‘Yes, well maybe she’s also got great muscular arms?’
‘Maybe. Maybe.’
The door suddenly opened. It was Ahmed. He didn’t knock. There was something different about him. His eyes were shining.
‘Have you heard the news, sir?’
‘What?’ Angel looked up and snapped at him.
‘Reynard’s been arrested and charged, sir. It’s on TV. It was a news flash. I was in the canteen.’
Angel and Gawber leapt to their feet and rushed out of the office and up the corridor to the double doors and through to the station canteen. There was a crowd of ten policemen and women looking up at the TV fastened high up to the wall. They rushed up and stood behind them. On the screen, they could see a man in a plain dark suit standing in front of a stone building speaking directly to camera. Underneath him was a caption that read: ‘Detective Inspector Blenkinsop.’ He was saying:
‘… known as Reynard, aged 35 years of Cutforth Road, London SW, was at 0935 hours this morning arrested after an exchange of gunfire outside the Chitterton branch of the Exchange Building Society. The arrest came after a week-long surveillance operation by the Serious Organised Crime Agency of the police, and demonstrates how successful the police can be, when the different forces under the direction of SOCA can work together to fight crime.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Angel slowly put the phone back in its cradle. He smiled, turned to Gawber and said, ‘That was DI Blenkinsop of Chitterton CID. He confirms that they have had Reynard under observation for the past six days and that there is no possible chance that he could have been anywhere near Creeford Road on Monday afternoon last.’
Gawber nodded and smiled. ‘So that clears that up. The orange peel found around Alicia Prophet’s body, was definitely not left there by Reynard.’
‘That’s right,’ Angel said rubbing his hands gleefully.
Gawber frowned. ‘So we have to find out why Lady B left it. Are we to suppose that, like Reynard, she had to have a swift intake of vitamin C every time she murdered somebody?’
Angel stopped rubbing his hands, pursed his lips and said, ‘I have an idea about that, Ron, but at the moment, I can’t make it all fit.’
‘But Lady B did shoot Alicia Prophet, sir, didn’t she? She was the last person to see Mrs Prophet alive?’
‘I believe so.’ He reached up to his ear and massaged the lobe of it slowly between finger and thumb. He sighed and added: ‘But I am not happy about how we arrive at that conclusion.’
‘Witnesses, sir. Three witnesses.’
‘Yes, Ron. But the clues are all wrong. I mean … why do you think we are provided with a woman in a blue dress who makes herself very well known to the husband, a neighbour and a taxi driver, so that, after she has murdered Mrs Prophet, those very witnesses are in a position to describe her to us in such absolute detail?’
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Gawber said.
‘Well, we have a full description of her, yet after the taxi driver drops her back at Wells Road Baths, we are unable to trace her? And you know something else, Ron. I bet you that we’ll never see Lady Cora Blessington again. Charles Prophet smelled a rat, and warned his wife against her. She should have heeded his warnings. A murderer worth his salt would not want to be known by his name, much less be recognized by the victim’s spouse, two neighbours and a taxi-driver.’
Gawber looked into Angel’s eyes. He admired his clear, logical thinking. Here was the inspector at his very best.
‘No, it’s all wrong, Ron,’ Angel continued. ‘Instinct screams out at me. This is a very unusual case. We are dealing with a very clever and dangerous individual, who is very close to us. I feel it in my bones. We are being had, Ron. Lady B or whoever she is, is making monkeys out of us, and I don’t like it!’
Gawber rubbed his chin. ‘Well, where is she now, sir? She can’t have disappeared into thin air?’
‘No, she hasn’t. She’s really very close. She has discarded the blue dress, hat and trainers, and is now dressed in normal, everyday clothes, working in an office, factory or shop; driving a car, a truck or pushing a pram; looking after a husband, a family or whatever life she has made for herself.’
‘All right, sir, but what’s her motive?’
‘Money. She began to milk Alicia Prophet for all the money she could. And that’s quite a lot, but when the poor woman realized that that was what she was about, she turned off the tap and Lady B snapped. In the absence of any other information, that’s the motive.’
Gawber frowned and rubbed his chin. ‘Well, where do we go from here.’
‘Back to the beginning, where else? We need to go back and interview all the witnesses. Check through all the evidence, look at the murder in an entirely different light. This is the unusual case of the murderer who wanted to be recognized.’
Gawber shook his head. ‘But we don’t know who she is. It’s all very complicated. Maybe we’ll never find the murderer.’
‘Oh, we’ll find the murderer all right.’
‘If she gets away with it, it will go down as the perfect crime.’
Angel raised his head. His bottom lip jutted forward defiantly. ‘There is no such thing as the perfect crime!’
Angel reached the top step, held onto the banister rail and breathed heavily. Those three flights of stairs had played havoc with the calves of his legs. He stood there to catch his breath, remembering with satisfaction that even though he was breathing a bit heavily, he had given up smoking finally three years earlier. He looked across the landing at the door with the number 19 stuck on it: that was Margaret Gaston’s flat. He listened out for banging drums and raucous electronic racket, but all was quiet. He was approaching the door, when it opened unexpectedly. A man wearing a crumpled grey suit, light-coloured, open-necked shirt, grey hair and a broad smile came out. He closed the door quietly then turned round. When he saw Angel, he gasped, his eyes lit up and the smile vanished; he put a hand across his mouth and nose and dashed past him down the stairs. Angel didn’t recognize him but he knew when a man looked guilty. And that man looked very guilty. His eyes followed the little man until he disappeared round the bend in the staircase. He turned back and noticed a wicked smell of brandy, then, thoughtfully, he crossed the landing and knocked on the door; it was promptly opened by Margaret Gaston. She was smiling.
‘Forgotten something, Luke?’ she said quickly. ‘Oh.’
‘Hello.’
When she saw it was Angel, the smile left her. Her eyes flashed and her face flushed up scarlet. She quickly closed the door to an opening of ten inches or so.
Through the gap, Angel could see that the top half of her was cosily wrapped in a short, quilted housecoat, but her long legs were uncovered down to her feet, which were snugly enclosed in the rabbit skin slippers.
‘Oh, I … I thought it was … somebody else,’ she stammered, closing the door another inch or two.
Angel put his hand on the door to keep it open.
She maintained the pressure on her side to narrow the gap.
‘I need to ask you a few more questions, Margaret. It won’t take long.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not convenient just now.’
‘Why? Have you something in there you don’t want me to see?’
‘No. No,’ she said, trying to be nonchalant. ‘I was just going to … take a bath, that’s all.’
Angel applied more pressure on the door.
‘The bath can wait. It’ll only take five minutes.’
Her face hardened. ‘Have you got a warrant?’ she said sternly.
The question quite surprised him. His eyebrows shot up. ‘I don’t need a warrant just to talk to you, Margaret,’ he said applying more pressure on the door. ‘What are you afraid of?’
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘Nothing.’ She suddenly pulled the door open wide. She knew she couldn’t win. ‘I’m not properly dressed for visitors,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’