‘That’s what you say. We know that you worked a nice little fraudulent gig with him, and for that, you will be charged in due course. What I am interested in today is how Harrison came to be stabbed to death and dumped in a skip on the car park of The Three Horseshoes.’

‘Well, Inspector, I don’t know anything about that.’

Angel looked straight into his eyes.

‘Where were you on the night of Monday, July 16th?’

‘I can’t remember that now. I’m pretty certain that I was at home.’

Angel sniffed. ‘And what’s the address? If it’s 212 Huddersfield Road, don’t bother wasting my time.’

Spencer sniggered, then he said, ‘I can’t remember.’

The muscles of Angel’s jaw tightened. ‘Well, you’d better start remembering something. You’re already going down for fraud. If you don’t remember something, you could be looking through steel bars for the rest of your life.’

Angel seemed to have struck a nerve. Spencer’s breathing became uneven and his hands began to shake.

‘I can’t exactly remember everything,’ he stammered. ‘It’s true. I was looking for him. I had to find him to get my share of the money, but he had gone to ground. I had heard he had been seen in that pub, The Three Horseshoes, but when I got there, there was no sign of him.’

‘Go on,’ Angel said.

‘Well, I was making enquiries about him from the landlord. He said he didn’t know anything, but a mouthy man, who I later learned was Eddie Glazer, overheard us. He said that he was a friend of Harrison and bought me a drink. I thought he might lead me to him. We were getting on rather well. Then he said he had something special about Harry to show me in his car. I fell for it. We went outside, and I was set on by him and three other thugs, who knocked me out cold. I must have been unconscious for twelve hours. When I woke up, I was in a big house. They locked me in a room. They kept beating me up and throwing cold water over me … and asking me where the money was. I didn’t know, did I? If I had known I would have taken my share and disappeared. But they kept on at me. Glazer got big Ox to persuade me – as he called it – but I didn’t know anything. They even sent Glazer’s wife in to try and coax it out of me. They simply wouldn’t believe me. The trouble was that Harrison owed Glazer ten thousand pounds. Something to do with his escape from prison, and the fact that he hadn’t paid stuck in Glazer’s gullet. Anyway, they held me for three nights, I believe. I lost track of time. I was taken to the barn. The rest you know.’

Angel rubbed his chin. It had the ring of truth about it. He was more than half inclined to believe him. He was still waiting for the results of SOCO’s tests on Spencer’s and Glazer gang’s clothes and effects. He was hopeful of some conclusive evidence that would enable him to make an arrest. It should also indicate whether Spencer was a liar or not. He remembered that SOCO had also reported that Harrison had been severely assaulted with clenched fists before he was stabbed; such an assault would leave abrasions, bruising or scuffs on the assailant’s hands and knuckles.

‘Hold your hands out,’ Angel said.

‘What?’

Angel reached out and took hold of one hand. He grabbed it tightly by the wrist.

‘Here. What’s happening? What are you doing?’

Spencer tried to pull away, but Angel held it with a grip of iron. He looked at the back of his hand and at the knuckles, then turned it over. It felt like a rubber glove stuffed with bread and butter pudding. He took the other hand. It was the same. He sniffed and let both hands drop. They were the hands of a man who had never done a hard day’s work in his life, much less been involved in a punch up. But Angel was still not quite satisfied.

‘You’ve no idea who gave Harry Harrison a damned good hiding and finished him off by sticking a knife into him several times, then dumped him in that skip, leaving him to bleed to death, have you?’

‘Well, it wasn’t me. More than likely it would have been Eddie Glazer. He probably caught up with Harrison in the pub or somewhere and the little squirt refused to tell him where he’d hidden the money. Glazer’s a nasty piece of work.’

‘Hmmm,’ Angel muttered. That was true. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Spencer,’ Angel began. ‘Glazer and his gang have disappeared. All we have to go on at the moment is the description and licence plate number of their car. Any assistance you can give me in finding where they might have disappeared to would be greatly appreciated.’

Spencer sighed then said: ‘I don’t know anything about that, Inspector. Honestly, I haven’t a clue. I wish I had. They’re no friends of mine.’

Angel was tired and fed up. It was the weekend. Thank God for that. Two murder cases in one week was hard work. He went home. He put the car away, locked the garage, came in through the back door, smiled weakly at Mary, took a bottle of German beer out of the fridge and a glass off the draining-board and shuffled off into the sitting-room. He loosened his tie, pressed a button on the television remote control and slumped into the chair. As the set warmed up it showed a young woman in front of a map rattling off details at high speed about the temperature and global warming. He sipped the beer. It had been five days since he had first been sent to Creesforth Road and had been presented with the murder of Alicia Prophet. He wasn’t really any the wiser about the mysterious Lady B. An amateur murderer if ever there was one, he thought. Virtually advertised the fact that she was at the scene of the crime at the time of the murder. Committed the murder in broad daylight, ate an orange and sprayed the peel over the body, then trotted down the front path like a lady of leisure, conveniently dropping her handbag in front of a neighbour, Mrs Duplessis. Made sure the taxi driver would remember her, publicized her destination, Wells Street Baths, then disappeared in a puff of smoke. Ridiculous.

The other case, the murder of Harry Harrison … now that was relatively simple. It was committed by one crook or the other. One suspect was in hospital, and with his injuries, he wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. The other was … well … somewhere else.

Mary came in with his tea on a tray. It was finnan haddock. They always had fish on a Friday. He enjoyed that then reached out for the Radio Times to see what might be on television after the news: politics, pop groups, personality parades, soaps and cooking. He fell asleep in the chair.

Mary looked across at him and sighed.

On Saturday he weeded the garden and cut the lawn; on Sunday, Mary prepared a picnic lunch and they spent the late morning on the moors. However the weather broke unexpectedly and following several rolls of thunder and some lightning, it rained vertical stair-rods. They arrived back home at one o’clock, missing the worst of the weather and in time to watch a John Wayne cowboy film on television, then ‘Songs of Praise,’ followed by ‘Last of the Summer Wine.’ As the theme music increased in volume and the credits rolled up over the bucolic scene, Angel’s mobile phone rang out. He was surprised at the interruption: it could only be police business and he knew it must be urgent. His pulse increased and his heart began to bang in his chest, as he reached down into his trouser pocket and yanked the phone out.

‘Angel,’ he said expectantly.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir. This is PC Donohue. We have been called out to a vehicle fire on some farmland in Skiptonthorpe. It is a big, black Mercedes saloon. We attended and when I reported it in, the desk sergeant said you had it on orders that you had to be advised on this number of any sighting of this vehicle.’

‘Yes. Yes,’ Angel said excitedly. ‘That’s right. Tell me, what’s happened?’

‘We had a treble nine call to a vehicle fire by the back road behind Summerskill’s farm on the top side in Skiptonthorpe. We attended promptly, so did the fire service.’