The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Lack of support. Save money.’

  ‘Well, if it’s to save the cost of the rates …’

  ‘It’s our heritage they’re closing. It was a gift to the borough. The council have no right.’

  ‘I’ve never been in the place. What was in there?’

  ‘I have. Many times. When I was young. Paintings, sculptures, works of art … another bit of old Bromersley comes to an end.’

  She resumed reading the paper. He continued attacking the toast.

  Then she said, ‘Guess who was in Tunistone, visiting an old farm on the moors earlier this week?’

  ‘Don’t know, do I?’ he muttered through the crumbs.

  ‘Famous film star,’ Mary said excitedly. ‘Eighty-four years old. Doesn’t look it. Mmm. There’s a photograph of her.’ She held the paper up for him to see.

  He glanced, then carried on munching. ‘Who is it? Don’t recognize her,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Eloise Poole!’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. He was genuinely surprised. He certainly remembered the legendary actress. He had seen her in many films over the years. Thirty years ago, she was never off the screen or out of the news. He thought about her, remembered her in films playing opposite her husband. Well, several times with several different husbands. Now there was a legend! She wasn’t a twopenny ha’penny lass who had appeared for a week as a bit part in a popular TV soap and was then paraded as a ‘famous’ actress in all the talk shows, quizzes and ‘eating bugs in a jungle’ show. Not that he knew any of them; he didn’t watch any of the soaps.

  ‘Any more tea? I’m going to be late.’

  ‘Plenty in the pot. Help yourself. Listen,’ she said and settled down to read it out to him.

  Eloise Poole, 84, world famous film star was in Tunistone, Bromersley on Tuesday last, to see the house where her legendary father Edgar Poole was born. She was accompanied by her publicity agent, her secretary and her hair stylist. She was flown into Leeds/Bradford airport and thence in a chauffeur driven limousine the eighteen miles to the farmhouse in Tunistone, where her famous father was born in 1892 and where some of the exteriors for the film of the biography of her great, late father, Edgar Poole are to be shot. She stayed there forty-five minutes, where she met Mr and Mrs Hague, who currently live there, presented them with a miniature silver replica of Miss Poole’s last Oscar for her part in Breath In The Dark, enjoyed a cup of tea then was driven back to the airport to fly down to London, where she stayed two nights at the Dorchester before flying back to her home on the west coast of the US. The new biopic is to star Otis Stroom and Nanette Quadrette and will take two years to make at the Euromagna Studio in Buckinghamshire and is budgeted for 28 million dollars.

  Mary lowered the paper. ‘What do you think to that?’

  Angel lowered the teacup onto the saucer and wrinkled his nose. ‘Yeah. Great stuff,’ he said uninterestedly. ‘Look at the time. I must be off.’

  She turned the paper over and picked up a ballpoint pen. ‘Before you go. Must ask you. What’s the capital of Turkey?’

  Angel stared at her. ‘Turkey?’

  ‘It’s a competition … to win a holiday for two in Ethiopia.’

  Angel shook his head. He didn’t want to go to Ethiopia. ‘Ankara,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ she beamed. ‘That fits!’

  ‘Of course it fits!’

  Hague’s Farm, Tunistone, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK. Monday, 19 February 2007. 9.00 a.m.

  The Hague’s farmhouse was up a narrow steep hill off the main road, five miles from Bromersley and about one mile from the tiny market village of Tunistone, on the east slope of the Pennines.

  And all hell was let loose that winter’s morning.

  Euromagna of Hollywood and London were there to make a film. A very expensive film. They were at that site to shoot exteriors and establishing shots and the unit expected to be there about six days. For this purpose, the outside of the farmhouse had been transformed. It had been sprayed with a mud-coloured wash; the flower baskets and the plants around the doorway had been removed and replaced with plastic grass and weeds to represent less prosperous times. Powerful electric arc lamps shone onto the farmhouse with mirrors being held by young men to reflect even more light onto the scene.

  A small carriage with liveried driver in Victorian gear, who was patiently holding back a jet-black horse, was positioned at the end of the lane waiting for a later scene. The horse was acting up. It was as unhappy as everybody else to be hanging around.

