The Diamond Rosary Murders (18 page)

‘What are you babbling on about, lad?’

‘It was a quick way to ease the accused into making admissions and explanations that has saved us a
lot
of time, sir. A
lot
of time. And as you say, time is money. I remember when I smoked, it was a great help when I was under stress, and if I had had my
cigarettes
taken away from me—’

‘I don’t want to know about your troubles, lad. I don’t need a lecture on addiction. You will have to learn to live according to the rules, and the rule in this nick, in the cars and in the car-park is, no smoking. And that applies to all ranks and all visitors regardless of whoever they are. Got it?’

‘Yes, sir. Got it.’

‘Right. Now buzz off and find out what your Mrs Lin has to hide.’

Mrs Lin smiled delightfully as she came into her sitting-room, but Angel sensed some resentment of him hidden beneath the charming manner.

He stood up. She gestured to him to sit down, and she sat down opposite him.

‘Now then, Inspector. I am with a patient, but we haven’t started yet. I can give you two minutes only. What is it that is so important?’

‘Hopefully, that’s all it will take,’ he said.

From his briefcase, he produced the file of transcripts of the interviews with Haydn King and took out the bottom one. He pointed to the top page. ‘This is dated 6th December. It was a Tuesday. Is this correct? Are you sure it wasn’t the day before, or even the day after?’

She looked at the page. Her expression didn’t change. ‘I’ll get my secretary.’

She went out of the room. She was only away a few seconds. She returned with a young woman who was carrying a large slim book.

‘This is Inspector Angel, Amina,’ Mrs Lin said. ‘Please point out to him the entry of Mr King’s appointment.’

Amina held the book over his shoulder. It was an appointment diary showing a week at a time and she was holding it open at the first week in December. It confirmed what Mrs Lin had said. The name ‘Haydn King’ appeared on the 8 p.m. line under the date Tuesday, December 6th 2011.

It was a clean and tidy handwritten entry. There didn’t seem to be any alteration, rubbing out or inking over.

Angel stood up and said, ‘Well, yes, thank you. That seems clear enough.’

‘Thank you, Amina,’ Mrs Lin said, also standing. ‘Please tell my next patient I will only be a moment.’

Amina closed the book and went out.

Mrs Lin said, ‘I hope you are satisfied. And now, dear Inspector Angel, I have to go.’

Angel said, ‘I have to ask you this, Mrs Lin. It is extremely important. Even so, is there any possible chance that you could be mistaken?’

‘Absolutely not,’ she said.

‘On Tuesday evening, December 6th last, between 8 p.m. and 9 p.m., Mr Haydn King was here and you were with him?’

‘Indeed I was. Now I really must go, Inspector. Please see
yourself
out. Excuse me.’

Angel returned to the station. He sat in his office rubbing his chin and thinking about his next move in the case.

He reached out for the phone and tapped in a number. It was soon answered.

‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said.

‘There’s a psychiatrist, a Mrs Lin, lives at 2 Pine Close. Contact CRO, see if anything is known. And ring me straight back.’

‘Right, sir.’

He then rang his GP and managed to speak to him. The doctor said that he knew Mrs Lin, he spoke very highly of the woman and said that he referred patients to her from time to time, preferring her to the only other specialist he knew of in the town. Angel thanked him and replaced the phone. Then he dialled his old friend and colleague Dr Mac.

‘Well, laddie, Jennifer Lin is the best in the business. Known her years. I can highly recommend her. And, by the way, she would make you an excellent witness.’

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. That was praise indeed. ‘Thank you, Mac,’ he said.

Minutes later, Ahmed phoned back. ‘Nothing known about Mrs Lin, sir.’

Angel knew that he should be cheered by the positive reports on the woman, but they indicated that Harker had to be wrong. And going back and arguing the point further with him would not exactly be enjoyable.

This was at the forefront of his mind when he arrived home at 5.30 that cold Friday night. Over poached salmon, new potatoes and peas he explained the problem to Mary.

‘The super insists that it was Tuesday, 6th December when Haydn King summoned him, the super, to King’s house and told him about the dream where King saw himself floating dead in his
swimming pool. Mrs Lin, his highly respectable psychiatrist, insists that Haydn King was consulting her in her surgery on the same evening and at the same time. Clearly, one of them has to be wrong,’ he said as he helped himself to more potatoes.

Mary said, ‘Well, the super isn’t getting any younger.’

‘Huh! He should be pensioned off, but he won’t go.’

‘And he’s not very well, is he? What’s his memory like?’

‘All right … I think.’

‘That might be the problem,’ she said. ‘He’s forgotten and he’s simply got the date mixed up.’

‘But he’s adamant it was Tuesday, 6th. As is Mrs Lin. This means I must be overlooking something, Mary. I am going to have to re-evaluate all the evidence and look at the case from an entirely different angle.’

