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Authors: Roger Silverwood
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been able to have aimed and then fired subsequent rounds effectively.
‘That’s conjecture, lad?’
Angel frowned. He might have expected some argument.
Harker continued: ‘Nobody can possibly be inside somebody else’s brain and know in the last split second of life whether the person is capable of pressing a button or not. What does the CPS say?’
‘There’s more to it than that, sir. Because the first bullet entered the brain, death was virtually instantaneous. The victim would not have had the time, even if he still had the inclination, to change the direction the gun was aiming and press the button that operated the robot’s trigger finger a second time, and then again, a third time.’
‘Did you say it was Mac who put forward this proposition?’
Angel hesitated. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. He knew it wasn’t strictly true. But if he had said it had been his idea, Harker would immediately have rejected it.
Harker rubbed his chin. ‘So the remote control that activated the robot was not in Charles Razzle’s possession the moment when he was shot?’
‘I don’t know that for certain, sir. But probably not. There weren’t any fingerprints. Of course, there may have been another remote control.’
‘Another remote control? That means that somebody else must have been in that workshop?’
‘The murderer. Almost certainly.’
‘But the door … it could only be opened by Charles Razzle?’
‘That’s right, sir. The CCTV has shown up nothing.’
Harker’s small, black eyes made several small movements up and down and then from side to side several times, his mouth open like a goldfish’s.
Angel watched him, wondering what he was thinking.
Then Harker breathed in deeply, let out a big sigh and said, ‘Right. You’d better get on with it then.’
SIX
Angel got into the BMW and pointed the bonnet in the direction of the city of Sheffield. He travelled almost to the far extent of Abbeydale Road before he saw a smart aluminium-and-glass building and big blue letters that read FARLEIGH SECURITY 24 HOURS . He pulled to the kerb at the front and stopped the car. There were yellow lines all along the road and everywhere else he looked. He pulled on the handbrake and switched off the engine. He reached into the glove compartment, took out a printed card and put it under the windscreen. It read: ‘Police on duty. DI Angel. Bromersley Police’.
Then he got out of the car, reached the door of the building and went inside. It was a converted Victorian house, the internal ground floor walls had been knocked down to provide showroom and open office space. An arrow pointed to the reception area. There was a desk at which a pretty girl was seated, looking at a magazine. She was fully engrossed in her reading and didn’t notice him. Angel was good at reading things upside down. He’d had plenty of practice in Harker’s office. She was reading an article headed: ‘How to lose two pounds a week’. He sniffed. She could lose much more than that if she had taken any notice of the tips Mac had given him over the years.
She suddenly looked up, smiled and said, ‘I’m sorry. Can I help you?’
He whipped out his warrant card and badge and said, ‘Detective Inspector Angel. Mr Farleigh is expecting me.’
She flicked her eyelashes up at him. The eyelashes looked attractive but dangerous, like flytraps. He supposed they would be artificial. He thought she didn’t need to lose any weight. She was perfect the way she was.
‘Oh yes. He’ll know you have arrived. I’m sure he’ll be right down.’
Her voice was gentle and sweet. Nice enough to make you want to buy six safes.
In the distance Angel heard a door close and feet clattering down uncarpeted wooden steps, then a man appeared in the doorway. He came straight across to Angel. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Brian Farleigh. Pleased to meet you.’
He shook Angel’s hand enthusiastically.
‘You wanted to ask me some questions about Charles
‘That’s conjecture, lad?’
Angel frowned. He might have expected some argument.
Harker continued: ‘Nobody can possibly be inside somebody else’s brain and know in the last split second of life whether the person is capable of pressing a button or not. What does the CPS say?’
‘There’s more to it than that, sir. Because the first bullet entered the brain, death was virtually instantaneous. The victim would not have had the time, even if he still had the inclination, to change the direction the gun was aiming and press the button that operated the robot’s trigger finger a second time, and then again, a third time.’
‘Did you say it was Mac who put forward this proposition?’
Angel hesitated. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. He knew it wasn’t strictly true. But if he had said it had been his idea, Harker would immediately have rejected it.
Harker rubbed his chin. ‘So the remote control that activated the robot was not in Charles Razzle’s possession the moment when he was shot?’
‘I don’t know that for certain, sir. But probably not. There weren’t any fingerprints. Of course, there may have been another remote control.’
‘Another remote control? That means that somebody else must have been in that workshop?’
‘The murderer. Almost certainly.’
‘But the door … it could only be opened by Charles Razzle?’
‘That’s right, sir. The CCTV has shown up nothing.’
Harker’s small, black eyes made several small movements up and down and then from side to side several times, his mouth open like a goldfish’s.
Angel watched him, wondering what he was thinking.
Then Harker breathed in deeply, let out a big sigh and said, ‘Right. You’d better get on with it then.’
SIX
Angel got into the BMW and pointed the bonnet in the direction of the city of Sheffield. He travelled almost to the far extent of Abbeydale Road before he saw a smart aluminium-and-glass building and big blue letters that read FARLEIGH SECURITY 24 HOURS . He pulled to the kerb at the front and stopped the car. There were yellow lines all along the road and everywhere else he looked. He pulled on the handbrake and switched off the engine. He reached into the glove compartment, took out a printed card and put it under the windscreen. It read: ‘Police on duty. DI Angel. Bromersley Police’.
Then he got out of the car, reached the door of the building and went inside. It was a converted Victorian house, the internal ground floor walls had been knocked down to provide showroom and open office space. An arrow pointed to the reception area. There was a desk at which a pretty girl was seated, looking at a magazine. She was fully engrossed in her reading and didn’t notice him. Angel was good at reading things upside down. He’d had plenty of practice in Harker’s office. She was reading an article headed: ‘How to lose two pounds a week’. He sniffed. She could lose much more than that if she had taken any notice of the tips Mac had given him over the years.
She suddenly looked up, smiled and said, ‘I’m sorry. Can I help you?’
He whipped out his warrant card and badge and said, ‘Detective Inspector Angel. Mr Farleigh is expecting me.’
She flicked her eyelashes up at him. The eyelashes looked attractive but dangerous, like flytraps. He supposed they would be artificial. He thought she didn’t need to lose any weight. She was perfect the way she was.
‘Oh yes. He’ll know you have arrived. I’m sure he’ll be right down.’
Her voice was gentle and sweet. Nice enough to make you want to buy six safes.
In the distance Angel heard a door close and feet clattering down uncarpeted wooden steps, then a man appeared in the doorway. He came straight across to Angel. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Brian Farleigh. Pleased to meet you.’
He shook Angel’s hand enthusiastically.
‘You wanted to ask me some questions about Charles
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