The Cuckoo Clock Scam (7 page)

‘And “Monday night next”, what’s the significance of that, sir?’

‘I don’t know what Santana intended it to mean. But ominously, that’s the date when he was murdered,’ he said.

‘The pig, the nightdress and Monday night next were all to do with the crime scene at Tunistone, sir. But we didn’t find any ether there’ said Scrivens.

Angel stood up. ‘I don’t know,’ he said and ran his hand through his hair. He walked up and down the little office with his hands behind his back. After a few moments he pointed to the pile of files and said, ‘Are you certain there’s nothing else in there about a pig?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have you read it all?’

Scrivens hesitated. ‘I’ve
looked
at everything, sir. I haven’t always tried to understand it all.’

‘Are you sure there’s no plot or story involving a pig or a monkey or a tarantula, or anything else being dressed in a nightdress and put in a bed?’

‘There’s nothing like that in there, sir.’

‘Right, lad,’ he said. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll take it home. It’ll be a little light reading for me over the weekend,’ he added, blowing out a foot of air.

‘I want you to understand that I have come here of my own free will,’ Laurence Smith said in a powerful voice with an accent straight from the valleys.

But it wasn’t true. The two uniformed men from DI Asquith’s team had said that he was very argumentative and vocal, and that they had to use a lot of persuasion to get him out of his house into their car, and then when they arrived at the station more argument to get him out of their car and into the interview room.

‘I hear what you say,’ Angel said evenly.

‘And furthermore,’ Smith continued, ‘I have no idea who this man sat next to me is. You tell me he is a solicitor acting for me, but he could be one of your coppers for all I know.’

Angel looked across the table at Mr Bloomfield and invited him to show Smith his credentials and hoped that in so doing some rapport may develop between the two of them, thus allowing them to move on to the interview.

Angel rose and left the table and Scrivens followed.

Bloomfield was a very experienced criminal solicitor. If he couldn’t get Smith’s confidence, nobody could.

The delay lasted only three minutes. Angel and Scrivens returned and were seated at the table opposite Smith and Bloomfield.

Angel switched on the recording machine and made the usual statement about persons present, the date and the time. After that, the first one to speak was Smith.

‘I want it understood that I have no idea what I have been brought in here about, and that I have done nothing wrong.’

Bloomfield whispered something in his ear but Smith didn’t reply or react.

Angel said: ‘This is purely a preliminary inquiry, Mr Smith. The position simply is this: a man was murdered in the Fisherman’s Rest pub on Canal Road last Tuesday, the sixteenth. You were picked out by a witness from over a hundred photographs that showed only part of the face. Mostly the eyes.’

‘I wasn’t there,’ Smith said. ‘It wasn’t me.’

‘The witness was only eighteen inches from the man’s face,’ Angel said.

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘It’s hardly likely he was mistaken.’

‘It wasn’t me. He may need glasses. I expect he was drunk.’

‘He was stone cold sober. Where were you at nine o’clock?’

‘I was at home.’

‘Who with?’

‘I was by myself. I live alone. Who would I be with? Huh.’

‘Is there anybody who can support your story?’

‘It’s not a story. It’s a fact, man. I was at home, alone. I live alone these days.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘What were you doing?’

‘I don’t know now. Probably watching the box. There’s nothing on, but I still look at the bloody thing. It’s like a drug. Cheaper than Horlicks. Sends me to sleep.’

‘You knew about the shooting?’

‘I did. I read it in the paper. It’s all fantasy. I also read all about you investigating the murder of that millionaire chap and the pig in the pink nightie. Huh. True life is better than TV any time, boyo.’

The muscles of Angel’s jaw tightened. ‘It’s no fantasy,’ he growled. ‘And it’s not a matter to joke about.’

‘I was not joking. I am not laughing, am I?’

Angel stared at him. It was true. His face was as glum as ever. Smith never smiled.

‘You knew the dead man,’ Angel said. ‘A friend of yours. His name was Vincent Doonan.’

