The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel Page 6

  It didn’t take long. Only a five minute walk. There weren’t many people in the pub. He found himself standing at the bar, on his own, munching through a meat pie and recalling the dead man’s deep blue staring eyes and red face.

  A man coughed. Angel lifted his head. At the same time the landlord placed a second glass of his favourite real ale in front of him. Angel looked up at the landlord, who pointed to a very tall man who was standing at the bar next to him.

  ‘Inspector Angel?’ the man said.

  Angel looked at the glass. Picked it up, looked at the man, and said, ‘For me?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Angel said. He smiled, put the glass down and said, ‘What’s it going to cost me?’

  The man smiled. ‘Information sir. That’s all.’

  Angel didn’t recognize him. He looked very respectable. He was big, well dressed, suit, collar, tie and polished leather shoes. No specs. No moustache. Businessman, professional man or salesman. He would certainly remember him from now on.

  ‘I understand you’ve come across an old silver candle-snuffer.’

  Angel was surprised, but he didn’t show it. He took another modest bite of the pie. Chewing it would give him a bit of thinking time. There was something going on and he wanted to know what it was. There were too many enquiries about the thing. ‘I might have. How do you know about it?’

  ‘We have our ways, Inspector. We have our ways.’

  ‘And who are you, anyway?’

  ‘Just a humble newspaperman trying to earn an honest crust. George Fryer.’

  Angel took another bite of the pie. He chewed it for a few seconds then said, ‘What paper are you with, Mr Fryer?’

  ‘I’m freelance.’

  ‘Oh? Where’s your press card?’

  ‘Ah. I haven’t got it on me.’

  ‘Show me some ID then.’

  ‘Certainly. My passport, driving licence and credit cards and everything are in the car. Excuse me just a minute, I’ll get them.’ He smiled and went out through the swing door.

  Angel nodded after him and immediately walked over to the window at the other side of the saloon bar. He took out his pen, clicked it ready and then he pulled out an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. He then gazed out of the window. A smart, silver Volkswagen Jetta whizzed past the window. It had to slow down at the car park exit. Long enough for Angel to read the number plate. He wrote it down on the envelope, then pocketed the pen and envelope, returned to the bar, finished the pie and emptied his glass. He left the other full glass, untouched and walked out of the pub.

  ‘Ahmed!’

  PC Ahaz dashed over from his desk to the door of the CID room.

  ‘Ahmed,’ Angel said holding out a torn scrap of paper. ‘Tap out the owner of this car. Here’s the number. It’s a silver Volkswagen Jetta.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said, taking it.

  ‘And there’s something else. Did you find DS Crisp?’

  ‘No sir. He’s not in the station and he’s not answering his mobile.’

  Angel grunted and continued up the corridor. Then he suddenly stopped, turned round and went back down to the open CID room door.

  ‘Well, find him, Ahmed. Haven’t seen him all day. For all I know, he could have left the force and got a posh job running his own security business … counting Heather Mills’s money … or pushing a pram for Madonna. Find him! Tell him I want to see him, pronto.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, sir.’

  Angel reached his office and slammed the door. The phone rang. He reached out for it.

  ‘There’s a man, a Peter Meissen, in reception to see you, sir,’ a young PC said.

  ‘Right. Bring him down to my office.’

  He replaced the phone and stared at the pile of post on his desk. He rubbed his chin. It never seemed to get any less. He sat down and began to finger through it.

  The phone rang again. It was Ahmed.

  ‘Have you found him?’ Angel said.

  ‘No, sir. That car registration number you just gave me … it’s a double-decker bus in Dorset.’

  ‘What?’ he bawled. He sighed. ‘Right, Ahmed. Inform Traffic to look out for a 2006 silver Volkswagen Jetta saloon with that registration number. The car was last seen in Bromersley town centre. The driver, male. Aged forty-five to fifty. Six foot two inches. Clean shaven. Dark hair. Well-spoken. Using the name George Fryer.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He banged down the receiver. His eyes narrowed as he thought about the elusive Mr Fryer. He could have kicked himself. He should have shown more patience. He may never find out the man’s interest in the candle-snuffer. He’d known at first glance that he wasn’t a newspaperman. His suit was too smart. His shoes too clean. He always thought that reporters got their clothes out of the dustbin: the same place most of them get their stories.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was the young police constable from reception, escorting a short, lumpy man in a Reid and Taylor worsted suit that didn’t fit his awkward figure. He looked like an expensive gift, wrapped in a hurry. He hobbled in, every step required effort, and he smiled as though his underpants were too tight.

