The Cuckoo Clock Murders Page 3

  Angel noticed Harker’s nose was red and his forehead perspiring. If he had a cold or flu, he didn’t want it. Angel was determined to keep as far away from him as possible.

  Harker reached out for an A4 sheet of paper in a wire basket on the desk in front of him. It looked like an interoffice memo.

  ‘Sit down. What I have to tell you is very important and highly confidential.’

  Angel undid his jacket pocket and sat down on the chair facing the desk.

  Harker cleared his throat and looked up from the memo. ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘You know the chief constable has just returned from an ACPO meeting in Northampton?’

  Angel didn’t know. He didn’t care, but he nodded so that Harker would move on.

  ‘Well, there was a big noise from the Home Office there. He dropped something privately to the chief … He didn’t want to overstate the case, but … there are forged ten-Euro notes floating about the north of England. They are being picked up all over Europe, causing the Bank of England no end of difficulties. They are quite excellent forgeries, superficially. No rubbish. Difficult for the man in the street to detect at first sight. Perfectly printed. Works of art. However, they have no watermarks or metal strips, and they are not numbered progressively, so a simple examination will detect them. Now, Bromersley seems to be geographically in the centre of where the counterfeit currency is distributed. If it is so, you can see that it is very embarrassing for us. The Home Office don’t want the media to get hold of it. So it must be kept low key. The bank doesn’t want our partners in Europe to become aware of it either, not until we have traced the source and closed the printing press down. All right? The forgeries are driving the Bank of England crackers. Euros are no use at a retail level on the UK mainland, of course, but exceedingly useful in travel agents, banks and so on.’

  ‘Anything to go on, sir?’

  Harker’s bushy eyebrows went up. ‘I’ve told you all there is.’

  Angel had never heard of currency forgeries in Bromersley before. He had once arrested a man forging sovereigns out of melted-down wedding rings. It was hardly profitable for the old lag because it took him too long to produce examples good enough to be passed. Paper currency, however, was something else. Once set up, huge quantities could be quickly counterfeited, limited only by the accessibility of suitable paper and ink.

  He shrugged; he couldn’t see how he could initiate any inquiries without a specific report where the forged stuff had actually changed hands.

  Minimally, such an enterprise these days needed an underground printing press with photographic resources, a skilled printer, or an eager amateur with the ability to match ink colours, plus some sort of a distribution set-up. The location could be anywhere, but he couldn’t think of any possible culpable party at that moment. He wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t get into all that. He had a murder on his hands, a very peculiar murder. And murder was his business.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Angel said and stood up to leave.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Harker said.

  Angel sat down.

  ‘How are you getting along with that Santana case?’

  Angel pursed his lips. He knew the super of old. This could be a trick question.

  ‘Straightforward, is it?’ Harker added, looking at him with one eye slightly closed.

  Angel wondered what Harker was getting at. ‘Too early to say, sir,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘I see that you’ve got a pig in the case.’

  Angel thought he detected the beginning of a smile from the man. That could be dangerous. Harker was not inclined to smile and when he did, something calamitous always happened. Last time, it was July last year. There was the big flood and almost a hundred Bromersley residents became homeless overnight. Nevertheless, he would have to answer him.

  ‘A dead pig was found in Peter Santana’s bed, sir.’

  ‘Dressed in a nightdress?’ Harker said. ‘Why? What for? What’s the sense in it?’

  ‘At the moment, sir, I have no idea,’ Angel said.

  The smile didn’t develop.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  It was DC Edward Scrivens, an eager young man, twenty-four, who had been a detective two years now. Angel thought he would do well.

  ‘Aye. Come in, Ed,’ he said. ‘I want you to gather together all the computers, laptops, hard disks, floppy disks, and memory sticks that Peter Santana had used during the past month or so. You’ll need to go to the Top Hat Film Studios, his house on Creesforth Road and the farmhouse place in Tunistone. I’ve got some computer geeks coming over from Special Services in Wakefield. They are going to check on Santana’s work to see if there is anything in the computers that might help us. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said, making for the door.

