The Man Who Couldn't Lose (6 page)

Makepiece's eyes slid from left to right, then back again. ‘No. I never said that, Inspector. I never said nothin' like that.'

Angel pursed his lips.

‘OK,' he said knowingly. ‘Did Mr Gumme have a gun?'

‘I once saw a piece in a shoulder holster. I didn't like that. It was ages ago.'

Angel nodded. He thought as much.

‘He was wearing it … about the time of this Spitzer business. I haven't seen it for years.'

‘Do you know what make it was?'

‘No. Don't do guns, Inspector.'

Angel wrinkled his nose

‘Spitzer always had a piece,' Makepiece added. ‘He should have worn a bigger jacket.'

Angel nodded, then said: ‘What were you doing when this was going on?'

‘I was the caretaker here.'

‘And chauffeur?'

‘No. The boss used to drive hisself then. He drove all the time up to his illness.'

‘So who do you think shot Mr Gumme?'

Makepiece shook his head and showed the palm of his open hands.

‘I don't know. Lots of folk. The boss made a lot of enemies.'

‘What enemies?'

‘Well, you see, he didn't intend to. It's just that everything he touched turned to money. Nobody likes to be bested. He used to say that all his competitors were green with envy at the way he built up his business interests. His new house … the pool and everything. His new wife. The Bentley. His luck with the cards. He played cards with people and always won and they didn't like it, and they sometimes wouldn't pay up. He hated that. He always chased them down for the last penny.'

‘They say he played two hundred games of pontoon on the trot and won every game.'

Makepiece pursed his lips and leaned back. ‘That's true. It was in here. At this very table. I was here. And he could have played four hundred games, aye, and more. He was just too tired to go on. His eyes gave out.'

‘But he cheated, didn't he?'

‘No, sir,' he said indignantly. ‘Not that you would call cheating. The judges checked everything out. I wouldn't have called it cheating exactly. He just gave himself an edge. He told me that he never put himself into a situation where he could lose, that's all. He practised that throughout his business life. And that's not cheating, that's logic, ain't it?'

Angel was considering the line of reasoning. There was something there that was not quite right.

‘There are some people he would never have played against,' Makepiece added.

‘You mean because they would have beaten him?'

‘Yes.' He thought a moment. ‘The boss used to watch a punter playing cards with someone else. He'd watch them like a hawk for a half hour or so and then he would know, positively. That's all there was to it.'

Angel was certain there was a lot more to it than that.

Makepiece licked his lips and turned away. ‘I wanna drink, Inspector. Do you wanna drink?'

‘No, thanks.

Makepiece's mouth dropped open. He turned away and looked across at the table of bottles covered with a cloth.

Angel stared at him.

It was hard for Makepiece to look him in the eye. His mouth twitched again.

Angel could not avoid looking at the harelip.

Makepiece looked away. ‘Are you sure you don't want a drink?'

Angel wrinkled his nose, looked at his notes and rubbed his chin. ‘No, thanks. We've nearly done.'

Makepiece nodded.

‘You've been chauffeur for Mr Gumme a long time. You drove his Bentley?'

‘Yes. Very proud of his car was de boss.'

‘Where were the keys for the car?'

‘I had a set which I picked up from the house when I was taking him anywheres.'

‘And when you had finished with them?'

‘I always dropped them through the letterbox. Ingrid … Mrs Gumme no doubt picked them up and put them on the keyboard in their lobby. I would always take them from there when I was taking the boss out or needed to wash the car or anything.'

‘So when you returned the car the night Mr Gumme was murdered, you put them through the letterbox as usual?'

‘Yes, sure,' he said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Sure you don't want no drink?'

Angel shook his head.

‘Did you know the car had been found in flames in a field early yesterday morning?'

‘No! Who could have done that? If the boss was alive, he'd have had a fit!'

‘You know nothing about this?'

‘Certainly not, Inspector. Who would want to do a thing like that with such a beautiful machine?'

