The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel Page 8

  ‘That’s right, sir. Flavia is her Christian name.’

  ‘Radowitz is the family name of the owners, I think, of the candle-snuffer. I had their family lawyer to see me, trying to get possession of it.’

  Crisp glanced at his watch. ‘I ought to get back to her, sir. We don’t want her disappearing.’

  ‘I’ll go up to her. I’ll ask her directly about Johannson. I won’t mention you. Give me ten minutes or so.’

  ‘Yes, right,’ Crisp said.

  ‘Before I forget. Get me her fingerprints. She might be on file. You never know.’

  ‘Right, sir. You brought me some money, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He handed him the envelope. ‘Don’t throw it around. It’s honest people’s money, that is.’

  A man came through the swing door.

  ‘Have a nice day,’ Angel quipped and caught the door on the swing. He ran up the steps and made for the ‘Lounge’.

  He was glad to find the young woman still where he had first seen her. She was holding a coffee cup in her hand. He weaved his way through the furniture until he was standing directly in front of her.

  She was in a plain black dress. She wore a silver cross on a silver chain round her neck.

  He looked down at her. He checked the ankle for the tattoo of the spider. It was there and showed conspicuously through glossy black stockings.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Are you the Contessa Flavia Radowitz?’

  She looked up, her mouth dropped open. Then she smiled. It was the sort that melted icebergs. He liked looking at her.

  ‘You catch me at a disadvantage,’ she said replacing the cup in the saucer.

  He opened his wallet and took out a business card. ‘Detective Inspector Angel of Bromersley Police. Might I have a word with you, ma’am?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said with arched eyebrows. She gestured for him to sit next to her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I cannot imagine what you might think I have been up to, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point … ma’am.’

  ‘Flavia is fine,’ she said. ‘Everybody calls me Flavia.’ Her English was excellent, but there was a pedantic carefulness in her diction that showed it was not her mother tongue.

  Angel nodded. ‘Flavia, I am investigating the death of Mark Johannson, the film director,’ he said.

  She looked straight into his eyes. She wasn’t happy. ‘Yes, I knew him,’ she said evenly.

  He was surprised at the coolness of her reply. ‘He was staying in this hotel. I understand that you visited him in his suite here from time to time.’

  ‘Yes. Twice, actually.’

  ‘What were the reasons for your visits, might I ask … Flavia?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, seeming relieved. ‘Not very wicked reasons, Inspector. We met at the bar here by accident the day he arrived.’

  ‘What day was that?’

  ‘Saturday. Did I say by accident? Coincidence would be the more correct word. He made some comments, flattering comments about me … about my appearance. He told me he was a film director, that he liked what he saw, and suggested that he might be able to get me a leading role in a film he was directing. He said that the actress currently in the role was difficult and may leave or get the push.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He suggested that we had dinner together in his room … to discuss the possibility.’

  ‘And what was your reaction?’

  ‘Naturally, I was flattered … even excited at the prospect. The first evening was spent discussing his work as a director, the character I might play, how much I could earn and so on. It was very illuminating, interesting … very exciting. We had a few drinks and then I left at about eleven o’clock. The second evening, however, was very different. It seemed that to seal the deal, he required me to spend the night with him, in his bed.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose and looked at her.

  ‘I didn’t want to do that,’ she said unemotionally. ‘He wasn’t a nice man, Inspector.’

  ‘So you left?’

  She nodded. ‘And I never saw him again. When I heard on the radio that he had been murdered, of course, I was surprised … but … that was all.’

  Angel understood her perfectly, but he was not pleased. It didn’t progress his investigation one bit.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘In your conversation with him, did he happen to mention which part in which film he was considering you might be suitable for?’

  ‘Yes. The character was Cora, the girl who meets and marries the lead, Otis Stroom, and the film was a biography of some great Englishman, Edgar Poole. I don’t know of him. Is he well known hereabouts?’

