They arrived back at the station; Angel bustled up the green corridor, Gawber and Scrivens following.
Scrivens peeled off to the CID office.
With a sideways shake of the head, Angel indicated to Gawber to join him in his office. He pointed to a chair, closed the door, took off his raincoat, threw it at the hook on the stationery cupboard door, missed, looked at it, grunted, left it there and slumped into the swivel chair behind his desk, rubbing his chin.
His face was as long as a stick of rhubarb. After a moment’s silence, he said: ‘That gun found in the studio loo was used by the killer to murder Peter Santana.’
Gawber nodded.
Angel continued: ‘If the powder found on the gun is found to be Felicity Santana’s, what the hell does it prove?’
‘Possession. That’s five years, sir.’
‘Aye, but what’s the use of that? We’re after finding a murderer, not a woman known to have been in possession.’
Gawber pursed his lips. ‘Maybe there was to be another victim.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘We could maybe protect them, if we knew who they were.’
There was another silence.
‘Felicity will get all Santana’s millions,’ Angel said. ‘The trust Santana was thinking about setting up never happened, so she cops for the lot. If she had waited a few days, the trust might have been set up and she would have got half.’
‘That’s still a lot of cabbage, sir,’ Gawber said.
Angel smiled. ‘Rich folk always have to have more, on the basis that the poor don’t know how to spend it. They fritter it away on food and clothes and rent.’
‘Who would have benefited from the trust?’
‘Up-and-coming writers … new writers with screenplays for original films.’
‘Nobody else?’
‘It was a way of filling the gap left by his death. Introducing new writing talent for after he had gone. It could have ensured a continuity of good screenplays for the studio that may have provided them with guaranteed work and earnings. Theoretically a very sensible idea. But the money to set up the trust would have come out of the big pot that Felicity has now inherited.’
‘So she would be the only one possibly not to like the idea of a trust.’
‘I think so,’ Angel said wryly.
The phone rang. He reached out for it and heard a wheezy intake of breath through the earpiece. It was Harker. ‘This Doonan murder – you’ve got a Laurence Smith in the frame for it, haven’t you?’
‘He’s a possibility, sir,’ Angel said.
‘Is that all?’ Harker said.
Angel frowned. ‘He has a long-standing motive, sir, a record of robbery and GBH and ABH, and no alibi. He’s been picked out from a suitably blanked-off photo from our rogues’ gallery on a laptop by the man who served him in the pub. But we have nothing else on him. Can’t make anything stick. We’ve searched his house. Only a load of tennis balls. He’s into that old scam. Hardly anything to hold him on.’
‘He’s been spotted by a plain clothes officer from West Yorkshire police at Leeds/Bradford airport. He’s radioed it in and their super has kindly passed it on. How kind of them. They are looking for somebody else. Their officer reports that a man who looks like Smith is waiting to board a plane to Zurich with two very big suitcases.’
Angel’s eyes bounced. His pulse began to race again. Smith’s nerve had gone and he was doing a runner, was Angel’s first thought. ‘Right, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll get straight on to it.’ He banged down the phone. He looked quickly in the police telephone directory for the airport police, found the number and rang it.
He gave his name and rank and briefly explained his interest in Smith and asked for the time of the next plane to Zurich.
‘There’s one due in the air at 11.25,’ the sergeant said. ‘Flight 12A to Zurich. It’s 11.20 now. It will already have been called.’
Angel licked his lips. ‘Do you think you could find out if a chap called Laurence Smith is definitely on that flight, without arousing his suspicion?’
‘I’ll have a go, sir. Hold on.’
Angel heard some chatter, some electronic noise and distorted speech on a radio system followed by silence.
He turned to Gawber, who had picked up most of what was happening. ‘Smith, possibly doing a runner to Zurich with two big suitcases,’ Angel said. ‘You might as well crack on with something else.’
Gawber stood up, nodded and said, ‘What is he up to? He’s not going to Frankfurt to get on a transatlantic flight to Rio de Janiero or Montevideo or somewhere else in South America, is he? If he is, we’ll never catch him.’
