The Diamond Rosary Murders (9 page)

‘He had carefully arranged them so that they were all due for renewal on the first day of the year,’ Fleming said. He wanted to be sure that he was getting the very best deal before he put the suggestion to his co-directors. Of course they would pretty well rubber-stamp anything my uncle said, but he didn’t want any of them finding a better deal somewhere else and then be accused of nepotism.’

‘Of course. Anything else?’

‘Well, we talked about the weather, the brewing business … Auntie Judy, I should say ex-Auntie Judy.’

‘Judy Savage? What about her?’

‘She was annoying him. She had apparently instructed her solicitor to write to him to say that she couldn’t manage on the allowance the judge had agreed he should pay and that she was appealing through the court for a substantial increase.’

‘How much was that disturbing him?’

‘It was annoying him. It was making him angry with her, very angry indeed. But she was wasting her time.’

‘It wouldn’t keep him awake at nights?’

‘Oh no. I wouldn’t have thought so. Not at all.’

‘And what did he say about the brewing business?’

‘He was saying how well everything was going. He was bursting with optimism. He said that he expected to deliver the best balance sheet the brewery had ever known.’

Angel rubbed his chin. Those were definitely not the thoughts and attitudes of a man considering taking his own life. He shook his head and screwed up his eyes. He was no further forward in solving the mystery of the dreams.

However, he thought that this was time for him to drop the bombshell on Vincent Fleming and watch his reaction.

‘Did you know,’ Angel said, ‘that about ten days ago your uncle gave instructions to Mr Bloomfield to take you out of the will and put Mr Meredith there in your stead? And that Bloomfield had prepared a new will ready for your uncle’s signature, but he never signed it?’

Fleming blinked. His jaw dropped. He stared at Angel. It looked as if he hadn’t known.

Angel said, ‘What exactly happened ten days ago?’

Fleming licked his lips. His eyes narrowed and he looked in the direction of the skirting board at the opposite side of the office, while slowly shaking his head.

Angel waited.

Eventually Fleming breathed out a heavy sigh, looked at Angel and said, ‘You’ve really bowled me a googly there, Angel, old chap.’

Angel held out his hands palms upward to indicate that it had not been his intention.

Fleming shrugged. ‘So I was to be left out, was I?’ The muscles round his mouth tightened. ‘That would be
dear
Aunt Judy,’ he said.

His face showed that he held her very far from ‘dear’.

‘Uncle Haydn phoned me ten days ago breathing brimstone and fire about her. He thought that I had some allegiance towards her. About the time of the divorce and several times afterwards, she visited me, and she used to ring me up seeking consolation. He might have thought that I was being disloyal … even a spy in the camp. There wasn’t an atom of truth in it, but I could hardly
tell her to go away. It’s odd that he didn’t mention the will at all on Thursday evening.’

‘Did
you
tell him that you had been in touch with her?’

‘Oh no. I expect he would have found out either directly from her, or she may have confided in her own solicitor and that had been conveyed to Bloomfield, who had dutifully informed my uncle. I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘But I am surprised, Inspector, that something so relatively trivial would have such extreme consequences.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. At that time, nothing surprised him.

T
he interview with Vincent Fleming had in no way progressed Angel’s investigation into Haydn King’s death, nor had it assisted him in understanding the influence of the nightmares conveyed to him by Superintendent Harker and confirmed by King’s butler, Meredith. To say that Angel was disappointed would be to putting it mildly.

He came out of Fleming’s office and drove the BMW to the car-park of the Fat Duck, and, as he kicked his way through an inch of snow to the pub door, he thought about Vincent Fleming. Coming into that mammoth inheritance could make Fleming look as guilty as hell, if he had known that his uncle had intended changing his will.

The pub wasn’t busy. At the bar he ordered a roast beef sandwich and a pint of shandy, which he enjoyed in silence while thinking about the case.