  ‘Peter Meissen, sir.’ The man held out a big hand on a short arm.

  Angel shook it. It was as cold as a toad’s belly.

  ‘Please sit down,’ Angel said, and he reached down to the bottom drawer in his desk and took out a brown paper bag with the word EVIDENCE printed in red across it and placed it on the desk top, but well away from his visitor.

  ‘Now, may I see the item, Inspector?’

  ‘Some identification, if you please, sir?’

  Meissen nodded. ‘I hope my passport will suffice?’ he said and reached into his inside pocket.

  Angel took it and noted that it was issued by Le Presidente, La Republic de Patina, Muerlin Strasse Officie, Westlenska, Balkan Etat de Patina. He also noted the passport number. Then he opened it. Looked closely at the photograph and the embossing to check that they had not been tampered with, noted Mr Meissen’s address in Patina, then glanced through it at the visas. They seemed to consist only of the UK, France, Norway, Italy and the USA.

  Angel handed back the passport with a nod and said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I hope you are satisfied,’ Meissen said.

  ‘That’s fine, Mr Meissen. Where are you staying at present?’

  ‘At the Feathers Hotel here in Bromersley.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Now what is your interest in the candle-snuffer?’

  ‘I tell you, Inspector. Cards on the table. In Westlenska, in Patina, Inspector, I am a lawyer, and I have the honour of representing the Radowitz family, which in the 1930s was the most influential family in the city, both politically and commercially. They were also great supporters and benefactors of the church. However, in the thirties and forties, the years leading up to and including the Second World War, their possessions, their crops, land and farms were systematically plundered by the German occupation forces. As were millions of others. You will know of this? Also, some of the family were murdered. Now, more than fifty years later, the Radowitz family have recovered and prospered; they are now trying to reclaim the lost land, farms and valuables … whatever they can, wherever they can.’

  Angel nodded. ‘And you think the candle-snuffer may have belonged to the Radowitz family?’

  Meissen smiled. His pants must have been shrinking even more.

  Angel passed the EVIDENCE bag over to him. ‘Even if it does belong to your clients, you know I can’t release it.’

  ‘To know positively would be one step nearer, eh, Inspector?’ Meissen replied as he reached into the bag. He held the candle-snuffer up to the light and smiled, then he ran the finger tips of the other hand delicately over the engraved blades. It seemed to soothe him. He checked the scissor action, and then quietly, without looking up, said, ‘And how did you come across it, Inspector?’


  ‘A thief dropped it while running away from the scene.’

  ‘And where was this?’ he said, still looking down, smiling and caressing the piece.

  ‘Can’t tell you that, Mr Meissen.’

  The smile left Meissen briefly but then returned. ‘Did the thief take any other silver pieces?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Angel said, then added, ‘Were there others?’

  Meissen looked up and smiled again. His fingers moved up the blades of the snuffer to the silver hands at the tips. He slowly exercised the scissor action of the blades again.

  Angel watched him. ‘Is there some point in having the tips of the blades formed into hands?’

  Meissen looked up at him brightly and said, ‘When the scissors close, the hands come together as in prayer.’ He closed the blades. ‘So.’

  Angel saw that it was so. He blinked. He hadn’t realized it before. ‘It is a religious piece?’

  Meissen sighed deeply before he replied. ‘It is from the Roman Catholic Cathedral of St Saviour’s of Patina. It was stolen with twenty other valuable pieces, and it must be returned there as soon as possible.’

  The phone rang. He reached out for it. ‘Angel.’

  It was Gawber. ‘I’m in Johannson’s hotel suite at the Grand Imperial, sir. SOCO have been and gone. The place is a tip. Looks like it has been turned over by somebody before they arrived. They wouldn’t leave it like this.’

