The Snuffbox Murders (8 page)

‘Michael. Nice to see you. How are you keeping?’

They shook hands.

‘Fine,’ Angel said. ‘I heard you had some unwanted visitors last night, Father. Now what seems to be the trouble? Was it lead thieves again?’

‘No, thank God,’ the priest rubbed his chin. ‘To tell the truth, Michael, I don’t know what goes on in this churchyard at night. A good man, a regular parishioner, who was on shift work, was passing here in a car at two o’clock this morning and saw two men carrying a coffin down the outside of the church. A coffin, of all things!’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘That’s what was reported. And what else happened?’

‘Just walked by the side of the church, the man said.’

‘Could he describe them?’

‘Just two men. In the dark, he couldn’t see. That’s all he could say.’

‘And was there any disturbance to any grave? Any ground disturbed?’

‘None at all. That’s what worried me. I had a good look round. I would have been greatly worried if any graves had been disturbed. This graveyard is full, you know. There hasn’t been an interment here for more than forty years.’

‘And was the church broken into?’

The priest smiled. ‘No. We haven’t had a break-in or lead robbers for more than two years now. We’re doing very well.’

Angel nodded his agreement and pulled a wry face. After all, he had seen the crime figures. He rubbed his chin.

The priest said: ‘The church would never pay out for closed circuit television, and I couldn’t expect you to put a couple of men out here every night on the off chance. We must trust to providence, and maybe they’ll go away.’

‘Don’t worry, father. There
might
be something I can do.’

The priest’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? Is there really? You
know
something, Michael? I know you’re a shrewd copper. I knew that if this was a murder enquiry you’d be certain to get to the bottom of it. The newspapers say you’re like the Canadian Mounties, you always get your man.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘The papers say all sorts, Father,’ he said quietly.

The priest smiled and nodded.

‘Well, I must be off,’ Angel said. ‘But I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have a look round outside before I go.’

He shook hands with the old priest and came out of the church. The sun was warm, and the trees and bushes rustled in the breeze. He had a walk round the perimeter path on the outside of the church, looking down at it for anything untoward that might have been there. He trod some of the overgrown flagstone paths, glanced round at the crowded graveyard, with its big boxed gravestones, crosses and crucifixes, then up at the church roof. There was nothing at all that might have provided an explanation as to why two men should have been seen bearing a coffin there in the middle of the night. He shook his head and made his way to the gate. In the gateway he saw marks on the stones under his feet. He crouched down. There were marks on the surface of the stones, about nine inches long and six inches apart. The same marks were repeated in parallel on the other side of the path. Also he saw that the edge of the worn step had recently been freshly scuffed in two places. He frowned. Machinery of some kind. Probably a grass-mower. But the grass hadn’t been cut. Needed to be something narrow to pass through a gate that, after all, was intended for pedestrians. He couldn’t imagine what it might be. He heard footsteps behind him. It was the priest.

‘Found something, Michael?’

Angel stood up. ‘Have you had a narrow-track vehicle through here recently, Father?’

The priest shook his head. ‘Like a gravedigger? No, Michael. There have been no graves dug here for years. This graveyard is full.’

On his amble round the church, Angel had already looked carefully for recent digging and there wasn’t any. He couldn’t help but wonder.

‘Have you had builders or workmen in the church?’

‘No, sorry. No workmen of any kind, Michael. Not for months.’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘Right, Father. I’ll give it some thought. Nice to see you again. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye Michael, and good hunting.’

Angel went through the black wrought-iron gate into Church Street, and back past the Northern Bank and Jeeves the jewellers and up to the police station.

He went round to the police car-park at the rear of the building to collect his car. He drove the BMW into town, then out on Park Road to Mountjoy Street. There were so many cars parked on both sides of this back street, it was difficult to find a parking spot. He eventually managed to find a space between a 1997 Passat and a 1992 Ford. He then walked back to house number 20. He pressed button number 6 with the name ‘P. Queegley’ scrawled against it and reached down to the speak box above it.

Eventually a man’s belligerent voice said: ‘Yeah? Who is it?’ It was Peter Queegley.

‘Detective Inspector Angel. Open up.’

The man wasn’t pleased. He sighed noisily and said, ‘What do
you
want, copper?’

Angel heard the squeal of a female from the speak box. Angel was certain it was in response to Queegley’s reference to ‘copper’ and not the result of any romantic liaison between the female and Queegley.

‘Shut up and put summat on,’ he heard him whisper, then down the speaker he said, ‘Come back tomorrow?’

Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘Open up at once,’ he bawled. ‘I’m not the ruddy Avon lady.’

