The Snuffbox Murders (9 page)

‘He didn’t, but it didn’t matter. He reset the combination before he shot him. As I did.’

‘Could he really do that, sir?’

‘As long as he’d got a loaded Walther in his hand, he could pretty well do anything he damn well wanted, couldn’t he?’

The logic was sound. Flora Carter had to agree.

Angel said, ‘Well, tidy up here. Lock up the house. I’m off to see Rosemary Razzle … see if she can throw any more light on the matter.’

‘What was that number again, sir, to get back into the workshop?’ Carter said. ‘130864? That’s the thirteenth of August 1964. Was that the date you were born, sir?’

‘No it wasn’t. Don’t be so nosy. I’ll tell you what it represents later. You should know. It’s to do with the history of crime.’

She frowned.

‘I’m off,’ he said.

She smiled as she watched him dash down the steps.

Angel got into the BMW, started it up and pointed the bonnet through The Manor House gates. He turned left and drove up to the traffic lights then right on to Park Road and up the hill towards the town. It was a straight road and there was little traffic … his mind naturally wandered back to recent events. He was pleased that he had been able to demonstrate how Charles Razzle had been murdered, and that it had not been in a locked room by a robot; also, that he had worked out an explanation as to how the safe came to be empty. That morning’s work, so far, had been satisfactory. He could see that progress had been made.

Halfway up the hill, he found that he was driving towards slow moving traffic in both lanes. He had to slow down and then stop the BMW in a stationary line of traffic. It didn’t move for a couple of minutes. He put his head out of the window and peered out. There was no traffic coming in the opposite direction either. He banged the heel of his hands on the steering wheel and got out of the car. There was now a long line of traffic behind him. He began walking up the hill to find out the cause of the stoppage. Ahead he could see a crowd of people swarming over the road outside a large new retail furniture shop that used to be Woolworth’s. Motor traffic was stationary in every direction. He stood on the pavement and looked at the sight in amazement.

A big uniformed policeman in the midst of the throng saw him and battled his way through. It was PC John Weightman.

‘What’s happening?’ Angel said.

‘Another furniture shop opening, sir,’ Weightman said. ‘It’s unbelievable. I can’t do anything with them on my own. I’ve phoned through for back-up. They’re sending two patrol cars.’

Angel nodded.

‘It’s being opened by that Sincerée La More, sir. She’ll be driving off any second. She’s in a white stretch limo.’

Angel frowned. ‘Sincerée La More? Who is she?’

‘That leggy lass from that new film. An English royal duke from way back made a gold statue of her, his mistress. Supposed to be the most beautiful body in the world.’

Angel remembered. ‘Dorothea Jordan. Had ten kids to the Duke of Clarence before he became King William IV,’ he said.

‘
That
’s the one, sir.’

Angel sniffed. ‘Hmm.’

There was the whine of sirens. Police patrol cars were arriving.

‘Get me out of this, John, asap,’ Angel said. ‘I’m down there and I want to go straight on to The Feathers.’

‘Yes, sir. Right away.’

Angel eventually arrived at the Feathers Hotel car-park and made his way up to suite 1 on the first floor. He knocked on the door.

As he stood there waiting, out of the corner of his eye he saw the door of the room adjacent silently open only the thickness of a truncheon. The chandelier on the landing caught the reflection of somebody’s eye peering out at him.

Angel sucked in air as the muscles of his hands tightened instinctively, preparing himself for an attack of some sort. The door then suddenly opened much wider and a very familiar face smiled at him. It was DS Crisp.

Angel gave a little sigh, acknowledged him with a nod and, with a small gesture, indicated to him to go back into the room. He didn’t want Crisp risking blowing his cover.

The door facing Angel was suddenly whisked open.

Mrs Razzle, who was in a fluffy housecoat, glared at Angel with eyes like needles. He thought that her hair in a dishevelled state in no way detracted from her attractiveness, made her seem even more overpoweringly desirable but also very dangerous. The more he saw of her the more he worried about her.

‘Oh it’s you,’ she said.

‘Good morning, Mrs Razzle,’ Angel said.

The corners of her mouth turned downwards. She held on to the door with one hand and stared at him without replying.

‘I need to ask you a couple of questions,’ he said.

‘Like what?’ she said.

He could see over her head into the sitting room behind her. There were clothes everywhere … dresses and coats and underwear draped over the chairs and in boxes, some on the floor.

‘What are
you
looking at?’ she said.

‘We can talk better inside, Mrs Razzle,’ he said, applying his weight to the door.

She resisted at first, but he pressed his advantage.

She released her grip on it, turned away, took in a very deep breath, put her hands on her hips and turned back to face him.

Angel pushed the door open and came into the room.

‘Are you allowed to force your way in, like that, Inspector?’

