‘It is really quite a personal matter, Reverend Mother. Can you please tell me what happened to her?’
‘It is an unusual name but I do not think that that name will appear on our roll during 1939 to 1945. I can look, of course, but, I repeat, what is your interest in her?’
He couldn’t understand why she was still so cagey after such a length of time. He thought that her careful choice of words indicated that she knew something about Yasmin. Maybe not the whole story but she knew that she had been there. Of course, the name Princess Yasmin was not likely to have appeared in that form on the regular roll. For reasons of security, they would have called her by another possibly shorter name. That would be her get-out. He looked across the table at her, the classical face, big open eyes, but her lips were closed and her mouth slightly pouted. Her heavily starched wimple made her seem as resolute as a judge. As she was holding all the aces, he seemed to have no choice.
‘Her father was a very brave man,’ Angel said, ‘and was assisting the Eighth Army in North Africa fighting the Germans. I was with a friend of the Grand Dumas, Sir Max Monro, who died recently. He had been with her father when he had been killed by a German plane and died bravely in 1944. Sir Max gave me a message for her that he was unable to deliver himself later that same year when he came here, because the Reverend Mother, at that time, denied all knowledge of the Princess. I would ask that if —’
He stopped. He saw tears in Reverend Mother’s eyes. Her lips were quivering but her head remained erect. She reached down to a pocket, produced a handkerchief and wiped away the tears.
Angel licked his lips as he tried to understand what exactly was happening. She had seemed such a controlled woman and so resolute. He had obviously exposed some unhappy or unpleasant memories. He was not pleased to have distressed the lady, especially in view of her vocation. His chest burned and his stomach bubbled as he looked at her. He had always had a great respect for the church and those who dedicated their lives to it.
‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ she said through the tears. ‘I am really sorry…to have embarrassed you.’
‘That’s all right, Reverend Mother. But tell me what’s the matter,,,in your own time… There’s no rush.’
‘It’s self-pity, I am ashamed to admit, Inspector.’
‘No. No. No,’ he said.
‘It is. You see, I am Yasmin, daughter of the Grand Dumas.’
Angel’s jaw dropped down. Then he smiled. At last he had found her. That was terrific. He could hear a great orchestra playing music loudly in his head.
‘What was the message?’
‘It was simply to give you his love and give you a priceless ruby. He said it was to provide you with a dowry. It’s a stone I haven’t even seen myself —’
There were more tears.
‘Oh, I am so sorry, Inspector,’ she said. ‘When I hear any news of my father, I am always like this.’
‘I am so sorry’ he said.
There was a knock on the door.
They looked at the glass door. It was the old monk in the leather apron.
She waved him in.
‘Sorry to bother you, Reverend Mother, but —’
‘It’s all right. He knows. I have told him.’
The monk looked at her in astonishment. ‘You’ve told him about me?’
She turned, looked at him and said, ‘No. Simply that I am Yasmin. He knows about my dear father and everything. This is Detective Inspector Angel.’
The monk stared at Angel. A smile slowly developed and spread across his lips and through his eyes. ‘You knew Sir Max Monro, didn’t you?’
Angel said, ‘Yes, of course. Why?’
‘He was my father. I am Nigel Monro.’
Angel blinked, rubbed his chin then said, ‘What are you doing here?’
He looked at Reverend Mother then flopped into a chair next to him.
‘I came up looking for Yasmin. It was also convenient to shelter from my creditors for a few days. Met the dear sisters. They had some problem with the roof. I repaired it. Then there was a problem with condensation in the kitchen. It was the damp course. I cured that. During the time, I was introduced to the life and I joined an order of monks. I am only a very junior novice. We have a house four miles away. I have special permission to assist the sisters with their long-awaited renovations. I walk here every day. The brothers grow strawberries. I have had a lot to learn. There is so much to do here. Looks like I might be here for a long time.’
‘Did you take the ruby from your father’s safe?’
‘Yes, of course. I brought it here and gave it to Yasmin, just as he had asked.’
