Find the Lady (15 page)

‘Just because it was obvious, doesn’t make it wrong.’

‘No, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘Of course not.’

Angel stood up and reached for his jacket. ‘Well, it’s a lovely sunny day. Do you fancy looking over a caravan? We could take afternoon tea out in the country.’

Gawber frowned. This wasn’t the Angel he knew.

Angel drove the BMW along Kingsway and down the narrow, twisted track called Goat Peg Lane. The lane was in need of resurfacing, so he had to approach slowly. They soon passed a neat and simple sign that read: ‘Webster’s Caravans.’

‘Been down here before, sir?’ Gawber said.

‘No. I hope we can turn round at the end. Don’t relish reversing back all this way.’

The lane twisted and turned and eventually opened out revealing a long, white-painted, breeze-block building with a big sign announcing that they had arrived at a three-star caravan site big enough for 120 caravans and that it was owned by a Mortimer Webster. Beyond it, they could see trees, which appeared on three sides and sheltered an area where there were forty pitched towing caravans. Spaces for more caravans led away, as far as the eye could see. There were a dozen or so motor-caravans grouped together at the back. Some of the towing caravans had small canvas tents erected around their doorways, while some had cars parked next to them and people enjoying the sun in deckchairs or sunbathing on the grass. All the vehicles were in neat rows, facing south. In spaces where there were no caravans, small weather-protected posts in the ground with sockets for electricity to be supplied to the vans could be seen standing in the manicured turf. In addition, there were several cars and caravans travelling slowly on the service roads between the pitches. They were clearly arriving, or leaving the site for other pastures.

Summer was in full swing in Bromersley.

A sign said, ‘All visitors please report to reception.’

The sound of an internal combustion engine driving a lawnmower spoiled the quiet of the summer’s day.

Angel didn’t drive through the entrance. He stopped the car behind the long building and switched off the engine. Gawber and Angel got out of the car, walked through the open gate, stepped up onto a veranda and through the low doorway into the reception office.

A young woman was sitting at a desk behind a high counter. She pushed back her chair and came up to greet them.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I help you?’

Angel gave her a smile. ‘We want to see Mr Webster, miss, if you please.’

The insistent drone of the lawnmower engine became louder as it came closer to the office.

‘Mr Webster is cutting the grass. But I think he’s coming in now.’

The engine died.

‘Yes, he is,’ she said. ‘Please wait here. He won’t be a moment.’

She returned to her desk.

Angel nodded and said, ‘Thank you, miss.’

Seconds later, a middle-aged man in khaki shorts, hat and T-shirt came in to the office. He was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He looked at the two policemen and said, ‘Are you waiting to see me?’

‘Mr Webster?’

‘Mortimer Webster at your service, gentlemen,’ he said loudly. ‘Sorry if you’ve had to wait. Got to keep the damned turf down. A bit of rain and a bit of sun and it grows like fury this time of the year, you know.’

Angel winced. He put up a hand and wagged his first finger at him to invite him to come closer; when he did, Angel leaned over the counter and whispered, ‘I’d like to talk to you on a matter of great confidentiality. Can we go somewhere quiet?’

Webster’s eyebrows shot up. He looked round like a nervous kitten. ‘Oh yes.’

Angel frowned. He put his first finger vertically across his lips, from his septum to his chin. Then he took out his wallet and showed it to Webster, who read it carefully, nodded then without a word pointed to a door. They went through the door into a small room that served as an office.

‘We are looking for a gang of crooks. At least two of them are on the run from prison, and one of them is wanted for murder.’

Webster looked shocked. ‘This is a respectable site, Inspector. I don’t accept any riff-raff.’

‘I am sure you don’t intend to, but a caravan site might prove to be a good hiding place for them. I’d like to take a look round the site and see if I can see them without them recognizing me first.’

‘Of course, you must. But how are you going to manage that, Inspector?’

Angel rubbed his chin. There was a problem.

Ten minutes later, having removed his tie and jacket, opened his shirt collar and turned up his suit trousers, Angel donned Webster’s big khaki hat and sunglasses, climbed onto the high seat of the lawnmower and began driving it up and down the grass pitches of the caravan site.

Gawber returned to the car and waited patiently, keeping the entrance under observation in case Glazer’s mob moved on or off the site.

Angel spent forty minutes on top of the mower, cutting the grass, traversing the site so that he could see every single vehicle without arousing suspicion. He worked his way up to the far end of the site where Webster had an area allocated for extra large caravans or RVs, Recreational Vehicles, as Americans called them.

