Angel and the Actress (7 page)

‘Leave it with you, then.’

Taylor turned back to the wreck.

Angel walked down the line to Crisp’s car and opened the door again. He looked at the older of the two Slater’s
men. ‘Excuse me again, gentlemen. Is your office sending some transport to get you two home?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘Our boss is coming down; so is a man to sort out the insurance.’

Angel nodded. ‘Right.’ Then he turned back to Crisp. ‘I’m going back to the station, Trevor. I’ll have to get this wreck moved before it’s dark.’

It was four o’clock.

There was a knock on Angel’s office door.

Angel was seated at his desk. ‘Yes? Come in,’ he said.

It was Ahmed. ‘Ah yes,’ Angel said. ‘There are three pickaxes in the boot of my car. Take them down to SOCO.’ He reached into his pocket and gave Ahmed his car key. ‘You’ll need that. Get a photographer to take a picture of all three together. I want the “Stronghold” brand label round the handle of each pickaxe to be readable on at least one of them. Then put the pic online. All right?’

‘Right, sir.’

Ahmed went out.

Angel picked up the phone and dialled a two-digit number. It was an internal call to Norman Mallin, the sergeant responsible for station transport. He instructed him to organize the immediate recovery of the two crashed vehicles out at Hemmsfield.

He then rang Simon Bennett, chief news reporter at the
Bromersley Chronicle
.

‘I’ve got a story for you,’ Angel said. ‘You will be the first to hear it. It’s about the robbery of a Slater Security van carrying—’

‘Oh,
that
,’ Bennett said. ‘
That’s
what that road blockage
out at Hemmsfield is all about, isn’t it, Michael? I heard they got away with two hundred and twenty thousand pounds.’

Angel licked his lips. His grip on the phone tightened. He hadn’t reckoned on Bennett knowing so much. He recovered quickly and said, ‘That’s right, and I want you to do me a little favour.’

Bennett said, ‘Of course, Michael. If I can I will; what is it?’

‘I want you to use a photograph of the three pickaxes used in the crime. And I want a mention that if anybody remembers selling them recently, to get in touch with the police. I can send you the photograph online.’

‘Not a very interesting photograph, three pickaxes, Michael,’ Bennett said.

‘No, but it might give us a lead to the gang,’ Angel said. ‘You’d be doing a great public service, Simon, particularly if the photograph pulled in information that led to the arrest of the armed robbers.’

There was a short silence: Angel reckoned he could hear Bennett thinking.

‘Yes, all right, Michael,’ the reporter said.

So Angel told him all about the robbery, carefully avoiding the finding of the cigarette butt. Bennett asked a couple of questions for clarification, which Angel answered quickly, and the call was ended.

Angel reached into his desk drawer, took out the local telephone directory. He turned to the pages with names beginning with P. He scanned down the columns and found the name Pink and Cairncross, Solicitors, Eastgate, Bromersley. He tapped in their number and was soon
speaking to Mr Harry Cairncross.

‘I understand you are the solicitor of the late Miss Joan Minter?’ Angel said.

‘That is correct, Inspector. It is not very long since I drew up the will.’

‘Mr Cairncross, can you tell me who the executors of Miss Minter’s estate are?’

‘We are, Inspector. There are no known relatives alive of Miss Minter.’

‘And who is the sole or main beneficiary?’

‘Her butler, Alexander Trott,’ Cairncross said.

Angel blinked rapidly, then stared ahead openmouthed at nothing in particular.

‘Hello. Are you still there, Inspector?’ Cairncross said.

Angel shook his head in an effort to think clearly. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m here, Mr Cairncross. Thank you. Thank you very much. Goodbye.’

He slowly replaced the phone. He was surprised at the news.

Armed with this new information on Trott, he considered all the other facts he had on him, then dismissed the subject. He then took out the old envelope from his inside pocket to check off all the jobs he had to do. He was peering down at it and striking his ballpoint through the tasks he had already attended to when there was a knock at the door.

It was Ahmed.

‘What do you want, lad?’

The young policeman rushed in breathless, his eyes sparkling, his face red. ‘Thought you’d like to know, sir. I was in the Control Room when it came in. A triple nine.
There’s a car just seen on fire in Cheapo’s car park. The sergeant’s advised the fire brigade.’

