Angel sat down at the table, pressed the record button and said: ‘Interview of Laurence Smith. Present, Mr Bloomfield, DS Gawber and DI Angel. 1000 hours. 24 December 2008.’
Angel sat back in the chair. He suddenly became aware of a pain in his chest. It wasn’t new to him. He’d had the pain many a time before. He first remembered it as a boy – then it was the result of eating a large piece of apple pie and rushing out to play football against a Jubilee Park wall. That was twenty-five years ago. He hoped it was the same pain. He tried to swallow it away, several times. Then he tried to burp. Neither worked. He really would have liked to have been on top form to take Smith through his paces.
He looked across the table. Everybody was looking at him. He’d have to begin.
‘Mr Smith,’ he said, ‘why did you empty your bank account and fly off to join Harry Savage in Reebur?’
‘I fancied Christmas in the Swiss mountains,’ Smith said. ‘Harry Savage is a friend of mine. He had invited me to stay with him for a holiday, that’s all.’
‘You were interviewed by me and conditionally released last Thursday, the eighteenth. The conditions were that you weren’t to go into the Fisherman’s Rest and you weren’t to leave town.’
‘Well, Mr Angel, I must have forgot. I didn’t see any harm in it.’
‘Did you tell anybody about your new address in Reebur?’
‘No. Didn’t see any reason to tell them.’
‘Wasn’t it because you wanted to disappear, and you didn’t intend coming back?’
‘No.’
‘Isn’t it true that you secretly ran away to Reebur with two suitcases packed with all your valuables to avoid being arrested for the murder of Vincent Doonan?’
‘Definitely not. I didn’t murder Vincent Doonan, and I didn’t take all my valuables. I told you … it was just a holiday.’
‘You took all your money and everything from your house that was worth anything, and you bought a single ticket, not a return.’
Smith wriggled awkwardly for a few seconds then shrugged. ‘I didn’t know how long I was going to be away.’
‘Were you and Harry Savage planning another job out there?’
‘Certainly not. I told you, it was just a holiday.’
‘Didn’t you and Harry Savage fall out with Doonan over the distribution of the cash proceeds from the sale of some copper wire the three of you had stolen from British Rail in 2001?’
Smith looked at Bloomfield and mouthed something meaningless to Angel. Bloomfield’s eyebrows came down thoughtfully for a second then he nodded.
‘Well, yes,’ Smith said. ‘But that was ancient history.’
‘Wasn’t Harry Savage pleased to see you?’
‘Was he very pleased to see you?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘I would think so. Wasn’t it because you had just shot dead your mutual enemy, Vincent Doonan?’
‘Certainly not. That’s a ridiculous thing to say.’
‘Not that ridiculous. You were identified by the landlord, Clem Bailey, as the man who shot Vincent Doonan at the Fisherman’s Rest a week last Tuesday evening.’
‘Well, he must need glasses because it wasn’t me.’
‘But you can’t say where you were.’
‘I can, and I did. I told you, I was at home all evening and all night.’
‘But you haven’t a single witness to prove it. You could have been anywhere.’
‘I don’t have to prove it.’
Angel knew he was right. This wasn’t getting him anywhere. The apple pie was still with him. He looked at Gawber, who he hoped was thinking of something useful to ask, but nothing came.
‘How tall are you?’ Angel said.
Smith blinked. ‘Six foot two.’
‘Would it surprise you to hear that all the customers in the Fisherman’s Rest that we managed to trace said that the gunman who shot Vincent Doonan was over six feet tall?’
‘There must be a million men in the country who are over six feet tall.’
‘Aye, but none of them were identified as the murderer and also had a motive to murder Vincent Doonan.’
‘Nevertheless, I didn’t do it.’
There was a pause.
Gawber said: ‘Where did you get the gun?’
‘I didn’t have a gun,’ Smith said then his face changed. His eyes shone with anger. He looked up at Angel, then at Gawber and then at Bloomfield. ‘You’ve no evidence against me. You’re just fishing. Look, I know my rights. Now charge me, otherwise I’m walking. You can’t stop me.’
Then he stood up quickly, nudging the table, causing it to judder and make a loud noise.
