Angel turned to go. He opened the door.

‘What about this four hundred pounds?’ Harker fumed, his face as red as a judge’s robe. ‘I can’t put an expense through like that. It’s down to you, you know.’

Angel sighed.

‘Why don’t you knock it off the two million I found under the floorboards, sir?’ he said and he closed the door.

Ahmed saw the imposing figure whiz past the window panel in the CID office door. He caught up with him and followed him into his office. He was carrying two EVIDENCE envelopes and an A4 paper file.

‘What’ve you got, lad?’ Angel boomed.

‘From DI Taylor, sir. He found a fingerprint on the lager can; it’s of a prisoner on the run, Eric Oxenhope, otherwise known as “Ox”.’

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He took the file, opened it and began reading it aloud. ‘28 years of age. Last known address 266 Gosforth Road, Whitley Bay; 12 previous convictions for … oh … erm … yes.’ His voice dropped as his interest waned. He turned to the next page in the file and read: ‘ “Oxenhope’s prints were also all over newspaper. Also one other first finger and thumb from right hand of person unknown, thought to be female. Put on file. Handwritten number in pen in margin of page 2, might be helpful.” ’ Angel dropped the file grabbed the thinner EVIDENCE envelope, opened it and pulled out a well thumbed, dried out newspaper in a cloud of aluminium powder. He turned to page 2. Sure enough in the margin was a six digit number. It was written in large handwriting with a blue felt pen.

‘ “603670”, Ahmed. Does that number mean anything to you?’

‘No, sir. Is it a phone number?’

‘It could be. Find out what it is, lad. I’m going home. Be back in an hour or so. Ring me if anything urgent comes in.’

It was 10.22 a.m.

After a shower, a shave, a clean shirt, two cups of tea and two slices of fresh toast and butter, Angel was as pleased with life as a man guilty of murder, being awarded an ASBO.

He got in his car and returned to the station.

As he opened the office door, the sun was shining in through the window. The shadow formed a hopscotch pattern on the parquet floor. The room smelled of microwaved dust and fingerprint ink. He realized how hot it was. He opened the window and part closed the Venetian blinds. He took off his jacket and put it on a coat-hanger on the side of the stationery cupboard.

The phone rang. He leaned over the desk and picked up the receiver. It was Taylor. He sounded pleased about something.

‘I have examined the clothes and personal effects of Simon Spencer, sir, and have taken various specimens and examined them, but found nothing to link him with Harry Harrison.’

Angel was deflated.

‘Oh?’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘Right, Don.’

‘But I have found tiny spots of blood on both the left and right shoes of a pair of trainers taken from the farmhouse,’ he added brightly. ‘And I have managed to isolate a sample of the blood and can confirm that it is from the dead man, Harry Harrison. I don’t know who the owner of the shoes is, but they are size 10, and they were found at the right hand side of the hearth in the kitchen.’

Angel’s face brightened. ‘Ah. Right, Don. Thank you. So that definitely puts Spencer out of the frame. The murderer of Harrison is the owner of that pair of trainers.’

‘That’s it, sir, exactly, and my money’s on Eddie Glazer.’

Angel smiled, thanked him again and replaced the phone. He rubbed his chin a moment and then picked up the phone and tapped in a number.

Ahmed answered.

‘Is DS Gawber there?

‘No, sir.’

‘Put a call out for him, and then come on in here.’

‘Right, sir.’

A minute later a smiling Ahmed came into Angel’s office. ‘I must have missed you coming in, sir. I think I have found an answer to that number.’

‘Right, lad. Good. What is it?’

‘The telephone company say that that number is almost certainly a Bromersley subscriber because it doesn’t fit any other exchange in South Yorkshire.’

‘Right, Ahmed,’ he said. ‘Well done. Now go to the officer on the front desk and ask for a charge sheet for a Simon Spencer at present in Bromersley General and address unknown. The charge is fraud. I might find a few other charges to add onto it, but that’ll do to hold him, when the hospital discharges him.’

Ahmed made for the door.

‘And see if you can find Ron Gawber on your travels,’ he added as he reached out for the phone.

‘Right, sir.’ The door closed.

Angel tapped in 9 for a dialling tone for an outside line, then 141 so that the station number wouldn’t be given out, then the six-digit number. He sat back in the chair and rubbed his chin. He had no idea who might be answering. He had no idea whom he was calling, but he had been through this exercise a thousand times in this business.

The phone was soon answered. A pleasant-sounding woman’s voice said, ‘Webster’s Holiday Caravans. Can I help you.’

Angel frowned. ‘Can I speak to Harry, please?’ he said.

There was a short pause and then she said hesitantly, ‘Did you say Harry?’

‘Yes, please.’

He licked his lips as he wondered what she was thinking.

There was another pause.

‘I think you must have got the wrong number. There’s nobody here of that name, now, sir.’

Angel smiled: he wasn’t a bit surprised.

‘We did have a Harry Shaw working for us, but he left two years ago,’ she added.

‘No. That wasn’t the name,’ Angel said. ‘But anyway, I was thinking about a caravan holiday,’ he lied.

‘You need to speak to our Mr Webster. He’s busy with a customer. Can I get him to call you back?’

‘Is that Graham Webster?’

‘No. It’s Mortimer, actually.’

‘Oh? Mortimer Webster, of course. No. I’ll ring back later on today. Or I might call in. What’s the exact address again, Miss?’

‘Goat Peg Lane, off Kingsway. We are at the end. You’ll see a lot of caravans on your right hand side. Sheltered on three sides with trees. It’s a lovely site. You can’t miss us.’

‘Right. Thank you. Goodbye.’

He replaced the phone slowly and thoughtfully.

There was a knock at the door. It was Gawber.

‘Come in, Ron. Right on cue.’

He updated him. He told him about the number in the newspaper and said that the gang might be connected with Webster’s caravans.

‘But it may have nothing to do with it, sir. That number might be the combination number of a railway station security locker, or some other locker, or a bank account, or just about anything.’

Angel wasn’t pleased. He knew that what Gawber had said was perfectly valid. But he was desperate. Clutching at straws.

‘Just because it was obvious, doesn’t make it wrong.’

‘No, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘Of course not.’

Angel stood up and reached for his jacket. ‘Well, it’s a lovely sunny day. Do you fancy looking over a caravan? We could take afternoon tea out in the country.’

Gawber frowned. This wasn’t the Angel he knew.

Angel drove the BMW along Kingsway and down the narrow, twisted track called Goat Peg Lane. The lane was in need of resurfacing, so he had to approach slowly. They soon passed a neat and simple sign that read: ‘Webster’s Caravans.’

‘Been down here before, sir?’ Gawber said.

‘No. I hope we can turn round at the end. Don’t relish reversing back all this way.’

The lane twisted and turned and eventually opened out revealing a long, white-painted, breeze-block building with a big sign announcing that they had arrived at a three-star caravan site big enough for 120 caravans and that it was owned by a Mortimer Webster. Beyond it, they could see trees, which appeared on three sides and sheltered an area where there were forty pitched towing caravans. Spaces for more caravans led away, as far as the eye could see. There were a dozen or so motor-caravans grouped together at the back. Some of the towing caravans had small canvas tents erected around their doorways, while some had cars parked next to them and people enjoying the sun in deckchairs or sunbathing on the grass. All the vehicles were in neat rows, facing south. In spaces where there were no caravans, small weather-protected posts in the ground with sockets for electricity to be supplied to the vans could be seen standing in the manicured turf. In addition, there were several cars and caravans travelling slowly on the service roads between the pitches. They were clearly arriving, or leaving the site for other pastures.