‘It’s not that straightforward,’ Scrivens said. ‘All his estate, at the time, was left to his wife, Felicity. He wanted to split it fifty-fifty and create “The Peter Santana Trust”. He wrote: “I want the Trust to be run by a small committee, say three, with Bill Isaacs in the chair. It is to be for the benefit of writers/producers of original ideas who have the talent, but not the funds, to develop them and take them through to completed satisfying entertainment on tape or film.”’
Angel took the sheet of paper and read the paragraph for himself.
‘Is it significant, sir?’
‘When did he write this?’
Scrivens looked at the cover of the file. ‘Monday 8 December, sir.’
‘Hmmm. It’s significant that he was thinking about his last will and testament only a week before he was murdered. And that he must think well of Mr Isaacs.’
‘He’s the boss of the studio.’
‘Was there anything about a pig?’ asked Angel.
‘Not much, really, sir.’
His face brightened. Anything was better than nothing. ‘What is there?’
Out of the same file, Scrivens pulled out another sheet of A4 and handed it to him. ‘It’s just a simple list, sir. It was tapped out on the same day.’
It read:
ether
cotton wool
dead pig fresh 100 lbs
silk nightdress
Monday night next
Angel read it twice, then copied it out. When he had finished, he rubbed his chin and frowned.
‘What’s it mean, sir?’ Scrivens said.
‘Don’t know, lad,’ he said. ‘Ether is a bit old-fashioned. Doctors and dentists used to use it as an anaesthetic. I am not aware of anything else you might use it for. The pig was dead so I can’t see that he would want to anaesthetize it. A “dead pig, fresh, 100 lbs”, is self-explanatory, as is a “silk nightdress”.’
‘Why do you think he decided on silk, sir?’
‘Why indeed, lad? Why not cotton? It’s cheaper. Does the same job on a dead pig. Covers it up. Silk might be more glamorous, but whatever you dressed a dead pig in wouldn’t make it any the more interesting, would it?’
‘And “Monday night next”, what’s the significance of that, sir?’
‘I don’t know what Santana intended it to mean. But ominously, that’s the date when he was murdered,’ he said.
‘The pig, the nightdress and Monday night next were all to do with the crime scene at Tunistone, sir. But we didn’t find any ether there’ said Scrivens.
Angel stood up. ‘I don’t know,’ he said and ran his hand through his hair. He walked up and down the little office with his hands behind his back. After a few moments he pointed to the pile of files and said, ‘Are you certain there’s nothing else in there about a pig?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you read it all?’
Scrivens hesitated. ‘I’ve looked at everything, sir. I haven’t always tried to understand it all.’
‘Are you sure there’s no plot or story involving a pig or a monkey or a tarantula, or anything else being dressed in a nightdress and put in a bed?’
‘There’s nothing like that in there, sir.’
‘Right, lad,’ he said. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll take it home. It’ll be a little light reading for me over the weekend,’ he added, blowing out a foot of air.
‘I want you to understand that I have come here of my own free will,’ Laurence Smith said in a powerful voice with an accent straight from the valleys.
But it wasn’t true. The two uniformed men from DI Asquith’s team had said that he was very argumentative and vocal, and that they had to use a lot of persuasion to get him out of his house into their car, and then when they arrived at the station more argument to get him out of their car and into the interview room.
‘I hear what you say,’ Angel said evenly.
‘And furthermore,’ Smith continued, ‘I have no idea who this man sat next to me is. You tell me he is a solicitor acting for me, but he could be one of your coppers for all I know.’
Angel looked across the table at Mr Bloomfield and invited him to show Smith his credentials and hoped that in so doing some rapport may develop between the two of them, thus allowing them to move on to the interview.
Angel rose and left the table and Scrivens followed.
Bloomfield was a very experienced criminal solicitor. If he couldn’t get Smith’s confidence, nobody could.
The delay lasted only three minutes. Angel and Scrivens returned and were seated at the table opposite Smith and Bloomfield.
