It was four o’clock.

Angel was sitting in a small office. At the other side of a small desk was Oliver Razzle.

‘Do you know anything about a loaded handgun being found in the gentleman’s washroom here?’

Razzle’s eyes grew bigger. ‘A handgun? No. Certainly not.’

‘Have you ever seen a gun anywhere in the studio complex?’

‘No, Inspector. What’s a handgun doing here? Whose was it? Was it lost?’

‘People who own guns don’t lose them, Mr Razzle. Do you know anybody here who owned one?’

‘No. Frankly, Inspector, I’m very surprised. Do you think that someone here is a target? Do you think that whoever murdered Peter Santana is after somebody else?’

‘I don’t know, but Mr Santana died by being shot with a handgun.’

Razzle nodded.

Angel said: ‘Where were you on Monday night, the night Peter Santana was murdered?’

‘I was here, on the studio floor, until around 11.30. The scene was a bit tricky. We were using real sky as a backdrop and clouds kept rolling across it. We could more easily have used back projection, but Bill Isaacs wouldn’t have it. He wanted the real thing.’

‘Where were you after 11.30?”

‘Straight home and straight to bed. It had been a long and tedious day.’

‘Somebody can confirm that you were with them all night, can they?’

Razzle pulled a face that told Angel they could not.

‘My wife was away that night,’ Razzle said. ‘Went up to town, London, on a Christmas-present-buying trip. She incorporated a visit to her mother in Dulwich, and an old friend. We used to live there, you know. She came back yesterday.’

Angel’s eyes narrowed. There was another prospect without an alibi.

‘Any idea why Mr Santana was murdered?’ Angel said.

‘No. None. I expect it was for money, but it doesn’t make sense.’

Angel nodded. ‘How did you get along with Mr Santana?’

‘Fine. Just fine. I didn’t see much of him, Inspector. He was in a different world really. Only came here for an hour or so a month, with his PA. Spent most of the time with Bill Isaacs. Occasionally called in Hector Munro or Samson Fairchild for a few minutes to iron something out. Or some big moneyman from a studio down south or occasionally from the US or from Rome or anywhere, he would see by arrangement, of course. If I saw a helicopter land on the pad at the other side of the car park, I knew that some big wheel was arriving and that Mr Santana would be in his office.’

‘But you had met him? He knew you?’

‘Oh yes. Of course. If we met in a corridor, or wherever, he’d stop briefly and shake hands. He’d say, “How’s things going then, Oliver?” And I’d say, “Fine, thank you, Mr Santana,” and then he’d smile and that was it. Somebody would jump in and say that he ought to leave and they’d rush off. It was always like that.’

‘And what was he really like? He was seventy-two, wasn’t he?’

‘Well, lately, he was a bit thinner, a bit pastier and maybe his voice wasn’t as strong, but he seemed just as vital and full of enthusiasm as he had always been.’

‘And how did you get on with Mrs Santana?’

Razzle’s eyes glowed. ‘I have worked here for fifteen years, and I have known Felicity for about that length of time. I was a gofer then. Her gofer. She was a bit difficult at first. Rude. Ill mannered. In fact, she was downright nasty. But I persisted. I took all she doled out and she gradually came round. Eventually she began to like me. I got to like her. I found out that it was difficult to look at her, particularly close up, and not be affected by her beauty. She must have the highest cheekbones in the world. Her ears are like bone china. And she is so dainty. Tiny even. Like a porcelain doll.’

Angel had to agree but he didn’t say so.

‘Confidentially, Inspector, I have done more things for Felicity than her dresser,’ Razzle said. ‘And I have certainly seen as much,’ he added with a concentrated gaze.

Angel’s eyebrows came down with curiosity but he didn’t ask.

‘That was before she married Peter Santana,’ Razzle continued. ‘She worked here frequently. That’s how they met. They got married ten years ago, you know. In the days when Mr Santana directed everything he wrote. He worked a lot faster than Bill Isaacs. He knew what he wanted and so did everybody else. There was no need for production meetings. Everything was smoother and faster.’

‘And would you have any idea why a dead pig was found in his bed?’

‘I heard that, Inspector. Strange. I hoped he wasn’t going loopy or anything like that. I thought about it when I read it. And I immediately wondered what Felicity would have thought when she found out. The world could think he had some sort of unhealthy perversion going. And that would be an insult to her, wouldn’t it?’

