The Diamond Rosary Murders (14 page)

Angel felt his chest relax. He blew out a small breath. ‘Did Mr King tell you about the recurring nightmare he had seeing himself floating in his swimming pool, dead?’

Mrs Lin’s jaw trembled with anger as she said, ‘Certainly not. I would regard that as
extremely
serious. If he had said any such thing I would have been very concerned for him.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘You are quite sure about this? I thought that that was what he would have come to you about primarily.’

‘Positively not,’ she said.

Angel licked his bottom lip before he said, ‘Do you keep a written record of each consultation?’

‘Yes, of course. The consultations are recorded and afterwards my secretary transcribes the tapes, so that a permanent record is kept.’

‘How long are your consultations, and how many did Mr King have?’

‘The consultations lasted for one hour. He saw me on a Tuesday evening at eight o’clock. From memory, he first came about two months ago, so that would be seven or eight consultations.’

‘I would like to see those transcriptions, Mrs Lin.’

‘You will treat anything that may be embarrassing for Haydn King with the utmost discretion, Inspector, won’t you? And you will not say that he was consulting a psychiatrist? I must try to keep my bond with him even though he has gone.’

‘Mrs Lin, I will not deceive you. If I come across any information in those transcripts that I can use to arrest and charge somebody with murder, then I will use it. And if the source has to be declared in open court in the course of delivering the evidence then that will have to be done as well. However, if I find that there is nothing in the transcripts useful to my inquiries, then the content will remain absolutely confidential, and I would probably not even have need to mention that he consulted a psychiatrist at all.’

Angel returned to his office armed with a red pocket file of closely typewritten A4 pages of Haydn King’s consultations with Mrs Lin. He could foresee a heavy weekend’s work ahead of him. He dumped the file on his desk as Ahmed knocked on the open door behind him and came in.

Angel turned. ‘Now lad, what you want?’ he said, ‘I’ve no time now. I’ve got to get out to that murder scene.’

Ahmed’s mouth dropped open. ‘But he’s here, sir,’ he said. ‘You said you wanted to see him ASAP.’

Angel stared at him. ‘Who is here?’

‘Mr Wiseman, sir. You asked me to get hold of him ASAP. I’ve got him. He’s outside waiting in the corridor.’

Angel screwed up his face as he considered what to do. He was anxious to get along to Two Pins Lane behind Jubilee Park. At the same time, there were matters he needed to clear up with Harry Wiseman, and the man was outside his door waiting for him.

He made a decision. ‘Hang on a minute, lad,’ he said.

Ahmed nodded, closed the door and stood by it.

Angel went round the back of the desk, snatched up the phone and tapped in the number of Crisp’s mobile.

‘Now then, lad, how is it going?’ Angel asked. ‘Are Don Taylor and his lads and Dr Mac still busy going through their routines?’

‘Yes, sir. Did you want to speak to them?’

‘No. Have you enough hands there? Sufficient security?’

‘Yes, sir. There’s all the SOCO team and six uniformed.’

‘Have you got the ID of the victim yet?’

‘No, sir. We haven’t yet reached the stage of being able to search him.’

‘What about the car?’

‘It’s an old banger reported stolen in November.’

‘Hmmm. How burned is the victim? Will it affect the ID?’

‘Don’t think so, sir. The legs and the torso are scorched and partly burned, but the head and face seem to be untouched.’

‘Right, Trevor. I’ll leave you to it and I’ll be down in about half an hour. Tell Don Taylor and the doc to phone me if anything urgent crops up.’

Angel replaced the phone, looked up at Ahmed and said, ‘Right lad, show Mr Wiseman in.’

Ahmed’s face brightened. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

He turned, opened the office door and said, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Wiseman.’

The man strode in briskly, his face as straight as a prison bar.

Angel pointed to the chair opposite him. ‘Please sit down, Mr Wiseman. Thank you for coming in.’

‘I’ve been waiting in this police station more than half an hour,’ Wiseman said. ‘You wanted me urgently so I came as soon as I could. I assume it is to tell me that you have found the body of the dead woman?’

‘I think we have. About ten hours after you reported the sighting, a woman answering the description you gave returned to the hotel and spoke to the hotel manager.’

‘Ridiculous. Obviously, it wasn’t the same woman.’

‘No it wasn’t.’

‘Was it her twin sister?’

‘It wasn’t even a relation. Can I take you back to what you saw that night?’

Wiseman breathed in and out heavily. ‘Yes. Yes,’ he said.

