The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel was pleased the gamble had paid off, but he didn’t show it.

  ‘You don’t have to admit to anything, Nan,’ Moss said. ‘If you don’t want to.’

  Angel glared at him. ‘If you don’t shut this gibbering monkey up, I will take him outside and strap him to a tree or something,’ he shouted.

  Quadrette looked with pained eyes at the young man who lowered his head. With a quick jerk of her hand she pointed to the bed. He pulled a disagreeable face, tossed the hairbrush onto the dressing table, moved over to the bed, flopped onto it, kicked off his shoes and lounged on it, one arm propping up his head. His nose was turned up, his wet mouth hanging open as he looked at her.

  ‘You say it has nothing directly to do with the murders. Maybe, but I’d like to hear your version of events. When did this all start?’ Angel said, cunningly.

  ‘I assure you, Inspector, it has nothing at all to do with the murders, nothing. I never thought he would have told you anything at all about it. It was after I left RADA. I went round all the agencies and simply couldn’t get work. I heard that Euromagna were looking to cast The Fly That Got Away so I applied. Saw him there and I stupidly told him I was desperate, so he got me work temporarily at the escort agency he runs with Violet Buhl.’ She broke off. ‘But he will have told you all this?’

  Angel nodded. ‘He told me that much,’ he lied. ‘And he said that you got the part in The Fly That Got Away,’ Angel added. He had remembered that from the mammoth publicity drive at the time of the launch of the film.

  ‘That was my first break,’ she said brightly. ‘Never looked back since. Snapped up to make four films for The Ciro Corporation, and then came back home to do this damned thing.’ Then she wrinkled her nose, looked coyly at Angel and said, ‘I hope it won’t have to get out to the media, how I got started.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘Lots of well-known actors have to struggle at the beginning. Even that idiot Otis Stroom was on their books for a while, you know.’

  Angel blinked when he heard her mention Stroom’s name. He looked into her eyes thoughtfully. ‘What’s the address of that escort agency?’

  Angel dashed back to his office and closeted himself in there for the rest of the afternoon. He made several phone calls, carefully recording them on tape. At 5.00 p.m. he closed his office and went home; it was Friday and he was thankful of it. He took the tapes home and played them several times on his own tape deck. On Saturday morning, he mooned around the garden, casually, lazily pulling up a winter weed or two but not attacking the flower borders at all seriously.

  Mary knew something was bothering him. By Saturday evening, she said, ‘Michael. You must relax. I know it’s that murder case that’s on your mind, but you must stop thinking about it. Now, relax and watch the television with me. You know full well, if you stop thinking about it, the answer, or whatever it is, will come to you.’

  He nodded. She was absolutely right. ‘Yes, all right,’ he said and carried on thinking about it.

  It was when they were watching highlights of selections of repeats, of clips of extracts, taken from excerpts, from past series of Only Fools and Horses that Angel suddenly smiled knowingly, and it wasn’t at Del Boy falling through the open bar counter flap.

  It was 8.28 a.m. on Monday, 26 February. Angel opened his office door, went in, closed it, took off his coat, hung it on the peg on the side of the green metal stationery cupboard and then reached out to the phone. He tapped in a number, then pulled faces while fingering through the pile of unopened post on his desk.

  Eventually Ahmed answered the phone. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Where have you been, Ahmed?’ he grumbled.

  ‘It’s not half past yet, sir.’

  ‘Oh, isn’t it? Is DS Gawber there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Tell him I want to see him straight away.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He replaced the phone and wrote a name and address on a memo pad and tore the page off.

  A minute or so later, there was a knock at the door and Gawber came in.

  ‘Come in, Ron. You needn’t sit down.’ He gave him the memo. ‘I want you to get a warrant, then arrest this man at this address and bring him in. You’d better take somebody with you. I should take Scrivens.’

  Gawber looked at the memo. His mouth dropped open. ‘Shall I charge him with both murders, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Go armed. And be quick about it before he commits a third.’