‘No. Not really,’ he said turning back from closing the door. ‘But then again, I could prosecute you for obstructing a policeman in the course of his duty. Particularly as these inquiries are into a case of murder.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Murder!’ she said.

He looked round at the mass of clothes everywhere. ‘What’s all this?’ he said. ‘Going away somewhere?’

‘My husband was
not
murdered. He couldn’t have been. It’s not possible.’

‘Yes it is. How many keys are there to the front door of your house?’

‘You’re not answering my questions.’

‘You haven’t asked any, and you’re certainly not answering mine. Keys, Mrs Razzle. How many keys are there?’

‘Three keys, Inspector.
Three keys
.’

‘Thank you. And who has them?’

‘There’s one on my husband’s key ring; you have that one, I believe. Another in my handbag and a third we had cut for Elaine.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Elaine Dalgleish?’

Rosemary Razzle’s eyes flashed again. ‘That woman is as straight as a die.’

He pursed his lips. ‘How long have you known her?’

‘Four years. And I don’t want you accusing her of anything.’

‘Nobody has anything to fear if they’ve done nothing wrong. To save me time, can you give me her address again?’

‘I can’t remember.’

He peered down at her. ‘That’s not the answer, Mrs Razzle.’

‘You mustn’t bully her and push her around.’

‘I never bully or push anybody around. If you don’t tell me, I’ve only to ring my office.’

‘Canal Road. Number 22.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What makes you think my husband’s death was murder?’

‘I am now certain of it, Mrs Razzle. Chiefly, because it was impossible for the robot to have discharged the second and third bullets after the first bullet, since that shot went directly to his brain.’

She shuddered and looked down.

Angel pursed his lips. ‘I’m sorry. That was very … I could have put that more … delicately.’

‘No. No, it’s all right. If anybody said anything kind to me just now, I would collapse in a heap.’

He nodded his understanding, then he waved an arm round the room at the clothes and said, ‘What’s all this?’

There was a pause, then she straightened up, squared up her shoulders and said, ‘It’s no business of yours, Inspector, but I am trying to find something to wear.’

Angel looked at the piles of clothes and noted that none of them was black or of conventional mourning colours.

She turned away from him, then turned back. ‘When am I to be allowed back into my own house?’ she said.

‘Quite soon, I expect. Sorry that you have been inconvenienced, but it really
is
necessary.’

She glared at him briefly. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else.…’ she said.

‘There’s nothing else, for now,’ he said. Then he turned and made for the door.

Angel knew exactly where Canal Road was. It was adjacent and parallel to Sebastopol Terrace at the bottom of a hill in the lowest part of Bromersley. The two streets consisted in total around 160 old, small, terraced houses, and in the middle of the houses was located a notorious public house, the Fisherman’s Rest. The pub was frequented by prostitutes, pimps, thieves, rogues and vagabonds as well as many a trusting, honest fisherman and passing innocent traveller. Angel had visited the pub many times over the years, quelling fights or to make enquiries. Two years previously he had actually investigated a case of murder in the public bar.

He turned the BMW left off Wakefield Road on to bumpy, uneven Canal Road and stopped outside number 22. A young girl was bouncing a ball against the wall. Two small boys were racing up the street taking turns to kick an empty lager can ahead of them with remarkable accuracy. The house door opened straight on to the pavement and was only twenty doors away from the pub.

Angel got out of the car and knocked on the door. As he waited he noticed that the house had been freshly painted; also, that it had had its front step recently scrubbed and a two-centimetre white border carefully painted on the edge of the tread. The windows were gleaming, and the white net curtains with their embroidered design were well worn but spotless. Number 22 was generally smarter and cleaner than all of the other houses in the street.

He knocked again and shortly heard a rattle of keys, the sliding of a bolt, followed by the opening of the door. Elaine Dalgleish appeared, wearing an overall and a headscarf. Her face was red and moist with perspiration. When she saw who it was, her mouth dropped open in surprise.

‘Oh, Inspector Angel,’ she said. ‘Oh dear. I am in such a mess. My washing machine is broken down. The floor in the kitchen is wet through. Anyway, come in. Come on through. You’ll have to excuse the mess.’

‘That’s all right,’ he said.

‘I’ve got an engineer looking at it,’ she said as she closed the door.

He followed her through the tiny sitting room, across the bottom of the stairs into the even tinier kitchen.

Angel’s eyes narrowed when he saw the soaked mats and puddles round the furniture. Through the jumble he saw the back and legs of a man in a white coat and wellington boots. He had his head inside the door of a front-opening washing machine.

Above, suspended from the ceiling was a clothes rack overloaded with clothes drying out.

The back door was wide open. There was the row of a radio playing music, a baby crying, the thump of a ball being kicked and children squealing excitedly as they seemed to be engaged in their own rowdy version of football.

