The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel (12 page)

‘We’ve just enough time to set up a surprise party.’

‘But he’s got a gun, sir.’

‘We have the advantage of surprise, Ron. He won’t be expecting us; he won’t know how many there are of us. He won’t yet know that we have found Ahmed and released him.’

Gawber rubbed his chin.

‘Let’s have a quick shufti round his lock-up,’ Angel said.

They flashed their torches in the small garage. At the side of the car was a discarded kitchen chest of drawers. There were a few tools and old car parts on top of it. Angel selected four small spanners and a six-inch long piece of copper petrol pipe on the bench, which he stuffed into his overcoat pockets. He saw two tyres hanging on a bracket in the wall. ‘Here, we can use these,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Help me down with them.’

Gawber looked bewildered.

‘Put one at each end of the block.’

Gawber shook his head. He was thinking that they would not be much defence against a gun.

Angel knew what Gawber was thinking. ‘Now let’s put the door back against the front of the garage. Make it look as it was. We don’t want him to suss the situation before we are ready for him. Let it look normal, as if we’ve no idea that he has Ahmed hidden in here. He’ll likely come the same way we came because it’s the nearest.’

Angel set out his stall the best way he knew how. He discussed tactics with Gawber and they took up positions together at the far end of the block. They switched off their torches and listened. They didn’t have to wait long.

They heard the engine of a car. It was not possible to work out from which direction it was coming until its fog-shrouded headlights gradually appeared. It was heading for lock-up garage number seventy-one. It stopped, its headlights shining on it. The driver doused the lights, got out of the car and began to walk towards the garage door.

Angel stuck his head round the corner of the end of the garage block and said, ‘Harry Jondorf, this is the police. You’re under arrest. Put your hands up.’

There was a short silence, then a red hot pellet of lead shot past Angel’s ear into the blackness.

Angel sucked in a lungful of fog. He hadn’t expected such an immediate and aggressive response.

On cue, Gawber immediately raced on tiptoe along the backside of the lock-ups to the opposite end.

‘You’re not taking me in, Angel,’ Jondorf yelled.

‘You’re under arrest, Jondorf. Put your hands up. If you hit any of my men with your random firing, I will charge you with a full list of firearm charges as well as abduction.’ Then he called out, ‘Sergeant Peters?’

From the other end of the block, Gawber called, ‘Yes, sir?’

There was a second shot let off by Jondorf in Gawber’s direction.

‘I’ve warned you about that, sir,’ Angel called.

Gawber then picked up the tyre and set it rolling off towards the next block of lock-ups, then ran in the opposite direction behind the next block, carefully avoiding being in silhouette from the light shining from the windows of the flats.

Jondorf didn’t hear the tyre rolling, but he did hear it land on its side a few yards away from him. Then Angel set his tyre rolling along the concrete away from the block. It made just enough noise to be disconcerting to a man in almost total darkness. It stopped and fell the other side of him.

Two red shots of lead left Jondorf’s gun aimed at the tyre.

‘Constable Hemingway?’ Angel called.

‘Yes, sir?’ Gawber called from behind the first block of lock-up garages about twenty yards from Jondorf.

Two shots rang out in that direction.

Angel smiled. They were really getting to him.

‘Mr Jondorf. I must warn you that if you even scratch one of my men, with this wild gunplay, you will be charged with attempted murder.’

As he spoke, Angel threw a spanner towards the other block of lock-ups. It landed on some grass behind Jondorf on the other side.

‘It is nothing less than reckless to be firing in the dark at my men like this.’

Another shot rang out.

Angel said, ‘Don’t be stupid, man. You’re not going to escape. You’re surrounded.’ Then more loudly he said, ‘Right, close in men. Use your nightsights prudently. Shoot only when you have Jondorf in vision. Aim for the legs. Not the vital areas.’ Then he swiftly threw two more spanners in different directions in quick succession.

Suddenly Jondorf screamed, ‘Don’t shoot!’

‘Throw down your gun,’ Angel ordered.

Another piece of flying lead came in Angel’s direction. It passed close by and made Angel very cautious. He reckoned that that was eight rounds spent. That was the usual number of bullets in a handgun. He didn’t know whether there were any more to go. He baited him once more.

‘That was very stupid, Jondorf.’

Angel heard the click of a firing pin of a gun with an empty magazine. And he heard it again. He knew Gawber would have heard it too.

Jondorf gasped.

Angel blew a short sigh of relief and yelled, ‘Close in, men. Fire low at will.’

He heard Jondorf suck in air. He judged he was about twenty feet away.

‘No,’ Jondorf yelled.

Gawber called, ‘I have him in my sights, sir.’

‘Shoot him, then!’

‘No,’ Jondorf screamed. ‘No. I give in. I give in.’

