrs Buller-Price, an old friend of Angel’s. She was a dear, kind widow who kept a small farm at Tunistone, on the Pennines six miles out of Bromersley. He had known her for years. In all circumstances, he would never have declined to speak to her.

  ‘I’m putting her through.’

  ‘Ah. Is that dear Inspector Angel?’ Mrs Buller-Price said. She always spoke in a most genteel voice. This morning she seemed particularly agitated.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Good morning to you, Mrs Buller-Price.’

  ‘Oh dear. Oh dear,’ she said quickly.

  Angel realized that something was wrong.

  ‘Now whatever is the matter?’

  ‘Oh dear, dear Inspector. I am sorry to bother you, but I have been burgled.’

  ‘Burgled?’ he said angrily.

  ‘Yes. Someone has been in the house and taken my teapot money, two hundred pounds, my silver photograph frames, the pearls my husband bought me, my emerald ring and earrings … and … I don’t know what else.’

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry. When was this?’

  ‘Must have been yesterday. I was out yesterday afternoon, you see. Got back about eight last evening, and I didn’t notice. This morning, the pantry door was rattling. I went in to investigate. I thought it was unusually cool and draughty in there. It was then that I saw the window had been smashed. Then I looked around and realized that I had been burgled.’

  ‘Well, don’t touch anything. I’ll send—’

  ‘Oh, Inspector,’ she suddenly whooped. ‘They’ve taken my dog Fifi! I have just noticed while talking to you. The big pot dog figure of our first dog, Fifi. The most gorgeous, beautiful-natured French poodle you could ever have wished to know. My husband bought it for me … as a remembrance of her. It was almost life-size. It had been in this fireplace thirty years or more.’

  ‘Oh dear. I am so sorry. But, tell me, have you noticed an unfamiliar car or a vehicle of any kind loitering arou
nd lately?’

  ‘Didn’t see anything. Oh dear. Do you think I will ever see my Fifi again? And my photographs? There are pictures of Ernest and me on our honeymoon in Filey, and my dear father and mother on a boat on Lake Lucerne. Oh dear.’

  ‘Don’t touch anything. I’ll get someone out to you promptly. And not to worry. We’ll do all we can to get your stuff back.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so very much, Inspector. I feel so much better talking to you. You are always so very kind to me.’

  Angel had a thought. He knew she had a few pet dogs. Four or five. She was extremely fond of them.

  ‘Not at all. Tell me, Mrs Buller-Price, where were your dogs while you were out?’

  ‘Ah. I always put them together in the barn. They seem to enjoy themselves there. There’s much more room for them than in the house.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, now, let me say goodbye now, and then I can organize a fingerprint man and whatever else is needed to find your burglar and hopefully recover your property quickly.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. Of course. Of course. Hope to see you yourself sometime very soon.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I’ll be round to see you as soon as I can. And you know you can always phone.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. Thank you very much indeed. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said.

  He held onto the handset and pressed down on the cradle. He tapped a single digit number.

  The eager young voice of probationer PC Ahaz answered.

  ‘CID office.’

  ‘Ahmed, is DS Gawber in there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Ask him to come to my office, and bring yourself up here as well, pronto.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He banged down the phone.

  He stood up, clasped his hands behind his back and began to walk up and down the little office. His face looked as grim as a rainy day in a caravan.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  It was DS Gawber and Ahmed.

  He looked at Ahmed and pointed to the Weetabix cardboard box on his desk.

  ‘Take that round to Mr Twelvetrees at the CPS, with my compliments.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Ahmed picked up the box and went out.

  Gawber closed the door after him, then came up to the desk.

  Angel said, ‘You remember Mrs Buller-Price up at Tunistone?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘She was burgled yesterday afternoon. Thief took mostly very nice pieces. In broad daylight. Nice-looking house in the middle of nowhere. Got in by a downstairs window. Minimal disturbance. No vehicle seen. Nothing seen. Who does that make you think of?’

  Gawber frowned for a moment then looked at Angel knowingly.

  ‘Harry Hull.’

  Angel nodded in agreement.

  ‘Is he out of Armley, yet?’

  ‘I’ll find out, sir.’

  ‘Talk to the probation office. They’ll have an address for him. And if he hasn’t a proper alibi, shake his place down thoroughly. He’s as sly as a fox. Once hid a solid gold cigarette case under his next-door neighbour’s baby. And go and see Mrs Buller-Price. Find out all you can. And get a fingerprint man up there, and be as quick as you can.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said, and made for the door.

  ‘And he’d need transport. You’ll need to find how he got the stuff away.’

  ‘In his pockets, I expect.’

  ‘No. He also took a pot dog. A poodle. White. Called Fifi.’

  Gawber blinked.

  ‘How big?’

  ‘She said life-size.’

  ‘What would it weigh, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said tetchily. ‘But more than he’d want to carry back to Bromersley under his arm, I expect.’

  Gawber nodded.

  The phone rang.

  Angel glanced at it and then back at Gawber.

  ‘Well, crack on with it, Ron,’ he said impatiently.

  Gawber nodded and went out.

  Angel picked up the receiver.

  It was Detective Superintendent Harker.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘A body has been pulled out of the River Don under Town End Bridge,’ he growled. ‘SOCO’s been told. Get on to it. And don’t make a meal out of it. I’ve enough on with this H business. Uniformed has responded to a triple nine; John Weightman’s down there dealing with it.’