Angel sighed. Looked at his notes. Wrote something and said, ‘I'd better have a look in your printing shop.'

‘Oh yeah? Sure,' Makepiece said eagerly. He stood up. ‘It ain't that … beautiful, Inspector. There's only me goes in there.'

‘I'm not from Health and Safety,' he muttered.

Angel followed him out of the office into the racket of the snooker hall. There was the buzz of men chatting, the frequent crack of white balls rattling against colours followed by the thunder of balls rolling round the tables, and, intermittently, bursts of loud, alcohol-fuelled guffaws of laughter. He glanced down the building. Business was picking up. Sixty or more men were now mooching round the tables.

Makepiece walked on four paces to another door in the same wall. With a rattle of keys he unlocked it and switched on the light.

‘Come in. There ain't much room. It's a bit untidy.'

Angel looked around. It was about the same size as the office next door, but had a large complex machine in the centre that dominated the room. There were machines of all kinds round the walls, presumably for smaller print jobs: folding machines, stapler, a cameras, enlarger, a machine with a powerful press for embossing and a powerful-looking guillotine. Everywhere was draped with large menus for Wong's Chinese restaurant.

Angel looked at him and pointed at the menus.

‘Just dryin', that's all. Like I told you.'

Angel nodded. It was true.

In a corner were four piles of packets of blank paper, some opened. He also saw an opened box of packs of playing cards with a sample card glued on the outside.

Angel rubbed his chin when he saw them. He reached out, picked up a pack, opened them, took out the cards, fanned about a dozen of them, and peered closely at the back and then at the face side of them. He pursed his lips, screwed up his eyebrows and shook his head. Slowly, he put the cards back in the packet and returned it to the box. He wondered why they were in the printing room.

Makepiece watched him in silence.

Angel turned around. He noticed the spongy uneven sensation of discarded paper underfoot. He looked down to find that he was standing on a half-inch-thick layer of assorted printed waste, guillotine cuts and badly registered pulls, mostly score cards and posters for snooker contests. Angel bent down and delved around underneath. Eventually he stood up, holding several pages of colour magazine quality prints of naked young women in various unusual poses. He pulled a quizzical face and waved them at Makepiece.

He smiled weakly.

‘Good, ain't they? I did them. On that,' he added, pointing to the big machine in the centre of the room.

Angel shook his head patiently.

‘Notton to do with me,' Makepiece said. ‘That was some work the boss brought in.'

Angel let them drop back on the floor and brushed his hands. He then took another look round the room. He didn't think there was anything more to help him with his inquiries. He rubbed his chin. Then looked at his watch. His face changed.

‘Well, thank you for that,' he said, making for the door.

Makepiece smiled and blew out a sigh.

‘I'll need a written statement in due course. In the meantime, if anything occurs to you that might help me with finding Mr Gumme's murderer, please get in touch.'

‘Sure. Sure, Inspector, but I told you all I know,' he pleaded, holding out his hands.

Angel walked quickly through the snooker hall. There were now about twenty tables in use and Bozo Johnson was busy at the bar ringing up money in the till. The place was buzzing with young men mostly with long hair, jeans, T-shirts and trainers, standing around leaning on their cues, talking, sloshing lager or trying to pot a ball. He ignored the sea of unfriendly glances as he weaved his way through them to the door, and out into the street.

Angel got into his car, drove the few yards up Duke Street to the McDonald's on the corner, then along to The Feathers. He parked up on the car park and pushed his way through the revolving door and made for the reception desk.

A young man in a dark suit came up to him.

Angel leaned over the high desk, flashed his warrant card and quietly said, ‘I'm Detective Inspector Angel. I am making enquiries about a man in a wheelchair who visited the hotel at around ten past eight last Tuesday evening.'

‘Yes, sir. Would that be Mr Gumme?' he replied promptly. ‘I believe he's the only man in a wheelchair who occasionally visits the hotel.'

