Angel looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past twelve o’clock. He licked his lips. He was thirsty. He could just sink a pint.
He drove the BMW back up to the police station car park, parked it up and then walked down to the Fat Duck. It was the nearest pub to the station and was a frequent haunt of his at lunchtimes.
He pushed open the door and looked round. The bar was as inviting as usual: the brass and glass were shining pleasingly. But it wasn’t busy. There was nobody at the tables, and only two old men standing at the bar. He recalled times when the place would have been heaving with customers. He sniffed. That new ‘no smoking’ in public places law was going to annihilate the British pub. A pretty girl appeared behind the bar. She greeted him and flashed a smile making it easy to reciprocate.
‘A glass of Old Peculier, please,’ he said. ‘And a meat pie.’
He thanked her, passed her a fiver, she rang it up in the till, and then dropped a few coins in his hand. He moved to a cosy table by the window.
The beer was chilled and tasted good.
He was enjoying the peace and quiet and thinking about what the doctor had said when a man he hadn’t noticed before and didn’t know came across to him. He was a burly man about 40 years of age, he was wearing a dark suit, white vest and leather shoes, and he had several heavy gold chains round his neck. He was carrying a glass of beer.
‘Detective Inspector Angel, isn’t it?’
Angel looked up, nodded and continued chewing the pie. The man spoke good English but he wasn’t local. Possibly foreign.
‘May I join you?’
Angel would have wished that he wouldn’t, there were twenty or more other unoccupied tables, but he wasn’t inclined to be churlish.
‘Yes. Sure.’
The man banged the glass on to the table, spilling a little, he noticed, but looked unconcerned and sat down opposite him.
Angel didn’t like him. He wondered what he wanted. He was uncomfortable with his proximity. He started to observe the little things. He noticed he had big hands with clean fingernails and that the nails had a regular spade shape. Here was a man who could afford a manicure. He was wearing an Oré gold watch on a heavy gold bracelet and a gold signet ring. He obviously knew how to spend money. As Angel swallowed a mouthful of pie and licked his lips, he wondered how the man had earned it. He was still thinking about that as he glanced round the bar and realized that the two old men and the barmaid weren’t there anymore. There were just the two of them in the room. Something was not quite normal. It should be busier and noisier. He raised his head.
Then the man leaned over the table until he was only six inches away from Angel’s nose. ‘You’ve got something of mine,’ he said quietly. ‘And I want it.’
Angel felt his pulse begin to bang away. He stared into the man’s mean, little eyes. He carefully clocked his face. He hadn’t seen the man before. He took his time. He shrugged and said, ‘If it’s yours, you shall certainly have it. What’s your name?’
‘Just call me Gold.’
Angel had never heard of him. ‘Right, Mr Gold.’
‘Just Gold. The thing is, you have moved it, and I want to know where you have moved it to?’
‘What are we talking about?’
‘Don’t come that,’ he sneered. ‘You are the DI Angel of Bromersley nick, aren’t you. Got a reputation for always getting your man, because you got second sight or you’ve got a computer for a brain or something. That is you, isn’t it?’
He hesitated, frowned and then said: ‘I am DI Angel of Bromersley police. There is nobody else there by that name.’
Alarm bells began to sound in his head. Gold’s attitude suggested that he had some back-up or support of some kind close by. He decided to test it before the crosstalk went any further. He finished the pie, emptied the glass, wiped his mouth with the miniscule serviette that had been under the pie, and stood up. ‘If you care to make an appointment to see me at the station, I will try to assist you. Now I must go.’
Gold smiled. ‘Sit down, Inspector.’
Angel’s eyes widened. He could hear his pulse bang louder in his ears. ‘I haven’t time.’
He turned towards the door.
Gold stood up. ‘All right, I’ll come with you,’ he said. Then he put two fingers across his front teeth, screwed up his mouth and let out a piercing whistle.
The saloon bar door opened and two huge men were standing there. They must have been there some time. They were in dark suits and wore sunglasses. Their coats bulged under their breast pockets.
Angel knew he was in serious trouble. He had never seen either of them in person before, nor were they in the station picture gallery.
‘The Inspector wants to leave, Shadrack,’ he said. ‘We are giving him a lift to the nick,’ he said with a grin. ‘On the way, he’s going to talk to us.’
‘I don’t know what you want,’ Angel said. ‘I can easily walk there. It isn’t far.’