Mr Bloomfield pulled at his sleeve. ‘Wait a minute, Mr Smith. Sit down. Don’t make a disturbance. I’ll ask for an immediate discharge. Sit down.’
Angel raised his head and looked at Gawber, who shook his head. Angel sighed. ‘Very well, Mr Bloomfield, your client can go.’
Smith gasped. His arm shot up in the air, he clenched his fist and jerked it downward at the same time, letting out a very loud and decisive, ‘Yes!’
Angel leaned over to the recording unit and said, ‘Interview terminated 10.08.’ And he switched it off. The pain in his chest felt like a brick. He sat back down in the chair and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
Everybody else made for the door.
Smith saw him and came back, sniggering. He nudged up against him and said, ‘Don’t I get an apology then, Inspector Angel?’
‘Don’t push your luck, lad.’
Angel heard Smith give a high-pitched giggle as he followed Bloomfield and Gawber out of the room.
He clenched his fists tightly under the table.
‘Has Smith gone?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Gawber said, closing the office door. ‘Can’t believe his luck.’
‘Nor can I. I think I’ll have to have another good look through the evidence. There must be something I’ve overlooked.’
Gawber frowned and said, ‘Trevor Crisp said that Doonan whispered in his dying breath that it was Liam Quigley who shot him, sir.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten, Ron. I hadn’t forgotten. I had thought that that might have been deliberate spite on Doonan’s part. Retaliation for Quigley’s many accusations about him and Sonya. Doonan must have hated the man’s guts. Also, it’s possible, nay probable, that Doonan did not recognize his killer. He was so muffled up, nobody else in the pub could identify him. And Quigley has an alibi provided by a very assured Miss Freedman.’
‘Didn’t Clem Bailey identify the mugshot of Laurence Smith?’ Gawber said.
‘He only said he thought it might be him. That would not have counted as much in front of Mr Justice Fleming.’
He nodded. Judges never took anything as read, these days, particularly when the information was given by the police as prosecution witnesses.
‘Another point, where did the murderer get the gun from?’ Angel said. ‘And what happened to it afterwards? Judges like to know these things. If they know what the actual weapon used was, and it is shown in court as an exhibit, they tend to smile on us.’
Suddenly they heard some running footsteps and giggling outside in the corridor.
Angel broke off and looked at his watch. ‘What’s that?’
Gawber said: ‘I think it’s Christmas hi-jinks, sir. Starting a bit early.’
Angel blinked. ‘Oh yes. It’s Christmas Eve.’
‘Coming to the Fat Duck for a drink at lunchtime, sir?’
‘Oh yes. But there are a few jobs I must do before then. Firstly I want to see Ahmed then I must see Trevor Crisp.’
Gawber stood up. ‘If you’ve done with me, sir, I’ve some bits I want to finish off. I’ll see if I can find Ahmed and send him in.’
‘Thanks, Ron.’
Gawber went out. As the door opened there was more scampering and giggling. The door closed. Quietness returned to the office.
After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in.’
It was Ahmed.
‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘Yes, lad. I want you to get me the home phone number of a Mrs Makepiece. She’s the widow of the owner of the antique shop down at Bull’s Foot Railway Arches on Wath Road. I don’t want the shop. I want her home address. I expect she lives in or near the town. The phone will likely still be in her husband’s name.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘And you’ll be joining the team for a drink at the Fat Duck at lunchtime, won’t you?’
Ahmed smiled. ‘Right, sir. Thank you. DS Crisp is here, sir.’
Angel’s face brightened. ‘Good.’
Angel went out and Crisp came in.
‘Sit down, lad. Have they closed down the studio for Christmas, then?’
‘Yes, sir. Some of the big wheels have already flown off to warmer climates. William Isaacs has gone to Chicago. Felicity Santana has gone to Barbados. Hector Munro has gone to some long-lost relations in Scotland. And Samson Fairchild has gone to … I can’t remember where, somewhere warm.’
‘You’ve had five days working there. I hope it’s been worthwhile.’
‘Yes, sir. And they’ve given me the sack and paid me £200 cash in hand, casual labour, the going rate for unskilled labour,’ he said with a grin as he handed the wage packet over to him.
Angel took it, glanced at it and put it in the desk drawer.
