Текст книги "Find the Lady"

Автор книги: Roger Silverwood

Соавторы: Roger Silverwood
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

‘Did you touch him?’

‘Who? No. No. I snatched at his coat but soon let go when I seed him inside it, of course. Well, you would, wouldn’t you?’

‘What time did you finish work yesterday?’

‘Five o’clock. Always finish at five, you know.’

‘Was everything else as you left it?’

‘Exactly. Yeah. I fetched all my tools and gear in here.’

Angel thanked him and then spoke to the landlord and his wife, who had nothing useful to add. They had had a busy but peaceful evening in the bar, and nothing unusual had occurred.

Angel nodded and came out of the back door of the pub as one of the SOCO team in standard disposable white paper overalls was snapping photographs of the pub, the skip, the body and everything else that didn’t move.

Gawber arrived and came rushing across the car park.

‘Do the door-to-door, Ron. All I’ve got is a dead man in a brown suit, who wasn’t here at 5 o’clock yesterday afternoon.’

‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said and set off back the way he’d come.

Angel turned back to the skip.

Mac was in the skip, kitted out in the white paper overalls, hat, rubber boots and gloves. He hovered over the body.

Angel called over to him. ‘Cause of death, Mac?’

The doctor wasn’t pleased. He muttered something including an expletive he’d no doubt learned in his student days while washing pots for beer money in a Glasgow pub.

‘Didn’t quite catch it, Mac,’ Angel said knowingly.

‘I don’t know the cause of death yet,’ he snapped testily. ‘Give me a chance! Wound to the chest. Lot of blood around. Lot of bruising. He’s been badly knocked about. Might take me a day or so.’

Angel’s eyes narrowed.

‘Nasty. Sounds like a gang-type attack, more than one assailant?’

There was a pause before Mac snapped out his reply.

‘Don’t know. Ye’ll have to wait.’

Angel looked away. That was the problem – he couldn’t wait. He looked back at the body and tried to get a square look at the face. Mac had turned the head over to pull up the eyelids. There were blue bruises to the forehead and the cheeks. There was blood dried on his lips, which also seemed swollen. Nobody could ID him in that state.

Angel wasn’t prepared to hang around.

‘Look in his pockets, Mac,’ he said patiently. ‘I need to know who he is.’

Mac had just put something in a small transparent packet. He zipped across the top of it to seal it, wrote on it and put it in a white valise over his shoulder.

‘Aye. All right. Anything to shut you up.’

He pulled the body round more easily to reach the inside pocket. He reached inside found something. He brought it out, carefully holding it by the edges.

‘I think I’ve found ye a cheque book.’

Angel’s face brightened.

‘Great.’

Mac opened the cover. ‘It’s of the Northern Bank. In the name of Simon Smith. Will that do ye?’

‘Thanks, Mac.’

CHAPTER SIX

‘Yes, I’m the Manager, Richard Thurrocks. How can I help you, Inspector?’

‘Mr Thurrocks,’ Angel said. ‘We have just found the body of a man we believe to be Simon Smith. He had a cheque book issued by this branch with his name imprinted on it. What can you tell me about him?’

Thurrocks said: ‘Oh dear. Simon Smith. Lots of Smiths. Ah yes. I met him once, I believe. Hmmm. Let me see.’

He tapped a dozen keys on the computer on the desk in front of him, then leaned back waiting for the page to come up.

‘Mr Smith,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Did he die of natural causes, Inspector?’

‘We don’t think so,’ Angel said heavily.

‘Oh dear.’

Thurrocks looked back at the screen. ‘Ah yes. Opened the account on December 17th, 2004. I remember. He sold the family business for a tidy sum. Hmm. He seems to have been slowly reducing the balance ever since.’

Suddenly the penny dropped in Angel’s head and he sensed he might be on familiar ground. He looked across at Thurrocks.

‘Is this the same Smith who sold his glass bottle works to an American firm?’

‘I believe so.’

‘For two million pounds?’

He hesitated. ‘I really shouldn’t say, Inspector.’

Angel’s jaw muscles tightened. ‘You really should,’ he said glaring at him. ‘This is a murder enquiry.’

‘Well, yes, then,’ Thurrocks said.

‘What’s the credit balance now, then?’

‘Less than a hundred pounds.’

Angel’s eyes flashed.

‘Looks like you may have been robbed.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Thurrocks said, but he was beginning to look worried. ‘We have systems and procedures to protect us from fraud.’