  It was 9.00 a.m. the following morning, Tuesday, 27 February. Gawber had completed his mission the previous day and was talking over the case in Angel’s office.

  ‘It’s like that politician said, sir.’

  Angel frowned. ‘What politician? There’s so many of ’em and they say so much.’

  Gawber screwed up his face as he tried to remember. ‘Something like, “One man’s pay rise is another man’s pay freeze.”’

  Angel looked up. ‘It was Harold Wilson,’ he replied with a sniff.

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘He also said that the pound in your pocket will remain the same. Tell that to the old age pensioners. But you’re correct, Ron. It’s an indisputable fact that if someone loses, then somebody else must win. That’s what double column entry bookkeeping is all about. To say that nobody is a winner in a commercial transaction is the talk of a fool or a con man. That’s what gave him away. When he said, “Nobody wins,” I knew he was lying, but at the time, I couldn’t see why he was lying.’

  ‘Like the man with the white rabbit, you were telling me about, sir. The man with clean hands, who didn’t stroke the rabbit, was the liar.’

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, I spoke to Euromagna’s insurance company and they admitted that they would be obligated to pay out if the film had to be abandoned due to the serious illness, accident or death of a principal actor or director that prevented him/her from working or performing to the required standard during the thirteen weeks contract period (in this case) of the making of the film. If the insurance company had needed any additional reason, I reckon he would have murdered Nanette Quadrette and Otis Stroom and worked his way all the way down to the studio tea lady!’

  Gawber nodded sombrely, knowing that it was probably true.

  ‘Grant Montague’s personal share after expenses as a director of the company would have been over two and a half million. Violet Buhl at the escort agency, after some threat of blackmail on my part, admitted that she wanted two million to buy herself out of the business. When neither Mark Johannson nor Alexander Bernedetti would play ball and obligingly leave the Edgar Poole project voluntarily in exchange for a hand out of half a million, Montague had by then shot his mouth off and had to murder them or his world would have fallen in. He might have got away with it, too.’

  Gawber nodded his understanding. ‘He wasn’t banking on you, sir,’ Gawber said with a little cough.

  Angel sighed. ‘Haven’t you got rid of that cough yet?’ he said impatiently.

  ‘What did “Agapoo” mean, sir?’ he said, ignoring the question.

  Angel smiled. ‘It was simply what Harry Hull thought he heard when Grant Montague said “Edgar Poole”. Agapoo. Got it?’

  ‘Ah!’ Gawber said with a big smile. Then he coughed again, several times. He took the small bottle out of his pocket. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said as he took a sip.

  ‘You really should go to the doctor’s!’ Angel said impatiently.

  ‘It’s only a cough.’

  The phone rang. Angel reached out for it.

  It was the woman civilian on the switchboard. She sounded different. Her usual bored, mechanical drone and overt rudeness was missing. ‘There’s a woman, sounds young, on the line,’ she said spiritedly and an octave higher than her usual level. ‘Seems to be in some trouble or other. She’s asking for you. I couldn’t get her name. Says it’s desperately urgent!’

  Angel’s heart began to pound. ‘Put her through.’ />
  Gawber raised his head. He could sense something was wrong.

  There was a click.

  ‘Is that Inspector Angel?’ a girl’s quivering voice said.

  ‘Yes. Who’s that?’

  ‘I am in desperate trouble. I’ve been imprisoned by a man. I don’t know who he is. He knows you, I know that. He intends holding me ransom, he says, for some thing very valuable. Treasure, he says. Treasure that should have come to him. Oh dear. Please, Inspector, get me out of here.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m in a cold, dark cellar. It’s pitch black. It’s horrible. Oh please, get me out of here. I don’t know where it is. He’s dangerous and as mad as a hatter. Oh. I’ll have to go. I can hear him coming back.’

  ‘Don’t cancel the call. Leave the line open. Who are you? What’s your name?’