  Angel noted that such a move, if it had been seriously contemplated, would certainly have put Nanette Quadrette’s nose out of joint. He wondered how she would have reacted if she had known about this proposition.

  ‘Oh yes. He was a famous artist. You could not be expected to know our local history. Might I ask what part of the world you are from?’

  She lowered her eyes briefly. ‘It used to be known as Yugoslavia.’

  ‘And what brings you to Yorkshire?’

  She hesitated. ‘Just a holiday, Inspector.’

  Angel looked at her and rubbed his earlobe. He wondered whether to press her for the truth. There were about a million other places in the world that would have been more fun than Leeds in February.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was DS Don Taylor. ‘Got a minute, sir?’

  ‘Of course.’ He always had a minute for the forensic lads; they were often the source of information that led to a conviction. He would find as many minutes as necessary.

  ‘What is it, Don? What you got?’

  Taylor carefully placed a plastic credit card in front of him. ‘Found that stitched into the lining of the coat being worn by the tramp, sir.’

  Angel frowned, picked it up, stared at it, then looked up at Taylor and said, ‘And is it his?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. His prints were on it. Nobody else’s. It’s been through a cash machine a few times, by the look of it. It’s still valid. More than a year to run.’

  Angel peered at the embossed name. He read it aloud. ‘Alexander Bernedetti.’ He looked up at Taylor. ‘Ring any bells?’

  ‘No.’

  Angel thought he had heard it somewhere, but he couldn’t think where. ‘Right. I’ll take it from here.’

  Taylor smiled. ‘Thought you would.’

  ‘Great stuff, Don,’ Angel said. ‘I’ll want to see the stitching, the coat, how it was actually concealed.’

  ‘Anytime, sir.’ He went out and closed the door.

  Angel rubbed his chin. This was progress. Progress indeed. He reached out for the phone and tapped in a number. It wasn’t immediately answered. He checked his watch. It said 2.12. He waited. And waited. He depressed the telephone cradle and then tapped the redial button, and waited, but it still wasn’t answered. He banged down the handpiece and peered closely at the credit card. It was with the Northern Bank, and its expiry date was 3/08. He turned it over. It was signed in the strip on the back: ‘Alexander Bernedetti’. It looked all right. Of course, you can’t tell how good a credit card is simply by looking at it. He checked his watch again. It said 2.13. He blew out a yard of breath. He stood up, pushing the chair back with his knees, dashed out of the room and down the corridor to the CID office. The door was open. He looked in. There were four detectives busy at their desks by the windows, but there was no sign of Ahmed.

  ‘Anybody seen PC Ahaz?’

  ‘No sir. No sir.’

  Angel nodded. ‘When you see him, tell him I want him straight away, will you?’ he said crisply.

  ‘Yes sir. Right, sir.’

  He returned to his own office and slowly closed the door. He sat down at the desk and rubbed his chin. It wasn’t like Ahmed to be inaccessible. That was more the style of
Trevor Crisp who was always missing and impossible to contact for one reason or another.

  Angel picked up the phone again and dialled Ahmed’s mobile number. It was soon answered. He got the standard recorded message explaining the phone was switched off. Angel slammed the handset back into the cradle and rubbed his chin a few times rapidly.

  NINE

  * * *

  Two hours later, Angel had substantially reduced the thickness of the paperwork on his desk. Some had gone in the waste-paper basket, some had been filed, and some had been read, ticked and relaunched on a set journey round the station for the edification of others.

  There had been more important things he should have been doing, but under the unusual circumstances of the afternoon, he didn’t want to be away from the office when Ahmed Ahaz eventually made his appearance.

  The church bell peeled out the Westminster chime. It was four o’clock. It would soon be pitch black outside.

  The phone rang.

  The civilian receptionist said a Mrs Ahaz was on the phone to speak to him. Angel nodded and sighed. He was relieved and pleased. She was no doubt phoning to explain her son’s absence.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Ahaz. And how are you?’ he said cordially.

  ‘Ah, Inspector Angel,’ she began. Her voice was shaky and speaking an octave higher than normal.

