The Man Who Couldn't Lose (3 page)

‘Right, sir.'

He replaced the phone and looked up at Ahmed.

‘She's here. Nip off smartly and bring her down.'

Ahmed dashed out of the office and up the corridor.

Two minutes later, he strode down the green corridor followed by a woman taking small rapid steps because of her slim pencil skirt and high-heeled shoes.

Angel was at his office door to greet her.

‘Thank you for being so prompt, Mrs Gumme.'

She nodded.

He looked sympathetically into her heavily made-up face. Her eyes were red and her lips trembling. And there was a smell of something sweet and unusual. It must have been perfume.

‘Thank you for coming in,' he said, holding out his hand to shake hers. He rubbed his chin with the other. ‘I'm so sorry to be the bearer of such sad news.'

‘Someone has to …
had
to tell me,' she said in a small voice. He noticed that when relaxed her mouth was usually open slightly, and her lips formed the letter O.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?' he said.

There was a brief smile. She lowered her thick eyelashes momentarily and nodded.

Angel looked at Ahmed and held up three fingers.

Ahmed understood and rushed down the corridor to the private little cupboard in the CID room.

‘If it's all the same to you,' Angel said, putting his hand on her elbow and steering her towards Interview Room 2, ‘we'll record this interview. It will avoid going over it twice and save time.'

‘I'm all for that, Inspector. I have to get back. There is so much to do.'

She sighed. The eyelashes dropped then flickered up.

‘Oh dear. Now that Joshua is … dead, I have to do everything myself.' She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘It's something I've got to get used to.'

He pointed to a chair by the table. She sat down quickly and put a small handbag on the table in front of her.

Angel looked at her; he couldn't imagine this woman as an appropriate partner for Joshua Gumme, wheelchair-bound, ill-mannered, card-playing crook.

He pushed a tape into the machine. He checked that the red light was on and the spools turning.

‘Tell me about last night.'

‘Yes. Hmm. We had dinner at home as usual about seven, the two of us, then at eight Joshua pushed his chair away from the table—'

‘Who was in the house at that time?'

‘Just Joshua, and me.'

Angel nodded.

‘Joshua pushed himself away from the table. He was rather quiet. I knew something was wrong. I had asked him but he wouldn't tell me. I assumed it was to do with the business. It almost always was. He went into the office and made a phone call. Then he came out and said he had to go out and that he'd phoned Horace – that's Horace Makepiece – to come round and collect him. He was Joshua's chauffeur.'

Angel nodded. He'd heard of him. He was known around as Horace ‘Harelip' Makepiece. ‘So you and your husband were not really on the very best of terms last night, then?'

Her eyes flashed, she rapidly sucked in air and her bosom increased four inches.

‘We were fine,' she said. ‘Just fine.' Then she pulled her white blouse down an inch at the neckline to show more clearly a necklace comprising twenty or more small carved heart-shaped garnets, each in a delicate old gold setting and connected by pretty leaf motif chain links.

‘See that, Inspector whatever-your-name-is? Last night, just before he left, he gave this to me. It's beautiful, ain't it? Antique.'

Angel agreed, but she needn't have made such a performance about it. He wasn't making any particular point. He shrugged.

‘Very nice,' he said, to be polite.

She flicked the eyelashes again and smiled.

‘So Horace Makepiece came round to the house?' he said, moving on quickly.

‘Yes. He was round in a few minutes. Wheeled my husband out to the Bentley … and that was the last I saw of him….' Her voice trailed away.

‘And you had no idea where he was going?'

