The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel (6 page)

Angel completed the interview by asking Quadrette and Moss their respective addresses. He noted the information on an envelope from his inside pocket, thanked them and made for the caravan door.

Angel immediately noticed that the air outside smelled fresher. Much fresher. He breathed in deeply and enjoyed it. He was thinking about the heavy, warm smell in Quadrette’s van. The bouquet from the flowers, her perfume and Moss’s hair lacquer was a rich mixture indeed. Probably rich enough to run a Porsche for a week.

He strode determinedly to the next caravan to see Otis Stroom. As he knocked on the door, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grant Montague strutting up to Quadrette’s van followed by the chauffeur who was carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. Angel wondered what sort of a welcome Quadrette would give him. He would have loved to have had a bug planted in there and be able to overhear their conversation.

The door of the caravan was opened by the great film star himself, Otis Stroom. Angel could not avoid experiencing a brief tingle of inexplicable pleasure as he stood in front of the six foot two, tanned, muscular film idol, who was wearing a robe made from towelling material and leather slippers. There was more skin than hair on his forehead and crown, than was seen in his films, and he was also wearing a pair of bottle bottom spectacles.

‘Mr Stroom,’ he said with a smile. ‘Detective Inspector Angel.’

‘Ah, yes. I have been expecting you. Come in, Inspector. Dreadful business. Please sit down. How can I assist you?’

The men each sat on a settee at opposite sides of the caravan facing each other, with a small folding table between them. The room was uncluttered, clean and tidy.

‘For the time being, Mr Stroom, by simply answering a few questions, that’s all.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Well, firstly, do you know of anybody who disliked Mark Johannson?’

Stroom rubbed his big square chin three or four times. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. ‘Well, to tell the truth, he didn’t have the most attractive personality. He was a man totalling lacking in personal charm. He had perfected the art of rubbing everybody up the wrong way.’

‘Do you know anybody who hated him enough to
murder
him?’

‘Oh no. I wouldn’t go that far.’

‘Nobody in particular comes to mind?’

‘No. Sorry, Inspector.’

Angel nodded thoughtfully. ‘Your relationship with him was good, then?’

‘On the contrary. To tell the truth, I couldn’t abide the man, but he was the director, the boss and he was a company man. He thought he knew all the answers. He always thought that his interpretation of a storyline was the correct and only one. He was sometimes quite amateurish, I thought, when it came to artistic interpretation. Also, we had constant arguments about angle of shot. You see, I can only show the camera my left profile. It is so much better than my right. So, I very reasonably insist, I believe, on being to the left of my co-star, which didn’t always suit his choreography. You will understand that I do have a responsibility to my public. I must make the very best of myself, at all times. They must always see me looking at my best, and my female fans in particular, must not be let down. Also, some men model themselves on me. I mustn’t let them down either.’

Angel screwed up his face. He was about to ask him for some clarification, but decided not to bother. Instead he moved on. ‘Yes, well, where were you between five o’clock yesterday and midnight?’

‘What you mean, Inspector, is, do I have an alibi?’

Angel nodded.

Stroom rubbed his big, square chin again. ‘After finishing shooting yesterday, Mark Johannson came here and we had a few words about the day’s shooting. It had not gone well. Everybody’s nerves were shot. I understand that Harry Lee’s first take had been messed up. Then Nanette Quadrette could not get a simple bit of business right, and she didn’t even have any words to remember! Seven times she went through the simple matter of walking down a path to the farmhouse door and knocking on it. It was only on the eighth take that she managed to get it right.’

‘What did Johannson want?’

‘Oh. To make peace with me, I think. He was not hitting it off with her. He couldn’t do with being at odds with both of us at the same time,’ he said with a grim smile.

‘And what time did he leave?’

‘About five o’clock. Could have been a few minutes before that.’

‘Had he stayed long?’

‘No. About five minutes.’

‘He left perfectly all right?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, Inspector. He was angry. So was I.’

‘Where did he go after he left you?’

‘I don’t know. My car arrived about then. I rushed to get dressed. Then I was driven to my hotel, the Grand Imperial in Leeds.’

‘Did you stay in the hotel all night?’

‘No. I was bored and I was restless. I put on some jeans, an old coat and hat so that I wouldn’t be recognized, and went out for a walk. Walked round looking in shop windows and restaurant frontages. Must have meandered for two or three hours. Found a quick service restaurant. Had a meal. Don’t know where it was. Then saw a taxi, flagged it down and told the driver to take me back to the Grand Imperial.’

