Angel and the Actress (9 page)

Angel cancelled the call, closed the mobile and shoved it back in his pocket. He was still breathing heavily and waiting for the rock in his chest to leave him when Flora and Mrs Fairclough came into the sitting room.

S
USAN
F
AIRCLOUGH
LOOKED
round her sitting room uncertainly as if she was seeing it for the first time.

Angel looked up and said, ‘It was good of you to come, Mrs Fairclough.’

She looked up at him and forced a smile. She clung on to Flora, who steered her towards an easy chair. She looked at it strangely, then sat down. Flora sat next to her. Angel sat on the settee opposite them.

Don Taylor put his head through the door of the sitting room and said, ‘Excuse me, we’re off, sir.’

‘Right, Don,’ Angel said.

He went out and they heard the front door close.

Angel looked across at the trim figure of Susan Fairclough and said, ‘There are a few more questions it is necessary for me to ask, if you are up to it?’

She breathed in deeply, straightened her back and stuck out her chest. ‘Of course, I am up to it, Inspector.’

He nodded. ‘Good. Flora will take notes.’

He looked at her as she nodded and reached down for her bag.

Angel looked at Susan Fairclough. ‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘can you tell me what you did this morning?’

‘Yes, certainly,’ she said. ‘I got up at half past seven, had a shower, got dressed, came downstairs, had breakfast then left here for school at twenty to nine exactly.’

‘Did you leave by the front door?’

‘Yes. And I locked it. And the back door was already locked, having been locked all night.’

‘Thank you, Susan. Please continue.’

‘I had classes from nine until half past twelve, when I came home for my lunch.’

‘And was the front door locked?’

‘No. I wasn’t expecting Ian back until late Friday evening, so I had a bit of a shock. The first thing I saw in the hall was that green vacuum cleaner. Then I saw Ian’s raincoat on the newel post. I was so pleased. So I called out. Of course, there was no reply. From the hall I saw the fridge door in the kitchen was wide open, so I went in there and—’

She stopped. Her bottom lip quivered.

‘You closed it?’ Angel said.

She nodded, fished round in her cardigan pocket and pulled out a tissue. She dabbed her eyes.

Angel looked across at Flora. They waited.

‘Sorry about that,’ Susan Fairclough said.

‘That’s all right. You found your husband on the floor,’ Angel said. ‘Did you do anything else before you dialled 999?’

‘I cradled his head in my lap and felt for a pulse. I couldn’t find one, but I still held him and phoned for the police on my mobile. After a while – they seemed like ages
coming – I realized that he had gone and that I couldn’t
do
anything, so I got up and wandered round the house, I think. Anyway, I went outside and was on the step when a police car came. Two officers. I couldn’t speak. I just pointed the way to the kitchen. One of them asked if I had any family or friendly neighbour nearby. The only one I could think of was Bella – that’s Mrs Beasley – at number 28. So, somehow, I arrived there. She’s been a darling.’

‘There was no sign of a break-in, Susan. Have you any thoughts on how Ian was murdered?’

She frowned, then said, ‘Oh. I have just thought of something. When I was wandering round the house, I tidied up this room. Come to think of it, it looked as if there had been a scuffle of some sort. Although Ian was not one to be involved in a fight. That dining chair was tipped over. That lamp had been knocked off the library table and was on the carpet; it wasn’t broken, though. Everything on the table was on the floor. This chair and the settee were pushed out of their usual places and some of the cushions on the settee were on the floor. I put everything back in its place.’

Angel rubbed his chin.

‘So your husband arrived here this morning sometime after 8.40, with or without the vacuum cleaner. He had a key to let himself in?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘His murderer was either waiting for him or … he could have knocked on the door. Your husband could have answered it. Say the man was invited in or forced his way in. But having gained access, what did he want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You say that your husband is highly unlikely to have bought a vacuum cleaner, and that anyway, you don’t need one. The one you have works perfectly well. Well, why would a murderer bring a vacuum cleaner to a house and simply leave it there? Did he expect to make a mess and this was to clean it up afterwards, or what?’

Susan Fairclough looked at him and licked her bottom lip.

Angel ran his hand through his hair and said, ‘So now, your husband left Bromersley for London yesterday morning?’

‘Well, lunchtime, Inspector. His train left about noon.’

