Sham

by Roger Silverwood

  Mirabelle Jones stood next to him, beginning to wish she had not come forward with information about Jason, and even more, regretting buying those shoes in the January sales even though they had had fifty pounds struck off the price ticket!

  The hotel manager turned round to face them.

  ‘We didn’t have anybody staying that night. It was a Saturday. Very slack night here, sir. Usually ram-jam full from Monday to Friday with businessmen, reps and so on. Every room occupied. Nobody stayed with us that Saturday night.’

  Angel turned to Mirabelle Jones.

  She looked up at him with doleful eyes.

  ‘He was staying here that night, Inspector,’ she said firmly out of the side of her mouth, avoiding the hotel manager’s eyes. ‘I was in the room with him. I should know,’ she said impatiently.

  Angel rubbed his chin.

  ‘Do you remember the room number?’

  ‘No.’

  Angel turned back to the man.

  ‘Were you on duty that day, by any chance?’

  He referred back to the big book.

  ‘No. It was a new man, a trainee, a Mr Page.’

  ‘I’d like to see him, then,’ Angel said resolutely.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. He proved to be … unsuitable. I’m afraid I had to, erm, let him go.’

  Angel sniffed.

  ‘Let him go? You mean you gave him the sack?’ he growled.

  ‘Well … yes.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Hmmm. Well, where is he now?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, sir.’

  ‘You really couldn’t say?’ Angel bellowed.

  A couple passing and two men coming out of the lift turned their heads and stared at him.

  ‘I really couldn’t say, sir,’ the man repeated coolly.

  Mirabelle Jones saw Angel’s neck turn the colour of her favourite lipstick.

  ‘Do you mean you don’t know?’ he said, glowering at him.

  ‘Well … yes.’

  Angel grunted.

  ‘Well, why the hell don’t you say what you mean?’

  He turned towards the door.

  ‘Come along Miss Jones. This is getting us nowhere.’

  14.

  Angel walked Mirabelle Jones back to his car in silence. He briefly thanked her for coming forward with the information about Jason. It wasn’t easy for him, as her statement (which she had made seem absolutely believable) that Richard Schumaker had been her assailant in the park, and not the dead man, contradicted all the evidence he had accumulated up to that point. He couldn’t tell her how confused, frustrated and in the depths of hopelessness she had left him. Solving a crime, to Angel, wasn’t merely a job of work, it was a career, a challenge, it was his reason for being a policeman; there wasn’t any other job in the world he would rather do than detect criminals and put them away. It fulfilled all his interest, his hobbies, his ambitions; it was his raison d’etre.

  He took her address and phone number, offered her a lift to her workplace or home, which she declined, and then returned to the station. He parked in the station car park, entered by the back door, past the cells and up the green corridor towards his office. As he opened the door, the phone began to ring. He was eager to answer it. It could be the latest on Mrs Buller-Price’s car. Maybe it had at last arrived at its destination. He reached out for it.

  ‘Angel.’

  It was the civilian switchboard receptionist again. She sounded rather distant no doubt recalling the brush she had had with him the day previously.

  ‘There’s a lady on the line asking for you, her name is Sharon Rossi. Will you speak to her?’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. This should be interesting.

  ‘Of course. Of course. Please put her through.’

  There was a click.

  ‘Inspector Angel?’ It was the unmistakable throaty, milk chocolate voice of the beautiful Sharon Rossi.

  ‘Speaking. What can I do for you, Sharon?’ he said easily as he slumped down into the swivel chair.

  She gave a deep, nervous, throaty cough.

  ‘Just want you to know that I’m … surviving,’ she said evenly.

  Angel nodded.

  ‘I had every expectation that you would,’ he said, his mind flitting around wondering what she really wanted.

  ‘I, er … I really did love Pete Grady, you know. I didn’t betray him. I have no idea how my mother and Uncle Carl found out that we were in Blackpool.’

