Angel and the Actress (10 page)

‘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 enjoyed 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.

I
T 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.

He rubbed his chin. He mustn’t let that annoying business divert him from the task in hand.

He consulted his notes, then reached out for the phone. He tapped out two single digits and put the phone to his ear.

‘Control Room, DS Clifton,’ a voice said.

‘Bernie,’ Angel said. ‘Have you any transport going anywhere near the hospital?’

‘No trouble to organize that, sir, if you’re not in a hurry,’ Clifton said.

‘Sometime this morning would be fine, Bernie. I want some small items picking up from Dr Mac in the mortuary there, and delivering to me.’

‘Leave it with me, sir.’

Angel replaced the phone. He then looked at the small piece of paper Susan Fairclough had given to him. It had a London telephone number and the name John Hooper. He picked up the phone, tapped in a nine for an outside line, then followed it with the number.

A pleasant young woman’s voice said, ‘Indemnity and Life. Can I help you?’

‘Mr John Hooper, please.’

‘Thank you. I am connecting you.’

A man’s voice came on. ‘John Hooper, can I help you?’

Angel introduced himself and told the man the tragic event that had happened the previous day. It came as a shock to Hooper but when he recovered he became an excellent witness.

‘Ian was expected here first thing on Wednesday morning,’ Hooper said. ‘When he didn’t arrive I thought he must be ill, but when I hadn’t heard anything by yesterday, I phoned his home but I could not get a reply.’

‘His wife was sleeping at a neighbour’s,’ Angel said. ‘And I believe that she has now returned to work. I wondered if you could throw any light on the situation. As far as you know, was Ian Fairclough involved with people who walk about armed with guns?’

‘Certainly not,’ Hooper said. ‘Not that I am aware of, anyway. He walked, talked and behaved like the respectable gentleman I am sure he was. This is a long-established family insurance company, Inspector. We deal in domestic house and contents, motor vehicles, holiday and life cover. He has to deal with ordinary members of the public, family men and women, and their children and sometimes grandchildren. They have to trust him to provide the right policy that they need and can afford. We wouldn’t have employed him if he had been the slightest bit iffy.’

‘Have you any ideas of anyone who would want Ian out of the way?’

‘No, Inspector. Certainly not. He was a very hard worker. We were very pleased with him. I cannot imagine him involved with anybody with a gun. It would be so out
of character. We are sorry to lose him, particularly in the tragic way you have described.’

‘He was away Tuesday night, the 4
^th
. Have you any idea where he might have spent that night?’

‘None at all. I left him to make his own arrangements.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Did he come up to town often?’ he said.

‘About four or five times a year, depending on the need.’

‘Well, did he not have a regular place where he stayed?’

‘I expect he did, Inspector. Yes, of course. I will have to check when he last came, then check on his expenses claim. It will just take me a couple of minutes.’

‘I’ll hold,’ Angel said.

Several minutes later, Angel had an address and a phone number for a small two-star hotel in WC1.

He thanked Hooper, ended the call and tapped in the phone number of the hotel.

‘The De Coverley Hotel,’ the lady said.

Angel introduced himself and asked her if Ian Fairclough had stayed at the hotel the previous Tuesday night.

‘I will have to look. One moment, please … Yes, he did,’ she said.

Angel said, ‘And can you tell me if he was on his own?’

She hesitated, then said, ‘Well, yes. He was in room number 114, which is a single room. It also looks as if he was originally booked in for last night as well, that would have been two nights, but he must have cancelled.’

‘Have you any idea
why
he cancelled?’

‘Sorry, sir. No idea. We are rather busy here.’

‘That must have put you out quite a bit?’

‘Not at all. If somebody wants to cancel, we don’t question why. Provided they clear the room by 10 a.m. and pay their bill. We normally have no difficulty reletting it.’

‘Was there anything unusual about his behaviour?’

‘Nobody said anything, sir. We don’t pry. But I really don’t know. Sorry.’

Angel ended the call. He rubbed his chin with his fingertips and nodded. He was satisfied that Ian Fairclough had spent the Tuesday night he was missing at the De Coverley Hotel in London. That was clear enough. Angel leaned back in his chair. His face creased and he wrinkled his nose. He was thinking that it didn’t explain why Fairclough came back a day early, why he came to be found murdered in his own home the next day, nor why there was a new, unwanted vacuum cleaner found in the house.

The phone rang. He reached out for it. ‘Angel,’ he said.

It was Flora Carter. She sounded as if she had been running. ‘I’m on Melvinia Crescent, sir, catching up on the on the door to door. I’ve come across a witness who said that at about ten o’clock yesterday morning she was in her front bedroom when she saw a salesman walking up the path of number 33. He was a big man with broad shoulders, in a black or dark-grey overcoat. She saw him knock at the front door.’

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. A tiny volcano erupted in the middle of his chest, spreading hot lava throughout his upper body. ‘What else did she see?’

‘That’s all, sir.’

‘What was the colour of his hair?’

‘She didn’t notice.’

‘Was he in a car or a van?’

‘She doesn’t know, sir,’ Flora said. ‘I’ve got as much out of her as I can.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Right, Flora. Thank you. That’s great. Finish off the rest of the houses. Somebody else might have seen him. Then come back here.’

‘Right, sir,’ she said.

Angel ended the call and returned the phone to its cradle. He rubbed his hands. It was a breakthrough, at last. The news restored his faith that he could solve at least one of the murder cases.

It was more than an hour later when Angel’s phone rang out.

He snatched it up. ‘Angel,’ he said.

It was the civilian receptionist, Mrs Meredew. ‘Sorry to bother you, Inspector, but I’ve had lots of enquiries from the press and television news companies for information about the Joan Minter and the Ian Fairclough murders. They usually ask for you. I’ve always told them what you instructed me to say, that you are out and that I never know when you are coming back in. However, some of them are getting impatient and suspect that you are avoiding them. I know you like to keep the right side of them, so I wondered if you wanted to speak to any of them, or if you wanted to change the instruction?’

Angel creased his eyes and went through the motions of whistling silently. Then he said, ‘You’re quite right. I don’t want to antagonize any of them, but I really haven’t the time. I suppose you can say that when I have made any progress in either case, I’ll be making a statement or calling a press conference. That should keep them happy.’

‘That sounds better, Inspector,’ she said. ‘All right, that’s what I’ll say from now on. Thank you.’

She rang off. As soon as he cancelled the call, the phone rang out again. It was Susan Fairclough.

‘I thought I should ring you and let you know that I’ve been back to my house,’ she said. ‘I steeled myself this morning and went back in there. I wanted to get myself and my home back into something like order. I can’t spend the rest of my life being a moping widow.’

‘That’s good,’ Angel said, ‘but there’s no real hurry, Susan. You must take your changed life a day at a time, as they say.’

‘Yes … well, I’m glad that I did. Because I’ve realized that the overnight case that Ian took with him to London is missing. It’s not in the house anywhere.’

Angel pursed his lips. His eyebrows went up. ‘Hmm. Was there anything valuable in it?’

‘No. Just what you’d expect for two nights away on business. Nightclothes and washing and shaving tackle, toothbrush, clean shirts, that sort of thing.’