The Snuffbox Murders (12 page)

Angel paused. Crisp, Carter and Ahmed looked at him with jaws dropped.

‘Alternatively,’ Angel said quickly, ‘that Sean Noel Riley and Stefan Muldoon were both members of the country-house gang, and because of the new discipline they had learned from the gang leader, they had both kept out of trouble with the law for twelve years, and they had met on that day for a nefarious reason of some sort.’

‘
That
’s very much more likely, sir,’ Crisp said.

Carter and Ahmed nodded unthinkingly in agreement.

‘Exactly,’ Angel said. ‘And that’s what
I
think. Now it will be no good us trying to
lean
on Riley. We have no evidence that he’s a member of the gang, and without proof, we’d never get a word out of him. He will be far more scared of having his tongue ripped out of him than of spending time in the poky. So I want a twenty-four-hour surveillance on him. DI Lord said that he’d not interviewed him, so Riley will not be alert to the fact that we are actively interested in him, which gives us a big advantage. He won’t know he’s in the frame. I want to know who he knows, who he visits, where he goes, where the gang meet and so on. Firstly, we need to know where he lives.’ He looked across at Ahmed. ‘What’s the address the probation office gave you, lad?’

‘26 Edward Street, sir.’

‘Right,’ Angel said. ‘We’re going to need all the cunning, thoroughness and discernment we can muster. This might be the only lead we’ll ever get. Trevor, you nip down to 26 Edward Street now and find a strategic position, just in case he still lives there. Take a camera. See what you can see. Don’t speak to anybody. Report back to me if anything happens. I’ll be down there myself very soon.’

Crisp dashed out.

‘Ahmed, get me the manager of Bromersley post office on the phone.’

Ahmed made for the door.

Angel called after him: ‘And send Ted Scrivens in.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Flora, I want you to make up a small parcel about seven inches by four inches by one inch and address it to S.N. Riley Esq., 26 Edward Street, Bromersley, South Yorkshire.’

An hour later, a red post-office van drove slowly along Edward Street.

Two men in an unmarked Ford car at the opposite side of the road carefully observed it stop outside number 26. The two men in the car were Angel and Crisp.

The driver of the van stopped, switched off the engine and sat in the cab slowly sorting through a stone-coloured bag. He eventually found a small parcel and got out of the van. He walked slowly up to the door of number 26 and banged the knocker.

It was DC Scrivens in an official postman’s coat and hat.

The sound of the banging came through the earpiece in Angel’s ear.

He turned to Crisp and said, ‘I hope
someone
’s in, after all this.’

Eventually the door was opened by a middle-aged woman in an apron. She was wiping her hands on a blue-and-white tea towel.

‘A woman’s answered,’ Crisp said.

‘Yes, sssh,’ Angel said.

‘Registered packet for Mr Riley,’ he heard Scrivens say.

‘Right,’ the woman said, ‘I’ll sign for it.’

‘No, love,’ Scrivens said. ‘It’s for Mr Riley, Mr S.N. Riley. He has to sign for it.’

‘It’s all right. I always sign for anything for him.’

‘It’s “person to person”, missis,’ Scrivens said. ‘Special. Sorry. He has to sign for it, himself. It’s a nuisance, I know. You his wife?’

‘No.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘His partner.’

‘Pity. It must be valuable. It’s insured for five hundred pounds,’ Scrivens said.

The woman’s eyes glowed like a 707’s landing lights.

‘I’ll have to come back,’ Scrivens said. ‘When will he be in?’

‘Might be in tonight, later,’ she said looking longingly at the small package. ‘But you know, young man, I’ve always taken things in for him in the past.’

‘Yes love, but this is special. New service. “Person to person” they call it. I can’t come back tonight. I finish at four. What time will he be in tomorrow?’

She put a hand on her cheek as she thought. ‘If I tell him tonight, he could be in at say ten o’clock tomorrow morning. How’s that?’

‘I’ll come back at ten o’clock in the morning then, if the boss lets me.’

‘Righto,’ she said, then she swiftly withdrew and closed the door.

Scrivens got back into the red post-office van and drove away.

