Angel and the Actress

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel grinned. ‘I’m only a constable,’ he said. ‘I can’t do anything about that.’ He came out of the ticket office and went straight outside to the taxi rank.

  There were three taxis waiting. He went down each car in turn. He showed the driver the photograph of Ian Fairclough, described the suitcase and told them about the big man with very broad shoulders wearing a black overcoat. None of them could remember seeing anything at all that he had mentioned.

  He turned away.

  The trail stopped there.

  His face went slack and his mouth fell open.

  He was thinking about what to do next when he noticed that another taxi had arrived and was unloading some passengers.

  Angel advanced towards the driver. He took out his badge and ID and showed it to the driver. Then he went into the spiel.

  At first the driver shook his head, then he said, ‘Yesterday morning? About this time? Yeah. I told him I remembered the suitcase and taking the man in the photograph to Melvinia Crescent. I couldn’t remember the number of the house, but I thought I would be able to find it if I went back there. He jumped in the cab and told me to take him there. Anyway, we were going along Wakefield Road and as we were passing Cheapo’s, the supermarket, he suddenly said he wanted to call there and get something, so I took him there. He asked me to wait, so I did. He came out with a vacuum cleaner. He said it had been in a sale.’

  Angel’s jaw muscles stiffened. ‘What did this man look like?’

  The driver frowned. ‘Don’t you know? He was one of your men. He was big. Got a face like a boxer. Big nose. Big ears. Tall and he had broad shoulders. He was wearing a black overcoat.’

  Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘He wasn’t a policeman,’ he said grimly. ‘He murdered the man in the photograph.’

  The driver froze. He put a hand across his chest as if he had a pain. ‘Are you sure?’ he said.

  ‘Positive. And it’s my job to catch him. Do you think you could find the house you took him to on Melvinia Crescent?’

  ‘Yeah. No problem.’

  Several minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside 33 Melvinia Crescent. Angel had followed him in the BMW. He stopped, got out and walked up to the taxi driver’s window.

  The driver saw Angel approaching. ‘This is it,’ the driver said. ‘I stopped here. He got out with the vacuum cleaner, paid me and I drove away. I never saw him again or thought any more about it until you asked me just now.’

  ‘What do I owe you?’ Angel said.

  ‘Forget it. It was a pleasure. Catching the bastard will be worth a million times more than the cost of the journey. I hope you catch him very soon,’ the driver said. Then with a wave of the hand he drove away.

  Angel watched him go. ‘So do I,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Before he catches me.’

  He looked up at the house and wondered if Susan Fairclough was in. He had a few questions for her.

  He made his way up the path and rang the bell.

  She opened the door on the chain and was delighted to see that Angel was her visitor.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector. Oh do come in. You’re just in time for coffee.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’d like to return that photograph of Ian you lent me.’

  ‘Go into the sitting room and sit down. I won’t be a minute. The kettle has just boiled.’

  ‘That’s very nice,’ he said. ‘There are a few questions I’d like to put to you while I’m here.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. Anything I can do to help. Make yourself comfortable.’

  After a few moments she brought the coffee through. When they were settled she said, ‘Now then, you wanted to ask me something?’

  ‘Yes. Can you describe Ian’s suitcase for me?’

  ‘Oh, it was very smart. It was brand new. It was white and brown leather, well, simulated leather. Probably plastic. I bought it from a catalogue.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Why? Is it important?’ she said.

  Could be,’ Angel said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have the catalogue, would you?’

  ‘Might have,’ she said, leaning down to the magazine rack on the floor by the side of the easy chair. She pulled out a few magazines, catalogues and a newspaper, discarded everything except one particular catalogue, whizzed through the pages and eventually came to the page she wanted. She passed the catalogue over to Angel, pointed to the illustration of a two-tone suitcase and said, ‘There. That’s the one.’

  Angel looked at it and said, ‘Can I have this illustration?’

  ‘Tear out the page,’ she said.

  He hesitated. She took the catalogue from him, tore out the page, handed it to him and tucked the catalogue back in the magazine rack.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He looked at it again, then put it in his inside pocket between his wallet and an envelope.

  ‘Is that significant?’ she said.

  ‘It might be,’ he said, sipping the coffee. ‘Tell me, Susan, was your husband carrying anything valuable in the suitcase … so valuable that crooks might be interested in it?’

  ‘No, Inspector. Not that I know about. We are not rich. We both had jobs. We were nicely fixed in these hard times, but we’ve nothing of any value. Certainly nothing worth murdering for.’

  ‘He wasn’t carrying anything for a third party?’

  ‘You mean like a courier?’ Her eyes suddenly narrowed, then opened wide. ‘You mean drugs?’ she said.

  ‘Well, drugs, money, gold, anything?’

  ‘No. No. Not Ian,’ she said. ‘He was far too honest and … and far too staid, if the truth were known.’

  Angel thought about her reply a few moments, then he said, ‘Have you any idea at all why your husband set off from here on Tuesday, ostensibly to spend two nights in London, then in fact spent only one night there and returned early on Wednesday morning?’

