The Cuckoo Clock Scam (3 page)

‘Right, sir,’ Angel said and stood up to leave.

‘Just a minute,’ Harker said.

Angel sat down.

‘How are you getting along with that Santana case?’

Angel pursed his lips. He knew the super of old. This could be a trick question.

‘Straightforward, is it?’ Harker added, looking at him with one eye slightly closed.

Angel wondered what Harker was getting at. ‘Too early to say, sir,’ he said cautiously.

‘I see that you’ve got a pig in the case.’

Angel thought he detected the beginning of a smile from the man. That could be dangerous. Harker was not inclined to smile and when he did, something calamitous always happened. Last time, it was July last year. There was the big flood and almost a hundred Bromersley residents became homeless overnight. Nevertheless, he would have to answer him.

‘A dead pig
was
found in Peter Santana’s bed, sir.’

‘Dressed in a nightdress?’ Harker said. ‘Why? What for? What’s the sense in it?’

‘At the moment, sir, I have no idea,’ Angel said.

The smile didn’t develop.

‘Come in,’ Angel called.

‘Yes, sir?’

It was DC Edward Scrivens, an eager young man,
twenty-four, who had been a detective two years now. Angel thought he would do well.

‘Aye. Come in, Ed,’ he said. ‘I want you to gather together all the computers, laptops, hard disks, floppy disks, and memory sticks that Peter Santana had used during the past month or so. You’ll need to go to the Top Hat Film Studios, his house on Creesforth Road and the farmhouse place in Tunistone. I’ve got some computer geeks coming over from Special Services in Wakefield. They are going to check on Santana’s work to see if there is anything in the computers that might help us. All right?’

‘Right, sir,’ he said, making for the door.

‘Follow it through. And let me know what they find ASAP.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘When the Wakefield lads have finished, see that any kit we don’t need for evidence goes back to where it came from. All right?’

As Scrivens went out, Gawber came in.

‘There are still wholesale butchers around in spite of all the supermarkets,’ Gawber said. ‘There’s a man runs a small business using an old cold store that was part of the abattoir at Dodworth Bottom. Supplies pubs, cafés, hotels, places like that.’

‘What did he know about the pig?’

‘He got a phone call from a man in the middle of last week inquiring about a whole pig. The butcher thought it was for roasting on a spit. He sells one or two in the summer
sometimes
to members of the public.’

‘Was it Santana?’

‘Didn’t give his name. A thin, frail, white-haired man, he said, in a very smart suit, collected it, paid cash. Had it put in the boot of his car, a Mercedes.’

‘That would be him. Anything else?’

‘It had to be fresh. Seemed fussy about the weight. Had to weigh a hundred pounds, apparently.’

Angel frowned. ‘A good round number, I suppose. Anything else?’

‘No, sir.’

With a furrowed brow, Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Why would anybody in their right mind dress a pig in a silk nightdress and tuck it in his bed?’

‘I suppose it
was
Santana who dressed the pig in the nightdress?’

‘Well, he was the one who bought the pig, wasn’t he?’

The two men looked at each other.

Angel said: ‘It doesn’t make sense. Have you seen what a beautiful woman his wife is?’

Gawber’s face brightened. ‘Oh
yes
, sir.’

‘And being a big film producer,’ Angel said, ‘his wife said that there have always been women eager to throw
themselves
at him – starlets, wannabes. I bet that was true. These days everybody wants to be famous, but not because they’re brilliant at what they do.’

‘That’s why I think it must be some sort of a deviant
practise
,’ Gawber said. ‘He couldn’t find anybody willing to do something outrageously abnormal or indecent enough for him for money.’

Angel frowned. ‘It’s a
dead
pig, Ron. Let’s stay real. I could have introduced him to a dozen or more lasses we’ve had through here in the last twelve months.’

‘Well, maybe he wanted a man, sir?’

Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘No, Ron. If we go down that road, we’ll have to bring psychologists and all sorts of experts in to get under our feet. Let’s try common
sense first. Let’s find out where he got the glamorous
nightdress
from.’

‘Want
me
to try and do that, sir?’

‘Aye. There’s a shopping bag and wrapping in the waste at the farmhouse from that big lingerie shop, on Market Street. Exotica, I think it’s called. I should try there first.’

Gawber made for the door.

