The Cuckoo Clock Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘You’ve had five days working there. I hope it’s been worthwhile.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And they’ve given me the sack and paid me £200 cash in hand, casual labour, the going rate for unskilled labour,’ he said with a grin as he handed the wage packet over to him.

  Angel took it, glanced at it and put it in the desk drawer.

  ‘I’ve learned a lot about film-making, sir,’ Crisp said and he pulled a small polythene bag out of his pocket and put it on the desk in front of Angel. ‘And that’s the sample of Felicity’s face powder you wanted. It’s smeared on to a tissue.’

  Angel’s eyes glowed. ‘Ah,’ he said, his eyebrows rising like the opening of London Bridge. He reached out for it. ‘I won’t ask you how you got it.’

  ‘No. Don’t, sir. I nearly got caught.’

  Angel frowned as he picked up the phone. ‘Felicity Santana doesn’t suspect anything, does she?’ he said.

  ‘No, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘Marianne Cooper, her gofer, covered for me.’

  Angel let out a small sigh and quickly tapped out a number.

  The phone was answered straightaway. ‘SOCO. DS Taylor.’

  ‘Trevor Crisp has managed to get some face powder that might match the powder found on the Walther,’ he said into the phone. ‘I’ve got it here.’

  ‘Ah.’ Taylor sounded pleased. ‘I’ll send somebody down for it, sir. It won’t take long to make the comparison.’

  ‘Great stuff. Thanks, Don,’ he said and replaced the phone.

  ‘Mrs Santana is obviously playing it careful, sir. She gives nothing away in the studio. She is pretty well as rude and arrogant to everybody in equal measure, perhaps more so to Mr Isaacs.’

  ‘He’s her natural adversary.’

  ‘Everybody else treats him like a god.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Who fits the profile, the characteristics, I gave you?’

  ‘I have prepared a simple chart, sir,’ he said, taking out his notebook. ‘You said the murderer would be dishonest, ruthless, handsome, rich and probably older than her.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Well, sir, there have been four men hovering round her of late,’ Crisp said, referring to his notebook. ‘They are William Isaacs, Samson Fairchild, Hector Munro and Oliver Razzle.’

  He stopped and looked at Angel.

  ‘Go on, lad. I’m listening,’ Angel said.

  ‘Now, William Isaacs could have all those characteristics, sir, except that he is far from handsome. Samson Fairchild I suspect could be dishonest and ruthless. I suppose he’s handsome. I don’t know how rich he is. He is certainly older than her. Hector Munro: I don’t know if he is dishonest or ruthless. He is certainly regarded as handsome. He appears to be rich, he’s not been out of work since he started acting, and he would be a couple of years older than her. And Oliver Razzle. I suspect he could be dishonest. Don’t know about ruthless. Don’t think he’s rich enough for Felicity, and I think he must be about five years younger than her.’

  Crisp stopped.

  Angel waited a moment or two, rubbed his chin and said, ‘Putting it like that, Trevor, it looks like there are two nominees: Samson Fairchild and Hector Munro.’

  ‘That’s how I see it, sir.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  Angel said: ‘I expect it’ll be a lad from SOCO, for that face powder sample.’

  Crisp picked up the polythene bag, opened the door, exchanged a few words with the caller, handed the bag to him then returned to his chair.

  ‘So if we could find out which one of them came by the gun, we would know who did it, even though we can’t, at this stage, prove it,’ Angel said.

  Crisp nodded and was about to reply when the phone rang.

  Angel reached out for it. It was the civilian on the switchboard.

  ‘There’s a Mr Love on the phone for you, sir. He’s Irish, I think, and he sounds a bit rough. Will you speak to him?’

  Angel breathed out a long sigh. Love couldn’t have rung at a better time. ‘I certainly will. Hold on just a moment, please,’ he said, then he put his hand over the mouthpiece, turned to Crisp and said, ‘Anything else pressing?

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll see you at the Fat Duck at lunchtime?’

  Crisp took the hint. ‘Oh yes, sir,’ he said, and he went out and closed the door.

  Angel removed his hand from over the mouthpiece. ‘Put Mr Love through, please.’

