Angel and the Actress

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel arrived home at 5.30 p.m. that Thursday teatime. The house was quiet, cold and dark and there was no Mary to greet him. And no hot meal to look forward to.

  He switched on the kitchen light, the central heating, then the radio in the kitchen. He went into the hall, took off his coat and tossed it onto the newel post. He noticed some post on the carpet and picked up two envelopes. One was from a firm called Cable and Light he had never heard of. They were offering an ‘unbeatable broadband deal’, it said on the envelope, and the other was from The International Regal Gold Insurance Company eager to insure his wheelchair, stairlift and caravan free of charge. There was no hurry to deal with either of them as he was committed to his present internet supplier for another nine months and he didn’t have a wheelchair, stairlift or caravan. He put the circulars on the sideboard in the sitting room and returned to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard, took out a tumbler, then a beer from the fridge. He was about to pull the ring to open the beer when he stopped. He looked round the kitchen. He pursed his lips, creased his eyes for a few moments, then made a decision. He nodded and determinedly put the unopened can of beer back in the fridge and the tumbler back in the cupboard. He went back into the hall, dragged his coat off the newel post and put it on. He turned off the radio, opened the back door, turned out the light, went outside and locked the door.

  Ten minutes later, he was walking into the dining room at The Feathers Hotel.

  The following morning Angel called at a newsagent for a copy of the Daily Yorkshireman and in the BMW he quickly read their latest report on the investigation into the murder of Joan Minter. He smiled grimly when he saw that the bait in the trap had been taken. Also in the text it said that the Walther PPK/B.32 was used to kill Joan Minter, that Inspector Angel was planning to make an imminent arrest of the big man in the black coat and that he was able to devote all his attention to the case that weekend as his wife was away visiting family.

  He nodded at all this with satisfaction. He closed the paper and drove to the police station.

  As he made his way down the corridor, Flora caught up with him. She was carrying a copy of the Daily Yorkshireman. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shiny and bright.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said. ‘I see that the bait has been swallowed.’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, Flora,’ he said. ‘And the description of the gun, Walther PPK/B.32, was printed in the paper. Now, I wrote that in the letter as a deliberate mistake. There isn’t such a weapon. It should have been Walther PPK/S.32.’

  She had to step out quickly to keep up with him. ‘We could make an arrest and get a conviction on the strength of that, sir,’ she said.

  ‘We could, but we won’t. I want Ian Fairclough’s killer before we do that.’

  Angel had arrived at the door of his office.

  ‘Come inside a minute, Flora,’ he said.

  He opened the door and went in. ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  He took off his coat and sat down at the desk. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘The murder of Joan Minter could very well have been somebody close to her.’

  ‘Do you mean her ex-husbands, sir? Well, there are four of them.’

  ‘No. I wasn’t meaning close in that way, although we may have to go there if all else fails.’

  ‘Do you mean the secretary or the butler?’

  He nodded. ‘They certainly had a better chance than anybody else, and they had the opportunity to plan it all so carefully.’

  ‘Did you mean the secretary and the butler, sir?’

  Angel’s jaw dropped as he looked straight ahead and visualized the two people together. Then he looked at Flora and said, ‘Maybe. Maybe. Alexander Trott has inherited Joan Minter’s fortune, you know.’

  Flora’s eyes opened wide. ‘That would be a big enough motive for some evil people. And I suppose they’d make a formidable team in their roles and in these circumstances.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘We need more information,’ he said. ‘The next closest people in this situation I suppose would be the caterers, the Joneses. You have their phone number and address. Give me the number,’ he said, picking up the phone.

  Flora dived into her pocket and took out her notebook. She flicked through the pages backwards, found it and read it out.

  Angel tapped the number onto the pad and waited. He heard three electronic notes followed by a recorded voice that said, ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognized. Please hang up and try again.’

  Angel tried again and heard the same message.

  He banged down the phone, then through clenched teeth said, ‘That’s not right, Flora. Sort it out. I want to see them ASAP.’

