The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel (5 page)

Ten minutes later, a plain black van with two attendants arrived and took the body of Mark Johannson away in a plastic body bag to Bromersley mortuary for Dr Mac to perform a post mortem in due course. Shortly after that the SOCO team packed up their bags, took off their whites and left.

Angel finished his cursory examination of the caravan and opened the door in time to see DC Edward Scrivens, PC John Weightman and WPC Leisha Baverstock arrive in two cars, which they parked behind his.

Tattersall was drinking tea outside the catering van, and seeing the police uniforms dashed across waving a sheet of paper. Angel was pleased to see the officers and introduced him to them. He then instructed them to divide the names on the list between them and interview each person in private. They were to ask whether Johannson had any particular enemies, and specifically he wanted to know the address of their accommodation while they were here at work, as most or all were away from home, as well as their usual home address. Also, most importantly, he wanted to know where each person had been between 5.00 p.m. and midnight the previous day. Ideally, the latter would need to be corroborated by at least one other person to establish any alibi.

Sean Tattersall tactfully suggested that Angel might like to interview the two actors Miss Quadrette and Mr Stroom himself, as he was finding them particularly unmanageable and were both threatening to leave the set. Angel agreed. The list was appropriately adjusted and the squad dispersed quickly to find their allocated interviewees.

Tattersall directed Angel to the two similar luxury American caravans close by and he started to cross the field to the nearest, when a big chartreuse-green car rocked noisily towards him. It was driven by a smart chauffeur dressed in a grey suit and cap. The car slowed, and through the window the driver called out, ‘Inspector Angel! Inspector Angel!’

He turned. His eyebrows raised. ‘Yes?’

A bulky man in a sharp, shiny blue suit slipped out of the back door of the car and came up to him, holding out his hand.

‘Ah. Inspector Angel, I’m Grant Montague,’ he took his hand and shook it enthusiastically. ‘I’m so very pleased to meet you. I want to offer you my complete cooperation and the cooperation of Euromagna films in your investigation into this dreadful business. I am a director of the main board and I can’t tell you how distressed the chairman and the other directors are at this tragedy.… The death of Mark Johannson is such a great loss to his friends and loved ones, but also to Euromagna and to the industry. As soon as I heard, I took a plane to get here as soon as ever I possibly could.’

Angel sighed. He rescued his hand before it turned into butter and said, ‘Yes. Er, thank you, Mr Montague.’

‘You must call me Grant. And how can I be of service to you and your investigations?’

‘Did you know Mark Johannson well?’

‘As well as anybody, I guess.’

‘Well, do you know of anyone who might have wished him dead?’

Montague looked shocked. ‘Certainly not, Inspector. The man was respected the world over. One of the best directorial talents this century. The world was at his feet. I don’t know how we are going to replace him. Our lawyers are working on it as we speak. The authorities have already expressed a wish for the return of his body to Norway for interment. Naturally, Euromagna would prefer a funeral in London and would be privileged to organize and pay for such an event.’

Angel was anxious to press on with his interviews. ‘Well, that’s out of my control, but, in any event, there has to be a post mortem. If you will excuse me …’ He turned away.

Montague was at his elbow. ‘Is there any way in which I, or Euromagna can assist you, Inspector?’

‘No, thank you, Mr Montague.’

‘Please do call me Grant.’

‘There’s nothing I can think of at the moment,’ Angel said.

‘There must be something…?’

‘No. I don’t think so. If you’ll excuse me.’

‘Of course,’ he replied, but he was still running along beside him. ‘But … but, you will have no objection to the continuation of the shooting of the film, will you, Inspector? It is a vital piece of historical work, a true life love story that must be recorded and shared with the world.’

‘No. I suppose not. Provided that it in no way interferes with the murder investigation.’

‘Of course, Inspector. I wouldn’t dream of … in any way. Of course. Thank you.’

Angel continued the short journey towards the caravan and read the name painted on the door: ‘Miss Nanette Quadrette’. It was a world famous name in the entertainment business; almost in spite of himself, he was a little curious and mildly excited at meeting the famous celebrity. He couldn’t hear Grant Montague anymore and therefore assumed he had given up the chase and turned back. He didn’t look to find out. He tapped on the door in front of him.

