‘If it was spontaneous there wouldn’t have been one.’
‘I know. I want you to find out about his state of mind … whether he had any serious health issues … whether he was on drugs, prescribed or otherwise, also whether he was on the bottle. You can start with Don Taylor. He will have turned up the name of Razzle’s GP by now.’
She stood up. ‘Right, sir.’
Angel climbed the stairs of the Feathers Hotel and knocked on the door of suite number 1.
It was soon answered by Rosemary Razzle, who was wearing a brightly coloured summer dress. Not the sign of a woman in deep mourning, he thought.
‘Ah, Inspector Angel,’ she said brightly. ‘Please come in. You’ve come to tell me I can return to my house?’
He pursed his lips, then said, ‘No, Mrs Razzle, I’m afraid I haven’t.’
‘Oh.’ She pointed to a chair. ‘Please sit down. I hope you are not going to keep me from it for much longer.’
‘Not much longer,’ Angel said. ‘I need to ask you a few more questions.’
‘Oh yes? I’ll do my best.’
‘It is becoming obvious that your husband shot himself either deliberately or accidentally….’
‘Accidentally, definitely,’ she said.
‘Very well, accidentally. By use of a remote control, he aimed the gun at himself and fired it, three times. That would have been very unusual. I need to ask if he was depressed about anything?’
‘Huh! Charles Razzle depressed? Certainly not. He was always quietly spoken. Gentle. Confident and always busy. That robot was his biggest venture yet. He was utterly consumed by it. He talked of nothing else.’
‘Did he have any health worries, or money worries … were you happily married? Was there another woman? Indeed, was there another man?’
‘There was not another man, and I am certain there was not another woman, as you so delicately put it. Charles is – or was – extremely wealthy from his work as an inventor alone, Inspector. He has received six-figure advance payments from each of his two recent inventions. In addition, my earnings as an actress are now not inconsiderable, and would in themselves have maintained us in fine style if we had needed to dip into them. As far as Charles’s health was concerned, he worked every day up to his capacity. He was certainly not depressed. He was too busy to be depressed. There is no question about that.’
‘There is a safe in the workshop … our scenes of crime chaps need to look into it. Have you got a key?’ he said slyly.
‘I regret that I have not.’
He’d expected her to say that. ‘Do you know what’s inside?’ he asked.
‘The safe was for my husband’s use primarily. I expect there are only papers in there. He wouldn’t keep large quantities of cash in the house, there was no need. He should have had a bunch of keys in his pocket. There should be a key to the safe among them.’
She’s smarter than she looks, he thought. She had certainly called his bluff.
‘Right,’ Angel said quickly. ‘We’ll see what we can find.’
Angel went straight home from The Feathers. He drove the BMW into the garage, locked it and let himself in the back door of the bungalow.
Mary was pleased he had arrived. He was so often late those days. It pleased her that she knew he would for certain be there when the finny haddock was ready for serving up. She was rinsing some fresh raspberries in a colander to be served with ice cream for pudding.
He gave her a peck on the cheek on his way to the fridge, where he took out a can of German beer, opened it, poured it into a glass and went into the sitting room. He loosened his tie and collar, switched on the television for the news and slumped down in a chair.
The TV screen lit up, the picture came into focus and immediately caught his attention. It was a news item about the gold-plated life-size reclining plaster model of Dorothea Jordan, former mistress of King William IV. He stared at the screen.
He saw film of the handsome statue on a podium in an impressive-looking bedroom, then it showed two men carrying it inside Spicers’, the specialist antique jewellery and work-of-art dealers, through their imposing Georgian stone-pillared doorway on Royal Crown Road, London. The commentary was about King William IV and Dorothea Jordan, and the recent finding of the figure in an attic in a house in Bromersley. The commentator said that it was considered to be highly romantic, historically significant as well as greatly valuable and that it was going to be auctioned by Spicers’ shortly. It was expected to bring a princely sum.
