More waiting.
Angel leaned back in the chair and licked his lips thoughtfully.
After a few moments, there was a knock at the door. It was Gawber.
‘Just passing, sir. How’s it going?’
Angel was pleased to see him. He brought him up to date and then said, ‘Harry Savage’s brother-in-law is Liam Quigley, isn’t he?’
Gawber nodded. ‘Are you wondering if in some way he is involved with this IMPRO, sir?’
‘Just a thought. But even the three of them together haven’t the brains to take on an outfit of that calibre.’
‘Not the brains, sir. Maybe the brawn.’
Angel was considering Gawber’s observation when the phone rang.
His face brightened as he reached out for it. ‘Inspector Angel, Bromersley police, UK.’
It was Müller. ‘I have checked off your photograph of Harry Savage against all my staff, Inspector, and I am pleased to say that he is not in our employment, Inspector Angel, in any capacity, nor has he ever been.’
Angel wrinkled his nose.
Müller seemed to make the statement with annoying triumphalism. Then he added, ‘You seem to have been sent on zee wild duck chase.’
Angel pursed his lips. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t even be bothered to point out that the correct phrase was ‘a wild goose chase’. It was true that he had allowed guesswork to override the facts but he couldn’t think of any other likely reason why a crook like Laurence Smith, friend of Harry Savage, would be on a coach passing by Reebur.
But then he suddenly had another thought.
‘You may be right, Mr Müller,’ he said. ‘Would you bear with me? Isn’t there a factory there in Reebur called the Tikka Tokka Cuckoo Clock Company?’
‘But, of course,’ Müller said, sounding surprised. ‘It is only a small factory next door. Reebur is only a very small village, Inspector.’
‘Next door!’ Angel yelled. He could not contain his excitement. He thanked Mr Müller kindly for his trouble and replaced the phone in its cradle. He turned to Gawber. ‘Pass me that cuckoo clock box on that chair, Ron. I want the phone number on the label.’
Gawber read off the number and Angel tapped in the number on the phone pad. It was soon ringing out. He turned back to Gawber. ‘Tell Ahmed to stand by. Hopefully, I’ll want him to email that photograph and description of Harry Savage to the Tikka Tokka Cuckoo Clock Company.’
Angel was soon connected and was speaking to the proprietor, a Mr Meyer, who quickly grasped the situation. Ahmed promptly sent the email and in minutes Meyer phoned back to say that the photograph was indeed that of a Harry Savage who worked at the factory as a caretaker.
Angel’s pulse took off again.
‘He seems to be a very good employee, Inspector,’ Meyer added. ‘He has been with us six weeks now. He has no access to our lists of customers, their account details or any cash. He simply works around the factory pushing a trolley, collecting up the stuff for the waste bin, such as sawdust, wood shavings, wrapping paper, shredded paper from the office and waste from the canteen; he then takes it to the boiler room in the basement where he sorts it. Anything at all that is private or sensitive is burned in an incinerator with the waste from the printers next door, under the supervision of one of their managers.’
Angel nodded. There it was. That was the prize. ‘Supervision or not, Mr Meyer, I believe that something valuable, that could be maybe copied or printed from, has been stolen by Savage from IMPRO’s waste.’
‘Do you really think so, Inspector?’
‘I’m sure of it. I believe that whatever was stolen was then packed in and among a consignment of 250 cuckoo clocks of yours, which you innocently sent to Savage’s partner and brother-in-law, Quigley, to an antique shop address that he had access to, here in Bromersley, in the UK. And that subsequently, with a bit of scheming – computers are so sophisticated these days – he has managed to produce images good enough to be used to forge passable Euros.’
‘Oh dear. I know nothing about this, Inspector,’ Meyer said.
‘No, sir,’ Angel said. ‘I don’t believe that you do.’
‘What do you want me to do now?’
