The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel

by Roger Silverwood

  He looked more miserable and mean than usual: like a crocodile that had just eaten a murderer, a housebreaker, two shoplifters and a police cadet, and was now suffering from violent indigestion. He burped, which almost made Angel smile.

  Harker then reached out for a yellow sticky note directly in front of him. He looked at it and said, ‘Ah. Here it is. Just come in. A triple nine. Looks like murder.’

  Angel’s head came up. Sounded interesting. Another challenge. His heart started banging.

  ‘A man found dead in a caravan up at Hague’s farmhouse in Tunistone,’ Harker continued. ‘Man called Tattersall phoned it in. I have advised SOCO and Dr Mac.’ Harker passed the note to him.

  Angel took it, read it, frowned and shook his head. There was never an end to murder: like painting the Forth Bridge. Unusual though, in a caravan.

  ‘Well, get on with it,’ Harker bawled.

  Angel leaped up and made for the door.

  ‘And I don’t want you dragging it out. Don’t make a saga of it … like Blair’s exit from Number Ten.’

  Angel’s lips tightened against his teeth. ‘I never do, sir. I never do.’

  He raced up the corridor to the CID office and bumped into Ahmed. ‘Ah. I’m on a murder case up at Hague’s farmhouse in Tunistone. Find Crisp and Scrivens and get them to join me there. Pronto.’

  ‘Murder?’ Ahmed muttered. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. ‘Right, sir,’ he stammered, but Angel didn’t hear him. He was nowhere to be seen. Ahmed heard the station rear door slam.

  It didn’t take Angel long to reach the farm in Tunistone. He knew the way. It was off the main road across the Pennines to Manchester up a single-track rough road. When he drove through the farm gate, the big hay field was like a circus ground without the big top. Cars, vans, trailers and caravans were parked in no particular formation and about thirty people were milling round in groups of two and more, several others were propping up the serving hatch of the mobile canteen drinking tea out of plastic cups. He spotted SOCO’s unmarked white van and Dr Mac’s car parked outside one of the three big chromium and glass American caravans. He drove across the uneven field and parked behind them. A few of the people glanced in his direction, but soon turned away when he looked directly at them.

  One of the big caravans and the steps into it was already taped around with blue and white DO NOT CROSS tape. A small man in a white paper suit came down the steps carrying a bag and pulling a mask away from his mouth. It was Dr Mac. He saw Angel and came across to him.

  ‘This one yours, Michael, I take it?’

  ‘Aye. What you got, Mac?’ Angel said to the white-haired Scot.

  ‘One dead male. Shot in the chest. Died instantly, I think.’

  ‘What sort of calibre?’

  ‘Might be able to talk about that when I’ve had a closer look.’

  ‘Any weapons there?’

  ‘I didn’t see any.’

  ‘Did you get the victim’s name?’

  ‘Mark Johannson. Big noise film director, they tell me. I’ve never heard of him. He was the man in charge of this outfit.’

  ‘Oh?’ Angel sniffed. ‘What was the time of death?’

  ‘Hmmm. Must have been some time yesterday … late afternoon or evening.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  The doctor nodded and turned away to his car.

  Angel reached into his pocket for his mobile, flicked it open and tapped in a number. Superintendent Harker answered.

  ‘Angel, sir. I’m going to need some help up here, and quick. Looking round, there are between thirty and forty potential witnesses. I need statements taking from each one before they disappear into the undergrowth.’

  ‘What about your own team?’ he growled.

  ‘Gawber’s on that murdered tramp case, sir. Crisp and Scrivens are on their way here.’

  There was a pause, then Harker said, ‘I don’t know where you think I can conjure men up from. I’m not Houdini. I’ll get onto Asquith.’ The phone went dead.

  Angel pocketed the mobile and turned towards the caravan.

  A young man of about twenty-five, hands in pockets, who had been hovering nearby, caught his eye and ambled up to him. ‘Are you from the police?’ he said tentatively.

