The Cuckoo Clock Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  There was a click and the Irish voice said, ‘Mr Angel? Are you there? At great personal risk I got that info you was wanting.’

  ‘Shall we meet at the usual place?’

  ‘Yus. Five o’clock all right? It’ll be dark then.’

  ‘All right. Goodbye.’

  Outside, it was blacker than the Black Maria and twice as gloomy.

  Angel had spent most of the day assembling paperwork for the CPS that was going to put Liam Quigley, Harry Savage and Hector Munro away for a substantial numbers of years. He was very regretful that it seemed that the small and chillingly alluring Felicity Santana was going to get away with all her crimes. Some you win, some you lose.

  He noted the time. It was five minutes to five. He had an appointment with Mr Love at five o’clock. It was time to leave. He put on his coat, switched off the desk light and made for the door. He remembered something. He came back to his desk, pulled open the middle drawer, fished for the wage envelope Crisp had been awarded by the studio and tore it open. It contained £200 in £20 notes. He put £100 in his left pocket and £100 in his right. Then he looked round the room. Everything else could wait until tomorrow. He switched off the light, closed the door and dashed up the corridor.

  When he arrived outside the station the cold hit him in the face like the opening of the fridge door in the mortuary. He went down the steps on to the pavement, crossed the road and stepped lively down the ginnel at the back of the Fat Duck to St Barnabas churchyard. He opened the iron gate and went in, just as the church clock chimed five.

  ‘Mr Love,’ he said into the dark. But there was no reply. He was surprised, but not concerned. He had always found Love reliable. He thought he may have been delayed in the New Year’s Eve traffic or held up with the weather.

  There was fog in the air and a few wisps weaved between the gravestones.

  Angel rubbed his chin and wondered exactly what success Love had had. He fully expected that he would say that it was Munro who had bought the gun. That would further help strengthen the case against him, which would be perfect. If Love said that it was Samson Fairchild, that would be an embarrassment, because Angel had no other evidence to support a case against him. Love might even have discovered that it was Felicity Santana who had obtained the weapon for Munro to do the dirty work. But that wasn’t likely. She was too smart for that.

  He shrugged. Why was he worrying? To mount a prosecution, Twelvetrees had said that he only needed evidence to show Munro and Felicity Santana together. That must be possible, but the couple had been extremely discreet in that regard. Forensic would be ideal: DNA was indisputable.

  There were footsteps behind him.

  ‘Mr Angel,’ a voice called out.

  It was Love. ‘Yes, Mr Love.’

  ‘Ah. I’m sorry I wasn’t waiting for you. Are you alone?’

  ‘Indeed I am. Are you?’

  ‘Of course. Perishing cold, it is.’

  Angel heard the Irishman blow into his hands.

  ‘Let’s get this over with, Mr Angel. Did you bring the money?’

  ‘Yes. Have you got the information? Were you able to find out who bought the Walther PPK/S – the one used to murder a man on 16 December?’

  ‘Of course. And it is going to cost you £500.’

  Angel gasped. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Love. This is public money. I haven’t got that much, but even if I had you know I couldn’t give it to you. It would set an impossible precedent. As it is, I’m breaking the law now. I should have your name and address in a book in the station, with every transaction, the information passed and the amount of cash paid duly recorded. I don’t insist on that, but you’ve got to be reasonable. I don’t even have your real name—’

  ‘That is my real name.’

  ‘I don’t have your address.’

  ‘You don’t need my address. Anyway, what is this info worth to you, Mr Angel? Honestly now?’

  ‘You know we coppers pay fifty quid tops, but this is a bit special. Honestly, £100.’

  Angel heard Love spit into the dark. ‘Sod you, Mr Angel. For me to preserve my life, it’s worth more than £100 to keep this to myself. I was hoping to get the fare to see my dear mother at St Joseph’s in Balley Ocarey, but you have been wasting my time.’

  ‘Wait a moment, please, Mr Love,’ Angel said. ‘That information I said was honestly worth to me £100, no more, and that is so, but the continuance of your goodwill is worth a lot more than that. But I do happen to have another £100, so that I can give you £200.’

