‘When did you last speak to the hospital?’
‘Must be half an hour ago now, sir. He was still with us.’
‘Next of kin?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I don’t know where he lives. One of the witnesses thinks he lives on Edward Street, but he doesn’t know what number. I haven’t had time to look it up.’
Angel nodded then pursed his lips. ‘Have you had any sleep?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Right, lad. Leave me those names and addresses and then push off.’
Scrivens smiled. It had been a long night. He tore a sheet off a notepad, handed it to him and went out.
Angel sat down, glanced at the list of witnesses, stuffed it in his pocket, reached out for the phone and tapped in a number.
There was a knock at the door. It was Detective Sergeant Trevor Crisp.
Crisp was considered to be the glamour boy of the team. He was a handsome man, unmarried, and was known to have had a few near misses with WPC Leisha Baverstock, the station beauty. He was never around, impossible to find and a master of excuses. He was also an expert at trying Angel’s patience.
Angel glared up at him. He sighed. ‘Ah,’ he said and replaced the phone. ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel.’
‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘Always looking for you, lad. I spend days looking for you. You’re never around when you’re needed. Where have you been?’
‘Sorry, sir. I just heard you’d got a man found dead in bed … with a pig,’ he said with a smile. ‘In a nightie.’
Angel glared at him. ‘A lot’s happened since then.’
Crisp could see he wasn’t earning any merit marks. ‘I got a tip-off that Harry Savage had been seen on a platform at Bromersley railway station,’ he said quickly. ‘I had to follow it up.’
Harry Savage was a confidence trickster, a particularly cruel kind who had tricked an elderly lady out of £8,000 savings with an insurance scam. He had subsequently been caught but had escaped from the Magistrates’ Court at Shiptonthorpe in 2006.
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did you catch him?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What else have you been busy with?’ Angel said.
‘Well, then I got a complaint from a woman about noise in Newberry Flats … the flat next to hers. It turned out to be the sound of a cuckoo clock he had just bought. It was on the adjoining wall.’
Angel’s knuckles tightened. ‘A cuckoo clock?’ he bawled. ‘Are you wasting police time listening out for cuckoo clocks?’
‘Well, it was very loud through those cardboard walls. It was annoying, every hour.’
Angel rubbed his chin. He must hold on to his self-control.
Crisp said: ‘Just serving the public, sir. Doing what I can.’
Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘Well, there’s something else here you can do to serve the public. There’s a Vincent Doonan, desperately ill from gunshot wounds in the General Hospital. Get over there. When he comes round, ask him who shot him. Get what you can from the man. All right?’
Crisp’s face straightened.
‘If he tells you, phone it through to me immediately.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If he dies, phone that through to me immediately, also.’
‘Right, sir.’
He went out.
Angel was only seconds behind him. He closed the office door, crossed the corridor and leaned into the CID room. There were a dozen or more policemen and women working at computers or talking to each other. He saw DS Gawber at his desk, frowning and hunched up, having an earnest discussion with somebody on the phone. It looked as if he might be engaged for some time.
Ahmed was at his desk by the door. He saw Angel and stood up. ‘Are you wanting something, sir?’
‘Oh. Yes. A man was shot last night. I want to know where he lives and if he has any family. Nobody knows his next of kin. His name is Vincent Doonan. You can find out from the electoral roll. A witness thought he lived on Edward Street, but he doesn’t know what number. Can I leave that with you? I need to know it ASAP.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘I’m going down to the Fisherman’s Rest on Canal Road. When Ron Gawber is off the phone, ask him to join me there, will you?’
Angel dashed down the corridor, past the cells, to his car.
When he pulled up outside the Fisherman’s Rest, one of the SOCO team in white overall suit, hat and Wellington boots was loading plastic bags into their transit van at the door.
Angel went inside.