  ‘Hello there, Mr Angel,’ Mr Love began.

  He was an Irishman of doubtful character, but he had helped Angel out of a tight corner a few times in the past and this couldn’t have been a tighter one.

  ‘I didn’t see your message,’ Love continued, ‘because it wasn’t there until Saturday night and I didn’t get to reading the paper until a few minutes ago, and now it’s Christmas Eve, wouldn’t you know? I should have been on the ferry to see my dear mother over Christmas at St Joseph’s in Balley Ocarey, but I haven’t the necessary. And how can I be helping you, dear Mr Angel?’

  ‘Mr Love, you may have heard I am investigating the murder of a film producer who was shot dead—’

  ‘Surely now. It’s all over the papers, isn’t it, and him with a sow in a pretty silk nightdress snuggled next to him.’

  ‘A Walther PPK/S was the murder weapon. I want to know who bought the gun.’

  There was silence.

  Angel said: ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here, but I was tinkin’, that’s a really tall order yous giving me for a Christmas present, Mr Angel.’

  ‘We have got it down to one of two suspects. All I’m wanting to know is which one.’

  ‘Ah. Well, you know, you wouldn’t like to give me the names of the two punters, would you?’

  ‘No.’

  Love wasn’t a bit surprised. He had known Angel almost twenty years.

  ‘But I can tell you a bit about the gun,’ Angel said.

  ‘Oh. Go on den. You never know, it might help.’

  ‘Well, it has had a chequered career and an attempt had been made to file off its number. It was stolen with four other handguns from an RAOC depot in North Yorkshire in 1980, and it must have been sold to my suspect in the last few weeks or even days.’

  ‘Hmm. 1980 is a long time ago, Mr Angel. I’ve lost and won a few punt on the harses since then. You wouldn’t like to give me an advance in the way of encouragement, would you, Mr Angel?’

  ‘No, Mr Love.’

  ‘Oh dear, Mr Angel. Where is your Christian charity this Christmas?’

  ‘Come and have a drink with me and my team at the Fat Duck. I shall be there in about half an hour.’

  ‘No, tank you. The sound of handcuffs rubbing against webbing, the shiny black boots and the smell of Silvo, fair puts my teeth on edge.’

  Angel smiled but said nothing.

  ‘But I’ll do what I can on the udder matter. But I tell you, I risk more than a good thrashing when I’m listening out about guns, Mr Angel. One day I have a fear a gun might be used on me. Now I must try and get home to Mudder. If I get anyting, I’ll be in touch. Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ Angel said mechanically and replaced the phone.

  He wasn’t pleased. He wrinkled his nose then sighed.

  He knew he had to open all the doors and get help from wherever he could. Love didn’t sound at all optimistic. Of course, it was in his interest to make the job sound as difficult and as dangerous as he possibly could. It pushed up the price.

  There was a knock on the door. It was Don Taylor from SOCO. He had a smile on his face. ‘I am pleased to tell you, sir, that the samples of specks of face powder on the gun that killed Peter Santana match the sample on that tissue taken from Felicity Santana’s powder compact.’

  Angel’s eyebrows went up. That was welcome news. At least it confirmed that the Walther had been in her presence at some time in its very recent past; also that it therefore tended to suggest, as Angel had thought all along, that
Felicity was a party to Peter Santana’s murder.

  ‘Ta, Don. Thank you very much.’

  Angel and DI Asquith’s teams congregated at the Fat Duck and had a modest Christmas drink, a pork pie and free black pudding on a cocktail stick.

  Ron Gawber bemoaned the prospect of being closed in with his wife’s relations for two whole days, while Ahmed indicated that he was enthusiastically looking forward to visits from several aunts and uncles and their offspring. Scrivens said that he was travelling up north to his parents and seemed pleased about it, while Trevor Crisp, wearing a big smile, drank rather too much, said very little and looked like a very contented man. Outside in the square, a brass contingent from the Salvation Army began to play ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’ and some of the team wandered out to the pub doorway to hear better and offer a contribution to the collecting tin.

  The relaxed and informal chatter lasted for an hour or so, then the various members broke up and each made his way to their respective homes.

