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

dryin’, that’s all. Like I told you.’
    Angel nodded. It was true.
    In a corner were four piles of packets of blank paper, some opened. He also saw an opened box of packs of playing cards with a sample card glued on the outside.
    Angel rubbed his chin when he saw them. He reached out, picked up a pack, opened them, took out the cards, fanned about a dozen of them, and peered closely at the back and then at the face side of them. He pursed his lips, screwed up his eyebrows and shook his head. Slowly, he put the cards back in the packet and returned it to the box. He wondered why they were in the printing room.
    Makepiece watched him in silence.
    Angel turned around. He noticed the spongy uneven sensation of discarded paper underfoot. He looked down to find that he was standing on a half-inch-thick layer of assorted printed waste, guillotine cuts and badly registered pulls, mostly score cards and posters for snooker contests. Angel bent down and delved around underneath. Eventually he stood up, holding several pages of colour magazine quality prints of naked young women in various unusual poses. He pulled a quizzical face and waved them at Makepiece.
    He smiled weakly.
    â€˜Good, ain’t they? I did them. On that,’ he added, pointing to the big machine in the centre of the room.
    Angel shook his head patiently.
    â€˜Notton to do with me,’ Makepiece said. ‘That was some work the boss brought in.’
    Angel let them drop back on the floor and brushed his hands. He then took another look round the room. He didn’t think there was anything more to help him with his inquiries. He rubbed his chin. Then looked at his watch. His face changed.
    â€˜Well, thank you for that,’ he said, making for the door.
    Makepiece smiled and blew out a sigh.
    â€˜I’ll need a written statement in due course. In the meantime, if anything occurs to you that might help me with finding Mr Gumme’s murderer, please get in touch.’
    â€˜Sure. Sure, Inspector, but I told you all I know,’ he pleaded, holding out his hands.
    Angel walked quickly through the snooker hall. There were now about twenty tables in use and Bozo Johnson was busy at the bar ringing up money in the till. The place was buzzing with young men mostly with long hair, jeans, T-shirts and trainers, standing around leaning on their cues, talking, sloshing lager or trying to pot a ball. He ignored the sea of unfriendly glances as he weaved his way through them to the door, and out into the street.

SIX
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    Angel got into his car, drove the few yards up Duke Street to the McDonald’s on the corner, then along to The Feathers. He parked up on the car park and pushed his way through the revolving door and made for the reception desk.
    A young man in a dark suit came up to him.
    Angel leaned over the high desk, flashed his warrant card and quietly said, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Angel. I am making enquiries about a man in a wheelchair who visited the hotel at around ten past eight last Tuesday evening.’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Would that be Mr Gumme?’ he replied promptly. ‘I believe he’s the only man in a wheelchair who occasionally visits the hotel.’
    Angel felt lighter. Gumme was known to the clerk. It was going to be easier than he had thought.
    â€˜Did you see him on Tuesday evening, about eight-fifteen?’
    â€˜Yes, I believe I do remember him. He arrived here with his chauffeur, but he sent him away, rather rudely, I believe. It seemed a bit odd.’
    Angel nodded. That fitted exactly with what Makepiece had said.
    â€˜Did Mr Gumme meet with anybody?’
    â€˜I think he must have done. We were a bit busy with new guests arriving, so I hadn’t my attention on him all the time. He sat over there in his wheelchair facing that alcove with his back to me.’
    Angel was quite enthused.
    â€˜Who was he with? Who did he meet?’
    â€˜I couldn’t see, sir. As I recall,