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Authors: Roger Silverwood

The Cuckoo Clock Scam (14 page)

BOOK: The Cuckoo Clock Scam
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Angel said: ‘Are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here, but I was tinkin’, that’s a really tall order yous giving me for a Christmas present, Mr Angel.’

‘We have got it down to one of two suspects. All I’m wanting to know is which one.’

‘Ah. Well, you know, you wouldn’t like to give me the names of the two punters, would you?’

‘No.’

Love wasn’t a bit surprised. He had known Angel almost twenty years.

‘But I can tell you a bit about the gun,’ Angel said.

‘Oh. Go on den. You never know, it might help.’

‘Well, it has had a chequered career and an attempt had been made to file off its number. It was stolen with four other handguns from an RAOC depot in North Yorkshire in 1980, and it must have been sold to my suspect in the last few weeks or even days.’

‘Hmm. 1980 is a long time ago, Mr Angel. I’ve lost and won a few punt on the harses since then. You wouldn’t like to give me an advance in the way of encouragement, would you, Mr Angel?’

‘No, Mr Love.’

‘Oh dear, Mr Angel. Where is your Christian charity this Christmas?’

‘Come and have a drink with me and my team at the Fat Duck. I shall be there in about half an hour.’

‘No, tank you. The sound of handcuffs rubbing against webbing, the shiny black boots and the smell of Silvo, fair puts my teeth on edge.’

Angel smiled but said nothing.

‘But I’ll do what I can on the udder matter. But I tell you, I risk more than a good thrashing when I’m listening out about guns, Mr Angel. One day I have a fear a gun might be used on me. Now I must try and get home to Mudder. If I get anyting, I’ll be in touch. Merry Christmas.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ Angel said mechanically and replaced the phone.

He wasn’t pleased. He wrinkled his nose then sighed.

He knew he had to open all the doors and get help from wherever he could. Love didn’t sound at all optimistic. Of course, it was in his interest to make the job sound as difficult and as dangerous as he possibly could. It pushed up the price.

There was a knock on the door. It was Don Taylor from SOCO. He had a smile on his face. ‘I am pleased to tell you, sir, that the samples of specks of face powder on the gun that killed Peter Santana match the sample on that tissue taken from Felicity Santana’s powder compact.’

Angel’s eyebrows went up. That was welcome news. At least it confirmed that the Walther had been in her presence at some time in its very recent past; also that it therefore tended to suggest, as Angel had thought all along, that Felicity was a party to Peter Santana’s murder.

‘Ta, Don. Thank you very much.’

 

Angel and DI Asquith’s teams congregated at the Fat Duck and had a modest Christmas drink, a pork pie and free black pudding on a cocktail stick.

Ron Gawber bemoaned the prospect of being closed in with his wife’s relations for two whole days, while Ahmed indicated that he was enthusiastically looking forward to visits from several aunts and uncles and their offspring. Scrivens said that he was travelling up north to his parents and seemed pleased about it, while Trevor Crisp, wearing a big smile, drank rather too much, said very little and looked like a very contented man. Outside in the square, a brass contingent from the Salvation Army began to play ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’ and some of the team wandered out to the pub doorway to hear better and offer a contribution to the collecting tin.

The relaxed and informal chatter lasted for an hour or so, then the various members broke up and each made his way to their respective homes.

Mary had the house seasonally decorated, warm and cosy.

Angel had a nap in the chair in front of the King’s Singers, then had tea while watching
The Great Escape
for the eighth time. Later, he got changed, and they went to church at 11.30, got back at one in the morning and went to bed.

Christmas came and went faster than two cascaras.

The Angels didn’t do anything exciting. They snoozed; watched the same old films again.
The African Queen
came up again and Angel prompted Bogart to say his dialogue when he was late coming in on cue.

He had a pile of books he wanted to read, some crime stories, some biographies.

The weather was cold. The house was cosy. The nights were long. The food was good. The books mixed. The TV was rubbish….

I
t was 0835 hours on Monday 29 December. The Christmas break must have been a successful and happy time for most of the force at Bromersley police station, as Angel could hear laughing and chattering as the staff traversed the CID corridor outside his office door.