The item ended there and the news moved on to a piece about President Obama’s dog.
Mary called out to say that tea was ready.
Angel switched the television off and went into the kitchen.
After tea, on a freeview channel, they watched an old film featuring a very young-looking Fred MacMurray. It was about a flying car and a super bouncing invention called ‘flubber.’ It was entertaining and mildly amusing but not exactly riveting.
Mary noticed her husband’s eyelids occasionally dropping lower and lower for longer and longer.
A caption indicated a break for advertisements and a striking picture of a gold and plaster figure of a woman dominated the screen again.
Mary sat up and said, ‘That’s the statue we saw at Pinsley Smith’s auction in the park last Bank Holiday Monday.’
Angel blinked and raised his head.
It soon became clear that they were watching a trailer for a forthcoming television film.
The picture changed to that of a beautiful woman and a handsome man in period clothes embracing each other passionately. It was accompanied by loud, dramatic music and the word ‘Dorothea’ appeared and filled the screen.
The commentary, delivered in a man’s breathy voice. said, ‘Dorothea, the life story of the most beautiful woman in the world, played by award-winning actress, Sincerée La More. Dorothea Jordan, mistress of the Duke of Clarence, later King William IV, who bore him ten illegitimate children and died tragically in 1816. The duke adored her so much that he had a life-size nude gold figure made of her in a relaxed pose, and it was placed on a couch in his bedroom. It had remained there during his reign until his death in 1837. Sincerée La More brings this true love story of Dorothea to life exclusively on this channel, very soon.’
The trailer for the film shook Angel out of any immediate thoughts of sleep. He recalled the statue and the auction in the marquee and considered how important that statue had suddenly become. It stirred up memories of Peter Queegley scurrying away from him there and he wondered if there was any connection. He was still thinking about that when the next segment of the film about ‘flubber’ and the flying car began.
Angel watched it for a while until he fell asleep.
SEVEN
It was 8.28 a.m. when Angel arrived at his office that Thursday morning, and the phone was already ringing. He stared at it irritably, sighed, leaned over the desk from the front and snatched it up.
It was the overnight desk sergeant.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he began. ‘I heard you’d been looking for coffins.’
Angel blinked. ‘Yes, sergeant. That’s correct. Three stolen from Hargreaves.’
‘Thought you’d like to know that at 0200 hours a patrol car saw two men behaving suspiciously outside Jeeves the jewellers. The patrolmen stopped the car and gave chase on foot, but the men gave them the slip. Shortly afterwards a man phoned in to say that he had seen two men carrying a coffin in St Mary’s churchyard. That’s next door to the jewellers, you know.’
Angel nodded. ‘And next to the Northern Bank,’ he said pointedly.
‘Yes, sir. So I went down there myself. Had a good look round. Nothing to see. Jewellers’ shutters OK. Bank doors OK. Graves untouched. Church door locked. Windows sound.’
‘Were they lead thieves?’
‘The roof was intact, sir. I really don’t know what to think.’
Angel understood him perfectly. He felt the same. ‘Thanks very much, Serg
eant. Before you sign out, send down for Jeeves’s and Northern Bank’s CCTV tapes, and arrange to let PC Ahmed have them.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Angel replaced the phone and it rang again immediately. He picked it up.
The caller started with a noisy intake of breath followed by a loud cough.
Angel knew that it was Superintendent Harker.
‘Yes, sir.’
Eventually Harker began: ‘I was at an ACPO dinner in Northampton last night, with twenty-four other superintendents, the Home Secretary’s PPS and Sir Miles Luckman, head of SOCA.’
Angel knew all about SOCA. It was the Serious and Organized Crime Agency, a police unit devoted to fighting gang crime. The members were extremely well-equipped and armed. They had been granted special temporary powers to do anything they considered necessary to catch organized gangs of criminals, and they were good at it. Angel didn’t care for their methods, though. Whenever they appeared on the scene, they climbed over everything and everybody, often creating friction and bad blood among innocent, law-abiding bystanders, which the local force subsequently had to put right.
