Angel and the Actress Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  The Mansion House, Ceresford Road, Bromersley, South Yorkshire – 9 p.m. Sunday, 2 November 2014

  76-YEAR-OLD JOAN MINTER was standing on the shiny black grand piano in stockinged feet. She was wearing a two thousand-pound-dress and was meticulously made up except, perhaps, for the carmine painted over the natural outline of her lips. She was holding a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The glass and the cigarette shook precariously as she addressed the small show-business gathering. She spoke loudly as if she was making her curtain speech to the back row of the gods.

  ‘Friends,’ she began, ‘friends, I have invited you here this evening to join me in a very special celebration.’ Then with a mischievous twinkle, she said, ‘I had invited David, Errol, Rodney and Michel, but surprisingly, none of them were able to come …’

  They were the names of her four ex-husbands from whom she had had the most acrimonious divorces and enjoyed a great deal of valuable publicity. The gathering appreciated the joke, smiled and several people laughed out loud.

  Still smiling, she continued, ‘None of them were able to make it. Today is not the date I married or divorced any of them. Well, I don’t think it is. I can’t remember. Nor is it my fortieth birthday.’

  Several smiled.

  ‘No, that’s next year, Joan, isn’t it?’ one of the guests called out.

  She smiled back at him, then changed the mood by taking a breath, holding it, biting her lip, turning her head slowly through ninety degrees and waiting. The room was silent.

  ‘I asked you all to come to this special celebration,’ she said with a catch in her voice and a hand to her chest, ‘because it is seventy years since I first entered show business. It is seventy years to this very day since my dear mamma took me on the train to the Empire Theatre, Sheffield, to audition before the great Cedric Masters to become one of his Marigold girls and be in his pantomime, Cinderella, that winter.’

  ‘Hurrah for Joan,’ an actor, Felix Lubrecki, called out. ‘Let’s drink to that.’

  The guests raised their glasses. ‘To Joan and the last seventy years,’ they said in unison.

  Another actor, Leo Altman, raised his glass. ‘And here’s to the next seventy years,’ he said.

  Joan smiled and put the cigarette to her mouth.

  Then, suddenly, the lights went out. The room went black. There was a loud bang, the flash from a gun from amid the guests, followed by a gasp and a thud from the direction of the piano.

  ‘Oh my God!’ several people said. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Put the lights on,’ a voice said.

  ‘Where is the switch?’ said another.

  There was a sound from the entrance hall of the front door being slammed.

  The door into the room from the kitchen opened. A stream of light shone through onto the carpet and the two staff from the outside caterers – a man and a woman – rushed in to find out what the disturbance was.

  The light made it possible to see around the drawing room, and the butler, who had been standing by the piano, rushed across the room to the light-switch panel by the door from the hall and switched on the room lights.

  There were gasps from some of the people there as they saw the body of Joan Minter on the carpet by the piano, blood running from her head over her thin, silver-grey hair.

  The butler rushed across to her, crouched down, leaned over and touched her neck with his fingertips.

  ‘Is there a pulse?’ Felix Lubrecki said.

  After a few seconds the butler slowly shook his head.

  Forty-five minutes later, Detective Inspector Michael Angel drove a BMW up the drive to the Mansion House and parked behind a white Scene-of-Crime Officers’ van, which was itself behind a police patrol car. As he turned off the lights and the ignition, he saw the lights of a fourth vehicle in his rear mirror. It was stopping close behind him. He got out of the car and discovered that the driver of the car behind was one of his team, Detective Sergeant Flora Carter.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Flora,’ he said.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said. ‘So this is where the famous Joan Minter lives?’

  ‘Apparently,’ he said as they walked up in the moonlight towards the constable on the door. ‘I don’t like turning out of the house at this time on a Sunday night. Mary wasn’t best pleased, either.’

  Flora Carter smiled. She had met the DI’s wife and considered her to be a most delightful lady.

  The constable on the front doorstep blew into his hands and stamped his feet. As he recognized DI Angel approaching, he saluted. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said.

  Angel reciprocated. ‘I hope so, Constable. I really do,’ he said. ‘Has Dr Mac been summoned, do you know, lad? I can’t see his car anywhere?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir,’ the constable said as he opened the front door. ‘He’s not inside. I’m certain of that. DS Taylor is in there with a couple of his team.’

  ‘Right, Constable, thank you.’

  Angel ushered DS Carter into the hall and then followed her in.

  The constable closed the door.

  A door opened into the hall and a man came in. He was wearing a white overall, white hat, rubber gloves, a linen mask and blue wellingtons.

  It was DS Taylor. He was in charge of the SOCO team at Bromersley police station. ‘There you are, sir,’ he said, pulling the face mask down.

  Angel sighed. ‘What’s up, Don? I was told that the famous Joan Minter has been shot dead.’

  ‘That’s what it looks like, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘There’s no gun, but we’ve found the shell case of a .32 in the corner of the room by the door. Miss Minter was having a party with some friends. I had to clear them out of there. Looks like two rooms knocked into one. It’s a drawing room, really, with a long dining table in the centre where they’ve had a meal. There isn’t another room on this floor that is big enough for everybody to get together. The guests are now in various parts of the house, all whingeing about wanting to go home. One man came up to me and said he would have to leave. He lives in Hollywood.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Hollywood? Anyone we’ve heard of?’

