The Diamond Rosary Murders (13 page)

He pushed the gearstick forward and let in the clutch. As he turned left out of the yard, there was a flash of bright light in his rear mirror. It persisted and stayed with him for a half a mile until they reached the town centre under the bright yellow halogen streetlights. As he stopped at traffic lights, he saw the reflection of the outline of the car in the glass of a window of a shop that was empty and for sale. The car was a large, black Mercedes driven by a man or a woman with fair hair, with one or more passengers. He smiled very slightly. He had seen it before, several times. He reckoned it would be a stringer with a young reporter from some London national daily, determined to make a name for himself.

The lights changed to green. He let in the clutch and raced forward, hoping to be able to get the car’s index number through his rear mirror. The Mercedes quickly closed the gap. Angel knew he would not be able to read it once they were out of the town centre and didn’t have the benefit of the streetlights. On the third occasion he managed to read it. At the next set of lights, he took out an old envelope from his inside pocket and wrote the number down. Then he took out his mobile and tapped in the station number. The response thankfully was prompt.

‘Operations Room, Bromersley Police.’

He recognized the familiar voice of Sergeant Clifton. ‘DI Angel. Bernie, I’m on my way home being followed by a car. Will you do an index check for me and ring me back?’

Clifton grunted then said, ‘Better still, sir, do you want me to send a patrol along and sort him out?’

‘No. Nothing like that. I expect it’s an eager-beaver reporter trying to make a name for himself.’

Angel gave him the number.

The traffic lights changed and the cars moved off.

Angel was determined not to lead the Mercedes to his home. He didn’t want Mary being bothered. So he made his way across town onto the ring road and into a housing estate he knew well. It was built in the twenties and the streetlights were very limited. The Mercedes followed thirty or forty yards behind.

His mobile rang. It was Sergeant Clifton. ‘That car is a local hire car, sir. Henderson’s on Eastgate. I rang them and spoke to Mr Henderson. It’s on hire to a chap from London called Dalrymple. Come to think of it, there’s a Percy Dalrymple writes for the
Daily Gazette.
Could be him.’

Angel beamed. ‘Ah yes. Thanks, Bernie. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

Angel closed the mobile and pushed it back into his pocket. All he had to do then was to lose the Mercedes and go home. He looked in his mirror at the driver with the fair hair. Then he put his foot down on the accelerator, made a few deft turns, then drove into a ginnel, switched off the lights and the engine. He ducked as low as he could in the driving seat, still managing to peer into the offside door mirror. He waited for the Mercedes to pass the ginnel end then he quickly reversed out and went home.

I
t was 8.28 a.m. on Wednesday, 14 December.

Angel arrived at his office with bleary eyes and not at his best. He had not had a good night. He had been awakened at 3.30 a.m. with an idea about the disappearing body of the blonde woman, Marcia Moore, being seen at the rear of the King George Hotel who came back to life six hours later. The idea had been initiated by a news item about a national chain of fashion boutiques being put into administration. It came to him as he was watching
News at Ten
on the television.

He picked up the phone and summoned Ahmed.

‘I want you to contact that witness, Harry Wiseman, and make an appointment for him to see me … here.’ Angel said.

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said.

‘And find DS Crisp. I want to see him ASAP.’

‘He’s here, sir. On his way.’

There was a knock at the door. It was Trevor Crisp.

‘Come in, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Sit down. Tell me. What did you find out?’

‘Not a lot, sir.’ Crisp said, settling in the chair. ‘Apparently Reuben Paschal had been an actor. Shakespeare and all that.’

Angel nodded. ‘I knew that. It was on his record. Didn’t you read it?’

‘Didn’t get chance, sir. You said get the address from Ahmed and go.’

‘I didn’t say, “don’t read his record,” did I? You can’t blame me for leaving without being adequately briefed. You had every opportunity of reading up his record. It would only have taken two or three minutes. Anyway, you can read it now.’

He picked up the phone and tapped in two digits. Ahmed answered.

‘You’ve got Reuben Paschal’s file in there, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Bring it through here.’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said.

Angel put the phone back in its holster, looked up at Crisp and said, ‘It’s coming. Now then, what did you find out?’

Crisp pulled a disagreeable face, then said, ‘Paschal told his sister that his agent had got him an audition in Bromersley on the 5th of December and if he got the part, he would be away for a few days. Then, apparently on the 6th, he phoned her and was elated that he’d got it. He said that with the earnings he’d be able to afford to get his own flat and not be a nuisance to her and her husband anymore. And that was the last she heard from him.’

Angel nodded. ‘Where was he ringing from?’

‘From here, sir, Bromersley, she said, but she didn’t have an actual address or phone number.’

‘Did he give her any indication of the name of the play? Or where the job was, or who her employer was? Did he mention the name of Haydn King?’

‘No, sir.’

Angel sighed. He wrinkled his nose.

‘Did you find out where he had been employed since coming out of prison in August?’

‘He hadn’t found any employment. The job here had been the only audition he had been offered. She said he would have
travelled
anywhere. He was desperate to work. Acting was his life. She said he had phoned his agent, the Astra Agency, two or three
times a week, but no work had resulted until this audition turned up.’

