The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel (15 page)

‘Come in, Inspector. I saw you back there. You will have heard the shocking news? Now that Alexander Bernedetti has been found dead, Grant Montague says that Euromagna is cancelling the film. Who is next, Inspector? Is the murderer going to polish off everybody connected with the enterprise? Is it somebody who doesn’t want the story of the great man to be told? And if so, why?’

Angel shrugged. ‘I think you are safe enough, Mr Stroom, now that the film is cancelled.’

‘I certainly hope so. It wreaks havoc with my image. It does not suit me to be associated with anything that fails. I only want to be associated with success stories, if you see what I mean.’

Angel saw exactly what he meant, but he wasn’t much impressed by it. ‘You’ll be handsomely paid for the short time that you have committed to the film, won’t you?’

‘If you consider it on a rate per hour basis, like a tradesman, of course. However if the film had been completed and promoted by Euromagna, it would have made a bomb, and, I would not only have received payment for making the film, but I would have earned a royalty every time the film was shown. It could have been considered as part of my pension. It may also have been a stepping stone to some even greater role. That will not happen now. In actual fact, for the first time in five years, I believe that I am actually out of work.’

Angel sighed. He felt sorry for him, but not a lot.

‘You haven’t been able to come up with any names or description of anybody you bumped into the evening Johannson was murdered, I suppose?’

‘To be honest, Inspector, I haven’t even tried. I told you. I was meandering round the streets of Leeds. The last thing I wanted was to be recognized.’

Angel sniffed. ‘Well, Mr Stroom,’ he said grimly. ‘You’ve been remarkably successful in that regard. What about Tuesday night of 13 February, the night Alexander Bernedetti was murdered?’

‘I have really no idea.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Well, I should do what you can,’ he said meaningfully.

Angel took his leave politely, and as he came down Stroom’s caravan steps, he saw Harry Lee opening the boot of a big Mercedes he appeared to have hired from a London car hire firm.

‘Glad I caught you, Mr Lee.’

The American looked up at him from the boot lid. He was packing a case containing valuable lenses, which only he chose to handle. ‘Ah, Inspector Angel, isn’t it?’

Angel smiled. ‘I wanted to check on a few things.’

‘Oh? Yes?’

‘You knew Alexander Bernedetti?’

‘Oh yes, of course. I had the pleasure of working with him on several films. A good, square jaw, easy to light, whether as a hero or a villain. One of the world’s natural charmers. Very tragic, his murder.’

‘He was a friend of yours?’

‘Oh no. But he was a friendly and unassuming man.’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘Unfortunately, you were unable to supply an alibi for the time of the death of Mark Johannson. Can you provide me with an alibi for the time of the death of Mr Bernedetti? He was shot in Wath Road railway arches, in Bromersley on the evening of 13 February.’

‘I would have to think about that, Inspector.’

‘You’d better think about it quickly, Mr Lee. Here’s my card. Perhaps you’ll let me know. Somebody wanted to stop the making of this film. Whoever that is, is also the murderer of two men. That murderer could be you. If it is not you, take it from me, it’s someone you know very well indeed.’

Hugo Moss answered the caravan door. He had a large comb in his hand.

‘I want to speak to Miss Nanette Quadrette,’ Angel said.

Moss looked back into the van. ‘It’s that copper again, Nan. You haven’t time to thee him, have you?’

Angel blinked. His jaw tightened. ‘She certainly has, lad,’ he growled. ‘This is not a social call,’ he added as he pushed Moss aside with one hand and stepped inside the caravan. ‘I haven’t popped round to show you my holiday snaps on the beach at Filey. I’m investigating the murder of two men.’ Angel looked for her through the forest of flowers.

Moss followed him in. ‘You can’t thee her, the’s not dressed!’

She was sitting at a dressing table facing a mirror surrounded by lights. She was wearing something short and white with straps over her thin brown shoulders.

Quadrette saw him and screamed. Angel looked away. It wasn’t a scream of embarrassment. She was wild with anger.

‘There is no need to push your way in, Inthpector,’ Moss said.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ she snapped, as she reached out for a long white housecoat on the bed behind her.

Angel swallowed quickly in exasperation. ‘I can’t have your pet monkey messing me around, lady!’

Moss breathed in deeply and glared at him.

Angel looked round at Quadrette who was now covered from her neck to her ankles in white towelling.

‘I am looking into a double murder,’ he said. ‘And I have some very serious questions to put to you.’

She tied the cord of the housecoat, settled herself back in front of the mirror again and snatched up a hairbrush. ‘I’ve had a very gruelling day, Inspector,’ she whined.

Moss gently took the hairbrush from her and began brushing her long black hair with long, soft strokes.

‘I don’t know if I’m up to answering questions,’ she said. ‘The bloody film is cancelled. My plans are up in the air. I don’t know what I am going to do now. It’s that bastard Grant Montague; he’s had it in for me for years. I had originally planned to have a year off, but I have nowhere decent to go. The house in the Maldives has been sold. Hugo has already said that he was willing to accept the offer from the Pizziano chain for his three salons to buy a villa on Koz for us.’

