The Snuffbox Murders (3 page)

Donohue nodded.

In spite of the tea, Elder yawned and lowered his head into his arms on the kitchen table.

Donohue looked up at the kitchen clock. It said half past three. He leaned back in the chair trying to get into a comfortable position. It was not possible. He put his elbows on the table, leaned into his hands and closed his eyes. In his imagination he could see his bed. It looked very inviting. He was thinking how much he would enjoy a shower and then a long sleep when he heard heavy feet on the cellar steps. He opened his eyes, nudged Elder, who jumped to his feet.

‘I wasn’t asleep, Sean,’ Elder said. ‘Just resting my eyes.’

Donohue looked at the clock. It said ten minutes past five.

Farleigh came through the open basement door. He glanced round the kitchen.

‘Where is she?’ he said with a grin.

Donohue’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Is it unlocked?’ he said.

‘Where is she?’ Farleigh said.

The policemen glanced at each other. The door
was
unlocked. They suddenly felt wide awake.

Donohue pointed down the hall. ‘First door on your left,’ he said.

Farleigh dashed out of the kitchen.

Donohue took a quick swig of cold tea, put the cup down on the worktop and crossed to the basement door. Elder followed him.

Mrs Razzle appeared at the drawing room door, swaying like a rope bridge in a gale. Her hair half-covered her face.

Farleigh came up behind her.

‘I heard you. I heard you,’ she said. Her speech was slurred. ‘You’ve unlocked the bloody thing. About time too.’

She tried to rush, but she couldn’t.

‘Go on. Go on,’ she said waving him on like an impatient driver waving on a bothersome car behind.

He overtook her and ran down the basement steps.

She followed making the best speed she could, precariously gripping the banister with both hands.

The two policemen came up quickly behind.

The security room door was still closed.

When Farleigh reached it, he pressed down the handle and pulled the heavy door silently towards them.

Mrs Razzle leaned forward.

The two policemen closed up behind her.

As it was opening, they heard a voice from inside the room. It was gentlemanly and courteous, but hollow and echoing. ‘What do you want me to do now?’ After a pause, the voice said, ‘Did I do that correctly?’ Then after another pause, it reverted to the original question: ‘What do you want me to do now?’

It kept repeating the two questions alternately.

Mrs Razzle turned to the men behind her. She frowned, now seemed completely sober but unnerved, and said, ‘That’s my husband’s voice, but it’s not him speaking.’

Donohue pushed forward to be at the side of her and said, ‘Be careful, miss.’

The strange hollow echoing voice suddenly stopped. It seemed to have heard their two voices and was considering its response.

‘I do not understand your instruction,’ the robot promptly chanted. ‘Would you repeat it, please?’

The door was now fully open and they stared into the long, brightly lit cellar. Immediately they saw a human-sized robot made of clear blue plastic standing upright against the wall facing them. Three small red lights were flashing inside the top of its translucent plastic head. Ominously, they saw that it was holding a handgun in the shooting position.

Beyond the robot, the walls of the cellar were lined with banks of black electronic equipment, LCD screens and powerful batteries. There seemed to be dials on everything. Electric cables ran all over the place. There was a smell of acid and rubber. There was a long bench in the middle of the room cluttered with engineer’s and electrician’s tools, and an assortment of entirely unfathomable metal and plastic parts. The corner of a desk projected from behind the door.

Mrs Razzle took a short step into the cellar. ‘Charles,’ she said, tentatively. She peered round the workshop door, and then she saw it. It was the body of a man slumped on the floor by the desk in a pool of blood.

She screamed and cried out, ‘Charles! Charles!’

‘Stand back, everybody,’ Donohue yelled. ‘We’re in the line of fire of that gun.’

Donohue, Elder and Farleigh stepped out of the doorway.

Mrs Razzle, ignoring Donohue, suddenly rushed over towards the body by the desk.

Donohue instantly reached forward, put his arm round her waist, lifted her out of the doorway and swung her back into the basement, out of range of the gun.

‘Put me down,’ she screamed, digging her nails into his hand and kicking his shins with the back of her shoes. ‘How
dare
you?’