Angel nodded. ‘Did you make an arrangement for her to ID his body?’

‘She said that she would have to talk it over with her husband as to when he could get time off work to drive her up here.’

‘Right, lad. I’ll leave that with you. Now, what about his recent associates? Who did he mix with?’

‘She said that he didn’t go out. Not while he was staying with her. He couldn’t afford to. He didn’t have any associates.’

Angel’s face muscles tightened. He licked his bottom lip. ‘She didn’t say anything about him having a skin complaint … anything that would explain all those cuts to his face?’

‘To tell the truth, sir, I didn’t bring that up. You didn’t mention it to me and it never crossed my mind.’

Angel shuffled irritably in the chair.

‘Sorry, sir’ Crisp said.

Angel gave a little nod. ‘Right, lad. You’d better crack on with writing up your report then.’

He got up to go.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in.’

It was Ahmed, carrying a thin yellow paper file. ‘Good morning, sir. Morning, Sergeant.’

‘Paschal’s file, lad?’ Angel said, holding out his hand. He took the file and called out, ‘Hang on, Trevor.’

Crisp was almost through the door. He turned back.

‘Reuben Paschal’s file. Take a look,’ Angel said, opening the file.

Ahmed went out and closed the door.

Crisp sat back down in the chair.

At the top of the first page in the file was the caption ‘Reuben Paschal.’ Immediately underneath were three photographs (one from the front and both profiles) of a big man with a beard.
Angel stared at them, blinked then breathed out a long sigh of realization. He turned the file through 180 degrees, pushed it towards Crisp and said, ‘Look at that. I have only just realized. Who does
that
remind you of?’

Crisp looked at the prison photographs, lowered his eyebrows and said, ‘It’s Reuben Paschal, sir. It says so at the top.’

Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘I know it’s Reuben Paschal, lad! That’s clear enough. But the photos show him wearing a beard. The body we saw
wasn’t
wearing a beard. I’m asking you –
with
the beard, who does it remind you of?’

Crisp looked again at the photographs, then at Angel and then back at the photographs. His jaw dropped. ‘Haydn King, sir. Of course!’

‘Exactly,’ Angel said triumphantly.

Crisp looked at the photographs again. ‘We’ve never seen Paschal with a beard, but I can see that it is him.’

Angel was rubbing his chin. ‘Now why would Haydn King want to employ a lookalike?’

Crisp said, ‘I don’t think that if you knew King at all well, Paschal would be able to pass himself off as him.’

‘Mmm. P’raps not close up, but he’d get away with it at a few yards distance, wouldn’t he? And he’d certainly fool anybody if he had been in a car.’

Crisp nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh yes, sir.’

Angel continued rubbing his chin, then, with real enthusiasm in his voice said, ‘Well, let’s have King’s chauffeur, Mark Rogers, in for a little chat.’

‘I’ll get right onto it, sir,’ Crisp said and stood up.

The phone rang.

Angel looked at Crisp and said, ‘Wait a minute, Trevor.’

He picked up the phone and was greeted by a loud protracted bout of coughing. He held the phone away from his ear and waited.

Crisp looked at him with a questioning expression.

‘The super,’ Angel mouthed silently.

Eventually he heard a panting voice from the phone: ‘Ah, Angel? Are you there?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Angel said.

‘There’s a triple nine,’ Harker said, ‘looks like another murder.’

It was a bombshell, and so soon after the report of finding the body of James Argyle.

Angel’s mouth dropped open. He took a small, silent intake of breath.

‘A young man. And he has a wound to the heart, possibly caused by a stiletto.’ Harker added.

Angel knew instantly it would be the work of the Chameleon.

He felt cold, hollow and empty.

‘Who is the victim, sir?’ he said.

Crisp looked up when he heard Angel say ‘victim’.

‘There’s no ID,’ Harker said. ‘The witness said that it is a man … a young man. Found in a burnt-out old car up a farm track off Two Pins Lane at the back of Jubilee Park. There’s a patrol car standing by and the witness who found it.’

‘Right, sir,’ Angel said.

‘“Right, sir”,’ Harker said mockingly. ‘Is that all you have to say? You are taking this all very calmly, lad. That’s six murders in the last three weeks and you haven’t charged
one
person. Are you going to allow this villain to slaughter the entire population before doing something?’

Angel’s head was buzzing. He didn’t have any excuses to offer.

‘I have a new line of inquiry that might lead me to an arrest of the murderer of Haydn King,’ he said.

‘Oh yes? Who’s that, then?’

‘The chauffeur, Mark Rogers.’

‘The chauffeur? Well, er right. If you think it’s him, for God’s sake charge him, but
do
get on with it. What about this woman, Mrs Lin? What have you made of her?’

‘I haven’t had the opportunity of seeing her yet, sir.’

‘
What
?!’ Harker yelled. The cry started him off on another fit of coughing. This continued for a few seconds. He didn’t seem able to stop. Angel heard the click of the receiver as the superintendent’s phone hit the cradle.

