Angel and the Actress Read online

  Angel turned to the young lady. ‘And what is your name, miss?’

  She smiled. ‘Charlotte Jones,’ she said. ‘He’s my husband.’ She moved towards him, then she and Robert exchanged smiles.

  Angel smiled at her. ‘Ah, yes, Mrs Jones. I see. And what did you do when you heard the gunshot?’

  ‘As Robert said, sir. We didn’t take much notice at first.’

  Angel said, ‘Did you hear the front door close?’

  Jones said, ‘Yes. Just after the gunshot.’

  ‘Did the lights in here go out when the murderer switched the drawing-room lights off?’

  ‘No. They can only be switched on and off in here,’ Jones said. He pointed to the switch in a brass panel on the wall by the door to the hall. ‘There’s a two-way switch there.’ Then he pointed to the door into the drawing room. ‘And another there.’

  Angel screwed up his face, looked at Carter and said, ‘Have you got that, Flora?’

  She looked up from her notebook. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Angel traversed the kitchen and tried each switch in turn. It was just as Jones had said. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s all for tonight. I’m sorry to have held you back.’

  He turned away from them and made for the door.

  Robert Jones thoughtfully picked up the kitchen cloth and a plate off the draining board and began to wipe it. Charlotte noticed and, taking her cue from him, looked round for the rubber gloves to resume washing the pots.

  As Angel reached the door he turned to Carter and said, ‘Flora, be sure to get their address and phone number. I’m going to see if I can find Don Taylor.’

  He went into the hall and closed the kitchen door.

  He then went next door to the drawing room. He opened the door and looked in. The three SOCO men, all dressed in white, were in a huddle by the piano. A fourth was on his knees on the floor. They all turned to face him.

  ‘Are you ready, Don?’ Angel said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘Near enough.’

  Angel went in and before he touched the door handle on the inside said, ‘I’ve no gloves, Don.’

  ‘It’s all right, sir. What was on there was smudged out of all recognition.’

  Angel closed the door.

  The man on his knees was Dr Mac the pathologist, an old friend of Angel’s.

  The doctor stood up, moved to one side to put something in his bag and revealed to Angel the crumpled body of Joan Minter on the cream carpet close to the piano. Her eyes were open and staring, her face strangely white around pink patches on her cheeks, which had obviously been applied from a pot. The sparse silver-grey hair was covered, on one side, with congealed blood; by her side was a champagne flute and about a metre away from that, a burned-out cigarette.

  It wasn’t a pretty sight. But he had seen worse, much worse.

  Angel leaned over the body, his eyes scanning the scene, trying to memorize every detail. After a few moments he straightened up, wrinkled his nose, looked at Mac and said, ‘Any idea about the gun?’

  ‘I’ll tell ye what I can when I get the slug oot,’ the elderly Glaswegian medic said in an accent all his own.

  ‘Just the one shot?’

  ‘Aye. That’s what it looks like,’ Mac said.

  Taylor said, ‘We think that’s it, sir. We’ve inspected the target area, the piano and the wall behind. No damage.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘And there’s only one bullet case over there by the door,’ Taylor added.

  Angel looked back at the door. He saw a police marker with the letter A painted on it.

  He rubbed his chin. ‘The murderer must have been very confident, firing just one round in the dark like that,’ Angel said. Then he turned to the doctor and said, ‘Have you got anything interesting, Mac?’

  ‘It looks straightforward enough,’ the doctor said. ‘Intruder sneaks into the hoose when everybody’s attention is on the host. Switches off light. Fires gun from doorway. Then under cover of darkness makes his or her escape. All that I have so far agrees with that account of what happened.’

  Angel nodded.

  The door behind them opened. They all turned towards it. It was DS Carter.

  ‘There you are, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Come in, Flora,’ Angel said.

  Taylor said, ‘Any point in examining the witnesses for gunshot residue, sir? It might tell us who was the nearest to the one who fired the gun.’