Angel had called a crime case conference in the CID briefing room for 8.40 and was at his desk in his office preparing himself. He had instructed Ahmed to have A4-size photographs taken off the internet of all the persons involved in the Santana case stuck to the blackboard with their names in large print underneath.

Through the office window, he saw Trevor Crisp arriving late, in a red, noisy Lamborghini, scrambling out of the
low-slung
seat, slamming the door shut, as a dark-haired young woman waved to him and then drove the monster noisily away.

The team had assembled in the room early and had chosen the five seats at the front, nearest to the blackboard. There was DS Gawber, DS Crisp, DC Scrivens, PC Ahmed Ahaz and DS Taylor.

Angel arrived in the room at 0839 and closed the door.

‘Dr Mac can’t be with us,’ he said, looking across at them.
‘He’s still away on his Christmas break, and I’ve asked DS Taylor to sit in with us. Now, this Santana case is providing me with a great deal of bewilderment. You all know what was discovered up at the farmhouse.’

He then gave a quick précis of the personal background and circumstances of the Santanas and went through, item by item, each of the unusual discoveries made at the
farmhouse
on the day of the murder of Peter Santana.

Then he said, ‘What some of you may not know is that the face powder found on the Walther was indeed the same powder that Felicity Santana uses. It was not known until Christmas Eve. It is likely, therefore, that the gun was on a dressing table, or a bed or somewhere, uncovered, as she was powdering her face.’

Taylor said: ‘That doesn’t mean, of course, that she is the only woman in the world using that particular face powder, sir.’

‘That’s true,’ Angel said. ‘But it would support the case against her, if we are able to mount one.’

Taylor nodded.

Angel then went on to confirm the conclusion made following Crisp’s report on the time he had been working at the studio: that Santana had been murdered by one of two men, Hector Munro or Samson Fairchild.

‘Common sense, logic and the facts point to them,’ he said. ‘They are both experienced actors. And you can’t believe all the guff their agents put out about them.’

Nobody said anything.

Angel said, ‘Has anybody any other ideas? That’s what we’re here for.’

‘Where did the gun come from?’ Gawber said.

‘It must have been procured by one of the men,’ Angel
said. ‘It would not have been easy for a woman to have
negotiated
with the likes of Jack “The Gun” Leary or any of that crowd. The face powder certainly indicates that it may have been some time in Felicity Santana’s presence.’

‘It was found in the washroom at the studio by Samson Fairchild,’ Crisp said. ‘I saw him find it.’

‘Had you not thought it could have been a bit of acting to suggest his innocence?’ Angel said.

‘No, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘I thought it was the real thing. He’s not that good an actor.’

Some of the gathering smiled.

‘You might be right,’ Angel said, looking at Crisp. ‘That makes him a less likely suspect than Hector Munro, does it?’

‘I wouldn’t have said that, sir,’ Crisp said, being very careful.

Angel’s face creased. ‘We are not getting far with this …’

Scrivens said: ‘Can I ask, sir, was a motive determined for the murder?’

‘Money, lad,’ Angel said. ‘And, presumably the
questionable
luxury of being Felicity Santana’s husband. Peter Santana is murdered. Leaves everything to his wife. Murderer marries her. The perfect mix of a beautiful woman and a shipload of money. There was some talk of Santana changing his will, so the murder was probably brought forward before any change was made.’

‘The woman would have to be in love with the murderer then?’

Angel hesitated. ‘That’s the … presumption, lad.’

Ahmed said: ‘What’s the pig in the silk nightdress got to do with it, sir?’

Angel sighed and ran his hand through his hair. ‘I wish I knew, Ahmed. I only wish I knew.’

The team looked at each other then at Angel expectantly.

After a few moments, Angel said, ‘Right, if nobody has any bright ideas, we shall have to resort to old-fashioned legwork. There are no shortcuts. Those two men, Hector Munro and Samson Fairchild, from now on are to be treated as prime suspects.’

He looked at Crisp and said, ‘When do they resume work at the studio, lad?’