‘Has the super anything to gain from insisting it was the 6th?’

Angel considered the point as he eased the salmon off the skin. ‘Mmm. I don’t think so, love. Don’t know of anything.’

‘It seems to me that the only other possibility is that the super is trying to establish an alibi for himself, for some reason.’

He thought about what Mary had said. It seemed to him that she was suggesting that Harker might be engaged in something unlawful. He promptly dismissed it. But in the absence of any other explanation, the idea lingered in his subconscious.

They finished the meal, retired to the sitting-room for coffee and when she had served it, she said, ‘It’s a week to Christmas Eve, tomorrow, you know. We must put the tree up … and the lights … and the trimmings.’

And so the weekend was committed to preparing for the coming celebration.

Throughout Saturday and Sunday, Angel did everything that Mary asked of him, but the idea of Harker being engaged in something dishonest created a turmoil in his mind and even when he was sticking the Christmas cards to long strips of paper to
make them convenient to hang, his mind was still occupied thinking about Mrs Lin, Haydn King, Reuben Paschal and the swimming pool. It was the same when he was watching
Songs of
Praise
followed by repeats of re-runs of clips from old
Carry On
films.

Mary watched him surreptitiously throughout that Sunday evening. She noticed his half-closed eyes and the hand either caressing his chin or tapping lightly on the arm of the chair and knew his mind was still on the case.

He was still thinking about it when he had got into bed, kissed Mary, switched off the light and pulled the duvet around his shoulders.

‘It’ll soon be Christmas. Have a good night, sweetheart,’ Mary said.

He smiled although she could not see it. ‘You must remember to put your stocking up,’ he said.

She giggled.

The last thing he remembered before dropping off to sleep was Mary saying, ‘And don’t be thinking about that Haydn King
business
all night.’

‘Goodnight, darling,’ he murmured.

A
ngel was suddenly wide awake. His eyes clicked open. He glanced around the bedroom. It was as black as fingerprint ink.

He eased himself up from the pillows and peered through the dark at the bedside table. The glowing hands of the clock told him that it was either 7.20 or 3.35.

He blinked, then yawned.

And
that
was the Eureka moment!

That’s when it all happened. That’s when he knew who had murdered Haydn King and Reuben Paschal. He also knew why the super persisted in his claim that Haydn King had told him about the nightmare at eight o’clock on the evening of the 6th December, when Angel knew that it was not possible.

Angel had committed the basic mistake of making an assumption. It was all to do with the Astra Agency. Now that his subconscious had overridden his supposition, allowing his mind to explore all the options, it had found the only one that perfectly fitted the situation, and – hey presto! – out had popped the
explanation
. The mystery was solved. His mind then darted from one point to the next, finding explanations of all the details that had previously baffled him.

Everything was now as clear to him as a bottle of Booth’s.

But he had to prove the case. Absolutely essential so that he could wrap it up, pass it on to the CPO and have a tranquil
Christmas at home with the ever-delightful Mary, untroubled by more demanding murder inquiries.

Proving the case in a court of law might be difficult. Then it came to him.

He believed that there was conclusive evidence in the locked bedroom of Mrs Lydia King, the late mother of Haydn King, that would put away the murderer of Haydn King and Reuben Paschal for life.

His heart thumped as solidly and regularly as the big drum in the Salvation Army. He was over the moon, and he simply could not stay in bed, but he didn’t want to wake Mary. He listened motionless for a few seconds to her slow, regular breathing, then gently peeled back the duvet. He found his dressing-gown, went downstairs and made himself a drink of tea in a beaker. He brought it back upstairs and went quietly into the bathroom. He was soon shaved, washed and dressed. He left a note for Mary under the magnet on the fridge door and went out.

It was 8.30 a.m. and Angel had been in his office at Bromersley Police Station for more than two hours, busy writing up the case for Mr Twelvetrees of the CPS in his quest to put the two current cases to bed and have his desk clear by Christmas Eve.

He looked at his watch. It was 8.35 a.m. He reached out for the phone and tapped in the number of the SOCO office.

DS Taylor answered.

Angel said, ‘Pick up your bag, Don, and meet me at the rear door. I want you to come with me. I think the key that will lead us to the murderer of Haydn King and Reuben Paschal lies in Mrs Lydia King’s bedroom. I need to get in there to solve this mystery.’

‘Right, sir.’

Ten minutes later Angel was driving the BMW along Pine Avenue, through the wrought-iron gates into the grounds of the
mansion of the late Haydn King. As he swerved round the bend in the drive and passed the screen of lime trees he saw a man on a bicycle pedalling along in front. The cyclist must have heard the approach of the BMW because he pulled over to the left and waved the car on.

As Angel overtook him, he recognised the rider.

‘It’s Mark Rogers,’ Taylor said. ‘Presumably going to work.’

