Angel and the Actress (11 page)

Angel ran his fingers across his forehead. ‘Was Ian a forgetful sort of person? Did he leave things behind on the train or in the hotel or…?’

‘No, Inspector, not at all. He was likely to consider them far too costly to treat casually like that.’

Angel nodded. ‘Hmmm. I can’t think of the significance of that, if there is anything, but thank you, Susan, for letting me know.’

They ended the call.

Angel replaced the phone and scratched his head. Successful insurance was a bit like successful detection
work. It was all about detail, and Angel was thinking that the Indemnity and Life Insurance Company would not have been so delighted with Ian Fairclough if he had not paid proper attention to the nitty-gritty details of his customers’ needs and the myriad conditions and exceptions of insurance companies’ policies. Likewise, he was positive that the man would not have been casual about the whereabouts of his overnight bag of clean clothes and washing tackle.

He was still thinking about this when there was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed. He was carrying a polythene bag with the word ‘Evidence’ printed boldly across it, another small bag and some sheets of A4 paper.

‘I’ve got those six copies of the photograph of Ian Fairclough you wanted, sir,’ he said. ‘And a patrolman handed in this evidence bag and this little bag from the mortuary.’

‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ Angel said.

The young man went out.

Angel looked at the button in the small bag first. It was totally unexceptional. He stood up and crossed to his own overcoat that was on the peg secured onto the side of the green stationery cupboard. He compared the button to those on his own coat. It was near enough the same colour and appearance, but looking at it closely, there were several small differences in the shape, size and patination. He wrinkled his nose, dropped the button into his pocket and returned to the desk. He opened the evidence bag and tipped the contents out. There was a key that looked like a house key, several coins, a mobile phone, a car key, a handkerchief, and a leather wallet containing cash, driving
licence, two credit cards and several business cards. He looked at the contents carefully, then checked over everything again. It all looked perfectly ordinary. There was nothing there to suggest anything different.

He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his chin. His mind wandered away from the contents of Ian Fairclough’s pockets. There were so many loose ends. He wanted to go to Bromersley railway station with the photograph of Fairclough. But something was niggling him. It was something that Flora had said about an hour ago. He remembered the words. They were: ‘A witness had said that at about ten o’clock yesterday morning, she saw a salesman walking up the path of number 33. He was a big man with broad shoulders, in a black or dark-grey overcoat.’ That wasn’t right. It needed some explanation.

He took out his mobile and phoned her.

‘You wanted me, sir?’ Flora said.

‘About what you said earlier,’ he said. ‘How did the witness know that the big man with the broad shoulders was a salesman?’

Flora hesitated. ‘I suppose she assumed he was, sir,’ she said.

Angel squeezed the lobe of his ear and pulled it a few times and said, ‘What’s the name of the witness, Flora?’

‘Mrs Emily Watson. She lives at number 30, next door to Bella Beasley.’

A
NGEL RANG THE
doorbell and a wide-eyed woman opened the door.

He smiled at her and said, ‘Mrs Watson, Mrs Emily Watson? I’m DI Angel, Bromersley Police. I believe my sergeant came earlier this morning.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh yes. It’s good that we have such wide-awake and observant citizens like you around to assist us in our work.’

‘Come in, Mr Angel,’ she said, standing back and pulling the door handle.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘There’s just one little thing about your statement. You told my sergeant that the man you saw was a salesman. I just wondered why you said that.’

‘Well, I believe he was. He was dressed the part and he was carrying something. I couldn’t see exactly what it was. It could have been a garden hosepipe with a spade or a fork. From the angle I was seeing him, his body was shielding it as he walked up the path. He carried it in his right hand, you see. Does it matter? I’m sure he
was
a salesman.’

Angel felt his pulse quicken. He felt a lightness in the chest. ‘Will you show me the window you saw this through?’

‘Certainly. It’s up the stairs. Will you follow me?’

He was shown into the front bedroom and saw that Mrs Watson would have had an excellent view of a man walking up the path. But her view of what he was carrying, if it had been in his right hand and held close, would be mostly out of sight.

‘What makes you think it might have been a garden hose?’ he said.

‘Well, the colour. It was a bright green.’

Angel grinned. ‘Bright green?’ he said.

‘Well, green anyway. There are a lot of greens.’

Angel scratched his head. ‘Indeed there are,’ he said. Then he added, ‘Are you going out at all, Mrs Watson?’

‘No. I shall be in all day, why?’

‘I want to show you something. I’ll be back in ten minutes or so,’ he said. ‘Will that be convenient to you?’

Ten minutes later he rang Mrs Watson’s doorbell again. He smiled at her and said, ‘I have organized a re-enactment of what I believe you saw yesterday. Can we go back upstairs?’

Mrs Watson’s forehead creased. ‘Well yes, erm, I suppose.’

‘It won’t take above a couple of minutes,’ he said.

When they were in position, Angel opened his phone, scrolled down to a number, clicked on it and said, ‘Right, John. Carry on.’ Then he closed the phone.

He turned to Mrs Watson and said, ‘Keep your eye on
the path to number 33.’

