Angel and the Actress

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Oh, darling,’ she suddenly said gently. ‘I do believe you’re missing me. That’s nice. I’m missing you too, but it can’t be before Monday.’

  ‘Yes, all right, sweetheart, Monday. Now, give my love to Miriam and the kids. And I’ll give you another ring soon. God bless you.’

  ‘And God bless you,’ she said. ‘Bye.’

  He replaced the handset. And smiled. He loved Mary more than words could possibly quantify but he couldn’t make love to her over the phone. He wanted her home and he was delighted to learn that she was returning on Monday. By then he should have solved the two murder cases and got the killers behind bars.

  He took off his jacket, slumped down in his favourite chair and switched on the television. He watched the news, the weather, the local news and then some new quiz game. He knew some of the answers but wasn’t following the rules of the game and he didn’t know any of the so-called celebrity contestants. He switched the television off, then prepared his breakfast before going upstairs.

  It was 2 a.m. Angel heard the noise of a creaking floorboard on the stairs. He knew it was the fourth from the top. That step had always creaked. Thirty seconds later there was the rustling of clothes and the sound of a forty-a-day man refilling his lungs with air.

  Angel froze and maintained absolute silence by inhaling and exhaling long, steady breaths.

  He saw the silhouette of a small man carrying a partly masked torch come through the open bedroom door. The man was creating looming shadows on the wall of the dressing table, then the bedside lamp, then the bedhead.

  The man came further into the bedroom. Through the crack in the hinge of the wardrobe door, Angel also saw that he was carrying a gun with a thickened barrel. It sent a shiver down his spine.

  The torch shone fully on the bed. It showed the shape of Angel’s body under the duvet. The intruder raised his gun with the silencer on it and fired at the duvet three times. There were three quick thuds as lead hit the duvet. He then went back to the wall by the door to switch on the room light, stuffed the gun in his pocket and approached the bed. He pulled back the duvet to look at his handiwork and saw an arrangement of pillows and cushions. His eyes went cold. His face turned scarlet. ‘What the hell?’ he said.

  At that moment, Angel pushed open the wardrobe door behind him, shoved the muzzle of the Glock just above the man’s coccyx and said, ‘Throw the gun to the floor on the other side of the bed, then put up your hands, unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair.’

  The man stiffened. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You got me. Don’t shoot.’

  Angel jabbed the Glock harder into his back and through clenched teeth he said, ‘Do it, then. Throw it.’

  ‘I’m doing it. I’m doing it,’ the man whined.

  He reached down to his pocket, took it out and threw it as instructed. Then he put up his open hands.

  The gun landed on the carpet on the other side of the room.

  ‘That’s better,’ Angel said. ‘I wondered when you’d show up, Roberto.’

  The man stiffened. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I have suspected you for some time,’ Angel said. ‘Roberto Fachinno, also known as Robert Jones, erstwhile caterer, son of Charles Fachinno, the potted-meat king. Turn round. I am arresting you for the murder of Joan Minter.’

  Roberto Fachinno turned so that he had his back to the bed, while Angel faced him with his back to the bedroom door.

  The man said, ‘Go ahead. Arrest me. Then you’ll have to prove it.’

  ‘I will. And I can,’ Angel said.

  ‘Impossible. I am completely innocent,’ Roberto Fachinno said.

  ‘I know exactly how you murdered Joan Minter. It was really quite clever.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Roberto Fachinno said. ‘Nobody will believe you.’

  Angel said, ‘Oh yes they will. You went to Joan Minter’s home a few days before the big occasion purporting to sort out her requirements in detail, but you actually came to familiarize yourself with the switches on the panel by the drawing-room door. You had to know that to put your plan into action. Then, on Sunday night, when Miss Minter was addressing her guests, you sneaked out of the kitchen into the hall and when she had everybody’s attention, you crept into the room, behind the guests, waited for her to put the cigarette to her lips, then switched off the lights, aimed for the cigarette and pulled the trigger. Then you rushed out into the hall, opened and closed the front door to make everyone think you had gone outside and then swiftly returned to the kitchen.’

