The men dashed back into the van. There was a quiet moment, then a small cheer went up followed by a lot of activity. The big man in the dark suit went to the Ford Mondeo, removed a brown and white suitcase and took it to the van. Three minutes later, the four gang members and the suitcase, bursting with money, were in the Ford Mondeo, which was being cautiously driven at a steady thirty miles an hour back towards Bromersley town centre. The driver took the road out of town to Cheapo’s supermarket car park, where they left the car discreetly parked among sixty or seventy other cars and made their different ways to their own transport. The big man took the brown and white suitcase.
It was 8.28 a.m. when Angel arrived at his office the following morning, Tuesday, 4 November 2014. He was quickly followed by PC Ahmed Ahaz, whose eyebrows were raised and eyes were shining. ‘Have you seen this, sir?’ he said, holding a newspaper out in front of him.
Angel’s mind was fully engrossed in the murder case and on what he needed urgently to attend to that morning. He didn’t intend being diverted. ‘What is it, Ahmed?’ he said tetchily.
‘The front four pages are all about the Joan Minter case, sir.’
‘Well, she was very famous, there’s bound to be … Four pages, did you say?’
‘And there’s a photograph of you, sir, on page two.’
He lowered his eyebrows. ‘Me?’ he growled. He took the paper and glanced at the front page. It was the Daily Yorkshireman. The headline was: ‘Joan Minter murder official: Angel leading investigation.’ There were two photographs of her on her own, a very early one and a most recent one; four with her and her respective husband at the time, and an old photograph of Angel looking smart in uniform when he was a police sergeant.
He blinked when he saw the picture of himself. He glanced at the other pages, then turned to Ahmed and said, ‘Can I read this later, Ahmed?’
Unusually, Ahmed hesitated. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘but can I have it back because I want to put it in my scrapbook.’
Angel concealed a smile. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘I won’t forget.’
Ahmed looked pleased and made for the door.
Angel said, ‘Find Trevor Crisp for me, will you?’ His face muscles tightened, then he shook his head. ‘I can never find that lad.’
‘Righto, sir. I think he’s in CID,’ Ahmed said, and he went out.
A few moments later, DS Crisp arrived.
Being the head of CID at Bromersley, Angel wanted to be briefed about crimes reported to CID the previous day while he had been busy on the Joan Minter murder.
Crisp had dealt with most of the matters of importance. He told Angel that he had shown Mrs Sellars their rogues’ gallery but that she had been unable to identify the crook who had taken her attention while his accomplice had stolen her handbag. He also reported all he could about the theft of the two cars from Mr and Mrs Sellars.
The phone rang.
Angel reached out for it. It was DS Taylor. ‘The results of the gunshot residue tests have just arrived by courier, sir.’
Angel said, ‘Well, bring them down. I want to know what they say!’
He slammed down the phone and turned back to Crisp.
The phone rang again.
Angel frowned at it, then snatched it up. It was the station civilian telephone receptionist, Mrs Meredew. ‘There’s an emergency call from Slater Security on the line, sir.’
‘Put them through,’ he said.
A man said, ‘We’ve had a brief automated emergency message from one of our vans, two or three miles away from you. It’s at a crossroads between the villages of Hemmsfield and Indale. They were making their way south to join the M1 south along Hemmsfield Road.’
Angel jumped to his feet. ‘One moment, sir, please,’ he said. He put a hand over the mouthpiece, turned to Crisp and said, ‘Get Control to listen in to this and issue a red alarm.’
Crisp dashed out of the office.
Then Angel turned to the wall behind his desk that had a large map of the local area. In a second he had picked out the crossroads.
He removed his hand from the mouthpiece. ‘A patrol car is on its way there now, sir,’ he said. ‘Our Control Room is being made aware of this emergency and is now sharing this call. The incident is at Bromersley Station map reference A1257 by K209. Have you contact with your van?’
‘No. Both radio links with the van itself are dead. It’s very unusual. Our communication manager is trying to raise them via the drivers’ mobile phones.’
