The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel (4 page)

Angel was disappointed. ‘Any idea where it might have come from?’

‘Some big house on the Continent, where they regularly used candles, had plenty of servants, say during the seventeenth century.’

‘Well, thank you, Mr Schuster. What do I owe you?’

‘I’ll put it on the slate, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a friendly smile and a hot cup of tea if ever you see me in the cells.’

Angel raised his head in surprise.

It was 8.28 a.m. when Angel arrived in the office. He threw off his coat, glanced at the pile of post on his desk and pulled a face. He fingered through it, opened one of the envelopes, sniffed and then cast it aside.

He picked up the phone and stabbed in a number. It was answered by Police Constable Ahmed Ahaz.

‘Come in here,’ Angel said.

Ahaz was a sensitive young man, only twenty years of age and was recently promoted from cadet to probationary police constable. He was courteous, obliging, enthusiastic and intelligent. He had been on Angel’s team since joining as a cadet three years ago. The inspector liked him and thought he showed great promise.

‘Now what about that misper?’

‘Nothing, sir.

‘You’ve searched
everywhere
?’ Angel bawled.

‘Yes sir,’ he said. ‘There’s no match on the national computer, and I’ve been back through every issue of the
Police Gazette
for the past six months.’

‘Have you tried the Salvation Army?’

Ahmed frowned. ‘They’re always asking
us
, sir.’

‘Well, let’s ask
them
for a change,’ he quipped.

‘Do you mean nationally, sir?’

‘Start at their head office in London. But for god’s sake get a move on and find out who he is, before he’s recorded as “unknown”, and has to go in a pauper’s grave.’

Ahmed pulled a face.

Angel noticed. ‘That’s what happens if the body can’t be identified.’

‘Not very nice, sir.’

‘No. Well, crack on with it, then.’

Ahmed opened the door.

‘And send Ron Gawber in,’ he called after him.

‘Right, sir.’ He went out.

Angel watched the door close. He sighed, rubbed his chin, leaned back in the swivel chair, looked up at the ceiling and squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. He wasn’t a happy bunny. He liked being a policeman, but he didn’t like crime, especially not in his birth town of Bromersley, which had more than its fair share. He sighed again. Bromersley was just a big wet hole with ugly buildings and no style. Its people were mostly good-hearted except those that weren’t, of which there were too many. He wanted better for the community, for his wife and for himself.

There was a knock at the door.

He lowered the chair. ‘Come in.’

It was Detective Sergeant Ronald Gawber.

‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘Yes. That tramp. Still no ID. You were on the scene first, Ron. Tell me about it again. Sit down.’

Ron pulled out the chair by the desk. ‘Got an anonymous triple nine, sir. Man’s voice. Simply said there was a dead man under the railway bridge arches on Wath Road, Bromersley. When I got there the place was deserted except for that body. It was on the deck in a sitting position, head down. Looked drunk at first … until I got close up. The blood—’

‘Yeah. Yeah. I saw the photos. What about the scene?’

‘There was nobody there, sir. There were a few beer cans, a brandy bottle, newspapers, cigarette ends and so on. They were all gathered up, labelled by SOCO. There’s sure to be prints on the stuff.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Anything else?’

‘I felt his neck. Stone cold. I phoned SOCO and waited until they arrived. They took over.’

‘Yes. Ta. Got SOCO’s report. It points out that the tramp was wearing handmade shoes. It might lead us somewhere.’

Gawber nodded. ‘Anything in the pockets, sir?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘Robbed, I expect. Hmm.’ Gawber pulled a face like the smell in a drunk’s cell on a Sunday morning, and said, ‘Who could go through a dead man’s pockets and take absolutely everything?’

Angel could only think of the Inland Revenue.

‘Is that it, Ron?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Mmm.’

He turned to go.

‘There’s something else,’ Angel said. ‘You’ve heard about the man at Number 2 Creeford Road?’

Gawber smiled wryly then said, ‘Oh yes, sir. The chap who couldn’t decide whether that candle-snuffer was his or not.’

‘Aye. I’ve got Crisp getting the full SP on him. But have you any idea of the thief? It was a girl, with longish dark hair, slim, wears socks, like a schoolboy.’