Angel frowned. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘It happens now and then. Kids steal a car and drive round till they’re bored out of their drugged-up little minds, then they carve up the upholstery for laughs, smash all the headlights for fun and set it on fire for a lark. Then they run off and watch it burn from a safe distance and see how law-abiding citizens cope with it. It makes a change from sticking a steak knife in another young man’s stomach.’

Ahmed’s eyes remained bright. ‘Ah, yes, sir,’ the young man said, ‘but this was a nearly new blue Ford Mondeo. Could be the stolen one used in the robbery of the Slater Security van.’

Angel pulled his head back. His eyes grew big and unblinking. Then he said, ‘Ah, I see. Well spotted, Ahmed.’ He leaped up, sending the swivel chair backwards. It hit the wall with a bang. He reached out for his hat and coat and was gone.

I
T WAS
8.28 a.m. on Wednesday, 5 November, Fireworks Day.

Angel walked down the corridor, passed the CID office and entered his office.

Ahmed appeared from nowhere, knocked on the door and came in waving a newspaper around.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s full of stuff about Joan Minter and the investigation.’

Angel looked up. He was eager to read it, but there were important things that had priority. ‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ he said, ‘But I must go out to Cheapo’s and see what that wreck can tell us.’ He quickly glanced through a pile of envelopes that had been added since the previous afternoon, looked round the office, then made for the door.

‘Shall I leave it here, sir,’ Ahmed said, putting it on his desk, ‘and pick it up later?’

‘Yes. Thank you. Do that. Must go,’ Angel said from the door. ‘By the way, your paper from yesterday is in the middle drawer of my desk. Help yourself to it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Angel spent most of the remainder of the morning with DS Taylor. Together they looked through the burnt-out wreck of the Ford Mondeo that had featured so prominently in the robbery of the Slater Security van. Angel had been hopeful of finding something that would help identify one of the gang of robbers, but there was nothing. If there had been any prints, they had disappeared in the heat of the fire.

They gave up the search at about 12 noon and Angel returned to his office, where he found on his desk the morning paper that Ahmed had left, as well as three pickaxes and six photographs of them.

He picked up the paper and saw the front-page story was still about the murder of Joan Minter. It was headed by an ancient picture of her playing the female lead in
Romeo and Juliet
. He quickly read it, then turned the page to find lots of detail about the investigation of the case: some was accurate some was intelligent guesswork.

However, contained in the text he noticed the words, ‘The results of the gunshot residue tests arrived by police courier,’ which made him think. He blinked, lowered the paper and looked straight ahead at nothing in particular. He rubbed his chin. How would a reporter
know
that the results of the tests arrived by police courier? How does anybody except the people who send and receive them know? When a police courier arrives, he doesn’t broadcast what he is delivering. He just hands it over and gets a signature for it. He probably has no idea what’s in the envelope or package. It might be confidential, wanted urgently, highly valuable or evidence of vital importance in determining someone’s guilt or innocence. He might
realize that it could be some or all those factors, but he wouldn’t
know
.

He toyed with the puzzle for a few moments, then he turned back the newspaper page to the front, noted that it was the
Daily Yorkshireman
and folded it neatly and put it on one side to be returned to Ahmed.

He then tapped a number into his phone to summon DC Scrivens.

‘Come in, Ted,’ Angel said. ‘Sit down a minute.’

Scrivens stared at the pickaxes on the desk in front of him, then sat down.

Angel said, ‘What are you busy with?’

‘A complaint about kids making a nuisance of themselves, sir,’ Scrivens said. ‘Letting off bangers outside an old people’s home. Usual Guy Fawkes troubles.’

Angel shook his head. ‘Annoying little monkeys. Can you pass that on to somebody else?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’ll have heard about this robbery out at Hemmsfield?’ Angel said. ‘I want you to take one of these pickaxes and call on all the hardware shops, garden shops, garden centres, builders’ supplies merchants … the sort of outlets that might have sold them. Ask the sales staff if they can recall selling
three
of these to the
same
customer during the past few days. That has got to be unusual. They might even have CCTV of the customer if we are lucky. Anyway, try to get a description of the person who bought them. All right?’

‘Right, sir,’ Scrivens said. He stood up.

The phone began to ring.

Angel looked at it, handed Scrivens a pickaxe, then one
of the photographs. ‘Here. Take one of these. It’s a photograph of all three pickaxes.’

The phone seemed insistent.

‘I’d better answer it,’ Angel said. ‘Hang on a minute.’

‘Right, sir.’

He picked up the phone. ‘Angel,’ he said.