‘Hold your fire, Sergeant,’ Angel bawled. ‘Jondorf, throw your gun towards me. Lie down on your stomach.’

‘Get down. Get down. Get down,’ Gawber bawled while running towards him from behind.

‘Don’t shoot!’ Jondorf cried. ‘Don’t shoot!’

The discarded gun clattered on the concrete a few yards in front of Angel. He came out from behind the end of the block. He couldn’t see anything. He pulled out the piece of petrol pipe from his pocket and held it like a handgun and then switched on the torch.

Spreadeagled on the floor in front of him was the wriggling body of Jondorf. He looked up, blinked, shielded his eyes from the glare and screamed, ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I am unarmed now. You wouldn’t shoot at an unarmed man, would you?’

Angel pointed the petrol pipe at him and said, ‘Right. Put your hands behind your back.’

Gawber came up behind him, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket.

‘Harry Jondorf aka George Fryer you’re under arrest for the abduction of Police Constable Ahmed Ahaz. You do not have to say anything …’

‘Good morning, sir. You wanted to see me?’ Angel said.

‘Aye,’ Harker growled, then stuck his little finger in his ear, twisted it like a screwdriver, pulled it out, looked at it, blinked and said, ‘Aye. Come in and sit down.’

Angel chose the chair nearest the door.

‘I understand there was a bit of a flap on last night?’

Angel shook his head slightly. ‘Not a flap, sir. It was a bit sticky at first, but it all came out right in the end.’

‘I should have been informed. When one of my men is abducted, I should know about it.’

Angel couldn’t think of an answer that would have shut him up, so he said nothing. He would like to have said that the super might have known something was seriously amiss when he had asked to be issued with a firearm via PC Donohue, which he had blocked, but he didn’t think it was worth the effort.

‘Is Ahaz all right?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s back at his desk this morning. Seems fine.’

‘And what about the two accused?’

‘Harry Jondorf aka George Fryer is in a cell, sir. I’ve already spoken to the CPS. They’re satisfied that we have plenty to have him remanded, and subsequently convicted, so he should be off to Armley straight from court this morning.’

‘Ah,’ Harker said, appreciatively. ‘And the other? The oily little antique dealer?’

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘He got away, sir. We left him tied up. We couldn’t take him with us. He would have slowed us down. When we returned for him, he wasn’t there. He must have worked his way free. I don’t know where he is at the moment. I took a look at his shop early this morning. There’s no sign of him there.’

‘I’m surprised at you,’ he sneered. ‘Allowing a crook like that to slip through your fingers. Put out a bulletin. Get him picked up smartly.’

‘I’ve already done that, sir.’

‘Hmmm. I should think so,’ he said then he picked up a small pink piece of paper out of a wire basket on the desk in front of him. ‘And what’s this?’ he said with a sniff.

Angel glanced at it; he knew exactly what it was. ‘Requisition for a new shirt and tie for Ahaz?’

He had anticipated argument about it. It was always the case when the claim was out of the ordinary.

The phone rang. Angel reckoned he was saved by the bell … for the moment.

The superintendent reached out for it. ‘Harker … What’s that, sir? … Where? … The gas board? Good heavens! … I’ll see to it, sir … Yes, sir. Right away, sir.’ He slammed down the phone and jumped to his feet. He stared at Angel.

‘The chief constable. There’s a UXB been found by gasmen working in the road at the junction of Doncaster Road and Creeford Road. The man that found it said it looked like a big one. We’ll have to evacuate the area and close it off. I’ll phone the army; it’ll take them an hour or so to get here from York. In the meantime, find Asquith and get him to liaise with the gas board and block off Doncaster Road, Creeford Road and Shortman Street. I’ll get my secretary to get the vicar of St Edward’s to open the parish hall and have his ladies organize hot drinks and so on. Then get a squad together and begin to evacuate the houses and the pub on the corner quickly. If it’s a tricky one, the residents may have to stay the night. Social services would need to be informed. All right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Angel said, concealing a wry smile.

There were eight traffic wardens, twenty-two policemen and women in yellow dayglo jackets, swarming round both ends of Creeford Road, Doncaster Road and Shortman Street, which included Shortman Square. They were setting up diversion signs to block off roads around the junction to all vehicles except specified categories of emergency vehicles. One such vehicle was an unmarked police car driven by Angel. With him were DS Gawber, DC Scrivens and PC Ahaz. He drove the car purposefully the length of Creeford Road to the big house on the corner, Number 2. The residence was only ten yards away from the trench on the pavement from where the gasmen had reported finding the unexploded bomb in their diggings. There were no workmen in sight; an empty canvas shelter and eight traffic cones surrounded the hole; a shovel lay there dropped on top of a mound of fresh yellow earth.