The muscles round Angel’s jaw tightened. He snatched out the earpiece, looked at Crisp and said, ‘Riley’s not there, but she knows where he is.’

‘We’ll have to come back,’ Crisp said.

Angel was about to get out of the Ford when he saw the door of number 26 open again. It was the woman. She was wearing a light mackintosh. She stepped out on to the pavement, turned back to the door, locked it and walked briskly along the road in the opposite direction to where Crisp’s car was parked.

He watched her until she was out of sight. Then he turned to Crisp and said, ‘Follow me. In the car.’

Angel got out of the car and walked quickly to the end of the street. He peered round the corner. The street joined Bradford Road which eventually led to the M1 motorway. He looked up the road. It was mostly terrace houses. There was the occasional public house, and a small frontage of shops 200 yards up. There were only a few pedestrians. He didn’t see her at first, but then he spotted her light-coloured raincoat and black hair about 100 yards away on the pavement at the opposite side of the road. She was striding out determinedly. He crossed the road, carefully avoiding a Bromersley service bus and two heavy wagons. When they had passed, he looked back up the road for her. She was nowhere to be seen. He raced up to where he had last seen her, outside the frontages of five small shops. She could have dodged into any one of them. He bit his lip. He looked into four of the five shops and there was no sign of her. The fifth shop had a flowery sign painted on its window, number 129. It read: Alan Abelson. Picture framers. Showing through the glass door was a card with the word CLOSED printed on it. Angel saw this and tried the door handle. It wasn’t locked. He pushed the door, it opened and a distant bell began to ring. He walked in. He realized he was past the point of no return. He had no idea where he was going with this move. The woman he had been following might not have gone into that shop at all. There was just as much possibility that she could have gone into the newsagents, the post office, the butchers, or the Chinese takeaway next door (which also had a CLOSED sign on the door). The odds were against him, at five to one.

Anyway, he was in there now. He looked round at the countless samples of, picture-frame extrusions in different patterns, colours, sizes and textures, about fifteen inches long, fastened to display boards on the walls, also the many framed cheap prints of well-known pictures hanging above them. In between a collection of smaller pictures on the wall he noted a shiny piece of glass the size of the diameter of a policeman’s whistle. It was the lens of a CCTV camera, photographing him and recording his every move.

It made him realize his possible dilemma. He couldn’t admit to tailing a woman. That could blow the entire country-house gang surveillance mission.

He heard a shuffling noise. A person appeared between two display boards. The person stood there like a small stone pillar.

‘We are closed, sir,’ the person said. ‘There is a sign on the door.’

Angel reckoned it was a woman. An old woman with grey hair. She had a gold cross with a figure of Christ on it in the form of a pendant on a gold chain hanging round her neck.

‘I am sorry,’ Angel said. ‘I didn’t see it. I have a painting I wanted framing.’

His acting wouldn’t have won him any Oscars.

‘We’re closed,’ she said.

‘It’s only a small painting. Are you open tomorrow?’

‘Might be.’

‘I’ll call back when I can. I’m a policeman,’ he said watching her face for a reaction. There was nothing. ‘I’m with the Bromersley force, on Church Street station. I’ll leave my card, if I may?’

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t do anything. She stood there like a letterbox.

He pulled a card out of his top pocket and held it for a second. She didn’t offer to take it, so he placed it on the counter and came out of the shop.

He looked round for Crisp. He saw him in his car, fifty yards away, waiting at the side of the road with the engine running. He crossed the road, waved him up and got inside.

‘Any luck, sir,’ Crisp said.

He wrinkled his nose. ‘I lost her,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where she went to. Get back to that last address. Let’s hope Riley turns up.’

Crisp drove the car back to the surveillance position on Edward Street, then Angel left him, walked to his car a few streets away and returned to the station.

Angel parked the BMW and dashed into the station by the back door, passing the cells and up the green corridor.

‘Ahmed,’ he called as he passed the CID room.

The young man came running to the door.

