The Snuffbox Murders (13 page)

‘If we make Riley suspicious, he’ll go to ground and we may never get a lead again.’

‘I could go in there as a meter reader.’

‘It’s been done so many times, lad.’ He thought about it a few moments then said, ‘We’ll wait a day. See what else we can find out. We are monitoring his post and his landline. Are there any empty houses opposite? Any For Sale boards up anywhere?’

‘Had a good look last night, sir.’

‘Do we know anybody who lives in an odd number on there?’

‘Don’t know of anybody, sir.’

‘No,’ Angel said, running his hand through his hair.

The phone rang. Angel reached out for it.

It was Superintendent Harker. ‘There’s a triple nine. A dead woman with facial injuries found in long grass by a lay-by opposite Strawberry Reservoir between Sheffield and Bromersley.’

Angel squeezed the phone, his pulse racing. ‘Right, sir,’ he said.

‘A man parking his car with the intention of going fishing found the body,’ the superintendent said. ‘He’s standing by. Do you know where that reservoir is?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m on my way.’

‘Is it on Sheffield’s patch?’

Angel realized that it was. He hesitated. ‘Possibly,’ he said.

There was a pause, then Harker said, ‘I believe it is. Don’t move until I get back to you.’

‘I don’t mind, sir. I can do it.’

Harker sniggered. ‘You just love a good murder, Angel, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Don’t move a muscle. I’ll check with Sheffield and get straight back to you. We’ve quite enough on here, and I don’t want it going in our statistics unnecessarily. The figures are bad enough.’ The phone went dead.

Angel put it back in its cradle.

Crisp stared at him.

‘A dead woman with facial injuries,’ Angel said slowly while rubbing his chin, ‘found in long grass by a lay-by opposite Strawberry Reservoir.’

Crisp shook his head and frowned, ‘As if we haven’t enough on.’

Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘One murder case helps the others. Obviously takes more time. The initial routine is exactly the same. Gathering facts. After that, anybody with a tidy, methodical mind can assemble them and permutate them until out pops the answer.’

‘It never works for me, sir.’

‘It won’t work for anybody if they haven’t enough information.’

Crisp shook his head. ‘You make it sound easy.’

‘It
is
easy.’

‘For you, sir, maybe.’

‘With me, it’s a habit.’

‘With you, sir, it’s a gift.’

The phone rang. Angel reached out for it.

It was Superintendent Harker again. ‘Stand down. Sheffield are dealing with it.’

Angel’s jaw stiffened. He wasn’t pleased. He replaced the phone.

‘I have to know who she was and how she died,’ he said.

Crisp said, ‘You’re not expecting it to be Rosemary Razzle are you, sir?’

Angel hadn’t realized that he had expressed his thoughts out loud.

‘Eh? I don’t know. It is a woman with facial injuries, and I need to know who she is, not who I expect it to be.’

Crisp frowned. ‘You’ve lost me, sir.’

‘Forget it,’ Angel suddenly said and jumped to his feet. ‘Have you got a camera?’

‘In my desk, sir.’

‘Get it quick. Come on. We’ll go in my car.’

Angel raced out of the office. Crisp followed and called in to CID office for a camera. They met outside at Angel’s BMW.

Angel knew exactly where the lay-by was and they were there in ten or eleven minutes. It was on an important fast road out in the country, opposite Strawberry Reservoir at the bottom of a long hill. There was a gathering of four men on the pavement by the lay-by leaning against their bicycles, each man had a fishing rod fastened to the crossbar. The men were standing there in the sunshine smoking cigarettes and expectantly watching every car that came near, hoping that it was a police car that would take over their self-appointed guardianship of a dead body.

As Angel and Crisp approached the lay-by, they could not see any signs of a dead body, but there was a lot of long grass everywhere, waving in the warm breeze.

As the BMW pulled up, it was besieged by the elderly fishermen, a curious, lined and tanned face at each window.

‘The dead woman’s over here,’ one said, pointing ten feet away in the long grass. ‘She’s not breathing and as stiff as a board.’

‘It’s a dreadful sight. She looks awful,’ said another, turning away and swallowing hard.

‘I was the one what found her. I was the one what phoned up,’ said a third.

‘All her innards have come out of her mouth. Nobody should treat a woman like that.’

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Angel said getting out of the car. ‘Please come away from the crime scene. The investigating team will not want you trampling over any possible forensic evidence.’

The men looked at each other in surprise.

‘We want to go fishing. We’ve told you all we know. You can’t want anything else from us.’

Angel said nothing. He stuck out his chest and walked a little way up the hill, the men following him, while Crisp sneaked out of the car and up the banking.

