The Snuffbox Murders (15 page)

‘Sorry,’ she said with a slight shrug. ‘What do you propose to do, sir?’

‘We’ve got to get a bug in there somehow. We’ve got to know what’s happening.’

It was an hour and a half later when Angel came out of the station and drove the BMW down through town on to Park Road, where he parked. He walked round the corner to Edward Street and joined DC Ted Scrivens, who was in his car parked in a line of other cars. He had an unhindered view of the front door of 26 Edward Street.

‘Any movement?’ Angel said as he opened the door to get in the seat beside him.

‘Nothing, sir. Nobody been out. Nobody been in. No outgoing phone calls. No incoming phone calls. It’s all very boring.’

Angel squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. ‘Are they both in there?

‘I believe so. Saw her at about ten minutes past eight. She was opening that bedroom window. I haven’t actually seen
him
this morning.’

‘Let’s hope he is in there or this whole set-up is a waste.’

Scrivens’s face hardened. ‘He’s
in
there, sir.’

Angel knew that it was wishful thinking, but he thought Scrivens was probably right.

‘Sergeant Carter is on her way. She’s going to plant a bug in there. She’s wearing a wire.’ Out of his pocket he took a small black plastic box that looked like a mobile phone, pressed a button and put it his ear. ‘I’m going to monitor her.’

Scrivens grinned. He was pleased to see that things were moving.

‘She’s here now,’ Angel said. He felt his pulse quicken.

A small car turned the corner, past Scrivens’s Ford which they were in, and stopped at the opposite side of the road outside number 26 Edward Street. DS Carter in the uniform of a NHS sister stepped out of it, carrying a black bag.

The two men watched her knock on the door of number 26.

She very much looked the part in the navy-blue raincoat, black stockings and white cap. Scrivens thought she looked very sexy.

Angel heard the knock through the receiver.

The hot, throbbing pain in his chest began. He’d had it for years. It was part of the job.

It was a while before the knock was answered. The door was eventually opened by Mrs Beasley

‘National Health Service,’ Flora Carter said. ‘Mrs Beasley?’

The woman’s jaw dropped. ‘Yes?’

Flora Carter flashed an ID card made up by Ahmed on his computer twenty minutes earlier, using an NHS logo and a recent head-and-shoulders photograph of Flora from her police record, but Mrs Beasley was hardly interested in it.

‘Well, what do you want?’

‘It’s a swine flu check.’

‘Swine flu!’ Mrs Beasley exclaimed. Alarm showed in her eyes. ‘I haven’t got swine flu.’

‘I don’t suppose you have, Mrs Beasley,’ Flora Carter said. ‘Need to go through a check list of symptoms with you and take a sample of water from your cold tap. That’s all. Only takes a minute.’

Mrs Beasley put her hand on her chest. She knew there was something very unusual about this National Health Service visit, nevertheless she was looking forward to having it confirmed that she hadn’t caught swine flu, also that the supply of water to the house was as pure as it should be.

Mrs Beasley stepped back and pulled the door open wider.

Flora Carter swung the black bag in front of her and swept into the house with a flourish of confidence.

Angel saw the back of her raincoat disappear past the doorjamb, then saw the door close. His jaw tightened. He rubbed his chin. He hoped this was all going to work. Ideally she’d need the woman out of the room for a few minutes, but a few seconds would suffice.

‘Is there just you living here, Mrs Beasley?’ Flora said.

Unexpectedly, through the receiver, Angel heard a deep, man’s voice say, ‘No. There’s me an’ all. Now what’s this all about? You’re not calling at
every
house?’

Angel held his breath. The owner of the voice had to be Sean Noel Riley.

‘Certainly not,’ Flora Carter said. ‘One in every fifty. It’s a survey. I’m working fourteen hours a day as it is. If you don’t want to take part just say so and I can easily go next door.’

‘No. No. It’s all right,’ Mrs Beasley said quickly.

