The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel stared at her. He couldn’t help himself. He thought her mouth the most beautiful mouth in the world, and her teeth the whitest and most perfectly matched … and her voice. He had to agree, she was stunning. Not as stunning as she was on the screen, but she had two other enormous advantages, as far as he was concerned. She was female and she was young.

  He licked his lips, then breathed out a long sigh and said, ‘You are very kind, but no thanks, Miss Quadrette. I must introduce myself. My name is Inspector Angel.’

  ‘Sit down, Inspector,’ she said. ‘This is Hugo, my personal … hairdresser.’ She took a sip from the glass, looked at Angel and giggled.

  Angel looked across at the young man and nodded.

  ‘Pleathed to meet you, Inspector,’ the man said. ‘It’s Hugo Moth.’ Angel assumed he intended to say ‘Moss’.

  She puckered up her lips and said, ‘Give the inspector a glass, Hugo.’

  Angel waved his hand and said, ‘No thanks. I’m only here to ask you about Mark Johannson.’

  The smile vanished. ‘Mark Johannson?’ She lifted her head and wrinkled her nose. ‘We all know he’s dead. What do you want to know? I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did. Whoever it was should be given a bloody medal. That’s all I know,’ she said and then she sat up, swivelled round and put her bare suntanned feet on the cream carpet.

  Moss dashed across, pulled out some gold-coloured slippers from under the bed and quickly began to slip them onto her feet. She hardly seemed to notice.

  ‘I want to get back to London,’ she continued. ‘They won’t be shooting anything here today. I have been asked to wait here to see you, and then I’m off, like a bat out of hell.’

  ‘I’m coming with you, Nan?’ Moss said in a beseeching tone, looking up from the kneeling position, pushing a slipper onto her foot.

  She smiled down at him. ‘Of course you are, Hugo dear,’ she said, running her hand through his blond hair and pulling his head into her bosom with her free hand.

  Moss reached out with both hands and caressed her waist with movements of a dying butterfly.

  Angel watched them. The magic left him, and he decided he’d never touch Sherry trifle with double cream and chocolate sauce again.

  After a few moments, she smiled down at Moss and said, ‘Phone for a car to the airport, Hugo, darling … and tell them, half an hour.’

  He nodded, smiled and pulled away.

  Angel then said, ‘I take it you didn’t like Mr Johannson.’

  Her face straightened. The smile vanished again. The mood changed again. ‘Horrible man. No manners. No understanding of artistic interpretation. A bully. Conceited. A liar and a cheat. And he had absolutely no idea how to treat a lady. Inspector Angel, if I had known that he was to direct this film, I would not have committed myself to Euromagna. Do you know, I turned down a million pounds to play opposite Kirk Fletcher with Maximillia Films, and had already planned to have a year away from the camera, but smarmy Grant Montague suckered me into this … this so-called extravaganza, which was going to beat all box office records ever. Directed by the great Mark Johannson. Look at the damned film now! They’ll probably never finish it. It’s jinxed.’

  Angel had been watching her carefully. She spoke about Johannson with expressionless eyes, cold eyes; eyes, he considered, that could watch a lion tear out the innards out of a man and be unmoved. He shook his head to get rid of the imagery.

  Moss closed up the mobile phone he had been talking into and said, ‘Nan, the car will be here in half an hour. There’s a plane at 12.32.’

  She heard him and nodded but her mind was elsewhere.

  ‘When did you last see Mr Johannson?’ Angel said.

  ‘Last night. After we had finished shooting,’ she said draining the glass and offering it to Moss. He took it and reached back to take the bottle out of the ice bucket. Quadrette rocked her hand and shook her head to indicate that she didn’t want any more. He put her glass down, lifted the bottle and poured the last few dregs into his own glass then pushed the empty bottle upside down into the ice bucket.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Angel said.

