The Cuckoo Clock Scam (11 page)

At length, Gawber and Scrivens looked at Angel and he looked back at them. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Pack them back up.’ He then turned to Miss Juanita Freedman and said, ‘Who ordered all these clocks in the first place? And I’d like to see the invoice?’

‘Inspector Angel,’ she said, ‘Mr Makepiece ordered them, I think. It was probably the very last item he bought before he died.’

Angel looked across at her with eyebrows raised. ‘Mr Makepiece?’

She looked downwards and closed her eyes briefly.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Freedman. You were fond of Mr Makepiece? He died naturally, I assume.’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘He owned these premises. He was a lovely man. This shop was his life. That’s why it’s for sale now. I am only helping out his solicitor … to close the estate. Lovely man. I used to assist Mr Makepiece sometimes…. It was originally on a casual basis … then as he became ill, I would come down part-time. He taught me a lot, and I was a good listener and I had a good memory. Once he’d given me the salient points about a picture or a piece of furniture, I would remember it. When a potential customer came in, I repeated it…. It made me sound most knowledgeable.’

Angel’s mobile rang.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. He pulled out the phone and looked at the LCD. It was Crisp. He turned away, pressed the button, strode quickly out of the storeroom and through the shop towards the shop door to afford himself some privacy. ‘Yes, lad?’ he whispered.

‘You left a message, sir?’

‘Yes, Trevor. Listen. You’ve got to get a sample of Felicity Santana’s face powder.’

Angel heard him gasp. ‘What?’ Crisp said.

‘It’s imperative. That gun has flecks of powder on it. It might be hers. If it is her face powder, we’ve got her for possession. Now I expect you would find her compact in her handbag. SOCO only need a few flecks.’

Crisp sighed. ‘She’s watched by everybody in the place, sir. She’s a big number here, you know. And the only time she would leave her handbag would be when she’s rehearsing and actually filming. And that’s also when I’m doing my job, on a sound boom, only feet away from her. I don’t see how I could ever get near her bag.’

Angel bit his bottom lip. He could see the problem. ‘What about your girlfriend? I assume you’ve linked up with Felicity’s gofer?’

Crisp took a second or two to reply. ‘Well, er …’

Angel’s grip on the phone tightened. ‘That’s what your brief was. You
are
making progress there, lad, aren’t you?’

‘Oh yes, sir. It’s just that … I just don’t want to jeopardize the relationship I have with her, for the sake of a sample of face powder.’

Angel wasn’t pleased. The muscles round his jaw
tightened
. ‘It’s extremely important, lad. What’s that girl’s name?’

‘Marianne Cooper.’

‘Well, can’t you tell Marianne Cooper that a cosmetics company is considering making an approach to Felicity about fronting a TV campaign provided that she already uses their product, and a sample would tell them that?’

Crisp didn’t say anything.

Angel continued: ‘You could polish that tale up, make it sound believable, couldn’t you?’

There was more hesitation.

Angel’s knuckles whitened. ‘What’s the matter, lad?’

‘It’s difficult, sir.’

‘I know it’s difficult,’ he roared. ‘If it was easy, you’d get paid six quid an hour to dole out revolting chicken and chips to kids that were even more revolting. Instead you get more than double that and you have a proper job … taking risks, making decisions, and generally making life better and safer for everybody else. Anyway, time’s running out, see what you can do, and ring me back when you’ve the opportunity,
today
. Otherwise I will have no option but to come in there and take a sample from her formally and that would give the whole game away. The people there would close ranks and we might never find out who murdered Peter Santana.’

Angel closed the phone and thrust it in his pocket. He stormed back across the shop, shaking his head and pushing his hand through his hair. He would rather not have pushed Crisp so hard but there was nothing else to be done. That gun in the studio didn’t simply arrive from nowhere. It belonged to somebody and it had been taken there for some reason.

T
hey arrived back at the station; Angel bustled up the green corridor, Gawber and Scrivens following.

Scrivens peeled off to the CID office.