  Angel knew. He had already worked it out, and he wondered whether he should tell her. He decided he would; the information wasn’t that valuable and she might offer some useful dirt in return.

  ‘Oh, I’ve worked that one out, Sharon. It wasn’t difficult really. Pete Grady rang up on his mobile from Blackpool to tell my super that even though he had run off with you away from the safe house, he had every intention of being at the trial and giving evidence as had been originally planned.’

  ‘I was in the room in the hotel when he made the call.’

  ‘Well, my super easily traced the call to a signal from the Blackpool area. He then phoned Solly Solomon, your father’s barrister, told him and he passed it on to your uncle or your mother or both. On the principle that people on the run only go to places familiar to them, they would have known the hotel, or wherever, where Pete took you, where he had stayed on a previous occasion, waited for him to come out without you. Then they took him on to the beach and shot him.’

  He heard her shudder. He waited then continued: ‘And I’ve also worked out how you found Peter Grady’s safe house was in Bromersley.’

  ‘Oh? Oh really?’

  Angel thought she sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘Yes. There were only three people knew the address, Sharon. It wasn’t me. So it had to be either Pete Grady or my super. Well, Pete was petrified of your family. As much as he loved you, I didn’t think he wanted to take such a risk. That left only one person: Superintendent Strawbridge.’

  ‘Then he was the one who left an anonymous message on my answerphone. He even told me the access code to the back door of the flats,’ she said huskily. She sighed and then added, ‘I can tell you something else about your wonderful Superintendent Strawbridge.’

  Angel’s ruse had worked. He listened attentively.

  ‘My mother took great delight in telling me. There’s a crook called Mace, Stuart Mace, who runs gambling clubs in London and some of the provinces.’

  ‘I know him.’

  ‘Well, your Superintendent Strawbridge ran up a debt of a thousand pounds with Stuart Mace that he couldn’t pay. Apparently he was a regular gambler. Got the fever, if you know what I mean. Mace sold that debt to my grandfather for £8,000, who threatened to make it known to the newspapers if Pete turned up in court, gave evidence and dad went down. That’s why your friend, Strawbridge, tracked Pete and me down and told old Solomon to tip off my mother. Strawbridge must have been greatly relieved when Pete didn’t turn up in court.’

  Angel pursed his lips. That was interesting.

  ‘He’s no friend of mine, Sharon. He’s simply my boss.’

  ‘There’s no wonder my family hate policemen though, is there?’

  He had to agree, but he didn’t say so.

  ‘Where are your family now, then,’ he said riskily. He thought that even if she knew she wouldn’t say.

  ‘No idea, Mr Angel. We have so little in common. I’m old enough and wise enough now to make my own way.’

  ‘Of course. And what are you going to do?’

  ‘Well, I’ll probably go back to modelling, get some money together until I begin to show. I should have at least five months. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Well, all the best, Sharon. Promise me you’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Mr Angel. And all the best to you. Goodbye now.’

  He replaced the receiver.

  His mind was buzzing. Now that he had confirmation of some of the
questionable activities of the superintendent and some of the reasons why, he must now put the charges to him and see what he had to say in his defence — there might be explanations; Angel couldn’t think of any — or go straight upstairs to the chief constable and simply report the facts exactly as they had come to light without embellishment. It was an absolute requirement of the service that he reported the facts promptly to a superior.

  This was food for thought.

  He leaned back in the swivel chair and gazed up at the ceiling. It seemed rather heartless to report the information to the chief constable without giving the man a chance to explain. But everything seemed so logical, and so cut and dried, he couldn’t imagine that there was any explanation, other than the obvious, that Strawbridge was as bent as a barley sugar stick.

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  He dropped the chair forward and yelled out.

  ‘Come in!’

  When he saw that it was Ahmed, it reminded him that the lad was going to be eighteen in a couple of days and he remembered that he had a special gift for him. He kept meaning to bring it, but he always forgot. He must remember. Then he noticed something strange about the lad. His eyes stared. His bottom lip jutted forward unusually. Something was definitely wrong.

