Find the Lady (9 page)

‘I don’t like it,’ she said, stabbing an arm into a sleeve. ‘Carl won’t settle. He’s never been away from here.’

Angel smiled at her. ‘You’ll be all right, just for a night.’

She wasn’t happy.

‘I don’t want to go. Carl won’t settle.’

‘Just one night,’ he said gently. ‘It’s for his and your safety.’

She nodded.

Angel glanced at an open door. ‘Can I have a look around while I’m here?’

‘Of course.’

He opened the door behind him. It was the kitchen. There were a few pots in a bowl in the sink, otherwise unremarkable. He came back into the room and looked at the next door. It was ajar.

‘That’s my bedroom,’ she called out unnecessarily.

He didn’t look back. He stepped forward a pace and pushed at the door. The hinges squeaked as it slowly swung open to reveal an unmade bed, a baby’s cot with a mobile hanging over it and clothes strewn everywhere, both on the furniture, on the bed and on the floor. Then there was something that made Angel suck in a short intake of breath and which set his pulse racing. On the wall above the head of the bed was a picture. It was the painting of a young woman in a long blue frilly dress. She had blonde hair and a straw hat.

Margaret Gaston came forward. She saw that something had startled him.

‘I haven’t had chance to tidy round yet.’

He took a couple of steps up to the picture, pointed to it and said, ‘Who is that?’

She looked up at it as if she’d never thought about it. ‘I dunno. It was there when I took the flat. It’s nobody. It’s only a print.’ She looked round the room at the explosion of clothes. ‘I can tidy up. It won’t take me long.’

Angel ran his hand through his hair.

‘Do you mean it’s always been there?’

‘Since I’ve been here, it has. Do you want it, Michael? It’s of no value, you know. It belongs by rights to Mother Reid, I suppose. If you want it, take it up with her.’

He sighed. He unhooked it off the tiny nail in the wall. It left a white mark on the dusty distempered wall. It weighed very little and was only about 20” by 30” on stout cardboard, framed by a thin wooden dowelling. He turned it over. There was a gold-coloured sticker on the back with black printing on it. ‘
1930s Lady of Leisure
. From the library of Joshua Pickering Galleries, 120-132 Argument Street, Farringdon, London. Stock No. 2239429.’

‘What?’ Angel bawled. He was surprised. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Scrivens stood by the office door looking like a man who had won the lottery but lost the ticket.

‘I said there’s no such thing as 212 Huddersfield Road, sir. The numbers finish at 210. What’s the point of that?’

Angel’s lips tightened against his teeth. ‘The point of
that
, Scrivens, is to validate Simon Spencer’s existence dishonestly to the welfare state for free doctoring, free hospitals, subsidised dentistry and whatever other handouts he can get, without the exchequer and the judiciary being able to get back at him for taxes, fines and in this particular instance, fraud. And fraud
big time
.’

Scrivens raised his head.

‘We have ourselves a very ambitious crook,’ Angel said. ‘And, I think, a murderer.’

‘He may have murdered his partner in crime, Harry Harrison, sir?’

‘It’s getting to look that way. So hop off down to the Northern Bank. See the manager, Mr Thurrocks. Get the best possible description of Simon Spencer, you can. And get a photograph of him. Get a hundred prints of it with his description on it run off in time for this meeting at four o’clock, all right?’

Scrivens looked up as if a Roman candle had been fired up his trouser leg.

‘Four o’clock, sir!’ he cried, looking up at the wall clock. ‘That only gives me an hour and a half.’

‘Well, later than four would mean that the meeting would be pointless, wouldn’t it? Come on, lad. Chop. Chop.’

The door closed.

Angel rubbed his chin. It wasn’t looking good for Simon Spencer. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out an envelope. There were some notes on the back of it. He ran down a list. He seemed satisfied that he had checked off all the points he needed to cover in preparation of the four o’clock briefing. He pulled out another envelope and began to check down that one. He found something. It was a telephone number. He picked up the phone and tapped it in.

‘A1 Taxis,’ a pert woman’s voice replied.

‘I want to speak to Maisie.’

