The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Right, sir.’ Ahmed stood up, turned and reached out for the door knob.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Angel said. ‘I think that Richard Mace must be planning to leave 2 Creeford Road very soon. It’s probably getting too hot for him. Find out if he owns the place. If he does, he’ll want to sell it. Find out which estate agent or solicitor is acting for him. Pretend you’re an ordinary member of the public, you’ve heard a rumour that it’s coming up for sale, and you’re interested in buying it. We might find a lead to where he is now.’

  Ahmed smiled. He quite looked forward to pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. ‘Right, sir,’ he said and turned to go.

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ Angel said, pulling something out of his pocket. ‘I also want you to find out about this credit card. It’s with the Northern Bank. It was found sewn into the coat of that tramp character found dead under the arches on Wath Road. It’s in the name of Alexander Bernedetti. Here.’ He passed it over the desk. ‘See what you can find out about the man. You should get his personal details as well as his financial standing.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Ahmed went out as Crisp came in. He was carrying an envelope. When Angel saw him, he leaned back in the chair. His mouth tightened. He wasn’t pleased.

  ‘I didn’t expect you back here,’ he growled. ‘You’re supposed to be shadowing the beautiful Flavia.’

  ‘Run out of money, sir.’

  ‘Run out of money?’ he bawled. ‘You had two hundred pounds!’

  ‘Doesn’t go far with a bird like that, sir. She’s impossible to impress. Anyway, I’m reporting back because, well … because she’s gone, sir.’

  ‘Gone? You … you just let her slip through your fingers? I expected you to stick to her as close as that tattoo.’

  ‘She was there when I left her last night. This morning, she had booked out.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  Angel sniffed and rubbed his chin. ‘She told me she was in Leeds on holiday. Of course, that was rubbish. What did you find out? You had two days and two hundred quid. What have you got for the poor taxpayer?’

  ‘I don’t know what she was up to. She was always on the phone.’

  ‘What was she saying? Who was she speaking to?’

  ‘She was speaking Polish or German or something to somebody called Peter. Always seemed very earnest. But I couldn’t understand a word.’

  Angel pulled a face. ‘Peter? Hmmm. Did she have her own car?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you try the taxi rank outside the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, sir. No joy. Nobody will own up to taking her anywhere.’

  Angel rubbed a hand across his mouth.

  ‘I got her prints. On a menu,’ Crisp said brightly, putting the envelope on the desk. ‘It’s a glossy surface. Should get good pulls.’

  Angel nodded. ‘That’s something, I suppose. Hand it to DS Taylor in SOCO on the way out.’ Angel sighed.

  ‘Do you think she sussed you out for a copper?’

  ‘I was very careful. Shouldn’t have thought so.’

  ‘Hmmm. Right. Well. We can’t go chasing her up and down the country. There’s something else come up. Richard Mace appears to have left his house. There are very few personal things left there. I want you to find him. You did the research on him. He’s got to be somewhere.’

  Crisp’s jaw dropped. ‘Where would I start, sir?’ he asked pulling a long face and making cow eyes.

  ‘You’re a detective, aren’t you? Quiz the postman and the milkman. Tour the garages. Get his car reg and you’re on your way. Do you want me to do the bloody job for you?’

  Crisp shook his head sullenly.

  ‘You’ll have to scratch about a bit,’ Angel added. ‘Go on. Get on with it then.’

  Crisp slowly made for the door.

  ‘And don’t disappear into the Fat Duck,’ Angel called after him. ‘I like to see you now and again. I can just about tolerate you in small doses.’

  The phone rang.

  ‘I’ve got that call now to DI Elliott, sir.’

  ‘Right, Ahmed. Thank you. Put him on,’ Angel replied. ‘Hello, is that Matthew? I’ve located the Patina treasure, Matthew, and a lot of other works of art and antiques by the looks of it.’

  ‘What?! That’s fantastic, Michael! Whereabouts?’

  ‘In a private house. The owner of which is a Richard Mace. The one I was telling you about, here in Bromersley. I eventually managed to get inside. He has a big house and it’s bursting with precious works of art, marble statues, paintings, Persian carpets and who knows what else. I’ve got the place guarded by uniformed. It will be covered morning, noon and night, but I’d be happy to pass it over to you. I can’t afford to have men tied up on security work.’

