The Cuckoo Clock Scam (15 page)

There was a mighty explosion.

As he ran, Angel was deafened, lifted off the pavement a few inches for about six feet, hit with something like an airborne car door, peppered with flying glass and landed hard on the pavement about twenty-five feet away from the car. He lay there, panting, face on his arm, his heart beating like a threshing machine. His ears hurting, wanting to burst, needles in the back of his neck, blood running down his cheek.

It was silent, eerie and frightening. He lay there for ages. His breathing was becoming steadier. Then suddenly he heard his mobile phone ring out. It was in his jacket pocket. He pulled a face. The ring persisted. Then he felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder.

‘Are you all right, old chap?’

Angel opened his eyes. He was being turned over by two men. ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ one man said.

He could hear. Thank God.

Angel eased himself up on one elbow to look round for Gawber. A small crowd had arrived. In the middle of them, he saw him. He was seated on a low wall about twenty yards further away. He was talking to a man and a woman. He was upright and alive. Angel sighed.

The mobile was still ringing. He fumbled into his pocket and pulled it out. He glanced at the LCD. It was Ahmed.

‘Yes, lad. What is it?’

Ahmed sounded relieved. ‘Oh, glad I caught you in time, sir. I wanted to warn you that Hector Munro could be dangerous. He has a record. Served four years in Barlinnie for safe-breaking when he was only eighteen. Changed his name to Munro. His father is Archie McGinney, head of the McGinney gang who blew up the Caledonian and Western Bank in Glasgow in 1999 and got away with twenty million. Now his father’s doing twelve years in Durham.’

‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ Angel said. He smiled wryly, then he said, ‘Now, listen up. This is extremely urgent. Ask DI Asquith, as a favour to me, to send three uniformed men immediately to Hector Munro’s place on Manchester Road to arrest him.’

‘Right, sir. On what charge?’

Angel eyes flashed. ‘The attempted murder of two police officers, for starters,’ he snapped. ‘They’ll have to move smartly. He won’t be hanging around waiting for them. He’s on the run.’

‘Right, sir.’

Angel closed the phone then opened it and tapped in a number.

It was soon answered. ‘DS Mallin, traffic division.’

‘This is Michael Angel, Norman. My car won’t start. The battery seems all right. I have had to leave it at the front of the big house on Manchester Road. Will you bring it in and sort it out?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thanks, Norman.’

Angel heard two-tone sirens. He looked round as he closed the phone. An ambulance arrived. Its door were opened, the step lowered and two men dashed up to him with a stretcher.

‘Now then, sir. Let’s have a look at you. Tell me, where does it hurt?’

‘I am all right. I can walk. Just let me stand up.’

A
ngel was taken to hospital and kept in overnight. He was treated for shock, and had cuts from flying glass in the back of his neck cleaned and dressed. His hearing had corrected itself and he was almost back to normal. He wanted to return to work. But the hospital doctor,
unknowingly
supported by his wife Mary, had other ideas.

Ron Gawber had suffered similar shock and cuts to his neck and to one hand and had also been kept in hospital the one night for observation.

So it was two days later, at 8.15 a.m., the morning of New Year’s Eve 2008, that Angel was collected from his home by a police car and delivered to the police station promptly at 8.28 a.m.

He smiled as he opened his office door, switched on the light and found everything just as he had left it (apart from the addition of more mail, reports and general bumf piled on the desk).

He took off his coat and hung it on the hook on the side of the stationery cupboard, then bounced into the chair and banged the arms to convince himself he was there. He liked that leather chair. He reached out to the radiator and touched it. To discover its customary warmth on that cold
December day gave him even more satisfaction. He reached out for the phone and tapped in a number.

It was soon answered. It was Ahmed. There was pleasure and surprise in his voice. ‘You’re back, sir!’

‘Yes, lad. Is there any tea going?’

‘Won’t take a minute, sir,’ he said eagerly.

‘Let it mash, Ahmed. Let it mash. Don’t rush it. And is DS Crisp in there?’

‘Er. No, sir.’

‘When you see him, tell him I want him.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Is Don Taylor in?’

‘I think he’s out at Hector Munro’s house on Manchester Road, sir.’

‘That’s right, Ahmed. Thank you.’

Angel replaced the phone and it rang immediately.

‘Norman Mallin, sir. I heard you were back. Your car is perfectly OK now. I’ll drive it round and put it in your parking space.’

‘Thank you very much, Norman. What was wrong with it? It’s never let me down before.’

‘It had a potato shoved up its exhaust.’

Angel blinked. ‘Really?
That
old trick.’

He replaced the phone.

Crisp knocked on the door and came in. ‘Great that you’re back, sir.’

‘Thank you, lad. Sit down. Who took over my court
attendances
while I was off?’

‘I did, sir.’

‘What happened exactly?’

‘Savage and Quigley were remanded to Armley.’

‘That was expected. What about Munro?’

‘He was charged with the attempted murder of you and Ron Gawber. And he was remanded to Doncaster.’

Angel frowned. ‘What about the charge of the murder of Peter Santana? Did you speak to Mr Twelvetrees at the CPS about that?’