‘Not at the time. When Joshua wasn't back at ten, I began to wonder where he could have gotten to. I tried to get Horace. There was no reply from any of the numbers. I phoned everywhere. Nobody knew anything about either of them. I was beginning to be seriously worried. I thought that even if Joshua had got stuck in a card game somewhere, he would have told Horace to let me know. I went to bed but I couldn't sleep. I got up about two-thirty, went into the sitting room and poured myself a stiff whisky, drank it, came back and eventually dropped off to sleep. I woke up with a start at nine o'clock. It was the doorbell ringing. I was a bit groggy, but I got out of bed, threw on my housecoat and went down to see that it was Horace. He had come to collect my husband. He said he had dropped him off at The Feathers last night and he had told him to leave him there, he'd make his own way home, but to be certain to pick him up here at nine this morning. I told him my husband hadn't been back all night and that I didn't know where he was. I asked him why I couldn't reach him on his mobile last night and he simply said that he had switched it off. He looked really scared, then he said he'd go out and look for him. He knew his haunts, so off he went. I had a quick swim in the pool to clear my head, then a few minutes on the sunbed to think things out, then I phoned the police. The rest you know.'

‘Where can I get in touch with Horace Makepiece now?'

‘Horace? He normally doesn't go far. If he isn't at his flat, he'll be in the printing shop or at the billiard hall on Duke Street or the bookies next door. I'll give you the numbers. I'll write them down.'

She zipped open the small white leather handbag.

‘Got some paper?'

Angel watched her slim, white, manicured fingers fumbling around inside the bag. He reached into the drawer in the table, looking for something for her to write on. He found a pad of Witness Statement forms. He pulled it out, closed the drawer, dropped it on the table and pushed it across in front of her.

She held up a stubby, gold-coloured ballpoint pen she had exhumed from her handbag.

‘Ah. Thank you.'

She squared the pad in front of her and began writing.

The door opened and Ahmed came in with the teas. He passed them round as Mrs Gumme was writing. Then he sat down next to Angel.

Angel patiently sipped the tea.

Mrs Gumme finished, looked over her handiwork, nodded and pushed the pad over to Angel.

‘There. I have put the addresses
and
the phone numbers of the places where he usually hangs out.'

Angel glanced at it and raised his eyebrows. It was neatly printed in an irregular assortment of block and lower-case letters, and numbers of the same size. Although unusual, it was perfectly clear and understandable.

‘Thank you, Mrs Gumme.'

He tore off the page, folded it roughly, slipped it into his inside jacket pocket and put the pad back in the table drawer.

‘Tell me, did your husband have any particular enemies who might have wanted him … out of the way?'

The eyelashes flickered briefly.

‘Joshua was always a winner. He never lost at anything he did. He was bound to upset people … he wasn't the most tactful person.…'

‘Was there anybody in particular?'

‘He didn't tell me everything. I don't know. There might have been people from the old days.'

‘What old days?'

She shook her head. She looked as if she wished she hadn't said that. Now she didn't know what to say.

Angel waited.

She would have to say something. The eyelashes flickered again.

‘Before I knew him,' she said. ‘Horace would know all about that.'

‘I'm asking you, Mrs Gumme.'

‘I don't know much about his past. I've known him ten years. He was fifty when I met him. Horace has known him thirty or forty years.'

Angel wasn't happy.

‘Mrs Gumme, do you know of anybody who might have murdered your husband?'

‘No.'

‘You said he had been quiet last night.'

‘Over dinner. He was. Yes. But I have no idea what was on his mind.'

Angel rubbed his chin.

‘Who would benefit most financially from his death?'

The heavy eyelids flicked open. Her eyes flashed. Her mouth tightened.

‘I would, I suppose.'

Angel rubbed his chin.

‘Did your husband have any family?'

‘A son, Edmund. Lives in York somewhere. Met him once.'

‘Only once?'

‘The lad took himself away when Joshua's first wife Myra died. Cut Joshua up quite a bit, he used to say, but he got over it. Joshua's not spoken to him … they've not spoken to each other in years, as far as I know.'

Angel thought it was sad.

‘Do you have a phone number or an address?'

She shook her head. Then she raised her eyelashes and said, ‘Tell you who will know. Carl Messenger. That's Joshua's solicitor.'

Angel nodded. Then he nodded again. Slightly more energetically. He had heard of Messenger. He was thinking how appropriate it was for a slightly dodgy businessman to have a slightly dodgy solicitor.

‘One last question for now, Mrs Gumme.'

She looked up. She looked pleased and licked her dry lips.

‘Yeah. Sure.'

‘Did your husband own a gun?'