‘Are you not the police, then?’ the first man said.

Crisp easily found the mound of nondescript clothes in the long grass, and photographed it six times from different angles without touching it.

‘We’re just here to check that the integrity of the murder scene is being properly preserved,’ Angel said to the men, as he saw Crisp running back to the car. ‘Thank you very much. Please keep everybody away from it until Sheffield CID arrive.’

‘How long will they be?’ said one of the men.

Angel looked up the hill in the direction of Sheffield. He was surprised to see two police cars and a white van in procession, all flashing blue lights and approaching fast.

‘There they are now,’ he said, running back down the hill towards the BMW.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, glanced at Crisp and started the engine.

Crisp looked pale.

‘Everything all right?’ Angel said.

‘Got plenty of pics, sir,’ Crisp said with a long sigh.

Angel pulled away from the crime scene only half a minute before Sheffield’s SOCO’s van wheels rolled to a stop on the very same grass verge.

‘Who is it then?’ Angel said. ‘Recognize her?’

He put his hand to his forehead. ‘No, sir. Pretty ghastly. Her own mother wouldn’t recognize her.’

Back at the police station Angel and Crisp rushed into the theatre and transferred the pictures on to the viewing screen.

The photographs were horrible, but Angel had seen worse. The clearest photograph showed what seemed to be a bundle of rags with a grey ball at the top sparsely covered with grey hair, below that, red raw flesh with blue streaks. Beneath that, something shiny and yellow had caught the light of the sun. It confounded Angel for a while, until he enlarged the image up to the point at which the photograph dissolved into pixels, then brought it back a step. He could see that it was the profile view of a gold crucifix on a chain.

His eyebrows shot up. He nodded thoughtfully. ‘We are rattling the big man’s cage, Trevor,’ he said rubbing his chin. ‘We are in dangerous territory.’

Crisp frowned. ‘You know this woman, sir?’

‘She was the old woman in the picture-framing shop. Mrs Aimée Podlitz.’

He reached out for the phone and tapped in a number.

‘
That
old woman?’ Crisp lowered his eyes. His hands shook. Then he looked up at Angel. ‘I wouldn’t like to think that my mother suffered anything like that, sir.’

‘It’s a similar case to Stefan Muldoon,’ Angel said.

‘The woman you spoke to only yesterday?’ Crisp said. ‘And can you identify her from
that
picture?’

He nodded. ‘He’s had to resort to murdering an old woman fronting a picture-framing business to try to put the fear of God into anybody trying to get nearer to him.’

The phone was answered. Angel spoke into it.

‘Ahmed,’ he said. ‘I want you to find out who owns the property, next door to, and at the back of, the picture-framing business at 129 Bradford Road, and phone it through to me asap.’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said.

Angel replaced the phone.

‘That was the country-house gang’s HQ, sir?’

‘Probably. I’m not sure of anything, lad, but what crook do you know who would murder anyone and leave a gold pendant and chain worth maybe two hundred pounds round the dead person’s neck?’

Crisp’s eyes narrowed.

‘None, eh?’ Angel said. ‘Our man is way above risking being caught by being in possession of a two-hundred-pound necklace. He’s playing for thousands. Must be him. The picture-framing shop might just be the way in, past the CCTV camera, so that all visitors – not that there’d be many – are clocked in, literally. He needed a place to store the loot and vehicles to transport it about the place. Maybe there are garages at the rear. They’ll be in Aimée Podlitz’s name, if they are. Anyway, whatever he was using there, he’ll have cleared out of them by now. But we’ve got to have a look.’

‘Come in,’ Angel said.

It was Flora Carter. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘Yes. I want you to get together as many officers as you can to make an immediate assault on the 129 Bradford Road picture-framing shop and residential accommodation, and the lock-up garages and outbuildings at the back. I have reason to believe that the premises might have been the HQ of the country-house gang, and that they may have vacated them late yesterday or even overnight. An elderly woman who apparently worked at the shop, possibly a member of the gang, was found dead earlier today away from the house.’

‘Is that the woman who has had her tongue pulled out, sir?’ Flora Carter said.

‘Well, yes. It seems to be the mark of the leader of the country-house gang to instil discipline. He’s doing it to scare everybody.’

Her pretty mouth twitched. ‘Yes. Well, he’s … he’s succeeding, sir,’ Flora Carter said.

Angel looked at her a moment then said, ‘Turn that fear into determination, Flora. Because we are coppers we can never run. We’ve always got to fight.’

She swallowed quickly, straightened up and said, ‘Yes, sir. I know that.’