‘The studio opened first thing this morning, sir. Mr Isaacs will be there. He has to be there. Almost certainly Mrs Santana will be there. She’s in nearly every scene. And Samson Fairchild. I think scenes including them both were scheduled for today. But Mr Munro could be still away. He’s not wanted until tomorrow.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘He is renting that big house on Manchester Road. He’ll be there or at the gym on Woodhall Street, I expect.’

‘Right. Ahmed, get out all the info you can on Fairchild and Munro. You’ll have to depend mostly on publicity guff from the studios, but see if you can dig deeper and find anything from newspaper cuttings or by researching their childhood and their parents and brothers and sisters.’

Ahmed nodded. ‘Right, sir.’

‘Trevor, I want you to give me a full report on Felicity Santana. I want to know everything about her. I mean
everything
. Her parents, past lovers, everything. Has she got her own teeth? What she eats and drinks. What she likes. Who she likes. Everything.’

Angel turned to Gawber and said, ‘Let’s go and see Munro.’

DS Taylor called out: ‘Don’t you want me to do something, sir?’

Angel turned and said, ‘Yeah. Get that pig out of the
deep-freeze
,
take it to a vet and ask him to give it a post mortem … what it died from. And see if there is anything at all unusual about it. Anything at all.’

 

Angel slowed the BMW outside the big house on Manchester Road; he pointed the bonnet through the iron gates round the big circle behind the bushes and up to the front of the house.

The two policemen got out of the car and made their way up the stone steps to the door. Gawber pressed the
illuminated
doorbell button.

There was a fifty per cent chance that the man who opened the door was the murderer of Peter Santana.

Angel’s hands were shaking. His face was hot and in his chest was a food mixer revolving out of control and creating excessive vibration. He tried to contain himself by breathing in and out several times.

The door was eventually opened by a handsome, tanned young man with piercing blue eyes.

Angel held up his warrant card and said, ‘Police. DI Angel and DS Gawber. Are you Mr Munro? Hector Munro?’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m Hector Munro, yes.’

‘We are investigating the murder of Peter Santana and I would like to ask you some questions. May we come in?’

Munro pulled the door open and stood well back behind it. ‘Of course.’

He directed them to a room at the back of the house and when they were all seated, Angel began.

‘Sorry to trouble you, Mr Munro. Just a few questions. Won’t take long.’

‘That’s all right, Inspector. Please feel free to ask me
whatever
you wish.’

Angel nodded. ‘You are very fond of Felicity Santana, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. Oh yes, but no more than most red-blooded men of my age, I suppose,’ he said with a smile.

Angel noticed the lips and the teeth. He had heard that women were supposed to swoon at his smile. The smile, however, didn’t do anything for him.

‘But you are in closer proximity to her than most
red-blooded
men of your age,’ Angel said, ‘if you don’t mind me returning the question to you like that.’

‘Playing opposite her in several films, I suppose it’s true.’

‘Eight films, actually, Mr Munro,’ Gawber said.

‘Really?’ Munro said. ‘I hadn’t realized it was as many as that. Time passes quickly when you’re having fun. But … yes … well, I was … I am quite fond of her, yes.’

‘And it is well known,’ Angel said, ‘that you dumped your last wife when you knew you were going to be playing
opposite
Mrs Santana again in this present film.’

Munro’s face changed. His lips tightened. ‘That was just
one
tabloid newspaper. I don’t know where they got their information from. Nobody should take any notice of what they read in those scandal rags.’

‘So there’s no truth that you and your wife are going to be divorced, then, sir?’

‘Er. Well, yes. We are in the stages of … But what has it to do with you, Inspector?’

‘It could be said that you … set your cap at Mrs Santana.’

Munro frowned. ‘Set my cap?’

‘Excuse me,’ Angel said. ‘It’s a northern expression. I’ll rephrase it. It seems to me that you made a deliberate attempt to seduce Mrs Santana.’

‘That’s outrageous. Certainly not. Who says so?’

‘Where were you between midnight on Monday night, 15 December, until one o’clock on the morning of the sixteenth?’

His eyes flashed. ‘In bed, here, I should hope. Why?’

‘Who with?’ Angel said.

Munro’s steely blue eyes shone with anger. ‘By myself. Why?’

