The Diamond Rosary Murders (8 page)

A small man in a green overall, wellington boots and a tight white hat was standing in the open door of the mortuary. ‘Hey, Michael!’ he called. ‘Is it you playing push and run with this bell?’

It was Mac.

Angel’s face brightened. ‘Guilty,’ he said. He turned and walked back up to him. ‘What are you doing here on a Saturday
afternoon
?’ he said. ‘Got a woman in there?’

Mac grinned. ‘I’ve got two,’ he said, patting Angel lightly on the back. ‘Come on in and take one off my hands.’

‘I thought you’d be out shopping with your missus for that special little Christmas gift for your Aunt Ada,’ Angel said.

He followed Mac inside and closed the door.

‘I haven’t got an Aunt Ada,’ Mac said.

Angel smiled. ‘Well, Gladys then. Or Hermione.’

Mac nodded knowingly, and led Angel into his small office and pointed to a chair. Angel sat down.

‘My wife knows better than to try and get me on that kick, Michael,’ Mac said, sitting down in the swivel chair behind his desk. ‘I give her the money and she’s trots off and does it.’

Angel raised his eyebrows. ‘I wish Mary would do that.’

‘Takes years of married life,’ Mac said.

Angel grinned. ‘I’m sure, but I haven’t come here for a lecture on how to manage a wife.’

‘You’ve come here to get out of shopping with her.’

‘Certainly not. She’s at home, busy baking something.
You
know why I’m here.’

Mac nodded. ‘You want to know what he died from. And the time. Well, it’s taken me a bit longer to calculate time of death because I had to take readings not only of the temperature in different parts of the pool, but also the volume of the water and the circulation pattern of it. And I can now say with reasonable certainty that he died between 11 p.m. Thursday night and 4 a.m., yesterday morning. And the cause “looks like” a severe blow to the head causing an internal haemorrhage. I stress the words “looks like”.’

‘Not drowning?’

‘Might have been a contributory factor.’

‘Any idea what the instrument administering the blow might have been?’

‘Something heavy with a hard edge to it.’

‘Is it consistent with him diving into the pool, crashing into the edge of the pool and then falling into the water?’

‘Aye, but I can’t say for certain that that’s what happened. There might be other factors. I may know more after I have examined the major organs.’

The muscles round Angel’s mouth tightened. ‘How on earth could Haydn King have dreamt two days before he died, that
that’s
how it would happen?’

Mac frowned and turned back to him. ‘What do you mean?’

Angel told him about the nightmare.

When he had finished, Mac said, ‘It’s nae possible!’

Angel shrugged. ‘They are the facts, Mac. If it’s not possible, you’re suggesting that the dead man or the super were lying. What motive could either of them have had?’

Mac rubbed his chin.

‘It’s got me beat,’ Angel said.

Mac said, ‘King could have been hypnotized.’

‘Mary said that last night,’ Angel said. ‘Do you think that a seriously busy man like Haydn King would get himself involved with a hypnotist?’

‘Canna think of any other explanation.’

Anyway, I have always been given to understand that a person hypnotized would not do anything that was out of character.’

Mac nodded. ‘Aye. I’m sure that’s right, Michael.’

‘Well, I have no evidence to suggest that Haydn King wanted to kill himself.’

Mac sighed. After a few moments, he said, ‘I’m glad I’m working with scientific facts … with things I can see and touch. I’d be no good doing your job, trying to discover a baddie among all the goodies.’

‘I also rely on forensic to some extent,’ Angel said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘
You
know that.’

‘I’m glad I have my uses. Do you want to know what I’ve got so far?’

‘That’s what I’ve come for,’ he said, rising from the chair.

Mac nodded. ‘I’ve hardly started. Come on through. I’m recording it.’

They reached the examination theatre. The walls and floor were covered with white tiles. In addition, the floor had a gradient toward the far side to an open drain with a grate to the sewer in the corner. In the centre of the floor, on a rubber-topped examination table was the naked body of Haydn King. He was stretched out and partly covered by a sheet. A powerful battery of white strip lights was suspended over the table. Hanging just below them was a microphone that led to a small cassette recorder on an instrument table at the side.

As Angel entered, his nose went upwards and his face creased
at the indescribable smell of ammonia combined with odours only dead humans could generate.

Mac pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and lifted his mask up to cover his nose and mouth. He leaned over to the side table, pressed a couple of switches, then said, ‘There. I’ll play back what I recorded nobbut five minutes ago.’

