The Diamond Rosary Murders (7 page)

‘Sit down, lad,’ Harker said from behind his desk, dodging between the heaped piles of papers, reports, circulars and boxes of Kleenex and Movical. The superintendent’s head was shaped like a turnip, Angel noticed, and his skin the colour of the walls in the lavatories in Strangeways.

Angel wrinkled his nose defensively at the distinctive smell of TCP.

‘You’ve come to tell me about Haydn King?’ Harker said.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Of course, I have no absolute conclusions yet, but—’

Harker cut in. ‘He took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed.’

Angel frowned. ‘No, sir. I had rejected that as a possibility. I was about to say that it seemed to be either accidental or it was murder.’

‘No,’ Harker said. ‘I think you’ve got murder on the brain, lad.’

The superintendent took a stick inhaler out of his pocket, removed the cover and inserted it up a nostril. He inhaled noisily, pulled it out, waited a moment to test its efficacy, nodded
approvingly
, replaced the cover on the inhaler and put it back in his pocket.

He looked at Angel, sniffed and said, ‘I know you think you’re somebody special just because you’ve had a lot of luck and your name is always in the papers. But in this station, you’re just an ordinary police inspector – one of thousands. So there’s no reason to try to make a bigger thing out of this case than it really merits, just because the victim is a significant local businessman.’

Angel struggled to think of something to say that wasn’t
gratuitously
rude, but he couldn’t think of anything.

‘I was simply saying that I had not come to any conclusion,’ he said. He then went on to tell him what he had found when he arrived at the swimming pool that morning, what DS Taylor had told him about the lack of any forensic evidence on the pool tiles and diving board edges, and the essence of what King’s nephew, staff and ex-wife had said in answer to his questions.

At the end of the report, Harker sniffed and rubbed his chin. ‘I told you he took his own life.’ Then he told Angel about being summoned to see the great man on the Tuesday evening previous and the conversation that had followed.

The further Harker’s story unfolded, the deeper became Angel’s frown.

When he’d finished, Angel said, ‘I am afraid, sir, that your evidence is critical to the case.’

‘I have already come to that conclusion, lad. And I’m not putting myself in a situation where every Tom, Dick or Harry can keep cross-questioning me, so I will make a deposition for our barrister, Twelvetrees, to submit, and I’ll see that you get a copy. All right?’

Angel had no option but to agree. Then he said, ‘By the way, sir, King mentioned the nightmare to his butler, but I have not yet found anybody else he told.’

‘Well, it is not something he would want to have broadcast, lad,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t want it known that a persistent bad dream he was having had any effect on him. They might have
thought that he was going soft, or in need of psychiatric
treatment
. You couldn’t have a man in charge of thousands of jobs and millions of pounds of investors’ funds being known to be affected by a dream. People might have lost confidence in him.’

‘Yes, sir, but maybe he
was
in need of psychiatric attention.’

‘Possibly. He behaved most aggressively to me when I said that dreams were not a matter for the police, that regretfully we were not able to assist him, and that I thought a doctor might be able to help him, also that he might benefit from a holiday.’

Angel nodded. ‘I will see his doctor, sir. He may be able to throw some light on his mental state.’

‘I am very sorry to hear of Mr King’s death, Inspector,’ Doctor Singh said, looking at his computer screen. ‘By the look of it, he hasn’t needed much attention from this practice. According to his record, he had a viral infection in February 2000. I attended him. Prescribed an antibiotic. No follow-up call was required, so it seemed to have cleared that up all right.’

‘Is that all, Doctor?’

‘No. As a matter of fact I saw him only a few days ago.’

Angel’s head went up. ‘When exactly?’

‘December 5th.’

Angel frowned. ‘That was Monday, only four days ago,’ he said.

He recalled that that was the day before King summoned Harker to his house and told him about the dreams.

‘Yes. He complained of severe pain in his big toe. I saw him at his office. He thought he might have sprained it, however it was simply gout. I left him with a prescription. It doesn’t usually take long to clear gout these days.’

