The Snuffbox Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel observed that in the driving seat was his sidekick, Peter Queegley.

  In all the clamour, Angel didn’t miss the opportunity to note and write down the registration number of the estate car. He knew he hadn’t finished with Mr Underwood.

  EIGHTEEN

  Angel returned to his office, opened his desk drawer to take out the EVIDENCE envelope containing Farleigh’s bank statements and balance sheets intending to finish his inspection of them, when the phone rang.

  It was DS Mathew Elliott of the Antiques and Fine Art squad, London.

  ‘I thought you would like to know, Michael, that at last, something stolen on a raid by the country-house gang, has turned up. Actually it was from the gang’s last job in Buckinghamshire on the sixteenth of May. It’s been identified as a huge painting by Rubens, Girl in Red Robe, more than twelve feet by five feet five inches, oil on canvas. Worth millions.’

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘Where was it found?’

  ‘On the rocks at Whitby in North Yorkshire.’

  ‘Huh. I know where Whitby is. How did it get there? Is it damaged?’

  ‘No. In perfect condition, or so I am told. It was found very early this morning by some joggers. The painting was very carefully wrapped in several layers of heat-sealed waterproof paper. It appears to have been floated in by the tide. It is now safely locked up in a cell at Whitby station. I wondered if you wanted to retrieve it and hold it for the time being, seeing as though you already have an involvement in the case?’

  Angel had always liked Mathew Elliott. It was a most generous suggestion, coming from another copper.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mathew. Do you think there’ll be any DNA on it?’

  ‘Yeah. Probably a couple of hundred holidaymakers and half a dozen North Yorkshire coppers.’

  Angel knew what he meant. ‘Anyway, I’ll send my SOCO team up to collect it tomorrow. They’ll have a close look at it. You never know.’

  ‘Right, Michael. I’ll advise Whitby to expect them.’

  Angel replaced the phone and leaned back in the chair. There was progress. None of the loot stolen by the country-house gang had ever been recovered before. It had always seemed as if it had disappeared off the face of the earth. He wondered why it had come in on the tide.

  He phoned Taylor and instructed him to go to Whitby the following day to collect the Rubens from the station there. He also said that he wanted him to treat the painting and its packaging as evidence, and see what prints or DNA he could recover from it.

  He replaced the phone, then looked down at the EVIDENCE envelope containing Farleigh’s bank statements and balance sheets, which was still on his desk. He had intended clearing them that day. He began to finger them. His eye caught the clock. It said five past five. He looked at it again. He had been right the first time. He checked his watch. That also said five past five. He wasn’t in the mood for fussing with figures at that time in the afternoon, anyway. He quickly rammed the stuff back in to the envelope, put it in the desk drawer, locked it and went home.

  The following morning was Thursday, 11 June 2009.

  Angel entered his office at 8.28 a.m., exactly. He was determined that this was the day he was going to solve the puzzle of the gold-plated statue.

  He picked up the phone and dialled Spicers’, the auctioneers. He was surprised that, at that time, he was immediately put through to Mr Oberon.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector. If you are phoning about that wretched gold-plated statue, I can tell you that yesterday afternoon it was delivered here, and I gave immediate instructions to my staff to reject it and return it to the vendor.’

  Angel blinked. He thought for a moment.

  ‘Because, of course, it’s a forgery?’ he said.

  Angel heard a gasp.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Oberon said. ‘It’s the genuine article all right. But we have a reputation to maintain here at Spicers’, and we can do very well without this sort of publicity. We have returned the … the item to the vendor by Express Carrier and informed him that he and his wares are no longer welcome at Spicers’.’

  ‘I see,’ Angel said, ‘and what is the vendor’s name?’

  ‘Ah, Inspector, you know full well I cannot tell you that.’

  ‘Where a crime has been committed, Mr Oberon, you cannot withhold vital information from the police.’

  ‘But a crime hasn’t been committed. Therefore I am not under that particular obligation. But thank you for your good intentions, Inspector. Goodbye.’

  Angel frowned and slowly replaced the phone.