  ‘What’s the matter? Why are you trying to break my door down?’

  Whatever it was, Ahmed could hardly get it out.

  ‘Sir! Sir! He’s back,’ Ahmed said earnestly.

  ‘What you on about?’

  ‘Superintendent Harker’s back, sir,’ Ahmed said in a hushed voice as if he was speaking of God. He’s in Superintendent Strawbridge’s office now. Look’s like he’s back to stay. And he wants to see you urgently.’

  Angel frowned, licked his lower lip and didn’t reply. This was strange and very unusual. Old turnip head back after just a couple of weeks. Probably just dropped in to say hello.

  Angel leapt up, passed Ahmed at the door and rushed down the corridor. He knocked on the superintendent’s office door and pushed it open.

  There he was.

  Angel’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Come in,’ called the tall, skinny, ugly, mean, miserable monster himself, Detective Superintendent Horace Harker. He was in civvies, looking skinnier than ever, seated where Strawbridge had been sitting only a few days ago.

  ‘Come in, Michael,’ he said with a smile like Caligula used to give to the gladiator as he turned both thumbs down. ‘I expect you are surprised. No more than I am. Sit down.’

  ‘What sir? Are you back permanently then?’ Angel said bluntly.

  Harker screwed up the bushy-ginger-brown-white-and-black eyebrows and said, ‘Not much of a greeting for an old comrade is it?’

  Angel realized that he must have seemed offensive.

  ‘Sorry, sir. You took me by surprise. Never expected to see you again … well, not in that chair, anyway.’

  Harker’s face immediately changed.

  ‘It’s an emergency, Michael. An emergency. Strawbridge has gone missing. Disappeared off the face of the earth. The chief had my application to return here on his desk yesterday, anyway. Enid couldn’t settle down there among a load of foreigners. They don’t even speak proper English, and she wanted to be near her sister in Wombwell so with Strawbridge gone ...’

  Angel’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Well, sir. Where is DS Strawbridge then?’

  ‘That’s it. Nobody knows. Not even his wife. Nobody knows. She reported it to the chief yesterday p.m. and, well, here I am. I shall stay at The Feathers for the time being. I have been appointed temporary acting superintendent.’

  Angel could hardly believe it. He had really thought he’d got rid of the most miserable and cantankerous superintendent he’d ever known, and here he was — back! And it was strange that Strawbridge had disappeared into the night like that. He wondered what he was up to; it seemed to him that that man was in deep manure.

  ‘Now that’s enough explanations,’ Harker said. ‘Let’s get on. I’ve a lot on my plate. I’ve to see Asquith and Busby yet. What are you busy with? I understand that Rossi got off. Strawbridge wouldn’t like that. Manchester’s crime figures will rocket again.’

  Angel wondered whether to tell him what he knew about the Rossi family, about Grady, about Strawbridge’s gambling, that he was monitoring the location of the car planted by the Rossis at Mrs Buller-Price’s farm.

  While he was thinking about all that, Harker said, ‘You’re working on a double murder, aren’t you? I’ve been trying to catch up with all your reports. A young lad at a country club, in broad daylight, in front of a witness. Now that should be easy, and the body of a model found concealed in the suspect’s house?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But the suspect is dead.’

  ‘What? Three murders?’

  ‘No. A lad called Schumaker murdered the model and then hid her body in his house. But then later, he was murdered in the country club.’

  ‘Who by?’ he said irritably.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. But I’ve just had a witness who has seen his body at the mortuary and says that it isn’t Schumaker at all, but is the man who assaulted her and her boyfriend, a man called Jason, six months ago. Furthermore, I have the witness to the murder who says that it is exactly the same MO that was used to assault her and kill Schumaker only last week. The whole thing doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Jason who?’

  ‘Don’t know. That’s the puzzle.’