Immediately they saw a big man in a raincoat arrive at the gate of the Faircloughs’ house. He was carrying the green vacuum cleaner in his right hand and keeping it close to his side. He opened the gate, walked up the path to the front door, rang the bell, waited, then walked into the house.

Angel looked at Mrs Watson.

She was frowning. She didn’t look happy.

He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Isn’t that what you saw yesterday?’ he said.

‘No. The man I saw was wearing a
black
coat. And he was
bigger
than that man.’

‘I understand that,’ Angel said. ‘That raincoat was the only coat we could get to fit at short notice, but is
that
what you saw being carried up the path?’

‘Oh yes. And that’s exactly the right shade of green.’

Angel smiled. He felt a slight flutter of excitement in his chest. He now had an eye-witness account of a man (and a basic description of him) entering the victim’s house at the time of his murder.

He thanked her, left the house, got into his car and went straight down to Bromersley railway station. He went up to the ticket-office window, showed his badge and ID and said, ‘Can I see the station manager, please?’

The clerk turned to a man behind him. ‘There’s a policeman to see you, Stan.’

The door at the side of the window opened and another man came out. He wore a hat that had the word ‘Stationmaster’ in gold on it. He looked at Angel, took the hat off, scratched his head, put it back on again and said,
‘What’s the matter, Constable?’

Angel produced a picture of Ian Fairclough and showed it to him. ‘Do you recognize this man? I believe he travelled by train from here to London on Tuesday morning and then returned probably yesterday morning.’

‘Come on in,’ the stationmaster said.

Angel stepped into the office and closed the door.

The stationmaster looked at the photograph and said, ‘No. I don’t remember him. We see hundreds of faces every day. Can’t remember them all, you know.’

Angel wrinkled his nose.

‘Just a minute,’ the stationmaster said.

He took the photograph to the man on the stool at the little window. ‘Hey, Jim. He’s asking if we’ve seen this joker anywhere lately.’

‘He’ll be that guy with the fancy suitcase that big detective was looking for. He looks as pure as the driven snow, but underneath I bet he’s a real monster.’

Angel pursed his lips. He tilted his head to one side. ‘What’s all this?’

‘Yesterday, it was,’ the man on the stool said. ‘One of your lot came with a photograph of a crowd of people. Looked like it was taken on a station platform somewhere. Probably blown up from a CCTV picture. There was this man in the distance carrying this brown and white suitcase. I didn’t remember him, but I remembered the suitcase.’

‘What did this man who said he was a detective look like?’

‘You’ll know him. He’s one of
your
lot. He was big. Broad in the shoulders. He wore a black overcoat. Looked
as if he’d been hit in the face with a shovel. He said that he was looking for the man with the brown and white suitcase. Looks like it’s the same man you are looking for.’

Angel’s heart began to race. ‘And were you able to help him?’ he said.

‘Yeah. I had seen the man – well, I mean I’d seen the suitcase – arrive on the 10.13 from Doncaster. I took his ticket. I seem to remember it was from King’s Cross.’

‘You told him that?’

‘Yeah. Then I saw him make for the taxi rank. So
he
pushed off straight to the taxi rank.’

‘What did he do then?’

‘I don’t know. I was busy checking off all the tickets … make sure I hadn’t missed anybody.’

‘Right. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’

The man on the stool grinned and said, ‘Well, tell your patrolman not to give me a ticket if I happen to be going at thirty-two miles an hour on the ring road in the middle of the night.’

Angel grinned. ‘I’m only a constable,’ he said. ‘I can’t do anything about that.’ He came out of the ticket office and went straight outside to the taxi rank.

There were three taxis waiting. He went down each car in turn. He showed the driver the photograph of Ian Fairclough, described the suitcase and told them about the big man with very broad shoulders wearing a black overcoat. None of them could remember seeing anything at all that he had mentioned.

He turned away.

The trail stopped there.

His face went slack and his mouth fell open.

He was thinking about what to do next when he noticed that another taxi had arrived and was unloading some passengers.

Angel advanced towards the driver. He took out his badge and ID and showed it to the driver. Then he went into the spiel.

At first the driver shook his head, then he said, ‘Yesterday morning? About this time? Yeah. I told him I remembered the suitcase and taking the man in the photograph to Melvinia Crescent. I couldn’t remember the number of the house, but I thought I would be able to find it if I went back there. He jumped in the cab and told me to take him there. Anyway, we were going along Wakefield Road and as we were passing Cheapo’s, the supermarket, he suddenly said he wanted to call there and get something, so I took him there. He asked me to wait, so I did. He came out with a vacuum cleaner. He said it had been in a sale.’

Angel’s jaw muscles stiffened. ‘What did this man look like?’

The driver frowned. ‘Don’t
you
know? He was one of
your
men. He was big. Got a face like a boxer. Big nose. Big ears. Tall and he had broad shoulders. He was wearing a black overcoat.’

Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘He wasn’t a policeman,’ he said grimly. ‘He murdered the man in the photograph.’

The driver froze. He put a hand across his chest as if he had a pain. ‘Are you sure?’ he said.

