Angel and the Actress

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘No shoes? No hat?’

  ‘I think he was wearing trainers … white trainers … well, they had once been white. Yes, he was. No hat. He had dark hair. He had a beard – well, no, not a beard, a few days’ growth.’

  He shook his head. ‘The girls like that unkempt look. In my day, we would have been called scruffy. Anything else?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘How old do you think he was?’

  ‘About thirty, I should think.’

  ‘Thirty, right,’ he said, and put it in his notes. ‘Any tattoos, jewellery, earrings, medallions…?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said, her eyebrows lowered and her face tightened. Then she added, ‘He had an awful ring on his right hand. It was a skull … in what looked like silver.’

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘That could help,’ he said. ‘How big was it?’

  ‘About as big as a ten-pence piece.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said.

  Angel arrived back at his office at three o’clock. He hung up his coat and hat and sat down at his desk. He picked up the phone and dialled Ahmed. ‘Come into my office.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said, and a minute later he was there.

  ‘Ahmed, I want you to get onto the PNC website and check villains who are known to wear a silver ring – or any jewellery or symbol – in the form of a skull.’

  Ahmed blinked. ‘A skull, sir,’ he said. ‘Have you found a suspect, sir?’

  ‘I might have. See what you can find.’

  Ahmed nodded and rushed off.

  A few moments later there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  It was DS Flora Carter. ‘I’ve finished the door to door, sir. I’ve covered every house now. I went back to number 31 just to make sure. There was nobody in the house the morning of the 5th, so they wouldn’t have heard anything anyway. And the man in number 35 said that they may have heard a gunshot, but there were bangs celebrating Guy Fawkes all day and most of the evening and night, so they really couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘Right,’ Angel said. ‘I think we are now assured that the only neighbour to see anything was Mrs Watson across the road from the Faircloughs.’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Right. Now let’s move on. Sit down a minute.’

  When she was settled, he said, ‘I’ve been to see Mrs Sellars.’

  She looked up at him in surprise. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Yes. And I noticed she smoked Adelaide cigarettes. I don’t remember you making any mention of the fact.’

  Her forehead creased, she shook her head and said, ‘Only because I didn’t know, sir.’

  ‘Have you the list of—’

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ Angel said.

  It was DC Scrivens. He was carrying a pickaxe. ‘Oh, sorry to interrupt, sir.’

  ‘You’re not interrupting, Ted. Come in. Hang on a minute.’

  He turned back to Flora and said, ‘Have you got that list of the contents of Mrs Sellars’ handbag?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s on a statement form. On my desk.’

  ‘Fetch it, will you? I need to see it.’

  Flora Carter stood up, went out and closed the door.

  Angel turned back to Scrivens. ‘Now, Ted, what success have you had with those pickaxes?’

  ‘None, sir. I’ve called on every hardware shop, garden centre, supermarket and shop I could think of. It occurred to me that they may have been bought online.’

  Angel breathed in and out noisily. ‘Maybe, lad, maybe. Well, we can’t contact every outlet on the internet that might sell pickaxes. There will be an appeal in the Bromersley Chronicle on Friday. That might produce a result. Right, well, leave that pickaxe here and get back to what you were doing.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  As Scrivens went out, Flora Carter came in, waving a sheet of paper. ‘Got it here, sir,’ she said, passing the single A4 page of the witness’s statement over to him.

  He turned over the page and found the list. He noticed the length of it, looked up at Flora and said, ‘All this in one handbag? Is it … er, usual … er, normal?’

  Flora smiled. ‘Well, there was nothing there that surprised me, sir,’ she said.

  Angel’s eyes scanned the list rapidly, looked up at Flora, then scanned it again. ‘There’s no mention of cigarettes, or matches or lighter.’

  ‘They are not there, sir, because she didn’t mention them.’

  ‘But she was puffing away when I saw her, and she was smoking those Adelaide-brand cigarettes.’

