Also, it would be really useful if he knew where Gumme had actually been murdered. At the moment, there was no proper crime scene. You couldn’t have a crime scene at the bottom of a river.
His train of thought was disturbed by a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
The door opened. It was Crisp, smiling like a new moon.
‘I hear you got Vincent Galbraith for possession and dealing, sir.’
‘Yes,’ Angel grunted.
‘Congratulations, sir. And you got that woman for possession and dealing, too.’
Angel wrinkled his nose.
‘Come in, Crisp. Come in. Shut the door. You needn’t go on. It’s not exactly the crime of the century.’
Crisp blinked. The smile vanished. He closed the door.
‘What did you want, anyway?’ Angel said.
‘You asked me to make enquiries about Gumme’s ability to walk, sir.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. He had forgotten about it with so much happening. ‘What have you got?’
‘I saw his GP and he said that Gumme had had a back injury, years ago. He had never seen him walk. He had over recent years prescribed drugs to combat arthritic pain, but he said that he thought he was in pretty good health otherwise. He referred me to a specialist at the hospital who said he had examined Joshua Gumme recently. He had been complaining of pain in the lower back. At the time he agreed with the GP’s prescription of painkillers and he said that the nervous system below the waist was so badly damaged that he would definitely not be able to support himself in a standing position. Also, his opinion was that as his wrists and hands were so out of shape and painful with arthritis, he must rule out the possibility of him being able to use crutches. He did say that the rest of him seemed very sound for a man of his age.’
Angel rubbed his chin.
There was another knock on the door.
‘Come in, Angel called.
It was Gawber.
Angel looked up.
‘Come in, Ron.’
He glanced across at Crisp and nodded. He smiled back.
Gawber closed the door and said, ‘Congratulations, sir. So it was Vince Galbraith? Pity. I thought he was destined for the top. The obbo idea worked a treat, and you were dead right about the letterbox being used as an emergency hidey-hole, and you told me the time of the first raid on Gloria Swithenbank’s place that someone must have tipped her off. Pity the DCI didn’t act on it.’
Angel smiled and shrugged. He was beginning to reconcile himself to the morning’s events.
‘Did you want something else, Ron?’
‘You wanted all I could get on the Taskers, sir. I haven’t got much. There’s nothing at all on either of them on the NPC. James Tasker was assistant manager at the Bromersley Building Society and was doing very well, until it was taken over by the Northern Bank. They made an opening for him at their Todmorden branch, but he wouldn’t move so he put himself out of work. His parents are alive and live in Sheffield. They’re not known to us. Mrs Tasker was an actress, pretty successful, made two films, did a bit on the telly. Seemed to give it all up for marriage and children. Known by her maiden name Muriel Fitzwilliam. Couldn’t find her parents.’
‘I remember her … Muriel Fitzwilliam,’ Crisp said. ‘Beautiful she was. Absolutely marvellous. She was in a film about a man, her husband, who was madly in love with her but he was an inveterate gambler. Then there was another man. She fancied him, so, although she loved her husband, she shot him to run off with this other chap.’
Gawber smiled across at Crisp.
‘Did you say she shot him?’ Angel said. And he wasn’t smiling.
‘Yes, sir. But it was only a film … a story. At the Odeon. Yes, sir. And with the new bloke, together they pushed him off the edge of the cliff into the sea. Can’t remember what they called it. That new American film star was in it with her … Carnegie Jones. He was the one who got her the gun.’
Angel squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb.
‘Interesting,’ he said thoughtfully.
Gawber and Crisp exchanged glances.
‘It was only a film, sir.’
‘Yes. Yes. I know. I understand that.’
‘I wish I could remember the name of it.’
Angel suddenly said: ‘It’s significant that it would take the minimum of two people to hoist Gumme’s dead body up and over the rail on Town End Bridge and into the river. That railing is four foot nine.’
‘What did Gumme weigh?’
‘Eleven stone, two pounds.’
Angel turned to Crisp.