  ‘That’s fantastic. I’ll come up myself straight away and I’ll have a squad up tomorrow. How on earth do you imagine this man Richard Mace came by all that stuff?’

  ‘I’ve been working on that. Remember you told me that the last trace you had been able to make was of two men transporting the treasure through Sheffield on the first night of the blitz? And that your investigation came to an end with the notebook report of a Sheffield PC Shaw, I think his name was, who directed the RASC officer out of Sheffield onto the Bromersley Road?’

  ‘Yes. Shaw in his report wrote that the officer’s name was Captain Mecca.’

  ‘Yes, and he must have written that down in the street when bombs were dropping all round him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it occurred to me that the name he wrote actually was Captain Mace.’

  ‘Hmmm. Of course,’ Elliott said elatedly.

  ‘So, I contacted War Office Records and found out that there was a Captain Stewart Mace in the RASC who was lost, presumed dead, in January 1941. But he didn’t die: he went AWOL. The date fitted perfectly. I also learned that he was born in London in 1915. Now, he could have married and had a son around 1950, who would be around fifty-seven now. And that that would fit our man, Richard Mace.’

  ‘That’s great, Michael. I don’t know how you do it.’

  ‘I expect what happened was that the truck may have been damaged when they suffered the blast of a bombed building or when bouncing over the rubble and that they limped as far as Bromersley where they may have tried to phone their unit in London but couldn’t get through. London had also suffered excessive bomb damage around that time and lines were probably down. They were stranded, found lodgings or somewhere to stay. Hadn’t much money, no ration books or petrol coupons. All they had was what was in the packing cases. Maybe the driver was killed or went AWOL. Anyway, Mace must have lived out the war around here, and after the war got married, had a son, Richard, and continued hanging onto the Patina treasure and adding to it. He was never found out until that girl stole probably the least valuable item, a candle-snuffer, from his fantastic hoard.’

  Elliott said, ‘Sounds logical to me. You know, Michael, you never cease to amaze me. Tell me. Among the spoils, are there any paintings of fat women with bare backsides?’

  ‘A couple, I think.’

  ‘Oh, Lord Truscott will be pleased. They’ll likely be the two stolen from Truscott Priory last July. Worth millions. He’ll be over the moon.’

  ‘Yes, Angel. Come in,’ Harker bellowed. ‘What’s this requisition for a new shirt and tie for PC Ahaz?’ he snarled, waving the pink expense chitty.

  Angel wasn’t expecting any further argument about it.

  ‘I had to make up a dummy parcel for Jondorf to reel in, sir. So I got the idea of improvising with a shirt and a tie.’

  Harker frowned and put his hand to his forehead. ‘You’re making it up as you go along,’ he said and stared at him with the look of a sanitary inspector looking into the cesspit in Dartmoor. ‘You’ve been in the force that long, Angel, you think you know how to manipulate the facts to beat the system. But I’m afraid you can’t get away with it, not while
I’m in this chair anyway.’

  ‘No, sir. It’s not like that. The claim is valid. The explanation, as unlikely as it might seem, is absolutely true. It was the only way I could think of at the time. And we did get Ahaz back unharmed, and Jondorf and Schuster on remand. And we didn’t call the Wakefield armed unit out. That would have cost a few hundred quid. There were no fees at all to pay out for externals. No extras. The entire operation was managed internally.’

  Harker wrinkled the misshapen potato in the middle of his face that passed for his nose, and rubbed his mean, bony little chin. After a few moments, he sighed. ‘Very well. I think I must be going soft,’ he growled, then he signed the slip and tossed it into his out tray.

  Angel looked on with unspoken satisfaction.

  ‘How’s Crisp doing with that undercover surveillance of that foreign woman?’

  ‘He was doing very well, sir. However, she walked out of the hotel early this morning and disappeared.’

  Harker sniffed. ‘He couldn’t hang onto the string on a kid’s kite.’

