Angel and the Actress (13 page)

His face tightened. ‘
I know. I know
,’ he said. ‘
I know
what potted meat is.’

‘He’s dead now,’ Angel said, ‘Also Leo Altman, another actor. And a prominent producer, Erick Cartlett.’

Harker said, ‘All right, all right. That’s enough. What about the other case?’

‘The other case is the murder of Ian Fairclough,’ Angel said. ‘A man found in his own home, also killed by a gunshot. Can’t find a motive for his murder. Again, there’s
no forensic, but the dead man was found to have a black overcoat button in his closed fist. But it’s a very common colour and size. However, if we can arrest a suspect, and he has a missing button on his coat, then it would become a powerful piece of evidence. Also, we have a witness and some CCTV of the man we believe is the murderer. Unfortunately the picture is only of his back. However, he is wearing a black overcoat.’

Harker peered across at him through small round spectacles. The glass of one lens reflected the light intermittently, causing Angel to narrow his eyes from time to time.

‘So the great almighty Inspector Angel is not as great and almighty as all that, then?’ Harker said. ‘All that stuff that you feed the newspapers and magazine journalists is just so much blether, then, is it? The parallel drawn by some smart-arse reporters with you and the Canadian Mounties is only so much more flannel. Huh. The man who always solves his murder cases can’t solve two in a row. Well, well, well. What have you to say to that?’

Angel didn’t know what to say. His face was red. There was a fire raging in his chest, but he knew it would not pay him to say what he thought. Eventually he answered in a controlled, even voice. ‘I do the best I can,’ he said. ‘I expect to make an arrest for the murder of Ian Fairclough quite soon.’

Harker smiled.

It was very unusual, Angel remembered. It was said that every time Harker smiled a donkey died.

‘Do you want me to pass the other case on to another detective?’ Harker said.

Angel frowned. He couldn’t think of who he might be thinking of. Inspector Asquith wasn’t a detective, and besides, he had plenty to do. The uniformed division was a much bigger section than CID. He surely wasn’t thinking of DS Crisp, DS Carter or DS Taylor? There was nobody else he could think of. He would have to reply very soon. And there was only one answer.

‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Of course not.’

‘I was thinking, maybe a fresh face to the problems?’ Harker said with a grin. He was enjoying the barracking.

‘I don’t think so, sir.’

‘Well, Angel, I will have to do
something
. What do you suggest?’

Angel sighed. ‘I still have some ideas of my own, sir,’ he said. ‘I have by no means exhausted my investigations.’

Harker shook his head, but he was still smiling. ‘I think you have, lad. I think you’ve hit a brick wall. I’ve been too lenient with you. Let you have your head far too long. I may have to rein you in.’

Angel felt very much like a mouse being played with by a cat. He decided to call his bluff. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘If you want me to relinquish the cases, I can do that.’

‘Aaaaah!’ he said, his eyes shining like searchlights. ‘I
thought
you were beaten. I said all along that—’

Angel was furious. ‘I am
not
beaten. Far from it. I expect to be able to solve both of these cases given the time and the opportunity. You seemed to want me to leave these cases, so I offered to get out. That’s all.’

‘You mean resign from the force?’

‘Certainly
not
!’

Harker pursed his lips. ‘Well, Angel, what
do
you
mean? We seem to have reached an impasse.’

‘There’s no impasse,’ Angel said. ‘If you let me get on with it, I think I can solve those cases in a week or so, sir.’

‘I suppose out of respect for the lifetime’s service your father gave to the force and your service of twelve years, I could—’

Angel corrected him. ‘Sixteen years.’

‘Sixteen years, then, I could allow you a little leeway. I’ll give you four days. I expect you to have solved the murders and charged somebody, approved by the CPS, by next Monday. Now I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

Angel’s eyes shone. ‘That’s only
two
working days,’ he said. ‘I said a week.’

‘That’s the best I can do, Angel.’

A
NGEL STORMED HIS
way down the corridor in the direction of the CID office. Ahmed was by the door seated at a computer. When he saw Angel, he jumped to his feet.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ Ahmed said.

‘I am looking for Flora Carter.’

‘I’ll find her, sir. Or she might have gone out.’

Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘I hope not. I want her urgently.’

‘Right, sir,’ he said, and he rushed off.

Angel then made his way to his own office. He reached the desk and sat down. He took a sheet of Bromersley Police printed letterhead and wrote the following by hand.

When he had finished he looked at it, nodded with satisfaction, reached out for an envelope and addressed it.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ he said. It was DS Carter. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘Right on cue,’ he said, and he handed her the handwritten letter. ‘Read that, Flora,’ he said.

She read it and looked at him with narrowed eyes and a crinkled brow.

He told her about the leak of information that was finding its way to the
Daily Yorkshireman
.

‘And what do you propose to do with this letter, sir?’ she said.

‘I have not told anybody that my wife is away, Flora. At the moment, only
you
know. By tomorrow morning, I expect all of Yorkshire to know. But until then, keep it to yourself. This letter is part of a trap. I expect to catch two
birds with one stone.’

Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth dropped open. ‘How’s that going to work, sir?’

‘I’ll tell you. I need your help.’

