The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel (14 page)

Hull managed a brief smile. It quickly left him. ‘You’ll be surprised to see me in here, Inspector … like this?’

Angel nodded his head slightly.

Hull hunched up the bed a little and said, ‘You haven’t got a ciggie on you, have you?’

‘No.’

Hull looked disappointed but not surprised. ‘The truth is, Mr Angel, Marlene walked out on me. After twenty-eight years of happy married life. I can’t understand it.’

Angel knew his history. He could easily understand it. He shook his head wryly.

‘I got back to my house after that stretch in Durham,’ Hull continued. ‘I had only served eight months of it. When I got back to the house, it was filled with strangers.
Strangers
! They told me they’d been there
three
months. No Marlene. All my stuff gone. No clothes. Nothing. No forwarding address. Went round the Probation. They fixed me up with temporary bed and breakfast. But that was no good.’

‘You’ve two sons, haven’t you?’

He pulled an unhappy face. ‘Don’t know where they are. Been gone eight years. Both married. Got kids of their own now. They pushed off after the newspapers printed that photograph of me with that model who was found dead in Big John Lucas’s swimming pool.’

Angel remembered it and nodded.

‘But I was found not guilty of any wrongdoing by a jury and Judge Casilis, Mr Angel. You know that! It was all written up in the newspapers. I told them that, but they didn’t believe me. I haven’t seen either of them since.’

Angel felt sorry for the man but was determined not to get involved with his domestic relationships. ‘What did you want with me, Harry? I tell you, I’m no use at marriage guidance. Or “Happy Families”.’

‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘I know. I’m not going there, Mr Angel. I know what you’re best at, and I think I can help you.’

Angel raised his head. This wasn’t the Harry Hull he had grown to know, dislike and distrust over the years. He frowned as he thought about it. ‘Not going straight, at last, Harry?’ he said wryly. ‘Now why would you want to do that?’

‘Look at me, Mr Angel. Do I look as if I’m about to go out and do a bank job or something? Nah. I’ve run out of choices. And I’ve run out of steam. I’m nearly at the end of the line. I’m going to be lucky to get out of this butcher’s shop alive.’ He shuddered as he spoke those words. He wiped his nose on the pyjama jacket sleeve and then continued. ‘And if I do, what am I going to be fit enough to do? Weave a few baskets for the hospice for a month or two? Nah. I know the score. Before I go, I might as well try and earn a few merit marks … from him up there.’ He glanced momentarily up at the ceiling. ‘Besides there’s nobody else I can tell, is there? And although I reckon you’ve cost me about eight years liberty during my life, I’ve deserved it, and you’ve always been fair and given the evidence as it was and not exaggerated anything. And when that smart-arse barrister tried to get me on fencing as well as burgling, you got that charge of fencing dismissed, because you knew it was Dollie Reuben. That saved me an extra two years in the pokey.’

Angel realized that Hull must have something really significant to say. ‘What is it, Harry? Are you going to come to the point?’

