The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel Read online

  Harker blinked. ‘Whatever was she doing in Mace’s house?’ Before Angel could answer, he added, ‘But the fact is that the money Crisp spent on wining and dining this woman didn’t actually move the case one inch forward.’

  Angel could see he was losing the argument. ‘Well he got the fingerprints, sir.’

  ‘You could have obtained those any time, either covertly or formally. I can’t see that, in this case, it would have made the slightest difference. No, I can’t pass this,’ he said tossing the expense chit to the waste-paper basket.

  Angel’s jaw tightened. He breathed in deeply and said, ‘You can’t refuse to sanction a legitimate expense on the basis that it added little or nothing to an investigation, sir. If that were to happen, we’d never be able even to risk going out on any cold investigative interview that might not produce a positive result.’

  Harker wrinkled his nose. His chalk-like complexion reddened at the top of his cheeks.

  ‘In this instance, I can and I do. I wouldn’t normally demean myself with an explanation, but I give my reasons. Firstly, the money was actually spent on food and drink, in other words, somebody, in this case Crisp, had some actual benefit out of it. Knowing Crisp, it was probably ninety per cent drink, and flowing his way. Secondly, I was not consulted in this matter, and I know that you are well aware that when it comes to spending public money on matters over and above the delineated budget, it requires special sanction. I wasn’t consulted. And furthermore, if I had been consulted I would not have given it.’

  Angel came out of Harker’s office steaming with rage. He charged up the green corridor to his own office and banged shut the door. He was smarting about the injustice of it all and wondered how on earth he was supposed to make up the shortfall of £200? He couldn’t possibly expect Crisp to share in the loss. Angel had supplied the money directly to him and he would have thought he was spending legitimate police funds. He couldn’t be expected to have to pay it back. There was no comeback there. Angel thought that he might consider applying to the Federation; however, Harker was technically within his rights to withhold reimbursing him because he had not authorized the payment of it in the first place. It particularly rankled with Angel, because in his experience, officers of his rank were always entrusted to make sensible decisions about expenditure in the course of their work. There might be some disagreement afterwards about the rightness or wrongness of the decision to incur the expense, but reimbursement was always made. He must be sure that Mary didn’t hear about this; she might come up here and box Horace Harker’s ears.

  He settled down after a few minutes and began tapping out his report on his laptop. This was soon done and then he began to wade through the accumulation of post. His first filter through, he could do at speed; the second filter through was slower; the third filter required some thought. He stopped at that, pushed back the chair and looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘Agapoo,’ he said. Then again, ‘Agapoo.’ He said the word loudly, quietly, slowly, then quickly. He spoke it in all the accents he knew, broad Yorkshire, Scottish, Irish, scouse, cockney, American and pseudo French, German and Italian. He said it distinctly and then, putting his hand across his mouth to muffle the sound, indistinctly. And then suddenly he understood exactly what the word meant.

  Angel drove the BMW through Bromersley town and onto the Tunistone road to the film location site. He turned off the main road, and, overtaking the horse and trap still waiting patiently on the rough track, drove the car into the field and parked it near Otis Stroom’s luxury caravan.

  He could see the film unit, lights, camera, cast and crew assembled round the farmhouse door and walked across the field down to them. It seemed that he had arrived at a significant moment.

  Grant Montague, immaculately turned out, was standing on a trailer and addressing the cast and crew. By his side was Sean Tattersall. The crew were pressing close up to the trailer, silent and intent on hearing Montague’s every word. Standing in the doorway of the farmhouse, head erect, was Otis Stroom, wearing black-rimmed spectacles; Nanette Quadrette, looking miserably beautiful as ever, was standing next to Hugo Moss, and on the camera dolly, was Harry Lee.