Angel’s pulse rate increased as he explained how he knew that somebody in the police station was giving or selling inside information to the
Daily Yorkshireman
. He detailed the plan he had to catch the rogue and, at the same time, hopefully, the murderer of Ian Fairclough. He told her he had not discussed any of this with anybody else and insisted that she did not tell anyone of the plan.

She listened attentively and readily agreed to keep silent. She was delighted to be his confidante. She asked a couple of questions and was satisfied with the answers and so the plan was triggered into action.

Her eyes sparkled and she felt a lightness in the chest.

‘You’d better push off, Flora,’ he said. ‘You’ve a few things to see to, and so have I. Send Ahmed in to me, will you?’

She smiled, nodded and said, ‘Right, sir.’

She bounded out of the room and closed the door.

Angel folded the letter to the professor in Wetherby, put it in the addressed envelope and sealed it.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in.’ It was Ahmed.

‘I’ve been through to Records, sir,’ he said. ‘And there were only four people who were known to wear rings depicting a skull or a skull and crossbones. Three of them are dead and the fourth is in custody in HMP Barlinnie – that’s in Glasgow.’

Angel blew out a lungful of air and said, ‘Thank you.
And I know where Barlinnie is, lad.’

Ahmed smiled and turned to go.

‘Just a minute,’ Angel said.

Ahmed turned back.

‘I have a very urgent and confidential message I want to go by courier today,’ Angel said, handing him the envelope.

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said. He went out and closed the door.

Angel opened a desk drawer and looked around for his police telephone directory, then he took out his mobile and tapped in a number.

‘Wetherby Police Ballistics Laboratory,’ a voice said.

Angel said, ‘I want to speak to Professor Lott, please.’

Angel arrived home at 5.30 p.m. that Thursday teatime. The house was quiet, cold and dark and there was no Mary to greet him. And no hot meal to look forward to.

He switched on the kitchen light, the central heating, then the radio in the kitchen. He went into the hall, took off his coat and tossed it onto the newel post. He noticed some post on the carpet and picked up two envelopes. One was from a firm called Cable and Light he had never heard of. They were offering an ‘unbeatable broadband deal’, it said on the envelope, and the other was from The International Regal Gold Insurance Company eager to insure his wheelchair, stairlift and caravan free of charge. There was no hurry to deal with either of them as he was committed to his present internet supplier for another nine months and he didn’t have a wheelchair, stairlift or caravan. He put the circulars on the sideboard in the
sitting room and returned to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard, took out a tumbler, then a beer from the fridge. He was about to pull the ring to open the beer when he stopped. He looked round the kitchen. He pursed his lips, creased his eyes for a few moments, then made a decision. He nodded and determinedly put the unopened can of beer back in the fridge and the tumbler back in the cupboard. He went back into the hall, dragged his coat off the newel post and put it on. He turned off the radio, opened the back door, turned out the light, went outside and locked the door.

Ten minutes later, he was walking into the dining room at The Feathers Hotel.

The following morning Angel called at a newsagent for a copy of the
Daily Yorkshireman
and in the BMW he quickly read their latest report on the investigation into the murder of Joan Minter. He smiled grimly when he saw that the bait in the trap had been taken. Also in the text it said that the Walther PPK/B.32 was used to kill Joan Minter, that Inspector Angel was planning to make an imminent arrest of the big man in the black coat and that he was able to devote all his attention to the case that weekend as his wife was away visiting family.

He nodded at all this with satisfaction. He closed the paper and drove to the police station.

As he made his way down the corridor, Flora caught up with him. She was carrying a copy of the
Daily Yorkshireman
. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shiny and bright.

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said. ‘I see that the bait has
been swallowed.’

He smiled. ‘Yes, Flora,’ he said. ‘And the description of the gun, Walther PPK/B.32, was printed in the paper. Now, I wrote
that
in the letter as a deliberate mistake. There isn’t such a weapon. It should have been Walther PPK/S.32.’

She had to step out quickly to keep up with him. ‘We could make an arrest and get a conviction on the strength of that, sir,’ she said.

‘We could, but we won’t. I want Ian Fairclough’s killer before we do that.’

Angel had arrived at the door of his office.

‘Come inside a minute, Flora,’ he said.

He opened the door and went in. ‘Sit down,’ he said.

He took off his coat and sat down at the desk. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘The murder of Joan Minter could very well have been somebody close to her.’

‘Do you mean her ex-husbands, sir? Well, there
are
four of them.’

‘No. I wasn’t meaning close in that way, although we may have to go there if all else fails.’

‘Do you mean the secretary or the butler?’

He nodded. ‘They certainly had a better chance than anybody else, and they had the opportunity to plan it all so carefully.’

‘Did you mean the secretary
and
the butler, sir?’

Angel’s jaw dropped as he looked straight ahead and visualized the two people together. Then he looked at Flora and said, ‘Maybe. Maybe. Alexander Trott has inherited
Joan Minter’s fortune, you know.’

Flora’s eyes opened wide. ‘That would be a big enough motive for some evil people. And I suppose they’d make a formidable team in their roles and in these circumstances.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘We need more information,’ he said. ‘The next closest people in this situation I suppose would be the caterers, the Joneses. You have their phone number and address. Give me the number,’ he said, picking up the phone.