Angel felt lighter. Gumme was known to the clerk. It was going to be easier than he had thought.

‘Did you see him on Tuesday evening, about eight-fifteen?'

‘Yes, I believe I do remember him. He arrived here with his chauffeur, but he sent him away, rather rudely, I believe. It seemed a bit odd.'

Angel nodded. That fitted exactly with what Makepiece had said.

‘Did Mr Gumme meet with anybody?'

‘I think he must have done. We were a bit busy with new guests arriving, so I hadn't my attention on him all the time. He sat over there in his wheelchair facing that alcove with his back to me.'

Angel was quite enthused.

‘Who was he with? Who did he meet?'

‘I couldn't see, sir. As I recall, they were sat together for some time. But I couldn't actually see who was in the alcove.'

‘Was it one person or more?'

‘Couldn't really say.'

‘And how long were they there?'

‘I don't know for certain, sir. We were busy here at the desk from time to time. You will appreciate that it was only when we were not busy that I may have had the time to notice what was happening over there. More than an hour, I would say.'

‘But you didn't see Mr Gumme leave with anyone?'

‘No, sir. I'm sorry.'

Angel frowned and shook his head.

‘The porter may have seen something,' the clerk said, banging his hand on the bell in front of him. ‘I'll ask him.'

An elderly man in a plain dark suit and a nebbed hat appeared from among the people coming and going past the desk.

He looked at the clerk.

‘Ah, Walter,' the clerk began.

Angel said, ‘May I put the question?'

‘Of course,' the clerk replied.

‘Walter,' Angel said. ‘I am a police officer. I am trying to piece together the last hours in the life of Joshua Gumme.'

Walter's eyes brightened. This was a pleasant change from humping cases up and down the place.

‘Oh yes. I heard about him being shot and that.'

‘He was here on Tuesday evening. He arrived about eight-fifteen and was seated in his wheelchair over there, facing the end alcove. Did you see him?'

Walter thought about it for a few seconds, then said, ‘No, sir. Can't say as I did.'

‘Didn't order drinks or ask for anything from you?'

‘No, sir. I would have remembered.' He pulled an unpleasant face and added, ‘I know about Mr Gumme.'

Angel was disappointed.

‘Thank you, Walter.'

‘Sorry, sir,' the porter said and then vanished into the general throng of people in the hallway.

Angel ran the tip of his tongue across his lower lip.

The clerk said, ‘Is there anything else I can do to help?'

‘Yes. Let me see the register of guests you had staying here on Tuesday evening.'

‘Certainly, sir. We were full, of course. We usually are during the week. We have twenty-eight letting rooms. Most of the rooms are double, but some would be let as single where necessary.'

The clerk turned back two pages of the register, then swivelled the book round to face him.

Angel put his finger on the name at the top and ran his finger slowly down the page. He didn't know what he was looking for. He hoped a name would jump out and jolt his memory, but it didn't.

The clerk watched him thoughtfully.

At length, Angel said, ‘I need a copy of this. Have you the facility for copying the whole page including the address column and signature?'

The clerk smiled.

‘Of course, sir,' he said and he picked up the book. ‘Won't be a minute.' He turned and went into the office at the back of the reception desk.

Angel took out his mobile and tapped in a number.

It was soon answered.

‘DS Gawber.'

‘Ron, I'm getting a list of the residents of The Feathers the night Gumme was murdered. I want you to go through them with a fine-tooth comb. It might throw up a … suspect.'

‘Right, sir,' Gawber said.

‘And Ron, tell Ahmed I want him to get me a run-down on Benjamin or Bozo Johnson on the PNC. I know he's served time, but I want to know all there is to know. Also his known associates. Got that?'

‘Yes, sir. By the way, there was no sign of a pot dog or any of Mrs Buller-Price's stuff in Dolly Reuben's shop.'

Angel wrinkled his nose.

