Angel turned to Flora and said, ‘Have you got all that down?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
Angel’s eyes creased. ‘I have been thinking,’ he said. ‘The murderer shot Ian Fairclough between 9.30 and 11.30 this morning. Now, this is a small semi-detached house. The people in the adjoining semi must have heard the shot. You went there this morning, didn’t you?’
Flora Carter turned back in her notebook. ‘Yes, sir. I did. That was number 31.’ She found the page. ‘NR,’ she said. ‘There was no reply. Do you want me to try them again, now?’
‘Yes and the other side, number 35.’
She referred to the notebook again. ‘I did 35, sir, and they saw nothing.’
His face muscles tightened. He clenched his fists. ‘Oh hell, Flora, did they hear the gunshot?’
Her face coloured up. She glared back at him. ‘It’s November 5th, Guy Fawkes Day!’ she said. ‘There have been bangs all day. And there’ll probably be bangs at all hours until after the weekend.’
Angel rubbed his forehead and temple and closed his eyes.
Flora stood up. ‘Shall I go and make those calls now?’
Angel was feeling guilty at flying off the handle. Flora was, of course, quite right about the number of explosions there were at this time of the year. He should have thought of it. The only reason why he didn’t must have been that he was tired. He looked at his watch. It was 5.15. He had had enough.
‘No. Let’s pack it in. We’ve done a lot today.’
‘I don’t mind, sir, if you want me to?’
He shook his head. ‘No. No. We don’t think clearly when we’re tired, Flora. Do it in the morning. We’ll pack up now. You can call on those that were out when I called. I’ll give you the list.’
‘Right, sir,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Oh, that’s great. I didn’t want to be late. I’m going to a fireworks party tonight.’
Angel smiled. ‘Right. Sounds good. I hope you enjoy yourself.’
Susan Fairclough came in from the hall. She was carrying some clothes, a sponge bag, hairbrush and some other bits. ‘Nothing’s been taken, Inspector. I’ve had a good look round.’
Angel nodded.
‘I’ve brought you the last decent photograph of Ian and I’ve written the name and phone number of his boss at the London office on this bit of paper.’
Angel took them from her, glanced at them and put them in his pocket. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Flora and I are leaving now.’
There was suddenly a burst of pretty-coloured fireworks visible high in the sky through the window, followed by several loud bangs from bangers.
Susan Fairclough flinched at the racket.
Angel said, ‘Ah yes. It’s Bonfire Night.’
Angel realized belatedly his thoughtlessness, that that racket would be more than usually disturbing for a grieving woman living on her own.
‘Oh,’ Susan Fairclough said. ‘Would you mind seeing me across to Bella’s, Inspector? She’s kindly giving me a bed for the night.’
‘Of course,’ he said.
All three made for the door.
It was almost 6 p.m. on Guy Fawkes Night when Angel escorted Susan Fairclough to Bella’s house across the road. He then returned to his car. On the way home, he saw a few bonfires with the silhouettes of children dancing round them, some rockets and pretty, golden-rain-type fireworks in the sky and he heard a lot of bangers, some shaking the ground like landmines.
He arrived home at 6.05 p.m.
‘You’re late, darling,’ Mary said, rushing up to him and giving him a kiss on the cheek.
‘It’s like World War III out there.’
She nodded. ‘You’ve just time to have a beer.’
‘If I have a beer, I shall fall asleep. Any post?’
She tilted her head back and looked upwards. ‘I’ve told you,’ she said, ‘if there was any post it would be on the sideboard.’
He frowned. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier simply to say “yes”?’
She opened the oven door. ‘Erm … I don’t know,’ she said, her mind now on the casserole. She looked around for the oven cloth. She put the hot dish on top of the oven, took off the lid and stirred the contents. She went over to the cupboard.
‘Well, obviously it would,’ he said. ‘A three-letter word is much shorter than, “if there is any post it would be on the sideboard,” because, in any case, it usually isn’t.’