‘Whoever shot him had to move him to the bridge. I want you to find out how Spitzer disguised as that priest got to The Feathers, the afternoon of that same night.’
FOURTEEN
It was almost 12.30, Angel’s lunchtime. It had been such a dreadful morning that he thought he would like to get out of the office for a brief time. Shake off the atmosphere of distrust and betrayal, and the necessary unhappy business of finding and delivering evidence against a colleague. There are times when unpleasant decisions and actions had to be faced in the police service; there were times when you had to be strong and be seen to be strong. This was one of those days.
He drove the car the short distance to The Fat Duck, parked in the car park and went inside. He was only in there about twenty minutes. He enjoyed a meat pie and two glasses of Old Peculier, gave a heavy sigh, said ‘Cheerio’ to the landlord and went out into the car park. He made his way to the BMW. There was going to be a lot of tidying up to do in relation to Galbraith and he must return to the office and get on with it. He turned the ignition key and the car burst into life. He engaged first gear and glanced up into the rear mirror. Something white with coloured printing was flapping over the rear window, covering about half of it. He frowned. Peered more closely into the mirror. It looked like a paper or plastic bag. Strange. It wasn’t windy. He didn’t think it could have blown there. His lips pulled tight back against his teeth. He knocked the gearstick back into neutral and got out of the car. He went round the back and discovered that a Tesco plastic bag had been apparently fastened to the window with a couple of pieces of sticky tape. Obviously, it was no freak of the weather. He snatched at the bag, removed it and looked inside; it was empty. He peeled off the bits of sticky tape, rolled up the debris and looked round for a rubbish bin to dump it in. He spotted a small waste basket fastened to a wall by the pub entrance twelve yards away. He went over to it and dropped it in. Then he returned to his car, pulled open the door and looked straight down the barrel of a Megastar semi-automatic pistol. It was in the hand of a man with a long face, tight smiling mouth and small eyes in dark sockets. He was wearing a black raincoat and hat and was sitting in the passenger seat.
Angel gasped. His heart raced.
‘Get in,’ the stranger snarled.
He wasn’t a stranger for long. Angel recognized him from Records. It was Luke Coulson, drug dealer, murderer and long-time associate of Alexander Spitzer.
Angel stood frozen to the spot.
Then he felt the cold, heavy prod of another gun in his left kidney, and a higher-pitched voice with an Irish lilt, from behind, said, ‘Get in.’
That voice was even more frightening. He knew it belonged to Alexander Spitzer himself.
He was turning to look, but he saw Coulson slide the safety catch off the Megastar with his forefinger. He dared not take his eyes off him.
‘Get in!’ Coulson screamed.
‘All right. All right,’ Angel said quickly and climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands out in front of him. He lowered them slowly onto the steering wheel.
Coulson leaned back into the seat but was still pointing the gun at him.
Angel caught a glance of Spitzer’s long coat with the fur trimming and the big hat as he closed his door on him. He noted he wasn’t in the priest’s garb.
He heard the door behind him open, he felt the car rock slightly and then
heard the door close. Spitzer was in the back.
There were two of them.
One was one too many.
‘What do you want?’ Angel said.
‘I’ll do the talking,’ Coulson snarled.
The man in the back seat coughed slightly, then said with the Irish lilt, ‘No. Oi’ll do the talking.’
Coulson didn’t say anything. He just turned a corner of his mouth up.
‘Drive, Inspector Angel. Drive,’ Spitzer said airily.
‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere that takes your fancy. I want to talk to you.’
The car engine was still running.
Angel engaged gear and let in the clutch. He decided to drive towards the town centre and try to keep to busy areas. He didn’t want to be in a lonely spot with these two.
When he had pulled off the car park and reached the main road, he said, ‘Well, what do you want with me?’
‘Well you may ask, Inspector. Well you may ask. Do you know I was feeling rather chipper this morning? Wasn’t I, Luke?’
‘You was, Mr Spitzer. You was, indeed. He was feeling on top of the world, Inspector, you know.’