‘If you succeed, advise our Control Room promptly and put them in the picture. What is your name?’
‘I’m the manager here at the Leeds depot,’ he said. ‘Reader’s my name, Mathew Reader.’
‘Thank you, Mr Reader. We’ll do what we can,’ Angel said, and he replaced the phone.
Crisp came running in. ‘Patrol car on the way, sir.’
Angel said, ‘Right. Get out there. See what’s happened. Then report to me.’
‘Right, sir,’ he said, and he went out.
Don Taylor caught the door. He was carrying several A4 sheets of paper. He knocked on it and said, ‘Can I come in?’
Angel’s eyebrows went up. ‘Yes. Yes. Ah, the GSR results. What do they say, Don?’
Taylor looked down at the top sheet and said, ‘I haven’t read it myself yet, sir.’
Angel quietly said, ‘Well, sit down, read it and tell me what it says.’
When he was settled, Taylor said. ‘It says …’
He quickly broke off, turned over the first four pages to the last page and began to read again. ‘It says the conclusions are … that of the persons tested for the presence of cartridge residue on their clothing, three of them had relatively large quantities. They are Felix Lubrecki, Leo Altman and Erick Cartlett. Also Alexander Trott was found to have minute traces of lead, antimony and barium in the sample submitted, which of course are the constituents of a bullet, which we found unusual. We suggest that the paraffin wax test be applied without delay to the four persons mentioned, which may immediately show up the person or persons who discharged a firearm up to seventy-two hours prior to the test being made.’
Angel looked at him and blinked. ‘Is that it?’ he said.
Taylor looked back at him. ‘Yes, sir. The other pages are full of the safeguards that we should implement to prevent cross-infection. There are also long paragraphs saying that we shouldn’t rely on the test too much and it should be used only to corroborate existing evidence of eye witnesses.’
Angel’s eyebrows went skywards. ‘We should be so lucky. Right, Don. Crack on with it, then. You know what we are looking for?’
‘Blue specks with tails.’
‘Especially on the thumb and forefinger.’
It was 9.30 a.m. before Angel could leave the station and resume his enquiries into the murder of Joan Minter. He pulled up outside the Mansion House on Ceresford Road where he was met at the door by a very angry Erick Cartlett.
‘I have been waiting for you, sir. You have kept me here, hanging around the house, quite pointlessly causing me to miss a very important meeting. I have to warn you that I shall report your conduct in this matter to the American Embassy.’
Angel said, ‘I’m sorry to have caused you any inconvenience, Mr Cartlett. Please come into Miss Minter’s sitting room.’
Cartlett followed Angel into the little room off the hall that he was using as an office.
When Angel had closed the door, he turned to Cartlett and said, ‘I have to point out to you, Mr Cartlett, that owing to the untimely death of your late friend, Miss Minter, she has also been very greatly inconvenienced and will be missing far more than one important meeting. Isn’t it therefore reasonable that we should do our best to find whoever is responsible?’
Cartlett’s jaw dropped. Then he said, ‘Well, I am certainly not responsible. I now hear that I have to wait further for another indignity. A candle wax test, whatever that is.’
‘It’s not an indignity,’ Angel
said. ‘It is merely the spreading of warm liquid paraffin wax on your hands and allowing it to harden. It’s quite painless and it doesn’t take long.’
‘What’s that supposed to prove?’
‘The paraffin wax extracts from deep in the pores fine residues given off by the firing of a gun. We can see them in the hardened wax.’
Cartlett turned up his nose and said, ‘But Joan was murdered about thirty-six hours ago. I’ve had a shower and a good soak in the bath since then. And washed my hands several times. Most of us have.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Washing your hands won’t make any difference. The nitrates will be in your pores for up to seventy-two hours whether you’ve washed your hands or not.’
Cartlett’s mood changed again. He straightened up and said, ‘Well, what if I refuse?’
‘Well, I hope you won’t. It would very much look as if you’re guilty. But, I suppose, if you refused, I should have to get a warrant.’
‘Get a warrant, then.’
‘There is another way,’ Angel said.