  ‘Oh. Yesterday was dreadful. There was an annoying take. The first take of the morning. We never recovered from it. It was a perfectly dreadful start to a most irritating day. That clown, Otis Stroom, hadn’t learned the bloody script. He didn’t know his lines or his cues. He’s as blind as a bat, you know. And he can’t use idiot boards because he can’t see them. Playing opposite him is hard work, I can tell you. When the light went and Mark Johannson called it a day, I wasn’t sorry. I came back here. Wardrobe undressed me and took my costume. I just had time to put on my robe, when he knocked on the door. I wasn’t pleased to see him. And I let him know it. He came in all apologetic. I told him that I had a good mind to walk out but he pleaded with me to stay. He said it would get better, that he was going to speak to Otis Stroom and make certain he was briefed for tomorrow’s schedule. I told him that I had psyched myself for the scene and the kissing business at the door seven times, and when it came to the eighth take, I was not at my best. He said that he and Harry Lee had seen the playback and that they both agreed it was marvellous and couldn’t be bettered by anybody.’ She waited for Angel to look impressed: he didn’t oblige.

  ‘Did anything else happen?’

  ‘No. He left after that and I got dressed. I wanted the hell out of it. My car was due any moment.’

  ‘Was anybody here with you at the time?’

  ‘No. Just the two of us.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘My car arrived. I left for my hotel in Leeds, where I spent the night.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘I arrived in my suite at the Imperial Grand at around 5.45, I think. Had a long bath. A meal in my room … perfectly dreadful. Went through the script for today’s scenes. Hugo dropped in to check my hair.’ She looked across at him and smiled. ‘Didn’t you, darling?’ she called, gesticulating with her arm.

  Moss looked gooey-eyed at her. Then crossed to her and took her hand.

  Angel thought the lad had better watch out later. The first sign of anything wrong and she’d bite off his arms and stuff them down his throat.

  ‘What time was that?’

  She looked at Moss.

  He said, ‘Just after thix o’clock, it would be.’

  ‘Where were you until then, Mr Moss?’

  ‘I have my own thalon in Leeds, Inspector. I was there all day until 5.30. I went thraight to the hotel. I arrived just after thix o’clock,’ he said looking at Quadrette for verification.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s about right.’

  ‘And what time did he leave?’

  She frowned. Her thin, mean, sexy lips tightened. ‘Are these questions really necessary, Inspector?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘It’s simply to establish an alibi for you.’

  Her eyes lit up briefly. She seemed taken aback. ‘Do you think I need one?’ she said in a low, growling voice.

  He shrugged. ‘At this stage in the investigation, I don’t know.’

  ‘The text of this interview will not be made available to the press, will it?’

  ‘No. This is entirely a police matter. I am simply trying to discover the murderer of Mark Johannson. I don’t have any other interest, I assure you.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Very well, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Yes. Hugo was here all night. He left after breakfast.’

  Angel turned back to him. ‘Is that right, sir?’

  Moss smirked and said, ‘Yeth.’

  Angel completed the interview by asking Quadrette and Moss their respective addresses. He noted the information on an envelope from his inside pocket, thanked them and made for the caravan door.

  Angel immediately noticed that the air outside smelled fresher. Much fresher. He breathed in deeply and enjoyed it. He was thinking about the heavy, warm smell in Quadrette’s van. The bouquet from the flowers, her perfum
e and Moss’s hair lacquer was a rich mixture indeed. Probably rich enough to run a Porsche for a week.

  He strode determinedly to the next caravan to see Otis Stroom. As he knocked on the door, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grant Montague strutting up to Quadrette’s van followed by the chauffeur who was carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. Angel wondered what sort of a welcome Quadrette would give him. He would have loved to have had a bug planted in there and be able to overhear their conversation.

  The door of the caravan was opened by the great film star himself, Otis Stroom. Angel could not avoid experiencing a brief tingle of inexplicable pleasure as he stood in front of the six foot two, tanned, muscular film idol, who was wearing a robe made from towelling material and leather slippers. There was more skin than hair on his forehead and crown, than was seen in his films, and he was also wearing a pair of bottle bottom spectacles.