Spitzer continued: ‘I was having for my breakfast, half a grapefruit, some French toast and coffee. Then I got a phone call, don’t you know. From a man who knows about these things. And do you know what he told me?’
‘No.’
‘He said that Vincent Galbraith had been arrested and charged by his workmates of possessing and selling the white stuff. Would you believe it, Inspector Angel? His own kith and kin.’
‘Disgraceful,’ Coulson said, right on cue. ‘I call it. Absolutely disgraceful.’
Angel thought quickly. How could Spitzer and Coulson know about Galbraith so early? Was there another bent copper in Bromersley nick? Oh God, no!
‘So do you know what I did, Inspector Angel?’
‘No.’
‘I sent the grapefruit and the toast back and instead I called for a full fry-up. Yes. You know, bacon, egg, sausage, tomato, beans, fried bread and black pudding.’
Coulson said: ‘And I had the same. The full heart-attack special. If you’re going to go, I say, go with a bang!’ He waved the gun around and laughed like a hyena.
‘And then I heard that you were the arresting officer, Inspector Angel,’ Spitzer said. ‘How could you do it, Inspector? A nice man like Vincent Galbraith.’
Angel didn’t reply straight away. He was considering the best answer to give.
‘It’s my job,’ he eventually said.
‘But that’s no sort of an attitude. Ratting on your friends?’
Angel slowed, then stopped at a zebra crossing. People crossed.
‘Now you see we have a problem,’ Spitzer said.
‘But it’s not insurmountable,’ Coulson said.
‘No.’
‘Not at all.’
There was another pause.
‘How much do you think that videotape is worth, Inspector Angel?’ Spitzer said.
He hesitated. He could see where this conversation was going. He was a mouse between two cats.
‘Supposing, just supposing, that that videotape and the two photos taken from it disappeared. Puff. Just like that,’ Coulson said.
Angel shook his head slightly.
He felt the knock of cold steel against his temple. That was Spitzer with the gun.
‘Don’t shake your head, Inspector Angel, when we’re talking to you. It’s rude.’
Angel’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. His mouth dried up. He tried to swallow.
‘How much do you think?’ Coulson said.
Angel began to shake his head again, remembered not to, and stopped.
‘It’s not possible,’ he said. ‘The tape is evidence. It’ll be in the hands of the PSD, the Professional Standards Directorate by now.’
‘Too bloody late!’ Coulson shouted, and waved his gun at him.
Angel sucked in air. He couldn’t help it. He gripped the wheel tightly. He was angry with himself for flinching. He was determined not to show fear again.
A horn blurted from behind. He looked back at the road. The crossing was clear of pedestrians. He pushed the gear lever into first and pulled away.
‘Are you sure?’ Spitzer said.
‘Yes,’ he said. He could hardly change his mind.
There was silence.
They seemed to be considering whether they believed him or not.
He sighed. He had to stop at traffic lights.
Angel saw Coulson look back at Spitzer and nod.
There was a pause. The atmosphere cooled a little.
The lights changed to green.
They were off again. He made his way up the gearbox.
Spitzer said: ‘Well, well, well, Inspector Angel. That means there’s a vacancy.’
‘For an enterprising man who is going places,’ Coulson added quickly.
Angel didn’t know what to say. He could see which way this conversation was now heading. He couldn’t become part of their dirty, crooked schemes, but he didn’t want to finish up dead either. He didn’t know what to say. He sat in silence.
‘I’ve got some questions,’ he heard himself suddenly say. He was surprised. It was as if the voice wasn’t his. He must have said it out of habit. It was accompanied by a fluttering in his stomach.
‘Yes,’ said Spitzer. ‘That’s good. It shows the man has a healthy interest in longevity, Luke. Fire away, Inspector Angel.’
‘Fire away!’ Coulson repeated. ‘Fire away!’ He gave that frightening hyena-like laugh again.
Angel knew he would have to word his questions very carefully.
