Angel pursed his lips as he began to anticipate what was coming next.
‘You will recall the tsunami on that horrific Boxing Day, 2004.’
He certainly did. Who could forget the pictures? He nodded sympathetically.
‘Eventually, the Home Office notified me officially that they had all been killed.’
‘Dreadful,’ Angel said. ‘Losing an entire family like that.’
She nodded and wiped away a tear.
‘And what can I do to help?’ He said gently.
‘Well,’ she sighed. ‘The money has apparently disappeared.’
Angel blinked, then frowned.
‘Where did your brother bank the cheque?’
‘There’s the rub,’ she said. ‘He didn’t tell me and I didn’t think to ask. He said it was banked at a good interest and that he would settle the tax with the revenue and then make the final distribution on his return. That was all right by me, at the time. I was in no hurry. However, time has gone on. John didn’t return. Naturally, I thought a statement from the bank or building society or wherever it had been invested would have been sent out by now … obviously to his last known address. As his next of kin, I have dealt with his affairs, cleared his house and indeed, sold it. But no sign of the investment has shown up, either among his papers or by post. Now the Inland Revenue are chasing me for the tax on the sale, which is a mighty sum.’
Angel screwed up his face in sympathy and eyed her carefully.
‘Your brother definitely received the cheque?’
‘Definitely. He phoned me. He couldn’t contain himself; he had to boast. It was a certified cheque, he said, for two million pounds.’
‘But you have no idea what he did with it?’
‘That’s the problem.’
‘He didn’t deposit it where his personal account is?’
‘No. We discussed that. The interest rate for a large sum on short term deposit wasn’t competitive. But I have no idea where he placed it.’
‘Hmm. You could start with the Americans.’
‘They can only confirm it was cashed through the currency exchange in a lump sum and then paid out in sterling with thousands of other payments, which means it’s impossible to trace.’
Angel sighed. He rubbed his chin. The cogs began to go round. His first thought was to say that it was a civil case, but, then, as he thought about it, he realized a crime had definitely been committed. Every investment house worth its salt would want to find the depositor if a deposit had been left in its hands for a much longer time than had been originally arranged. Somebody must know something about it. This was a case for the fraud squad, but he knew they were up to their eyes in a particularly big foreign bank case that was also monopolizing the media’s interest.
It wasn’t feasible to attempt to search every single deposit account in every bank, building society, insurance company and investment house in every currency in the UK over the past two years. He would need warrants and security passes and it would take forever. There must be something he could do. He needed time. Time to think about it and decide what to do.
‘Well, I’ll need the date your brother received the cheque.’
‘That’s easy. It was a memorable day. It was the 17th December 2004.’
‘And I need your name and address and telephone number and your brother’s last address in Bromersley.’
‘Certainly. I’ll write them down, shall I?’
The phone rang. He reached out for it.
‘Angel?
It was the superintendent.
‘Come up here, smartish,’ he said abruptly, and replaced the receiver.
It sounded urgent. Angel wrinkled his nose. He left the report he was reading and went out of the office. He strode up the green corridor to the door marked ‘Detective Superintendent Horace Harker’, knocked, pressed down the handle and pushed it open.
‘Come in,’ Harker yelled.
‘You wanted me, sir?’
There was a smell of TCP wafting round the room. Angel was used to it. Harker must have a cold again. His nose must have been running like a bath tap, as it was red around the nostrils and his mouth was turned down like the drawing of a villain in a children’s cartoon strip. He reached out to the wire tray at the front of his desk, took out a small slip of paper and looked down at it.
‘Aye. A treble nine. Just come in. A dead body found by a neighbour up at The Beeches, 22 Creesforth Road. Hmmm. Must be somebody with a bit of brass. Woman by the name of Prophet, Alicia Prophet. Thought to be murder.’
Angel’s pulse rate increased by ten beats a minute. A murder case always brought him to life. The news made his heart pump that bit harder. Something also happened inside his head: it was like a jumbo jet on the tarmac, revving its engine before take off. He thought that solving murders was what God had put him on this earth to do. And it may have been so; he had no hobbies and no other interests apart from his wife and their garden.
He knew of a solicitor’s practice in Bromersley called, simply, ‘Prophet and Sellman’. It was an unusual name; the victim had probably had something to do with that.
‘Have you advised SOCO, sir?’
‘Yes, and Doctor Mac.’
‘And who reported it?’
‘Next-door neighbour. A Mrs Duplessis.’
‘Right, sir,’ he said and made for the door. He charged up the corridor and barged into the CID room.
PC Ahaz was working at a computer at his desk near the door.
‘Ah, there you are, Ahmed.’
The young man stopped staring at the screen and jumped to his feet.
‘I want you to find Ron Gawber and Trevor Crisp.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Tell them to meet me A.S.A.P. at 22 Creesforth Road? I’m going there now.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘There’s a report that a woman’s been murdered.’
Ahmed’s jaw dropped an inch. He’d been on the force for four years now; he was still a probationer and was expecting to be a fully-fledged constable by Christmas next. Although he had been on DI Angel’s team from his very first day at Bromersley nick, and had been involved in more than thirty cases of death from various causes, the news of a murder still had a disturbing effect on him.
Angel pulled up his BMW behind the white SOCO van on Creesford Road under the shade of a horse chestnut tree. It was a beautiful summer’s day but he noticed that nobody seemed to be outside, taking advantage of the hot sun … not in their front gardens anyway. This struck Angel as unusual, if not meaningful. He opened the gate of The Beeches and made his way up the path.
The front door opened and a man in a white paper suit, hood, wellingtons and so on came out; he was carrying a large polythene bag. He saw Angel and pulled down the face mask.
It was DS Donald Taylor, in charge of SOCO on the Bromersley force.
‘What’ve you got, Don?’ Angel asked.
Taylor shook his head sadly.
‘Murder, sir, almost certain. Woman. In her forties. Name of Alicia Prophet. Solicitor’s wife. Wound in her head. I think it happened less than an hour ago. No disturbance. No apparent break in. Dr Mac’s working on her now.’
‘Right. Does she live here on her own?’
‘No. Husband’s a solicitor. Practice in town. Prophet and Sellman.’
‘Has he been told?’
‘Not by us, sir.’
Angel pulled a face. He reckoned he’d be the one having to do the telling.