Angel passed the roadworks scarcely giving them a glance and pointed the bonnet of the car through the open iron gates and round to the front of Number 2, Creeford Road. The four men dashed out, climbed the steps and ran up to the big door. Angel hammered the heavy black door with the knocker several times. They waited. Nothing happened. He repeated the hammering. Still nothing happened. He nodded to Scrivens who lifted up the battering ram he had been carrying and applied it to the door. At the third attempt, the door jamb splintered and the door sprang open.

Angel led the way and they rushed through a small entrance hall to an internal glass door comprising a richly engraved panel surrounded by a carved wooden frame. He pushed that open to discover he was in a commanding entrance hall. He stood and looked, amazed at what he saw. The three others gazed round in silence, utterly overwhelmed.

It was like going into the palace of the king of the world. Six larger-than-life stone carved statues of men and women were positioned around the side of the room against the walls, while the walls themselves were covered with huge, colourful paintings of men in knee breeches and women in wide skirts, groups of small families, naked fat women lounging on sofas, landscapes, seascapes, Mother and Child depictions as well as many other religious scenes. The two large high windows in stained coloured glass, showing grand scenes from the Bible, illuminated the grandiose scene in vivid reds and mauves. Underfoot were thick rugs of Persian design. The sight was majestic. The four men stood there in awe of the place. None of them had ever seen anything like it.

They wandered through an open door into more of the same, but with a table at the top of three steps, arranged like an altar with silver candlesticks, a jewelled paten and chalice, and behind, a triptych of jewelled collages depicting scenes of the Lord Jesus and his mother Mary, Jesus and the disciples fishing, and The Last Supper. The collages were created from gold leaf, rubies, pearls, diamonds and emeralds.

It was like the grandest cathedral ever seen.

Angel stood there so engrossed in the colours, the splendour, the richness and the beauty that, in his imagination, he could hear loud organ music accompanied by a hundred-piece orchestra with a predominance of harps and violins playing something very, very stirring.

The illusion was short-lived. He was brought down to earth by the sound of the door knocker coming from the front of the house. He dashed back into the main hall, down the passage through to the front door and pulled it open.

There stood an army officer in a flak jacket and khaki hat. He had ‘Army Disposal Unit’ flashes at the top of his sleeves and three pips on each side of his shoulders. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Are you DI Angel?’

‘Yes.’

‘I saw the car. Your superintendent said you would be around here somewhere. Captain Morrell, Bomb Disposal Unit. Good news. You can halt the evacuation, Inspector.’

Angel’s looked at him and nodded. ‘Oh?’

‘Rather a hoot, really,’ he said with a grin. ‘Just to let you know that the suspect bomb isn’t a bomb at all. It’s a false alarm. It’s just an old fire extinguisher.’

‘Really?’ Angel said.

‘Come in, Ahmed. Close the door.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I want you to get me the number of War Office Records. I want to speak to somebody in the RASC.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘Run Away Somebody’s Coming,’ he bawled irritably.

Ahmed smiled. He knew he was being teased.

Angel shook his head. ‘It stands for Royal Army Service Corps,’ he explained patiently. ‘It’s time you knew all these initials. They are the part of the army that does its delivering and storing. I want to speak to somebody who keeps their personnel records. Then I want to speak to DI Elliott. He’s with the Fine Art and Antiques squad in London.’

‘Right, sir.’ Ahmed stood up, turned and reached out for the door knob.

‘There’s something else,’ Angel said. ‘I think that Richard Mace must be planning to leave 2 Creeford Road very soon. It’s probably getting too hot for him. Find out if he owns the place. If he does, he’ll want to sell it. Find out which estate agent or solicitor is acting for him. Pretend you’re an ordinary member of the public, you’ve heard a rumour that it’s coming up for sale, and you’re interested in buying it. We might find a lead to where he is now.’

Ahmed smiled. He quite looked forward to pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. ‘Right, sir,’ he said and turned to go.

‘I haven’t finished,’ Angel said, pulling something out of his pocket. ‘I also want you to find out about this credit card. It’s with the Northern Bank. It was found sewn into the coat of that tramp character found dead under the arches on Wath Road. It’s in the name of Alexander Bernedetti. Here.’ He passed it over the desk. ‘See what you can find out about the man. You should get his personal details as well as his financial standing.’

‘Right, sir.’

Ahmed went out as Crisp came in. He was carrying an envelope. When Angel saw him, he leaned back in the chair. His mouth tightened. He wasn’t pleased.

‘I didn’t expect you back here,’ he growled. ‘You’re supposed to be shadowing the beautiful Flavia.’

‘Run out of money, sir.’

‘Run out of money?’ he bawled. ‘You had two hundred pounds!’

