Angel and the Actress (15 page)

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, ‘Keep 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.

A
NGEL AND
F
LORA
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.’

He slowly got out of the car, turned to face Flora and said, ‘What’s up? What do you want, darling? I fink you fancy me, don’t you?’

Flora’s face muscles tightened. ‘Turn around. Put your arms behind your back and put your wrists together.’

‘Chatting me up, are you?’ he said. He turned round and looked back at her over his shoulder. ‘Wanna go out wiv me, do yer?’ he said. ‘What’s
your
name, darling?’

Flora wrinkled her nose. She sighed loudly. ‘Put your wrists together.’

Angel heard all this. ‘You’d better do as my sergeant says, lad,’ he said, ‘before she kicks it out of you.’

‘Huh,’ he said. ‘And they say there’s no police brutality.’

He slowly turned and put his hands behind his back.

She produced a pair of handcuffs and had them tight around his wrists quicker than a pickpocket can take a wallet.

‘What is your name?’ she said.

‘Well, my friends call me David, but you can call me
Mr
David,’ he said with a snigger.

‘And what’s your last name?’

‘Beckham,’ he said with another inane snigger.

‘David Beckham,’ she said. ‘I’ll book you in that name if you want to be seen as a real idiot.’

Angel said, ‘Book him in that name for now, Sergeant. I have a feeling that we’ll soon know his name when we’ve taken his fingerprints.’

‘You’re not taking my frigging fingerprints. What do you want to know for?’ he said.

Flora said, ‘You are under arrest for the murders of Joan Minter and Ian Fairclough.’

‘What? No, not me. I might a done a bit of feefing, in my time. I might put my hand up to that, but not murder, no, not me.’

Angel took out his mobile and scrolled down to a number and clicked on it.

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

‘DI Angel, Bernie. All right, send the Black Maria
now
.’

‘Immediately, sir. It is standing by. Everything go to plan, sir?’

‘Perfectly, Bernie. Perfectly.’

It was 4.40 a.m. on Saturday morning, 8 November. In the cold stark lighting of the charge room, under the super -vision of DI Angel, the four men were processed one at a time by Sergeant Clifton and two PCs. They were photographed from the front and in profile, then fingerprinted; the contents of their pockets were taken and they exchanged their clothes for denims provided by the police. Their own clothes were separately bagged, labelled and taken down to the SOCO office for examination.

Angel’s face brightened when a part pack of Adelaide cigarettes and a silver cigarette lighter were taken out of Antonio Fachinno’s pocket. Angel had them transferred to a separate evidence bag, which he labelled himself, then stuffed into his pocket for his early attention. He also took temporary possession of the silver skull ring, which was on the getaway driver’s finger.

Flora Carter took the gun that had been in the possession of Roberto Fachinno alias Robert Jones out of her handbag. It was an old Smith & Wesson with a crude 2¼-inch-diameter silencer screwed onto the barrel. She opened the gun, spun the magazine and shook out the three remaining bullets untouched into an evidence bag. She looked on the body of the gun for the registration number. It was below the barrel. Under the mark MADE IN USA was stamped a long maker’s number. She recorded it in her notebook.

Then she put the gun into another bag, labelled both bags, sealed them and brought them into Angel’s office.

Angel did the same thing with the gun taken from Antonio Fachinno, which was a Beretta, a much smaller
weapon but just as deadly. He then took them to the duty sergeant, instructing him to send them by courier to Ballistics in Wetherby, with a request that they report on them urgently by phone. He needed a comparison of the impressions the handgun firing pins made on the spent shell cases in each instance in order to verify that the particular shell came from the particular gun. The Glock he returned to the station armoury complete with the full magazine of seventeen unspent rounds.

Meanwhile Flora Carter emailed the photographs and the prints of the four men to Records, requesting information. She then sent the make and registration number of the two recovered guns to Records, both emails calling for an early response.

Then she went into Angel’s office.

‘I’ve sent the emails,’ she said.

Angel looked at his watch. It was 6 a.m. It was still pitch black outside.

He yawned and said, ‘I think we can a call it a day.’

‘Call it a
night
, sir.’

