The Cuckoo Clock Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  ‘And what about Savage?’

  ‘Nothing to report, sir. He’s quiet enough. Says nothing. He’s no trouble.’

  ‘Has his solicitor been?’

  ‘No, but he’s been advised.’

  ‘Hmm. It’s early yet. Will you ask the duty jailer to take Laurence Smith into Interview Room Number One? Mr Bloomfield is already in there. They can have as much private time together as they need, but let me know when they are ready, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  ‘And will you see if you can get hold of Trevor Crisp on his mobile? It’s Christmas Eve – I don’t know how easy-going they are at that film studio. They might still be actually working there. If he isn’t, tell him I want to see him in my office before he starts working his way towards the new year alcoholic haze. I should be free after about eleven.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said and dashed out of the office.

  The phone rang. It was Don Taylor. His voice indicated that he was quite excited. ‘There were stacks of Liam Quigley’s fingerprints all over the printer, sir. They were on the forged notes, the guillotine and the outer wrapping of the paper, which had the watermark of a dove, and labels on the wrappers showed it was paper made by “Scrubb, Knight and Kelly” of County Cork, in Ireland.’

  Angel smiled. ‘That means we’ve got them both, Don. Will you let me have your report ASAP and let’s get shot of it?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He replaced the phone.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Gawber.

  Angel looked up. ‘Fully recovered from your winter break?’ he said with a wry grin.

  Gawber smiled.

  ‘Did they give you any trouble?’

  ‘Not with the cuffs on, they didn’t, sir. Smith protested a lot at first. Unusual for him.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the murder.’

  Angel frowned and shook his head. ‘I’m going to interview him shortly. I want you to sit in with me.’

  ‘Is there any new evidence, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  Gawber’s eyes narrowed.

  Angel said: ‘The good news is that Quigley’s prints are all over the forger’s den. And the special paper he used was stolen from a delivery lorry parked outside a transport café on the A1 near Scotch Corner in April. It was intended for security printers in Gateshead. We know that that job’s down to Harry Savage. So that sews it up nicely, Ron. We’ve now got enough to support the charge of forgery by both Quigley and Savage to pass it over to the CPS.’

  The phone rang. Angel glared at it. He reached out and snatched it up.

  Before he could speak, a voice from the earpiece said, ‘Come up here, smartish.’ It was Harker. ‘There’s some matters I must speak to you about urgently,’ he added. It was followed by a loud click, which made Angel pull a face of pain.

  ‘I wish he wouldn’t do that,’ Angel said as he banged down the phone.

  He turned to Gawber. ‘It’s the super. I’ve got to go. Start collating all the evidence against Quigley and Savage. Let’s get that off to the CPS. I have no idea what the super wants, but I hope he doesn’t keep me. I want to get to Laurence Smith. See if I can winkle out the truth.’

  Gawber frowned. ‘You mean a confession, sir?’

  ‘I live in hope, Ron,’ he said.

  Gawber knew it was true.

  Angel opened the office door.

  He didn’t yet have any hard evidence.

  He charged up the corridor, knocked on Harker’s office door and went in.

  ‘Ah. Angel,’ Harker said with a face like a nightmare.

  The office smelled of camphor. On his desk, in addition to piles of files and heaps of paper, was a jar of Vick, plus a jug of water and a tumbler.

  ‘Three of our cells are occupied and it’s Christmas Eve,’ Harker said. ‘Don’t you know what that means?’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘They are all ex-convicted villains, sir. One of them is a murderer.’

  ‘If you had delivered them there yesterday, they could have gone to court this morning and been remanded or … moved on …’

  Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘You mean released, sir.’

  ‘Or sent to the Crown Court.’

  ‘Or been released,’ Angel insisted.

  Harker’s red face went redder. ‘Well, if the magistrates saw the evidence like that, then yes, released.’

  Angel felt his stomach muscles tightening. ‘All three have records, sir. I have cast-iron cases against two of them for forgery.’