DS Donald Taylor was removing the white paper overalls over a navy blue suit and changing his shoes. Two other members of SOCO’s team were packing plastic ‘EVIDENCE’ bags into white plastic boxes. At a table, in the customer side of the bar, Clem Bailey was sitting at a table with a coffee pot and dirty beakers in front of him. He was smoking a cigarette. He looked weary and needed a shave.
Taylor threw up a salute.
Angel acknowledged it and pointed with a thumb towards the man. ‘Is this Mr Bailey, the landlord, Don?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Taylor said.
Angel looked across at him. ‘I’m DI Angel. Good morning, Mr Bailey. I’d like a few words.’
Bailey took a drag on the cigarette and nodded. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘You finished here, Don?’ Angel said.
‘Just about,’ Taylor said.
Angel then moved closely up to Taylor and, with his back to Bailey, he looked closely into the sergeant’s eyes. ‘Anything interesting?’ he whispered pointedly.
Taylor shook his head. ‘We’ve got the four glasses bearing the witnesses’ and victim’s fingerprints, and blood samples from the table … that’s all there was. The gunman apparently didn’t touch anything and he wore gloves. There were no footprints.’
Angel wrinkled his nose.
‘Yes. Right, Don.’
He turned away from Taylor and walked the few steps towards Clem Bailey. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
Bailey gave a slight shrug and said, ‘I’ve told your chaps all I know.’
‘Bear with me, Clem,’ he said rubbing his hand across his face. ‘Will you take me through what actually happened?’
It took Bailey only a minute to talk and show Angel exactly what happened, then they both returned to chairs by the table.
Angel thought a moment then said, ‘Did you know the man who shot Vincent Doonan?’
‘No, but I recognized his eyes. Seen them somewhere before. They were mean.’
‘So you remember his face?’
Bailey licked his lips. ‘I can’t put a name to him.’
‘All right, but would you say that that man knew exactly what he was going to do?’
Bailey looked up. He was surprised. He hadn’t been asked a question which required his opinion. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. He didn’t want a sandwich at all.’
‘That was to get you out of the way.’
Bailey nodded.
‘So he was afraid you might recognize him.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘No suppose about it. Why else would he order a sandwich he had no intention of eating, but to get you out of the way?’
‘But he ordered a pint.’
‘He had to do that to appear normal. But he had been in here before. He knew you would have to go into the back to make the sandwich, didn’t he?’
Bailey blinked. ‘Well, yes.’
Angel nodded and rubbed his mouth. ‘What was his voice like?’
‘Um, ordinary.’
‘Was it strong and aggressive or was it … weak and apologetic or was it something else?’
‘It was strong.’
Angel sniffed and said: ‘I think you know this man, Clem.’
‘I don’t. I’ve no idea who he was.’
‘Close your eyes a minute for me. See if you can remember his eyes. You might. He was a strong character. The rest of his face was covered, so you would naturally be inclined to look
more closely at the area not covered.’
Bailey closed his eyes but he wasn’t happy about it.
‘Now then,’ Angel said. ‘What were his eyes like? Were they shiny, or dull?’
‘Shiny. And black.’
‘Black, good. Were the white areas … very white?’
‘No. A dirty grey.’
‘What about his eyebrows? What colour were they? Were they thick?’
‘Thick, and black.’
‘Brown black, grey black or jet black?’
‘Jet black,’ Bailey said, then he opened his eyes and blinked several times. ‘There’s nothing else. If I have my eyes closed any longer, I shall be asleep.’
‘Can you hold that picture in your memory? It’s vitally important. We’re on the hunt for a gunman who might be a murderer.’
The front door banged.
Angel looked round, and when he saw who it was, his face brightened. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to Bailey. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
He stood up and crossed the floor.
‘I found out about the nightdress, sir,’ Gawber said quietly. ‘Pure silk. Got the assistant who actually served Santana. Lucky, that. She said that I wasn’t the first person to be inquiring about Mr Santana’s purchase. She said she thought that Mrs Santana must have been very pleased, and that he wasn’t at all fussy about the colour, but that he wanted it to be silk, roomy and sleeveless.’