‘Why would she wear socks like a boy?’

‘How do I know?’

‘You mean pulled up to just below the knee and then turned over?’

‘That’s the description my wife gave me.’

‘I’ve no knowledge of a customer like that, sir. But kids wear anything these days.’

‘Yes, but … a bit unusual for a girl. They always want to look … older, more sophisticated.’

‘How old was she?’

Angel shrugged. ‘My wife said she could have been any age from about fifteen to twenty-five.’

There was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed.

‘Excuse me, sir. Got through to the Salvation Army. They’re looking through their records. They’ll phone back tomorrow after they’ve made a thorough search.’

‘Right.’

He turned to go.

‘Hang on a minute, Ahmed.’

Angel looked at Gawber. Gawber stood up and said, ‘I’ll get off, sir. I expect SOCO will be able to release those shoes by now.’

‘If you’ve any difficulty, let me know. I’ll not have our enquiries held up. And think on about that girl.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Gawber went out.

Angel glanced at Ahmed. ‘Close the door and come and sit down,’ he said. Then he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a large paper window envelope printed with the one word EVIDENCE in red, and placed it on the desk in front of him.

‘Have a look at that.’

The young man opened the envelope and carefully took out the candle-snuffer. His face brightened. He turned it over and back again.

‘It’s very … elegant, sir,’ he said, looking at it carefully and deferentially. He ran his fingers along the delicate silver tracing, exercised the scissor movement twice and looked curiously at the moulded silver hands at the tips of the blades.

‘It’s for snuffing out candles, and for trimming the wick.’

Ahmed nodded.

‘I want you to photograph it, put it on the stolen list on the NPC, also, I want hard copies sending to Matthew Elliott at the Antiques and Fine Art squad, the
Police Gazette
and
Antiques’ World
, with this caption.’ He handed Ahmed a used envelope with some handwriting on the back.

Ahmed read it out.

The phone rang. Angel reached out for it.

‘Come down here, smartish,’ the voice bawled, and the line went dead.

It was Superintendent Harker. Sounded urgent. It always did.

Angel wrinkled his nose and wondered what the panic was. Everything was going on satisfactorily in his cases … a bit slow, maybe, but he reckoned he was making progress on all fronts.

He dashed straight down the green painted corridor to the superintendent’s office, tapped on the door and went in.

‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘Ah,’ Harker groaned and pulled a face like an orangutan in the dock awaiting the judge’s sentence. He sniffed and pointed to a chair. It was the nearest Angel would ever get to a polite invitation to sit down. He eased himself into the chair facing the desk and looked across at the superintendent who was assembling four sheets of A4 in sequence before tossing them into the out tray.

He looked more miserable and mean than usual: like a crocodile that had just eaten a murderer, a housebreaker, two shoplifters and a police cadet, and was now suffering from violent indigestion. He burped, which almost made Angel smile.

Harker then reached out for a yellow sticky note directly in front of him. He looked at it and said, ‘Ah. Here it is. Just come in. A triple nine. Looks like murder.’

Angel’s head came up. Sounded interesting. Another challenge. His heart started banging.

‘A man found dead in a caravan up at Hague’s farmhouse in Tunistone,’ Harker continued. ‘Man called Tattersall phoned it in. I have advised SOCO and Dr Mac.’ Harker passed the note to him.

Angel took it, read it, frowned and shook his head. There was never an end to murder: like painting the Forth Bridge. Unusual though, in a caravan.

‘Well, get on with it,’ Harker bawled.

Angel leaped up and made for the door.

‘And I don’t want you dragging it out. Don’t make a saga of it … like Blair’s exit from Number Ten.’

Angel’s lips tightened against his teeth. ‘I never do, sir. I never do.’

He raced up the corridor to the CID office and bumped into Ahmed. ‘Ah. I’m on a murder case up at Hague’s farmhouse in Tunistone. Find Crisp and Scrivens and get them to join me there. Pronto.’

‘Murder?’ Ahmed muttered. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. ‘Right, sir,’ he stammered, but Angel didn’t hear him. He was nowhere to be seen. Ahmed heard the station rear door slam.