‘Mind your feet,’ she said. ‘You’d best stand on the stairs, Inspector.’

He took up a position on the first step up and peered round the corner into the room.

Elaine Dalgleish had snatched up a mop and was feverishly pushing it around the linoleum-covered floor, squeezing the soapy grey water into a yellow plastic bucket. ‘I’ll just have to do this, Inspector. Save my rugs, if you don’t mind.’

Angel waited.

After two or three minutes, when she had soaked up most of the water, she leaned on the mop, turned to him and said, Now then, Inspector, what can I do for you?’

Before Angel could answer, the engineer came out of the machine waving a fistful of black material. ‘
That
’s the cause of the problem, missis!’

He placed the wodge of mangled material on the plastic-faced table.

She glared at it. ‘It’s a glove,’ she said. ‘That’s where it went to. I’ve been looking for
that
.’

‘A glove is it?’ the engineer said with a grin. ‘Well, I’m afraid his tiny hand will have to stay frozen. Won’t be much use to him now.’ He stood up, pointed at the washing machine and said, ‘It needs a new bearing-seal, missis. I’ve got one in the shop, I think. I’ll be back in about ten minutes.’

He glanced at Angel, blinked with surprise, then rushed out of the back door.

Elaine Dalgleish picked up the soggy remains of the glove, glanced at it and dropped it in the waste bin by the sink. She turned to Angel and said, ‘He’s gone. Thank goodness. I don’t want everybody knowing my business. Now, what did you want, Inspector?’

‘Just a few questions, Mrs Dalgleish,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of the key to the front door of the Razzle’s house.’

She pulled her head back. She wasn’t pleased. ‘Yes, I have a key, Inspector. What about it? Does Mrs Razzle want it back now? Doesn’t she want me to work for her any more? Is that what it is?’

‘No. No. It’s nothing like that. Somebody entered the house the night Mr Razzle died. I believe that whoever it was entered by the front door, and must have used a key.’

She stretched herself up to her full height, looked him straight in the face and said, ‘Well it wasn’t me.’

‘I didn’t think it was. But I thought it might be possible that someone may have used your key…?’

‘Certainly not. How could they?’

‘Without you even knowing?’

‘Impossible.’

‘Where is it now?’

She pointed to the open back door. The key was in the lock on a keyring with three others. She suddenly realized the possibilities. She put the tips of her fingers across her open mouth. Her eyebrows shot up momentarily, then returned to normal. She crossed to the door, and withdrew the key as she closed it. She selected the biggest one of the other keys and held it up. ‘That’s the one,’ she said.

Angel breathed in heavily and said, ‘And do you always keep the bunch in that open door … like that?’

She couldn’t hide her discomfort.

‘The door isn’t
always
open, Inspector,’ she said.

He sniffed. ‘People may know that you work at the Razzles and suspect that you might have a key. If they watch you, they might wait for a moment when your attention is … somewhere else, and sneak in, and take the keys out of the lock. It only takes a few seconds, you know, to take a cast in a prepared bar of soap, pack of putty or Plasticene.’

Her face went scarlet. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

‘Or have you had occasion to let someone else have your keys for some reason?’

‘Certainly not,’ she snapped.

‘Have you ever been enticed out of the house for some reason, leaving the keys unattended? Might have seemed innocent at the time? Or have you ever misplaced them, maybe for a few minutes?’

‘It’s possible, Inspector,’ she said.

‘When was this?’

‘I didn’t say it had happened. I said that it was possible.’

‘If you could recall a particular occasion, Mrs Dalgleish, it might be possible to put a name to the person who had that opportunity and that could lead to me arriving at the murderer of Mr Razzle. Don’t you see that?’

‘I can’t say a particular occasion or a specific name. I get all sorts of friends and neighbours and visitors in to speak to me. I’m glad of their company. I live on my own. It would be very lonely without them. I’m just saying that my back might be turned … making a cup of tea or something … and I suppose it might be possible for some wicked person to … to do what you said.’

Angel rubbed his chin. He wasn’t really satisfied. He wondered whether, if he persisted, he was likely to be successful in extricating a positive answer. He gave up and decided that he probably wouldn’t. He moved on.

‘Did you know Mr Razzle had a gun?’

‘Yes. And I don’t approve of guns. He kept it in a drawer at the side of the bed.’

‘Was it loaded?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. And I didn’t touch it.’

‘What colour was it?’

‘I don’t know. The usual.’

‘If you saw it, you should be able to describe it. How big was it? It could have been black, silver-grey, brown or a blue colour.’

‘It was blue and about as big as my hand.’

‘And what was the writing on the barrel?’

‘I didn’t see any. I don’t think there was any. I can’t remember.’