‘Well, somebody has.’

Angel rubbed his chin. There was something very fishy about this.

‘What can you tell me about Simon Smith?’

‘Not much, Inspector. Highly respectable. If I remember correctly, he had sold his business and wanted to deposit the proceeds safely for a short period while he and his family had a holiday. I don’t think he actually came into the branch again. I certainly don’t remember seeing him. Just a minute, Inspector. The proceeds were left on a high-rate deposit account. It would have required his written instructions to transfer it to a current account. We wouldn’t have issued a cheque book without it. We must have received a letter or a signature to do that. All transactions thereafter would be conducted quite securely by cheque and post or phone. There really is no chance of fraud.’

Angel frowned. He really must see the dead man’s sister again, P.D.Q.

‘Can you turn up the letter?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said confidently. ‘Excuse me a minute.’

Thurrocks went out of his office.

Angel leaned back in the leather chair. It was pretty luxurious. He banged lightly on the arm rests and thought how comfortable it was. He turned up his nose in a familiar expression as he considered that it would have been bought with the interest from many a naïve soul’s overdraft. He looked round the office at the plush furnishings. Momentarily, he felt quite envious. But then he liked being a detective at inspector level much more than doing bank work. Very much more. And he enjoyed catching murderers. It had become his speciality. He suddenly had a thought. He took out his mobile and tapped in a number. It was soon answered by Ahmed. He asked him to look at the notes he had made on his desk during Miss Smith’s visit the day before and to give him her phone number. He said he would hold on while Ahmed looked it out. It took him a couple of minutes before he came back to the phone. He recited Miss Smith’s phone number. Angel thanked him, closed the phone and recorded the number on the back of an envelope. He was pocketing the envelope as Thurrocks came back into the room. Angel noticed the man wasn’t very happy. He was tapping his bottom lip and chin with shaking fingers.

‘Surprising, Inspector,’ Thurrocks said. ‘There certainly was a letter. There is an entry duly recorded in the post journal, but the letter is not in the file where it should be.’

Angel frowned. He looked Thurrocks up and then down.

‘Hmmm. If it turns up, I want to see it,’ he said heavily.

‘So do I!’ Thurrocks said.

‘What is the address you have for Simon Smith?’

He read it off the computer screen and Angel duly recorded it on the envelope.

‘Can you remember what he looked like?’

‘No. I only saw him the once. He must have looked … ordinary, conventional that is, or I would have remembered.’

‘I expect the thief might well leave that small balance to avoid the more conspicuous action of actually closing the account.’

Thurrocks flopped down into his chair.

‘I don’t understand it,’ he said, biting his nails. ‘This has never happened before.’

‘Tell me,’ Angel said thoughtfully. ‘Has anybody left your employment in recent days?’

Thurrocks shook his head slowly, then he stopped, his eyes glowing like cat’s eyes in a country road. He looked across the desk at Angel.

‘There was one man – Spencer,’ he said excitedly. ‘Spencer! Yes. That was his name. Left without working out his notice. Simon Spencer. Promising young man as well.’

‘I want his full name, last address and you’ll have his national insurance number.’

These were quickly supplied, then Angel phoned them through to Ahmed and told him to check on his last known address. Also to contact the national insurance office in Newcastle to see if he was claiming any state benefits.

He closed the phone and turned back to Thurrocks.

‘If anyone comes in the bank to attempt to withdraw any more from this account, phone me and try to detain them. In the meantime, I will be setting up other inquiries. And I would ask you to keep this confidential Mr Thurrocks, except, of course, from the bank’s directors. I wouldn’t want your staff or any outsider to know of the police’s interest in Spencer yet. All right?’

‘Right, Inspector.’

He took his leave and returned to the BMW.

He stood uncertainly, at the car door. There was so much to do, he didn’t know where to turn next. He was anxious to know if SOCO or Dr Mac had uncovered any clues at the scene. And he also wondered if Ron Gawber’s house-to-house had unearthed anything. He needed to keep on that murder while the crime scene was hot.

He got into the car and drove off towards The Three Horseshoes.

His mind was still racing. He couldn’t be certain what had happened to Simon Smith. Was he lost in the Tsunami or not? According to Miss Smith, her brother had died in the Tsunami. If that was so, the body in the skip couldn’t be his. If it wasn’t Smith’s, then whose was it? And there was another thing….

