‘You shouldn’t be pulling guns on strangers,’ Spencer said with a grin. ‘You could get yourself killed. Stand up,’ he added waving the gun in his direction.
The man got to his feet still rubbing his jaw.
‘That hurt, copper,’ he groaned. ‘You know, I could do you for assault.’
‘And if I was a policeman, I could arrest you for assault with a deadly weapon.’
‘Don’t get too cocky, old chum. That ain’t a pukkha gun you’re waving about there, and it ain’t loaded. And if you ain’t a copper, what do you want mooching round hereabouts?’
‘I ain’t – I’m not a policeman.’
He took a step back from the man and fumbled for the safety catch. It couldn’t be moved. It wasn’t movable. He depressed a catch and the cartridge holder came free; it weighed very little. It was made of plastic. He snorted and threw the replica at him.
‘Catch.’
He caught it and put it in his pocket.
‘And if I couldn’t get you for assault with a deadly weapon,’ Spencer continued, ‘I’d look at your record and find something else I could book you for.’
‘If you’re not a copper, you couldn’t get to see my record.’
‘Maybe I could bribe a policeman to let me have a copy of it.’
The young man stopped and looked at Spencer thoughtfully.
‘If you’re not a copper, you must be a private investigator.’
‘No.’
Mystified, he said: ‘Here. What do you really want, then?’
‘Somebody who wants to earn a few hundred quid. Easy like.’
‘A few hundred?’
Spencer shrugged.
‘Maybe a few thousand.’
‘I might be interested.’
‘I need a special kind of man. A man who maybe wouldn’t mind bending the rules a bit.’
He grinned.
‘Might be able to do that.’
‘Somebody reliable. Somebody bold. Somebody who could pretend to be somebody he isn’t.’
‘What’s the catch, brudder?’
‘There’s no catch. You just have to do exactly what I tell you.’
CHAPTER TWO
CREESFORTH ROAD, BROMERSLEY, SOUTH YORKSHIRE, U.K. 1400 HOURS. MONDAY, 16 JULY 2007.
The taxi pulled up at a leafy, detached house on the expensive side of the town. The sun was shining. The sky was blue and cloudless and yet the birds weren’t singing; in fact, there was an eerie quiet, as if time was suspended.
A chubby woman in a sundress, relaxing on a canvas chair, could be observed in her garden through the cupressus, applying cream to her arms and shoulders.
‘Number twenty-two, ma’am,’ the taxi driver said to his fare in the back. ‘That’s what you said, isn’t it, ma’am?’ he said.
A figure in light blue, with a big straw hat affording shelter from the sun, and wearing Ashanti mirrored sunglasses answered him.
‘Twenty-two, the Beeches. Exactly so, my man. Is the fare the same as before?’ the high-pitched delicate voice enquired.
The taxi driver had no idea what the customer might have paid before. ‘It’s six pounds, missis,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s allus six pounds from Wells Street Baths to Creesforth Road. You gotta cross town and it allus takes a lot of time, you know.’
There was a click from the fastening of a handbag.
‘Oh yes. I understand. That’s quite all right.’
The big long hand in the white glove shot over his shoulder waving a ten pound note.
‘Keep the change, my man.’
The driver’s face brightened.
‘Oh thank you, ma’am,’ he said, swiftly thrusting the note into his trouser pocket with a big smile. ‘Now, do you want a hand with your bag?’
The nearside door of the taxi opened and out came a long nylon-covered leg. ‘No thank you. Now, what’s your name?’
‘Bert Amersham, ma’am.’
‘Well now, Mr Amersham—’
‘Call me Bert, ma’am. I answers well enough to Bert.’
‘Well, Bert. I am Lady Cora Blessington. The time is exactly two o’clock. Now, you will collect me at three o’clock exactly, won’t you?’
The taxi driver looked with more interest at the fare since he had received the handsome tip. She was not a handsome woman. Rather gawky, he thought, and the fluffy old-fashioned blue dress would have been more suited to a much younger woman.
‘I’ll be here on the button, ma’am. You can depend on it.’
A man in a suit, white shirt and tie came through the front gate of the house next door. He saw the figure in powder blue pushing open the gate of Number 22. He looked the summery apparition up and down, smiled self-consciously and said, ‘Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon,’ the figure in blue replied with a coy smile and made a way up the path.
The sunbather from next door waved across the fence.
‘Beautiful weather, Lady Cora,’ she called. ‘Wonderful afternoon.’
‘Fabulous,’ came the reply in the high-pitched delicate voice, and with a royal wave added, ‘We must enjoy it while we can.’
It was sound advice.
Someone was about to be murdered.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR ANGEL’S OFFICE, BROMERSLEY POLICE STATION, SOUTH YORKSHIRE U.K. 1400 HOURS. MONDAY, 16 JULY 2007.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ Angel called.
A young probationer policeman, Ahmed Ahaz entered. He pulled open the door, held the knob and, like a flunky at a palace, made the announcement. ‘Miss Smith, sir.’
A pretty young woman came in. Angel smiled, quickly stood up and pointed at the chair next to his desk.
‘Please sit down, Miss Smith.’
He nodded at PC Ahaz who went out and closed the door.
The young woman looked round the little dowdy green-painted office, and quickly took stock: a cleared desk top with a pile of post in the centre of it; a swivel chair; a filing cabinet; stationery cupboard; a small table; a telephone and two ordinary wooden chairs. By the look on her face, she had perhaps expected more impressive surroundings for the celebrated police inspector.
She sat down, put her small handbag on her knees and gave a little cough.
Angel looked up from the desk and straight into her eyes.
‘Now then, you wanted to see me, Miss Smith?’
‘Yes. I asked to see you, Inspector Angel. I had read so much about you in the newspapers, I felt as if … as if, I knew you … ever so slightly. I mean I don’t know any policemen at all really. Never had reason even to call in at a police station. So I thought I would ask to see you by name. I hope that’s all right. You see, I am very worried.’
‘Of course. Of course. You want to report a crime?’
Her face straightened.
‘Yes. Indeed I do,’ she said positively.
He nodded.
‘It’s like this,’ she began then stopped.
Angel peered at her and said: ‘Please continue. In your own time.’
‘It’s rather tedious, I am afraid. I don’t know quite where to start.’
‘Start wherever you want to.’
‘I’ll try to tell you in sequence, Inspector.’
He nodded encouragingly.
‘Well, my father was the proprietor of Smith’s Glassworks. He was a widower, and when he died ten years ago, he left the business to my brother John and me. I was not the slightest bit interested in it. The business made fancy shaped bottles. Short batch runs for perfume companies and customers of that sort. I left the day-to-day running of the business entirely to my brother. I had a little capital of my own and I run a riding stables up in Tunistone. That keeps me busy enough. I received dividends on a quarterly basis from the business and that’s all I cared about glass bottles. Now, just about two years ago, my brother rang me up and said he had had an offer for the company from an American conglomerate and he asked me my feelings about selling up. I said I didn’t care much one way or the other. He told me how much was involved. It sounded most attractive so we agreed to sell to them. A few weeks later, the deal was completed and, after paying off all the creditors, the bank loan and the capital gains tax, we expected to net almost two million pounds. I would have received half of that. John said that he would put the cheque from the American company safely on deposit as the following day he was taking his wife and my two nieces on holiday to the island of Phuket for Christmas to celebrate the deal. I saw them off at the station, and, tragically, that was the last I saw of them.’