  ‘Erick Cartlett, sir. I’ve never heard of him. It’s a heck of a long way to come for a party.’

  ‘Are there any witnesses?’

  ‘They’re all witnesses, sir. In the sense that they were all present at the time of the gunshot.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Well, we can’t keep everybody waiting round forever. Where we can gather them together?’

  ‘Here, I should think, sir. This hall,’ Taylor said.

  Angel turned to DS Carter. ‘Whip round the house, Flora, and ask everybody to assemble here immediately.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said, and she dashed off up the stairs.

  Angel said, ‘Did you hear from Dr Mac, Don? I want him to see the body as soon as possible.’

  ‘Duty sergeant told me he’d been advised.’

  ‘Good. Have you much more to do in there?’

  Taylor said, ‘About twenty minutes, sir. We should be through.’

  ‘I’ll have to chase Mac up. I want him to see the body in situ.’

  There was the sound of several voices on th
e landing above them. Angel broke away from Taylor and looked up the staircase.

  ‘I’ll get back to my boys, sir,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Right, Don,’ Angel said.

  Taylor turned and made off towards the door.

  Angel called up the stairs. ‘Come down here, please, everybody.’

  Ten minutes later, the guests and staff were assembled in the hall. Angel introduced himself, said how sorry he was that he had to investigate the death of their dear friend, pointed out that sadly it had to be done and asked for their patience and cooperation. Then he said, ‘Firstly, looking around you, is anybody missing that was in the house at the time Miss Minter was delivering her speech?’

  A tubby man in a dress suit and tails stepped forward and said, ‘I am … I was Miss Minter’s butler, sir, and I can tell you that there are ten guests, two persons from the caterers, and myself. If you would care to count us, it might be quicker.’

  Angel thanked him, turned to Flora, jerked his head and she began the count.

  He then turned back to the butler. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Alexander Trott, sir.’

  ‘Mr Trott, do you happen to have a list of the guests?’

  ‘Indeed I do, sir,’ he said, reaching into his inside pocket. ‘I also have their addresses and telephone numbers.’

  Angel smiled.

  Trott passed him a printed list of all the guests.

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said. He glanced at it, then looked up and said, ‘Did anybody see anything suspicious?’

  There was silence.

  DS Carter came back to Angel and quietly said, ‘Thirteen, sir, not counting you and me.’

  Angel nodded. The count was correct. ‘Thank you, Flora.’

  ‘Did anybody see anyone with a gun?’

  There were a few murmurs of ‘No’.

  ‘Was anybody standing close to the person with the gun?’

  A young man stepped forward. ‘I was only about six feet away from the flash of the gun when it was fired.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. What is your name?’

  ‘My name is Felix Lubrecki,’ he said. ‘I worked with Joan many times. I played her halfwit son in a film called Beware My Vision. I shall miss her terribly.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Angel said. ‘Did you not have a sense of the person with the gun? His or her height? Male or female? Smell of anything? Alcohol, mint or perfume? How they were dressed; light frilly dress or stiff black dinner jacket?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t say, Inspector. It happened so suddenly and unexpectedly. The flash was blinding.’

  ‘And where were you standing exactly?’

  ‘About six feet away, by the door to the hall.’

  Angel’s forehead creased. ‘Did anybody else see the flash of the gun? Did it illuminate the person holding it?’

  A man about sixty years of age said, ‘Yeah. I saw the flash. It didn’t illuminate anything. It was a bright yellow and white light lasting only a split second. It only blinded you, momentarily; it did not illuminate anything.’

  Angel said, ‘Where were you standing at the time you saw this, sir? And what is your name?’

  ‘Leo Altman. I have been a friend of Joan for many years … I was standing just behind Felix.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Altman. And how near were you to the door?’

  ‘Only a couple of feet, I suppose.’

  ‘You would know when the door opened and when it closed, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Erm … I was listening to Joan,’ Altman said. ‘She was very funny … I can’t be sure about the door before the lights went out. I believe that somebody went out after the gunshot. The sound of the gun deafened me for a few seconds.’

  ‘Was the door to the hall ajar at the time of the gunshot?’ Angel said.

  Lubrecki looked round the other guests. No one seemed inclined to answer. He said, ‘It was closed, Inspector, I think. Because it must have been opened shortly afterwards otherwise we would not have heard the front door close.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lubrecki,’ Angel said, then he pursed his lips. ‘Did anybody else hear the front door close shortly after the gunshot?’

  Several guests said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when the door to the hall was opened did it not shine a light into the drawing room?’

  ‘No,’ a few small voices said.

  Angel said, ‘Does everybody agree that the hall light must therefore also have been switched off?’

  ‘Yes,’ many more said confidently.

  ‘Anybody disagree?’

  Almost everybody looked around, but nobody took the opposite view.

  ‘Is it reasonable, then, to assume that the hall was also in total darkness?’

  Again, nobody answered.