And there they were. The Glazer gang – all five of them – next to a big American chromium-plated monster.

Angel’s pulse raced. He had to steady his shaking hands on the mower’s handlebar. He drove as close to them as he could. They hardly spared him a glance. Eddie, Tony and Kenny were seated on deckchairs at a round table with a big red umbrella over it. Eddie was reading a newspaper. Tony and Kenny were chatting. Oona Glazer was stretched out nearby on a towel on the grass sunbathing, while Kenny was sitting on the motor-caravan step, smoking a cigarette. Within arms length of each of them was a wine holder with a bottle of Bollinger nestled in it.

Angel turned the mower round and pointed it at Webster’s office. He had a chill in his heart and determination in his belly.

I
t was 4 p.m., Monday, 23 July. It was three hours since Angel had discovered the whereabouts of the Glazer gang and, in that time, not a minute had been wasted.

The sun continued to beat down and it was still very hot.

Through binoculars from the veranda of the site office, Angel observed that the Glazer gang was now pulling out chairs and hovering round the table outside their RV. They appeared to be gathering to eat a meal. That was the sign he had been waiting for. He was planning to drive an unmarked 4 x 4 car, towing a touring caravan along a service road slowly towards them, while, at the same time, another 4 x 4 and caravan, was to be driven by Crisp in his shirt sleeves and open-necked shirt, along a different but parallel service road in the same direction. The two cars and vans were to look like two unrelated family caravans moving to pitches to park and set up for the night.

The moment had arrived. Angel got in the cab of the 4 x 4 and started up the engine. He waved Crisp on and they moved off driving at 10 mph along parallel service roads towards the Glazer gang. It wasn’t far. The journey would take only thirty seconds or so.

Many caravanners were in deckchairs or on towels on the grass applying suncream in the still hot sun. Two young girls in swim suits played a simple ball game with rackets across an unoccupied caravan pitch. Angel was concerned for their safety: this was always the worry when trying to arrest an armed gang in a public place.

The slow, short journey was tense but uneventful. When they were about twenty feet away from Glazer’s RV, both 4 x 4’s stopped as planned. Eight police in riot gear piled out of each caravan at speed, their Heckler and Koch G36C assault rifles drawn and cocked. At the same time, from a loud speaker perched on the roof of Angel’s vehicle, his loud, distorted, commanding voice could be heard.

‘Eddie Glazer, this is the police,’ he said commandingly. ‘You are under arrest. So are your friends. Lie down on the grass, immediately.
All
of you.’

The Glazer gang looked up from their meal, stunned. They saw the sixteen rifles aimed at them, dropped their cutlery and, wide-eyed, looked across at each other.

People sunning themselves nearby heard and saw what was happening. Some of them bustled their children and their families inside their vans for safety. Some others stood up and gaped at the scene curious or astounded.

The police closed further in on the gang and screamed, ‘Get down. Get down. Get down. Hands on your head. Hands on your head.’

There was a sudden move from Glazer’s brother, Tony. From a kneeling position, he reached out to a pocket in his coat draped around the chair where he had been sitting.

‘Leave it,’ a policeman yelled and a warning shot was fired at the chair. A bullet ricocheted from the chair and made a loud metallic click.

Tony Glazer pulled back his hand. ‘All right,’ he screamed, holding up his hands from a kneeling position. ‘All right. I give up. I give up.’

Everybody on the caravan site heard the rifle shot. More sun-worshippers dived into their caravans or cars for shelter.

‘Get down,’ a policeman yelled at the Glazers.

‘Get down. Get down,’ the call was repeated interminably by the police.

The five members of the gang lay close together prostrate on the grass. The police closed in still directing their rifles at them. Two of the policemen dragged the chairs, with coats hanging on them, wine stand, boxes of wine, Oona’s handbag and the loaded table hastily towards the caravan and away from their prisoners.

On cue, a big black police van rocked quickly along the grass through the caravan site towards them.

Angel arrived at his office the following morning at 8.28 a.m. He was as bright as the Chief Constable’s MBE, and ready to supply the necessary evidence to the prosecuting barrister of the Crown Prosecution Service. This man, a Mr Twelvetrees, would use Angel’s information to obtain a remand order at the magistrates’ court next door later on that morning for each of the five members of the Glazer gang.

There was a knock at the door. It was Gawber.