Fleming had a front door key to King’s house. He could easily have entered in the middle of the night. He could have crept into the swimming pool room, waited behind the cubicle curtain and with whatever weapon it was, murdered King before he had time to get down to Bloomfield’s to append his signature to the new will.

He mulled over the matter for a while. There was motive
and
opportunity, but at that moment no weapon, and not an atom of proof.

He returned to his office at 1.50. He hung up his coat and reached out for the phone. He tapped in the extension number for SOCO. It was answered by DS Taylor.

‘Don,’ Angel said. ‘You have a book, taken from Haydn King’s bedroom:
The Interpretation Of Dreams.
You were checking it for fingerprints.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘I haven’t had the chance to get to it yet … there’s so much.’

‘I know. I know. I want you to deal with it by the end of the day. Verbal would be OK. The written can follow.’

‘Right, sir. What exactly do you need?’

‘I need to know specifically whose prints are on it, that’s all. I’ll phone you first thing in the morning.’

‘Righto, sir,’ Taylor said.

Before Angel could return the phone to its cradle, there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ he called. It was DI Mathew Elliott of the Art and Antiques squad, a smart, handsome young man in a dark suit, white shirt and tie.

Angel smiled broadly. ‘Ah, Mathew,’ he said. ‘I believe congratulations are in order. It’s a couple of years since we last met. You were a sergeant then. I hear that you’ve now reached the dizzy heights of inspector.’

Elliott grinned. ‘A few more quid in the pay packet, you know, sir. Still not in your class, though.’

‘Nay, Mathew. And call me Michael for goodness sake. And there’s no need to ingratiate yourself now that we’re the same rank.’

Elliott laughed. ‘You don’t change, at all.’

Angel pointed to the chair and said, ‘Sit down, lad, and tell me what brings you out of your plush London HQ where it’s all happening, to this backwater?’

When he was settled, Elliott said, ‘Well, Michael, you will have heard about the robbery of that diamond-and-ruby Rosary?’

Angel nodded. The newspapers had been full of it.

‘Well,’ Elliott said, ‘we have reason to believe that it might be somewhere round here. And I want to enrol your help to find it.’

Angel’s eyebrows went up. ‘Well, Mathew, I’ll do what I can.’

‘We know the Rosary was stolen by a gang of three. The gang leader was a big man by the name of James Argyle, aged 50. A Scot. Specs. Tubby. He had a short black beard turning ginger. A woman, playing the part of his wife, was Marcia Moore, aged 35, but looking younger. A real eye-knocker. More curves than Silverstone. Big blonde hair. Permanent pout. Eyes always
half-shut.
Well-known prostitute and good-time girl. For the third one, the driver, the description is vague, as he was not seen much by any witnesses. However, we think it may be Freddie Jay, aged 50. Are any of those known to you?’

‘If it is the same woman, she was seen in a scruffy hotel in town. The King George Hotel. It should never be called a hotel. I wouldn’t board my cat there. It might catch something and it wouldn’t be a mouse.’

‘When was this, Michael?’

‘It would be the evening of the day of the robbery, Wednesday.’

‘Ah yes. You wouldn’t have a photograph of her?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s not the sort of hotel that has CCTV.’

‘But it sounds like the sort of place where she would work.’

‘She was reported dead, but also seen after that, very much alive and kicking.’

Elliott frowned. ‘Strange,’ he said.

Angel nodded. ‘I’m still working on it,’ he said. ‘Anyway, what have you got that links them to this patch?’

‘I’ll tell you. That Wednesday night, about ten hours after the robbery, an elderly newspaper-seller who worked near Hatton Garden called Dermot O’Leary had his neck broken and was
then unceremoniously dumped in the empty bath in his bathroom. His flat was thoroughly ransacked, all his upholstered furniture slashed … tiles taken off his kitchen wall … even the floorboards were taken up. Among the debris, we found the empty jewellery case. It was positively identified by the jeweller who was robbed as the one that had contained the Rosary. Now, a close friend of O’Leary happens to be one of our snouts, and he told me that old Dermot had confided in him that he was coming into money. Somehow the Rosary was going to be
delivered
to him – the snout didn’t know all the details, but he said that O’Leary then had to keep it safe until he was contacted, given a password when it would be exchanged for a thousand pounds in readies.’