  ‘Mr Stroom,’ he said with a smile. ‘Detective Inspector Angel.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I have been expecting you. Come in, Inspector. Dreadful business. Please sit down. How can I assist you?’

  The men each sat on a settee at opposite sides of the caravan facing each other, with a small folding table between them. The room was uncluttered, clean and tidy.

  ‘For the time being, Mr Stroom, by simply answering a few questions, that’s all.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Well, firstly, do you know of anybody who disliked Mark Johannson?’

  Stroom rubbed his big square chin three or four times. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. ‘Well, to tell the truth, he didn’t have the most attractive personality. He was a man totalling lacking in personal charm. He had perfected the art of rubbing everybody up the wrong way.’

  ‘Do you know anybody who hated him enough to murder him?’

  ‘Oh no. I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘Nobody in particular comes to mind?’

  ‘No. Sorry, Inspector.’

  Angel nodded thoughtfully. ‘Your relationship with him was good, then?’

  ‘On the contrary. To tell the truth, I couldn’t abide the man, but he was the director, the boss and he was a company man. He thought he knew all the answers. He always thought that his interpretation of a storyline was the correct and only one. He was sometimes quite amateurish, I thought, when it came to artistic interpretation. Also, we had constant arguments about angle of shot. You see, I can only show the camera my left profile. It is so much better than my right. So, I very reasonably insist, I believe, on being to the left of my co-star, which didn’t always suit his choreography. You will understand that I do have a responsibility to my public. I must make the very best of myself, at all times. They must always see me looking at my best, and my female fans in particular, must not be let down. Also, some men model themselves on me. I mustn’t let them down either.’

  Angel screwed up his face. He was about to ask him for some clarification, but decided not to bother. Instead he moved on. ‘Yes, well, where were you between five o’clock yesterday and midnight?’

  ‘What you mean, Inspector, is, do I have an alibi?’

  Angel nodded.

  Stroom rubbed his big, square chin again. ‘After finishing shooting yesterday, Mark Johannson came here and we had a few words about the day’s shooting. It had not gone well. Everybody’s nerves were shot. I understand that Harry Lee’s first take had been messed up. Then Nanette Quadrette could not get a simple bit of business right, and she didn’t even have any words to remember! Seven times she went through the simple matter of walking down a path to the farmhouse door and knocking on it. It was only on the eighth take that she managed to get it right.’

  ‘What did Johannson want?’

  ‘Oh. To make peace with me, I think. He was not hitting it off with her. He couldn’t do with being at odds with both of us at the same time,’ he said with a grim smile.

  ‘And what time did he leave?’

  ‘About five o’clock. Could have been a few minutes before that.’

  ‘Had he stayed long?’

  ‘No. About five minutes.’

  ‘He left perfectly all right?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Inspector. He was angry. So was I.’

  ‘Where did he go after he left you?’

  ‘I don’t know. My car arrived about then. I rushed to get dressed. Then I was driven to my hotel, the Grand Imperial in Leeds.’

  ‘Did you stay in the hotel all night?’

  ‘No. I was bored and I was restless. I put on some jeans, an old coat and hat so that I wouldn’t be recognized, and went out for a walk. Walked round looking in shop windows and restaurant frontages. Must have meandered for two or three hours. Found a quick service restaurant. Had a meal. Don’t know where it was. Then saw a taxi, flagged it down and told the driver to take me back to the Grand Imperial.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  Stroom rubbed the big chin again. ‘About eleven, I think. The lobby in the hotel was deserted.’

  ‘You picked up your room key?’

  ‘No need. I had it on me. I had not handed it in.’

  ‘You spoke to nobody in all this time. Nobody recognized you?’

  ‘No.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘It isn’t an alibi, Mr Stroom. Your whereabouts cannot be accounted for or supported by anybody else.’

  ‘No. Well, no matter, Inspector. You’re not likely to be accusing me of murdering Mark Johannson.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Angel said, rubbing his own chin. ‘I hope not.’