‘I’ve checked the shoe size of each of the men, sir. The only size 10 is Eddie Glazer.’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘No possibility of an error, Ron?’

Gawber shook his head. ‘The others are 11s and 12s, sir.’

Angel nodded thoughtfully. ‘That confirms it then,’ he said firmly. ‘Eddie Glazer’s barrister will have to work damned hard to get him out of
that
.’ Then he added grimly, ‘Glazer will die in prison.’

‘I’ll push off and check they’ll be ready for court,’ Gawber said.

He went out as Dr Mac had arrived at the door.

‘Can I come in?’

Angel smiled.

‘Ah Mac, you’re always welcome here. Come on in.’

The Scotsman closed the door. Angel pointed to the chair by his desk. ‘Sit down. It’s very early for you, isn’t it, Mac? Worried some tealeaf might have nicked your porridge?’

‘None of your lip, laddie,’ Mac said maintaining a dour face.

Angel grinned.

Mac leaned across the desk and said: ‘I suppose you’d like to hear the result of the DNA comparison between the loose hair found on the body of Alicia Prophet, which SOCO confirmed belonged to Charles Prophet, and the flesh content in the saliva of Carl Gaston’s mouth, taken from that handkerchief of yours, wouldn’t you?’

Angel paid Dr Mac very serious attention. ‘It certainly has a bearing on a case I’m working on, Mac,’ he said expectantly.

‘Well, I can tell you quite positively, that there are enough similarities to prove that Charles Prophet
was
indeed the biological father of Carl Gaston.’

Angel raised his head.

‘Thank you very much indeed, Mac,’ he said, nodding slowly.

That was the very last piece in the puzzle and Angel felt a warm, comfortable feeling in his chest. An excited shiver ran up and down his arms and hands. He now knew exactly where to find the mysterious Lady Cora Blessington. He considered the position a moment; there was still a lot to do before he could make the arrest.

After exchanging the usual courtesies, Dr Mac left.

Angel rushed down to the CPS office and discussed and determined with Mr Twelvetrees, prosecuting barrister, the charges to be made against the Glazers. They were duly typed up and presented to their solicitors before attending the court. Later that morning, he had the satisfaction of seeing the five of them whisked away on remand in a Group 4 van.

The rest of the morning and afternoon, he spent a thoughtful and busy few hours making his plans. He briefed Gawber and then went home for a shower and an early tea.

At 5.25 p.m., Angel left home and drove the BMW to the end of Victoria Crescent, a side street in Bromersley. He parked it in such a position that he could see down Victoria Road; the road comprised Georgian stone-built houses which had been converted over the past century or so to offices mostly occupied by solicitors, accountants, estate agents and building societies. He particularly wanted to clock all the comings and goings from the offices and small private car park of Prophet and Sellman. He looked at his watch. It was 5.32 p.m. He did not expect that he would have to wait long.

At 5.35 p.m. Charles Prophet strode confidently out of the big blue door, crossed the car park to his car and drove away in the direction of The Feathers Hotel on Market Street. Seconds later the elegant figure of Karen Kennedy appeared on the front step. She looked round, turned back, put a key in the door lock, turned it, withdrew it, stuffed it into her swish Gucci handbag and strode swiftly the few paces across the car park to her white Mercedes. Seconds later, she drove away from Angel with a roar of the engine and turned in the opposite direction towards Jubilee Park on the other side of town, where she lived in a new block of flats on the main Doncaster Road.

Angel started up his BMW and followed her. She lived less than two miles from the office and she had, on good days, been known to walk the short distance. Today she was driving her white Mercedes competently through the side streets of Bromersley, skirting the busy shopping areas and eventually turning onto Doncaster Road. Angel kept a discreet distance behind her until she reached her block of flats. She pulled up on the main road, switched off the ignition, got out of the car and made her way towards the main door of the flats.

Angel followed her and was slowing his car, when, at the last moment, he touched the accelerator and the BMW jerked forward which caused his front bumper to hit the rear of the beautiful Mercedes making an unpleasant, expensive crashing noise.

Karen Kennedy heard it. She looked back angrily, took in the situation and stormed back down the path towards him.

Angel frowned and bit his bottom lip. He reversed the BMW back a few feet from the Mercedes, stopped the car and got out.

Karen Kennedy stood on the pavement edge, hands on hips and surveyed the damage. Then she stared at Angel and said: ‘Oh, it’s you. I might have known it. A stupid policeman! Haven’t you any brakes on that car?’ All the charm so well controlled at the office of Prophet and Sellman had completely disappeared.