‘Do nothing, Mr Meyer. Do not arouse Savage’s suspicions. Let him complete his day’s work for you without arousing his suspicions. But don’t expect him to turn in for work in the morning. There is another villain, Laurence Smith, suspected of murder, who is also a friend of Harry Savage on his way to visit him, I believe.’
‘Oh dear,’ Meyer said. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
‘Don’t worry. Through Interpol, I hope to arrange the arrest of both of them, hopefully in the next few hours.’
He asked Meyer for the address he had for Savage, which was at one of the few small houses in Reebur, thanked him for the information and cooperation and replaced the phone.
Angel turned to Gawber, who smiled.
‘A couple more phone calls,’ Angel said, ‘and I think we can say that we have them safely in the bag.’
‘What are you charging Smith with, sir? We know he must have murdered Vincent Doonan, but we don’t actually have any evidence against him, do we?’
‘He had those tennis balls in his possession, didn’t he? That’s evidence. Suspicion that he’s working that old scam will be enough to pull him in and hold him.’
Gawber’s eyes flashed. ‘From Switzerland?’ he said.
‘From Swaziland, if necessary,’ Angel replied heavily. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘I hope your passport is in order. Looks like there’s a trip to Lugano likely for you and Ted Scrivens tomorrow.’
Gawber smiled. ‘Oh? Right, sir.’
Angel reached out for the phone.
CHAPTER 12
It was at 10.25 p.m. on Monday night that Angel received a call on his mobile from the chief of police, Lugano, reporting that Savage and Smith were secure in separate cells in the police station there, having been arrested together by a squad of armed Swiss guard. The two villains were interrupted drinking wine and watching a video with two local girls in a rented luxury climber’s chalet in the mountains in Reebur.
Less than six hours later, Gawber and Scrivens left for Lugano police station via Leeds/Bradford airport and expected to return with their prisoners later that same day if the flights departed and arrived on time.
Angel was delighted that he was at last making some progress on a case, and he went to the antique shop that morning with a light heart. He stopped the BMW outside the shop, where he duly observed that the ‘For Sale’ sign had been taken down from across the front of the building. He floated into the shop, feeling as carefree as Fred Astaire dancing up the staircase to paradise.
There were some answers he urgently needed from Juanita Freedman and Liam Quigley before he could sew the case up and pass it over to the CPS.
He pushed open the shop door, causing the bell to clang.
Miss Juanita Freedman was behind the counter. She had been hanging delicate glass decorations on a small Christmas tree by the till. On hearing the bell, she looked up, saw that it was Angel, frowned then changed it into a polite smile.
As he approached the counter, he observed that there were many more gaps in the stock than there had been on his previous visit, and reasoned that things must be going well.
‘Good morning, Inspector Angel,’ Miss Freedman said as she put the lid on the empty bauble box and pushed it under the counter.
‘Good morning.’
‘I am surprised to see you back so soon,’ she said. ‘Doing some last-minute Christmas shopping?’
He pursed his lips. ‘No. Just tidying up a few loose ends, Miss Freedman. The shop has been sold, I see,’ he said, glancing back in the general direction of where the sign had been.
Her eyes glistened. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘Liam Quigley has bought it. Isn’t that great? It means that I will be able to stay here. It is such a relief.’
It was the first time he ha
d seen her look happy. He was pleased for her. ‘It had been a worry, had it … where you were going to live after Mr Makepiece died?’ he said thoughtfully, licking his lower lip.
‘A serious worry, Inspector. I doubt if I could have afforded to pay the rent for any modern flat even if I could have found one. When Mr Makepiece was alive, this flat was part of my remuneration and of course it was useful to him, me living above the shop. I could lock up and attend to everything when he was away on holiday or business. He used to be away a lot, attending auctions and sales. Of course, those were the good days,’ she said with a faraway smile.
Angel rubbed his chin. He had that awful feeling that she was in for a fall. ‘And what does Liam Quigley intend doing with it now?’ he said. ‘Has he discussed it with you?’