It was soon answered by a young, slim man with dyed blond hair. He was wearing an open-necked white silk shirt, black velvet trousers and a pair of flip-flops. He was holding a small glass of what looked like champagne. He looked bored. He blinked and spoke with a lisp. ‘Are you the poleethman?’

Angel stuck out his chest and put on his best butch voice. ‘I want to see Miss Quadrette, please.’

The young man looked back over his shoulder and said, ‘It’s the poleethman, Nan. Do you want to speak to him?’

There was some hiatus. Angel couldn’t hear or see what was going on. After a few seconds, she must have nodded or said something in agreement because the young man pulled open the door and stepped back to permit Angel access.

Angel wondered what the world famous beauty was really like to talk to. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling like an immature groupie as he climbed up the steps.

Although the caravan was similar, if not identical, to Johannson’s, it was much fuller: you could say, crammed. There were several vases and containers of flowers, mostly long-stemmed varieties in various parts of the sitting room area. The two settees had been opened up into a daybed and Nanette Quadrette was lying on it, in a long, white silk robe, her hair in a turban and leaning up on one elbow with a glass in her hand. Only her face, neck, hands and feet were uncovered, and were deep brown showing that she had recently been in the sun. A smile hung from her moist lips and her eyes were slightly glazed, enough for Angel to know that she was high on something … something from a needle or a bottle. As it happened, he saw an open wine bottle nestled in an ice bucket on a stand near the foot of the bed.

‘Have a drink, Mr Policeman,’ she said croakily, waving the glass at him and looking across at the slim young man.

Angel stared at her. He couldn’t help himself. He thought her mouth the most beautiful mouth in the world, and her teeth the whitest and most perfectly matched … and her voice. He had to agree, she was stunning. Not as stunning as she was on the screen, but she had two other enormous advantages, as far as he was concerned. She was female and she was young.

He licked his lips, then breathed out a long sigh and said, ‘You are very kind, but no thanks, Miss Quadrette. I must introduce myself. My name is Inspector Angel.’

‘Sit down, Inspector,’ she said. ‘This is Hugo, my personal … hairdresser.’ She took a sip from the glass, looked at Angel and giggled.

Angel looked across at the young man and nodded.

‘Pleathed to meet you, Inspector,’ the man said. ‘It’s Hugo Moth.’ Angel assumed he intended to say ‘Moss’.

She puckered up her lips and said, ‘Give the inspector a glass, Hugo.’

Angel waved his hand and said, ‘No thanks. I’m only here to ask you about Mark Johannson.’

The smile vanished. ‘Mark Johannson?’ She lifted her head and wrinkled her nose. ‘We all know he’s dead. What do you want to know? I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did. Whoever it was should be given a bloody medal. That’s all I know,’ she said and then she sat up, swivelled round and put her bare suntanned feet on the cream carpet.

Moss dashed across, pulled out some gold-coloured slippers from under the bed and quickly began to slip them onto her feet. She hardly seemed to notice.

‘I want to get back to London,’ she continued. ‘They won’t be shooting anything here today. I have been asked to wait here to see you, and then I’m off, like a bat out of hell.’

‘I’m coming with you, Nan?’ Moss said in a beseeching tone, looking up from the kneeling position, pushing a slipper onto her foot.

She smiled down at him. ‘Of course you are, Hugo dear,’ she said, running her hand through his blond hair and pulling his head into her bosom with her free hand.

Moss reached out with both hands and caressed her waist with movements of a dying butterfly.

Angel watched them. The magic left him, and he decided he’d never touch Sherry trifle with double cream and chocolate sauce again.

After a few moments, she smiled down at Moss and said, ‘Phone for a car to the airport, Hugo, darling … and tell them, half an hour.’

He nodded, smiled and pulled away.

Angel then said, ‘I take it you didn’t like Mr Johannson.’