There was a pause, then Angel heard the buzzer and then a click. He pushed the door open and made his way into the hall. He charged up the bare wooden stairs to the second floor.

Queegley was outside the room door on the landing. He was wearing trousers, trainers and buttoning up his shirt when Angel reached the top of the stairs.

‘Is this absolutely necessary, Angel?’ Queegley said.

‘I want to know what you’re up to.’

‘I’m not up to nothin’.’

Angel walked past him and through the open door.

Queegley glared after him and followed him in.

The same girl who had been there before was standing by the bed with her back to him, tucking a T-shirt into her jeans. She turned round, glowered at him briefly, then turned back.

Angel said: ‘You’re Gloria, aren’t you?’

She stopped and looked up at him wide-eyed in astonishment. ‘How the frigging hell do you know that?’ Before he could answer she turned to Queegley and said, ‘Is this the cop you was saying what knows everything?’

Queegley nodded, lighting up a cigarette. ‘Angel. Inspector Michael Angel.’

‘Frigging hell,’ she said.

Angel shook his head. He wasn’t for taking credit when credit wasn’t due. ‘You told me your name when I was here last time.’

She pulled a face of disappointment. ‘Aw,’ she said, tightening the belt on the jeans.

‘How old are you?’ he said.

‘Nineteen.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. She looked nearer fifteen.

‘Wanna see my burf certificate?’

‘Probably,’ he said.

Queegley came up to Angel quickly and said, ‘She told
me
she was nineteen.’

Angel said, ‘Better get off home, smartly. Your mother’s screaming blue murder. She wants to know where you are and who you’re with.’

She was stunned. Her eyes opened wide. She looked terrified. She believed him.

‘Oh my god,’ she said. Then she looked back at Angel. Her lip curled anxiously. ‘What you been saying to her?’

‘Every second counts,’ Angel said. ‘I should run, if I were you.’

She considered whether to reply.

All she could manage was a frustrated, ‘Aw.’

She went back to the bed for her shoulder bag, grabbed it by the strap, dashed for the door and was gone.

As the clickety-click of badly fitting high-heeled shoes noisily stabbed the wooden steps, Peter Queegley said, ‘I should sue you for harassment, you know. You’re ruining my love life.’

‘If she’s under age you could finish up inside, don’t you know that?’

‘She told me she was nineteen. That’s good enough for me and it’s good enough for any judge.’

‘You said eighteen before.’

‘So what? She’s had a birthday probably. Anyway, eighteen’s all right.’

If she didn’t deny it, Angel knew he was correct. You could get away with murder in some courts.

‘You haven’t come to argue about the girl, have you?’ Queegley said, taking a drag on the cigarette.

‘No. I want to know where you were last night?’

‘I was here, as usual, of course.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I haven’t no spare to go down the pub any more.’

‘Were you on your own?’

‘Of course I was on my own.’

‘Well you weren’t here all the time. You were seen.’

‘Couldn’t have been me.’

‘You were seen with a big man in a big, black hat. Now who would that be?’

‘No. You’ve got it wrong.’

‘Where is your mate Alec Underwood hanging out these days?’

‘No idea,’ he said. ‘And he’s not my mate. Haven’t seen him for … ages.’

‘You were seen together, Queegley. No point denying it.’

‘You’re wrong. It wasn’t me.’

‘You were seen on Market Street at 1.48 a.m. passing Jeeves the jewellers. You checked the padlock of the middle window.’

Queegley’s jaw dropped.

‘And at 2 a.m. you were seen with your friend parading a coffin round the perimeter of St Mary’s church.’

Queegley started coughing. Smoke from the cigarette seemed suddenly to have caught in his throat. He continued coughing.

Angel ignored the coughing. ‘I can guess who your
friend
is,’ Angel said. ‘It would be Alec Underwood. The man who, two years ago, got you twelve months inside while he got off scot free. Are you going back for more? If you’ve some scam going with him, you can depend on him dumping you when it gets umpty. Just like he did last time. Did you break in and steal three mahogany coffins from Hargreaves undertakers last Monday night?’

‘No. It wasn’t me,’ he said wiping his wet mouth with an oversize handkerchief.

‘What do you want three coffins for?’

Queegley’s eyes shone like traffic lights. ‘I don’t know nothing about coffins and walking about a churchyard with them. You must be off your trolley. I’m absolutely completely innocent. I’m going straight. I’ve paid my debt to society. You’ve no evidence … you’re just stabbing in the dark. If you’d any evidence, Angel, you wouldn’t come here pussyfooting round asking me daft questions, and looking at my woman to see if you could get me for bedding a lass under age. You’d be here with a warrant as thick as a prison visitor, a pair of handcuffs and a fresh-faced flunky to fit them on to me, so sod off and don’t come back until you’ve got some evidence.’