Angel shrugged. It was somewhat convoluted but he knew what he meant.

‘Thank you very much, Mr Razzle,’ Angel said.

‘Oh?’ he said, looking surprised and disappointed. ‘Is that all you wanted to ask me?’

‘For now, yes,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Can you direct me to Mr Isaacs’ office?’

‘Come in. Come in, Inspector,’ William Isaacs said loudly in an accent from the backstreets of Chicago. He was short, balding and had a head compressed into his body like a frog. He had a lit cigar in his hand, and walked up and down as he spoke, slapping his feet down like flippers and waving his hands around using the cigar as a pointer. ‘Sit down. Sit down. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with you, Inspector – What did you say your name was? Angel, that was it. Heck of a strange name for a policeman, I daresay. Hey, you’re not that police inspector who always gets his man, are you? The one with the unbroken record of solving murders. Is that you? Must be. Well, what do you know? There can’t be two men who are both police inspectors and both called Angel, can there? Is it really you?’

Angel shrugged slightly, nodded, hesitated then said, ‘I suppose it is, yes.’

Isaacs smiled. ‘Well, what do you know? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with you, Inspector. What’s your Christian name? Michael, that’s it. Don’t mind if I call you Michael, do you? Here’s what we’re going to do. Why don’t you ask me all you want to ask about Peter Santana here, right now. And then, dammit, then when you’ve done, my chauffeur can take us down to The Feathers for a steak dinner with all the trimmings. We can open a bottle or two of imported champagne and make a night of it. Just the two of us. All on me. A sort of pre-Christmas celebration on meeting each other for the first time, eh? You being a famous detective and me being a … a film director. What do you say to that, Michael?’ he said, standing and leaning over the desk and holding the cigar in mid-air.

Angel was surprised by the energetic outburst from this American who must have thought that that was the way to deal with the British police when you had a murder case in your own backyard.

It was difficult for Angel to conceal his feelings. He wasn’t the slightest bit interested in something for nothing. He wasn’t on the take and never would be, and he would much rather be at home with Mary than lording it about in a hotel with Isaacs or anybody else. He had no desire to be in the man’s company any longer than was necessary, either with or without champagne.

‘That’s not necessary at all, sir, thank you. I can ask the questions and be on my way in a very few minutes, I hope, all being well.’

The American saw that he had misjudged Angel’s style. ‘All right, Michael,’ he said. ‘Whatever you say. Fire away. Whatever you want.’ Then he sat down behind the big desk and puffed on the cigar.

Angel said, ‘Just a few questions.’

‘Anything you want, Michael.’

‘A loaded handgun was found in the washroom in the Sound Stage 2 building.’

Isaacs’ eyes bulged out. He jumped up. ‘What?’ he bawled. ‘I’ve been working in that building all day.’

‘Do you know anything about it?’

‘I should say I do not, Michael. I do not. Who found it?’

‘Samson Fairchild.’

‘Good man, Samson. Sound as a dollar, Michael. If he says he found it, he found it.’

‘But you know nothing about it?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘Can you tell me where you were on Monday from around 7 p.m. through to the early hours of Tuesday morning, the time Peter Santana was murdered?’

‘Count me out, Michael,’ he said with a grin. ‘I was here directing Peter’s latest film up to about midnight then my man took me home. I went straight to bed, slept through until the morning. Then was back here at my usual time, eight o’clock.’

‘And you have witnesses that can confirm that you were with them all that time, I suppose?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘You’re married?’

‘Yes. Well, no,’ he said. ‘Well … sort of?’ he said with a distasteful look that tightened up his craggy face.

Angel looked at him and frowned. ‘So you were alone throughout the night?’

Isaacs transferred the cigar to his left hand, to stroke his chin with his right. ‘It’s like this, Michael. My wife has a mother living in Chicago. She ain’t too well. She’s over there … been there two years … making arrangements to have the old lady looked after professionally, you know. I don’t know when she’s coming back. I have a live-in housekeeper, Michael. Miss Mimi Johnson. All on the up and up, you understand. Her own room, quarters, bathroom, TV and everything. She was in the house all night. My driver delivered me home, brought in my briefcase, set the alarm and went home.’

Angel nodded. ‘I shall need to know the housekeeper’s and your driver’s names and addresses.’