Angel shrugged.
Gawber said: ‘If I had committed murder, I suppose I would be prepared to travel that far rather than go to prison for twenty years.’
Angel nodded in agreement. ‘Ask Ahmed to come in, will you?’
‘Right, sir,’ he said. He went out of the office and closed the door.
Angel continued holding on the phone for what seemed ages. At last he heard some more electronic chatter and the police sergeant came back and said, ‘I’ve checked with immigration. It is a Laurence Smith, sir, about six feet two, black hair, long pasty face.’
Angel’s heart jumped. ‘That’s him,’ he said.
‘Yes. He’s on board, sir. The plane’s just taxiing down to the runway.’
‘Thanks very much,’ Angel said, his pulse racing. ‘How long is the flight to Zurich these days?’
‘About an hour.’
‘Thank you.’
He replaced the phone, immediately consulted the police telephone directory and found the appropriate Interpol office number. He soon got diplomatic clearance then found the number for the border guard at Zurich international airport, which he rang. The officer at Zurich international airport readily agreed to look out for Smith on Flight 12A from Leeds/Bradford, and Angel instructed Ahmed to email his photograph and description promptly to the Swiss immigration office there. The Swiss officer agreed not to approach or arrest Smith, but to try to find out his intended destination and to phone Angel back as soon as he had any information.
Angel replaced the phone, leaned back in the chair and sighed. After a few moments, he began fingering the paperwork and post that had been dropped on his desk that morning. There was a standard form from Bromersley magistrates clerk’s office to the chief constable advising that an application for a licence to sell alcohol on premises not hitherto used for that purpose had been received, and the chief was required to approve or object to the granting of the licence. If the police objected, they were, of course, required to give their reasons, which would be considered by the magistrates and if contested would be heard in open court. The custom was that the chief constable canvassed his senior police officers’ opinion, who usually raised no objection if the applicants were ‘not known’ to them and appeared to be suitably responsible people.
Angel glanced at it. He blinked when his eyes alighted on the name of the applicant: it was Liam Quigley. He read on.
The site of the proposed shop was the property previously known as the Antique Shop, Bull’s Foot Railway Arches, Wath Road, and Liam Quigley was also recorded on the form as the owner of the freehold.
Angel rubbed his chin. This was a surprise. He slowly put the form back in its envelope and put it into his inside pocket. The fact that Liam Quigley now apparently owned the shop property and the flat above it might throw an entirely new light upon the relationship between Quigley and Juanita Freedman. He resolved to look into it just as soon as he could leave the telephone.
Angel looked at his watch. Zurich had only rung off five minutes ago. He stood up and began walking round the little office. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else. It was worse than being at the Crown Court, waiting for a guilty verdict when you had a professional murderer on trial and a conviction depending on one shaky, nervous, dithering witness and no forensic on the prosecution side.
There was a knock at the door.
It was Ahmed. He saw that Angel was on his feet and sensed that all was not well. ‘Cup of tea, sir?’
‘What?’
‘Would you like a cup of tea, sir?’
Angel looked round. His eyebrows went up. ‘Yes. Thank you, lad. Two sugars.’
Ahmed frowned. ‘You don’t take sugar, sir.’
‘I do today.’
The tea arrived, which Ahmed carefully placed on his desk. Angel was very thankful.
It was a further twenty minutes before anything at all happened.
Meanwhile he forgot about the tea and it was left to go cold.
The phone rang. Angel snatched up the handset. ‘Inspector Angel, Bromersley police, UK.’
‘It is Zurich airport police here. Your man, Laurence Smith, landed here twenty-five minutes ago. He was positively identified from your photograph sent by email. He went to the travel desk and bought a ticket to travel on the express coach from Zurich to Lugano, which leaves from the coach park opposite the Bahnhof Weidikon on the Birmendorferstraasse in the centre of the city at 1300 hours, and he is presently in a short queue for a taxi to take him there. Lugano is about 140 miles south towards the Italian border. It should take him just less than three hours.’