At the same time, the strange voice reverted to saying, ‘What do you want me to do now? What do you want me to do now? What do you want me to do now?’

DI Angel’s office, Bromersley Police Station, South Yorkshire, UK.

0828 hours. Tuesday, 26 May 2009

Angel looked across the desk at the uniformed constable and rubbed his chin. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Then what happened?’

‘Well, sir,’ Donohue said, ‘Clive Elder and I managed to get Mrs Razzle out of the line of fire of the robot, up the basement steps into the kitchen, where she completely gave way to tears. Clive made her some sweet tea and we talked to her … tried to comfort her. The security engineer wanted to leave. He said that he had a lot on. So I took his phone number and address and told him that he would be needed as a witness, and he went. Meanwhile, all the time, now that the security door was wide open, through the closed basement door, we could still hear that robot’s voice chanting away, “What do you want me to do now?” over and over again.’ Donohue pulled a creased face. ‘Fancy a robot killing the man who made it.’

Angel frowned.

‘We were thankful the thing didn’t follow us up the stairs,’ Donohue added. Angel ran his tongue over his bottom lip.

‘You said it looked as if Charles Razzle had directed the robot on to himself using a remote control?’ Angel said.

‘The gun was pointed in that general direction. Sounds ridiculous, sir, but yes. That’s about the size of it. On the floor by the body, with a dozen or more control buttons on it, was what looked like a rather crude remote control. Also, as I said, the security door was locked, and we were told there was no other way into the room. There was nobody else in there.’

Angel blinked. ‘So it looks like his death was, presumably, accidental … or suicidal?’

Donohue nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

Neither spoke for a moment, then Angel suddenly said, ‘Did you say that a light came on when you and Elder first arrived at the Razzle’s front door?’

‘Yes, sir. It also went on when the engineer left at about five-thirty. It was obviously a heat-sensitive light.’

‘Did you see any CCTV cameras anywhere?’

‘No, sir.’

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

Don Taylor answered. He was the sergeant in charge of SOCO at Bromersley CID. His team was already at work at the house.

‘Don,’ Angel said, ‘I want you to look round for any CCTV. We could be lucky and find one in the workshop. I want any tapes you find, asap.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘No sign of a suicide note, I suppose?’

‘Not up to now.’

‘Let me know if one turns up. And let me know as soon as I can get on to the scene.’

He replaced the phone and looked up at Donohue. ‘With everything he had going for him, it would be tragic if a man as young and talented as Charles Razzle had taken his own life.’

Donohue shrugged then nodded.

‘Thank you, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Now off you go and get some kip.’

Donohue went out. Angel watched the door close.

He was considering what next he might do to progress the case. Forensics must finish the sweep of the scene before he set foot in the place. He considered the situation for a few moments, then reached out for the phone and summoned PC Ahmed Ahaz, a young man in his twenties.

‘I want you to find out if there’s anything on the PNC, Ahmed, on Charles Razzle, and his wife, Rosemary. Also see if you can find out where an old lag called Peter Queegley is these days. I saw him at Pinsley Smith’s auction last Saturday. I thought he should still be serving a stretch for handling stolen paintings. I tried to get to him but he slipped away in the crowd. It was either him or his double.’

‘Peter Queegley, sir?’

‘Local lad. Used to live in Hoyland or Hoyland Common.’

‘Right, sir. As a matter of interest, there’s a piece in the
National Daily Press and Advertiser
about that auction. Have you seen it? It was on the front page.’

Angel’s eyes narrowed briefly. Bromersley almost never hit the front page of any newspaper. His face brightened. ‘Really? No, lad. Must see that.’

‘I’ll fetch it, sir.’

Ahmed dashed off.

The phone rang. Angel reached out for it. It was the civilian woman on the switchboard. ‘There’s a Mr Hargreaves, funeral director, on the line.’

Angel blinked. He had been the man who had organized his father’s funeral, that was the only contact he had ever had with the man. ‘Right. Put him through.’

‘Sorry to bother you, Inspector,’ Hargreaves said. ‘I have had a burglary … I didn’t know who I could speak to about it. I’ve never had to bother the police before.’

Angel frowned and said, ‘That’s all right. You can speak to me, Mr Hargreaves. What’s happened? What’s been taken?’