His voice, sounding more Scots than he did in real life, came through the recorder: ‘Body of a man taken from swimming pool at approximately 0800 hours, Friday, December 9th 2011. Understood to be Haydn King. Weight 182 pounds. Height 6 feet. Aged about fifty. Brown eyes. Black beard and a full head of hair. Good physique. Has a suntan … wearing off. Must have spent time in a warmer clime recently. No distinguishing marks, tattoos, jewellery, body-piercing or the like. Hands regularly manicured. External examination. Severe abrasion to head resulting in compacted cranium and heavily fractured skull. Old appendix scar. No other external wound or abrasion visible to the naked eye.’

Mac leaned across and turned the recorder off. ‘That’s as far as I got.’

Angel shook his head. ‘Nothing there to make a case out of,’ he said with a sniff. ‘Any signs of the use of a needle?’

Mac looked at him over his spectacles. ‘Do ye mean was he a druggie?’

Angel gave the slightest hint of a shrug. ‘No. I didn’t exactly mean, did he inject himself with a conventional street drug, Mac. I know that’ll be in your PM in due course. I meant, was there any sign that he had had a … well, a jab of a different sort, the last hour or so of his life?’

Mac slowly shook his head and smiled. ‘Now what’s going through that complex, devious mind of yours?’

‘Well, Mac, there are a fair few million pounds looking for a new home right now. And I just wondered if King’s thinking processes had been … er, interfered with.’

‘You mean, by the injection of a hypnotic drug by a wayward psychologist, hypnotist, trick cyclist or some such character?’

‘That’s what I was thinking … who might then have talked King into killing himself?’

‘Something like that. I know it sounds unlikely, a man with the strong character he is reputed to have had, but there might just be a bruise, wound or reaction mark where the finest needle might have been furtively introduced.’

‘I haven’t checked that, Michael, yet, but I certainly will.’

‘Thanks, Mac.’

A
ngel had a peaceful Saturday evening and Sunday at home.

It became apparent that Mary had already taken care of the Christmas present shopping during the week, and was at that time busy wrapping them, for which he was truly thankful. It allowed him time to sit in front of the fire with the television on, reading through and putting into good English his findings in connection with the Haydn King case, and the report of the distinctive dead blonde woman seen in the area behind the King George Hotel.

Every so often, Mary came into the sitting-room to show him what gift she had chosen for a particular member of the family. She said that that was so that he could look intelligent if any of them were to thank him. He knew that it was actually to enrol his support for whatever she had bought, and many a time he thought the gift absolutely wacky. But whatever it was, he always tried to look interested and make encouraging noises.

And so the weekend soon passed.

It was 8.28 a.m., Monday, 12 December.

Angel was making his way down the station corridor to his office.

He had only just removed his coat, scarf and hat and was pulling the swivel chair up to his desk when there was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed. He was carrying a yellow file.

‘What is it, lad?’

‘Copy of a deposition from the super, sir,’ he said, handing him the file.

Angel blinked. He was thinking that Harker had dealt with it unusually promptly. It had only been mentioned on Friday
afternoon.
He glanced inside. There were two A4 sheets of double-spaced typing. He closed the file, put it down on the desk and looked up at the young man. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

Ahmed said, ‘And I have done a search on the PNC, sir, and there is nothing known about Haydn King.’

‘Right, Ahmed,’ he said. Then he frowned and looked up. ‘Didn’t I ask DS Crisp to make
that
search?’

‘He asked me to do it on Friday, sir. He had to go out to Harbottle & Haig, the stockbrokers.’

Angel wasn’t pleased. He shook his head and blew out a yard of breath. He was thinking that Crisp had no right to delegate. But he fully realized the merit of selective delegation to someone reliable. He gave a little shrug. He wished he could delegate more, but he knew he couldn’t.

‘Right lad,’ he said with a nod.

Ahmed turned towards the door.

‘Just a minute, lad. Phone Wakefield, NCOF and see if they have access to a specialist on hypnotism.’

Ahmed looked puzzled. ‘Hypnotism, sir?’

‘I know it’s unlikely but I’ve got to start there.’

‘What’s the NCOF, sir?’

Angel shook his head impatiently. ‘You’ll have to learn these acronyms off by heart, lad, you’ve been a fully fledged copper now nigh-on four years. You need to look intelligent when you’re up with the oldies. It’s the National Crime Operations Faculty. Remember that. The police unit of men and women who are experts in their field.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘And have you finished checking out King’s mobile phone and his house phone?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘I know you’re always very careful, Ahmed, but I want you to be particularly meticulous. Don’t let a single call be bypassed if it is in any way unusual. And I’d like your results as soon as ever possible.’

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

Angel turned to thinking he could do with Crisp’s report on the financial state of King’s Breweries and Haydn King in particular. He was of a mind to put a rocket up that lad’s backside. He reached out for the phone, when there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ he called.

