The Auction Murders

by Roger Silverwood

Everything was quiet and still. Only the wind and the rustle of the rose bushes and the cypresses that bordered the little back garden behind him disturbed the silence. He lowered the crutch letting the curtain drop back into place.

  He sighed.

  The rest of the bungalow needed searching and it needed doing quickly. He tried not to think about what might be waiting for him in one of the other rooms.

  The sudden roar of a car engine, then brakes, then car doors slamming caught his attention. He turned, stabbed the crutches on to the flags and sped up to the front of the bungalow.

  At the gate was a police car with a blue light flashing. Two men in helmets and body armour armed with Glock 17s were running up the path.

  Angel’s face brightened.

  Gawber looked at the men and blew out a long breath.

  ‘There’s a window broken at the back.’ Angel called. ‘Go careful. There might be a welcoming committee with a knife inside waiting for you.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ They dashed off.

  ‘When you get in there, open this door,’ he called after them.

  A white van drove up and parked next to the two cars. In it were two men from the SOC team. Angel noticed them, but he was keeping his eye on the front door. They got out of the van and yelled over the fence.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘My word. You’re early birds,’ he quipped. ‘Who’s sent you?’

  ‘The super, sir,’ one of them replied.

  Angel nodded. ‘Mmm. Aren’t you getting enough work?’

  They were always being chided. SOCOs were regarded as being on a cushy number. They weren’t closely supervised and were thought to make their jobs last as long as they liked. The sergeant ignored the jibe. ‘What you got, sir?’

  Angel continued watching the door. ‘A housebreaking, at the moment. I’ll tell you more when I know it.’

  The men returned to the van, opened the door and pulled out a big sealed polythene bag with new paper overalls in it.

  Angel heard some movement from inside the bungalow. ‘Ah!’ he said and moved up to the door. He heard a key turn in the lock, a chain rattled and the door opened. The two armed policemen appeared.

  Angel moved up to them. ‘Well?’ he said anxiously.

  ‘All clear downstairs, sir. But it’s a mess. Phew! It’s been well and truly turned over.’

  ‘But there’s nobody in there?’

  ‘No, sir. We have checked the loft and there isn’t a cellar. We haven’t checked it for explosives.’

  Angel blew out a long length of warm air. ‘That’s all right, lads. Thank you. Stand down now and report back to the station.’

  They made their way down the path to their car.

  Angel moved up to the door. The loud roar of a vehicle arriving caught his attention. He looked back. It was an open-topped white Porsche sports car. In the driving-seat was Lady Ogmore in a tight-fitting powder-blue trouser suit. She pulled up outside the gate, her eyes staring, her mouth open. She slowly got out of the car, taking in the policemen and the vehicles. She closed the car door and toddled unsteadily in her Gucci shoes up the path to Angel and, flashing her eyes, said, ‘Whatever is happening, inspector?’

  *

  ‘What!’ the super bellowed, waving his arms over the desk. ‘It’s damned lucky she was out. If she had been in his way, he would have most certainly murdered her!’

  Angel sighed. ‘She had been down town shopping, sir. She’d been gone about two hours. The burglar alarm didn’t go off because she didn’t set it. She is a bit slap happy. She left the front door key in the lock on the inside!’

  He stopped grinding his teeth. ‘And nothing was taken?’

  ‘No. And the place was dripping with valuables you could easily slip into your pocket.’

  ‘That’s a funny thing. Hmm. Any forensic?’

  ‘No. No fingerprints, DNA or footprints; Mac doesn’t hold out any hope.’

  ‘Have you done the house-to-house?’

  ‘There aren’t any neighbours out there, sir. Nearest neighbour would be about half a mile.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, wrap it up quickly then. You satisfied it is the same party that has stabbed that butler chap, Sanson, and that woman, Alison Drabble?’

  ‘All three houses ransacked in the same amateurish way, and all linked with Ogmore Hall.’

  ‘I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. This is very nasty! It’s like the plague. It’s two bodies in two days. And the villain’s not taken anything. He’s looking, but not finding. If he found what he wanted, he’d stop. What do you reckon he’s after?’

