‘I want his full name, last address and you’ll have his national insurance number.’
These were quickly supplied, then Angel phoned them through to Ahmed and told him to check on his last known address. Also to contact the national insurance office in Newcastle to see if he was claiming any state benefits.
He closed the phone and turned back to Thurrocks.
‘If anyone comes in the bank to attempt to withdraw any more from this account, phone me and try to detain them. In the meantime, I will be setting up other inquiries. And I would ask you to keep this confidential Mr Thurrocks, except, of course, from the bank’s directors. I wouldn’t want your staff or any outsider to know of the police’s interest in Spencer yet. All right?’
‘Right, Inspector.’
He took his leave and returned to the BMW.
He stood uncertainly, at the car door. There was so much to do, he didn’t know where to turn next. He was anxious to know if SOCO or Dr Mac had uncovered any clues at the scene. And he also wondered if Ron Gawber’s house-to-house had unearthed anything. He needed to keep on that murder while the crime scene was hot.
He got into the car and drove off towards The Three Horseshoes.
His mind was still racing. He couldn’t be certain what had happened to Simon Smith. Was he lost in the Tsunami or not? According to Miss Smith, her brother had died in the Tsunami. If that was so, the body in the skip couldn’t be his. If it wasn’t Smith’s, then whose was it? And there was another thing….
He arrived at The Three Horseshoes and parked in the car park next to SOCO’s white van. A few nosy parkers had seen the police vehicles, the incident tape and SOCOs in conspicuous whites, and were hovering near the main pub door.
There was no sign of Dr Mac, nor the body in the skip. Angel crossed the car park, lifted the tape and almost bumped into Taylor. He was still in whites and, coming out of the van, was waving an email.
‘Just had confirmation back from the station, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘The fingerprints of the dead man match those of an escaped prisoner, Harry Harrison, 36. Escaped while being transferred from Wakefield in January.’
Angel’s face brightened. He nodded appreciatively. It was always good to know the identity of a victim. It cleared that up.
‘And there’s more, sir. They also match some of the prints on the wrappers of that hoard of money you found round the corner under the floorboards. And that money’s now in the station safe.’
Angel’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘Harry Henderson? Aka Harry Harrison. Of course,’ he said. ‘I remember. He escaped in a prison transfer in January with Eddie Glazer.’
He knew of Glazer: a wicked, dangerous hard nut, inside for a long stretch for murder. Harrison was small fry. His speciality was conning old ladies out of their pension money by pretending to be an official from the water board or some official organization.
‘Eddie Glazer and Harry Harrison were not in the same league,’ Angel said.
‘At least his mother will now know where he is at nights,’ Taylor said. ‘If he had one.’
Angel sighed. At least one puzzle was beginning to unravel.
‘Did you count that money, Don?’
‘There were two million pounds, sir.’
Angel sniffed. It was a lot of cabbage for a sloppy, tinpot conman like Harrison to come by. However did he manage it? He shook his head. Life was full of surprises.
‘Where’s Dr Mac?’
‘He’s finished here, sir. There wasn’t much. The mortuary van has collected the body and gone.’
‘You got anything interesting?’
‘A few hairs on the corpse’s suit, sir. And some dust. Blood off the outside corner of the skip. We’ll be having a look at them in the lab.’
Angel nodded. Sounded promising.
‘Was he killed here?’
‘Dr Mac thinks so. Stabbed several times. We didn’t find a weapon. We’re about finished here, sir, unless you want us for anything. We’ll be away in two minutes.’
‘Right, Don. Thank you,’ he said and turned away.
Taylor headed back into the van.
Angel saw Gawber thrusting across the car park with his head down, returning from his door-to-door calling.
‘What you got, Ron?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ he said wearily. ‘Nobody saw anything.’
Angel sniffed.
‘Would a photograph have helped?’ he asked with a smile.
Gawber’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Why? Do you know who it is, sir?’
‘Aye. Harry Harrison.’
Gawber nodded. ‘That worm,’ he said indignantly.
‘Never mind,’ Angel said. ‘How did you get on chasing the oranges?’
‘I found the fruit stall on the market without any difficulty, sir. There are only a few stalls open on a Monday. The bag was unusual. The stallholder said he was using those bags temporarily because he’d run out of his regular brown paper printed bags.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ Angel said quickly. ‘Did he remember selling a man five oranges, or any oranges, that’s the point?’
‘No, sir. He didn’t.’
Angel sighed.
‘But he did recall selling oranges – he couldn’t be sure how many – to various women, including Margaret Gaston. He knew her because he used to go out with her, before she got herself up the duff.’
‘Margaret Gaston?’ he roared in surprise. He considered the implication. ‘Did he recall the time?’
‘About one o’clock,’ Gawber added.
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Whatever time it was, Ron. It’s a certainty she couldn’t be Reynard!’
‘Of course.’
‘Could he remember anybody else?’
‘No, sir. Not by name anyway.’
Angel pulled a face and turned away. Then he suddenly looked at his watch. He ran his hand through his hair, turned back excitedly, licked his bottom lip and said, ‘Look, it’s almost five o’clock. I’ve got an urgent little job for you. Nip along smartly up the road to the office of the South Yorkshire Daily Examiner. I don’t know what time they put that rag to bed. Speak to the assistant editor. Tell him about finding the dead body of Harry Harrison. Tell him that we are absolutely baffled. Tell him all about the case, and in particular, ask him – as a favour to me – to give the story a prominent position in the paper, and, especially remember to say that we discovered that Harry Harrison had been living in flat number twenty at the top of Mansion Hill. Specify flat number twenty. All right?’
‘Right, sir,’ he said and turned to go.
Angel grabbed him by the sleeve and said: ‘And don’t forget to tell him, the police are completely baffled. He’ll like that. Anything that puts the police down. Huh. He’ll probably put that on the front page!’
Gawber dashed off to his car on the street and drove away and, a minute later, the SOCO van reversed away from the skip on The Three Horseshoes car park, turned and drove onto the main road heading back towards the station.
Angel took one last glance round the car park and at the skip and then made for his car. He was just getting in when he heard the sound of an insistent car horn. He looked round. It was Crisp, anxious to get his attention. Crisp drove up next to Angel’s BMW and pulled on the brake.
‘Sir. Sir,’ Crisp called.
‘What’ve you doing, lad? I’ve been looking out for you.’
‘I was staying with that money until SOCO came.’
‘I have seen Don Taylor. That was two hours ago. What have you been doing since? I told Ahmed to find you—’
‘He did, sir. I had to write up my notes. I came as soon as I could.’
‘Write up your notes? There was very little to write up. What have you been doing?’
‘Then I had lunch.’
‘Lunch?’ he bawled. ‘How long did you take for lunch? What did you have, kippers?’
Crisp said nothing.
Angel shook his head. His jaw was set. It was pointless pursuing the matter: Crisp always had an answer.