‘Well, we can't put any more time into that. I'll be back at the station shortly.'

‘Right, sir.'

He closed the phone and shoved it in his pocket as the clerk returned waving two printed pages of A4 and the visitor's book. He handed Angel the pages and replaced the book on the desk.

‘Thank you very much for your help,' Angel said as he folded the pages and put them in his pocket.

The clerk nodded.

Angel went straight back to the station and was charging up the green corridor towards his office when he bumped into Crisp sauntering out of CID carrying a file.

Crisp's eyebrows shot up.

‘Ah, there you are,' Angel said, looking distinctly displeased. ‘How is it I can never find you? You haven't told me how you got on with Edmund Gumme.'

‘Haven't really had the chance, sir.'

‘You've got a quick chance now,' Angel snapped. ‘Did he say he knew about his father's death?'

‘Said his father's solicitor, Carl Messenger, had phoned him. He was naturally cut up, but when he heard that he'd left everything to his new wife, he lost interest.'

‘Did he have an alibi for the time that—'

‘No, sir. Lives on his own. In a flat. He's unmarried. Says he was in bed.'

‘What does he do all day, play croquet?'

‘He's a teacher. Teaches English at a new school in York.'

‘Right,' he said, rubbing his chin. ‘Right then, carry on.'

Crisp nodded and turned away quickly and started down the corridor.

Suddenly Angel called out, ‘Hey, Crisp!'

He turned back, eyebrows raised.

‘Yes, sir?'

‘You haven't seen a white pot dog on your travels, have you? A figure of a poodle sixteen inches high?'

Crisp blinked.

‘No, sir.'

‘Benjamin Johnson, sir,' Ahmed said, reading from the first of three pages he had printed out from the PNC. ‘December 29th 1999. Guilty of manslaughter of Colin Abelson. Hit him with a bar stool in a drunken brawl. Sentenced to twelve years. On appeal, sentence reduced to eight. Released from Durham, 10 January 2004, having served only four years.'

Angel rubbed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb.

‘Anything else known?'

‘No, sir. Looks like a clean sheet after that.'

Angel nodded.

‘Associates?'

‘Horace Harelip Makepiece.'

Angel frowned.

‘Shall I read it up, sir?'

‘Aye. Make it snappy.'

Ahmed selected the next sheet, cleared his throat and said, ‘Horace Harelip Makepiece, born 23 April 1957. There's not much, sir. 1972. Three months' probation for acting as look-out for robbers at an off licence. 1973. Six months' probation for stealing by siphoning petrol from a parked car. 1975. Six months' probation for stealing washing off a clothes line, also fined £100 for taking a vehicle without the owner's consent.'

Angel nodded.

‘Anything else?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Known associates?'

‘There aren't any, sir.'

‘Right, Ahmed. Now, I'm expecting the PM report on Gumme by email from Dr Mac sometime this afternoon. Keep your eye open for it, and let me have a print of it as soon as it appears.'

‘Right, sir,' he said. He went out and closed the door.

Angel leaned back in the swivel chair and stared up at the ceiling. He was weighing up the progress he was making on the Gumme murder and was quickly arriving at the conclusion that it was very little. He hadn't a motive, a suspect, a weapon or a clue. There wasn't a scene of crime to mooch around because he didn't know where the murder had been committed. This case was damned unusual. He was still awaiting Dr Mac's and SOCO's report, however. You could never be sure what they might throw up. He had interviewed the victim's wife and the man's chauffeur, but he had not interviewed his only progeny, his son, Edmund. That was clearly his next priority. He was also curious about the parcel left to Edmund by his father. He would like to kill two birds with one stone.

There was a knock at the door. He lowered the chair abruptly

‘Come in.'

It was DC Scrivens.

‘Come in, Ed.'

‘Is it convenient for me to report on that torched car, sir, Joshua Gumme's Bentley?' the young man said tentatively.