She hesitated.

‘Yes. I believe he did.'

Angel thought this a strange reply.

‘Either he did or he didn't,' he said evenly.

‘Yes, he did, Inspector.'

‘What make was it?'

‘It was a Walther PPK/S .32 automatic. German.'

‘Where does he keep it?'

‘In his desk drawer. He used to carry it … sometimes.'

‘Did he have a licence for it?' He knew he wouldn't have.

‘I dunno.'

‘What did he want it for?'

‘What does anybody carry a gun for? He was a rich man … stuck in a chair. He was always careful. Didn't want to be at a disadvantage.'

‘Was he carrying it last night?'

He noticed her hands were trembling.

‘Must have been. When he didn't come home that was one of the first places I looked. I knew if the Walther wasn't there, he'd have been expecting trouble and he would have taken it with him. And that's when I really began to be frightened.'

It was 8.28 a.m. when Angel arrived at his office. He was taking off his coat when Ahmed peered through the open door.

‘Good morning, sir.'

‘Come in if you're coming,' Angel said impatiently. There was a lot to do. He had a murderer to catch.

Ahmed was carrying a newspaper.

‘Have you seen this, sir?' he said as he closed the door. ‘It's about this Joshua Gumme murder.'

He pushed the newspaper in front of him.

Angel picked it up. It was the
South Yorkshire Daily Times
.

Ahmed pointed to the bottom of the front page.

There was a photograph of Gumme in his wheelchair, smiling benignly. Under the photograph it read:

MAN WHO COULDN'T LOSE MURDERED!
GUMME THE GAMBLER DEAD

‘Thank you, Ahmed,' he said, returning the paper. He leaned forward and dragged that morning's mail towards the centre of the desk.

‘Could you play pontoon, sir, and win two hundred games on the trot?'

‘No. I couldn't, lad. Nor could anyone else,' Angel said, slipping the blade of a paperknife into an envelope.

‘But it says—'

‘I know what it says, Ahmed. But you mustn't believe all you read in the papers.'

‘No, sir. But how could he possibly win two hundred games, one after the other like that?'

Angel shook his head.

‘Because he cheated, that's how. Pontoon is mainly a game of chance, isn't it? The cards wouldn't come out in the favour of anyone two hundred consecutive times, would they?'

Ahmed nodded. He seemed convinced. He made for the door. ‘It said that he was very carefully watched by judges and experts, though, sir,' he added.

‘Well, don't look at me, Ahmed. I don't know how he did it.'

Ahmed smiled.

‘But you'll find out, sir, won't you?'

Angel shrugged and put a letter down on the desk. ‘I have a lot more important jobs to do than that,' he said. ‘And so have you,' he added quickly. ‘Firstly, get me Dr Mac. He'll likely be at the mortuary. Then I want to speak to Don Taylor of SOCOs. Then see if you can find an Edmund Gumme … information is that he lives in or near York. You could try the phone book. The electoral roll. Or check him on the PNC. If he hasn't been convicted of an offence, of course, he won't be there. You'll have to do it the hard way.'

The phone rang. He reached out for it.

‘Angel.'

It was DC Scrivens.

‘Good morning, sir.' He sounded excited about something. ‘Just overheard from Traffic that a car was found burning in a field of wheat, off a track, off Wath Lane. It's in the middle of nowhere, sir,' he said excitedly.

Angel growled like a bear.

‘I'm not a bloody fireman, Scrivens! What do you want me to do about it?'

Undeterred, Scrivens continued: ‘It's Gumme's Bentley, sir! You're on that case, aren't you?'

Angel rubbed his chin. Then he sniffed.

‘Had it been reported missing?'

‘No, sir. There's about eighty thousand quid's worth there.'

‘Yes. Well done, Scrivens. What are you busy with?'

‘A shoplifting, sir.'

‘Well, put that on hold and follow this up for me. Find out what caused it. Any fingerprints, anything at all. Where was it taken from and how was it done. Have a word with Mrs Gumme. Find out about the car keys. Mileage, all that stuff. Jump on it pronto and let me know.'

