Summer was in full swing in Bromersley.

A sign said, ‘All visitors please report to reception.’

The sound of an internal combustion engine driving a lawnmower spoiled the quiet of the summer’s day.

Angel didn’t drive through the entrance. He stopped the car behind the long building and switched off the engine. Gawber and Angel got out of the car, walked through the open gate, stepped up onto a veranda and through the low doorway into the reception office.

A young woman was sitting at a desk behind a high counter. She pushed back her chair and came up to greet them.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I help you?’

Angel gave her a smile. ‘We want to see Mr Webster, miss, if you please.’

The insistent drone of the lawnmower engine became louder as it came closer to the office.

‘Mr Webster is cutting the grass. But I think he’s coming in now.’

The engine died.

‘Yes, he is,’ she said. ‘Please wait here. He won’t be a moment.’

She returned to her desk.

Angel nodded and said, ‘Thank you, miss.’

Seconds later, a middle-aged man in khaki shorts, hat and T-shirt came in to the office. He was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He looked at the two policemen and said, ‘Are you waiting to see me?’

‘Mr Webster?’

‘Mortimer Webster at your service, gentlemen,’ he said loudly. ‘Sorry if you’ve had to wait. Got to keep the damned turf down. A bit of rain and a bit of sun and it grows like fury this time of the year, you know.’

Angel winced. He put up a hand and wagged his first finger at him to invite him to come closer; when he did, Angel leaned over the counter and whispered, ‘I’d like to talk to you on a matter of great confidentiality. Can we go somewhere quiet?’

Webster’s eyebrows shot up. He looked round like a nervous kitten. ‘Oh yes.’

Angel frowned. He put his first finger vertically across his lips, from his septum to his chin. Then he took out his wallet and showed it to Webster, who read it carefully, nodded then without a word pointed to a door. They went through the door into a small room that served as an office.

‘We are looking for a gang of crooks. At least two of them are on the run from prison, and one of them is wanted for murder.’

Webster looked shocked. ‘This is a respectable site, Inspector. I don’t accept any riff-raff.’

‘I am sure you don’t intend to, but a caravan site might prove to be a good hiding place for them. I’d like to take a look round the site and see if I can see them without them recognizing me first.’

‘Of course, you must. But how are you going to manage that, Inspector?’

Angel rubbed his chin. There was a problem.

Ten minutes later, having removed his tie and jacket, opened his shirt collar and turned up his suit trousers, Angel donned Webster’s big khaki hat and sunglasses, climbed onto the high seat of the lawnmower and began driving it up and down the grass pitches of the caravan site.

Gawber returned to the car and waited patiently, keeping the entrance under observation in case Glazer’s mob moved on or off the site.

Angel spent forty minutes on top of the mower, cutting the grass, traversing the site so that he could see every single vehicle without arousing suspicion. He worked his way up to the far end of the site where Webster had an area allocated for extra large caravans or RVs, Recreational Vehicles, as Americans called them.

And there they were. The Glazer gang – all five of them – next to a big American chromium-plated monster.

Angel’s pulse raced. He had to steady his shaking hands on the mower’s handlebar. He drove as close to them as he could. They hardly spared him a glance. Eddie, Tony and Kenny were seated on deckchairs at a round table with a big red umbrella over it. Eddie was reading a newspaper. Tony and Kenny were chatting. Oona Glazer was stretched out nearby on a towel on the grass sunbathing, while Kenny was sitting on the motor-caravan step, smoking a cigarette. Within arms length of each of them was a wine holder with a bottle of Bollinger nestled in it.

Angel turned the mower round and pointed it at Webster’s office. He had a chill in his heart and determination in his belly.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was 4 p.m., Monday, 23 July. It was three hours since Angel had discovered the whereabouts of the Glazer gang and, in that time, not a minute had been wasted.

The sun continued to beat down and it was still very hot.

Through binoculars from the veranda of the site office, Angel observed that the Glazer gang was now pulling out chairs and hovering round the table outside their RV. They appeared to be gathering to eat a meal. That was the sign he had been waiting for. He was planning to drive an unmarked 4 x 4 car, towing a touring caravan along a service road slowly towards them, while, at the same time, another 4 x 4 and caravan, was to be driven by Crisp in his shirt sleeves and open-necked shirt, along a different but parallel service road in the same direction. The two cars and vans were to look like two unrelated family caravans moving to pitches to park and set up for the night.

The moment had arrived. Angel got in the cab of the 4 x 4 and started up the engine. He waved Crisp on and they moved off driving at 10 mph along parallel service roads towards the Glazer gang. It wasn’t far. The journey would take only thirty seconds or so.

Many caravanners were in deckchairs or on towels on the grass applying suncream in the still hot sun. Two young girls in swim suits played a simple ball game with rackets across an unoccupied caravan pitch. Angel was concerned for their safety: this was always the worry when trying to arrest an armed gang in a public place.

The slow, short journey was tense but uneventful. When they were about twenty feet away from Glazer’s RV, both 4 x 4’s stopped as planned. Eight police in riot gear piled out of each caravan at speed, their Heckler and Koch G36C assault rifles drawn and cocked. At the same time, from a loud speaker perched on the roof of Angel’s vehicle, his loud, distorted, commanding voice could be heard.

‘Eddie Glazer, this is the police,’ he said commandingly. ‘You are under arrest. So are your friends. Lie down on the grass, immediately. All of you.’

The Glazer gang looked up from their meal, stunned. They saw the sixteen rifles aimed at them, dropped their cutlery and, wide-eyed, looked across at each other.

People sunning themselves nearby heard and saw what was happening. Some of them bustled their children and their families inside their vans for safety. Some others stood up and gaped at the scene curious or astounded.

The police closed further in on the gang and screamed, ‘Get down. Get down. Get down. Hands on your head. Hands on your head.’

There was a sudden move from Glazer’s brother, Tony. From a kneeling position, he reached out to a pocket in his coat draped around the chair where he had been sitting.

‘Leave it,’ a policeman yelled and a warning shot was fired at the chair. A bullet ricocheted from the chair and made a loud metallic click.

Tony Glazer pulled back his hand. ‘All right,’ he screamed, holding up his hands from a kneeling position. ‘All right. I give up. I give up.’

Everybody on the caravan site heard the rifle shot. More sun-worshippers dived into their caravans or cars for shelter.

‘Get down,’ a policeman yelled at the Glazers.

‘Get down. Get down,’ the call was repeated interminably by the police.

The five members of the gang lay close together prostrate on the grass. The police closed in still directing their rifles at them. Two of the policemen dragged the chairs, with coats hanging on them, wine stand, boxes of wine, Oona’s handbag and the loaded table hastily towards the caravan and away from their prisoners.