‘Yes. Make it quick, though. Who stole it and why?'

‘Don't know that, sir. Mrs Gumme was very angry about it. She said that the Bentley had apparently been taken out of the garage during Wednesday night Thursday morning. She didn't know about it being missing until uniform phoned her yesterday morning and she had to go out of the house to the garage to find out for herself. She hadn't heard it being started and driven away. Her Jaguar is kept in the same double garage and that was perfectly all right. Not touched. The garage isn't locked with a key. It's one of those automatic jobs where you press a remote and it opens itself. The remote control and the car key were missing. There were duplicates of both in Mr Gumme's desk. I checked on them; they are still there. She said that the key and the remote used by Mr Makepiece could have been on the carpet by the front door. They would have been dropped there by him, by arrangement, on Tuesday night, after he'd taken Mr Gumme to The Feathers. Maybe with everything happening, she'd not noticed them or forgotten all about them. I surveyed the scene, sir, and I reckon it
might
have been possible to sneak them out through the letterbox with a line and hook.'

Angel frowned.

‘A thief would need to know they were there, wouldn't he?'

‘Could do it with a mirror on a stick, sir. We know it's been done, sir, don't we?'

‘Aye. What else? Any fingerprints, footprints, any forensic?'

‘No, sir. I had a SOCO have a look at the front door, the garage and the car. There was nothing.'

‘What about the car?'

‘Terrible mess. Anything that would burn did burn … helped along with a can of petrol.'

‘Any prints on
that
?' Angel said quickly.

‘No, sir. The kids are getting very streetwise.'

Angel wondered. The door remote and the keys could certainly have been lifted from the hall floor via the letterbox, but he couldn't quite see any of the suspects in the case busying themselves in that way. However, any one of them could have employed someone else to do it. Even so, he couldn't at that point see any motive – only vengeance.

‘Right, Ed, that seems to be a thorough job. Ta. Now you can get back to your shoplifting case.'

He nodded and went out.

Angel didn't spend any more time thinking about the torched Bentley, as significant as it might be. It was getting late into a Friday afternoon and there was something he really had to do. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out the Bromersley phone book. He raced through it and found the number he wanted. He lifted the handset and dialled the number.

A woman with a deep voice answered.

‘Carl Messenger, solicitor. Can I help you?' she said in a voice ideal for selling shrouds.

‘This is Detective Inspector Angel. Can I speak to Mr Messenger, please?'

‘One moment,' she said. ‘Please hold on.'

There was silence on the line for thirty seconds or so, then the woman said, ‘I am putting you through to Mr Messenger.'

‘Good afternoon, Inspector,' the man said. ‘How can I help you?'

‘Good afternoon, Mr Messenger. I am anxious to make contact with Mr Edmund Gumme. I have his number, but there is repeatedly no reply. I wonder if you know how I might contact him. I understand he is a school teacher, but I am not familiar with the name of the school.'

‘Nor am I, Inspector. However, I can tell you that he has changed his mind about accepting the small package his father left him. He telephoned me and I have arranged to see him here tomorrow morning. I do not open on Saturdays usually, but I am opening the office at ten o'clock tomorrow especially to accommodate him. Miss Goodchild, my secretary, has kindly agreed to come to the office at that time. You would also be welcome. If you were to attend, you could be one of the two witnesses I will need.'

‘If you would care to sign
there
, Mr Gumme?' Carl Messenger said, handing him a pen. ‘Then Miss Goodchild, as witness that the package has been duly received by Mr Gumme …
there
… thank you…. then Inspector Angel …
there
…. thank you.'

Angel signed and passed the pen to Messenger. The solicitor placed it on the pen rest and then reached down to the bottom drawer in the pedestal of his desk and pulled out a package, wrapped in brown paper securely sealed with an overabundance of Sellotape. Under the transparent tape, written by hand in black ink on a label, was the one word ‘Edmund'. He handed it across the desk to the young man.