He was not in the best of moods.
The chiefs secretary closed the door behind him, which was as well; if he hadn’t been hindered by the crutches, he might have been tempted to slam it. He stumped down the station steps, as quietly as his temper and his desire to remain in employment as a policeman would allow. Descending them one at a time, at the bottom he swung towards the CID room and hobbled up to the door. He peered round the jamb. There were four plainclothes men viewing photographs on a computer.
‘Anybody seen DS Gawber or DS Crisp?’ he growled.
‘No sir.’
‘Cadet Ahaz?’ he enquired.
A voice from behind him said, ‘I’m here, sir.’
He turned round: a three-point turn was tricky with crutches.
Cadet Ahmed Ahaz was a 20-year-old Indian, who was immaculately turned out in a well-pressed dark suit. He had small teeth and big bright eyes. His jet-black hair was brushed straight back and shone brighter than the chief constable’s Mercedes. His speech was clipped but always distinct.
‘What you doing, creeping about like that, lad? Who do you think you are? Uriah Heep?’
Ahmed straightened up, his eyes flashed, he breathed in deeply, stuck out his small chest and said, ‘I’m not creeping about, sir.’
‘You’re taking advantage of me, because I’m dependent on these damned sticks,’ he said, waving a crutch at him.
‘No, sir,’ Ahmed protested.
Angel took a step towards him and leaned forward until he was three inches from his face. ‘Well listen up. Listen up good. And keep this to yourself. I want you to go down to the cellar and find the personnel files going back to 1950, and look up a PC Cyril Sagar. He was a constable here from about then until 1962 or ’63, when he took his own life. Now I want to know all that is recorded about him. Got it?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Right. Crack on with it then, lad.’
‘One moment please, sir.’
Angel’s face went scarlet. ‘Now!’ he bellowed.
‘No sir. I have to tell you something. It’s very important, but you don’t give me a chance. The super wants you now, sir, and he said it was very urgent.’
‘What?’ he roared. He turned away and started rocking down the corridor. ‘Why didn’t you tell me straightaway instead of acting like Jonathan Dimbleby … giving me a load of smart-arse crosstalk?’
Ahmed shook his head slowly.
‘Find Gawber and send him to my office, pronto!’ Angel added without looking back.
The cadet watched him go, admiring the speed the big man was making on his crutches.
‘Right, sir,’ he called.
Angel rocked the crutches down the green corridor to the office at the end of the line. The door had a white plastic panel with the words ‘DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT H. HARKER’ painted on it. He tapped on the door with the butt of a crutch.
‘Come in.’
A big man with a head shaped like a turnip and covered with short white hair focused his bloodshot eyes on him from behind a desk. He always wore a pained expression and looked as if he had just swallowed a bag of nails. ‘You wanted me, sir?’ Angel said.
‘Sit down. Been hunting you all over,’ he snarled, and stuck a finger in the corner of his mouth, to remove an irritating nail lodged between his teeth.
Angel took the seat and laid the crutches on the floor. ‘I was stuck with the chief.’
Harker sniffed disinterestedly, pointed at the crutches and said, ‘How long are you going to be dependent on those damned things?’
‘Doctor said a couple of weeks or so.’
‘Don’t want to give you something you can’t manage. And if working makes it worse, you had better stop at home.’
Angel shook his head. ‘No.’
‘You could take your summer holidays?’
Angel didn’t like the sound of that. ‘This happened in the course of work, sir. I want to be fit enough to enjoy my summer holidays, thank you.’
The superintendent smiled, which was very unusual. It was rumoured around Bromersley station that every time he smiled, a donkey died.
‘A man’s been stabbed at Snatchpole’s, the auctioneers. Was taken to Bromersley General but he was DOA. Came in at 1504. I’ve sent Mac, SOCO and two PCs.’
‘Right, sir,’ he said and reached down for the crutches. He took his leave and charged up the green corridor. He could move fast on these crutches if the way ahead was clear. As he took the bend, he saw Ahmed and DS Gawber waiting outside his office.