There was a second’s hesitation, then she drawled, ‘Where do you wanna go?’ She probably thought she was talking to a stranger who had discovered her name and was emboldened to speak familiarly to her after becoming shored up by the partaking of a few pints of some alcoholic beverage.

Angel squared up to phone. ‘This is Detective Inspector Angel of Bromersley Police. I want to speak to the dispatcher who was on duty on Monday. One of your driver’s, Albert Amersham, said it was a lady called Maisie. Is that you?’

The woman’s voice changed. She suddenly became vital. ‘Oh. Yes. Yes, sir. I’m Maisie Evans. I was on duty on Monday from ten until six. Yes. What can I do for you, sir?’

‘This is a police inquiry, young lady. Someone booked a taxi from Wells Street Baths to The Beeches, 22 Creesforth Road. Your driver picked up the fare from the baths just before two o’clock. What can you tell me about the booking? Presumably it was phoned in. Who phoned it in and where did they phone from?’

‘It should be in the book. Please hold on, I’ll look it up.’

She wasn’t long. ‘It was me, sir, and I remember it now, because the caller said she was Lady Blessington or some such. She spelled the ruddy name out for me. We don’t get many “Ladies” ringing in for taxis here, I can tell you. She was very snooty. She rang in herself. One of those strained, clever dick voices straight from
Panorama
. At first, I thought it was somebody fooling around. I logged it at 1.40 p.m. I radioed it straight through to number eight, that was Bert Amersham. We had a bit of a laugh about the ladyship bit. I’ve no idea where she phoned in from. We don’t keep no records of that.’

‘Thank you, Maisie,’ he said and replaced the phone.

It wasn’t much help, but it did at least confirm the fact that a taxi had been summoned to Wells Street Baths at that particular time, and by the mysterious Lady Blessington. Angel liked to build his cases on facts.

There was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed. He was carrying a sheet of paper.

‘What is it, lad?’ Angel grumbled. ‘Don’t you think I’ve got enough on my plate?

‘Only take a second, sir. You wanted me to make a thorough search of the NPC. See if there were any female villains on the loose. Done that. There’s only one, who has been released recently, and who has been known to carry a handgun. She’s Lily Frodsham, 37, blonde. I’ve made inquiries and she’s in a hospital in Manchester.’

Angel sighed.

‘Thanks, Ahmed. It’s not her. I know of her. That’s light-fingered Lil. Confidence trickster par excellence. Marries anything with money. Fills her bank account, her handbag, her boots and her pockets and then disappears. She’s in hospital because one of her husbands had caught up with her and tried to murder her with a swimming pool rake.’

Lines of bewilderment appeared on Ahmed’s forehead. He dared not ask Angel for more details.

Gawber’s face appeared beyond Ahmed’s.

‘You wanted me, sir?’ He asked.

Angel put up a finger. ‘Yes. Come in, Ron.’

Ahmed quietly closed the door.

Angel had been eagerly waiting to see him. He reached down the side of his desk and pulled up the print of the
1930s Lady of Leisure
and rested it on the desk. He explained where he had found it and said: ‘This print appears to be a near representation of the mysterious Lady Blessington.’

Both Ahmed and Gawber stared at it open-mouthed.

‘How is it possible that Margaret Gaston has been living with the picture for nearly two years and yet knows nothing about the woman in real life?’ Angel said.

‘But it’s not a recent painting of the woman?’ Gawber said. ‘It can’t be.’

‘It isn’t. It’s just a close representation of her. The dress, the hat and the hairdo are the same as in the photo. You can’t see her feet. I guess the model would have worn elegant sandals, fashion of the day. The lack of lines on the face suggests she’s young … under twenty-five, whereas we are told by all the witnesses of Lady B that she is forty to sixty.’

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Gawber said.

‘Nor do I,’ Ahmed added.

‘Join the club,’ Angel said. ‘What’s a picture of Lady blooming Blessington doing in Margaret Gaston’s bedroom?’

Gawber and Ahmed looked puzzled.

‘It’s a coincidence, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘It’s got to be.’

Ahmed nodded agreement.

Angel pursed his lips and shook his head.

Gawber remembered: Angel didn’t believe in coincidences.

