The Man Who Couldn't Lose (8 page)

It was Harker.

‘Mayfair Security Systems has just reported the triggering of an alarm system of theirs at Creeford Grange. That's where the widow woman of your Joshua Gumme lives, isn't it?'

Angel jumped to his feet.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘The man said their readouts indicated that someone had gained entry by a rear window and that the intruder was on the premises still. I have sent Hotel Echo One and told them to approach with blues but no siren. Get out there.'

When Angel turned the corner onto Creeford Road, he could hear a two-tone burglar alarm siren making a hell of a racket. He put his foot down on the accelerator and drove straight along the road to Creeford Grange. He raced through the open gates and up the drive. He could see a marked police car, Hotel Echo One, parked right outside the front door.

The siren high up on the front elevation of the house was deafening. He stopped immediately behind the car and jumped out to find a PC racing towards him from behind the house. On seeing it was Angel, he called, ‘Oh, it's you, sir. Anybody come that way?'

Angel could hardly hear him above the siren.

‘Nobody's come this way,' Angel bawled. ‘I'll watch the front.'

‘Right, sir,' the PC said and rushed back between the side of the house and the double garage building towards the swimming pool.

Angel watched him go, then suddenly he was startled by a sound and movement close behind. He looked back to see a sleek black Jaguar, its engine purring like a cat gliding to a stop inches from his back. The driver was Ingrid Gumme. She had a face like thunder, her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes flashed like diamonds in the night.

He stepped forward quickly out of her way and continued to watch the house.

Mrs Gumme slammed the car door, glanced up at the blue and white siren high on the front elevation of the house, stormed up to Angel and said, ‘What the hell is happening now?'

Angel didn't look at her. He kept looking ahead.

‘You seem to have an intruder … triggered the alarm.'

Two PCs came out of the front door, pocketing their asps. They had obviously drawn a blank. Angel recognized one of them; it was Scrivens.

They saw Angel with Mrs Gumme and approached them.

‘Access has been made into the house, sir,' Scrivens shouted over the siren. ‘Kitchen window has been broken. Footmarks scratched the paint on the window bottom. Intruder or intruders wouldn't have been in long, though. Nobody there now. They've been in the bedroom. Dressing table drawers open, stuff pulled out. We'll just check the grounds. If there's nothing there, we'll have a quick tour round the streets nearby. You never know your luck.'

‘Right, Scrivens, ta,' Angel said as they ran off.

‘Hope they haven't got my diamond rings,' Mrs Gumme said.

Angel pulled out his mobile as he began walking up the stone steps to the front door. He was directly underneath the siren. He stared up at it.

‘Can you switch that racket off, please, Mrs Gumme?' he called.

She overtook him and stormed into the house. She went to the small, grey alarm box in the hall, opened the cover and tapped in a four-digit code. The siren stopped: the quiet was a relief.

Angel made an urgent call on his mobile to SOCO.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

‘Angel.'

‘DS Taylor, sir, SOCO. About the break-in at Mrs Gumme's house, sir.'

Angel's face brightened. ‘Oh yes, Don. What you got?'

‘Nothing much, I'm afraid, sir. I can confirm that the window at the back of the house was the point of entry. The glass was smashed with a long-handled key used for draining the swimming pool. It was standing in the doorway of an outside service room that wasn't locked. There were no prints on it. I think there was only one intruder and I think he must have been quite young.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘Size of the shoe, sir. We haven't got an actual footprint. We are working on the size of the graze marks on the woodwork. At the widest, they are only four centimetres across.'

Angel frowned. Sounded very strange. It wasn't likely a young burglar would cut his teeth on a mansion, with a very conspicuous alarm box, in broad daylight.

‘I reckon he would only be in the house a minute or two,' Taylor said. ‘Was there much taken, sir?'

‘Mrs Gumme says everything is accounted for.'

‘Sounds fishy, sir?'

‘Not fish, Don. Fruit. Maybe a cherry-picker?'

‘Ahmed. I want you to parcel up this pack of playing cards carefully, and get it off to the lab at Wetherby. Mark it for the personal attention of Professor Willington-Atkins. He's expecting it. Put a polite note in it to say it's from me at this address. Send it registered and make sure it goes tonight. All right?'

‘Right, sir.'

There was a knock at the door.

‘See who that is.'

Ahmed opened the door.

It was DS Gawber carrying a bunch of papers.

‘Come in, Ron,' Angel called.