  She didn’t reply. Through the phone he could hear a big heavy bang of a steel door. In the distance a man’s voice shouted something; it was loud, seemed to be aggressive but indistinguishable. Then, as he came nearer to the mobile, Angel made out the words, ‘Give me that phone’.

  The woman yelled, ‘No.’

  There was a scream.

  Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. The back of his hand turned to gooseflesh.

  The line went dead.

  Angel didn’t replace the handset.

  ‘What is it?’ Gawber said.

  Angel wondered whether he should attempt to ring back. He decided that it might make the caller’s position difficult and maybe even endanger her life. He slapped down the phone. Angel jumped up, ‘A woman abducted, Ron. I think I know where she might be. Come on,’ he said pulling open the office door. ‘Get two torches from CID. I’ll tell you all about it in the car.’

  The two men ran out of the office.

  SIXTEEN

  * * *

  ‘The man’s voice, I am certain, was that of David Schuster,’ Angel said when they were in the BMW and racing down to the old mill. ‘And the girl’s description of where she was being held perfectly matched the small cellar at the far end of the basement under his shop.’

  Gawber’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I remember it. Shouldn’t we have withdrawn handguns from the armoury, sir? We don’t know what we might meet in the darkness of the place?’

  ‘He’s not known to carry arms. We don’t know what danger the girl might be in. It would have taken us valuable time filling in the applications.’

  Gawber nodded. On reflection, he had to agree. ‘Who is the girl?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Angel stopped the car outside the main door of the old stone mill building, which had experienced so much activity these past few days. He slammed the car door. Gawber brought the torches and handed one to him. They rushed up the three steps through the damaged door and inside the old mill. It was cold. Angel could have sworn it was colder inside than it was outside in the street. They switched on the powerful torches and began the descent to the cellar. Every step he took, Angel wondered what he might find. He was beginning to think that David Schuster had finally blown his top and was ready for the funny farm. He had seen it happen many times in his job. It was very sad. And it always seemed to happen to small people. Well, Schuster wasn’t actually small, he was medium sized, but small in comparison to the average in any gathering of policemen.

  They reached the basement floor and flashed the lights along the big expanse. They looked ahead at the steel door in the wall at the far end. It was closed as before. The two men looked at each other. Everything was as quiet as ashes in an urn on the mantelpiece.

  Angel licked his lips. He was beginning to have doubts. He wondered if he had properly deduced that this was the place where the phone call had come from.

  Neither of the policemen saw a figure manoeuvre stealthily round a pillar to keep in the shadows as they made a beeline for the steel door at the far end.

  They reached it and listened outside the little cell. Absolute silence. Angel grabbed the door handle and pulled it open. He waved to Gawber to go in. Gawber looked through the gap. He went inside and flashed the torch around. Angel pulled the heavy door open even further. There was nobody in the cell, but there was something else, something unexpected, lying flat on the stone-built table in the middle of the little room. Angel saw it also. It was a small suitcase. It was closed. It was old and well-used.

  Angel came in and let the door close. It closed with a loud, disconcerting clang and echo. He crossed to the suitcase. As he did so, there was the squeak of a key turning in a rusty lock and then a metallic thud as the bolt sprang out. The sound was unmistakable.

  The two men stared at each other for a second, realized what they had heard, then rushed at the steel door. They pushed hard at it. It didn’t move. They tried again, harder. It didn’t even shake. They knew they were well and truly imprisoned.

  ‘It’s Schuster,’ Angel said.

  Gawber coughed. He dipped into his pocket, took out the bottle and took a sip from it.

  Angel yelled, ‘Schuster! What are you doing? Why have you locked us in here? What do you want? What’s going on? It doesn’t make sense. Where’s the girl? If you’ve harmed her, you’ll pay for it.’

  They waited. There was no reply.

  ‘Are you there, Schuster?’ Angel yelled again.

  He was certain the man was out there, close to the other side of the door … listening. He could almost hear him breathing. Seconds later they heard footsteps as the man strode quickly away.

