Angel saw Crisp and said, ‘Come in, lad.’

Crisp and Gawber exchanged nods.

Angel called, ‘Let me know if you find out anything.’

‘Will do, sir,’ Gawber said as he went out. Crisp closed the door behind him.

‘Sit down. Now this woman, Margaret something or other. You found her all right?’

‘The name’s Margaret Gaston, sir. What a girl,’ he said with a big smile.

‘Gaston. Right. Did she call at the Prophets’ at any time yesterday?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No?’ Angel said and rubbed his chin. ‘What else did you find out?’

‘Ah, well sir, she’s a good-looking lass, about twenty-five with a great figure. She has long blonde hair, and—’

‘You weren’t supposed to be checking her out for the position of the next Mrs Crisp!’

‘No sir,’ he said, trying to stifle a smile. ‘Well, she’s got a young son aged about two and she lives on her own in this small flat at the top of Mansion Hill, number 19.’

‘A one-parent family?’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘Aye. Go on.’

‘She does a few hours a week cleaning and house-keeping for the Prophets.’

‘Was she at the house at all yesterday?’

‘No, sir. Monday is her day off.’

‘When she’s at the Prophets’, who looks after her little boy?’

Crisp licked his lips.

‘She didn’t say, sir.’

Angel’s jaw tightened.

‘You didn’t ask, did you?’ he growled.

Crisp’s eyes bounced.

‘Never thought about it, sir.’

Angel shook his head. He wasn’t pleased.

‘Did you ask her how well the Prophets got on together?’

‘Yes, sir. She said that she thought they got on well enough. She didn’t know much about it, she said, because she was usually alone at the house with Mrs Prophet during office hours when Mr Prophet was out, at the office.’

‘Did she ever see Lady Blessington?’

‘No. She said she’d never heard of her.’

Angel frowned, then his eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open.

‘Really? Mrs Prophet never spoke to her about the woman?’

‘Apparently not, sir. That’s what she said, anyway. On reflection, it does seem a bit strange. You’d expect her to boast a bit about knowing a titled lady.’

Angel frowned.

‘Wasn’t she ever there when Lady Blessington called?’

‘Couldn’t have been, sir.’

‘Don’t you think that’s odd?’

Crisp considered the question.

‘It could just be a coincidence.’

Angel squeezed an earlobe between finger and thumb. He wasn’t happy about it. He’d never believed in coincidences, not in the murder business.

‘No good asking you if she knew the address of the mysterious Lady Blessington then, is it?’

Crisp shook his head.

The phone rang. Angel reached out for it. It was a young PC on reception.

‘There’s a woman here, sir. Reporting a lodger gone missing. She sounds worried. Inspector Asquith is at the hospital having his sinuses washed out or something. I don’t know quite what to do with her.’

Angel would have liked to have told him; instead, he sighed.

‘Right, lad. Ask the lady to wait. I’ll get DS Crisp to see her.’

He replaced the phone and turned to Crisp.

‘Nip up to reception. A woman reporting a misper. See if you can sort it out smartish. Then come back here.’

‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said and dashed out of the office.

Angel picked up the phone and tapped in a number. It was soon answered. It was DS Taylor.

‘I take it you are still at 22 Creesforth Road? Have you found anything that would indicate the address of this Lady Blessington, Don. We can’t find it anywhere. Nobody seems to know.’

‘Nothing yet, sir.’

‘Is there anything in the place that might help us? A letter, a photograph?’

‘There is a drawer with a lot of loose photographs in a drawer in the sitting-room. They are not in an album. They might include a picture of her ladyship.’

‘Aye. Right. That’d be something to be going at. I’ll send round for them. And have you come across a cheque book or anything that would indicate where Mrs Prophet banked?’

‘Yes sir. The Northern Bank, Market Street.’

‘Right lad. Thank you.’

He replaced the phone. There was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed.

‘Yes, lad. What is it?’

‘Lady Blessington isn’t in Burke’s Peerage, sir. There’s a Blessing, and a Blessingham, but no Blessington.’

Angel nodded.

‘And she’s not in the phone book, sir, or in the voter’s list at the town hall, or on the internet. Do you want me to look anywhere else?’

‘No, Ahmed. I think it is fast becoming clear that our Lady Blessington is no lady, in every sense of the word. We are looking for a woman who is a murderer, untitled, in a powder-blue fussy dress, has blonde hair and appears to be between the ages of forty and sixty.’

Ahmed nodded, but couldn’t think of anything useful to say. He turned to go.

‘Just a minute,’ Angel said. ‘There’s summat else. Go to 22 Creesforth Road and collect a bundle of photographs from SOCO and bring them here. On your way back, I want you to call in at the Northern Bank. Tell the manager we are looking into the murder of Mrs Alicia Prophet and get a copy of statements of her account for the last 12 months and look sharp about it.’

Ahmed dashed off.

The phone rang again. It was Crisp in reception. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir. About this misper. This lady is worried about one of her tenants. He’s been missing a month. Would you have a word? Incidentally, she owns the flats at the top of Mansion Hill, where another of her tenants is Margaret Gaston.’

Angel pulled an unhappy face. He rubbed his chin. He’d plenty on his plate. He really didn’t want to get involved.

‘All right, bring her down. Let’s get on with it.’

CHAPTER FIVE

‘I am Detective Inspector Angel. Please sit down, Mrs-er …’ Angel said.

‘Thank you. My name is Elizabeth Reid, Mrs Elizabeth Reid,’ the tubby Scottish lady said in a raw Glaswegian dialect.

‘I understand that you lease out flats in that block at the top of Mansion Hill and that one of your tenants has gone missing, Mrs Reid? Tell me about him.’

‘Yes, Inspector. A man came to me about three months ago. He was after a bedsit. Mr Harold Henderson his name was. I fixed him up with one on the top floor, number twenty. He seemed a reliable, clean-looking man. He paid me a month’s rent in advance. I made out a rent book in his name. He’s now overdue. I collect, normally on a Tuesday. I’ve called the last four Tuesdays. He wasn’t in. He’s never in. I thought it was odd, so this morning, when he didn’t reply, I used my key to take a look … see what was happening, you know. When I got inside, it was untidy, sink full of pots, dirty clothes all over the place. That’s usually what I find with single men … nothing cleaned or dusted. It looked like he hadn’t been there for weeks … like deserted!’

Angel sniffed. It didn’t seem to him to be particularly significant. ‘Don’t you think he could have taken a holiday?’ he said.

‘If he has, I don’t think he took any clothes with him.’

Angel rubbed his chin. Men don’t need much. He could have bought a clean shirt and underwear as he went along.

‘Another funny thing,’ she continued. ‘He’s moved all the furniture round. He’s put the table by the window and he’s moved the bed to the middle of the room. I ask you, who sleeps in a bed in the middle of a room?’

Angel raised his head. His eyes narrowed.

‘Bed in the middle of the room?’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘It’s crazy, Inspector, isn’t it?’

He looked at Crisp. ‘Come on, laddie. We must have a look at this.’

They were at the flats in a few minutes and climbed the three uncarpeted flights of stairs following Mrs Reid. She led them onto the top floor, along the short landing to a door with the printed plastic numbers, two and zero, gold on black, stuck to the top of the door. She produced a bunch of keys and unlocked the door.