Gawber came in as Ahmed went out; he closed the door.

‘Checked through that list of people staying at The Feathers the night Gumme was murdered, sir,' Gawber said.

Angel's face brightened expectantly.

‘Oh yes. Sit down. What you got?'

‘They check out perfectly, except one. A man who signed the register “Father I. Colhoun, LBOTP, Dunleavy Abbey, County Cork, Southern Ireland.” I eventually found the number for the abbey and spoke to the novice master, Father James. At first he was very suspicious. Seemed to think that I was in some way making mischief. Anyway, he confirmed that they certainly
did
have a Father Ignatius Colhoun; much loved and respected he was too, he said. And that he was in Peru in South America visiting a mission, taking provisions and giving support to a mission out there that was dear to their hearts.'

Angel's mouth dropped open. He rubbed his chin.

‘What do the initials stand for?'

‘LBOTP? Little Brothers Of The Poor.'

‘Ring up the CID Garda in Dublin and ask for their help. Try and get confirmation of what you have been told through them, also see if you can get a photograph of Ignatius wired through. In the meantime, I'll go straight down to The Feathers.'

‘Who, sir?' the desk clerk said with a frown.

‘A Father Ignatius Colhoun,' Angel said. ‘According to your register, he stayed here last Tuesday night, the twentieth.'

The clerk began to turn back the pages of a large book in front of him. As he did so, a look of recollection showed on his face.

‘Yes, of course. I remember … a man in a dog collar. We don't get many vicars staying here. Only saw him briefly when he registered and again, when he paid his bill the following morning.'

‘Ah,' Angel enthused. ‘Do you remember anything special about him? What he looked like?'

The clerk looked at Angel with a face as vague as a railway enquiry clerk.

‘No. He was … tall, I think … slim, I think … paid in cash.'

‘Sterling?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Anything else?'

‘Nothing really. He was very smartly dressed …'

Angel wrinkled his nose.

‘Did he speak with any sort of accent? Did he have any facial hair? Moustache, sideburns, beard? Any particular mannerisms?'

‘No. No,' he replied thoughtfully. ‘Carried a Bible and an umbrella, I remember. He had to hang the umbrella on the edge of the desk to sign the register. He kept hold of the Bible all the time. In his left hand.'

‘So he was right-handed?'

‘Yes. It would seem so. Have a word with our porter. He might be able to …'

He hit the bell sharply twice with the palm of his hand.

Angel nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you.'

Old Walter soon appeared from round a corner somewhere and looked up at the clerk then at Angel. He recognized the inspector immediately.

‘Back again, sir? Have you got that murderer yet?'

‘Not yet, no. But we will. Have no fear. We will. I wonder if you can assist me.'

‘I'll try, sir. I'll certainly try.'

‘On Tuesday the twentieth, a man in a dog collar booked in here in the name of Father Ignatius Colhoun. I wonder if you can tell me anything about him?'

Walter nodded.

‘I can that, sir. Yes. Do you think it was him? Well, anyway, he was a long, sober-faced card. Must have been a bishop at least. Miserable-looking. Dark all round his eyes. He could have got a job in an undertaker's anytime. Very smart black gear he was wearing and a beautiful silver crucifix. And he gave me a very unusual tip. It was a sort of card, with the picture of an angel on one side and a verse of poetry or something like that on the back. I've got it here somewhere.'

He reached into his coat pocket.

Angel realized that the man might be in possession of a clue … a vital clue.

‘Don't touch it,' he said, his pulse thumping.

‘I already have.'

‘Well, don't touch it again.'

Astonished, Walter quickly withdrew his hand from his pocket.

‘Is it in that pocket?' Angel said.

‘Yes.'

‘Leave it in there. We might get a print off it. Take your coat off. Let me have it.'

Walter's jaw dropped open. He began threading an arm out of the coat.

Angel's brain raced. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and tapped in a number. ‘Is that SOCO? I want to speak to DS Taylor urgently … Very well. I'll hold on.'

Angel held the mobile tightly. As he waited, his mind darted back to earlier that morning. He had found a similar card, as described by the porter, in the dead man's wallet. It sounded identical. If it was, it could help to show that Gumme had been in the company of Father Ignatius (or whoever he was) shortly before the murder. He was delighted. He considered that that was real progress. At last, he had a suspect. And that was good. He rubbed his chin and then sighed. Of course, it was a long way from proving that the priest was the murderer.