  Vans, cars, a coach, mobile canteen and caravans of all shapes and sizes were parked higgledy-piggledy in the top field.

  A tall, smartly dressed, handsome man with a burnt sienna and red face, and stuck on sideburns, was by the farmhouse door holding a well-thumbed, three-inch thick script in a plastic binding. He was smiling, and standing as though a broom handle had been inserted up his backside all the way up to his neck. That was Otis Stroom, probably the world’s highest-paid actor.

  Next to him was Nanette Quadrette, looking as desirable as a nose job, a boob job, three thousand pounds worth of dental work, a wig made from hair bought from six Indian girls and a two million-pound contract can make a girl. She was also just about the world’s highest-paid actress.

  Twenty-eight other employees – technicians, make-up people, costume people, sound engineers, stand-by electricians, carpenters and painters, gofers, continuity experts and more – all on the Euromagna payroll were standing around the two actors.

  A scruffy man in jeans, T-shirt and trainers was sitting in a canvas chair, holding an electric megaphone, waving his arms around, and dishing out instructions to all and sundry. That was Mark Johannson. And he was one of the highest-paid film directors in the business.

  ‘All right, everybody,’ he bawled impatiently. ‘Let’s get on with it. Now, listen up. This scene leads up to when Edgar proposes to Cora. We gotta have pathos, we gotta have desire, we’ve gotta have lust. She comes through the yard to the door, there are words of passion at the door and then she enters. All right?’ He looked across at Stroom and said, ‘You need to be inside the house, Otis, and when she knocks, you answer the door and go on from there. Just as we rehearsed. OK?’

  Otis Stroom smiled confidently, displaying most of his thirty-two laminated ivories, nodded, waved in acknowledgement and went into the farmhouse and closed the door.

  Johannson turned to the floor manager, Sean Tattersall, and grunted, ‘Right. Let’s go.’

  The floor manager yelled, ‘Quiet everybody. Places please. Going for a take. Roll them.’

  There was nervous shuffling, then stillness and silence. Even the wind stopped blowing and whistling.

  A camera on a dolly was pointing at the farmhouse door. On the seat was a man with an oriental face. That was Harry Lee, well-known film cameraman, peering at the viewfinder. He said, ‘Running.’

  Sean Tattersall said, ‘Mark it.’

  A young man in a jockey cap worn the wrong way round appeared from out of the cluster of stand-by technicians and workers. He held up an illuminated marker board and shouted, ‘Edgar Poole Biography. Scene twenty-one. Take one.’ Then he dissolved back into the crew.

  ‘Action,’ Johannson bawled.

  Quadrette, looking as desirable as a hot bacon sandwich on this cold February morning, teetered along the cobblestones four or five yards along the frontage of the farmhouse.

  Harry Lee made a signal to a young man to push the camera dolly forward to follow the track of the actress.

  A youth holding the sound boom followed her to catch the delicate click of her shoes on the cobblestones.

  A man with a whistle warbler faced the sound boom and made the sound of a bird.

  Quadrette reached the gate, went up the step and tapped on the door.

  Then suddenly Harry Lee pulled his head back from the viewfinder on the camera, looked at the director and said, ‘The mike’s in the frame, Mark.’

  Tattersall
heard him and bawled, ‘Cut!’

  Johannson who had been following the action with one eye on the scene and one eye on the video monitor suddenly screamed out to the youth carrying the sound boom, ‘The mike’s in the frame, you idiot! The mike’s in the frame!’

  The young lad’s face blushed and his pulse raced.

  ‘You have to watch the monitor as well as the action, son,’ Tattersall said.

  ‘Can’t see the monitor from here,’ the young man replied.

  ‘Well, watch the bloody camera then,’ Johannson snapped. ‘It’s big enough, isn’t it? You can see that, can’t you? You can see the direction it’s pointing?’ He ran a shaky hand through his hair. ‘What’s your name?’

  The lad looked down at his trainers. He had some thoughts about murder, but sulkily replied, ‘Tim Gallagher.’

  ‘What?’ Johannson yelled. ‘Speak up, boy.’

  ‘Tim Gallagher, sir,’ he said loudly, through curled lips.