  Flora swallowed several times, then put her hands out palms uppermost. ‘I don’t have an answer, sir. I can’t explain it. She simply didn’t mention them. If she had I would have written them down.’

  Angel clenched his teeth, shook the witness’s statement and said, ‘What’s her telephone number?’

  ‘It’s at the top over the page, sir,’ she said, pointing at the statement.

  He found it straightaway, reached out, picked up the phone and tapped it in. It was soon answered.

  ‘Inspector Angel here, Mrs Sellars.’

  ‘Back so soon, Inspector. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, on Tuesday last you gave my sergeant a list of the contents of your handbag stolen from your kitchen.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, that’s right. Is there anything wrong?’

  Angel blew out a length of breath and said, ‘It may not be wrong exactly, Mrs Sellars, but you neglected to include your cigarettes and lighter.’

  She didn’t answer straight away. Eventually she said, ‘Erm, well, yes, Inspector. There were two packs of cigarettes, a full pack and a part pack, say around thirty cigarettes, and my old silver Dunhill lighter.’

  ‘And were the cigarettes Adelaide, the same brand you were smoking this afternoon?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, they were,’ she said.

  He licked his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. ‘Why didn’t you include the cigarettes and lighter in the list of contents of your handbag you gave to my sergeant?’

  She took a deep breath, then said, ‘Well, the truth is, Inspector, my husband does not like me to smoke. So I never smoke in front of him. And I wasn’t sure if he might possibly for some reason in the future see that list.’

  ‘Oh,’ Angel said. ‘So you smoke on the sly?’

  ‘It’s crude of you to put it like that, Inspector. But yes, that’s how it is.’

  ‘Right. Thank you, Mrs Sellars. Goodbye.’

  As he replaced the phone it immediately rang out. Angel picked it up. ‘Angel,’ he said.

  The sound of coughing indicated that it was his immediate superior, Superintendent Horace Harker, on the line. It never was a pleasant experience. Angel’s eyes narrowed. His face tightened. He rubbed his brow.

  ‘There you are,’ Harker said between bouts of coughing and wheezing. ‘I’ve been trying to get you for half an hour. You’re always on the phone. I hope you weren’t ringing Hong Kong.’

  ‘It was just a local call, sir,’ Angel said.

  ‘Never mind about that,’ he grunted. ‘Come up here. Now!’

  Before Angel could reply, the line went dead.

  Angel gritted his teeth. He replaced the phone and turned to Flora Carter. He breathed out noisily while slowly shaking his head. ‘That was the super,’ he said. ‘He wants to see me now. I’ll speak to you later.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said.

  Angel detested interviews with Superintendent Harker. They never proved helpful or pleasant. He went out of his office and tramped up the green-painted corridor to the door at the end which had the words ‘Detective Superintendent Horace Harker’ painted on it. He knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Harker called.

  Angel pushed open the door and immediately found himself in an environment of warm, moving air, reeking of menthol. Although he was not unused to it, his natural reaction was to blin
k, which he did several times until he became accustomed to it.

  He went up to the big desk covered with box files, ledgers, piles of letters, envelopes, pens, pencils, elastic bands, copies of the Police Gazette, cotton-wool balls, a bottle of Gaviscon, a jar of Vicks, a telephone, a bottle opener, a telephone directory, box of Kleenex, a box of Movical, a screwdriver, a pair of woollen tartan socks and so on.

  Behind the desk was the superintendent. His head was like a skull with big ears.

  ‘Sit down, lad,’ Harker said, picking up a sheet of A4 from the many at his fingertips. ‘Now then, you are investigating two suspect murders, aren’t you? Tell me in a few words the progress you are making.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But you will know all this from my reports. The first case is the shooting of Joan Minter. I cannot claim a great deal of progress with solving this case. There seem to be quite a few people in the business who have an intense dislike of her, but there aren’t any witnesses or corroborative witnesses to anything. Also there isn’t any forensic evidence on which to begin to build a case.’

