The Snuffbox Murders (6 page)

He turned to Ahmed and said, ‘Thank you, lad. I was expecting it.’

‘I had to sign for it, sir.’

‘I know. I know. I’ll take good care of it,’ he said, taking the envelope and beginning to look at the list of contents written on the outside of it.

Ahmed hesitated, looked at Flora Carter; they exchanged smiles and he went out.

Angel noticed the glances. He frowned a moment then said, ‘I hope you’re not making up to that lad, Sergeant. He’s only twenty-two, you know. He’s far too young for you.’

Her face reddened. She inhaled quickly. In one breath, she said, ‘No, sir, I’m not. But if I was, it would be my business … and his.’

Angel was unmoved. He pursed his lips. ‘He’s only young. He hasn’t a father. He’s not up to the … he’s not ready to … I wouldn’t want him getting hurt, that’s all.’

Flora Carter’s lips tightened then relaxed. ‘I’m not the Wicked Witch from the West, you know.’

He didn’t reply. He opened the envelope and emptied it on to his desk.

‘The contents of Charles Razzle’s pockets,’ he said.

They both peered down at them. Angel pored through them for a few moments. They were mostly coins. There was a small wallet with forty pounds and a credit card in it, a small bunch of keys, a handkerchief and a wristwatch in a small, see-through plastic bag. He picked up the bag. The watch was a very expensive, gold Orcado. Its dial was smashed and it had stopped at five minutes past nine. He showed it to her. She nodded and that was it.

He picked out the keys, repacked the rest of the stuff, handed her the envelope and said, ‘Give that to Ahmed on your way out.’

She took the envelope from him. Then he gave her the keys in her other hand and said, ‘And ask him to let DS Taylor have these keys asap. One of them probably opens the safe.’

She nodded and went out. He watched her go. As the door closed he rubbed his chin vigorously.

The phone rang. He reached out for the handset, pressed the button and said, ‘Angel.’

There was a loud wheezy cough and a splutter. Angel pulled the phone away from his ear. He knew the caller was Superintendent Harker. There was another cough and a splutter, and that was again repeated.

Eventually Harker said, ‘Are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here, sir,’ Angel said.

‘Aye, well come up here, smartish,’ Harker said, then he banged the receiver hard down into its cradle. It clicked noisily in Angel’s ear.

Angel’s jaw muscles stiffened. Harker was always guaranteed to annoy him.

Angel threw down his ballpoint and got up from the desk.

He went down the corridor to the last door. There was a sign screwed to it. It read: ‘Detective Superintendent Horace Harker’.

He knocked on the door and went in.

Harker was at his desk. There were two piles of papers and files rising up to his eye level, and the rest of the desk was littered with papers, reports, a bottle of lemonade, a coffee cup, jar of Vick, bottle of paracetamol tablets, box of tissues and a transistor radio.

The superintendent was holding a plastic inhaler up a nostril and taking a long hard sniff while blocking off the other nostril with the forefinger of his other hand. His eyes followed Angel into the room. He withdrew the inhaler, put a cap on it, placed it on the desk, then sniffed and pointed to the chair immediately in front of the desk.

Angel sat down.

‘Aye,’ Harker began. ‘Well, now it’s fortunate that that Razzle case has come to an early conclusion.’

Angel frowned. ‘That’s not so, sir. There has been a development.’

Harker’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘A development?’ he said slowly. ‘Why wasn’t I told. It wasn’t in your report.’

‘It was only known a few minutes ago. It arises from the forensic report.’

Angel explained that Dr Mac indicated that Razzle would have been too badly injured by the first bullet to have been able to have aimed and then fired subsequent rounds effectively.

‘That’s conjecture, lad?’

Angel frowned. He might have expected some argument.

Harker continued: ‘Nobody can possibly be inside somebody else’s brain and know in the last split second of life whether the person is capable of pressing a button or not. What does the CPS say?’

‘There’s more to it than that, sir. Because the first bullet entered the brain, death was virtually instantaneous. The victim would not have had the time, even if he still had the inclination, to change the direction the gun was aiming and press the button that operated the robot’s trigger finger a second time, and then again, a third time.’

‘Did you say it was Mac who put forward this proposition?’