He arrived at The Three Horseshoes and parked in the car park next to SOCO’s white van. A few nosy parkers had seen the police vehicles, the incident tape and SOCOs in conspicuous whites, and were hovering near the main pub door.

There was no sign of Dr Mac, nor the body in the skip. Angel crossed the car park, lifted the tape and almost bumped into Taylor. He was still in whites and, coming out of the van, was waving an email.

‘Just had confirmation back from the station, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘The fingerprints of the dead man match those of an escaped prisoner, Harry Harrison, 36. Escaped while being transferred from Wakefield in January.’

Angel’s face brightened. He nodded appreciatively. It was always good to know the identity of a victim. It cleared that up.

‘And there’s more, sir. They also match some of the prints on the wrappers of that hoard of money you found round the corner under the floorboards. And that money’s now in the station safe.’

Angel’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘Harry Henderson? Aka Harry Harrison. Of course,’ he said. ‘I remember. He escaped in a prison transfer in January with Eddie Glazer.’

He knew of Glazer: a wicked, dangerous hard nut, inside for a long stretch for murder. Harrison was small fry. His speciality was conning old ladies out of their pension money by pretending to be an official from the water board or some official organization.

‘Eddie Glazer and Harry Harrison were not in the same league,’ Angel said.

‘At least his mother will now know where he is at nights,’ Taylor said. ‘If he had one.’

Angel sighed. At least one puzzle was beginning to unravel.

‘Did you count that money, Don?’

‘There were two million pounds, sir.’

Angel sniffed. It was a lot of cabbage for a sloppy, tinpot conman like Harrison to come by. However did he manage it? He shook his head. Life was full of surprises.

‘Where’s Dr Mac?’

‘He’s finished here, sir. There wasn’t much. The mortuary van has collected the body and gone.’

‘You got anything interesting?’

‘A few hairs on the corpse’s suit, sir. And some dust. Blood off the outside corner of the skip. We’ll be having a look at them in the lab.’

Angel nodded. Sounded promising.

‘Was he killed here?’

‘Dr Mac thinks so. Stabbed several times. We didn’t find a weapon. We’re about finished here, sir, unless you want us for anything. We’ll be away in two minutes.’

‘Right, Don. Thank you,’ he said and turned away.

Taylor headed back into the van.

Angel saw Gawber thrusting across the car park with his head down, returning from his door-to-door calling.

‘What you got, Ron?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ he said wearily. ‘Nobody saw anything.’

Angel sniffed.

‘Would a photograph have helped?’ he asked with a smile.

Gawber’s eyebrows shot up.

‘Why? Do you know who it is, sir?’

‘Aye. Harry Harrison.’

Gawber nodded. ‘That worm,’ he said indignantly.

‘Never mind,’ Angel said. ‘How did you get on chasing the oranges?’

‘I found the fruit stall on the market without any difficulty, sir. There are only a few stalls open on a Monday. The bag was unusual. The stallholder said he was using those bags temporarily because he’d run out of his regular brown paper printed bags.’

‘Yes. Yes,’ Angel said quickly. ‘Did he remember selling a man five oranges, or any oranges, that’s the point?’

‘No, sir. He didn’t.’

Angel sighed.

‘But he did recall selling oranges – he couldn’t be sure how many – to various women, including Margaret Gaston. He knew her because he used to go out with her, before she got herself up the duff.’

‘Margaret Gaston?’ he roared in surprise. He considered the implication. ‘Did he recall the time?’

‘About one o’clock,’ Gawber added.

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Whatever time it was, Ron. It’s a certainty she couldn’t be Reynard!’

‘Of course.’

‘Could he remember anybody else?’

‘No, sir. Not by name anyway.’

Angel pulled a face and turned away. Then he suddenly looked at his watch. He ran his hand through his hair, turned back excitedly, licked his bottom lip and said, ‘Look, it’s almost five o’clock. I’ve got an urgent little job for you. Nip along smartly up the road to the office of the South Yorkshire Daily Examiner. I don’t know what time they put that rag to bed. Speak to the assistant editor. Tell him about finding the dead body of Harry Harrison. Tell him that we are absolutely baffled. Tell him all about the case, and in particular, ask him – as a favour to me – to give the story a prominent position in the paper, and, especially remember to say that we discovered that Harry Harrison had been living in flat number twenty at the top of Mansion Hill. Specify flat number twenty. All right?’

