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Authors: Roger Silverwood

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‘Your mother?’

‘No. Miss Juanita bloody Freedman.’

 

Ahmed came in and closed the door. ‘You want me, sir?’

‘Yes, lad. I want you to get that small ad in the Personal Column of the
South Yorkshire Post
all editions tomorrow night,’ Angel said, passing him a small piece of paper.

Ahmed peered at the paper, frowned and looked across the desk at Angel.

Angel’s mouth tightened. ‘What’s the matter? Can’t you read it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, then he cleared his throat and slowly read: ‘Cherub wants love. Contact in usual way.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Angel said loudly. ‘Don’t read it as if it’s Japanese. It’s perfectly good English.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘And tell them to charge it to me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Ahmed went out, re-reading the paper and shaking his head.

Angel watched the door close. He gave way to a smile as he considered what was going through Ahmed’s mind.

He returned to the morning’s post.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ Angel called.

It was Gawber.

Angel looked up from his desk. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said with eyebrows raised. ‘Come in, Ron. I thought you’d run off and joined a circus.’

Gawber looked down at him and smiled. ‘I’ve not been as long as all that, sir,’ he said as he closed the office door. ‘And I have caught up with some of the people in the Fisherman’s Rest who
didn’t
stay behind to be interviewed.’

Angel nodded appreciatively. He was really very pleased to see his favourite sergeant. He hoped that Gawber might cheer him up.

‘I’m impressed, Ron,’ he said. He moved the report he was reading on to a pile on the corner of the desk, leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Well, I hope you know something helpful. I’m making absolutely zero progress here. And being rapidly worn down by the persistent ridicule from the
newspapers
about pigs in pokes, and every ham joke and pun about pigs, millionaires and glamorous widows you can possibly think of.’

‘Huh. I’ve read them, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘You’ve never let the papers bother you before.’

‘Well, ordinarily they wouldn’t, if I knew we were making some progress, but we’re not. Anyway, what have you got?’

Gawber pulled out his notebook and sighed. ‘Nothing much. I first interviewed the three men who were sitting around the table with Doonan – separately, of course. They agreed on what he wore, the woolly hat, scarf and black gloves … and about what happened. Man came in, looked round, went to the bar, ordered a drink and a sandwich and when Clem Bailey went in the back to make the sandwich, he came over to them, pulled the gun out of his pocket, pointed it at Vincent Doonan, pulled the trigger three times then went straight out through the door. It was as quick and simple as that.’

‘It seems to me that the murderer knew that Clem Bailey would have to go in the room behind the bar to make up the sandwich. He wanted him out of the way. Why?’

‘Because he thought Bailey might recognize him, or because he thought he might have tried to prevent him.’

‘Not much you can do against a determined man with a
loaded gun. It must have been because he thought he might recognize him.’

Gawber nodded. ‘Perhaps he didn’t want to be in Clem Bailey’s sights for too long?’

Angel nodded, then he said, ‘You know that Clem Bailey picked out Laurence Smith from the mug book?’

Gawber’s mouth opened and his eyebrows went up.

‘But we can’t make it stick,’ Angel added quickly.

‘He’s got a good alibi?’

‘No. He hasn’t got
any
alibi. He hasn’t got a strong enough motive either. Some argument over a shareout of the spoils of an old job. CPS would never take it on. Go on. Tell me. What else?’

‘Remember there was a family of five, the Summervilles, three women and two men, who were in the pub at the time of the murder? Well, one of the men, father Summerville, came into the pub yesterday lunchtime … started talking to Clem about the murder. By chance, I called in on Clem Bailey and Clem pointed him out to me. I had a word with him, took his address and his sister’s address and was able to interview all of them. Apparently it had been his wife’s birthday. The family were out for a celebratory drink.’

‘What did they see?’

‘Mr Summerville senior said that he was side on to the gun and he reckons he knows about arms. It was his hobby until the laws about owning guns and the banning of replicas was introduced in the eighties. He said that he saw the silhouette of the barrel. Unusual design. The finger guard almost reached the end of the barrel. Also, the gun had a blue tinge and therefore he believes it was a Beretta Tomcat.’

Angel blinked. That was interesting. ‘It’s true, but it could
also have been stainless steel or titanium. Do you think he’s reliable?’

‘He seemed to be talking sense to me, sir.’

Angel rubbed his chin and said, ‘The calibre of a Beretta is .32.’ He reached out for the phone and determinedly tapped in the number to the mortuary at Bromersley General.