Angel smiled. ‘Good.’ It was a big relief. He looked at Yasmin.
‘I thought it was very beautiful,’ she said.
‘Good.’ Angel sighed. At last it had been delivered to its rightful owner. He felt as if a great weight had been taken off his shoulders.
‘But I don’t want it,’ she said.
Angel frowned.
Yasmin then reached down into a capacious pocket of her habit and eventually pulled something out. It was an envelope. She opened it, took out the ruby and placed it on the desk in front of them.
There was a pause.
Angel stared at it. The ruby glinted and shone, sought out the light in the room and reflected its dark pink beauty out at them. It looked fantastic.
‘Inspector Angel,’ she said. ‘What use is it to me, here, at my age? It should really go back to my country Alka Dora. There are many poor people there.’
She looked appealingly at Monro.
‘And I agree with Yasmin,’ he said. He looked back at her. She nodded, and he added, ‘She wants you to deal with it for her.’
If you enjoyed Missing, Presumed… you might be interested in Shrine to Murder by Roger Silverwood, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Shrine to Murder by Roger Silverwood
Chapter One
14 CREESFORTH ROAD, BROMERSLEY, SOUTH YORKSHIRE, UK 0200 HOURS SUNDAY, 24 MAY 2009
The sky was as black as fingerprint ink.
A man in white placed a ladder under the window of a bedroom on the first floor of the detached house. He looked round then climbed rapidly up it. A few moments later he opened the window to its fullest extent and climbed inside.
The only sound to be heard was the heavy, even breathing from a big man in a large bed. The intruder could just make out the outline of the sleeping figure, on his back with his head on the pillow and covered with blankets up to his chest.
The man approached the bedside.
Suddenly the sleeping man’s eyes clicked open.
The intruder saw the man’s eyes reflect what little light there was. He rushed forward and put a hand across the man’s mouth.
‘Quiet,’ he snapped. ‘Not a sound, Redman.’
The man in the bed saw the glint of a shiny dagger blade in the intruder’s other hand. His eyes shone like a frightened cat in headlights. His pupils travelled from right to left and then back again.
‘Listen to me, Redman,’ the man in white said. ‘You’ve done very well for yourself these past twenty years. Made yourself a nice little packet. This place here and your villa in Spain. Two sons both doing well. Both married. Given you three healthy grandchildren.’
Redman’s arms came out of the bedclothes and grabbed hold of the intruder’s wrist.
‘No you don’t. It’s payback time, now,’ the intruder said, then he brought the dagger down and stabbed Redman in the chest.
The old man cried out. His heart exploded. Hot blood spurted out over his neck and chest. His eyes centred on the ceiling and stayed there for two seconds; then his eyes closed and his limbs loosened for the last time.
The intruder looked down at the bed, his eyes glowing like cinders. A volcano raged in his chest. His breathing was noisy, his head as light as a champagne bubble. He stared down at the body and smiled. After a few moments, he withdrew the dagger and wiped it on t
he bedclothes.
*
DI ANGEL’S OFFICE, BROMERSLEY POLICE STATION, SOUTH YORKSHIRE, UK 0830 HOURS TUESDAY, 26 MAY, 2009
‘Come in,’ Angel called.
It was Police Constable Ahmed Ahaz.
‘Any signs of that new sergeant?’
‘No, sir,’ Ahmed said.
Angel sniffed.
A new sergeant was due. The appointment had been made to replace the irreplaceable Ron Gawber, the much missed man who had been Angel’s sergeant for ten years and had recently left Bromersley force for a position in Lyme Bay. The move had come about because his wife wanted to be near her father since her mother had died of cancer just before the previous Christmas. Their two sons had both left home to attend further education. There was a vacancy in the local police force down there so Ron Gawber applied for the post and had got it.
Angel wasn’t at all pleased, but he knew Gawber’s wife was as masterful as his own wife, Mary. But in his case, he was absolutely certain in his own mind that he wouldn’t move away from Bromersley until he was retiring age, whatever scheme Mary concocted.