  ‘Follow it through. And let me know what they find ASAP.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘When the Wakefield lads have finished, see that any kit we don’t need for evidence goes back to where it came from. All right?’

  As Scrivens went out, Gawber came in.

  ‘There are still wholesale butchers around in spite of all the supermarkets,’ Gawber said. ‘There’s a man runs a small business using an old cold store that was part of the abattoir at Dodworth Bottom. Supplies pubs, cafés, hotels, places like that.’

  ‘What did he know about the pig?’

  ‘He got a phone call from a man in the middle of last week inquiring about a whole pig. The butcher thought it was for roasting on a spit. He sells one or two in the summer sometimes to members of the public.’

  ‘Was it Santana?’

  ‘Didn’t give his name. A thin, frail, white-haired man, he said, in a very smart suit, collected it, paid cash. Had it put in the boot of his car, a Mercedes.’

  ‘That would be him. Anything else?’

  ‘It had to be fresh. Seemed fussy about the weight. Had to weigh a hundred pounds, apparently.’

  Angel frowned. ‘A good round number, I suppose. Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  With a furrowed brow, Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Why would anybody in their right mind dress a pig in a silk nightdress and tuck it in his bed?’

  ‘I suppose it was Santana who dressed the pig in the nightdress?’

  ‘Well, he was the one who bought the pig, wasn’t he?’

  The two men looked at each other.

  Angel said: ‘It doesn’t make sense. Have you seen what a beautiful woman his wife is?’

  Gawber’s face brightened. ‘Oh yes, sir.’

  ‘And being a big film producer,’ Angel said, ‘his wife said that there have always been women eager to throw themselves at him – starlets, wannabes. I bet that was true. These days everybody wants to be famous, but not because they’re brilliant at what they do.’

  ‘That’s why I think it must be some sort of a deviant practise,’ Gawber said. ‘He couldn’t find anybody willing to do something outrageously abnormal or indecent enough for him for money.’

  Angel frowned. ‘It’s a dead pig, Ron. Let’s stay real. I could have introduced him to a dozen or more lasses we’ve had through here in the last twelve months.’

  ‘Well, maybe he wanted a man, sir?’

  Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘No, Ron. If we go down that road, we’ll have to bring psychologists and all sorts of experts in to get under our feet. Let’s try common sense first. Let’s find out where he got the glamorous nightdress from.’

  ‘Want me to try and do that, sir?’

  ‘Aye. There’s a shopping bag and wrapping in the waste at the farmhouse from that big lingerie shop, on Market Street. Exotica, I think it’s called. I should try there first.’

  Gawber made for the door.

  ‘And if you see Trevor Crisp in your travels,’ Angel said, ‘tell him I want him, smartish.’

  Gawber nodded and went out.

  Angel reached out for the phone. He tapped in a number. He was rin
ging the pathologist.

  Dr Mac answered the phone.

  ‘What you got, Mac? What did Santana die of?’

  Mac grunted. He wasn’t pleased. ‘Oh, it’s you, Michael. Might have known. What do ye think I am?’ he protested. ‘I’m not gifted with second sight. I haven’t even started the PM yet.’

  ‘Come on, Mac. Don’t mess about. What does it look like?’

  ‘Obviously murder. One gunshot to the heart.’

  ‘Did you get any samples from the scene?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing useful to you, I am thinking. Now can I have ma tea?’

  ‘Thanks, Mac. That’s great. Won’t keep you. Now what about the pig?’

  The doctor sniffed. ‘Aye. What about it?’ he said sharply. ‘You’re not expecting me to carry out a post mortem on a pig, are ye?’

  Angel stifled a smile. ‘No. But you have had a look at it?’

  ‘Aye. And it was a good, fresh, female beastie.’

  ‘Was the pig complete?’ Angel said.

  ‘Complete? Complete? You mean had it been gutted or whatever they do with pigs?’ Mac said quickly with a raised voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Apart from a great loss of blood from a butcher’s cut at the throat, it was sound in every particular.’