  Johannson sighed, then he yelled, ‘There’s a dozen lads here, who can hold a mike on a pole. If you can’t do it right, leave it and I’ll get someone who can. Understand?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Yes,’ Gallagher said, indifferently.

  ‘Starting positions,’ Johannson growled.

  ‘Starting positions, everybody,’ Tattersall echoed.

  Nanette Quadrette’s petite nose quivered with distaste. She moved away from the door and retraced her steps along the cobblestones. A woman rushed up and dabbed her nose with a powder puff as she turned and waited.

  ‘Quiet everybody. Going for another take. Roll them.’

  There was shuffling again, then stillness and silence.

  Harry Lee said, ‘Running.’

  Tattersall said, ‘Mark it.’

  The marker boy came forward, held up the board and cried out, ‘Edgar Poole Biography. Scene twenty-one. Take two.’

  ‘Action,’ Johannson bawled.

  Once again, Quadrette teetered along the cobblestones towards the farmhouse door.

  The camera followed her, as did the youth holding the sound boom.

  The whistle warbler stepped forward and made the sound of a bird.

  The scene looked and sounded good.

  Johannson followed the action on the video monitor and nodded agreeably as he saw the videotape coil into the can.

  Then there was suddenly the neighing of a horse and the short clatter of hooves on the cobblestones. The carriage rattled as it moved a few inches and then stopped. It came from the long-suffering horse at the end of the lane. The driver pulled tight the rein and cried, ‘Whoah. Whoah there, Betsy.’

  Johannson’s head swivelled round to face him; his eyes shone like a wild cat caught in headlights.

  The sound man pulled a face, held an earphone away from his ear and said, ‘It’s no good.’

  Johannson’s top lip tightened back against his teeth. His fists tightened causing his nails to cut into the palms of his hands.

  ‘Cut,’ he bawled, his face scarlet with rage. ‘Shoot that bloody horse or put a gag in its mouth. If you can’t keep it quiet, you’ll be off this film and every other Euromagna production for the next hundred years. Do you understand?’

  The driver looked mortified. He too coloured up red. His was with embarrassment, not rage. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Very sorry, sir.’

  Johannson waggled a finger to summon a young man from the crew standing in the group nearby. He whispered in his ear. The gofer ran off.

  Nanette Quadrette glared at Johannson, hoisted up her bosom and tightened her mouth. Johannson didn’t notice. A woman rushed up with a powder puff and touched her nose again.

  The gofer returned with a small bottle. Johannson took it, unscrewed the top, poured some pills into his hand, then up to his mouth and swilled them down with something from a paper cup in front of him. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair and said, ‘Right, Sean.’

  They began the routine all over again.

  This time, everything went well. The marker boy marked the scene. The bird warbler was spot on cue.

  Nanette Quadrette did her bit down the cobblestones in that long thin, tight dress, with everybody’s eyes on her. She looked terrific. She was magnetic. The scene showed great promise. She seductively knocked on the door, looking desirable and full of anticipation, and waited.

  The door didn’t open.

  She held the tension magnificently.

  Johannson stared across the garden gate at it. It still didn’t open.

  Everybody waited. And waited. It was too long. The spell was broken.

  Quadrette took in a deep breath, turned round, glared at Johannson, hoisted her skirt and squawked, ‘Well, where the bleeding hell is he?’

  Most of the crew blinked and sucked in air.

  ‘Cut,’ Johannson said through clenched teeth.

  You could have cut the air with a chain saw. Everybody wondered what was going to happen next and stared at the director.

  Johannson glared back at Nanette Quadette. ‘I am not his nanny!’ he bawled. ‘This is supposed to be a professional outfit. I am dealing with a bunch of bloody amateurs!’

  Then the farmhouse door opened uncertainly and the dark bronzed head of Otis Stroom poked through it. He was wearing spectacles now. He took them off, blinked, looked across at Johannson in surprise and said, ‘I say, Mark, what’s my cue to open the door?’

  Johannson looked heavenward.

  Nanette Quadrette screamed, pushed the woman with the powder puff out of the way and stormed off to her caravan.