Angel said, ‘And if he’s chauffeuring for Vincent Fleming, he’s late.’ He rubbed his chin, then added, ‘Funny, isn’t it, incongruous, a chauffeur going to work on a bike?’

Taylor smiled wryly.

Angel parked the BMW at the front of the house, and the two men got out. Taylor went round to the car boot and took out his big yellow bag containing sterile sample containers,
fingerprinting
equipment and other forensic paraphernalia.

Meanwhile Rogers caught up with the car, stopped and said, ‘If you are looking for Mr Fleming, Inspector, he’ll be out at the moment. He will have gone to his office in town. But he’ll be back later this morning, though, I expect. Anything I can help you with?’

‘Not just yet, Mr Rogers,’ Angel said. ‘Not just yet. Thank you.’

The chauffeur frowned, then pressing down on the cycle pedal with one foot and pushing himself off the gravel with the other, he rode off to the end of the house and round to the garages.

Angel and Taylor then went up the steps to the front door and rang the bell.

They waited for what seemed to be a long time. It was suddenly opened by Mrs Johnson who was red in the face and panting. She looked at them, disappointed. ‘Oh it’s only you,’ she said. ‘Good heavens. Who do you want to see?’

Behind her, Meredith came rushing into view. He looked down at the chubby housekeeper as if she was a fly in the cook-house slop bucket at Strangeways. ‘I was just coming, Mrs Johnson. There was no need for you to attend.’

She glared at back him and rushed away.

Meredith turned to Angel and Taylor and said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Sorry about that. Mr Fleming is out at the moment. Can I be of service?’

‘Yes,’ Angel said. ‘We want to take another look in Lady Lydia’s bedroom. Would you unlock it for us?’

‘Of course, sir. Please come in.’

As they crossed the hall, Harry Saw came out of the study carrying a briefcase the size of a Black Maria and almost ran into them.

‘I do beg your pardon,’ Saw said, taking a backward step.

‘That’s all right,’ Taylor said.

Angel’s eyes narrowed as he watched Saw hurry across the parquet floor lugging the heavy briefcase towards the front door.

Meredith pressed the button to summon the lift and took Angel and Taylor up the one flight.

At the door of Lady Lydia’s bedroom, Meredith produced his keys, unlocked the door, opened it and followed the other two gentlemen inside. ‘Will you be long, sir?’

‘I am not sure,’ Angel said.

‘Well, please ring when you’ve finished. There’s a bell push at the side of the bed.’

‘Thank you, Mr Meredith.’

He went out and closed the door.

It was almost an hour later that Angel rang the bell while Taylor finished packing up his bag of forensic samples and
equipment
and closing the zip.

Angel looked pleased with himself as he looked round the room to check that everything was tidy and in place.

Meredith tapped lightly on the door and came in. ‘Have you finished, sir, and is everything satisfactory?’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Meredith,’ Angel said.

The door suddenly opened and Vincent Fleming came in. He
glared at each of the three men in turn. His eyes were bright and piercing, his face pastier than usual.

‘What’s happening, Meredith?’ he said.

‘The Inspector expressed a wish to take a further look at Lady Lydia’s room, sir,’ the butler said. ‘He has just finished and the two gentlemen were about to leave.’

Fleming looked at Angel and said, ‘I hope you have everything you need now, Inspector Angel. I can’t have you popping in and out of my house whenever you feel like it, as if it was a railway station.’

Angel breathed in and filled his lungs. He pursed his lips, then said, ‘The investigation into your uncle’s death is now completed so I don’t think that will be necessary. Good day.’

Vincent Fleming’s jaw dropped.

Taylor picked up his bag and the two policemen went out of the room and down the stairs. They let themselves out of the front door and made straight for the BMW and Bromersley Police Station.

When they arrived at Angel’s office door, he turned to Taylor and said, ‘Let me have those results as soon as you can, Don.’

‘Yes, of course, sir,’ Taylor said and he disappeared down the corridor.

Angel went into his office. And as he took off his overcoat, without realizing it, and for no explicable reason, he began to whistle
The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.

There was a knock on the door. He stopped whistling. It was Ahmed. ‘Good morning, sir. Did you know the super was looking for you earlier?’

Angel’s face creased. It wasn’t news he enjoyed hearing. He sighed and said, ‘Right, lad. I had better go up then.’

‘He’s not in now, sir. He got an urgent call from that costume hire place at the back of the Town Hall.’

Angel looked up into Ahmed’s eyes. He was thinking that it
must be something really serious to cause the superintendent to attend personally.

‘Why, what’s happened?’ he said earnestly. He could see his quiet Christmas at home in jeopardy.

‘I understand that it’s to try on a Father Christmas suit for the children’s party, sir,’ Ahmed said.

Angel’s mouth dropped open.

