The Man Who Couldn't Lose

by Roger Silverwood

  Gawber nodded, but the lines on his forehead indicated that he still couldn’t see what Angel was driving at.

  ‘An hour later. Sixty minutes after the phone call from Galbraith to Messenger, Alexander Spitzer and Luke Coulson ambushed me on the car park of The Fat Duck and started trying to make a deal with me to free Galbraith.’

  Realization dawned on Gawber’s face.

  ‘Messenger must have phoned them.’

  ‘Exactly. He is the only person who could have. Now, all you have to do is contact the telephone company, trace the call made from Carl Messenger’s office phone shortly after he was called by Galbraith, say five minutes after, at approximately 11.30 a.m. on Friday last, get the address, and there you should have Spitzer’s and Coulson’s hideout. Then liaise with my old friend DI Waldo White, at the Firearms Special Unit, Wakefield. Get his men to surround the place, wherever it is, and wait for them to show. Easy.’

  Gawber’s face lit up. It looked great. He wanted to get on with it then and there. Suddenly his face changed. He licked his lips and shook his head.

  ‘What about the super? He’s supposed to be dealing with Spitzer and Coulson. I wouldn’t want to tread on his toes, sir.’

  ‘What about the super?’ Angel yelled. ‘He’s not daft, Ron. If you bring Spitzer and Coulson in, he’ll be over the moon. You’d not be the only blue-eyed boy at Bromersley nick, you know. Credit would naturally fall on him. It would be showered on him from on high. And not only will our chief constable be purring, but there’ll be kudos flying his way from the top brass in Manchester, North Yorkshire and the Lincoln forces, believe me,’ he said brightly. ‘They’ve all been after those two villains for years.’ Then he added: ‘And, if, for some reason, it doesn’t work out, you can always say I instructed you to do it.’

  Gawber grinned. He couldn’t lose. It looked great. He couldn’t wait to get back into the office.

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel beamed.

  ‘Great.’

  There was something else.

  ‘By the way, sir,’ Gawber began. ‘You asked me to find out who took Spitzer to The Feathers late that Tuesday afternoon.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was quite useful that he was dressed as a priest. Made him sort of conspicuous. I checked round the taxi firms and the ranks at the bus station but nobody saw or heard of him.’

  ‘Can’t see Spitzer on a bus, somehow.’

  ‘I went to The Feathers and asked around there. The porter remembers that he brought the priest’s case in. But he didn’t notice the man who drove the car. Took it out of the boot of an old Mercedes, which was mostly loaded with six-packs of Grolsch, he said. He thought it a big joke pulling a priest’s sober black suitcase out of a boot stashed with booze.’

  Angel frowned.

  ‘An old Mercedes?’

  ‘Mean anything to you?’ Gawber said.

  ‘Somebody mentioned an old Merc to me recently, Ron, I’m sure o’ that.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  ‘I’ll think about it, Ron. Now, there’s something else on my mind, though. Mmmm. I want you to check on that lift at The Feathers. See if it was working the night Gumme was murdered. If it was not working then Gumme couldn’t have been murdered there. There would have been too many people around the ground floor. They would have heard a gunshot. And there was no way Spitzer or Tasker could have got Gumme upstairs without people noticing. Also, although a pillow would have helped to silence a gunshot, no pillows are missing, so I am coming round to the conclusion that the murder was not committed in the hotel.’

  ‘But Gumme’s Walther, the one the murderer used, was found in a downstairs lavatory cistern.’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said thoughtfully. ‘I can’t understand that yet.’

  ‘And did you just say that Spitzer or Tasker could not have carried Gumme upstairs? Was Tasker at The Feathers the night of the murder, then?’

  ‘Yes, I believe he was. According to Spitzer, a man answering his description interrupted them, was arguing with Gumme and being generally annoying.’

  ‘Can you trust Spitzer?’

  ‘It was the way it came out. It wasn’t in answer to a question.’

  Mary Angel bustled in, carrying a paper bag. She saw Gawber. He stood up. They exchanged smiles.