  ‘Were there any wounds at all on the pig? I was thinking of gunshot wounds, for instance?’

  ‘Certainly not, and that’s all I have to say on the matter.’

  ‘It had been refrigerated?’

  ‘Yes. It had been refrigerated, and if you need to know anything else, you need to apply to the Fatstock Marketing Board or bring in a veterinarian. You have exhausted my knowledge on dead pigs.’

  ‘Thank you, Mac.’

  There was a loud click as the doctor replaced his phone.

  Angel rubbed his chin. He seemed to have ruffled Mac’s feathers. He regretted it. He got on well with the doctor who had been pathologist at Bromersley for more than fifteen years. He liked him because he was good at his job and was to be relied on absolutely in the witness box.

  He reached into a drawer and pulled out the telephone directory. He was looking for the number of Doctor Prakash, Peter Santana’s GP. He remembered he was on Bond Street. He soon found the number. He got through to the doctor and told him about the death of Santana.

  ‘I am extremely sorry to hear that, Inspector,’ the doctor said. ‘I am both surprised and shocked.’

  ‘I would like to speak to you further about him, Doctor.’

  ‘Of course. When would you like to come?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Come round right away.’

  Ten minutes later, Angel was in Doctor Prakash’s surgery.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me so promptly. What I need to know firstly, Doctor, is the general health of Peter Santana.’

  ‘Well, he had an inoperable heart condition. A leaking valve. He needed a replacement. He might have survived the operation, but perhaps not any rejection, which initially always happens. Also it was felt that he would not have had the strength to survive any infection, which is also common. However, all his other major functions were working perfectly well, therefore it was thought that, with careful management, he may have survived another two or ten or even twenty years. His changed lifestyle, diet and exercise routines were rigorously maintained, and his physical strength was increasing every time I saw him. For a small, elderly man he was quite strong, and the prognosis was satisfactory.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘I see him quite often.’ Prakash looked down at his notes. ‘The tenth of this month, only a week ago.’

  Angel’s eyebrows went up. He nodded. ‘And what was he like?’

  ‘He was very unusual, Inspector. Always polite and quietly spoken. Clear thinking. Decisive. Tremendously industrious.’

  ‘A busy man?’

  ‘I suppose it was necessary for a man to become so successful?’

  Angel pursed his lips and blew out a length of air.

  ‘His wife, Felicity … she is also a patient of yours, Doctor. What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘Nothing much. Hardly ever saw her. She seems to enjoy rude health. A lot younger than Peter, of course.’

  ‘How would you sum her up?’

  Prakash thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘Like her husband,’ he said, ‘except that she was more excitable and tended to speak forthrightly.’

  ‘Were you ever consulted by either or both of the couple on any matters that may have arisen due to the significant difference in their ages?’

  The doctor considered his answer carefully. ‘No. But I must say, Inspector, if they had, I would not have been willing to discuss the matter with you. But I repeat, they did not.’

  Angel shook his head and said, ‘A strange thing has happened in this case, Doctor Prakash. It is bound to come out in the newspapers, so there is no necessity to keep it secret. When the fully dressed body of Peter Santana was found on the floor in the bedroom of his house in Tunistone, in the bed was a dead pig, a 100 lb sow, dressed in a pink silk nightdress. I can’t make any sense of it. As Mr Santana’s GP, can you offer any kind of explanation?’

  Prakash’s eyes glowed. He was clearly amazed. ‘No, I cannot.’ Then he added, ‘Of course, the pig is an offensive symbol in the Jewish faith.’

  ‘That’s right, but Peter Santana was not Jewish…. Anyway, we know that he bought the pig himself.’

  Prakash shook his head. ‘Really? I am sorry, Inspector. I can’t throw any light on the matter.’

  CHAPTER 3

  THE FISHERMAN’S REST PUBLIC HOUSE, CANAL ROAD, BROMERSLEY. 2100 HOURS. TUESDAY 16 DECEMBER 2008.