  Angel breathed out loudly and rubbed his chin. He wasn’t pleased.

  The butler, Alexander Trott, was the nearest to the inspector. Angel eyed him. Trott thought that he was consequently being called upon to answer.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Trott said, ‘although I was standing near the piano, I heard the drawing-room door being opened immediately after the gunshot and before the front door was heard to close. And no light shone into the drawing room from the hall.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Trott,’ Angel said.

  Then addressing everybody, Angel said, ‘Has anybody any idea why Miss Minter was murdered?’

  ‘No,’ several voices said.

  An elderly man stepped forward. He spoke with an Atlantic accent. ‘I’m Erick Cartlett, everybody here knows me,’ he said.

  Angel thought the name was familiar, not as an actor, but he thought he had seen his name appear in the credits at the beginning of TV films … as a producer or as a writer who was also a director. He wasn’t sure.

  ‘Isn’t it perfectly obvious,’ Cartlett said, ‘that the murderer was a stranger who sneaked into the house and entered the drawing room while Joan had our full attention? He then switched off the lights, fired the gun, then ran out of the room across the hall and out of the front door.’

  There were plenty of nods and grunts of agreement with what Cartlett had said.

  Angel ran his tongue round his mouth and said, ‘That’s a possibility, Mr Cartlett, but only a possibility. I can’t take anything for granted.’

  ‘It seems a darn right certainty, if you ask me,’ he said. ‘And by the by I have to be at a very important meeting in Beverley Hills on Tuesday, so I hope you will not delay me and cause me to miss it.’

  Angel said, ‘We will do our best, Mr Cartlett.’

  A woman with wet cheeks, red eyes and a face puffy from crying came forward. She had a small voice and was given to a lot of rapid blinking. ‘If you disagree with Mr Cartlett’s theory, Inspector,’ she said, ‘it means that the person with the gun is … is one of us, and it is possible that he or she is here … here with us, in this room, now.’

  ‘I’m afraid that that is so,’ Angel said. ‘May I have your name, miss?’

  ‘Jane Bell,’ she said. ‘I’m Miss Minter’s secretary – well, I was. I don’t know what I shall do now.’ She turned away, digging in her pocket for a tissue.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Angel said.

  Jane Bell applied the tissue to her face, turned away with a gentle wave and got lost among the guests.

  Angel sighed. He thought a moment then looked at his watch. It was 10.30. Then he looked up and said, ‘Perhaps you would wish to retire for the night and we will continue our enquiries in the morning. Would everybody please remain accessible, and not leave the house until this matter is satisfactorily concluded? Thank you.’

  There was some discontented muttering, but most of the guests were pleased to retire to their rooms and they all shuffled slowly up the stairs.

  Angel turned to DS Carter. ‘I’ll have to see the caterers. Where are they?’

  ‘They were here a moment ago. I expect they’ve gone into the kitchen.’

  Angel and DS Carter went through the door from the hall
to the kitchen and saw one of the caterers had removed his jacket and hung it on a coat hanger on the back of the door. He was wearing a big blue and white striped apron, and was busy drying pots from the draining board and putting them onto the table. The woman was standing at the sink. She had a bowl full of pots and was washing them and putting them on the draining board.

  The caterers glanced across at Angel and Carter and then turned away.

  Angel said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I am Detective Inspector Angel and this is Detective Sergeant Carter. There are a few questions I need to ask.’

  The man didn’t look pleased. He sniffed and said, ‘We want to go to bed, sir. It’s gone half past ten. We’re expected to be back in here, bright and chirpy in the morning, from seven o’clock to serve ten breakfasts. If we don’t get these done tonight we shall not be able to, so what is it you want and would you keep it short?’

  Angel’s face reddened. His fists tightened. ‘I am investigating a murder, sir. A real murder. Not playing a parlour game. Bringing a murderer to justice is far more important than your ten breakfasts. I need your full attention and I am afraid it will take … just as long as it has to take.’

  The woman took her hands out of the sink, removed her rubber gloves and turned to face Angel.

  The man, seeing she had given in, sighed, banged the plate he had been wiping down on the table, threw the cloth on top of it, looked wearily at Angel and said, ‘Right. What do you want to know?’

  Angel stared back at him. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Well, for a start, what’s your name?’

  ‘Robert Jones,’ the man snapped.

  Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘Mr Jones,’ he said, ‘we are also tired, but we won’t finish here for another hour or two, so you are not on your own.’

  Jones sighed, folded his arms across his chest, pursed his lips and blew out a silent whistle.

  Angel said, ‘Where were you when the shooting took place?’

  ‘In here. Cleaning pans and washing up.’

  ‘Then what did you do?’

  ‘At the time we didn’t do anything. Well, we carried on with what we were doing. We heard the shot, of course, but these people are all in the entertainment business; we didn’t know at first if it was part of a play or the bursting of a balloon or some other nonsense. It was nothing to do with us. We’re here to feed them, that’s all. A few minutes after that, I realized that they had stopped laughing. So I opened the kitchen door a little and looked in. Guests were crowded round the carpet near the piano. It dawned on me that there must be something up.’