‘Find out who owns 129 Bradford Road. It’s a picture-framer’s shop.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘And there’s something else, lad. Sean Noel Riley served three years from 1986 to 1989 in Strangeways for possession of a gun. Find out if Peter Queegley was in Strangeways at the same time. We need to find as many links to the country-house gang as we can. I believe that Stefan Muldoon was part of that gang and Riley’s fingerprints were found on an empty can of lager in his office. If Queegley and Riley also struck up a relationship then it is possible that Queegley is also a member of the gang, got it?’

Ahmed grinned. ‘Got it, sir.’

Angel reached his office to find the phone ringing. He reached over and lifted it to his ear. It was the civilian woman on the station switchboard. ‘There’s a young woman on the line – at least she sounds young. She’s a bit worked up about something. Will only speak to you. Says her name is Jessica Razzle.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Put her through, please.’

‘Is that Inspector Angel?’

She sounded angry.

‘Speaking. What’s the matter, Jessica?’

‘Ah,’ she sighed. ‘She’s gone, Inspector. Rosemary’s gone. I thought she would. She’s flown the coop and taken all sorts of things. The house is deserted. Most of her clothes, all her jewellery, everything of value. You know she’s got all the bonds and the shares and everything.’

Angel blinked and said, ‘How do you know? Where are you speaking from?’

‘I’m at home, of course. At The Manor House.’

He frowned. ‘What are you doing there? You’re not supposed to be there … I’ll come over.’

Angel replaced the phone. He was at The Manor House in five minutes. The front door was open and, as he reached it, he heard Jessica Razzle call out, ‘Come in, Inspector. Come straight through. I’m in the kitchen. I’ve made you a cup of tea.’

The tea would be very welcome, but that was not what he was there for. He closed the door, marched down the hall to the kitchen. She pointed to a beaker of tea and pushed the sugar bowl and a plastic bottle of milk towards him. He looked at the date on the milk. ‘Use by Jun 1.’

‘Was this in the fridge?’

‘Yes. I’m sure it’s all right, Inspector. I’ve had some.’

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I was trying to work out … Never mind.’

He poured a little in to his tea, stirred it noisily, put the spoon on the worktop and took a sip. It tasted good. He sat down opposite her, looked around then said, ‘What are you doing here? Aren’t you breaking the terms of your conditional discharge?’

‘Oh
that
?’ she said, wrinkling her nose, causing her spectacles to go up. ‘I haven’t been anywhere near
her
She isn’t here. I have no idea where she is. Probably never ever see her again. And she’s managed the perfect murder, and cleaned me out. It’s not a bit fair.’

‘Looks like you’ve got a house,’ he said. ‘
And
the furniture.
And
a very big allowance.’

She nodded. ‘But Rosemary’s got absolutely
millions
.’

‘And I keep telling you she could not have murdered your father. She has one of the best alibis anybody could have.’

‘I know. She had an accomplice. Somebody who had a front-door key, who knew where….’

Angel peered at her. ‘As a matter of fact, how did you get in here? The house was locked up, wasn’t it?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘I live here, for god’s sake,’ she said. ‘Dad gave me a key when I was fourteen. I’ve had a key ever since we moved in here from the other house.’

Angel’s forehead creased. He pursed his lips. ‘Listen to me, Jessica. The murderer had a front-door key. Has your key ever been out of your possession? Have you ever loaned it to a friend, a workman, a deliveryman, to deliver or leave something, or pick something up or do some work on the house? Or did you ever lose it? These would have all been opportunities for a would-be intruder to take a cast and make a copy.’

‘No. Not that I remember.’

He took another sip of the tea. It gave him time to think. ‘You said that Rosemary had taken things. Her clothes, her jewellery, her bonds and shares. Has she taken anything that isn’t hers?’

Jessica pulled a face. ‘Yes. I am entitled to a proportion of the money.’

‘I thought the terms of the will were that your allowance could be increased if you were in need of it and Rosemary agreed. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Huh. She was never going to agree to giving
me
an increase, was she?’

‘So she hasn’t taken anything that isn’t hers?’

She glared at him. ‘I knew you’d take her side.’

‘I haven’t taken her side. It’s just the way it is.’

Jessica Razzle’s lip quivered.

Angel said: ‘Consider this, Jessica. I’m sure that if Rosemary was here, she’d accuse
you
of murdering your father.’