‘That’s all right. Miss Johnson lives in my house, of course. But I want you to know that it is all on the up and up.’ He reached into the drawer and took out a card. He wrote something on the back and then handed it to him. ‘There’s my home address. Phone number. Mimi’s there all the time except when she’s down the market, which come to think is a helluva lot of the time. My driver is called Albert Broome. I’ve written his address on the back. All right?’

Angel pocketed the card. ‘Thank you.’

Isaacs said, ‘Now is there anything else, Michael?’

‘A couple of things. You knew Peter Santana pretty well, didn’t you?’

‘As well as anybody, I suppose.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Well, he was a nice guy. Yes. The last couple of years he left most everything here to me … I was running the day-to-day business of translating his ideas into film. He was the ideas man, and they were damned good ideas. He was naturally a solitary person, Inspector. Spent many hours on his own developing the most original and outstanding plots. Didn’t see many people … didn’t want to see people. He experimented with just about every emotion the soul can encounter. He made a fortune for himself, and now for Felicity, and he allowed me to show off my talents as a director, and I picked up a few dollars on the way, which wasn’t too bad. He will be sadly missed, I can tell you.’

‘But was he a cold man?’

‘Certainly not. If you mean in relation to Felicity – hell, no. He p’raps wouldn’t get no Oscars for his performances in the bedroom, I don’t know about that, but he was seventy-two, and she knew his age when she married him. I daresay it was no great love match, but it made a lot of headlines ten years ago, and did both their careers no harm at all.’

‘Would you say Peter Santana was right in the head?’

‘Absolutely. There never was a saner man. Throughout all his fantastic storylines, he always had his feet squarely on the ground. We had business meetings in his office in this building every month or so, and you couldn’t get a shrewder hard nut than Peter Santana. And I come a pretty hard bastard too, I can tell you.’

‘You had arguments?’

‘All the time. But we’d thrash our differences out there and then. Peter was usually right and usually won. Should I worry? Whichever one of us was right made us both money. And we’d end up the best of friends. There was not a gram of vanity in either of us. Together we were a money-making machine. It is sad to see it is now in the past.’

‘You don’t think his age affected his thinking processes?’

‘It sure did. It made him more mature. More sensitive. He became more aware of his mortality. Not in a morbid way, but in a matter-of-fact way.’

‘So would you have any idea why a dead pig was found in his bed?’

‘No. But I expect that it was to do with working out a plot he had in mind.’

‘He didn’t talk about a plot with a pig in a nightdress in a bed with you?’

‘He never talked about plots and storylines in their early stages. We talked plenty about how scenes were to be interpreted after the screenplay was completed. He always had very fixed ideas about that. But the origination was strictly Santana’s, and we stuck to it like it was holy writ.’

Angel sighed and stood up. ‘Thank you very much.’

Isaacs stared at him. ‘Is that it? Don’t you want to ask me anything else?’

‘Probably. But that’s all for now.’

Isaacs jumped up. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you, Michael?’

‘You’ll be seeing a lot more of me, I assure you.’

‘If I can help you … if there’s anything you need.’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact there is something else.’

He opened his arms wide and said: ‘Name it. Just name it.’

‘Can you organize a pass for me so that I don’t have to wrestle with the gorilla on the gate every time I have to come in here?’

‘Is that all?’

It was 0828 hours on Monday morning when Angel arrived in his office. It had not been a satisfying weekend. He had taken home the armful of paper files containing the printouts from Peter Santana’s three computers from 15 November up to 15 December, the day he had died. He had steeled himself to read every word during his spare time on Saturday and Sunday. It was mostly boring, unedifying work, made less bearable by Mary’s many interruptions, mostly questions about Christmas. She had asked him who had sent them cards and who hadn’t, about the fairy on top of the tree looking a bit dingy, about the arrangements for meeting his nephews and their wives before the big day, and then invited his opinion as to whether a turkey joint from Morrisons would be as good or better than one from Tescos. On the latter question, after some discussion, it was decided that it would be best to take a look at Sainsbury’s before a firm decision was made.

Later that day, she had left the house to undertake various shopping jobs and had returned two hours later with a turkey joint bought from Marks and Spencer.

Angel loved Christmas, but the domestic arrangements preceding the great day he found rather tedious and endless. He was glad to get away from them that Monday morning and return to the business of solving crimes.

He put the bundle of files on the corner of his desk, threw off his coat and settled down in front of a pile of envelopes fresh in that morning.