  ‘Haven’t you any suspects at all?’

  ‘Well, yes. There’s Felix Lubrecki, an actor. There was also a man called Charles Fachinno. He had made a fortune out of potted meat.’

  Harker looked as if he’d just come out of an exhumation tent and was about to throw up. ‘Potted meat?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir. In those little moulded glass jars—’

  His face tightened. ‘I know. I know,’ he said. ‘I know what potted meat is.’

  ‘He’s dead now,’ Angel said, ‘Also Leo Altman, another actor. And a prominent producer, Erick Cartlett.’

  Harker said, ‘All right, all right. That’s enough. What about the other case?’

  ‘The other case is the murder of Ian Fairclough,’ Angel said. ‘A man found in his own home, also killed by a gunshot. Can’t find a motive for his murder. Again, there’s no forensic, but the dead man was found to have a black overcoat button in his closed fist. But it’s a very common colour and size. However, if we can arrest a suspect, and he has a missing button on his coat, then it would become a powerful piece of evidence. Also, we have a witness and some CCTV of the man we believe is the murderer. Unfortunately the picture is only of his back. However, he is wearing a black overcoat.’

  Harker peered across at him through small round spectacles. The glass of one lens reflected the light intermittently, causing Angel to narrow his eyes from time to time.

  ‘So the great almighty Inspector Angel is not as great and almighty as all that, then?’ Harker said. ‘All that stuff that you feed the newspapers and magazine journalists is just so much blether, then, is it? The parallel drawn by some smart-arse reporters with you and the Canadian Mounties is only so much more flannel. Huh. The man who always solves his murder cases can’t solve two in a row. Well, well, well. What have you to say to that?’

  Angel didn’t know what to say. His face was red. There was a fire raging in his chest, but he knew it would not pay him to say what he thought. Eventually he answered in a controlled, even voice. ‘I do the best I can,’ he said. ‘I expect to make an arrest for the murder of Ian Fairclough quite soon.’

  Harker smiled.

  It was very unusual, Angel remembered. It was said that every time Harker smiled a donkey died.

  ‘Do you want me to pass the other case on to another detective?’ Harker said.

  Angel frowned. He couldn’t think of who he might be thinking of. Inspector Asquith wasn’t a detective, and besides, he had plenty to do. The uniformed division was a much bigger section than CID. He surely wasn’t thinking of DS Crisp, DS Carter or DS Taylor? There was nobody else he could think of. He would have to reply very soon. And there was only one answer.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I was thinking, maybe a fresh face to the problems?’ Harker said with a grin. He was enjoying the barracking.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘Well, Angel, I will have to do something. What do you suggest?’

  Angel sighed. ‘I still have some ideas of my own, sir,’ he said. ‘I have by no means exhausted my investigations.’

  Harker shook his head, but he was still smiling. ‘I think you have, lad. I think you’ve hit a brick wall. I’ve been too lenient with you. Let you have your head far too long. I may have to rein you in.’

  Angel felt very much like a mouse being played with by a cat. He decided to call his bluff. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘If you want me to relinquish the cases, I can do that.’

  ‘Aaaaah!’ he said, his eyes shining like searchlights. ‘I thought you were beaten. I said all along that—’

  Angel was furious. ‘I am not beaten. Far from it. I expect to be able to solve both of these cases given the time and the opportunity. You seemed to want me to leave these cases, so I offered to get out. That’s all.’

  ‘You mean resign from the force?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  Harker pursed his lips. ‘Well, Angel, what do you mean? We seem to have reached an impasse.’

  ‘There’s no impasse,’ Angel said. ‘If you let me get on with it, I think I can solve those cases in a week or so, sir.’

  ‘I suppose out of respect for the lifetime’s service your father gave to the force and your service of twelve years, I could—’

  Angel corrected him. ‘Sixteen years.’

