Angel and the Actress Read online

  Angel’s phone was answered.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ DS Crisp said.

  ‘There you are,’ Angel said. ‘I want you over here on this Joan Minter murder ASAP. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m looking into the strange case of the robbery of two cars from the same family, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’ Angel said, and began to tug on an ear. ‘Were they luxury cars … Rolls Royce or Jaguar or…?’

  ‘No, sir. One was a Ford and the other a Volkswagen,’ Crisp said. ‘They were stolen from different addresses within five minutes of each other. The Ford was almost new and the Volkswagen only two years old. There were two in the gang. I have a witness who saw and spoke to one of them.’

  Angel ran the tip of his fingers repeatedly over an eyebrow. ‘Looks like some big fish tooling up for a job.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Have you shown the witness our rogues’ gallery?’

  ‘She’s looking through it now, sir.’

  Angel frowned and tapped his fist against his lips. Eventually he said, ‘It sounds as if you might be close to a result there.’

  ‘I believe so, sir. Can’t be sure, of course. It depends on the witness.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘I expect she’s a blonde, about thirty,’ he said.

  Crisp grinned. ‘No, sir. She’s got mousy-coloured hair and is about fifty. But you’re right about being close to a result. I might be able to sew it up if she picks out the villain.’

  ‘Right. Stay where you are, then, for the moment. We’ll manage. But let me know how you get on.’

  Angel ended the call and pocketed the mobile. He rubbed his chin. He took out the mobile again and tapped in a number. It began to ring out.

  At last it was answered. ‘CID, DC Ahaz speaking. Can I help you?’

  ‘Ahmed?’ Angel said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the young man answered brightly. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘What are you busy with?’

  Ahmed smiled. His eyes sparkled. It sounded as if an interesting job might be in the offing. ‘Only filing, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Come out here then, ASAP. I want you. We’re very short-handed. Tell the duty sergeant, and ask him if there’s any transport coming this way, otherwise you’ll have to walk.’

  Ahmed Ahaz’s eyes sparkled. ‘Right, sir. I won’t be long.’

  Angel smiled as he ended the call. He could always depend on Ahmed. He was enthusiastic, willing to learn, a hard-worker and conscientious. Angel thought he had the makings of a great detective.

  He stuffed the mobile into his pocket. He was considering what to do next when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  It was DS Taylor. He was carrying a polythene bag with the word EVIDENCE printed in big red letters across it.

  ‘What is it, Don?’ Angel said.

  ‘The Walther,’ Taylor said, holding out the bag.

  Angel took it and put it on the tabletop.

  ‘As expected there are no prints,’ Taylor said. ‘I’ve got Records looking up the serial number. It was brought here fully loaded. I’ve taken seven bullets out. The eighth was the bullet case which was found, which is the same bore, and which presumably killed Joan Minter.’

  ‘Better check the firing-pin mark,’ Angel said.

  He nodded. ‘Will do.’

  ‘Any prints on any of them?’

  ‘Polished clean, sir,’ he said. Then the muscles round his mouth tightened. He cleared his throat as he added, ‘Very professionally.’

  Angel rubbed his hand hard across his mouth. He nodded and said, ‘It’s all very worrying, Don.’

  ‘I’ll get back to my team, sir,’ Taylor said, and turned to go.

  ‘Right. Is everything going all right? How far have you got?’

  ‘I’ve almost finished the male guests, sir. Had a bit of trouble with one of them … an American called Erick Cartlett. He said that I’d no right to subject him to that sort of indignity. He prattled on about his human rights and all that. And he wants to see you.’

  ‘I’ll see him first. Send him along, will you?’

  Taylor said, ‘Right, sir, I will. And the butler, Trott, did you want me to check him for gunshot residue? I mean, he was only a few feet away from Miss Minter when she was shot.’

  ‘May as well. And the two caterers, as well. Everybody who was there.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘I expect Mac will vacuum the clothes Joan Minter was wearing?’

  Suddenly, without warning, the door opened and a man with thick spectacles, grey hair and a red face burst in. He came up to Angel, pointed a finger at him and in an American drawl said, ‘I wanna see you, mister.’

  Angel and Taylor stared at him.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Angel said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Taylor turned back to Angel and said, ‘This is Mr Cartlett, sir. I was telling you about him.’

  The American’s face grew redder. ‘Yes, Erick Cartlett is my name,’ he said. ‘You may have heard of me.’

  Angel had never heard the name so it made no impression on him.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ he said. ‘Won’t keep you a moment.’

  Cartlett’s lips went a blue colour. In a menacing voice, he said, ‘I won’t wait long, young man.’

  Angel turned to Taylor and said, ‘Had we finished, Don? Where were we?’

  ‘I just wanted to ask about Flora, sir. You said that she would be helping me. I haven’t got a woman in my team, and a female pair of hands would be—’

  ‘Yes, Don. I know. Women don’t like being touched by men they don’t know. Flora is coming to you when she’s finished the search. I should think she’s near the end of it by now. Liaise with her, will you? She’s somewhere around the house and grounds. If you’ve any problem, let me know.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said, and he went out.