T
here were about twenty uniformed and plainclothes women and men in the briefing room, chattering away to each other and sipping drinks out of paper cups. Each was in possession of an A4 computer-printed photo and description of Simon Spencer which Scrivens had handed to them on their arrival.

Angel arrived on the dot of 1600 hours carrying the print of the
1930s Lady of Leisure
. Ahmed followed him in and closed the door. Gawber came up to him, they exchanged a few words and then Angel stepped up onto the dais.

All talking stopped and everybody looked attentively at him.

‘Two things I want to talk about briefly. Firstly, in connection with the Alicia Prophet murder.’

He held up the framed print. ‘I am looking for a woman who looks something like this. We have witnesses who say that such a woman murdered the blind Mrs Prophet on Monday afternoon. Now I have been in touch with the publishers of this print. They sold many thousands of them when this sort of thing was popular in the sixties. They stopped selling this particular one in 1966. They don’t know who the original artist was, and the model is almost certainly dead by now having enjoyed a perfectly normal, boring life. The landlady at the flat where it was found said that it must have been left by a tenant many years ago. She can’t recall how long since. Nevertheless, I am given to understand that this is a fair representation of what the wanted woman actually looks like. The real life woman, I am told is older … between 40 and 60 years, and calls herself Lady Blessington, but our enquiries indicate that that name is false. But she is a murderer and confidence trickster of a very high calibre; therefore, be on the look out for her, she may strike again. Obviously, if you see anybody who looks like this let me know.’

He stopped, looked up the room and said: ‘Any questions on that?’

A voice at the front said: ‘If that’s a picture of what the murderer looks like now sir, how is it that … it was painted all that time ago?’

Angel licked his bottom lip. ‘I don’t know, John. I don’t know,’ he said quickly. ‘Just go along with me on this for the time being, will you?’

He observed a few murmurs of confusion and incredulity from several officers. ‘I can’t explain it,’ he added. ‘I only came across the thing today. I hope to clarify the matter in due course.’

He handed the print to Ahmed and indicated that he should stick it on the wall behind him.

A voice called out from the back. ‘I thought the murderer was thought to be Reynard, sir. Orange peel being found around the body and that…. Is there any mileage in that theory at all?’

‘At the moment, nothing is set in stone. Please keep your mind on finding Lady Blessington or whatever her real name is.’

There were a few more murmurs.

‘Can we move on?’ he said. ‘Now apropos the murder yesterday of Harry Harrison, aka Harry Henderson, inquiries have led us to believe that his murderer was possibly his partner in crime Simon Spencer, until recently an apparently respectable teller at the Northern Bank. The two of them worked a brazen fraud against the Smith family some of whom tragically perished in the tsunami in 2004. The two men connived to extract two million pounds in small sums from the Smith’s bank account. Spencer was, of course, the inside man … fiddling with the post and matters of security within the bank, while Harrison was forging away, purporting to be Simon Smith and calling in the bank only when the manager was away, or at lunch, or as directed by Spencer. Having drained the Smith’s account, it looks as if Harrison then beetled off and hid the money in an attempt to trick Spencer out of his share. There is no evidence to show that Spencer had ever been to Harrison’s flat, so we are inclined to believe that he didn’t know his last address. This supposition is supported by the fact that he was murdered outside in a pub car-park, which is only round the corner from the victim’s flat. We therefore assume that they quarrelled and Spencer stabbed him to death and dumped him in the skip. Last night I arranged that the
Examiner
should report the case in this morning’s edition and print Harrison’s address, Flat 20, on the top-floor in the block of flats at the top of Mansion Hill. Some of you may have seen it in the paper. So tonight, I believe, will be the first night Spencer will have become aware of his associate’s address and likely hiding place. And I hope and believe that he will be on his tippy-toes anxious to get into the flat and search it for the money, which we have, of course, already found and removed. There are only two attic flats on the top-floor. I have arranged for the other tenant and her baby, living in Number 19, to be accommodated in the safe house, and the landlady has agreed not to re-let Harrison’s flat, so that tonight the entire top floor will be unoccupied and in darkness. Now I think that Spencer will be desperate and dangerous. He will be armed, possibly with a blade, so we need to be armed, alert and efficient.’