‘Yes. I knew him. A nasty, dishonest individual. No friend of mine.’

Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘He went down for the identical offence you did.’

‘We may have relieved a public body of a small amount of its worn-out scrap wire—’

‘You stole 120 yards of copper wire and brought chaos and misery for around thirty hours to thousands of passengers travelling on the main line from Kings Cross to Edinburgh.’

‘But Vincent Doonan stole from me and from Harry Savage. We were partners. It was a monstrous, wicked thing to do to your mates.’

Angel’s fists tightened. He must stay cool. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Doonan wasn’t any good at arithmetic, you see. Apparently he had never learned how to divide by
three
. He knew how to divide by
four
, though, because he gave Harry Savage and me a fourth each, and himself two fourths, which I didn’t think was quite right.’

Angel blinked when he heard him mention Harry Savage. He knew he needed to be found and arrested.

‘Where is Harry these days?’ Angel said lightly. ‘Haven’t seen him around.’

‘Don’t know about that, Inspector Angel. I give him a wide
berth. Don’t think I seen him twice since I come out of prison. Probably gone abroad for a rest.’

‘Hmmm.’ Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Are you
sure
you didn’t go to the Fisherman’s Rest on Tuesday night?’

‘Positive. I have no money for drinking, man.’

‘What do you do with your money, then?’

‘I don’t have any. You know that. If I had any money it would go straight to Marie and the kids. A court order, Inspector Angel. You know all about court orders, don’t you? If I earn any money, it goes straight to my wife and kids. I get nothing of it. I could never earn enough to pay off what I owe, so I am permanently in debt. I would have to be the Minister for Welsh Affairs or get moulded to look like Jordan to be able to afford to work again. My giro gives me just enough to keep me alive. The government knows this. They make the calculation. It’s precariously close to the breadline, though.’

‘You’ve money to spare to buy yourself a paper.’

‘I read them free in the public library.’

‘And you can afford a good suit.’

‘It’s a cut-down of my late father’s funeral suit. Tailored perfectly by my dear mother.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Well, I am not satisfied with your explanation. I am going to hold you here until I have obtained a warrant and searched your house.’

Smith jumped to his feet. ‘This is bloody outrageous!’ he yelled.

Bloomfield reached up and tugged at his sleeve. ‘Sit down. Please sit down.’

Smith ignored him. He stared at Angel and said: ‘But I didn’t do it. I wasn’t there. Why don’t you believe me?’

Angel stiffened. ‘Because you said exactly the same thing
when you were pulled in for stealing the copper wire. You said you didn’t do it. Even when it was traced back to you and Doonan and Savage, even when we found your
fingerprints
on two places on the cable, even in court after you had taken the oath, you told lie after lie and kept on lying. It was only when the jury had found you guilty and I spoke to you in the court cells that you slyly, grudgingly admitted it. And that was because you thought I could influence the custodial board to send you to HMP Doncaster to be near your home instead of somewhere far away. Some hopes. That’s why.’

Smith shrugged and shook his head. He knew it was true. Then he suddenly said, ‘That doesn’t make me a frigging murderer!’

Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. He looked across at him and said, ‘If you didn’t do it, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ Then he leaned over to the recording control panel. ‘Interview ended 1621 hours,’ he said, then he switched off the tape, turned to Scrivens and said, ‘Search him, get the keys to his house and take him down to a cell.’

I
t was forty minutes later. The time was five o’clock and Angel was on the phone.

‘It’s just a superficial search, Don. It’s only a two-up and two-down. There’ll be three of us. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Ed Scrivens has the key, and I’ve a man getting the warrant at this very minute. He should be back here in five minutes literally.’

‘Right, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘Better phone my wife.’ He replaced the phone.

Angel reflected a moment and decided that he would do the same. He tapped in the number.

‘Hello, love, it’s me. I’ll be an hour or so late. Something’s cropped up.’

‘It’s nothing dangerous, Michael, is it?’ asked Mary.

‘No. No. Nothing like that. Nothing to worry about.’