  Angel turned to Cartlett. ‘Now then, sir—’

  Cartlett said, ‘Look you here, Angel, I am an American citizen, and at home I am welcomed and fêted and looked up to by everybody. I come to this damned freezing hell of a country and have somehow been involved in the death of a famous woman, which has nothing at all to do with me. I’m a guest in this goddamn country, but the way I have been treated, I might just as well be a bum on the backstreets of Baltimore. Now the latest insult is that you want to vacuum me. Isn’t that what you do to carpets and drapes?’

  ‘Well, sir, I am sorry for any discourtesy that you may think has been shown to you, but you will understand that we are trying to find out who murdered Joan Minter. And as the officer in charge, I have to—’

  ‘All I understand, mister, is that I have an important meeting tomorrow in Beverley Hills, and I simply must be there. My studio is negotiating with a prominent author and a famous actor to make an outstanding motion picture through 2015. As chairman of the board I simply have to be there. The result of these negotiations will affect the employment of two hundred and sixty men and women for the next year or so. There are a lot of family’s futures wrapped up in this deal.’

  ‘I would like nothing better than to be able to release you, but you were present at a murder and I must extract from you every possible piece of information I can before I can do that. I trust that the members of your board can deal with the negotiations in your absence.’

  The American was furious. His face was scarlet. He ran his hand through his hair and rose to his feet. ‘You’ve not heard a word I’ve said. I must contact the American Embassy.’

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Cartlett,’ Angel said.

  ‘I will not sit down. I am not prepared to be put off by a load of double talk.’

  Angel was quite unmoved by the attitude of the American. He dipped into his pocket and took out a small plastic box the size of a mobile phone and placed it on the table. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions. It’s possible I might get from you all I need. This is a recording machine. I trust you
have no objection to me recording the interview. It will save time making notes.’

  Cartlett raised his eyebrows, leaned over Angel, offered a questioning gaze and said, ‘You mean … I could be allowed to return to the States today?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Angel said. ‘I’m not making any rash promises. You must be reasonable, Mr Cartlett. And try and see the situation from my point of view.’

  Cartlett returned to the chair, sat down and breathed out a long sigh. He stroked his hair. He did this repeatedly. It seemed to have a soothing effect on him.

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘It all depends upon scientific evidence, and the way the inquiry goes.’

  ‘Well, let’s move it along then, Inspector, please.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Very well. What was your relationship with Miss Minter?’

  Cartlett pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed. ‘I was fond of her,’ he said, ‘and I think she liked me. We first met about 1974. That’s forty years ago. It began when she was already a big name in the business. I was putting Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet together to perform in the great cities of the world. I called it “The Great Cities Tour”. I already had David Chesterfield as the male lead and was hoping to get Hannah Lubrecki for Juliet, but it fell through. Now I knew that Joan was a great actress, but she didn’t have the attraction Hannah had. Nevertheless, I wanted to sew this up quickly so I agreed a deal with Joan, who was wildly enthusiastic about playing Juliet opposite David Chesterfield. Thereafter she worked in my productions many, many times. She knew her strengths and always drove a hard bargain; but she was always excellent box office.’

  ‘And, after all those years, what is your opinion of her now?’ Angel said.

  Cartlett shrugged. ‘She was an actress and a businesswoman. I was a producer and a businessman. I still am. At the time she needed me, I needed her. We had to rub along together.’

  ‘Have you any idea who might have hated her enough to want to murder her?’

  Cartlett began stroking his hair again. Then he ran his fingers across his eyebrows before he said, ‘Well no, Inspector. I cannot think of anybody who would be so wicked.’

  Angel thought he had been very slow to answer. ‘So, everybody loved Joan Minter, did they, Mr Cartlett?’ he said.

  ‘No. The film business is a tough business,’ Cartlett said. ‘Actors in particular need the hide of an elephant to withstand all the battering that goes on. They need to know how to be two-faced, to conceal their real feelings and to be able to say that they love everybody and everybody loves them. That’s why they’re known as “loveys”. Take Felix Lubrecki, for example, son of the famous Hannah Lubrecki. After the business of Joan being cast as Juliet all those years back, Joan made the point to the media that she took the part from Hannah. That suggested to the outside world that the studio thought that Joan was a better actress than the great Hannah Lubrecki was. That was far from the truth. And that made Hannah depressed. She was also out of work for a few months. It set her on a downward spiral. She took to the bottle. Someone – possibly Joan, but I don’t know for certain – put it around that she was an alcoholic, which also wasn’t true. But that was another reason why the offer of star roles stopped going her way. Eventually she died in a poor way in a flat in London somewhere. But Hannah was a magnificent actress. And such beauty you rarely saw. Those Polish cheekbones … some women would die for. She was far more beautiful and superior to Joan Minter’s chocolate-box beauty. So you can hardly expect Felix to feel kindly disposed towards Joan, can you? Yet, here he is, being offered, and apparently cheerfully accepting, her hospitality. But you don’t have to tell Felix that you heard all this about his mother from me.’

  Angel raised his eyebrows. ‘Thank you for that,’ he said. ‘I’ll bear it in mind when I speak to Mr Lubrecki.’