‘You said that you woke in the night, needed some fresh air, so you opened the window and glanced outside. A light shone – you couldn’t say where it came from – but it shone briefly on to a dead body on the ground on the car-park below.’

‘That’s right. Yes.’

‘You were sleepy. You had just woken up. For how long was that particular spot on the car-park illuminated?’

‘A couple of seconds or less.’

‘Was it a powerful light?’

‘No. I don’t suppose it was.’

‘Mr Wiseman, what you actually saw was a stolen mannequin in a big blonde wig wearing a black lace dress and coat.’

Wiseman quickly inhaled, then breathed out noisily, while shaking his head. His eyes narrowed.

‘But there was blood all over,’ he said.

‘Earlier that day, a butcher in town reported a bucket containing pig’s blood was missing. The police lab reports that splashes of blood we found there were from a pig.’

A
ngel drove the BMW along Park Road past Jubilee Park main gate and followed the asphalt road adjacent to the park wall for a half mile to a turning off it called Two Pins Lane, which was an unmade track only really suitable for a farm tractor.

Angel made his way down there until he saw the inevitable blue-and-white tape stretched all the way across the track between a hawthorn bush and a sycamore tree. As he slowed down, a uniformed policeman stepped out from behind the tree, peered down at him behind the wheel, recognized him and threw up a salute, then tapped something into a mobile, looked at the LCD and pressed a button.

Angel drove up to the tape, stopped the car, got out and locked it. He acknowledged the salute and said, ‘Everything all right, Constable?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the PC said. He lifted up the tape for Angel to pass under. ‘It’s down the lane just round the corner. I’ve told them you are here.’

‘Thank you, lad.’

Angel walked briskly towards the scene.

DS Crisp came rushing round the corner to meet him. ‘You’re in time to see it in situ, sir. Dr Mac is getting ready to transfer the body into the mortuary wagon.’

‘Right,’ Angel said, increasing his speed. In cases he was
investigatin
g
involving unexplained death, he insisted, whenever possible, on seeing the body before it was removed.

As they turned the corner they were immediately drawn into a vortex of activity: patrol car lights flashing; RT chattering; two uniformed policemen heaving the remains of a car door onto a trailer; two firefighters in yellow waterproofs rolling up a hose. And, at the centre, a cluster of SOCO men and women in white overalls, headgear and gloves were huddled under powerful lights over a steaming, smelly, burnt-out carcass of metal, rubber and textiles, which thirteen years ago had been a gleaming Volkswagen Passat car.

Angel and Crisp reached the scene and stopped.

Don Taylor came up to them.

He joined Crisp watching Angel at work.

Angel stood there, his eyes panning across the scene like a video camera, and memorizing everything of significance.

The two front doors and the windscreen of the Passat had been removed, so that Angel had easy and close access to the body. As he leaned into the shell of the car, ever cautious not to touch anything, the rest of the SOCO team and Dr Mac withdrew.

The dead man was in the driving seat, slouched forward over the steering wheel. He was wearing a jacket, dark blue shirt and jeans.

Angel could see that he had a good head of brown hair, pronounced cheekbones, broad shoulders, muscular arms and slim strong hands. The wound in his chest was not clearly visible but he saw a patch of dried blood on his shirt and jeans.

Eventually Angel straightened up, took a pace back and stood there deep in thought.

‘Sir,’ Taylor said.

‘Yes, lad?’ Angel said.

‘There’s not much, sir.’

‘Got his ID yet?’

‘No, sir. Fortunately his fingers are not damaged. I’ve sent his prints to be checked by CRO. We might get a match.’

Angel nodded. ‘What about the contents of his pockets?’

‘That’s a funny thing, sir. There aren’t any. He’s been well and truly shaken down.’

Angel pursed his lips. Now that
was
unusual. ‘Whoever did this must have been looking for something … something small … so they took the lot to be sure not to miss it.’

A small man in white overalls, mask and gloves came over.

It was Dr Mac. ‘There you are, Michael.’

‘What you got, Mac?’

‘The wound was made by a slim sharp knife – a stiletto, I’d say – between the ribs straight into the aorta. Placed with the precision of a surgeon. Death would have been instantaneous. He’s not been dead long … an hour or two at the most.’

Angel remembered how Mathew Elliot had said James Argyle had been found. It was almost certainly the work of the same person, the Chameleon.

‘Thanks, Mac,’ Angel said. ‘Anything else?’

‘Aye, well there is,’ Mac said. ‘Unusually, Michael, the young man appears to be athletically very well set up. Might be a boxer or training for the Olympics, or similar. He’s all muscle. There’s not an ounce of fat on him.’