‘Right, sir,’ he said and turned to go.

Angel grabbed him by the sleeve and said: ‘And don’t forget to tell him, the police are completely baffled. He’ll like that. Anything that puts the police down. Huh. He’ll probably put that on the front page!’

Gawber dashed off to his car on the street and drove away and, a minute later, the SOCO van reversed away from the skip on The Three Horseshoes car park, turned and drove onto the main road heading back towards the station.

Angel took one last glance round the car park and at the skip and then made for his car. He was just getting in when he heard the sound of an insistent car horn. He looked round. It was Crisp, anxious to get his attention. Crisp drove up next to Angel’s BMW and pulled on the brake.

‘Sir. Sir,’ Crisp called.

‘What’ve you doing, lad? I’ve been looking out for you.’

‘I was staying with that money until SOCO came.’

‘I have seen Don Taylor. That was two hours ago. What have you been doing since? I told Ahmed to find you—’

‘He did, sir. I had to write up my notes. I came as soon as I could.’

‘Write up your notes? There was very little to write up. What have you been doing?’

‘Then I had lunch.’

‘Lunch?’ he bawled. ‘How long did you take for lunch? What did you have, kippers?’

Crisp said nothing.

Angel shook his head. His jaw was set. It was pointless pursuing the matter: Crisp always had an answer.

After a few moments Angel said, ‘Do you want some overtime?’

‘I wouldn’t volunteer for it, sir.’

Angel licked his bottom lip. He thought he knew a surefire way of changing his mind. ‘Not even if it’s back up on the top floor of Mansion House flats?’ he said artfully.

Crisp blinked then gave him an old-fashioned look.

‘Margaret Gaston’s pad, sir?’ he said brightly.

‘No. Next door,’ he said. ‘Number 20.’

‘Mr Prophet will see you now, Inspector,’ she said holding the office door open.

Angel liked her smile, her teeth, her hair, her face, her smell and her figure. He wondered how any woman were lucky enough to have everything in such perfect form standing in what he guessed were outrageously expensive shoes.

‘Thank you,’ he said as he passed her and enjoyed the close brief whiff of the perfume.

Prophet was standing, leaning over the desk with his arm outstretched.

Angel transferred the envelope of photographs he had brought in with him to his left hand and shook Prophet’s hand.

‘Ah. Pleased to see you, Inspector. Please sit down. Are you any nearer finding my wife’s murderer?’

‘Frankly, no, but it is early days. There are a few questions I must ask you, Mr Prophet.’

‘Of course. I realize that you let me off lightly yesterday. It was most considerate.’

Angel nodded then said, ‘We aim to please. You will know that most murders are committed by their nearest and dearest?’

‘Indeed, yes.’

‘So we have to eliminate you absolutely from our enquiries. So I have to ask if you can account for your whereabouts yesterday afternoon.’

‘Indeed, I can.’

He picked up a telephone and said, ‘Karen. Will you come in here a moment, please.’ He replaced the phone.

‘I was at my desk, here, from one-thirty until you came yourself and broke the news at … about twenty to five. My secretary, Miss Kennedy, I am certain will confirm it.’

The door opened and Karen Kennedy came in.

‘Karen,’ Prophet said, ‘the Inspector is asking about my whereabouts yesterday afternoon. Would you kindly tell him where I was?’

‘Mr Prophet was in the office the entire afternoon, Inspector, as usual.’

‘Thank you,’ Angel said. ‘Did he have any visitors?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I know that he was very busy on a particular case. There were several phone calls for him, but I managed to head them off.’

‘Right. Thank you,’ Angel said.

She smiled angelically and went out.

‘I hope that satisfies you, Inspector.’

‘Yes. Of course. Now can you think of anybody who would have wanted your wife dead?’

‘No. Except, of course, Cora Blessington.’ Prophet’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you had a witness, Mrs Duplessis next door. Cora was seen coming out of the house, didn’t you say? I thought the case was cut and dried. It was Cora Blessington who murdered my wife, wasn’t it?’

Angel nodded. ‘It certainly looks like it. We just have to be very careful and quite certain, you know. You’re in the legal profession, Mr Prophet. You know what it’s like satisfying the law.’

Prophet sighed.

‘What more do you need?’

‘Motive.’

‘Money, I should think.’

‘Have you any proof of that?’

