Prophet frowned. ‘No. It was not I,’ he said. ‘I had not yet returned to the house after I left for the office on the morning of that dreadful day; still haven’t. I’m staying at The Feathers Hotel.’
Angel nodded and said, ‘There must be some explanation. Your wife was completely blind, wasn’t she? She wasn’t capable of doing any shopping, was she?’
‘Of course not. Mrs Duplessis, next door, may have brought in that shopping, but it sounds more likely to have been Margaret Gaston. My wife may have asked her to shop for some things and to pop them in on her way back from town. And it was quite usual for her to put the change and leave any messages on the draining board in the kitchen.’
‘Did she have a key?’
‘No, but she wouldn’t need a key. The door would have been unlocked. Both doors, front and back, were unlocked. It was easier for Alicia, you see.’
‘And oranges. Did your wife like oranges?’
‘Why, yes, of course,’ Prophet said, looking at him with eyebrows raised.
‘There were some freshly bought oranges in the outside rubbish bin, and orange peel strewn about the settee. Do you know anything about that?’
‘No. Sounds very odd.’
Angel’s lips stretched back tight across his teeth as he nodded.
‘Lady B was, by all accounts, tall, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘All the witnesses are quite agreed on that. And that picture of her was above that girl’s bed. Now Margaret Gaston is quite tall. Put that blue dress on her, a wig, the hat and the trainers and, I think we’d have a Lady Blessington look alike. It must have been her. It would explain the shopping in the pantry, the money on the draining board, the orange peel over the body and the oranges in the dustbin?’
‘I am satisfied that the orange peel over the body was to try to put the blame for the murder on Reynard, but we now know it couldn’t have been him.’
‘I realize that, sir.’
‘But the lass is … too beautiful to be Lady B,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘And seems to be a lot younger.’
‘She could have worn a mask.’
Angel looked up at him. He accepted that that was a possibility.
‘She’d probably manage the strained voice all right, Ron,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you that. She’d just have to talk an octave or so higher.’
‘And she’s very hard up, sir. Desperate for money. You said she was on the game.’
‘Aye. Got that little lad, Carl, to bring up, hasn’t she? Another one-parent family. Hmmm.’
‘It might help if we knew who the father was.’
‘It might. It might very well, Ron,’ he said heavily and then he stood up. ‘I’ll think about it over the weekend. Right now, I’m going to the hospital. See Spencer. Then I’m going straight home. I’ve had enough of this week. See you on Monday.’
The woman at the hospital reception desk directed him to Room 12, Ward 23 on the second floor. He found it, tapped on the door and waited a couple of seconds. There was no reply so he pressed down the handle and walked in.
It was a single room with minimum furniture: bed, locker, chair, sink and a pedestal fan. There was a patient on the bed, not covered by blankets or sheets, but encased in bandages except for the eyes, nose, mouth and hands. Angel assumed it was a man.
The patient was resting on his side on a big pile of pillows on an unusually large bed; he had his knees bent so that he was almost in a foetal position. The fan was blowing a cool breeze over him. As Angel closed the door, he turned his head slightly to look round at his visitor.
‘Mr Spencer?’ Angel said. ‘Simon Spencer?’
‘Yes,’ the man said, groaning. ‘Can you tell me how much longer I am going to be bandaged up like this?’
Angel found the chair.
‘I’m not a doctor, Mr Spencer. I’m Detective Inspector Angel.’
‘Ooooh,’ he moaned.
‘You’re lucky to be alive.’
‘So they tell me,’ he said sourly. ‘Don’t I recognize you? Weren’t you and another chap fastened up in Glazer’s barn, when that lunatic threw that bomb in it?’
Angel nodded.
‘And you’re in the police?’ His voice indicated that the fact was stretching his belief. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘I think you know what I want,’ he said evenly.
‘No,’ Spencer said. ‘I have no idea. You’ll have to spell it out.’
‘I am investigating the murder of Harry Harrison also known as Harry Henderson.’
‘Well, he was a little worm, but good gracious, I didn’t have anything to do with that.’
‘That’s what you say. We know that you worked a nice little fraudulent gig with him, and for that, you will be charged in due course. What I am interested in today is how Harrison came to be stabbed to death and dumped in a skip on the car park of The Three Horseshoes.’
‘Well, Inspector, I don’t know anything about that.’
Angel looked straight into his eyes.
‘Where were you on the night of Monday, July 16th?’
‘I can’t remember that now. I’m pretty certain that I was at home.’
Angel sniffed. ‘And what’s the address? If it’s 212 Huddersfield Road, don’t bother wasting my time.’
Spencer sniggered, then he said, ‘I can’t remember.’
The muscles of Angel’s jaw tightened. ‘Well, you’d better start remembering something. You’re already going down for fraud. If you don’t remember something, you could be looking through steel bars for the rest of your life.’
Angel seemed to have struck a nerve. Spencer’s breathing became uneven and his hands began to shake.
‘I can’t exactly remember everything,’ he stammered. ‘It’s true. I was looking for him. I had to find him to get my share of the money, but he had gone to ground. I had heard he had been seen in that pub, The Three Horseshoes, but when I got there, there was no sign of him.’
‘Go on,’ Angel said.
‘Well, I was making enquiries about him from the landlord. He said he didn’t know anything, but a mouthy man, who I later learned was Eddie Glazer, overheard us. He said that he was a friend of Harrison and bought me a drink. I thought he might lead me to him. We were getting on rather well. Then he said he had something special about Harry to show me in his car. I fell for it. We went outside, and I was set on by him and three other thugs, who knocked me out cold. I must have been unconscious for twelve hours. When I woke up, I was in a big house. They locked me in a room. They kept beating me up and throwing cold water over me … and asking me where the money was. I didn’t know, did I? If I had known I would have taken my share and disappeared. But they kept on at me. Glazer got big Ox to persuade me – as he called it – but I didn’t know anything. They even sent Glazer’s wife in to try and coax it out of me. They simply wouldn’t believe me. The trouble was that Harrison owed Glazer ten thousand pounds. Something to do with his escape from prison, and the fact that he hadn’t paid stuck in Glazer’s gullet. Anyway, they held me for three nights, I believe. I lost track of time. I was taken to the barn. The rest you know.’
Angel rubbed his chin. It had the ring of truth about it. He was more than half inclined to believe him. He was still waiting for the results of SOCO’s tests on Spencer’s and Glazer gang’s clothes and effects. He was hopeful of some conclusive evidence that would enable him to make an arrest. It should also indicate whether Spencer was a liar or not. He remembered that SOCO had also reported that Harrison had been severely assaulted with clenched fists before he was stabbed; such an assault would leave abrasions, bruising or scuffs on the assailant’s hands and knuckles.
‘Hold your hands out,’ Angel said.
‘What?’
Angel reached out and took hold of one hand. He grabbed it tightly by the wrist.
‘Here. What’s happening? What are you doing?’
Spencer tried to pull away, but Angel held it with a grip of iron. He looked at the back of his hand and at the knuckles, then turned it over. It felt like a rubber glove stuffed with bread and butter pudding. He took the other hand. It was the same. He sniffed and let both hands drop. They were the hands of a man who had never done a hard day’s work in his life, much less been involved in a punch up. But Angel was still not quite satisfied.