Suddenly the office door opened and Superintendent Harker himself appeared in overcoat, scarf and hat, his nose glowing redder than usual. He looked round, saw Ahmed, and ignored him, then he saw Angel and his eyebrows shot up.

‘Ah, Angel,’ Harker began. ‘
There
you are. Have you been looking for me?’

‘No, sir.’

Harker frowned. ‘Oh? Had to go out. Something very urgent arose. Come on up. I want a word.’

‘Right, sir,’ Angel said.

Harker went out, leaving the door open.

Ahmed grinned, looked at Angel and said, ‘Do you want me for anything, sir?’

Angel saw his face, but he wasn’t amused. ‘No, lad,’ he said. ‘Buzz off. You’d still be laughing if your backside was on fire, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, sir. No, sir. I don’t know, sir,’ he said in quick succession.

‘Get out of it,’ Angel growled.

Ahmed went out, laughing quietly.

Angel switched off the desk light, closed the office door and made his way up the corridor.

‘Come in, lad,’ Harker said as he dragged off his scarf. ‘Sit down.’

There was the sound of a click followed by a tinny rattle and a waft of air as he switched on the antique convector heater he kept out of sight under the desk.

‘It’ll soon warm up.’

Angel considered it quite warm enough.

Harker hung his hat and coat on a hanger in a locker behind his chair and sat down behind the cluttered desk. ‘Now we can get on,’ he said.

The superintendent was being so remarkably polite and affable that Angel peered at him and wondered what he was up to.

Harker rubbed his chin then said, ‘Erm, so, that woman, Mrs Lin. You went to see her again?’

‘Yes, sir. In view of our discussion, I had to.’

‘And erm, what did she say?’

Angel said, ‘I was shown the entry of the appointment of Haydn King in the appointment diary. It
was
at that same time and date that
you
said you were with him.’

Harker frowned. He rubbed his chin. ‘And so I was. An entry in a book proves nowt, lad.’

‘That’s right, sir, but the point is that she had spoken to him several times before and knew him, whereas you didn’t know him.’

‘What are getting at, lad?’

‘Well, it was not Haydn King you saw that night, sir. You were deliberately fooled by an actor, Reuben Paschal.’

Harker blinked several times. ‘But I had a letter from King, I was shown into his study, in his house, by his butler. He told me confidentially about his recurrent dream.’

‘It was a set-up, sir. It was a plot, conceived by Angel’s butler, Nicholas Fitzroy Meredith and carried out by him with the
assistance
of Reuben Paschal, an out-of-work actor who had a record. Clever, don’t you think, to involve a senior police officer and plant the totally fictitious tale about a repeated nightmare
before
the murder so that when the victim’s body was found, “suicide while the balance of his mind …” would immediately be thought to be a factor in the cause of death?’

Harker was thoroughly annoyed. He screwed up his face and said, ‘You are barking up the wrong tree, lad.’

‘Paschal was a similar build to King and had a distinguished black beard. At a distance one could easily be mistaken for the other. You had never met King before, sir, had you?’

Harker blinked then said, ‘Well, er no.’

‘So you wouldn’t know that it
wasn’t
Haydn King you were seeing. You see, Meredith knew that King was changing his will in his favour. But also knowing how fickle King was, he wanted to be sure of inheriting before King changed his will back again. He knew that he had an appointment at his solicitor’s on Monday to sign the new will. However, he had assumed, wrongly as it happened, that he kept the appointment. You see, that was the day King had a touch of gout, so he cried off and went to the doctor’s instead. Meredith wasn’t to know that that attack of gout caused Haydn King to cancel his appointment with his solicitor, so the will remained in favour of his nephew, Vincent Fleming, and King’s millions were never to come to within Meredith’s grasp.

‘It was Meredith who phoned the Astra Agency, having selected Paschal from their website online because he looked similar to King.’

Harker sniffed, his watery eyes wavered like a needle in a marine compass as he listened attentively.

‘For a while,’ Angel said, ‘I thought it was King who had engaged the actor as his double for some reason, and it threw me completely off the track. Anyway, we learned from his sister that Paschal was desperately hard up and that he had told her that the new job would enable him to buy his own place and set himself up for the future.

‘King was actually killed by being struck on the head with a common or garden house brick. There are miniscule fragments in the wound. I believe the injury was intended to simulate an injury
he might have suffered had he dived badly and landed on his head on the pool edge. But the murder was actually executed in King’s bedroom, probably while he was asleep. There is some brick dust there, and forensic supports this. Then the two men changed King into his swimming trunks, transferred him to his late mother’s wheelchair, transported him in the lift down to the
swimming-pool
and tipped him in. A book about dreams was placed at the side of his bed by Meredith to persuade us that King was greatly disturbed by the nightmares he was supposed to be having. His prints and the prints of Mrs Selina Johnson, the housekeeper, are on it, but not King’s, which was obviously significant. And that’s what made me first suspect Meredith.