Angel’s mouth tightened.

‘I don’t expect Cheetah,’ he said, glancing at Moss, ‘was anywhere near you the night that Mark Johannson was murdered, was he?’

‘Yeth, I was. All night. Every minute of it,’ Moss said.

‘He was,’ she confirmed firmly.

Angel looked at Moss and said, ‘And where were you the night of Tuesday, 13 February? That was the night of the murder of Alexander Bernedetti.’

Hugo Moss stopped brushing Quadrette’s hair. His jaw dropped open. ‘If you think I could possibly murder anybody, you must be potty.’

‘It’s true,’ Quadrette said. ‘He’s far too sensitive.’

Angel wasn’t easily put off. ‘Well,
where
were you?’ he growled

Moss curled his lip like a petulant schoolboy. ‘I don’t know, do I? I don’t keep a diary or anything. I haven’t the time.’

Angel sniffed. ‘You might wish you had.’

‘It couldn’t have been him,’ Quadrette said. ‘He couldn’t harm a fly.’

Despite what she said, Angel could visualize him pulling wings off a fly one at a time and enjoying it. He glared at Moss and then at Quadrette and took a stab in the dark.

‘I’ve a good mind to arrest you for withholding information,’ he said boldly.

Moss stared back at him. His bottom lip trembled. Angel saw Quadrette shudder.

There was a pause, she sighed, took a deep breath, and said, ‘All right, Mr Angel. So you know about Grant Montague and me. But it has nothing at all to do with these murders. Absolutely nothing. I assure you.’

Angel was pleased the gamble had paid off, but he didn’t show it.

‘You don’t have to admit to anything, Nan,’ Moss said. ‘If you don’t want to.’

Angel glared at him. ‘If you don’t shut this gibbering monkey up, I will take him outside and strap him to a tree or something,’ he shouted.

Quadrette looked with pained eyes at the young man who lowered his head. With a quick jerk of her hand she pointed to the bed. He pulled a disagreeable face, tossed the hairbrush onto the dressing table, moved over to the bed, flopped onto it, kicked off his shoes and lounged on it, one arm propping up his head. His nose was turned up, his wet mouth hanging open as he looked at her.

‘You say it has nothing
directly
to do with the murders. Maybe, but I’d like to hear
your
version of events. When did this all start?’ Angel said, cunningly.

‘I assure you, Inspector, it has nothing at all to do with the murders,
nothing
. I never thought he would have told you anything at all about it. It was after I left RADA. I went round all the agencies and simply couldn’t get work. I heard that Euromagna were looking to cast
The Fly That Got Away
so I applied. Saw him there and I stupidly told him I was desperate, so he got me work temporarily at the escort agency he runs with Violet Buhl.’ She broke off. ‘But he will have told you all this?’

Angel nodded. ‘He told me
that
much,’ he lied. ‘And he said that you got the part in
The Fly That Got Away
,’ Angel added. He had remembered that from the mammoth publicity drive at the time of the launch of the film.

‘That was my first break,’ she said brightly. ‘Never looked back since. Snapped up to make four films for The Ciro Corporation, and then came back home to do this damned thing.’ Then she wrinkled her nose, looked coyly at Angel and said, ‘I hope it won’t have to get out to the media, how I got started.’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said.

‘Lots of well-known actors have to struggle at the beginning. Even that idiot Otis Stroom was on their books for a while, you know.’

Angel blinked when he heard her mention Stroom’s name. He looked into her eyes thoughtfully. ‘What’s the address of that escort agency?’

Angel dashed back to his office and closeted himself in there for the rest of the afternoon. He made several phone calls, carefully recording them on tape. At 5.00 p.m. he closed his office and went home; it was Friday and he was thankful of it. He took the tapes home and played them several times on his own tape deck. On Saturday morning, he mooned around the garden, casually, lazily pulling up a winter weed or two but not attacking the flower borders at all seriously.

Mary knew something was bothering him. By Saturday evening, she said, ‘Michael. You must relax. I know it’s that murder case that’s on your mind, but you must stop thinking about it. Now, relax and watch the television with me. You know full well, if you stop thinking about it, the answer, or whatever it is, will come to you.’

He nodded. She was absolutely right. ‘Yes, all right,’ he said and carried on thinking about it.

It was when they were watching highlights of selections of repeats, of clips of extracts, taken from excerpts, from past series of
Only Fools and Horses
that Angel suddenly smiled knowingly, and it wasn’t at Del Boy falling through the open bar counter flap.

It was 8.28 a.m. on Monday, 26 February. Angel opened his office door, went in, closed it, took off his coat, hung it on the peg on the side of the green metal stationery cupboard and then reached out to the phone. He tapped in a number, then pulled faces while fingering through the pile of unopened post on his desk.

Eventually Ahmed answered the phone. ‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Where have you been, Ahmed?’ he grumbled.

‘It’s not half past yet, sir.’

‘Oh, isn’t it? Is DS Gawber there?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tell him I want to see him straight away.’

‘Right, sir.’

He replaced the phone and wrote a name and address on a memo pad and tore the page off.