‘Yes. Sure. Well, the thing is, about a week or ten days ago, I can’t exactly remember which day. It was about six o’clock in the evening, I suppose. It was pitch black, I knows that, and I was knackered. I wasn’t well. I was full of cold. I was trying to get tolerably comfortable to rest under the railway arches on Wath Road with a half bottle of rum. I’d got one of those thick cardboard boxes, so I was well off the cold concrete. There were four others sheltering in there under the arches. Five of us altogether. Sammy the smell, Dennis the drunk, the Professor and the Duke. We’d settled down for a spell, when a flash car pulls up on the pavement. I couldn’t see it, but I could tell by the sound it was posh. The sound of the brakes, the hum of the engine, the clunk of the door as it shut. I saw the shadow of a man put his head through one of the arches. He come through, waving a flashlight about. Well, of course Sammy, Dennis and the Professor takes up and leaves straight away. Men of the road don’t like light, where it’s meant to be dark, Mr Angel. I was hid away behind and leaning up against a pillar, and I was dead beat. If you gets there early, you can get a pillar. I was too ill. I’d taken a few sleepers and had a slug or two of black rum. I wasn’t in no state to be beetling off to look for a new hole to rest in, so I stayed. I snuggled down a bit and didn’t move. I knew that the Duke knew I was there, but he seemed to be decent enough. He wouldn’t do me no harm. The man called out a name – Alex, I think. The Duke answered him. He didn’t seem pleased to see him. I think maybe you chaps were after him. He was on about the posh man breaking his cover. I wondered if he was a copper. The posh man said something about pulling out of the Agapoo project and that if he did, he’d give him half a million quid. The Duke said no. Straight away. I couldn’t believe it. There he was, on the bones of his arse, refusing an offer of half a million quid! He said he could pretend to be ill or something, or go off his rocker, anything that would stop the Agapoo, whatever it was, from going ahead. Anyway, Duke says no. But the man couldn’t believe it. He said he’d get more for throwing a sickie than he would for completing the whole project, and he’d have to do nothing for it. The posh man said he could easily find a quack to certify his illness was genuine. The Duke got angry. He didn’t like the man, his idea, his Agapoo or nothing. He told him to sod off. The posh bloke tried to smarm round him, said that only he could help him out, that he had serious woman trouble.’ Hull grinned. ‘Who hasn’t?’

‘Did he say her name?’

‘No. Not as I can remember. Anyway, the Duke told him to push off, that
he
was risking blowing his cover. The posh man was all worked up. He said he was at the end of his tether, that he owed him a favour and that if he wouldn’t pull out, voluntary like, he’d have to assist him. The Duke said in what way? This way, the man said and then I heard two gun shots, and I saw the flashes. In that place, they were very loud. Echoed round them arches something frightening. I thought my heart was going to jump out of my body. It shook me rigid, I can tell you. I dared not move, couldn’t risk being seen by him. I froze on the spot, pulled a rag over my face, slid down inside my overcoat and concentrated on breathing silently. I was afraid my hooky chest might give me away. But the man then ran straight out of the arches. I heard the car start up and race away. I lay there shivering. I was too afraid to do anything for a bit. Nobody came, so after a while, I crawled over to where the Duke was. I called his name, shook him. But I knew he was dead. I went through his pockets for any smokes or money. There was about a hundred quid, a pen knife, a tube of mints and a handkerchief. That’s all. I took them. I don’t mind telling you. If I hadn’t, the next man on the road would have frisked him clean, so might as well have been me.’

Hull stopped. He leaned over to the locker at the side of the bed. A skinny hand slipped out through a wide pyjama sleeve and picked up a plastic glass. He took a sip of water.

Angel said, ‘Is that it? Is that
all
you wanted to tell me, Harry?’

‘I gave him something back,’ he said, replacing the glass with a shaking hand.

‘What was that?’

‘I had a gold sovereign in my sock. I kept it for when I thought my number was up. I put it in his mouth to pay his way over the Styx. Which reminds me. I hope I recovers out of here, so that I can get myself another sov for when I breathes my last.’

Angel rubbed his chin and looked into Hull’s watery eyes. He was thinking. For once, one of Harry Hull’s stories had the ring of truth about it. There were one or two things he wasn’t quite sure about though.

‘The man with the gun called the Duke Alex?’

‘Yes.’

‘But Alex or the Duke didn’t address him by any name at all?’

‘No.’

‘They obviously knew each other very well?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘His voice. What sort of an accent was there?’

‘No accent. Well spoken. Posh even. That’s all I can say about it.’

‘And what was this Agapoo?’

Hull shook his head. ‘No idea, Mr Angel. No idea.’

‘Good morning, sir,’ Angel said as he closed the door. ‘You wanted me?’

Harker was seated behind his desk. He looked as miserable as a man with toothache sitting in the waiting room at the Inland Revenue. ‘Aye. Sit down. One or two things. How are you getting along with the tramp murder?’

‘Haven’t had a chance to write up my report on that, sir. There were a few developments yesterday. The so-called tramp turns out to be a very successful actor and a bit of a leading light in the film world. His name was Alexander Bernedetti.’