Angel switched on the recording machine and made the usual statement about persons present, the date and the time. After that, the first one to speak was Smith.
‘I want it understood that I have no idea what I have been brought in here about, and that I have done nothing wrong.’
Bloomfield whispered something in his ear but Smith didn’t reply or react.
Angel said: ‘This is purely a preliminary inquiry, Mr Smith. The position simply is this: a man was murdered in the Fisherman’s Rest pub on Canal Road last Tuesday, the sixteenth. You were picked out by a witness from over a hundred photographs that showed only part of the face. Mostly the eyes.’
‘I wasn’t there,’ Smith said. ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘The witness was only eighteen inches from the man’s face,’ Angel said.
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘It’s hardly likely he was mistaken.’
‘It wasn’t me. He may need glasses. I expect he was drunk.’
‘He was stone cold sober. Where were you at nine o’clock?’
‘I was at home.’
‘Who with?’
‘I was by myself. I live alone. Who would I be with? Huh.’
‘Is there anybody who can support your story?’
‘It’s not a story. It’s a fact, man. I was at home, alone. I live alone these days.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘What were you doing?’
‘I don’t know now. Probably watching the box. There’s nothing on, but I still look at the bloody thing. It’s like a drug. Cheaper than Horlicks. Sends me to sleep.’
‘You knew about the shooting?’
‘I did. I read it in the paper. It’s all fantasy. I also read all about you investigating the murder of that millionaire chap and the pig in the pink nightie. Huh. True life is better than TV any time, boyo.’
The muscles of Angel’s jaw tightened. ‘It’s no fantasy,’ he growled. ‘And it’s not a matter to joke about.’
‘I was not joking. I am not laughing, am I?’
Angel stared at him. It was true. His face was as glum as ever. Smith never smiled.
‘You knew the dead man,’ Angel said. ‘A friend of yours. His name was Vincent Doonan.’
‘Yes. I knew him. A nasty, dishonest individual. No friend of mine.’
Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘He went down for the identical offence you did.’
‘We may have relieved a public body of a small amount of its worn-out scrap wire—’
‘You stole 120 yards of copper wire and brought chaos and misery for around thirty hours to thousands of passengers travelling on the main line from Kings Cross to Edinburgh.’
‘But Vincent Doonan stole from me and from Harry Savage. We were partners. It was a monstrous, wicked thing to do to your mates.’
Angel’s fists tightened. He must stay cool. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Doonan wasn’t any good at arithmetic, you see. Apparently he had never learned how to divide by three. He knew how to divide by four, though, because he gave Harry Savage and me a fourth each, and himself two fourths, which I didn’t think was quite right.’
Angel blinked when he heard him mention Harry Savage. He knew he needed to be found and arrested.
‘Where is Harry these days?’ Angel said lightly. ‘Haven’t seen him around.’
‘Don’t know about that, Inspector Ang
el. I give him a wide berth. Don’t think I seen him twice since I come out of prison. Probably gone abroad for a rest.’
‘Hmmm.’ Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Are you sure you didn’t go to the Fisherman’s Rest on Tuesday night?’
‘Positive. I have no money for drinking, man.’
‘What do you do with your money, then?’
‘I don’t have any. You know that. If I had any money it would go straight to Marie and the kids. A court order, Inspector Angel. You know all about court orders, don’t you? If I earn any money, it goes straight to my wife and kids. I get nothing of it. I could never earn enough to pay off what I owe, so I am permanently in debt. I would have to be the Minister for Welsh Affairs or get moulded to look like Jordan to be able to afford to work again. My giro gives me just enough to keep me alive. The government knows this. They make the calculation. It’s precariously close to the breadline, though.’
‘You’ve money to spare to buy yourself a paper.’
‘I read them free in the public library.’
‘And you can afford a good suit.’
‘It’s a cut-down of my late father’s funeral suit. Tailored perfectly by my dear mother.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Well, I am not satisfied with your explanation. I am going to hold you here until I have obtained a warrant and searched your house.’