A minute or so later, there was a knock at the door and Gawber came in.

‘Come in, Ron. You needn’t sit down.’ He gave him the memo. ‘I want you to get a warrant, then arrest this man at this address and bring him in. You’d better take somebody with you. I should take Scrivens.’

Gawber looked at the memo. His mouth dropped open. ‘Shall I charge him with
both
murders, sir?’

‘Yes. Go armed. And be quick about it before he commits a third.’

It was 9.00 a.m. the following morning, Tuesday, 27 February. Gawber had completed his mission the previous day and was talking over the case in Angel’s office.

‘It’s like that politician said, sir.’

Angel frowned. ‘What politician? There’s so many of ’em and they say so much.’

Gawber screwed up his face as he tried to remember. ‘Something like, “One man’s pay rise is another man’s pay freeze.”’

Angel looked up. ‘It was Harold Wilson,’ he replied with a sniff.

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘He also said that the pound in your pocket will remain the same. Tell that to the old age pensioners. But you’re correct, Ron. It’s an indisputable fact that if someone loses, then somebody else must win. That’s what double column entry bookkeeping is all about. To say that nobody is a winner in a commercial transaction is the talk of a fool or a con man. That’s what gave him away. When he said, “Nobody wins,” I knew he was lying, but at the time, I couldn’t see
why
he was lying.’

‘Like the man with the white rabbit, you were telling me about, sir. The man with clean hands, who didn’t stroke the rabbit, was the liar.’

‘Exactly. Anyway, I spoke to Euromagna’s insurance company and they admitted that they would be obligated to pay out if the film had to be abandoned due to the serious illness, accident or death of a principal actor or director that prevented him/her from working or performing to the required standard during the thirteen weeks contract period (in this case) of the making of the film. If the insurance company had needed any additional reason, I reckon he would have murdered Nanette Quadrette and Otis Stroom and worked his way all the way down to the studio tea lady!’

Gawber nodded sombrely, knowing that it was probably true.

‘Grant Montague’s personal share after expenses as a director of the company would have been over two and a half million. Violet Buhl at the escort agency, after some threat of blackmail on my part, admitted that she wanted two million to buy herself out of the business. When neither Mark Johannson nor Alexander Bernedetti would play ball and obligingly leave the Edgar Poole project voluntarily in exchange for a hand out of half a million, Montague had by then shot his mouth off and had to murder them or his world would have fallen in. He might have got away with it, too.’

Gawber nodded his understanding. ‘He wasn’t banking on you, sir,’ Gawber said with a little cough.

Angel sighed. ‘Haven’t you got rid of that cough yet?’ he said impatiently.

‘What did “Agapoo” mean, sir?’ he said, ignoring the question.

Angel smiled. ‘It was simply what Harry Hull thought he heard when Grant Montague said “Edgar Poole”. Agapoo. Got it?’

‘Ah!’ Gawber said with a big smile. Then he coughed again, several times. He took the small bottle out of his pocket. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said as he took a sip.

‘You really should go to the doctor’s!’ Angel said impatiently.

‘It’s only a cough.’

The phone rang. Angel reached out for it.

It was the woman civilian on the switchboard. She sounded different. Her usual bored, mechanical drone and overt rudeness was missing. ‘There’s a woman, sounds young, on the line,’ she said spiritedly and an octave higher than her usual level. ‘Seems to be in some trouble or other. She’s asking for you. I couldn’t get her name. Says it’s
desperately
urgent!’

Angel’s heart began to pound. ‘Put her through.’

Gawber raised his head. He could sense something was wrong.

There was a click.

‘Is that Inspector Angel?’ a girl’s quivering voice said.

‘Yes. Who’s that?’

‘I am in desperate trouble. I’ve been imprisoned by a man. I don’t know who he is. He knows you, I know
that
. He intends holding me ransom, he says, for some thing very valuable. Treasure, he says. Treasure that should have come to him. Oh dear. Please, Inspector, get me out of here.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I don’t know. I’m in a cold, dark cellar. It’s pitch black. It’s horrible. Oh please, get me out of here. I don’t know where it is. He’s dangerous and as mad as a hatter. Oh. I’ll have to go. I can hear him coming back.’

‘Don’t cancel the call. Leave the line open. Who are you? What’s your name?’

She didn’t reply. Through the phone he could hear a big heavy bang of a steel door. In the distance a man’s voice shouted something; it was loud, seemed to be aggressive but indistinguishable. Then, as he came nearer to the mobile, Angel made out the words, ‘Give me that phone’.

The woman yelled, ‘No.’

There was a scream.

Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. The back of his hand turned to gooseflesh.

The line went dead.

Angel didn’t replace the handset.

‘What is it?’ Gawber said.

Angel wondered whether he should attempt to ring back. He decided that it might make the caller’s position difficult and maybe even endanger her life. He slapped down the phone. Angel jumped up, ‘A woman abducted, Ron. I think I know where she might be. Come on,’ he said pulling open the office door. ‘Get two torches from CID. I’ll tell you all about it in the car.’

The two men ran out of the office.