Her eyes shone like Strangeways’ tower searchlights. ‘Ridiculous. I adored my father.’

‘I daresay, but
she
’d probably say that you could have sneaked into the house. You had a key. You knew where the CCTV cameras were located. You knew where your father’s handgun was kept. You could have known how to set the combination on the security door.’

‘Ridiculous. And what would have been my motive?’

‘To steal the contents of the safe.’

‘Outrageous. As if I’d put the contents of the safe ahead of the love of my father.’

Angel shrugged. ‘I only said that that’s
probably
what your stepmother would say.’

‘Huh. It’s
her
I tell you. She has an accomplice somewhere.’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘Anyway, what was in the safe?’

‘I don’t know.’

Jessica finished her tea. She went to the sink, rinsed her beaker, put it on the drainer and turned back to Angel.

‘What are you going to do about finding her, then?’

‘I don’t need to do anything,’ he said, ‘unless she fails to attend the court to answer the charge of assault on you and causing a public disturbance.’

‘Huh. You’ll never see her again.’

‘We’ll see,’ he said as he passed over his empty beaker.

She took it, rinsed it and put it on the drainer. She turned back. ‘Incidentally, I haven’t heard anything more about that court case.’

‘You will. You’ll get a brown envelope from the CPS, giving you the date of the hearing. In the meantime, I hope you’re not thinking of moving back in here.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Why not? It’s my home.’

He licked his bottom lip and shook his head.

‘Four reasons,’ he said. ‘One, it’s against your conditional discharge. Two, Rosemary might return and if she did there would be nothing but trouble if she found you here. Three, it isn’t safe. There is still a murderer out there and we know he has a front-door key.’

Angel noticed that she shuddered as she turned and pressed her back against the sink.

‘You’ll be quite safe at The Feathers,’ he said. ‘There are always people around the hotel.’

‘And what’s four?’ she said, looking up.

‘And four, there are some further investigations I want my forensic team to make in your late father’s workshop. It will be much more convenient for them if the house is unoccupied.’

It was ten minutes past five when Angel took his leave of Jessica Razzle and stepped out of The Manor House. He got into the BMW, started the engine, pointed the bonnet towards home and switched on the radio.

‘More news is coming in regarding that gold and plaster statue of Dorothea Jordan,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘We hear that the auctioneer’s estimate has now reached a million pounds. Julia Weekes is at Spicers’, the auctioneers for us on Royal Crown Road. A million pounds seems to be a lot of money for a plaster statue even if it is plated with gold, Julia?’ she said.

‘That’s right, Marie. I am standing outside Spicers’ imposing Georgian stone-pillared doorway where, earlier today, I collected a catalogue of the sale, and lot 1 – unusually the very first lot – is what all the fuss is about. It is described as, “A plaster-cast recumbent statue lavishly coated in 24-carat gold of Dorothea Jordan, 1762-1816, actress and mistress of the future King William IV, and universally regarded as the most beautiful woman in the world. Estimate £1m to £1.5m”.’

‘Is the public much interested in bidding for the statue?’

‘It’s difficult to say. The statue has been given pride of place on a dais in Spicers’ entrance hall, so that everybody coming into the building has to pass it. I must say that hardly anybody goes by without giving it a look and reading the placard with all its intriguing past, historical significance and provenance. Earlier, I managed to speak to an American antique dealer from California, Abner Spiegel. I asked him what he thought about it.’

The recording of a man who spoke through his nose was inserted here. He said, ‘Well, gee. She looks absolutely fabulous. The provenance is right. It is obviously a highly desirable statue with historical, royal and erotic connotations. It will certainly sell. Whether one million sterling, is the market price, I don’t know?’

‘Will you be bidding, Mr Spiegel?’

‘Depends how it goes, ma’am.’

‘Thank you. Then I spoke to a bystander, a Mr Alec Underwood…’

At the mention of Alec Underwood’s name, Angel blinked and his hold on the steering wheel tightened.

‘Alec Underwood,’ the radio interviewer said. ‘What do you think to the Dorothea Jordan statue?’