‘Most of what was said was confidential,’ Harker continued, ‘but after the meeting Sir Miles took me on one side and said that the big robbery at Sir Jack and Lady Prendergast’s place, in Bucks, last Saturday evening … you’ve heard about it?’
Angel blew out hot breath. Of course he’d heard about it. The day following, on their front pages, the newspapers had shown photographs of masked thieves breaking into the mansion, taken from CCTV cameras. And television news stations led their programmes with some clips of film from the actual robbery. The gang escaped with millions of pounds worth of antiques leaving no clues as to their identities behind.
‘Yes, sir. I’ve heard about it,’ he said.
‘Well, he’s heard a whisper that the gang responsible for the robbery resides on our patch.’
Angel frowned. That was interesting, but if it were true, could he not volunteer more information … at least the source of the info?
‘That all, sir?’ Angel said.
He heard Harker gasp. ‘If Sir Miles had known his identity,’ he said, ‘he would have had his men round the villain’s place and scooped him up, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t need the likes of you, sniffing around, making everything seem more difficult than it really was, then suddenly, at the right moment, dramatically producing the solution like a conjuror pulling a toy rabbit out of a hat … and assuming that look of humility while the newspapers roll out their usual plaudits about how wonderful you are.’
Angel could never understand why Harker didn’t like him. After a long pause, in a controlled voice, he said, ‘Right, sir,’ and replaced the phone before Harker did.
Angel leaned back in the swivel-chair and gawped up at the ceiling. He really needed a long thinking session, to review the facts and consider whether there was any further information that he might be able to ferret out to progress the case. He was settling into that mode as he pulled out the two envelopes from his inside pocket and began to check down his notes. There were certain small matters that were becoming clear to him. Teeth were enmeshing and cogs were beginning to turn when there was a knocking sound. The thinking machinery came to an abrupt halt. Somebody was at the door. He leaned forward in the chair to return it to its normal angle and called out, ‘Come in.’
It was DS Flora Carter. She was carrying a copy of a magazine.
‘Sorry I’m late, sir. Good morning.’
She handed the magazine to him. He glanced at the cover. It was the previous week’s copy of Police News.
He waved the magazine at her, tossed it on to the desk and added, ‘What’s this, lass? It’s all about that gang that robs country houses. I’ve already read it.’
‘So have I, sir,’ she said.
Angel’s nose turned up. ‘We’ve enough on here, Flora, at the moment. Looking for the murderer of Charles Razzle.’
She frowned. ‘You’ve made your mind up it is murder, sir?’
He pursed his lips. He didn’t answer the question. He said, ‘What did Razzle’s GP say?’
‘He said that he hardly ever saw him,’ she said. ‘His records showed that the last time he was in the surgery was two years ago. Mr Razzle had had an accident with a drill in his workshop causing a small wound in his left hand. The doctor dressed it and gave him some antibiotics. It soon healed up. He didn’t go back. The time before that was two years earlier, in 2005, when he examined him for an insurance policy.’
‘Oh? Did he check his heart?’
‘Sound as a bell, sir. He found everything OK.’
‘Any history of depression?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No tranquillizers, antidepressants, sleeping pills?’
She shook her head.
‘Did you ask if he thought it was possible he could have committed suicide?’
‘The doctor laughed at the idea, sir.’
Angel nodded. He breathed in and then out noisily. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll answer your question now, Flora.’
She stared at him with eyes narrowed.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I am absolutely certain that Charles Razzle was murdered.’
‘Wow,’ Flora said. ‘I knew you were going to say that, somehow. And yet it still seems to be a surprise. And what do we do about the country-house gang? The super seems to want us to clear that up if we can.’
‘My job primarily is solving murder cases, you know. Besides, finding those robbers will be much more time-consuming … it’s in Buckinghamshire. That’s miles away. I’ve seen the clips on the telly, and I’ve read the report released by the local police. The gang all wear gloves, have their faces covered, and they work to a precise pattern, as if they’ve rehearsed every move.’