‘Positive. And it’s my job to catch him. Do you think
you could find the house you took him to on Melvinia Crescent?’

‘Yeah. No problem.’

Several minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside 33 Melvinia Crescent. Angel had followed him in the BMW. He stopped, got out and walked up to the taxi driver’s window.

The driver saw Angel approaching. ‘This is it,’ the driver said. ‘I stopped here. He got out with the vacuum cleaner, paid me and I drove away. I never saw him again or thought any more about it until you asked me just now.’

‘What do I owe you?’ Angel said.

‘Forget it. It was a pleasure. Catching the bastard will be worth a million times more than the cost of the journey. I hope you catch him very soon,’ the driver said. Then with a wave of the hand he drove away.

Angel watched him go. ‘So do I,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Before he catches me.’

He looked up at the house and wondered if Susan Fairclough was in. He had a few questions for her.

He made his way up the path and rang the bell.

She opened the door on the chain and was delighted to see that Angel was her visitor.

‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector. Oh do come in. You’re just in time for coffee.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’d like to return that photograph of Ian you lent me.’

‘Go into the sitting room and sit down. I won’t be a minute. The kettle has just boiled.’

‘That’s very nice,’ he said. ‘There are a few questions I’d like to put to you while I’m here.’

‘Of course, Inspector. Anything I can do to help. Make yourself comfortable.’

After a few moments she brought the coffee through. When they were settled she said, ‘Now then, you wanted to ask me something?’

‘Yes. Can you describe Ian’s suitcase for me?’

‘Oh, it was very smart. It was brand new. It was white and brown leather, well, simulated leather. Probably plastic. I bought it from a catalogue.’

He nodded.

‘Why? Is it important?’ she said.

Could be,’ Angel said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have the catalogue, would you?’

‘Might have,’ she said, leaning down to the magazine rack on the floor by the side of the easy chair. She pulled out a few magazines, catalogues and a newspaper, discarded everything except one particular catalogue, whizzed through the pages and eventually came to the page she wanted. She passed the catalogue over to Angel, pointed to the illustration of a two-tone suitcase and said, ‘There. That’s the one.’

Angel looked at it and said, ‘Can I have this illustration?’

‘Tear out the page,’ she said.

He hesitated. She took the catalogue from him, tore out the page, handed it to him and tucked the catalogue back in the magazine rack.

‘Thank you.’

He looked at it again, then put it in his inside pocket between his wallet and an envelope.

‘Is that significant?’ she said.

‘It might be,’ he said, sipping the coffee. ‘Tell me, Susan, was your husband carrying anything valuable in the suitcase … so valuable that crooks might be interested in it?’

‘No, Inspector. Not that I know about. We are not rich. We both had jobs. We were nicely fixed in these hard times, but we’ve nothing of any value. Certainly nothing worth murdering for.’

‘He wasn’t carrying anything for a third party?’

‘You mean like a courier?’ Her eyes suddenly narrowed, then opened wide. ‘You mean
drugs
?’ she said.

‘Well, drugs, money, gold, anything?’

‘No. No. Not Ian,’ she said. ‘He was far too honest and … and far too staid, if the truth were known.’

Angel thought about her reply a few moments, then he said, ‘Have you any idea at all why your husband set off from here on Tuesday, ostensibly to spend two nights in London, then in fact spent only one night there and returned early on Wednesday morning?’

Susan Fairclough stared at Angel open-mouthed. ‘Certainly not, Inspector. Ian was an absolutely genuine man. I’m sure of that,’ she said, splaying a hand across her upper chest. ‘He wouldn’t do anything at all dishonest. You can be certain of that, Inspector. I don’t think he ever did a dishonest thing in his life. He was as near perfect as any human could be.’

Angel was reminded of one of the only two quotations he could remember from Shakespeare. It was: ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

He came out of the Faircloughs’ house not much wiser
than when he went in. He turned the car into Park Road and headed towards Cheapo’s. He had that lead to follow up, too. As he drove along, he was encouraged by the information that had been fed back to him from SOCO, and from witnesses, concerning the Ian Fairclough murder, but was dismayed that there had been so little forthcoming about the Joan Minter case. Following his present lines of inquiry the only information outstanding was from Ballistics. He had already had the account of the history of the Walther used in that murder. There was really only confirmation (or otherwise) that the bullet case had actually come from that gun. Whatever Ballistics said, he couldn’t see that it would open a fresh line of inquiry.

He was still thinking the whole situation over when he turned off the main road and into the massive car park at the front of Cheapo’s. He parked up and went into the store. He showed his ID and badge, asked for the manager and was shown into his office.

‘I need your help regarding enquiries I am making into a recent murder case,’ Angel said.

The young manager said, ‘We’ll do anything we can to assist you, Inspector.’

‘I have information to say that a man bought a green vacuum cleaner here sometime between 10.15 and 11 a.m. yesterday morning,’ Angel said. ‘I want to know what he looked like. Can I see your CCTV for yesterday morning?’

‘Certainly,’ the manager said. ‘That should be easy to find. We could look at the tape from the main door, and if he isn’t there, he’ll most certainly be on the tape from the electrical department.’