‘My workshop and garage have been broken into. I have had a look round. It looks as if thieves have taken three of my oak coffins, silk lined, varnished and complete with best plated carrying-handles and lids. Broken into a garage and then through an internal-door into the workshop.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Hargreaves. Three coffins? What can you do with coffins except bury people in them?’

‘Sell them, I suppose. They are quite expensive. Cost four hundred and eighty pounds apiece plus VAT, and I have no idea what a new garage door will set me back.’

‘I’ll send a man round straight away. Don’t touch anything. There might be some fingerprints.’

He replaced the phone. He wondered whether the coffins had been stolen by young drug-and-booze-soaked villains on a whoopee trip, or by others with a more serious intention.

Ahmed reappeared with a copy of the
National Daily Press and Advertiser.
‘Front page, sir. There,’ he said pointing to the corner of the folded newspaper, which he passed across the desk.

Angel took it and looked at the piece headed: ‘Future king’s mistress goes down for £1,000.’ Underneath was a two-inch double-column photograph of the gold-plated plaster statue of Dorothea Jordan. The article gave her history and her relationship with the Duke of Clarence in brief. The piece was saying essentially that the price paid for the figure should have been much higher considering Dorothea Jordan’s place in history, and suggested that the item should have been sold in a prestigious London auction house by a more responsible and competent auctioneer, and not ‘given away’ in a marquee sale in an insignificant northern town to a maiden bid. There was a comment from Pinsley Smith, who was quoted as saying, ‘I am fully aware of the obligation to my vendors, and considered that while one thousand pounds was a low price, I seriously had not expected the item to have fetched very much more whether sold in London or anywhere else.’

The piece ended with the words … ‘When asked the name of the purchaser, Pinsley Smith said, “That is a confidential matter. I never divulge information of that kind about my clients.”’

‘I’m afraid poor old Pinsley Smith doesn’t come out of it too well … and it doesn’t reflect well on the town, either.’

‘It’s mentioned in the other national papers, sir.’

Angel sniffed. ‘Aye, well, they must be short of something to write about then. I thought the silly season was August. Thanks very much, lad,’ he said. He handed the paper back to Ahmed. ‘Find Scrivens and send him to me, and didn’t I ask you to check on Charles and Rosemary Razzle?’

Ahmed’s mouth dropped open.

Angel parked the BMW on The Feathers’ car-park and pushed his way through the revolving doors. The hotel was Bromersley’s only three star hotel.

Angel made for the reception desk and caught the eye of the desk clerk, who tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows.

‘Mrs Razzle,’ Angel said. ‘What room number is she in, please?’

‘Mrs Razzle is in
suite
number 1, sir,’ said the clerk. He reached for the phone and tapped in a number. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’ he said, looking up.

But there was nobody there.

Angel had already passed through the double doors, and was making his way up the stairs to the first floor to suite number 1. When he reached the sitting room door, he knocked on it and waited. It suddenly opened.

He saw the most beautiful woman in a frothy pink house coat. Her long blonde hair fell irregularly over her shoulders. She was exactly as he remembered seeing her many times on television.

She looked Angel up and down, and smiled. ‘Were you knocking?’ she asked.

‘Mrs Razzle?’ Angel said. ‘Of course. I am so sorry to disturb you. Detective Inspector Angel.’ he said.

The smile dissolved. She hesitated, then pulled the door open wider and said, ‘Oh yes. Please come in.’

The sitting room was decorated in cream and gold, with two sofas, a sprinkling of easy chairs, a coffee table with a large dish holding a mountain of fruit. There were two full-length windows leading to small balconies overlooking the town and hills beyond.

She pointed to an easy chair. He sat down and watched her climb on to the large sofa opposite.

‘I didn’t much like being evicted out of my house so abruptly in the middle of the night, I must say,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry. Your house has become a crime scene. It is necessary.’

‘That sergeant wouldn’t even let me pick up any clothes or collect a toothbrush or anything.’

Angel knew it would have been so. He didn’t say anything.

‘I couldn’t even take my own car. I had to dash round the shops in a taxi and buy some bits to get me by. When will I be able to return?’