With a sideways shake of the head, Angel indicated to Gawber to join him in his office. He pointed to a chair, closed the door, took off his raincoat, threw it at the hook on the stationery cupboard door, missed, looked at it, grunted, left it there and slumped into the swivel chair behind his desk, rubbing his chin.

His face was as long as a stick of rhubarb. After a moment’s silence, he said: ‘That gun found in the studio loo was used by the killer to murder Peter Santana.’

Gawber nodded.

Angel continued: ‘If the powder found on the gun is found to be Felicity Santana’s, what the hell does it prove?’

‘Possession. That’s five years, sir.’

‘Aye, but what’s the use of that? We’re after finding a murderer, not a woman known to have been in possession.’

Gawber pursed his lips. ‘Maybe there was to be
another
victim.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘We could maybe protect them, if we knew who they were.’

There was another silence.

‘Felicity will get all Santana’s millions,’ Angel said. ‘The trust Santana was thinking about setting up never happened, so she cops for the lot. If she had waited a few days, the trust might have been set up and she would have got half.’

‘That’s still a lot of cabbage, sir,’ Gawber said.

Angel smiled. ‘Rich folk always have to have more, on the basis that the poor don’t know how to spend it. They fritter it away on food and clothes and rent.’

‘Who would have benefited from the trust?’

‘Up-and-coming writers … new writers with screenplays for original films.’

‘Nobody else?’

‘It was a way of filling the gap left by his death. Introducing new writing talent for after he had gone. It could have ensured a continuity of good screenplays for the studio that may have provided them with guaranteed work and earnings. Theoretically a very sensible idea. But the money to set up the trust would have come out of the big pot that Felicity has now inherited.’

‘So she would be the only one possibly
not
to like the idea of a trust.’

‘I think so,’ Angel said wryly.

The phone rang. He reached out for it and heard a wheezy intake of breath through the earpiece. It was Harker. ‘This Doonan murder – you’ve got a Laurence Smith in the frame for it, haven’t you?’

‘He’s a possibility, sir,’ Angel said.

‘Is that all?’ Harker said.

Angel frowned. ‘He has a long-standing motive, sir, a
record of robbery and GBH and ABH, and no alibi. He’s been picked out from a suitably blanked-off photo from our rogues’ gallery on a laptop by the man who served him in the pub. But we have nothing else on him. Can’t make anything stick. We’ve searched his house. Only a load of tennis balls. He’s into that old scam. Hardly anything to hold him on.’

‘He’s been spotted by a plain clothes officer from West Yorkshire police at Leeds/Bradford airport. He’s radioed it in and their super has kindly passed it on. How kind of them. They are looking for somebody else. Their officer reports that a man who looks like Smith is waiting to board a plane to Zurich with two very big suitcases.’

Angel’s eyes bounced. His pulse began to race again. Smith’s nerve had gone and he was doing a runner, was Angel’s first thought. ‘Right, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll get straight on to it.’ He banged down the phone. He looked quickly in the police telephone directory for the airport police, found the number and rang it.

He gave his name and rank and briefly explained his interest in Smith and asked for the time of the next plane to Zurich.

‘There’s one due in the air at 11.25,’ the sergeant said. ‘Flight 12A to Zurich. It’s 11.20 now. It will already have been called.’

Angel licked his lips. ‘Do you think you could find out if a chap called Laurence Smith is definitely on that flight, without arousing his suspicion?’

‘I’ll have a go, sir. Hold on.’

Angel heard some chatter, some electronic noise and distorted speech on a radio system followed by silence.

He turned to Gawber, who had picked up most of what was happening. ‘Smith, possibly doing a runner to Zurich with
two big suitcases,’ Angel said. ‘You might as well crack on with something else.’

Gawber stood up, nodded and said, ‘What is he up to? He’s not going to Frankfurt to get on a transatlantic flight to Rio de Janiero or Montevideo or somewhere else in South America, is he? If he is, we’ll never catch him.’

Angel shrugged.

Gawber said: ‘If I had committed murder, I suppose I would be prepared to travel that far rather than go to prison for twenty years.’

Angel nodded in agreement. ‘Ask Ahmed to come in, will you?’