  ‘Or a mammoth coincidence. Hmmm. Well,’ he said, standing up. ‘You’re paid to make things that don’t make sense into things that do make sense. Get on with it!’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Right,’ he said and turned to go. He stopped with his hand on the open door. He knew he should inform the superintendent about the car monitoring operation at the very least.

  ‘There is one thing, sir,’ Angel said, tentatively.

  Harker sighed.

  ‘Oh do get on with it,’ he wailed impatiently. ‘Do whatever it is you have to do. And don’t bother me unless you have to. I’ve still to see Asquith and Busby, catch up with their current cases, and everything else, and report back to the chief. You’ve been here the longest. You know the ropes. Do what you need to do! Don’t bother me unless you have to. This is an emergency situation; surely you can work on your own without me holding your hand all the bloody time?’

  That was enough for Angel. His eyes flashed with excitement; his jaw set hard. He was out of that office like a shot. Of course he could work on his own; in fact, he preferred it. And he would rather walk round Bromersley all day with a nail in his boot than listen any more to him!

  Temporary Acting Superintendent Harker was blissfully unaware that he had just let one of his inspectors off the hook. It meant that Angel didn’t immediately have to report all the incriminating evidence he had on Strawbridge, to him or to the chief constable. It gave him the time and the flexibility he needed to solve his cases his own way, which delighted him. He looked at the clock. It was 5.22. And he wasn’t on overtime. He returned to his office with a lighter heart, a song on his lips and a spring in his step. He grabbed his overcoat off the hook, held it in his arms as if it was Ginger Rogers, danced round it three times before putting it on. He flicked the rim of his imaginary top hat then sashayed down the corridor twirling an invisible silver-topped black cane.

  The credits at the end of another repeat of a repeat of a repeat of Only Fools and Horses rolled up the television screen.

  He turned to Mary and said, ‘What’s on now, love?’

  She looked up from her book and muttered, ‘Don’t know.’

  Without looking up, she passed him the newspaper. Angel took it from her and looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock.

  The phone rang. They both looked at the phone, then at each other. He pressed the mute button on the television remote and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that DI Angel? Traffic here, sir.’
r />   Angel’s recognized the voice. It was DS Mallin. His pulse began to race. This could be what he had been waiting for.

  ‘Yes, Norman.’

  Mary noticed his face change.

  ‘That car, sir, it has been standing at a site that, on my map, shows it to be at a four-star hotel between the Ml and the Al, at co-ordinates 676 North and 438 West, for an hour and eight minutes, sir. The name of the hotel is The Yorkshireman.’

  Angel’s jaw stiffened.

  ‘Right. I know it. Keep monitoring it and in the event of any movement from there, advise me.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He depressed the cradle for a couple of seconds, then waited for the tone and then dialled a number.

  Mary took off her reading glasses and peered at him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she said.

  ‘Got to go out, love.’

  She wasn’t pleased. She looked at the clock unnecessarily and shook her head.

  ‘You’ll miss that film.’

  ‘Can’t be helped.’

  There was a click, and a small feminine voice in the earpiece said, ‘FSU.’

  ‘Firearms Support Unit? I want to speak to the duty officer, please. DI Angel, Bromersley.’

  ‘Hold on, sir.’

  There was a short wait.

  Angel looked across at Mary.

  ‘It’s just a little job; won’t take long.’

  In eight words, he’d told her two lies and he knew it.

  ‘And what’s this about “firearms”?’ she snapped.

  He pulled a face but didn’t reply.

  ‘Michael Angel,’ an enthusiastic voice came through the earpiece. ‘You old son of a gun.’

  It was DI White.

  ‘Ah. Waldo. I’m glad it’s you. That car has moved and has settled at The Yorkshireman hotel. It’s a posh place on the —’

  ‘I know it,’ he said eagerly.

  ‘Good. Can we rendezvous on the main Doncaster Road, about half a mile away this side of it ASAP?’

  ‘Yes. Sure. I reckon we can be there in about forty minutes.’

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Full complement, I think.’

  That was the DI, two sergeants and sixteen constables. Angel was pleased.