The Man Who Couldn't Lose by Roger Silverwood Page B

along the road to Creeford Grange. He raced through the open gates and up the drive. He could see a marked police car, Hotel Echo One, parked right outside the front door.
    The siren high up on the front elevation of the house was deafening. He stopped immediately behind the car and jumped out to find a PC racing towards him from behind the house. On seeing it was Angel, he called, ‘Oh, it’s you, sir. Anybody come that way?’
    Angel could hardly hear him above the siren.
    â€˜Nobody’s come this way,’ Angel bawled. ‘I’ll watch the front.’
    â€˜Right, sir,’ the PC said and rushed back between the side of the house and the double garage building towards the swimming pool.
    Angel watched him go, then suddenly he was startled by a sound and movement close behind. He looked back to see a sleek black Jaguar, its engine purring like a cat gliding to a stop inches from his back. The driver was Ingrid Gumme. She had a face like thunder, her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes flashed like diamonds in the night.
    He stepped forward quickly out of her way and continued to watch the house.
    Mrs Gumme slammed the car door, glanced up at the blue and white siren high on the front elevation of the house, stormed up to Angel and said, ‘What the hell is happening now?’
    Angel didn’t look at her. He kept looking ahead.
    â€˜You seem to have an intruder … triggered the alarm.’
    Two PCs came out of the front door, pocketing their asps. They had obviously drawn a blank. Angel recognized one of them; it was Scrivens.
    They saw Angel with Mrs Gumme and approached them.
    â€˜Access has been made into the house, sir,’ Scrivens shouted over the siren. ‘Kitchen window has been broken. Footmarks scratched the paint on the window bottom. Intruder or intruders wouldn’t have been in long, though. Nobody there now. They’ve been in the bedroom. Dressing table drawers open, stuff pulled out. We’ll just check the grounds. If there’s nothing there, we’ll have a quick tour round the streets nearby. You never know your luck.’
    â€˜Right, Scrivens, ta,’ Angel said as they ran off.
    â€˜Hope they haven’t got my diamond rings,’ Mrs Gumme said.
    Angel pulled out his mobile as he began walking up the stone steps to the front door. He was directly underneath the siren. He stared up at it.
    â€˜Can you switch that racket off, please, Mrs Gumme?’ he called.
    She overtook him and stormed into the house. She went to the small, grey alarm box in the hall, opened the cover and tapped in a four-digit code. The siren stopped: the quiet was a relief.
    Angel made an urgent call on his mobile to SOCO.
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    The phone rang.
    He picked it up.
    â€˜Angel.’
    â€˜DS Taylor, sir, SOCO. About the break-in at Mrs Gumme’s house, sir.’
    Angel’s face brightened. ‘Oh yes, Don. What you got?’
    â€˜Nothing much, I’m afraid, sir. I can confirm that the window at the back of the house was the point of entry. The glass was smashed with a long-handled key used for draining the swimming pool. It was standing in the doorway of an outside service room that wasn’t locked. There were no prints on it. I think there was only one intruder and I think he must have been quite young.’
    â€˜Why do you say that?’
    â€˜Size of the shoe, sir. We haven’t got an actual footprint. We are working on the size of the graze marks on the woodwork. At the widest, they are only four centimetres across.’
    Angel frowned. Sounded very strange. It wasn’t likely a young burglar would cut his teeth on a mansion, with a very conspicuous alarm box, in broad daylight.
    â€˜I reckon he would only be in the house a minute or two,’ Taylor said. ‘Was there much taken, sir?’
    â€˜Mrs Gumme says everything is accounted for.’
    â€˜Sounds fishy, sir?’
    â€˜Not fish, Don. Fruit. Maybe a