‘Yes, all right, dear,’ she said, sprinkling in the gravy thickener. ‘Would you like to set the table?’
‘Did you hear what I said, Mary?’ he said.
‘Yes. Will you set the table? It’s almost ready,’ she said, stirring the thickener in. ‘I’ve had such a day. Went to the hairdresser’s this morning, then went down to the station and booked my ticket. I’ve changed the bed, done the washing and baked an apple pie, a custard and a fruit cake this afternoon. I don’t want you starving while I’m away. Miriam goes into the clinic early Friday morning, so I will have to leave early tomorrow morning.’
He looked at her. He still wondered at how beautiful she looked even when her hair was hidden in a turban arrangement and she had a sheen of perspiration on her chin, cheeks and forehead.
‘How long are you expecting this lark is going on for?’ he said.
‘She said two or three days at the most. And it’s not a lark.’
‘That means you’ll be back on Sunday night.’
She pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘More like Tuesday. You’re forgetting it takes a day to get there, and a day to get back.’
Angel’s face went slack and his mouth dropped open. ‘Five days?’ he said.
She smiled inwardly. She was flattered that he didn’t want to be left. ‘You can manage five days without me, can’t you?’
‘It’s for such a silly reason. Having her bits and pieces pumped up at her age. Damned ridiculous,’ he said, slamming the cutlery drawer. He set out the knives and forks. ‘Actually, I have always thought she was adequately endowed in that department.’
Mary smirked. ‘Oh, so you’ve been looking, have you? At my sister!’
He shrugged. ‘There’s no charge for looking, is there? It’s not an offence. She’s only having it done so that men will look even more. You’re a right sexy family if the truth were known.’
But Mary wasn’t particularly happy about the operation. ‘I hope she’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘The potatoes are done. It’s ready. Sit down.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ he said.
‘Have you washed your hands?’
He blinked and looked up at her. He lifted his hands, turned his palms uppermost, looked at them, stood up and made for the sink. He ran the hot tap and reached out for the washing-up liquid.
Mary looked back from the oven. ‘I don’t know why you don’t do that in the bathroom. The kitchen sink is my domain. And I’m serving up. You’re in my way.’
‘Won’t be a minute.’
He put a splash of the liquid on his palm, rubbed his hands together, swilled them under the tap, turned it off and reached out for the tea towel.
She glared at him. ‘Don’t use that towel!’ she said.
He gritted his teeth and continued drying his hands.
She yanked a hand towel down from the clothes rack with such force it caused it to swing and clank on the ceiling. She tossed the towel at him. He didn’t try to catch it. It fell on the floor.
‘Steady on,’ he said. He bent down, picked it up and put it on the back of his chair.
‘It doesn’t belong there,’ she said.
His jaw muscles tightened. He sat down at the table.
She snatched it up and threw it back on the rack. It landed askew but safely.
She served up the meal in silence. And there was no conversation until Angel put his knife and fork neatly together on the plate.
‘That was very nice, love, thank you,’ he said.
She glanced at him and said, ‘I’m glad you enj
oyed it. Are you still on with that Joan Minter murder?’
‘Yep. And an armed robbery of a security van. And the murder of an insurance man on Melvinia Crescent.’
‘Well, you’ll hardly notice I’ve gone then, will you?’ she said.
Her hand was on the table. He put his hand on top of hers and said, ‘I shall be thinking of you every minute you are away.’
She smiled. ‘Oooh,’ she said warmly. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the lips.
There was a moment of quiet. They looked at each other.
He said, ‘What time does your train leave?’
‘Can you get me to Bromersley Station for 8.10? My connection at Doncaster leaves there at 8.59.’
‘Yes. Of course,’ he said.
She nodded and smiled. ‘You must look after yourself. And keep off the fish and chips. There’s a fridge full of good, healthy food.’
‘I’ll be all right. Are you all right for money?’