Looks were exchanged among the officers.

He continued. ‘There are two entrances to the flat. There’s the front door that leads straight from the pavement on Mansion Hill into the ground floor. It is always locked and can only be opened by tapping in the combination, known only to the landlady and the tenants. And there is a side door which leads through to a small backyard where the waste bins are located. The ground floor consists of four flats, two utility rooms, the lift and the stairs. The side door is usually locked by two heavy bolts. I have arranged for the bolts to be removed, so that the door cannot be locked, and so that Spencer should not have too much difficulty in gaining access. Nevertheless, this might be an all-night vigil. I want the white surveillance van to be parked on Rotherham Road. There’s a position there that would give us sight of both doors. I will be in there with DS Gawber. I have briefed two teams, each of two armed men, who will be joining us from the FSU at Wakefield. They will be in unmarked cars and parked well out of sight somewhere in Chapel Street or off Rotherham Road. They will be hidden from nosey parkers, but close enough to be brought in at short notice. This operation will start at 2100 hours. Everybody not directly involved, particularly drivers of marked cars, be aware to keep away from the area until dawn tomorrow, please. Any questions?’

A voice called out from the back.

‘Have you some specific intelligence that Spencer will show, sir?’

Angel frowned. ‘No. He may not show, of course. But two million pounds is a powerfully strong reason why he probably will.’

‘Is Spencer known to have any criminal associates, sir?’ another voice called out.

‘No. You mean … will he come alone? I believe this fraud was virtually his maiden job. He’s hardly had the opportunity to become a member of a gang.’

The questioner seemed satisfied.

‘Anything else?’ Angel said. He looked round. ‘Right. Thank you very much everybody. Just one more thing, I’d like to emphasize. This man has murdered in one of the most savage ways I know. Sticking a knife into a man, pulling it out covered in blood and then sticking it back into him, several times. He’s desperate. He connived at extricating two million pounds out of a bank account. He had given up his job and was planning how to spend it. It was almost in his grasp. Then suddenly his partner crossed him. His crooked plan began to fall apart. I believe he tried to scare Harrison into telling him where he’d hidden the money. In the quarrel, he stabbed him several times before he was dead. He’s a nasty piece of work, so don’t let’s take any chances with him. Let’s get him off the streets.’

It was 10.30 p.m. and the moon was high. A pleasant summer breeze blew. It hadn’t rained for a good forty-eight hours and dry warm weather was forecast.

Angel and Gawber arrived in the white observation van and parked it at the side of the road in a line of cars on Rotherham Road. They had an excellent view of the side door of Mansion Hill flats with the wheelie bins clustered in an area contained by a low brick wall broken by a gateway, the gate having long since been lifted off its hinges and discarded. The van, being at right angles to the street known as Mansion Hill, allowed the occupants a good view of a narrow strip of the front door, so that they were in a perfect position to be able to observe all access to and from the building. Their only light source was to be the moon, which tonight was adequate for the job they had to do.

Angel had settled himself on a stool in the back of the van. He was setting up the night binoculars on a table tripod on the bench fitted under the one-way window that faced the flats.

Gawber had unpacked the video camera, fitted it with a night lens and was unravelling the cable to plug it into the power socket on the bench.

‘Got a brand new tape, sir. Lasts ninety minutes,’ he said chirpily.

Angel only grunted in reply. He felt down into his suit coat pocket and pulled out a Glock hand pistol. It was the G 17, the standard model, only 7” long, that just fitted into the pocket. He pressed the catch on the stock, allowing the magazine to be ejected. It dropped into his hand. He checked the magazine spring by pressing the top round with his forefinger. It gave hardly at all, indicating that the first round was in the correct position and that the magazine was full. It held seventeen deadly 9mm bullets. It made a solid click as he pushed the magazine back into the stock. He stuffed the gun back into his pocket. Then he switched on the RT and reached out for the microphone.

‘Traveller One to Romeo Lima One. Are you all set?’

‘Yes, sir? We’re in position, up a ginnel off Chapel Street.’

