‘Yes,’ Angel said. ‘I need to know Miss Minter’s next of kin. Can you tell me who that would be?’
Trott frowned, then said, ‘I am not aware that she has any family living, Inspector, but I do know her solicitors are Pink and Cairncross on Eastgate. Mr Harry Cairncross used to visit her.’
Angel made a note. ‘Thank you, Mr Trott. They probably know her next of kin and the contents of her will.’
‘Was there anything else?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘I understand that you have finished your enquiries here,’ Trott said. ‘That pretty lady policewoman said that everybody should leave now, which made me suddenly realize that I am no longer in employment. For the first time in my life I am … I am out of work.’
‘I shouldn’t think you’d have much difficulty getting a new position.’
Trott shook his head. ‘There’s such a lot of unemployment and hardship about.’
‘After all you didn’t get the sack, did you?’ Angel said. ‘And I trust you have some savings to tide you over for a week or two while you find something.’
‘Well, I have, of course. And I could go and stay with my sister in Southport for a while. But I would rather stay here. I have my own room and all my things are here. Do you think that would be possible?’
‘It’s not for me to say, Mr Trott. But I shouldn’t think anybody would have any objection if you stayed for a few days. Give my “pretty sergeant” your new address, whatever you decide.’
‘Yes, Inspector. I will. And thank you. You’ve cheered me up.’
Angel smiled.
‘There’s something else, Inspector. Well, two things, really. Have you found out who murdered Miss Minter?’
‘No, Mr Trott. But we will.’
Trott smiled. ‘Good. Your name came to me the other day. Inspector Angel. You’re a celebrity, aren’t you? You’re the policeman who always gets his man, like the Mounties. I’ve read about you in a magazine somewhere. And there are so many murders that are never solved, but you’ve always managed to solve your cases and catch the murderer, haven’t you?’
Angel rubbed his chin, blew out a long breath and said, ‘Well, I have up to now.’ Then he quickly added, ‘What was the other thing?’
Trott was still smiling. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, then he frowned. ‘Miss Bell, Miss Minter’s secretary and the caterers, Mr and Mrs Jones, have not been paid. I somehow feel responsible …’
Angel said, ‘I should recommend them to contact Miss Minter’s solicitors.’
Trott smiled. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said.
He stood up and turned towards the door. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ he added. ‘Thank you, Inspector. Goodbye.’
As he went out, Flora Carter came in.
‘Everybody seems pleased except the caterers, sir,’ she said.
‘They’ll be worried about being paid,’ Angel said. Then he added, ‘Flora, I want you to call on Mrs Vera Sellars. She lives at number 24 on this road. That’s the woman who had her handbag stolen recently. Get a list of everything that was in it. Everything. You understand?’
‘Right, sir.’
‘I’m going to Hemmsfield junction.’
It was two o’clock when Angel arrived at the road junction where the Slater Security van had crashed and been robbed. The area was taped off and No Entry signs and diversion signs were all round the locale.
A uniformed constable recognized Angel in the BMW. He saluted him, lifted the tape and waved him underneath. Angel saw Crisp’s car and parked next to it. As he got out he saw that Crisp was in the car with two men in Slater Security livery.
The SOCO van was parked ten yards further away alongside the wreck, and DS Taylor and a detective constable were in their white disposable paper suits, carefully picking their way through the back of the wrecked blue and white van.
Another SOCO was in the cab of the Volkswagen with a flask of aluminium powder and a brush, looking for fingerprints.
Angel went up to DS Crisp’s car and opened the door.
Crisp made the introductions, then Angel looked at Crisp and said, ‘Can I have a word, Trevor?’ Then he left the car door open and walked a few paces away.
Crisp got out, closed the car door and went up to him.
Angel said, ‘Did they see any of the gang’s faces?’
