Angel’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘Harry Henderson? Aka Harry Harrison. Of course,’ he said. ‘I remember. He escaped in a prison transfer in January with Eddie Glazer.’

He knew of Glazer: a wicked, dangerous hard nut, inside for a long stretch for murder. Harrison was small fry. His speciality was conning old ladies out of their pension money by pretending to be an official from the water board or some official organization.

‘Eddie Glazer and Harry Harrison were not in the same league,’ Angel said.

‘At least his mother will now know where he is at nights,’ Taylor said. ‘If he had one.’

Angel sighed. At least one puzzle was beginning to unravel.

‘Did you count that money, Don?’

‘There were two million pounds, sir.’

Angel sniffed. It was a lot of cabbage for a sloppy, tinpot conman like Harrison to come by. However did he manage it? He shook his head. Life was full of surprises.

‘Where’s Dr Mac?’

‘He’s finished here, sir. There wasn’t much. The mortuary van has collected the body and gone.’

‘You got anything interesting?’

‘A few hairs on the corpse’s suit, sir. And some dust. Blood off the outside corner of the skip. We’ll be having a look at them in the lab.’

Angel nodded. Sounded promising.

‘Was he killed here?’

‘Dr Mac thinks so. Stabbed several times. We didn’t find a weapon. We’re about finished here, sir, unless you want us for anything. We’ll be away in two minutes.’

‘Right, Don. Thank you,’ he said and turned away.

Taylor headed back into the van.

Angel saw Gawber thrusting across the car park with his head down, returning from his door-to-door calling.

‘What you got, Ron?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ he said wearily. ‘Nobody saw anything.’

Angel sniffed.

‘Would a photograph have helped?’ he asked with a smile.

Gawber’s eyebrows shot up.

‘Why? Do you know who it is, sir?’

‘Aye. Harry Harrison.’

Gawber nodded. ‘That worm,’ he said indignantly.

‘Never mind,’ Angel said. ‘How did you get on chasing the oranges?’

‘I found the fruit stall on the market without any difficulty, sir. There are only a few stalls open on a Monday. The bag was unusual. The stallholder said he was using those bags temporarily because he’d run out of his regular brown paper printed bags.’

‘Yes. Yes,’ Angel said quickly. ‘Did he remember selling a man five oranges, or any oranges, that’s the point?’

‘No, sir. He didn’t.’

Angel sighed.

‘But he did recall selling oranges – he couldn’t be sure how many – to various women, including Margaret Gaston. He knew her because he used to go out with her, before she got herself up the duff.’

‘Margaret Gaston?’ he roared in surprise. He considered the implication. ‘Did he recall the time?’

‘About one o’clock,’ Gawber added.

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Whatever time it was, Ron. It’s a certainty she couldn’t be Reynard!’

‘Of course.’

‘Could he remember anybody else?’

‘No, sir. Not by name anyway.’

Angel pulled a face and turned away. Then he suddenly looked at his watch. He ran his hand through his hair, turned back excitedly, licked his bottom lip and said, ‘Look, it’s almost five o’clock. I’ve got an urgent little job for you. Nip along smartly up the road to the office of the South Yorkshire Daily Examiner. I don’t know what time they put that rag to bed. Speak to the assistant editor. Tell him about finding the dead body of Harry Harrison. Tell him that we are absolutely baffled. Tell him all about the case, and in particular, ask him – as a favour to me – to give the story a prominent position in the paper, and, especially remember to say that we discovered that Harry Harrison had been living in flat number twenty at the top of Mansion Hill. Specify flat number twenty. All right?’

‘Right, sir,’ he said and turned to go.

Angel grabbed him by the sleeve and said: ‘And don’t forget to tell him, the police are completely baffled. He’ll like that. Anything that puts the police down. Huh. He’ll probably put that on the front page!’

Gawber dashed off to his car on the street and drove away and, a minute later, the SOCO van reversed away from the skip on The Three Horseshoes car park, turned and drove onto the main road heading back towards the station.

Angel took one last glance round the car park and at the skip and then made for his car. He was just getting in when he heard the sound of an insistent car horn. He looked round. It was Crisp, anxious to get his attention. Crisp drove up next to Angel’s BMW and pulled on the brake.

‘Sir. Sir,’ Crisp called.

‘What’ve you doing, lad? I’ve been looking out for you.’

‘I was staying with that money until SOCO came.’

‘I have seen Don Taylor. That was two hours ago. What have you been doing since? I told Ahmed to find you—’

‘He did, sir. I had to write up my notes. I came as soon as I could.’

‘Write up your notes? There was very little to write up. What have you been doing?’

‘Then I had lunch.’

‘Lunch?’ he bawled. ‘How long did you take for lunch? What did you have, kippers?’

Crisp said nothing.

Angel shook his head. His jaw was set. It was pointless pursuing the matter: Crisp always had an answer.

After a few moments Angel said, ‘Do you want some overtime?’

‘I wouldn’t volunteer for it, sir.’

Angel licked his bottom lip. He thought he knew a surefire way of changing his mind. ‘Not even if it’s back up on the top floor of Mansion House flats?’ he said artfully.

Crisp blinked then gave him an old-fashioned look.

‘Margaret Gaston’s pad, sir?’ he said brightly.

‘No. Next door,’ he said. ‘Number 20.’

‘Mr Prophet will see you now, Inspector,’ she said holding the office door open.

Angel liked her smile, her teeth, her hair, her face, her smell and her figure. He wondered how any woman were lucky enough to have everything in such perfect form standing in what he guessed were outrageously expensive shoes.

‘Thank you,’ he said as he passed her and enjoyed the close brief whiff of the perfume.

Prophet was standing, leaning over the desk with his arm outstretched.

Angel transferred the envelope of photographs he had brought in with him to his left hand and shook Prophet’s hand.

‘Ah. Pleased to see you, Inspector. Please sit down. Are you any nearer finding my wife’s murderer?’

‘Frankly, no, but it is early days. There are a few questions I must ask you, Mr Prophet.’

‘Of course. I realize that you let me off lightly yesterday. It was most considerate.’

Angel nodded then said, ‘We aim to please. You will know that most murders are committed by their nearest and dearest?’

‘Indeed, yes.’

‘So we have to eliminate you absolutely from our enquiries. So I have to ask if you can account for your whereabouts yesterday afternoon.’

‘Indeed, I can.’

He picked up a telephone and said, ‘Karen. Will you come in here a moment, please.’ He replaced the phone.

‘I was at my desk, here, from one-thirty until you came yourself and broke the news at … about twenty to five. My secretary, Miss Kennedy, I am certain will confirm it.’

The door opened and Karen Kennedy came in.

‘Karen,’ Prophet said, ‘the Inspector is asking about my whereabouts yesterday afternoon. Would you kindly tell him where I was?’

‘Mr Prophet was in the office the entire afternoon, Inspector, as usual.’

‘Thank you,’ Angel said. ‘Did he have any visitors?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I know that he was very busy on a particular case. There were several phone calls for him, but I managed to head them off.’

‘Right. Thank you,’ Angel said.

She smiled angelically and went out.

‘I hope that satisfies you, Inspector.’

‘Yes. Of course. Now can you think of anybody who would have wanted your wife dead?’