  Her face tightened. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t understand it, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Well, push off and come back when you’ve sorted it out. I want to speak to that chap Jones ASAP.’

  She jerkily put up a hand to clear a few strands of hair away from her face as she made for the door.

  Angel was trying to think what best to do next when the phone rang. He glared at it, then picked it up. It was a constable in the reception office.

  ‘There’s a lady here, sir,’ he said, ‘asking for you.’

  ‘What does she want, lad?’

  ‘She says she saw the photograph of the pickaxes in the Chronicle and that she sold three pickaxes to a man recently.’

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘Bring her down to my office, will you.’

  ‘Righto, sir,’ he said.

  Three minutes later, the constable showed a woman in her fifties into Angel’s office. ‘Mrs Pickles,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Constable,’ Angel said.

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

  ‘Please sit down, Mrs Pickles. Thank you for coming in.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. I hope I can help.’

  ‘I understand that you sold three pickaxes to a man recently.’

  ‘Yes. Me and my husband have a shop at the other side of Tunistone,’ she said. ‘In the middle of nowhere, you might say. We sell everything – mostly to farmers. My husband has put a sign up on the end of the shop, what says, “If I haven’t got it, you don’t want it.”’ She laughed. ‘He’s a card is Denzil and no mistake.’

  ‘And you sold three pickaxes to a man recently?’ Angel said.

  ‘Yes. I’m coming to that, young man,’ she said. ‘Rush. Rush. Rush. Everybody’s in too much of a rush these days. There’s no time to enjoy yourselves.’ She looked round the office. ‘Do you know, I’ve never been in a police station before.’

  Angel looked round the office with her. He had not looked round the place in the way Mrs Pickles was looking at it for years. He realized that perhaps it could do with a coat of paint. He looked back at her.

  ‘It was on Monday morning when a strange car pulled up outside the shop,’ she said.

  ‘Can you describe it?’ he said.

  ‘No need to. Tell by the rattle,’ Mrs Pickles said. ‘Well, it wasn’t any of the tractors I knew. It wasn’t a Land Rover, it wasn’t the vicar’s Ford, and it wasn’t Mrs Mackenzie, so it had to be somebody what I didn’t know.’

  Angel’s eyebrows went up. ‘You didn’t see it, then?’

  ‘Haven’t time. Anyway there’s no need. Know them all by the sound they make.’

  Angel frowned. ‘The sound?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. The rattle of the doors or the exhaust or the purr of the engine or whatever. Being a detective, you’ll know all about that.’

  His eyebrows shot up. He tilted his head to one side as he pursed his lips.

  ‘Do you want to know about the man what came in?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he said.

  ‘Well, then, a big, lumpy, unhappy man comes in. He looks around … sees the display of Stronghold tools. Marches over to it. Picks up a pickaxe. Fingers the business end of it. Then he looks roun
d and sees me. “Have you got three of these?” he says. I looks at him strangely. I mean, who would want three of them? Anyway, I think we have, I said. And I went in the back to where the rest of the stock is. I find him two more and takes them out to him.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  She screwed up her face and shook her head. ‘Big. Very big. And ugly. Definitely ugly,’ she said.

  ‘Can you describe his features?’

  ‘He didn’t have any features. He was just plain ugly. I’ve seen things floating in vinegar look better. His mother should’ve asked for a refund.’

  Angel didn’t smile at the quip. He pursed his lips, then said, ‘What colour was his hair?’

  ‘Black. As black as the ace of spades.’

  ‘And what was he wearing?’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t no farmer. I can tell you that. I could tell that from his boots. I always looks there first. You can tell a lot from what a man has on his feet. A farmer’s boots are always mucky. This man’s were clean.’

  Angel nodded. ‘What else?’

  ‘A big black overcoat. That would have set him back a few quid. It would have to have been made to measure. That’s all I noticed.’

  Angel lowered his eyebrows. ‘And what makes you say he was an “unhappy” man?’