Harker wrinkled his nose. ‘Name sounds familiar. What was
he
doing squatting in the arches?’

‘Maybe he was down on his luck.’

‘Or taken to the bottle.’

‘We have a witness who overheard the actual murder.’

‘But didn’t see it, I suppose?’

‘No sir. An interesting fact has come up. Bernedetti was in the cast of the same film Johannson was working on.’

‘Two men in the same film shot dead?’

‘And it looks like the same MO, sir.’

‘What did you get from the witness?’

‘Only that the man who shot the victim was male, well spoken, drives an expensive car, knew the victim well enough to call him Alex, and seemed to be in a gang or something referred to as “Agapoo”.’

‘Agapoo? Nonsense. Doesn’t make sense.’ Harker did his impression of an orangutan and then said, ‘And what about Johannson’s murderer? Who do you suspect? Whoever you suspect of the one murder, may have committed the second.’

‘Yes, indeed, sir. Well, nobody seems to have liked Johannson. The people who have no alibis are Otis Stroom and Harry Lee.’

‘The actor, Otis Stroom, I remember. Very famous. Who is this Harry Lee?’

‘American cameraman. Highly rated in the film world.’

‘What about the actress’s boyfriend, Hugo Moss.’

‘He’s too lightweight, sir. Besides, he has an alibi. He was with Nanette Quadrette all night.’

‘So she says,’ he said heavily.

Angel nodded in agreement.

‘Well, it’s high time you had a firm line of enquiry,’ he said, then he added, ‘Mmm. Very well. I’ll let you get back to it.’

Angel stood up.

Then Harker said, ‘Ah,’ as he suddenly remembered something. ‘Where is it?’ He leaned forward and ferreted in a wire basket on his desk. He eventually found a pink expense voucher. He looked at it again. His mood changed. He began waving the paper about. ‘What the dickens is this £200 about?’ he said.

Angel knew exactly what it was, even though it was being fluttered over the desk like a Union Jack at the Queen’s visit. ‘It’s what I paid out to DS Crisp for him to entertain Flavia Radowitz to try to obtain information about her relationship with the victim, Mark Johannson, sir. If you remember, she was seen going to his room on two occasions shortly before his murder.’

Harker sniffed. ‘And what did he find out?’

‘As it happened, the explanations she gave me were subsequently proved to be true and wholly innocent.’

‘I asked, what did
he
find out?’

Angel had to think quickly. ‘Crisp softened her up for my interview where she said that she discovered that Johannson only fancied her and was trying to get … friendly.’

Harker nodded knowingly. ‘I thought so. Crisp didn’t find out
anything
. So you didn’t get any hard evidence about the murderer of Johannson from her?’

‘He covertly obtained her fingerprints. Fingerprints that have turned up on a candlestick in Mace’s house.’

Harker blinked. ‘Whatever was she doing in Mace’s house?’ Before Angel could answer, he added, ‘But the fact is that the money Crisp spent on wining and dining this woman didn’t actually move the case one inch forward.’

Angel could see he was losing the argument. ‘Well he got the fingerprints, sir.’

‘You could have obtained those any time, either covertly or formally. I can’t see that, in this case, it would have made the slightest difference. No, I can’t pass this,’ he said tossing the expense chit to the waste-paper basket.

Angel’s jaw tightened. He breathed in deeply and said, ‘You can’t refuse to sanction a legitimate expense on the basis that it added little or nothing to an investigation, sir. If that were to happen, we’d never be able even to risk going out on any cold investigative interview that might not produce a positive result.’

Harker wrinkled his nose. His chalk-like complexion reddened at the top of his cheeks.

‘In this instance, I can and I do. I wouldn’t normally demean myself with an explanation, but I give my reasons. Firstly, the money was actually spent on food and drink, in other words, somebody, in this case Crisp, had some actual benefit out of it. Knowing Crisp, it was probably ninety per cent drink, and flowing his way. Secondly, I was not consulted in this matter, and I know that you are well aware that when it comes to spending public money on matters over and above the delineated budget, it requires special sanction. I wasn’t consulted. And furthermore, if I had been consulted I would not have given it.’