  Angel frowned. He knew something was wrong.

  ‘Is my son Ahmed there … with you?’

  ‘No, Mrs Ahaz. I have not seen him since lunchtime. I thought that you were going to tell me why he had not returned to work this afternoon.’

  There was a pause. He listened attentively. He could hear her breathing unevenly.

  ‘Something has happened to him,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I’m certain of it. He was to have met me under the clock in Meadowhall at a quarter to one. We were going to choose a new suit for him. But he never turned up. At first I had thought something had cropped up and that you had kept him over his lunch break. I waited and waited. Then I came home. I expected a message from him. Oh dear, Inspector, what am I to do?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. Ahmed was a totally reliable young man. Something unusual must have happened. His first thought was the hospital in case Ahmed had been knocked down in traffic, or some sudden illness had overtaken him.

  ‘Is there anywhere he might have gone, Mrs Ahaz?’ he said. ‘Has he any friends or relations he might suddenly have decided to visit?’

  ‘No, Inspector. No. If he had, he would have told me. He would have phoned. He wouldn’t have had me standing under a clock for an hour waiting for him.’

  Angel knew that was so. He couldn’t imagine where the lad might be.

  ‘I’ll immediately start making enquiries, Mrs Ahaz. He won’t have got far. Don’t worry. Are you speaking from home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll send a WPC to keep you company.’

  ‘There’s no need to.’

  ‘When your son turns up, she can report it to me. Save you the trouble. Now, stay there, by the phone. He might turn up or ring in any minute. And try not to worry.’

  He replaced the phone and dashed out of his office, up the corridor to the end and turned left to the uniformed inspector’s office. He knocked on the door and pushed it open. There was nobody there. He spat out a four letter word. It sounded like ‘well’, but was dry as a bone and as hot as a crematorium. He came out and closed the door. Then from behind, he heard the regular marching of polished boots on a composition floor. Coming down the corridor strutted Haydn Asquith, buttons gleaming, and wearing a smart new flat hat with a big black peak that almost touched his nose. He was the uniformed inspector at Bromersley.

  ‘Haydn,’ Angel said. ‘Just the man.’

  Asquith came up to him and stopped. ‘Looking for be, Michael?’ he said loudly. He was seriously in need of attention to his adenoids.

  ‘I need your help, Haydn. I’ve got a lad missing. Over three hours now. PC Ahmed Ahaz.’

  Asquith raised his head. ‘Yes? I dow him. Nice lad. What can I do?’

  ‘My team are all out. Can you let me have a WPC to liaise with his mother?’

  ‘Yes. Leisha Baverstock. It’ll be overtime for her in an hour.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Ta.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I need somebody to do the hospitals.’

  ‘The patrol cars can do that. I’ll tell them to report back direct to you. I’ll sort it straight away,’ he said and opened his office door.

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel called.

  ‘He’ll turn up. You’ll see,’ Asquith said, then he gave a quick smile and closed his door.

  An hour later, it was cold, black and foggy outside on the streets of Bromersley.

  In Angel’s office, he watched a fly land on the lamp-shade of the light on his desk. It walked slowly up it, then round the top, then stopped on the brim. It rubbed its back legs together, then just stayed there … impertinently, boldly, defiantly. It just stayed there.

  Angel thought that if he could slyly pick up the big brown envelope, which contained the annual report of the PIA (Police Inspectors’ Association) that was on the pile in front of him, he could give that fly a mighty belt and finish it off, once and for all. His hand moved slowly over the desk. With the absolute minimum of movement, he managed to get a grip on the envelope, slowly lifted it, aimed and was about to belt it one, when it flew away. It went in a zigzag route up to the ceiling then over the steel cupboard out of sight.

  Angel tossed the envelope aside and returned to staring at the paint on the wall. He had been staring at it for too long.

  He heard the church clock chime five. He checked his watch. He had been in the office a good hour; nobody had knocked at the door; nobody had tried to contact him on the phone; he had heard nothing along the corridor outside; everywhere was in absolute silence.