Angel wondered where on earth Smith was travelling to and how he could be further monitored. ‘Hmm. Thank you. Do you know his actual destination?’
The officer hesitated. ‘Lugano is the terminus, sir. Lugano, I suppose. It is a beautiful city, not far from the Italian border.’
Angel rubbed his chin. His eyes suddenly widened. He had an idea. ‘Is there a place called Reebur on route?’
‘Oh, where the big security printers is. Oh yes, sir, but of course?’
‘What’s that?’
‘The big photo laboratory, and security printer, IMPRO. That’s in Reebur, sir.’
Angel’s eyes narrowed. ‘I was thinking of the Tikka Tokka factory, where they make cuckoo clocks?’
He sensed that the officer was smiling. ‘I don’t know about that, sir. I suppose there could be some small factories besides IMPRO in Reebur. But Reebur is only a very, very small place in the mountains. IMPRO print sophisticated security documents and currency for banks, governments and businesses. They’re very security conscious. I understand that you can’t get near the place for security cameras, uniforms and passes.’
Angel felt his pulse begin to race; his mind was like a thousand ants in a thousand racing cars in the Monte Carlo Rally. Things began to fall into place. Of course, he thought! Laurence Smith is going to meet up with Harry Savage – an old buddy of his. They did jobs together. Stealing of copper wire from British Rail, for one…. Savage must have somehow got himself a job at IMPRO and is lining up a robbery or a swindle of some sort.
‘I think I know Laurence Smith’s ultimate destination,’ he said to the Swiss policeman. ‘Sounds like a possible threat against IMPRO. Would it be possible to contact the security chief there?’
‘But of course. I expect I can look up IMPRO’s chief security officer’s phone number. You can approach him yourself direct, if you wish?’
‘Thanks very much. Does he speak English?’
‘I would think so. Most of us in the service are taught it in college.’
A few moments later, the officer reeled off the number. He even advised Angel of the international code from the UK. The two men then exchanged thanks and good wishes and rang off.
Angel immediately summoned Ahmed and told him to extract from the PNC the photograph and full description of Harry Savage and hold them ready, then he tapped out the telephone number of the chief security officer at IMPRO, who, much to Angel’s relief, also spoke excellent English. His name was Paul Müller, and he was most concerned on hearing Angel’s suggestion that Harry Savage may have infiltrated their sophisticated security systems and that with at least one other English villain, he might be considering some sort of crime against the security printing firm.
‘I would be most interested to have a photograph and description of this Harry Savage, Inspector,’ Müller said. ‘If you email it straightaway, I will make immediate inquiries and ring you back.’
Angel thanked him, replaced the phone in its cradle, dashed through to CID, instructed Ahmed to send the photograph by email attachment, then returned to his office to wait.
More waiting.
Angel leaned back in the chair and licked his lips thoughtfully.
After a few moments, there was a knock at the door. It was Gawber.
‘Just passing, sir. How’s it going?’
Angel was pleased to see him. He brought him up to date and then said, ‘Harry Savage’s brother-in-law is Liam Quigley, isn’t he?’
Gawber nodded. ‘Are you wondering if in some way he is involved with this IMPRO, sir?’
‘Just a thought. But even the three of them together haven’t the brains to take on an outfit of that calibre.’
‘Not the brains, sir. Maybe the brawn.’
Angel was considering Gawber’s observation when the phone rang.
His face brightened as he reached out for it. ‘Inspector Angel, Bromersley police, UK.’
It was Müller. ‘I have checked off your photograph of Harry Savage against all my staff, Inspector, and I am pleased to say that he is not in our employment, Inspector Angel, in any capacity, nor has he ever been.’
Angel wrinkled his nose.
Müller seemed to make the statement with annoying triumphalism. Then he added, ‘You seem to have been sent on zee wild duck chase.’