  Mary had the house seasonally decorated, warm and cosy.

  Angel had a nap in the chair in front of the King’s Singers, then had tea while watching The Great Escape for the eighth time. Later, he got changed, and they went to church at 11.30, got back at one in the morning and went to bed.

  Christmas came and went faster than two cascaras.

  The Angels didn’t do anything exciting. They snoozed; watched the same old films again. The African Queen came up again and Angel prompted Bogart to say his dialogue when he was late coming in on cue.

  He had a pile of books he wanted to read, some crime stories, some biographies.

  The weather was cold. The house was cosy. The nights were long. The food was good. The books mixed. The TV was rubbish….

  CHAPTER 14

  It was 0835 hours on Monday 29 December. The Christmas break must have been a successful and happy time for most of the force at Bromersley police station, as Angel could hear laughing and chattering as the staff traversed the CID corridor outside his office door.

  Angel had called a crime case conference in the CID briefing room for 8.40 and was at his desk in his office preparing himself. He had instructed Ahmed to have A4-size photographs taken off the internet of all the persons involved in the Santana case stuck to the blackboard with their names in large print underneath.

  Through the office window, he saw Trevor Crisp arriving late, in a red, noisy Lamborghini, scrambling out of the low-slung seat, slamming the door shut, as a dark-haired young woman waved to him and then drove the monster noisily away.

  The team had assembled in the room early and had chosen the five seats at the front, nearest to the blackboard. There was DS Gawber, DS Crisp, DC Scrivens, PC Ahmed Ahaz and DS Taylor.

  Angel arrived in the room at 0839 and closed the door.

  ‘Dr Mac can’t be with us,’ he said, looking across at them. ‘He’s still away on his Christmas break, and I’ve asked DS Taylor to sit in with us. Now, this Santana case is providing me with a great deal of bewilderment. You all know what was discovered up at the farmhouse.’

  He then gave a quick précis of the personal background and circumstances of the Santanas and went through, item by item, each of the unusual discoveries made at the farmhouse on the day of the murder of Peter Santana.

  Then he said, ‘What some of you may not know is that the face powder found on the Walther was indeed the same powder that Felicity Santana uses. It was not known until Christmas Eve. It is likely, therefore, that the gun was on a dressing table, or a bed or somewhere, uncovered, as she was powdering her face.’

  Taylor said: ‘That doesn’t mean, of course, that she is the only woman in the world using that particular face powder, sir.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Angel said. ‘But it would support the case against her, if we are able to mount one.’

  Taylor nodded.

  Angel then went on to confirm the conclusion made following Crisp’s report on the time he had been working at the studio: that Santana had been murdered by one of two men, Hector Munro or Samson Fairchild.

  ‘Common sense, logic and the facts point to them,’ he said. ‘They are both experienced actors. And you can’t believe all the guff their agents put out about them.’

  Nobody said anything.

  Angel said, ‘Has anybody any other ideas? That’s what we’re here for.’

  ‘Where did the gun come from?’ Gawber said.

  ‘It must have been procured by one of the men,’ Angel said. ‘It would not have been easy for a woman to have negotiated with the likes of Jack “The Gun” Leary or any of that crowd. The face powder certainly indicates that it may have been some time in Felicity Santana’s presence.’

  ‘It was found in the washroom at the studio by Samson Fairchild,’ Crisp said. ‘I saw him find it.’

  ‘Had you not thought it could have been a bit of acting to suggest his innocence?’ Angel said.

  ‘No, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘I thought it was the real thing. He’s not that good an actor.’

  Some of the gathering smiled.

  ‘You might be right,’ Angel said, looking at Crisp. ‘That makes him a less likely suspect than Hector Munro, does it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said that, sir,’ Crisp said, being very careful.

  Angel’s face creased. ‘We are not getting far with this …’

  Scrivens said: ‘Can I ask, sir, was a motive determined for the murder?’

  ‘Money, lad,’ Angel said. ‘And, presumably the questionable luxury of being Felicity Santana’s husband. Peter Santana is murdered. Leaves everything to his wife. Murderer marries her. The perfect mix of a beautiful woman and a shipload of money. There was some talk of Santana changing his will, so the murder was probably brought forward before any change was made.’