Flora dived into her pocket and took out her notebook. She flicked through the pages backwards, found it and read it out.

Angel tapped the number onto the pad and waited. He heard three electronic notes followed by a recorded voice that said, ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognized. Please hang up and try again.’

Angel tried again and heard the same message.

He banged down the phone, then through clenched teeth said, ‘That’s not right, Flora. Sort it out. I want to see them ASAP.’

Her face tightened. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t understand it, sir,’ she said.

‘Well, push off and come back when you’ve sorted it out. I want to speak to that chap Jones ASAP.’

She jerkily put up a hand to clear a few strands of hair away from her face as she made for the door.

Angel was trying to think what best to do next when the phone rang. He glared at it, then picked it up. It was a constable in the reception office.

‘There’s a lady here, sir,’ he said, ‘asking for you.’

‘What does she want, lad?’

‘She says she saw the photograph of the pickaxes in the
Chronicle
and that she sold three pickaxes to a man recently.’

Angel’s face brightened. ‘Bring her down to my office, will you.’

‘Righto, sir,’ he said.

Three minutes later, the constable showed a woman in her fifties into Angel’s office. ‘Mrs Pickles,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Constable,’ Angel said.

‘Right, sir,’ he said, and he went out and closed the door.

‘Please sit down, Mrs Pickles. Thank you for coming in.’

‘Thank you, Inspector. I hope I can help.’

‘I understand that you sold three pickaxes to a man recently.’

‘Yes. Me and my husband have a shop at the other side of Tunistone,’ she said. ‘In the middle of nowhere, you might say. We sell everything – mostly to farmers. My husband has put a sign up on the end of the shop, what says, “If I haven’t got it, you don’t want it.”’ She laughed. ‘He’s a card is Denzil and no mistake.’

‘And you sold three pickaxes to a man recently?’ Angel said.

‘Yes. I’m coming to that, young man,’ she said. ‘Rush. Rush. Rush. Everybody’s in too much of a rush these days. There’s no time to enjoy yourselves.’ She looked round the office. ‘Do you know, I’ve never been in a police station before.’

Angel looked round the office with her. He had not
looked round the place in the way Mrs Pickles was looking at it for years. He realized that perhaps it could do with a coat of paint. He looked back at her.

‘It was on Monday morning when a strange car pulled up outside the shop,’ she said.

‘Can you describe it?’ he said.

‘No need to. Tell by the rattle,’ Mrs Pickles said. ‘Well, it wasn’t any of the tractors I knew. It wasn’t a Land Rover, it wasn’t the vicar’s Ford, and it wasn’t Mrs Mackenzie, so it had to be somebody what I didn’t know.’

Angel’s eyebrows went up. ‘You didn’t see it, then?’

‘Haven’t time. Anyway there’s no need. Know them all by the sound they make.’

Angel frowned. ‘The sound?’ he said.

‘Yes. The rattle of the doors or the exhaust or the purr of the engine or whatever. Being a detective, you’ll know all about that.’

His eyebrows shot up. He tilted his head to one side as he pursed his lips.

‘Do you want to know about the man what came in?’ she said.

‘Yes, please,’ he said.

‘Well, then, a big, lumpy, unhappy man comes in. He looks around … sees the display of Stronghold tools. Marches over to it. Picks up a pickaxe. Fingers the business end of it. Then he looks round and sees me. “Have you got three of these?” he says. I looks at him strangely. I mean, who would want
three
of them? Anyway, I think we have, I said. And I went in the back to where the rest of the stock is. I find him two more and takes them out to him.’

‘Can you describe him?’

She screwed up her face and shook her head. ‘Big.
Very
big. And ugly.
Definitely
ugly,’ she said.

‘Can you describe his features?’

‘He didn’t have any features. He was just plain ugly. I’ve seen things floating in vinegar look better. His mother should’ve asked for a refund.’

Angel didn’t smile at the quip. He pursed his lips, then said, ‘What colour was his hair?’

‘Black. As black as the ace of spades.’

‘And what was he wearing?’

‘Well, he wasn’t no farmer. I can tell you that. I could tell that from his boots. I always looks there first. You can tell a lot from what a man has on his feet. A farmer’s boots are always mucky. This man’s were clean.’

Angel nodded. ‘What else?’

‘A big black overcoat. That would have set him back a few quid. It would have to have been made to measure. That’s all I noticed.’

Angel lowered his eyebrows. ‘And what makes you say he was an “unhappy” man?’

‘Well, he pushed his way into the shop and straightaway asked about the pickaxes. No “Good morning”. No “How are you?” No “What a nice day it is”. Nothing. He didn’t have a word for the cat. He took the pickaxes, paid for them and went off. Again, no “Thank you”. No nothing.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Perhaps he had a lot on his mind.’

‘I’ve a lot on my mind, but I reckon I knows my p’s and q’s.’

Angel smiled. ‘Do you think you’d recognize him if you
saw him again?’

‘Definitely. Absolutely. Oh yes, sir. I can say that without fear of contraception.’