‘Right, sir,’ he said. He went out of the office and closed the door.

Angel continued holding on the phone for what seemed ages. At last he heard some more electronic chatter and the police sergeant came back and said, ‘I’ve checked with
immigration
. It is a Laurence Smith, sir, about six feet two, black hair, long pasty face.’

Angel’s heart jumped. ‘That’s him,’ he said.

‘Yes. He’s on board, sir. The plane’s just taxiing down to the runway.’

‘Thanks very much,’ Angel said, his pulse racing. ‘How long is the flight to Zurich these days?’

‘About an hour.’

‘Thank you.’

He replaced the phone, immediately consulted the police telephone directory and found the appropriate Interpol office number. He soon got diplomatic clearance then found the number for the border guard at Zurich international airport, which he rang. The officer at Zurich international airport readily agreed to look out for Smith on Flight 12A
from Leeds/Bradford, and Angel instructed Ahmed to email his photograph and description promptly to the Swiss
immigration
office there. The Swiss officer agreed not to approach or arrest Smith, but to try to find out his intended destination and to phone Angel back as soon as he had any information.

Angel replaced the phone, leaned back in the chair and sighed. After a few moments, he began fingering the
paperwork
and post that had been dropped on his desk that morning. There was a standard form from Bromersley magistrates clerk’s office to the chief constable advising that an application for a licence to sell alcohol on premises not hitherto used for that purpose had been received, and the chief was required to approve or object to the granting of the licence. If the police objected, they were, of course, required to give their reasons, which would be considered by the magistrates and if contested would be heard in open court. The custom was that the chief constable canvassed his senior police officers’ opinion, who usually raised no
objection
if the applicants were ‘not known’ to them and appeared to be suitably responsible people.

Angel glanced at it. He blinked when his eyes alighted on the name of the applicant: it was Liam Quigley. He read on.

The site of the proposed shop was the property previously known as the Antique Shop, Bull’s Foot Railway Arches, Wath Road, and Liam Quigley was also recorded on the form as the owner of the freehold.

Angel rubbed his chin. This was a surprise. He slowly put the form back in its envelope and put it into his inside pocket. The fact that Liam Quigley now apparently owned the shop property and the flat above it might throw an entirely new light upon the relationship between Quigley
and Juanita Freedman. He resolved to look into it just as soon as he could leave the telephone.

Angel looked at his watch. Zurich had only rung off five minutes ago. He stood up and began walking round the little office. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else. It was worse than being at the Crown Court, waiting for a guilty verdict when you had a professional murderer on trial and a
conviction
depending on one shaky, nervous, dithering witness and no forensic on the prosecution side.

There was a knock at the door.

It was Ahmed. He saw that Angel was on his feet and sensed that all was not well. ‘Cup of tea, sir?’

‘What?’

‘Would you like a cup of tea, sir?’

Angel looked round. His eyebrows went up. ‘Yes. Thank you, lad. Two sugars.’

Ahmed frowned. ‘You don’t take sugar, sir.’

‘I do today.’

The tea arrived, which Ahmed carefully placed on his desk. Angel was very thankful.

It was a further twenty minutes before anything at all happened.

Meanwhile he forgot about the tea and it was left to go cold.

The phone rang. Angel snatched up the handset. ‘Inspector Angel, Bromersley police, UK.’

‘It is Zurich airport police here. Your man, Laurence Smith, landed here twenty-five minutes ago. He was
positively
identified from your photograph sent by email. He went to the travel desk and bought a ticket to travel on the express coach from Zurich to Lugano, which leaves from the coach park opposite the Bahnhof Weidikon on the
Birmendorferstraasse in the centre of the city at 1300 hours, and he is presently in a short queue for a taxi to take him there. Lugano is about 140 miles south towards the Italian border. It should take him just less than three hours.’

Angel wondered where on earth Smith was travelling to and how he could be further monitored. ‘Hmm. Thank you. Do you know his actual destination?’

The officer hesitated. ‘Lugano is the terminus, sir. Lugano, I suppose. It is a beautiful city, not far from the Italian border.’