‘I’ve learned a lot about film-making, sir,’ Crisp said and he pulled a small polythene bag out of his pocket and put it on the desk in front of Angel. ‘And that’s the sample of Felicity’s face powder you wanted. It’s smeared on to a tissue.’
Angel’s eyes glowed. ‘Ah,’ he said, his eyebrows rising like the opening of London Bridge. He reached out for it. ‘I won’t ask you how you got it.’
‘No. Don’t, sir. I nearly got caught.’
Angel frowned as he picked up the phone. ‘Felicity Santana doesn’t suspect anything, does she?’ he said.
‘No, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘Marianne Cooper, her gofer, covered for me.’
Angel let out a small sigh and quickly tapped out a number.
The phone was answered straightaway. ‘SOCO. DS Taylor.’
‘Trevor Crisp has managed to get some face powder that might match the powder found on the Walther,’ he said into the phone. ‘I’ve got it here.’
‘Ah.’ Taylor sounded pleased. ‘I’ll send somebody down for it, sir. It won’t take long to make the comparison.’
‘Great stuff. Thanks, Don,’ he said and replaced the phone.
‘Mrs Santana is obviously playing it careful, sir. She gives nothing away in the studio. She is pretty well as rude and arrogant to everybody in equal measure, perhaps more so to Mr Isaacs.’
‘He’s her natural adversary.’
‘Everybody else treats him like a god.’
Angel nodded. ‘Who fits the profile, the characteristics, I gave you?’
‘I have prepared a simple chart, sir,’ he said, taking out his notebook. ‘You said the murderer would be dishonest, ruthless, handsome, rich and probably older than her.’
Angel nodded.
‘Well, sir, there have been four men hovering round her of late,’ Crisp said, referring to his notebook. ‘They are William Isaacs, Samson Fairchild, Hector Munro and Oliver Razzle.’
He stopped and looked at Angel.
‘Go on, lad. I’m listening,’ Angel said.
‘Now, William Isaacs could have all those characteristics, sir, except that he is far from handsome. Samson Fairchild I suspect could be dishonest and ruthless. I suppose he’s handsome. I don’t know how rich he is. He is certainly older than her. Hector Munro: I don’t know if he is dishonest or ruthless. He is certainly regarded as handsome. He appears to be rich, he’s not been out of work since he started acting, and he would be a couple of years older than her. And Oliver Razzle. I suspect he could be dishonest. Don’t know about ruthless. Don’t think he’s rich enough for Felicity, and I think he must be about five years younger than her.’
Crisp stopped.
Angel waited a moment or two, rubbed his chin and said, ‘Putting it like that, Trevor, it looks like there are two nominees: Samson Fairchild and Hector Munro.’
There was a knock at the door.
Angel said: ‘I expect it’ll be a lad from SOCO, for that face powder sample.’
Crisp picked up the polythene bag, opened the door, exchanged a few words with the caller, handed the bag to him then returned to his chair.
‘So if we could find out which one of them came by the gun, we would know who did it, even though we can’t, at this stage, prove it,’ Angel said.
Crisp nodded and was about to reply when the phone rang.
Angel reached out for it. It was the civilian on the switchboard.
‘There’s a Mr Love on the phone for you, sir. He’s Irish, I think, and he sounds a bit rough. Will you speak to him?’
Angel breathed out a long sigh. Love couldn’t have rung at a better time. ‘I certainly will. Hold on just a moment, please,’ he said, then he put his hand over the mouthpiece, turned to Crisp and said, ‘Anything else pressing?
‘No, sir.’
‘Right, well, I’ll see you at the Fat Duck at lunchtime?’
Crisp took the hint. ‘Oh yes, sir,’ he said, and he went out and closed the door.
Angel removed his hand from over the mouthpiece. ‘Put Mr Love through, please.’
‘Hello there, Mr Angel,’ Mr Love began.
He was an Irishman of doubtful character, but he had helped Angel out of a tight corner a few times in the past and this couldn’t have been a tighter one.
‘I didn’t see your message,’ Love continued, ‘because it wasn’t there until Saturday night and I didn’t get to reading the paper until a few minutes ago, and now it’s Christmas Eve, wouldn’t you know? I should have been on the ferry to see my dear mother over Christmas at St Joseph’s in Balley Ocarey, but I haven’t the necessary. And how can I be helping you, dear Mr Angel?’
