‘Ahmed, how are you making out with that NCOF artist and Miss Costello?’
‘This afternoon, sir. Two o’clock. Here. I thought they’d be all right in the CID briefing room or an interview room if it’s busy.’
‘Sounds good, lad,’ he said and replaced the phone.
It rang as soon as it landed in its cradle. The caller was Don Taylor.
‘We’ve just arrived at Harry Weston’s place, sir, 82 Shaw Street. It’s a scruffy two-room flat, Victorian house split into eight flats.’
‘Well, you’ll have to give it the full treatment, Don. Harry Weston died overnight.’
‘Oh,’ Taylor said. There was an awkward moment while he took in the sad news and the significance, then he said, ‘Well, it still won’t take long, sir. The bathroom’s out for a start. Three other parties share it.’
‘Oh no,’ Angel said. He raised his eyes heavenward and breathed out. That was more bad news. Private bathrooms were usually a good source for DNA. Shared bathrooms would provide all sorts of irrelevant and therefore unreliable samples.
‘What did you get from the scene?’
‘There was nothing we could get the murderer’s DNA from. There were no fingerprints or footprints. Harry Weston was shot in the chest with one round from a .32 handgun. We found the shell case under the ticket-office window. It had been wiped clean of prints before loading. That’s all.’
Angel grunted. ‘About as clean a job as a murderer would wish for.’
‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ Taylor said.
‘Right. What about that crane?’
‘
That
crane,’ Taylor said. ‘Phew! I’m still getting my breath. It wasn’t safe. It swayed in the wind.’
‘You’re getting soft. What did you find up there?’
‘There were no prints, nor DNA, sir. The control box had been jemmied open and a screwdriver jammed between terminals to bypass the power switch. Crude, but effective.’
‘He must have known what he was doing. Let me have the screwdriver when you’ve finished checking it out.’
‘Right, sir.’
Angel replaced the phone and leaned back in the chair. He rubbed his hand slowly over his chin. It was becoming apparent that forensic science was not going to help him solve this case. He was going to have to depend on old-fashioned legwork, intuitive questions and experienced observation.
He suddenly became aware that the bluebottle had started up its monotonous buzzing again. It zigzagged across his desk and made for the closed window. He stood up, reached out for the
Police Review
, rolled it up and was about to lunge into attack when the phone rang.
He turned back and picked up the handset. The caller coughed. Angel recognized the noisy breathing. It was Superintendent Harker.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said, lowering the magazine.
‘It’s a triple nine, lad. A priest found in a bad way in St Mary’s Church vicarage, by his housekeeper, died a few minutes ago. She said a wound to the chest.’
Angel’s head came up. His heart began to pound.
That was the Anglican church closest to the station and regarded as the town church of Bromersley. Angel knew the priest there – Sam Smart, a pleasant, elderly gentleman who wouldn’t harm a fly.
‘Police and ambulance summoned,’ Harker said. ‘Man was pronounced dead in situ at 1006 hours.’
‘Did the housekeeper give the name of the victim, sir?’ he said.
‘Reverend Samuel Smart.’
It hit Angel right in the chest. A gentle man, much loved and respected.
‘There is a uniformed officer from foot patrol in attendance,’ Harker said.
‘Right, sir,’ Angel managed to say then he replaced the phone.
There was a knock at the door. It was Crisp. He came in brightly. He was brandishing the two screwdrivers recovered from the tyres of the stolen removals van. When he saw Angel, his expression changed.
‘What’s the matter, sir?’
Angel breathed in deeply, then exhaled. He told Crisp about the triple nine, instructed him to inform SOCO and the uniform branch, and then to
‘This afternoon, sir. Two o’clock. Here. I thought they’d be all right in the CID briefing room or an interview room if it’s busy.’
‘Sounds good, lad,’ he said and replaced the phone.
It rang as soon as it landed in its cradle. The caller was Don Taylor.
‘We’ve just arrived at Harry Weston’s place, sir, 82 Shaw Street. It’s a scruffy two-room flat, Victorian house split into eight flats.’
‘Well, you’ll have to give it the full treatment, Don. Harry Weston died overnight.’
‘Oh,’ Taylor said. There was an awkward moment while he took in the sad news and the significance, then he said, ‘Well, it still won’t take long, sir. The bathroom’s out for a start. Three other parties share it.’
‘Oh no,’ Angel said. He raised his eyes heavenward and breathed out. That was more bad news. Private bathrooms were usually a good source for DNA. Shared bathrooms would provide all sorts of irrelevant and therefore unreliable samples.
‘What did you get from the scene?’
‘There was nothing we could get the murderer’s DNA from. There were no fingerprints or footprints. Harry Weston was shot in the chest with one round from a .32 handgun. We found the shell case under the ticket-office window. It had been wiped clean of prints before loading. That’s all.’
Angel grunted. ‘About as clean a job as a murderer would wish for.’
‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ Taylor said.
‘Right. What about that crane?’
‘
That
crane,’ Taylor said. ‘Phew! I’m still getting my breath. It wasn’t safe. It swayed in the wind.’
‘You’re getting soft. What did you find up there?’
‘There were no prints, nor DNA, sir. The control box had been jemmied open and a screwdriver jammed between terminals to bypass the power switch. Crude, but effective.’
‘He must have known what he was doing. Let me have the screwdriver when you’ve finished checking it out.’
‘Right, sir.’
Angel replaced the phone and leaned back in the chair. He rubbed his hand slowly over his chin. It was becoming apparent that forensic science was not going to help him solve this case. He was going to have to depend on old-fashioned legwork, intuitive questions and experienced observation.
He suddenly became aware that the bluebottle had started up its monotonous buzzing again. It zigzagged across his desk and made for the closed window. He stood up, reached out for the
Police Review
, rolled it up and was about to lunge into attack when the phone rang.
He turned back and picked up the handset. The caller coughed. Angel recognized the noisy breathing. It was Superintendent Harker.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said, lowering the magazine.
‘It’s a triple nine, lad. A priest found in a bad way in St Mary’s Church vicarage, by his housekeeper, died a few minutes ago. She said a wound to the chest.’
Angel’s head came up. His heart began to pound.
That was the Anglican church closest to the station and regarded as the town church of Bromersley. Angel knew the priest there – Sam Smart, a pleasant, elderly gentleman who wouldn’t harm a fly.
‘Police and ambulance summoned,’ Harker said. ‘Man was pronounced dead in situ at 1006 hours.’
‘Did the housekeeper give the name of the victim, sir?’ he said.
‘Reverend Samuel Smart.’
It hit Angel right in the chest. A gentle man, much loved and respected.
‘There is a uniformed officer from foot patrol in attendance,’ Harker said.
‘Right, sir,’ Angel managed to say then he replaced the phone.
There was a knock at the door. It was Crisp. He came in brightly. He was brandishing the two screwdrivers recovered from the tyres of the stolen removals van. When he saw Angel, his expression changed.
‘What’s the matter, sir?’
Angel breathed in deeply, then exhaled. He told Crisp about the triple nine, instructed him to inform SOCO and the uniform branch, and then to
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