‘Ah Ron,’ he boomed. ‘Take me to Snatchpole’s, auctioneers, on Doncaster Road.’
Gawber nodded.
‘And Ahmed, find out all you can about Snatchpole’s. See if there’s anything known on the NPC. And find out what the hell Crisp is up to. I can never find that lad when I want him. Try his mobile. I want him at Snatchpole’s, now. And I want Scrivens there as well. Well, go on, then. Get on with it.’
*
Gawber pulled up on the auctioneer’s car park. The only other vehicles there were a police car, the SOCOs’ van and Dr Mac’s car.
Angel surveyed the scene and sniffed. They made their way through the double doors into the saleroom. Two uniformed constables were chatting to each other at the foot of the podium. When they saw Angel, they separated and straightened up. Two SOCOs in white paper suits, hats and rubber boots were on their hands and knees at the back of the room. One had a brush with aluminium powder on it tickling the wood panelling, the other was gazing studiously at the carpet. Seated at the side of the room was the auctioneer, perspiring and wiping his face with a big white handkerchief. He stood up and looked enquiringly across at the new arrivals.
‘Afternoon. I’m Detective Inspector Angel. Who are you?’
‘James Snatchpole. I’m the proprietor of this business,’ he said evenly.
‘A man was killed here this afternoon, sir. Did you see what happened?’
Gawber took out his notebook and made notes as the interview progressed.
‘Yes. I was up there, on the podium, selling surplus effects from the Ogmore estate. It was going very well. I had reached lot 190, that beautiful oil painting of the original house at Littlecombe. And I drew the attention of the saleroom to it, when there was a gasp from somewhere at the back of the hall. A tall man in a grey suit, who was standing leaning against the wall, bent forward and then sort of rolled out of sight on to the floor. A few other customers near him also noticed. There was a bit of confusion, several went to assist him, then a woman screamed, there were a few gasps, then someone said he’d been stabbed, and another said he was dead. I saw Dr Sinclair on the front row there, and I asked him to take a look, see what he could do for the poor man. He looked at him and said a dagger had gone into his chest and that he was dead and that I should phone for the police, which I did. The customers were upset when they saw the man and the blood. I think they were afraid. I’m not really surprised. After all, it certainly looked like murder, and under their noses so to speak. Then everybody made a beeline for the door. I’ve never had anything like this before.’
‘Yes,’ Angel said heavily. ‘Thank you. Do you know who the dead man is?’
‘No.’
‘Was there anybody standing near to him?’
‘Oh yes. There were lots of people. The room was crowded. The Ogmore sale had brought a lot of local people, as well as dealers from different parts of the country. He was surrounded. The room was chock-a-block.’
‘Did this chap buy anything? Or bid for anything?’
‘No. I remember the face of everyone who bids. I shall have a lot of sorting out to do. After the room emptied, I told my staff — I only have three part-timers — they might as well go home too.’
‘I shall want to speak to them. And your customers?’
‘I can make a list of all those who actually bought anything, inspector. I might recall some of the bidders, but there were a lot of faces and sightseers I didn’t know.’
Gawber nodded.
Angel sighed. ‘Right Mr Snatchpole. Thanks very much.’
Suddenly there was a noise behind them. Angel turned to see the doors opening and the tall, handsome figure of DS Crisp coming in, followed by a younger, lanky lad, DC Scrivens.
Angel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Where the hell have you two been?’
Crisp opened his mouth to reply but Angel said, ‘Never mind. It’s bound to be something I can’t check up on!’ He turned to Gawber. ‘Fill them in, Ron.’
Then he crossed over to the elder of the two SOCOs in the white forensic paper overalls. ‘What you got, Mac?’
The white-haired Glaswegian looked up. ‘Not much. Blood and more blood, all, almost certainly, from the victim, and a million fingerprints.’
‘What about the body?’
‘I’ve yet to see it. It was whisked off to A and E. DOA, I was told. I understand it’s male. A wound in the chest cavity.’
‘Any ID?’
‘Not yet. We’re about finished here; there’s nothing else. I’ll make a superficial examination when I get back and give you a ring.’