‘He wasn’t a hundred per cent happy, sir,’ Crisp said.

‘I thought there was enough evidence to make the case stick. I spoke to Mr Twelvetrees at length from the hospital and gave him a verbatim account of the damning interview Ron and I had had at Munro’s place on Monday, where he had no alibi and offered no defence.’

‘I also spoke to him on Monday afternoon, sir, after you. He told me you had phoned, and when I told him all that
background
and name change and everything that Ahmed had dug up, he seemed impressed, but he still felt that it needed some forensic or something that would put Munro and Mrs Santana closer together. I think he wants a photograph or CCTV or half a dozen witnesses that saw them together in the act!’

Angel let out a long sigh. ‘I thought it was all sewn up.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in.’

It was Ahmed with the tea and his notebook in his hand. He saw Crisp and said, ‘There’s somebody in reception for you, Sarge.’

Crisp looked at Angel, who sanctioned his departure with the nod of his head.

‘Thanks, Ahmed,’ Crisp said and he went out and closed the door.

Ahmed placed the cup and saucer safely on an old CD of ‘BT and how to install Broadband’, which Angel used as a coaster.

Angel sipped the tea eagerly and nodded appreciatively.

‘I got a phone message for you, sir,’ Ahmed said, holding up his notebook. ‘Confidential, she said. Came in while you were off. Can I read it to you? My handwriting’s not that great.’

Angel nodded. ‘Who is it from?’

‘It’s from a Mrs Makepiece, sir,’ he said. ‘She sounded very nice. She said would I kindly tell Inspector Angel, you, that the matter he discussed with me in confidence has been dealt with satisfactorily? The matter now seems to be in first-class order, and she thanks the inspector very much indeed for his kind attention and for bringing this important matter to her notice.’

Angel held the cup from his lips briefly, looked at Ahmed and said, ‘Right, thank you, lad. When I have finished this tea, I am going straight to the antique shop on the Bull’s Foot Railway Arches.’

‘Good morning, Miss Freedman.’

‘Oh, Inspector Angel, you gave me such a shock. I wasn’t expecting you.’

He pursed his lips. ‘Really? I thought that you were. I believe you have something to tell me?’

Her eyebrows shot up. Her mouth dropped open. ‘Good gracious, Inspector. How very strange. However did you know? Are you a … thought reader?’

‘No. On the contrary, I’m a rather practical man. What’s the matter?’

‘Oh dear, Inspector. You were certainly in my thoughts. How very perceptive of you. You must have a gift. That must be why you have a reputation for always getting your man … In this case, your woman, I suppose. I was reading in the
paper that you’ve never been beaten by a case yet. You’ve got quite a reputation.’

He pulled a face like a food taster at Strangeways. Every day he was convinced he was about to lose it.

‘Yes. I was working round to coming to see you,’ she said. ‘I thought I could telephone you, but then that didn’t seem right. There are some things that need saying face to face.’

‘Indeed,’ he said.

‘I was probably going to telephone the police station this afternoon to make an appointment to see you.’

‘Well, I’m here in person. You can say whatever it is straight out, can’t you?’

‘It’s not easy, Inspector.’ She swallowed. ‘It is actually a confession.’

‘I know.’

‘You know? Oh dear. Will I get a long prison sentence, or …’

‘Spit it out, lass,’ Angel said.

She suddenly said, ‘I told you a lie, Inspector. I had to. I told you that Liam Quigley came to my flat a week last Tuesday afternoon, at teatime, and spent the whole evening and night with me until eight o’clock the following morning. It was not true. He arrived at my flat that night at about a quarter to eleven. I have no idea where he was before then, but he wasn’t with me.’

Angel looked up. ‘Vincent Doonan was shot at nine o’clock. You provided an alibi for him.’

‘I know
now
. I didn’t know
then
.’

Angel sighed.

Twenty minutes later, Angel was back in his office in deep conversation with Gawber.

‘So I want you to go down to the antique shop, and take another statement from her—’

Gawber wasn’t pleased. ‘What has made her change her mind, sir? She’s not going to change it back again, is she?’ he said. ‘Are we going to book her for wasting police time?’

‘No. It’s not like that. You’ve got to feel sorry for her, Ron. She was very lowly paid by old Makepiece and was in dire straits. When he died, he owed her a small sum in back wages, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask Mrs Makepiece for it. The debt was enough to put her behind with all her domestic bills. She was living hand to mouth. Quigley came along, promised to clear all her bills, put her employment at the shop on a proper footing and made other proposals not totally unwelcome, I suppose, to a woman in her position. I guessed that something was wrong, so I contacted Mrs Makepiece. She invited Miss Freedman to her house. They spent some of Christmas together … not a happy time for either of them, I’m sure. Mrs Makepiece has paid her the owed wage, cleared her debts and they have worked
something
out over the rent of the flat.’

‘That alibi gone means Quigley shot Doonan,’ Gawber said.

Angel nodded. ‘It does.’

Gawber grinned. ‘He’ll not be buying the antique shop then.’

