The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel (2 page)

Angel shook his head.

Mac handed Angel the kidney bowl. ‘And I have just taken
that
out of his mouth!’

Angel looked down at it and frowned. He could read a date. It said 1888 and had Queen Victoria’s head clearly stamped on it. He looked up at the doctor and then back into the kidney bowl. ‘Good heavens, Mac. It’s a gold sovereign.’

‘I’m fed up with prunes and straw,’ Angel grunted as he dug his spoon into the dish. ‘What’s happened to dear old bacon and egg?’

‘Good for you. Starts the day properly,’ Mary said. ‘It’s that healthy Muesli stuff,’ she continued, without looking up from the local newspaper, the
Bromersley Chronicle
, which had only been delivered that morning. ‘It’s from Sweden.’

The bright yellow packet was on the table. He promptly reached out for it and read some of the blurb. ‘It says it’s made in sunny Slough.’

‘Norway then,’ she replied still reading.

Angel looked at her and frowned. Geography wasn’t her strong point. ‘Is it?’ he growled slamming the packet down on the table. ‘Wherever it’s from, I don’t want to deprive them of it.’

She suddenly whooped and pointed at the paper. ‘You’re mentioned here again.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. Just a paragraph. It’s headed, “Top Detective to Solve Sovereign Murder,” and goes on to say: “DI Angel is investigating the murder of an unidentified man found under Wath Road railway arches on Wednesday. He had been stabbed. An unusual feature of the death was that the man was found to be in possession of a gold sovereign.”’

Angel grunted.

Mary smiled. ‘Top detective, eh?’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘Aye,’ he said, taking a thoughtful sip of tea. ‘It doesn’t say that that’s
all
the man had on him.’

‘A sovereign in his pocket?’

‘In his mouth,’ he said, putting down the teacup.

‘His mouth? Really?’ she said. ‘Like the Greeks used to do.’

‘What?’

‘Greek mythology.’

‘Never heard of that.’

‘Greek mythology! When a Greek died, he had to be taken across the River Styx, which was the sort of border between life and death, by the boatman to Hades. And the boatman had to be bribed. So the Greeks used to put coins in the mouths of their dead ones so that they could be taken across the Styx. Otherwise the ghostly remains of the dead would congregate on the nearside of the river for ever.’

‘Mmm. A rum story, that.’

She resumed reading the paper. He bit into his toast.

There was a pause then she said, ‘The council have closed down the Bransby Art Gallery. Been there a 122 years. Disgraceful.’

‘Why?’

‘Lack of support. Save money.’

‘Well, if it’s to save the cost of the rates …’

‘It’s our heritage they’re closing. It was a gift to the borough. The council have no right.’

‘I’ve never been in the place. What was in there?’

‘I have. Many times. When I was young. Paintings, sculptures, works of art … another bit of old Bromersley comes to an end.’

She resumed reading the paper. He continued attacking the toast.

Then she said, ‘Guess who was in Tunistone, visiting an old farm on the moors earlier this week?’

‘Don’t know, do I?’ he muttered through the crumbs.

‘Famous film star,’ Mary said excitedly. ‘Eighty-four years old. Doesn’t look it. Mmm. There’s a photograph of her.’ She held the paper up for him to see.

He glanced, then carried on munching. ‘Who is it? Don’t recognize her,’ he said.

‘It’s Eloise Poole!’

‘Oh,’ he said. He was genuinely surprised. He certainly remembered the legendary actress. He had seen her in many films over the years. Thirty years ago, she was never off the screen or out of the news. He thought about her, remembered her in films playing opposite her husband. Well, several times with several different husbands. Now
there
was a legend! She wasn’t a twopenny ha’penny lass who had appeared for a week as a bit part in a popular TV soap and was then paraded as a ‘famous’ actress in all the talk shows, quizzes and ‘eating bugs in a jungle’ show. Not that he knew any of them; he didn’t watch any of the soaps.

‘Any more tea? I’m going to be late.’

‘Plenty in the pot. Help yourself. Listen,’ she said and settled down to read it out to him.

