wheel.
Angel pursed his lips. He thought that the face was hard, important looking and brutally handsome. The face of a thinking, intelligent man, not necessarily a good man; definitely not the face of a backstreet scrapdealer.
‘I have found four bullet holes. Two in the head, then one in the arm and one in the chest. No powder burns, so the gun was fired well back. More than eight or ten feet, probably much further.’
‘Can you work out the projectile path?’
He nodded. ‘At a rough guess, I’d say they all came from somewhere over there.’
He pointed to a small roadworks site about sixty feet away from the scrapyard gates.
Angel nodded and noted the spot.
‘Time of death, Mac?’
‘Not long. Not long at all. Minutes. Less than an hour.’
Angel nodded.
‘There might be a lot more info when we open the car door.’
A car arrived.
It was DS Gawber. Angel had phoned him to meet him here before he had changed into his suit.
Gawber took in the scene, saw Angel at the marquee entrance and made straight across to him.
‘Sorry to drag you out, lad, on a day like this,’ Angel said.
‘Don’t mind, sir. Brother-in-law and his wife for lunch. And their noisy kids. Went on a bit. Glad to get away from them.’
Angel smiled briefly then pointed at the corpse. ‘Seems that the driver was coming into these premises. That’s why the car is across the pavement at this oblique angle. The gate’s probably locked. In which case he would have stopped the car, got out, unlocked the gates, returned to the car, got in it and before he re-started the engine, he got a shower of bullets.’
‘A shower, sir?’
‘Mac says at least four. The shots came from the general direction of the roadworks site over there.’
Angel walked over to a hole at the side of the road. There was a ‘Road up’ sign. Eight cones surrounded a hole about four feet square by four feet deep with a black gas pipe with some small apparatus with a dial on it showing. Next to the hole were a concrete mixer and a heap of the earth that had recently been excavated. The small site had red and white barriers and stood surrounded on three sides of it.
He stood on the pavement, looked across at the white marquee over the Bentley, and tried to align himself to where the gunman probably stood.
‘About here, Ron?’ Angel called.
Gawber looked in both directions then held up two thumbs.
Angel looked downwards. To his right, on the road he saw a cluster of spent handgun shells, and in front of him something that really surprised him. He crouched down and peered at it open mouthed.
Gawber saw that he had spotted something interesting. He went over and looked down to where Angel was looking. ‘What is it, sir?’
Angel pointed into the brown and yellow soil. ‘A footprint, a footprint of a bare right foot,’ he said. ‘Our murderer was bare footed.’
The footprint was clear in the small pile of clayey soil. The shape was unmistakable; it was certainly that of a bare right foot, distinctly showing the toes and an impression that included the heel.
The two men looked at each other. It was hard to believe. Neither could find anything to say.
Angel wrinkled his nose. He stood up and looked around him. ‘Tape this area off, Ron. This entire street end should have been given crime scene status.’
‘We need more men, sir.’
‘Aye. Tell that to the super. He’s out, being wined and dined.’ He pointed to the marquee. ‘Tell Don Taylor I want him urgently.’
Angel quickly directed DS Taylor, who was in charge of SOCO at Bromersley, to take an appropriate cast of the foot with plaster of Paris, while Gawber had the end of the cul-de-sac taped off with DO NOT CROSS – CRIME SCENE tape closing off that section of the street.
Angel and Gawber began the important business of the door-to-door. They each took one side of the road up to about ten houses along. This was a job usually allocated to more junior members of the force but was an
Angel pursed his lips. He thought that the face was hard, important looking and brutally handsome. The face of a thinking, intelligent man, not necessarily a good man; definitely not the face of a backstreet scrapdealer.
‘I have found four bullet holes. Two in the head, then one in the arm and one in the chest. No powder burns, so the gun was fired well back. More than eight or ten feet, probably much further.’
‘Can you work out the projectile path?’
He nodded. ‘At a rough guess, I’d say they all came from somewhere over there.’
He pointed to a small roadworks site about sixty feet away from the scrapyard gates.
Angel nodded and noted the spot.
‘Time of death, Mac?’
‘Not long. Not long at all. Minutes. Less than an hour.’
Angel nodded.
‘There might be a lot more info when we open the car door.’
A car arrived.
It was DS Gawber. Angel had phoned him to meet him here before he had changed into his suit.
Gawber took in the scene, saw Angel at the marquee entrance and made straight across to him.
‘Sorry to drag you out, lad, on a day like this,’ Angel said.
‘Don’t mind, sir. Brother-in-law and his wife for lunch. And their noisy kids. Went on a bit. Glad to get away from them.’
Angel smiled briefly then pointed at the corpse. ‘Seems that the driver was coming into these premises. That’s why the car is across the pavement at this oblique angle. The gate’s probably locked. In which case he would have stopped the car, got out, unlocked the gates, returned to the car, got in it and before he re-started the engine, he got a shower of bullets.’
‘A shower, sir?’
‘Mac says at least four. The shots came from the general direction of the roadworks site over there.’
Angel walked over to a hole at the side of the road. There was a ‘Road up’ sign. Eight cones surrounded a hole about four feet square by four feet deep with a black gas pipe with some small apparatus with a dial on it showing. Next to the hole were a concrete mixer and a heap of the earth that had recently been excavated. The small site had red and white barriers and stood surrounded on three sides of it.
He stood on the pavement, looked across at the white marquee over the Bentley, and tried to align himself to where the gunman probably stood.
‘About here, Ron?’ Angel called.
Gawber looked in both directions then held up two thumbs.
Angel looked downwards. To his right, on the road he saw a cluster of spent handgun shells, and in front of him something that really surprised him. He crouched down and peered at it open mouthed.
Gawber saw that he had spotted something interesting. He went over and looked down to where Angel was looking. ‘What is it, sir?’
Angel pointed into the brown and yellow soil. ‘A footprint, a footprint of a bare right foot,’ he said. ‘Our murderer was bare footed.’
The footprint was clear in the small pile of clayey soil. The shape was unmistakable; it was certainly that of a bare right foot, distinctly showing the toes and an impression that included the heel.
The two men looked at each other. It was hard to believe. Neither could find anything to say.
Angel wrinkled his nose. He stood up and looked around him. ‘Tape this area off, Ron. This entire street end should have been given crime scene status.’
‘We need more men, sir.’
‘Aye. Tell that to the super. He’s out, being wined and dined.’ He pointed to the marquee. ‘Tell Don Taylor I want him urgently.’
Angel quickly directed DS Taylor, who was in charge of SOCO at Bromersley, to take an appropriate cast of the foot with plaster of Paris, while Gawber had the end of the cul-de-sac taped off with DO NOT CROSS – CRIME SCENE tape closing off that section of the street.
Angel and Gawber began the important business of the door-to-door. They each took one side of the road up to about ten houses along. This was a job usually allocated to more junior members of the force but was an
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