‘And if you see Trevor Crisp in your travels,’ Angel said, ‘tell him I want him, smartish.’

Gawber nodded and went out.

Angel reached out for the phone. He tapped in a number. He was ringing the pathologist.

Dr Mac answered the phone.

‘What you got, Mac? What did Santana die of?’

Mac grunted. He wasn’t pleased. ‘Oh, it’s you, Michael. Might have known. What do ye think I am?’ he protested. ‘I’m not gifted with second sight. I haven’t even started the PM yet.’

‘Come on, Mac. Don’t mess about. What does it
look
like?’

‘Obviously murder. One gunshot to the heart.’

‘Did you get any samples from the scene?’

‘No.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing useful to you, I am thinking. Now can I have ma tea?’

‘Thanks, Mac. That’s great. Won’t keep you. Now what about the pig?’

The doctor sniffed. ‘Aye. What about it?’ he said sharply. ‘You’re not expecting me to carry out a post mortem on a pig, are ye?’

Angel stifled a smile. ‘No. But you have had a look at it?’

‘Aye. And it was a good, fresh, female beastie.’

‘Was the pig complete?’ Angel said.

‘Complete?
Complete?
You mean had it been gutted or whatever they do with pigs?’ Mac said quickly with a raised voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Apart from a great loss of blood from a butcher’s cut at the throat, it was sound in every particular.’

‘Were there any wounds at all on the pig? I was thinking of gunshot wounds, for instance?’

‘Certainly not, and that’s all I have to say on the matter.’

‘It had been refrigerated?’

‘Yes. It had been refrigerated, and if you need to know anything else, you need to apply to the Fatstock Marketing Board or bring in a veterinarian. You have exhausted my knowledge on dead pigs.’

‘Thank you, Mac.’

There was a loud click as the doctor replaced his phone.

Angel rubbed his chin. He seemed to have ruffled Mac’s feathers. He regretted it. He got on well with the doctor who had been pathologist at Bromersley for more than fifteen years. He liked him because he was good at his job and was to be relied on absolutely in the witness box.

He reached into a drawer and pulled out the telephone directory. He was looking for the number of Doctor Prakash, Peter Santana’s GP. He remembered he was on Bond Street. He soon found the number. He got through to the doctor and told him about the death of Santana.

‘I am extremely sorry to hear that, Inspector,’ the doctor said. ‘I am both surprised and shocked.’

‘I would like to speak to you further about him, Doctor.’

‘Of course. When would you like to come?’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘Come round right away.’

Ten minutes later, Angel was in Doctor Prakash’s surgery.

‘Thank you for seeing me so promptly. What I need to know firstly, Doctor, is the general health of Peter Santana.’

‘Well, he had an inoperable heart condition. A leaking valve. He needed a replacement. He might have survived the operation, but perhaps not any rejection, which initially always happens. Also it was felt that he would not have had the strength to survive any infection, which is also common. However, all his other major functions were working perfectly well, therefore it was thought that, with careful management, he may have survived another two or ten or even twenty years. His changed lifestyle, diet and exercise routines were rigorously maintained, and his physical strength was increasing every time I saw him. For a small, elderly man he was quite strong, and the prognosis was satisfactory.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘I see him quite often.’ Prakash looked down at his notes. ‘The tenth of this month, only a week ago.’

Angel’s eyebrows went up. He nodded. ‘And what was he like?’

‘He was very unusual, Inspector. Always polite and quietly spoken. Clear thinking. Decisive. Tremendously industrious.’

‘A busy man?’

‘I suppose it was necessary for a man to become so successful?’

Angel pursed his lips and blew out a length of air.

‘His wife, Felicity … she is also a patient of yours, Doctor. What can you tell me about her?’

‘Nothing much. Hardly ever saw her. She seems to enjoy rude health. A lot younger than Peter, of course.’

‘How would you sum
her
up?’

Prakash thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘Like her husband,’ he said, ‘except that she was more excitable and tended to speak forthrightly.’

‘Were you ever consulted by either or both of the couple on any matters that may have arisen due to the significant difference in their ages?’

The doctor considered his answer carefully. ‘No. But I must say, Inspector, if they had, I would not have been willing to discuss the matter with you. But I repeat, they did not.’