  Then he looked at his notes. ‘Do you own a firearm?’ he said.

  ‘I have a shotgun and a revolver at home.’

  ‘You didn’t bring the revolver with you, did you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened when you were listening to Joan Minter speaking from the top of the grand piano.’

  ‘Sure. She was having a great time. She had a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I think she had had a drop or two more of champagne than she should have. She made a side-swipe at her four ex-husbands and was recalling the beginning of her career at a kid’s competition somewhere locally when the lights in the room went out and a gun close by me went off.’

  ‘How near were you to the gun?’

  ‘A couple of yards, I guess. Then the door was opened.’

  ‘How near were you to the door?’

  ‘Three yards, I guess.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘The gunman, I assume, went out, crossed the hall and went out of the front door.’

  ‘Did the light from the hall show into the room while the door was open?’

  ‘No. The hall light must have been switched off.’

  ‘Before the shooting, did you see anybody in the room you didn’t know?’

  ‘No. But I wasn’t taking a roll call.’

  ‘And after the shooting, did you notice anybody missing?’

  ‘No. But someone definitely went out. I wasn’t inclined to chase after him because he had a gun. A second or two later the front door banged.’

  ‘Didn’t the light from the gun flash illuminate the person with the gun?’

  ‘Not to me. I was in front of it.’

  ‘What makes you think it was a man?’

  ‘I dunno. I guess it seems the most likely gender to be toting a gun around. I know that women can use a gun these days, but …’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

  Angel nodded.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Angel looked round. ‘Come in,’ he called.

  It was Ahmed. He was carrying a sheet of A4 and a laptop.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, then he saw Erick Cartlett. ‘Oh, good morning, sir. Am I interrupting anything?’

  Cartlett glared at him.

  Angel said, ‘Come in, lad. Sit down.’ He looked at the sheet of A4 Ahmed was carrying, assumed it was for him and held out his hand.

  Ahmed passed it to him. ‘It’s an email, sir. Came in just as I was leaving. It’s from Records.’

  ‘Take your coat off and sit down,’ Angel said, then he looked at the email.

  It said:

  Walther PPK/S.32 automatic. Number 22394297

  2 July 1969, one of an order for twenty from Carl Walther GmbH, Ulm, West Germany by Dienst Specialistische Recherche Toepassingen (Special Investigative Services) Dutch Police, The Hague, Netherlands.

  17/22 February 1973, was lost while in service in Amsterdam.

  7 January 1975, was found in the possession of Michael Stuart McCoy, by Metropolitan Police, UK.

  22 August 1976, McCoy sentenced at Old Bailey for eight years for armed robbery.

  30 August 2000, delivered to RASC Cardiff for secure storage.

  2 February 2001, stolen from RASC Cardiff with other weapons.

  Present location unknown.

  Angel became aware that Cartlett was tapping his foot on the carpet. He looked up at him.

  The muscles round the American’s face were drawn tight.

  Cartlett stared at his watch then said, ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten about me.’

  Angel sighed. He put the sheet of A4 on the table. ‘This is some valuable information about the gun that we believe was the murder weapon.’

  ‘I am not interested in that,’ Cartlett said. ‘When are you going to permit me to leave?’

  Angel’s lips tightened. ‘Not before I have the results of the gunshot residue test, sir. And maybe not even then. It depends on what it shows. Now, I have all that I need from you, Mr Cartlett – for the time being. I suggest you wait in your room so that I can reach you quickly.’

  Cartlett’s eyes flashed. His face was
scarlet. He leaped to his feet. ‘Dear God!’ he said. Then he stomped across the room to the door, snatched it open, went out and closed it with a bang.

  Ahmed turned to Angel with a quizzical look.

  ‘He’s been nothing but trouble,’ Angel said. ‘I don’t trust him.’

  He reached out, picked up the miniature recording machine, pressed the playback button and handed it to Ahmed. ‘Tap that out. It’s the interview with him.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said as he unzipped the laptop case.

  ‘I’m ready to continue with the interviews and I want you to take down the witnesses’ replies.’

  ‘I’ll do it directly onto here, sir,’ he said, indicating the laptop, ‘if that’s all right. It saves time.’

  ‘Right. First of all, find me a man called Felix Lubrecki. He’s about forty, slim, black hair. He is a guest here. If you’re stuck ask DS Taylor or DS Carter.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said, and he left the room.

  THREE

  AS HE WAITED for Felix Lubrecki, Angel picked up the email about the Walther PPK/S.32. He leaned back in the chair and reread it while rubbing his chin. He was thinking that as the gun was found on the lawn directly opposite the front door of the house, it suggested that after the murderer had shot Joan Minter, he or she had left the drawing room, crossed the hall, gone out through the front door, run straight across the drive onto the lawn and deliberately or accidently dropped the gun while making good their escape on the way to the main gate. If that were so, whether it was a guest or an intruder, the murderer would not be among the gathering remaining, which was all very confusing. Was he looking for a murderer among the wrong band of suspects? Should he start looking at the four ex-husbands? Should he therefore allow Erick Cartlett to return to the States? These were some of the problems that troubled him. He squeezed the lobe of his ear between a finger and thumb.