‘What time was that?’

Stroom rubbed the big chin again. ‘About eleven, I think. The lobby in the hotel was deserted.’

‘You picked up your room key?’

‘No need. I had it on me. I had not handed it in.’

‘You spoke to nobody in all this time. Nobody recognized you?’

‘No.’

Angel sniffed. ‘It isn’t an alibi, Mr Stroom. Your whereabouts cannot be accounted for or supported by anybody else.’

‘No. Well, no matter, Inspector. You’re not likely to be accusing me of murdering Mark Johannson.’

‘I hope not,’ Angel said, rubbing his own chin. ‘I hope not.’

‘You’re back, sir,’ Ahmed said. He seemed relieved and followed him into his office.

Angel looked at him curiously. ‘Everything all right, lad?’

‘There have been a couple of phone calls for you, sir.’

‘Oh?’ Angel said. ‘Who from?’

‘They were both from a man called Peter.’

‘Peter who?’

‘He didn’t say, sir. He said he’d ring back.’

Angel sniffed. ‘Hmm. Is DS Crisp in the CID room?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Find him for me. Smartish. He’s always hard to find, that lad. I don’t know where he gets to.’

Ahmed went out and closed the office door.

Angel looked down at the pile of papers in front of him. The phone rang. It was Gawber.

‘We’ve finished here, sir. I’m sending the others back to the station. Do you want me to go over Johannson’s caravan?’

‘I’ve done that, Ron. No harm in you having a look, though. Get the feel of the scene. Then I want you to go over to the Grand Imperial Hotel in Leeds. Take young Scrivens with you. Johannson was staying there. SOCO should have been and gone by the time you get there. Have a look round. Go through his stuff. Pack it up and bring it back here. And check at the hotel on his phone calls and any messages he might have been left.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Have you seen Trevor Crisp on your travels?’

‘No, sir. Wasn’t he looking into the ID of that man who you thought had been burgled by that girl?’

‘Aye, he was,’ he grunted through gritted teeth.

‘If I see him, sir, I’ll tell him you want him.’

‘Right,’ Angel said and banged down the phone. Crisp always annoyed him. He could never find him. He was always missing. He was so different from Gawber. He was always bunking off on some skive or other and eventually came back with more inventive excuses than Richard Branson.

The phone rang again. It was the civilian switchboard operator.

‘There’s a man wants to speak to you, sir. Been trying to get hold of you, all morning. He’s phoned three times in the past hour. Says his name is Peter. That’s all he’ll say.’

‘Oh yes? Right. I’ll speak to him. Please put him through.’

There was a click.

‘Hello. This is DI Angel. Who is that?’

‘You don’t know me, Inspector,’ the voice said. ‘My name is Peter Meissen. I’ll come straight to the point. I understand you have in your possession an antique silver candle-snuffer with the tips of the blades in the form of a pair of hands?’ The man spoke slowly; every consonant was pronounced clearly and crisply, like a man whose first language wasn’t English.

‘I may have.’

‘Ah. Then perhaps I could see it?’

‘What for? Who are you?’

‘I might be prepared to make an offer to buy it for up to, say £5000.’

Angel blinked. Five thousand? That was a lot of cabbage for a silver candle-snuffer. What was so special about it? He needed to know who this man was.

‘I would need to know more about your identity, sir. We don’t play pig in a poke here, you know.’

‘I understand that, sir. That’s no problem. I can supply that when we meet, if that is satisfactory?’

‘Very well,’ Angel said.

The man said, ‘Although you have possession of it, Inspector, do I understand that it is not actually police property?’

‘That is correct. Technically, it isn’t,’ Angel said.

‘Hmmm. Well, even so, perhaps I could call into the station this afternoon at about three o’clock?’

‘Very well. I can make that convenient.’

‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’ He rang off.

Strange. Angel wrinkled his nose. Being a copper was a funny business. And the people he met in the course of his work were so strange. Generally, he thought, you get three sorts. You have to separate the crooks from the fools, and the fools from the innocents. Then lock up the crooks, scare off the fools and steer the innocents gently out of harm’s way.

He went back to thinking about the money – £5000. That’d keep a crook in Strangeways for about eight weeks.

He looked up at the clock. It was 1.55 p.m. He was thirsty and he’d had no lunch. He reckoned that if he didn’t dawdle, he would have time to trot down to The Fat Duck, grab a meat pie and a glass of Old Peculier, maybe two, and easily get back for three o’clock. It would get him out of the office and have the additional merit – maybe – of that certain solitude he needed to think things through.

