The Snuffbox Murders Read online

  ‘What about back-up, sir?’

  ‘Whatever you need.’

  ‘And expenses?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Reasonable expenses. Now hop it.’

  Crisp smiled. ‘Right, sir,’ he said.

  He went out of the room and closed the door.

  Angel watched him leave. One corner of his mouth turned upwards.

  Two minutes later he squared up the letters and envelopes on his desk, shoved them in a drawer, put his pen in his pocket, took an old envelope out of his pocket, referred to something written on it, put it back, looked at his watch and then stood up. He went out of the office and up the corridor to the CID office. He peered in and found Ahmed working at his computer.

  ‘I’m going out, Ahmed. I’m calling on Peter Queegley, then I’m going home.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel then dashed down the green corridor, past the cells, out of the back door into the car park. He drove the BMW down Park Road to Mountjoy Street. It was a short street comprising large Victorian houses that had over the years mostly been divided into flats and bedsits. He parked the car at the side of the road among an assembly of old cars, and walked up to number 20. There was a box of eight pushbuttons on the big doorjamb, with names on cards against them and a speak box above it. He found the name ‘P. Queegley’ against number 6 and pressed the button.

  A girl’s voice from a speaker answered. ‘Yes? Is it Alec?’

  Angel was surprised to hear a girl answer. ‘Yeah,’ he grunted.

  ‘There you go,’ she said.

  There was a buzzing sound, a click and the door opened an inch.

  Angel pushed at it and he was in. He closed it quickly and looked round. It was a dark, musty hallway, cobwebby and smelling of cabbage water. He walked up the hall on bare floorboards and checked off the numbers on the doors. He had to mount two flights of uncarpeted steps and walk along a short landing to the end before he found number 6.

  The small thin door was slightly open. He tapped gently on it. A skinny girl in a tight T-shirt and knickers, with bare feet and bare legs, put her head round the edge of the door. She was wearing more eyeliner than might be found in the transvestite’s wing in Strangeways, and she was hanging on to a tumbler half-filled with a light-brown liquid.

  When she saw Angel her big eyes grew bigger.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You’re not Alec. Who are you? What do you want?’

  Angel pushed his way into the small room and looked round.

  There was very little furniture. A television set was blinking in the corner with a loud, excited voice shouting out a commentary on the culmination of a horse race. There was a divan bed, two small tables, two chairs, a tiny oven and a sink unit.

  On the bed a man’s head popped up from behind a newspaper through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Here, here,’ he said. He dropped the paper, snatched the cigarette out of his mouth, stood up and said, ‘What do you want?’

  He made a lot of saliva and when he got excited he sprayed everywhere.

  He nipped out the well-smoked cigarette-end between finger and thumb, and dropped it into his coat pocket. Then, from his trouser pocket, he pulled out a piece of a bedsheet and wiped his face.

  Angel spotted an almost empty bottle of sherry on the sink unit. He picked it up and read the label. It was described as ‘Beast quality, genuinne sherry wine.’ The label showed that it was bottled in Ankara, Turkey. He shook his head and replaced the bottle.

  ‘How you are getting along, Mr Queegley,’ Angel said.

  Queegley sneered. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  The girl said, ‘Who is it?’

  Queegley looked across at the girl. ‘It’s the copper what banged me up.’

  The girl blinked. Her thin lips tightened. ‘A copper?’ she said. She banged the glass down on the sink unit, rushed determinedly across the room, stabbed her feet into a pair of high-heeled silver sandals, grabbed a pair of jeans and a shiny silver handbag off the bed, and made for the door.

  Queegley’s face dropped. ‘You don’t have to go, Gloria,’ he said. ‘We’ll go out later.’

  ‘I’ll give you a ring sometime,’ she shouted. ‘Maybe,’ she added as she slammed the door.

  Queegley looked like a man found not guilty by the jury, but still given six months by the judge.

  Angel’s eyes twitched as the TV now emitted the loud banging of guitars and drums.

  Queegley then looked at Angel and said something above the racket. It sounded like: ‘Now see what you’ve done. I’ve missed the result of the last race, and I was winning, and you’ve scared her off.’

