‘A1 Taxis,’ a pert woman’s voice replied.
‘I want to speak to Maisie.’
There was a second’s hesitation, then she drawled, ‘Where do you wanna go?’ She probably thought she was talking to a stranger who had discovered her name and was emboldened to speak familiarly to her after becoming shored up by the partaking of a few pints of some alcoholic beverage.
Angel squared up to phone. ‘This is Detective Inspector Angel of Bromersley Police. I want to speak to the dispatcher who was on duty on Monday. One of your driver’s, Albert Amersham, said it was a lady called Maisie. Is that you?’
The woman’s voice changed. She suddenly became vital. ‘Oh. Yes. Yes, sir. I’m Maisie Evans. I was on duty on Monday from ten until six. Yes. What can I do for you, sir?’
‘This is a police inquiry, young lady. Someone booked a taxi from Wells Street Baths to The Beeches, 22 Creesforth Road. Your driver picked up the fare from the baths just before two o’clock. What can you tell me about the booking? Presumably it was phoned in. Who phoned it in and where did they phone from?’
‘It should be in the book. Please hold on, I’ll look it up.’
She wasn’t long. ‘It was me, sir, and I remember it now, because the caller said she was Lady Blessington or some such. She spelled the ruddy name out for me. We don’t get many “Ladies” ringing in for taxis here, I can tell you. She was very snooty. She rang in herself. One of those strained, clever dick voices straight from Panorama. At first, I thought it was somebody fooling around. I logged it at 1.40 p.m. I radioed it straight through to number eight, that was Bert Amersham. We had a bit of a laugh about the ladyship bit. I’ve no idea where she phoned in from. We don’t keep no records of that.’
‘Thank you, Maisie,’ he said and replaced the phone.
It wasn’t much help, but it did at least confirm the fact that a taxi had been summoned to Wells Street Baths at that particular time, and by the mysterious Lady Blessington. Angel liked to build his cases on facts.
There was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed. He was carrying a sheet of paper.
‘What is it, lad?’ Angel grumbled. ‘Don’t you think I’ve got enough on my plate?
‘Only take a second, sir. You wanted me to make a thorough search of the NPC. See if there were any female villains on the loose. Done that. There’s only one, who has been released recently, and who has been known to carry a handgun. She’s Lily Frodsham, 37, blonde. I’ve made inquiries and she’s in a hospital in Manchester.’
Angel sighed.
‘Thanks, Ahmed. It’s not her. I know of her. That’s light-fingered Lil. Confidence trickster par excellence. Marries anything with money. Fills her bank account, her handbag, her boots and her pockets and then disappears. She’s in hospital because one of her husbands had caught up with her and tried to murder her with a swimming pool rake.’
Lines of bewilderment appeared on Ahmed’s forehead. He dared not ask Angel for more details.
Gawber’s face appeared beyond Ahmed’s.
‘You wanted me, sir?’ He asked.
Angel put up a finger. ‘Yes. Come in, Ron.’
Ahmed quietly closed the door.
Angel had been eagerly waiting to see him. He reached down the side of his desk and pulled up the print of the 1930s Lady of Leisure and rested it on the desk. He explained where he had found it and said: ‘This print appears to be a near representation of the mysterious Lady Blessington.’
Both Ahmed and Gawber stared at it open-mouthed.
‘How is it possible that Margaret Gaston has been living with the picture for nearly two years and yet knows nothing about the woman in real life?’ Angel said.
‘But it’s not a recent painting of the woman?’ Gawber said. ‘It can’t be.’
‘It isn’t. It’s just a close representation of her. The dress, the hat and the hairdo are the same as in the photo. You can’t see her feet. I guess the model would have worn elegant sandals, fashion of the day. The lack of lines on the face suggests she’s young … under twenty-five, whereas we are told by all the witnesses of Lady B that she is forty to sixty.’
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Gawber said.
‘Nor do I,’ Ahmed added.
‘Join the club,’ Angel said. ‘What’s a picture of Lady blooming Blessington doing in Margaret Gaston’s bedroom?’
Gawber and Ahmed looked puzzled.
‘It’s a coincidence, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘It’s got to be.’
Ahmed nodded agreement.
Angel pursed his lips and shook his head.
Gawber remembered: Angel didn’t believe in coincidences.