  ‘Hello, Ron. Nice of you to come.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Nice to see you, Mrs Angel. He’s a lot better.’

  She nodded and smiled.

  ‘I’d better be off,’ he said. ‘Leave him to you.’ He turned to Angel. ‘Anything you want, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘I want Spitzer and Coulson on a plate.’

  Gawber smiled knowingly.

  ‘Tell Trevor Crisp I want to see him. And Ahmed.’

  ‘Right, and I’ll let you know about the lift, sir.’

  ‘Keep in touch.’

  He nodded, turned to Mary, smiled and went out.

  ‘He’s a nice man, Michael.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘He’s a gentleman.’

  ‘He’s too soft, but he’s the best sergeant I’ve ever had.’

  Mary opened the paper bag.

  ‘Writing pad and a pen,’ she announced.

  ‘Ta, love. Put it on the locker. Now come and sit down.’

  ‘I can’t stay long. I have been asking the sister about you. She says I can only have another two minutes. You are getting far too excitable and you’ve got to rest.’

  ‘Bloody cheek. You’re my wife. You can stay as long as you want.’

  Mary didn’t choose to argue.

  ‘Well, sit a minute, anyway,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘There’s something bothering me. I’ve got a problem. I feel a bit guilty, but it really was unavoidable. Part of this bent copper business involved the daughter of Mrs Buller-Price’s friend. Gloria Swithenbank is going to go down for drug charges. I reckon she’ll get a custody sentence, first offence, might get twelve months or even two or three years … It depends how it comes out in court. Now that’s going to leave old Mrs Gladstone, who, in her younger days, used to be Mrs Buller-Price’s cleaning lady, managing on her own, and I am not sure how she’ll take to it. Now, they are still good friends. Still see each other on trips and social things run at St Olave’s. Would you be a darling and ring Mrs Buller-Price, tell her … well, you know what to tell her … explain it all and ask her if she can make time to look in on the old lady and see if she’s all right?’

  ‘Of course I will. I can call on Mrs Gladstone myself, if you want me to?’

  Angel shook his head and looked down at the pot on his leg.

  ‘I don’t think that would do, love. You might get a really hostile reception. The wife of the copper that locked up her daughter … going round bringing tea and sympathy. I’m not sure.’

  ‘All right,’ she said with an understanding nod. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. I want some clothes. They cut that new suit off me when I was unconscious. And I want some money, some silver for the phone … all you’ve got.’

  While she ferreted in her bag for coins, she said, ‘By the way, those cheap playing cards you left on the dressing table …’

  His ears pricked up. He looked up at her and frowned.

  ‘Yes? What about them.’

  ‘What are they for? I played a game of patience with them. And they’re useless.’

  ‘Useless?’ he said, his eyebrows shooting up. ‘What do you mean, useless? And they’re evidence.’

  A woman in a blue dress and little white cap came in. She stood with folded arms at the door.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go, Mrs Angel. He’s got to have his rest.’

  ‘This is my wife, Sister,’ Angel said assertively.

  ‘I know. We’ve met.’

  ‘I’m coming, Sister,’ Mary Angel said.

  ‘Visiting time goes on until six, doesn’t it?’ Angel said.

  The sister didn�
��t reply.

  Mary put a pile of silver on the locker top.

  ‘That’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Ta, love.’

  She quickly reached down for her handbag.

  Angel’s lips tightened. He looked at the sister. ‘What’s the panic?’

  ‘There’s a cup of tea on the way,’ the sister replied.

  ‘Goodbye, sweetheart. See you tomorrow.’

  She gave him a kiss.

  ‘Take care, love. Oh,’ he said. ‘Will you wheel me the telephone trolley in?’

  ‘I’ll see to it later, Mrs Angel,’ Sister said.

  Angel pulled a face.

  Mary was at the door.

  ‘What about those playing cards?’ he called. ‘What’s the matter with them?’

  ‘They’re simply no good, love. Anyway, take care and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘What do you mean they’re no good?’ he bawled.

  It was too late. She had gone.

  The sister advanced towards him.