Angel hesitated. He didn’t know whether to hold on or assume the conversation had ended. He waited a moment then banged down the handset. He turned to Crisp and quickly told him about the report of the suspected case of murder and its location.

‘It’s the Chameleon again, isn’t it, sir?’ Crisp said.

‘Looks very much like it, lad. We’ve got to catch him. He must be in Bromersley now. He’s not far away from us.’

‘Have you really no idea who it might be, sir?’

‘Now look, lad, forget about King’s chauffeur. I’ll get Ahmed to deal with it. I want you to start this investigation, without me. There’s something else I must do. You know what’s to be done. You’ve seen me do it often enough. Be meticulous. If you ID the victim let me know. Ring me on my mobile. Stay at the scene until I get to you, and tell Don Taylor and Dr Mac I’ll be along later. All right?’

Crisp’s face brightened. ‘Right, sir,’ he said and he rushed out.

Angel watched the door close and slowly bit his lower lip. He hoped that he had made a good decision. He reached out for the phone and tapped in the CID room number. It was answered by Ahmed.

‘I want you to get me Mark Rogers, lad,’ he said. ‘He was Haydn King’s chauffeur – he might be working for Vincent Fleming now – and ask him to come in and see me here later this afternoon. I’m going out just now. I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

Angel replaced the phone, reached out for his coat, went out of the office and charged up the corridor.

Four minutes later he was outside the small double gates of Number 2 Pine Close round the corner from Pine Avenue where
Haydn King’s and Detective Superintendent Harker’s houses were located.

He pulled the BMW close up to the kerb, got out, made his way quickly through the gates, up the short drive to the front door. He mounted the two steps, found a porcelain push-button decorated with a cyclamen flower on the door jamb and pressed it.

While he waited, he looked round at the tidy, symmetrical garden, the shiny black door with its polished brass-coloured knocker, handle and letterbox, and the four potted poinsettias on the steps.

The door was opened by a lady in her 40s, wearing a plain black dress. She was strikingly handsome and unmistakably from the Far East.

Angel was clearly surprised. He put on his best Sunday smile. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, ‘Mrs Lin?’

She looked at him, smiled, raised her eyebrows questioningly.

‘I am Mrs Lin,’ she said, ‘but I don’t believe I am expecting you. You haven’t an appointment, have you?’ She held out a slim manicured hand. ‘Have you a letter?’

Angel’s smile widened. ‘No, Mrs Lin, I haven’t an appointment. I haven’t a letter. I’m Detective Inspector Angel, and I need to speak to you about the late Haydn King. I am investigating his murder.’

Her face changed. The smile vanished. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course. I had heard that he had died. Please come in.’

She led him into a small sitting-room decorated in Oriental style, predominately red and gold.

Angel blinked as he looked round the room.

She pointed to a comfortable chair.

When they were both settled, Angel said, ‘Would you please tell me, what your relationship was with Haydn King?’

Mrs Lin said, ‘I was very saddened to hear of his death. I got
to know him rather well. He had been consulting me for the past two months.’

Angel frowned. ‘And what was he consulting you about?’

‘I am a psychiatrist, Inspector Angel, and I am not certain that it is appropriate for me to discuss that with you.’

‘Well, Mrs Lin, the poor man is dead. He didn’t die naturally or peacefully. Don’t you think if he could speak to you, and was asked, he would want his murderer caught and punished?’

Her face changed. The comfortable look went. ‘He probably would, but he would also prefer the very fact that he was consulting a psychiatrist at all to remain secret. Incidentally, Inspector, how did you find out that Mr King was my patient? He didn’t want
anybody
to know. It was supposed to be a closely guarded secret.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Mr King was most particular. If it leaked out, he said, certain parties might consider that he was weak and incapable of managing a large public company. He told me that it could even affect the share price of his company. He even swore me to secrecy.’

‘I’m a detective, Mrs Lin. It’s my job to find things out.’

Her eyes brightened for a second. ‘I know,’ she said suddenly, with a look of accomplishment. ‘It was Meredith, his butler. He told you. Haydn told him everything.’

Angel smiled. ‘You have still not told me why he consulted you.’

She shook her head and looked down at the red carpet. Then she looked back up at him and said, ‘I am still trying to decide whether the situation requires me to betray my professional code.’

Angel pursed his lips. His face muscles tightened. He looked straight into her eyes and said, ‘Don’t you want to help me find his killer?’

He stared at her. She stared back at him.

‘Don’t you see,’ he continued, ‘you may have some information that might seem innocuous to you, but may supply the missing link that could lead to his killer. You must not deny me the
opportunity
of bringing him to book. Perhaps more importantly to you as his doctor, you must not allow your late patient’s murderer to roam around freely and perhaps kill again.’

‘You put up a strong argument, Inspector.’

‘Well, how would you feel if the murderer were to kill again? It might be quite reasonably claimed that you were responsible because you did not assist me to your utmost when you had the opportunity.’

Mrs Lin blinked, then said, ‘Very well, what do you want to know?’