‘Is he at work?’
‘He doesn’t work,’ she snapped.
The door behind the children suddenly opened and a man in a vest, trousers and slippers came in. He needed a shave. He glared at Mrs Tasker and then at Angel.
‘He works when he can get a proper job,’ the man growled, ‘but I think the word is out that James Tasker is unemployable.’
He strode carefully over the heads of the two children and took up a position in front of the fireplace. They ignored him. He looked down at Angel.
‘You a policeman?’
‘DI Angel. I’m looking into the murder of Joshua Gumme.’
Tasker shrugged.
‘So what are you doing here?’ he said roughly.
‘I am trying to contact all the people who had reason to dislike Mr Gumme.’
Mrs Tasker said, ‘Dislike? Dislike? We didn’t dislike him, Mr Angel, we hated him.’
Tasker looked at his wife.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s about the only thing we have in common, now. That and the children.’
His wife nodded.
‘And you’re not getting them,’ she snapped.
Tasker ignored her.
‘You will have heard why we have cause to hate him, I take it? That’s why you’re here.’
‘You played cards with him and lost,’ Angel said.
‘He didn’t just lose a game of cards,’ Mrs Tasker said. ‘He lost our house, our home, our car, our savings and our future. He gambled everything on the turn of a card. He needs his head looking into. What we saved and earned over twelve years, he managed to give away to that monster in a few hours.’
Tasker glared at her.
‘All right! All right!’
‘The solicitor says the debt didn’t die with him. Even now, we still owe his estate – that tart – over eighty thousand!’
‘Muriel! Change the record. It’s true. It was stupid. But it’s done now.’
‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ Angel said quietly.
‘I can do,’ he said, running his hand through his hair, ‘but I can’t do it with her interrupting at every verse end—’
‘Oh, get on with it!’ she shouted. ‘You like talking. That’s all you do.’
The two children looked up at her. The youngest was about to cry. Angel recognized the signs. The child looked like he felt.
Mrs Tasker dashed over to her. ‘Oh, now then,’ she said to the tot. ‘Mummy didn’t mean to shout. It’s your father!’
She picked up the young child, looked back at Angel and unexpectedly said, ‘I suppose you’d like a cup of tea? Milk and sugar?’
Angel looked at her brightly.
‘Ta. No sugar,’ he said.
She nodded.
‘Come along, Adrian.’
She went out through the door, carrying the younger and holding the hand of the other who toddled unsteadily with her.
‘Now then, sir,’ Angel said, looking up at Tasker.
The young man’s face tightened.
‘Yes, well, there was all this stuff in the papers about how wonderful this man, Gumme, was. How he could outplay everybody. So I just simply offered to play him. I knew – or I thought I knew – that his luck couldn’t possibly hold. He couldn’t possibly win every game, one after the other. I had a strategy. If it wasn’t going well, I would wait to win just one big hand and then leave the table. I realized that I might lose a hundred pounds or so, but I expected that to be the very worst outcome. I really thought there was a chance of me winning a fortune. After all, pontoon is mostly a game of chance. But it didn’t happen like that, because I never had a good hand. He always had the aces, the court cards and the tens. I kept going because I thought my luck would turn. I employed the doubling of the stake plan. You know, if you lose, you double your stake each hand. It is a sound theory, but you still have to win a game. I simply didn’t win a single game. Of course, he was cheating, but I couldn’t see how. I looked round for mirrors. There weren’t any. I kept my cards closed and close to my chest, in case he had an accomplice, and I covered the backs, but it still didn’t make any difference. The betting went on and on. I fully expected to win the next hand. He couldn’t possibly win every hand. But he did. It was awful. After I had lost everything, I insisted on examining the cards, but I couldn’t see anything unusual about them. I even counted them; there were fifty-two of course. I don’t know what I had expected. Those thick specs he wears, when he took them off, I looked through them. Very strong lenses they were, but that’s all.’
‘Where did this take place?’