‘Hmmm. Thanks, Mac.’
Angel turned to the three detectives. ‘Crisp, you’d better nip along and see if anybody in the bank next door saw anything, and then get started on Snatchpole’s list. Scrivens, have a word in that baker’s shop, then see as many as you can. Tackle them while their memories are still fresh. Those you don’t see today, carry on with them first thing in the morning.’
They bustled off.
He turned to Gawber. ‘Pick me up at home, first thing, Ron. I’ll cadge a lift back to the station with Mac now.’
Ten minutes later, the doctor’s car stopped outside the front of Bromersley police station. Angel struggled out of it, up the steps to the top and manoeuvred his way through the heavy glass door into the reception area.
A big woman with her back to him was staring at a poster on the wall; he immediately recognized the mountainous figure of Mrs Buller-Price. He sighed and pulled a face.
She heard the door slam and turned round to see who had entered. ‘Ah, there you are, Inspector Angel,’ she said brandishing her purple pot-knobbed walking stick. ‘I have been waiting for you.’
‘Oh?’ His face showed he wasn’t best pleased. He knew the old lady very well indeed: he considered her quite delightful, always polite, kind, generous and hospitable, but rather too much for him at that moment.
She saw his expression. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that, inspector. I’m here to help you. And while I’ve been waiting, I’ve been looking at this wanted poster. Look.’ She pointed a finger as thick as a truncheon at the photograph of a heavy-set thug. ‘Him!’ she said. ‘I know him.’
Angel blinked. He glanced at it. He remembered the man was in his twenties and wanted for a particularly gruesome murder. This would be quite a coup. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Where have you seen him?’
‘In the tripe shop. Here, in town, in the market. Yes. That’s him. He needed a shave … and a haircut. And his fingernails needed attention!’ She pointed at the photograph again. ‘Yes. It’s him. Quite definitely!’
Angel stared at the poster and then at Mrs Buller-Price. ‘When did you last see him?’ he asked urgently.
‘Erm … let me see. It would have been 1946 or 1947.’
Angel blew out a lungful of air. ‘It wouldn’t have been him, Mrs Buller-Price. He wasn’t born then!’
‘Oh. Oh,’ she said disappointed. ‘Well it looks just like him. Must be his double. I must say,’ she muttered.
Angel wrinkled his nose and repositioned the crutches under his arms. His leg was aching. ‘I must sit down,’ he growled. ‘Now was there anything else?’
‘Yes. Oh yes. I was at Snatchpole’s auction this afternoon where a man was murdered. I expect you know about it. And I thought I should report what I saw.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. It was very public-spirited of her, and quite typical. ‘Oh? Yes. You’d better come down to my office, then. I must sit down.’
‘You poor man. Yes. I’ll open the door for you. Is it very painful, inspector? I was a nurse in the Queen Alexandra’s, you know. I know about pain. I have a certificate in trauma limitation.’
Angel took off at speed down the green corridor; she kept up with him.
They reached his office. Mrs Buller-Price opened the door, Angel pushed in, turned, flopped in the chair and dumped the crutches on the floor. ‘Thank you. Aaaah. Oh that’s better! Please sit down.’
She dropped her big leather bag on the floor, lowered her stick carefully and looked round the room. ‘Very nice,’ she said easing herself into the chair. ‘Very nice. Restful. I like this room. Yes. Do you know, it has the same colour scheme as Margaret Thatcher’s dressing-room.’
Angel blinked then shook his head. ‘It’s just an office, Mrs Buller-Price. Now, you were at Snatchpole’s auction this afternoon, you were saying?’
‘Oh yes. A very interesting sale,’ she said, shaking her four chins energetically. ‘He was selling some oddments from Ogmore Hall.’
‘And what did you see?’