CHAPTER NINE
There were about twenty uniformed and plainclothes women and men in the briefing room, chattering away to each other and sipping drinks out of paper cups. Each was in possession of an A4 computer-printed photo and description of Simon Spencer which Scrivens had handed to them on their arrival.
Angel arrived on the dot of 1600 hours carrying the print of the 1930s Lady of Leisure. Ahmed followed him in and closed the door. Gawber came up to him, they exchanged a few words and then Angel stepped up onto the dais.
All talking stopped and everybody looked attentively at him.
‘Two things I want to talk about briefly. Firstly, in connection with the Alicia Prophet murder.’
He held up the framed print. ‘I am looking for a woman who looks something like this. We have witnesses who say that such a woman murdered the blind Mrs Prophet on Monday afternoon. Now I have been in touch with the publishers of this print. They sold many thousands of them when this sort of thing was popular in the sixties. They stopped selling this particular one in 1966. They don’t know who the original artist was, and the model is almost certainly dead by now having enjoyed a perfectly normal, boring life. The landlady at the flat where it was found said that it must have been left by a tenant many years ago. She can’t recall how long since. Nevertheless, I am given to understand that this is a fair representation of what the wanted woman actually looks like. The real life woman, I am told is older … between 40 and 60 years, and calls herself Lady Blessington, but our enquiries indicate that that name is false. But she is a murderer and confidence trickster of a very high calibre; therefore, be on the look out for her, she may strike again. Obviously, if you see anybody who looks like this let me know.’
He stopped, looked up the room and said: ‘Any questions on that?’
A voice at the front said: ‘If that’s a picture of what the murderer looks like now sir, how is it that … it was painted all that time ago?’
Angel licked his bottom lip. ‘I don’t know, John. I don’t know,’ he said quickly. ‘Just go along with me on this for the time being, will you?’
He observed a few murmurs of confusion and incredulity from several officers. ‘I can’t explain it,’ he added. ‘I only came across the thing today. I hope to clarify the matter in due course.’
He handed the print to Ahmed and indicated that he should stick it on the wall behind him.
A voice called out from the back. ‘I thought the murderer was thought to be Reynard, sir. Orange peel being found around the body and that…. Is there any mileage in that theory at all?’
‘At the moment, nothing is set in stone. Please keep your mind on finding Lady Blessington or whatever her real name is.’
There were a few more murmurs.
‘Can we move on?’ he said. ‘Now apropos the murder yesterday of Harry Harrison, aka Harry Henderson, inquiries have led us to believe that his murderer was possibly his partner in crime Simon Spencer, until recently an apparently respectable teller at the Northern Bank. The two of them worked a brazen fraud against the Smith family some of whom tragically perished in the tsunami in 2004. The two men connived to extract two million pounds in small sums from the Smith’s bank account. Spencer was, of course, the inside man … fiddling with the post and matters of security within the bank, while Harrison was forging away, purporting to be Simon Smith and calling in the bank only when the manager was away, or at lunch, or as directed by Spencer. Having drained the Smith’s account, it looks as if Harrison then beetled off and hid the money in an attempt to trick Spencer out of his share. There is no evidence to show that Spencer had ever been to Harrison’s flat, so we are inclined to believe that he didn’t know his last address. This supposition is supported by the fact that he was murdered outside in a pub car-park, which is only round the corner from the victim’s flat. We therefore assume that they quarrelled and Spencer stabbed him to death and dumped him in the skip. Last night I arranged that the Examiner should report the case in this morning’s edition and print Harrison’s address, Flat 20, on the top-floor in the block of flats at the top of Mansion Hill. Some of you may have seen it in the paper. So tonight, I believe, will be the first night Spencer will have become aware of his associate’s address and likely hiding place. And I hope and believe that he will be on his tippy-toes anxious to get into the flat and search it for the money, which we have, of course, already found and removed. There are only two attic flats on the top-floor. I have arranged for the other tenant and her baby, living in Number 19, to be accommodated in the safe house, and the landlady has agreed not to re-let Harrison’s flat, so that tonight the entire top floor will be unoccupied and in darkness. Now I think that Spencer will be desperate and dangerous. He will be armed, possibly with a blade, so we need to be armed, alert and efficient.’