  Susan Fairclough stared at Angel open-mouthed. ‘Certainly not, Inspector. Ian was an absolutely genuine man. I’m sure of that,’ she said, splaying a hand across her upper chest. ‘He wouldn’t do anything at all dishonest. You can be certain of that, Inspector. I don’t think he ever did a dishonest thing in his life. He was as near perfect as any human could be.’

  Angel was reminded of one of the only two quotations he could remember from Shakespeare. It was: ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

  He came out of the Faircloughs’ house not much wiser than when he went in. He turned the car into Park Road and headed towards Cheapo’s. He had that lead to follow up, too. As he drove along, he was encouraged by the information that had been fed back to him from SOCO, and from witnesses, concerning the Ian Fairclough murder, but was dismayed that there had been so little forthcoming about the Joan Minter case. Following his present lines of inquiry the only information outstanding was from Ballistics. He had already had the account of the history of the Walther used in that murder. There was really only confirmation (or otherwise) that the bullet case had actually come from that gun. Whatever Ballistics said, he couldn’t see that it would open a fresh line of inquiry.

  He was still thinking the whole situation over when he turned off the main road and into the massive car park at the front of Cheapo’s. He parked up and went into the store. He showed his ID and badge, asked for the manager and was shown into his office.

  ‘I need your help regarding enquiries I am making into a recent murder case,’ Angel said.

  The young manager said, ‘We’ll do anything we can to assist you, Inspector.’

  ‘I have information to say that a man bought a green vacuum cleaner here sometime between 10.15 and 11 a.m. yesterday morning,’ Angel said. ‘I want to know what he looked like. Can I see your CCTV for yesterday morning?’

  ‘Certainly,’ the manager said. ‘That should be easy to find. We could look at the tape from the main door, and if he isn’t there, he’ll most certainly be on the tape from the electrical department.’

  He pick
ed up the phone, explained what was required, and a few minutes later a young man came into the office with two tapes in his hand. The manager introduced the two men and then settled back in his chair and watched the proceedings.

  The young man dropped one of the tapes into a projector, switched it on, then, pointing to a seat facing the office wall, said, ‘Would you like to sit here, Inspector? You will see better.’

  Angel settled into position in a chair facing the wall.

  ‘This is the recording of yesterday morning’s CCTV of the main door, Inspector,’ the young man said.

  A picture suddenly appeared on the screen.

  The manager closed the office blinds.

  The picture simply showed a steady flow of people coming in and going out of the store through the big automatic sliding doors. The time of the recording was shown on the corner of the screen. It said 9.30 a.m.

  Angel said, ‘Can you run it on to about 10.15, please?’

  ‘Certainly,’ the young man said. The picture skidded across the screen. ‘What exactly are we looking for, Inspector?’

  ‘A man with a green vacuum cleaner leaving the store.’

  The manager said, ‘Hmm. Did he pay for it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the young man said.

  Angel said, ‘So sorry. I have no idea either.’

  Then he heard the manager behind him pick up the phone. ‘Mrs Rubens, please … Ah, Mrs Rubens? I have a police inspector in my office. He is urgently trying to trace a man who left the store with a green vacuum cleaner yesterday morning between 10.15 and 11 a.m. He doesn’t know whether he paid for it or not. Let’s assume he did. Will you quickly check the till receipts in the electrical department and tell me the exact time on the receipt? … Yes, the time. And ring me back. Quick as you can, Mrs Rubens, thank you.’ He replaced the phone.

  The young man slowed the tape; the time showed 10.25 a.m.

  ‘That’s fine, thank you,’ Angel said, and he stared at the screen. It mostly showed women with children, pushing shopping trolleys laden with purchases. The store became busier and busier and customers were crowding in and out at the same time. Then suddenly in the fray was the back view of a big man in a dark overcoat with a lot of black hair holding high a green vacuum cleaner. In a second he was enveloped into the crowd that flowed through the door and out of the picture.

  Angel could hardly control himself. There was a solid drumming in his chest. ‘There he is,’ he said. ‘That’s the man. Can you stop the tape?’

  The time on the tape was 10.29 a.m.

  The young man looked at him and smiled. He replayed the tape, but Angel had to be content with only the back view of the man holding the vacuum cleaner.

  Angel looked at the store manager and said, ‘Will you send me a copy of that piece of tape, sir?’

  ‘Indeed I will, Inspector,’ the manager said. ‘In fact you can take the whole tape with you now.’

  ‘That’s very kind. Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘If I now run the tape from the electrical department and fast forward up to, say, 10.15 a.m.,’ the young man said, ‘that would be about the time he was there, wouldn’t it?’

  Angel nodded. ‘I should think so,’ he said, rejuvenated by the shot of adrenaline surging round his system.

  As the young man began to change the tapes the phone behind them rang. The manager reached out for it.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Rubens,’ he said. ‘Oh good … yes, got that … and it was paid for, good … And how was it paid? … Right.’ He replaced the phone.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that the vacuum cleaner was paid for in cash at 10.26 yesterday morning.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said; however, he would have much preferred the transaction to have been executed by credit card or cheque. The documents would have given him new avenues to investigate.