‘Oh?’ she beamed. Her hands went up excitedly. ‘I bought the most delightful old silver teapot, with sugar and milk. Sometime in the possession of Queen Victoria. Hallmarked 1841. A bit knocked about and soldered in two places, but still very much the style of extravagance of the time. It’s a joy to look at, hold and feel. I shall very much enjoy drinking tea from that! And you will too, when next you come up to Tunistone. I shall not use it until you come. You must come and we will christen it together.’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘Yes. Thank you. I meant did you see anything of the murder?’
‘Oh no. No. I was in the car park at the critical time, I believe. But I did see two strange men with ponytails rushing by me … first out of the saleroom, after the murder, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Oh? Really? Ponytails are becoming quite common these days, aren’t they?’
She shook her head disapprovingly. ‘Not for men. Not for men in their fifties or sixties.’ Angel nodded passively. ‘Mmm. Anything else strange about them?’
‘Yes. They both had facial hair, trimmed in some sort of geometric pattern, like footballers and certain peculiar people now appearing on our television screens.’
‘Anything else? Did you see anybody you knew?’
‘Hmm. I saw dear old Doctor Sinclair. And I saw Lady Emerald Ogmore in a smart open-top car … in a striking blue outfit … no doubt checking on how the sale was going. Hmmm. Pity about her husband, dying so young.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Leaving her so poor.’
‘Poor?’ he blinked.
‘Well, relatively poor. She’s moved out of Ogmore Hall, you know. She’s in a little bungalow on the estate. It was built for their housekeeper a few years ago. Bit of a comedown. But it’ll afford her good, safe shelter. I expect Ogmore Hall will have to be sold.’
Angel leaned back in the chair and stretched out the plastered leg under the kneehole of the desk. He pulled faces, sighed and then beamed. ‘She’s got the Ogmore diamonds, hasn’t she? Worth millions.’
‘It’s one diamond, inspector. But it’s a beauty. And nobody is saying who has that.’ ‘She’ll have inherited it, won’t she? There’s nobody else.’
‘Unless it’s been sold.’
‘Who knows? Archie Ogmore was a bit wild. Not like his father.’
Mrs Buller-Price’s bright eyes shone brighter. ‘But just like his grandfather! I was once on a hunt when Lionel Ogmore was host, and I was acting MFH, and I can tell you, inspector, it wasn’t only a fox he was after!’
The phone rang.
‘Excuse me.’ He reached over for the handset. ‘Angel.’
‘It’s Mac.’
‘Ah yes, Mac,’ he said eagerly, reaching out for a pen. ‘What you got?’
‘The name of the dead man is Sanson, Geoffrey Sanson.’
Angel began to scribble on an envelope. ‘That’s clever of you.’
‘His driving licence was in his wallet in his pocket. He’s aged fifty. Died instantly from the piercing of his heart by a three-sided, eight-inch blade. It was still in him. Has several fresh bruises to the stomach, delivered before the stabbing. He was butler to the Ogmores. One of the porters here recognized him. He’s a neighbour.’
‘Ah. Thanks very much, Mac.’
‘We’re going straight up there. The address is 22 Branscombe Avenue.’
‘Got it. Thanks, Mac. See you there in about five minutes.’ He replaced the phone thoughtfully and looked across at Mrs Buller-Price. ‘Sorry about that interruption. Hmm.’ He suddenly looked very sombre. ‘I’m very sorry. I have to go.’
He reached out for the phone again and pressed a button.
A voice answered, ‘Cadet Ahaz.’
‘Ahmed … Come in here, lad, pronto.’ He replaced the phone.
‘Sorry to bustle you off like this, Mrs Buller-Price.’
She found her bag and stick and was making for the door. ‘I have to go anyway.’ She turned back at the door. ‘It’s been a delight to see you again, inspector, as always.’
He smiled. ‘And you, Mrs Buller-Price. Thank you for your help.’
‘Pop in for tea sometime. I always have a cup of tea and a fairy cake about half past three. We will try out the new teapot. You’re always welcome.’
‘Thank you.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Ahmed.
‘Show Mrs Buller-Price to her car, lad, and then come back here smartish.’
They went out.
Angel reached over for the phone and pressed a button. ‘Traffic division.’
‘Yes.’
The Auction Murders Page 2