It was DS Carter. She came in smiling. She was usually smiling and always agreeable.

‘Good morning, sir. I’ve got that info you wanted,’ she said, pulling her notebook out of the bag slung over her shoulder.

Angel managed a fleeting, reciprocal smile. He replaced the phone. He pointed at the chair opposite him. She sat down.

He recalled that he had asked her to find out the contents of King’s last will and testament and he was keen to hear what she had found out.

‘Right, lass. What you got?’

‘King’s solicitor is Mr Bloomfield,’ she said, opening the
notebook
.

He knew him well. Angel thought him to be probably the most conscientious solicitor in the town.

‘He let me read Mr King’s last will. It was dated July 11th this year. Apart from relatively small bequests, including ten thousand pounds to Nicholas Fitzroy Meredith, his butler for more than twenty years, the bulk of the shares in King’s Breweries, the house on Pine Avenue, the house in Florida, the boat and other stocks and shares will go to his nephew, Vincent Fleming.’

‘Wow!’ Angel said. He pursed his lips. ‘That makes Fleming a multi-millionaire.’

‘
Yes
, sir,’ she said.

Angel rubbed his chin slowly. He had a lot to think about. ‘Right, Flora. Thank you.’

‘But there’s more, sir,’ she said. She opened her eyes wider to emphasize the point.

He raised an open hand, making a gesture inviting her to continue.

She turned a page in her notebook and said, ‘There was a new will prepared by Mr Bloomfield at Mr King’s request. It was to change that one substantially. The small bequests remained the same, except for that to Nicholas Fitzroy Meredith, who was to receive the bulk of the estate. Vincent Fleming was to receive nothing.’

Angel raised his eyebrows. ‘But it was not signed?’

‘No, sir. Mr Bloomfield said that Mr King had given him instructions over the phone about ten days ago, and he had an appointment to sign it on the Monday, but phoned in to cancel because he was ill.’

Angel had a thought. He hurriedly pulled some envelopes out of his inside pocket and glanced through them. He found what he wanted. He looked up at Flora and said, ‘It adds up. That was the day he had gout.’

She nodded. ‘Mr Bloomfield said that he offered to come up to Mr King’s office or his house with a clerk as a witness, but Mr King declined. He said that he would phone Mr Bloomfield back in a few days to make another appointment. Of course, he never did. There’s going to be one very lucky man following Haydn King’s coffin to the Mount Pleasant Crematorium in the near future.’

Angel shook his head slowly, pursed his lips again and said, ‘Aye. And one very unlucky one.’ Then he added, ‘Did Bloomfield tell you why Fleming suddenly fell out of King’s favour?’

‘No, sir. King didn’t offer any explanation and Bloomfield knew better – I suppose – than to ask him.’

Angel’s eyes narrowed. It would be interesting to know what made King change his mind.

The phone rang. Angel reached out for it. It was Superintendent Harker. There was the usual coughing and then he said, ‘I want you to make yourself available this afternoon, Angel. There’s a DI Mathew Elliott from the Antiques and Fine Art squad, London, coming up. He was coming to see me at two o’clock. It’s about a link between a murder case he’s involved with in Hackney and a possible suspect from around here. All sounds very vague and probably a waste of time. Didn’t have any names in mind to offer so you can’t look anything up before he gets here. Now, as it happens, I have an appointment at the hospital at two o’clock, an operation that’ll keep me away all afternoon. They’re shoving a camera into me in a very particular place, and I’m not looking forward to it. So I’ll have to leave this chap with you. Give him my apologies, and look after him. Make him feel welcome. You never know when we might need to
reciprocate
.’

‘Right, sir,’ Angel said. ‘We’ve been in touch with Mathew Elliott before, sir. But in those days he was a sergeant …’

There was an abrupt click and the line went dead. Harker had replaced the phone.

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He gritted his teeth and looked at the receiver.

Flora saw his face and said, ‘Everything all right, sir?’

Anybody would think Harker was running Marks & Spencer, Angel thought.

‘The super was in rather a hurry, that’s all,’ he said.

He returned the receiver to its cradle. Two seconds later, the phone rang again.

He looked at it, wrinkled his nose and picked it up. ‘Angel.’

A small male voice said, ‘This is PC Knightly on reception, sir. Sorry to bother you. There’s a woman here from that posh dress shop down the arcade, Madam Vera’s … the one that was broken into last week. She wants to see whoever’s in charge of the
investigation
. I take it that that’s you, sir?’

Angel sighed. ‘Yes, lad, it is, but I’m extremely busy just now. What does she want?’

‘I don’t know exactly, sir. I think she er …’ At this point the young policeman lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I think she just wants to chivvy you up, sir. She says the break-in has cost her a lot of money, and she’s hoping for “restoration”, as she put it.’

