The Man Who Couldn't Lose by Roger Silverwood Read Free Book Online Page A

middle of a five-year stretch in Pentonville.
    â€˜Right, sir,’ said Gawber.
    â€˜Take a sneaky look through her shop window, before you go in.’
    Gawber smiled, nodded and made for the door.
    â€˜And on your way out, tell Ahmed I want him.’
    â€˜Right, sir.’
    The door closed.
    Angel sighed, scratched his head and leaned back in the swivel chair. He really must get on with investigating Joshua Gumme’s murder. His next of kin must be informed. Everything else must wait. He would have to delegate more.
    There was a knock on the door.
    â€˜Come in.’
    It was PC Ahaz flourishing a piece of paper.
    â€˜I didn’t know you were back, sir. I’ve got Edmund Gumme’s address and telephone number,’ he said, putting the paper on his desk.
    â€˜Right, Ahmed. Ta. Now, what’s DS Crisp doing?’
    â€˜Don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him this morning.’
    Angel glanced at the note in front of him, picked up the phone and began tapping in the number.
    â€˜Well, see if you can find him and tell him I want him. SAP.’
    â€˜Right, sir,’ Ahmed said as he closed the door.
    â€˜I’ll have to put a collar and lead on that lad,’ he muttered.
    He still had the phone against his ear and was listening to the ringing-out tone. It suddenly clicked and a recorded man’s voice said: ‘This is Edmund Gumme. I regret I am not able to take your call. Please leave a message and your number and I’ll get back to you.’
    Angel hesitated. He didn’t want to leave a recorded message telling him his father had been shot dead and dumped in a river. He put his hand on the cradle and ended the call. Then he tapped in another number. It was ringing out.
    There was a knock at the door.
    â€˜Come in,’ he called.
    The door opened. It was DS Crisp.
    â€˜You wanted me, sir?’
    Angel’s eyebrows shot up. His lips tightened across his teeth. He banged the telephone down in its cradle.
    â€˜Come in, Sergeant. I was just ringing you on your mobile. Where have you been? You’re supposed to be on my team yet I can never get hold of you.’
    DS Crisp’s mouth dropped open.
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been very busy. Maybe my mobile’s faulty again. You had told me to deal with that attack on that postman?’
    â€˜That was ages ago.’
    â€˜It was Tuesday before I got to it, sir. The day before yesterday.’
    â€˜Well, it was only an hour’s job, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜The man was hurt, sir. Had to go to hospital,’ he said pointedly.
    Angel knew already that he was losing the argument. He indicated the chair.
    â€˜Tell me about it,’ he said patiently.
    â€˜Right, sir. Yes. A fifty-eight-year old postman was in a post office van returning from collecting post from letter-boxes in the outlying villages west of Bromersley … Tunistone, Gullbush, Hoylandswaine … round there. It was about seven o’clock Monday evening when he reached his last pick-up point, which was a box in the wall, next to the Frog’s Leap Inn at Midspring. He stopped and while he was filling the sack, somebody hit him on the back of the neck with something hard and he fell on the pavement. When he woke up, he was on a trolley in A and E in the Bromersley General.’
    â€˜Was he badly hurt?’
    â€˜Nasty bump on his head. He was off work three days.’
    â€˜What was taken?’
    â€˜Nothing. The van was not touched, and the post seemed all right. There was a bit of a panic when the manager couldn’t find the postman’s keys, but the next day they turned up in the gutter not far from where he fell.’
    Angel ran his hand across his mouth.
    â€˜So what did you do?’
    â€˜Nothing more I could do. The man could have died.’
    â€˜Yes, but he didn’t. Have you any witnesses? Any forensic? Is the postman known to us? What’s the