‘You don't half take your time, Sergeant. It was Thursday when that postman was assaulted,' Angel said.

‘The van was only found yesterday, sir.'

‘Burnt out, was it?'

‘No, sir,' Crisp said pertly. ‘In good nick and with all its load apparently intact.'

Angel's mouth dropped open.

‘Did it have any registered mail on board?'

‘Yes, sir. The post office checked on that. Thirty-eight items. Half a sackful. All present and correct.'

‘But there could have been jewellery, cash … all sorts of valuables.'

Crisp nodded.

‘Perhaps the thief didn't know.'

Angel shook his head and wrinkled his nose.

‘He'd know,' he said meaningfully. ‘He must have had a much bigger objective in his sight. He is not your common-or-garden thief. He must have his eye on something much more lucrative or important to him. There's no other explanation. As he isn't stealing the mail, what is he stealing?'

Crisp shrugged.

Angel said: ‘Any forensic?'

‘No, sir.'

‘No prints? No DNA? Nothing?' he enquired heavily.

‘Nothing, sir.'

Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘It doesn't make any sense. That's twice it's happened. What's the point of assaulting postmen if you don't want to nick their post, their vans or the money in their pockets? I take it this man wasn't robbed of any personal possessions?'

‘No, sir,' Crisp replied. ‘Wallet intact. Watch on his wrist.'

‘Did you go into the background of the man?'

‘There was nothing there, sir. Not known to us. Long-serving employee. Perfect record of service for eighteen years. Besides, as you say, there was nothing stolen.'

‘Nothing
found
to be stolen,' Angel said through gritted teeth. ‘And how is he? Was he badly hurt?'

‘No. Nasty bruise on neck. He had a night in hospital. Everything checked out.'

‘Could have been much worse. What happened exactly? What did he see? What did the assailant say?'

‘He didn't see or hear anything. He felt a thump at the back of the neck. Next thing he remembered, he was in hospital.'

‘Did the house to house turn anything up?'

‘No, sir. The attack must have lasted only three seconds. A man walking apparently innocently along the street … reaches the postman unloading the letterbox … bang, clouts him with something … he falls down … assailant jumps in his van and drives off.'

Angel growled, then said: ‘It's too easy. Too damned easy.'

‘Similar to the assault on the postman at Frog's Leap Inn at Midspring on Monday evening. Except the attacker didn't take the van.'

‘Is there a connection between the two men? Were they related? Was it the same “walk”?'

‘Different “walk”, sir. I couldn't find a connection. Been through everything.'

The phone rang.

He reached out for it.

‘Angel.'

‘It's John Weightman here, sir.'

‘Yes, John, what is it?'

‘I'm still on the river-bank with the Froggies, sir. DS Stranger has found something. He would like to have a word.'

Angel blinked. It was a surprise so early in the morning.

‘Right. Put him on.'

‘Good morning, sir,' Stranger said.

‘Good morning, Sergeant. What is it?'

‘We found a cork float bobbing about, just under the surface of the water, sir, near the bank. It was fastened by a length of cord to a big black plastic bin liner that was half covered in mud on the river bottom. We hoisted it up to the bank. It gave a positive signal on our screen for some metal content. It was waterproof sealed at the neck with sticky tape, so we slit it down the side and found that it contained what looked like a thief's hoard. There is jewellery, silver photograph frames and to weight it down—'

‘Don't tell me. There's a white pot dog. Figure of a poodle.'

‘That's right, sir,' Stranger squealed excitedly. ‘How did you know that?'

‘Come in,' Angel called.

It was Gawber, his face glowing with excitement.

‘Report from SOCO, sir,' he said breathlessly as he closed the door.

Angel gawped at him.

‘What is it, Ron?'

‘They managed to pull a satisfactory print of an index finger from that religious tract you took from the hall porter at The Feathers. It belongs to an Alexander Spitzer, last known address Leeds in 1997.'

Angel's eyebrows shot up.

‘Alexander Spitzer! So the great and glorious Alexander Spitzer, the heroin king, is prancing around impersonating a clergyman. Well, well, well.' He sniffed. ‘Not a very original idea.'

Gawber agreed.

‘That confirms that Spitzer met Gumme the night he died?' Angel muttered.

‘Because he had the same religious tract on him, sir.'

He nodded.

‘But of course, it's a long way from proving that Spitzer murdered him.'

‘It only shows that they must have spent some time together in The Feathers.'