  It was as quiet as a druggie shooting a twist of Class A into a main artery.

  He could have phoned Mrs Ahaz, but that might have stopped Ahmed from getting through to her. He could have phoned his wife, but that would have blocked his phone from incoming calls.

  He was running short on patience. He wouldn’t be able to do nothing for much longer.

  He didn’t have to.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Ah,’ he gasped and snatched it up. ‘Angel.’

  ‘PC Donohue, sir. I’ve been patched through. Inspector Asquith said I should speak to you direct.’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ Angel said quickly. ‘You’ve news of Ahmed Ahaz?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve just done the General Hospital on Sheffield Road and I’ve also done Skiptonthorpe Hospital. No young man answering his description has been admitted today.’

  Angel silently groaned. His chest began to burn up. ‘Right, lad. Ta.’

  ‘Can I do anything else, sir?’

  ‘No. No. I don’t think so,’ he said rubbing his chin. There was a throbbing in his ears.

  ‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled, sir. There’s probably a very simple explanation.’

  ‘Probably,’ Angel replied but in his heart of hearts, he didn’t really think that there could be. He began to fear the worst. He bit his lower lip as he slowly replaced the phone.

  He looked at his watch. It was 5.04. He reached back out for the phone and tapped in a number.

  Gawber answered.

  ‘I wanted to catch you before you leave,’ Angel said. ‘Ahmed’s missing. Been missing since lunchtime. He’s not at home. His mother’s phoned in. I can’t pretend I’m not worried.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Gawber said, ‘I’ll come straight down, sir.’ And he did.

  Angel told him all that had happened.

  Gawber nodded but could offer no suggestion that Angel hadn’t already considered.

  ‘I can’t sit around much longer,’ Angel said. ‘I’d be better touring the streets on the off-chance
that I might see him.’

  ‘It’s dark out there, sir. You wouldn’t see anything.’

  ‘Could stop and ask people if they’ve seen him.’

  Gawber shook his head. Angel knew he was right.

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

  Angel turned, pulse racing, dashed across to it and pulled it open. It was big John Weightman, a burly uniformed constable of the old school.

  ‘What is it, John?’

  The prompt opening of the door took Weightman by surprise. ‘There’s a funny carry-on at reception, sir. There’s a man … found outside … sort of tied up … asking for you.’

  ‘Tied up? What? It’s not Ahmed Ahaz?’

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ Weightman said. ‘No. An unusual little man … looks like he’s been knocked about a bit. He says he knows you. Wants to see you, urgently.’

  Angel and Gawber exchanged glances.

  ‘Right,’ Angel said and they followed Weightman out of the office, up the corridor through the security door into the reception area.

  A young PC came out of the interview room by the reception room door. ‘I’ve put him in here, sir. Sat him down. I almost fell over him … he was in the gutter opposite the front door. Tied up. I’ve taken the plaster off his mouth and eyes and untied the rope round his wrists and arms.’

  ‘Right, lad. Let’s have a look at him.’ He bustled his way past the young constable into the small interview room followed by Gawber to see a rumpled figure of a man seated at the table. He was screwing up his face and rubbing his wrists.

  ‘Ah! Inspector Angel,’ the man cried out and leaped to his feet as soon as he saw him.

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up as he instantly recognized the man. It was David Schuster. He was in his dusty, dishevelled suit, shirt and tie. His face was troubled, red and perspiring, and his hair was tousled. On the table was a coil of rope and two adhesive plasters, the kind used to dress injuries.

  Angel went up to him. ‘Mr Schuster. Are you all right?’

  ‘Inspector Angel. They’ve got your young police constable, and I’m afraid they mean business.’

  Angel felt as if he’d been hit in the chest by a cannonball. He swallowed. At the same time he put out his hands to Schuster’s arms and returned him to the chair. ‘It’s all right. Sit down. Who have? Tell me about it.’