Smith jumped to his feet. ‘This is bloody outrageous!’ he yelled.
Bloomfield reached up and tugged at his sleeve. ‘Sit down. Please sit down.’
Smith ignored him. He stared at Angel and said: ‘But I didn’t do it. I wasn’t there. Why don’t you believe me?’
Angel stiffened. ‘Because you said exactly the same thing when you were pulled in for stealing the copper wire. You said you didn’t do it. Even when it was traced back to you and Doonan and Savage, even when we found your fingerprints on two places on the cable, even in court after you had taken the oath, you told lie after lie and kept on lying. It was only when the jury had found you guilty and I spoke to you in the court cells that you slyly, grudgingly admitted it. And that was because you thought I could influence the custodial board to send you to HMP Doncaster to be near your home instead of somewhere far away. Some hopes. That’s why.’
Smith shrugged and shook his head. He knew it was true. Then he suddenly said, ‘That doesn’t make me a frigging murderer!’
Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. He looked across at him and said, ‘If you didn’t do it, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ Then he leaned over to the recording control panel. ‘Interview ended 1621 hours,’ he said, then he switched off the tape, turned to Scrivens and said, ‘Search him, get the keys to his house and take him down to a cell.’
CHAPTER 7
It was forty minutes later. The time was five o’clock and Angel was on the phone.
‘It’s just a superficial search, Don. It’s only a two-up and two-down. There’ll be three of us. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Ed Scrivens has the key, and I’ve a man getting the warrant at this very minute. He should be back here in five minutes literally.’
‘Right, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘Better phone my wife.’ He replaced the phone.
Angel reflected a moment and decided that he would do the same. He tapped in the number.
‘Hello, love, it’s me. I’ll be an hour or so late. Something’s cropped up.’
‘It’s nothing dangerous, Michael, is it?’ asked Mary.
‘No. No. Nothing like that. Nothing to worry about.’
‘All right. I can hold tea back until 6.30. Have you thought any more about Timmy?’
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Timmy? What’s Timmy?’
‘Timmy!’ she bawled. ‘My godson, Timothy, of course.’
He felt the heat of Mary’s impatience burn its way down the telephone wire.
‘Oh, him. Getting married. What is there to think about?’
‘A present. We’ll have to buy them a present.’
‘Oh yes. Send them money.’
‘You know we can’t do that. Can’t send money for a wedding present. It’s so … so vulgar.’
Vulgar. He wished his friends, relations and enemies had been so vulgar when they were married. ‘What sort of thing do you mean?’
‘Something nice.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He hadn’t an idea in his head. They probably expected a bungalow. ‘I can’t think of anything, Mary,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’
‘Well, think about it,’ she said. ‘Be careful. Goodbye.’
It was 6 p.m. when a constable arrived back at the station from Doctor Jenkins, a Justice of the Peace, with a signed warrant. Thereafter, the three policemen, Angel, Taylor and Scrivens, promptly made their way in the BMW through the cold, black night to 36 Sebastopol Terrace, a dingy little terraced house, the home of Laurence Smith.
Sebastopol Terrace was one of four long parallel rows of tiny houses squashed together back to back. The estate had been built by the owner of the local coalmine in the 1890s to a basic specification to provide cheap housing for their workmen and families. More than a hundred years later, while the shell of the buildings remained substantial, other parts of the houses, from the damp courses to the chimney pots, were generally in need of attention.
The Sebastopol estate had become a cowboy property repairer’s paradise.
Angel turned the key in the door of the unlit gloomy house and the three policemen bustled in out of the cold with their torches showing them the way. Taylor made straightaway for the staircase to the upper floor. Scrivens went straight ahead where he assumed the kitchen would be.
As Angel found the light switch, he immediately became aware of the lavish furnishings and décor. The little front room was crammed with modern, comfortable furniture, a huge, slimline TV set, ingenious imitation coal-effect fire in the hearth and a well-stocked mini-bar. He didn’t delay. He began by turning over the easy chair, looking for any interference with any part of the upholstery. It seemed to be untouched. He was turning it back when Scrivens wandered back into the room with his mouth open.