  ‘Yes, lad. DI Angel, Bromersley police.’

  ‘I’m the floor manager. Sean Tattersall. I’m sort of … in charge of the unit, until someone else is appointed director.’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was you that reported the death. You are making a film here?’

  ‘We were.’

  ‘Well, who are all these people?’ Angel said. ‘Actors?’

  ‘No. They are mostly crew. There are only two actors here: Otis Stroom and Nanette Quadrette. They want to leave. Well, everybody does. Of course, I have contacted the studio and told them what’s happened. They have just phoned back to say that Mr Montague is on his way up here to sort things out. He should be here shortly.’

  Angel frowned. He mustn’t lose any potential witnesses. ‘Nobody leaves here without my say-so, Mr Tattersall. Please see to it. All right? And I want a list of everybody present.’

  ‘Right, Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you. Did you see what happened?’

  ‘No. But I found him – the body.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I went in and found him on the floor. He was obviously dead. Looked as if he had been there some time. I dialled 999 on my mobile and then came back and told Miss Quadrette and Mr Stroom and the crew.’

  ‘What made you call on him?’

  ‘He was late. On location, we normally start shooting at eight o’clock, if the light’s good. Johannson is the director. He’s usually on the set well before then. By five past, I wondered what had happened. He was never late. I came to his caravan to see where he was. I tapped on the door and called out. There was no reply.’

  ‘Did Mr Johannson have any enemies?’

  Tattersall smiled wryly. He hesitated. ‘He wasn’t much liked by anybody.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He was … impatient … and anxious … had a reputation to maintain. He was in the top league of film directors, you know … won awards in the US, UK, Japan and—’

  ‘Yes, but was there any particular person who might have wanted him dead?’

  ‘Don’t know about that,’ Tattersall lied.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him alive?’

  ‘Just after we finished, yesterday afternoon. That would be about five o’clock. We lost the light at about 4.30. He called it a day. I got a gofer to ring for the cars for him, Miss Quadrette and Mr Stroom, and then he and I and Harry Lee had a look at the rushes – the scenes in the can. We’d just about done when the coach came, so I left.’

  ‘Harry Lee?’

  ‘He’s the cameraman.’

  ‘You went in a coach somewhere?’

  ‘Into the town, Bromersley. I am staying at The Feathers with some of the others. Other crew members are in guest house accommodation … wherever they can get.’

  ‘Johannson lived in here?’ Angel nodded towards the caravan.

  Tattersall looked mildly amused. ‘No. It’s a day cabin. Space of his own. Miss Quadrette and Mr Stroom have the same thing. Somewhere private to relax and rest, wash up and have a drink, have meetings, make phone calls. They’ve each got a suite at the Imperial Grand Hotel in Leeds. Hire cars and drivers or taxis take them back to the hotel. They don’t always stay the night there. If we finish early, they may fly back to London to get a night at home. Then back up at dawn.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And what did they do last night?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  Angel nodded thoughtfully. ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘The coach dropped me and others at The Feathers. I went to my room, had a shower, went down for a meal around seven, then came back, had an early night, watched a bit of telly in bed and was asleep by about 10.30.’ />
  Angel scribbled something on the back of an old envelope and said, ‘Thank you. Must leave it at that for now, Mr Tattersall. Must press on.’ He turned towards the caravan. ‘I would be obliged if you would let me have that list,’ he said calling back. ‘Nobody can leave. There’ll be police personnel up soon to take their names and addresses and interview them.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Tattersall said with a wave and moved away.

  Angel lifted up the tape and stepped underneath. He noticed the name: ‘Mark Johannson, Director,’ neatly painted in black on the door.

  At that moment, the caravan door opened and out came Detective Sergeant Donald Taylor, the senior SOCO man at Bromersley. He was dressed in a white paper suit, headcover and white wellies. He saw Angel, pulled the mask down to his chin and said, ‘This your case, sir?’

  ‘Aye, Don. What have you got?’