Angel said: ‘Confirmation he bought the thing.’
‘Where does that get us, sir?’ Gawber said.
‘Damned if I know.’
Then out of his pocket Angel pulled the scrap of paper Scrivens had given him. He gave it to Gawber.
‘Here, Ron. These are the names and addresses of the three witnesses who were seated with Doonan. Call on them. See what you can find out.’
Gawber took the list, glanced at it and rushed off.
DS Taylor stuck his head through the door. ‘We’ve finished here, sir, and we’re all packed up. We’re off back up to Tunistone.’
Angel acknowledged him with a wave of the hand. He turned back to Bailey. ‘Still holding that picture of the gunman’s face,’ he said, ‘I want you to come back to the station and look at our rogues’ gallery, see if you can pick him out.’
Bailey looked pained. ‘I won’t be able to do that. I haven’t seen my bed for nigh on twenty-four hours.’
‘It won’t take long. I’ll take you up and I’ll bring you back here. Won’t take long, I promise.’
Bailey yawned then shrugged. ‘If it’ll help.’
Angel nodded, pulled out his mobile and phoned Ahmed.
‘I’ve got an address for Vincent Doonan, sir,’ Ahmed said.
‘Good. Hang on to it. Got another urgent job for you, lad. I want you to set up a laptop of our head and shoulders rogues’ gallery photos, showing only the area of the face from two inches above the eyebrows down to just below the nose, and blanking off the ears. Can you do that quickly and set the laptop up in my office?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
He closed the phone, but it rang immediately. He reopened it and pressed the talk button. It was Crisp. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m at the hospital, sir.’
Angel frowned. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Go on.’ He steeled himself for what he thought was to follow.
‘I managed to get to Vincent Doonan, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘I asked him … I had to ask him several times … who had shot him and he eventually … simply said, “It was Liam Quigley” … and then he died.’
Angel identified a tremor in Crisp’s voice. Angel blew out a long breath, then said, ‘Right, lad. Come back to the station. I’ll meet you there.’
He slowly closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
He remembered the man called Liam Quigley. A big, ugly lump of a man, a small-time crook mostly involved in stealing and selling stolen property in public houses and fleamarkets. Murder was a big step for him. Angel sighed as he considered how many small-time crooks graduated into committing the worst crime of all. He looked up at Bailey and said, ‘It’s a case of murder now, Clem.’
Bailey’s mouth tightened. The tragic news made him more than willing to look at the rogues’ gallery. ‘All right then, let’s go.’
They both stood up to leave, just as the whirring sound from the mechanism of the cuckoo clock on the wall behind him began its hourly cycle and vulgarly proclaimed that the time was ten o’clock.
Angel looked round at it and frowned.
Ten minutes later, Angel and Bailey were coming down the station corridor as Ahmed was coming up it.
Ahmed said: ‘The laptop’s ready on your desk, sir.’
‘Right,’ Angel said and he ushered Bailey into his office.
The two men were soon seated in front of the laptop screen.
Angel expected Liam Quigley to be among the selection of pictures but he couldn’t be certain. Quigley had not been in trouble for several years. It was possible his picture had been removed. Altogether, at that moment, there were 108 faces registered, six to a page. Parts of all the faces had been duly blanked off as Angel had instructed. There were no names under the photographs, just numbers.
Bailey began eagerly studying the photographs closely but, not seeing the one he could identify among the early ones, he soon became less intense and clicked the mouse to move on to the next page at his own pace.
Angel watched him as he clicked on page after page. He himself only recognized a few of the villains from their eyes and noses; it wasn’t easy, but he had high hopes.
The page with the photograph of Liam Quigley eventually came up. Angel recognized it: the big head was, he thought, a positive giveaway. The photograph had the figure ‘92’ neatly printed in the middle in black underneath. He waited like an excited child on a Christmas morning for Bailey to pick it out.
But he didn’t.