  Angel saw the remote control for the TV on the divan. He picked it up, pointed it at the TV and switched it off.

  The silence was glorious.

  He sighed with relief, then tossed the remote back on to the divan.

  Queegley glared at him, snatched up the remote and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. Then he pointed to the door. ‘I was on a promise there, Inspector. She’s already cost me a bottle of sherry and a haddock and chips.’

  ‘She doesn’t look old enough.’

  ‘She said she was eighteen.’

  ‘You want to be careful.’

  ‘What do you want anyway?’ Queegley said, taking out a packet of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, then lit it with a match. ‘You’ve got nothing on me. I’ve nothing on my conscience. Are you just here to enjoy watching a man down on his luck?’

  ‘You know me better than that. Just anxious that you keep out of trouble, that’s all. I saw you at the festivities in the park yesterday. I tried to talk to you but you … you dodged out of the way.’

  Queegley’s eyes slid to the right and back again. ‘Oh? Didn’t see you,’ he said. ‘The place was crowded.’

  Angel frowned then smiled. ‘Seen anything of your friend lately?’

  Queegley blinked. ‘Friend? Don’t know who you mean,’ he said, lowering his eyes.

  Angel knew he was lying again.

  ‘Come on, Peter. Alec Underwood, of course. You’ve just served twelve months because of him, and he got off, scot free. He must be good for a few quid at least.’

  Queegley turned away. ‘I don’t know what you mean. That’s all behind me,’ he said as he walked towards the bed. ‘That’s history. I’ve paid my debt to society and you’ve no cause to hound me. Now if there’s nothing else you want, push off.’

  ‘Have you got a job?’

  ‘I’m looking round.’

  ‘Get yourself a job, lad. You used to work for the telephone company, didn’t you? See if they’ll give you your job back. Bring in a wage and keep yourself out of trouble.’

  ‘Two million unemployed and rising. Who’s going to employ an out-of-work ex con?’

  He had a point, but Angel didn’t let it go at that. ‘It means you’ve to try harder, take a lowly job and work your way up.’

  ‘Thank you, vicar. Here endeth the sermon,’ Queegley said. He flopped down on the bed and looked round for the newspaper.

  ‘Right, I’ll go,’ Angel said. ‘Just keep out of trouble. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep away from that Alec Underwood.’

  ‘Thank you very much. Goodbye, Inspector. Don’t call again.’

  Angel shrugged and made for the door.

  FIVE

  M.V. Golden Mistress. Off the coast of Nice, France.

  0745 hours. Wednesday, 27 May 27 2009

  Van Hassain raised his head from the paper he was reading. His monocle dropped on to his tanned bare chest.

  ‘Boy,’ he called.

  A young steward in a spotless white uniform with a button-up collar, who was loading a tray with used plates and cutlery at a side table, looked up.

  ‘Boy. Come quickly.’

  The steward’s eyes looked warily at the wrinkled man, tanned by the many hours spent in the glare of the Mediterranean sun. He crossed the deck and came across to him.

  ‘Was something not to yo
ur liking, Mr Van Hassain?’

  ‘Tell the captain I want to see him, urgently. Hurry boy! Hurry!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Van Hassain.’

  The boy rushed out from under the canopy into the early morning sun, along the deck past the windows of Van Hassain’s day cabin and up the metal steps.

  Van Hassain picked up the internet printouts of the news he had been reading, reset the monocle and rubbed his chin.

  Through an open hatchway midships, two girls in their twenties, burnt dark brown by the sun, appeared wearing brightly coloured bikinis and carrying towels and bottles of perfumed oil. They were chattering and giggling together. When they saw Van Hassain they shrieked with delight, waved excitedly and ran down the deck towards him.

  ‘Mr Van Hussain! Mr Van Hussain!’ they squealed, waving their towels.

  He looked up from his papers, breathed in, stared at them with eyes of a dead cod and gestured for them to go away.

  The girls stopped in their tracks. The giggling stopped. They looked at each other. This was unusual.

