‘But she shot Alicia Prophet, sir?’ Gawber said decisively.

‘Without a doubt. There’s nobody else. The husband would be the expected murderer. But he has an excellent alibi. He was working in his office with his secretary.’

‘Very beautiful secretary, you said, sir,’ he said pointedly.

‘Yes, all right. Very beautiful secretary,’ Angel said irritably. ‘Now there are several witnesses to Lady B dashing out of the house only a minute or so before Mrs Prophet’s dead body was found by Mrs Duplessis, a neighbour, on the settee, with orange peel scattered hither and thither.’

‘Same MO as Reynard.’

‘No prints or DNA left by the murderer. There is £6.56 in cash found on the draining board. Fresh oranges, bought locally, are found in the dustbin … two bags of shopping in the pantry doorway. And Lady B looks like an older version of the model in a painting found on the wall of Margaret Gaston’s bedroom.’

‘Who is she, sir? The girl in the painting?’

‘An unknown model from the 1930s.’

‘It couldn’t have been Lady B when she was younger?’

‘No. She would have had to have been born in 1910.’

‘Of course. Could it have been her mother?’

Angel blinked. ‘Witnesses put Lady B between forty and sixty. Yes. If you stretch things a bit, it’s possible. I suppose it could be her mother, but that doesn’t give us a motive for her murdering Alicia Prophet? Nor an indication as to where she has disappeared to.’

Gawber shook his head. ‘No sir. But there must some reason why this picture turns up at this time. It’s telepathy. It’s a telepathic picture of the murderer. Do you think somebody or something out there is … trying to tell us something?’

Angel pulled a face and ran his hand quickly through his hair. ‘Don’t let’s get carried away, Ron. You can’t solve murders with a ouija board, tarot cards and magic smoke writing!’

‘But there must be an explanation,’ Gawber said forcefully.

‘Yes,’ Angel said animatedly. ‘I am sure there is. I don’t know what it is yet, but there will be a reason, and I bet it’s a damn good reason too.’

‘Or it could be coincidence.’

‘Coincidence?’ he yelled. ‘Coincidence! How many times have I told you, Ron. When you look for evidence in a murder case, there’s no such thing as coincidence!’

Gawber didn’t reply. He didn’t want to annoy Angel further, so he decided to stay silent.

There was an awkward silence.

Angel was a little embarrassed by having allowed himself to be unnecessarily irritated and worked up over what he considered to be Gawber’s unorthodox attitude to coincidences. He considered briefly whether to apologize or not, decided against it, then returned to the original problem in hand. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Eventually, he broke the silence and said: ‘What’s so fascinating about blue, Ron?’

‘Blue, sir? The colour blue?’

‘Yes. Lady Blessington is always seen in the same blue dress.’

‘Maybe she’s only got one best dress? She’s hard up. No shame in being poor, sir.’

‘No. None at all. Still I think if she’s visiting Bromersley, and been around here for six months, you’d think she’d want to show the world an alternative dress … if only to follow the seasons round?’

‘I expect so, sir. Even I have two suits. Sunday best, and second best.’

‘In the winter, if she only had one dress, she could wear something – a coat or a cloak – over it, I suppose, couldn’t she?’

‘That dress would show under her coat.’

‘Aye. Why does she wear such a long dress, Ron? After all, it’s the middle of summer. The temperature has … sometimes … been in the eighties.’

‘Maybe she’s got lousy legs, sir.’

‘You mean muscular?’

‘Don’t know what I mean. I’m just thinking aloud, sir.’

‘Do you think she was sporty?’

‘Yes, sir. She caught the taxi to and from the swimming baths on Wells Road. Maybe she was a swimmer?’

‘I don’t know. She wasn’t seen in the pool on the CCTV, you know. But some sporty women have powerful limbs that are not necessarily attractive.’

‘That dress covered her arms as well.’

‘Yes, well maybe she’s also got great muscular arms?’

‘Maybe. Maybe.’

The door suddenly opened. It was Ahmed. He didn’t knock. There was something different about him. His eyes were shining.

‘Have you heard the news, sir?’

‘What?’ Angel looked up and snapped at him.

‘Reynard’s been arrested and charged, sir. It’s on TV. It was a news flash. I was in the canteen.’

Angel and Gawber leapt to their feet and rushed out of the office and up the corridor to the double doors and through to the station canteen. There was a crowd of ten policemen and women looking up at the TV fastened high up to the wall. They rushed up and stood behind them. On the screen, they could see a man in a plain dark suit standing in front of a stone building speaking directly to camera. Underneath him was a caption that read: ‘Detective Inspector Blenkinsop.’ He was saying:

‘… known as Reynard, aged 35 years of Cutforth Road, London SW, was at 0935 hours this morning arrested after an exchange of gunfire outside the Chitterton branch of the Exchange Building Society. The arrest came after a week-long surveillance operation by the Serious Organised Crime Agency of the police, and demonstrates how successful the police can be, when the different forces under the direction of SOCA can work together to fight crime.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Angel slowly put the phone back in its cradle. He smiled, turned to Gawber and said, ‘That was DI Blenkinsop of Chitterton CID. He confirms that they have had Reynard under observation for the past six days and that there is no possible chance that he could have been anywhere near Creeford Road on Monday afternoon last.’

Gawber nodded and smiled. ‘So that clears that up. The orange peel found around Alicia Prophet’s body, was definitely not left there by Reynard.’

‘That’s right,’ Angel said rubbing his hands gleefully.

Gawber frowned. ‘So we have to find out why Lady B left it. Are we to suppose that, like Reynard, she had to have a swift intake of vitamin C every time she murdered somebody?’

Angel stopped rubbing his hands, pursed his lips and said, ‘I have an idea about that, Ron, but at the moment, I can’t make it all fit.’

‘But Lady B did shoot Alicia Prophet, sir, didn’t she? She was the last person to see Mrs Prophet alive?’

‘I believe so.’ He reached up to his ear and massaged the lobe of it slowly between finger and thumb. He sighed and added: ‘But I am not happy about how we arrive at that conclusion.’

‘Witnesses, sir. Three witnesses.’

‘Yes, Ron. But the clues are all wrong. I mean … why do you think we are provided with a woman in a blue dress who makes herself very well known to the husband, a neighbour and a taxi driver, so that, after she has murdered Mrs Prophet, those very witnesses are in a position to describe her to us in such absolute detail?’

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Gawber said.

‘Well, we have a full description of her, yet after the taxi driver drops her back at Wells Road Baths, we are unable to trace her? And you know something else, Ron. I bet you that we’ll never see Lady Cora Blessington again. Charles Prophet smelled a rat, and warned his wife against her. She should have heeded his warnings. A murderer worth his salt would not want to be known by his name, much less be recognized by the victim’s spouse, two neighbours and a taxi-driver.’

Gawber looked into Angel’s eyes. He admired his clear, logical thinking. Here was the inspector at his very best.

‘No, it’s all wrong, Ron,’ Angel continued. ‘Instinct screams out at me. This is a very unusual case. We are dealing with a very clever and dangerous individual, who is very close to us. I feel it in my bones. We are being had, Ron. Lady B or whoever she is, is making monkeys out of us, and I don’t like it!’