‘All right. I can hold tea back until 6.30. Have you thought any more about Timmy?’

He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Timmy? What’s Timmy?’

‘
Timmy!
’ she bawled. ‘My godson, Timothy, of course.’

He felt the heat of Mary’s impatience burn its way down the telephone wire.

‘Oh, him. Getting married. What is there to think about?’

‘A present. We’ll
have
to buy them a present.’

‘Oh yes. Send them money.’

‘You know we can’t do that. Can’t send
money
for a wedding present. It’s so … so vulgar.’

Vulgar. He wished his friends, relations and enemies had been so vulgar when they were married. ‘What sort of thing do you mean?’

‘Something nice.’

‘Yes,’ he said. He hadn’t an idea in his head. They probably expected a bungalow. ‘I can’t think of anything, Mary,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’

‘Well, think about it,’ she said. ‘Be careful. Goodbye.’

It was 6 p.m. when a constable arrived back at the station from Doctor Jenkins, a Justice of the Peace, with a signed warrant. Thereafter, the three policemen, Angel, Taylor and Scrivens, promptly made their way in the BMW through the cold, black night to 36 Sebastopol Terrace, a dingy little terraced house, the home of Laurence Smith.

Sebastopol Terrace was one of four long parallel rows of tiny houses squashed together back to back. The estate had been built by the owner of the local coalmine in the 1890s to a basic specification to provide cheap housing for their workmen and families. More than a hundred years later, while the shell of the buildings remained substantial, other parts of the houses, from the damp courses to the chimney pots, were generally in need of attention.

The Sebastopol estate had become a cowboy property repairer’s paradise.

Angel turned the key in the door of the unlit gloomy house and the three policemen bustled in out of the cold with their
torches showing them the way. Taylor made straightaway for the staircase to the upper floor. Scrivens went straight ahead where he assumed the kitchen would be.

As Angel found the light switch, he immediately became aware of the lavish furnishings and décor. The little front room was crammed with modern, comfortable furniture, a huge, slimline TV set, ingenious imitation coal-effect fire in the hearth and a well-stocked mini-bar. He didn’t delay. He began by turning over the easy chair, looking for any
interference
with any part of the upholstery. It seemed to be untouched. He was turning it back when Scrivens wandered back into the room with his mouth open.

Angel looked up and their eyes met. He reckoned that they were thinking the same thing. What they had discovered was a lot different from the impression Laurence Smith had tried to convey: that he was the poverty-stricken ex-husband suffering from a grasping wife, the injustices of the divorce law and the deficiencies of the welfare state.

Scrivens nodded knowingly. ‘You should see the kitchen, sir. Must have cost thousands.’

Angel stopped what he was doing and followed Scrivens through.

The kitchen was newly tiled and fitted out with all new domestic machinery, equipment and furniture, and a
streamlined
central heating boiler was on the wall feeding a system that was keeping the house pleasantly warm that cold December night.

‘Where did he get his money from then, sir?’

Angel shook his head. ‘I don’t know, lad. I don’t know.’

Taylor searched the bedroom and bathroom carefully. He had been briefed specifically to look for a black or navy blue woollen hat and scarf. He searched the chest of drawers, the
wardrobe, pillows and mattress. He removed the boxed area that surrounded the bath; he tapped every upstairs
floorboard
to see if any were loose; he checked the fitted carpet to see if it was not neatly fixed in any place. He looked behind everything hanging on the walls. Meanwhile Scrivens found the tiny pantry and looked in every unsealed jar and every opened packet, and checked the seals of everything unopened to confirm the contents.

All three policemen looked in every conceivable nook and cranny and failed to find any incriminating evidence that showed the involvement of Laurence Smith in the murder of Vincent Doonan, or indeed an involvement in any other crime.

An hour later they met up in the kitchen. Their sober expressions and minimal crosstalk exemplified their
disappointment
at finding nothing in their searches.