  ‘Oh, Mr Van Hassain. Mr Van Hassain,’ they said disappointedly.

  ‘Later, perhaps, girls. Later,’ he snapped.

  The girls turned away with sober faces, their towels swinging, and made their way up the main stairway to the top deck. From there, they knew how to reach the roof of the wheelhouse, which was the most private part of the ship where they could sunbathe.

  A few moments later Captain Rose climbed breathily down the metal steps, landed noisily and made his way aft along the deck, followed by the young steward. Rose then came under the canopy to where Mr Van Hassain was seated.

  The steward returned to clearing the side table.

  Rose arrived panting. ‘You wanted me, sir?’ he said wiping his perspiring face with a large coloured handkerchief.

  Van Hassain pointed to the bench seat fitted across the stern of the boat. It was an inelegant gesture as he’d had three fingers blown off by explosives and had only a thumb and a small finger with which to point. The incident had also deprived him of hearing in his right ear and he had a hearing aid in the other.

  ‘Sit down, Captain.’

  Van Hassain swivelled his seat round to face the captain, then he swivelled back to the steward.

  ‘Boy,’ he called. ‘Bring us fresh coffee.’

  Rose blinked, smiled and said, ‘Brandy, would be better.’

  ‘Coffee,’ Van Hassain said.

  ‘Right away, sir,’ the steward said and rushed off with a tray loaded with the breakfast pots.

  Van Hassain said, ‘Now, Captain. I have an order for you.’

  Rose took off his captain’s hat, put it on the seat next to him, looked up at Van Hassain and said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I have to go up to zee UK again, quickly.’

  The fat man frowned, scratched the stubble on his chin and said, ‘Of course, sir. But it will be so cold.’

  ‘On the east coast of UK is a place called Bridlington. Do you know of it?’

  Rose’s face contorted as if he had been squirted with a lemon. ‘I have never heard of it, sir. It will be very cold up there, sir. You wouldn’t want to go there. And you’ll have all those English police crawling all over the ship with dogs, examining ship’s safety, scrutinizing the paperwork, asking questions, sniffing around your passport.’

  ‘My passport is the genuine article, Captain. You might consider your own. I wonder if they have a harbour there?’

  ‘Not big enough for the Golden Mistress I’ll wager. We would have to anchor in the dangerous and busy commercial traffic lanes in the North Sea and bouncing all day and all night, sir. It is not healthy for us, for you, sir. The English, their skins are pasty. You see them, sir. They don’t have the sun, not like what we do. Also, the price of brandy is….’ He made a gesture like a rocket being launched, ‘Whu!’ he said. ‘The diesel! Hoo. You don’t want to go there, sir. No.’

  ‘How soon can we get there?’

  ‘It means a journey through the Bay of Biscay. The bilges will fill up. And we will need to take down the canopy again.’

  ‘Well, see to it. It’s what I pay you for.’

  ‘And you couldn’t take the girls, sir. No passports.’

  ‘We can drop them off at Tangier.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rose said, pulling a sad face. ‘It will not be the same for you without them … and they won’t like that.’

  Van Hassain shrugged. ‘I will reward them.’

  ‘I would need to refuel. The chef would want victuals.’

  ‘Do it. Make one stop in Tangier? The question is how soon can you get me there?’

  The steward arrived with the tray of coffee. He looked at Van Hassain. The little man didn’t acknowledge his presence. The steward began to set up the cups and saucers.

  ‘Three days, sir. Maybe more. Depends.’

  ‘No more. Three days. Start straight away. Any more excuses?’

  Captain Rose wiped his face with the handkerchief, forced a smile and said, ‘No excuses, sir. No excuses. May I be permitted to ask the reason for going all that way, sir? Is it to collect another load?’

  ‘I tell you later.’

  The steward poured the coffee.

  Captain Rose pursed his lips. ‘The crew will ask where we are going, sir.’

  ‘Don’t tell them.’

  ‘They might not want to go.’

  Van Hassain’s lips tightened. ‘I do not care if they do not want to go. I will replace them, like I will replace you if you don’t do as I say. Now pull up zee anchor and start zee engines.’