  ‘Well, he pushed his way into the shop and straightaway asked about the pickaxes. No “Good morning”. No “How are you?” No “What a nice day it is”. Nothing. He didn’t have a word for the cat. He took the pickaxes, paid for them and went off. Again, no “Thank you”. No nothing.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Perhaps he had a lot on his mind.’

  ‘I’ve a lot on my mind, but I reckon I knows my p’s and q’s.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Do you think you’d recognize him if you saw him again?’

  ‘Definitely. Absolutely. Oh yes, sir. I can say that without fear of contraception.’

  He smiled.

  FOURTEEN

  THERE WAS A knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel said.

  It was Ahmed. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, lad. Just checking. Yesterday I gave you an important letter for urgent delivery.’

  Ahmed frowned. ‘Yes, sir. It was addressed to Professor Lott at Wetherby.’

  ‘That’s the one. What did you do with it?’

  ‘I gave it to Mrs Meredew, the telephone receptionist, sir. And I told her it was urgent and that you wanted it sending by courier.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Did anybody else see it before you gave it to her?’

  Thoroughly mystified, Ahmed said, ‘It was sealed, sir.’

  ‘I know that. I sealed it. I just want to be quite clear about it. You didn’t open it or show it to anyone else?’

  Ahmed opened his eyes in astonishment. ‘Of course not, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I was sure you hadn’t,’ Angel said with a benevolent smile. Then he explained the trap that he had set to catch Mrs Meredew, and told him to keep the matter to himself.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said, and he left Angel’s office. He grinned at the deception and was delighted to be let in on the ruse. He didn’t like Mrs Meredew anyway. She was always offhand with him. He thought that maybe she didn’t like black people. He was still smiling when he reached his desk in the CID office.

  Ten minutes later, Flora Carter arrived at Angel’s office.

  ‘The number that Jones the caterer gave me has never been an allocated phone number, sir,’ she said. ‘And the address he gave me is also false. There isn’t a number 82 Eastgate. The numbers stop at 56.’

  Angel’s face creased. ‘Right, Flora. Get me Jane Bell’s telephone number. And the butler, Alexander Trott’s.’

  Two minutes later, he was speaking to Jane Bell.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Jane. I have need to speak to Miss Minter’s caterers, the Joneses. We are having a bit of difficulty contacting them. Do you have their latest telephone number and address?’

  ‘I don’t, Inspector, I’m very sorry. I didn’t have anything at all to do with the catering arrangements for her party. She wanted to do as much of it as she could herself, you know.’

  ‘Well, what do you know about the Jones couple, Jane?’

  ‘Nothing really, Inspector. I showed them round when they came to see Miss Minter, that’s all,’ she said.

  He frowned. ‘Showed them round?’ he said.

  ‘They came by arrangement with Mr Trott, on Saturday, the day before the party. They wanted to see the kitchen facilities, the proximity of the drawing room to the kitchen, the positioning of the electric sockets and the switches. Things like that. They depend a lot on electric sockets for their pans and hotplates.’

  ‘Of course. Why did Miss Minter choose the Joneses to cater for her special party?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mr Trott had probably heard of them. They may have been recommended to her by a friend. Or it may have been one of those decisions Miss Minter had made herself. I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that one.’

  ‘Were they at any time left in the big drawing room by themselves?’

  Jane Bell hesitated. ‘Yes. They were. I was busy with the delivery of wines and spirits from Heneberry’s at the time. I had to leave them for a while … might have been twenty minutes or so.’

  ‘Aaaah,’ Angel said knowingly. He smiled, but it was a grim smile.

  ‘But everything was all right,’ she said quickly. ‘I checked the rooms personally. Everything was left just as it should have been.’

  ‘I’m sure it was, Jane,’ Angel said, his eyes suddenly beginning to glaze over. ‘I’m sure it was … thank you.’

  He replaced the phone and, keeping his hand on the instrument, he smiled, then sighed deeply.