‘And you found him this morning at what time?’

‘About twenty to one.’

‘That’s almost twenty-four hours. We need to know where he had been all that time.’

‘I have no idea,’ Susan Fairclough said.

‘Well, can you let me have the telephone number of the London office of where he works and the name of the man he was going to see there? Also do you have a recent head-and-shoulders photograph of Ian you could let us borrow to copy?’

‘Certainly. Remind me and I will see that you have both before you leave.’

Angel nodded, and said, ‘And will you have a look in the fridge and see if you can see what was taken or what was put in there?’

‘Of course,’ she said.

She stood up and went into the hall. She hesitated at the entrance to the kitchen, but took a deep breath, stepped forward boldly, not looking down but making
straight for the fridge door handle. She pulled it wide open.

She was looking for some time before she said, ‘Well, there’s nothing been put in, Inspector. Of that, I am sure. I now see that a small pork pie is missing, which is very strange. Also a bottle of semi-skimmed milk.’

‘Could your husband have taken them?’

‘It doesn’t seem likely, Inspector. He’s not keen on pastry, particularly pork pie. That was for my lunch today.’

‘And the milk?’

‘He would have preferred tea.’

Angel rubbed his hand hard across his face. Then he looked down at his notes. ‘We have not determined
why
the murderer came to your house. It isn’t clear whether he came with the express purpose of murdering Ian, or whether he came for some other purpose …’

‘What other purpose?’ Susan Fairclough said.

‘I was hoping you could tell me. Was it to get something from him? It wasn’t to rob him. Your Georgian silver tea set on the sideboard is still there. Your antique emerald and diamond ring is still in your dressing-table drawer. Are any of your valuables missing? In fact, is anything missing? Would you have a look round and see?’

‘What, now?’

‘If you don’t mind …’ Angel said.

Susan Fairclough stood up. She seemed much more confident. She now reassumed the authority of being the householder. She boldly opened and shut a couple of drawers. Then went upstairs.

Angel turned to Flora and said, ‘Have you got all that down?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

Angel’s eyes creased. ‘I have been thinking,’ he said. ‘The murderer shot Ian Fairclough between 9.30 and 11.30 this morning. Now, this is a small semi-detached house. The people in the adjoining semi must have heard the shot. You went there this morning, didn’t you?’

Flora Carter turned back in her notebook. ‘Yes, sir. I did. That was number 31.’ She found the page. ‘NR,’ she said. ‘There was no reply. Do you want me to try them again, now?’

‘Yes and the other side, number 35.’

She referred to the notebook again. ‘I did 35, sir, and they
saw
nothing.’

His face muscles tightened. He clenched his fists. ‘Oh hell, Flora, did they
hear
the gunshot?’

Her face coloured up. She glared back at him. ‘It’s November
5
^th
, Guy Fawkes Day!
’ she said. ‘There have been bangs all day. And there’ll probably be bangs at all hours until after the weekend.’

Angel rubbed his forehead and temple and closed his eyes.

Flora stood up. ‘Shall I go and make those calls now?’

Angel was feeling guilty at flying off the handle. Flora was, of course, quite right about the number of explosions there were at this time of the year. He should have thought of it. The only reason why he didn’t must have been that he was tired. He looked at his watch. It was 5.15. He had had enough.

‘No. Let’s pack it in. We’ve done a lot today.’

‘I don’t mind, sir, if you want me to?’

He shook his head. ‘No. No. We don’t think clearly when we’re tired, Flora. Do it in the morning. We’ll pack
up now. You can call on those that were out when I called. I’ll give you the list.’

‘Right, sir,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Oh, that’s great. I didn’t want to be late. I’m going to a fireworks party tonight.’

Angel smiled. ‘Right. Sounds good. I hope you enjoy yourself.’

Susan Fairclough came in from the hall. She was carrying some clothes, a sponge bag, hairbrush and some other bits. ‘Nothing’s been taken, Inspector. I’ve had a good look round.’

Angel nodded.

‘I’ve brought you the last decent photograph of Ian and I’ve written the name and phone number of his boss at the London office on this bit of paper.’

Angel took them from her, glanced at them and put them in his pocket. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Flora and I are leaving now.’

There was suddenly a burst of pretty-coloured fireworks visible high in the sky through the window, followed by several loud bangs from bangers.