‘Right, sir,' the young man said excitedly. He preferred working on murder cases to shoplifting any time.

Angel replaced the phone.

That was an utterly confusing piece of news. It was usually much cheaper cars with less security that were stolen for joy-riding, and then driven to some outrageous place to be torched. He had never heard of a Bentley suffering such treatment.

‘Ahmed,' Angel began.

The phone rang again. He picked up the receiver. It was the superintendent.

‘Come down here. Smartly!' Harker bellowed.

‘Right, sir.'

The line went dead. He frowned. Must be something urgent. He put the phone down and crossed to the door.

‘Got to go, Ahmed. Better hold off those jobs. But see if you can get that phone number for Edmund Gumme in York.'

‘Right, sir.'

Angel made his way sharply down the corridor to the superintendent's office. It sounded urgent. He hoped it wasn't something time-consuming. He had enough on his plate at that moment.

He knocked at the door and pushed it open.

Harker was at his desk. Opposite him were two other men, much younger. One was Sergeant Galbraith of the uniformed branch of Bromersley force who was, of course, known to him. Angel had thought that he was a quiet, thoroughly dependable copper. The other man was in plain clothes; he thought he knew him vaguely.

‘Come in,' Harker said. ‘Come in. You know DCI Gardiner from the Central Drugs Squad?'

‘Good morning, sir,' Angel said. He remembered his face. He had met him once at a drugs briefing in Leeds. He now recalled that he was a live wire and seemed to know the drugs business backwards.

The DCI nodded and smiled politely.

‘Sit down. Sit down,' Harker said. ‘I really wanted a bigger turn-out than this but everybody else seems to be out of the building or tied up with something.'

Gardiner coughed.

Harker's eyebrows shot up. He glanced at him, wrinkled his nose and said, ‘The DCI has something to say.'

‘Yes. Thank you, sir,' Gardiner began. ‘It is simply that we have intelligence that a local woman is dealing H locally in a big way. For security reasons, I'll keep her name and address schtum, but with the super's permission, I am calling a raid on her house for ten hundred hours. I'd go now, but we've got to have time for the dog handler to get here from Nottingham. I have got Wakefield to send an ARV as a precaution; I don't think she's armed, but you never can tell. All right?'

Angel and Galbraith glanced at each other, then nodded.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I'll need, minimally, four officers from this station,' Gardiner continued, ‘including at least two women. Will you organize that, Inspector, and assemble in the duty office at 09.55 hours?'

Angel wrinkled his nose.

‘Yes, sir.'

Two unmarked police cars came down Edmondson's Avenue, while the ARV and the dog handler's van came up it. They had been directed to stop at the red letterbox, which was a useful landmark, being directly opposite number twenty-six.

The eight police personnel and the dog piled out of the vehicles and ran up Gloria Swithenbank's garden path. Leading the party were the two men in armoured jackets and helmets from the ARV carrying Heckler and Koch G36C rifles and a battering ram; immediately behind them were DI Angel and WPC Baverstock. They raced past the front window, then round the corner to the back of the house, tried the door, yelled out, ‘Police. We're coming in,' and went straight through.

The armed team charged through the empty kitchen into the tiny front room followed by DI Angel and WPC Baverstock and were surprised to find the householder with her mother, calmly drinking tea and watching television. One armed man raced up to the bathroom to stop the lavatory being used to flush drugs away, while the other checked round the house for any solid fuel heater or fire to prevent the disposal of them by incineration.

At the same time, the other four members of the team, DCI Gardiner, Sergeant Galbraith, another WPC and a PC dog handler with an excitable spaniel, who began to bark, took up positions outside the front door of the house, and began a barrage of knocking and yelling, ‘Police. Open up. Police. Come on.'

Gloria Swithenbank jumped to her feet. Her mouth tightened; her eyes glowed like two pieces of coke in a furnace.

‘Mercy me!' she bawled. ‘What do you want?'

‘Police,' Angel said, and held up his ID and an A4 sheet of letterhead with typing on it.

‘Police? What police? What on earth is happening?'

‘Mrs Gloria Swithenbank?' Angel asked.