Angel pursed his lips. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t even be bothered to point out that the correct phrase was ‘a wild goose chase’. It was true that he had allowed guesswork to override the facts but he couldn’t think of any other likely reason why a crook like Laurence Smith, friend of Harry Savage, would be on a coach passing by Reebur.
But then he suddenly had another thought.
‘You may be right, Mr Müller,’ he said. ‘Would you bear with me? Isn’t there a factory there in Reebur called the Tikka Tokka Cuckoo Clock Company?’
‘But, of course,’ Müller said, sounding surprised. ‘It is only a small factory next door. Reebur is only a very small village, Inspector.’
‘Next door!’ Angel yelled. He could not contain his excitement. He thanked Mr Müller kindly for his trouble and replaced the phone in its cradle. He turned to Gawber. ‘Pass me that cuckoo clock box on that chair, Ron. I want the phone number on the label.’
Gawber read off the number and Angel tapped in the number on the phone pad. It was soon ringing out. He turned back to Gawber. ‘Tell Ahmed to stand by. Hopefully, I’ll want him to email that photograph and description of Harry Savage to the Tikka Tokka Cuckoo Clock Company.’
Angel was soon connected and was speaking to the proprietor, a Mr Meyer, who quickly grasped the situation. Ahmed promptly sent the email and in minutes Meyer phoned back to say that the photograph was indeed that of a Harry Savage who worked at the factory as a caretaker.
Angel’s pulse took off again.
‘He seems to be a very good employee, Inspector,’ Meyer added. ‘He has been with us six weeks now. He has no access to our lists of customers, their account details or any cash. He simply works around the factory pushing a trolley, collecting up the stuff for the waste bin, such as sawdust, wood shavings, wrapping paper, shredded paper from the office and waste from the canteen; he then takes it to the boiler room in the basement where he sorts it. Anything at all that is private or sensitive is burned in an incinerator with the waste from the printers next door, under the supervision of one of their managers.’
Angel nodded. There it was. That was the prize. ‘Supervision or not, Mr Meyer, I believe that something valuable, that could be maybe copied or printed from, has been stolen by Savage from IMPRO’s waste.’
‘Do you really think so, Inspector?’
‘I’m sure of it. I believe that whatever was stolen was then packed in and among a consignment of 250 cuckoo clocks of yours, which you innocently sent to Savage’s partner and brother-in-law, Quigley, to an antique shop address that he had access to, here in Bromersley, in the UK. And that subsequently, with a bit of scheming – computers are so sophisticated these days – he has managed to produce images good enough to be used to forge passable Euros.’
‘Oh dear. I know nothing about this, Inspector,’ Meyer said.
‘No, sir,’ Angel said. ‘I don’t believe that you do.’
‘What do you want me to do now?’
‘Do nothing, Mr Meyer. Do not arouse Savage’s suspicions. Let him complete his day’s work for you without arousing his suspicions. But don’t expect him to turn in for work in the morning. There is another villain, Laurence Smith, suspected of murder, who is also a friend of Harry Savage on his way to visit him, I believe.’
‘Oh dear,’ Meyer said. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
‘Don’t worry. Through Interpol, I hope to arrange the arrest of both of them, hopefully in the next few hours.’
He asked Meyer for the address he had for Savage, which was at one of the few small houses in Reebur, thanked him for the information and cooperation and replaced the phone.
Angel turned to Gawber, who smiled.
‘A couple more phone calls,’ Angel said, ‘and I think we can say that we have them safely in the bag.’
‘What are you charging Smith with, sir? We know he must have murdered Vincent Doonan, but we don’t actually have any evidence against him, do we?’
‘He had those tennis balls in his possession, didn’t he? That’s evidence. Suspicion that he’s working that old scam will be enough to pull him in and hold him.’
Gawber’s eyes flashed. ‘From Switzerland?’ he said.
‘From Swaziland, if necessary,’ Angel replied heavily. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘I hope your passport is in order. Looks like there’s a trip to Lugano likely for you and Ted Scrivens tomorrow.’
Gawber smiled. ‘Oh? Right, sir.’
Angel reached out for the phone.