  ‘There you are. Those two could have been residing in Armley. But the point is that they are going to be in this station over Christmas, which means that I have to have a constable on jail duty, running about after them as if this was a hotel. That’s a man less on public house roster.’

  ‘Laurence Smith is being held on a tenuous thread, I admit, but he is suspected of murdering Doonan, sir.’

  ‘There are Christmas dinners to organize. We are still a civilized country. We can’t give prisoners takeaways at Christmas when they are still theoretically innocent and haven’t been tried. We’d have civil rights wallahs round like flash bulbs at a public exhumation.’

  ‘In the past, we have had Christmas dinners sent in from The Feathers, sir.’

  Angel thought Harker’s eyes were going to fall out and roll down on to the floor. ‘I know all about that,’ he bellowed. ‘But look at the cost, lad. Look at the cost.’

  Angel stood there, helplessly looking at the ugly, red-faced, skinny man in the ill-fitting suit, which he had heard was a gift from his mother-in-law after her husband had died two years previously.

  He licked his lips patiently as Harker continued.

  ‘You think policing is about catching murderers, don’t you? But that’s the glamorous side of policing. That’s why you keep getting your name in the papers. That’s why the press think you’re so wonderful. They don’t know how useless you are at organization, cost control and budget management. They don’t know how much you have frittered away in air fares alone this week. Flights out to Switzerland, indeed! This place is getting more like Butlins every day. It should be a tightly run force, properly organized, controlled and budgeted. You always send my budget straight out of the window. I would not worry, but it is my direct responsibility to the chief constable.’

  Angel blinked. It was some time since he’d had an onslaught like this from him. The only thing to do was to wait until it was over.

  ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Well, sir, I’m just doing my best to … to find the truth … and when someone is guilty to … to see that they are brought to court. That’s all.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes. You’ve two murders in hand, haven’t you? What’s the progress on those?’

  ‘I have a suspect for the murder of Doonan, sir. A Laurence Smith. Been through our hands before, robbery, GBH and ABH. At the moment, I can’t make anything stick. He’s been held on the tennis ball scam. Can’t hold him much longer. I’m formally interviewing him again this morning.’

  ‘I remember him. If you can’t make a case, for God’s sake let him go. That’ll save us a few thousand.’

  Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘He ran off to Switzerland to avoid arrest, sir. I’ve just had him brought back. He might run off to somewhere where we can’t get at him.’

  ‘The other case, the murdered millionaire film producer chap and the pig in the nightdress?’

  Angel’s face changed. ‘There are too many suspects, sir. I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ he screamed. ‘You’ve got Crisp in there undercover, haven’t you? Is he still in there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Ridiculous. The newspaper boys are still having the time of their lives, making fools of us. I thought you were going to make a statement to shut them up.’

  ‘The only thing that will sh
ut them up is a full explanation, sir.’

  ‘And you haven’t got one, have you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Harker smiled.

  Angel was concerned. He rarely saw him smile.

  ‘I think this is the case that has you beat, lad,’ Harker said.

  Angel didn’t reply. He was furious but he had learned it was better not to retaliate. It only gave Harker more ammunition. Besides, he could be right. At that moment, Angel hadn’t a clue.

  In an instant, Harker’s smile disappeared. Something was wrong. He snatched at the middle desk drawer, pulled it open, found a small plastic bottle, unscrewed the top, shook out a pill, tilted back his head, threw the pill into his mouth and reached out for the glass of water. He took a sip and tried to swallow the pill. It wouldn’t go down. He tried again. It refused to go. He tried again. Third time lucky, he swallowed the pill successfully, put the glass down in front of him and then seemed to realize that Angel was still there. ‘Aye. Well, you’d better get back to it, lad.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Angel sat down at the table, pressed the record button and said: ‘Interview of Laurence Smith. Present, Mr Bloomfield, DS Gawber and DI Angel. 1000 hours. 24 December 2008.’