‘Yes. What the hell is going on?'

‘I am a police officer. I have a search warrant. How many people are there in the house?'

An elderly lady was sitting on the settee facing the television, her mouth wide open in surprise.

‘What is it, Gloria?' she said and began shaking.

Angel called across to her. ‘It's all right, love. We're the police.'

‘What are you looking for? I haven't committed any crime,' Gloria Swithenbank said.

‘How many people are in the house?'

‘Just me and my mother. Look, you're frightening her.'

‘What's her name?'

‘Gladstone. Alice Gladstone.'

Angel called across to her again. ‘It's all right, Mrs Gladstone. We're just looking for something.'

He turned to WPC Baverstock and made a signal to go to the old lady and attend to her.

The two men with rifles bustled noisily into the room.

‘Every room checked, sir. No attics and no cellars,' one of them said.

Angel nodded.

There was still the racket from outside.

Angel went to the front door. The key was in the door, so he turned it and let DCI Gardiner and the others in. They crowded into the room.

Gloria Swithenbank glared at them.

‘What's this all about?'

DCI Gardiner made his way up to her and said: ‘You must be Mrs Gloria Swithenbank.'

She turned to him and sniffed. ‘What if I am?'

‘We have reason to believe that these premises are being used for the illegal distribution of Class A drugs,' he said. ‘Do you want to tell me where they are?'

She pulled an astonished face, shook her head, put her hands on her hips and said: ‘Don't be ridiculous. I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Very well,' DCI Gardiner said calmly, then he turned to the raiding party and allocated an area of the house and garden to be searched by them. Angel was teamed up with Sergeant Galbraith to search the upstairs two bedrooms, bathroom, landing and staircase.

Angel suggested they start in the bathroom and began to make his way up the stairs followed by WPC Baverstock and the other WPC, who were escorting a protesting Gloria Swithenbank and her mother to a bedroom for a body search.

Angel found himself on the bathroom floor, where he unscrewed the chromium-topped screws that were holding the plastic boxing round the underside of the bath. He took the boards away; all he found was dust and fluff.

The dog handler had let his excited spaniel off the lead and given him the run of the house, carefully following him round. The dog rushed into the bathroom, looked round it, wagged its tail, sniffed along the carpet down the side of the bath then looked away, disinterested. The handler pointed under the washbasin. The dog went under it, sniffed, wagged its tail and came straight out.

Galbraith removed a mirror over the bathroom sink, found nothing and screwed it back. Angel and Galbraith together pulled up fitted carpets to see if any floorboards were loose or had been recently disturbed, looked for any fresh sawing or cutting marks and turned the pictures on the walls to see if there was any hiding place behind them. They searched thoroughly the beds, the wardrobes, the cupboards and the drawers. They even checked for any hollow-sounding places in the walls. The stairs were just as carefully scrutinized for loose floorboards. In fact, they looked every possible place where drugs or a stash of cash could be concealed. Nothing.

Angel knew that downstairs the team would be just as thorough, and that they would examine every package containing foodstuffs in the kitchen cupboard as well as everything in the refrigerator and deep freeze.

After two hours, Angel and Galbraith went down the stairs to the sitting room. He saw the DCI was still interviewing Mrs Swithenbank and her mother. By the look on his face he might just as well have been talking to Mrs Buller-Price's pot poodle Fifi.

With a nod from the DCI, Angel and the rest of the team packed up their traps and left the house almost as quickly as they had arrived. The raid had obviously not provided sufficient evidence for a charge. They gathered outside in the street.

‘Well, thank you, everybody,' Gardiner said. ‘You'd better return to your own respective offices. I regret the waste of time. This tip-off was, regrettably, a turkey.'

The dog handler said, ‘Sir. The dog did react positively at a cupboard in the kitchen. I pulled everything out and let him have a good old sniff around, but there was nothing to be found. It was spotlessly clean. Also on the kitchen table. Even though it would have been wiped down, even scrubbed, the dog did detect the recent presence of a Class A drug on the top. Perhaps it had been used in the preparing of twists or packets.'