Angel was pleased that she was absolutely correct in every particular. ‘When did you last see it?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t want you to think that I go poking around in Mr and Mrs Razzle’s things. Mrs Razzle asked me to bring down some hand-cream that was in the drawer at her side of the bed. Well I didn’t know which was her side of the bed, did I?’

‘You’ll remember when you first saw it, surely?’

‘I hadn’t been going there long. Must have been three years or more ago.’

‘And you haven’t seen it since?’

She shook her head. ‘I told you, Inspector. I don’t go poking around into places that don’t concern me. Once I seed it I didn’t want to see it again.’

‘There’s no doubt about it, Flora,’ Angel said, ‘it would have been easy to have had a copy of it made. Mrs Dalgleish may have a lot to answer for.’

‘Poor woman,’ DS Carter said. ‘You are not thinking that she was knowingly involved in the murder of Charles Razzle, are you?’

‘No,’ Angel said. ‘But people should always be more careful with keys.’

There was a knock at the door.

Angel glared at it. ‘Come in.’

It was PC Ahaz. He was all smiles.

‘What is it, lad?’

‘I’ve just heard from “Facial Recognition”, sir, about that still I took from that overnight tape outside the jewellers’.’

‘Ah yes,’ Angel said. ‘It’s taken them long enough.’

‘It confirms that the tall man in the black hat is Alec Underwood.’

‘Aye. I thought as much. It doesn’t progress us any, but it’s good to have our thoughts confirmed.’

‘And it illustrates what an accomplished liar Peter Queegley is,’ Flora Carter said.

Angel nodded, turned back to Ahmed and said, ‘But what about those tapes from Razzle’s place that you were working on?’

‘Oh, I’ve done that, sir. I’ve timed those tapes out, and the one focused on the workshop door would have been replaced at about eight minutes past nine, and the one by the front door at about ten or eleven minutes past nine.’

‘That fits perfectly,’ Angel said. ‘Now we are getting somewhere. Great stuff. Thank you, Ahmed.’

Ahmed smiled and went out.

Carter said, ‘That supports your theory, sir, but we are still no nearer knowing who actually murdered Charles Razzle, are we?’

‘No. In cases like this, the spouse is often behind it. As you know, I am having her closely watched. That’s what makes this case so—’

There was another knock at the door.

Angel glared at the door. ‘Now what?’

It was Ahmed again. He was carrying a newspaper. He saw from Angel’s face that the intrusion wasn’t welcome.

‘I’ll come back, sir, if it’s not convenient.’

‘You’re here now, what is it?’

PC Ahaz lifted up the
Bromersley Chronicle
. ‘I thought you’d be interested in this, sir,’ he said. ‘Bought it this morning. Noticed this piece just now, while I was having my sandwiches. Thought you might know the man.’

He handed the paper to him, pointing to a heading of a short piece in the corner of the front page.

Angel frowned and took the paper.

It read:

Angel was subdued after he had read the report. He read the item again and then passed the newspaper to Flora Carter.

‘I knew Muldoon,’ Angel said. ‘He was a particularly hard case. I’ve interviewed him a few times. It’s not my patch, but I must give Skiptonthorpe a ring.’

The corners of Angel’s mouth turned down as he thought more about the case.

Ahmed’s eyes grew bigger. ‘Does the report mean literally what it says, sir?’ he said. ‘That his tongue was torn out?’

Angel shrugged. ‘It would require a great deal of strength to pull the entire tongue out,’ he said. ‘Pliers or a similar instrument would be gripped round the tongue. Such a crude procedure would inevitably damage the underneath of the tongue which is particularly sensitive. I know that under the tongue is a place often used to administer drugs to stimulate the heart in emergency conditions, if intravenous means is not to hand. So you know that yanking at the tongue would have been quite horrific.’

Flora shivered. ‘How awful. What a very uncivilized thing to do,’ she said. Then she turned to Ahmed and handed him the newspaper.

Ahmed carefully straightened it, folded it up and put it in his pocket.

Then Angel said, ‘You see what
that
was about, Flora? And
you
might take notice of this, Ahmed, also.’

Ahmed looked across at him. ‘What’s that, sir?’

‘That report says that Muldoon died from a bullet to the heart,’ Angel said, ‘and that his tongue was torn out
after
death. Well, as it was after death, it wouldn’t have mattered to Muldoon, would it? He wouldn’t have known it was happening. He wouldn’t have seen it or experienced any pain.’

‘What are you getting at, sir?’ Flora said.

‘The savage pulling out of Muldoon’s tongue like that was a means of putting the frighteners on somebody – or more than
one
somebody.’

‘A gang, sir?’ Ahmed said.

‘Yes. And the only gang I am aware of round here at the moment is the country-house gang.’

Ahmed’s face lit up. ‘It would be great if we could catch them, sir,’ he said.

Flora said: ‘So the murderer was sending a message, sir. And the message was keep your mouth shut or this could happen to you.’