‘No, sir. There were four in the gang, all wearing black or navy-blue balaclavas, and three of them – they’d be in their twenties and thirties – were wearing jeans, woollen jumpers and trainers. The fourth, who seemed to be the gang leader, had very broad shoulders and was about forty. He was the one who rammed the van with the car. He was wearing protective pads round his legs and arms over a dark suit, and he had a safety helmet over the balaclava.’
Angel rubbed his temple. ‘Were there any firearms?’
‘Yes, sir. The driver who rammed them. He had a small, sort of blue-coloured handgun.’
Angel shook his head and wiped over his face with his hand. ‘Too many guns around the place. What do they know about their getaway?’
‘They said that the four men made their escape in a blue Ford Mondeo, sir. They went north towards Leeds. They didn’t get the licence number.’
‘It would have been a false number plate, anyway,’ Angel said. ‘Did they get away with a lot?’
‘Two hundred and twenty thousand, sir.’
His eyes opened wide. ‘It’s a lot of money,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Another thing, sir. The notes were all dirty or torn notes on their way to the Bank of England to be destroyed.’
‘Did Slater’s men see anything helpful at all? You know, a tattoo, a wristwatch, that sort of thing?’
‘They said not, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘This gang weren’t amateurs. They seem to have left the job absolutely clean.’
Angel’s eyes flashed. The muscles round his jaw tightened. ‘Nobody can deliberately drive a car into a van at speed, blow open the door of the safe, take away all that dosh and not leave something behind.’
‘They left three pickaxes, sir.’
‘Yeah, I mean more than that. I’m hopeful that Don Taylor will find something … a print or something. All right, Trevor. Carry on, but press them on anything they might have seen or heard of the robbers.’
‘I will, sir,’ Crisp said, and he returned to the two Slater Security men in his car.
Angel walked up to the vehicle wreck. ‘Is Don Taylor there?’
The tall slim figure wreathed in white came out of the innermost part of the van. ‘Yes, sir?’ he said.
‘How you doing, Don?’
He pulled down his mask and said, ‘Found a cigarette end, sir. The brand is “Adelaide”. Never heard of it. No prints on it. Looks like all the gang were wearing gloves, and that that discipline was maintained throughout.’
Angel’s face creased. ‘Can we get any DNA from it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That would be great, if they’re on record,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. Then his forehead wrinkled. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, and he walked back to Crisp’s car, opened the door, peered in and said, ‘Excuse me, chaps.’ He looked at the two Slater Security men and said, ‘Do either of you smoke?’
‘No,’ came the reply in unison.
He nodded, closed the car door, came back to Taylor and said, ‘It’s not from either of them.’
Taylor smiled. ‘Great stuff, sir. We’ll get it off to the lab today.’
‘Find anything else, Don?’
‘We’ve been over the three pickaxes they used to claw their way into the back of the van, but there are no prints or anything useful on them.’
‘Right. I’ll take them with me. Get one of your lads to put them in my boot, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’ve found part of the remains of the detonator, sir. A handmade job. Quite primitive but it works. Made from a three-inch length of steel
wool, two matches, six inches of Sellotape, several yards of twin-core electric cable and a little nine-volt battery. A kid of ten could make it. And so efficient. The detonation is so quick that the blast of the dynamite blows out the flame of the two matches before they are burnt up.’
Angel blinked several times. ‘Interesting from the modus operandi point of view, Don,’ he said, ‘but there’s nothing forensic we can learn from that, is there?’
Taylor didn’t reply quickly. He scratched his head, then said, ‘It helps to measure the size of the explosion, sir.’
‘True. And the mentality of the villains.’
‘It’s that sort of info you’d get from a spell in prison.’
Angel nodded his agreement. ‘I reckon it would cost about two snorts of cocaine.’
‘The currency used to be cigarettes.’
‘Have you found anything else?’
‘No, sir, but we’re not quite finished.’
‘Have you been over the Volkswagen?’
‘There’s a man looking for prints now, sir. There are no sweet papers, no lager cans, no fag ends, nothing.’
‘Leave it with you, then.’