  ‘Ha!’ Roberto Fachinno said. ‘And why would I want to do all that to murder an old, forgotten film star?’

  ‘Revenge. Revenge for the bankruptcy of your father. He always blamed Miss Minter for reneging on her commitment to take the lead in a film he was planning to make.’

  ‘Very clever. I am glad that you know, Angel. I wish the whole world could be told that my father was an honourable man, and I am glad that you know even though you are so near the end of your life.’

  Angel thought it was very bold of Roberto to imply that he had the upper hand.

  ‘She not only reneged,’ Roberto continued. ‘She broadcast the fact that she had reneged. She said that she couldn’t consider taking on such a role for an unknown entity whose only claim to the entertainment industry was that he was “the potted-meat king”. She had such influence. She seemed so respectable … so shrewd … so charming, that everybody else in the film-making business deserted him. My father couldn’t attract actors of her standing to consider taking the role. It made him bankrupt. My father. A man who was always used to having a few hundred quid in his pocket was reduced to fishing for food through skips at the back of Cheapo’s to survive.’

  ‘He didn’t murder anybody, though, did he?’

  ‘No. He was too weak. But I have now put that right. I am strong, you see, Angel.’

  Angel looked him in the eye and smiled. ‘Not strong enough, Roberto. I am taking you down to the station, where you will be charged with murder.’

  ‘Oh no, you’re not,’ Roberto said. ‘My brother Tony will explain. Tell him, Tony.’

  Angel heard a rustle of clothes behind him and felt the cold muzzle of a gun being jabbed into the back of his neck.

  ‘Drop it, Angel,’ the other man’s voice said.

  Angel’s heart missed a beat. He could also feel the hot breath of the man on his neck and cheek.

  Angel dropped the Glock pistol onto the floor.

  ‘You didn’t think I’d walk into an ambush as easily as that, did you, Angel?’ Roberto Fachinno said.

  Angel’s pulse beat in his ear and was almost exploding.

  The big man’s face went red. He glared at his brother and said, ‘You know my name’s not Tony, you frigging berk. Not Tony. It’s Antonio, Antonio. How many times do I have to tell you.’

  Then Antonio Fachinno turned back to the policeman and said, ‘Hey, Angel, turn around. I wanna see your face. I don’t want to shoot you in the back.’

  Angel turned round to see the man with the gun.

  He was a big man. A huge man. He had big ears, a big nose, black hair and he was wearing a black overcoat. It fitted exactly the description of the man several witnesses had seen in connection with the murder of Ian Fairclough.

  Angel knew that the two brothers were very dangerous men.

  Roberto came across to his brother and through clenched teeth said, ‘It took you long enough to get here.’

  He looked at him and sneered. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ he said.

  Roberto’s lips tightened. ‘We’ve been here far too long,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to take him with us. Tie his hands.’

  Antonio glared at his brother and said, ‘What with?’

  ‘Anything. See what there is.’

  They glanced round the room, then back at Angel.

  Antonio, seeing nothing suitable, looked at his brother, shrugged and held out a hand.

  Roberto quickly said, ‘Kee
p your eye on him, you berk.’

  ‘I am doing.’

  ‘He could be dangerous. He’s a copper and he’s supposed to be smart.’

  ‘Huh. He don’t look so smart just now, does he?’ Antonio said with a grin. ‘And there’s nothing to tie up his hands.’

  ‘His tie, you berk. Use his tie,’ Roberto said.

  Antonio glared at him. ‘Don’t speak to me like that or I’ll frigging belt you.’

  Roberto simply glared back at him.

  The big man went up to Angel and reached up to his tie. He couldn’t manage to loosen it while holding the gun so he dropped the gun into his pocket and had another try. Angel promptly reached into the big man’s pocket and without taking the gun out, turned it towards Antonio’s ample stomach and jabbed it in so that he was sure to feel it. The man gasped.