  ‘I know, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ Grant said, ‘that this has been a trying time for you, as it has for me and I thank you for buckling down and helping me out as I have tried to keep the production of the film rolling. As you know, I intended to stand in as director only until we could get a top-notch man, a worthy successor to Mark Johannson. But I regret that, at such short notice, there are no film directors available who could undertake this mammoth job with the flair and panache it really requires. Now, this morning, I read in the papers – I expect you all did too – that Alexander Bernedetti has been found dead. He was to have played Edgar Poole’s father, an important, character part, who, in his latter days finished up as a poor tramp. Perfectionist as he was, Mr Bernedetti had apparently adopted a tramp’s disguise to get into the character of the role, but was mistaken for a real man of the road and was tragically murdered and robbed. There goes another great artist irreplaceable in the world of entertainment. I immediately consulted my fellow directors and they are of the opinion that it has now become impossible to continue to try to portray this great story on film at this time. As well as the casting difficulties, some artist’s contracts would now run out before filming is completed, which would present more complications. Of course, this great biopic may be produced in the future, as Euromagna have bought exclusive rights to the screenplay. I don’t know. Only the insurance company might know if and when this might be. If it was left to me, I would have tried to find a replacement film director and an actor for the role of Edgar Poole’s father and pressed on. It wouldn’t have been easy, but … there you are.’

  There was unsettled muttering among the crew then Montague held up his hands to stop the chatter and said, ‘All contracts, of course, will be honoured. Nobody will be out of pocket. Euromagna will meet all agreed liabilities and expenses. Send in your claims in writing to the London office and I will personally deal with them. Thank you everybody, so much, and I hope to have the pleasure of working with you all again some time in the future. Now, I will hand you over to Sean Tattersall to make the arrangements for the return of the unit to the studio in Buckinghamshire and the clearing of the site.’

  There were mutters of discontent, then most of the crew crowded round Sean Tattersall.

  With a sober face, Otis Stroom walked athletically up the field towards his caravan. Four teenage girls from Tunistone, who probably should have been in school, were swinging on a gate. They waved and screamed at him as he passed thirty yards away, but he was totally unaware of them, which made them scream all the more.

  Behind Stroom came Nanette Quadrette, looking moodily magnificent. She was escorted by Hugo Moss and two women from wardrobe. They were making their way to her caravan, which was next door to Stroom. Quadrette strode elegantly passed the groupies with her nose in the air and her cloak flying. The girls’ attitude to the actress was more of stunned amazement. They stared at her with eyes that stuck out like gobstoppers on sticks. They gasped, put their hands over their mouths and breathily said, ‘My God, oh my God,’ over and over again.

  Montague stepped down from the trailer and Angel went up to him. He saw him and made a sad face.

  Angel said, ‘I just heard the news about closing the production of the film. I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Unavoidable, Inspector. Totally unavoidable. I would have carried on, but it was not viable. My American partners convinced me of it.’

  ‘I didn’t know that the late Alexander Bernedetti had been posing as a tramp for the purposes of preparing for a part in the film.’

  ‘He was a method actor of great style, Inspector. He will be sadly missed.’

  ‘Were you aware he was doing that, Mr Montague?’

  ‘No, not at the time, but I am not a bit surprised. He was a stickler for detail.’

 
‘Well, how did you find out?’

  Montague frowned. ‘Our press office knew all about it, apparently. It was good PR. How our leading character actor prepared himself for the part of Edgar Poole’s father, and so on.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Yes, of course. One other thing, Mr Montague.’

  ‘Yes?’ he said impatiently. He seemed to be edging to get away.

  Angel was undeterred. ‘Who wins from the cancellation of the film?’

  Montague pursed his lips and said, ‘Nobody. Absolutely nobody, dear sir.’

  ‘Do the principals get paid in full?’

  ‘These matters are really quite confidential, Inspector,’ Montague said.

  ‘This is a murder enquiry, Mr Montague. Delicate points about money may be vital in determining matters of motive. Nothing can remain confidential, I assure you.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Are you suggesting that one of our two principals is a murderer, Inspector?’

  Angel looked closely at him and waited.