Angel shook his head and said, ‘A strange thing has happened in this case, Doctor Prakash. It is bound to come out in the newspapers, so there is no necessity to keep it secret. When the fully dressed body of Peter Santana was found on the floor in the bedroom of his house in Tunistone, in the bed was a dead pig, a 100 lb sow, dressed in a pink silk nightdress. I can’t make any sense of it. As Mr Santana’s GP, can you offer any kind of explanation?’

Prakash’s eyes glowed. He was clearly amazed. ‘No, I cannot.’ Then he added, ‘Of course, the pig is an offensive symbol in the Jewish faith.’

‘That’s right, but Peter Santana was not Jewish…. Anyway, we know that he bought the pig himself.’

Prakash shook his head. ‘Really? I am sorry, Inspector. I can’t throw any light on the matter.’

I
t was a filthy night, and colder than a Strangeways
lavatory
seat. The gusty wind and hard-driven rain made the outdoor Christmas lights rattle next to the wall and the flickering pub sign. Inside the Fisherman’s Rest, things were very quiet. Being the week before Christmas, it was thought that some of the usual drinkers were holding back in anticipation of the annual blow-out, while others were simply conserving funds. Inflation had increased the cost of Christmas presents, cards, food and decorations and so on. In addition, trade had dropped considerably since it became illegal to smoke tobacco in a public place.

The landlord, Clem Bailey, who was also the licensee, barman, waiter, pot washer, cellarman, lavatory cleaner, floor sweeper, bouncer and occasional sandwich maker was making a poor living. At that very moment, he was standing behind the bar, hand in chin, scanning the room and wondering whether he was contravening any health and safety regulations, local council bye-laws, hygiene rules, fire regulations, licensing, gambling, singing or dancing laws. He
was also monitoring the door to keep out minors, prostitutes, tinkers, bookies’ runners and other undesirables. He was always at risk of losing his licence. To stay in business he had to create a welcoming environment for the customers, obey the laws, keep sweet with the police, observe all the bye-laws, and sell gallons of beer.

In one corner of the Fisherman’s Rest was a gathering of four men, quietly drinking and occasionally talking in subdued voices among themselves. In another badly lit corner, there was a courting couple sitting as close to each other as Siamese twins. Then there were two men at a table at the back, and a party of five, three women and two men, at a table in the centre. Thirteen altogether. Not a lucky number.

Suddenly, a short recurring clicking sound came from the mechanism of an unusual-looking clock on the wall, in the shape of a tiny chalet with a pendulum swinging
underneath
it and two chains hanging down with weights at the ends. A moment later, the two tiny doors of the chalet opened and a small piece of polished wood with a plastic beak and some feathery appendage popped out on a spring and went back again at great speed. At each appearance, one heard the crude mechanical sound of a cuckoo. It appeared nine times.

Most of the customers ignored the noise; some looked up and frowned, a few smiled.

The pub door banged and out of the wind and rain came a big man. He was wearing a woollen hat pulled well down over his ears and a woollen scarf across his mouth. He stood by the door, looked round the room, then hesitated a moment as he spotted a particular face among the four men in the corner. He turned quickly away, walked up to the bar and began to loosen his wet leather gloves.

Bailey looked up, took in the hat and scarf and said, ‘Nasty weather.’

The man stared at him but didn’t reply.

Bailey looked up again at the half-covered face. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘A pint of bitter,’ the man said.

Bailey selected a glass, pulled the pint and placed it on a coaster.

‘And a beef sandwich,’ the man added.

Bailey then went out through the door behind the bar to the tiny kitchen to make the sandwich. He took a plate from the cupboard, selected two slices of bread, took the lid off the butter dish and reached out for a knife.

Then, in quick succession, Bailey heard three gunshots. A woman screamed. Somebody shouted.

Bailey’s stomach leaped up to his mouth. He dropped the butter knife and turned towards the door to the bar.

The pub door banged shut.

Bailey rushed up to the bar counter. There was the sickly smell of cordite.

One of the four men in the corner was slumped over the table; the other three were standing, staring down at him. One of them pulled him up by his shoulder to see his face. Blood was streaming out of a wound to his temple. When the man saw it, he gasped and gently lowered the injured man back to the table.

In the cold silence, somebody said, ‘Oh my God.’

The courting couple, who were standing and holding on to each other, leaned over to see the wounded man.