‘Liaise with SOCO’s Don Taylor. Treat it like a crime scene. If it’s been abandoned in a hurry, you never know what valuable clues might have been left behind. That man might have slipped up for the very first time in his life.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ Angel said.

PC Ahaz came in, his eyes glowing. He looked at Carter and then at Angel.

‘Excuse me, sir. I thought you’d want to know. Bradford Road is blocked. Traffic for the M1 is at a standstill.’

Carter said: ‘Bradford Road?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

Angel’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t pleased. ‘Blocked? Why is it blocked?’

‘Apparently there’s a big fire, sir. I heard about it in the canteen. Inspector Asquith has summoned all his units to attend.’

Angel snatched up the phone and tapped in a 7.

It was soon answered by the duty sergeant in the control room.

‘What’s this about a fire, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s developing into a big one, sir. A Chinese woman reported the smell of fire in a picture-framing shop next door to her takeaway business on Bradford Road at 1128 hours this morning. Fire service were informed immediately. Logged in at 1129 hours.’

‘I suppose the address is 129 Bradford Road.’

‘As a matter of fact it is, sir. Fancy that. I have an update on that incident, just in, sir. It says, “Fire has developed and spread to shops either side, and at storage premises and garages at the rear. Flames are ten metres high. Five fire tenders are now on the scene. Two more are coming from Rotherham. Residents of nearby houses have already been evacuated to Farr Street church hall. The road is likely to be blocked for at least six hours. Diversions have been set up.” I know that Inspector Asquith is out there with all the uniformed he could muster.’

‘Right, lad, thank you,’ Angel said. ‘I’ve heard enough.’ He replaced the phone. His face was like his mother’s Yorkshire pudding, after the shilling in the gas had run out.

Ahmed said, ‘Did it start in that picture-framer’s shop you asked me about, sir?’

‘Yes,’ Angel said. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘And there goes any chance of recovering prints, DNA or anything else useful from that damned place.’

‘I also came in to tell you that Mrs Podlitz is the only person on the electoral roll at that address, sir. She is also down as the owner of the garages and outhouses at the rear. Also, I looked up 26 Edward Street. Mrs Violet Beasley is the only name down as resident on the electoral roll.’

Angel’s eyebrows went up. ‘Right,’ he said, banging his fist on the desk.

‘Also, there’s nothing known about Violet Beasley or Violet Small, her maiden name, sir,’ Ahmed finished with a self-satisfied nod.

Angel looked up at him. He was pleasantly surprised. ‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ he said.

Ahmed went out.

Angel rubbed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb for a few seconds, then said, ‘Flora, looks like we can’t make any progress on the country-house gang for the moment. That clever man has got one over us again. Let’s take advantage of The Manor House being unoccupied. There must be something we have overlooked in that cellar that would help identify Charles Razzle’s murderer. I know you’ve already looked at everything, but did you actually move the stuff against the walls, the safe for instance?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Right. Withdraw the front door key from the stores. Take a few hefty lads from CID. Move what you have to. Same with the walls. I want you to take a final thorough look round the place. There must be something there we have overlooked.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘I’m going to visit that security specialist, Brian Farleigh.’

Farleigh smiled and looked around his showroom. There were no customers, only the pretty receptionist at the desk by the door.

‘Shall we sit where we sat before, Inspector?’ he said.

Angel nodded and flopped into an easy chair in a corner of the room.

‘What can I do for you this sunny afternoon?’ Farleigh said breezily. ‘I assume that it is in connection with the murder of Mr Razzle.’

Angel sighed. ‘Yes indeed. I just want to check on a few facts, Mr Farleigh. It is a mystery as to how the murderer managed to enter the house so boldly by the front door.’

‘Must have had a key.’

‘Oh yes. The windows and the back door were all closed and secure. So he certainly came in that way and he definitely used a key. I have accounted for all the official keys. So he must have used a copy … but I don’t know how he might have come by it. Then he managed to dodge the two CCTV cameras, enter the cellar workshop, shoot Charles Razzle, set it up to look like it was the robot who had committed the crime, and then make his escape. Now, Mr Farleigh, I believe that there must be a way out of the workshop or at least a place where a man could have hidden down there, to make his escape at a later time … and I was just checking with you that you didn’t come across such a possible hiding-place when you were fitting the security door for him.’

Farleigh grinned. ‘You have already asked me that, Inspector?’

Angel hunched his shoulders slightly. ‘Yes, well, when we can’t solve a crime,’ he said, ‘we go back over things. Maybe ask the same questions, hoping that we might glean a titbit of extra information that could provide another line of inquiry.’