‘No. But my wife was immensely rich, in her own right. She handed dosh out to charities like there was no tomorrow.’

Angel rubbed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. It sounded as if Prophet didn’t know about the thousand-pound-a-month deficit in Alicia’s bank balance.

‘And do you think she regarded Lady Blessington as a charity?’

‘Well, she certainly wasn’t an asset, Inspector, was she?’ he said sourly.

‘Now that she’s dead, who inherits her estate.’

‘As her husband, I do. Do you know what I think, Inspector? I think she came to Alicia. She knew she was well off. She asked for a loan. Alicia possibly refused. She could be very stubborn if she thought she was being taken advantage of. Cora Blessington pushed Alicia as hard as she could. She visited Alicia several times over the past six months or so, and maybe asked her for money. If Alicia declined, possibly she threatened her. When Alicia finally refused, she shot her.’

Angel raised his head. ‘Your wife had no deep secret that Cora Blessington could have blackmailed her with, had she?’

‘No. Certainly not. The motive was straightforward. Take it from me, Inspector.’

Angel thought he could possibly be correct. A rich woman was always a target.

‘I’ve examined your late wife’s bank statements,’ he continued. ‘And as a matter of fact, she appears to have drawn a cheque to cash for a thousand pounds each month for the past six months.’

Angel watched him carefully. The man’s eyes narrowed. His fists tightened. He thought he was going to explode.

‘Can you explain where the money has gone?’ Angel added.

‘No. But I’ve got a damned good idea!’

Angel understood and was considering his next question.

Then Prophet suddenly said: ‘It’s outrageous. She has got to pay. You must find her and arrest her, Inspector. She has got to be punished. It’s a pity they abolished hanging.’

Angel sighed and rubbed his chin.

‘There’s something else you might as well know, sir.’

‘What’s that?’ he snapped.

‘Whoever it was who murdered your wife on Monday, it wasn’t anybody called Lady Cora Blessington: there’s no such person.’

Prophet said: ‘I am not really surprised, I suppose. That had passed through my mind.’

‘So you must tell me all you can about her. Have you ever met her?’

‘Just the once. About six months ago. Yes, must have been. I interrupted Alicia and her having afternoon tea. I thought she was quite charming in her way. I didn’t know that at the time she had such evil intent, nor that she would have been able to carry it out herself.’

‘And what was your wife’s attitude towards her?’

‘Oh, she liked her, at first, anyway. They talked about all the things my wife had enjoyed, tennis, riding, music and so on. I believe they were old school friends. I don’t know which school, nor how they met up.’ Prophet rubbed his chin. ‘Yes. Strange that. She just popped up from nowhere and took the only person I ever cared for.’

‘You wouldn’t have a photograph of her, would you?’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ he said distastefully.

Angel passed the envelope of photographs across the desk.

‘These were taken from a drawer in your sitting-room by one of my men.’

Prophet’s big blue eyes opened wide.

He took the envelope turned up the flap and tipped them out onto his desk. They were typical snapshots of members of the family, on holiday, on the steps of churches, on the beach and in the garden, mostly postcard size or smaller. He leaned over the desk and pushed them around the green polished leatherette. He seemed pleased to be looking through them. Eventually he pounced on one particular square photograph in colour.

‘She’s there!’ he yelled. ‘Cora’s there! Look!’

He picked it up, turned it round and pushed it under Angel’s nose. ‘There!’

Angel felt his pulse increase and that inexplicable warm hum in the chest.

Prophet pointed at an unusual-looking eccentric in a long blue dress and cream hat. Seated next to her, clearly, was the smaller figure of his wife, Alicia Prophet.

‘I remember now. Of course! I took it. In the garden. Shortly after Alicia had introduced her to me. Alicia and Cora were having tea at the rustic table on the patio. The garden looked very nice too. The rose bushes were out. The trees were in full leaf.’

Angel strained to see the features in detail of Lady Blessington’s face, but the photograph had been taken from quite a distance back and the face was partly shaded by the hat and the head of blonde wavy hair. He thought she was a big-boned woman dressed in the manner of the 1930s.

It was still a mystery, but Angel was delighted. His chest warmed with excitement and his pulse thumped noticeably. There she was: the murderer of Alicia Prophet. The name was false but, at last he was holding a photograph of the actual murderer. It was the first step towards getting a conviction. He frowned and continued to gaze at the photograph.

All he had to do was … find the lady!