  ‘Something small. If it was something big, he wouldn’t have to search so thoroughly.’

  ‘Aye,’ he sniffed. ‘But what is it that’s worth two lives?’

  Angel said, ‘Don’t know. I’m worried about a young woman who was Lord Ogmore’s secretary, sir. Kate Cumberland. Can’t trace her. Lady Ogmore doesn’t know where she went to. She left about a year ago, just after he died. She could be next.’

  *

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called angrily.

  It was Ahmed. ‘You looking for me, sir?’

  ‘There you are,’ he bawled. ‘Where have you been hiding? You’re harder to find than Houdini’s rabbit.’

  Ahmed’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘I’ve only been in the CID office, sir,’ he protested.

  ‘Aye, well, I’ve got a little job for you. I want you to find a misper.’

  Ahmed frowned. ‘A misper?’

  ‘A missing person,’ he growled impatiently. ‘We’ve no idea where she is. We don’t think she has a record. It’s necessary for her safety to find her to protect her from this killer. Her name is Kate Cumberland. She’s aged about thirty-five. Worked at Ogmore Hall until a year ago. We’ve got to find her quickly. Now start with the electoral roll. She was living at the Hall a year ago. Now she has moved on. Well, get on with it, lad. It’s a matter of life and death!’

  ‘Right sir,’ Ahmed said and dashed out of the office.

  Angel leaned back in the swivel chair. He wished there was a quick way to find this woman; the trouble was the people who might have known her whereabouts were now dead.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Dr Mac.

  ‘Ah!’ Angel’s eyes lit up. ‘Come in, Mac. Come in. Sit down,’ he said, pushing the papers in front of him to the far side of the desk. He was hopeful that the doctor might throw some new light on the case. ‘What do you know?’

  Mac was carrying a big manilla envelope. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’ He opened the envelope and pulled out two clear-plastic self-seal bags and placed them on the desk in front of him.

  Angel could see that each bag contained a stiletto, designed like a miniature sword. He reached forward, opened one of the bags and carefully took out the knife. The blade was 8” long and the handle 4”. The three-sided steel blade was honed down at the tip almost to the sharpness of a needle. On both sides of the silver handle was an engraving of a long sword with a snake twined around it, and on the pommel was the head of a lion.

  Angel turned it round in his hand and pulled a face. ‘The murderer would need to carry it around in a scabbard or holster or something, so that it didn’t stick into him or his clothing or anything else?’

  ‘Almost certainly. Leather I suppose. Strapped to the arm.’

  ‘Or the chest. Yeah.’

  Mac said, ‘These were made in Italy, about 1900. They are copies of originals dated about the middle of the seventeenth century. Steel blade, silver handle. The originals are much sought after for their antique value and interest.’

  ‘Are these two the same?’

  ‘Identical. Probably from a set of six.’

  Angel pulled a face. ‘Hmm. I hope we don’t see the other four!’

  Mac looked at him. ‘Have you any idea who you are looking for?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he sniffed. ‘You’ve given us
nothing up to now.’

  Mac shook his head. ‘You need a profiler.’

  ‘I’ve got one.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Me.’

  Mac smiled wryly.

  Angel said, ‘I went on a course last year. I was second from the top at Hendon.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Mac said with an apologetic smile.

  ‘I know exactly the sort of person we are looking for. We want someone who has a fixation on one particular goal, and whatever it is, nothing and nobody will stop him or her from reaching it. They won’t be put off by anything. Cannot be moved away from the target. And not interested in small rewards … just the big prize!’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. They are not right in the head. There’ll be some quirk in their personality that will give them away. You watch.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘So do I. Before anybody else gets skewered.’

  Mac looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Haven’t you anything at all?’

  ‘Yep. Got an eye witness.’

  Mac beamed. ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Huh,’ Angel said, shaking his head.

  Mac frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘He’s blind.’

  *

  Angel picked up the phone and dialled a number. It rang out for a few moments then there was a click. He bawled into the mouthpiece: ‘Hello! Is that Lord Lucan?’