  Mr Love grunted.

  ‘Would that be enough to cover the risk you took in getting me this information – which I still require to be one hundred per cent reliable – and purchase you a ticket to St Joseph’s in Balley Ocarey, and allow you a more than adequate Hogmanay celebration?’

  Angel waited. He licked his lips. This was a tricky moment.

  ‘My information is always one hundred per cent reliable, Mr Angel. You can take that for granted from me. I appreciate your candidness, though. All right. I accept your two hundred.’

  In the dark they found each other’s hands and eagerly shook them.

  Angel thought Love’s hand was like a piece of cod straight off the slab. Then Angel handed the money bundled together from both pockets.

  ‘There’s ten £20 notes,’ Angel said.

  Love stuffed it in his pockets, then he said, ‘All you need from me is a name, but I give you more. The Walther gun was bought by Peter Santana, the millionaire fella, in the silver Mercedes car, on or about Monday 10 November. Now I hope you’re satisfied.’

  Angel gasped. ‘That can’t be right. He’s the man who was murdered.’

  ‘I tort you’d be surprised. Take it from me. It’ll be right. Now I must be off. You know how to get in touch if you need me. Happy New Year, Mr Angel.’

  ‘Happy New Year, Mr Love.’

  ‘Good morning, sir, and a Happy New Year.’

  Angel looked as if he’d just returned from a funeral. ‘Come in, Ron. You don’t have to be so bloody hearty.’

  Gawber looked down at him and said, ‘My sister, her husband and all their tribe are over for the day. He’s got the day off. So I’m very glad to be out of it all. Anyway, I thought you were a well-known workaholic, sir. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Sit down. We might have got the wrong bloke. How did you get on yesterday?’

  Gawber’s mouth dropped open. ‘The wrong bloke?’ he said.

  ‘What about Miss Freedman? And Doncaster?’

  ‘That went all right, sir. The statement totally overturned Quigley’s alibi.’

  ‘And Munro?’

  ‘Nothing spectacular,’ Gawber said. ‘I simply read the charge out to him.’

  ‘And how did he react?’

  ‘He shook his head vigorously. I waited a bit and then asked him if he’d anything to say. But he said nothing.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose then told Gawber that a reliable source had told him that it was Peter Santana who had bought the Walther, back in November.

  Gawber blinked. ‘It couldn’t have been.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘It had to be Hector Munro or Samson Fairchild.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The pupils of Gawber’s eyes moved uncertainly from side to side. ‘Had Peter Santana worked out some devious suicide that has left Munro looking guilty of murder, sir?’

  ‘I wondered that, at first … I can’t make any sense of it. It would have been very fitting for him and Felicity if it had been like that. But I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is your informant reliable, sir? Could he have made a mistake?’

  ‘He’s always been reliable in the past, Ron. I don’t see why he shouldn’t be now. I don’t know where to go with this.’ There was a moment’s quiet then Angel said: ‘Supposing Santana did buy the gun. It could have been for his own protection. He’s immensely rich, not physically strong, he could easily have been taken hostage for an e
normous sum. We don’t see many cases of it these days, but we know it sometimes happens.’

  ‘And he was worrying about it? He was afraid.’

  ‘Yes … and unaware that Munro was planning to murder him.’

  ‘We don’t know if Santana knew about his wife carrying on with Munro, sir?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘No, we don’t. But I expect he did.’

  ‘Was there some symbolism involving the pig and the silk nightdress and the candlestick, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ron. That’s still a muddle. However, it has set me on an entirely new line of thought.’

  Angel leaned back in the swivel chair and gazed at the ceiling. After a few moments he said, ‘Have you written up your notes?’

  ‘No, sir. Haven’t had the opportunity.’

  ‘Well, hop off and do it then. Leave me with this. I have to think this thing through….’

  Gawber recognized the signs. He came out of the office and closed the door quietly.