He appreciated that Scrivens had done an excellent job in reporting a précis of what Santana had written during the last very industrious month of his life. He had missed nothing important. The only items Angel had extracted from the files that had any bearing on the investigation, as far as he could see, were that Santana had thoughts about setting up a trust which required the partial rewriting of his will, and the only reference to any dead pig was in the short incongruous list, which appeared in isolation in Santana’s notes.

He gazed at the list again. It seemed to him to be associated notes related to some specialized operation, which presumably Santana had planned to take place on ‘Monday night next’. The evening before or the day that he died. Whilst the last three items were directly associated with the actual murder scene, the first two items could not as yet be reconciled to anything at all. There had been no signs of the ether or the cotton wool at the murder scene, or indeed anywhere else. Santana surely didn’t plan to organize his own death in conjunction with somebody else? The ether to make him unconscious? No. He quickly dismissed the thought. Santana’s writings in no way depicted a man ready to leave this life. His stories – however extreme – ended full of optimism, with healthy ideals, good overcoming evil, the baddy being condemned to something horrible and the goody sailing off with the girl into the sunset, or some similar ethic.

There was a knock at the door.

He looked up. ‘Come in.’

It was Scrivens. He was carrying a plastic bag bulging with tennis balls.

‘Where do you want these putting, sir? And you were going to tell me about the scam that Laurence Smith was into, you said, when you had time.’

Angel frowned. He didn’t like being accosted in that way. ‘Not just now, lad. I’m up to my eyes. And I’ve got a job for you. Take those balls out. I don’t want them littering up my office. Dammit, it’s small enough.’

Scrivens’ mouth opened. He wasn’t pleased either. ‘They’re bunging up my locker, sir.’

‘Well, I can’t do with them in here. Take them out and come back here – smartish.’

Scrivens went out and Ahmed, seeing the door open, came in. ‘Good morning, sir. Can I have a word?’

‘What is it?’

‘You know that cuckoo clock that you bought for only £10?’

‘Yes, lad. What about it?’

‘I took my mother to Leeds on Saturday to do some Christmas shopping, and they’re all over the shops there at £120.’

‘All over the shops?’ he said. He didn’t like exaggerated generalizations.

‘Well, at least three different places, sir. Allbright’s and Brown, Tompkins and that supermarket Cheapo’s.’

Angel licked his bottom lip. ‘The identical same clock?’

‘I haven’t seen any others, sir,’ Ahmed said as he took a small scrap of paper out of his pocket. ‘Anyway, I wrote the make down as I knew you would want to know.’ He unrolled the paper and read: ‘The Tikka Tokka Cuckoo Clock Company, Reebur, Suisse.’

That was the one.

Angel rubbed his chin. He couldn’t understand the massive difference in the price and £120 did seem more realistic. ‘Can you leave that paper?’

Ahmed smiled and put it on the desk.

‘Ta,’ Angel said.

Ahmed turned to leave.

‘Just a minute. I’ve a little job for you.’

He gave the young man his car keys, told him briefly about Fairchild’s fingerprints being on a gin bottle in a paper bag securely wedged between the spare wheel and a safety red triangle sign in his boot. He instructed him how to handle the bottle without smudging or adding his prints to it, and told him to bring it into his office.

Then he phoned Don Taylor, told him about the gun and the prints, which he would get Ahmed to bring up to his office forthwith. He asked him to check urgently if that was the gun that was used to murder Santana, and also to see if there were anybody else’s prints besides those on the bottle or the gun.

Taylor said that he would deal with it straightaway.

Angel replaced the phone.

He leaned back in the chair. He was thinking that he could do with a bigger team. He recalled that he had sent Ron Gawber to search into the background of the clockmakers; he wondered when he might return. He liked to have Gawber at his side, particularly when a case was difficult.

He felt in his pocket for the card William Isaacs had given to him on Friday afternoon last. He took it out, looked at it, turned it over then turned it back again. From the back he copied Albert Broome’s name and address on to a used envelope.

A few moments passed and Scrivens arrived.

‘Come in, lad. Shut the door. Sit down. I want you to look this man up, Albert Broome.’ He gave him the envelope. ‘He drives for the big noise at the studio, William Isaacs. Isaacs says he took him home about midnight, the night Santana was murdered. That’s part of Isaacs’ alibi. Check it out. And see if you can find out what sort of a relationship Broome has with Isaacs’ housekeeper, Mimi Johnson.’

‘Right, sir.’