Mary lowered the paper. ‘What do you think to that?’

Angel lowered the teacup onto the saucer and wrinkled his nose. ‘Yeah. Great stuff,’ he said uninterestedly. ‘Look at the time. I must be off.’

She turned the paper over and picked up a ballpoint pen. ‘Before you go. Must ask you. What’s the capital of Turkey?’

Angel stared at her. ‘Turkey?’

‘It’s a competition … to win a holiday for two in Ethiopia.’

Angel shook his head. He didn’t want to go to Ethiopia. ‘Ankara,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ she beamed. ‘
That
fits!’

‘Of course it fits!’

The Hague’s farmhouse was up a narrow steep hill off the main road, five miles from Bromersley and about one mile from the tiny market village of Tunistone, on the east slope of the Pennines.

And all hell was let loose that winter’s morning.

Euromagna of Hollywood and London were there to make a film. A very expensive film. They were at that site to shoot exteriors and establishing shots and the unit expected to be there about six days. For this purpose, the outside of the farmhouse had been transformed. It had been sprayed with a mud-coloured wash; the flower baskets and the plants around the doorway had been removed and replaced with plastic grass and weeds to represent less prosperous times. Powerful electric arc lamps shone onto the farmhouse with mirrors being held by young men to reflect even more light onto the scene.

A small carriage with liveried driver in Victorian gear, who was patiently holding back a jet-black horse, was positioned at the end of the lane waiting for a later scene. The horse was acting up. It was as unhappy as everybody else to be hanging around.

Vans, cars, a coach, mobile canteen and caravans of all shapes and sizes were parked higgledy-piggledy in the top field.

A tall, smartly dressed, handsome man with a burnt sienna and red face, and stuck on sideburns, was by the farmhouse door holding a well-thumbed, three-inch thick script in a plastic binding. He was smiling, and standing as though a broom handle had been inserted up his backside all the way up to his neck. That was Otis Stroom, probably the world’s highest-paid actor.

Next to him was Nanette Quadrette, looking as desirable as a nose job, a boob job, three thousand pounds worth of dental work, a wig made from hair bought from six Indian girls and a two million-pound contract can make a girl. She was also just about the world’s highest-paid actress.

Twenty-eight other employees – technicians, make-up people, costume people, sound engineers, stand-by electricians, carpenters and painters, gofers, continuity experts and more – all on the Euromagna payroll were standing around the two actors.

A scruffy man in jeans, T-shirt and trainers was sitting in a canvas chair, holding an electric megaphone, waving his arms around, and dishing out instructions to all and sundry. That was Mark Johannson. And he was one of the highest-paid film directors in the business.

‘All right, everybody,’ he bawled impatiently. ‘Let’s get on with it. Now, listen up. This scene leads up to when Edgar proposes to Cora. We gotta have pathos, we gotta have desire, we’ve gotta have lust. She comes through the yard to the door, there are words of passion at the door and then she enters. All right?’ He looked across at Stroom and said, ‘You need to be inside the house, Otis, and when she knocks, you answer the door and go on from there. Just as we rehearsed. OK?’

Otis Stroom smiled confidently, displaying most of his thirty-two laminated ivories, nodded, waved in acknowledgement and went into the farmhouse and closed the door.

Johannson turned to the floor manager, Sean Tattersall, and grunted, ‘Right. Let’s go.’

The floor manager yelled, ‘Quiet everybody. Places please. Going for a take. Roll them.’

There was nervous shuffling, then stillness and silence. Even the wind stopped blowing and whistling.

A camera on a dolly was pointing at the farmhouse door. On the seat was a man with an oriental face. That was Harry Lee, well-known film cameraman, peering at the viewfinder. He said, ‘Running.’

Sean Tattersall said, ‘Mark it.’

A young man in a jockey cap worn the wrong way round appeared from out of the cluster of stand-by technicians and workers. He held up an illuminated marker board and shouted, ‘Edgar Poole Biography. Scene twenty-one. Take one.’ Then he dissolved back into the crew.

‘Action,’ Johannson bawled.