It didn’t take long. Only a five minute walk. There weren’t many people in the pub. He found himself standing at the bar, on his own, munching through a meat pie and recalling the dead man’s deep blue staring eyes and red face.

A man coughed. Angel lifted his head. At the same time the landlord placed a second glass of his favourite real ale in front of him. Angel looked up at the landlord, who pointed to a very tall man who was standing at the bar next to him.

‘Inspector Angel?’ the man said.

Angel looked at the glass. Picked it up, looked at the man, and said, ‘For me?’

The man nodded.

‘Well, thank you,’ Angel said. He smiled, put the glass down and said, ‘What’s it going to cost me?’

The man smiled. ‘Information sir. That’s all.’

Angel didn’t recognize him. He looked very respectable. He was big, well dressed, suit, collar, tie and polished leather shoes. No specs. No moustache. Businessman, professional man or salesman. He would certainly remember him from now on.

‘I understand you’ve come across an old silver candle-snuffer.’

Angel was surprised, but he didn’t show it. He took another modest bite of the pie. Chewing it would give him a bit of thinking time. There was something going on and he wanted to know what it was. There were too many enquiries about the thing. ‘I might have. How do you know about it?’

‘We have our ways, Inspector. We have our ways.’

‘And who are you, anyway?’

‘Just a humble newspaperman trying to earn an honest crust. George Fryer.’

Angel took another bite of the pie. He chewed it for a few seconds then said, ‘What paper are you with, Mr Fryer?’

‘I’m freelance.’

‘Oh? Where’s your press card?’

‘Ah. I haven’t got it on me.’

‘Show me some ID then.’

‘Certainly. My passport, driving licence and credit cards and everything are in the car. Excuse me just a minute, I’ll get them.’ He smiled and went out through the swing door.

Angel nodded after him and immediately walked over to the window at the other side of the saloon bar. He took out his pen, clicked it ready and then he pulled out an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. He then gazed out of the window. A smart, silver Volkswagen Jetta whizzed past the window. It had to slow down at the car park exit. Long enough for Angel to read the number plate. He wrote it down on the envelope, then pocketed the pen and envelope, returned to the bar, finished the pie and emptied his glass. He left the other full glass, untouched and walked out of the pub.

‘Ahmed!’

PC Ahaz dashed over from his desk to the door of the CID room.

‘Ahmed,’ Angel said holding out a torn scrap of paper. ‘Tap out the owner of this car. Here’s the number. It’s a silver Volkswagen Jetta.’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said, taking it.

‘And there’s something else. Did you find DS Crisp?’

‘No sir. He’s not in the station and he’s not answering his mobile.’

Angel grunted and continued up the corridor. Then he suddenly stopped, turned round and went back down to the open CID room door.

‘Well, find him, Ahmed. Haven’t seen him all day. For all I know, he could have left the force and got a posh job running his own security business … counting Heather Mills’s money … or pushing a pram for Madonna.
Find him
! Tell him I want to see him, pronto.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, sir.’

Angel reached his office and slammed the door. The phone rang. He reached out for it.

‘There’s a man, a Peter Meissen, in reception to see you, sir,’ a young PC said.

‘Right. Bring him down to my office.’

He replaced the phone and stared at the pile of post on his desk. He rubbed his chin. It never seemed to get any less. He sat down and began to finger through it.

The phone rang again. It was Ahmed.

‘Have you found him?’ Angel said.

‘No, sir. That car registration number you just gave me … it’s a double-decker bus in Dorset.’

‘What?’ he bawled. He sighed. ‘Right, Ahmed. Inform Traffic to look out for a 2006 silver Volkswagen Jetta saloon with that registration number. The car was last seen in Bromersley town centre. The driver, male. Aged forty-five to fifty. Six foot two inches. Clean shaven. Dark hair. Well-spoken. Using the name George Fryer.’

‘Right, sir.’

He banged down the receiver. His eyes narrowed as he thought about the elusive Mr Fryer. He could have kicked himself. He should have shown more patience. He may never find out the man’s interest in the candle-snuffer. He’d known at first glance that he wasn’t a newspaperman. His suit was too smart. His shoes too clean. He always thought that reporters got their clothes out of the dustbin: the same place most of them get their stories.

There was a knock on the door.

‘Come in.’