Angel said: ‘I am very sorry, but you did stop rather abruptly and without any signal.’

Karen Kennedy’s face went scarlet. ‘There was no need for a signal,’ she stormed. ‘My brake lights would tell you I was stopping. Anyway, I had locked the car and was ten feet away, when you crashed into it!’

‘I didn’t know you were going to stop and park here on a main road,’ he said calmly. ‘And I don’t think your brake lights were working.’

‘They were working perfectly well yesterday when the car was returned after a service.’

‘And look how far you are from the kerb. A traffic policeman would book you for being more than ten inches from the kerb. It’s not safe for other traffic.’

She looked down at the distance the wheel of the Mercedes was away from the kerb. ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘Must be only five or six inches, that’s all.’

Angel looked shocked. He shook his head. ‘Be reasonable. It’s at least eighteen inches, Miss Kennedy … far too far … if this matter was taken to court, you’d have a job to prove the actual distance.’

She looked up at the sky and fumed: ‘Huh! Give me strength. Wait there, Inspector Angel,’ she said determinedly. ‘Wait there. I won’t be two minutes.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Angel said evenly. ‘I’m not leaving here until I have details of your insurance company.’

She stormed off through the main door into the flats. When she was out of sight, Angel turned away from the door, dived into his pocket and pulled out his mobile.

He tapped in a number. The phone was promptly answered.

‘In position, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘We can be there in a minute.’

‘Right,’ Angel said. ‘When I send you a text, come in fast.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Out.’

Angel cancelled the call and set up his phone to send the letters ‘OK’ to Gawber by text and held it in his pocket ready.

A moment or two later, Karen Kennedy appeared through the door. She had discarded her handbag and was bearing down on Angel with a small camera. Her face was grimly set, determined to win the argument.

Angel pressed the button on the phone in his pocket and sent the text.

Karen Kennedy stormed up to him waving the camera.

‘This will settle all argument, once and for all, Inspector. Don’t think that because you’re a policeman that you’re above the law.’

‘I don’t,’ he replied. ‘I just don’t think that you have any idea about driving a car.’

Her beautiful eyes glared at him. ‘I have passed the advanced driving test and I have the certificate to prove it,’ she said confidently. ‘Please move out of the way. Let me take a photograph of this. My car is very properly parked and no more than six inches from the kerb. Eighteen inches indeed, huh!’

Angel stood back to allow her access with the camera.

She photographed the two cars from various angles and was busy lining up a shot of the damage to her car resulting from the crash when a Panda car pulled up quietly behind Angel’s. Gawber, SOCO’s Taylor and WPC Leisha Baverstock got out and came up to Angel.

Karen Kennedy was intent on taking the photographs and didn’t seem to notice them at first, then she suddenly spotted the uniform on the WPC.

‘What’s this?’ she said, her eyes darting from one to the other and then back to Angel. ‘Called for reinforcements, have you?’ She waved the camera at him. ‘It won’t do you any good, Inspector. The camera doesn’t lie.’

DS Taylor looked at Angel who nodded for him to proceed.

The policeman took out his warrant card, showed it to her and said, ‘I am Detective Sergeant Taylor. Is that your camera, Miss?’

‘Of course it is,’ she snapped.

‘Do you own any other?’

‘No. Why?’

He held out his hand. ‘Will you give it to me, please?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Certainly not. This is evidence. Your inspector is not going to get away with
this
.’

‘I am a forensic officer and I need to examine it, in connection with the murder of Alicia Prophet.’

Her jaw dropped. ‘Alicia Prophet?’

The colour drained from her face. She stared at him, then at Angel. She swallowed and said, ‘But I have nothing to do with that. It has nothing to do with me.’

Taylor stood there with his hand held out.

‘May I have the camera please?’

Karen Kennedy handed him the camera.

WPC Baverstock stepped forward and got hold of her by her elbow. ‘Come along with me, miss.’

Angel returned to the station in his car with Gawber, WPC Baverstock and Karen Kennedy, while Taylor rushed off with the camera in the Panda car.

At the station, Angel told Karen Kennedy that he would be inviting her to make a statement under caution, and suggested that she contacted her solicitor. He then left her in an interview room in the competent hands of WPC Baverstock and made his way up the green corridor with Gawber to his own office.

Gawber closed the door and they both sat down.