Gawber said, ‘Have you heard back from Dr Mac about the—’

‘I’m going to find that out, right now,’ he said.

The phone was answered. ‘Mac? It’s Michael Angel. Sorry to bother you, but I haven’t had your report on either Doonan or Santana yet, and I—’

Dr Mac said, ‘I know. I know. I’ve done the work, it’s just a matter of—’

‘All I want to know just now is the calibre of the three bullets that went into Vincent Doonan.’

‘I can remember that. They were from the same gun, of course, and they were .32.’

‘.32, Mac? Thank you very much.’

Angel and Gawber exchanged looks.

He replaced the phone. ‘So we know the murder weapon. Now we know what we’re looking for.’

‘Yes, but it might be at the bottom of the Don, sir.’

‘It might. It might not.’

The phone rang. Angel reached out for it. It was the super.

‘Yes, sir?’ Angel said and wrinkled his nose.

‘You’d better come up here,’ Harker growled. ‘Straightaway,’ he added and there was a loud click.

Angel groaned and slammed down the receiver. He turned to Gawber and said, ‘I’ve got to go.’

Gawber stood up. ‘I’ve to write up my notes. I’ll carry on, if you don’t need me.’

‘Right,’ Angel said, feeling briefly quite envious of him.

They both went out of the office. Gawber dashed out next door into the CID office, while Angel charged up the green corridor.

He didn’t know what Harker wanted. It must be
something
in a report he wanted to ask about. He was surely not going to bellyache about the fact that he hadn’t yet charged anybody for either of the murders. It wasn’t a week since Santana had been found murdered and only three days since Doonan had been shot dead.

He arrived at Harker’s door, tapped on it and walked in. It reeked of menthol and it was uncomfortably hot. It was like being in a greenhouse in July with all the windows shut.

The pasty-faced ogre with the big eyebrows and the cough was seated at a desk, peering at him between two piles of files and papers.

‘You’re there, Angel,’ he muttered. ‘Sit down.’ He snatched an A5 sheet of pink paper from out of a wire basket and peered at it.

Angel thought he recognized it. From where he was sitting, it looked like an expense chitty.

Harker glared at the paper and said, ‘You seem to have an obsession with cuckoo clocks. So much so that you couldn’t resist the infantile urge to go out and buy one.’

Angel sniffed. It
was
an expense chitty. It was
his
expense chitty.

‘It wasn’t like that at all, sir.’

‘With police funds.’

‘I bought it, sir, because it seemed odd that all round the town just about every villain I have called on in the past week has one on his wall.’

‘So you thought, hang the expense. It’s not my money. You didn’t want to be left out.’

‘No, sir. In view of your observations about large
quantities
of heroin arriving in all kinds of unusual containers, I thought it possible that maybe the stuff was being smuggled inside the clocks.’

‘Yes. I know. As well as shelling out police funds, you committed police facilities – costly, valuable police facilities – to examine the damned thing.’

His eyebrows went up. ‘I did ask SOCO to—’

‘Well, I have instructed DS Taylor to return the thing to you forthwith as it was. Really, Angel, I sometimes think you’ve gone round the twist. SOCO can’t examine every damned pot, pan or clock that tickles your fancy on the
off-chance
that it may contain drugs, and so that you can have a free handout in the process. They have far too much to do.’

‘I’ve never put forward an item to be examined for drugs before, sir. You are suggesting that I am always calling on the facilities of SOCO to examine things. It is not for my personal benefit. It was simply to try to curb the illegal import of drugs, heroin in particular. That’s all.’

‘I think, lad, that you’re getting away from the main thrust of your responsibility at this station.’

Angel felt his face getting hot. ‘Detecting crime and bringing criminals to justice is what I thought I was supposed to be doing.’

‘Detecting crimes of
murder
is what
you’re
supposed to be doing, lad. Specifically, solving and bringing to court the two cases I have given you. Murder is what you’re supposed to be good at. The newspapers are always singing your praises. I daresay if they knew the truth, about your stupid diversions
into cuckoo clocks and other crackpot things, they wouldn’t glorify you so much.’

The muscles on Angel’s jaw tightened. A regular banging started in his chest and extended to a throbbing in his ears. He wanted to let rip but it would only have lost him his job … the job he loved more than anything in the world. He tried to marshal his thoughts. He couldn’t think of anything to say that was reverential and useful. His mind could only produce words of anger.

‘Let’s move on,’ Harker said. ‘This Santana case … It is giving the newspapers a field day. I am fed up with jibes and cartoons of pigs in nightdresses and uniformed policemen standing by scratching their heads. This really is too bad. It brings disgrace on the force. When are you prepared to issue a statement to shut them up?’