It was Superintendent Harker. ‘
There
you are,’ he said with a sniff. ‘Just had a triple nine. A woman has returned to her house and found her husband dead on the floor of the kitchen. Her name is Fairclough, address, 33 Melvinia Crescent. I’ve advised SOCO.’

Angel’s pulse raced. ‘Right, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll get straight onto—’

But Harker had gone.

Angel replaced the phone, looked up and saw Scrivens. ‘Right, Ted. Erm … if you manage to strike lucky, ring me on my mobile.’

‘Right, sir,’ Scrivens said, and he made for the door.

‘Oh, Ted,’ Angel said. ‘Tell Ahmed I want him.’

‘Right, sir,’ he said, and he went out.

Angel reached out for the phone again. He tapped in an internal number.

It was soon answered. ‘Control Room. Sergeant Clifton.’

There was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed. Angel waved him in.

‘Bernie,’ Angel said into the phone. ‘I need two PCs to attend at 33 Melvinia Crescent.’

‘Right, sir, I’ll see to it.’

‘Thank you.’ He replaced the phone. He looked up at Ahmed and said, ‘Got to go to 33 Melvinia Crescent. Find Flora Carter and ask her to meet me there ASAP.’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said, and he went out.

Angel reached out for his coat and hat.

Angel reached 33 Melvinia Crescent in a few minutes. It was one of around forty red-brick semi-detached houses built in the thirties in a leafy part of Bromersley, where hedgehogs and squirrels could still occasionally be seen. Up the short concrete drive was SOCO’s white van.

He parked the BMW in the road, got out, went up to the front door and banged hard on it. At the same moment, he heard footsteps running up behind him. He turned to see that it was DS Carter. She arrived slightly out of breath. She smiled at him.

‘Made it,’ she said. ‘Just got back from seeing Mrs Sellars, sir … getting that list of the contents of her handbag.’

‘Oh yes. I’ll see to that later,’ he said. ‘This is reported as a murder case.’

She bit her bottom lip and said, ‘Yes, sir. Ahmed told me.’

A detective constable in a white disposable suit opened the door.

‘Is DS Taylor there?’ Angel said.

‘I’ll get him, sir,’ the man said, and he turned away.

Taylor must have heard his name because he came forward.

‘Ah, Don,’ Angel said. ‘We can’t come in. We’re not kitted out.’

‘I’ll come out, sir,’ Taylor said. He stepped out onto the step and closed the door.

‘What you got, then?’ Angel said.

Taylor ran a hand across his face. ‘Man about forty, understand he lived here with his wife. Found, by her, in a pool of blood, on the kitchen floor. Shot in the head. He’s called Ian Fairclough. Hasn’t been dead long.’

‘How long?’

‘The body is not really cold and there are no signs of rigor mortis, sir.’

Angel knew that as a general rule, rigor mortis doesn’t set in for the first three hours after death unless the person had beforehand been engaged in excessive physical exertion. Therefore, it seemed that as it was 1 p.m. now, the victim had died sometime after 10 a.m. that morning.

Angel nodded. ‘You said his wife found him?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir. She had been out at work, came in today at about half past twelve. She said she promptly dialled 999.’

Angel frowned. ‘Any sign of the murder weapon?’

‘No, sir.’

‘What about the wife?’

‘Naturally, very distraught. She said that she didn’t see anybody, and that she knows nothing. She says that this is a complete mystery to her.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Being comforted by a neighbour at number 28.’ He pointed to a house across the road behind Angel. ‘That one, sir.’

‘Right. Have you informed Dr Mac?’

‘He’s on his way, sir.’

‘How long will it take you to clear the scene of crime?’

‘About an hour, I should think.’

Angel looked at his watch. ‘See you then, Don.’

Taylor went inside and closed the door.

Angel turned right round and looked at all the houses he could see. It was practically the entire estate, because the road curved round. Then he turned to Carter and said, ‘Look how many windows we can see from this point, Flora. Must be several hundred. If we can see them, they can see us. I want to know if anybody saw a visitor to this house this morning. You take the odd numbers and I’ll take the even numbers. Call on every house that can see this path and this front door.’

‘Right, sir,’ she said.

‘Meet me at number 28,’ he said. He clenched his jaw and added, ‘I shall
have
to interview the murdered man’s wife. I’ll be there when I have done.’