  It was a filthy night, and colder than a Strangeways lavatory seat. The gusty wind and hard-driven rain made the outdoor Christmas lights rattle next to the wall and the flickering pub sign. Inside the Fisherman’s Rest, things were very quiet. Being the week before Christmas, it was thought that some of the usual drinkers were holding back in anticipation of the annual blow-out, while others were simply conserving funds. Inflation had increased the cost of Christmas presents, cards, food and decorations and so on. In addition, trade had dropped considerably since it became illegal to smoke tobacco in a public place.

  The landlord, Clem Bailey, who was also the licensee, barman, waiter, pot washer, cellarman, lavatory cleaner, floor sweeper, bouncer and occasional sandwich maker was making a poor living. At that very moment, he was standing behind the bar, hand in chin, scanning the room and wondering whether he was contravening any health and safety regulations, local council bye-laws, hygiene rules, fire regulations, licensing, gambling, singing or dancing laws. He was also monitoring the door to keep out minors, prostitutes, tinkers, bookies’ runners and other undesirables. He was always at risk of losing his licence. To stay in business he had to create a welcoming environment for the customers, obey the laws, keep sweet with the police, observe all the bye-laws, and sell gallons of beer.

  In one corner of the Fisherman’s Rest was a gathering of four men, quietly drinking and occasionally talking in subdued voices among themselves. In another badly lit corner, there was a courting couple sitting as close to each other as Siamese twins. Then there were two men at a table at the back, and a party of five, three women and two men, at a table in the centre. Thirteen altogether. Not a lucky number.

  Suddenly, a short recurring clicking sound came from the mechanism of an unusual-looking clock on the wall, in the shape of a tiny chalet with a pendulum swinging underneath it and two chains hanging down with weights at the ends. A moment later, the two tiny doors of the chalet opened and a small piece of polished wood with a plastic beak and some feathery appendage popped out on a spring and went back again at great speed. At each appearance, one heard the crude mechanical sound of a cuckoo. It appeared nine times.

  Most of the customers ignored the noise; some looked up and frowned, a few
smiled.

  The pub door banged and out of the wind and rain came a big man. He was wearing a woollen hat pulled well down over his ears and a woollen scarf across his mouth. He stood by the door, looked round the room, then hesitated a moment as he spotted a particular face among the four men in the corner. He turned quickly away, walked up to the bar and began to loosen his wet leather gloves.

  Bailey looked up, took in the hat and scarf and said, ‘Nasty weather.’

  The man stared at him but didn’t reply.

  Bailey looked up again at the half-covered face. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘A pint of bitter,’ the man said.

  Bailey selected a glass, pulled the pint and placed it on a coaster.

  ‘And a beef sandwich,’ the man added.

  Bailey then went out through the door behind the bar to the tiny kitchen to make the sandwich. He took a plate from the cupboard, selected two slices of bread, took the lid off the butter dish and reached out for a knife.

  Then, in quick succession, Bailey heard three gunshots. A woman screamed. Somebody shouted.

  Bailey’s stomach leaped up to his mouth. He dropped the butter knife and turned towards the door to the bar.

  The pub door banged shut.

  Bailey rushed up to the bar counter. There was the sickly smell of cordite.

  One of the four men in the corner was slumped over the table; the other three were standing, staring down at him. One of them pulled him up by his shoulder to see his face. Blood was streaming out of a wound to his temple. When the man saw it, he gasped and gently lowered the injured man back to the table.

  In the cold silence, somebody said, ‘Oh my God.’

  The courting couple, who were standing and holding on to each other, leaned over to see the wounded man.

  Bailey looked across at the bleeding man and said, ‘What happened? What the hell happened?’

  The man nearest to the injured man said, ‘He’s hurt bad. That man shot him. Just like that. He shot him.’

  ‘Oh hell,’ Bailey said. He rubbed his chin.

  ‘He’s dead,’ the man cried, his lips trembling.