  ‘The woman would have to be in love with the murderer then?’

  Angel hesitated. ‘That’s the … presumption, lad.’

  Ahmed said: ‘What’s the pig in the silk nightdress got to do with it, sir?’

  Angel sighed and ran his hand through his hair. ‘I wish I knew, Ahmed. I only wish I knew.’

  The team looked at each other, then at Angel expectantly.

  After a few moments, Angel said, ‘Right, if nobody has any bright ideas, we shall have to resort to old-fashioned legwork. There are no shortcuts. Those two men, Hector Munro and Samson Fairchild, from now on are to be treated as prime suspects.’

  He looked at Crisp and said, ‘When do they resume work at the studio, lad?’

  ‘The studio opened first thing this morning, sir. Mr Isaacs will be there. He has to be there. Almost certainly Mrs Santana will be there. She’s in nearly every scene. And Samson Fairchild. I think scenes including them both were scheduled for today. But Mr Munro could be still away. He’s not wanted until tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘He is renting that big house on Manchester Road. He’ll be there or at the gym on Woodhall Street, I expect.’

  ‘Right. Ahmed, get out all the info you can on Fairchild and Munro. You’ll have to depend mostly on publicity guff from the studios, but see if you can dig deeper and find anything from newspaper cuttings or by researching their childhood and their parents and brothers and sisters.’

  Ahmed nodded. ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Trevor, I want you to give me a full report on Felicity Santana. I want to know everything about her. I mean everything. Her parents, past lovers, everything. Has she got her own teeth? What she eats and drinks. What she likes. Who she likes. Everything.’

  Angel turned to Gawber and said, ‘Let’s go and see Munro.’

  DS Taylor called out: ‘Don’t you want me to do something, sir?’

  Angel turned and said, ‘Yeah. Get that pig out of the deep-freeze, take it to a vet and ask him to give it a post mortem … what it died from. And see if there is anything at all unusual about it. Anything at all.’

  Angel slowed the BMW outside the big house on Ma
nchester Road; he pointed the bonnet through the iron gates round the big circle behind the bushes and up to the front of the house.

  The two policemen got out of the car and made their way up the stone steps to the door. Gawber pressed the illuminated doorbell button.

  There was a fifty per cent chance that the man who opened the door was the murderer of Peter Santana.

  Angel’s hands were shaking. His face was hot and in his chest was a food mixer revolving out of control and creating excessive vibration. He tried to contain himself by breathing in and out several times.

  The door was eventually opened by a handsome, tanned young man with piercing blue eyes.

  Angel held up his warrant card and said, ‘Police. DI Angel and DS Gawber. Are you Mr Munro? Hector Munro?’

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m Hector Munro, yes.’

  ‘We are investigating the murder of Peter Santana and I would like to ask you some questions. May we come in?’

  Munro pulled the door open and stood well back behind it. ‘Of course.’

  He directed them to a room at the back of the house and when they were all seated, Angel began.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, Mr Munro. Just a few questions. Won’t take long.’

  ‘That’s all right, Inspector. Please feel free to ask me whatever you wish.’

  Angel nodded. ‘You are very fond of Felicity Santana, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Oh yes, but no more than most red-blooded men of my age, I suppose,’ he said with a smile.

  Angel noticed the lips and the teeth. He had heard that women were supposed to swoon at his smile. The smile, however, didn’t do anything for him.

  ‘But you are in closer proximity to her than most red-blooded men of your age,’ Angel said, ‘if you don’t mind me returning the question to you like that.’

  ‘Playing opposite her in several films, I suppose it’s true.’

  ‘Eight films, actually, Mr Munro,’ Gawber said.

  ‘Really?’ Munro said. ‘I hadn’t realized it was as many as that. Time passes quickly when you’re having fun. But … yes … well, I was … I am quite fond of her, yes.’

  ‘And it is well known,’ Angel said, ‘that you dumped your last wife when you knew you were going to be playing opposite Mrs Santana again in this present film.’