  ‘Tell your brother to drop his gun,’ Angel said quietly.

  ‘Drop your gun, Roberto,’ he said. ‘He’s got me.’

  ‘You idiot!’ Roberto said. ‘What do you mean?’

  Antonio’s eyes were almost bursting out of their sockets. ‘Drop the frigging gun!’ he said.

  Roberto dropped the gun to the floor.

  Angel jabbed the gun hard into the big man and said, ‘A bullet in the stomach probably wouldn’t kill you, Tony, but it would be mighty uncomfortable for a few months, so be very careful what you do, particularly in the next few seconds.’

  Antonio’s eyes flashed. ‘Why? Why?’ he said, in a voice two octaves higher. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Roberto,’ Angel said. ‘I could soon put a bullet in your brother’s stomach. It would mix well with that pork pie and milk he took from the Faircloughs’ fridge after he murdered Ian Fairclough, wouldn’t it?’

  Roberto said, ‘That was nothing to do with me. That’s something he had to sort out himself. It was him that picked up the wrong suitcase.’

  Antonio said, ‘Shut your mouth, Roberto. Don’t think you’ll get away with this, Angel, because you won’t.’

  Angel looked into his eyes and smiled. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I think I will.’ Then he looked at Roberto and said, ‘Go towards the window and stay facing it.’

  The man didn’t move.

  Antonio swallowed three times quickly, then said, ‘For God’s sake do as he tells you. He’s a frigging cop. He’ll do it. He only needs a frigging excuse.’

  Roberto moved slowly further down the bedroom, then turned to face the window.

  Then Angel looked towards the bed and said, ‘Right, Flora. Come out now and collect those two guns off the floor. There’s mine and Roberto’s.’

  Antonio Fachinno’s body stiffened at the news that someone else was in the room. Angel felt the slight movement. He jabbed him hard in the stomach with the gun. ‘I shouldn’t get any bright ideas, Tony,’ Angel said. ‘Remember this is your gun, and I just don’t know how sensitive the trigger is.’

  The big man froze.

  Flora Carter slid out from under the bed, where she had been hiding. She had already collected one gun and scurried around on the floor for the other. She found it and stood up holding both guns.

  Although a beautiful woman, she looked remarkably businesslike, holding a handgun in each hand.

  ‘Do not hesitate to shoot either or both of these men, Flora, if they as much as twitch. They are both murderers. They are no loss to society.’

  Her jaw was fixed. Her eyes monitoring everything. ‘You can depend on it, sir,’ she said.

  Angel jabbed Antonio in the stomach once more, then quickly withdrew the gun from the big man’s pocket and gave him a slight push to put space between them. Then Angel stepped quickly backward a few paces to put several feet between them. He then stood there pointing the gun at him.

  ‘Right, Flora,’ Angel said, ‘give me the Glock.’

  She passed it to him.

  Then he stood the brothers with their hands up, next to each other, facing the window and said to Flora, ‘Right, I’ve got them covered. Have you got the handcuffs?’

  ‘Six pairs, sir,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll need three for these two. Hurry up. Fasten his left hand to Antonio’s right. Then his right to the radiator, and then his left to the other end of the radiator.’

  Flora went behind the brothers and worked quickly, fixing the handcuffs and clipping them tight shut.

  Antonio said, ‘What’s this, Angel? You’re stretching us out like washing on a frigging line.’

  ‘It’s not for long,’ Angel said.

  ‘You can’t frigging do this,’ Antonio said. ‘I know my rights.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Write your MP,’ he said.

  He gave each of them a pat-down search and checked their handcuffs. He glanced round the room, then he turned to Flora. ‘Take this,’ he said, pushing the gun taken from Roberto into her hand, ‘and bring those other handcuffs.’

  Then they ran downstairs, through the house in the dark to the back door and went outside.

  FIFTEEN

  ANGEL AND FLORA were both flushed and energized with their success at securing the Fachinno brothers, but the round-up was not finished yet.