The two men in sunglasses separated, allowing Angel to walk between them. He strode out boldly between them. It was never wise to show how afraid you were, but three armed men to one unarmed man were odds he didn’t care for. He was thinking that these were not a local mob. He strode between them to the door, but when outside, they gently but firmly bundled him into a car. He was pushed into the middle seat in the back. He clocked that it was a dark blue Ford.
Gold was last in. He sat next to him and closed the door. Shadrack got into the driver’s seat. The third man got into the car from the nearside back door and squashed up next to him. He was very close. There was a sickly smell of cheap Armenian brandy.
‘This isn’t necessary,’ Angel protested. ‘What is it you want?’
‘Let’s go the scenic route,’ Gold said.
‘I have to return to my office,’ Angel said.
The driver pulled out of the Fat Duck car park and headed along Huddersfield Road out of the town.
Gold turned to Angel and said, ‘Now then, Inspector, you’re getting a free lift. Well, it’s not exactly free. The charge is simply information. What have you done with the head. It’s mine and I want it back.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr Gold.’
‘Just Gold. You’re the copper investigating the death of Charles Pleasant, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well don’t mess me about. As you will know, he had the jade head of Hang Mung Cheng. I want it.’
Angel frowned. That was the head mentioned in the paper. Stolen from some foreign country. Worth millions. This man looked as if he would kill for it.
‘I was not aware of that,’ he said calmly.
‘Don’t mess me about,’ Gold yelled. ‘You must have found it. It was at Pleasant’s scrapyard.’
‘No, it wasn’t. There was a safe hidden there but it was empty. I didn’t know what it was supposed to contain. I found the key yesterday and opened it, and it was empty.’
Gold gasped. ‘It couldn’t have been. Pleasant arranged to sell it to me before he died. We agreed a price. Twenty thousand pounds. I’ve got the money. You can have it. Cash. No questions asked. You have got it. You must have it. What have you done with it?’
‘I have never even seen it.’
Gold’s face was scarlet, his eyes sticking out. ‘You’ve taken it and hidden it away somewhere for a rainy day.’
‘I assure you I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. I can only tell you that I was not alone when the safe was opened. There were two other men present. They would tell you exactly what I have told you, that the safe was empty.’
This seemed to surprise Gold.
‘What? Who?’ he said, then he added, ‘Coppers?’
‘One of them was.’
‘You coppers stick as close as blood to a blanket.’
‘One of the men wasn’t in the force. He worked for Pleasant. He was there when the safe was opened. I assure you there was nothing in it, nothing at all.’
‘You’re lying, Angel. You found the safe and opened it – probably in the night – took the head and hid it somewhere. You’re just play-acting.’
‘I didn’t, and I wouldn’t. I didn’t get the key until yesterday morning. Before then, it was locked away with the body in the mortuary. I didn’t know the key existed or that the safe existed or indeed that there was any question that a jade head you speak of might have been concealed in it. Nor did any other person – that I know of – have the slightest inkling. That can all be proved. It’s on the record.’
‘Not “a” jade head,’ Gold said. ‘Not any old chuffing jade head, but “the” only jade head in the world,’ he snarled. ‘I am not playing for ha’pennies, Angel.’ Then he seemed to have a thought. He rubbed his chin. He was quiet for a few moments.
Angel noticed that the car passed the speed restriction signs out of Bromersley. They were passing fields and trees. Shadrack had put his foot down on the accelerator. Every minute was a mile further away from Bromersley.
After a few moments, Gold spoke in a more measured tone. ‘Who else was with you when you opened it?’
‘DS Gawber, and an employee of Charles Pleasant, Grant Molloy. But I am sure they know nothing about it. I assure you, I didn’t know anything about it until you mentioned it.’
He hardened again. ‘Angel, you’d better not be fooling me. I know it is around here somewhere. I have to find it.’
Gold then tapped the driver on the shoulder and said, ‘Shadrack, pass me that tape, then turn round somewhere convenient and stop.’
Shadrack nodded and over his shoulder passed him a roll of brown sticky plastic tape about two inches wide.
‘Have you got any children, Angel?’ Gold said.
‘Not yet, why?’
‘If I find you’ve been frigging me around, I’ll find you, wherever you are, and I’ll make certain that if ever your wife ever hears the patter of tiny feet in your house, it’ll be mice. Understand?’
Angel had to nod.
He vowed that if he escaped with his life, he would do everything he could to get him behind bars.
‘Put your hands behind your back,’ Gold said.
‘Is there really any need for this?’ Angel said. He had no idea what was planned for him. He glanced out of the window. He tried to get his bearings. They were out in the country in the middle of nowhere. There was just open road, fields, and not a building in sight.
