enough for me and it’s good enough for any judge.’
‘You said eighteen before.’
‘So what? She’s had a birthday probably. Anyway, eighteen’s all right.’
If she didn’t deny it, Angel knew he was correct. You could get away with murder in some courts.
‘You haven’t come to argue about the girl, have you?’ Queegley said, taking a drag on the cigarette.
‘No. I want to know where you were last night?’
‘I was here, as usual, of course.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I haven’t no spare to go down the pub any more.’
‘Were you on your own?’
‘Of course I was on my own.’
‘Well you weren’t here all the time. You were seen.’
‘Couldn’t have been me.’
‘You were seen with a big man in a big, black hat. Now who would that be?’
‘No. You’ve got it wrong.’
‘Where is your mate Alec Underwood hanging out these days?’
‘No idea,’ he said. ‘And he’s not my mate. Haven’t seen him for … ages.’
‘You were seen together, Queegley. No point denying it.’
‘You’re wrong. It wasn’t me.’
‘You were seen on Market Street at 1.48 a.m. passing Jeeves the jewellers. You checked the padlock of the middle window.’
Queegley’s jaw dropped.
‘And at 2 a.m. you were seen with your friend parading a coffin round the perimeter of St Mary’s church.’
Queegley started coughing. Smoke from the cigarette seemed suddenly to have caught in his throat. He continued coughing.
Angel ignored the coughing. ‘I can guess who your friend is,’ Angel said. ‘It would be Alec Underwood. The man who, two years ago, got you twelve months inside while he got off scot free. Are you going back for more? If you’ve some scam going with him, you can depend on him dumping you when it gets umpty. Just like he did last time. Did you break in and steal three mahogany coffins from Hargreaves undertakers last Monday night?’
‘No. It wasn’t me,’ he said wiping his wet mouth with an oversize handkerchief.
‘What do you want three coffins for?’
Queegley’s eyes shone like traffic lights. ‘I don’t know nothing about coffins and walking about a churchyard with them. You must be off your trolley. I’m absolutely completely innocent. I’m going straight. I’ve paid my debt to society. You’ve no evidence … you’re just stabbing in the dark. If you’d any evidence, Angel, you wouldn’t come here pussyfooting round asking me daft questions, and looking at my woman to see if you could get me for bedding a lass under age. You’d be here with a warrant as thick as a prison visitor, a pair of handcuffs and a fresh-faced flunky to fit them on to me, so sod off and don’t come back until you’ve got some evidence.’
Angel was not unhappy to leave. The visit had served its purpose. He came away satisfied that Queegley knew all about the coffins, that he was one of the men carrying one round the churchyard, that he was up to something nefarious with Alec Underwood, and that he would be off like a scared rabbit to tell him all about it, asap. When Angel reached his car, he slumped down in the driver’s seat and adjusted the rear mirror so that he had a direct line of vision to Queegley’s front door. Then he switched on the car radio for some light music and waited.
Two minutes later, Queegley appeared. He dashed down the steps, his face the colour of a judge’s robe.
Angel licked his lips in satisfying anticipation.
A few moments later a large silver Mercedes estate car raced past him noisily. He carefully observed that Peter Queegley was in the driving seat.
He started up the BMW.
He kept his distance behind the Mercedes estate, allowing a blue van to overtake him so that it would be the van that would appear mostly in Queegley’s rear-view mirror and not the BMW. That was just in case Queegley was at all concerned that he might be followed. As the convoy made its way through town, the van veered off and Angel allowed a green car to take its place in
‘You said eighteen before.’
‘So what? She’s had a birthday probably. Anyway, eighteen’s all right.’
If she didn’t deny it, Angel knew he was correct. You could get away with murder in some courts.
‘You haven’t come to argue about the girl, have you?’ Queegley said, taking a drag on the cigarette.
‘No. I want to know where you were last night?’
‘I was here, as usual, of course.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I haven’t no spare to go down the pub any more.’
‘Were you on your own?’
‘Of course I was on my own.’
‘Well you weren’t here all the time. You were seen.’
‘Couldn’t have been me.’
‘You were seen with a big man in a big, black hat. Now who would that be?’
‘No. You’ve got it wrong.’
‘Where is your mate Alec Underwood hanging out these days?’
‘No idea,’ he said. ‘And he’s not my mate. Haven’t seen him for … ages.’
‘You were seen together, Queegley. No point denying it.’
‘You’re wrong. It wasn’t me.’
‘You were seen on Market Street at 1.48 a.m. passing Jeeves the jewellers. You checked the padlock of the middle window.’
Queegley’s jaw dropped.
‘And at 2 a.m. you were seen with your friend parading a coffin round the perimeter of St Mary’s church.’
Queegley started coughing. Smoke from the cigarette seemed suddenly to have caught in his throat. He continued coughing.
Angel ignored the coughing. ‘I can guess who your friend is,’ Angel said. ‘It would be Alec Underwood. The man who, two years ago, got you twelve months inside while he got off scot free. Are you going back for more? If you’ve some scam going with him, you can depend on him dumping you when it gets umpty. Just like he did last time. Did you break in and steal three mahogany coffins from Hargreaves undertakers last Monday night?’
‘No. It wasn’t me,’ he said wiping his wet mouth with an oversize handkerchief.
‘What do you want three coffins for?’
Queegley’s eyes shone like traffic lights. ‘I don’t know nothing about coffins and walking about a churchyard with them. You must be off your trolley. I’m absolutely completely innocent. I’m going straight. I’ve paid my debt to society. You’ve no evidence … you’re just stabbing in the dark. If you’d any evidence, Angel, you wouldn’t come here pussyfooting round asking me daft questions, and looking at my woman to see if you could get me for bedding a lass under age. You’d be here with a warrant as thick as a prison visitor, a pair of handcuffs and a fresh-faced flunky to fit them on to me, so sod off and don’t come back until you’ve got some evidence.’
Angel was not unhappy to leave. The visit had served its purpose. He came away satisfied that Queegley knew all about the coffins, that he was one of the men carrying one round the churchyard, that he was up to something nefarious with Alec Underwood, and that he would be off like a scared rabbit to tell him all about it, asap. When Angel reached his car, he slumped down in the driver’s seat and adjusted the rear mirror so that he had a direct line of vision to Queegley’s front door. Then he switched on the car radio for some light music and waited.
Two minutes later, Queegley appeared. He dashed down the steps, his face the colour of a judge’s robe.
Angel licked his lips in satisfying anticipation.
A few moments later a large silver Mercedes estate car raced past him noisily. He carefully observed that Peter Queegley was in the driving seat.
He started up the BMW.
He kept his distance behind the Mercedes estate, allowing a blue van to overtake him so that it would be the van that would appear mostly in Queegley’s rear-view mirror and not the BMW. That was just in case Queegley was at all concerned that he might be followed. As the convoy made its way through town, the van veered off and Angel allowed a green car to take its place in
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