Angel looked up. Something was on his mind. His eyes made small, rapid movements. He blinked, then suddenly said, ‘Lee Ellis, the body-builder, the lad wanted for the murder of that newspaper vendor in London. I bet it’s him. He was thought to have stolen the Rosary from the old newspaper vendor, snapped his neck according to the Met.’

‘Could be,’ Taylor said, ‘How old was he, sir? Do you know?’

‘Round about thirty, thirty-five, I think.’

Mac said, ‘That fits!’

‘Yep. He looks about that,’ Taylor added.

Angel nodded and turned to Crisp. ‘Check that out online, Trevor. Get a photograph. Quickly.’

Crisp ran to a gap in the hedge into a field where his car was parked. He had a laptop in the boot of his car.

‘Have you seen all you want, Michael?’ Mac said. ‘If so, I’ll get him away the now. I might have more to tell you when I have him on the slab.’

‘Yes, of course. Thanks, Mac,’ Angel said.

The doctor rushed off.

Taylor said, ‘If the victim had the Rosary, sir, that could be the motive for the murder.’

Angel nodded. ‘But the Chameleon didn’t get it. The victim didn’t have it on him. That’s why his pockets were emptied and the contents taken away.’

Taylor nodded in agreement.

Angel pointed to the car and said, ‘I bet there was nothing in the glove compartment either.’

Taylor’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re right, sir. Like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard,’ he said.

‘The Chameleon will have taken that stuff and searched through it, hoping for an address or something that would lead him to where the Rosary might be.’

Angel pointed towards the body in the wreck and said, ‘We need to know for a fact whether this is Lee Ellis or not.’

He looked round for Crisp. At the other side of the wrecked car he saw an elderly man with a ruddy complexion wearing a heavy fawn overcoat, brown trilby and wellingtons. The man was surveying the scene and taking everything in.

Angel pointed towards him and said, ‘Who’s that?’

‘He’s the one who phoned this in, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘Claude Eaton. Farmer. He owns all the land round here. The field where we’ve parked our transport is his.’

‘Oh?’ Angel said. Then he went round the car up to him and
said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Eaton. I’m Detective Inspector Angel. I understand that it was you who found this car and made the triple-nine call?’

‘It was a bit of a shock, Inspector. I didn’t know which to ring first, the police, the fire or the ambulance. Looks like the poor chap needed all three! Do you know who it is?’

‘Not yet. Do you live round here?’

Yes. I live in that house over there. In the middle of nowhere.’

‘Very nice. Please tell me what you saw.’

‘Well, I was shaving, and from my bathroom window I saw smoke billowing over the hedge, so I hurriedly got dressed and came out here, taking a short cut over a gate and across the field. When I saw it was a car with a man in it I wanted to get him out. But I simply couldn’t get near the car door because of the heat.’

‘If it is any comfort to you, Mr Eaton, he would have been dead. You couldn’t have saved him.’

Eaton nodded. ‘Thank you … that’s some comfort.’

‘Did you see anybody in a car or on foot anywhere near here?’

‘Not at that time, but I did see a big car race past my house about an hour earlier. I thought it was a bit strange. I hadn’t seen it before. Obviously he was lost. There isn’t much traffic past my house at any time. It doesn’t go anywhere. Only to a holiday cottage up the lane. Then it’s a dead-end. You have to turn round and come back.’

Angel looked at him closely. ‘What make was it? What colour was it?’

‘I don’t know what make it was, but it was big and it was black. I am sure of that.’

Angel could only think of the black Mercedes. He wondered how the press could have been on the scene so early. Then he thought that maybe the car that had been following him had not been hired by a London newspaper, but by others with more
ominous intentions. His stomach muscles tightened. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. He ran his hand through his hair.

He then saw Crisp hovering close by, carrying his laptop with the lid up. His eyebrows were raised expectantly, trying to get Angel’s attention.

Angel turned back to the farmer and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Eaton. Thank you very much. Excuse me.’

The man waved and smiled.

Angel walked a few paces away up to Crisp. ‘What you got, lad?’

Crisp’s eyes shone. ‘It’s
him,
sir,’ he said. ‘It’s
him.
Aged 32.’

He held the laptop up for Angel to see.

Angel looked at the screen. He agreed. ‘Right, lad. Now we know where we are.’

Crisp turned away.

Angel quickly made his way back to the other side of the burnt-out car where the SOCO team had removed the body of Lee Ellis from the car, laid it on a stretcher, and were transferring it to the mortuary van under the supervision of Dr Mac.