She nodded.
His mouth suddenly dropped open, he looked at her and said, ‘Do you know, Flora? I’ve just realized, that gang are using “The Lamm Method”.’
She frowned. ‘“The Lamm Method”? What’s that, sir?’
‘Didn’t they teach you any criminal history or methodology at Hendon?’
‘Yes, sir. But I don’t remember the name Lamm cropping up.’
He blew out a length of air. ‘Hermann K. Lamm, known as the Baron, was born in Bavaria, Germany about 1880. Died in Indiana in the US in a gunfight in 1930.’
‘That’s a bit before my time, sir.’
‘Hermann Lamm was a former German army officer, who put his training to use in robbing banks. Before every job he thoroughly cased the place, built replicas of the scene, trained and rehearsed his men, set a time limit that he considered safe in which to do the job, and personally planned their escape route. Every job he planned in meticulous detail, with permutations of optional escape routes and tactics in case anything went wrong.’
‘That was ages ago.’
‘Yes, but don’t underestimate him, Flora. He was a remarkable innovator.’ Angel rubbed his chin while nodding, then he said, ‘Have you heard of John Dillinger?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Wasn’t he, at one time, America’s Public Enemy Number One?’
‘Well, Dillinger used what became known as “The Lamm Method” of robbing banks, and took on board some other original ideas conceived by Lamm. Historians do not report that Lamm and Dillinger actually met, but they do say that after Lamm was killed at least two members of his gang joined up with Dillinger. They had seen Lamm’s tricks and passed them on to Dillinger. Now, after all those years, the gang carrying out these country house robberies are adapting and using “The Lamm Method”.’
‘But things have moved on, sir. Those were times before the mobile phone, CCTV, computers and DNA, weren’t they?’
‘True, but fortunately – you could say, thankfully – robbers generally do not plan in the meticulous detail that Lamm did. Nor do they incorporate, nor indeed maintain such discipline.’
The phone rang. He reached out for it. It was Don Taylor. ‘I’ve f
ound Charles Razzle’s daughter Jessica’s email address, sir. She’s in the States. I’ve read some of their recent emails to each other. They seemed to be in contact every week or so. Loving, caring stuff. Interested in what each other is doing. Looks normal, healthy enough to me. What do you want me to do?’
Angel sighed. ‘I need to speak to her, Don, urgently. And she’s got to be told. Do it gently.’
‘Right, sir.’
He replaced the phone and turned back to Flora.
There was a knock at the door. Angel looked across at it impatiently. It was PC Ahmed.
‘Now what?’ Angel said.
Ahmed brandished two video tapes. ‘These have just come, sir. Delivered to me by a patrol driver. He said that you knew all about them.’
‘Ah, yes. They will be the CCTV overnight tapes from Jeeves the jewellers and Northern Bank. I want you to run through them, lad … I was told that outside the jeweller’s two men were behaving suspiciously. Find the place. I want to see it.’
‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said and rushed off.
Flora Carter stood up. ‘What do you want me to do, sir?’
Angel sighed. ‘It’s all very slow. I’ve got Trevor Crisp watching Rosemary Razzle and the company she keeps,’ he said. ‘Nothing useful has come of that yet … I live in hope. Now, I want to stage a reconstruction of the murder. I want to see what happened in that house at the time Charles Razzle was murdered. And I want the Walther, three live rounds to fire, and sandbags to represent the body. Get that set up, Flora. We’ll do it first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Come in,’ Angel called.
Ahmed entered the office and closed the door. ‘I’ve run through both tapes, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing untoward on one, but the other shows two men in night light. One is clearly fingering the padlocks on the shutters of the jeweller’s shop. I am almost certain that it is that man you had in here not long since … Peter Queegley. But I don’t think he is doing anything we can book him for.’
The Snuffbox Murders Page 7
