‘You brought the NCOF in, sir?’
‘Aye. I’m clutching at straws, Ron. I’m hoping they can, maybe, save the day by reading something from the tyre tracks. There were some pretty sharp outlines in the mud.’
‘Yes. And they’ve turned nothing up?’
Angel’s miserable face told him that they had not. ‘It’s early days.’
‘Has SOCO brought the Merc back here, sir?’
‘No. It’s been taken to Wetherby. I wanted the boys in the lab to go over it. They might turn up something. There’s also a lager can and some papers and magazines that were littering up the scene. They might help. Don Taylor’s working on them now.’
Ahmed came in with two beakers on a tin tray. They reached out and helped themselves.
‘Ta, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Now, nip down to SOCO and ask DS Taylor if he’s anywhere with that lager can and those papers I brought in.’
Ahmed nodded and went out.
The phone rang. Angel picked up the receiver. It was Harker.
‘There’s something in the post. I want you up here,’ he growled. There was a loud click and the line went dead.
Angel pulled a face as if he needed a tooth pulling. He turned to Gawber. ‘It’s the super. I’ve got to go.’
He trudged up the corridor and knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ Harker bawled. He was sitting at his desk, head down reading.
Angel closed the door.
Eventually Harker looked up, stared at him, blinked, scratched his head and said, ‘You look a right mess. I thought it was Bill Oddie dressed up for a funeral.’
‘I have been up all night, sir. I haven’t been home yet.’
‘Yes. I heard. It was only a car fire, wasn’t it? Did they really need you there to turn the hose on,’ he said sarcastically.
‘It’s the Glazer gang’s Mercedes,’ Angel replied strongly. ‘They’ve obviously changed over vehicles there. I am trying to find out what they’ve changed to, and where they are now.’
‘I know. I know, but it’s nowt to do with you, lad. I haven’t authorized it. It’s not your case.’
‘It might be, sir. Could be Glazer, or one of his gang, who murdered Harry Harrison.’
‘I thought that that was down to Spencer.’
Angel licked his lips. ‘It could still be him. I’m waiting for some forensic from SOCO. That should settle it.’
Harker sniffed.
‘Come on, lad, admit it,’ he said expansively. ‘Admit it. You’re in the dark, aren’t you? You’re just fishing. Harrison was well known among the crooked fraternity. It could be anyone of a thousand villains who might have heard of the big money he’d got hold off.’
‘No, sir. I’m not fishing,’ Angel replied resolutely. ‘There’s a reasonable bet it’s Glazer or Spencer.’
Harker shook his small, grotesque, gargoyle-like, misshapen head.
‘Well, press on with it, then. Time is money. I know you have a personal reason for trying to get Eddie Glazer back behind bars. I know he gave your pride a proper singeing, but don’t let that cloud your judgement,’ he said waving a sheet of paper he was holding. ‘But I didn’t call you in to talk about your pride. It’s about this.’
‘What is it,’ Angel said, holding out his hand.
Harker didn’t pass it to him. ‘It’s a bill from a Mrs Reid for damage to a door and door jamb, lifting of floorboards, scratching of paintwork … it goes on. Four hundred pounds. Four hundred pounds! It’s hardly a legitimate charge against this department. Who’s going to pay for that?’
‘That would be damage the Glazers did, searching Harrison’s flat. It would be down to them!’
‘Can’t charge it to them,’ Harker snapped. ‘They’re not here. We don’t know where they are. You just said so. You let them get away. They just slipped through your fingers.’
Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘They were heavily armed.’
‘So were you.’
‘You know the situation, it made attack on our part impossible. It would have been against standing orders. There could have been a bloodbath.’
‘I only know what you tell me in your reports, which I know are sometimes heavily edited.’
Angel’s jaw tightened. He pursed his lips. He breathed in and out a couple of times. This argument was going nowhere; he refused to let Harker wind him up any further. ‘If you don’t want me for anything else, sir, I’d like to go home and get tidied up.’
‘Yes. You’d better. Got to maintain standards.’
Angel turned to go. He opened the door.
‘What about this four hundred pounds?’ Harker fumed, his face as red as a judge’s robe. ‘I can’t put an expense through like that. It’s down to you, you know.’
Angel sighed.
‘Why don’t you knock it off the two million I found under the floorboards, sir?’ he said and he closed the door.
Ahmed saw the imposing figure whiz past the window panel in the CID office door. He caught up with him and followed him into his office. He was carrying two EVIDENCE envelopes and an A4 paper file.
‘What’ve you got, lad?’ Angel boomed.
‘From DI Taylor, sir. He found a fingerprint on the lager can; it’s of a prisoner on the run, Eric Oxenhope, otherwise known as “Ox”.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He took the file, opened it and began reading it aloud. ‘28 years of age. Last known address 266 Gosforth Road, Whitley Bay; 12 previous convictions for … oh … erm … yes.’ His voice dropped as his interest waned. He turned to the next page in the file and read: ‘ “Oxenhope’s prints were also all over newspaper. Also one other first finger and thumb from right hand of person unknown, thought to be female. Put on file. Handwritten number in pen in margin of page 2, might be helpful.” ’ Angel dropped the file grabbed the thinner EVIDENCE envelope, opened it and pulled out a well thumbed, dried out newspaper in a cloud of aluminium powder. He turned to page 2. Sure enough in the margin was a six digit number. It was written in large handwriting with a blue felt pen.
‘ “603670”, Ahmed. Does that number mean anything to you?’
‘No, sir. Is it a phone number?’
‘It could be. Find out what it is, lad. I’m going home. Be back in an hour or so. Ring me if anything urgent comes in.’
It was 10.22 a.m.
After a shower, a shave, a clean shirt, two cups of tea and two slices of fresh toast and butter, Angel was as pleased with life as a man guilty of murder, being awarded an ASBO.
He got in his car and returned to the station.
As he opened the office door, the sun was shining in through the window. The shadow formed a hopscotch pattern on the parquet floor. The room smelled of microwaved dust and fingerprint ink. He realized how hot it was. He opened the window and part closed the Venetian blinds. He took off his jacket and put it on a coat-hanger on the side of the stationery cupboard.
The phone rang. He leaned over the desk and picked up the receiver. It was Taylor. He sounded pleased about something.
‘I have examined the clothes and personal effects of Simon Spencer, sir, and have taken various specimens and examined them, but found nothing to link him with Harry Harrison.’
Angel was deflated.
‘Oh?’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘Right, Don.’
‘But I have found tiny spots of blood on both the left and right shoes of a pair of trainers taken from the farmhouse,’ he added brightly. ‘And I have managed to isolate a sample of the blood and can confirm that it is from the dead man, Harry Harrison. I don’t know who the owner of the shoes is, but they are size 10, and they were found at the right hand side of the hearth in the kitchen.’
Angel’s face brightened. ‘Ah. Right, Don. Thank you. So that definitely puts Spencer out of the frame. The murderer of Harrison is the owner of that pair of trainers.’