‘And we only know about Gumme being in the reception hall.'

‘Well, of course, he couldn't have been shot there, sir.'

‘Quite. If he was shot in the hotel, the gun would need a silencer and the incident would need to take place behind at least one good, solid door … a bedroom or better still, a private bathroom off a bedroom. Even then, it would be hard to believe that someone wouldn't have heard it.'

There was a pause while the two men considered the ramifications.

‘What's the “two million pounds” written on the card mean, sir?'

‘Don't know yet,' Angel said.

‘It's a lot of money if it's a ransom demand.'

Angel shook his head.

‘It's a lot of money in any context, Ron.'

Angel eased back the swivel chair and looked up at the ceiling.

‘We are looking for a Walther PPK/S .32 automatic. Also Alexander Spitzer. That's a tall order. Interpol have been looking for him for years. Let's have the latest description of him, to remind us all. We have so little to go on.'

Angel suddenly pushed the chair down. He made a decision.

‘I want you to have a closer look at The Feathers. Take young Scrivens and go through the room that was occupied by our friend Spitzer. I know the room will have been cleaned and occupied by others since, but nevertheless see what you might dig up. Have a good look in the public rooms, the bar. Ask around. Find out what you can about his mode of transport. How he arrived there and how he left. Talk to the staff. You never know, there might be something you can turn up.'

There was a knock at the door.

Angel looked at Gawber and nodded towards it.

Gawber pulled it open. It was PC Ahaz. He was standing there holding a sheet of A4 paper.

‘What is it, Ahmed?'

He put the paper on Angel's desk.

‘It's a photograph of Father Ignatius Colhoun of the Little Brothers Of The Poor, sir. It's just come over the wire from the Garda in Dublin.'

Angel looked down at it. It showed a very old man in priest's robes with a biretta.

‘Aye, well, that's no surprise. He's nothing like Alexander Spitzer, is he? You can take that down with you, Ron. With a photo of the real thing. You can get that from the NPC. See if you can get a positive ID from the clerk and the hall porter and anybody else.'

‘Right, sir,' Gawber said and went out.

Angel turned to Ahmed.

‘Now then, there's something I want you to see to. There's a DS Stranger from the Leeds sub aqua team calling in with a black plastic bin liner containing plunder from a burglary, fastened by a rope to a cork float. He should be here in the next few minutes. I want you to take the whole lot straight round to SOCO. DS Taylor is expecting it. Stay with him; I want you to take note carefully how the tape is wrapped round the neck of the bag, and how the rope is fastened to that. Don Taylor is going to see if there are any fresh prints on the bag, the sticky tape or on any of the contents. I have no expectations that there will be. If there are, that's great. If there aren't, I want you take the pot dog round to Enderby's, the glass people. They're expecting it and they'll know what to do. Also, I want you to buy a bin liner exactly the same size and type, and sticky tape the same width and so on as the thief used. Then bring the old bag, the contents, the new bag and the tape back here. If I'm not in, put them in my cupboard here and lock it up. Got all that?'

‘Yes, sir,' Ahmed said, rubbing his chin. ‘And what are Enderby's going to do with the dog ornament, sir?'

‘They're simply going to drill a hole in its backside,' he said bluntly.

Ahmed blinked. His mouth dropped open.

Angel sighed.

The phone rang. He reached out for it.

‘Angel.'

It was the civilian telephone receptionist.

‘There's a gentleman on the line asking for you. Says his name is Horace Makepiece.'

Angel frowned. He couldn't imagine what he wanted.

‘Right,' he said. ‘Put him through, please.'

There was a click and silence.

He looked at Ahmed, who was still standing there with a blank expression.

‘Well, get on with it, son,' Angel said impatiently. ‘Chop chop.'

Ahmed, looking uncomfortable, hurriedly made for the door.

A voice from the phone said, ‘Is that Inspector Angel?'

‘Yes, Mr Makepiece. What can I do for you?'

‘Ah yes. It's maybe sometink I can do for you, Inspector.'

‘Oh yes?' Angel said, with a wry smile. In his experience, people with a criminal record, however trivial or serious, never ever made a subsequent approach to the law. The police always had to take the initiative. What was about to happen was a rare exception.

‘Yes,' Makepiece began grandly. ‘You remember I told you Mr Gumme made a few enemies over the years? Mainly because he was not too subtle at collecting money owed to him?'

‘Yes. Yes. Go on.'