Angel rubbed his chin. His eyes suddenly widened. He had an idea. ‘Is there a place called Reebur on route?’

‘Oh, where the big security printers is. Oh yes, sir, but of course?’

‘What’s that?’

‘The big photo laboratory, and security printer, IMPRO. That’s in Reebur, sir.’

Angel’s eyes narrowed. ‘I was thinking of the Tikka Tokka factory, where they make cuckoo clocks?’

He sensed that the officer was smiling. ‘I don’t know about that, sir. I suppose there could be some small factories besides IMPRO in Reebur. But Reebur is only a very, very small place in the mountains. IMPRO print sophisticated security documents and currency for banks, governments and businesses. They’re very security conscious. I
understand
that you can’t get near the place for security cameras, uniforms and passes.’

Angel felt his pulse begin to race; his mind was like a
thousand
ants in a thousand racing cars in the Monte Carlo Rally. Things began to fall into place. Of course, he thought! Laurence Smith is going to meet up with Harry Savage – an old buddy of his. They did jobs together. Stealing of copper
wire from British Rail, for one…. Savage must have somehow got himself a job at IMPRO and is lining up a robbery or a swindle of some sort.

‘I think I know Laurence Smith’s ultimate destination,’ he said to the Swiss policeman. ‘Sounds like a possible threat against IMPRO. Would it be possible to contact the security chief there?’

‘But of course. I expect I can look up IMPRO’s chief
security
officer’s phone number. You can approach him yourself direct, if you wish?’

‘Thanks very much. Does he speak English?’

‘I would think so. Most of us in the service are taught it in college.’

A few moments later, the officer reeled off the number. He even advised Angel of the international code from the UK. The two men then exchanged thanks and good wishes and rang off.

Angel immediately summoned Ahmed and told him to extract from the PNC the photograph and full description of Harry Savage and hold them ready, then he tapped out the telephone number of the chief security officer at IMPRO, who, much to Angel’s relief, also spoke excellent English. His name was Paul Müller, and he was most concerned on hearing Angel’s suggestion that Harry Savage may have infiltrated their sophisticated security systems and that with at least one other English villain, he might be
considering
some sort of crime against the security printing firm.

‘I would be most interested to have a photograph and description of this Harry Savage, Inspector,’ Müller said. ‘If you email it straightaway, I will make immediate inquiries and ring you back.’

Angel thanked him, replaced the phone in its cradle,
dashed through to CID, instructed Ahmed to send the
photograph
by email attachment, then returned to his office to wait.

More waiting.

Angel leaned back in the chair and licked his lips
thoughtfully
.

After a few moments, there was a knock at the door. It was Gawber.

‘Just passing, sir. How’s it going?’

Angel was pleased to see him. He brought him up to date and then said, ‘Harry Savage’s brother-in-law is Liam Quigley, isn’t he?’

Gawber nodded. ‘Are you wondering if in some way he is involved with this IMPRO, sir?’

‘Just a thought. But even the three of them together haven’t the brains to take on an outfit of that calibre.’

‘Not the brains, sir. Maybe the brawn.’

Angel was considering Gawber’s observation when the phone rang.

His face brightened as he reached out for it. ‘Inspector Angel, Bromersley police, UK.’

It was Müller. ‘I have checked off your photograph of Harry Savage against all my staff, Inspector, and I am pleased to say that he is not in our employment, Inspector Angel, in any capacity, nor has he ever been.’

Angel wrinkled his nose.

Müller seemed to make the statement with annoying triumphalism. Then he added, ‘You seem to have been sent on zee wild duck chase.’

Angel pursed his lips. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t even be bothered to point out that the correct phrase was ‘a wild
goose
chase’. It was true that he had
allowed guesswork to override the facts but he couldn’t think of any other likely reason why a crook like Laurence Smith, friend of Harry Savage, would be on a coach passing by Reebur.

But then he suddenly had another thought.

‘You may be right, Mr Müller,’ he said. ‘Would you bear with me? Isn’t there a factory there in Reebur called the Tikka Tokka Cuckoo Clock Company?’