  Angel jerked his head back in surprise. ‘Yes, of course. It might even tell us the one who actually fired the gun,’ he said. ‘Flora will give you a hand.’

  She looked at him and nodded.

  ‘In fact, Don,’ Angel said, ‘if you get a really positive result from any of the witnesses, I shall want you to carry out a paraffin wax test.’

  Taylor nodded.

  ‘And better check out that cigarette she was smoking … and the contents of that champagne flute. You never know.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Taylor said.

  ‘I’ll have the body moved now, if it’s all right with you, Michael,’ Mac said.

  Angel nodded and turned away to Carter as the doctor tapped a number into his mobile.

  Angel said, ‘Flora, at first light tomorrow, I’ll need you to instigate a search for the weapon. You’ll want a dozen men or more.’

  Flora Carter’s eyes grew very big. ‘Have you seen the size of the grounds, sir? It’s like Epping Forest.’

  ‘Yes, well, confine it to the house and, say, ten metres from the outside walls for a start. If we don’t find it, we may have to think again.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And will you ring the nick and liaise with the duty sergeant for two uniformed officers to cover this house for the next thirty-six hours at least? Then you’d better push off and get some rest. Meet me here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  She smiled. ‘Right, sir,’ she said.

  ‘On your way out, will you find that butler chap, Trott? I don’t know where he’ll be. Tell him … ask him to call in and see me. I’ll be here for another few minutes or more.’

  ‘Righto, sir,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Aye. What’s left of it.’

  She left the room and closed the door.

  Taylor came up to him having taken off his whites and was carrying them under his arm. ‘Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, Doctor. See you in the morning.’

  ‘Goodnight, Don.’

  ‘Goodnight, Don. If you see the men from the mortuary looking lost, point them in here, will you?’

  ‘Will do,’ he said. He went out and closed the door.

  Mac was still pulling off his whites. He looked at Angel and, with a twinkle in his eye, said, ‘I might have known this would be your case, Michael. You always get a very low standard of murderer. Those who have no regard at all for my delicate Presbyterian upbringing. None of them seem to work a respectable nine-to-five day for five days a week, with Saturdays and Sundays free.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Come off it, Mac. I bet you weren’t doing anything important.’

  ‘How do you know what I was doing?’

  Angel grinned. ‘I know you. You’d be either sewing up a hole in your kilt, preparing some porridge for the morning, warming up some haggis for your supper, re-cataloguing your thistle collection or converting your bagpipes to metric. You’re a real credit to the SNP.’

  Mac shook his head. He couldn’t avoid a little smile. ‘Your imagination knows no bounds.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel said.

  It was the butler. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Trott. Thank you for coming. Is there a small room that I could use for a couple of days or so that would be suitable as an interview room?’

  He frowned momentarily, then said, ‘There’s the small sitting room off the hall, sir. It would seat about four persons. Madam used to use it whenever she wanted to watch television.’

  ‘T
hank you, Mr Trott. Sounds ideal.’

  ‘I’ll see it’s ready for you tomorrow.’

  ‘And would you ask everybody to wear the same clothes tomorrow morning that they were wearing this evening?’

  Trott frowned again, then waited.

  Angel didn’t know if he was waiting for a tip or something. Then he thought he must be waiting for an explanation. Angel had no intention of explaining. He didn’t want the guests washing or brushing evidence away.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Trott,’ Angel said. ‘Goodnight to you.’

  Trott shook himself out of his questioning look. ‘Erm … very good, sir. I’ll spread the word. Goodnight, sir,’ he said, and he went out.

  Mac pointed towards the door and said, ‘Strange fellow.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ Angel said. ‘Are you ready for off?’

  ‘I’ll just wait for my men from the mortuary.’

  ‘I’ll wait with you,’ Angel said. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s five minutes to midnight. I have to check that there will be constables on duty here through the rest of the night. And they change over in five minutes.’

  There was another knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel said.