‘Did he speak to you about anything else at that time, Doctor?’

‘No. I’m sure that he didn’t.’

Angel told him the story about the recurrent nightmare relayed
to him by Meredith and Harker, and the fact that that very morning, King had been found dead in the swimming pool exactly as depicted in the dream.

In the end the doctor shook his head. ‘He certainly didn’t mention anything about that when I saw him on Monday.’

‘Did he seem to be worried about anything … were there any signs of depression?’

‘No, Inspector. Not at all. On the contrary, he was very
businesslike
and forward-looking. I remember him saying, quite light-heartedly at his desk, that he would go to the office that day even if he had to crawl there on his hands and knees.’

Angel rubbed his chin. It was difficult to reconcile the fact that the witnesses expressed widely different opinions as to Haydn King’s state of mind.

‘Do you think King had been acting a part,’ Angel said, ‘making a show of being trouble-free when all the time the dream was grinding away at him?’

‘It’s possible. The dream may have been worrying him – even frightening him – we will never know.’

Angel nodded. ‘If some of us didn’t have secrets, we’d go mad,’ he said.

‘The brain is a highly complicated organ,’ Doctor Singh said. ‘Also there are far too many things of this world and the next of which we know nothing. You know, Inspector, I have often thought that in cases that end in tragedy, like this, the subject could have been suicidal and willing death upon themselves. However, in this instance, I cannot see it happening with a subject like Mr King. He was far too strong-willed and involved with his work.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘What part do you think the recurring dream played in the finding of his body in the swimming pool? It can’t be marked down as unconnected.’

‘I don’t know, Inspector. I really don’t know.’

‘How would you have treated Mr King if he had been to see you complaining of such a dream?’

Dr Singh pursed his lips. ‘It would have depended upon the way he presented himself at the time of the consultation,’ he said. ‘I would probably have prescribed a tranquilizer to begin with, and suggested that he took a holiday, well away from the
swimming
pool.’

Angel stood up. ‘Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much.’

At the door, Angel turned back and said, ‘Hey, Doctor. One last question. Would you have directed him to consult a psychiatrist?’

Dr Singh swivelled the chair round to face him and, with a furrowed brow, said, ‘I wouldn’t have been in any hurry, Inspector, although it is difficult to answer the question
hypothetically
. I have in my armoury a range of medicines as well as non-medical therapies which might have been appropriate to explore.’

Angel considered the reply for a few moments then nodded in agreement.

Then Singh said, ‘Anyway, I doubt very much if Mr King would have agreed to see a psychiatrist.’

Angel gave the doctor a wry smile, and shook his head. He closed the surgery door and went down the corridor packed with patients waiting for evening surgery to begin.

He went out into the cold, dark night to the BMW parked in the surgery car-park. He slumped into the driving seat and looked through the frost-covered windscreen into the night. He was thinking. He was convinced in his own mind that Haydn King had been murdered and, although the house had been securely locked and there were no signs of a break-in, there were a lot of keys in circulation. Besides Mr King, there was Meredith the butler, Mrs Selina Johnson the housekeeper, Harry Saw the private secretary and Vincent Fleming the nephew, who all had keys. Also the back-door key was left in the lock. By
arrangement
,
an accomplice could easily have left the door unlocked. It would only have taken a few moments for an intruder to enter the kitchen area and relock the door.

A
ngel arrived home at seven o’clock. He was an hour and a half late.

‘Hello, love,’ he said.

Mary wasn’t pleased. She glared at him as if he was the gasman who had come to cut off the supply.

He went into the hall, took off his coat, hung it in the lobby and returned to the kitchen.

‘Well, I don’t know what your tea will be like,’ she said. ‘All shrivelled up, I expect.’

He didn’t reply. He could see how things were. Whatever he said would be wrong. He reached into the fridge for a bottle of beer.

After a measured amount of silence, she said, ‘Why didn’t you phone?’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘You know what it’s like,’ he said.