  Angel sat back in the chair. He suddenly became aware of a pain in his chest. It wasn’t new to him. He’d had the pain many a time before. He first remembered it as a boy – then it was the result of eating a large piece of apple pie and rushing out to play football against a Jubilee Park wall. That was twenty-five years ago. He hoped it was the same pain. He tried to swallow it away, several times. Then he tried to burp. Neither worked. He really would have liked to have been on top form to take Smith through his paces.

  He looked across the table. Everybody was looking at him. He’d have to begin.

  ‘Mr Smith,’ he said, ‘why did you empty your bank account and fly off to join Harry Savage in Reebur?’

  ‘I fancied Christmas in the Swiss mountains,’ Smith said. ‘Harry Savage is a friend of mine. He had invited me to stay with him for a holiday, that’s all.’

  ‘You were interviewed by me and conditionally released last Thursday, the eighteenth. The conditions were that you weren’t to go into the Fisherman’s Rest and you weren’t to leave town.’

  ‘Well, Mr Angel, I must have forgot. I didn’t see any harm in it.’

  ‘Did you tell anybody about your new address in Reebur?’

  ‘No. Didn’t see any reason to tell them.’

  ‘Wasn’t it because you wanted to disappear, and you didn’t intend coming back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t it true that you secretly ran away to Reebur with two suitcases packed with all your valuables to avoid being arrested for the murder of Vincent Doonan?’

  ‘Definitely not. I didn’t murder Vincent Doonan, and I didn’t take all my valuables. I told you … it was just a holiday.’

  ‘You took all your money and everything from your house that was worth anything, and you bought a single ticket, not a return.’

  Smith wriggled awkwardly for a few seconds then shrugged. ‘I didn’t know how long I was going to be away.’

  ‘Were you and Harry Savage planning another job out there?’

  ‘Certainly not. I told you, it was just a holiday.’

  ‘Didn’t you and Harry Savage fall out with Doonan over the distribution of the cash proceeds from the sale of some copper wire the three of you had stolen from British Rail in 2001?’

  Smith looked at Bloomfield and mouthed something meaningless to Angel. Bloomfield’s eyebrows came down thoughtfully for a second then he nodded.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Smith said. ‘But that was ancient history.’

  ‘Wasn’t Harry Savage pleased to see you?’

  ‘I suppose he was. Yes.’

  ‘Was he very pleased to see you?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘I would think so. Wasn’t it because you had just shot dead your mutual enemy, Vincent Doonan?’

  ‘Certainly not. That’s a ridiculous thing to say.’

  ‘Not that ridiculous. You were identified by the landlord, Clem Bailey, as the man who shot Vincent Doonan at the Fisherman’s Rest a week last Tuesday evening.’

  ‘Well, he must need glasses because it wasn’t me.’

  ‘But you can’t say where you were.’

  ‘I can, and I did. I told you, I was at home all evening and all night.’

  ‘But you haven’t a single witness to prove it. You could have been anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t have to prove it.’

  Angel knew he was right. This wasn’t getting him anywhere. The apple pie was still with him. He looked at Gawber, who he hoped was thinking of something useful to ask, but nothing came.

  ‘How tall are you?’ Angel said.

  Smith blinked. ‘Six foot two.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to hear that all the customers in the Fisherman’s Rest that we managed to trace said that the gunman who shot Vincent Doonan was over six feet tall?’

  ‘There must be a million men in the country who are over six feet tall.’

  ‘Aye, but none of them were identified as the murderer and also had a motive to murder Vincent Doonan.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I didn’t do it.’

  There was a pause.

  Gawber said: ‘Where did you get the gun?’

  ‘I didn’t have a gun,’ Smith said then his face changed. His eyes shone with anger. He looked up at Angel, then at Gawber and then at Bloomfield. ‘You’ve no evidence against me. You’re just fishing. Look, I know my rights. Now charge me, otherwise I’m walking. You can’t stop me.’