He went down to the BMW, unlocked it and took out a clipboard holding a paper pad and set off to the house furthest away on his side. It was number 12. There was no reply there nor at some of the other houses and he assumed they were out at work. He kept a note of those who didn’t respond. The householders that he did manage to speak to said that they hadn’t noticed anybody strange on the crescent that morning. Having called on all the other even-numbered houses, he took a deep breath and knocked on the door of number 28. A woman opened it.

‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I’m DI Angel from Bromersley Police. Here’s my ID.’

‘That’s all right, dear. We’ve been expecting you. You’ll be wanting to see Susan. Come on in. She’s resting in the front room.’

Angel went inside and closed the door. He was in the kitchen. He glanced round. It was spotless.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘May I have your name?’

She smiled at him. ‘Isabel. But everybody calls me Belle. What’s your name again, dear?’

‘Inspector Angel, miss.’

She gave him another big smile.

She was far from pretty, but a dimple appeared in her cheek when she smiled.

‘It’s Mrs, actually,’ she said. ‘Mrs Beasley. There hasn’t been a Mr Beasley for twelve years now.’

Angel said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘I’m not,’ she said with a grin. ‘Leaving me was the only good thing he ever did for me. This way.’ She turned to go.

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Just a minute, Mrs Beasley.’

She turned back.

He said, ‘Did you see anybody across at Mrs Fairclough’s anytime this morning?’

‘No, Inspector, I would have told you. We don’t like strangers on Melvinia Crescent. Do you want to see Susan Fairclough?’

He nodded. ‘I just wanted to be sure.’

She opened the door and Angel followed her into a plain but comfortable little room with a three-piece suite, coffee table and a gas fire.

A small, slim woman of around forty was relaxing on the settee. When Angel appeared she stood up, holding one arm by the elbow. She glanced at him, then looked down at the floor, then looked up at him again, then at Mrs Beasley, then at the door.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Fairclough. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

‘That’s all right,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I can’t
lounge about here all the time.’

Mrs Beasley beamed and in a loud voice said, ‘You can stay here as long as you like, Susan. You know that.’

Mrs Fairclough looked across at her and smiled weakly.

‘I’m DI Angel,’ he said. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Yes. Of course. I suppose you want a statement?’

‘No. No. Nothing formal at this stage,’ he said.

He turned back, looked at Mrs Beasley and nodded.

She blinked, wriggled both of her shoulders and then said, ‘I’d better get on with my work. I’ve the washing to do.’ She turned towards the door.

Angel said, ‘Mrs Beasley, I’m expecting my sergeant. Send her in when she arrives, would you?’

‘Righto,’ she said as she closed the door.

He turned back to Susan Fairclough. ‘Now then, why don’t you sit down?’ he said.

She turned, adjusted a cushion and sat on the edge of the settee.

‘Is that better?’ he said. ‘Why not sit further back?’

She shuffled a little.

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Now then, Mrs Fairclough, have you any idea who would want to harm your husband?’

‘None whatsoever,’ she said. ‘He was a perfectly lovely man.’

‘Was he in employment?’

‘Oh yes. He worked for the Indemnity and Life Insurance Company of London. It’s a big firm. He’d been there all his working life.’

‘What exactly did he do?’

‘He helped people with their insurance claims and sold
them policies.’

‘And was he happy doing that?’

‘Very. I’ve met the chairman of the company. He seemed to think the world of him.

‘Insurance is all Ian knows anything about. We haven’t any close friends and we don’t go out much. We’re not interested in socializing. I can’t believe what’s happened. It doesn’t make any sense.’

He nodded.

‘Besides all that, Inspector,’ she said, ‘several other strange things happened at my house today.’

Angel blinked. ‘Oh? Like what?’ he said.

The room door suddenly opened.

His fists clenched as he turned round to see what was happening.

Mrs Beasley put her head round the door. ‘’Scuse me,’ she said, ‘but your sergeant is here, Inspector.’

The door opened wider and Flora Carter came in.

‘Thank you, Mrs Beasley,’ Angel said.

She closed the door.

Flora looked round as she unbuttoned her coat.

Angel was pleased to see her. He was eager to know if any of the householders she had called on had seen a stranger anywhere near number 33 that morning. Her eyes met his. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows.

She shook her head.

The muscles round his mouth tightened and he frowned. Then he brought Flora up to scratch with what he had already learned and asked her to keep a note of what was said. Flora then settled in the other easy chair with her notebook and pen at the ready.