He smiled, stood up, reached out for his coat. ‘Day or night, it’s a job well done, Flora. Thank you.’

They made for the door.

Angel awoke at 1.30 that Saturday afternoon. He had to look at the clock on the bedside table and his watch next to it to confirm the time. Then he remembered why he was still in bed at that curious time. He’d had five hours’ sleep and although rested, he had the feeling he had run a marathon.

He sat on the edge of the bed, stared at the Anaglypta
and scratched his chest.

Bright daylight was peeping around the curtains.

He suddenly turned round and checked the duvet cover. It had bullet holes in it. So had the duvet, the sheet, the cover and the mattress. They would have to be replaced with new before Mary returned. He stood up and scratched his head. He surveyed the room. Everything else seemed to be in order. He pushed back the curtains, letting full daylight into the room. He had a quick wash in the bathroom, put on his dressing gown, then went downstairs.

The house was eerily quiet. He suddenly realized how much he missed Mary.

He ambled into the kitchen, switched on the radio, took a beer out of the fridge, a glass out of the cupboard and looked round for the frying pan. He looked on the gas hob, inside the oven, on the pan stand, round the kitchen; he even opened the pantry to see if it was in there. He couldn’t see it anywhere. He stood in the middle of the little room and scratched his head. Then he sighed, shrugged, pulled the ring on top of the can and poured out the beer. He ambled into the hall, picked up the telephone directory and the phone, went into the sitting room and sat down in his usual chair. He looked up a number, tapped it out on the key pad and had a sip of the beer while it rang.

It took a long time but it was eventually answered.

The call was to Cheapo’s, the hypermarket. He ordered a mattress and a duvet, both for a double bed, and a pair of sheets because they were not sold singly. He paid for them with his credit card, and they agreed to deliver them the next day even though it was a Sunday.

He looked at the oven again. He knew they had a
frying pan. He had recently seen Mary using it. He stood there with his hand on his chin and his head tilted trying to think of where he had seen her put it. He didn’t like to be beaten. But it was no good. He couldn’t recall anything helpful.

He went over to the fridge and opened the door. It was bulging with food. He could see tomatoes, lettuce, celery, milk, margarine and so on. He wrinkled his nose and closed the door. He leaned down and pulled on the freezer door. Then he opened the top drawer. He picked up the nearest frozen lump. It said: ‘Chicken breast. Thaw for twenty-four hours before cooking.’ He threw it back in and fished around the rock-solid blocks of food. His eyes alighted on a pack of sausages. His eyebrows shot up. He picked it out and read Mary’s label. ‘Thaw for twenty-four hours before cooking.’ He pursed his lips, dropped it back in the drawer, pushed it shut, then closed the freezer door.

He looked at his watch. It said ten minutes to two. He made a decision. He finished off the beer, pushed the can into the waste bin, rinsed the glass and left it to drain on the draining board. Then he dashed upstairs, shaved and dressed and came down as smart as paint.

He was at the door of the restaurant at The Feathers at five minutes past two. But he couldn’t open it. He thought it might be stiff, but it wasn’t. The door was locked.

He went into the bar. A barman came over to him.

‘Is the restaurant not open?’ Angel said.

‘It
was
, sir. It closed at two.’

Angel clenched his fists.

‘We can do you a snack in here, sir,’ the barman said, reaching for a menu.

‘Er, right. No, thank you,’ Angel said.

He came out of the bar. He sighed noisily. Then he dashed out to the car and pointed the bonnet of the BMW to his home. He was annoyed that he was having so much difficulty just to feed himself. He had driven about a mile when he remembered that up a side street in the middle of an estate was a small frontage of five or six small shops. One of those shops was a fish and chip shop. He turned off there and found the place. It was open. And there wasn’t a queue. He leaped out of the car and bounded up to the counter.

‘Cod and chips, please,’ he said to the man with the scoop.

‘No cod,’ the man said. ‘It’s haddock, is that all right?’

‘Absolutely,’ Angel said, his face glowing.

The man doled out a generous portion of chips, pulled a fish on top of them, wrapped them tightly and placed them on the counter.