‘You said it only takes a minute?’ the man said.

‘That’s all,’ she said breezily.

Angel was worried. There were now two people in the room with Flora. How could their attention possibly be diverted?

Angel heard the click of Flora’s, ball point. ‘Can I have your name, please?’

‘What me?’ said the man’s voice. Then he said, ‘Sean Noel Riley.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘December the twenty-fifth, 1967.’

‘Thank you,’ Flora said.

Angel felt a drum beating in his chest. He turned to Scrivens. Very quietly he said, ‘He’s in there. Riley’s in there.’

Scrivens nodded.

Flora said: ‘And your name is Violet Beasley … date of birth, Mrs Beasley?’

‘May the third, 1971.’

‘Thank you. Now has either of you any of the following symptoms. Fever, cough, shortness of breath, sore throat, tiredness, aching muscles, sneezing, runny nose or loss of appetite?’

‘No.’

‘That’s good,’ Flora Carter said.

There was a sigh. It sounded as if it was from Violet Beasley. Riley didn’t reply.

‘Now I just need to take a sample of water from your cold tap,’ Flora Carter said.

Angel’s eyes suddenly flashed. ‘She’s stuck with both of them watching her,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to give her a chance.’ He dropped the receiver into his pocket, opened the car door, dashed across the street and up to number 26. He banged hard on the door. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

The door opened. It was Violet Beasley. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Ah yes,’ Angel said. ‘Could you direct me to the … to the abattoir, please?’

Violet Beasley frowned. She wasn’t pleased. ‘The abattoir? I don’t think I know where
that
is? Just a minute,’ she said. She turned and called back into the house. ‘Sean, can you direct this young man to the abattoir?’

‘What?’ Riley said.

She shook her head and gritted her teeth. ‘Come and have a word with this young man,’ she snapped.

There was the muttering sound of dissension from Riley as he thrust his way up to the front door.

Angel’s heart began to beat like the drums at the end of the
1812
.

Riley looked down at Angel as if he was looking in the slop bin at Strangeways.

‘He wants the abattoir,’ she said, pointing at Angel, then she turned and went back in the living room.

Riley said: ‘I’m a stranger round here myself, lad. I don’t know where it is. Sorry.’ He closed the door.

Angel reckoned that that had given Flora Carter about six clear seconds to hide a sticky bug somewhere in the room. Six seconds wasn’t long, but it was long enough. He only hoped that in the process Riley hadn’t suspected anything.

It was one o’clock exactly, only sixty minutes after the successful placing of a listening device at the back of a picture on the wall in the sitting room at 26 Edward Street. Flora Carter had gone back to the station, changed out of the nursing sister’s uniform, and returned it, and the bag, to her friend at the hospital. Don Taylor had set Scrivens up in the white unmarked surveillance van outside the house with earphones to monitor the bug, and Angel had set off down to 22 Canal Road to interview Elaine Dalgleish again.

‘Come on through, Inspector,’ she said, a little breathless. ‘Just back from the shops myself. Sit yourself down there. I’ll just put these bits and bobs away in the fridge; if you don’t mind.’

She quickly pulled groceries out of two shopping bags. She slotted some purchases in a cupboard, put some in the fridge and left some on the worktop, then squeezed up the empty plastic bags and dropped them in a waste bin underneath. She washed her hands under the tap, wiped them on a towel by the sink, then slid on to a stool, dragged off her headscarf and said, ‘Now what is it, Inspector? Have you heard from Mrs Razzle?’

‘No I’m afraid not.’

She pulled a face. ‘I’m worried about her, Inspector. Her husband shot dead. Tried to make it look like that robot. The murderer might be … looking for
her
.’

‘Why? What has she done? Do you know something I don’t, Mrs Dalgleish?’

‘No. No I don’t. But I just … I just wish she’d come back. Besides, if she doesn’t come back soon, I think I’m going to have to look round for another job.’