‘No, I don’t know what it’s like. How long does it take to phone? And fish doesn’t come cheap anymore. Those two pieces cost over five pounds.’

He blinked. ‘Five pounds? It’s time you changed your fishmonger.’

‘I have. Twice. There’s nobody cheaper than “Cheapo’s”. Finny haddock is expensive
everywhere
.’

Angel pulled open a drawer and took out a bottle opener. He prised off the metal cap, poured the beer into a glass then sat down at the table.

Mary approached the oven with an oven glove. She took out the plates and then served up the fish.

Angel looked at the steaming, golden-coloured finny haddock in melted butter. It looked delicious and was far from being dried up.

With several slices of wholemeal bread, he soon cleared his plate, while Mary was still eating.

‘That was great,’ he said as he put the knife and fork together. ‘Thank you, love.’

Under those particular circumstances, he wouldn’t have said anything different. However, on this occasion as on virtually every occasion, it was true. Mary’s cooking was unbeatable. And somehow she had rescued the meal from a shrivelled-up disaster.

Although angry, she was pleased he had enjoyed it. And she could always tell if he wasn’t telling the truth.

She nodded, swallowed and said, ‘There’s fresh fruit salad and ice cream to follow.’ She knew that that would please him. He loved ice cream.

‘Right,’ he said, sitting back in the chair, content to wait until she had caught up with him.

Mary Angel would never have told him, but she had always secretly compared him to the late, great Johnny Weissmuller. Angel was in great shape, but Mary, who was always seeking for perfection, thought that the loss of a few pounds might improve him.

As she took another mouthful, she gave him a sideways glance. Then something occurred to her. The corners of her mouth turned momentarily into a smile. It promptly disappeared; her eyes
twinkled
mischievously as she said, ‘Or you could skip the ice cream.’

He looked across at her. He knew she was teasing him. ‘No,’ he said, keeping a straight face. ‘That’s all right, Mary. I’ll force it down, if necessary.’

Their eyes met, and they both grinned.

After the fruit and ice cream, they moved out of the kitchen to the sitting-room where Mary brought in the coffee.

Angel switched on the TV for the latest news and caught the end of an item about the London stock market closing down forty points due to a drop of the Dow Jones in the US, and some banks and King’s Breweries in the UK.

His eyes opened wide and he stared at the TV screen.

The newsreader said, ‘The dip in the closing price of King’s Breweries was brought about by the sudden death of King’s Breweries Chairman, Haydn King, who was found dead of a heart attack in his swimming pool at his home in Bromersley, South Yorkshire, early this morning. And that is the end of the business news. Now over to Carol for the weather.’

Angel’s face creased, then his eyes opened wide in
wonderment
. ‘I wonder how that leaked out?’ he muttered. He reached out for the TV remote and pressed the ‘off’ button.

Mary looked up from the coffee. ‘So that’s the case you are working on?’

Angel looked at her curiously. ‘How did you know?’ he said.

She smiled. ‘It’s all over the news, the dead man is local, and you come home late. Therefore I guessed that Harker had pushed the case onto you because the poor man probably didn’t die
naturally
and there’s something fishy about it.’

‘You never cease to amaze me,’ he said, taking a sip of the coffee.

‘You’re my husband, Michael, and I can also see beneath all this superficiality that your brain is fully engaged. I’ve seen you like this hundreds of times.’

He waved a hand in the air. ‘But no announcement about his death has been made. I’ve not been approached by anybody from the media.’

‘Is it a big secret, then?’

‘Not particularly. It’s just that … nobody can possibly know
what Haydn King died from. I’m in charge of the investigation, and even I don’t know. The post-mortem has not yet been completed. And fishy? You said fishy. What’s fishy about it?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t seem right, being found in a swimming pool early in the morning in the middle of winter, I suppose.’

Angel shook his head, then he said, ‘Mary, my love, you haven’t heard the half of it.’