It was the young police constable from reception, escorting a short, lumpy man in a Reid and Taylor worsted suit that didn’t fit his awkward figure. He looked like an expensive gift, wrapped in a hurry. He hobbled in, every step required effort, and he smiled as though his underpants were too tight.

‘Peter Meissen, sir.’ The man held out a big hand on a short arm.

Angel shook it. It was as cold as a toad’s belly.

‘Please sit down,’ Angel said, and he reached down to the bottom drawer in his desk and took out a brown paper bag with the word EVIDENCE printed in red across it and placed it on the desk top, but well away from his visitor.

‘Now, may I see the item, Inspector?’

‘Some identification, if you please, sir?’

Meissen nodded. ‘I hope my passport will suffice?’ he said and reached into his inside pocket.

Angel took it and noted that it was issued by Le Presidente, La Republic de Patina, Muerlin Strasse Officie, Westlenska, Balkan Etat de Patina. He also noted the passport number. Then he opened it. Looked closely at the photograph and the embossing to check that they had not been tampered with, noted Mr Meissen’s address in Patina, then glanced through it at the visas. They seemed to consist only of the UK, France, Norway, Italy and the USA.

Angel handed back the passport with a nod and said, ‘Thank you.’

‘I hope you are satisfied,’ Meissen said.

‘That’s fine, Mr Meissen. Where are you staying at present?’

‘At the Feathers Hotel here in Bromersley.’

Angel nodded. ‘Now what is your interest in the candle-snuffer?’

‘I tell you, Inspector. Cards on the table. In Westlenska, in Patina, Inspector, I am a lawyer, and I have the honour of representing the Radowitz family, which in the 1930s was the most influential family in the city, both politically and commercially. They were also great supporters and benefactors of the church. However, in the thirties and forties, the years leading up to and including the Second World War, their possessions, their crops, land and farms were systematically plundered by the German occupation forces. As were millions of others. You will know of this? Also, some of the family were murdered. Now, more than fifty years later, the Radowitz family have recovered and prospered; they are now trying to reclaim the lost land, farms and valuables … whatever they can, wherever they can.’

Angel nodded. ‘And you think the candle-snuffer may have belonged to the Radowitz family?’

Meissen smiled. His pants must have been shrinking even more.

Angel passed the EVIDENCE bag over to him. ‘Even if it does belong to your clients, you know I can’t release it.’

‘To know positively would be one step nearer, eh, Inspector?’ Meissen replied as he reached into the bag. He held the candle-snuffer up to the light and smiled, then he ran the finger tips of the other hand delicately over the engraved blades. It seemed to soothe him. He checked the scissor action, and then quietly, without looking up, said, ‘And how did you come across it, Inspector?’

‘A thief dropped it while running away from the scene.’

‘And where was this?’ he said, still looking down, smiling and caressing the piece.

‘Can’t tell you that, Mr Meissen.’

The smile left Meissen briefly but then returned. ‘Did the thief take any other silver pieces?’

‘I don’t know,’ Angel said, then added, ‘Were there others?’

Meissen looked up and smiled again. His fingers moved up the blades of the snuffer to the silver hands at the tips. He slowly exercised the scissor action of the blades again.

Angel watched him. ‘Is there some point in having the tips of the blades formed into hands?’

Meissen looked up at him brightly and said, ‘When the scissors close, the hands come together as in prayer.’ He closed the blades. ‘So.’

Angel saw that it was so. He blinked. He hadn’t realized it before. ‘It is a religious piece?’

Meissen sighed deeply before he replied. ‘It is from the Roman Catholic Cathedral of St Saviour’s of Patina. It was stolen with twenty other valuable pieces, and it must be returned there as soon as possible.’

The phone rang. He reached out for it. ‘Angel.’

It was Gawber. ‘I’m in Johannson’s hotel suite at the
Grand Imperial
, sir. SOCO have been and gone. The place is a tip. Looks like it has been turned over by somebody before they arrived.
They
wouldn’t leave it like this.’

‘Right. I’ll speak to SOCO. Have a word with the manager, the chambermaid and room service. See if anybody saw anything. And get back here as soon as you can.’ He rang off.

Angel wrinkled his nose. Nothing was ever straightforward. He wondered what Mark Johannson might have owned, that would be worth turning his room over for. Of course, thieves could always expect to find something they could sell.

He tapped out DS Taylor’s number.

‘Don, you’ve just done Johannson’s pad in that Leeds hotel. Did it look as if it had been turned over before you got there?’