The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel (13 page)

Elliott said, ‘Sounds logical to me. You know, Michael, you never cease to amaze me. Tell me. Among the spoils, are there any paintings of fat women with bare backsides?’

‘A couple, I think.’

‘Oh, Lord Truscott will be pleased. They’ll likely be the two stolen from Truscott Priory last July. Worth millions. He’ll be over the moon.’

‘Yes, Angel. Come in,’ Harker bellowed. ‘What’s this requisition for a new shirt and tie for PC Ahaz?’ he snarled, waving the pink expense chitty.

Angel wasn’t expecting any further argument about it.

‘I had to make up a dummy parcel for Jondorf to reel in, sir. So I got the idea of improvising with a shirt and a tie.’

Harker frowned and put his hand to his forehead. ‘You’re making it up as you go along,’ he said and stared at him with the look of a sanitary inspector looking into the cesspit in Dartmoor. ‘You’ve been in the force that long, Angel, you think you know how to manipulate the facts to beat the system. But I’m afraid you can’t get away with it, not while I’m in this chair anyway.’

‘No, sir. It’s not like that. The claim
is
valid. The explanation, as unlikely as it might seem, is absolutely true. It was the only way I could think of at the time. And we did get Ahaz back unharmed, and Jondorf and Schuster on remand. And we didn’t call the Wakefield armed unit out. That would have cost a few hundred quid. There were no fees at all to pay out for externals. No extras. The entire operation was managed internally.’

Harker wrinkled the misshapen potato in the middle of his face that passed for his nose, and rubbed his mean, bony little chin. After a few moments, he sighed. ‘Very well. I think I must be going soft,’ he growled, then he signed the slip and tossed it into his out tray.

Angel looked on with unspoken satisfaction.

‘How’s Crisp doing with that undercover surveillance of that foreign woman?’

‘He was doing very well, sir. However, she walked out of the hotel early this morning and disappeared.’

Harker sniffed. ‘He couldn’t hang onto the string on a kid’s kite.’

‘I interviewed her yesterday,’ Angel continued. ‘I don’t think she’s a suspect in the Johannson murder. She certainly knew the man, and she didn’t like him, but then again, nobody did. However I do believe she is concerned in some way in the missing Patina Cathedral treasure.’

‘You’ve got to kick him about a bit,’ Harker snarled. ‘Get your money’s worth.’

Angel lifted his head and frowned. ‘What?’

‘It’s the only way to get any work out of him. And get him to use his initiative.’

Angel blinked. ‘Who?’

‘Crisp of course! Who the hell do you think I’m talking about? He couldn’t wipe his backside without a map.’

‘DS Gawber left this copy of the list of telephone calls charged to Mark Johannson’s suite while he was staying at the Imperial Grand Hotel, Leeds, sir. It comes to over £400. He was only there four nights. He was murdered on the fifth night.’

‘Yes. Yes,’ Angel said testily. ‘Have you been through them?’

‘They were all calls abroad, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘The same number. Euromagna’s studio in Burbank, California. And two to Norway.’

‘Norway?’ Angel said. ‘I suppose he was Norwegian with a name like that?’

‘Yes, sir. He was calling his mother.’

‘Anywhere else?’

‘No, sir.’

Angel sniffed. ‘That doesn’t move us ahead at all, does it?’

The phone rang. Angel looked across and reached out for it. The switchboard operator told him it was a Detective Sergeant Hooper from the Thames River Patrol, Metropolitan Police. Angel wondered who he was.

‘Put him through.’

The man spoke with a tough, cockney accent. ‘Do you know a man, Richard Mace, sir? His address is believed to be 2 Creeford Road, Bromersley. Six foot tall, black hair, suit, collar, tie.’

Angel frowned. He wondered whatever was coming next. ‘I know
of
him, Sergeant, why?’