It didn’t take Angel long to reach the farm in Tunistone. He knew the way. It was off the main road across the Pennines to Manchester up a single-track rough road. When he drove through the farm gate, the big hay field was like a circus ground without the big top. Cars, vans, trailers and caravans were parked in no particular formation and about thirty people were milling round in groups of two and more, several others were propping up the serving hatch of the mobile canteen drinking tea out of plastic cups. He spotted SOCO’s unmarked white van and Dr Mac’s car parked outside one of the three big chromium and glass American caravans. He drove across the uneven field and parked behind them. A few of the people glanced in his direction, but soon turned away when he looked directly at them.

One of the big caravans and the steps into it was already taped around with blue and white DO NOT CROSS tape. A small man in a white paper suit came down the steps carrying a bag and pulling a mask away from his mouth. It was Dr Mac. He saw Angel and came across to him.

‘This one yours, Michael, I take it?’

‘Aye. What you got, Mac?’ Angel said to the white-haired Scot.

‘One dead male. Shot in the chest. Died instantly, I think.’

‘What sort of calibre?’

‘Might be able to talk about that when I’ve had a closer look.’

‘Any weapons there?’

‘I didn’t see any.’

‘Did you get the victim’s name?’

‘Mark Johannson. Big noise film director, they tell me. I’ve never heard of him. He was the man in charge of this outfit.’

‘Oh?’ Angel sniffed. ‘What was the time of death?’

‘Hmmm. Must have been some time yesterday … late afternoon or evening.’

‘Thanks, Mac. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

The doctor nodded and turned away to his car.

Angel reached into his pocket for his mobile, flicked it open and tapped in a number. Superintendent Harker answered.

‘Angel, sir. I’m going to need some help up here, and quick. Looking round, there are between thirty and forty potential witnesses. I need statements taking from each one before they disappear into the undergrowth.’

‘What about your own team?’ he growled.

‘Gawber’s on that murdered tramp case, sir. Crisp and Scrivens are on their way here.’

There was a pause, then Harker said, ‘I don’t know where you think I can conjure men up from. I’m not Houdini. I’ll get onto Asquith.’ The phone went dead.

Angel pocketed the mobile and turned towards the caravan.

A young man of about twenty-five, hands in pockets, who had been hovering nearby, caught his eye and ambled up to him. ‘Are you from the police?’ he said tentatively.

‘Yes, lad. DI Angel, Bromersley police.’

‘I’m the floor manager. Sean Tattersall. I’m sort of … in charge of the unit, until someone else is appointed director.’

‘Oh, yes. It was you that reported the death. You are making a film here?’

‘We
were
.’

‘Well, who are all these people?’ Angel said. ‘Actors?’

‘No. They are mostly crew. There are only two actors here: Otis Stroom and Nanette Quadrette. They want to leave. Well, everybody does. Of course, I have contacted the studio and told them what’s happened. They have just phoned back to say that Mr Montague is on his way up here to sort things out. He should be here shortly.’

Angel frowned. He mustn’t lose any potential witnesses. ‘Nobody leaves here without my say-so, Mr Tattersall. Please see to it. All right? And I want a list of everybody present.’

‘Right, Inspector.’

‘Thank you. Did you see what happened?’

‘No. But I found him – the body.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I went in and found him on the floor. He was obviously dead. Looked as if he had been there some time. I dialled 999 on my mobile and then came back and told Miss Quadrette and Mr Stroom and the crew.’

‘What made you call on him?’

‘He was late. On location, we normally start shooting at eight o’clock, if the light’s good. Johannson is the director. He’s usually on the set well before then. By five past, I wondered what had happened. He was never late. I came to his caravan to see where he was. I tapped on the door and called out. There was no reply.’

‘Did Mr Johannson have any enemies?’

Tattersall smiled wryly. He hesitated. ‘He wasn’t much liked by anybody.’

‘Oh?’

‘He was … impatient … and anxious … had a reputation to maintain. He was in the top league of film directors, you know … won awards in the US, UK, Japan and—’

‘Yes, but was there any particular person who might have wanted him dead?’

‘Don’t know about that,’ Tattersall lied.

‘When was the last time
you
saw him alive?’