‘Very soon. A few days. In the meantime, I have a few questions I must put to you, if you are up to it?’

‘Of course. You
must
. Fire away.’

‘When did you last see your husband?’

‘Very early Sunday morning … it would be a few minutes to four … I brought him a cup of tea in bed before I left for the studio. A car picked me up at four o’clock on the dot to take me up to London to rehearse and then to record a play I am in. I had to be in make-up for eight o’clock.’

‘PC Donohue said you told him you arrived back at half past midnight on Tuesday morning, this morning.’

‘That’s right.’

‘It was a long day. A very long day.’

‘Doesn’t often happen like that, Inspector. Once a month, maybe. Better than staying in hotels. I can hire a car and driver, there and back. I can nod on the back seat, then arrive home and sleep in my own bed. Why wouldn’t I do that?’

Angel nodded. ‘Can someone vouch for you being in the studio all that time?’

‘There was an audience of three hundred and a crew and cast of about forty.’

‘I just need … a couple of names….’

She reached down to a small leather case on the floor by the sofa, quickly yanked out a plastic ring-binder that was bulging with the script of the play she had recorded. She opened it and snatched out the top page. ‘Take that. That’s got all the cast, the director and the crew with their phone numbers or their agents’ phone numbers. They were all there.’

Angel hardly glanced at it. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He folded the paper roughly and pushed it into his pocket.

‘And you dialled triple nine, five or ten minutes after you arrived home?’

‘About that. As soon as I realized that something was … seriously very wrong.’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘I am sorry that I have to ask you, but is there any reason at all why your late husband would have wanted to take his own life?’

She breathed in quickly and swallowed. ‘I can’t think of any. Certainly not.’

‘You see, there was a gun … it was in the robot’s hand.’

‘Yes. It was his plan to build a robot to do all the usual boring repetitive household chores in the house. He hoped to extend its use to factories and so on.’

‘It was in the robot’s hand pointing at him. Your husband was believed to be holding the remote control.’

‘Yes, I know. Horrible.’

‘Have you any idea what must have been in his mind?’

‘There’s no explanation I can come up with, Inspector, except that from time to time he got depressed. He said that he craved adventure, exploration and new places.’

Angel rubbed his cheek. He felt like that every day.

‘Did he have any money troubles?’

She laughed. Too much, perhaps. ‘Good lord, no.’

‘Did you know that he owned a handgun?’

‘I had seen it … a long time ago.’

‘Where did he get it from?’

‘He’s had it ever since I can remember. He thought it was a good idea … if we were attacked or … whatever. You hear some ghastly stories these days.’

‘Have you ever seen him fire it?’

‘I didn’t even know it was loaded.’

‘Where was it normally kept?’

‘In the drawer of the bedside table on his side.’

‘Who will benefit from your husband’s death?’

She stared hard at him. There was a pause, then she said, ‘I am the main beneficiary, but my husband made an enormous allowance to his daughter, Jessica, my stepdaughter. There’s nobody else. He also gave her a capital sum. She may be paid additional subsistence from his estate if she needs it.’

Angel’s eyebrows went as high as the scales of justice on the roof of the Old Bailey. He pursed his lips. He was wondering whether it was really necessary to ask the next question. At length, just for the hell of it, wearing the expression of a prize poker player he said, ‘And who will decide if she needs it?’

‘I will,’ she said.

‘Really?’ he said, unsurprised.

Rosemary Razzle did not react to his reply.

‘You’ve been in touch with Jessica?’ he asked.

She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure where she is. She’s on a sort of working holiday in the States. She doesn’t stay long anywhere. Last I heard she had a job doing something with horses … looking after a small stable for a family in Texas, I think it was.’

‘I’ll need her address.’

‘It’ll be among my husband’s papers. I know they were in touch by email quite recently.’

Angel nodded and made a note on the back of an envelope he carried for that very purpose.

‘Was there anybody else regularly in the house?’

‘Yes, we have a housekeeper, Mrs Dalgleish, Elaine Dalgleish. She comes in part time.’

‘I shall need to speak to her. Ask her to come down to the station and tell her to ask for me, will you?’