‘It’s no surprise that the building society wouldn’t make the advance to him, either, so the sale has fallen through. Now Mrs Makepiece is working something out with Miss Freedman and they are talking about running the shop as an antique shop in partnership together.’

‘That’s great, sir.’

‘So I want you to get that statement, drive over to
Doncaster and formally charge Quigley with the murder of Doonan.’

Gawber smiled. ‘Couldn’t be a better way to end the old year, sir.’

Angel nodded and Gawber went out.

The phone rang. It was the civilian receptionist. ‘There’s a strange man on the phone. He says his name is Mr Love. Do you want to speak to him?’

‘I certainly do. Please put him through.’

There was a click and the Irish voice said, ‘Mr Angel? Are you there? At great personal risk I got that info you was wanting.’

‘Shall we meet at the usual place?’

‘Yus. Five o’clock all right? It’ll be dark then.’

‘All right. Goodbye.’

Outside, it was blacker than the Black Maria and twice as gloomy.

Angel had spent most of the day assembling paperwork for the CPS that was going to put Liam Quigley, Harry Savage and Hector Munro away for a substantial numbers of years. He was very regretful that it seemed that the small and chillingly alluring Felicity Santana was going to get away with all her crimes. Some you win, some you lose.

He noted the time. It was five minutes to five. He had an appointment with Mr Love at five o’clock. It was time to leave. He put on his coat, switched off the desklight and made for the door. He remembered something. He came back to his desk, pulled open the middle drawer, fished for the wage envelope Crisp had been awarded by the studio and tore it open. It contained £200 in £20 notes. He put £100 in his left pocket and £100 in his right. Then he looked round
the room. Everything else could wait until tomorrow. He switched off the light, closed the door and dashed up the corridor.

When he arrived outside the station the cold hit him in the face like the opening of the fridge door in the mortuary. He went down the steps on to the pavement, crossed the road and stepped lively down the ginnel at the back of the Fat Duck to St Barnabas churchyard. He opened the iron gate and went in, just as the church clock chimed five.

‘Mr Love,’ he said into the dark. But there was no reply. He was surprised, but not concerned. He had always found Love reliable. He thought he may have been delayed in the New Year’s Eve traffic or held up with the weather.

There was fog in the air and a few wisps weaved between the gravestones.

Angel rubbed his chin and wondered exactly what success Love had had. He fully expected that he would say that it was Munro who had bought the gun. That would further help strengthen the case against him, which would be perfect. If Love said that it was Samson Fairchild, that would be an embarrassment, because Angel had no other evidence to support a case against him. Love might even have discovered that it was Felicity Santana who had obtained the weapon for Munro to do the dirty work. But that wasn’t likely. She was too smart for that.

He shrugged. Why was he worrying? To mount a
prosecution
, Twelvetrees had said that he only needed evidence to show Munro and Felicity Santana together. That must be possible, but the couple had been extremely discreet in that regard. Forensic would be ideal: DNA was indisputable.

There were footsteps behind him.

‘Mr Angel,’ a voice called out.

It was Love. ‘Yes, Mr Love.’

‘Ah. I’m sorry I wasn’t waiting for you. Are you alone?’

‘Indeed I am. Are you?’

‘Of course. Perishing cold, it is.’

Angel heard the Irishman blow into his hands.

‘Let’s get this over with, Mr Angel. Did you bring the money?’

‘Yes. Have you got the information? Were you able to find out who bought the Walther PPK/S – the one used to murder a man on 16 December?’

‘Of course. And it is going to cost you £500.’

Angel gasped. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Love. This is public money. I haven’t got that much, but even if I had you know I couldn’t give it to you. It would set an impossible precedent. As it is, I’m breaking the law
now
. I should have your name and address in a book in the station, with every transaction, the information passed and the amount of cash paid duly recorded. I don’t insist on that, but you’ve got to be reasonable. I don’t even have your real name—’

‘That is my real name.’

‘I don’t have your address.’

‘You don’t
need
my address. Anyway, what is this info worth to you, Mr Angel? Honestly now?’

‘You know we coppers pay fifty quid tops, but this is a bit special. Honestly, £100.’

Angel heard Love spit into the dark. ‘Sod you, Mr Angel. For me to preserve my life, it’s worth more than £100 to keep this to myself. I was hoping to get the fare to see my dear mother at St Joseph’s in Balley Ocarey, but you have been wasting my time.’

‘Wait a moment, please, Mr Love,’ Angel said. ‘That
information
I said was honestly worth to me £100, no more, and
that is so, but the continuance of your goodwill is worth a lot more than that. But I do happen to have another £100, so that I can give you £200.’

Mr Love grunted.

‘Would that be enough to cover the risk you took in getting me this information – which I still require to be one hundred per cent reliable – and purchase you a ticket to St Joseph’s in Balley Ocarey, and allow you a more than adequate Hogmanay celebration?’

Angel waited. He licked his lips. This was a tricky moment.

‘My information is always one hundred per cent reliable, Mr Angel. You can take that for granted from me. I
appreciate
your candidness, though. All right. I accept your two hundred.’