  THREE

  * * *

  Broadlawns, Yew Tree Lane, Weybridge, Surrey. Monday, 19 February 2007. 10.00 a.m.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ Violet screamed. ‘Nowhere near enough. It’ll cost you a lot more than the deeds of this house to get shut of me, you bastard.’ She viciously stubbed a cigarette out on the ashtray on the mantelpiece and then stormed angrily round the living room.

  ‘Be reasonable, Violet,’ the man said, standing up and rubbing each side of his moustache in turn.

  ‘The crack in the pool needs twenty thousand spending on it. The drive needs repaving.’

  ‘I can’t possibly pay out for everything. Be reasonable, Violet.’

  ‘Reasonable? What’s reasonable? Who stuck by you when the coppers were climbing all over the house in that mucky porno caper you had going with that girl? If I hadn’t lied for you, you’d have gone down for four years.’

  ‘They weren’t pornographic! They were artistic poses. Dammit you used to—’

  She cut him off. ‘She was under age and you knew it. I’ve built a very profitable business up for you, over the past ten years,’ she said, lighting up another cigarette. ‘While you’ve been away, living it up with Merle, playing at being Mr Respectable.’

  ‘We’ve built a very profitable business, here,’ he snorted. ‘You’re good at handling the girls, that’s what it is.’

  ‘I’m better than you, that’s a certainty, and I can keep my hands off them as well, which is more than you damned well can.’

  ‘There you go with the wise cracks again.’

  ‘It’s a fact. Merle wouldn’t have stuck with you if she knew the half of it.’

  She had gone too far. His face went scarlet. ‘But she doesn’t know,’ he bawled. ‘That’s the point, you stupid bitch!’

  She stared at him with eyes as cold as stilettos. ‘Thanks to me,’ she stormed. ‘And only thanks to me. And don’t you ever dare call me that again.’

  He licked his lips. He knew he’d pay for that slip of the tongue.

  ‘It’s two million. Cash,’ she snapped. ‘And this house. And you’re getting off cheap.’

  He brushed a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Can’t be done, Violet. Simply can’t be done.’

  ‘Oh yes, it can,’ she said confidently. ‘One word. One phone call from me and you’ll be in the brown stuff up to here,’ she said, glaring at him and pointing to her own
neck.

  His face went the colour of chalk. He ran his hand across his mouth. He realized that she meant what she said. ‘Look, there’s no point in going on like this,’ he said.

  ‘Five years ago, you said you’d find a way, but you never did. You just kept putting it off and off, and now you want out. At my bloody age. And you want out. Huh!’

  ‘Please, Violet. Be reasonable. If it hadn’t been for Merle’s money, we wouldn’t be in the position we are today. It was her money that bought the very first lease on the offices, paid the insurance, the advertising, the photographers.’

  ‘Stop snivelling,’ she stormed. ‘I can’t stand you when you’re snivelling.’

  He began following her round the room. ‘I am not snivelling!’ he roared.

  She stopped, turned and stared at him. ‘I don’t know what the hell I see in you,’ she said. ‘You’re going bald, you can’t write your name on a cheque without specs and you’re useless in bed.’

  He stared across at her, his eyes the colour of blood.

  ‘This house and two million quid,’ she shouted. ‘And I’m not waiting for ever!’

  DI Angel and Mary Angel lived three miles out of the centre of Bromersley, on the Forest Hill Estate. On the morning of Monday, 19 February, Mary Angel was coming into town on the bus to do some shopping and was sitting next to the window immediately behind the driver. The bus had to stop at some temporary traffic lights because of road works at the bottom of Creeford Road. The Northern Gas company had a van standing in the road next to a hole in the pavement surrounded by traffic cones.

  As the bus stood there, Mary Angel was uniquely positioned to see up a narrow alleyway. She observed a girl on her stomach across the top of the wall, her long, thin legs hanging down. She had plenty of black hair, was wearing a raincoat, long socks and leather shoes. Mary saw her jump down to the narrow footpath, land badly and fall backwards. At the same time, something shiny dropped among the sprinkling of weeds on the edge of the path. The girl didn’t seem to notice. She was more concerned with her inelegant fall. She quickly scrambled to her feet, shook her leg and then put her weight on the ankle to try it out. It seemed all right. She looked round, saw the bus and the faces at the windows, turned away and ran quickly away down the alley out of sight.