  Rose shrugged. He looked at the coffee in front of him and gave him a weak smile. ‘My coffee. May I drink my coffee, first?’ he said, reaching out to the cup.

  Van Hassain’s eyes opened like two fried eggs. The monocle dropped. ‘No!’ he said. He reached out, picked up the cup, saucer and coffee and threw them over the side of the boat into the sea. ‘Now, Captain, that’s where you will finish up, feeding zee fishes, if you don’t start pulling up zat anchor.’

  It was 8.28 a.m. Wednesday, 27 May 2009.

  Angel picked up the phone and tapped in a number.

  A voice answered. ‘Mortuary. Mac speaking.’

  ‘Ah, Mac, you’re there early this morning?’

  ‘You haven’t rung me up to tell me that.’

  ‘No, but I expected to get that annoying “leave a message after the bleep” nonsense, and I had got myself all prepared to leave a message.’

  ‘Well it’s me, live. What can I do for you, as if I didn’t know?’

  ‘I am anxious to have the results of the pm on Charles Razzle’s body, if you would be so good. Also to ask you where the contents of his pockets had got to.’

  ‘The dead man’s personal effects are on the way to you by messenger,’ Mac said. ‘You should have received them this morning, and I’ll be emailing the post mortem to you later this morning, as usual.’

  ‘Thank you. You wouldn’t like to help an old friend to speed things up a bit and tell me what essentially the report contains?’

  ‘You are always seeking to push the barriers of time, Michael. It’ll cost you a double Famous Grouse next time I see you.’

  ‘You’re most welcome.’

  ‘Let me have a look … here we are. He died around nine o’clock Monday evening. Interestingly, you will see among his personal effects, when you get them, a wristwatch with a smashed glass and the dial showing five minutes past nine when the watch had stopped. Don Taylor says that at some point during the time he was being shot, he believes that Razzle must have thrown back his left arm violently and caught the front corner of the safe, where there is a corresponding scratch.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac. That tends to confirm it. Tell me about the cause of death.’

  ‘Razzle’s old Walther was fixed into the robot’s hand.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘No. There were three bullets fired. Razzle died of the first gunshot wound to the temple. A police
marksman could not have aimed better. It was a perfect shot. The second gunshot was to the left ventricle of the heart. Also a perfect shot. Unnecessary, but a perfectly aimed shot. The third was to the stomach.’

  Angel frowned. ‘All perfectly aimed. Can you tell me how much time elapsed between each shot being fired?’

  ‘That’s a tough one, Michael. No I can’t. But not long.’

  ‘Are we talking minutes?’

  ‘Oh no. Between a second and ten seconds. No more.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Can you be certain that the first shot was the one to the brain?’

  ‘Oh yes. Because of the blood that was pumped.’

  ‘Well then, wouldn’t the victim be on the floor and out of the line of fire before the second bullet was fired?’

  ‘Yes. If not entirely horizontal, the victim would have been very near, yes.’

  ‘And if this death was accidental or suicidal, the victim would not have been sufficiently alive to have been able to operate the remote control to change the robot’s very accurate aim before the second bullet was fired, would he?’

  There was absolute silence from Dr Mac.

  ‘Are you there?’ Angel said.

  Eventually he came back. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Mac said.

  ‘And a similar, even stronger case would apply to the third bullet, wouldn’t it,’ Angel said. ‘Razzle simply could not have directed the robot, through the remote, to change the aim of the gun before it was fired into the stomach of the man who would now certainly be laid out dead on the workshop floor.’

  ‘That’s right, Michael. That’s right. You’re absolutely right.’

  ‘Were you able to calculate how far from target the gun was fired?’

  ‘Yes. There was the usual spread of powder. The distance was around two metres.’

  ‘And did you note how far the robot was from the dead body?’

  ‘Yes. Around two metres.’

  ‘That doesn’t help any then, Mac. If somebody else was in that workshop he must have been standing just about where we found the robot.’

  ‘Or just in front of it.’

  ‘Would that be within the realms of possibility?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘You’re a great help, Mac. As always. Thank you very much for now. Goodbye.’