Sham Page 9

Gawber was carrying a big crumpled envelope.

  ‘We’ve about finished out there at Frillies, sir. There are no recent diggings that we can see, and we’ve been through the waste-bins. Nothing.’

  Angel sighed. It was hard going. Nothing was coming easily. He rubbed his chin.

  ‘And can I talk to you about Ahmed, sir?’

  ‘Ahmed? Yes. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Ahmed will be eighteen next week. I’m doing a whip round. Not often we get anybody coming of age on us. It’s usually weddings, and leavings. I thought we could give him money, start him on his way. Unless you’d any plans of your own for him, of course.’

  Angel sniffed and smiled. ‘Eighteen, eh? Young Ahmed. I might have. What’s everybody giving?’

  ‘Mostly a fiver, sir.’

  ‘Here’s a tenner.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I might be thinking of something original I could be giving him,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘Remind me, will you?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Gawber went out and closed the door. Angel could hardly imagine Cadet Ahmed Ahaz being a fully-blown adult. He would have to consider what memento he might give him. He was trying to recall what he had been given when he was eighteen and couldn’t recall that he got anything.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened immediately and a man peered into the room.

  It was the pathologist.

  Angel looked up and smiled.

  ‘Come in, Mac. Nice to see you.’

  A short, white-haired man in his fifties came in with a file and a large plastic see-through envelope with the word EVIDENCE in red printed diagonally across it.

  ‘I was passing, Michael, so I thought I’d bring you the PM report. It’s all finished.’ He had a Glaswegian accent you could cut with a knife and spread on a bridie. ‘And I’ve also brought the contents of the victim’s pockets from SOCO.’

  ‘Glad you did. Sit down.’

  Doctor Mac placed the file and the envelope on the desk and took the chair nearest the desk.

  ‘It’s all finished,’ Mac said. ‘Did you discover the man’s ID?’

  Angel looked at him, smiled, lifted the file cover tentatively and then closed it.

  ‘Oh yes. His name is … was Richard Schumaker. We’ve got his address. Don’t know much about him. Appears to be single. His father was a plastic surgeon in Liverpool. He was also murdered recently.’

  Doctor Mac shook his head compassionately and let out a short sigh. ‘Oh.’

  ‘What’s the meat of it then?’ Angel said. ‘Save me wading through the Latin.’

  ‘Very straightforward,’ the shrewd Scot said. ‘It’s unquestionably murder. Young man, in his twenties, five feet ten inches, about a hundred and forty pounds, recent appendectomy scar. Died from heavy blood loss following an incisive wound with a pointed bladed instrument to the aorta. Would have died in less than twenty seconds. I have timed out the murder; it must have been between noon and 6 p.m. on Monday, the second.’

  Angel sniffed. He’d heard it all a thousand times before, but post-mortems always made him feel sad. He noted with a small amount of satisfaction that the time of death fitted Eloise Macdonald’s account.

  ‘What about the weapon, Mac, a pointed bladed instrument means a knife? What sort of a knife?’

  The doctor shrugged.

  ‘An ordinary domestic kitchen knife could have been used. Something with a blade up to half an inch wide. That’s most any serious implement with a blade. There was nothing unusual or special at the aperture of the wound to assist with identifying the kind of weapon it might have been. Sorry about that. Something with a point at the tip and is a blade as opposed to a screwdriver or a meat skewer is what you’d be looking for.’

  ‘Serrated?’

  ‘Unsure. In this case, can’t be certain. The knife was thrust in and then pulled out shortly afterwards, I think. The damage to the skin and the flesh was minimal and clean, and there was only the one incision straight into the artery.’

  ‘Did you think the murderer was a surgeon or a butcher then?’

  ‘Impossible to say, Michael. It could have been a lucky stab … I mean for the murderer of course.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. Any other marks to the body? Needle marks, tattoos, you know what makes my tail wag.’