  He pursed his lips and eased the chair backwards. Oberon said that no crime had been committed. There was no robbery, and he had said that the gold-plated statue was genuine and was being returned to the vendor. Who was the vendor then? Of course. There was only one person it could be. Alec Underwood. He must have been the purchaser, the maiden bidder, the only bidder. He’d bought it at Pinsley Smith’s little auction in that marquee in Jubilee Park. Now that put an entirely new complexion on the case. He could see that as far as Spicers’ was concerned, there had been no crime. There had been plenty of wrongdoing, misuse of their services, but nothing actually illegal. Underwood had used Spicers disgracefully to publicize the statue but, true enough, it seemed that there was nothing Angel could charge him with.

  He sat there thinking for a few minutes, when suddenly an imaginary cog fell into place between two non-existent sprockets, the mechanism turned causing a metaphorical chime of bells to ring. His face brightened and he rubbed his hands together like an undertaker at a nonagenarian’s birthday party.

  He leaned forward and picked up the phone.

  ‘Ahmed,’ he said. ‘I want you to withdraw a night camera from the CID stores, and then I want to speak to DS Crisp and DS Carter.’

  ‘Right, sir. And do you want DS Taylor as well?’

  ‘No. You won’t get him anyway, Ahmed. He’s gone to Whitby on a job.’

  ‘Right, sir. Is this a night surveillance job to do with Alec Underwood, sir?’

  ‘It is, lad,’ he said. ‘It is.’

  ‘Well, sir. If you don’t mind me mentioning … I can’t see exactly what you can get him for?’

  ‘It will all come clear tonight, I hope, Ahmed.’

  It was 1.50 a.m. early Friday morning, 12 June. The night sky was as cloudy as prison-made gin, which allowed the moon, briefly, to illuminate Angel, Crisp and Carter crouching behind gravestones at the furthest point from the church gate. Everything was still. The constant humming of traffic on the M1 a mile or so away was the only sound to be heard.

  Crisp took out the compact video night camera and removed the lens cover. He turned to Angel on his right and said, ‘How certain are you that they’ll come, sir?’

  Angel rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Keep your voice down, lad. In this stillness, your voice might carry.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Pretty certain. Spicers returned the statue to Underwood by Express Carriers late on Wednesday afternoon. He must have received it yesterday, sometime. Therefore, tonight is the first opportunity Underwood will have had. They’ll be here. When they were seen here before, it was two o’clock, so I thought that this would be the most likely time they would return.’

  ‘Sounds solid, sir,’ Crisp said.

  Angel looked at his wrist trying to see his watch. The cloud across the moon beat him. ‘What’s the time?’ he said.

  ‘Two minutes to two.’

  Flora Carter said, ‘While we are waiting, sir, can I ask about Brian Farleigh? … I see he hasn’t been to court yet. I thought it was all sewn up.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘I thought you said you had enough for the CPS?’

  ‘I thought I had, but Twelvetrees wants it easy. He’s expecting me to produce Razzle’s collection of twenty-eight gold snuffboxes in Farleigh’s possession, but they’re evidently not there. Don Taylor and I have looked everywhere for them. If I could find them, the c
ase against him would be complete,’ Angel said, brushing his hand through his hair. ‘And I fear that the super is going to ring me up tomorrow, that is today now, and demand that I release Farleigh because of insufficient evidence.’

  Crisp nodded knowingly.

  Flora’s eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped. ‘Surely not,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t do that, sir.’

  ‘He would,’ Angel said.

  Trevor Crisp leaned over, looked at Flora Carter in the moonlight and said, ‘Can’t hold a suspect with insufficient evidence.’

  ‘I know that,’ she said.

  ‘Sshh!’ Angel said.

  All three bobbed down behind the gravestones.

  There was the sound of a car engine close by.

  Angel peered from behind a stone. ‘A big car with its lights extinguished has pulled up by the church gate,’ he said. ‘It’s an estate car, towing a trailer … looks like a horse box. They are here … getting out of the car. The tall one in the big black hat … it’s Alec Underwood. The driver is Peter Queegley.’