  SIX

  * * *

  ‘You’re back, sir,’ Ahmed said. He seemed relieved and followed him into his office.

  Angel looked at him curiously. ‘Everything all right, lad?’

  ‘There have been a couple of phone calls for you, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’ Angel said. ‘Who from?’

  ‘They were both from a man called Peter.’

  ‘Peter who?’

  ‘He didn’t say, sir. He said he’d ring back.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘Hmm. Is DS Crisp in the CID room?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Find him for me. Smartish. He’s always hard to find, that lad. I don’t know where he gets to.’

  Ahmed went out and closed the office door.

  Angel looked down at the pile of papers in front of him. The phone rang. It was Gawber.

  ‘We’ve finished here, sir. I’m sending the others back to the station. Do you want me to go over Johannson’s caravan?’

  ‘I’ve done that, Ron. No harm in you having a look, though. Get the feel of the scene. Then I want you to go over to the Grand Imperial Hotel in Leeds. Take young Scrivens with you. Johannson was staying there. SOCO should have been and gone by the time you get there. Have a look round. Go through his stuff. Pack it up and bring it back here. And check at the hotel on his phone calls and any messages he might have been left.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Have you seen Trevor Crisp on your travels?’

  ‘No, sir. Wasn’t he looking into the ID of that man who you thought had been burgled by that girl?’

  ‘Aye, he was,’ he grunted through gritted teeth.

  ‘If I see him, sir, I’ll tell him you want him.’

  ‘Right,’ Angel said and banged down the phone. Crisp always annoyed him. He could never find him. He was always missing. He was so different from Gawber. He was always bunking off on some skive or other and eventually came back with more inventive excuses than Richard Branson.

  The phone rang again. It was the civilian switchboard operator.

  ‘There’s a man wants to speak to you, sir. Been trying to get hold of you, all morning. He’s phoned three times in the past hour. Says his name is Peter. That’s all he’ll say.’

  ‘Oh yes? Right. I’ll speak to him. Please put him through.’

  There was a click.

  ‘Hello. This is DI Angel. Who is that?’

  ‘You don’t know me, Inspector,’ the voice said. �
��My name is Peter Meissen. I’ll come straight to the point. I understand you have in your possession an antique silver candle-snuffer with the tips of the blades in the form of a pair of hands?’ The man spoke slowly; every consonant was pronounced clearly and crisply, like a man whose first language wasn’t English.

  ‘I may have.’

  ‘Ah. Then perhaps I could see it?’

  ‘What for? Who are you?’

  ‘I might be prepared to make an offer to buy it for up to, say £5000.’

  Angel blinked. Five thousand? That was a lot of cabbage for a silver candle-snuffer. What was so special about it? He needed to know who this man was.

  ‘I would need to know more about your identity, sir. We don’t play pig in a poke here, you know.’

  ‘I understand that, sir. That’s no problem. I can supply that when we meet, if that is satisfactory?’

  ‘Very well,’ Angel said.

  The man said, ‘Although you have possession of it, Inspector, do I understand that it is not actually police property?’

  ‘That is correct. Technically, it isn’t,’ Angel said.

  ‘Hmmm. Well, even so, perhaps I could call into the station this afternoon at about three o’clock?’

  ‘Very well. I can make that convenient.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’ He rang off.

  Strange. Angel wrinkled his nose. Being a copper was a funny business. And the people he met in the course of his work were so strange. Generally, he thought, you get three sorts. You have to separate the crooks from the fools, and the fools from the innocents. Then lock up the crooks, scare off the fools and steer the innocents gently out of harm’s way.

  He went back to thinking about the money – £5000. That’d keep a crook in Strangeways for about eight weeks.

  He looked up at the clock. It was 1.55 p.m. He was thirsty and he’d had no lunch. He reckoned that if he didn’t dawdle, he would have time to trot down to The Fat Duck, grab a meat pie and a glass of Old Peculier, maybe two, and easily get back for three o’clock. It would get him out of the office and have the additional merit – maybe – of that certain solitude he needed to think things through.