  Two men in peaked caps, one carrying a folded stretcher, looked in.

  Mac knew them. ‘Come on through, Brendan. The body’s by the piano.’

  TWO

  24 Ceresford Road, Bromersley, South Yorkshire – 10 p.m. Monday, 3 November 2014

  A MAN WALKED up the long drive of the architect-designed, five-bedroom house in the more salubrious part of Bromersley. He passed the new blue Ford Mondeo parked outside the front door, hardly giving it a glance. He climbed the two stone steps and pressed the doorbell.

  It was eventually answered by a middle-aged woman.

  ‘Mrs Cross?’ the young man said.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. The name is Sellars. Who were you wanting?’

  The young man looked at the piece of paper he was holding. He frowned. ‘I am looking for Mr Cross, 24 Ceresford Park Road.’

  ‘This is 24 Ceresford Road, all right, but there’s no “Park” in the address.’

  ‘Oh?’ he said, pointing to the paper. ‘It definitely says Ceresford Park Road. Is it anywhere round here?’

  ‘Don’t know of it,’ Mrs Sellars said with a smile. ‘There’s a Park Road at the end of this road going towards Rotherham. It might be that.’

  ‘Oh yes. Is it? Right. Which way do I go?’

  ‘You go back down our drive, out of the gate and turn left. Go on to the lights, then turn right. That’s Park Road.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘Oh. Right,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  Mrs Sellars withdrew into the house and made to close the door.

  The young man suddenly said, ‘Do you happen to know if a Mr Cross lives there at number 24?’

  The woman came out again. ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘But you could try there and ask.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Er, right. Er, thank you very much. Erm … I notice that you have a very big garden, haven’t you?’

  Mrs Sellars frowned, then raised her eyebrows and put her hands on her hips. She breathed in deeply, eyed him closely and said, ‘What do you really want, young man?’

  He avoided her eyes and said, ‘I wondered if you were looking for … I wondered if you needed a gardener.’

  She blinked. ‘No. We don’t, thank you,’ she said. ‘We already have help in that regard. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go.’ She withdrew into the house and began to close the door.

  ‘Do you know anybody who does, missis?’ he called.

  ‘No. Sorry,’ she said and closed the door firmly, turned the key in the lock and leaned back against it. She frowned. She wasn’t pleased. She sensed that there was something odd about the man, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She walked thoughtfully down the polished parquet hall to the kitchen door and went inside. Maybe he was simply very lonely. There was a lot of loneliness in the world. Or maybe he needed a job. Maybe the man he was looking for – a Mr Cross – was seeking a gardener.

  She looked round to see what she had been doing before the disturbance. She saw the coffee percolator on the worktop with its lid off and a new packet of coffee by its side. She had just picked up a kitchen knife to make a hole in the packet when she noticed a cold breeze at the back of her neck. She whipped round to find the back door slightly open. That was strange. She was certain it had been closed. The wind suddenly picked up and blew it wide open.

  She crossed the kitchen quickly, grabbed hold of the door handle, then stepped outside and looked around. A cloud of brown, black and red leaves swirled around the doorstep. The wind blew a strand of hair across her face. She moved it back over an ear. Then she noticed the back gate was slightly ajar. It had certainly not been left like that. It never was. It was always closed and the latch down. Then the penny dropped: while her attention had been taken talking to that man at the front door, somebody had been in the kitchen.

  She quickly came back into the house, closed the door and turned the key. She looked round the kitchen to see if anything had been taken.

  Her handbag had been on the table. It had gone. Her heart missed a beat. Her hand went up to her chest. She suddenly felt as if she had a frozen cannonball in the middle of her stomach. Her handbag had contained about a hundred pounds in cash, her credit cards, her mobile phone, several family photographs and items of no interest to anybody else but of great value to her.

  Then she had a thought. She rushed back up the hall to the front door. She unlocked it and opened it to see the rear of her new blue Ford Mondeo disappear up the drive and out into the road.