Angel hesitated. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. He knew it wasn’t strictly true. But if he had said it had been
his
idea, Harker would immediately have rejected it.

Harker rubbed his chin. ‘So the remote control that activated the robot was not in Charles Razzle’s possession the moment when he was shot?’

‘I don’t know that for certain, sir. But probably not. There weren’t any fingerprints. Of course, there may have been another remote control.’

‘Another remote control? That means that somebody else must have been in that workshop?’

‘The murderer. Almost certainly.’

‘But the door … it could only be opened by Charles Razzle?’

‘That’s right, sir. The CCTV has shown up nothing.’

Harker’s small, black eyes made several small movements up and down and then from side to side several times, his mouth open like a goldfish’s.

Angel watched him, wondering what he was thinking.

Then Harker breathed in deeply, let out a big sigh and said, ‘Right. You’d better get on with it then.’

Angel got into the BMW and pointed the bonnet in the direction of the city of Sheffield. He travelled almost to the far extent of Abbeydale Road before he saw a smart aluminium-and-glass building and big blue letters that read
FARLEIGH SECURITY 24 HOURS
. He pulled to the kerb at the front and stopped the car. There were yellow lines all along the road and everywhere else he looked. He pulled on the handbrake and switched off the engine. He reached into the glove compartment, took out a printed card and put it under the windscreen. It read: ‘Police on duty. DI Angel. Bromersley Police’.

Then he got out of the car, reached the door of the building and went inside. It was a converted Victorian house, the internal ground floor walls had been knocked down to provide showroom and open office space. An arrow pointed to the reception area. There was a desk at which a pretty girl was seated, looking at a magazine. She was fully engrossed in her reading and didn’t notice him. Angel was good at reading things upside down. He’d had plenty of practice in Harker’s office. She was reading an article headed: ‘How to lose two pounds a week’. He sniffed. She could lose much more than that if she had taken any notice of the tips Mac had given him over the years.

She suddenly looked up, smiled and said, ‘I’m sorry. Can I help you?’

He whipped out his warrant card and badge and said, ‘Detective Inspector Angel. Mr Farleigh is expecting me.’

She flicked her eyelashes up at him. The eyelashes looked attractive but dangerous, like flytraps. He supposed they would be artificial. He thought she didn’t need to lose any weight. She was perfect the way she was.

‘Oh yes. He’ll know you have arrived. I’m sure he’ll be right down.’

Her voice was gentle and sweet. Nice enough to make you want to buy six safes.

In the distance Angel heard a door close and feet clattering down uncarpeted wooden steps, then a man appeared in the doorway. He came straight across to Angel. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Brian Farleigh. Pleased to meet you.’

He shook Angel’s hand enthusiastically.

‘You wanted to ask me some questions about Charles Razzle,’ he said, then he pointed to a small corner of the showroom where there were four chairs around a small table. Catalogues and leaflets were scattered on safes; also on display were vaults, security grilles, unbreakable glass, containers of non-drying paint and so on. ‘Is here OK, or do you want to go to my office?’

‘Here’s just fine,’ Angel said.

They sat down.

‘What did you have to do with the building of Charles Razzle’s workshop?’

‘I supplied and fitted the door. That’s all.’

‘Have you any idea who blocked up the air vents and made that room the secure room it is?’

‘I believe he did it all himself,’ Farleigh said. ‘There wouldn’t have been a lot to do to that cellar, Inspector. The door was, of course, the vulnerable part.’

‘Hmm. Is it easy to unlock the door from the inside? Would you need to know the combination?’

‘You mean if somebody was locked in there, by accident or by mistake?’

Angel sniffed and said, ‘Or on purpose?’

‘Yes. He would need to know the combination.’

‘Hmm. How difficult is it to change the combination of the lock?’

‘Very easy. The door must be open. You can’t do it when it’s closed, obviously. You hold down the set button and tap a six-digit number in, that’s all. But you mustn’t forget it or you have to call me out and then opening it would take hours.’

Angel thought for a moment, then said, ‘Mrs Razzle didn’t know the combination?’

Farleigh gave a slight shrug. ‘No. I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

‘You had a good look round the room when you were building the surround and fitting the door?’

‘Yes. He asked me to.’

‘And is there another way in and out of there?’