  ‘No. Sorry, nothing there, Michael. And there was nothing under his fingernails of interest, just the usual dust in the air. The state of his lungs showed that he didn’t smoke and that he was probably from round these parts. His stomach showed he had taken a meal just before he died. Nothing untoward in it. No poisons, nothing like that. His blood had an alcohol content. Quite a low level. It’s all in there,’ he said pointing at the file. ‘It wasn’t excessive. No drugs.’

  Angel pursed his lips.

  ‘Unusual. I thought everybody took drugs, except me … and you, possibly.’

  Mac smiled.

  ‘Any indications as to his likely employment, lifestyle?’

  ‘Judging by his hands, he wasn’t a manual worker. Soft and fleshy. His general muscle tone was quite good, and even. He might work out or jog or swim. Used a sunlamp, probably went to one of these local shops that have mushroomed.’

  Angel’s eyebrows lifted.

  ‘How do you know he hasn’t been in the hot sun in Barbados?’

  ‘The line of his pants was too sharply defined.’

  ‘Mmm. Anything else?’

  ‘Aye. He had had a reasonable haircut quite recently. By that, I mean none of your short back and sides and a slop of Gloy by an opportunist tradesman. It was probably cut by a person who knew a bit about hairdressing.’

  ‘Now how would you know that?’

  ‘Simple. His neck had been shaved, which showed he had been attended to recently and the rest of his hair was tapered, as it should be, and not crudely shorn like a sheep from the outback. Also, it smelled of something pleasant, probably shampoo, or maybe brilliantine.’

  ‘Mmm. Did his clothes tell you anything?’

  ‘Middle of the road. Plain, good quality traditional dark suit, shirt and tie. Black leather shoes, wool socks. He was well turned out, conservative conventional, maybe a bit too traditional for the second millennium, but appropriate for taking a young lady he was wooing out to lunch.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. He wasn’t pleased. The evidence garnered so far wasn’t going to solve the crime. The victim was a clean, decent young man, honesty oozing out of his every pore. His job would have been far easier if the victim had been up to his gills in Class A, was an alcoholic, a crook, a thief, a rogue and a vagabond.

  He rubbed an ear lobe between finger and thumb.

  ‘Thanks, Mac.’

  The doctor took his leave.

  As soon as the door closed, Angel reached out for the EVIDENCE envelope. He opened the flap and poured the contents on to the desk top. There was a handkerchief, bunch of keys, some coins, a silver clip holding two hundred pounds in notes, and a small crumpled unsealed brown envelope.

  Angel opened the envelope and took out a piece of paper that might have been torn from an exercise book. It was folded twice. He unfolded it and was surprised to see that it was a handwritten list of names: about twenty girls’ names, just the forenames, no surnames. The last entry at the bottom of the column was ‘Eloise’.

  He found a see-through file from a desk drawer, put the list in it and sealed the file down with sticky tape and put it on the desk in front of him.

  Then he reached out for the phone and dialled a number.

  A man’s voice answered.

  ‘Taylor, SOCO.’

  ‘Yes. Angel. I’m looking at the contents of Schumaker’s pockets. There’s a sheet of paper document in there, a paper in an envelope, a list of names.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Were there any fingerprints on it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Pretty near a full set of Schumaker’s and
a smudged finger and thumb of another person’s. Looked like a man’s.’

  ‘Aye,’ Angel said thoughtfully. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The file with all our findings will be coming through. Later today probably.’

  ‘Hmm. Anything unusual?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘Right.’

  He replaced the phone slowly, rubbed his chin and wondered if he was in a tunnel that didn’t have a light at the end of it.

  *

  St Peter’s church clock chimed the half-hour.

  Angel could often hear it in his office when it was quiet and the wind was blowing from the east, which was also the certain indication in January of lower temperatures. He looked up from the letter he was reading, pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. Yes, it really was half past five. He sniffed. It was not the end of a perfect day. He signed the letter and closed the folder. He put the top on his pen and dropped it into his pocket. He squared up the pile of papers, folders and envelopes in front of him and slotted them into a desk drawer. He blew out a long sigh and rubbed his scratchy chin. If he had had to give an account to God about what he had achieved that day he would have had to admit that it wasn’t very much. He stood up and reached out to the hook for his raincoat. He didn’t intend being home late that night.

