But he didn’t have time to waste gazing at the South Devon countryside, pleasant though it was. He sat down at Lewis’s computer
– the latest model with all mod cons as far as he could see – and switched it on.
But his efforts were fruitless. After ten minutes of fiddling around he came to the conclusion that Lewis Hoxworthy had deleted
all his e-mails.
There had been something on that computer that Lewis hadn’t wanted anyone to see and it would take more expert knowledge than
Wesley’s to retrieve it. He switched the
machine off. There was nothing more he could do at Hoxworthy’s Farm for the moment.
At 3.50 the call came through. A breathless female voice told the police to get over to Cawston Street in Neston as soon as
possible. Something terrible had happened and an ambulance was needed.
The patrol car arrived to find a young woman dressed entirely in dusty black – with ears and nose pierced by an interesting
variety of silver rings – waiting outside the small shop at 7 Cawston Street which bore the name Angela’s Angels proudly above
the door; she was pacing up and down, near to tears.
WPC Trish Walton climbed out of the car first and rushed over to her. PC Carl McInnery, all red hair and freckles, emerged
from the driving seat and scratched his head. He was still coming to terms with the town of Neston.
‘Did you call us?’ asked Trish.
The young woman nodded, pressing a crumpled tissue to her cheek.
‘I found her. She’s inside,’ said the girl, fighting back tears. ‘There was no one in the shop when I went in but I heard
a door slam in the back so after a bit I went to have a look. I saw the till was open. I think I disturbed a robber and he
escaped through the back. Then I saw her lying on the floor.’ The young woman was well spoken, dead posh, Chief Inspector
Heffernan would have said.
‘Show me.’
Trish allowed the young woman to lead the way. Carl trailed behind them, staring at his surroundings, at the rows of angels
watching him from the shelves and posters in the dimly lit shop.
They were led through to the back of the building, to a small, shabby room which served as a kitchen.
‘She’s there,’ the woman in black muttered, pointing downward.
A slightly built woman lay on her side on the brown linoleum floor, her eyes closed as though in sleep. Her long dark hair,
streaked with grey, was matted with drying blood, and more blood had oozed onto the floor, creating a glistening red halo
around her head.
‘What’s happened?’ Carl asked.
‘Head injury. I reckon somebody’s had a go at the till and hit her,’ said Trish urgently. ‘Go and check if the ambulance is
on its way, will you, Carl. She’s still breathing – just. And get CID and the SOCOs over.’ She nodded towards the young woman.
‘And take this lady outside, will you.’
The woman who had made the call was standing next to a small gas stove, sobbing into a disintegrating tissue. Carl led her
outside gently, holding her elbow. She would only get in the way.
Careful not to disturb the scene, Trish put the woman into the recovery position and felt the pulse in her neck, watching
her anxiously, willing her to hold on to life. Lying on the floor near by she noticed a small but heavy-looking stone statue
of an angel with smiling face and outstretched wings. She saw that the base was encrusted with dried brown blood, and she
knew that she had found the weapon. The angel of death.
‘Hold on,’ she whispered to the unconscious woman. ‘Just hold on. Please.’ She watched the woman’s grey-tinged face, listening
for every shallow breath. ‘Come on,’ she whispered again. ‘Just keep breathing.’
The three minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive seemed like three hours, and after the paramedics had worked with quiet
efficiency the woman was rushed off, all sirens blazing, towards the hospital.
Trish felt washed out, exhausted by willing every breath from the unresponsive victim. She jumped when Carl McInnery touched
her shoulder gently.
‘I’ve had a word with the people in the shop next door – the one that sells all those crystal things – and they say they
didn’t see anything suspicious. And I’ve taken a statement from the woman who found her but she hasn’t been able to tell us
any more. She didn’t know the victim – she said she just came in to buy a present for a friend. She’s a bit shaken but I’ve
asked her to wait in case CID want a word.’
‘Yes, radio CID again and tell them to get a move on.’ Trish stared down at the bloodstain on the floor. ‘Tell them someone’s
tried to kill Angela Simms.’