  Flora saw the transformation in him and said, ‘Do you want Mr Trott’s phone number, sir?’

  He didn’t reply. She wasn’t sure whether he had heard her or not.

  ‘What did she say, sir?’ she said.

  Angel slowly looked at Flora, then shook his head to clear it and said, ‘I think we might have Joan Minter’s murderer.’

  It was 6.30 p.m. that Friday evening.

  The police station was so quiet you could have heard the sound of a tenner being slipped into a screw’s pocket.

  Angel was still at his desk. He phoned The Feathers Hotel and booked a table for dinner for himself that evening for 7 p.m. He cleared the desk of the reports he had read, then he opened a drawer in the desk and took out the Glock 17 handgun and the fully loaded magazine he had withdrawn from the armoury that afternoon. He pushed the magazine into the gun and put it into his jacket pocket. He then went out of the station to his car at the rear of the station. He drove the BMW out of the station car park into town to The Feathers Hotel. He parked the car near the main door. He went into the bar and looked round. There were only six men in there. He clocked them. He didn’t know any of them. He went up to the bar, ordered a whisky and asked for the restaurant menu. He took them away with him to a seat near the door. He wanted to see out of the corner of his eye if anybody was paying him any attention. He didn’t think anyone was.

  At 7 p.m. he went into the restaurant. He was the first there and had an unexceptional meal. At 7.50 p.m. he left The Feathers and went outside to his car. The sky was as black as an undertaker’s hat.

  He arrived home around 8 p.m. He drove straight into the garage, pulled down the door, locked it and looked around. It was as quiet as it was dark. He put his hand in his pocket as he walked down the garden path. The phone was ringing as he came through the door. It seemed to have an imperative sound to it. He switched on the light and quickly dashed over to it and snatched it up.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, but the line was dead.

  It worried him. He didn’t like calls that resulted in silence like that. He put down the receiver and went round the room closing the curtains.

  Then he had an idea. He slumped down in the chair and tapped in 1471. Up came a number
he recognized. It started 013: the Edinburgh prefix. Then he remembered. His wife’s sister, Miriam, had had her operation that morning. He’d better ring back straight away and show some concern, although he was confident that she would be OK. She always was.

  He picked up the phone and tapped in the number.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart. How are you?’ he said.

  ‘Fine. Fine,’ Mary said. ‘Oh, I’m so relieved. I’ve been ringing all evening. I couldn’t get you. Where have you been?’

  ‘Working,’ he said quickly. ‘But I’ve been thinking of you. Tell me, how is Miriam?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ she said. ‘I am so relieved. She came out of the anaesthetic quite quickly. The surgeon’s made a super job. He’s ever so pleased with her, and she is with him. She has a lot of stitches, but he said they’d hardly be visible in a few weeks’ time.’

  Angel frowned. He wondered who would be looking at them anyway.

  ‘And he’s ever so nice,’ she said. ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘At what those cosmetic wallahs charge, he should be oozing charm from every orifice,’ Angel said.

  His comment rattled Mary. She didn’t like him making critical statements. ‘Michael!’ she snapped.

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘How are you getting along?’ she said. ‘What have you had for tea, love?’

  ‘It was very nice, thank you,’ he said quickly. ‘When are you coming home?’

  ‘Monday or Tuesday, if you can manage without me?’

  ‘Of course I can manage without you. I don’t want to have to, but I can. How are the kids behaving?’

  ‘No problems at all. I take them to school for a quarter to nine and collect them at four o’clock. They’re as good as gold. There’s a steak and kidney pudding in the fridge – have you eaten it yet?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. It was absolutely delicious.’

  ‘What do you mean, “I think so”?’

  He assumed the slightly-cross-husband tone. ‘Look, Mary, this phone call is costing an arm and a leg. We shouldn’t be using it to talk about food. I’m fine. The fridge is fine. Everything here is fine. Miriam’s fine. The kids are fine. You’re fine, and I’m looking forward to picking you up at the station on Sunday. In fact I can’t wait.’