  ‘Right. I’ll speak to SOCO. Have a word with the manager, the chambermaid and room service. See if anybody saw anything. And get back here as soon as you can.’ He rang off.

  Angel wrinkled his nose. Nothing was ever straightforward. He wondered what Mark Johannson might have owned, that would be worth turning his room over for. Of course, thieves could always expect to find something they could sell.

  He tapped out DS Taylor’s number.

  ‘Don, you’ve just done Johannson’s pad in that Leeds hotel. Did it look as if it had been turned over before you got there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And very thoroughly too … it was a real mess.’

  ‘Professional job?’

  ‘No, shouldn’t think so, sir.’

  SEVEN

  * * *

  Gawber coughed, then coughed again. Angel stared at him across his desk, waiting for him to stop.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. He turned away.

  The coughing continued.

  He took the little bottle out of his pocket, unscrewed the top and took a sip. He let it run to the back of his throat. The coughing stopped.

  Angel watched him. He looked concerned. ‘Why won’t you go and see your doctor, Ron? Get you some proper jollop.’

  ‘I’m all right, sir. My wife swears by this.’ He took another sip, screwed the top back on and pocketed the bottle.

  ‘I’m sure I can find a better use for that paint stripper or whatever it is.’

  ‘It’s all right, really.’

  Angel sighed. ‘You were telling me about Johannson’s hotel bedroom.’

  ‘Yes, sir. His hotel bedroom and sitting room were an absolute mess, sir. Everything had been turned out. We’ve brought all his clothes and stuff back in my car.’

  ‘I’ll want to go through it with you, sometime soon.’

  ‘I spoke to the manager, the hall porter and the chambermaid, who was on room service some of the time. Nobody saw a stranger go into Johannson’s room any time yesterday, but in the course of conversation the chambermaid told me that she had seen a young woman knocking on his door and being admitted on at least two occasions. She didn’t see her leave … she had no idea if she stayed all night or not.’

  Angel pulled a face like he was standing over the drains in Armley jail. ‘A girl on the game?’

  ‘Couldn’t be sure, she said. Tidy black hair. Medium height. Classy black dress. Unusual tattoo of a spider on her right ankle. A tarantula.’

  Angel sighed. ‘A tarantula? Whatever next?’ he said, then his eyes narrowed and he pointed a finger at him. ‘We’ve got to find her, Ron. If she’s been in his company these past few days, she could be very valuable to us. That’s a job for Trevor Crisp.’ His lips suddenly tightened. He looked up. ‘Have you seen that lad anywhere?’ he bawled.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I don’t know where the hell he gets to.’

  ‘Here are the statements, sir,’ Gawber said quietly, and placed a file he’d been holding on the desk. ‘We spoke to everybody. Well, everybody on Sean Tattersall’s list. Convivial lot, those film people. On the bottle, partying and eating all hours. All of them had alibis and had others to support them, all except one – the cameraman, Harry Lee.’

  Angel’s ears pricked up like a terrier hearing the opening of a packet of digestives. ‘Hmm. What did he have to say for himself?’

  ‘That he left the set at about five o’clock and drove his own car from the farm back to The Feathers. He had an early dinner on his own, went back to his room and didn’t see anybody until breakfast this morning.’

  ‘Hmm. Right. That simplifies things. There are only two of that lot that haven’t got an alibi, and they are Otis Stroom and Harry Lee.’

  Gawber raised his eyebrows. ‘I know the murderer is likely to be a man, sir, but has Nanette Quadrette got a rock-solid alibi? She’s noted to be a bit of a firecracker.’

  ‘Looks like it. She was with her boyfriend all night – or that’s what she says. And that’s what he says.’

  Gawber thought for a moment. ‘That means you don’t believe them?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ he said wiping his hand across his mouth.

  ‘Before all this, sir, I was trying to ID that dead tramp. Do you want me to get back to that?’

  ‘No. Get Scrivens to sort that out. It’ll be good practice for him. I want you to look into the background of Otis Stroom and Harry Lee. They’re our priority now.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  It was a smiling Crisp who came bouncing in. He was a thirty-year-old handsome man in a suit as sharp as a newly stropped razor. He was popular with the girls, but not always popular with his superiors.