Taylor turned back to the wreck.
Angel walked down the line to Crisp’s car and opened the door again. He looked at the older of the two Slater’s men. ‘Excuse me again, gentlemen. Is your office sending some transport to get you two home?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘Our boss is coming down; so is a man to sort out the insurance.’
Angel nodded. ‘Right.’ Then he turned back to Crisp. ‘I’m going back to the station, Trevor. I’ll have to get this wreck moved before it’s dark.’
It was four o’clock.
There was a knock on Angel’s office door.
Angel was seated at his desk. ‘Yes? Come in,’ he said.
It was Ahmed. ‘Ah yes,’ Angel said. ‘There are three pickaxes in the boot of my car. Take them down to SOCO.’ He reached into his pocket and gave Ahmed his car key. ‘You’ll need that. Get a photographer to take a picture of all three together. I want the “Stronghold” brand label round the handle of each pickaxe to be readable on at least one of them. Then put the pic online. All right?’
‘Right, sir.’
Ahmed went out.
Angel picked up the phone and dialled a two-digit number. It was an internal call to Norman Mallin, the sergeant responsible for station transport. He instructed him to organize the immediate recovery of the two crashed vehicles out at Hemmsfield.
He then rang Simon Bennett, chief news reporter at the Bromersley Chronicle.
‘I’ve got a story for you,’ Angel said. ‘You will be the first to hear it. It’s about the robbery of a Slater Security van carrying—’
‘Oh, that,’ Bennett said. ‘That’s what that road blockage out at Hemmsfield is all about, isn’t it, Michael? I heard they got away with two hundred and twenty thousand pounds.’
Angel licked his lips. His grip on the phone tightened. He hadn’t reckoned on Bennett knowing so much. He recovered quickly and said, ‘That’s right, and I want you to do me a little favour.’
Bennett said, ‘Of course, Michael. If I can I will; what is it?’
‘I want you to use a photograph of the three pickaxes used in the crime. And I want a mention that if anybody remembers selling them recently, to get in touch with the police. I can send you the photograph online.’
‘Not a very interesting photograph, three pickaxes, Michael,’ Bennett said.
‘No, but it might give us a lead to the gang,’ Angel said. ‘You’d be doing a great public service, Simon, particularly if the photograph pulled in information that led to the arrest of the armed robbers.’
There was a short silence: Angel reckoned he could hear Bennett thinking.
‘Yes, all right, Michael,’ the reporter said.
So Angel told him all about the robbery, carefully avoiding the finding of the cigarette butt. Bennett asked a couple of questions for clarification, which Angel answered quickly, and the call was ended.
Angel reached into his desk drawer, took out the local telephone directory. He turned to the pages with names beginning with P. He scanned down the columns and found the name Pink and Cairncross, Solicitors, Eastgate, Bromersley. He tapped in their number and was soon speaking to Mr Harry Cairncross.
‘I understand you are the solicitor of the late Miss Joan Minter?’ Angel said.
‘That is correct, Inspector. It is not very long since I drew up the will.’
‘Mr Cairncross, can you tell me who the executors of Miss Minter’s estate are?’
‘We are, Inspector. There are no known relatives alive of Miss Minter.’
‘And who is the sole or main beneficiary?’
‘Her butler, Alexander Trott,’ Cairncross said.
Angel blinked rapidly, then stared ahead openmouthed at nothing in particular.
‘Hello. Are you still there, Inspector?’ Cairncross said.
Angel shook his head in an effort to think clearly. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m here, Mr Cairncross. Thank you. Thank you very much. Goodbye.’
He slowly replaced the phone. He was surprised at the news.
Armed with this new information on Trott, he considered all the other facts he had on him, then dismissed the subject. He then took out the old envelope from his inside pocket to check off all the jobs he had to do. He was peering down at it and striking his ballpoint through the tasks he had already attended to when there was a knock at the door.
It was Ahmed.
‘What do you want, lad?’