  Angel then ducked down.

  ‘They’re looking round,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t move a muscle.’

  His heart banged like a Salvation Army drum.

  The three pressed themselves hard against the cold grey stones and stayed stock-still. After a minute or so, they heard the rattle of machinery from the direction of the church gate.

  Angel straightened up and peered between two gravestones across the churchyard again.

  ‘What’s happening, sir?’ Flora Carter said.

  Angel turned to Crisp and said, ‘They’ve got a little tractor, Trevor. Get that camera running.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said. He raised the little video camera, looked through the viewfinder and squeezed the trigger. ‘It’s the sort of tractor you can hire to dig trenches,’ he said.

  ‘Or graves,’ Angel said.

  ‘Or plant telegraph poles,’ Flora said.

  They saw Queegley driving a small-track vehicle down a ramp from a horse box attached to the back of the car. Underwood and Queegley then together uncoupled the empty trailer and pushed it back down the lane several yards. Underwood then opened the tailgate door of the estate and Queegley drove the tractor right up to it. The two men huddled round the tractor and the estate car for several minutes so that it was not possible to see what they were doing. However, in due course, Queegley got in the driving seat of the tractor, reversed it away from the estate car. The police could then see that the little tractor now had a thick arm sticking upwards and a big sling arrangement suspended from it. In the sling, swinging slightly to the movement of the tractor was a large box in the shape of a coffin.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Crisp said.

  Flora Carter said, ‘They’re not going to bury somebody, are they?’

  Queegley turned the tractor towards the church gate being held open by Underwood. He went through it, into the churchyard.

  Angel glanced at Crisp. ‘You getting all this, Trevor?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ Crisp said, not taking his eye from the magnified viewfinder.

  Queegley drove the little vehicle along the front of the church along an uneven path among gravestones, almost to the end. Underwood followed, sometimes reaching out to steady the coffin as it swung at precarious angles. Queegley stopped when he arrived adjacent to an old sandstone box grave. He moved a lever and the coffin lowered slowly on to the path. Underwood unhooked the sling fastening, took some steel cords out of a box on the tractor, fastened them on to the hook, then set up corner pieces that fitted neatly over each of the corners of the box grave. When he had finished, Queegley moved a lever that took the strain, then slowly lifted up the old box grave top and lowered it safely on the grass at the side. Then they reversed the procedure and put the coffin into the stone box grave and replaced the stone lid on top.

  ‘They’ve buried something or somebody,’ Crisp said.

  Angel quickly dipped into his pocket, pulled out his mobile and tapped in a number.

  ‘Trevor, forget the camera now,’ Angel said. ‘Climb up that wall and go round on the outside to the gate and head them off, in case they try to make a break for it.’

  Crisp’s face creased. ‘Oh. I shall get my suit all muckied up. I thought you were sending for help.’

  ‘Hurry up,’ Angel growled.

  Crisp began to scale the wall.

  Into the mobile, he said, ‘DI Angel here. Send two cars to St Mary’s church immediately to rendezvous with me to arrest two men and take possession of some vehicles.’

  He closed the phone and returned it to his pocket.

  Meanwhile Queegley had turned the tractor round and was following Underwood along the path.

  ‘Come on, Flora,’ Angel said. ‘If they don’t come quietly, I’ll take Underwood. You take Queegley. Trevor Crisp should be at the gate by then to assist you.’

  They broke cover, ran the length of the churchyard and were almost upon the two crooks when Angel in a loud voice said, ‘Stop where you are, Underwood. This is the police. You are both under arrest. Get off that tractor, lad.’

  Underwood gasped. His eyes flashed. He glanced at Flora Carter, then at Angel, then said, ‘I don’t think so.’ He began to run towards the church gate.

  Crisp saw him coming and stood in the gateway to block him.

  Underwood saw him, turned round and made a straight line in the opposite direction, which was towards the entrance to the church.

  Angel immediately gave chase after him.

  Meanwhile Queegley had got off the tractor and was looking round wondering whether he could make a run for it. Then he saw Crisp approaching from the church gate and Carter from the direction of the church door, and he knew he was sunk.

