Angel’s breathing slowed.
He appreciated the fact that Taylor couldn’t have avoided obeying the superintendent and he gestured with a single finger to put the box down on his desk.
‘So in that box is a cuckoo clock,’ Angel said, ‘which you are duly returning to me, in pieces, which may or may not have hidden compartments to aid the smuggling of heroin or some other illegal substance?’
‘Not quite, sir.’
‘Oh?’
‘Several things, sir. The clock is fully assembled and in perfect working order and keeps time pretty well. We had already checked it out. And I can confirm that there are no concealed compartments and no chemical traces of any kind of known illegal drugs or substances.’
‘The bird thing that pops out?’
‘Wood and plastic on a spring. Nothing unusual.’
‘And the weights. What are they made of?’
‘Pig iron, sir. We have drilled a tiny hole right through. We have tested the dust. It is the crudest, cheapest, heaviest pig iron you can find. We have then filled the holes up to match the original weight and covered the very slight damage with a dab of brown paint.’
‘What about the packaging?’
‘It’s a simple cardboard box, sir, not excessive. Nothing unusual. Just the right amount of packing, I would say, for an item of that weight, size and kind being transported across Europe that distance by air.’
Angel pursed his lips. ‘You’re certain about that?’
‘Stake my reputation on it.’
It seemed that Angel’s idea that the cuckoo clocks were being used to smuggle heroin or other illegal substances was unfounded: he could surely rely on Don Taylor not to let anything get past him in that regard. Nevertheless, there was some reason why the town was flooded with them at such a ridiculously low price.
‘Right,’ Angel said. ‘Thank you. You’ve done your best. Hop off. We’ll leave it at that.’
Taylor sighed. He was very relieved. He went out much happier than he had come in.
Angel opened the flaps of the cardboard box and looked in at the clock carefully wrapped in polythene, with the weights slotted into folded cardboard sections inserted one each at two of the four corners for protection of the mechanism. He closed the flaps, and read the label. Then he reached out for the phone to summon Gawber.
A few minutes later, Gawber came into the office.
‘You wanted me, sir?’ he said.
Angel pointed at the box on his desk. ‘That’s one of those clocks, Ron,’ he said. ‘Don Taylor says that clock case is hiding nothing … no heroin … no illegal substance … not so much as a hint of a wine gum … but I’m still not satisfied.’ He began to read from the label on the flap. ‘From the Tikka Tokka Cuckoo Clock Company, Mingenstrasse, Reebur, Switzerland. To the Antique Shop, Bull’s Foot Railway Arches, Wath Road, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK. 1 of a consignment of 250.’ He looked up at him. ‘I want you to get on to this, Ron. Find out what you can about this factory in Switzerland. Pretend you own a chain of novelty shops or something and you want to buy a couple of million clocks. Then give them a ring. That should make them concentrate their attention on you, break off sliding down mountains on their Toblerones, yodelling and singing about Maria and the lonely goat herd.’
Angel was in his office, reading the transcript of the statement made by Laurence Smith.
The phone rang. He reached out for it. It was Crisp.
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘About time I heard from you. Where are you, lad? Have you emigrated?’
Crisp’s jaw dropped. ‘No, sir. I’m in the film studio. Got a job as a sound engineer.’
Angel frowned. ‘Oh? What exactly is that?’
‘I hold a pole and follow people round.’
Angel frowned. ‘I hope you’re spending the government’s money wisely, lad?’
‘Can’t stay, sir. I’ve made contact with Felicity Santana’s gofer, Marianne Cooper. She’s a bit too young for me, sir, but she’s got this ravishing hair, and legs that …’
Angel sighed. ‘I’m not interested in what she looks like,’ he yelled.
Crisp’s tone changed. ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. I wanted to tell you about this handgun, sir. It was in the men’s washroom. He dropped it on the floor. Two minutes ago. He picked it up and put it in his right jacket pocket. His name is Samson Fairchild.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He’s an actor. Very well known, sir.’
Angel hadn’t heard of him. ‘Hmmm. Was that gun real or a replica?’
‘Looked real to me, sir. Anyway there’s no gun play in the film he’s in.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Right, lad. I’ll deal with it. Better get back to the girl with the ravishing … whatever it was.’
‘I don’t care who you are, sir,’ the gate man at the Top Hat Film Studios said. ‘You’re not allowed past this barrier without a pass. It’s regulations. Health and safety, you know.’
Angel leaned out of the car window. ‘Come here, little man.’
The burly six foot uniformed gate man leaned down to Angel’s car window.
Angel grabbed him by the tie and pulled him up to three inches from his nose and said, ‘I’ve shown you my warrant card with my ID and photograph in it, my police badge, and I’ve told you I’m on very urgent business. If you value your health and safety, you’ll lift that barrier double quick or you’ll be arrested for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.’
The gate man swallowed. His face stretched the length of a truncheon. ‘Oh yes, sir. Right, sir,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize …’
Angel released the grip of his tie.
The barrier shot up.
‘Where will I find Samson Fairchild?’ he said.
