The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel by Roger Silverwood

start making enquiries, Mrs Ahaz. He won’t have got far. Don’t worry. Are you speaking from home?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Are you on your own?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’ll send a WPC to keep you company.’
    ‘There’s no need to.’
    ‘When your son turns up, she can report it to me. Save you the trouble. Now, stay there, by the phone. He might turn up or ring in any minute. And try not to worry.’
    He replaced the phone and dashed out of his office, up the corridor to the end and turned left to the uniformed inspector’s office. He knocked on the door and pushed it open. There was nobody there. He spat out a four letter word. It sounded like ‘well’, but was dry as a bone and as hot as a crematorium. He came out and closed the door. Then from behind, he heard the regular marching of polished boots on a composition floor. Coming down the corridor strutted Haydn Asquith, buttons gleaming, and wearing a smart new flat hat with a big black peak that almost touched his nose. He was the uniformed inspector at Bromersley.
    ‘Haydn,’ Angel said. ‘Just the man.’
    Asquith came up to him and stopped. ‘Looking for be, Michael?’ he said loudly. He was seriously in need of attention to his adenoids.
    ‘I need your help, Haydn. I’ve got a lad missing. Over three hours now. PC Ahmed Ahaz.’
    Asquith raised his head. ‘Yes? I dow him. Nice lad. What can I do?’
    ‘My team are all out. Can you let me have a WPC to liaise with his mother?’
    ‘Yes. Leisha Baverstock. It’ll be overtime for her in an hour.’
    Angel nodded. ‘Ta.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    ‘I need somebody to do the hospitals.’
    ‘The patrol cars can do that. I’ll tell them to report back direct to you. I’ll sort it straight away,’ he said and opened his office door.
    ‘Thank you,’ Angel called.
    ‘He’ll turn up. You’ll see,’ Asquith said, then he gave a quick smile and closed his door.
    An hour later, it was cold, black and foggy outside on the streets of Bromersley.
    In Angel’s office, he watched a fly land on the lamp-shade of the light on his desk. It walked slowly up it, then round the top, then stopped on the brim. It rubbed its back legs together, then just stayed there … impertinently, boldly, defiantly. It just stayed there.
    Angel thought that if he could slyly pick up the big brown envelope, which contained the annual report of the PIA (Police Inspectors’ Association) that was on the pile in front of him, he could give that fly a mighty belt and finish it off, once and for all. His hand moved slowly over the desk. With the absolute minimum of movement, he managed to get a grip on the envelope, slowly lifted it, aimed and was about to belt it one, when it flew away. It went in a zigzag route up to the ceiling then over the steel cupboard out of sight.
    Angel tossed the envelope aside and returned to staring at the paint on the wall. He had been staring at it for too long.
    He heard the church clock chime five. He checked his watch. He had been in the office a good hour; nobody had knocked at the door; nobody had tried to contact him on the phone; he had heard nothing along the corridor outside; everywhere was in absolute silence.
    It was as quiet as a druggie shooting a twist of Class A into a main artery.
    He could have phoned Mrs Ahaz, but that might have stopped Ahmed from getting through to her. He could have phoned his wife, but that would have blocked his phone from incoming calls.
    He was running short on patience. He wouldn’t be able to do nothing for much longer.
    He didn’t have to.
    The phone rang.
    ‘Ah,’ he gasped and snatched it up. ‘Angel.’
    ‘PC Donohue, sir. I’ve been patched through. Inspector Asquith said I should speak to you direct.’
    ‘Yes. Yes,’ Angel said quickly. ‘You’ve news of Ahmed Ahaz?’
    ‘No, sir. I’ve just done the General Hospital on Sheffield Road and I’ve also done Skiptonthorpe Hospital. No young man answering his description has been admitted