Suddenly there was the whirring sound from the
mechanism
of a cuckoo clock on the wall behind them beginning its hourly cycle.

Angel recognized the noise and he turned round to look at the unusual timepiece, his eyes wide open.

Scrivens and Taylor watched the clock with amused eyes until the cuckoo retired through its tiny doors for the last time, having declared that the time was seven o’clock.

Angel shook his head. He was quietly surprised that every house in Bromersley seemed to have one.

‘A great novelty,’ Taylor said. ‘But you must eventually get fed up with the noise?’

Angel nodded and with another key from Smith’s bunch, he unlocked the back door leading out to the tiny backyard. It had originally been a place to set up a clothesline. At the farthest extent, next to a tumbledown gate in the boundary
wall, was a brick building adjoining a similar building in next door’s yard, which was divided into two and had a lavatory in each. Next to that was a coal bunker, and next to that and nearest the back door was a small hut locked with a padlock.

Scrivens went straight down to search the lavatory, Taylor peered into the coal bunker with a torch and Angel found another key and was soon unhooking the padlock from the hasp. In the hut he found a bag of builders’ tools including a set of brush and rods such as those used to release blocked drains. There was also a pair of trainers and, hanging on a cup hook, some dirty overalls, and at the back of the hut was a large plastic bag.

Angel pulled it out, opened it up and looked inside. There were twenty or thirty tennis balls inside. He nodded
knowingly
and gave the bag to Scrivens. ‘Take that, lad. Look after it. It’s evidence.’

Scrivens blinked in the torchlight. ‘Tennis balls? Evidence, sir?’

Scrivens unlocked the cell door and then stood back.

Angel walked inside. ‘Right, you are free to go,’ he said. ‘If you go to the desk sergeant, you can collect the contents of your pockets.’

Laurence Smith glared at Angel as he eased himself off the bunkbed. ‘I should never have been brought here in the first place.’

Angel’s fists tightened. ‘I am not yet satisfied that you had nothing to do with the death of Vincent Doonan, and there might be charges brought against you in connection with other unrelated offences. This release is conditional. You must not leave Bromersley without advising this office, and you must not visit the Fisherman’s Rest. Understood?’

Smith frowned but didn’t reply.

Angel said, ‘
Understood
?’

‘Yeah. Yeah. All right. Understood.’

He stepped out of the cell. ‘What did you say the name of that witness was … that was supposed to have picked me out?’

Nobody caught Angel out as easily as that.

‘I didn’t say,’ he said as he closed the cell door and
indicated
the way out of the security block.

As they made their way up the corridor, Smith suddenly said: ‘What unrelated offences?’

‘The tennis ball scam, for one thing.’

‘Don’t know what you mean.’

Angel sighed.

They reached the duty sergeant’s desk. There was nobody there. He must have been called away.

‘Oh yes, you do,’ Angel said. ‘Your hut had a bag full of tennis balls in there. I have taken them and recorded them as evidence for the future. Don’t even
think
of buying any more.’

‘Oh yes,’ Smith said. ‘But they’re not mine. They are for my nephews. They play with them when they visit me.’

Angel’s eyes flashed. He was tired. It had been a long day. ‘Don’t tell me any more lies,’ he said. ‘You haven’t got any nephews
or
nieces … or brothers or sisters, for that matter. I know that from your notes. So don’t take me for a fool.’

He ran his hand through his hair and turned to Scrivens. ‘It’s late, Ted. I’m going home. Finish up here. See that Mr Smith is offered some transport. He might want some milk and a rusk. And he likes fairytales. If you have to, tell him the one about the three bears.’

‘Go to
frigging hell
!’ Smith yelled.

‘Good night, sir,’ Scrivens said.

The front door slammed. Angel had gone.

The phone rang.

Angel reached out for it. It was WPC Leisha Baverstock at reception. ‘Good morning, sir. There’s a young woman here asking to see you. Says her name is Sonya Quigley.’

Angel looked up. He didn’t expect that. Sonya Quigley? Of course he would see her. ‘Bring her down to my office, Leisha, please?’