  The car key had been in the handbag.

  Her chest tightened. Her breathing accelerated. She promptly turned back into the house, picked up the phone in the hall, dialled 999.

  A constable asked a lot of questions about her and about the car, and required a description of the man, which she patiently gave to him in detail. Then he repeated all the information back to her to be sure that he had it all down correctly and that any unusual words were spelled correctly.

  She had just put the phone down when it rang out. She snatched it up. It was her husband phoning from his office in the centre of Bromersley, about a mile away. Before she had chance to tell him her news, he said, ‘I’ve been trying to reach you, Vera. My car has just been stolen. One of the girls saw a man simply walk up to it, unlock the door, start the engine and drive it out of my parking space. He must have had a key.’

  Her mouth fell open.

  The spare key to her husband’s silver Volkswagen Jetta had also been in her handbag.

  The Mansion House, Bromersley, South Yorkshire – 11 a.m. Monday, 3 November 2014

  Angel was in the small sitting room off the hall. He was seated behind a small antique ormolu table that had been moved to the middle of the room, which was adequately furnished with several chairs, and a big television almost concealed by a fire screen.

  He had his notes in front of him and was reading through them when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  It was DS Carter. Her face glowed. Her eyes were dancing. ‘We’ve found the gun, sir.’

  Angel’s eyebrows went up. ‘Where?’ he said, standing up. ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘On the lawn, not far from the front door,’ she said.

  ‘Show me,’ he said.

  Carter turned round and made for the door. Angel went round the table and followed her. They went out through the front door, down the steps and onto the drive.

  On the lawn beyond, a small crowd of policemen and women in high-visibility coats and carrying long sticks were talking among themselves. They looked round as Angel and the sergeant approached.

  Carter led the way on to the grass, and about two metres from the gravel drive, on the closely cut lawn, she pointed downwards. ‘There, sir,’ she said.

 
The group of police who had been searching the grounds and the house came in closer.

  Angel looked down at the handgun. He recognized the make immediately.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, giving a deep and satisfying sigh. ‘It’s an old Walther, PPK/S .32 automatic.’

  He turned to the group and said, ‘Who found it?’

  ‘I did, sir,’ a young man said with a grin.

  ‘Well done, lad,’ Angel said. ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Atkinson, sir,’ he said, enjoying the moment and looking round to see if his workmates were noticing him.

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ Angel said. Then he looked at the others. ‘Nobody’s touched it, have they?’ he added.

  A few voices muttered, ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, then he looked at the young policeman and said, ‘Stay with this gun, Atkinson, and don’t let anybody near it until SOCO assume responsibility for it. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Atkinson said, still grinning.

  Angel turned to Carter and said, ‘Ask Don Taylor to deal with it ASAP. Have you much more to search?’

  ‘No, sir, but I said I’d assist Don with the vacuuming of the witnesses’ clothing.’

  ‘Right,’ Angel said. ‘The women will prefer another woman for that job, obviously. I’ll get Crisp to take over from you, but carry on with the searching until he arrives.’

  She nodded in agreement and turned away.

  Then Angel set off back to the little sitting room, tapping out a number on his mobile as he went. He was phoning his other detective sergeant. He closed the sitting-room door and sat down at the ormolu table. He had the phone to his ear listening to the ringing tone.

  To look at, Detective Sergeant Trevor Crisp was straight out of a 1940s Hollywood list of leading men: tall, dark and handsome. He was in his thirties, unmarried and had been seen many times hanging around with WPC Leisha Baverstock, the station beauty. They had been engaged at least twice but where their relationship was at any given time, nobody knew. Crisp wasn’t a gifted detective. He wasn’t even hard-working. In fact, Angel frequently couldn’t find him. But he was very useful in dealing with women witnesses and villains. He could wheedle round a female better than anybody else at Bromersley nick, and he could handle tough, rough recidivists when necessary.