‘Pulled his body out of the river by Waterloo Bridge, sir, two hours ago. Six bullets in his back. Got his address out of his wallet. Not robbery, though. He’d a pocket full of money, twenties and fifties, nearly four grand. He was also carrying a pistol. A Walther PPK with a full cartridge.’

Angel frowned.

‘Anything known, sir?’ Hooper added. ‘He’s not on the NPC. He’s from round your way. I’ve got to put something on the docket.’

‘Don’t know much about him, Sergeant. He’s not wanted by us for murder, but we have reason to believe he had been a big time thief of antiques and works of art. How long had he been in the water?’

‘About a day, I’d say. Do you happen to know his next of kin, sir?’

‘No.’

‘There’s a photograph of a girl in his pocket. Could be a daughter, or wife. And a sort of passport photograph of a man.’

‘They mean nothing to me.’

Hooper sounded exasperated. ‘Don’t you want him, sir?’

Angel sighed. ‘There isn’t much percentage in a dead thief, Sergeant. He can’t talk. He can’t give evidence. He won’t be a witness. And society won’t be improved by locking him up.’

‘Any idea who could have murdered him?’

‘Six bullets in the back? Oh yes, I know exactly who murdered him. But you’ll never catch him and you’ll never prove it.’

‘Isn’t much use me trying then, is there, sir?’

Angel didn’t reply. He was thinking how sad it was.

Hooper sighed. ‘Come on, sir. Help me out. What’ll I do with him?’

‘If it was me,’ Angel said. ‘I’d put him in a box and send him carriage forward to lawyer, Peter Meissen, Westlenska, Patina, in the West Balkans. He’ll be responsible.’

‘You think it’s a foreign job, sir?’

‘I’m certain of it, Sergeant.’

Hooper sighed. ‘Right, sir. Thank you. I’ll try and push it onto Interpol, sir.’

‘In this instance, Sergeant, they’re the best people to deal with it.’ Angel replaced the phone.

Ahmed was biting his lip. He looked down at Angel. ‘Another murder, sir?’

‘Yes, lad.’

‘How did you know it was Peter Meissen who was responsible, sir?’

‘There was £4000 in his pocket. If you were a crook would you have left it there?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Meissen was not a thief. Also, six shots in the back. One shot would have been enough. Anymore than two would be excessive. Six was blatantly callous. The murder was political. The executioner wanted to show how ruthless and thorough he could be.’

Ahmed shuddered. ‘Like, keep your hands off our treasures?’

‘Exactly.’

It was about an hour later when the phone rang again. He grabbed it. ‘Angel.’

‘DS Taylor, sir, SOCO. We had a hotel menu handed in this morning by Trevor Crisp. You wanted prints taking off it. He said they were of a woman, name of Flavia Radowitz. Very small fingers.’

‘Yes, that’s right, Don.’

‘Well, sir, we’ve found comparison prints … her thumb, first and second fingers of her right hand are on a silver candlestick that was in the main room at Number 2, Creeford Road.’

Angel looked up and his mouth dropped open. So, Flavia Radowitz had been in that house. That was unexpected. Very unexpected.

‘Did you get that, sir?’ Taylor said.

‘Yes. Yes. Thank you, Don. I was thinking.’

‘I thought you’d like to know.’

‘Yes. Thank you, Don. Great stuff. Did you come across anything else of interest in Creeford Road?’

‘Oh yes, sir. Everything. It’s all truly magnificent. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

He smiled. ‘I meant forensically?’

‘Oh? No, sir. Nothing of interest. Lots of prints from a largish hand, probably all the same man.’

‘Right, Don. Thank you.’ He replaced the phone, pushed the swivel chair back and gazed up at the ceiling. He rubbed his earlobe. He wondered how Flavia Radowitz’s prints could have appeared in Number 2, Creeford Road. It was a surprise, but fingerprints don’t lie.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in!’

It was Gawber, waving his notebook at Angel.

‘Just the man,’ Angel said. ‘Richard Mace’s body has been pulled out of the Thames.’