  ‘No sir. It’s DS Crisp.’

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ he growled. ‘You’ve been away that long.’

  ‘Still very busy with this inquiry, sir. I’m on Charles Street,’ he said smartly.

  ‘Haven’t heard a word from you. Are Ron Gawber and young Scrivens there?’

  ‘Ed Scrivens is on a call round the corner. Don’t know where Ron is, sir. He’s working off his own list.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, what have you got, lad? Found anybody who saw anything?’

  ‘Lots of witnesses. But they didn’t see anything.’

  ‘What about the people standing next to him, at the back of the room?’

  ‘Nobody admits to standing next to him, sir. Since the news of Mrs Drabble’s murder, some of the punters are nervous at even being interviewed.’

  Angel was well aware of the situation. The national newspapers had got hold of the story and reports with photographs of the front of Snatchpole’s auction house, the block of flats where Mrs Drabble’s body was found, and an old, fuzzy picture of Geoffrey Sanson dug up from somewhere, had appeared in all the tabloids. The general public were avidly soaking up the news, but with the motive for the murders unknown, the locals could not be certain they were not to be the next potential victim. The murderer was clearly someone among them.

  ‘Have you seen a Dr Sinclair yet?’

  ‘No sir. We know about him. He’s on my list. I’ll get round to him.’

  ‘Let me interview him. He lives up Creeford Avenue, not far from you. Call in and explain I’m temporarily on crutches, and ask him if he’d be kind enough to call in at the station. Urgently.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  6

  ‘This won’t take long, doctor,’ Angel said. ‘You were at the auction on Monday and attended Geoffrey Sanson just before he died?’

  ‘Yes. He wasn’t one of my patients. I’m retired, you know. But yes, I did. Poor man. The dagger went right into the heart, through the aorta — terrible. I couldn’t do anything for him.’

  ‘Did he say anything before he died?’

  ‘No. He would have lost consciousness instantly. He said nothing.’

  ‘Whereabouts were you in the saleroom, in relation to him?’

  ‘At the front. On the front row.’

  ‘And whereabouts was Mr Sanson?’

  ‘He was directly behind me, but right at the back. I believe he was standing against the wall.’

  Angel nodded. ‘What exactly happened?’

  ‘Well, I suppose the sale was about halfway through, and Snatchpole was going into raptures about an oil painting on the wall on the right. My attention was on the painting. Suddenly, there was a bit of a commotion behind me. I heard several gasps … a woman screamed. I looked round. Someone said a man had fainted … someone else said he was bleeding. Lots of people stood up. Snatchpole called from the podium and asked me if I would take a look. I made my way to the back of the hall. A man was collapsed on the floor; there was a crowd of people round him. He was already covered in blood. There was no pulse. I told Snatchpole he was dead and to send for the police. People were pushing and gawping and asking questions. My wife was upset. We left immediately, and went straight home.’

  ‘Did you know the man?’

  ‘I didn’t know him, but I knew who he was. He was always there when I called on the Ogmores. Pleasant enough chap. He was present in the room when Archie died, last year.’

  ‘You were the Ogmores’ doctor?’

  ‘And Archie’s father and mother before him … and, although I am retired, I still look after Lady Emerald.’

  ‘You didn’t see anything suspicious or unusual … anyone behaving strangely?’

  ‘No, well, we were anxious to leave.’

  ‘Hmmm. Sanson had some bruising on his stomach wall. The pathologist says it was probably caused by him being punched several times with clenched fists. Did you see anything that would support that theory?’

  ‘No. But I didn’t examine him, inspector.’

  ‘No. No. Hmmm. Did you see anybody at the auction that you knew?’

  ‘Oh yes. I was seated quite near to Mrs Buller-Price, and I saw Lady Emerald briefly, at a distance … I knew Snatchpole, of course. I don’t think I remember anybody else.’

  ‘You didn’t see two men in their fifties with ponytails, did you?’

  The doctor smiled. ‘No.’