  Angel was thankful there was no moon. They looked up and down the street. There were no streetlights either. They were looking for a car with one or two men in it. There were a few cars parked on the street so they ambled slowly like a couple walking home after a late-night party, surreptitiously peering into each parked car as they passed it.

  After a while, Angel gritted his teeth and said, ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I wonder if the Fachinnos drove themselves here,’ Flora said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Angel said. ‘They wouldn’t have known whether they would need a quick getaway or not.’

  Flora nodded in agreement.

  ‘Let’s try the next street,’ he said.

  They turned round, speeded up their walk to the other end, then made two right turns and resumed their apparently leisurely gait. They had walked only a few yards when they saw a saloon car with its red rear lights illuminated. In addition, there was just enough light to see in silhouette two heads of men in the front seats in earnest conversation.

  Angel and Flora slowed down.

  Angel realized that they had parked their car outside the house directly back to back with his house, so that the Fachinnos had only to trespass through the gardens of one house to reach their getaway car, which was prudently positioned out of sight.

  Flora felt a tug at her coat. Angel was pulling her coat sleeve to bring her ear close to his mouth. ‘Looks like this is the car. Go round that side,’ he said. ‘I’ll take on the driver on this side.’

  He arrived at the driver’s door first. He took out the Glock and put his other hand on the door handle to open it but it was locked.

  ‘Police!’ Angel said. ‘Would you get out of the car, please?’

  The young man in the driving seat saw him. His eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. He reached forward to the ignition key.

  Angel promptly bashed the door window with the muzzle of the gun. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces. He reached inside and pressed down the door handle, the door was released and he pulled it open.

  The car engine roared into life.

  ‘Switch it off,’ Angel said. ‘I am a police officer.’

  The young man pushed down the gear lever.

  The car jerked forward and then stalled.

  Angel grabbed the young man’s arm and tried to pull him out of the seat, but he couldn’t move him. He saw that the man’s hand was gripping the steering wheel. He banged his fingers with the gun. The young man yelled and released his grip, then Angel dragged him out of the car, hanging on to his arm with a grip of steel.

  The young man’s other arm and his legs were flailing about frantically, and a few punches and kicks were landing on Angel’s face and shins.

  Angel retained his grip on the man’s arm. He pocketed the handgun, pulled
him in close, grabbed his wrist, turned it round and pulled his hand up his back with a jerk.

  The young man screamed.

  The attack on Angel ceased.

  The young man pulled a face. ‘Hey! That frigging hurts,’ he said.

  Angel pulled round the other arm, then reached into his pocket for a pair of the handcuffs and snapped them onto his wrists. He noticed the young man was wearing a big silver ring on the middle finger of his right hand. He saw in the dim light that it represented a skull. He nodded grimly.

  ‘What’s your name, lad?’ Angel said.

  The young man struggled with the handcuffs and said, ‘Hey! What’s this for?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The young man stopped struggling, looked straight ahead and said, ‘No comment.’

  That reply told Angel that he had been through police hands before. He rubbed his chin and, holding him only by the handcuffs, said, ‘I am arresting you for the murder of Joan Minter and Ian Fairclough.’

  ‘What?’ I had nothing to do with them,’ he said. ‘I put my hands up to some things but not murder!’

  ‘Well, I know that I can book you for being one of two men who stole a woman’s handbag and subsequently two cars. So let’s start with you giving me your name.’

  ‘Not me. And I don’t know anything about that. No comment.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Is that going to be your reply to all my questions?’

  There was a pause then he muttered, ‘No comment.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Very well, lad,’ he said. ‘If that’s how you want it,’ he added with a shrug.

  He turned to see how Flora was progressing.

  She had succeeded in opening the nearside car door and was trying to get the other young man out. He was younger and not as tall or heavy as Angel’s prisoner.

  ‘For the last time, will you get out of the car?’ she said.

  The young man glanced at Angel holding his associate by the cuffs. ‘All right. All right,’ he said. ‘I’m coming.’