He repeated the story Superintendent Harker had told him about being summoned by Haydn King and the conversation that had taken place on Tuesday evening between the two of them; three days before King was found dead in the pool.

‘If it had been anybody other than the super,’ Angel said, ‘I might not have believed it.’

She listened carefully to him and when he had finished, she said, ‘Michael, it seems to me that something was preying on his mind, and that maybe he wanted to take his own life.’

He rubbed his chin. ‘It doesn’t seem to be his style. I’ve asked around.’

‘But the nightmares were worrying him. That’s why he called Superintendent Harker in.’

‘That’s part of the puzzle. Only his butler and the super know anything about them.’

Mary shook her head and frowned.

‘He hadn’t told his doctor,’ Angel said. ‘And he saw him on Monday about something else – a touch of gout – but he never mentioned nightmares.’

Mary shook her head. ‘That rules out the likelihood then, that some enemy of Haydn King made the dreams a reality by murdering him in the belief that it would be assumed that his death was suicide?’

‘I agree. Most definitely, it does,’ he said, then he frowned, looked at her and added, ‘What a convoluted train of thought.’

‘I get it from living with you,’ she said.

He smiled.

She frowned then, pensively, she said, ‘There’s something else, Michael.’

He looked at her closely. Sometimes his wife came out with astonishingly original suggestions.

She hesitated.

‘What, love?’ he said. ‘Come on, spit it out.’

‘Isn’t it possible that whoever wanted to see Haydn King dead, was a hypnotist – not necessarily a super-duper properly qualified hypnotist, but someone who knows how hypnotism works? … somebody who had the gift of being able to plant an idea in Mr King’s mind … then when he’d tormented him enough, went on to convince him that the only way to stop the dream was to fulfil it by … by jumping off the diving board … landing deliberately badly and whoosh, seconds later he’d be dead, out of this world.’

Angel stared at her. He rubbed his chin. He breathed heavily a couple of times then said, ‘It’s a bit extreme, that, Mary.’

‘But do you think it’s possible?’

He gave a little shrug. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, yes. But King was a man with a powerful personality. Not easily swayed, you know.’

She nodded. ‘You could get some expert advice.’

‘Mmmm. I’ll have to think about that, love. You might have a point, though.’

She noticed his cup was empty. ‘More coffee?’

He passed the cup. ‘Please.’ Then he added, ‘I will have to go in tomorrow. I can’t leave this while Monday. For one thing, I want to look over King’s house. There might be something that will give me a lead.’

Meredith pushed the open door and said, ‘And this was Mr King’s bedroom, sir. I still find it difficult to accept that he has gone. I
instructed the housekeeper to give the room an especially good clean round after your men had finished yesterday afternoon.’

Angel looked round. Everything certainly looked tidy, shiny and spotlessly clean. Suddenly he caught sight of a paperback book on the bedside table. He crossed quickly and leaned over to read the title. It was
The Interpretation Of Dreams
by Sigmund Freud.

Angel pursed his lips. He immediately thought about the conversation he’d had with Mary last evening and the suggestion she had made. Didn’t Freud make scientific investigations into hypnosis? This paperback could be very important.

Angel turned to Meredith and said, ‘Where did that book come from?’

Meredith reached out to pick it up.

‘Please don’t touch it,’ Angel said.

Meredith withdrew his hand, gave him a strange look, then peered down at the book, read the title and said, ‘Do you know, sir, I really have no idea.’

Angel took a rolled-up A4-sized polythene envelope with the word EVIDENCE printed across it in big red letters out of his pocket. With a pencil, he skilfully edged the book into the bag, then he sealed it and slid it into his pocket. He then turned back to Meredith and said, ‘How long has it been there?’

‘I am not sure. I had no reason to take much notice.’

‘No,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. He had another quick look round. ‘Are there any other books in the room?’

Meredith turned his head to the left and then the right, then said, ‘No, I don’t believe there are.’