  Underwood had reached the church door. He tried the handle but it was locked. He punched and kicked at the door. It didn’t budge.

  Angel caught up with him.

  Underwood turned and saw him. His evil eyes stared hard at him.

  Only four yards of churchyard flagstones separated them. ‘You’re under arrest, Alec,’ Angel said. ‘You can’t get away. You might as well come quietly.’

  ‘You can’t arrest me,’ Underwood said, and he made gestures with his hands inviting him to come closer.

  ‘Come on. Take you on, any time, Angel. Come on.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Turn round and put your wrists together,’ he said, and he went up to him.

  Suddenly Underwood’s fists closed and he lunged out a hard right which grazed Angel nastily on the chin. The expected follow-through left hook was deftly caught by Angel with both hands. He gave Underwood’s wrist a quick twist and a jerk. Underwood let out a loud yell and landed in a heap on the church path.

  Then Angel heard a noise from behind. He turned to see two uniformed constables running up to him.

  ‘Want, any help, sir?’ one of them said.

  He pointed to Underwood on the ground. ‘Cuff that, search it, arrest it and drop it in a cell.’

  Angel inspected the underside of his chin carefully with his fingertips and let out an unintentional groan.

  It was 1005 hours, Friday morning, 12 June, 2009. Assembled in interview room 1 were, Alec Underwood, Mr Bloomfield his solicitor, DI Crisp and Angel. The spools in the recording machine were rotating.

  ‘I have to tell you, Mr Underwood,’ Angel said, ‘that we have opened that stone box grave that you and Queegley adopted as your own secret hiding-place and found that in there was not only the original famous antique gold-plated plaster statue of King William IV’s mistress in a mahogany coffin, but two other gold-plated plaster statues of a similar but different young woman, also each in a mahogany coffin.’

  Underwood raised his head and with a sneer said, ‘So what? I didn’t steal any of the statues.’

  ‘No. You bought the original at Pinsley Smith’s auction. And you made the other two copies from a mould of another woman. I suppose Queegley mixed the plaster and did all the h
ard work.’

  ‘There was nothing dishonest about that.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Wasn’t there? Spicers’ tell me that they don’t want to see you or your wares ever again.’

  ‘I don’t owe them a bean. My account with them is clear. They should thank me. I brought them a lot of publicity.’

  ‘No, Mr Underwood. You brought them a barrel load of notoriety. It was you who got the good publicity. That was what the stunt was all about, wasn’t it? Whenever the statue was mentioned or photographed, and you made sure that it happened often, there you were, right up close to it.’

  ‘There’s still nothing there you can charge me with, Angel.’

  ‘So that when it went missing, you also went missing. So that all the crooks who knew that you were a crook would naturally think that you had stolen it.’

  ‘You can’t blame me for what people think. Anyway, how could I have stolen it? I own it.’

  ‘Exactly. But they didn’t know that, did they? So that all you had to do was go home and sit by the phone. Wait for the rich crooked punters with more money than sense to phone in and make you an offer. Having three to sell, the original and two fakes, and a worldwide market in which to sell them, you expected to clean up triple the going price of, say, one and a half million – that’s four and a half million quid!’

  Still apparently unmoved, Underwood said, ‘Even if this nonsense is correct, you still can’t charge me with it.’

  ‘No, I can’t charge you with that, but I can, and I will, inform every national newspaper and all the TV and radio news offices today, that you not only own the original statue but that you have two other home-made ones that you and Queegley intended passing off as the real thing. Then I think the market price will drop considerably.’

  Underwood’s face hardened. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘You’ll find that I can. I would only be telling the truth.’

  ‘That’s monstrous,’ Underwood said.

  ‘In the meantime, we will be charging you, jointly with Queegley, with attempting to pass off two statues as if they were antique, stealing three coffins from Hargreaves Funeral Directors, trespassing on church land, illegal use of church property, illegally opening a grave, forging a work of art with a view to obtaining money by false pretences, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer and anything else I can think of.’