  Then he stood up quickly, nudging the table, causing it to judder and make a loud noise.

  Mr Bloomfield pulled at his sleeve. ‘Wait a minute, Mr Smith. Sit down. Don’t make a disturbance. I’ll ask for an immediate discharge. Sit down.’

  Angel raised his head and looked at Gawber, who shook his head. Angel sighed. ‘Very well, Mr Bloomfield, your client can go.’

  Smith gasped. His arm shot up in the air, he clenched his fist and jerked it downward at the same time, letting out a very loud and decisive, ‘Yes!’

  Angel leaned over to the recording unit and said, ‘Interview terminated 10.08.’ And he switched it off. The pain in his chest felt like a brick. He sat back down in the chair and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  Everybody else made for the door.

  Smith saw him and came back, sniggering. He nudged up against him and said, ‘Don’t I get an apology then, Inspector Angel?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck, lad.’

  Angel heard Smith give a high-pitched giggle as he followed Bloomfield and Gawber out of the room.

  He clenched his fists tightly under the table.

  ‘Has Smith gone?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Gawber said, closing the office door. ‘Can’t believe his luck.’

  ‘Nor can I. I think I’ll have to have another good look through the evidence. There must be something I’ve overlooked.’

  Gawber frowned and said, ‘Trevor Crisp said that Doonan whispered in his dying breath that it was Liam Quigley who shot him, sir.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Ron. I hadn’t forgotten. I had thought that that might have been deliberate spite on Doonan’s part. Retaliation for Quigley’s many accusations about him and Sonya. Doonan must have hated the man’s guts. Also, it’s possible, nay probable, that Doonan did not recognize his killer. He was so muffled up, nobody else in the pub could identify him. And Quigley has an alibi provided by a very assured Miss Freedman.’

  ‘Didn’t Clem Bailey identify the mugshot of Laurence Smith?’ Gawber said.

  ‘He only said he thought it might be him. That would not have counted as much in front of Mr Justice Fleming.’

  He nodded. Judges never took anything as read, these days, particularly when the information was given by the police as prosecution witnesses.

  ‘Another point, wher
e did the murderer get the gun from?’ Angel said. ‘And what happened to it afterwards? Judges like to know these things. If they know what the actual weapon used was, and it is shown in court as an exhibit, they tend to smile on us.’

  Suddenly they heard some running footsteps and giggling outside in the corridor.

  Angel broke off and looked at his watch. ‘What’s that?’

  Gawber said: ‘I think it’s Christmas hi-jinks, sir. Starting a bit early.’

  Angel blinked. ‘Oh yes. It’s Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Coming to the Fat Duck for a drink at lunchtime, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes. But there are a few jobs I must do before then. Firstly I want to see Ahmed then I must see Trevor Crisp.’

  Gawber stood up. ‘If you’ve done with me, sir, I’ve some bits I want to finish off. I’ll see if I can find Ahmed and send him in.’

  ‘Thanks, Ron.’

  Gawber went out. As the door opened there was more scampering and giggling. The door closed. Quietness returned to the office.

  After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, lad. I want you to get me the home phone number of a Mrs Makepiece. She’s the widow of the owner of the antique shop down at Bull’s Foot Railway Arches on Wath Road. I don’t want the shop. I want her home address. I expect she lives in or near the town. The phone will likely still be in her husband’s name.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And you’ll be joining the team for a drink at the Fat Duck at lunchtime, won’t you?’

  Ahmed smiled. ‘Right, sir. Thank you. DS Crisp is here, sir.’

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘Good.’

  Angel went out and Crisp came in.

  ‘Sit down, lad. Have they closed down the studio for Christmas, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Some of the big wheels have already flown off to warmer climates. William Isaacs has gone to Chicago. Felicity Santana has gone to Barbados. Hector Munro has gone to some long-lost relations in Scotland. And Samson Fairchild has gone to … I can’t remember where, somewhere warm.’