Her face straightened. The smile vanished again. The mood changed again. ‘Horrible man. No manners. No understanding of artistic interpretation. A bully. Conceited. A liar and a cheat. And he had absolutely no idea how to treat a lady. Inspector Angel, if I had known that he was to direct this film, I would not have committed myself to Euromagna. Do you know, I turned down a million pounds to play opposite Kirk Fletcher with Maximillia Films, and had already planned to have a year away from the camera, but smarmy Grant Montague suckered me into this … this so-called extravaganza, which was going to beat all box office records
ever
. Directed by the
great
Mark Johannson. Look at the damned film now! They’ll probably never finish it. It’s jinxed.’

Angel had been watching her carefully. She spoke about Johannson with expressionless eyes, cold eyes; eyes, he considered, that could watch a lion tear out the innards out of a man and be unmoved. He shook his head to get rid of the imagery.

Moss closed up the mobile phone he had been talking into and said, ‘Nan, the car will be here in half an hour. There’s a plane at 12.32.’

She heard him and nodded but her mind was elsewhere.

‘When did you last see Mr Johannson?’ Angel said.

‘Last night. After we had finished shooting,’ she said draining the glass and offering it to Moss. He took it and reached back to take the bottle out of the ice bucket. Quadrette rocked her hand and shook her head to indicate that she didn’t want any more. He put her glass down, lifted the bottle and poured the last few dregs into his own glass then pushed the empty bottle upside down into the ice bucket.

‘Tell me about it,’ Angel said.

‘Oh. Yesterday was dreadful. There was an annoying take. The first take of the morning. We never recovered from it. It was a perfectly dreadful start to a most irritating day. That clown, Otis Stroom, hadn’t learned the bloody script. He didn’t know his lines or his cues. He’s as blind as a bat, you know. And he can’t use idiot boards because he can’t see them. Playing opposite him is hard work, I can tell you. When the light went and Mark Johannson called it a day, I wasn’t sorry. I came back here. Wardrobe undressed me and took my costume. I just had time to put on my robe, when he knocked on the door. I wasn’t pleased to see him. And I let him know it. He came in all apologetic. I told him that I had a good mind to walk out but he pleaded with me to stay. He said it would get better, that he was going to speak to Otis Stroom and make certain he was briefed for tomorrow’s schedule. I told him that I had psyched myself for the scene and the kissing business at the door seven times, and when it came to the eighth take, I was not at my best. He said that he and Harry Lee had seen the playback and that they both agreed it was marvellous and couldn’t be bettered by anybody.’ She waited for Angel to look impressed: he didn’t oblige.

‘Did anything else happen?’

‘No. He left after that and I got dressed. I wanted the hell out of it. My car was due any moment.’

‘Was anybody here with you at the time?’

‘No. Just the two of us.’

‘What happened then?’

‘My car arrived. I left for my hotel in Leeds, where I spent the night.’

‘What time was that?’

‘I arrived in my suite at the Imperial Grand at around 5.45, I think. Had a long bath. A meal in my room … perfectly dreadful. Went through the script for today’s scenes. Hugo dropped in to check my hair.’ She looked across at him and smiled. ‘Didn’t you, darling?’ she called, gesticulating with her arm.

Moss looked gooey-eyed at her. Then crossed to her and took her hand.

Angel thought the lad had better watch out later. The first sign of anything wrong and she’d bite off his arms and stuff them down his throat.

‘What time was that?’

She looked at Moss.

He said, ‘Just after thix o’clock, it would be.’

‘Where were you until then, Mr Moss?’

‘I have my own thalon in Leeds, Inspector. I was there all day until 5.30. I went thraight to the hotel. I arrived just after thix o’clock,’ he said looking at Quadrette for verification.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s about right.’

‘And what time did he leave?’

She frowned. Her thin, mean, sexy lips tightened. ‘Are these questions really necessary, Inspector?’

He pursed his lips. ‘It’s simply to establish an alibi for you.’

Her eyes lit up briefly. She seemed taken aback. ‘Do you think I need one?’ she said in a low, growling voice.

He shrugged. ‘At this stage in the investigation, I don’t know.’

‘The text of this interview will
not
be made available to the press, will it?’

‘No. This is entirely a police matter. I am simply trying to discover the murderer of Mark Johannson. I don’t have any other interest, I assure you.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Very well, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Yes. Hugo was here all night. He left after breakfast.’

Angel turned back to him. ‘Is that right, sir?’

Moss smirked and said, ‘Yeth.’