Bailey looked across at the bleeding man and said, ‘What happened? What the
hell
happened?’

The man nearest to the injured man said, ‘He’s hurt bad.
That man shot him. Just like that. He shot him.’

‘Oh hell,’ Bailey said. He rubbed his chin.

‘He’s dead,’ the man cried, his lips trembling.

Another man said, ‘There’s a pulse. I can feel it.’

Bailey reached for the phone and tapped out 999.

The five people at the table in the middle stood up, picked up some shopping bags and went quietly out of the door, quickly followed by the two men nearby, who drank up and left.

Bailey’s hand was shaking. He called into the phone: ‘Ambulance. And police.’

The door closed. He looked up. The courting couple had also gone.

‘Right, Ed,’ Angel said. ‘In your own words, just tell me what happened.’

DC Edward Scrivens, a young detective on Angel’s team, said, ‘Well, sir, last night I got a call following a triple nine at 2105 hours to go to the Fisherman’s Rest. When I arrived an injured man, Vincent Doonan, was being taken out by two ambulancemen and whisked off to the General Hospital. He’s very badly wounded and is still in theatre having surgery. The witnesses were only able to say that a big man dressed in black coat, scarf and woolly hat came into the pub, ordered from the bar, then pulled out a handgun and fired three shots at the man, then rushed out.’

Angel listened carefully, nodded, wrinkled his nose and said, ‘You advised SOCO?’

‘Yes, sir. They are at the scene now.’

Angel rubbed his chin.

‘When did you last speak to the hospital?’

‘Must be half an hour ago now, sir. He was still with us.’

‘Next of kin?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I don’t know where he lives. One of the witnesses thinks he lives on Edward Street, but he doesn’t know what number. I haven’t had time to look it up.’

Angel nodded then pursed his lips. ‘Have you had any sleep?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Right, lad. Leave me those names and addresses and then push off.’

Scrivens smiled. It had been a long night. He tore a sheet off a notepad, handed it to him and went out.

Angel sat down, glanced at the list of witnesses, stuffed it in his pocket, reached out for the phone and tapped in a number.

There was a knock at the door. It was Detective Sergeant Trevor Crisp.

Crisp was considered to be the glamour boy of the team. He was a handsome man, unmarried, and was known to have had a few near misses with WPC Leisha Baverstock, the station beauty. He was never around, impossible to find and a master of excuses. He was also an expert at trying Angel’s patience.

Angel glared up at him. He sighed. ‘Ah,’ he said and replaced the phone. ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel.’

‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘
Always
looking for you, lad. I spend days looking for you. You’re never around when you’re needed. Where have you been?’

‘Sorry, sir. I just heard you’d got a man found dead in bed … with a pig,’ he said with a smile. ‘In a nightie.’

Angel glared at him. ‘A lot’s happened since then.’

Crisp could see he wasn’t earning any merit marks. ‘I got
a tip-off that Harry Savage had been seen on a platform at Bromersley railway station,’ he said quickly. ‘I had to follow it up.’

Harry Savage was a confidence trickster, a particularly cruel kind who had tricked an elderly lady out of £8,000 savings with an insurance scam. He had subsequently been caught but had escaped from the Magistrates’ Court at Shiptonthorpe in 2006.

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did you catch him?’

‘No, sir.’

‘What else have you been busy with?’ Angel said.

‘Well, then I got a complaint from a woman about noise in Newberry Flats … the flat next to hers. It turned out to be the sound of a cuckoo clock he had just bought. It was on the adjoining wall.’

Angel’s knuckles tightened. ‘A cuckoo clock?’ he bawled. ‘Are you wasting police time listening out for cuckoo clocks?’

‘Well, it was very loud through those cardboard walls. It was annoying, every hour.’

Angel rubbed his chin. He must hold on to his self-control.

Crisp said: ‘Just serving the public, sir. Doing what I can.’

Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘Well, there’s
something
else here you can do to serve the public. There’s a Vincent Doonan, desperately ill from gunshot wounds in the General Hospital. Get over there. When he comes round, ask him who shot him. Get what you can from the man. All right?’

Crisp’s face straightened.

‘If he tells you, phone it through to me immediately.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘If he dies, phone
that
through to me immediately, also.’

‘Right, sir.’

He went out.