Quadrette, looking as desirable as a hot bacon sandwich on this cold February morning, teetered along the cobblestones four or five yards along the frontage of the farmhouse.

Harry Lee made a signal to a young man to push the camera dolly forward to follow the track of the actress.

A youth holding the sound boom followed her to catch the delicate click of her shoes on the cobblestones.

A man with a whistle warbler faced the sound boom and made the sound of a bird.

Quadrette reached the gate, went up the step and tapped on the door.

Then suddenly Harry Lee pulled his head back from the viewfinder on the camera, looked at the director and said, ‘The mike’s in the frame, Mark.’

Tattersall heard him and bawled, ‘Cut!’

Johannson who had been following the action with one eye on the scene and one eye on the video monitor suddenly screamed out to the youth carrying the sound boom, ‘The mike’s in the frame, you idiot! The mike’s in the frame!’

The young lad’s face blushed and his pulse raced.

‘You have to watch the monitor as well as the action, son,’ Tattersall said.

‘Can’t see the monitor from here,’ the young man replied.

‘Well, watch the bloody camera then,’ Johannson snapped. ‘It’s big enough, isn’t it? You can see
that
, can’t you? You can see the direction it’s pointing?’ He ran a shaky hand through his hair. ‘What’s your name?’

The lad looked down at his trainers. He had some thoughts about murder, but sulkily replied, ‘Tim Gallagher.’

‘What?’ Johannson yelled. ‘Speak up, boy.’

‘Tim Gallagher, sir,’ he said loudly, through curled lips.

Johannson sighed, then he yelled, ‘There’s a dozen lads here, who can hold a mike on a pole. If you can’t do it right, leave it and I’ll get someone who can. Understand?’

There was a pause.

‘Yes,’ Gallagher said, indifferently.

‘Starting positions,’ Johannson growled.

‘Starting positions, everybody,’ Tattersall echoed.

Nanette Quadrette’s petite nose quivered with distaste. She moved away from the door and retraced her steps along the cobblestones. A woman rushed up and dabbed her nose with a powder puff as she turned and waited.

‘Quiet everybody. Going for another take. Roll them.’

There was shuffling again, then stillness and silence.

Harry Lee said, ‘Running.’

Tattersall said, ‘Mark it.’

The marker boy came forward, held up the board and cried out, ‘Edgar Poole Biography. Scene twenty-one. Take two.’

‘Action,’ Johannson bawled.

Once again, Quadrette teetered along the cobblestones towards the farmhouse door.

The camera followed her, as did the youth holding the sound boom.

The whistle warbler stepped forward and made the sound of a bird.

The scene looked and sounded good.

Johannson followed the action on the video monitor and nodded agreeably as he saw the videotape coil into the can.

Then there was suddenly the neighing of a horse and the short clatter of hooves on the cobblestones. The carriage rattled as it moved a few inches and then stopped. It came from the long-suffering horse at the end of the lane. The driver pulled tight the rein and cried, ‘Whoah. Whoah there, Betsy.’

Johannson’s head swivelled round to face him; his eyes shone like a wild cat caught in headlights.

The sound man pulled a face, held an earphone away from his ear and said, ‘It’s no good.’

Johannson’s top lip tightened back against his teeth. His fists tightened causing his nails to cut into the palms of his hands.

‘Cut,’ he bawled, his face scarlet with rage. ‘Shoot that bloody horse or put a gag in its mouth. If you can’t keep it quiet, you’ll be off this film and every other Euromagna production for the next hundred years. Do you understand?’

The driver looked mortified. He too coloured up red. His was with embarrassment, not rage. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Very sorry, sir.’

Johannson waggled a finger to summon a young man from the crew standing in the group nearby. He whispered in his ear. The gofer ran off.

Nanette Quadrette glared at Johannson, hoisted up her bosom and tightened her mouth. Johannson didn’t notice. A woman rushed up with a powder puff and touched her nose again.

The gofer returned with a small bottle. Johannson took it, unscrewed the top, poured some pills into his hand, then up to his mouth and swilled them down with something from a paper cup in front of him. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair and said, ‘Right, Sean.’