‘I withdrew some cash from the hole in the wall on Monday. I’ve plenty, and I’ve always my credit card.’
‘Ah, Monday,’ he said, remembering something. ‘You recall that letter that came on Monday? I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it.’
She frowned. ‘No,’ she said. ‘What was that?’
He reached into his inside pocket and took out the envelope. ‘It’s from the gas people.’
She pulled a face. ‘You’re always going on about the gas people,’ she said.
His face straightened. ‘Of course I am. Their bills are so high now that they virtually have an investment in our lives. Don’t you realize that our monthly gas bill is higher than our repayments to the building society?’
Mary glanced up at the ceiling. ‘I’ve heard all this before,’ she said.
‘No, you haven’t, because this has never happened before,’ he said. ‘The latest thing is this. They say our boiler is more than ten years old and—’
‘What exactly is the boiler?’
‘That thing on the wall.’
She looked round at it and frowned.
‘And they do not guarantee to have spares for it because of its age. Also, if it breaks down, we could be without heating and so on for a week or however long it takes, while they replace it with a new, more efficient boiler, which with all the gubbins would cost us over five thousand pounds.’
Her jaw dropped. Her face paled. ‘We can’t afford five thousand pounds.’
‘I know, but that is the worst scenario. What they are saying is that new boilers are so efficient that they can save up to twenty per cent of the gas consumed. Also that if we elect to have a new one fitted this month, it could cost up to forty per cent less.’
‘That’s a consideration,’ she said.
He wrinkled his nose. ‘It would be, if it were true. We have to consider what we want to do. Every month the gas bills go up.’
‘Well I’m sure I can leave it in your capable hands, darling, to do what is best.’
‘You can’t get away with a bit of old flannel like that,’ he said. ‘I want to know what you think.’
She breathed deliberately in and out before she said, ‘You want to know what I think? I think you spend far too much time nattering about the gas people and the cost of gas.’
‘That’s no answer at all. Making decisions requires spending time considering the problem, getting information and weighing up the alternatives before arriving at an answer.’
‘There you are,’ she said. ‘You’ve just said it. That’s what you should do. Get more information.’
Angel’s mouth fell open.
She stood up and said, ‘Now I have a hundred things to do before I leave in the morning. Must go and wash the pots. Make the coffee, darling, will you?’
Angel rubbed his forehead. He closed his eyes very tightly. His face muscles and veins strained against the skin.
TEN
IT WAS 8.25 when Angel arrived at his office, having driven Mary to Bromersley Station and seen her onto the train. She had given him a myriad of instructions about where things were, what to eat, what not to eat, what to see to, what to leave alone, where to go, where not to go, and what to do in many different and improbable circumstances. He had nodded his understanding of what she had said, fully determined to do exactly as he liked. In fact, much as he loved her and would undoubtedly miss her, he was beginning to think he might enjoy a few days of liberty.
He put his coat on the coat hanger and his hat on the peg and settled down at his desk. He pulled the pile of post and reports forward, determined to begin to reduce it, when the phone rang. It was Mac.
‘Michael, I know this is a bit early for you, but—’
Angel said, ‘I’ve been up since six o’clock. What can I do for you?’
‘I think it’s what I can do for you, Michael,’ Mac said. ‘When I got yon body of Ian Fairclough on my table, I noticed immediately that the fingers of his right hand were clenched tight, which in itself is not unusual. However, when I peeled back the fingers, there was a button, a black button with a number of cotton threads hanging off it. He must have clenched it tightly and torn it off his assailant.’
Angel’s eyes narrowed. In the past, men had been hanged with much less evidence. ‘Anything unusual about the button?’ he said.
‘No, I shouldn’t think so. It is a common design in plastic, presumably from a man’s raincoat or overcoat. Could have been made just about anywhere in the world. But the thread might be useful. I’ve run a few tests and I can say that it is cotton, has originated in Egypt, been soaked in sodium hydroxide to shrink it, to increase its lustre and affinity for dye. It would be probable that many cotton threads would be treated like that, but I reckon we could identify a matching thread.’