‘In a sort of office at the far end of the snooker hall.’
Angel nodded. He knew the place.
‘It must be worth a fortune to know how he did it and kept on doing it,’ Tasker said. ‘And it all happened so quickly. I hardly dare come home to Muriel. I knew we would have to leave our detached house on Creeford Road, and hand the car in and …’
Angel thought a moment.
‘Why did you want to take on such a gamble in the first place?’
‘That’s another story. I was gainfully employed, Inspector, as assistant manager at the Bromersley branch of the Yorkshire and North Lincolnshire Building Society on Duke Street. I was doing rather well. I thought I would be there for life. I’d been there ever since leaving school. Passed all my exams. When it was taken over by the Northern Bank last January, they hadn’t a job for me here. I could have had a job at a lower grade in Todmorden, but Muriel didn’t want to move. It would have been that bit further away from her mother, so I found myself out of work. I have tried everywhere to get a job at the same level but there’s nothing turned up as yet in Bromersley.’
Angel nodded.
‘Do you own a gun?’
Tasker’s jaw dropped open.
‘A gun? No.’
‘You’ve never owned a gun?’
‘No. Never.’
The door opened and Mrs Tasker came in with a tray with two cups of tea on it. She turned the tray at an angle and offered it out to the two men.
Angel took the cup nearest to him.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Mr Tasker picked up the other cup without comment.
‘Has he finished his stupid, pathetic tale then?’ she said, looking at Angel.
Tasker growled and turned away.
‘I’ve another important question,’ said Angel. ‘Where were you both on the night of Tuesday, 20 March between eight o’clock and, say, nine o’clock in the morning?’
‘We were here,’ they both said in unison.
‘Can anybody verify that?’
‘We can verify each other,’ Tasker said.
Angel wrinkled his nose. That wasn’t quite a twenty-four carat alibi. Husband and wife giving each other an alibi.
His wife looked at him, pulled a face like Medusa and said, ‘I was here, Mr Angel. All night. Where else could I possibly be?’
NINE
‘Yes, Ahmed? What is it?’
‘An itemized list, from the phone company, sir. All the calls made from Joshua Gumme’s house phone over the past two weeks, arrived second post, sir,’ Ahmed said.
‘About time,’ Angel sniffed.
‘I’ve traced each one, sir. There doesn’t seem to be anything helpful to the investigation. Most of the calls were to retail businesses in the town or to the snooker hall or to Makepiece’s flat,’ Ahmed said, putting the two A4 sheets of paper on the desk. ‘It confirms that Mr Gumme last rang the snooker hall at 20.05 hours the night he was murdered.’
Angel nodded and looked down at Ahmed’s handiwork.
‘That fits in with his call to get Makepiece to come round and take him to The Feathers.’
The phone rang.
He reached out for it.
‘Angel.’
It was the superintendent.
‘Come down here. Straight away!’ Harker bawled and banged down the phone.
Angel sighed. Sounded as if he was breathi
ng out fire again. He ran his tongue across his lower lip. He jumped up and pushed the list back into Ahmed’s hands.
‘I have to go. I’ll have a look at it later.’
‘Right, sir.’
Angel dashed out of the office and up the corridor. He wondered what had happened to upset the dragon. Or was he just going to crack the whip again? What was he so worked up about? It’s true he wasn’t moving very effectively with this Gumme case, but considering the dearth of clues and lack of DNA he didn’t feel he was doing too badly.
He knocked on the door and pushed it open.
‘Aye. Come in,’ bellowed the man with the turnip head, red face and staring eyes. He was seated at his desk and holding a pink expense chitty. He thrust it across the desk at Angel.
‘This yours?’ he said.
Angel took it, glanced at it, looked back at Harker and said, ‘Yes, sir.’
The superintendent looked sneeringly at him.
‘This isn’t the fancy goods department at Debenham’s, you know,’ he said, his hands shaking and his bushy eyebrows twitching. ‘Read it out, Inspector. Read it out.’
