‘Don, I want you to look out for any reference at all to a Lady Blessington. We desperately need her address. She’s our number one suspect. In fact, she’s our only suspect. Letters, cards, any mention of her at all, I want to know about it. Might be in the victim’s address book. The poor woman was blind, so she may not have used such a thing. The description of Lady Blessington is that she’s of medium height, between forty and sixty and last seen in a powder blue dress, described as “fussy”. I’m not sure what that means in this context. OK?’
‘Right, sir.’
There was a knock at the door. Taylor opened it. It was DS Crisp.
Angel’s mouth tightened.
‘I want you, laddie!’ Angel bawled before Crisp had chance to say anything.
Crisp knew he was in trouble.
Angel turned back to Taylor. ‘I must get away, Don. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Right, sir.’
The door closed.
DS Crisp was a clean-shaven, dark-haired man, much admired by the ladies, particularly by WPC Leisha Baverstock who was on the strength of Bromersley force. He was always very smartly turned out. Tidy hair. Suit sharper than a broken vodka bottle.
Angel’s face flushed.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he bawled, when they were alone. ‘Ahmed has been trying to contact you all day. There’s a murder come in. I needed you. I need every man I can get!’
‘I know, sir.’ He protested. ‘I know. I’ve been phoning you. Every opportunity I had, but you were always engaged. I got called out to a drunk who was causing a disturbance in The Feathers.’
Angel sighed.
‘So what?’
‘Then I got buttonholed by the super. He pulled me in to attend a briefing with some “uniformed” about Reynard.’
Angel blinked.
He always found that whenever Crisp went missing and then eventually turned up, he always had a truly magnificent explanation.
‘Reynard? What about him?’
‘You know, sir. The murderer who always leaves a calling card behind.’
‘I know all about his MO,’ he bawled. ‘What about him?’
‘Information received that he was in the area, sir. It was on the front page of the Yorkshire Mercury. Supposedly been in Leeds last night. A man was murdered.’
‘How do they know? Nobody knows what he looks like, do they?’
‘No, sir. But that’s what it said.’
Angel’s eyebrows had shot up. He hadn’t heard. That was unexpected.
‘And what was the point of the briefing?’
‘To raise the profile of Reynard, sir, and enlist our co-operation. A CDI from SOCA rolled in. They’re marshalling a big operation to try to net him, as they believe there’s every possibility of his turning up around here sometime.’
Angel had had enough of the banter, and he rather wanted to get away from thoughts about Reynard being in or even near Bromersley. Crisp, as usual, had delivered an almost plausible explanation. It would be time-wasting to push the argument any further. Time was precious. There was too much at stake.
Angel sighed and shook his head. He knew he’d been beaten.
‘There’s a woman called Margaret,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve been told she does some cleaning for Prophets and lives in the top flat at the top of Mansion Hill. Find out where she was today … if she was at the Prophets’ house at all. And what she can tell you about the relationship between the murdered woman and her husband. And anything else that might be helpful. See if she knows of the whereabouts of Lady Blessington … her home address and so on. And keep in touch. OK?’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Any questions?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well push off then, lad. See if you can make up for all the time you’ve already wasted!’
Angel’s mobile rang.
‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said, then he ran down the crazy-paving path to his car.
Angel took out his mobile as he watched the young sergeant reach the gate. Although he couldn’t see his face, he knew Crisp would be laughing his socks off at him.
He sighed as he answered the phone. ‘Angel.’
‘It’s Scrivens, sir. Ahmed says to tell you that there’s nothing known on the NPC about Lady Blessington or Charles Prophet.’
‘Right,’ Angel grunted.
‘But I’ve traced the taxi driver. His name’s Bert Amersham. He picked up Lady Blessington just before two o’clock outside Wells Street Baths and took her to 22 Creesforth Road. He then brought her back to the baths an hour later. I spoke to him on the phone. He said he thought there was something wrong when he took her back. She seemed agitated.’
‘Hmmm. Right, Ed,’ Angel said urgently. ‘Wells Street Baths? There’s a job for you, then. Find Lady Blessington.’
Scrivens hesitated.
‘Where would I start, sir?’
Angel blew out an impatient sigh.
‘I don’t know. You’re the detective. You could start at the top of the Blackpool Tower, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or Number Ten, Downing Street. Personally, I would start where the taxi driver said he had dropped her. Now stop wasting time. She’s our number one suspect. For God’s sake get out there and find her!’
Angel closed the phone, shoved it in his pocket, and walked briskly down the path to his car.
He must get to the husband, Charles Prophet, before the poor man heard the tragic news from some other source.
He saw Gawber walking on the pavement. He was carrying a clipboard. They met at the front gate.
‘Nobody saw anything of anybody arriving or leaving Number Twenty-two, sir,’ Gawber said.
Angel’s jaw tightened. He rubbed it.
‘Hmmm. They never do.’
‘There was plenty of gossip.’
‘Oh, yes?’ he said knowingly.
‘Yes. The women had plenty to say about Mr Prophet. All good though. He comes out very well. The perfect husband. The next best thing to Johnny Depp.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Charles Prophet: Mother Teresa in Y-fronts, eh? Loaded with money. Stuck with a woman who is blind.’
Gawber nodded wryly. ‘That’s about what they’re saying.’
Angel grunted and then said, ‘I’ve still got to tell that poor man about his wife.’
Gawber was aware that it had to be done.
‘Anybody see Lady Blessington?’ Angel asked.
‘A woman in the house opposite, The Larches, Number Eighteen, says she saw a taxi arrive about two, and a woman in blue get out. She’s seen her before, a couple of times. Medium height. She thought about sixty. Strange dress. Couldn’t get any more detailed description. Nobody else saw anything.’
Angel wrinkled his nose.
‘What’s strange about a blue dress?’
Gawber shrugged.
‘You’d better get after her. I’ve already set Scrivens on to start at Wells Street Baths, that’s where the taxi picked her up and dropped her, but why Wells Street Baths, I wonder?’
He squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb.
‘What attraction could an Olympic-sized swimming pool possibly have for a middle-aged titled lady who is most probably a murderer?’ Angel mused.
‘Swimming, sir,’ Gawber said innocently.
Angel frowned.
‘Swimming?’ he growled. ‘Well do the crawl and find her then. Smartish!’
CHAPTER FOUR
The highly polished brass plaque read, ‘Prophet and Sellman, Solicitors’.
Angel sighed. He pushed open the glass door and walked into a small waiting-room where a pretty young woman was working at a computer. She glanced up at him and smiled. He looked at her more closely. She was a good-looker. He liked what he saw. He pulled out his warrant card and said: ‘I must see Mr Charles Prophet on a matter of great urgency, please.’