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

motive?’
    Crisp’s mouth dropped open.
    Then he said, ‘No witnesses, sir. No forensic. The man is not known to us. I don’t know what the motive was. Kids trying their arm, I expect, then getting scared and running off.’
    Sticking his jaw out, he shook his head and said, ‘Is there anything more you can do to find out who attacked this poor chap?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜Right,’ he snapped. ‘Well, let’s move on. Push off and file your report while it’s fresh, then come back here. I’ve an urgent job for you. It should have been done yesterday. I want you to go to York to find a man.’
    Â 
    Angel managed to clear some of the paperwork off his desk and then strolled down the corridor, out of the rear door to the station vehicle park. He got into his car and drove it to The Fat Duck for a change of scene. It was only a three-minute trip from his office and was his favourite pub. He hoped he might bump into a snout he knew, who might have been able to supply him with a tasty morsel of underworld gossip. He would have particularly liked any information about Joshua Gumme and his recent activities. In any event, the informant didn’t show. He met several familiar friendly faces, exchanged a few courtesies and indulged in a pint of Old Peculier, a meat pie and several slices of black pudding stabbed conveniently with cocktail sticks offered on the bar.
    Through the friendly chatter, mostly about football, he heard a phone ring. It was his mobile. He dived into his pocket, turned away from the bar and the noise and made towards the door. He pressed the button and checked the LCD screen.
    It was Harker.
    Angel blinked. It wasn’t usual for the superintendent to contact him on his mobile. He wondered what was wrong.
    He quickly pressed the speak button.
    â€˜Angel here. Yes, sir?’
    â€˜Another post office van driver attacked,’ Harker bawled, ‘while emptying a postbox on Earl Street! His van stolen. Uniformed are there. I’ve sent Crisp, but I want you in on it. It’s getting very worrying.’
    â€˜Right, sir.’
    Angel agreed: physical attacks in daylight hours were always extremely worrying.
    He closed up the mobile, emptied his glass, ran out of The Fat Duck, got into his car, pulled out of the car park, turned left into Sheffield Road, then left again into Earl Street. Apart from a dress shop on the corner, Earl Street consisted entirely of houses, mostly terraced.
    He couldn’t see any signs of police vehicles, or a postbox. He changed up to top gear and put his foot down on the accelerator. The long street had a dog’s leg bend towards the bottom of it. He followed it round to reveal an ambulance, a marked police Range Rover and Crisp’s car parked at the side of the road, one behind the other. Fifteen people were clustered around something on the pavement. He sped up to the scene, stopped and got out of the car. He could hear Crisp despatching six PCs on a house-to-house enquiry. Big PC John Weightman was waving his arms expansively and saying, ‘Did anybody see what happened? Come along now, if you didn’t see the assault, please move along. Thank you. Did you see anything, sir?’
    Angel forced his way through the crowd.
    â€˜Police, excuse me, sir, madam. Please let me pass. Thank you.’
    He reached the centre of the throng and could now see two medics, one in blue and one in predominately white, crouched over the still figure of a middle-aged man on the pavement, fixing a collar block round his neck, a stretcher by his side, and behind them a letterbox with its door wide open, half filled with post and a few envelopes scattered on the pavement.
    Crisp spotted his boss and made his way across to him. Angel saw him.
    â€˜Ah, Crisp. What happened? Anybody see what happened?’
    â€˜No, sir. Looks like while the postman was emptying the letterbox, somebody assaulted him and stole his