Angel came out of Harker’s office steaming with rage. He charged up the green corridor to his own office and banged shut the door. He was smarting about the injustice of it all and wondered how on earth he was supposed to make up the shortfall of £200? He couldn’t possibly expect Crisp to share in the loss. Angel had supplied the money directly to him and he would have thought he was spending legitimate police funds. He couldn’t be expected to have to pay it back. There was no comeback there. Angel thought that he might consider applying to the Federation; however, Harker was technically within his rights to withhold reimbursing him because he had not authorized the payment of it in the first place. It particularly rankled with Angel, because in his experience, officers of his rank were always entrusted to make sensible decisions about expenditure in the course of their work. There might be some disagreement afterwards about the rightness or wrongness of the decision to incur the expense, but reimbursement was always made. He must be sure that Mary didn’t hear about this; she might come up here and box Horace Harker’s ears.

He settled down after a few minutes and began tapping out his report on his laptop. This was soon done and then he began to wade through the accumulation of post. His first filter through, he could do at speed; the second filter through was slower; the third filter required some thought. He stopped at that, pushed back the chair and looked up at the ceiling.

‘Agapoo,’ he said. Then again, ‘Agapoo.’ He said the word loudly, quietly, slowly, then quickly. He spoke it in all the accents he knew, broad Yorkshire, Scottish, Irish, scouse, cockney, American and pseudo French, German and Italian. He said it distinctly and then, putting his hand across his mouth to muffle the sound, indistinctly. And then suddenly he understood exactly what the word meant.

Angel drove the BMW through Bromersley town and onto the Tunistone road to the film location site. He turned off the main road, and, overtaking the horse and trap still waiting patiently on the rough track, drove the car into the field and parked it near Otis Stroom’s luxury caravan.

He could see the film unit, lights, camera, cast and crew assembled round the farmhouse door and walked across the field down to them. It seemed that he had arrived at a significant moment.

Grant Montague, immaculately turned out, was standing on a trailer and addressing the cast and crew. By his side was Sean Tattersall. The crew were pressing close up to the trailer, silent and intent on hearing Montague’s every word. Standing in the doorway of the farmhouse, head erect, was Otis Stroom, wearing black-rimmed spectacles; Nanette Quadrette, looking miserably beautiful as ever, was standing next to Hugo Moss, and on the camera dolly, was Harry Lee.

‘I know, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ Grant said, ‘that this has been a trying time for you, as it has for me and I thank you for buckling down and helping me out as I have tried to keep the production of the film rolling. As you know, I intended to stand in as director only until we could get a top-notch man, a worthy successor to Mark Johannson. But I regret that, at such short notice, there are no film directors available who could undertake this mammoth job with the flair and panache it really requires. Now, this morning, I read in the papers – I expect you all did too – that Alexander Bernedetti has been found dead. He was to have played Edgar Poole’s father, an important, character part, who, in his latter days finished up as a poor tramp. Perfectionist as he was, Mr Bernedetti had apparently adopted a tramp’s disguise to get into the character of the role, but was mistaken for a real man of the road and was tragically murdered and robbed. There goes another great artist irreplaceable in the world of entertainment. I immediately consulted my fellow directors and they are of the opinion that it has now become impossible to continue to try to portray this great story on film at this time. As well as the casting difficulties, some artist’s contracts would now run out before filming is completed, which would present more complications. Of course, this great biopic may be produced in the future, as Euromagna have bought exclusive rights to the screenplay. I don’t know. Only the insurance company might know if and when this might be. If it was left to me, I would have tried to find a replacement film director and an actor for the role of Edgar Poole’s father and pressed on. It wouldn’t have been easy, but … there you are.’