  ‘10.26,’ the young man said. ‘Let’s start around 10.20.’

  ‘Right,’ Angel said.

  The tape was soon run on and they carefully watched it up to and including the time the till receipt was printed. There were pictures of other customers in the department but there was no sign of the big man with a vacuum cleaner. The young man ran the tape forward and backward several times covering earlier and later times, but the big man was not on the screen.

  Angel gritted his teeth and ran his hand through his hair.

  The manager said, ‘Have you got the right day? It was only yesterday, Wednesday.’

  The young man said, ‘Yes. He must have been aware of this particular camera and been working round it.’

  ‘That is possible,’ the manager said. Then he turned to Angel and said, ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I hope we have been of some help.’

  Angel stood up. He waved the tape he had been given and said, ‘Indeed you have.’

  ‘I hope you catch the man, Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  TWELVE

  ANGEL RETURNED TO the station. He was working in his office when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel said.

  It was Don Taylor. He was holding a letter.

  ‘Yes, Don,’ Angel said. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

  ‘It’s a report from Ballistics, sir. Just come in by courier from Wetherby.’

  ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘Well, sir, it goes around the houses a bit, but essentially it says that the firing pin in the Walther matches the bullet case found in Joan Minter’s drawing room …’

  ‘In other words it proves that the Walther was used to kill Joan Minter.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but we had already assumed that, hadn’t we?’

  Angel pulled a tired, unhappy face. ‘When are we going to get a break with this case?’

  Taylor knew the feeling. It had happened many times. ‘It will come, sir. It will come. For you, sir. It always has.’ He turned and made for the door.

  Angel looked at him and smiled, then said, ‘I’ll tell you something, Don. You’ve got more confidence in me than I have.’

  Taylor smiled and went out.

  Angel sat back in the chair, closed his eyes and massaged his temples with his fingertips. He stayed like that for a few minutes. Then he slowly opened his eyes, got to his feet, put on his coat and hat and left the office.

  He passed the cells to the back entrance straight onto the police car park. He got into the BMW and drove it to 24 Ceresford Road. The gate was open so he drove straight onto the long gravel drive, round the cluster of pine trees and bushes of rhododendrons and all the way up to the front of the house. He got out of the car, walked across the gravel and up the stone steps to the door and rang the bell.

  The door was a long time being answered. It was eventually opened three inches on a chain by a woman.

  ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ the voice said.

  ‘Mrs Sellars?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Angel introduced himself and showed her his ID and his badge through the gap. ‘I wanted to ask you about the robbery of your handbag,’ he said.

  She took off the chain and pulled open the door. ‘I am so sorry to appear to be so unfriendly, Inspector, but after my experience I am very wary.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ he said.

  ‘Please come in.’

  She showed him into the sitting room and gestured to him to take a seat. She sat in the easy chair opposite. On the carpet by her chair he saw a black leather handbag. She reached down for it, opened it, took out a lighter and a packet of cigarettes. She opened the packet and offered him a cigarette.

  Angel put up a hand and said, ‘No, thanks.’ Then he noticed the word ‘Adelaide’ printed in dark blue on the packet.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she said.

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said.

  She put a cigarette in her mouth and clicked the lighter.

  He stared at her and then at the pack of cigarettes in the top of the open bag. He had b
een thrown somewhat off his stride. He hadn’t heard of the Adelaide brand until a butt had been found by SOCO in the back of the Slater Security van at Hemmsfield.

  She inhaled the cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke, sighed and settled back in the chair.

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘I wonder if I may look at the cigarette packet,’ he said, pointing towards the handbag.

  She frowned, then smiled. She leaned forward, picked it out of her bag and passed it to him. ‘Am I tempting you, Inspector? Please help yourself.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I stopped smoking around ten years ago. It was a great struggle. I would never start again.’

  He took the packet, pushed open the bottom, took out a cigarette to see that it was branded at the top like the butt found. It was. He replaced the cigarette, closed the packet and checked the printing on it. It said: ‘Made from pure blended Virginian tobacco. Packed in Adelaide, Australia, for export.’

  He looked at Mrs Sellars and said, ‘Do you mind telling me where you bought them?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘They were a present, actually. My son brought them back for me from Australia. He went on a working holiday down there. Came back a week ago. They are very nice … quite mild.’

  Angel handed her back the packet. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I have never heard of them.’

  ‘Nor had I,’ she said. ‘My son said that they’re only sold in Australia.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Now, Mrs Sellars, I have read the statement you gave to my sergeant on Monday and he told me you had looked through our rogues’ gallery and not found the thief who knocked on your front door.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m sure he wasn’t there.’

  ‘I wonder if I could ask you – in your own words – to describe him to me.’

  ‘Well, Inspector, he was just a young man, in the inevitable jeans, plain blue T-shirt, fawn-coloured car coat, thin build … and that’s about it.’

  Angel took out the old brown envelope from his inside pocket and made notes on it in very small neat writing.