‘But that didn’t happen.’

Elliott pulled a grim face. ‘The plan went wrong, horribly wrong. We believe that the messenger wanted the thousand pounds as well as the Rosary, and O’Leary wouldn’t hand it over.’

‘You still haven’t said what makes you think the Rosary’s up here?’

‘Well, Michael, we had a bit of luck. There’s CCTV concealed on the building of the flats opposite the door to the block of the flats where O’Leary lived. And we were able to get a clear picture of a man entering and leaving who doesn’t live there, and is not known by any of the other people who live in the flats. But we were able to blow up a frame from the CCTV and identify him. It was a fitness fanatic called Lee Ellis. He’s got a record for robbery with violence, burglary, resisting arrest and a few other bits and pieces. He is now wanted for murder and robbery. His last address was Wormwood Scrubs, but before he went down, he lived up here. He was born in Bromersley. He left twelve years ago to live somewhere in Essex. Now he’ll want to lie low, so you know what happens, he’ll almost certainly return to familiar
territory. Obviously, we want to interview him. Have you seen anything of him up here?’

Elliot handed Angel a copy of the photograph.

Angel looked closely at it.

‘Lee Ellis?’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘Has he any aliases?’

‘Not that we’re aware of.’

‘He hasn’t been through my hands. I would have remembered. But I’ll watch out for him.’

‘Find him and you’ll find the Rosary. But tread warily. He is a very dangerous character.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. He wondered how many more murders there would be before he would be able to find the Rosary and return it to its rightful owner.

Elliott gave Angel a copy of the statement from Julius Henkel taken on his arrival at the scene shortly after the robbery. It included details of the security of the premises plus all the available description of the three robbers, including photographs of James Argyle and Marcia Moore taken from CCTV cameras concealed inside the jeweller’s warehouse.

Angel and Elliott agreed to share any new information they might come across in connection with the robbery, and then Elliott took his leave and made for Doncaster to catch the 4.20 p.m. train to King’s Cross.

Angel immediately rang Ahmed. ‘There’s a man with a record called Lee Ellis. I want to know all about him. Look him up on the PNC, print it out and let me have it.’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said.

Angel was reading through Henkel’s statement when there was a knock at the door.

It was DS Carter. He looked up and said, ‘Yes, Flora?’

‘Can I tell you about that break–in at Vera’s gown shop now, sir?’ she said.

He pulled a face and said, ‘Aye. I suppose so.’ He wanted to get it out of the way. He considered that it was extremely trivial when there were murders to solve and an armed robbery to investigate.

He pointed to the chair nearest the desk.

‘The shopowner is Mrs Vera Winstone, sir, and she is very steamed up because she thinks we are not taking the robbery seriously. I told her we take all crime seriously and that we hoped very shortly to bring someone to book.’

‘You’re more optimistic than I am, Flora. I hope you sent her home satisfied.’

‘She’ll only be satisfied when we find the robber, sir. Better still, when the stolen items are returned in pristine condition.’

‘We don’t do miracles.’

‘She had some very expensive dresses stolen, sir,’ she said.

He sniffed. ‘
Everything
in that shop is expensive.’

‘There were two black lace jobs, sir. They were the same dress, but different sizes. One of them was actually on a display model in the window. The thief took that as well. The other dress was on a hanger on a rail inside.’

‘Strange that a thief would break into a shop just to steal clothes. And stranger still that he took two the same.’

‘Maybe he wanted to make sure he got the right size? Also there was an expensive display model stolen.’

Angel wasn’t convinced. He wrinkled his nose.