  ‘I interviewed her yesterday,’ Angel continued. ‘I don’t think she’s a suspect in the Johannson murder. She certainly knew the man, and she didn’t like him, but then again, nobody did. However I do believe she is concerned in some way in the missing Patina Cathedral treasure.’

  ‘You’ve got to kick him about a bit,’ Harker snarled. ‘Get your money’s worth.’

  Angel lifted his head and frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s the only way to get any work out of him. And get him to use his initiative.’

  Angel blinked. ‘Who?’

  ‘Crisp of course! Who the hell do you think I’m talking about? He couldn’t wipe his backside without a map.’

  THIRTEEN

  * * *

  ‘DS Gawber left this copy of the list of telephone calls charged to Mark Johannson’s suite while he was staying at the Imperial Grand Hotel, Leeds, sir. It comes to over £400. He was only there four nights. He was murdered on the fifth night.’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ Angel said testily. ‘Have you been through them?’

  ‘They were all calls abroad, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘The same number. Euromagna’s studio in Burbank, California. And two to Norway.’

  ‘Norway?’ Angel said. ‘I suppose he was Norwegian with a name like that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He was calling his mother.’

  ‘Anywhere else?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘That doesn’t move us ahead at all, does it?’

  The phone rang. Angel looked across and reached out for it. The switchboard operator told him it was a Detective Sergeant Hooper from the Thames River Patrol, Metropolitan Police. Angel wondered who he was.

  ‘Put him through.’

  The man spoke with a tough, cockney accent. ‘Do you know a man, Richard Mace, sir? His address is believed to be 2 Creeford Road, Bromersley. Six foot tall, black hair, suit, collar, tie.’

  Angel frowned. He wondered whatever was coming next. ‘I know of him, Sergeant, why?’

  ‘Pulled his body out of the river by Waterloo Bridge, sir, two hours ago. Six bullets in his back. Got his address out of his wallet. Not robbery, though. He’d a pocket full of money, twenties and fifties, nearly four grand. He was also carrying a pistol. A Walther PPK with a full cartridge.’

  Angel frowned.

  ‘Anything known, sir?’ Hooper added. ‘He’s not on the NPC. He’s from round your way. I’ve got to put something on the docket.’

  ‘Don’t know much about him, Sergeant. He’s not wanted by us for murder, but we have reason to believe he had been a big time thief of antiques and works of art. How long had he been in the water?’

  ‘About a day, I’d say. Do you happen to know his next of kin, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s a photograph of a girl in his pocket. Could be a daughter, or wife. And a sort of passport photograph of a man.’

  ‘They mean nothing to me.’

  Hooper sounded exasperated. ‘Don’t you want him, sir?’

  Angel sighed. ‘There isn’t much percentage in a dead thief, Sergeant. He can’t talk. He can’t give evidence. He won’t be a witness. And society won’t be improved by locking him up.’

  ‘Any idea who could have murdered him?’

  ‘Six bullets in the back? Oh yes, I know exactly who murdered him. But you’ll never catch him and you’ll never prove it.’

  ‘Isn’t much use me trying then, is there, sir?’

  Angel didn’t reply. He was thinking how sad it was.

  Hooper sighed. ‘Come on, sir. Help me out. What’ll I do with him?’

  ‘If it was me,’ Angel said. ‘I’d put him in a box and send him carriage forward to lawyer, Peter Meissen, Westlenska, Patina, in the West Balkans. He’ll be responsible.’

  ‘You think it’s a foreign job, sir?’

  ‘I’m certain of it, Sergeant.’

  Hooper sighed. ‘Right, sir. Thank you. I’ll try and push it onto Interpol, sir.’

  ‘In this instance, Sergeant, they’re the best people to deal with it.’ Angel replaced the phone.

  Ahmed was biting his lip. He looked down at Angel. ‘Another murder, sir?’

  ‘Yes, lad.’

  ‘How did you know it was Peter Meissen who was responsible, sir?’

  ‘There was £4000 in his pocket. If you were a crook would you have left it there?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Meissen was not a thief. Also, six shots in the back. One shot would have been enough. Anymore than two would be excessive. Six was blatantly callous. The murder was political. The executioner wanted to show how ruthless and thorough he could be.’