  There was a click and the phone went dead.

  Angel saw a plain white van he recognized as SOCO’s, behind a Leeds Police Sub Aqua Squad 4 x 4 Range Rover, parked on Town End Bridge, a busy road over the River Don in the centre of Bromersley. Around forty people, some with bulging shopping bags, had congregated on the bridge and were peering over the wall at the activity below. He drove his BMW up to a few yards behind the white transit and parked. He stepped lively to the top of the steps that led down to the flagstone path running alongside the bank of the river. As he hurried down he saw four men in white paper suits hastily draping a small framework of plastic scaffolding with white sheeting to provide concealment around a body, which was on the path covered with a plastic sheet. At the bottom of the steps, big John Weightman was unrolling blue and white ‘POLICE DO NOT CROSS’ tape across them. He saw Angel approaching and lifted the tape to let him through.

  ‘Ta. Now then, John. Everything all right?’

  Weightman saluted and said, ‘Good morning, sir. Yes.’ He nodded towards the activity a few yards beyond and pulled a face. ‘Nasty mess they’ve made of him.’

  Angel frowned and continued towards the scene of crime. A frogman leapt out of the water and began to undo the straps on his oxygen tank, while another man in a wet suit began unfastening a rope from around his waist.

  SOCO’s DS Taylor in whites, mask and rubber boots saw Angel approaching and came across to meet him.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Now, Don, what you got?’

  Taylor pulled the mask down away from his mouth. ‘Young woman made a triple nine call, reported a body in the river at 8.50 this morning. John Weightman was first here. He called the Leeds Police Sub Aqua Squad out. They pulled a man’s body out just under the bridge there,’ he said, pointing to the middle of the river almost directly under the bridge. ‘They brought him over to the bank. And left him here. A quick look at him showed that he’d been shot once in the chest and has some injury to his left hand.’

  ‘Any ID?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Haven’t searched him. Wanted to get him out of the gaze of everybody.’

  Angel agreed and nodded.

  ‘He looks about sixty or seventy, though, well dressed, grey hair.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. He couldn’t recall anybody in that age group having been reported missing over the past few days.

  ‘Have a look as soon as you can and let me know. Have you advised Dr Mac?’

  ‘He’s on his way.’

  Angel’s mobile began to ring.

  He nodded at Taylor, turned away and reached into his pocket.

  The sergeant returned to erecting the screen.

  Angel pulled out his mobile and pressed the button. It was Harker.

  ‘Have you identified that body yet?’ he growled.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. Joshua Gumme’s wife has phoned in to report he’s missing. Says he went missing last night. Hasn’t been home. She’s very worried about him.’

  ‘As soon as I know, sir, I’ll ring you back.’

  The line went dead.

  Angel blinked. He knew Joshua Gumme. Their paths had crossed several times over the years. He had often wondered how on earth that crook had managed to stay out of prison. He had sailed perilously close to it many a time. He owned businesses in Bromersley including a snooker hall. Had a little printing business. Irons in all sorts of pies. Recently had acquired the reputation of being unbeatable at card games, and had the uno
fficial tag of ‘the man who couldn’t lose’. Had become immensely wealthy by local standards. Had some sort of an illness that had put him in a wheelchair. His wife, Myra, was dead, he remembered. Knew he’d remarried but didn’t know anything about the woman.

  He turned back to the scene and went over to the Sub Aqua team. Two men, both still in wet suits, had taken off the flippers, helmets and bottles and were sitting on a grass patch, drinking soup out of flasks.

  ‘I’m DI Angel,’ he said. ‘Where exactly did you find the body, then?’

  ‘I’m DS Stranger, sir,’ one of them replied, pointing a hand across the water. ‘Directly under the bridge, about twelve feet from the bank.’

  ‘Is it deep there?’

  ‘No. About eight feet or less.’

  Angel nodded. ‘It’s imperative we find the murder weapon. Look out for a gun of some sort?’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir,’ Stranger said as he screwed the lid on his flask. ‘We have planned to make a systematic search of an area, stretching from one side of the river to the other, ten feet wide, and in line with where we recovered the body. That should cover the likely area where anything heavy thrown from this side of the bridge might sink. But anything small like that might take some finding even with our detectors. We’d need about a week, sir.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘That should do it.’

  ‘There’s a bicycle or a pram stuck down there in mud. Next to where he was. Tried to move it, it’s a bit heavy.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘If it’s a wheelchair, get it up. It probably belongs to him,’ he said, nodding towards the place where the SOCO men were fastening the flapping sheeting to the scaffolding. ‘Could be valuable evidence.’

  Stranger looked surprised.

  ‘Disabled, was he, sir?’

  ‘Yes. And anything else around there that you think might be pertinent to this case.’

  ‘You’re looking for a hard nut, sir,’ Stranger said. ‘Who would throw a man in a wheelchair off a bridge?’

  ‘Ahmed, I want you to contact the phone company and get a list of calls made from Mr Gumme’s mobile and his home phone, over the past two weeks.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel’s phone rang. He reached out for it.

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘This is reception, sir. There’s a lady, a Mrs Gumme to see you.’