  ‘Been looking for me, sir?’ he said flashing a smile.

  Angel’s eyes glowed like searchlights on Strangeways tower. His cheeks went the colour of a judge’s robe. He turned to Gawber and through tightened lips, said, ‘Push off, Ron. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Gawber knew the score. He glanced at Crisp and then back at Angel as he closed the door.

  Angel looked up at Crisp. He didn’t know where to start.

  ‘I know you’ve been trying to get in touch with me, sir,’ Crisp began lamely.

  ‘What’s the matter with that bloody phone of yours?’ Angel bawled.

  ‘Nothing, sir.’ The pupils of Crisp’s eyes slid from left to right and back again. He knew he was in trouble.

  ‘Well, why the hell was it switched off?’

  Crisp reached into his pocket and took the mobile out. ‘Was it? I don’t know.’ He looked at the LCD screen. ‘Well, it’s switched on now, sir.’

  ‘If that phone isn’t reliable, ditch it and get a new one,’ he bawled. ‘And tell Ahmed the new number so that we can keep in touch.’

  ‘It works all right, sir. Really,’ he added with as much earnestness as he could muster. ‘I must have been in a bad reception area. Or it was the atmospherics.’

  ‘Atmospherics!’ Angel bawled. ‘I’ll give you bloody atmospherics. Yesterday, I sent you to find out about the occupant of Number 2, Creeford Road. Then you disappeared. Where did you go to, that’s what I’d like to know?’

  ‘Only making enquiries, sir. That’s all. When you start from scratch it takes time. Now can I tell you what I found out?’

  It was useless. Angel could not sustain antagonism with the lad at that level. ‘It’d better be good,’ he growled.

  Crisp opened his notebook. ‘Number 2, Creeford Road is occupied by a Richard
Mace, aged fifty-seven. Born 6 April 1950. The town hall records show he’s lived there a long time, over twenty years. Paid his community charge as regular as clockwork. The Inland Revenue say that on their books, he’s down as divorced two years ago, one daughter, not now dependent on him. Doesn’t pay any tax. He’s not a cleric, according to Crockfords, and he’s not registered with the medical council, so he isn’t a medic. He’s not a member of Whites, Annabels or Heneberrys; the others wouldn’t tell me. His doctor said he hardly ever sees him. Not disabled or ill. Nothing unusual there. Has a full, clean driving licence. Running a new four by four Range Rover. That’s about it, sir. Oh, I nearly forgot. There’s nothing known about him on the PNC.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. He had to allow, it was a pretty good result. ‘What did he do before he retired?’

  ‘I couldn’t find that out, sir. The Inland Revenue said that their records on him didn’t go that far back because for the last eight years he had not been in a tax paying bracket. They’ve got him down as “consultant,” but they didn’t know in what particular business.’

  ‘Right. Now that’s what makes it dead fishy. If he really was a consultant, in most any job, he’d have been earning a taxable income. And what’s he living on now? What’s consultant mean anyway? You could be a consultant anything.’

  ‘Do you want me to stick with it, sir? Might be able to ferret it out.’

  ‘No. I’ve got another job for you. More in your line. You know the Imperial Grand Hotel in Leeds?’

  His face brightened. ‘Yes, sir. Very posh place.’

  ‘There’s a girl. In her twenties. Tidy black hair. Medium height. Classy black dress. With a tattoo of a tarantula on her right ankle.’

  Angel arrived at his desk at 8.28 a.m. as bright and shiny as the Chief Constable’s MBE. He’d slept the sleep of the innocent and was ready for battle. He pulled his chair up to the desk to attend to the accumulation of letters and reports awaiting his attention. On top of the pile was a booklet with the words: ‘Home Office Publication’ on the cover. When he spotted it, his nose curled up. Part of the battle against crime was the requirement for him to read, mark, learn and inwardly digest this sort of printed porridge. He picked it up, noted it had sixty-four pages, and read the title: ‘Revised rules and estimated costs for the cancellation of the recent proposal to amalgamate the police forces of North Yorkshire, West Yorkshire, South Yorkshire and Lincolnshire.’