Angel looked under the bed, pulled out all the drawers of a large tallboy, peered through the window that opened onto a balcony and had an extensive view of lawns and trees, and opened the door of a walk-in wardrobe the width of the room. It was dark inside. He found the light switch, went inside, prodded
a few suits, came out and said, ‘Thank you. I think I’ve seen all I want to see here.’

Meredith then moved on to show Angel the next bedroom.

Angel came out of Haydn King’s bedroom, turned right to the next room and tried the doorknob. The door was locked.

Meredith came forward while his hand followed down a
gilt-coloured
chain from a button on his trouser waistband to his pocket. At the end of the chain was a bunch of keys. ‘This is the late Mrs Lydia King’s bedroom, sir. Mr Haydn’s mother. Mr King kept it locked because he said he wanted to keep it private. He had the only other key, of course. He didn’t want anybody but me to go into it and then only for essential reasons. I vacuum and dust it every week.’

Meredith unlocked the door and pushed it open. Angel walked in and looked round.

It was a bright, double-windowed room, immaculately
decorated
and carpeted, furnished with a large half tester bed draped with intricately embroidered curtains, a built-in wardrobe and a huge dressing-table covered with many containers of powder, foundation and perfumes. The décor was in matching pastel colours. In a corner was a wheelchair, a Zimmer frame and a pair of aluminium elbow crutches. There was a door out of the bedroom leading to an ensuite, fully tiled bathroom fitted with all the usual modern facilities. King’s mother seemed to have lacked nothing in her latter days.

‘Mr King used to come in here for hours at a time, sir,’ Meredith said. ‘I don’t know quite what he did, but I think it gave him solace.’

Angel turned to Meredith and said, ‘Really?’ He rubbed his chin.

Meredith nodded.

After a last look round, Angel said, ‘Thank you. I’ve seen enough. Can we move on?’

They came out of the room. Meredith carefully locked the door and returned the key on the chain to his trouser pocket. He showed Angel the other rather spartan bedrooms and bathrooms on the first floor, then brought him down in the lift to the ground floor to see King’s study, the other reception rooms, and a large dining-room. Then down in the lift to the basement to the kitchen, pantry, butler’s pantry, cold room, fuel store and staff dining-room.

Angel found the house an appropriately appointed luxury family house, but apart from some items in King’s bedroom found nothing useful in solving the mystery of the man’s death. At length he thanked the butler and returned to the BMW.

He started the car and drove down the long drive to the gate and out into Pine Avenue and onto Creesforth Road.

It was a gloomy moody sky and the cold squally wind wouldn’t let him forget that it was already December. In ten days it would be shortest day and in thirteen it would be Christmas. If he went home that afternoon, Mary would almost certainly drag him out to the shops and that was something he would rather avoid.

He was thinking about this as he drove past the park gates, when he suddenly had the urge to see his friend Dr Mac, the pathologist. That might, he thought, clarify his thinking and perhaps help him make better sense of the puzzle.

Mac worked in the mortuary in Bromersley General Hospital, but being Saturday, Angel reasoned, he might not have chosen to turn out.

Angel turned left off Park Road, took two more left turns through an estate of terrace houses, then a right which took him the opposite way along Park Road and direct to the hospital gates. Parking was always difficult at Bromersley General Hospital and, as Saturday was a big visiting day, finding a space was difficult. However, he was fortunate and was able to drive into a space as someone was leaving.

He locked the car, entered the hospital by the revolving door and made his way on the ground floor to the far end of a long corridor to the MORTUARY. The door was locked, which was no surprise to him. It was always so. Access was gained by ringing a bell. In the past, dead bodies had been known to go missing.

He pressed the bell push. As soon as his finger came off the button, he felt convinced that he wouldn’t get any response. He felt certain that dear old Mac was at that very moment being dragged round Tesco’s or Marks & Spencer or some other
emporium
by his ever-loving spouse.

He wrinkled his nose, turned away and began the trudge away down the corridor, when he heard the sound of a door opening behind him. He turned round.