There was unsettled muttering among the crew then Montague held up his hands to stop the chatter and said, ‘All contracts, of course, will be honoured. Nobody will be out of pocket. Euromagna will meet all agreed liabilities and expenses. Send in your claims in writing to the London office and I will personally deal with them. Thank you everybody, so much, and I hope to have the pleasure of working with you all again some time in the future. Now, I will hand you over to Sean Tattersall to make the arrangements for the return of the unit to the studio in Buckinghamshire and the clearing of the site.’

There were mutters of discontent, then most of the crew crowded round Sean Tattersall.

With a sober face, Otis Stroom walked athletically up the field towards his caravan. Four teenage girls from Tunistone, who probably should have been in school, were swinging on a gate. They waved and screamed at him as he passed thirty yards away, but he was totally unaware of them, which made them scream all the more.

Behind Stroom came Nanette Quadrette, looking moodily magnificent. She was escorted by Hugo Moss and two women from wardrobe. They were making their way to her caravan, which was next door to Stroom. Quadrette strode elegantly passed the groupies with her nose in the air and her cloak flying. The girls’ attitude to the actress was more of stunned amazement. They stared at her with eyes that stuck out like gobstoppers on sticks. They gasped, put their hands over their mouths and breathily said, ‘My God, oh my God,’ over and over again.

Montague stepped down from the trailer and Angel went up to him. He saw him and made a sad face.

Angel said, ‘I just heard the news about closing the production of the film. I’m sorry to hear it.’

‘Unavoidable, Inspector. Totally unavoidable. I would have carried on, but it was not viable. My American partners convinced me of it.’

‘I didn’t know that the late Alexander Bernedetti had been posing as a tramp for the purposes of preparing for a part in the film.’

‘He was a method actor of great style, Inspector. He will be sadly missed.’

‘Were you aware he was doing that, Mr Montague?’

‘No, not at the time, but I am not a bit surprised. He was a stickler for detail.’

‘Well, how did you find out?’

Montague frowned. ‘Our press office knew all about it, apparently. It was good PR. How our leading character actor prepared himself for the part of Edgar Poole’s father, and so on.’

Angel nodded. ‘Yes, of course. One other thing, Mr Montague.’

‘Yes?’ he said impatiently. He seemed to be edging to get away.

Angel was undeterred. ‘Who wins from the cancellation of the film?’

Montague pursed his lips and said, ‘Nobody. Absolutely nobody, dear sir.’

‘Do the principals get paid in full?’

‘These matters are really quite confidential, Inspector,’ Montague said.

‘This is a murder enquiry, Mr Montague. Delicate points about money may be vital in determining matters of motive. Nothing can remain confidential, I assure you.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Are you suggesting that one of our two principals is a murderer, Inspector?’

Angel looked closely at him and waited.

Montague nodded and said, ‘Well, as a matter of fact, they each receive a proportion. Both Mr Stroom and Miss Quadrette will receive a quarter of the figure it was agreed each was to be paid for the complete film. It was to have taken thirteen weeks maximum, then no more than five days after that, by mutual arrangement, for publicity shots and retakes.’

‘So, who wins on the cancellation of the film?’ Angel persisted.

‘Nobody wins.’

‘Do the directors win?’

‘How can they? The potential earnings of the biopic of this legendary man, with these three great stars, top director, top screenplay, Oscar-winning cinema photographer, were enormous. Millions! Now there will be nothing.’

‘You are insured?’

‘Yes. Sure thing, and committing the unique love story of the late Edgar Poole, a real celebrity, to film, with the talent we had lined up, while most of the facts and locations were still available to us, would have made the film a certain financial bonanza. A film of this calibre could still have been earning money sixty or seventy years from now. We are talking millions of pounds, Inspector. Twenty, fifty million pounds or even more. The compensation the insurance will pay out will in no way compare to the earnings this extravaganza would have made over the years.’

Angel nodded. He licked his lips. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Montague. I must catch Otis Stroom before he leaves. Will you excuse me?’ Angel strode over the field to Stroom’s caravan.

The leading man had removed the tight black coat with ruffled collar and sleeves, discarded the hair pieces from his forehead and temples and was removing the tanned outdoor look from his handsome square-jawed face with cold cream and cotton wool.