  ‘Nothing very helpful, I’m afraid,’ he replied snapping the latex gloves as he took them off. ‘The only fresh prints around the caravan appear to be his own. There are no footprints anywhere. There doesn’t appear to have been a break-in. There are various things around the van that might have been valuable, but we can’t say for certain what has been taken, if anything. Dr Mac may uncover something helpful at the post mortem, I don’t know. No sign of a struggle or disturbance. No hint at what he was doing immediately prior to death. No weapons, explosives, drugs, cash, jewellery or porn at the scene. There’s nothing unusual at all.’

  Angel frowned.

  Another man in whites appeared at the door. He was carrying two big plastic bags, a suitcase and he had a camera on a strap slung round his neck.

  Angel looked up at him. ‘Have you finished in there, son?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the constable replied.

  ‘I can’t contaminate it then?’

  ‘The body’s still there, sir,’ the constable said. ‘But Dr Mac has seen it.’

  ‘Aye.’ Angel sighed lightly. Forensics weren’t offering anything in the way of clues. There didn’t seem to be anything much to go on; he was as in the dark as ever. He turned to Taylor.

  ‘Right, Don, let’s have a look then,’ he said making for the door. ‘Everything as it was?’

  ‘Had to turn the body on its back, otherwise it’s the same. I have taken photographs of it face down on the carpet as we found him. And photos of surrounds, walls, furniture in different planes.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. Angel followed him into the caravan.

  It was airy, with blinds open at large windows. There were heavily upholstered bench seats at each side of the area. The body of a big, blond-haired man with a fresh ruddy face and blue eyes stared up at them from the floor. A patch of congealed blood was set on his blue shirt.

  Angel never liked dead bodies, especially those that had been murdered. He wrinkled his nose. Murder was such a waste.

  He stood motionless by the body and breathed in slowly and evenly. Then he crouched on his hands and knees and surveyed the scene from that position. He stood up and moved across to the other side of the body, his eyes registering anything and everything. His face didn’t reveal whether he had spotted anything unusual or not. He rubbed his chin, then turned away and looked into the bathroom and kitchen.

  Taylor watched him closely. ‘Any ideas, sir?’

  FIVE

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, a plain black van with two attendants arrived and took the body of Mark Johannson away in a plastic body bag to Bromersley mortuary for Dr Mac to perform a post mortem in due course. Shortly after that the SOCO team packed up their bags, took off their whites and left.

  Angel finished his cursory examination of the caravan and opened the door in time to see DC Edward Scrivens, PC John Weightman and WPC Leisha Baverstock arrive in two cars, which they parked behind his.

  Tattersall was drinking tea outside the catering van, and seeing the police uniforms dashed across waving a sheet of paper. Angel was pleased to see the officers and introduced him to them. He then instructed them to divide the names on the list between them and interview each person in private. They were to ask whether Johannson had any particular enemies, and specifically he wanted to know the address of their accommodation while they were here at work, as most or all were away from home, as well as their usual home address. Also, most importantly, he wanted to know where each person had been between 5.00 p.m. and midnight the previous day. Ideally, the latter would need to be corroborated by at least one other person to establish any alibi.

  Sean Tattersall tactfully suggested that Angel might like to interview the two actors Miss Quadrette and Mr Stroom himself, as he was finding them particularly unmanageable and were both threatening to leave the set. Angel agreed. The list was appropriately adjusted and the squad dispersed quickly to find their allocated interviewees.

  Tattersall directed Angel to the two similar luxury American caravans close by and he started to cross the field to the nearest, when a big chartreuse-green car rocked noisily towards him. It was driven by a smart chauffeur dressed in a grey suit and cap. The car slowed, and through the window the driver called out, ‘Inspector Angel! Inspector Angel!’

  He turned. His eyebrows raised. ‘Yes?’

  A bulky man in a sharp, shiny blue suit slipped out of the back door of the car and came up to him, holding out his hand.