Gold wrapped about a foot of tape around his wrists, then tore it off with his teeth. He then wound it several times round his head covering his eyes.
Angel couldn’t see a thing. He was really angry. ‘This really isn’t necessary!’ he yelled.
Gold wrinkled his nose, ‘If I didn’t do this, I don’t know what you’d get up to, being the smart-arsed detective you’re supposed to be.’
‘This is outrageous!’
‘And if you don’t shut it,’ Gold added, ‘I’ll put this stuff over that fat mouth of yours as well.’
The car slowed and then stopped.
Gold got out. ‘Come on, you bastard copper,’ he said dragging him out of the back seat. ‘You had better have been telling the truth or I’ll be back to finish you off.’ He then pushed him into the middle of the highway.
Angel heard the car door close and the car drive off at speed. He breathed heavily with relief, but realized he was on the highway and potentially in the way of road traffic. He staggered, taking a few paces in every direction until he found a kerb, tripped over it, picked himself up, and was relieved to find a grassy surface where he managed to fall down. His shoulders hurt and his wrists were being cut into by the tape. He rolled on to his side and listened. There was the distant hum of traffic, he sensed that would be coming from the M1 which might have been about three miles away, the rustle of leaves touching each other in the gentle breeze, and then intermittently, the twitter of a bird accompanied by the sound it made when diving through the air to play or in its search for food.
Several vehicles raced past but either didn’t see him or ignored him. He eventually heard footsteps running towards him. He listened, then when he thought the runner was close, he called out, ‘I am a police officer. Will you please remove this tape from my eyes and undo my wrists?’
The footsteps slowed, stopped and there was a pause.
Angel listened attentively, then repeated his plea.
A panting voice said: ‘What you doing like this mate? Was it for a bet?’
The man peeled the tape from over his eyes.
The runner was in the gear: shorts, trainers and sweatshirt.
Angel blinked. ‘Oh thank you so much.’
The young man laughed and unfastened his wrists.
‘Some people would do anything for a laugh,’ he said.
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
‘Anytime,’ the young man said with a grin and continued his run.
Angel reached in his pocket for his mobile and tapped in a number.
Gawber soon replied and sighed with relief. ‘Wow. We’ve been worried about you, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘The landlord at The Fat Duck phoned in to say that he’d been held at the end of a gun in his cellar, and his barmaid had been locked in an airing cupboard by two men who had followed you into the snug. Then they left, and when he came up and looked in the bar, so had you. The bar was empty. He put two and two together and phoned us. We have had four cars standing by, but we had no idea where to send them.’
Angel appreciated it, but he would have done no less for Gawber and any other member of his team.
‘I’m all right. Come and collect me. I’m on the main Bromersley to Huddersfield road, about half-way between Cheviton and Lower Springfield.’
‘On my way, sir. I’ll put out a look out notice for their car, if you can give me the index number.’
‘It was a big, dark blue Ford, Ron. That’s all I got. They were far too clever for me.’
Twenty minutes later, Gawber picked up Angel from the country road and they returned together to the station in his car.
‘Phew! I don’t want that to happen again,’ Angel said when they were back in his office. ‘Chief thug was a man who told me his name. Said it was Gold. I’ve not heard of him. And one of the heavies he called Shadrack.’
Gawber shook his head. ‘Don’t ring any bells with me, and they’re the sort of names you’d remember.’
Angel nodded. ‘Get me the up-to-date video of national mug shots, will you. I’ll look at them on my lap top. Might recognize somebody.’
‘Right, sir,’ he said and went out.
Angel sighed. There was just too much to do. He must deal with the priorities. It’s when you’re overworked you tend to work at the job in front of you and permit yourself to deal with events as they come up instead of working to a sensible, proven sequence and sticking to it. Everything that drops in your lap you think you can deal with quickly, but it is time consuming and some of it is not urgent. Everybody else thinks that their time is important, and it is, to them, but not to the investigation of the murder of Charles Pleasant. Murder was always his first priority and he must stick to the orderly examination of the evidence, and he must do it while it was still hot. He hadn’t yet heard from SOCO. He must see what was happening there, and he must go back to the crime scene.
The phone rang. He glared at it and muttered a rude word. He had wanted to phone Taylor and chase up the results of their search of the crime scene. He reached out for it and snatched it up. It was DS Matthew Elliott at the Antiques and Fine Art squad, London. He was an old friend of his and they had worked on many cases together over the years. He couldn’t brush him off.