‘Mr Love, you may have heard I am investigating the murder of a film producer who was shot dead—’
‘Surely now. It’s all over the papers, isn’t it, and him with a sow in a pretty silk nightdress snuggled next to him.’
‘A Walther PPK/S was the murder weapon. I want to know who bought the gun.’
There was silence.
Angel said: ‘Are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here, but I was tinkin’, that’s a really tall order yous giving me for a Christmas present, Mr Angel.’
‘We have got it down to one of two suspects. All I’m wanting to know is which one.’
‘Ah. Well, you know, you wouldn’t like to give me the names of the two punters, would you?’
‘No.’
Love wasn’t a bit surprised. He had known Angel almost twenty years.
‘But I can tell you a bit about the gun,’ Angel said.
‘Oh. Go on den. You never know, it might help.’
‘Well, it has had a chequered career and an attempt had been made to file off its number. It was stolen with four other handguns from an RAOC depot in North Yorkshire in 1980, and it must have been sold to my suspect in the last few weeks or even days.’
‘Hmm. 1980 is a long time ago, Mr Angel. I’ve lost and won a few punt on the harses since then. You wouldn’t like to give me an advance in the way of encouragement, would you, Mr Angel?’
‘Oh dear, Mr Angel. Where is your Christian charity this Christmas?’
‘Come and have a drink with me and my team at the Fat Duck. I shall be there in about half an hour.’
‘No, tank you. The sound of handcuffs rubbing against webbing, the shiny black boots and the smell of Silvo, fair puts my teeth on edge.’
Angel smiled but said nothing.
‘But I’ll do what I can on the udder matter. But I tell you, I risk more than a good thrashing when I’m listening out about guns, Mr Angel. One day I have a fear a gun might be used on me. Now I must try and get home to Mudder. If I get anyting, I’ll be in touch. Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ Angel said mechanically and replaced the phone.
He wasn’t pleased. He wrinkled his nose then sighed.
He knew he had to open all the doors and get help from wherever he could. Love didn’t sound at all optimistic. Of course, it was in his interest to make the job sound as difficult and as dangerous as he possibly could. It pushed up the price.
There was a knock on the door. It was Don Taylor from SOCO. He had a smile on his face. ‘I am pleased to tell you, sir, that the samples of specks of face powder on the gun that killed Peter Santana match the sample on that tissue taken from Felicity Santana’s powder compact.’
Angel’s eyebrows went up. That was welcome news. At least it confirmed that the Walther had been in her presence at some time in its very recent past; also that it therefore tended to suggest, as Angel had thought all along, that Felicity was a party to Peter Santana’s murder.
‘Ta, Don. Thank you very much.’
Angel and DI Asquith’s teams congregated at the Fat Duck and had a modest Christmas drink, a pork pie and free black pudding on a cocktail stick.
Ron Gawber bemoaned the prospect of being closed in with his wife’s relations for two whole days, while Ahmed indicated that he was enthusiastically looking forward to visits from several aunts and uncles and their offspring. Scrivens said that he was travelling up north to his parents and seemed pleased about it, while Trevor Crisp, wearing a big smile, drank rather too much, said very little and looked like a very contented man. Outside in the square, a brass contingent from the Salvation Army began to play ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’ and some of the team wandered out to the pub doorway to hear better and offer a contribution to the collecting tin.
The relaxed and informal chatter lasted for an hour or so, then the various members broke up and each made his way to their respective homes.
Mary had the house seasonally decorated, warm and cosy.
Angel had a nap in the chair in front of the King’s Singers, then had tea while watching The Great Escape for the eighth time. Later, he got changed, and they went to church at 11.30, got back at one in the morning and went to bed.
Christmas came and went faster than two cascaras.
The Angels didn’t do anything exciting. They snoozed; watched the same old films again. The African Queen came up again and Angel prompted Bogart to say his dialogue when he was late coming in on cue.
He had a pile of books he wanted to read, some crime stories, some biographies.
The weather was cold. The house was cosy. The nights were long. The food was good. The books mixed. The TV was rubbish….