Susan Fairclough flinched at the racket.

Angel said, ‘Ah yes. It’s Bonfire Night.’

Angel realized belatedly his thoughtlessness, that that racket would be more than usually disturbing for a grieving woman living on her own.

‘Oh,’ Susan Fairclough said. ‘Would you mind seeing me across to Bella’s, Inspector? She’s kindly giving me a bed for the night.’

‘Of course,’ he said.

All three made for the door.

It was almost 6 p.m. on Guy Fawkes Night when Angel escorted Susan Fairclough to Bella’s house across the road. He then returned to his car. On the way home, he saw a few bonfires with the silhouettes of children dancing round them, some rockets and pretty, golden-rain-type fireworks in the sky and he heard a lot of bangers, some shaking the ground like landmines.

He arrived home at 6.05 p.m.

‘You’re late, darling,’ Mary said, rushing up to him and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

‘It’s like World War III out there.’

She nodded. ‘You’ve just time to have a beer.’

‘If I have a beer, I shall fall asleep. Any post?’

She tilted her head back and looked upwards. ‘I’ve told you,’ she said, ‘if there was any post it would be on the sideboard.’

He frowned. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier simply to say “yes”?’

She opened the oven door. ‘Erm … I don’t know,’ she said, her mind now on the casserole. She looked around for the oven cloth. She put the hot dish on top of the oven, took off the lid and stirred the contents. She went over to the cupboard.

‘Well, obviously it would,’ he said. ‘A three-letter word is much shorter than, “if there is any post it would be on the sideboard,” because, in any case, it usually isn’t.’

‘Yes, all right, dear,’ she said, sprinkling in the gravy thickener. ‘Would you like to set the table?’

‘Did you hear what I said, Mary?’ he said.

‘Yes. Will you set the table? It’s almost ready,’ she said, stirring the thickener in. ‘I’ve had such a day. Went
to the hairdresser’s this morning, then went down to the station and booked my ticket. I’ve changed the bed, done the washing and baked an apple pie, a custard and a fruit cake this afternoon. I don’t want you starving while I’m away. Miriam goes into the clinic early Friday morning, so I will have to leave early tomorrow morning.’

He looked at her. He still wondered at how beautiful she looked even when her hair was hidden in a turban arrangement and she had a sheen of perspiration on her chin, cheeks and forehead.

‘How long are you expecting this lark is going on for?’ he said.

‘She said two or three days at the most. And it’s not a lark.’

‘That means you’ll be back on Sunday night.’

She pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘More like Tuesday. You’re forgetting it takes a day to get there, and a day to get back.’

Angel’s face went slack and his mouth dropped open. ‘
Five
days?’ he said.

She smiled inwardly. She was flattered that he didn’t want to be left. ‘You can manage five days without me, can’t you?’

‘It’s for such a
silly
reason. Having her bits and pieces pumped up at her age. Damned ridiculous,’ he said, slamming the cutlery drawer. He set out the knives and forks. ‘Actually, I have always thought she was adequately endowed in that department.’

Mary smirked. ‘Oh, so you’ve been looking, have you? At
my
sister!’

He shrugged. ‘There’s no charge for looking, is there?
It’s not an offence. She’s only having it done so that men will look even more. You’re a right sexy family if the truth were known.’

But Mary wasn’t particularly happy about the operation. ‘I hope she’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘The potatoes are done. It’s ready. Sit down.’

‘She’ll be fine,’ he said.

‘Have you washed your hands?’

He blinked and looked up at her. He lifted his hands, turned his palms uppermost, looked at them, stood up and made for the sink. He ran the hot tap and reached out for the washing-up liquid.

Mary looked back from the oven. ‘I don’t know why you don’t do that in the bathroom. The kitchen sink is
my
domain. And I’m serving up. You’re in my way.’

‘Won’t be a minute.’

He put a splash of the liquid on his palm, rubbed his hands together, swilled them under the tap, turned it off and reached out for the tea towel.

She glared at him. ‘Don’t use
that
towel!’ she said.

He gritted his teeth and continued drying his hands.

She yanked a hand towel down from the clothes rack with such force it caused it to swing and clank on the ceiling. She tossed the towel at him. He didn’t try to catch it. It fell on the floor.