  Angel stood up. ‘Thanks very much, doctor. I told you it wouldn’t take long.’

  ‘I hope you get the murderer very soon.’

  Angel nodded firmly. ‘We will. You can be sure of that.’

  The two men shook hands.

  Ahmed escorted the doctor up to reception and then came back to the inspector’s office. Angel was looking out of the window and rubbing his chin.

  ‘Now lad,’ he said, looking round. ‘Have you found that missing woman, Kate Cumberland, yet?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get straight back to that then. Every second’s delay puts that woman’s life at risk.’

  *

  Angel picked up the phone and tapped in a number.

  ‘Traffic.’

  ‘Michael Angel here. I need a lift home.’

  ‘Nothing in at the moment, inspector. Can do … in about five or ten minutes. At the front.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said and replaced the phone. He was glad to be going home. He grabbed his coat from the hook and made for the door. He swung the crutches rhythmically up the green corridor to the security door, tapped in the code and made his way through it, across the reception area and out through the glass door into the fresh air. He stood on the top step and looked down. At the bottom, against the kerb, parked on the wrong side was a little red car. It was the only vehicle there. He made his way down the steps. When he was at the bottom, the driver leaned out of the window and said, ‘Inspector Angel?’

  ‘Yes, lad,’ he replied.

  The young man in the car nodded and threw open the passenger door from the inside.

  ‘Thanks. I want to go to the Forest Hill estate.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel put the crutches on the back seat and eased himself down into the little car and closed the door. He put on the seat belt.

  The driver let in the clutch sharply and they pulled away from the kerb with an unexpected shudder and a squeal of the tyres.

  Angel looked at the young fresh face. ‘I don’t recognize you, lad. You must be new. What’s your name?’

  ‘Smith, sir.’ />
  Angel rubbed his chin.

  Smith then made a jerky U-turn, went to the end of Church Street and turned left into Market Street.

  Angel lowered his eyebrows. ‘Take it easy now. There’s no rush. We don’t need to go through town.’

  ‘It’ll be all right, sir,’ Smith said pressing on the accelerator.

  Angel’s mouth tightened. ‘It would be better to go by the ring road.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ the young man said, swiftly pulling into a long stream of traffic heading for Edensor Street, the shopping centre.

  Angel shook his head impatiently. ‘It’s too late now. You can’t turn back. You’ll have to go through the town, and there are four sets of traffic lights. And all the traffic for Sheffield and Barnsley trying to get away.’

  There were cars and buses in front, behind and at the side of them. They slowed to a snail’s pace. The car came to a halt behind a red bus.

  Women with bags and parcels appeared from all directions and began to leap up the step into the bus.

  Angel patiently watched the tedious loading process in front of them. He sighed loudly.

  ‘It won’t take long, sir. We’ll soon have you there.’

  Angel groaned silently. He hated being pacified. ‘Where are you from, lad? You don’t live round here?’

  ‘No sir.’

  A cloud of black fumes blew out from the back of the bus as it moved off. Smith let in the clutch and said, ‘We’re away again, sir.’

  ‘Aye,’ Angel growled.

  The car slowly picked up speed.

  Suddenly, out of his eye corner, Angel saw a figure step off the pavement on the nearside on to the road in front of the bus. The bus driver braked. Smith braked. There was a jerk followed by a thud and an expensive, crunchy, splintering noise from behind.

  Angel groaned.

  Smith pulled a face and said, ‘Oh.’ He pulled on the brake, unfastened his seat belt and got out of the car.

  Angel rubbed his chin hard and looked round to see if he could catch sight of the driver of the vehicle behind. All he could see was a street full of traffic, now stationary in both directions, and crowded by pedestrians with shopping. He pulled a face and wondered what time he would get home that night.

  The bus pulled away again, leaving the road ahead clear. He was stranded in the car on a busy road in the centre of town with the engine running and no driver. He rubbed his chin again and looked round. It was then he noticed there was no radio kit fitted below the dash. This wasn’t a station car; must be the driver’s own car. He felt a bit guilty complaining.