‘Oh yes. It will pretty well stay as it is,’ she said. ‘Liam says he won’t be stocking as many antiques, though. More like curios, fast-selling lines like these cuckoo clocks. They were just a start. He’s looking round now to see what other unusual novelties he might buy.’
Angel bit his bottom lip for a few seconds, then he said: ‘Did you know that he had applied for a licence to retail alcohol from these premises?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I was not aware of that.’
‘I am afraid so.’
She was momentarily stunned. ‘You mean convert this shop into an off-licence?’
He nodded.
She narrowed her eyes, then lifted up her head, stretched her neck, took a deep breath, made herself as tall as she could and said, ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I don’t believe you.’
He wasn’t surprised at her reaction. He reached into his inside pocket for the envelope from the magistrates clerk’s office addressed to the chief constable; he took the letter out of the envelope, unfolded it and passed it to her.
She looked at him then at the letter, which she took reluctantly. She read it, then read it again. Her face slowly drained of all colour. Saying nothing, she pushed the letter back at him. Then her eyes flashed and she lunged out at the Christmas tree on the counter and sent it flying across the shop, the glass baubles splintering into pieces.
Angel stood there. He hardly seemed to notice.
She put her hands up to her face then said: ‘I think I knew it all along. He wants the flat for Sonya. He was always looking for a place for her … so that he knew where she was … so that he could keep an eye on her. He’ll put her in here as manager. That was his plan all along. I have no idea where I will go.’
‘How do you know he doesn’t want you to stay? You could run the shop for him. Better than his daughter could. Besides, it might take more than one person.’
She shook her head, the corners of her mouth turned downwards. ‘No. He wants the flat for her. Anyway, I can’t see me handing out six-packs all day, Inspector. My heart wouldn’t be in it. No. All good things come to an end. I should have realized that when Mr Makepiece died.’
‘And Liam Quigley may not get the licence from the magistrates. They are not keen on granting licences to people with a police record, and his record will certainly be made known to them.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s too late, Inspector. I will have to face up to it. There is nothing here for me. I shall have to leave. I can’t live in a state of uncertainty any longer.’
Angel frowned at this. He thought a moment and then said: ‘There is something else, Miss Freedman. Something I haven’t yet told you.’
She looked at him closely.
‘It’s almost certain that he won’t be granted a licence, because I will shortly be bringing a case against him for forgery,’ he said.
She frowned, shook her head and said, ‘Forgery?’
‘Yes,’ Angel said.
She stared ahead into nothingness, her face blank; she was finding it difficult to believe what she had heard.
‘He has a printing press somewhere,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ she said, hardly hearing what he was saying.
‘Do you ever hear a machine running? Is there anywhere where he could carry out such an operation?’
‘I don’t know of anywhere.’
‘Didn’t Sonya Quigley take you out to a pub one night – last Thursday night if I remember correctly – and you didn’t get back until after eleven o’clock?’
Miss Freedman came out of the fog, narrowed her eyes and said: ‘She told you that? I thought that was just a … just a spontaneous night out.’
He looked straight into her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Freedman, she said that her father gave her £40 for you and her to have a good time,’ Angel said. ‘To give you a good time, to keep you out for four hours at least and not to let you get back here before eleven o’clock. There would be a reason for that.’
‘I can’t think what. But I’m beyond being surprised at anything you tell me now about him.’
‘Because he wanted to do something in here or in your flat that he didn’t want you to know about.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like bringing in a printing press, and operating it. It would have made some noise; there would have been some vibration. It would have roused your curiosity.’
‘He couldn’t get in my flat so it must have been down here.’
‘Is there anywhere in this shop where he could set up a press that he wouldn’t want you to know about it? Is there another room beyond that storeroom?’
‘No. Just the loo,’ she said. Then her jaw dropped. ‘There’s the cellar! There is a trapdoor in the stockroom floor that leads to some steps down into the cellar. We used to store stuff down there when we were short of room, but it’s rather damp.’
Angel’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘That’ll be it. Show me.’