  CHAPTER 16

  Two hours later, Angel banged open his office door, hitting the chair behind it. He went charging down the corridor to the CID office and stared inside. His hair was all over, his eyes staring, his tie loose and his top button unfastened.

  PC Ahmed Ahaz, who was at his desk near the door, stared back at him. He thought he had been drinking.

  Ahmed was worried. ‘What’s up, sir? Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Yes, Ahmed. If Felicity Santana weighs 7 stone 2 lbs, I’ve solved it.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, sir?’

  ‘I’ll have a gallon of tea later, Ahmed. At the moment I need to know if Felicity Santana weighs 7 stone 2 lbs. I wonder … How can I find that out?’

  Ahmed looked blank.

  Angel turned away and went further down the corridor to Superintendent Harker’s room. He grabbed the handle and walked in.

  Harker was at his desk and looked up in surprise. Angel leaned over his desk, blinked through the camphor fumes and said, ‘If Felicity Santana weighs 7 stone 2 lbs, I have solved the whole nonsense of the pink candles, the fuses, the ether, the silk nightdress, the petrol and the pig and everything.’

  ‘I’m busy, Angel. Can’t you see that? And you didn’t knock.’

  Ahmed came through the open door and hovered, wondering what to do.

  Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘How can I find out if she weighs 7 stone 2 lbs or not?’

  Harker said: ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ said Angel.

  ‘From her passport,’ Harker said.

  ‘Ah!’ Angel yelled. ‘But we haven’t got her passport, sir. Come on. Come on. Where else might we find out?’

  Gawber appeared at the door. He must have heard the commotion.

  Angel spotted him and ran over to him. ‘Ron. Ron. I want to know if Felicity Santana weighs 7 stone 2 lbs. Where can I find that out quickly?’

  Gawber looked bewildered.

  ‘Her passport, her business manager, I suppose.’

  Harker got up from behind his desk and, pushing Ahmed towards Angel, said: ‘You can settle this somewhere else. Get out. All of you. I won’t have this in my office. Go on. Get out. Shoo.’

  Gawber got hold of Angel’s arm and directed him out of the office. ‘Come on, sir.’

  ‘We’re going, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘Sorry, sir,’ Ahmed added as he closed the superintendent’s office door.

  They were out in the corridor. Angel said, ‘This is no good. I need to know her weight. That’s all. Can’t I make you understand?’

  ‘Let’s go back to your office, sir,’ Gawber said, grabbing his arm.

  ‘I can walk. I know the way.’ Angel shrugged him off. ‘You don’t understand, Ron. I need to know her weight. The whole premise hinges on that. If it is 7 stone 2 lbs I have solved the whole puzzle. I know exactly why the pig was in a silk nightie.’

  Gawber and Ahmed looked at each other.

  ‘We could phone her up? Ask her,’ Ahmed said.

  Angel said, ‘No.’

  ‘Would her doctor know?’ Gawber said.

  Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘He’d know! Yes. He’d know.’

  They had arrived at Angel’s office. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a used envelope. Scrawled in a corner was the name ‘Prakash, Santana’s GP, Bond Road, Tel 284845’.

  Angel tapped in the number.

  ‘Dr Prakash speaking.’

  ‘DI Michael Angel, Bromersley police. Remember me? I am looking into Peter Santana’s murder.’

  ‘Oh yes, Inspector. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I need something … It might seem strange to you, Doctor. I need to know the weight of Mrs Santana.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? I thought you said you needed to know Mrs Santana’s weight.’

  ‘That’s right. I thought you would have that information.’

  There was some hesitation. ‘This is for police business, isn’t it? Not for some newspaper or magazine article or …’

  Angel breathed in noisily then said, ‘This is Detective Inspector Angel of the Bromersley force, Doctor. Do you not recognize my voice?’

  ‘Very well, Inspector. I’ll take a look at her records. Hold on.’

  It seemed to take ages. Then Angel heard the doctor returning and picking up the phone. ‘Mrs Santana had a check-up in August last, Inspector, and she weighed the same as she has for the last three years. That is 7 stone 2 lbs.’