Angel was watching them, when out of his eye corner he saw Taylor looking strangely animated on the steps of the SOCO van. He was wiping something small in his hand with a duster. Angel went round the burnt-out car towards him.

‘What you got, Don?’ he said.

Taylor’s eyes were shining. ‘A key has turned up, sir,’ he said in a confidential tone. ‘I was just wiping it clean. See if there were any identification marks on it.’

Angel blinked. His pulse rate surged. ‘And are there?’

‘No,’ he said and he briefly dangled a small key with the number 74 stamped on a round metal disc attached to it by a tiny split ring, and dropped it into Angel’s hand.

Angel frowned. He took the key and examined it closely. ‘Where’s it come from?’

Taylor said, ‘It was crudely sewn onto the inside of the victim’s jeans near the ankle … so that it wouldn’t be felt in a pad-down, I suppose. I felt it when I was helping to lift the body out. It was photographed and checked for prints while it was still sewn in. There weren’t any discernible marks, only smudges. Dr Mac cut it free from the jeans with a scalpel.’

‘Hmm,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. His pulse rate had reached a steady high, and his chest was warm and buzzing with anticipation.

‘What do you think it’s for, sir?’

‘I don’t know. We need to find that out quickly. Very quickly.’

He pursed his lips.

He was thinking that Lee Ellis was murdered by the Chameleon for the Rosary, and that the killer had assumed that the victim had had the Rosary on him, and when he couldn’t find it, he had emptied Ellis’s pockets and taken everything away to search among his possessions for a clue to its whereabouts. But he had missed the key. He wouldn’t have expected Ellis to have deposited the Rosary in a safe deposit box or similar and then to have hidden the key by sewing it into his jeans.

Angel therefore thought that there was still a good chance that he could recover the Rosary
and
arrest the Chameleon. It was becoming obvious that the Chameleon was so desperate to possess the jewel that he would kill anybody and everybody who was in his way, so Angel would have to be very careful, very careful indeed.

Angel returned to the office still wondering what that key would fit. He took it out of his pocket and looked at one side and then the other. He pulled open the middle drawer in his desk, fished around and came out with an 8x loupe. He put the glass to his eye and gripped it in the loose skin, enabling him to take a better look at the key. He was convinced that whatever the key fitted
would lead him to the Rosary and inevitably to the Chameleon. He must solve the mystery.

There was a knock at the door.

Angel wasn’t pleased. It was Ahmed. ‘What is it now, lad?’

‘Mark Rogers, that chauffeur you asked me to contact, sir …’

‘Yes, lad. What about him?’

‘He’s up in reception now, sir. He’s come in on spec that you could see him.’

Angel screwed up his face then breathed out noisily.

‘I can put him off if you want me to,’ Ahmed said.

Angel thought a moment. The time wasn’t ideal, but he was anxious to see him.

‘All right, Ahmed. That’s all right. Show him in.’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said as he went out.

Angel put the loupe back in the drawer, and the key into his pocket before Ahmed returned with the young man.

‘Please sit down, Mr Rogers,’ Angel said, pointing to the chair opposite the desk.

‘You wanted to see me, Mr Angel? I came straightaway. I want to clear up any queries you might have about my evidence.’

‘Thank you. Since then, I have discovered that Mr King employed an actor, Reuben Paschal, who looked very much like him.’

‘He was murdered as well, wasn’t he? It was in the papers. But he was a crook. He had been inside.’

Angel nodded. ‘He was about the same age, the same height, same build, similar beard and hair. I think that this could only have been to impersonate him, or have people, or some particular person, believe that he was in one place when all the time he was in another. It would be particularly evident if the actor, Paschal, had been in a moving car. Now you didn’t tell me about this before. What can you tell me about it now?’

Rogers’s eyes opened wide like a scared rabbit. ‘Nothing, Mr
Angel. Nothing at all. Whenever I took Mr King out, it was Mr King. I swear it. Nobody could be quite like Mr King, even if he was the spittin’ image. I mean, he always spoke his instructions out sharply, not rudely, but like as if he meant it. And he never said anything that could be misunderstood. You never had to go back and ask him if he meant this, that or the other. And he never used big words or used ten words when three would be enough. I don’t think any actor could have fooled me. Nobody could possibly have impersonated Mr King. He might get to look exactly like him, even get the exact voice, but he could never have spoken in the direct way he did. No, Mr Angel, I never drove Reuben Paschal in Mr King’s car, I’m certain of it.’