Angel was not unhappy to leave. The visit had served its purpose. He came away satisfied that Queegley knew
all
about the coffins, that he
was
one of the men carrying one round the churchyard, that he
was
up to something nefarious with Alec Underwood, and that he would be off like a scared rabbit to tell him all about it, asap. When Angel reached his car, he slumped down in the driver’s seat and adjusted the rear mirror so that he had a direct line of vision to Queegley’s front door. Then he switched on the car radio for some light music and waited.

Two minutes later, Queegley appeared. He dashed down the steps, his face the colour of a judge’s robe.

Angel licked his lips in satisfying anticipation.

A few moments later a large silver Mercedes estate car raced past him noisily. He carefully observed that Peter Queegley was in the driving seat.

He started up the BMW.

He kept his distance behind the Mercedes estate, allowing a blue van to overtake him so that it would be the van that would appear mostly in Queegley’s rear-view mirror and not the BMW. That was just in case Queegley was at all concerned that he might be followed. As the convoy made its way through town, the van veered off and Angel allowed a green car to take its place in between them.

Queegley was making his way out of town in the direction of Barnsley. The convoy was passing a row of bungalows when Queegley suddenly braked hard and turned left through the gates into the drive of one of them. The green car had to brake and swerve out towards the middle of the road, before continuing. Angel noted the number 29 painted in white on the gatepost and sailed straight past. He drove as far as the next roundabout, circled it and came back towards the bungalow. About a hundred yards before he reached the bungalow, he pulled the BMW into the side of the road and stopped. He reached into the glove compartment, took out a pair of binoculars just in time to see the tall, black-clad figure of Alec Underwood open the bungalow door and Queegley step inside.

It was 8.28 a.m. on Friday morning, 29 May.

Angel arrived at the station and went straight down to the stores to withdraw three rounds of ammunition and the handgun, the Walther PPK/S, the actual weapon that was used to kill Charles Razzle. The duty stores sergeant gave them to him separately wrapped in two sealed envelopes. Angel tore open the paper, checked them, pushed them into his pocket, and signed the receipt and the list of standard conditions permitting the gun to be in his possession. It was, after all, a lethal weapon and an important piece of evidence.

He then drove the BMW down to The Manor House on Creesforth Road and parked on the drive behind DS Carter’s Ford. He went through the unlocked front door, straight down the hall to the kitchen, through the basement door and down the steps. The heavy workshop security door was wide open and the lights were on. A shaft of electric light shone outwards on to the basement floor. He went into the workshop.

DS Carter and PC Ahmed Ahaz were bending down in front of the robot arranging two sandbags on the floor where the body of Charles Razzle had been.

The blue robot seemed to acknowledge Angel’s arrival. Three tiny coloured lights in its blue translucent head kept flickering on and off in an irregular sequence suggesting that it was capable of thought as well as indicating that it was switched on.

Carter heard Angel arrive and looked up. ‘Are these sandbags all right here, sir?’

‘Aye. They’ll do fine,’ he said.

‘Did you put tapes in the CCTVs?’

‘Not yet, sir. I brought two new ones. They are here,’ she said, taking them off the top of the safe and handing them to him.

Angel took them, glanced at them and said, ‘Ahmed, put these tapes in the cameras and make sure they’re running.’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said and rushed out.

Angel looked at Carter, pointed at the robot and said, ‘Where’s the remote control for that thing?’

‘On the desk, sir.’

Angel looked round, found the large, cumbersome control and said, ‘Does it work?’

‘Oh yes, sir. Just press the red button and it will walk forward … and probably start jabbering.’

Angel clicked the red button and the robot began making a low buzzing noise. It began a rocking side to side movement which progressed it towards them, at the same time, in a hollow voice, it said, ‘What do you want me to do now?’

Angel pressed the green button and it stopped. He pressed the green button again twice quickly and it walked backwards. At the same time, it said, ‘I do not understand your instruction. Would you repeat it, please?’

Angel pressed the other buttons in turn and discovered that the robot could turn right and left, turn around, and move its arm, wrist, hand and fingers on demand. The performance was firm and positive but much slower than a human.

He took out the Walther and fitted it in the robot’s hand.

Carter looked on.

Using the remote control, Angel raised the robot’s arm to the approximate position it would have needed to have been in, to have shot the first bullet at Charles Razzle while the man was standing in front of the desk.

‘What do you want me to do now?’ the robot said.