Right worshipful husband,
I hear such tales in Tradmouth regarding the Queen’s fortunes. Some say she has won a great victory and King Henry is restored
to his rightful throne. Others that she and her son are dead in some great battle. But chiefly I am anxious regarding yourself
and Edmund. Send word, I beg you, that you are safe.
I pray most earnestly for your return for John has fallen in with wicked men and I know not what to do. I worry also for Elizabeth
as she spends much time in his company against my wishes. I seek a husband for her yet there is no man here suitable. I have
ordered Masses to be said at All Saints church for your safe and speedy return to Derenham.
Master Fletcher is travelling to Gloucester with cloth and will endeavour to enquire for you and deliver this into your hand.
Your most loving and anxious wife, Marjory
Written at Derenham this sixth day of May 1471
Gloria Treadly played with the key, passing it from hand to hand, twisting it in her fingers, wondering what to do with it.
She comforted herself with the thought that it was unlikely the police would search the cottage. From past
experience she knew that they had to have a good reason to obtain a search warrant. And they had no reason to search; no reason
at all.
She heard one of the bare, polished floorboards creak behind her and she swung round. ‘Alec, why do you have to creep around
like that? You nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘Sorry, Ma. I was trying not to disturb you.’
She looked her son in the eye. ‘You’ve been disturbing me ever since you were a nipper.’ Her voice softened. ‘Here, why don’t
you make yourself useful. Go up there and see that you’ve not left anything lying about. Make sure that there’s no sign that
you’ve been there. Understand?’
‘Old Bill might still be up there.’
‘If it’s not safe you’ll just have to come back here and we’ll hope for the best, eh?’ She stared at her son. Sometimes she
didn’t know why she bothered. But she knew in her heart of hearts she had no option. She would defend him to the last like
a mother tigress defends her cubs. He was her Alec. He was all she had. Whatever he was. Whatever he might have done.
He took the key from her and put it in the pocket of his jeans. Then he left the room without a word and Gloria heard the
front door of the cottage closing with a loud bang.
Rachel Tracey looked at the shop fascia of Angela’s Angels, noting the ethereal beings flitting between bold Gothic letters.
It reminded her of heavy-rock posters she had seen from times gone by.
She pushed the shop door open and bells tinkled – the early-warning system that must have alerted the robber who had made
his escape when a customer crossed the threshold. She stood in the shop and looked around. Angels everywhere. Big angels,
small angels, pictures, statues, books, key-rings, posters, mobiles. The place was dimly lit. It gave her the creeps.
She turned to Trish. ‘I’ll know where to come if I run out
of angels,’ she said, trying to lighten the mood.
‘My mum knows this woman who’s into angels; she told me once that we’ve all got a guardian angel out there somewhere,’ said
Trish, looking around. ‘I wonder if this Angela woman makes a living out of all this.’
Rachel, whose experience of angels had been limited to playing Gabriel once in a school nativity play, grunted with sceptical
disapproval. ‘The SOCOs have finished. Let’s take a look around.’
She led the way into the back to a small kitchen which had a cheap utilitarian look; white melamine cupboards, a small Formica
table and two bentwood chairs placed beneath a flaking sash window. A pile of clean white dishes was stacked on the stainless-steel
draining board. The back door stood shut but unlocked. Whoever had robbed and attacked Angela Simms had left that way.
There was nothing to see now but a telltale bloodstain spreading across the grey lino floor. The angel of death had already
flown off to the forensic lab in a plastic bag.
They walked through to the sitting room, a small, claustrophobic room with shabby rag rugs on the floorboards, faded Indian
throws over the sofa and chairs, bright oriental hangings on the walls, and the debris of burned-out candles in the dusty
iron fireplace. The aroma of incense hung in the air, and caterpillars of ash from burned-out joss-sticks crawled across a
low pine coffee table.
‘Bit of a time warp,’ said Trish.
Rachel didn’t answer. She crossed the room and opened a stripped-wood door. ‘That leads upstairs,’ Trish told her helpfully.
‘I had a quick look around earlier, just to make sure there was nobody here.’
Rachel stood aside and let Trish lead the way. There was something about this part of the job, searching through the belongings
of strangers, which fascinated yet repelled her. It was an irresistible imposition.