Farleigh shook his head. ‘No, Inspector. Sorry. I don’t know of anything new or different. I just supplied and fitted the door. Charles Razzle wouldn’t let me work on anything without him being there. He was very secretive.’

Angel wrinkled his nose.

‘Sorry, I can’t be more helpful,’ Farleigh said.

Angel’s mobile rang. He frowned, rummaged in his coat pocket, looked at Farleigh and said, ‘Excuse me.’

It was Flora Carter. She sounded breathless. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir. We’re here in the cellar workshop at The Manor House.’

Angel turned away. ‘Speak up, lass. It’s a bad line. Did you say you were speaking from the cellar workshop at the Razzle’s house?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘We’ve found a CCTV camera concealed in the wall.’

Angel’s face brightened. ‘Has it got tape in it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is it possible it was recording the night that Charles Razzle was murdered?’

‘I don’t know that for certain, sir,’ Carter said, ‘but that’s what I was wondering.’

Angel nodded and looked at his watch. It was five o’clock exactly.

‘We need SOCO to look at it for prints before we can actually view what has been recorded,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to leave it where it is until morning. But be sure and lock the workshop door. It’ll be safe there overnight.’

‘Right, sir.’

Angel gave a big sigh and smiled. ‘Great stuff, Flora. Well done. See you in the morning.’

Angel pocketed the mobile and turned back to Farleigh, who was thumbing through one of his own catalogues.

‘Sorry about that, Mr Farleigh,’ Angel said.

Farleigh looked up. ‘That’s all right,’ he said closing the catalogue and tossing it to a table nearby. ‘I’m sorry that I am not able to add to my original statement.’

‘You only know what you know,’ Angel said, getting to his feet. ‘Well, must be off. Good afternoon.’

It was ten minutes past midnight. The sky was as black as fingerprint ink. The only sound to be heard was the nearby rustle of trees and bushes and the distant hum of traffic on the motorway a mile away.

A high-powered car whispered its way slowly past the front of The Manor House on Creesforth Road. It ran out of sight, then came back three minutes later with its lights switched off and drifted even more slowly past the big house. Then it speeded up and disappeared.

Twenty minutes later, the figure of a tall man in a black hat materialized from behind a laurel bush in The Manor House front garden. He was carrying a black canvas bag. He stood motionless. He was looking and listening. Then he suddenly darted across the lawn in the direction of the house and stood by a small bush four metres from the front door. Moments later he reached the front door, opened the canvas bag and took out a pair of earphones and a microphone. He put the earphones on and plugged them into a power pack round his waist. He pushed the microphone on a short wire through the letterbox on the front door, plugged the other end into the power pack, turned up the power and listened.

The listening system was so powerful that, reputedly at twenty metres, it could hear a mouse attempting to dislodge a sliver of mutton stuck between its molars. However, nothing was heard, so the man returned the microphone and earphones to the canvas bag, inserted a key in the front door and entered the house.

When inside he took a headband with a small handtorch fitted to it out of the bag, slipped it over his head, switched it on and adjusted the light beam to shine directly ahead. He made his way through the hall to the kitchen and down the basement steps to the security door to the workshop. There, he quickly secured a small processor to the door lock with magnets, connected it to a hand-held computer powered by the power pack on his waist and started a search for the lock combination. It soon connected, and in seconds the six digits were shown on the LCD. He tapped the number displayed on to the keypad on the door, there was a click and the door opened a centimetre. He pulled the connecting wires out of the equipment, put it in his bag, reached up the door handle, pulled open the door and went into the workshop.

No sooner had he entered the room than the light went on.

The intruder saw Crisp standing resolutely in front of him. He looked round to see Angel, who said, ‘Strange place for you to be at this time of night, Mr Farleigh?’

Brian Farleigh’s eyes flashed in every direction. His face glowed scarlet. His breathing was rapid. His head shook. He froze momentarily. Then with tremendous determination, he suddenly turned, brushed past Angel and made a run for the door. Angel reached out for him and caught his left arm. Farleigh turned back and lunged out at Angel’s head with his right fist and missed. Angel hung on. Farleigh made another lunge and missed again. Angel improved his grip on Farleigh’s arm, then, with a quick twist of his wrist and a push at his elbow, the man dropped to the floor with a scream. Angel followed him down and brought the big man’s arm up round his back. Farleigh struggled like a madman. Crisp rushed over with the handcuffs and, putting his knee in Farleigh’s back, the two policemen secured one wrist in them and then, after a struggle, the other. Then they rose to their feet, pulling Farleigh up between them.