  ‘Sixteen years, then, I could allow you a little leeway. I’ll give you four days. I expect you to have solved the murders and charged somebody, approved by the CPS, by next Monday. Now I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

  Angel’s eyes shone. ‘That’s only two working days,’ he said. ‘I said a week.’

  ‘That’s the best I can do, Angel.’

  THIRTEEN

  ANGEL STORMED HIS way down the corridor in the direction of the CID office. Ahmed was by the door seated at a computer. When he saw Angel, he jumped to his feet.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Ahmed said.

  ‘I am looking for Flora Carter.’

  ‘I’ll find her, sir. Or she might have gone out.’

  Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘I hope not. I want her urgently.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said, and he rushed off.

  Angel then made his way to his own office. He reached the desk and sat down. He took a sheet of Bromersley Police printed letterhead and wrote the following by hand.

  To Professor A.P. Lott,

  Wetherby Police Ballistics Laboratory.

  Dear Professor,

  Thank you for the confirmation that the Walther PPK/B.32 was definitely used to kill Joan Minter.

  Regarding the Ian Fairclough case, I have now discovered the identity of the man previously described only as ‘the big man in the black overcoat’ and will be making an arrest in a dawn raid on Saturday morning.

  It will mean working most of the weekend, but I am glad to say that Mary will not be put out by this as she is presently away visiting her sister and I have the house to myself. It is also a good excuse for me to dine out at The Feathers Hotel.

  Best wishes,

  Yours sincerely,

  Michael Angel.

  When he had finished he looked at it, nodded with satisfaction, reached out for an envelope and addressed it.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. It was DS Carter. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Right on cue,’ he said, and he handed her the handwritten letter. ‘Read that, Flora,’ he said.

  She read it and looked at him with narrowed eyes and a crinkled brow.

  He told her about the leak of information that was finding its way to the Daily Yorkshireman.

  ‘And what do you propose to do with this letter, sir?’ she said.

  ‘I have not told anybody that my wife is away, Flora. At the moment, only you know. By tomorrow morning, I expect all of Yorkshire to know. But until then, keep it to yourself. This letter
is part of a trap. I expect to catch two birds with one stone.’

  Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth dropped open. ‘How’s that going to work, sir?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. I need your help.’

  Angel’s pulse rate increased as he explained how he knew that somebody in the police station was giving or selling inside information to the Daily Yorkshireman. He detailed the plan he had to catch the rogue and, at the same time, hopefully, the murderer of Ian Fairclough. He told her he had not discussed any of this with anybody else and insisted that she did not tell anyone of the plan.

  She listened attentively and readily agreed to keep silent. She was delighted to be his confidante. She asked a couple of questions and was satisfied with the answers and so the plan was triggered into action.

  Her eyes sparkled and she felt a lightness in the chest.

  ‘You’d better push off, Flora,’ he said. ‘You’ve a few things to see to, and so have I. Send Ahmed in to me, will you?’

  She smiled, nodded and said, ‘Right, sir.’

  She bounded out of the room and closed the door.

  Angel folded the letter to the professor in Wetherby, put it in the addressed envelope and sealed it.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in.’ It was Ahmed.

  ‘I’ve been through to Records, sir,’ he said. ‘And there were only four people who were known to wear rings depicting a skull or a skull and crossbones. Three of them are dead and the fourth is in custody in HMP Barlinnie – that’s in Glasgow.’

  Angel blew out a lungful of air and said, ‘Thank you. And I know where Barlinnie is, lad.’

  Ahmed smiled and turned to go.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Angel said.

  Ahmed turned back.

  ‘I have a very urgent and confidential message I want to go by courier today,’ Angel said, handing him the envelope.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said. He went out and closed the door.

  Angel opened a desk drawer and looked around for his police telephone directory, then he took out his mobile and tapped in a number.

  ‘Wetherby Police Ballistics Laboratory,’ a voice said.

  Angel said, ‘I want to speak to Professor Lott, please.’