Find the Lady (2 page)

Spencer swallowed.

‘Look, friend, I’ve got a wallet in my inside pocket. It’s got more than a hundred pounds in it. Take it, why don’t you?’

The man with the gun blinked.

Spencer stuck his chest forward and slightly inclined his body towards him.

The man hesitated. He licked his lips and said: ‘Keep still then. No tricks.’ He reached out. His hot, sticky fingers touched Spencer’s coat lapel, dipped swiftly into the inside pocket and professionally, between first and second fingers, lifted out the fat leather wallet.

It was quick and smooth. Spencer didn’t feel a thing.

The gunman tried to open the wallet.

Spencer took a step towards him.

He saw him. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said nervously and backed away. He tugged harder at the wallet. It was reluctant to open. He tugged at it harder. Then suddenly, he managed it. That quick positive action triggered the cunningly set up ignition of a strip of magnesium, by dragging an ordinary match quickly past two pieces of sandpaper held tight with an elastic band. The result was a blinding white light lasting for about a second.

The dazzle was long enough.

The gunman yelled and instinctively dropped the wallet.

Spencer reached out for the man’s wrist, gave it a sharp twist and then held onto it. The gunman was on the floor and the gun rattled across the pavement into the gutter. Spencer kicked him under the chin, let go of his arm and picked up the gun. Then he reached down over the stunned man and recovered the wallet. The gunman groaned and rubbed his jaw.

‘You shouldn’t be pulling guns on strangers,’ Spencer said with a grin. ‘You could get yourself killed. Stand up,’ he added waving the gun in his direction.

The man got to his feet still rubbing his jaw.

‘That
hurt
, copper,’ he groaned. ‘You know, I could
do
you for assault.’

‘And if I was a policeman, I could arrest you for assault with a deadly weapon.’

‘Don’t get too cocky, old chum. That ain’t a pukkha gun you’re waving about there, and it ain’t loaded. And if you ain’t a copper, what do you want mooching round hereabouts?’

‘I ain’t – I’m not a policeman.’

He took a step back from the man and fumbled for the safety catch. It couldn’t be moved. It wasn’t movable. He depressed a catch and the cartridge holder came free; it weighed very little. It was made of plastic. He snorted and threw the replica at him.

‘Catch.’

He caught it and put it in his pocket.

‘And if I couldn’t get you for assault with a deadly weapon,’ Spencer continued, ‘I’d look at your record and find something else I could book you for.’

‘If you’re not a copper, you couldn’t get to see my record.’

‘Maybe I could bribe a policeman to let me have a copy of it.’

The young man stopped and looked at Spencer thoughtfully.

‘If you’re not a copper, you must be a private investigator.’

‘No.’

Mystified, he said: ‘Here. What do you really want, then?’

‘Somebody who wants to earn a few hundred quid. Easy like.’

‘A few hundred?’

Spencer shrugged.

‘Maybe a few thousand.’

‘I might be interested.’

‘I need a special kind of man. A man who maybe wouldn’t mind bending the rules a bit.’

He grinned.

‘Might be able to do that.’

‘Somebody reliable. Somebody bold. Somebody who could pretend to be somebody he isn’t.’

‘What’s the catch, brudder?’

‘There’s no catch. You just have to do exactly what I tell you.’

T
he taxi pulled up at a leafy, detached house on the expensive side of the town. The sun was shining. The sky was blue and cloudless and yet the birds weren’t singing; in fact, there was an eerie quiet, as if time was suspended.

A chubby woman in a sundress, relaxing on a canvas chair, could be observed in her garden through the cupressus, applying cream to her arms and shoulders.

‘Number twenty-two, ma’am,’ the taxi driver said to his fare in the back. ‘That’s what you said, isn’t it, ma’am?’ he said.

A figure in light blue, with a big straw hat affording shelter from the sun, and wearing Ashanti mirrored sunglasses answered him.

‘Twenty-two, the Beeches. Exactly so, my man. Is the fare the same as before?’ the high-pitched delicate voice enquired.

The taxi driver had no idea what the customer might have paid before. ‘It’s six pounds, missis,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s allus six pounds from Wells Street Baths to Creesforth Road. You gotta cross town and it allus takes a lot of time, you know.’

There was a click from the fastening of a handbag.

‘Oh yes. I understand. That’s quite all right.’

The big long hand in the white glove shot over his shoulder waving a ten pound note.

‘Keep the change, my man.’

The driver’s face brightened.

‘Oh thank you, ma’am,’ he said, swiftly thrusting the note into his trouser pocket with a big smile. ‘Now, do you want a hand with your bag?’

The nearside door of the taxi opened and out came a long nylon-covered leg. ‘No thank you. Now, what’s your name?’

‘Bert Amersham, ma’am.’

‘Well now, Mr Amersham—’

‘Call me Bert, ma’am. I answers well enough to Bert.’

‘Well, Bert. I am Lady Cora Blessington. The time is exactly two o’clock. Now, you will collect me at three o’clock exactly, won’t you?’