Angel clenched his fists. There was truth in what Harker had said. He couldn’t deny it.

I know, sir. I can only issue a statement when I have something new to say. These newspaper men are not fools. If I tried to waffle on telling them general stuff that they already know, it would only annoy them and stir it all up even more. They want answers … to the key questions.’

‘As a matter of fact, lad, I wouldn’t mind knowing the answers to those questions myself. When are you going to be able to come up with some answers?’

Angel had no glib reply, no clever comeback. All he could say was, ‘I don’t know, sir. I don’t know.’

Five minutes later, he came out of the super’s office, his heart pounding like a timpanist playing Tchaikovsky. He stormed down the corridor to his office, bounded in and closed the door much louder than he had intended.

I
t was a few minutes before he could resume any kind of work that required creative or original thought and,
providentially
, it was at the end of that interval of time that there was a knock at his office door.

He licked his lips, breathed in and then out and called, ‘Come in.’

It was DS Taylor, head of SOCO. He was carrying a
cardboard
box under his arm. He closed the door.

When Angel saw who it was, his jaw dropped open. He stared up at him. ‘It’s you,’ he said through contorted lips. ‘What have you been telling the super?’

Taylor looked back awkwardly and said, ‘Before you say anything, sir, I must tell you that it was not my fault.’

Angel continued to stare at him.

Taylor, still holding the cardboard box, said, ‘About twenty minutes ago, the super asked me if my team had completed all the investigations that you had asked for in connection with both murder cases and I said that we had, which was true. He then asked me what we were busy with at that time. So I said that we were examining a cuckoo clock that you had brought in. I couldn’t say anything different, sir. That was the truth. Well, he went straight up in the air. I
had no chance to explain anything to him. He went ballistic. When he came down, he said that I was to call my boys off, put the clock back in its wrapping and return it to you
forthwith
.’

Angel’s breathing slowed.

He appreciated the fact that Taylor couldn’t have avoided obeying the superintendent and he gestured with a single finger to put the box down on his desk.

‘So in that box is a cuckoo clock,’ Angel said, ‘which you are duly returning to me, in pieces, which may or may not have hidden compartments to aid the smuggling of heroin or some other illegal substance?’

‘Not quite, sir.’

‘Oh?’

‘Several things, sir. The clock is fully assembled and in perfect working order and keeps time pretty well. We had already checked it out. And I can confirm that there are no concealed compartments and no chemical traces of any kind of known illegal drugs or substances.’

‘The bird thing that pops out?’

‘Wood and plastic on a spring. Nothing unusual.’

‘And the weights. What are they made of?’

‘Pig iron, sir. We have drilled a tiny hole right through. We have tested the dust. It is the crudest, cheapest, heaviest pig iron you can find. We have then filled the holes up to match the original weight and covered the very slight damage with a dab of brown paint.’

‘What about the packaging?’

‘It’s a simple cardboard box, sir, not excessive. Nothing unusual. Just the right amount of packing, I would say, for an item of that weight, size and kind being transported across Europe that distance by air.’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘You’re certain about that?’

‘Stake my reputation on it.’

It seemed that Angel’s idea that the cuckoo clocks were being used to smuggle heroin or other illegal substances was unfounded: he could surely rely on Don Taylor not to let anything get past him in that regard. Nevertheless, there was some reason why the town was flooded with them at such a ridiculously low price.

‘Right,’ Angel said. ‘Thank you. You’ve done your best. Hop off. We’ll leave it at that.’

Taylor sighed. He was very relieved. He went out much happier than he had come in.

Angel opened the flaps of the cardboard box and looked in at the clock carefully wrapped in polythene, with the weights slotted into folded cardboard sections inserted one each at two of the four corners for protection of the
mechanism
. He closed the flaps, and read the label. Then he reached out for the phone to summon Gawber.

A few minutes later, Gawber came into the office.

‘You wanted me, sir?’ he said.

Angel pointed at the box on his desk. ‘That’s one of those clocks, Ron,’ he said. ‘Don Taylor says that clock case is hiding
nothing
… no heroin … no illegal substance … not so much as a hint of a wine gum … but I’m still not satisfied.’ He began to read from the label on the flap. ‘From the Tikka Tokka Cuckoo Clock Company, Mingenstrasse, Reebur, Switzerland. To the Antique Shop, Bull’s Foot Railway Arches, Wath Road, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK. 1 of a consignment of 250.’ He looked up at him. ‘I want you to get on to this, Ron. Find out what you can about this factory in Switzerland. Pretend you own a chain of novelty shops or something and you want to buy a couple of million clocks.
Then give them a ring. That should make them concentrate their attention on you, break off sliding down mountains on their Toblerones, yodelling and singing about Maria and the lonely goat herd.’