‘Just after we finished, yesterday afternoon. That would be about five o’clock. We lost the light at about 4.30. He called it a day. I got a gofer to ring for the cars for him, Miss Quadrette and Mr Stroom, and then he and I and Harry Lee had a look at the rushes – the scenes in the can. We’d just about done when the coach came, so I left.’

‘Harry Lee?’

‘He’s the cameraman.’

‘You went in a coach somewhere?’

‘Into the town, Bromersley. I am staying at The Feathers with some of the others. Other crew members are in guest house accommodation … wherever they can get.’

‘Johannson lived in here?’ Angel nodded towards the caravan.

Tattersall looked mildly amused. ‘No. It’s a day cabin. Space of his own. Miss Quadrette and Mr Stroom have the same thing. Somewhere private to relax and rest, wash up and have a drink, have meetings, make phone calls. They’ve each got a suite at the Imperial Grand Hotel in Leeds. Hire cars and drivers or taxis take them back to the hotel. They don’t always stay the night there. If we finish early, they may fly back to London to get a night at home. Then back up at dawn.’

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And what did they do last night?’

‘I really don’t know.’

Angel nodded thoughtfully. ‘And what did you do?’

‘The coach dropped me and others at The Feathers. I went to my room, had a shower, went down for a meal around seven, then came back, had an early night, watched a bit of telly in bed and was asleep by about 10.30.’

Angel scribbled something on the back of an old envelope and said, ‘Thank you. Must leave it at that for now, Mr Tattersall. Must press on.’ He turned towards the caravan. ‘I would be obliged if you would let me have that list,’ he said calling back. ‘Nobody can leave. There’ll be police personnel up soon to take their names and addresses and interview them.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Tattersall said with a wave and moved away.

Angel lifted up the tape and stepped underneath. He noticed the name: ‘Mark Johannson, Director,’ neatly painted in black on the door.

At that moment, the caravan door opened and out came Detective Sergeant Donald Taylor, the senior SOCO man at Bromersley. He was dressed in a white paper suit, headcover and white wellies. He saw Angel, pulled the mask down to his chin and said, ‘This your case, sir?’

‘Aye, Don. What have you got?’

‘Nothing very helpful, I’m afraid,’ he replied snapping the latex gloves as he took them off. ‘The only fresh prints around the caravan appear to be his own. There are no footprints anywhere. There doesn’t appear to have been a break-in. There are various things around the van that
might
have been valuable, but we can’t say for certain what has been taken, if anything. Dr Mac may uncover something helpful at the post mortem, I don’t know. No sign of a struggle or disturbance. No hint at what he was doing immediately prior to death. No weapons, explosives, drugs, cash, jewellery or porn at the scene. There’s nothing unusual at all.’

Angel frowned.

Another man in whites appeared at the door. He was carrying two big plastic bags, a suitcase and he had a camera on a strap slung round his neck.

Angel looked up at him. ‘Have you finished in there, son?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the constable replied.

‘I can’t contaminate it then?’

‘The body’s still there, sir,’ the constable said. ‘But Dr Mac has seen it.’

‘Aye.’ Angel sighed lightly. Forensics weren’t offering anything in the way of clues. There didn’t seem to be anything much to go on; he was as in the dark as ever. He turned to Taylor.

‘Right, Don, let’s have a look then,’ he said making for the door. ‘Everything as it was?’

‘Had to turn the body on its back, otherwise it’s the same. I have taken photographs of it face down on the carpet as we found him. And photos of surrounds, walls, furniture in different planes.’

‘Right,’ he said. Angel followed him into the caravan.

It was airy, with blinds open at large windows. There were heavily upholstered bench seats at each side of the area. The body of a big, blond-haired man with a fresh ruddy face and blue eyes stared up at them from the floor. A patch of congealed blood was set on his blue shirt.

Angel never liked dead bodies, especially those that had been murdered. He wrinkled his nose. Murder was such a waste.

He stood motionless by the body and breathed in slowly and evenly. Then he crouched on his hands and knees and surveyed the scene from that position. He stood up and moved across to the other side of the body, his eyes registering anything and everything. His face didn’t reveal whether he had spotted anything unusual or not. He rubbed his chin, then turned away and looked into the bathroom and kitchen.

Taylor watched him closely. ‘Any ideas, sir?’