Angel ran his fingertips across his temple. ‘Thank you, Mac. That’s great … could be a vital clue. You’ve no further use for the button, I take it?’
‘Noo, but I’d need to retain the thread, if I might be required to make a comparison at a later date.’
‘Of course, Mac. That would be fine.’
‘There are the contents of Ian Fairclough’s pockets. You can have those too as soon as you like.’
‘Thank you. I’ll send somebody across for them and the button this morning. While I have you there, Mac, you remember that the fridge door was found wide open at the Faircloughs’ home? Well, it turns out that a pork pie and a pint of milk had been taken. Can you tell me if Ian Fairclough had consumed them in the last three hours of his life?’
Mac hesitated, then said, ‘Well, there was certainly no undigested food in his stomach, Michael, but I couldn’t be so absolute about the milk. I suppose the alternative explanation is that the murderer took them and was in such a hurry that he didn’t close the fridge door.’
‘That’s what we are thinking, Mac. Thank you.’
‘I’ll have that stuff ready for collection as soon as you like, Michael. Goodbye.’
Angel replaced the phone. He felt a bit happier. He was thinking that the few small clues he had, put together, could prove a case – if only he had a suspect.
The phone rang again. It was Don Taylor. ‘Got an email from the lab, sir,’ he said. ‘On that cigarette that Joan Minter was smoking when she was shot.’
Angel’s eyes brightened. ‘Ah yes,’ he said.
‘It was negative, sir. There was nothing at all unusual about it.’
‘Oh,’ he said. He sighed and slowly shook his head.
Then Taylor said, ‘And that cigarette end recovered from the back of the Slater Security van, Adelaide brand.’
He looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘They say the sample submitted did not contain a nucleus and therefore DNA was not recoverable.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘And what about the champagne glass Joan Minter was holding when she was shot?’
‘Negative, sir. It didn’t have any additives in it.’
‘Right, Don,’ Angel said. ‘Thank you. Have you heard
anything more from Ballistics about the shell case and the Walther from the Joan Minter murder?’
‘Ballistics always take a bit longer, sir.’
‘Yes, but will you jolly them along?’
‘I’ll ring up this morning, sir.’
He replaced the phone. Almost everything was negative. His face went slack. He dropped his head. After a few moments, he sighed deeply and dragged the pile of letters, reports and stuff across the desk nearer to him.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ he said.
It was Ahmed. He was carrying a copy of the Daily Yorkshireman. ‘Good morning, sir. Do you want to see my paper? There’s a report on the Ian Fairclough murder across the front page.’
Angel looked up. He did, of course. He was desperately interested. He wanted to see if there were any other traps the informer to the paper had fallen into.
‘Can you leave it with me for an hour or so? I have such a lot to see to. Incidentally, there’s something I want you to do for me, urgently.’
‘Of course, sir,’ he said, handing the paper to him.
Angel put it down on his desk. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Then he took out of his wallet a photograph of Ian Fairclough and the small piece of paper Susan Fairclough had given to him. He looked at the photograph again and passed it up to Ahmed and said, ‘Get me six copies as soon as possible.’
‘Only take a few minutes, sir,’ he said, and he rushed out.
As soon as the door was closed, Angel picked up the copy of the newspaper and looked at the front page. The headline ‘Murder in Melvinia!’ was splashed across it, with a photograph of the house. He carefully read the text and stopped when he read the words ‘… found in the house, taken there by the killer was a new, green vacuum cleaner’. Who had told the newspaper about that and who had specified that it was green? There was definitely a leak from somebody in the station. He read on. The rest of the text was wordy and sensational.
Angel ran his hand jerkily through his hair. He closed the paper and banged it down at the corner of his desk. That was another irritating little matter he would have to resolve.
Angel and the Actress Page 10
