back there to help himself to the contents of Wolff’s safe. He couldn’t imagine what was in there. Taylor had said it was a big safe … Wigs, hair, cash? Something that was going to pin-point Wolff’s murderer? He grunted aloud. He would have to wait until tomorrow. It was five o’clock. Might as well call it a day.
Angel was in bed, Mary next to him, both asleep. A distant clock chimed. Angel suddenly woke up. He blinked several times. The bedroom was as black as an undertaker’s hat. He peered at the luminous clock dial on the bedside table. It was two o’clock. He lay still there a moment listening to his own breathing. Then he listened to Mary’s. It was regular, slow and peaceful. He sat up in bed and scratched his stomach. Something had disturbed him. He usually slept like a well-fed Labrador. He noticed his heart was beating faster than usual. Then it came to him in a flash. It was something that had been bothering him all evening. He simply couldn’t shake off thinking about the concealed safe at Peter Wolff’s shop, and how the contents might throw light on the identity of his murderer. He gently peeled back the sheet; he didn’t want to disturb Mary. He put his feet on the pink carpet and fumbled around for his slippers.
Twelve minutes later, he was dressed – in a fashion – and was driving his car into the almost empty park at the rear of Bromersley police station. He let himself in the rear door with his card, dashed up the deserted corridor to his office … switched on the light and made a beeline to Wolff’s filing cabinet standing in the corner.
He had been thinking. Logically, at the time of Peter Wolff’s murder, the keys to the safe had to have been on the victim’s premises. Where else would they have been? SOCO hadn’t found them, so they couldn’t have been there at the time of the search. Therefore they had to have been removed by the murderer or by the police. The only items authorized to be taken from the premises were Wolff’s body and the green filing cabinet. Clearly SOCO would have searched the body, so unless the murderer had taken them with the intention of returning, the only remaining logical place for the keys to be was in the filing cabinet.
Angel purposefully snatched open the three drawers one by one. Each of the drawers, which glided out on runners, was packed with thin green cardboard files suspended on rails and labelled by tags that projected an inch or so from the top of each file. Systematically and carefully he pulled out handfuls of files and their contents from each drawer to see if either of the two unusual-looking keys had been concealed underneath the files in the bottom of the drawer. There was no luck in the top two drawers, but when he lifted files out of the bottom drawer, there, staring at him, were two keys about fourteen inches long. They had a flat castle motif at the end of each key, so he was positive that they must be the ones. His heart missed a beat as he snatched them up, stuffed them into his raincoat pocket, where they protruded precariously. He replaced the files carefully and precisely, closed all the drawers and dashed out of the station.
He hardly noticed the quietness of the yellow-illuminated, deserted streets and the eeriness of the night. His mind was exclusively concentrated on the contents and possible evidence that might be revealed if he was able to open Wolff’s safe.
He stopped the BMW outside 38 Market Street. The wig shop still had blue on white DO NOT CROSS tape across the black burned frontage.
He glanced round for the uniformed policeman who should have been on high profile duty to keep looters and Nosy Parkers and anyone else away. He saw the glow of a cigarette end in the shadow of the covered doorway of the greetings card shop next door to Wolff’s. The red glow suddenly disappeared as a uniformed constable stepped forward.
‘Can I help you, sir,’ a deep voice said.
‘It’s DI Angel, lad. Who are
Angel was in bed, Mary next to him, both asleep. A distant clock chimed. Angel suddenly woke up. He blinked several times. The bedroom was as black as an undertaker’s hat. He peered at the luminous clock dial on the bedside table. It was two o’clock. He lay still there a moment listening to his own breathing. Then he listened to Mary’s. It was regular, slow and peaceful. He sat up in bed and scratched his stomach. Something had disturbed him. He usually slept like a well-fed Labrador. He noticed his heart was beating faster than usual. Then it came to him in a flash. It was something that had been bothering him all evening. He simply couldn’t shake off thinking about the concealed safe at Peter Wolff’s shop, and how the contents might throw light on the identity of his murderer. He gently peeled back the sheet; he didn’t want to disturb Mary. He put his feet on the pink carpet and fumbled around for his slippers.
Twelve minutes later, he was dressed – in a fashion – and was driving his car into the almost empty park at the rear of Bromersley police station. He let himself in the rear door with his card, dashed up the deserted corridor to his office … switched on the light and made a beeline to Wolff’s filing cabinet standing in the corner.
He had been thinking. Logically, at the time of Peter Wolff’s murder, the keys to the safe had to have been on the victim’s premises. Where else would they have been? SOCO hadn’t found them, so they couldn’t have been there at the time of the search. Therefore they had to have been removed by the murderer or by the police. The only items authorized to be taken from the premises were Wolff’s body and the green filing cabinet. Clearly SOCO would have searched the body, so unless the murderer had taken them with the intention of returning, the only remaining logical place for the keys to be was in the filing cabinet.
Angel purposefully snatched open the three drawers one by one. Each of the drawers, which glided out on runners, was packed with thin green cardboard files suspended on rails and labelled by tags that projected an inch or so from the top of each file. Systematically and carefully he pulled out handfuls of files and their contents from each drawer to see if either of the two unusual-looking keys had been concealed underneath the files in the bottom of the drawer. There was no luck in the top two drawers, but when he lifted files out of the bottom drawer, there, staring at him, were two keys about fourteen inches long. They had a flat castle motif at the end of each key, so he was positive that they must be the ones. His heart missed a beat as he snatched them up, stuffed them into his raincoat pocket, where they protruded precariously. He replaced the files carefully and precisely, closed all the drawers and dashed out of the station.
He hardly noticed the quietness of the yellow-illuminated, deserted streets and the eeriness of the night. His mind was exclusively concentrated on the contents and possible evidence that might be revealed if he was able to open Wolff’s safe.
He stopped the BMW outside 38 Market Street. The wig shop still had blue on white DO NOT CROSS tape across the black burned frontage.
He glanced round for the uniformed policeman who should have been on high profile duty to keep looters and Nosy Parkers and anyone else away. He saw the glow of a cigarette end in the shadow of the covered doorway of the greetings card shop next door to Wolff’s. The red glow suddenly disappeared as a uniformed constable stepped forward.
‘Can I help you, sir,’ a deep voice said.
‘It’s DI Angel, lad. Who are
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