‘Everything all right?’

‘There’s an old woman in a nightdress … keeps peering out of a back upstairs window at us, sir. I think she thinks we’re a couple of peeping Toms.’

Angel pulled a face. ‘I don’t want anything to cause a disturbance or divert your attention. Either speak to her and settle her down now or move to another position.’

‘We’ll move, sir.’

‘Call in when you’re in position.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Traveller One to Romeo Lima Two. Are you all set?’

‘Yes, sir. We’re in a line of parked empty cars about 300 yards away on Chapel Street. Nobody is around. Nobody seems to have noticed us. We can be at the target house in about thirty seconds.’

Angel fished around into a bag under the table and pulled out a flask that Mary had prepared for him and poured a drink into a little china cup. He sipped it and made an appreciative noise.

A few minutes passed, then a voice on the RT said: ‘Romeo Lima Two to Traveller One.’

‘Right, come in, lad.’

‘We’re up the next ginnel and a bit nearer, sir. Just round the corner, in fact.’

‘OK. Keep the line open. Report any sighting of a solitary man about thirty years of age … he might be on foot … or in a car or even on a bicycle, I suppose.’

‘Right, sir.’

Angel turned to Gawber. ‘The last time I was out on a night obbo was that murder on Sycamore Grove. Remember?’

‘I do. Your missus was away because her mother was ill and you made yourself some beetroot sandwiches. Ahmed felt sorry for you and offered you some strange concoction that his mother had made him.’

They both smiled.

A voice through the RT said, ‘If anybody’s hungry I’ve got some roast beef.’

‘Thank you, lad,’ Angel said with a grin.

Angel watched the fluorescent clock on the bench front show midnight and shortly afterwards heard St Mary’s Church clock strike twelve. The moon was shining quite brightly. There were no clouds, so it was about as dark as it was going to get. Some time passed in silence, then suddenly there was a voice through the RT.

‘Romeo Lima Two to Traveller One.’

There was something urgent about the way the man spoke. Angel felt his heart bounce. ‘Yes, Romeo Lima Two?’

‘A big car has just passed us, sir. Very slowly.’

Angel’s pulse beat loudly in his ears.

‘I think it’s black,’ Romeo Lima Two continued. ‘Moving slowly … like a hearse … as if it’s surveying the area. It’s turning left.’

Angel breathed out a cool sigh.

‘Just the driver in it?’

‘Couldn’t see, sir. It’s got the lines of a big Mercedes. It’s coming your way.’

The vehicle suddenly glided alongside the observation van and stopped. The near side was only eight feet away.

Angel heard Gawber gasp excitedly as he gripped the handle of the video camera tightly and traversed the full length of the Mercedes.

Angel could feel and hear the vibration of the car engine. It cut off his view of the flat. All he could see were black windows and black bodywork.

The car hovered for a few seconds.

He sniffed and peered harder through the binoculars. ‘It’s a big, expensive piece of transport for one bank clerk,’ he whispered.

He sat glued to the binoculars trying to catch sight of the driver.

After a few seconds the car rolled silently away down Rotherham Road.

Angel eased back from the binoculars and rubbed his chin.

‘Did you get the index number?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll ring it through.’

‘Do it now.’

‘I hope we’ve not frightened him off,’ Gawber said, reaching out for his mobile.

‘Naw,’ Angel said, wiping his face with his handkerchief. ‘He’ll be back. He’s very nervous. Very careful.’

He reached out for the microphone. ‘Romeo Lima One and Two. I’m pretty sure that this is the customer we’re expecting. Keep your heads down. He’ll be back soon and might come checking round all parked cars. Be very careful.’

Two minutes later, Gawber turned away from his mobile phone and said, ‘The car is registered to a Doctor Shannon in Cambridge.’

Angel nodded. ‘It’ll be twinned. I don’t like this, Ron. This isn’t Spencer. It bears all the signs of a heavy gang.’ He felt a tingle through his chest. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Five minutes later, the big black car arrived back on Rotherham Road. The car taxied up to Mansion Hill flats like a jumbo jet fitted with a silencer. It stopped gently only feet away.

Angel felt his heart pounding again.