‘I find it extremely interesting. I expect it will fetch a lot of money. It is an item that is fascinating people from all over the world.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it is historically extremely important, isn’t it? I understand that at the time Mrs Dorothea Jordan was regarded as a strikingly attractive woman and that she bore the Duke of Clarence, later King William IV, ten children. The mould of the statue was actually taken from Dorothea Jordan’s body, and the gold-plated life-size statue occupied pride of place on a couch in his bedroom at Windsor Castle for twenty-one years, including the period of his reign from 1830 until his death in 1837. And then, there is this film coming out with Sincerée La More playing the part of Dorothea Jordan. With all this hype, this beautiful antique could hardly fail to command a high price.’

‘And will you be among the bidders, Mr Underwood?’

Angel noticed that there was some hesitation, before Underwood said, ‘I will have to think about that.’

The interview stopped there and the TV reporter said, ‘Everybody playing their cards close to their chests, Marie.’

‘Julia Weekes there for us at Spicers’ auction house here in London. Moving on. The Footsie 100 fell again—’

Angel reached out and switched the radio off. He turned off the main road into Forest Hill Estate. He couldn’t get away from that plaster statue. It seemed to haunt him wherever he went. He was positive Underwood was planning something bent.

‘And will you be among the bidders, Mr Underwood?’ he had heard the interviewer ask. Angel sniffed. Alec Underwood had never bought anything at the market price in his life. If he couldn’t buy it cheap enough, he’d steal it. Angel pursed his lips. Was that his game? Was he planning to steal the statue? If he stole it, it would be the biggest scam he had ever pulled. The auctioneers had put a speculative million-pound-plus price-ticket on it, making it such a high-profile antique. And Underwood had been seen so near to it, interviewed about it. If he intended stealing the statue, Angel now had his address; at least he would know where to begin to look. He’d be an obvious suspect. He’d never get away with it.

What was happening out there in this wacky world, Angel wondered? A million pounds for that gold-plated plaster statue was ridiculous. He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. Then again, so was his gas bill.

‘Come in,’ Angel said.

It was PC Ahaz. ‘Good morning, sir. I have checked up on Peter Queegley’s time in Strangeways.’

‘Ah,’ Angel said, eyebrows raised.

‘Sean Noel Riley came out in April 1989, and Queegley didn’t go in until January 1990. Sorry, sir.’

Angel shook his head and sighed. ‘Right, lad.’

Ahmed said, ‘My grandmother used to say that disappointments were good for young folks, sir.’

Angel’s teeth showed as his face muscles tightened. ‘But your grandmother didn’t have to deal with obnoxious oily ne’er-do-wells like Peter Queegley and Alec Underwood.’

‘My grandfather was enough for her, sir. I have the owner of 129 Bradford Road, sir. The picture-framer’s shop. It’s a Mrs Aimée Podlitz, of the same address. She must live over the shop.’

‘Oh. Podlitz? Foreign. Right. Find out if there’s anything known.’

‘Nothing known, sir. I knew you’d ask.’

Angel nodded. He was pleased. Ahmed was using his initiative. ‘Who else lives on the premises?’

Ahmed’s jaw dropped. ‘Didn’t get
that
, sir.’

‘Do it now. You’ll want the town hall.’

‘Yes. I know how to find out, sir,’ he said.

Angel said, ‘And while you’re about it, find out who lives at 26 Edward Street.’

‘Right, sir,’ he said and he went out.

Trevor Crisp came in.

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Good morning, lad,’ Angel said pointing to the chair.

Crisp sat down. ‘That woman came back to 26 Edward Street at six o’clock last night, and Riley turned up there at nine fifteen.’

Angel looked up. His eyes locked momentarily on to Crisp’s. ‘Ah,’ he said, pleased to hear some good news for a change.

‘And I saw a light go on in the front bedroom at ten o’clock just before I knocked off,’ Crisp said.

‘And who is down there now?’

‘Ted Scrivens.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘I was thinking that it would be great to get a bug in there, but, you know, if the woman is not part of the gang, then he wouldn’t talk such private stuff to her, would he?’

‘I would have thought it worth the risk, sir.’