  ‘Come along. Let’s get you back into bed,’ she said, snatching at the bedding. ‘You’ve been sat out long enough. Stand up. Lean on the chair arm. Keep that foot up. Let’s have that dressing gown off.’

  Angel’s jaw dropped.

  She began peeling off a sleeve.

  ‘A young man called Ahmed called in to see you, but I headed him off. You already had two visitors and it’s only two visitors to a bed, you know. Told him he can come tomorrow. Now sit on the bed. Take your slipper off.’

  Angel’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. The pain was too much or she might have heard him describing her in terms of a female in the canine world.

  SIXTEEN

  The hospital porter sighed and pushed Angel in the wheelchair out of the lift into the corridor.

  ‘Now, now, sir,’ the brown-coated elderly man said, ‘we’ll soon have you back in bed.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to bed. I’ve been in bed for four days. I’ve had enough of bed.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow, I expect you’ll be having more physiotherapy.’

  ‘I don’t need any more physiotherapy. I can do all that physio stuff at home … better still, in my office. I don’t need a little lass to teach me how to walk,’ he bawled. ‘I have been walking for years! I’ve got the hang of it now.’

  ‘Well, we’re nearly back on your ward. You’re going to be all right.’

  ‘I know I’m going to be all right, but I would be a damned sight more all right at home.’

  Angel looked up and by the nurses’ counter and desk, opposite his ward, was a figure he was very pleased to see.

  ‘There you are, sir,’ Gawber said.

  Angel’s face brightened.

  ‘Hello there. Nice to see you. Come on in, Ron, before Sister Himmler shoves a catheter up you.’

  Gawber smiled and followed them into the ward.

  The porter pushed the wheelchair up to the side of the bed.

  ‘I’ll get a nurse.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I can manage,’ he called, but the porter had gone.

  Angel slowly transferred himself from the wheelchair to the upholstered chair at the side of the bed.

  Gawber could see by his contorted, perspiring face that his boss was still in some discomfort.

  ‘Sit down. Sit down,’ Angel said irritably. ‘Listen, Ron,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Last night, I suddenly woke up. Don’t know why. I hadn’t been dreaming or anything, but I woke up and from nowhere, I remembered who had told me about a Mercedes … only he called it an “old Merc”. It was Ben Johnson. Yes. It was definitely Ben Johnson. He said he had bought it because it was good for pulling girls … or something similar. And when I thought about it, I also remembered something else. I remembered seeing him drinking from a can of Grolsch when I interviewed him at the snooker hall.’

  Gawber nodded.

  ‘That fits.’

  ‘Yes. And there’s something else. Johnson came out of Durham prison in 2004, didn’t he? Wasn’t Spitzer in Durham in 2004?’

  ‘I’d have to check up on that, sir,’ Gawber said, then he grinned. He had a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘I’ve got some news too, sir,’ he said quickly.

  Angel realized he had done all the talking and not given him a chance. He could see it was important.

  ‘Aye. What is it? What is it? Spit it out, Ron,’ Angel said, full of anticipation.

  ‘I’ve got Spitzer and Coulson’s address,’ he said grandly.

  ‘Great stuff.’

  ‘It’s a small farmhouse between Wakefield and Huddersfield. It’s got a few outbuildings and a couple of barns. Fairly isolated.’

  ‘You got it from the telephone company?’

  ‘It worked. Just as you said, sir.’

  ‘Good. Good. Messenger has no idea you’ve made the inquiry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Great. When are you going in?’

  ‘Six o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  Angel bit his lip. He would have given anything to be leading the raid. ‘You’ve set it up with Waldo White?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s great. Let me know what you find and how you get on.’

  Gawber nodded. He noticed that Angel was looking at the fingers peeping out through the pot on his left hand. He moved them slightly.

  ‘Do they hurt?’

  ‘Can’t feel them. I wish I could.’

  ‘What’s the doctor say?’

  He pulled an impatient face.