Cartlett said, ‘What’s that?’
‘I could put you under arrest for the murder of Joan Minter without the need for you to take the paraffin wax test. If you are guilty, it would show that it was a shrewd idea of mine. If you’re innocent, it will hold you here in custody for at least another week, and I shan’t have to worry about you absconding back home.’
Cartlett’s mouth opened wide. His eyes narrowed. He scratched his temple and said, ‘You wouldn’t do that.’
‘I might,’ Angel said, ‘so now will you go through to my sergeant and have the paraffin wax test? You’ll not be alone. There are three other gentlemen before you …’
Meanwhile …
Crisp had arrived at the quiet T-junction, shortly after a Bromersley Police patrol car.
The two drivers of the Slater Security van were standing around with their hands in their pockets and stamping their feet on the pavement to keep warm. The police patrolmen had swiftly taped off the crashed vehicles, and had started erecting road signs indicating a detour.
Crisp had checked that the men in the security van were unharmed and noted what had happened. He took their names and addresses and asked them a few urgent questions, then phoned Angel on his mobile and reported the situation.
Angel said, ‘Were either of the men able to give a description of any of the robbers and the getaway car?’
‘They said there was nothing distinguishing about the robbers, sir, except that the one that spoke to them had a local accent,’ Crisp said. ‘They all wore black balaclavas. The car was a blue Ford Mondeo. It’s come to me, sir, that the two cars involved would be the two cars stolen yesterday from Mr and Mrs Sellars on Ceresford Road.’
‘So they were, Trevor. So they were. Did the robbers leave anything behind? Anything at all?’
‘Just three pickaxes, sir.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Interesting … I’ll send SOCO out and a photographer. And a low-loader to bring in the wrecks. Was there anything else? Anything at all? Anything that might give us a lead? An empty lager can, a glove, a piece of unburned detonator wire … anything?’
‘Don’t know, sir. Haven’t been here long.’
‘Well, have a good look round,’ Angel said.
There was a knock on the sitting-room door.
‘Hold on, Trevor,’ Angel said. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Come in,’ he called. It was DS Carter.
‘We’ve finished all our—’ she began.
Angel pointed to the phone.
‘Ooh, sorry, sir,’ she said.
‘Won’t be a minute, Flora,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’
She nodded.
Then back into the phone he said, ‘Well, have a good look round, Trevor. And keep all busy fingers away from the wreck. It’s a crime scene. Preserve its integrity.’
‘Of course. Righto, sir,’ Crisp said.
Angel ended the call, closed his mobile and turned to DS Carter.
‘Now then, Flora,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘We’ve finished our search, sir, and we’ve found nothing suspicious in any of the guests’ rooms or the house or the perimeter of the house.’
‘Hmmm,’ Angel said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Been through the rubbish bins?’
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
He breathed out heavily. ‘Very well. Dismiss the search party, thank them and tell them to report to their respective team leaders, then come back here.’
‘Right, sir,’ she said. Then she went out.
SIX
ANGEL WAS STILL in Miss Minter’s little sitting room. He looked at his watch. It was twelve noon. He took the used brown envelope from his inside pocket and consulted it. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed the back of his neck and his chin and then closed his eyes. There was a lot to think about.
He stayed like that for several minutes, then he opened his mobile and scrolled down to a name and clicked on it.
A few seconds later, a voice said, ‘Aye, Dr Mac speaking.’
Angel said, ‘Now, you old haggis-eater, you’ve had a body there for almost forty-eight hours and I haven’t heard a dickie bird from you. When were you going to ring me up and tell me about it?’
‘Oh, it’s you, Michael,’ Mac said. ‘You usually ring me up after I’ve had the corpse five minutes. Now you’re waiting forty-eight hours. What’s happening to you? You’re slipping, Michael. You’re getting relaxed, unconcerned and casual. What’s happened to the fire in your belly?’
Angel grinned.
Mac said, ‘As a matter of fact, it is on top of the pile to be typed out next.’
‘Well, do you think you could nick it off the pile and give me the highlights?’
