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then?’
    ‘Only a salesman trying to get Mr Razzle to change who he gets his gas from. We get them at home every week.’
    ‘Have you been in his workshop?’
    ‘Oh yes. I’ve seen the robot he was building. I don’t like it. It might be very clever, but I don’t like it. I think the idea of building an artificial man is … is against nature. Nothing good will ever come of it. It will murder again given the opportunity. You’ll see.’
    Angel noted her indignation. He wasn’t inclined to say anything.
    ‘Did Mr and Mrs Razzle get on well together?’
    ‘As well as any other married couple, and better than most, I suppose.’
    ‘Well, did you ever see them have a row or an argument?’
    ‘No. Not them. Mindst you, they seemed to have the ideal arrangement. He worked all day down in his workshop, while she was on the floor above learning lines, exercising, or topping up her tan under a sunlamp. I think they usually spent the evenings together, when she wasn’t working. She is a very successful actress, you know. Never off the box. Comes from a well-to-do family. Her uncle is Sir Jack Prendergast, boss of Frescati Fashions. They often go to posh dinners and dos like that.’
    Angel wrinkled his nose. He was grateful for the information. Then he remembered that that name, Sir Jack Prendergast, had appeared recently in Police Review . Sir Jack had been one of the victims of a spate of country-house robberies. He had been robbed of five million pounds’ worth of antiques including paintings, and gold snuffboxes.

FOUR
    Angel drove the BMW to The Manor House on Creesforth Road. He parked it behind SOCO’s big unmarked white van next to a Range Rover. A uniformed PC on the front doorstep threw up a salute as he approached the house.
    ‘Good afternoon, sir.’
    ‘Good afternoon, Constable,’ Angel said.
    The front door opened and another PC dressed in white disposable paper overalls, boots, cap, face mask and gloves came up to him and said, ‘I heard your car, sir. This way, please.’
    Angel nodded, stepped into the house and said, ‘Have you any gloves for me?’
    The SOCO opened a patch pocket on his chest and withdrew a thin sealed white paper packet.
    ‘Ta,’ Angel said. He tore the packet top and pulled out a pair of white rubber gloves and put them on as he stood there looking down the long hall.
    The uniformed PC closed the door behind them.
    The constable walked down the middle of a one-metre-wide plastic roll laid down the centre of the hall. Angel followed at a more leisurely pace, looking round at the many pictures and paintings on the walls above dark oak panelling. He was also taking time to absorb the atmosphere of the house. He stopped after a few yards, looked back, lifted his gaze above the front door lintel and said, ‘Hey, lad. Where is the CCTV camera?’
    The constable stopped, turned and walked back up to Angel. ‘There’s no tape in it now , sir.’
    ‘No. I daresay. But where is it, exactly?’
    The constable pointed in the general direction of the area above the door. ‘ There , sir.’
    Angel stared and stared. All he could see were pictures and picture frames. He walked back towards the door and eventually made out its characteristic shape among all the framed art. He stared at it a moment, grunted and moved on.
    The constable directed him into the kitchen and through the door to the basement.
    As Angel stepped down the wooden steps, his eyebrows lifted when he saw the big open door of the cellar workshop.
    DS Taylor came out to meet him.
    ‘Sir.’
    ‘A very impressive door, Don.’
    ‘Protecting very expensive technical equipment, sir. There’s stuff here they probably wish they had at NASA.’
    ‘Where’s the CCTV camera? The one supposed to be covering this access.’
    ‘In the corner, behind that cowling.’
    Angel peered up and saw a small sheet of card or tin or aluminium that had been secured to the ceiling and painted white. It partly hid the camera, which he