‘Doesn’t go far with a bird like that, sir. She’s impossible to impress. Anyway, I’m reporting back because, well … because she’s gone, sir.’

‘Gone? You … you just let her slip through your fingers? I expected you to stick to her as close as that tattoo.’

‘She was there when I left her last night. This morning, she had booked out.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘Don’t know.’

Angel sniffed and rubbed his chin. ‘She told me she was in Leeds on holiday. Of course, that was rubbish. What did you find out? You had two days and two hundred quid. What have you got for the poor taxpayer?’

‘I don’t know what she was up to. She was always on the phone.’

‘What was she saying? Who was she speaking to?’

‘She was speaking Polish or German or something to somebody called Peter. Always seemed very earnest. But I couldn’t understand a word.’

Angel pulled a face. ‘Peter? Hmmm. Did she have her own car?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did you try the taxi rank outside the hotel?’

‘Yes, sir. No joy. Nobody will own up to taking her anywhere.’

Angel rubbed a hand across his mouth.

‘I got her prints. On a menu,’ Crisp said brightly, putting the envelope on the desk. ‘It’s a glossy surface. Should get good pulls.’

Angel nodded. ‘That’s something, I suppose. Hand it to DS Taylor in SOCO on the way out.’ Angel sighed.

‘Do you think she sussed you out for a copper?’

‘I was very careful. Shouldn’t have thought so.’

‘Hmmm. Right. Well. We can’t go chasing her up and down the country. There’s something else come up. Richard Mace appears to have left his house. There are very few personal things left there. I want
you
to find him. You did the research on him. He’s got to be somewhere.’

Crisp’s jaw dropped. ‘Where would I start, sir?’ he asked pulling a long face and making cow eyes.

‘You’re a detective, aren’t you? Quiz the postman and the milkman. Tour the garages. Get his car reg and you’re on your way. Do you want me to do the bloody job for you?’

Crisp shook his head sullenly.

‘You’ll have to scratch about a bit,’ Angel added. ‘Go on. Get on with it then.’

Crisp slowly made for the door.

‘And don’t disappear into the Fat Duck,’ Angel called after him. ‘I like to see you now and again. I can just about tolerate you in small doses.’

The phone rang.

‘I’ve got that call now to DI Elliott, sir.’

‘Right, Ahmed. Thank you. Put him on,’ Angel replied. ‘Hello, is that Matthew? I’ve located the Patina treasure, Matthew, and a lot of other works of art and antiques by the looks of it.’

‘What?! That’s fantastic, Michael! Whereabouts?’

‘In a private house. The owner of which is a Richard Mace. The one I was telling you about, here in Bromersley. I eventually managed to get inside. He has a big house and it’s bursting with precious works of art, marble statues, paintings, Persian carpets and who knows what else. I’ve got the place guarded by uniformed. It will be covered morning, noon and night, but I’d be happy to pass it over to you. I can’t afford to have men tied up on security work.’

‘That’s fantastic. I’ll come up myself straight away and I’ll have a squad up tomorrow. How on earth do you imagine this man Richard Mace came by all that stuff?’

‘I’ve been working on that. Remember you told me that the last trace you had been able to make was of two men transporting the treasure through Sheffield on the first night of the blitz? And that your investigation came to an end with the notebook report of a Sheffield PC Shaw, I think his name was, who directed the RASC officer out of Sheffield onto the Bromersley Road?’

‘Yes. Shaw in his report wrote that the officer’s name was Captain Mecca.’

‘Yes, and he must have written that down in the street when bombs were dropping all round him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it occurred to me that the name he wrote actually was Captain Mace.’

‘Hmmm. Of course,’ Elliott said elatedly.

‘So, I contacted War Office Records and found out that there was a Captain Stewart Mace in the RASC who was lost, presumed dead, in January 1941. But he didn’t die: he went AWOL. The date fitted perfectly. I also learned that he was born in London in 1915. Now, he could have married and had a son around 1950, who would be around fifty-seven now. And that that would fit our man, Richard Mace.’

‘That’s great, Michael. I don’t know how you do it.’

‘I expect what happened was that the truck may have been damaged when they suffered the blast of a bombed building or when bouncing over the rubble and that they limped as far as Bromersley where they may have tried to phone their unit in London but couldn’t get through. London had also suffered excessive bomb damage around that time and lines were probably down. They were stranded, found lodgings or somewhere to stay. Hadn’t much money, no ration books or petrol coupons. All they had was what was in the packing cases. Maybe the driver was killed or went AWOL. Anyway, Mace must have lived out the war around here, and after the war got married, had a son, Richard, and continued hanging onto the Patina treasure and adding to it. He was never found out until that girl stole probably the least valuable item, a candle-snuffer, from his fantastic hoard.’