Farleigh grinned, not certain at first that he had heard correctly. ‘There wasn’t when I looked, I can assure you.’

‘Any hiding places? Is there a cubby hole, a secret place where anybody could have concealed themselves for a while?’

‘Like a priest’s hole?’ Farleigh said with a smile. ‘The house isn’t that old, Inspector. No. Not that I am aware of.’

‘Did you fit the CCTV for Mr Razzle?’

He raised his head. ‘CCTV? It is one of the things I do. But no. I am not aware there was any CCTV in that house.’

‘You met Charles Razzle, of course.’

‘Didn’t talk much. Always seemed to be somewhere else, if you know what I mean. He just said what he wanted, I gave him a price, he agreed. That’s all there was to it.’

Angel wasn’t surprised. ‘Can you think of anyone who would wish him dead?’

Farleigh’s mouth dropped open, he turned to look at Angel. ‘It was an accident, surely?’

‘We haven’t completely ruled out foul play,’ Angel said. ‘Do you know of anyone?’

‘No. No, Inspector. I can’t think of anyone, but of course I don’t know the Razzles
that
well,’ he said. The grin returned. ‘I’m not on their Christmas-card list. I’m not in
their
social circle.’

Angel squeezed his earlobe between finger and thumb. He was thinking what else he needed to ask.

Farleigh said: ‘I shouldn’t think it was deliberate, though. Can’t see him taking his own life.’

Angel nodded. ‘Thanks very much, Mr Farleigh.’

Angel returned to his office and slumped down in his chair. He looked at the heap of post, circulars and reports on the desk in front of him. He sighed. He put his hands forward to begin to finger through the bumf, when the phone rang. He reached out for it.

It was DS Taylor. ‘We’ve opened Razzle’s safe, sir.’

‘Yes, Don?’

‘And it’s empty. There’s nothing in it.’

Angel blinked. ‘
Nothing
? Right, Don.’ He pressed the cancel button.

He was surprised and disappointed. An empty safe that was locked
was
unusual. He didn’t return the phone to its cradle. After a few moments, he tapped out Taylor’s number.

‘Ah, Don,’ Angel said. ‘About that safe…. There’s always
something
in a safe. If there is no money or gold bars or cash, there’s sometimes deeds to a property, love letters, promissory notes, account books, a lady’s garter, a will,
some
thing. To find Razzle’s safe empty … is a great … a very great surprise.’

‘Yes, sir. I agree.’

‘Which suggests that it must have been burgled. Any signs of a recent assault on the lock?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Were there any prints on the safe handle?’

‘Funny thing, sir. It had been wiped clean.’

Angel smiled and shook his head. ‘Right, Don.’

He replaced the phone.

After a few seconds he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a used envelope covered with his own small handwriting, which he began to read. From time to time he broke off reading, and, deep in thought, rubbed his chin, and gazed straight ahead in the direction of the green stationery cupboard. Then he would return to deciphering the tiny writing. This was repeated several times, then, after twenty minutes of this, his nose turned up and the corners of his mouth turned down, he sniffed and shook his head.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Yes? Come in,’ he said and put the envelope back into his inside pocket.

It was DS Carter.

‘I was just thinking about you.’ Angel said. ‘Sit down. Find anything?’

‘Nothing, sir. We moved all equipment from the walls and sprayed them with water. We also sprayed the ceiling and the floor. The same with the rest of the basement area. There are no hidden doors, trapdoors or exits, or hiding-places in the basement, I’ll stake my life on it.’

Angel frowned.

She continued: ‘Also it is not possible to move around in the basement area outside the workshop door without being caught on the CCTV camera, which is fitted right in the corner of the area.’

Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘Somebody expects us to believe that the robot Charles Razzle built actually murdered him. Then after all that, he was able to cross over to the robot and wipe his prints off its hand and the finger round the trigger of the gun. His prints were just about everywhere else … even on the undischarged bullets in the gun.’

‘But it has to have been Charles Razzle because nobody could have entered the workshop, sir. They would have been on the CCTV tapes. And anyway the door was closed, locked, and he was the only person who knew the combination.’

‘That’s all true, Flora,’ Angel said. ‘It’s a puzzle. It would have been tidier if he had left a suicide note.’

‘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.