  Montague nodded and said, ‘Well, as a matter of fact, they each receive a proportion. Both Mr Stroom and Miss Quadrette will receive a quarter of the figure it was agreed each was to be paid for the complete film. It was to have taken thirteen weeks maximum, then no more than five days after that, by mutual arrangement, for publicity shots and retakes.’

  ‘So, who wins on the cancellation of the film?’ Angel persisted.

  ‘Nobody wins.’

  ‘Do the directors win?’

  ‘How can they? The potential earnings of the biopic of this legendary man, with these three great stars, top director, top screenplay, Oscar-winning cinema photographer, were enormous. Millions! Now there will be nothing.’

  ‘You are insured?’

  ‘Yes. Sure thing, and committing the unique love story of the late Edgar Poole, a real celebrity, to film, with the talent we had lined up, while most of the facts and locations were still available to us, would have made the film a certain financial bonanza. A film of this calibre could still have been earning money sixty or seventy years from now. We are talking millions of pounds, Inspector. Twenty, fifty million pounds or even more. The compensation the insurance will pay out will in no way compare to the earnings this extravaganza would have made over the years.’

  Angel nodded. He licked his lips. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Montague. I must catch Otis Stroom before he leaves. Will you excuse me?’ Angel strode over the field to Stroom’s caravan.

  The leading man had removed the tight black coat with ruffled collar and sleeves, discarded the hair pieces from his forehead and temples and was removing the tanned outdoor look from his handsome square-jawed face with cold cream and cotton wool.

  ‘Come in, Inspector. I saw you back there. You will have heard the shocking news? Now that Alexander Bernedetti has been found dead, Grant Montague says that Euromagna is cancelling the film. Who is next, Inspector? Is the murderer going to polish off everybody connected with the enterprise? Is it somebody who doesn’t want the story of the great man to be told? And if so, why?’

  Angel shrugged. ‘I think you are safe enough, Mr Stroom, now that the film is cancelled.’

  ‘I certainly hope so. It wreaks havoc with my image. It does not suit me to be associated with anything that fails. I only want to be associated with success stories, if you see what I mean.’

  Angel saw exactly what he meant, but he wasn’t much impressed by it. ‘You’ll be handsomely paid for the short time that you have committed to the film, won’t you?’

  ‘If you consider it on a rate per hour basis, like a tradesman, of course. However if the film had been completed and promoted by Euromagna, it would have made a bomb, and, I would not only have received payment for making the film, but I would have earned a royalty every time the film was shown. It could have been considered as part of my pension. It may also have been a stepping stone to some even greater role. That will not happen now. In actual fact, for the first time in five years, I believe that I am actually out of work.’

  Angel sighed. He felt sorry for him, but not a lot.

  ‘You haven’t been able to come up with any names or description of anybody you bumped into the evening Johannson was murdered, I suppose?’

  ‘To be honest, Inspector, I haven’t even tried. I told you. I was meandering round the streets of Leeds. The last thing I wanted was to be recognized.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘Well, Mr Stroom,’ he said grimly. ‘You’ve been remarkably successful in that regard. What about Tuesday night of 13 February, the night Alexander Bernedetti was murdered?’

  ‘I have really no idea.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Well, I should do what you can,’ he said meaningfully.

  Angel took his leave politely, and as he came down Stroom’s caravan steps, he saw Harry Lee opening the boot of a big Mercedes he appeared to have hired from a London car hire firm.

  ‘Glad I caught you, Mr Lee.’

  The American looked up at him from the boot lid. He was packing a case containing valuable lenses, which only he chose to handle. ‘Ah, Inspector Angel, isn’t it?’

  Angel smiled. ‘I wanted to check on a few things.’

  ‘Oh? Yes?’

  ‘You knew Alexander Bernedetti?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I had the pleasure of working with him on several films. A good, square jaw, easy to light, whether as a hero or a villain. One of the world’s natural charmers. Very tragic, his murder.’

  ‘He was a friend of yours?’

  ‘Oh no. But he was a friendly and unassuming man.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Unfortunately, you were unable to supply an alibi for the time of the death of Mark Johannson. Can you provide me with an alibi for the time of the death of Mr Bernedetti? He was shot in Wath Road railway arches, in Bromersley on the evening of 13 February.’