  Angel rubbed his chin. He turned to Gawber. ‘Where is the girl? Who the hell is she? Has he murdered her?’

  Gawber coughed, then he said, ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Get on your mobile and get somebody to let us out of here. And tell them to be on the lookout for David Schuster. Warn them that he’s still in the area.’

  Gawber didn’t hesitate. With shaking hands, he dialled the station and spoke to Ahmed, who said he would notify uniform immediately.

  Meanwhile, Angel flashed his torch around the little cell and then moved in on the suitcase. He slid the two catches sideways with his thumbs and the fasteners clicked up. He raised the suitcase lid and shone his torch inside.

  Then he had the shock of his life.

  He saw the dial of a big, old-fashioned alarm clock, fastened to four wires sticking out through Blu-Tack, the tops of two double AA batteries and six sticks that looked like candles covered in cream paper, wrapped together with adhesive tape, which on closer examination proved to be dynamite.

  Angel’s pulse raced up to 200, his mouth went as dry as a box of feathers. He backed away from the suitcase. ‘Ron! It’s a bomb,’ he said quietly.

  ‘A bomb?’ Gawber yelled.

  Angel looked anxiously round the small cell as his heart banged like a drum through his shirt. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

  Gawber glanced across at the suitcase on the stone table. The lid was open. He took in the features of the primitive time bomb. Angel saw him and came back to look at it.

  They could hear it ticking. Only just. It was a quiet, devious tick.

  The alarm hand was set at six o’clock and the other hands were set at three minutes to six.

  ‘I suppose when the alarm bell rings, the circuit will be closed and the bomb will …’ Angel didn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘We’ve three minutes,’ Gawber stammered, ‘… to get out of here.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘We can’t get out of here. Look at that door. The walls are two or three feet thick. And there are no windows. Hmm. We’ve got to disarm this thing.’

  Gawber’s face went white. ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know how,’ he snapped. ‘If we had some wire cutters or scissors.’

  ‘No. Nothing like that, sir.’

  ‘If we had a screwdriver, we could stick it in the clock works and hope to stop the works.’

  ‘We’ve no cutting tools. No screwdriver.’

  Angel ran h
is hand through his hair, then quickly turned back. ‘Ron. Empty your pockets. Let’s see what we do have.’

  Both of the men quickly put all their belongings on the stone table next to the suitcase. Wallet, ID, money, keys, handkerchief, ballpoint pen, notebook, wristwatches … Gawber, lastly, put the bottle of cough medicine on the pile.

  He was looking for something to halt the clock mechanism. A pen wasn’t strong enough to pierce the dial front.

  Angel glanced at the clock dial. It showed one minute and forty-five seconds to go. He didn’t remark on it. It was obvious, and he thought Ron Gawber had taken about as much pressure as he could bear. He was coughing more frequently. It was very worrying.

  Then his eyes suddenly lit up. He shone his torch down to the floor. By the walls was a sprinkling of sand, grains that had fallen away over the years from the crumbling of the sandstone walls.

  ‘Quick, Ron. Collect up this sand dust. As much as you can.’

  Gawber didn’t question why. He gathered up the small amount that there was, into the palm of his hand.

  ‘That’s enough. Is that clock still ticking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gawber transferred his collection of sand into Angel’s hand. Angel reached out for the bottle of cough medicine. It was about a third full. He put all the sand and dust they had collected inside the bottle and shook it up. Then with trembling hands, he poured the gritty, sticky substance over the clock dial. He emptied the bottle and banged the base of it with his other hand to get out every last drop.

  ‘Clocks don’t like grit, Ron. Let’s hope they don’t like this?’

  The clock continued to tick. The second hand had only one more 360 degree sweep of the dial to make before it would hit six o’clock.

  They anxiously watched the runny mess make its way round the edges of the dial and then disappear underneath into the mechanics of the clock. It was a very long shot and Angel knew it.