‘Oh dear me,’ the doctor said, pretending to be reluctant. ‘The things I do for good Scottish–English relationships. Hold on … here we are. Well, there’s nothing much. You already know most of it, I think. She died from a single shot to the cerebellum, lying posterior to the pons and medulla oblongata and inferior to the occipital lobes of the cerebral hemispheres, thus losing the maintenance of her posture and balance.’
‘All right, Mac. You win. Let’s have that in English.’
It was Mac’s turn to crow. ‘Well, she fell and hit her head on the corner of the piano stool, which would have stunned her and finished her off. She was dead by the time she hit the floor.’
There was a second’s sombre silence, then Angel said, ‘Anything else?’
‘Well, what do you want? Her weight, height, operation scars, contents of stomach…?’
‘Contents of stomach. Yes,’ Angel said with eyebrows raised. ‘Anything there shouldn’t have been?’
‘Noo. Absolutely normal. Bloodstream, a trace of alcohol. Lungs, normal. Kidneys, normal.’
‘Was there anything else abnormal?’
‘Noo,’ the doctor said.
Angel was disappointed. There was nothing helpful there. ‘Well, thank you kindly, Mac,’ he said.
‘Anytime,’ the doctor said with a smile on his lips.
Angel thoughtfully closed the phone, leaned back in the chair and squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. A trace of alcohol in Joan Minter’s bloodstream seemed perfectly reasonable considering she was at a party and she had a glass in her hand at the time she was shot. It was frustrating that there seemed to be such a dearth of clues on the body.
There was a knock at the door. It was Flora Carter.
‘The search party has gone, sir,’ she said. ‘I had to organize transport back for them.’
‘Right. Come in,’ Angel said. ‘Sit down.’
There was another knock on the door. It was Don Taylor.
When Angel saw him he stood up. ‘Well, Don, what you got? Who has the blue specks with tails?’
‘Nobody, sir. The hands of all four came up clean as a whistle.’
Angel slumped back in the chair. He looked down, closed his eyes and
rubbed the back of his neck.
Flora said, ‘Does that mean that they’re no longer suspects?’
‘No, not necessarily,’ Taylor said. ‘They could have been wearing gloves.’
‘Are you sure you checked the right four?’ Angel said.
Taylor sighed. ‘Felix Lubrecki, Leo Altman, Erick Cartlett and Alexander Trott, sir,’ he said.
Angel nodded. ‘That’s correct.’
Flora said, ‘What I don’t understand, sir, is how that butler chap, Trott, got so much lead, antimony and barium residue on his clothes. After all, he was standing at the other side of the room from the shooter, nearest the victim.’
Angel wrinkled his nose and said, ‘Well, we are talking microscopic quantities, Flora. I expect the gunshot residues got onto Trott’s clothes when he leaned over Miss Minter to see what help he could render.’
Taylor said, ‘Well, sir, it doesn’t look as if that test is going to help us in this case.’
Angel said, ‘Well, so be it. There’s nothing more we can do here. Don, I want you and your team to go post-haste to a robbery scene on Hemmsfield Road. See if you can find any forensic. The Control Room has the exact location and background. Trevor Crisp is there; liaise with him. I hope to get there soon myself.’
‘Right, sir,’ he said, and he went out.
Then Angel turned to DS Carter. ‘Flora, provided we have their names and addresses and phone numbers, you can tell the guests and staff they can leave. Ask Mr Trott to see me before he goes.’
‘Right, sir,’ she said.
‘And then come back here. I’ve got a job for you.’
‘Right, sir,’ she said again, and she went out.
A few moments later, there was a knock on the door. It was Trott.
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He noticed that the butler was no longer in a morning suit; instead he was wearing a smart brown suit, cream shirt with a patterned tie and brown shoes.
‘Erm, you wanted to see me, Inspector?’ Trott said.
‘Come in, Mr Trott. Please sit down a moment.’
The butler did not look his usual composed self. He was running his hand over his hair and touching his chin and mouth.
Angel and the Actress Page 6