‘And I’m hoping to win the lottery,’ Angel said.

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘Never mind, lad. I’ll sort it. Ask her to wait there a few minutes.’

He replaced the phone and turned to Flora.

‘Madam Vera, or whatever her real name is, is in reception. Find out from Don Taylor if he found any forensic at her shop, also check on whether there was anything useful from any CCTV in the area. Then nip up to reception and see what she has to say … and find out what exactly was stolen. A PC has already taken the details, but take them again. You’re a woman; you’ll have a better idea about the value and significance of the theft. Indeed, if there is any. Maybe get a lead on what sort of a person would rob an expensive dress shop. Say, an angry disappointed customer … or someone with a grudge, you know. Personally I don’t know why women get so animated about such relatively trivial things as what they wear.’

It was Flora’s turn to raise her eyebrows. ‘Well
you
obviously care, sir. I mean, you always look very smart.’

‘Well, it’s the expected uniform for a police inspector’s job, isn’t it? How can anyone go wrong with a clean, pressed dark suit, cotton shirt, tie and polished black leather shoes.’

‘Don’t you ever want a change?’

‘Huh. You’d think I was a right berk if I turned up here in a bright green jacket, tartan trousers and a red shirt, wouldn’t you? Now hop off find out what you can and settle Madam Vera down. I feel a bit guilty about neglecting her … but there just isn’t enough time.’

Flora went out and closed the door.

Angel looked up at the clock. It said 10.20 a.m. He fumbled in the bottom of his jacket pocket and came out with two business cards. He put one back in his pocket and put the other one on his desk in front of him. He reached out for the phone, looked down and tapped in the number he read off the card. The phone was soon answered by a voice that sounded like a desperate young mermaid whose vocal cords had been marinated in honey.

‘Vincent Fleming Associates, insurance brokers,’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’

His eyebrows went up. ‘This is Detective Inspector Angel,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to Mr Fleming, please.’

‘Oh yes. Thank you, Inspector. Won’t keep you a moment.’

Fleming came on the line. He seemed very buoyant. ‘Why, good morning, Inspector. What a pleasant surprise. And what can I do for you?’

‘I need to see you straightaway, Mr Fleming.’

‘Dear me. It sounds serious. Well, I am at your disposal, Inspector.’

Eight minutes later Angel was sitting in Fleming’s ground-floor office in an office block in the centre of Bromersley on the corner of Huddersfield Road and Karl Marx Row.

‘Have you come to tell me that you have completed your inquiries into my uncle’s death, Inspector?’ Fleming said.

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘But I am getting there. Have you been in touch with Mr Bloomfield, your uncle’s solicitor?’

‘Ah, I see where you are going with this, Inspector. No, but
Bloomfield rang me on Friday afternoon to offer his condolences and to tell me that I had inherited the bulk of my Uncle Haydn’s estate. However I would rather have had my uncle alive … to enjoy his friendship and guidance … after all, he was my nearest relative. But, naturally the fact that he left me so provided for … was solace to me at this dreadful time.’

‘You speak of your uncle with affection, but did you get on well with him?’

‘You will understand, my dear Inspector, that Uncle Haydn was, in modern parlance, a self-made man. He was king in
attitude
as well as in name. He started with very little and because most of his commercial decisions were spot on, his business was successful and grew to the size it is. Thereafter, he tended to assume an air of infallibility. So it was understandable that he might disagree with people who had divergent opinions.’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘Are you saying you
didn’t
get on with him?’

‘On the contrary, Inspector. We got on very well most of the time, but there were times when he could be … erm, difficult.’

‘Did he complain to you about the strange dreams – or nightmares, you could call them – he had been having over the past two weeks?’

‘Nightmares?’ he said with a grin. ‘No. Certainly not. This is the first I’ve heard of that. Tell me about them.’

‘Did you find him behaving differently over the past two weeks? Was he morose, introspective or depressed?’

‘Not at all. I would have noticed. He invited me for dinner that last Thursday evening, and I was with him for about three hours. I’m pretty certain that if there had been anything like that worrying him, he would have told me about it then.’

‘What time did you leave?’

‘Must have been about 9.30. Uncle Haydn didn’t keep late hours.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘The same as always. Business. I am an insurance broker. He had been considering putting his insurance, both business and personal, through me. We talked about the sort of cover he would need and the cost.’

‘Would that have amounted to much?’

‘The commission would have been eleven or twelve thousand pounds a year. Very welcome in these difficult times, Inspector.’

Angel nodded. He pursed his lips. Eleven thousand pounds was a large amount of money, but not life-changing, he thought.