  ‘They don’t know anything,’ he said disdainfully. ‘Got to wait and see.’ He gritted his teeth and said, ‘You know, Ron, if I don’t recover the full use of my hand, they’ll chuck me out of the force.’

  Gawber knew that what he said was right; he also knew that it would be devastating to a man like Angel.

  ‘It’ll be all right, I expect, sir,’ he said encouragingly. Then he wondered what he could say to take Angel’s mind off his hand. He was glad that he remembered he had some more news. ‘By the way, sir. I almost forgot. I saw the desk clerk at The Feathers and he eventually, reluctantly, admitted that the lift was not working the night of Tuesday, March 20th, the night of the murder.’

  Angel’s face brightened.

  ‘Ah. I thought so. Well, Ron, that means that Gumme could not have been murdered in The Feathers. He must have been taken from there, some time later that evening, to another place, where he was shot, then transported in a vehicle, a car presumably, and then hoisted over the bridge wall and dropped into the river.’

  ‘And his wheelchair dropped in after him.’

  ‘Or before him. He was shot with his own gun. I assume he pulled the gun on someone, and that party, man or woman, took the gun from him and shot him.’

  ‘But the gun was found in the gentlemen’s loo, in the hotel, sir. I found it. It was wiped clean of prints.’

  ‘Hmm. It doesn’t make sense, does it?’

  ‘It would need a deliberate trip back to The Feathers with it … at the risk of being seen.’

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

  ‘I think the murderer must have brought the gun back to The Feathers deliberately to try to involve Spitzer in the crime. It would have seemed to him or her to be a great idea to take advantage of the presence of a well-known murderer, like Alexander Spitzer, on the scene. And if you knew that Spitzer was actually to meet the intended victim, so much the better. To the murderer, it would have been seen to be like a gift from the gods. But, of course, it didn’t go to plan. He didn’t count on the unforeseen possibility that the lift would be out of order and that that would prevent Gumme reaching a suitable part of the building where he could have been quietly disposed of!’

  Gawber nodded.

  ‘That sounds right, sir. Of course, sir, the gun being found in the gents’ loo means that the murderer must have been a man.’

  Angel grunted in agreement; his mind was racing.

  ‘So
the murderer is someone cunning,’ Angel said, ‘someone with transport, someone devious enough to try to lay a trail for the police away from himself, towards Spitzer or someone else at the hotel, someone with a criminal mind, been in trouble with the law before, physically strong enough to be able to hoist Gumme up and over the rail on the bridge and into the river, and hates the man enough to want him dead.’

  ‘It’s looking like Ben Johnson, sir.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Yes. He hated being called Bozo. He said so. Maybe he had a secret hatred of Gumme. He said he didn’t get any support when he accidentally killed the man in his snooker hall. That’s why Gumme charitably gave him a job when nobody would lift a finger to help him.’

  ‘Aye, and maybe it wasn’t such a charitable deal at all. Maybe Gumme was simply stuck for a glorified lavatory cleaner.’

  ‘Aye,’ Angel had to agree. ‘There’s no big rush for those sort of jobs these days, is there? Well, see if Johnson and Spitzer were in Durham prison at the same time. Then pick him up, PDQ. You’ll have to interview him again. Read my notes. I’d like to do it. You’ll have to play it very canny. Oh, I wish I was out of here. They’re not giving me any treatment. Just pills and a physio lass walking me up and down like an infant for half an hour in the mornings. I can do that at home. If I could only get out of here, Ron, you could take me to the office, I could work from there.’

  Angel was in a wheelchair, fully dressed, except for one shoe, and he had a small suitcase across his lap.

  He was beaming and full of bonhomie and anticipation.

  ‘Mr Angel!’ Sister bawled as she came into the ward carrying a small paper bag and a letter.

  He looked up at her from the wheelchair.

  ‘Now listen very carefully, Mr Angel. In this packet are enough pills for one week, seven days. It’s two every six hours of the white ones, day and night. No more than eight in twenty-four hours. Your sleeping pills are the little blue ones …’

  The bonhomie vanished. He pulled a face like he’d collared a burglar and let a murderer escape.