Anyway, Ron Gawber’s replacement was due that morning.
‘His name is Carter,’ Angel said. ‘Show him in as soon as he arrives.’
‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said and went out.
Angel reached for the mornings post still untouched on his desk.
The phone rang.
He looked at it and frowned then snatched it up. It was a young constable on reception. ‘There’s DS Carter arrived here, sir. Asking for you.’
Angel looked at his watch. ‘About time. Have somebody show the new DS to my office, lad. And make it quick.’
‘Yes, sir. Right, sir.’
He replaced the phone.
He stood up, turned round and looked in the mirror. He adjusted his tie. Then ran a hand over his hair. It wasn’t necessary, but he wanted to look his best. He expected his plainclothes staff always to look smart even though they were not in a formal uniform. There were no jeans and T-shirts with slogans (unless the staff were under cover and it was absolutely necessary) on his team. After all, first impressions and all that. He wanted the new man to understand that he was joining a smart, hard-working, no-nonsense, tightly run investigative team dedicated to fighting crime and committed especially to solving murder cases. He had already missed the presence of Ron Gawber. Carter was going to have one hell of a job to come up to his standard of police work, comradeship and perhaps, most of all, dependability.
There was a knock at the door.
Angel turned to face the door.
‘Come in.’
The door opened, a uniformed constable put his nose in and said, ‘DS Carter, sir.’
‘Thank you, lad,’ Angel said.
‘There you are, Sarge,’ the constable said. Then he pushed open the office door and dashed off up the corridor.
As the door swung open, it revealed a pretty brunette in a dark suit and white blouse.
‘DS Carter reporting for duty, sir,’ she said sweetly with a smile.
Angel’s jaw dropped. His face went as white as the padre’s knees.
After a moment, Carter said, ‘May I come in, sir?’
Angel blinked and said, ‘Yes.’
She closed the door and went up to his desk.
‘I’m afraid there must be some mistake,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ she said, eyebrows raised.
He screwed up his eyes. ‘Well, you’re a woman,’ he said.
‘You noticed, sir,’ she said with a smile.
Angel wasn’t in any joking mood. His face was as hard as Dartmoor stone. ‘I was expecting a Detective Sergeant Carter.’
‘I am Detective Sergeant Carter, sir,’ she said.
He shook his head and blew out a noisy breath.
She lifted her head and said: ‘Thirty-four per cent of all police personnel are women, sir. But I am sure you know that.’
His eyes opened wide briefly, then he said: ‘Aye? Oh yes? Maybe, but I manage a team who catch the worst kind of criminals, sergeant: homicidal maniacs, murderers, rapists, drug runners and the very worst kind of bully boys. I need one hundred per cent of my team to be strong enough and dedicated enough to get in there and tough it out, no holds barred, whenever there’s need. Don’t you see that, missy?’ then he added heavily, ‘I can’t do with a thirty-four per cent margin.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘I can pull my weight in any situation, sir. And I would point out that my rank is Detective Sergeant. I prefer to be addressed as sergeant. Never missy. If you don’t mind, sir!’
Angel’s face went scarlet.
‘Wait here, Sergeant,’ he growled.
He crossed the office, went through the door, charged up the green-painted corridor to the top to a door marked: ‘Detective Superintendent Harker.’
He knocked on it sharply.
‘Come in,’ a voice called out. It was followed by a long and loud cough.
Angel opened the door and was immediately engulfed in a cloud of menthol.
A bald man with a head the shape of a turnip and with thick ginger eyebrows was seated behind a desk, which was heavily loaded with piles of paper and paper files. He looked up at Angel, sniffed and said, ‘What is it? I am up to my eyes, lad. I am trying to finish the first-quarters stats.’
Angel blew out a sigh then said, ‘Carter’s arrived, sir. Ron Gawber’s replacement. It turns out she’s a woman.’
Harker looked up at him. ‘Course she’s a woman. Did you think she was a man in a kilt?’