Angel knew how difficult it was getting employment of any sort in Bromersley at that time and nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged then smiled.

‘I came to ask you a couple of questions,’ he said. ‘Small matters that need tidying up. Firstly, about the gun that was in the drawer in the bedside table at the Razzle’s house.’

Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. ‘I thought we had been through all that.’

‘I need to know who you
told
about it.’

‘I didn’t tell
anybody
about it,’ she said staring coldly at him. ‘It was the Razzles’ business. I wouldn’t tell anybody anything about the Razzles that was private.’

He maintained the stare she had started.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now, that was the actual gun used to murder Mr Razzle. The murderer took that gun out of the drawer the night of the murder, or earlier. Or someone took it from there and gave it to him or left it somewhere for him to collect. But however he came by it, he would need to know that it was there in the first place, wouldn’t he? Now only you, Mr Razzle and Mrs Razzle knew of its existence. I have this problem, you see. I can’t understand how the murderer knew it was there.’

She blinked. ‘I have no idea.’

Angel rubbed his cheek. ‘Is it possible that Mr Razzle might have innocently told somebody? Maybe someone he trusted … while talking about his security arrangements.’

‘I suppose so. He was a nice man, a gentleman. He would talk to anybody. I suppose it’s possible.’

‘But you never heard him … telling anybody about the gun?’

‘I told you, Inspector, no.’

There was suddenly a banging against the back door. And then another tattoo.

Elaine Dalgleish jumped up from the stool, snatched a bunch of keys off the worktop, charged across to the back door, selected a key, unlocked the door and opened it wide. The sounds of transistor music, a baby crying, the thump of a ball being kicked and children squealing excitedly flooded into the kitchen.

She leaned out of the doorway. ‘Was that you, Kevin?’ she said.

‘Sorry,’ a voice from outside said.

‘You’re ruining the paintwork on my door,’ she said. ‘Take your ball up the yard, please. There’s much more room up there. I’ve paid out a fortune to have this house painted. Go on. Off you go. All of you.’

She came back in, closed the door, locked it, stared at Angel who was now standing by the sink. He was holding the bar of soap from the soap dish in his hand. He pointed to the soap. It had the indentation of a key in it.

‘This is a mould of Razzle’s front-door key taken just now from the bunch that was hanging in the lock of your back door. From this bar of soap, I could now have made a serviceable key that would open their door. Taking the mould has only taken me a few seconds … the time you were talking to those boys. I took the keys out of the lock, pressed it into the soap, then replaced the keys. That’s all it takes.’

Her mouth dropped open.

Angel returned the bar of soap to the soap dish at the side of the sink, rinsed his hands and wiped them on the towel.

‘The murderer of Charles Razzle used your key to take a mould to make a key to gain access to the house. We have arrested the murderer and he actually had the home-made key on him. But the legal boys need to be able to illustrate just where and when he had the opportunity to make a mould of it.’

Elaine Dalgleish blinked. ‘You’ve got the murderer?’

‘A man has been charged.’

‘Who is it?’

‘All in good time.’

She sat quietly and looked at him for a few seconds, then said, ‘There are three other keys, inspector, and if my key was the one used – and I am not saying it was – I have no idea when or how it
could
have been.’

Angel knew she could be right, but that wasn’t going to satisfy the CPS. He thought a moment. He couldn’t see how he could sensibly press her any further, so he stood up thanked her and left.

Angel arrived back in his office and immediately reached for the phone.

‘Mr Twelvetrees? Michael Angel here. Regarding those two points that needed clarification.’

‘Yes, Inspector?’

‘I’ve just spoken to Elaine Dalgleish. It wasn’t very productive. I daresay that if she knew how her key might have been borrowed she wouldn’t have admitted to it. On that other matter, is it not unreasonable to suggest that Charles Razzle, being a decent, friendly, approachable man, might very well have talked over his security arrangements with an ostensibly friendly so-called security expert and revealed to him that he owned a firearm and where he kept it?’

