Angel’s face flushed.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he bawled, when they were alone. ‘Ahmed has been trying to contact you all day. There’s a murder come in. I needed you. I need every man I can get!’

‘I know, sir.’ He protested. ‘I know. I’ve been phoning you. Every opportunity I had, but you were always engaged. I got called out to a drunk who was causing a disturbance in The Feathers.’

Angel sighed.

‘So what?’

‘Then I got buttonholed by the super. He pulled me in to attend a briefing with some “uniformed” about Reynard.’

Angel blinked.

He always found that whenever Crisp went missing and then eventually turned up, he always had a truly magnificent explanation.

‘Reynard? What about him?’

‘You know, sir. The murderer who always leaves a calling card behind.’

‘I know all about his MO,’ he bawled. ‘What about him?’

‘Information received that he was in the area, sir. It was on the front page of the Yorkshire Mercury. Supposedly been in Leeds last night. A man was murdered.’

‘How do they know? Nobody knows what he looks like, do they?’

‘No, sir. But that’s what it said.’

Angel’s eyebrows had shot up. He hadn’t heard. That was unexpected.

‘And what was the point of the briefing?’

‘To raise the profile of Reynard, sir, and enlist our co-operation. A CDI from SOCA rolled in. They’re marshalling a big operation to try to net him, as they believe there’s every possibility of his turning up around here sometime.’

Angel had had enough of the banter, and he rather wanted to get away from thoughts about Reynard being in or even near Bromersley. Crisp, as usual, had delivered an almost plausible explanation. It would be time-wasting to push the argument any further. Time was precious. There was too much at stake.

Angel sighed and shook his head. He knew he’d been beaten.

‘There’s a woman called Margaret,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve been told she does some cleaning for Prophets and lives in the top flat at the top of Mansion Hill. Find out where she was today … if she was at the Prophets’ house at all. And what she can tell you about the relationship between the murdered woman and her husband. And anything else that might be helpful. See if she knows of the whereabouts of Lady Blessington … her home address and so on. And keep in touch. OK?’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Any questions?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well push off then, lad. See if you can make up for all the time you’ve already wasted!’

Angel’s mobile rang.

‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said, then he ran down the crazy-paving path to his car.

Angel took out his mobile as he watched the young sergeant reach the gate. Although he couldn’t see his face, he knew Crisp would be laughing his socks off at him.

He sighed as he answered the phone. ‘Angel.’

‘It’s Scrivens, sir. Ahmed says to tell you that there’s nothing known on the NPC about Lady Blessington or Charles Prophet.’

‘Right,’ Angel grunted.

‘But I’ve traced the taxi driver. His name’s Bert Amersham. He picked up Lady Blessington just before two o’clock outside Wells Street Baths and took her to 22 Creesforth Road. He then brought her back to the baths an hour later. I spoke to him on the phone. He said he thought there was something wrong when he took her back. She seemed agitated.’

‘Hmmm. Right, Ed,’ Angel said urgently. ‘Wells Street Baths? There’s a job for you, then. Find Lady Blessington.’

Scrivens hesitated.

‘Where would I start, sir?’

Angel blew out an impatient sigh.

‘I don’t know. You’re the detective. You could start at the top of the Blackpool Tower, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or Number Ten, Downing Street. Personally, I would start where the taxi driver said he had dropped her. Now stop wasting time. She’s our number one suspect. For God’s sake get out there and find her!’

Angel closed the phone, shoved it in his pocket, and walked briskly down the path to his car.

He must get to the husband, Charles Prophet, before the poor man heard the tragic news from some other source.

He saw Gawber walking on the pavement. He was carrying a clipboard. They met at the front gate.

‘Nobody saw anything of anybody arriving or leaving Number Twenty-two, sir,’ Gawber said.

Angel’s jaw tightened. He rubbed it.

‘Hmmm. They never do.’

‘There was plenty of gossip.’

‘Oh, yes?’ he said knowingly.

‘Yes. The women had plenty to say about Mr Prophet. All good though. He comes out very well. The perfect husband. The next best thing to Johnny Depp.’

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Charles Prophet: Mother Teresa in Y-fronts, eh? Loaded with money. Stuck with a woman who is blind.’

Gawber nodded wryly. ‘That’s about what they’re saying.’

Angel grunted and then said, ‘I’ve still got to tell that poor man about his wife.’

Gawber was aware that it had to be done.

‘Anybody see Lady Blessington?’ Angel asked.

‘A woman in the house opposite, The Larches, Number Eighteen, says she saw a taxi arrive about two, and a woman in blue get out. She’s seen her before, a couple of times. Medium height. She thought about sixty. Strange dress. Couldn’t get any more detailed description. Nobody else saw anything.’

Angel wrinkled his nose.

‘What’s strange about a blue dress?’

Gawber shrugged.

‘You’d better get after her. I’ve already set Scrivens on to start at Wells Street Baths, that’s where the taxi picked her up and dropped her, but why Wells Street Baths, I wonder?’

He squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb.

‘What attraction could an Olympic-sized swimming pool possibly have for a middle-aged titled lady who is most probably a murderer?’ Angel mused.

‘Swimming, sir,’ Gawber said innocently.

Angel frowned.

‘Swimming?’ he growled. ‘Well do the crawl and find her then. Smartish!’

CHAPTER FOUR

The highly polished brass plaque read, ‘Prophet and Sellman, Solicitors’.

Angel sighed. He pushed open the glass door and walked into a small waiting-room where a pretty young woman was working at a computer. She glanced up at him and smiled. He looked at her more closely. She was a good-looker. He liked what he saw. He pulled out his warrant card and said: ‘I must see Mr Charles Prophet on a matter of great urgency, please.’

She stood up and peered at the card. He noticed her tiny waist and long legs. He wondered why there were so few beautiful girls in the force.

She read the name out aloud.

‘Detective Inspector Michael Angel?’

She had a voice like an angel, and made it sound as if she was referring to somebody terribly important.

‘That’s right, miss,’ he said with a smile.

His eyes drifted down to the third finger of her left hand. There was no wedding ring showing. He breathed in deeply, pulled in his stomach and stuck out his chest.

She looked at him and smiled again. He found himself smiling back. She had full Cupid’s bow lips and dark mysterious eyes. He couldn’t stop looking at her.

‘Won’t keep you a moment,’ she said and deftly manoeuvred her rounded backside round the corner of the desk. He watched her float through a mahogany door to the inner office leaving a cloud of expensive French perfume and ideas that he could get six months in prison just for thinking.

He sighed as he looked round the small waiting-room. He selected a chair near the door and sat down. Then the reason for his visit came back to him. The smile on his face melted away as sight of the wood-panelled wall and the smell of wax polish brought him back to face the awful truth. He was there to investigate a murder and had to tell a man his wife was the victim. He began to consider how he was going to break the tragic news. Although he had done it several hundred times before, it didn’t get easier. There was no textbook way: no magic formula. You simply said what had to be said, gently, and that was all.