 

Angel was in his office, reading the transcript of the
statement
made by Laurence Smith.

The phone rang. He reached out for it. It was Crisp.

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘About time I heard from you. Where are you, lad? Have you emigrated?’

Crisp’s jaw dropped. ‘
No, sir.
I’m in the film studio. Got a job as a sound engineer.’

Angel frowned. ‘Oh? What exactly is that?’

‘I hold a pole and follow people round.’

Angel frowned. ‘I hope you’re spending the government’s money wisely, lad?’

‘Can’t stay, sir. I’ve made contact with Felicity Santana’s gofer, Marianne Cooper. She’s a bit too young for me, sir, but she’s got this ravishing hair, and legs that …’

Angel sighed. ‘I’m not interested in what she looks like,’ he yelled.

Crisp’s tone changed. ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. I wanted to tell you about this handgun, sir. It was in the men’s washroom. He dropped it on the floor. Two minutes ago. He picked it up and put it in his right jacket pocket. His name is Samson Fairchild.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He’s an actor. Very well known, sir.’

Angel hadn’t heard of him. ‘Hmmm. Was that gun real or a replica?’

‘Looked real to me, sir. Anyway there’s no gun play in the film he’s in.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Right, lad. I’ll deal with it. Better get back to the girl with the ravishing … whatever it was.’

 

‘I don’t care who you are, sir,’ the gate man at the Top Hat Film Studios said. ‘You’re not allowed past this barrier without a pass. It’s regulations. Health and safety, you know.’

Angel leaned out of the car window. ‘Come here, little man.’

The burly six foot uniformed gate man leaned down to Angel’s car window.

Angel grabbed him by the tie and pulled him up to three inches from his nose and said, ‘I’ve shown you my warrant card with my ID and photograph in it, my police badge, and I’ve told you I’m on very urgent business. If you value
your
health and safety, you’ll lift that barrier double quick or you’ll be arrested for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.’

The gate man swallowed. His face stretched the length of a truncheon. ‘Oh yes, sir. Right, sir,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize …’

Angel released the grip of his tie.

The barrier shot up.

‘Where will I find Samson Fairchild?’ he said.

‘Second sound stage. Second on your left, sir. Got a big “2” painted on it. Don’t say I told you.’

Angel let in the clutch and the BMW sped straight ahead into the concrete wonderland. It was an area the size of three football pitches comprising huge, single-storey
buildings
criss-crossed with wide concrete service lanes. There were signs everywhere, more than the inside of a prison.
They were on buildings and on signposts in the middle of the concrete lanes. ‘5 mph.’ ‘No Smoking.’ ‘No Waiting.’ ‘No Stopping.’ ‘No Parking.’ ‘No horns to be used.’ ‘No left turn.’ ‘No right turn.’ ‘Sound Stage 1.’ ‘Sound Stage 2.’ ‘Canteen.’ ‘Props.’ ‘Admin.’ ‘Make-Up.’ ‘Car Park.’

There was nobody about, and no vehicles on the move. Angel passed two large buildings, Administration and Sound Stage 1, and reached a bigger building marked Sound Stage 2. He stopped the car by the door and rushed into the building. He had to pass through two lots of double doors before he was actually inside the studio itself, which was a huge single floor space with a high roof. There was a conglomeration of scenery in the middle with batteries of powerful lights, cameras and cables and about forty people standing around looking at a small area in front of a section of scenery. That was where the filming was taking place.

As Angel approached, he could hear a lone, male, theatrical voice offering his life and love to somebody in a very beautiful dress. He realized that he was the only person moving about, that everyone else was standing stock-still and so quiet you could have heard a £10 note drop into a screw’s pocket.

More than twenty lights were directed on the actor, some at very close quarters. Everybody’s attention was on the man, addressing a woman seated on a sofa who Angel
recognized
as Felicity Santana. Then the actor stopped speaking. There were a few seconds of silence then a voice through an amplification system called out, ‘Cut. That’s OK. Print it. Break for tea. Ten minutes, no longer.’

Powerful lights went out with a whoosh, loud chattering started, hammering began, technicians wheeled cameras and apparatus to another set and many feet made for the
exit, some to the canteen, the executives to their offices and the star actors to their luxury caravans.