Twelvetrees said: ‘Maybe, but I may have to try to convince a cynical jury of it.’

‘Well, with it, or without it, do you think you have enough to get a conviction?’

There was a delay before Twelvetrees replied. ‘I’m not sure, Inspector. These details would not be at all significant to the outcome of the case if there was an incontrovertible motive that the defence had to try to explain away.’

Angel understood the point well enough. He was disappointed because it meant more work. ‘Very well, Mr Twelvetrees. I’ll see what I can do. Goodbye.’

He replaced the phone. He knew that Twelvetrees was right. He only hoped that Don Taylor was able to uncover something at Farleigh’s house that would be useful in constructing a motive.

The phone rang again. He reached out for it. It was a young PC on reception.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s a strange, foreign man here by the name of Van Hassain. Said he wanted to speak to the chief of police. I spoke to the super and he said to pass him on to you.’

Angel wasn’t pleased. His face creased. He had enough to do. ‘What does the man want, lad?’

‘He wouldn’t say, sir. He’s seems to be very … posh. Arrived in a chauffeur-driven car.’

‘All right. Bring him down.’

Minutes later the constable arrived and ushered the visitor into Angel’s office.

Van Hassain stood at the door, adjusted his monocle, stared at Angel, smiled and said, ‘Ah, Inspector Angel,
you
are ze chief of police?’

‘The chief constable is away at a conference, Mr Van Hassain. I am afraid you will have to put up with me.’

The smile on Van Hassain’s face vanished. ‘No. I will speak only with ze chief of police,’ he said. He turned towards the door, then turned back. ‘When will he be available?’

‘Monday morning.’

Van Hassain grunted and looked thoughtfully round the office. He was clearly undecided. Then he reached into his mustard-coloured waistcoat pocket and produced a card about the size of a playing-card. He handed it to Angel. ‘This will introduce me to you, Inspector.’

It was gold-coloured lettering on black.

Angel blinked as he read it.

It said:

Angel read it again. He had never heard of a country called Omanja. It must be very small. He had never heard of Moses Van Hassain either. What could this man want in downtown Bromersley? Angel wanted to send him on his way as quickly as he could manage. He had a lot to do.

He offered the card back to Van Hassain, who waved a hand indicating that Angel should retain it. Angel placed it on the desk in front of him.

‘Well, Mr Van Hassain, I am the most senior officer available. I regret that you must deal with me or make an appointment with the chief constable’s secretary for some time on Monday.’

‘No. No. No. Dis matter cannot wait until Monday, kind Inspector.’

‘Very well,’ Angel said, and pointed to a chair.

Van Hassain sat down, removed his straw hat and placed it lightly on a chair close by, then put his bamboo cane with the carved ivory head of a tiger in front of him and rested his hands on it.

‘This is a delicate matter for me to talk about, Inspector. You see, it is a personal, commercial matter. Being Secretary of State for Omanja, answerable only to King Moogli, which is a very great honour, and a vocation which I gladly undertake and for which I accept no remuneration whatever, necessitates that I earn my livelihood by way of business. I had a gentleman’s agreement with Charles Razzle, to purchase his collection of twenty-eight gold snuffboxes. I am aware that Mr Razzle was tragically murdered on the twenty-fifth of May. Nevertheless, I assume that the transaction will still be honoured. I have been to the Razzle’s house, but the dear, honourable, beautiful Mrs Razzle was out, so I am here to see the chief of police, who I assume will be dealing with Mr Razzle’s affairs.’

Angel said, ‘Well, it’s true that I am the police officer dealing with the murder of Mr Razzle….’

Van Hassain smiled and said, ‘Good. Good.’

‘But I have to say that no gold snuffboxes have been found among Mr Razzle’s effects.’

Van Hassain’s face hardened. He looked down at the floor, then gripped the ivory-headed cane tightly and banged it on the terracotta-coloured tiles angrily several times. ‘May the curse of our gods be upon all thieves.’