Angel sighed.
‘I know what it says.’
‘Read it out. Aloud.’
Angel’s lips pressed tight against his teeth.
‘It says, “to drilling quarter-inch diameter cavity in white pot dog, £10.00”.’ He looked across the desk into his red face. ‘It’s from Enderby’s, the glaziers, sir. They’re the only people who would do a job like that, and they didn’t damage the dog at all.’
He put the paper back down on the desk.
The superintendent winced.
‘They didn’t damage the dog at all?’ he bellowed. ‘I can’t approve an expense like that! If you want to make a bloody table lamp out of a piece of Mrs Buller-Price’s pottery then you’ll have to pay for it out of your own pocket.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up.
‘But it’s not for that!’ he said.
‘Whatever it is, I can’t pass it,’ Harker snorted. He reached forward, picked up the chitty, screwed it up and threw it in the wastepaper basket at the side of his desk.
‘But I’ve already paid it,’ Angel explained.
‘That’s hard luck. I am surprised at you trying to get that past me.’
‘I wasn’t trying to get anything past you.’
‘That’s all I have to say on the matter,’ Harker said. ‘I’ve no time for this nonsense.’
He shook his head and waved a hand to change the subject.
‘This is a police station not a pot shop,’ he muttered, then added, ‘How far have you got with these attacks on postmen?’
Angel sighed, shook his head and said, ‘They’re dead ends, sir. I haven’t got anywhere.’
Harker stared at him. An occasional flickering reflection of the ceiling light on his spectacle lenses reminded Angel of old clips of film of Heinrich Himmler.
‘Nothing seemed to have been taken,’ Angel added, ‘and there doesn’t seem to be a link between the two men.’
‘You must have missed something. It doesn’t make sense.’
Angel agreed but he wasn’t going to admit it.
There was a pause.
‘What about the gun in this Gumme murder?’
‘I’ve had an underwater team searching the river for a week but there’s no luck so far.’
‘If they can’t find it in a week, they’ll never find it.’
Angel knew he was probably right.
‘Call them off,’ Harker insisted. ‘Save us a few hundred quid. I have to pay for the frogs out of our own budget, you know. They don’t turn out for us for nowt.’
Angel nodded.
‘I have to go down there in the morning, sir. I’ll make a decision about it then.’
‘Call them off now!’ he bawled. ‘Cut your losses.’
‘Come in,’ Angel called.
The office door opened and Ahmed came in carrying the pot dog under his arm. He looked very clinical wearing white rubber gloves.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good morning.’
‘I’ve brought this down from Traffic, sir.’
‘Aye. Put it down there,’ he said with a nod.
Ahmed carefully placed it on Angel’s desk.
‘It’s all ready, sir,’ he said as he turned back and closed the door. ‘DS Mallin said he’d fitted it himself. He’s checked it out and it’s transmitting now.’
‘Good. I hope it’s not been chipped at all.’
‘It looks perfect, sir. The sergeant has covered over the hole in its bottom with a bit of plaster of Paris. You can hardly see it.’
Angel had a look at the back end of the dog and nodded approvingly.
‘Right. I want you to put all the swag, including the dog, into the new bag; squeeze out the air, then seal it up with that sticky tape exactly as it was … fasten that rope with the float on to it, just the way Harry Hull did it. I want it to look as if it’s not been touched since the night he dropped it into the River Don. And make sure it’s watertight. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said with a grin. ‘It’s a wicked plan.’
‘He’s a wicked man. Crack on with it. I want Crisp to take the whole shebang back down to the river this morning and get the froggies to place it back in the water exactly where they found the original.’
Angel stopped the BMW outside 101 Earl Street, a big, old house in need of a coat of paint. He went up to the door and pressed the bell. He didn’t hear it ring so wondered if it worked. He pressed it again. Then he heard the loud clatter of footsteps down uncarpeted stairs; the door was opened by a middle-aged woman. She glared at him indignantly.