Gawber nodded. ‘Ahmed told me, sir,’ he said grimly. ‘No less than he deserves.’

Angel sighed. ‘You can call off the searches into his background. We know enough and we can’t prosecute him or Peter Meissen. He’ll be safely back in Patina by now. That’s up to Interpol. Let them earn their keep.’

Gawber nodded in agreement.

‘Now what did you want, Ron?’ Angel said pointing to a chair.

‘I managed to get back to the Johannson murder enquiry, sir. You asked me to see what I could find out about Otis Stroom and Harry Lee, sir. And it’s not much.’

‘Go on,’ Angel said.

Gawber sat down and immediately started coughing. ‘Sorry, sir.’ He continued coughing. He took the bottle of cough mixture out of his pocket. ‘Excuse me.’ He took a sip. The coughing stopped.

‘I thought you’d got over that. Why don’t you go to the doctor’s? That stuff will burn your throat out. I told you it contains arsenic.’

‘I’m getting better, sir.’

‘You must have a cupboard full of it.’

‘It works, sir. It stops me coughing,’ he said as put he put the bottle back in his pocket.’

Angel said, ‘If it were mine, I’d find a better use for it than burning my throat out. Go on, then.’

‘Well, sir, Stroom was born in Lancaster in 1970. Christened John Stroom. Only child of the Stroom family, small mill owners, who made ribbon. His father and mother are still there. They closed production down a few years ago, and are now importing it from China. Otis went to the local school then to a private stage school run by an old woman called Madame Polta in Manchester. His good looks and strong voice got him parts in theatre, then telly, then films. Made a few very famous films in the States as well as here. Married once. Didn’t take. Lasted a year. Now single. Earns a lot of money. Endorses “Kisstingle toothpaste, the toothpaste for men that makes all the girls say yes.” You must have heard of it, sir. The jingle drives me bats.’

Angel smiled. ‘Any more?’

‘A bit. Lives in a chalet in Switzerland. Doesn’t drink. Not teetotal, but not known to drink much. Not known to be a member of any clubs, well, posh clubs; the ones I asked wouldn’t tell me whether he was or not. And there’s nothing known about him on the PNC. That’s it for Stroom, sir.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘What does he do for crumpet?’

‘Nothing as far as I can see. He’s not known for chasing it, sir. No need to. It chases
him
all the time. But he likes to have something tasty on his arm at film premieres and red-carpet jobs.’

Angel nodded, but then began to rub his chin. Gawber’s answer didn’t quite satisfy him. ‘What about Harry Lee?’

‘He’s obviously of Chinese descent, but he’s American. Born in Seattle in 1958. Married an American woman. Three kids. Lives over there on the west coast. Works mainly for studios in Hollywood. He travels for the big money. Regarded in film circles as one of the world’s best cameramen. Doesn’t socialize. Keeps himself to himself. Seems to be the essence of respectability.’

Angel pulled a face. Anyone described as the essence of respectability probably wasn’t. Like those clean-cut, professional charmers in the entertainment business and politics who claim to be ‘born again Christians’. In his experience, everyone who had ever made that claim, always turned out to be a conman or a thief, or both. ‘By their fruits shall ye know them’, was the only dependable way of judging the worthiness of a man, Angel reckoned, but he never talked about it. There was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed. He came in, all smiles. ‘I’ve been in touch with the credit card office of the Northern Bank, sir.’

‘Aye? That tramp, lad. What about him?’

‘The man, Alexander Bernedetti is well respected by the bank, sir. His credit history is excellent. He’s got one of what they call a diamond card. Only given to the very rich. They couldn’t give me a physical description of him because, of course, they don’t know him. His regular account is held at their branch in High Holborn. So I went through to them. One of the tellers said he was about fifty, average height, well built but not fat, dark hair, greying.’

Angel nodded. ‘That fits. So far.’