Angel watched. He silently rubbed his chin.

Then in an even tone, Van Hassain smiled and said, ‘Vell, Inspector, would you locate them for me and I will happily pay the price agreed plus, in these circumstances, ze usual “finder’s fee” of twenty per cent. That’s one hundred and twenty thousand pounds in cash, English sterling. I am on my yacht, the
Golden Mistress
anchored outside your port of Bridlington for another day only. Then I must leave for home … state business, you understand?’

Angel looked him straight in the face. ‘Mr Van Hassain,’ he said. ‘I have no idea where the snuffboxes are. I said that they were not in Mr Razzle’s effects. They have not been found.’

‘According to him, they were in his possession the day he was murdered, Inspector. I had an email from him that morning to zat effect. They could surely not be far away, nor hard to find, eh?’

Angel suddenly realized that the snuffboxes could have been in Charles Razzle’s safe. There would be the motive for his murder … the motive he had been searching for. It followed then, that they should be found in Farleigh’s possession.

‘Have you found ze murderer?’ Van Hassain asked.

‘We have charged a man.’

‘He is here, in your cells?’

‘Yes.’

Van Hassain’s eyes glowed. ‘Where the murderer is,’ he said, ‘surely there you will find ze gold snuffboxes.’

Angel hoped he was right.

‘Do you know the Razzles well, Mr Van Hassain?’ Angel said.

‘No, Inspector. I have never met Mr Razzle. My contact with him is through the Internet only, and the beautiful Rosemary Razzle, through the medium of the television and the film. I am such an admirer of feminine beauty, Inspector. I am hoping to meet the lady before I leave your lovely city. You will find for me the twenty-eight gold snuffboxes, Inspector. I have the cash upon my person. I regret I cannot pay more.’

‘If we do manage to find them, Mr Van Hassain, they would be evidence and therefore they would be an exhibit, and needed for the trial.’

Van Hassain sucked air in noisily. His nostrils flared. His face flushed up scarlet. He rocked backwards and forwards over his stick five or six times, his hands clenched tightly round the ivory tiger’s head. ‘One hundred and thirty thousand pounds, Inspector Angel,’ he spat out through clenched teeth. ‘That is absolutely my top figure.’

Angel shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Van Hassain. The price is nothing to do with me. I am not in a position to negotiate with you about them. If we do come across the gold snuffboxes, and it is established that they are part of Charles Razzle’s estate, then any disposing of them would be a matter for you to take up with Mrs Razzle.’

Van Hassain stopped rocking and looked up in surprise. ‘Of course. Of course,’ he said quickly. He tapped his cane several times on the tiles and closed his eyes for a moment, then he looked up and said, ‘And where would I find the beautiful Mrs Razzle, Inspector?’

‘I wish I knew,’ Angel said.

The monocle dropped from Van Hassain’s eye. He caught the ribbon. ‘You do not know?’

Angel shook his head. It worried Van Hassain. It was beginning to worry Angel as well.

Van Hassain adjusted the monocle and said, ‘One more thing, kind Inspector Angel, then I will leave you in the peace of your god to complete your investigations. May I speak with the man who is charged with this murder?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Angel rising to his feet. ‘Now, if there is nothing else I can assist you with Mr Van Hassain…?’

As soon as Van Hassain had closed the door, Angel tapped the number of the Feathers Hotel into his phone.

‘Put me through to Miss Jessica Razzle, please.’

‘I am so pleased to hear from you, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It is so boring here. I don’t know anybody. I shall leave for the States as soon as the funeral is over. You have some news for me? Has my
dear
stepmother turned up?’

‘No, sorry, Jessica. I have not heard a word. I just want to ask you a question. Do you know anything about a collection of gold snuffboxes belonging to your father?’

‘Snuffboxes? He used to collect them … last I heard he had about a dozen. Quite nice, but very expensive, and boring. When you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all.’

‘You say expensive; how expensive?’