‘What do you want?’ she snapped. ‘You’re not the postman.’
He frowned. He knew he wasn’t.
‘I’m looking for Mr Harry Hull.’
‘That must be the new tenant,’ she said. ‘Flat two. Up the stairs. First door on your left. Follow me,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
She turned round and ran back up the stairs. Angel followed. She pointed at a door and then rushed off along the landing and round a corner out of sight.
Angel reached the door. It had a strange symbol in black on it. He reckoned that it must be a figure two painted by a man with St Vitus’ Dance.
He knocked on it.
It was opened only two inches.
Angel could only see a nose and an eye, but it was enough for him to recognize that it was the man he was looking for.
‘What you want?’ a voice said.
Angel put all his weight against it and pushed. The door and the man behind it moved backwards until it was wide enough to gain access.
‘Here, here. What you doin’?’ Harry Hull shouted indignantly.
‘Don’t you recognize an old friend when you see one?’ Angel said as he closed the door behind him.
Hull stared at him uncertainly, and then relaxed.
‘Yeah,’ he said sneeringly. ‘It’s old St Peter hisself … Detective Inspector Michael Angel … come to make my miserable life even more miserable.’
‘Now that’s where you’re wrong, Harry.’
‘Huh. I doubt it. You needn’t have been so aggressive. I would have let you in … even though you haven’t got a warrant. Cos I ain’t got nuthin’ to hide.’
Angel glanced round the little room. It was probably true. There wasn’t any room to hide anything.
‘Cosy little place you’ve got here, Harry.’
‘Smells a bit since you got here,’ he said. ‘But it’s all right. Anyway, what’s a big cheese like you tripping round small fry like me? You could have sent one of your boys.’
‘It’s called goodwill, Harry. Goodwill.’
‘Huh. I’ll believe that when I see it.’
‘Yes. It’s a new policy. We reckon that if we can help our … ex customers to get settled back into the community, they’re less likely to reoffend.’
<
br /> ‘That what the probationary service wallahs are paid to do. They’re a thick load of nerks, but they look better and do it better than big foots like you. You must be up to something, Angel. What you after?’
‘Have you got a job yet?’
‘No. Are you offering?’
‘Have you tried?’
‘Of course I’ve tried. But as I am obliged to tell a prospective employer that I’ve just come out of Armley, that … sort of … puts them off.’
‘It would,’ he nodded. ‘It would.’
‘The probationer wallah is finding me something in a factory soon, she told me. The pay’s peanuts but it’s a start. Huh!’
‘As it happens, Harry, I do have a little job you could do for me. It would be a sort of job on commission. Because of your … background, you are in a unique position to assist me.’
‘Oh? What’s it pay?’
‘A hundred pounds.’
Hull sniffed.
‘A hundred nicker? That’s not much these days.’
‘You haven’t heard what it is. And that’s only a start. I simply want some information. I want you to ask around your … friends and acquaintances.’
‘Yeah. What?’
‘Well, a week last Tuesday, Harry, thieves broke into a farmhouse near here and stole some expensive jewellery, some antique silver and a very valuable pot dog, about sixteen inches high, the figure of a French poodle sculpted in white china by the famous seventeenth-century Greek artist, Aristo Hypotenuse. Now the haul seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. The police and the insurance company have searched everywhere for it, but without success. They are particularly concerned about the sculpture.’
The pupils of Hull’s eyes moved slightly to the left and then back to the central position.
Angel knew he had his man.
‘Yeah. So what?’ Hull said.
‘It’s worth a great deal of money, Harry. It’s irreplaceable. I don’t suppose you have seen it on your travels, have you?’
‘A white pot dog? Of course not. How much did you say it was worth?’
‘I didn’t. And it isn’t just a white pot dog, Harry. It hasn’t got an actual price tag on it, but if it was auctioned in one of the international houses, it could fetch fifty thousand pounds, or even more.’
Hull rubbed his scratchy chin.
The Man Who Couldn't Lose Page 10