Angel noticed that DS Carter’s mouth was open and that she had put her hands up to her face. The horror of the murder was in her mind.

‘The gun’s not loaded, Flora,’ he said, to remind her.

She knew it wasn’t.
Of course it wasn’t
.

She nodded and quickly lowered her hands. ‘No, sir.’

The robot said, ‘I do not understand your instruction. Would you repeat it, please?’

Angel glared at the robot, pulled an impatient face and said, ‘Oh, shut up.’

The robot said, ‘The automatic voice recognition control unit is closing down. From now on, I will only respond to signals sent by the remote control. To restart voice control, please say “Robot speak to me”. Thank you.’

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at the robot’s head, blinked and grunted with satisfaction.

Carter smiled and said, ‘That’s how you do it, sir?’

‘Aye. Apparently. It’s a pity you can’t as easily switch off all people you don’t want to hear.’

‘Can I do anything to help, sir?’

‘What? Yes, you can. In a minute, I want you to measure the length of time it takes for the robot to discharge the three rounds, from the sound of the first click to the sound of the third. We know the robot couldn’t have killed him, but we ought to know how long it would have taken, in case we have to answer a question from a particularly reflective member of a jury, or even a judge.’

‘Got it, sir.’

Angel pressed the button to operate the robot’s forefinger. He could see the blue plastic digit tightening inside the trigger guard. Eventually, there was a click, the first click. Angel then quickly found the button on the remote control to reverse the action. Then he quickly lowered the angle of the robot’s arm, to be in the position to shoot the victim through the heart on the floor. When in position, he pressed the button to pull the trigger again. He had again to wait for the click. Then he quickly repeated a similar operation for the third and last time, and aimed again at the floor. After the third click, he looked up at Carter, eyebrows raised.

‘That’s one minute and ten seconds, sir,’ she said.

‘Mmm. That precisely confirms the fact that there was simply not enough time for Razzle or anybody else to redirect the robot to aim and fire any rounds after the first one. That bullet entered the brain and he would have been dead instantly or certainly within a second or two. It also therefore proves positively that he was murdered.’

She followed the reasoning through and nodded.

Angel released the Walther from the robot and put it in his pocket.

Ahmed suddenly appeared through the door. He was still holding the CCTV tapes and looked puzzled.

Angel looked up at him and blinked.

‘I can’t find the cameras, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘You said there were two.’

Angel turned to Carter. ‘Do
you
know where they are, Flora?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘I’ll show him. Come on, Ahmed.’

They went out, leaving Angel alone in the workshop.

It was very quiet.

Angel withdrew the Walther from his jacket pocket. He loaded the three bullets into the magazine and dropped it back into his pocket. He turned to the heavy workshop security door and gave it a long look. He rubbed his chin.

After a few moments, Carter returned. ‘The cameras were not easy to see,’ she said.

Angel nodded, then said, ‘Do you think Razzle would have worked down here with this door open or closed?’

‘He would know the house was locked up, sir,’ she said. ‘I would have thought open. I know
I
would.’

‘Mmmm. The low roof and the lack of windows … in here all day, he might have felt just a little closed in or claustrophobic. I agree.’

Angel went to the door and took it by the handle. ‘However, the murderer would have closed it to muffle the sound of the shots, wouldn’t he?’ He frowned and said, ‘I shall have to reset the combination.’

‘Six numbers, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I must think of an appropriate figure.’

‘You could put your birthday.’

‘I could, but it might be too obvious.’

‘Your wife’s birthday.’

‘No. A good thief would think of that.
And
my wedding anniversary. No, I’ll think of something.’

‘The day you first started work?’ she said.

‘No,’ he said, then his face brightened.

‘Got to be something you will easily remember, sir,’ she said.

‘Indeed. I will remember this. Never forget it,’ he said and he went out of the workshop to the control box on the door.

Carter followed him and stood at his elbow.

He recalled the directions of the security man … ‘The door must be in the open position. You hold down the set button and tap in a six-digit number, that’s all.’

He approached the number pad cautiously and carefully held down the set button as he tapped in the number 130864. At the end, the LCD lit up displaying the new number briefly, then it went out. Angel nodded approvingly. It was done.

Carter saw the number and said, ‘130864? That’s the thirteenth of August 1964? What date was that then, sir? What does it represent, sir?’ Carter said.

‘It’s a date I’ll not forget.’

‘The date of a war?’

‘I am not telling you, Flora.’

‘Why, sir. Is it a secret?’

There was noise behind them.

He turned to see Ahmed reaching up to the cunningly concealed CCTV camera, which was painted white and fastened to the waterpipe in the corner of the basement. He saw him slot the tape into the camera and check that the red warning light was on and that the spools were rotating.