  ‘I would have to think about that, Inspector.’

  ‘You’d better think about it quickly, Mr Lee. Here’s my card. Perhaps you’ll let me know. Somebody wanted to stop the making of this film. Whoever that is, is also the murderer of two men. That murderer could be you. If it is not you, take it from me, it’s someone you know very well indeed.’

  FIFTEEN

  * * *

  Hugo Moss answered the caravan door. He had a large comb in his hand.

  ‘I want to speak to Miss Nanette Quadrette,’ Angel said.

  Moss looked back into the van. ‘It’s that copper again, Nan. You haven’t time to thee him, have you?’

  Angel blinked. His jaw tightened. ‘She certainly has, lad,’ he growled. ‘This is not a social call,’ he added as he pushed Moss aside with one hand and stepped inside the caravan. ‘I haven’t popped round to show you my holiday snaps on the beach at Filey. I’m investigating the murder of two men.’ Angel looked for her through the forest of flowers.

  Moss followed him in. ‘You can’t thee her, the’s not dressed!’

  She was sitting at a dressing table facing a mirror surrounded by lights. She was wearing something short and white with straps over her thin brown shoulders.

  Quadrette saw him and screamed. Angel looked away. It wasn’t a scream of embarrassment. She was wild with anger.

  ‘There is no need to push your way in, Inthpector,’ Moss said.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ she snapped, as she reached out for a long white housecoat on the bed behind her.

  Angel swallowed quickly in exasperation. ‘I can’t have your pet monkey messing me around, lady!’

  Moss breathed in deeply and glared at him.

  Angel looked round at Quadrette who was now covered from her neck to her ankles in white towelling.

  ‘I am looking into a double murder,’ he said. ‘And I have some very serious questions to put to you.’

  She tied the cord of the housecoat, settled herself back in front of the mirror again and snatched up a hairbrush. ‘I’ve had a very gruelling day, Inspector,’ she whined.

  Moss gently took the hairbru
sh from her and began brushing her long black hair with long, soft strokes.

  ‘I don’t know if I’m up to answering questions,’ she said. ‘The bloody film is cancelled. My plans are up in the air. I don’t know what I am going to do now. It’s that bastard Grant Montague; he’s had it in for me for years. I had originally planned to have a year off, but I have nowhere decent to go. The house in the Maldives has been sold. Hugo has already said that he was willing to accept the offer from the Pizziano chain for his three salons to buy a villa on Koz for us.’

  Angel’s mouth tightened.

  ‘I don’t expect Cheetah,’ he said, glancing at Moss, ‘was anywhere near you the night that Mark Johannson was murdered, was he?’

  ‘Yeth, I was. All night. Every minute of it,’ Moss said.

  ‘He was,’ she confirmed firmly.

  Angel looked at Moss and said, ‘And where were you the night of Tuesday, 13 February? That was the night of the murder of Alexander Bernedetti.’

  Hugo Moss stopped brushing Quadrette’s hair. His jaw dropped open. ‘If you think I could possibly murder anybody, you must be potty.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Quadrette said. ‘He’s far too sensitive.’

  Angel wasn’t easily put off. ‘Well, where were you?’ he growled

  Moss curled his lip like a petulant schoolboy. ‘I don’t know, do I? I don’t keep a diary or anything. I haven’t the time.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘You might wish you had.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been him,’ Quadrette said. ‘He couldn’t harm a fly.’

  Despite what she said, Angel could visualize him pulling wings off a fly one at a time and enjoying it. He glared at Moss and then at Quadrette and took a stab in the dark.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to arrest you for withholding information,’ he said boldly.

  Moss stared back at him. His bottom lip trembled. Angel saw Quadrette shudder.

  There was a pause, she sighed, took a deep breath, and said, ‘All right, Mr Angel. So you know about Grant Montague and me. But it has nothing at all to do with these murders. Absolutely nothing. I assure you.’