‘That’s it, sir, exactly, and my money’s on Eddie Glazer.’
Angel smiled, thanked him again and replaced the phone. He rubbed his chin a moment and then picked up the phone and tapped in a number.
Ahmed answered.
‘Is DS Gawber there?
‘No, sir.’
‘Put a call out for him, and then come on in here.’
‘Right, sir.’
A minute later a smiling Ahmed came into Angel’s office. ‘I must have missed you coming in, sir. I think I have found an answer to that number.’
‘Right, lad. Good. What is it?’
‘The telephone company say that that number is almost certainly a Bromersley subscriber because it doesn’t fit any other exchange in South Yorkshire.’
‘Right, Ahmed,’ he said. ‘Well done. Now go to the officer on the front desk and ask for a charge sheet for a Simon Spencer at present in Bromersley General and address unknown. The charge is fraud. I might find a few other charges to add onto it, but that’ll do to hold him, when the hospital discharges him.’
Ahmed made for the door.
‘And see if you can find Ron Gawber on your travels,’ he added as he reached out for the phone.
‘Right, sir.’ The door closed.
Angel tapped in 9 for a dialling tone for an outside line, then 141 so that the station number wouldn’t be given out, then the six-digit number. He sat back in the chair and rubbed his chin. He had no idea who might be answering. He had no idea whom he was calling, but he had been through this exercise a thousand times in this business.
The phone was soon answered. A pleasant-sounding woman’s voice said, ‘Webster’s Holiday Caravans. Can I help you.’
Angel frowned. ‘Can I speak to Harry, please?’ he said.
There was a short pause and then she said hesitantly, ‘Did you say Harry?’
‘Yes, please.’
He licked his lips as he wondered what she was thinking.
There was another pause.
‘I think you must have got the wrong number. There’s nobody here of that name, now, sir.’
Angel smiled: he wasn’t a bit surprised.
‘We did have a Harry Shaw working for us, but he left two years ago,’ she added.
‘No. That wasn’t the name,’ Angel said. ‘But anyway, I was thinking about a caravan holiday,’ he lied.
‘You need to speak to our Mr Webster. He’s busy with a customer. Can I get him to call you back?’
‘Is that Graham Webster?’
‘No. It’s Mortimer, actually.’
‘Oh? Mortimer Webster, of course. No. I’ll ring back later on today. Or I might call in. What’s the exact address again, Miss?’
‘Goat Peg Lane, off Kingsway. We are at the end. You’ll see a lot of caravans on your right hand side. Sheltered on three sides with trees. It’s a lovely site. You can’t miss us.’
‘Right. Thank you. Goodbye.’
He replaced the phone slowly and thoughtfully.
There was a knock at the door. It was Gawber.
‘Come in, Ron. Right on cue.’
He updated him. He told him about the number in the newspaper and said that the gang might be connected with Webster’s caravans.
‘But it may have nothing to do with it, sir. That number might be the combination number of a railway station security locker, or some other locker, or a bank account, or just about anything.’
Angel wasn’t pleased. He knew that what Gawber had said was perfectly valid. But he was desperate. Clutching at straws.
‘Just because it was obvious, doesn’t make it wrong.’
‘No, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘Of course not.’
Angel stood up and reached for his jacket. ‘Well, it’s a lovely sunny day. Do you fancy looking over a caravan? We could take afternoon tea out in the country.’
Gawber frowned. This wasn’t the Angel he knew.
Angel drove the BMW along Kingsway and down the narrow, twisted track called Goat Peg Lane. The lane was in need of resurfacing, so he had to approach slowly. They soon passed a neat and simple sign that read: ‘Webster’s Caravans.’
‘Been down here before, sir?’ Gawber said.
‘No. I hope we can turn round at the end. Don’t relish reversing back all this way.’
The lane twisted and turned and eventually opened out revealing a long, white-painted, breeze-block building with a big sign announcing that they had arrived at a three-star caravan site big enough for 120 caravans and that it was owned by a Mortimer Webster. Beyond it, they could see trees, which appeared on three sides and sheltered an area where there were forty pitched towing caravans. Spaces for more caravans led away, as far as the eye could see. There were a dozen or so motor-caravans grouped together at the back. Some of the towing caravans had small canvas tents erected around their doorways, while some had cars parked next to them and people enjoying the sun in deckchairs or sunbathing on the grass. All the vehicles were in neat rows, facing south. In spaces where there were no caravans, small weather-protected posts in the ground with sockets for electricity to be supplied to the vans could be seen standing in the manicured turf. In addition, there were several cars and caravans travelling slowly on the service roads between the pitches. They were clearly arriving, or leaving the site for other pastures.
Summer was in full swing in Bromersley.
A sign said, ‘All visitors please report to reception.’
The sound of an internal combustion engine driving a lawnmower spoiled the quiet of the summer’s day.
Angel didn’t drive through the entrance. He stopped the car behind the long building and switched off the engine. Gawber and Angel got out of the car, walked through the open gate, stepped up onto a veranda and through the low doorway into the reception office.
A young woman was sitting at a desk behind a high counter. She pushed back her chair and came up to greet them.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I help you?’
Angel gave her a smile. ‘We want to see Mr Webster, miss, if you please.’
The insistent drone of the lawnmower engine became louder as it came closer to the office.
‘Mr Webster is cutting the grass. But I think he’s coming in now.’
The engine died.
‘Yes, he is,’ she said. ‘Please wait here. He won’t be a moment.’
She returned to her desk.
Angel nodded and said, ‘Thank you, miss.’
Seconds later, a middle-aged man in khaki shorts, hat and T-shirt came in to the office. He was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He looked at the two policemen and said, ‘Are you waiting to see me?’
‘Mr Webster?’
‘Mortimer Webster at your service, gentlemen,’ he said loudly. ‘Sorry if you’ve had to wait. Got to keep the damned turf down. A bit of rain and a bit of sun and it grows like fury this time of the year, you know.’
Angel winced. He put up a hand and wagged his first finger at him to invite him to come closer; when he did, Angel leaned over the counter and whispered, ‘I’d like to talk to you on a matter of great confidentiality. Can we go somewhere quiet?’
Webster’s eyebrows shot up. He looked round like a nervous kitten. ‘Oh yes.’
Angel frowned. He put his first finger vertically across his lips, from his septum to his chin. Then he took out his wallet and showed it to Webster, who read it carefully, nodded then without a word pointed to a door. They went through the door into a small room that served as an office.
‘We are looking for a gang of crooks. At least two of them are on the run from prison, and one of them is wanted for murder.’
Webster looked shocked. ‘This is a respectable site, Inspector. I don’t accept any riff-raff.’
‘I am sure you don’t intend to, but a caravan site might prove to be a good hiding place for them. I’d like to take a look round the site and see if I can see them without them recognizing me first.’
‘Of course, you must. But how are you going to manage that, Inspector?’
Angel rubbed his chin. There was a problem.
Ten minutes later, having removed his tie and jacket, opened his shirt collar and turned up his suit trousers, Angel donned Webster’s big khaki hat and sunglasses, climbed onto the high seat of the lawnmower and began driving it up and down the grass pitches of the caravan site.