  Angel sighed then said, ‘Thank you, Doctor. 7 stone 2 lbs. Thank you very much.’

  He beamed, replaced the phone, leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

  Ahmed said, ‘Now would you like a cup of tea, sir?’

  ‘Yes, lad. Six sugars. And bring one for DS Gawber.’

  Ahmed went out and closed the door.

  ‘It all fits like a jigsaw puzzle, Ron, without a piece missing,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It came to me when I reversed things … I mean … suppose Santana had been thinking of murdering Felicity? Should he tolerate her infidelity for ever? Of course not. I first began to suspect her when you told me that at that shop called Exotica, the assistant told you that Felicity had found out that her husband had bought a nightie. Now that’s bound to whip up a woman’s concern when a husband buys a sexy silk nightie and discovers it’s not for her.’

  Gawber nodded. ‘Not half. Can imagine my wife’s reaction! Huh!’

  ‘But she never mentioned to me that she knew he had bought the nightie and that it was not for her,’ Angel said. ‘Not a word. Also she would naturally become concerned when she heard that her husband Peter was considering changing his will, when she had understood that already everything of his had been unconditionally left to her: a change, whatever it was, could only be worse. Anyway, the night of Santana’s murder was the night of the late filming, that was Monday, the fifteenth. Santana may have said that he would spend the night at the farmhouse, so she thought that it was a good night to set things in motion. She told Munro that Santana would be up there alone, promised him the moon with jam on it, gave him the gun, which I’ll go into later, and after they had finished filming, set him off up there. She allowed the studio driver to take her home to Creesforth Road to support her story. Munro parked the Range Rover a good distance away from the farmhouse, and walked up the hill. There is a trodden-down area by the drive gate where I expect he stood, possibly with binoculars, a few minutes. At about midnight, Munro tried the front door. It wasn’t locked so he went inside. The place was in darkness. Santana probably heard him. Munro went in the bedroom, found Santana coming towards him and shot him in the chest. Santana fell where we found him. Munro may have checked to see if he was dead, but probably not. Anyway, he kept his head, closed the doors, wiped his prints off the door handles and ran down the drive and out to his car at the bottom of the hill somewhere and drove home. Easy.’

  There was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed with the tea, two cups and saucers on a
black tin tray. Gawber smiled at him and took the tray.

  ‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ Angel said. He took one of the cups off the tray.

  Ahmed went out and closed the door.

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said. ‘I was saying that while Felicity and Munro were planning to kill him, he was, at the same time, also planning to get rid of Felicity. His plan was much more subtle than theirs. He was planning for it to seem like an accident. And in typical Santana style, he also intended making money out of it – £1.5 million.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money, sir. How?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Ron. He had fallen out of love with the farmhouse … probably because primarily it was so cold up there. Of course he had plenty of heating inside, but I suppose there were no really warm days. Even when the sun was strong, the wind would blow any warmth away. Anyway, for whatever reason, he had had enough of the place. Felicity had stopped coming up there years back, even for a visit. So he doubled the insurance, and bought a can of petrol. What other use could he have had for petrol in the garage, when both of their cars run on diesel?’

  Gawber, sipping the tea, looked up in realization.

  ‘But his physical powers were waning. Felicity wasn’t going to come to the farmhouse voluntarily, so he intended that she should come unconsciously. That’s what he wanted the ether for.’

  ‘But we didn’t find any ether, sir,’ Gawber said.

  ‘No. He hadn’t bought the ether yet. That night was only a rehearsal for him. An exercise to see if he could lift the unconscious Felicity, put a nightdress on her and so on. He bought a pig exactly the same weight as Felicity, and a silk nightdress because he thought it would slide along her unconscious body easier than, say, cotton. He withdrew fuses and wiped them clean of his prints to suggest that there was something wrong with the electrics and provide an explanation as to why she would need to use candles. He would have covered the bed, with the unconscious Felicity in it, with a measured amount of petrol. He wouldn’t want the place stinking of the stuff and thereby give the game away. Then he would have laid the candlestick close at hand, opened a few windows and doors and let mother nature do her worst.’