Angel saw Crisp rushing past. He was carrying a
microphone
on a pole. They exchanged glances but nothing more.

Nobody seemed to notice Angel’s presence; they were each occupied with their own job. He approached the man who had issued the instructions through the loudspeaker system. He was writing something on a clipboard.

‘Excuse me,’ Angel said. ‘I want to speak to Samson Fairchild.’

‘Everybody does,’ the young man said, then he looked up. He stared at Angel. ‘Who are you?’ he added with unfriendly eyes. ‘I don’t know you. Where’s your pass? You shouldn’t be in here.’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Angel from Bromersley police. I am investigating the murder of Peter Santana.’

The man’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh? I didn’t know about you being here. I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘I am the floor manager, Oliver Razzle. Mr Fairchild will be in his caravan.’ He tossed the clipboard on to a chair. ‘I’m going in that direction. I’ll take you across there.’

The building had emptied except for a gang of men setting up lighting banks, standards and other equipment in a different part of the studio. There were only Angel and Razzle striding out across the set to a row of four American RVs parked up close to the wall.

‘How is the investigation going, Inspector? Mr Santana was highly regarded here, you know. We hope that you will soon find his killer.’

‘We will,’ Angel said, trying to sound confident. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

Angel always said that. In the past, it had always been true. He hoped that this time would be no exception.

They arrived outside one of the big caravans. The words ‘Mr Samson Fairchild’ were painted on the door. Razzle pointed to it.

‘Thank you,’ Angel said. ‘I’ll need to have a word with you later.’

Razzle looked at his watch. ‘We’ll be through shooting at four. Early finish Friday. If that would be convenient.’

‘Fine,’ Angel said.

‘My office then. Anyone will direct you. Four o’clock.’

Angel nodded, but he was anxious to meet up with the man with the gun before anyone was hurt.

Razzle went out through the exit door.

Angel looked at the big American RV and knocked on the door. He didn’t know what to expect. Crisp had simply told him that a man called Samson Fairchild had a gun in his coat pocket. Fairchild could be a raving lunatic, a man on the run … anything could happen. He licked his lips. The door handle rattled. The door opened outwards. Angel took a deep breath. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a gold suntan appeared; he stood at the top of the steps posing like a statue. His suit was as sleek as the bodywork of a Maserati.

Fairchild didn’t lower his head. He looked down at him with eyelids almost closed. ‘Yes?’ he said in a bored, superior voice.

‘Mr Fairchild? DI Angel, Bromersley police. I am looking into the murder of Peter Santana. Can I have a word, sir?’

‘Oh?’ Fairchild said, with eyebrows raised. ‘I suppose so. Of course. Come on in.’ He held the door open.

Angel leaped quickly up the three steps with rather too much momentum and stumbled against the right side of the
man rather clumsily, pushing him back against a large cupboard just inside the doorway. For a moment he was pressed unpleasantly close against him.

‘Steady on there,’ Fairchild said. ‘Mind the suit.’

‘I am so very sorry, sir,’ Angel said eventually,
straightening
up and pulling himself away.

Fairchild gave him a superior look. ‘That’s all right,’ he said gruffly. He closed the caravan door, and turned back to face the policeman.

Angel raised a Walther PPK/S between finger and thumb in his left hand, pulled a pencil out of his top pocket, placed it down the barrel, held the gun aloft on the pencil and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. He could see the rim of a bullet in the breech. He held it to his nose and sniffed. The giveaway smell of burning indicated that it had been fired recently.

Fairchild stared at the gun. His eyes flashed. His jaw dropped. He dived frantically into his jacket pocket. It was empty. His eyes flashed again. ‘What are you doing with that?’

Angel stared back at him. He held the Walther up again and said, ‘Have you got a licence for this, sir?’

The pupils of Fairchild’s eyes zipped to the left, to the right and back again, before finally settling somewhere in the centre. ‘It’s not mine.’

‘It was in your possession. Don’t you know it’s a criminal offence to own a gun or even a replica, and this isn’t a replica.’

He shook his head. ‘I know you’ll never believe it,’ he said, ‘but I found it.’

‘Found it? Where?’

‘In the men’s washroom, an hour ago.’

Angel reached inside his pocket and pulled out a
polythene
‘EVIDENCE’ bag he had brought for the occasion. He tilted the pencil and the gun slid gently off it into the bag; he sealed it and stuffed it into his pocket. He could hardly wait to get it into SOCO’s hands.

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