‘They were expensive dresses, sir – models,’ Flora said, ‘made from Spanish lace. The ticket price on each was £699.’

Angel blinked, then shook his head in disbelief. He was pleased that Mary had never expressed any interest in anything from Madam Vera’s for her wardrobe.

Flora said: ‘Including the display model, she’s putting a claim in to the insurance for £4,200.’

Angel blew out a foot of air then he screwed up his forehead,
licked his bottom lip and said, ‘The only chap I can think of who might be responsible for such a caper of this sort is a
cross-dresser
called Luke Buckley, but he’s banged up in Armley.’ He looked across the desk at her. ‘Have you asked around the station for any likely candidates?’

‘Nobody has any suggestions, sir?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘let’s concentrate on the murder.’

The phone rang. He reached out for it. ‘Angel.’

It was DS Taylor. ‘Just had a phone call from Wetherby, sir. It was the lab technician there … about those samples of blood taken from the car-park at the back of the King George.’

Angel nodded. His pulse increased slightly. He felt a warm, busy glow in his chest. If the victim was on the DNA database, he might be lucky and be able to determine whose blood it was that they had found splattered on the car-park.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘what about it? Have they got an ID?’

Taylor said: ‘The lab technician said that the blood was not from a human, sir.’

Angel’s face straightened. ‘Not from a human?’ he roared.

‘He says the blood was from an ungulate, sir.’

Angel’s fist tightened round the phone. ‘And what the blazes is an ungulate?’

‘An animal that has hoofs, sir … such as a horse, cattle, deer or a pig.’

Angel sighed. There was nothing helpful there. He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand that, Don. There hasn’t been some sort of a muddle at this end, has there?’

‘No, sir. I lifted the samples the way I’ve always done. I labelled them and sealed them on the spot. If there was a mistake it was not at this end, I’m certain of it.’

Angel had every confidence in Don Taylor. He also had every confidence in the scientists at Wetherby. It would be difficult to apportion blame to any of the very highly skilled and
experienced
people concerned. That meant another dead end. The sighting of those drops of dried blood had seemed to be the best lead to solving the curious business of the disappearing body, the screwed-down sofa and all the other idiosyncratic mysteries that had occurred in and around the King George Hotel the previous week.

He ended the call and replaced the receiver.

He turned to DS Carter and said, ‘The lab says the blood is from a farm animal, Flora. I think somebody is making a fool out of us. It has thrown my thinking completely out of kilter. I need a bit of time to think things out …’

‘Shall I leave you, sir?’ she said. ‘I’ve a lot to catch up on. My reports are way behind.’

He was pleased. He nodded. She smiled and went out.

He leaned back in the swivel chair and looked up at the ceiling. He was thinking about the blood result from Wetherby. An ungulate indeed! But he could not arrive at any logical
explanation
other than the obvious one, that there must have been a sheep, goat, deer or pig at the rear of the King George Hotel and it must have been wounded or injured, possibly in an accident of some sort, and drops of its blood had dripped onto the ground. He decided to leave the matter there and move on.

He then picked up the copy of Henkel’s statement that Mathew Elliott had left with him, re-read it and looked closely at the two photographs included with it. Then he made a
decision.
He shoved the photographs into his briefcase, put on his coat, and went out of the station to the car.

It was late in the afternoon and a layer of frost was forming everywhere. The BMW slithered its way to the King George Hotel. Angel parked the car out front, grabbed the briefcase, went in through the main entrance, found his way to the reception office and knocked on the door.

When Mrs Fortescue saw her visitor was Angel, she smiled. ‘How very nice to see you again, Inspector. Please sit down. What can I do for you?’

‘Sorry to bother you again, Mrs Fortescue,’ he said. He opened the briefcase and took out the photograph of the woman known as Marcia Moore. ‘I want you to look at this and tell me if you recognize this woman.’

Mrs Fortescue held out a hand to take the photograph and eagerly looked at it.