Angel wasn’t amused. ‘It’s not right, sir.’
‘Not right? You can’t forever dodge having women in your team, you know, Angel. You’re not that special. She comes with an excellent record.’
‘I am short staffed enough, sir. You know I can’t send her in against some of the monsters we have to deal with.’
‘You might find what she’s short in brawn she makes up for in brains.’
‘I wanted a fully qualified, experienced, male sergeant. A man with resolve on his mind and fire in his belly. A man I could confidently send out to bring...to bring Jack the Ripper in, if necessary.’
‘Well that’s hard luck, Angel. I’d like a couple of male or female accountants to sort out these figures for me, but the budget won’t stretch to it. You’ve got a perfectly competent detective sergeant, who happens to wear a different sort of underwear, smells of soap and always leaves the lavatory seat down. Those little idiosyncrasies will in no way affect her effectiveness as a police officer, so buzz off and get on with your work and let me get on with mine. There’s nothing I can do about it.’
Angel stared at him hard, but Harker had turned back to his mound of papers.
Angel went out of the office and stormed down the corridor.
‘Thank you for nothing,’ he muttered.
He clenched his teeth. His jaw muscles contorted his face.
He arrived at his office and slammed the door. He positioned himself behind his desk. He looked at the determined face of DS Carter, rubbed his chin, picked up the phone and tapped in a number. It was soon answered.
‘Send WPC Leisha Baverstock into my office straightaway,’ he said, then he replaced the phone then looked back across the desk at the young woman and said, ‘Well, Sergeant Carter, I appear to be...stuck with you...on a trial basis. You follow an excellent man who was with me for ten years. We’ll have to see how you measure up.’
‘I am sure I’ll never be as good as he was, sir,’ she said, ‘but I’ll do my best.’
Angel’s eyes flashed back across the desk to meet hers. There seemed to have been a sting of sarcasm in her reply, but her face gave nothing away. He learned something about her that was unusual. She could hold a look into somebody’s eyes at least as long as he could.
‘At least he usually was able to be on time,’ Angel said.
‘Sorry about that, sir. I did a trial run from home yesterday and it only took twenty-two minutes.’
‘That was Sunday.’
‘This morning, the traffic was horrendous, sir. And there were hold-ups at every traffic light.’
‘It’s Monday. Leave home earlier.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
WPC Leisha Baverstock came in. Up to that point, she had been regarded as the station beauty. There might be a feeling of competition now that another good-looking woman had arrived at the station.
‘Ah, WPC Baverstock,’ Angel said. ‘This is DS Carter. Replacement for Ron Gawber.’
The two women looked at each other and exchanged smiles.
Angel added: ‘Show her round the station. Introduce her to Inspector Asquith. Answer any questions. Make her feel...at home.’
It was Carter’s turn to give Angel a quizzical look.
He stared back at her in surprise.
The two women went out. His eyes followed Carter’s every move. He was still staring at the door after it had closed.
It took him a little time to settle down and accept that he now had a women sergeant on his team and that he would have to get used to it.
It was about an hour later that he had read and approved Friday’s reports, and read and shredded two anonymous letters from cranks. He was beginning to investigate the heavy brown envelope from the Home Office entitled The Proliferation of Graffiti in the Rural Community which included a letter, a pamphlet of 148 pages justifying its necessity, explaining how a census was to be taken, four blank forms in different colours to be completed, and a prepaid return envelope to ‘Art in the Community’, Inverstolly University, Aberflamburyloch, Wales. He was wondering what was the quickest, easiest and best way of disposing of the stuff when the phone rang.
He eagerly stuffed the bumph back into the envelope, and reached out for the phone. From the cough, he knew immediately that it was the superintendent.
‘There’s been a triple nine. Woman reports she found a dead man by the name of Redman. Appears to have been assaulted in his bed. Uniform say it looks like murder. Informant’s name is Krill. Address is 14 Creesforth Road.’
Missing, Presumed... (An Inspector Angel Mystery) Page 19