The young policeman rushed in breathless, his eyes sparkling, his face red. ‘Thought you’d like to know, sir. I was in the Control Room when it came in. A triple nine. There’s a car just seen on fire in Cheapo’s car park. The sergeant’s advised the fire brigade.’
Angel frowned. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘It happens now and then. Kids steal a car and drive round till they’re bored out of their drugged-up little minds, then they carve up the upholstery for laughs, smash all the headlights for fun and set it on fire for a lark. Then they run off and watch it burn from a safe distance and see how law-abiding citizens cope with it. It makes a change from sticking a steak knife in another young man’s stomach.’
Ahmed’s eyes remained bright. ‘Ah, yes, sir,’ the young man said, ‘but this was a nearly new blue Ford Mondeo. Could be the stolen one used in the robbery of the Slater Security van.’
Angel pulled his head back. His eyes grew big and unblinking. Then he said, ‘Ah, I see. Well spotted, Ahmed.’ He leaped up, sending the swivel chair backwards. It hit the wall with a bang. He reached out for his hat and coat and was gone.
SEVEN
IT WAS 8.28 a.m. on Wednesday, 5 November, Fireworks Day.
Angel walked down the corridor, passed the CID office and entered his office.
Ahmed appeared from nowhere, knocked on the door and came in waving a newspaper around.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s full of stuff about Joan Minter and the investigation.’
Angel looked up. He was eager to read it, but there were important things that had priority. ‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ he said, ‘But I must go out to Cheapo’s and see what that wreck can tell us.’ He quickly glanced through a pile of envelopes that had been added since the previous afternoon, looked round the office, then made for the door.
‘Shall I leave it here, sir,’ Ahmed said, putting it on his desk, ‘and pick it up later?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Do that. Must go,’ Angel said from the door. ‘By the way, your paper from yesterday is in the middle drawer of my desk. Help yourself to it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Angel spent most of the remainder of the morning with DS Taylor. Together they looked through the burnt-out wreck of the Ford Mondeo that had featured so prominently in the robbery of the Slater Security van. Angel had been hopeful of finding something that would help identify one of the gang of robbers,
but there was nothing. If there had been any prints, they had disappeared in the heat of the fire.
They gave up the search at about 12 noon and Angel returned to his office, where he found on his desk the morning paper that Ahmed had left, as well as three pickaxes and six photographs of them.
He picked up the paper and saw the front-page story was still about the murder of Joan Minter. It was headed by an ancient picture of her playing the female lead in Romeo and Juliet. He quickly read it, then turned the page to find lots of detail about the investigation of the case: some was accurate some was intelligent guesswork.
However, contained in the text he noticed the words, ‘The results of the gunshot residue tests arrived by police courier,’ which made him think. He blinked, lowered the paper and looked straight ahead at nothing in particular. He rubbed his chin. How would a reporter know that the results of the tests arrived by police courier? How does anybody except the people who send and receive them know? When a police courier arrives, he doesn’t broadcast what he is delivering. He just hands it over and gets a signature for it. He probably has no idea what’s in the envelope or package. It might be confidential, wanted urgently, highly valuable or evidence of vital importance in determining someone’s guilt or innocence. He might realize that it could be some or all those factors, but he wouldn’t know.
He toyed with the puzzle for a few moments, then he turned back the newspaper page to the front, noted that it was the Daily Yorkshireman and folded it neatly and put it on one side to be returned to Ahmed.
He then tapped a number into his phone to summon DC Scrivens.
‘Come in, Ted,’ Angel said. ‘Sit down a minute.’
Scrivens stared at the pickaxes on the desk in front of him, then sat down.
Angel said, ‘What are you busy with?’
‘A complaint about kids making a nuisance of themselves, sir,’ Scrivens said. ‘Letting off bangers outside an old people’s home. Usual Guy Fawkes troubles.’
Angel shook his head. ‘Annoying little monkeys. Can you pass that on to somebody else?’
Angel and the Actress Page 7