Angel sighed.

Munro added: ‘That was the time Peter was murdered, I suppose.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Angel said.

Munro’s tongue licked his top lip. ‘Look here, this is getting ridiculous. I think I ought to get in touch with my solicitor.’

‘I think you should.’

Munro leaped up and made for the door. ‘I’ll phone him now.’

Angel nodded. ‘I suggest you ask him to meet you at the police station. I was about to ask you to accompany us there.’

Munro glared back at the two men. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ he said, then he went out and slammed the door.

After a few moments Gawber said, ‘What do you think?’

Angel shrugged then rubbed his chin. ‘Could be our man, Ron, I suppose.’

Then they fell silent. The house was quiet. There was no sound of him making a call. They looked round the room. Eventually Angel looked at his watch. He seemed to have been gone a long time just to make a phone call. The two men looked at each other.

‘You don’t think he’s done a bunk, sir?’

They heard the sound of a distant door banging.

Angel rushed to the room door, opened it and went into the hall. He was just in time to see Munro appear, running up
some steps presumably from the basement. He pointed to a telephone on the table in front of them. ‘I had to use the
telephone
in the kitchen. That one’s not working.’

Angel said: ‘Is everything arranged, Mr Munro? Is he meeting us at the station?’

‘He’ll be there in a quarter of an hour, Inspector,’ Munro said, panting.

Angel said, ‘Oh, a local man. Right. Let’s go.’ Then he marched down the hall to the front door, opened it and the three men went out and down the steps to the BMW.

Gawber showed Munro into the front seat next to Angel, and then got in the back.

Angel put the key in the ignition. Surprisingly, the car didn’t start. The engine turned over vigorously enough then spluttered into nothingness. He tried this again with exactly the same result. Then twice more, producing even weaker responses.

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Hmm. Never done this before. I’ll ring Norman Mallin of traffic,’ he said.

Munro undid the seatbelt and opened the car door. ‘We can go in my Range Rover. We’ll be there in no time. You can send your man to sort the BMW out when we get to the station, can’t you? The car will be safe enough left in this drive.’

Angel wanted to get this man in the interview room ASAP. The idea sounded good to him. He nodded and withdrew the ignition key.

Munro got out and crossed the area in front of the house to a large garage door. He pulled a remote control from his pocket, pressed a button and the door began to rise. Inside was only one vehicle: a big, almost new Range Rover. He got into the driving seat and drove it up to the BMW. The two policemen then piled in the back seat and they were soon away.

Munro seemed happy. He switched on the radio and found some loud music. He pointed the Range Rover out through the gates of the drive and turned right towards the police station. He had only driven a little way when he pulled up at the side of the road near a narrow street corner outside a large house with a garden in front. He pulled on the
handbrake
. ‘My throat’s dry. There’s a small shop round this corner where I can get some cough sweets that I like. Do you mind? Won’t be a tick.’

He got out of the vehicle and rushed off, leaving the engine running and the radio blaring out.

Angel and Gawber watched the few vehicles pass them in both directions and noticed several pedestrians on the
pavement
looking at them disapprovingly, sitting in the back of the Range Rover with the raucous and loud music blaring out.

They knew it was against the law to have the engine running in an unattended vehicle on the highway.

Angel made a decision. He unfastened the seatbelt, eased himself forward, reached out between the front seats and switched off the ignition, which immediately silenced the engine, then he tried to find the radio controls. He did
eventually
find the off button and the screaming and the banging of drums stopped. He was pleased with the contrasting quietness and eased back into the seat.

Gawber smiled.

Then Angel heard something that sent a chill down his spine. It was the ticking of a clock. ‘Get out, Ron. There’s a bomb in here.’

‘What?’

‘A bomb! Get out.’

Gawber also heard the ticking. His blood turned to ice. He
struggled madly out of his seatbelt and they both tussled with the door handles. They were all fingers and thumbs. Angel eventually managed to open his door and got out on to the pavement. Gawber was still wrestling with the off side door handle. Angel leaned in and dragged him out on to the near side. They left the door open and dashed away along the pavement. They didn’t get far.

BOOK: The Cuckoo Clock Scam
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