  ‘Ah. Inspector Angel, I’m Grant Montague,’ he took his hand and shook it enthusiastically. ‘I’m so very pleased to meet you. I want to offer you my complete cooperation and the cooperation of Euromagna films in your investigation into this dreadful business. I am a director of the main board and I can’t tell you how distressed the chairman and the other directors are at this tragedy.… The death of Mark Johannson is such a great loss to his friends and loved ones, but also to Euromagna and to the industry. As soon as I heard, I took a plane to get here as soon as ever I possibly could.’

  Angel sighed. He rescued his hand before it turned into butter and said, ‘Yes. Er, thank you, Mr Montague.’

  ‘You must call me Grant. And how can I be of service to you and your investigations?’

  ‘Did you know Mark Johannson well?’

  ‘As well as anybody, I guess.’

  ‘Well, do you know of anyone who might have wished him dead?’

  Montague looked shocked. ‘Certainly not, Inspector. The man was respected the world over. One of the best directorial talents this century. The world was at his feet. I don’t know how we are going to replace him. Our lawyers are working on it as we speak. The authorities have already expressed a wish for the return of his body to Norway for interment. Naturally, Euromagna would prefer a funeral in London and would be privileged to organize and pay for such an event.’

  Angel was anxious to press on with his interviews. ‘Well, that’s out of my control, but, in any event, there has to be a post mortem. If you will excuse me …’ He turned away.

  Montague was at his elbow. ‘Is there any way in which I, or Euromagna can assist you, Inspector?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Montague.’

  ‘Please do call me Grant.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can think of at the moment,’ Angel said.

  ‘There must be something…?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. If you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, but he was still running along beside him. ‘But … but, you will have no objection to the continuation of the shooting of the film, will you, Inspector? It is a vital piece of historical work, a true life love story that must be recorded and shared with the world.’

  ‘No. I suppose not. Provided that it in no way interferes with the murder investigation.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. I wouldn’t dream of … in any way. Of course. Thank you.’

  Angel continued the short journey towards the caravan and read the name painted on the door: ‘Miss Nanette Quadrette’. It was a world famous name in the entertainment business; almost in spite of himself, he was a little curiou
s and mildly excited at meeting the famous celebrity. He couldn’t hear Grant Montague anymore and therefore assumed he had given up the chase and turned back. He didn’t look to find out. He tapped on the door in front of him.

  It was soon answered by a young, slim man with dyed blond hair. He was wearing an open-necked white silk shirt, black velvet trousers and a pair of flip-flops. He was holding a small glass of what looked like champagne. He looked bored. He blinked and spoke with a lisp. ‘Are you the poleethman?’

  Angel stuck out his chest and put on his best butch voice. ‘I want to see Miss Quadrette, please.’

  The young man looked back over his shoulder and said, ‘It’s the poleethman, Nan. Do you want to speak to him?’

  There was some hiatus. Angel couldn’t hear or see what was going on. After a few seconds, she must have nodded or said something in agreement because the young man pulled open the door and stepped back to permit Angel access.

  Angel wondered what the world famous beauty was really like to talk to. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling like an immature groupie as he climbed up the steps.

  Although the caravan was similar, if not identical, to Johannson’s, it was much fuller: you could say, crammed. There were several vases and containers of flowers, mostly long-stemmed varieties in various parts of the sitting room area. The two settees had been opened up into a daybed and Nanette Quadrette was lying on it, in a long, white silk robe, her hair in a turban and leaning up on one elbow with a glass in her hand. Only her face, neck, hands and feet were uncovered, and were deep brown showing that she had recently been in the sun. A smile hung from her moist lips and her eyes were slightly glazed, enough for Angel to know that she was high on something … something from a needle or a bottle. As it happened, he saw an open wine bottle nestled in an ice bucket on a stand near the foot of the bed.

  ‘Have a drink, Mr Policeman,’ she said croakily, waving the glass at him and looking across at the slim young man.