‘I can’t remember, say – oh, I don’t know – say a hundred pounds each. I might be wrong about that. Might be only twenty pounds. Can’t remember. I know it seemed a ridiculous price at the time. But that was quite a few years ago.’

‘And where did he keep them?’

‘In a drawer in his desk. Wrapped in tissue paper in a little cardboard box. He used to bring them out and show visitors. I used to show my doll. He used to show his snuffboxes. I know that some were seventeenth-century. He was very proud of them. Have you any idea where Rosemary is?’

‘No, I haven’t heard from her.’

‘You know, Inspector, I hate her, but not as much as I hate Farleigh, and I’m ever so worried about her.’

‘I know,’ Angel said. He tried to hide his concern. He didn’t want Jessica to know
how
worried. There was no point in her worrying needlessly. She would still be grieving the loss of her father. That was more than enough to bear, especially without a family member to share it with. He wanted to say something that would cheer her up.

‘You know what they say,’ he said, ‘no news is good news.’

There was a pause. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Thank you very much, Jessica. Goodbye.’

He ended the call and immediately dialled a London number. It was his good friend, DS Matthew Elliott at the National Police Antiques and Fine Art squad.

After the usual warm courtesies, Angel said: ‘Matthew, can you give me a ball-park value of twenty-eight gold snuffboxes? I am working on a case where they seem to constitute the motive for the murder of a man, and I don’t know anything at all about them.’

‘Well Michael, of course it depends. They
are
still pretty rare. Sir Jack Prendergast had his mansion stripped of antiques last month by the country-house gang and among the items stolen were twenty gold snuffboxes. Now they were on his insurance valuation at over a million quid. The dates of some of them went back to Elizabethan times. But there are late Georgian examples you can occasionally buy in country auctions for around two hundred pounds or so if in reasonable condition. I hope that’s helpful. Sorry I can’t be more precise. I would be able to say more if I saw them.’

‘Could add up to a lot of money then? Well, thanks very much.’

He replaced the phone and leaned back in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. He squeezed the lobe of his ear between thumb and forefinger. Rosemary Razzle would be able to tell him so much more about the snuffboxes if he only knew where to contact her. Her running off like that was very unhelpful. It was worrying when there was so much crime about. He wished that he could find her. He
could
enlist the help of the newspapers. They’d enjoy making a story about the beautiful actress/heiress who had gone missing. He visualized the headlines and then changed his mind. She had only been gone three days. It was hardly long enough to make it into a mystery. It could all be a hullabaloo for nothing. She might turn up giving some innocuous explanation, and there’d be so many red faces, and his would be the reddest. He considered the matter a little while longer and considered that it might be worthwhile circulating the police service. Her famous face might be spotted and recognized somewhere in the course of a policeman’s day-by-day work.

He picked up the phone and tapped out PC Ahaz’s number.

‘Ahmed. Come in here.’

The young man duly arrived.

‘Get a photograph of Rosemary Razzle, Ahmed. Put her description under it and email it to all forty-three forces. Mark it “Confidential – wanted as a witness.” Don’t let it look as if she’s a suspect.’

‘Right sir,’ Ahmed said, then turned towards the door. He turned back. ‘The prisoner in cell one, sir, Farleigh. Is it all right if he has a tin of shoe polish and a duster? Says he wants to keep looking smart.’

Angel frowned. He’d never had a request like that before. In his experience, prisoners never seemed to consider the cosmetic appearance of their footwear. He had to consider whether there were any ulterior reasons for which Farleigh might require the polish and duster. Suicide was common in prison, so he had to take the prisoner’s disposition into account. But there would be easier ways than eating a tin of polish or choking on a piece of duster.

‘Anybody with him at the moment?’

‘He’s with his solicitor, sir, I think.’

‘Anybody we know?’

‘Haven’t seen him before.’

Angel didn’t like that. Could be some slick young lawyer from the city, trying to make a name for himself.