They rushed into the storeroom to a place near the farthest wall behind the table where the boxes of cuckoo clocks were stacked.
‘Under there,’ she said and began clearing the boxes. Angel piled them on to the table and pushed them anywhere they would go. The area was soon cleared and she pointed down at two metal rings, each secured to a bolt in the wooden floor. The rings were only about eight inches apart and each rested in a depression specifically made for them so that when they were not in use, they would lie flat and could be safely walked over. Angel reached down and grabbed hold of one of them, lifted it out of its position and yanked it up. The trap door came up easier than he had thought. It was hinged and revealed a black hole below about a yard square. He went to the other and pulled that open. He could now see some stone steps and a handrail.
Juanita Freedman pressed a switch on a panel of switches on the wall in the storeroom and the cellar flooded into light.
Angel climbed down the steep, stone steps. He stood on the flagged cellar floor and took in the scene with some satisfaction. It was only a small, grimy, cobwebby space with a low ceiling, but big enough in which to set up four six-foot-long tables in the shape of a square. On the farthest table was something irregularly shaped, covered over with a grubby bed sheet. Next to it were reams of white paper and a hand guillotine. On the other two tables were piles and piles of banknotes. He reached over and took one of the notes from a pile. He looked at it, felt it and ran it through his fingers. He had to admit it looked and felt right. It was ten Euros. It was the right colour, red, and the picture of the architecture looked accurate, as far as he could remember. He held it up to the light and frowned. There was no watermark; no metal strip through it. He shook his head. He looked at the number, then he looked at the number of the notes on several other piles. They were all the same. He wrinkled his nose and then put the forged note in his pocket.
‘Have you found it, Inspector? Is it a printing press?’ he heard her call down.
He turned and made his way back up the steps. ‘Yes. I am afraid it is, Miss Freedman. This is very serious. Liam Quigley is now a wanted man.’
Juanita Freedman slumped in a chair by the table. Angel looked at her. She was a changed woman. She seemed much older. ‘How long will h
e get?’
‘Well, the case has to be proved first,’ he said, trying to let her down lightly.
‘But there can be no doubt?’
‘No. There’s other supporting evidence. There’s no doubt.’
‘How long will he get?’ she repeated.
‘It’s up to the judge, of course, but a minimum of four years, I would have thought.’
She lowered her head and stared at the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ Angel said. ‘You had a near squeak there with a nasty piece of work, Miss Freedman.’
He took out his mobile and tapped in a number. As it rang out he looked down at her and said, ‘I think you’ll find that it will have been for the best.’
There was a click and a voice said: ‘CID office. PC Ahaz. How can I help you, sir?’
‘Ahmed, I want you to ask DI Asquith if he can spare two men to bring Liam Quigley in to assist with inquiries in connection with the forging of foreign currency. I expect he’ll be at his home address. Also I want you to ask DS Taylor if he’ll bring his team urgently to a forger’s den in the premises of the Antique Shop, Bull’s Foot Railway Arches, Wath Road. It’ll be mostly a matter of sweeping for fingerprints.’
‘Right, sir,’ he said brightly.
‘You can tell Don Taylor I’ll wait at the premises until his arrival.’
‘Right, sir.’
He pocketed the phone. He looked down at Juanita Fredman. ‘I’ll be here a while,’ he said.
She didn’t reply.
‘I think we should close the shop,’ he said and he walked out of the storeroom, through the shop to the door, turned the open/closed sign round to show closed, then shot a bolt on the door across to the lintel. When he returned to the stockroom, Juanita Freedman was standing and trying to smile. ‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting, Inspector?’
Angel smiled.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good morning, Ahmed. Has Liam Quigley quietened down?’
‘Yes, sir. But he keeps asking for his solicitor.’
Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Aye. Well, he’s entitled to see him. Will you tell him that Mr Bloomfield is on the premises and will be coming to see him today?’
The Cuckoo Clock Murders Page 14