  He glanced at the window. Outside was as black as a plumber’s thumbnail. His window looked out on to the side of a large Georgian house long since converted into council offices. The wall was in darkness so it returned no images, and by night assumed the role of a mirror. He noticed a reflection of his ample shape and turned quickly away.

  He closed the office door, walked briskly up the corridor, waved a hand to the constable on the counter and pushed through the glass door out of the station. He paused on the top step and looked out into the night. It was already cold. He reckoned there would be a hard frost later that night. He stabbed his hands into his pockets and skipped lightly down the stone steps to the pavement.

  Unusually, he was going to call at the off-licence and pick up a bottle of red for Mary. He’d been home late every evening that week and had caught it in the neck from her each time as she had struggled to keep a hot dinner edible. She imbibed hardly at all, and not on a regular basis, so he hoped the vino would cheer her up.

  He reached the main road, stopped, looked both ways and then picked his way across it, dodging between a slow-moving black car and a bus that had just stopped for passengers. He then turned down left along the side of the church wall, past the gates, round the corner again to a ginnel that provided a short cut through a row of old houses to a small parade of shops comprising a newsagent’s, a tobacconist’s, a confectioner’s and Heneberry’s off-licence. There were no pedestrians around; they had had the good sense to make for home in the daylight.

  The main street was well illuminated. The rain of an hour ago on the pavements and road surfaces had provided a sheen that reflected light from the sickly-coloured halogen lamps.

  He went under the arch into the ginnel. He could barely see the dim light of a lamp post at the other end that opened into a cobbled yard, where the rear entrances to the shops were located and deliveries made. He continued picking his way on the cobbles considering whether he should get a bottle of South African or one of the new Australian wines and trying desperately to blank out the annoying details of the mystery surrounding the murder of Richard Schumaker, when suddenly he heard a footstep behind. It was followed immediately by a blow to the back of his neck, that felt like one of Fred Dibnah’s chimneys collapsing on him. He buckled to the ground. He instinctively put his hands out to limit the damage of hitting the cobbles. The pain on his neck was wicked and hot and raced up to his head. He quickly pushed himself up but received a further whack to his back as he was straightening up. He gasped. He went straight down and immediately tried to get up again. Under his arm he caught sight of the silhouette of a man wielding something long and shiny; he couldn’t see quite what it was. He put his hands up to protect his head when another blow caught him across the ear and another on his arm. The blows stung more than a thousand wasps. Through the continued assault, he managed to get to his feet, and backed away keeping his hands in front of him. The attacker advanced relentlessly. Angel rolled against the wall trying to dodge the blows. He saw the weapon was a baseball bat. The blows kept coming. His arms took most of the damage. He was getting to know when to expect them and at what angle they would next come. He took the opportunity and reached out for the weapon. Then suddenly, he felt a blow from behind. He turned and saw another figure wielding a bat. The outline of the head was different. The figure was shorter. It looked like a woman! It was a woman! She was wearing something dark across the bottom half of her face.

  The limited light from the lamppost caught her eyes: they shone like a tiger’s. Blows now showered on him from every direction. He made a grab for the man’s bat and eventually got a hold on it with one hand. He struggled to take it off him, while blows continued to rain mercilessly on him from behind. He maintained the grip on the bat now with both hands but slipped down on the cobbles. The man had to come down with him.

  ‘Angel, you bloody swine!’ the woman snarled, continuing to lam into him. ‘Where is Pete Grady? Where is Pete Grady?’

  He now knew his attackers were Carl and Gina Rossi, brother and mother of Rikki.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Angel gasped. ‘But if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘You pig,’ she spat at him.

  He felt another blow to the head, followed by a kick on the shin from a pointed shoe, no doubt with a Gucci label.

  ‘If Grady appears as a witness against Rikki next week,’ Carl Rossi snarled. ‘Your wife is going to be busy choosing a wooden box.’