Angel looked up and their eyes met. He reckoned that they were thinking the same thing. What they had discovered was a lot different from the impression Laurence Smith had tried to convey: that he was the poverty-stricken ex-husband suffering from a grasping wife, the injustices of the divorce law and the deficiencies of the welfare state.
Scrivens nodded knowingly. ‘You should see the kitchen, sir. Must have cost thousands.’
Angel stopped what he was doing and followed Scrivens through.
The kitchen was newly tiled and fitted out with all new domestic machinery, equipment and furniture, and a streamlined central heating boiler was on the wall feeding a system that was keeping the house pleasantly warm that cold December night.
‘Where did he get his money from then, sir?’
Angel shook his head. ‘I don’t know, lad. I don’t know.’
Taylor searched the bedroom and bathroom carefully. He had been briefed specifically to look for a black or navy blue woollen hat and scarf. He searched the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, pillows and mattress. He removed the boxed area that surrounded the bath; he tapped every upstairs floorboard to see if any were loose; he checked the fitted carpet to see if it was not neatly fixed in any place. He looked behind everything hanging on the walls. Meanwhile Scrivens found the tiny pantry and looked in every unsealed jar and every opened packet, and checked the seals of everything unopened to confirm the contents.
All three policemen looked in every conceivable nook and cranny and failed to find any incriminating evidence that showed the involvement of Laurence Smith in the murder of Vincent Doonan, or indeed an involvement in any other crime.
An hour later they met up in the kitchen. Their sober expressions and minimal crosstalk exemplified their disappointment at finding nothing in their searches.
Suddenly there was the whirring sound from the mechanism of a cuckoo
clock on the wall behind them beginning its hourly cycle.
Angel recognized the noise and he turned round to look at the unusual timepiece, his eyes wide open.
Scrivens and Taylor watched the clock with amused eyes until the cuckoo retired through its tiny doors for the last time, having declared that the time was seven o’clock.
Angel shook his head. He was quietly surprised that every house in Bromersley seemed to have one.
‘A great novelty,’ Taylor said. ‘But you must eventually get fed up with the noise?’
Angel nodded and with another key from Smith’s bunch, he unlocked the back door leading out to the tiny backyard. It had originally been a place to set up a clothesline. At the farthest extent, next to a tumbledown gate in the boundary wall, was a brick building adjoining a similar building in next door’s yard, which was divided into two and had a lavatory in each. Next to that was a coal bunker, and next to that and nearest the back door was a small hut locked with a padlock.
Scrivens went straight down to search the lavatory, Taylor peered into the coal bunker with a torch and Angel found another key and was soon unhooking the padlock from the hasp. In the hut he found a bag of builders’ tools including a set of brush and rods such as those used to release blocked drains. There was also a pair of trainers and, hanging on a cup hook, some dirty overalls, and at the back of the hut was a large plastic bag.
Angel pulled it out, opened it up and looked inside. There were twenty or thirty tennis balls inside. He nodded knowingly and gave the bag to Scrivens. ‘Take that, lad. Look after it. It’s evidence.’
Scrivens blinked in the torchlight. ‘Tennis balls? Evidence, sir?’
Scrivens unlocked the cell door and then stood back.
Angel walked inside. ‘Right, you are free to go,’ he said. ‘If you go to the desk sergeant, you can collect the contents of your pockets.’
Laurence Smith glared at Angel as he eased himself off the bunkbed. ‘I should never have been brought here in the first place.’
Angel’s fists tightened. ‘I am not yet satisfied that you had nothing to do with the death of Vincent Doonan, and there might be charges brought against you in connection with other unrelated offences. This release is conditional. You must not leave Bromersley without advising this office, and you must not visit the Fisherman’s Rest. Understood?’
The Cuckoo Clock Murders Page 8