Bailey clicked the mouse to move on to the next page, and Angel didn’t so much as blink.
Bailey clicked on to the end and then back to the beginning.
He turned to Angel and said, ‘No, Mr Angel, he’s not there.’
Angel sighed. There was no hiding his disappointment. He stood up. ‘Go through them again, in your own time, Clem, will you? This is very important. I’ve a little job I want to do. I won’t be a minute.’
Bailey wasn’t pleased, but he turned back to the screen and reached out for the mouse.
Angel went out of the office and closed the door. He crossed the corridor to the CID office and peered through the door. It was unusually quiet. There were two detectives arguing about something at the far end of the room, and Ahmed at his desk by the door. He saw him, stood up and said, ‘Looking for me, sir? I want to tell you about Vincent Doonan. I got his address.’
‘Ah, yes?’
‘He lived on his own at 11 Edward Street.’
‘Right, lad. I’ve got it. Thank you, but right now I’m looking for DS Crisp.’
He looked round. ‘He’s been in, sir. Not long since. Probably in the canteen.’
‘Right, I’ll find him. Take two teas into my office, will you? I’ve left Clem Bailey still looking at the rogues’ gallery. There’s one for him.’
Ahmed nodded.
Angel went further down the green corridor and pushed his way through the swing doors into the canteen.
He found Crisp on his own at the far end. There was an empty cup and saucer in front of him and his nose was buried in a newspaper.
‘Are you all right, lad?’ Angel said.
Crisp looked up. He blinked. It was unusual to see Angel in the canteen. ‘Oh? Yes, sir.’
Angel dropped into the seat opposite him.
Crisp smiled. ‘You’re in the papers again, sir.’ He pointed to a headline on an inside page and read it out. ‘Murdered millionaire in bed with pig in nightie. Super sleuth Angel investigates.’
Angel pulled an angry face and swiped out at
the paper, hitting it with his fingertips. ‘I wish that rag would get its facts right.’
Crisp grinned.
‘I want you to find Liam Quigley and bring him in for questioning. Be careful. He could be armed. Take somebody with you.’
‘Right, sir. Where will I find him?’
Angel’s fists tightened. ‘I thought you were a detective?’
Crisp frowned.
Angel glared at him, then stood up. ‘I should try the PNC. If that doesn’t help, I should try Confused dot com.’
Crisp shook his head.
Angel returned to his office.
Bailey was drinking the tea.
‘I’ve found him,’ Bailey said brightly, putting down the cup. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
Angel’s face brightened. Good. Good.’
‘I’ve found the man.’
Bailey clicked the mouse a few times, found the page and said, ‘There, that’s the one there, number twenty.’
Angel stared at the photograph and wrinkled his nose.
CHAPTER 4
* * *
Angel drove the BMW through the converted farmhouse gates and saw DS Taylor and a PC both in white boiler suits, rubber boots and caps poking around the modern double garage built at the side.
He stopped the BMW behind SOCO’s van, which in turn was behind Santana’s silver Mercedes, still parked at the front door.
Taylor saw him, came out of the garage and crossed the drive to greet him.
Angel nodded towards the garage as he got out of the car and said, ‘Anything in there?’
‘Just a can of petrol, sir. Nothing else.’
‘Petrol?’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. ‘Not diesel?’
‘It’s definitely petrol. No petrol stations up here. I suppose it’s an emergency stock in case they find themselves stuck here with an empty tank.’
Angel frowned.
‘Personally I wouldn’t like to be stuck here any time,’ Taylor added. ‘It’s so … so quiet.’
Angel smiled. He thought he might like it, in small doses. ‘That’s the beauty of the place,’ he said.
Taylor looked up at the black cloudy sky over the distant mountains. ‘And it’s so eerie.’
They arrived at Santana’s car. The door handles, boot catch and the area round the cover of the fuel-tank cap were covered with silver aluminium powder.
The Cuckoo Clock Scam Page 4