‘Have you finished?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I hope both cameras are rolling.’

‘They are, sir. I checked them particularly.’

‘Good lad. Come into the workshop then.’

When they were all three inside Angel said, ‘Charles Razzle was probably standing, with his back to the safe, facing the robot. Now, I am going to take the part of the murderer in this reconstruction. For safety’s sake I shall discharge all three rounds into the sandbags where they are, on the floor. Apart from that, I believe the rest of the reconstruction will be pretty accurate. You both stay here, until I have tapped the combination in the door and opened it to get out of here, then come out with me, so that you can see what’s happening. All right?’

They nodded.

Angel looked at Carter and said, ‘Have you Charles Razzle’s bunch of keys?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said. She felt inside her suit jacket pocket and handed them over to him.

He went over to the sandbags, leaned over, tucked the bunch under the edge of one of the sandbags and said, ‘There. They are supposed to be in his pocket.’

He stepped back, then pushed the door into the half-open position.

‘Charles Razzle may have had the remote control in his hand when the murderer entered,’ he said. ‘He may have been checking its response to his vocal commands, who knows?’

He glanced round the workshop.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘The reconstruction will start in a couple of minutes. I just have a couple of things to see to out of here.’

He stared at the robot and said, ‘Robot, speak to me.’

The lights in the robot’s head did a short dance then the voice said, ‘What do you want me to do now?’

Angel looked at Carter.

She smiled.

Carter and Ahmed glanced at each other, then at Angel.

Angel shook his head, went out of the workshop, dashed up the basement steps along the hall to the front door. He went out of the house to his car, parked on the drive behind Carter’s. He opened the BMW’s boot and took out a slim white packet and tore off the top. Inside was a pair of skin-tight rubber gloves. He pulled them on, snapping them tight. Then he took out a plastic shopping bag. He peered in it to check that the items he wanted were there. Then he went back to the house and stood on the front step for a moment, thinking out what he had to do and the sequence he had to do it in. He let himself into the house, closed the door quietly, dashed through the hall into the kitchen, and down the basement steps. He silently put the plastic shopping bag on the floor of the basement, withdrew the gun from his pocket and entered the workshop.

DS Carter and PC Ahmed watched him with eyes like well-sucked gob-stoppers.

He closed the security door behind him, crossed to the robot, stood in front of it with his back to it, and carefully pointed, then fired, three rounds into the sandbags.

The noise was deafening in such a confined space and there was a strong smell of cordite.

The robot said, ‘What do you want me to do now?’

Everybody ignored it.

Angel carefully took the remote from the desk and used it to set into position the Walther in the robot’s right hand, its forefinger touching the trigger. Then he placed the remote on the floor where it had been when Razzle’s body was found. He reached down to the sandbags, retrieved the bunch of keys he had placed there earlier. Then he stepped over the sandbags, unlocked the safe, and reached in as if to take something out.

‘I am taking the booty,’ he said, ‘whatever it was.’ He then closed the safe, locked it, put the bunch of keys back under the sandbag, crossed to the door, tapped the combination on the pad, opened it, stood back to let Carter and Ahmed out of the workshop ahead of him. He then pulled the heavy door until it was closed, and checked the handle to make sure it was locked.

He picked up the plastic shopping bag he had placed on the basement floor earlier and took out a videotape. He reached up and changed it for the one Ahmed had set in the CCTV opposite the workshop door only a few minutes earlier.

Ahmed watched him open-mouthed.

Then, taking the plastic bag containing another new videotape, Angel went down the hall followed by Flora Carter and Ahmed. He opened the front door, silently ushered them outside, then he changed over the videotape in the CCTV camera there and closed the door.

When all three were standing on the front step, he said, ‘And that’s how I think it was done.’

There was a pause, then Carter smiled up at him and said, ‘It certainly explains why the murderer doesn’t appear anywhere on the tape, sir.’

Angel said, ‘And we can prove exactly what time they were changed by calculating how long the tapes had been running when SOCO took them out of the cameras. We know from Mac that the approximate time of Charles Razzle’s death was 9 p.m. on Monday night. So the murderer would have changed the tapes three or four minutes or five minutes after that. If that checks out, this will be proved.’ He turned to Ahmed and said, ‘You can do that as soon as you get back to the station, can’t you?’

‘Oh yes, sir,’ Ahmed said with a grin.

Carter said: ‘But how did the murderer get into the house, sir? There are no signs of a break-in?’

‘That bit I don’t yet know. He must have had a key.’

Carter frowned. ‘And how did the murderer know the combination to the workshop?’