After they had exchanged pleasant greetings, Elliott said, ‘I’ll tell you why I’m phoning. You’ve no doubt heard about the missing jade head of this famous oriental chap, Hang Mung Cheng? Well, I have some information that it is in your neck of the woods. The information that has come down is that it is in the possession of a scrapdealer, of all people, a Charles Pleasant in Bromersley. Is he known to you?’
Angel’s head shot up. ‘Not in the sense you mean, Matthew. He is known to us, because he was murdered on Sunday afternoon last. Four gun shots in broad daylight.’
There was a pause. Elliott was clearly surprised. ‘I suppose the murderer got away with the jade head?’
‘I don’t know. We haven’t got that far. We haven’t found it. Could be your information is out of date … or late, if you see what I mean.’
He told him all the pertinent facts of the case and in particular surprised him when he told him that the murderer of Pleasant had been a man in bare feet, and also that the victim himself had been found without shoes.
‘I don’t understand the idiosyncrasies of people with homicidal tendencies, Michael. Their interest in bare feet and shoes is too difficult for me to comprehend. All I know is that I’m under a lot of pressure to find this jade head. I am being hammered by my boss. He’s had a phone call from the Home Secretary and a personal appeal from the Empress of Xingtunanistan, Louise Elizabeth Mung Cheng, the woman who is the rightful owner. There is desperate heat on to find it and get it back undamaged. Apart from political prestige, it’s worth millions! Where can I go from here?’
‘You’re not the only one with that thought.’ He related his experience at the hands of Gold, Shadrack and the other heavy.
‘I don’t know of them, Michael, but every crook and arty person in the world the slightest bit bent is on the lookout for it.’
‘Our SOCO team have searched Pleasant’s scrapyard, but have still to search his house. They’re a bit overwhelmed.’
‘I’ll come up. I’ll be there first thing in the morning.’
‘All right, Matthew. See you then.’
Angel put his hand on the cradle, waited for the line to clear then he dialled a number. It was answered by Taylor.
‘Did you check out that empty safe, Don?’
‘There was a showing that gold had been in there, sir, but nothing else that I could identify.’
‘Any jade?’
‘Did you say jade, sir?’
‘Yes. Green stone. Comes from China and … out there.’
‘I know jade, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘No, sir. No jade.’
Angel pulled a face. If the jade head had been carefully wrapped it would not necessarily have left behind any trace.
‘Did you finish the grates?’ he asked.
‘Yes sir. All the way up the street. Nothing there.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Right, Don. Don’t suppose you found the shoes?’
‘No, sir. No shoes. We’re still making moulds of that footprint. Ahmed should get some off tonight. And we hope to get into the victim’s house first thing tomorrow.’
‘Good.’ He replaced the phone.
He sighed. Wouldn’t it be great if he could recover Charles Pleasant’s shoes? He couldn’t believe that the man left the house in his stocking feet. What would be the point? Assuming that he was wearing shoes when he left home, a perfectly proper and logical assumption, then, for whatever reason he must have taken them off and disposed of them sometime between leaving the house, driving to the scrap-yard, opening the gates, returning to the car and getting shot. So the shoes should be somewhere along Creesforth Road, Park Road, Bromersley town centre, Wakefield Road and Sebastopol Terrace, assuming that that was the route he took on that quiet Sunday afternoon. If he could recover the shoes, who knows what forensic they might hold. But how could he find them? He could leaflet the area. Every house, both sides of the road. That would be two or three hundred houses and shops.
‘Lost. One pair of black leather shoes, size nine.’
He rubbed his chin and looked out of the window. The more he thought about it, the dafter it sounded.
Under average circumstances, partly worn shoes wouldn’t have a value. People might wear somebody else’s shirt or vest or dress or whatever. Buy it at a jumble sale or somewhere, wash it and put it on. But they were unlikely to buy secondhand shoes. They hardly had a value in this country. They’d simply be dumped.
If the shoes had been – for whatever reason – thrown out of the car window, they might have been collected by a street-cleaner, shoved in a bin and disposed of.
Street cleaner! There was a thought.
He picked up the phone and summoned Ahmed.
‘I want you to find out who cleans the streets. It’ll be a council department. Highways Cleansing or something like that. They’ll tell you who is in charge of it at the town hall. Go down and see him. See if any of the men who actually clean the streets, particularly in the town centre, have come across any shoes over the past couple of days. They would be black leather, elasticated sides, size nine and in good fettle.’
‘Right, sir.’