Angel was only seconds behind him. He closed the office door, crossed the corridor and leaned into the CID room. There were a dozen or more policemen and women working at computers or talking to each other. He saw DS Gawber at his desk, frowning and hunched up, having an earnest discussion with somebody on the phone. It looked as if he might be engaged for some time.

Ahmed was at his desk by the door. He saw Angel and stood up. ‘Are you wanting something, sir?’

‘Oh. Yes. A man was shot last night. I want to know where he lives and if he has any family. Nobody knows his next of kin. His name is Vincent Doonan. You can find out from the electoral roll. A witness thought he lived on Edward Street, but he doesn’t know what number. Can I leave that with you? I need to know it ASAP.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘I’m going down to the Fisherman’s Rest on Canal Road. When Ron Gawber is off the phone, ask him to join me there, will you?’

Angel dashed down the corridor, past the cells, to his car.

When he pulled up outside the Fisherman’s Rest, one of the SOCO team in white overall suit, hat and Wellington boots was loading plastic bags into their transit van at the door.

Angel went inside.

DS Donald Taylor was removing the white paper overalls over a navy blue suit and changing his shoes. Two other members of SOCO’s team were packing plastic ‘EVIDENCE’ bags into white plastic boxes. At a table, in the customer side of the bar, Clem Bailey was sitting at a table with a coffee pot and dirty beakers in front of him. He was smoking a
cigarette
. He looked weary and needed a shave.

Taylor threw up a salute.

Angel acknowledged it and pointed with a thumb towards the man. ‘Is this Mr Bailey, the landlord, Don?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Taylor said.

Angel looked across at him. ‘I’m DI Angel. Good morning, Mr Bailey. I’d like a few words.’

Bailey took a drag on the cigarette and nodded. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘You finished here, Don?’ Angel said.

‘Just about,’ Taylor said.

Angel then moved closely up to Taylor and, with his back to Bailey, he looked closely into the sergeant’s eyes. ‘Anything interesting?’ he whispered pointedly.

Taylor shook his head. ‘We’ve got the four glasses bearing the witnesses’ and victim’s fingerprints, and blood samples from the table … that’s all there was. The gunman
apparently
didn’t touch anything and he wore gloves. There were no footprints.’

Angel wrinkled his nose.

‘Yes. Right, Don.’

He turned away from Taylor and walked the few steps towards Clem Bailey. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

Bailey gave a slight shrug and said, ‘I’ve told your chaps all I know.’

‘Bear with me, Clem,’ he said rubbing his hand across his face. ‘Will you take me through what actually happened?’

It took Bailey only a minute to talk and show Angel exactly what happened, then they both returned to chairs by the table.

Angel thought a moment then said, ‘Did you know the man who shot Vincent Doonan?’

‘No, but I recognized his eyes. Seen them somewhere before. They were mean.’

‘So you remember his face?’

Bailey licked his lips. ‘I can’t put a
name
to him.’

‘All right, but would you say that that man knew exactly what he was going to do?’

Bailey looked up. He was surprised. He hadn’t been asked a question which required his opinion. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. He didn’t want a sandwich at all.’

‘That was to get you out of the way.’

Bailey nodded.

‘So he was afraid you might recognize him.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘No suppose about it. Why else would he order a sandwich he had no intention of eating, but to get you out of the way?’

‘But he ordered a pint.’

‘He had to do that to appear normal. But he had been in here before. He
knew
you would have to go into the back to make the sandwich, didn’t he?’

Bailey blinked. ‘Well, yes.’

Angel nodded and rubbed his mouth. ‘What was his voice like?’

‘Um, ordinary.’

‘Was it strong and aggressive or was it … weak and
apologetic
or was it something else?’

‘It was strong.’

Angel sniffed and said: ‘I think you know this man, Clem.’

‘I don’t. I’ve no idea who he was.’

‘Close your eyes a minute for me. See if you can remember his eyes. You might. He was a strong character. The rest of his face was covered, so you would naturally be inclined to look more closely at the area
not
covered.’

Bailey closed his eyes but he wasn’t happy about it.

‘Now then,’ Angel said. ‘What were his eyes like? Were they shiny, or dull?’

‘Shiny. And black.’

‘Black, good. Were the white areas … very white?’

‘No. A dirty grey.’