He replaced the phone slowly and rubbed his chin. He wondered what she wanted. She might be able to throw some light on the murder of Doonan even though her father, Liam Quigley, was now out of the frame. Any relevant
information
would be most welcome. The investigation was going nowhere, and at that moment there was no way that he was able to prove the murderer was Laurence Smith.

Angel had always made it a rule that if anybody came to the station and asked for him by name, he would see them. Same thing if they phoned and asked for him – he would always speak to them.

Anyway, this young woman might be in trouble.

She arrived. She looked nothing like her father. She was pretty and slim, with long, red, stringy hair, and she wore a red coat over jeans and a thick white jumper. She glanced at Angel but didn’t maintain a long look.

‘Good morning. You are Sonya Quigley? Please sit down.’

‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said.

She had skinny, children’s fingers, which she played with as she spoke.

‘Daughter of Liam Quigley? What can I do for you?’ Angel said.

‘Yes. I’d like to see him, please.’

Angel frowned. ‘He’s not here, Sonya. Isn’t he at home?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh? He’s not here? I thought he had been arrested?’

‘He’s probably at home now. Have you not been home?’

She put her elbows on the desk and buried her face in her hands. ‘The next-door neighbour said that the police had taken him away and that he had been arrested. He wasn’t there night before last.’

‘He was released yesterday morning. He was only held here overnight for questioning.’

She sighed deeply. ‘Oh, thank God. Thank God.’ She found a tissue and began to wipe her cheeks. ‘I thought he had been arrested for Vincent’s murder. I knew he hadn’t done it. He was angry, worked up if ever I mentioned his name, but I knew he couldn’t take a man’s life like that.’

Angel licked his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘What do you know about it, Sonya?’

The tears started again. ‘Oh, it’s all my fault, Mr Angel. Vincent never meant anything more to me than a safe place I could run to. I only went there to get away from Dad’s moods, drunkenness and bad temper. He thinks I went to bed with him, but I never. Vincent was a nice enough chap, but not in that way … and he’s old enough to be my father. I let my father think anything he wanted. I did it to annoy him … get my own back, you know. Vincent let me have his back bedroom whenever I wanted it, that’s all, honest. He enjoyed my company … and I enjoyed his, when I was lonely or … afraid. But I never intended it to go this far with my Dad. Now I want to find him and tell him everything. I’m so relieved. Don’t you know where he’ll be now?’

Angel shook his head gently. ‘I’m sorry.’

She suddenly pulled a face. ‘He’s started up with this Juanita Freedman woman. That’s where he’ll be. It’s all so … awful!’

The tears started again.

Angel said, ‘I’ve met Miss Freedman. She seemed pleasant enough.’

‘He had me take her out … and entertain her. Just the two of us. Last night. To The Feathers. He shoved forty quid in my hand and said give her a good time and enjoy yourselves, and don’t come back before eleven o’clock. She likes white wine. Oooh. Horrible stuff. I did it because he wanted me to. But I don’t like it. All she talks about is books, Clarice Cliff, Rennie Mackintosh and Scotland … and she smells of peppermint. We got a taxi there and a taxi back. She’s trying to take my mother’s place. It’s not right. Nobody can do that.’

‘Of course not. Where’s your mother?’

‘She’s in County Clare. Middle of nowhere. I love her dearly. I sometimes wish I was there with her and my
grandmother
. And my older sister.’

‘You can always go back there, can’t you?’

‘I’ve been back. But there are no people there. Just women, and hens and sheep. It’s like a graveyard and besides, there’s no work. I couldn’t easily settle after all this busy, busy over here. No. Besides, my father is trying to buy another house. It includes a shop. If he gets it … maybe … I can have the shop and start up as a hairdresser. I’m trained for that, you know. Been to Bromersley College. Got the diploma. Worked for a year at Madam Georgina’s in town, you know. But it’ll never happen. You see. That woman’ll be in the way. She’ll put the mockers on it. You see.’