Ahmed said, ‘They believe he is an actor. Very successful. Something to do with Euromagna, and—’

‘Euromagna!’ Angel said screwing up his face. ‘That’s the outfit that’s making that film up at Tunistone that Johannson was directing.’ The wheels and cogs in his mind began to whiz round.

‘Alexander Bernedetti?’ Gawber said slowly. ‘Oh yes. It’s a famous name in the film world. Just remembered. I think he was supposed to be in the cast of the film they’re making up there: the biography of Edgar Poole.’

‘Then what’s he doing dead, in tramp’s clothes, with a sovereign in his mouth, and a diamond credit card sewn into his coat?’

The phone rang again. It was a few minutes before 5.00 p.m.

The civilian on the station switchboard said that it was a Sister Josephson from the Bromersley General Hospital asking to speak to him.

Angel frowned. He didn’t know her and he wasn’t aware that anyone he knew was in hospital.

‘I have a patient here, Inspector,’ Sister Josephson explained. ‘Admitted last night. He’s quite poorly. Appears to have been living on the streets. We’ve done the best we can with him. I’m afraid he could still be cleaner. Had to put him in a room on his own. Anyway, he says he has no next of kin and, I must say, nobody has been asking after him. Not had any visitors, and he’s asking for you. His name is Harry Hull. Says you know him. Says he has something very important to tell you.’

Angel rubbed his mouth. That was unusual. He knew Harry Hull very well. He was a small-time burglar. He had been in trouble most of the time Angel had been on the force, and had been in and out of prison frequently. Angel had been responsible for sending him there on some of those occasions. He couldn’t imagine why he should be asking for him. He couldn’t understand why Hull was living the life of a man on the road either. The last time Angel had anything to do with him, he was married and had two sons grown-up sons.

‘Yes, I know him, Sister,’ he said unemotionally.

‘Sounds important, Inspector,’ she replied. ‘If you are able speak to him, I should come as soon as you can. He is on ward eleven. You can visit any time.’

‘Thank you, Sister,’ Angel said, and he slowly replaced the phone in the cradle. Her last few words lingered in his mind. She had made it sound as if Hull wasn’t here for long. The call had come at a very inconvenient time. He was up to his neck in two nasty murders and a very strange robbery. He really hadn’t the time to be running after a ten-a-penny tea leaf.

He went through the door marked ‘ward eleven’, spotted the nurses’ station and went up to it. The nurse looked up.

‘I’ve come to see a man called Hull, Harry Hull,’ Angel said. ‘Sister Josephson said—’

‘You must be Inspector Angel? He’s asking for you, but don’t stay too long. Don’t tire him.’

‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘He needs a lot of rest,’ she said vaguely in the best tradition of the medical profession.

Angel took it to mean, ‘We are not telling you, so do what you have to do, quietly, then go away.’

‘He’s in there,’ she added, pointing to an open door just behind him.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He turned round, went across the corridor to the doorway and peered inside the little room.

There was a small man with long hair, a beard and a moustache in a bed. He had wires, pipes and tubes leading away from various orifices and places. At the head of the bed was an illuminated screen with a graph and markers and numbers, which changed regularly to the rhythmical accompaniment of a bleeping sound. The wall facing the door was made of glass and looked over the town of Bromersley. Opposite that was a wall-fitted hand basin and in the corner stood a chair.

Angel reached out for the chair, pulled it to the side of the bed, sat down and looked at the whiskered man. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be asleep. His face and stringy neck were red and chapped, the result of the English winter. He bore only the slightest resemblance to the Harry Hull that he had frequently hunted, caught and sometimes charged over the twenty-four years he had been on the force.

Hull made a slight movement, cleared his throat and then slowly opened his eyes. He saw the big face of somebody looking at him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with clenched fists, then looked again.

‘It’s you. Dear old Inspector Angel,’ he said hoarsely in a voice that sounded as if he’d been gargling on petrol.

Angel looked down at him. ‘You asked to see me, Harry,’ he said with a snigger. ‘The very first time in your life
you
actually asked to see
me
.’