The taxi driver looked with more interest at the fare since he had received the handsome tip. She was not a handsome woman. Rather gawky, he thought, and the fluffy old-fashioned blue dress would have been more suited to a much younger woman.

‘I’ll be here on the button, ma’am. You can depend on it.’

A man in a suit, white shirt and tie came through the front gate of the house next door. He saw the figure in powder blue pushing open the gate of Number 22. He looked the summery apparition up and down, smiled self-consciously and said, ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Good afternoon,’ the figure in blue replied with a coy smile and made a way up the path.

The sunbather from next door waved across the fence.

‘Beautiful weather, Lady Cora,’ she called. ‘Wonderful afternoon.’

‘Fabulous,’ came the reply in the high-pitched delicate voice, and with a royal wave added, ‘We must enjoy it while we can.’

It was sound advice.

Someone was about to be murdered.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ Angel called.

A young probationer policeman, Ahmed Ahaz entered. He pulled open the door, held the knob and, like a flunky at a palace, made the announcement. ‘Miss Smith, sir.’

A pretty young woman came in. Angel smiled, quickly stood up and pointed at the chair next to his desk.

‘Please sit down, Miss Smith.’

He nodded at PC Ahaz who went out and closed the door.

The young woman looked round the little dowdy green-painted office, and quickly took stock: a cleared desk top with a pile of post in the centre of it; a swivel chair; a filing cabinet; stationery cupboard; a small table; a telephone and two ordinary wooden chairs. By the look on her face, she had perhaps expected more impressive surroundings for the celebrated police inspector.

She sat down, put her small handbag on her knees and gave a little cough.

Angel looked up from the desk and straight into her eyes.

‘Now then, you wanted to see me, Miss Smith?’

‘Yes. I asked to see you, Inspector Angel. I had read so much about you in the newspapers, I felt as if … as if, I knew you … ever so slightly. I mean I don’t know
any
policemen at all really. Never had reason even to call in at a police station. So I thought I would ask to see you by name. I hope that’s all right. You see, I am very worried.’

‘Of course. Of course. You want to report a crime?’

Her face straightened.

‘Yes. Indeed I do,’ she said positively.

He nodded.

‘It’s like this,’ she began then stopped.

Angel peered at her and said: ‘Please continue. In your own time.’

‘It’s rather tedious, I am afraid. I don’t know quite where to start.’

‘Start wherever you want to.’

‘I’ll try to tell you in sequence, Inspector.’

He nodded encouragingly.

‘Well, my father was the proprietor of Smith’s Glassworks. He was a widower, and when he died ten years ago, he left the business to my brother John and me. I was not the slightest bit interested in it. The business made fancy shaped bottles. Short batch runs for perfume companies and customers of that sort. I left the day-to-day running of the business entirely to my brother. I had a little capital of my own and I run a riding stables up in Tunistone. That keeps me busy enough. I received dividends on a quarterly basis from the business and that’s all I cared about glass bottles. Now, just about two years ago, my brother rang me up and said he had had an offer for the company from an American conglomerate and he asked me my feelings about selling up. I said I didn’t care much one way or the other. He told me how much was involved. It sounded most attractive so we agreed to sell to them. A few weeks later, the deal was completed and, after paying off all the creditors, the bank loan and the capital gains tax, we expected to net almost two million pounds. I would have received half of that. John said that he would put the cheque from the American company safely on deposit as the following day he was taking his wife and my two nieces on holiday to the island of Phuket for Christmas to celebrate the deal. I saw them off at the station, and, tragically, that was the last I saw of them.’

Angel pursed his lips as he began to anticipate what was coming next.

‘You will recall the tsunami on that horrific Boxing Day, 2004.’

He certainly did. Who could forget the pictures? He nodded sympathetically.

‘Eventually, the Home Office notified me officially that they had all been killed.’

‘Dreadful,’ Angel said. ‘Losing an entire family like that.’

She nodded and wiped away a tear.

‘And what can I do to help?’ He said gently.

‘Well,’ she sighed. ‘The money has apparently disappeared.’

Angel blinked, then frowned.

‘Where did your brother bank the cheque?’

‘There’s the rub,’ she said. ‘He didn’t tell me and I didn’t think to ask. He said it was banked at a good interest and that he would settle the tax with the revenue and then make the final distribution on his return. That was all right by me, at the time. I was in no hurry. However, time has gone on. John didn’t return. Naturally, I thought a statement from the bank or building society or wherever it had been invested would have been sent out by now … obviously to his last known address. As his next of kin, I have dealt with his affairs, cleared his house and indeed, sold it. But no sign of the investment has shown up, either among his papers or by post. Now the Inland Revenue are chasing me for the tax on the sale, which is a mighty sum.’

Angel screwed up his face in sympathy and eyed her carefully.

‘Your brother definitely received the cheque?’

‘Definitely. He phoned me. He couldn’t contain himself; he
had
to boast. It was a certified cheque, he said, for two million pounds.’

‘But you have no idea what he did with it?’

‘That’s the problem.’

‘He didn’t deposit it where his personal account is?’