  Ahmed shuddered. ‘Like, keep your hands off our treasures?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  It was about an hour later when the phone rang again. He grabbed it. ‘Angel.’

  ‘DS Taylor, sir, SOCO. We had a hotel menu handed in this morning by Trevor Crisp. You wanted prints taking off it. He said they were of a woman, name of Flavia Radowitz. Very small fingers.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Don.’

  ‘Well, sir, we’ve found comparison prints … her thumb, first and second fingers of her right hand are on a silver candlestick that was in the main room at Number 2, Creeford Road.’

  Angel looked up and his mouth dropped open. So, Flavia Radowitz had been in that house. That was unexpected. Very unexpected.

  ‘Did you get that, sir?’ Taylor said.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Thank you, Don. I was thinking.’

  ‘I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Don. Great stuff. Did you come across anything else of interest in Creeford Road?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Everything. It’s all truly magnificent. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  He smiled. ‘I meant forensically?’

  ‘Oh? No, sir. Nothing of interest. Lots of prints from a largish hand, probably all the same man.’

  ‘Right, Don. Thank you.’ He replaced the phone, pushed the swivel chair back and gazed up at the ceiling. He rubbed his earlobe. He wondered how Flavia Radowitz’s prints could have appeared in Number 2, Creeford Road. It was a surprise, but fingerprints don’t lie.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  It was Gawber, waving his notebook at Angel.

  ‘Just the man,’ Angel said. ‘Richard Mace’s body has been pulled out of the Thames.’

  Gawber nodded. ‘Ahmed told me, sir,’ he said grimly. ‘No less than he deserves.’

  Angel sighed. ‘You can call off the searches into his background. We know enough and we can’t prosecute him or Peter Meissen. He’ll be safely back in Patina by now. That’s up to Interpol. Let them earn their keep.’

  Gawber nodded in agreement.

  ‘Now what did you want, Ron?’ Angel said pointing to a chair.

  ‘I managed to get back to the Johannson murder enquiry, sir. You asked me to
see what I could find out about Otis Stroom and Harry Lee, sir. And it’s not much.’

  ‘Go on,’ Angel said.

  Gawber sat down and immediately started coughing. ‘Sorry, sir.’ He continued coughing. He took the bottle of cough mixture out of his pocket. ‘Excuse me.’ He took a sip. The coughing stopped.

  ‘I thought you’d got over that. Why don’t you go to the doctor’s? That stuff will burn your throat out. I told you it contains arsenic.’

  ‘I’m getting better, sir.’

  ‘You must have a cupboard full of it.’

  ‘It works, sir. It stops me coughing,’ he said as put he put the bottle back in his pocket.’

  Angel said, ‘If it were mine, I’d find a better use for it than burning my throat out. Go on, then.’

  ‘Well, sir, Stroom was born in Lancaster in 1970. Christened John Stroom. Only child of the Stroom family, small mill owners, who made ribbon. His father and mother are still there. They closed production down a few years ago, and are now importing it from China. Otis went to the local school then to a private stage school run by an old woman called Madame Polta in Manchester. His good looks and strong voice got him parts in theatre, then telly, then films. Made a few very famous films in the States as well as here. Married once. Didn’t take. Lasted a year. Now single. Earns a lot of money. Endorses “Kisstingle toothpaste, the toothpaste for men that makes all the girls say yes.” You must have heard of it, sir. The jingle drives me bats.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Any more?’

  ‘A bit. Lives in a chalet in Switzerland. Doesn’t drink. Not teetotal, but not known to drink much. Not known to be a member of any clubs, well, posh clubs; the ones I asked wouldn’t tell me whether he was or not. And there’s nothing known about him on the PNC. That’s it for Stroom, sir.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘What does he do for crumpet?’

  ‘Nothing as far as I can see. He’s not known for chasing it, sir. No need to. It chases him all the time. But he likes to have something tasty on his arm at film premieres and red-carpet jobs.’

  Angel nodded, but then began to rub his chin. Gawber’s answer didn’t quite satisfy him. ‘What about Harry Lee?’