They made a perfunctory search of the two bedrooms; the first was piled with cardboard boxes – a storeroom for
the shop’s stock – and Angela’s own was filled with heavy oak furniture, the kind unwillingly inherited from great-aunts.
Rachel took the iron single bed as evidence that no lover had figured in Angela Simms’s life.
She made a half-hearted search of the bed, finding nothing under the mattress and only a thin cotton nightdress and a key
beneath the pillow. She found herself wondering about the injured woman’s family and friends: they had found no address book
and the only telephone was in the shop itself. A spartan existence – and a lonely one.
Trish searched the great dark wardrobe but found nothing but an assortment of clothes, mostly black and a few years old.
It was useless, Rachel thought. Angela was just another sad and lonely woman robbed while alone in her shop. Another crime
statistic. She walked out onto the landing, her footsteps echoing on the bare floorboards. Then she stopped suddenly and Trish
almost cannoned into her.
‘That’s it. Two bedrooms. Small bathroom. Did you find anything in the bedroom drawers?’ Rachel asked.
‘Nothing of any interest. But one of them was locked – the top drawer in the big chest.’
Rachel was holding the key she had found under Angela’s pillow. She returned to Angela’s bedroom and walked straight to a
bulky dark oak chest of drawers, an ugly, overbearing piece that would be rejected by any discerning antique dealer. She turned
the key and the top drawer opened smoothly.
The contents were illuminated by the weak shaft of light filtering in through the tiny window.
‘I reckon we’ve found Jonny Shellmer’s stalker,’ said Rachel quietly.
Shellmer’s face stared up at her from four framed photographs lying neatly to the left of the drawer. A pile of long-playing
records, eight in all, was stacked up on the right. Rachel pulled the photographs out and examined them. Each one bore a handwritten
message in the corner:
‘to Angel with love from Jonny’.
‘Looks like she was a fan,’ said Rachel.
‘More than a fan. She’s been hanging around outside his house.’
‘Bit old for that sort of thing, wasn’t she?’
Trish shrugged.
Rachel reached into the drawer and pulled out a scrap-book. She carried it over to the bed and turned the pages carefully.
It contained cuttings from newspapers and magazines, all about Jonny Shellmer’s career, Rock Boat’s tours, Jonny’s divorce,
his solo efforts. Loose at the back of the scrapbook was a photograph. She handed it to Trish. ‘What do you make of this?’
Trish examined the photograph. ‘It’s just a group of kids. It’s not very clear but you can tell it was taken round here –
it looks like the waterfront at Derenham.’
She handed it back to Rachel, who peered at the image. ‘The end’s been cut off – look, you can just see someone’s elbow. She’s
taken the scissors and cut someone out. Weird.’
Rachel placed the photograph back between the pages of the scrapbook. Then she put everything back in the drawer and locked
it before putting the key under the pillow. ‘Let’s get out of here. This place really gives me the creeps.’
Trish followed Rachel downstairs and they walked out through the shop, past the ranks of angels, who watched them with knowing
eyes.
PC Paul Johnson was just thinking that hanging around in the damp air outside Derenham’s Old Vicarage was hardly the perfect
way to spend a Saturday evening when he heard a noise. He froze and pressed himself against the stone wall of the house as
a shape emerged from the late-afternoon gloom.
He stepped out of the shadows, his eyes on the man who was making purposefully for the front door, key at the ready.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said firmly, looking Alec Treadly in the eye.
But Treadly stopped in his tracks, balancing on tiptoe, prepared for flight. Johnson saw him shove the key into his pocket
surreptitiously.
Treadly spoke quickly. ‘It’s the cat. It’s been missing since last night. I wondered if it was …’
‘What type of cat is it, sir?’ asked Johnson, humouring him. He didn’t believe a word of it.
‘Er … a ginger one.’
‘Name?’
‘Er … Ginger.’
‘No. Your name, sir.’ Johnson was beginning to enjoy this.
‘Alec Treadly. I live at the lodge just down there. Ginger sometimes comes up here,’ he added, trying to convince.
‘Well, if I see Ginger I’ll let you know.’
Alec Treadly sensed a finality in Johnson’s last statement. There was nothing for it. He turned and walked back down the drive.
He had no chance of getting into the Old Vicarage while the police were still around.