‘No. We discussed that. The interest rate for a large sum on short term deposit wasn’t competitive. But I have no idea where he placed it.’

‘Hmm. You could start with the Americans.’

‘They can only confirm it was cashed through the currency exchange in a lump sum and then paid out in sterling with thousands of other payments, which means it’s impossible to trace.’

Angel sighed. He rubbed his chin. The cogs began to go round. His first thought was to say that it was a civil case, but, then, as he thought about it, he realized a crime had definitely been committed. Every investment house worth its salt would want to find the depositor if a deposit had been left in its hands for a much longer time than had been originally arranged. Somebody must know something about it. This was a case for the fraud squad, but he knew they were up to their eyes in a particularly big foreign bank case that was also monopolizing the media’s interest.

It wasn’t feasible to attempt to search every single deposit account in every bank, building society, insurance company and investment house in every currency in the UK over the past two years. He would need warrants and security passes and it would take forever. There must be something he could do. He needed time. Time to think about it and decide what to do.

‘Well, I’ll need the date your brother received the cheque.’

‘That’s easy. It was a memorable day. It was the 17th December 2004.’

‘And I need your name and address and telephone number and your brother’s last address in Bromersley.’

‘Certainly. I’ll write them down, shall I?’

The phone rang. He reached out for it.

‘Angel?

It was the superintendent.

‘Come up here, smartish,’ he said abruptly, and replaced the receiver.

It sounded urgent. Angel wrinkled his nose. He left the report he was reading and went out of the office. He strode up the green corridor to the door marked ‘Detective Superintendent Horace Harker’, knocked, pressed down the handle and pushed it open.

‘Come in,’ Harker yelled.

‘You wanted me, sir?’

There was a smell of TCP wafting round the room. Angel was used to it. Harker must have a cold again. His nose must have been running like a bath tap, as it was red around the nostrils and his mouth was turned down like the drawing of a villain in a children’s cartoon strip. He reached out to the wire tray at the front of his desk, took out a small slip of paper and looked down at it.

‘Aye. A treble nine. Just come in. A dead body found by a neighbour up at The Beeches, 22 Creesforth Road. Hmmm. Must be somebody with a bit of brass. Woman by the name of Prophet, Alicia Prophet. Thought to be murder.’

Angel’s pulse rate increased by ten beats a minute. A murder case always brought him to life. The news made his heart pump that bit harder. Something also happened inside his head: it was like a jumbo jet on the tarmac, revving its engine before take off. He thought that solving murders was what God had put him on this earth to do. And it may have been so; he had no hobbies and no other interests apart from his wife and their garden.

He knew of a solicitor’s practice in Bromersley called, simply, ‘Prophet and Sellman’. It was an unusual name; the victim had probably had something to do with that.

‘Have you advised SOCO, sir?’

‘Yes, and Doctor Mac.’

‘And who reported it?’

‘Next-door neighbour. A Mrs Duplessis.’

‘Right, sir,’ he said and made for the door. He charged up the corridor and barged into the CID room.

PC Ahaz was working at a computer at his desk near the door.

‘Ah, there you are, Ahmed.’

The young man stopped staring at the screen and jumped to his feet.

‘I want you to find Ron Gawber and Trevor Crisp.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Tell them to meet me A.S.A.P. at 22 Creesforth Road? I’m going there now.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘There’s a report that a woman’s been murdered.’

Ahmed’s jaw dropped an inch. He’d been on the force for four years now; he was still a probationer and was expecting to be a fully-fledged constable by Christmas next. Although he had been on DI Angel’s team from his very first day at Bromersley nick, and had been involved in more than thirty cases of death from various causes, the news of a murder still had a disturbing effect on him.

Angel pulled up his BMW behind the white SOCO van on Creesford Road under the shade of a horse chestnut tree. It was a beautiful summer’s day but he noticed that nobody seemed to be outside, taking advantage of the hot sun … not in their front gardens anyway. This struck Angel as unusual, if not meaningful. He opened the gate of The Beeches and made his way up the path.

The front door opened and a man in a white paper suit, hood, wellingtons and so on came out; he was carrying a large polythene bag. He saw Angel and pulled down the face mask.

It was DS Donald Taylor, in charge of SOCO on the Bromersley force.

‘What’ve you got, Don?’ Angel asked.

Taylor shook his head sadly.

‘Murder, sir, almost certain. Woman. In her forties. Name of Alicia Prophet. Solicitor’s wife. Wound in her head. I think it happened less than an hour ago. No disturbance. No apparent break in. Dr Mac’s working on her now.’

‘Right. Does she live here on her own?’

‘No. Husband’s a solicitor. Practice in town. Prophet and Sellman.’

‘Has he been told?’

‘Not by us, sir.’

Angel pulled a face. He reckoned he’d be the one having to do the telling.

‘Was the door unlocked?’

‘It was wide open, sir,’ he said nodding at the big house next door. ‘The lady next door was hovering around when we arrived. She says she knows who’s done it. She was a witness. A Lady Blessington.’