  ‘And it needn’t be a big one,’ Gina added. ‘By the time we’ve finished with you, a pencil box will be too big!’

  A two-note siren echoed in the distance.

  ‘It’s the police, Ma,’ Rossi gasped.

  ‘Come on,’ she replied urgently.

  Angel heard the uneven clatter of high heels on cobbles fade quickly away up the ginnel. He wiped the sweat from his eye and discovered it was red and sticky.

  The car siren was now much louder. There was a screech of brakes followed by the slamming of car doors.

  Angel was still holding the baseball bat handle. He got to his feet panting and leaning against the wall. There was silence. His mouth and jaw stiffened. His fingers tightened round the bat handle. He looked at it for a second then he threw it with tremendous force down the yard. It rattled noisily as it bounced on the cobblestones like a skeleton dancing on a xylophone. The effort caused him pain; he nursed the bruised arm across his middle. He had a foul taste in his mouth. It felt sore. He spat something out.

  Heavy footsteps came running up behind him.

  He turned towards them.

  ‘Is that you, sir? Are you all right?’

  It was Crisp.

  ‘Of course I am,’ he bawled angrily, wiping his mouth. ‘You’ve scared them off, just as I was getting top side of’em!’

  Another constable arrived.

  ‘There were two of them, sir!’

  ‘I know that, you bloody fool! Well, don’t just stand there like a couple of fairies! Get after them!’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  They turned to run back up the ginnel.

  ‘And be careful!’ he yelled.

  *

  ‘Come in,’ Strawbridge bawled.

  Angel pushed open the door.

  The superintendent looked up at him.

  ‘Come in. Sit down.’

  Angel closed the door but said nothing.

  Strawbridge stared at the cut on his temple and the swollen purple patch under his left eye.

  You’re a mess,’ he added with a sneer. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I’m all right, sir,’ he grunted.

  ‘You were damned lucky Crisp and Scrivens t
urned up.’

  Angel snorted.

  ‘Huh! They scared them off! Just as I was getting on top of’em!’

  ‘You didn’t say who tipped them off.’

  ‘Somebody rang in. Told reception I was being followed down the ginnel. They happened to be passing in a car. That’s all.’

  ‘Who was the good Samaritan then?’

  Angel knew that the only person it could have been was his snout, Helpman, but he wasn’t saying.

  ‘Didn’t give his name.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Angel needed to reverse the line of fire, put Strawbridge on the defensive.

  ‘What did Rossi say then, sir,’ he said, with his tongue in his cheek. ‘Is he going to change his plea?’

  Strawbridge frowned and the corners of his mouth turned down. He leaned forward and spoke urgently.

  ‘That’s what I want to see you about. We have got to find Grady!’

  Angel just looked at him. He took it that the answer to his question was ‘no’.

  ‘If we don’t find him by Monday, Rossi might walk free!’ Strawbridge yelled.

  Angel rubbed his chin.

  ‘What I don’t understand, is that Stefan Rossi is supposed to have done a deal with Stuart Mace that will stop Grady from giving evidence. My snout told me as much!’

  ‘Well your snout’s got it wrong. I said that before.’

  Angel frowned then shook his head. Helpman had always been a hundred per cent reliable.

  ‘We’ve got to find Grady. We must find Grady and bring him in.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Where would we start?’

  Strawbridge looked closely at him, ran his tongue over his lip a few times and then said, ‘Are you sure it was Gina and Carl that assaulted you last night.’

  ‘Positive,’ Angel said. ‘She spoke to me, threatened me. Told me if Grady appeared in court next week they’d kill me, put me in a box,’ he added with a grim smile.

  Strawbridge didn’t smile.

  ‘Must have been stalking you. Bit off their patch, isn’t it? This side of the Pennines in winter, can be very dicey driving in the dark over Woodhead.’

  ‘Where do the Rossis live?’

  ‘We don’t know. Nobody knows. They keep moving. It is thought that they have at least four places in Manchester, then a house or a flat or something in Florida. Gina boasts that they never sleep in the same pad two nights running.’