‘Mr Spitzer, didn’t you meet a Mr Joshua Gumme in the entrance hall lounge at The Feathers Hotel a week last Tuesday night?’
There was a pause, then he said: ‘I might have done, Inspector. To be sure, I might have done. What’s this got to do with—’
‘And you made a business proposition to him?’
‘What?’ he said in surprise.
‘That he turned down?’
‘Who told you that?’ he asked urgently.
‘Nobody. I just guessed.’
‘He didn’t turn it down,’ he snapped indignantly. ‘He said he would give it serious consideration.’
Angel reckoned he had got it spot on the first time.
Spitzer thought a moment.
‘And did you guess what the proposition was?’
Coulson stiffened.
‘I didn’t know anything about this, Mr Spitzer,’ he suddenly said.
‘Shh!’ he said to Coulson. ‘Did you know what the proposition was, Inspector Angel?’
‘I thought it might be to use his snooker hall to market more of your poisonous heroin.’
Suddenly Coulson yelled: ‘I knew nothing about this, Mr Spitzer! You didn’t tell me. You should have told me. I thought we was partners. I should know what is going on.’
‘Shut up, you fool,’ Spitzer said. ‘Anyway, it isn’t true.’
Angel didn’t believe him.
‘Didn’t you say that he would earn two million quid?’
‘How on earth did you know that?’ Spitzer bawled incredulously with the accent of a Leeds loiner. That was his natural accent. He was born in Leeds. He dropped the theatrical Irish voice when he wasn’t thinking about it.
‘You wrote it down,’ Angel said.
‘You wrote it down?’ Coulson screamed. ‘Never write anything down,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ve got a bloody idiot for a partner!’
‘On one of those religious tracts you were handing round,’ Angel persisted. ‘He turned you down, so you shot him and bundled him in the river.’
Angel realized that he had gone too far. He didn’t know what to expect from Spitzer. Now he had accused him of murder, he knew he could pull that trigger just as easily as wink. He had a tight pain across his chest. It had been there some time but until now his mind had been too occupied to notice it. Now i
t hurt just too much to ignore. He started breathing deeply in and out to ease the ache.
After a moment he heard Spitzer snigger.
The snigger was a relief.
‘No, Inspector Angel. What a thing to say,’ he said calmly. The Irish was back.
Angel sighed.
‘Well, what did happen then?’ Coulson chivvied.
‘Really, Luke. Gumme said he would think about it. That’s all.’
‘Tell me, Mr Spitzer! Not him!’ Coulson shouted, his eyes popping out of his head.
Spitzer ignored him.
‘Then we were interrupted by a drunk who had some unfinished business with him … that’s what he said, anyway. Gumme knew him. Didn’t like him. Didn’t want to be left alone with him.’
Coulson said: ‘Well, I expect you stayed there the night. You had a room there, didn’t you? Why didn’t you leave the drunk and take Gumme up to your room? You could have worked him over. Persuaded him, you know. You would have, if I had been there.’
‘I would have done, but the lift was out of order.’
‘You could have walked.’
‘I could have walked. Joshua Gumme was in a wheelchair.’
There was silence.
Angel could hear the wheels and cogs in Coulson’s little brain, meshing and meeting and spinning round and turning other cogs. He wondered what was going to happen next.
Coulson said, ‘He could have gone up on crutches?’
‘He didn’t have any crutches. Anyway, I left them arguing and went to bed. Never saw Gumme after that.’
‘Was the man tall, slim, about thirty and probably in need of a shave?’ asked Angel.
He heard Spitzer suck in a breath of surprise.
‘By God, Inspector. You’re good. You’re very good. How did you know that?’
‘You’re talking too much, Mr Spitzer. He knows too much now,’ Coulson said urgently.
This was all making wonderful sense to Angel. He was getting closer to discovering who murdered Joshua Gumme every minute. The pain in his chest had gone. If ever he got out of this in one piece he knew exactly what he would do.
The Man Who Couldn't Lose Page 15