‘Second sound stage. Second on your left, sir. Got a big “2” painted on it. Don’t say I told you.’
Angel let in the clutch and the BMW sped straight ahead into the concrete wonderland. It was an area the size of three football pitches comprising huge, single-storey buildings criss-crossed with wide concrete service lanes. There were signs everywhere, more than the inside of a prison. They were on buildings and on signposts in the middle of the concrete lanes. ‘5 mph.’ ‘No Smoking.’ ‘No Waiting.’ ‘No Stopping.’ ‘No Parking.’ ‘No horns to be used.’ ‘No left turn.’ ‘No right turn.’ ‘Sound Stage 1.’ ‘Sound Stage 2.’ ‘Canteen.’ ‘Props.’ ‘Admin.’ ‘Make-Up.’ ‘Car Park.’
There was nobody about, and no vehicles on the move. Angel passed two large buildings, Administration and Sound Stage 1, and reached a bigger building marked Sound Stage 2. He stopped the car by the door and rushed into the building. He had to pass through two lots of double doors before he was actually inside the studio itself, which was a huge single floor space with a high roof. There was a conglomeration of scenery in the middle with batteries of powerful lights, cameras and cables and about forty people standing around looking at a small area in front of a section of scenery. That was where the filming was taking place.
As Angel approached, he could hear a lone, male, theatrical voice offering his life and love to somebody in a very beautiful dress. He realized that he was the only person moving about, that everyone else was standing stock-still and so quiet you could have heard a £10 note drop into a screw’s pocket.
More than twenty lights were directed on the actor, some at very close quarters. Everybody’s attention was on the man, addressing a woman seated on a sofa who Angel recognized as Felicity Santana. Then the actor stopped speaking. There were a few seconds of silence then a voice through an amplification system called out, ‘Cut. That’s OK. Print it. Break for tea. Ten minutes, no longer.’
Powerful lights went out with a whoosh, loud chattering started, hammering began, technicians wheeled cameras and apparatus to another set and many feet made for the exit, some to the canteen, the executives to their offices and the star actors to thei
r luxury caravans.
Angel saw Crisp rushing past. He was carrying a microphone on a pole. They exchanged glances but nothing more.
Nobody seemed to notice Angel’s presence; they were each occupied with their own job. He approached the man who had issued the instructions through the loudspeaker system. He was writing something on a clipboard.
‘Excuse me,’ Angel said. ‘I want to speak to Samson Fairchild.’
‘Everybody does,’ the young man said, then he looked up. He stared at Angel. ‘Who are you?’ he added with unfriendly eyes. ‘I don’t know you. Where’s your pass? You shouldn’t be in here.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Angel from Bromersley police. I am investigating the murder of Peter Santana.’
The man’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh? I didn’t know about you being here. I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘I am the floor manager, Oliver Razzle. Mr Fairchild will be in his caravan.’ He tossed the clipboard on to a chair. ‘I’m going in that direction. I’ll take you across there.’
The building had emptied except for a gang of men setting up lighting banks, standards and other equipment in a different part of the studio. There were only Angel and Razzle striding out across the set to a row of four American RVs parked up close to the wall.
‘How is the investigation going, Inspector? Mr Santana was highly regarded here, you know. We hope that you will soon find his killer.’
‘We will,’ Angel said, trying to sound confident. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’
Angel always said that. In the past, it had always been true. He hoped that this time would be no exception.
They arrived outside one of the big caravans. The words ‘Mr Samson Fairchild’ were painted on the door. Razzle pointed to it.
‘Thank you,’ Angel said. ‘I’ll need to have a word with you later.’
Razzle looked at his watch. ‘We’ll be through shooting at four. Early finish Friday. If that would be convenient.’
‘Fine,’ Angel said.
‘My office then. Anyone will direct you. Four o’clock.’
Angel nodded, but he was anxious to meet up with the man with the gun before anyone was hurt.
Razzle went out through the exit door.
Angel looked at the big American RV and knocked on the door. He didn’t know what to expect. Crisp had simply told him that a man called Samson Fairchild had a gun in his coat pocket. Fairchild could be a raving lunatic, a man on the run … anything could happen. He licked his lips. The door handle rattled. The door opened outwards. Angel took a deep breath. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a gold suntan appeared; he stood at the top of the steps posing like a statue. His suit was as sleek as the bodywork of a Maserati.
Fairchild didn’t lower his head. He looked down at him with eyelids almost closed. ‘Yes?’ he said in a bored, superior voice.
‘Mr Fairchild? DI Angel, Bromersley police. I am looking into the murder of Peter Santana. Can I have a word, sir?’
‘Oh?’ Fairchild said, with eyebrows raised. ‘I suppose so. Of course. Come on in.’ He held the door open.
Angel leaped quickly up the three steps with rather too much momentum and stumbled against the right side of the man rather clumsily, pushing him back against a large cupboard just inside the doorway. For a moment he was pressed unpleasantly close against him.
‘Steady on there,’ Fairchild said. ‘Mind the suit.’
‘I am so very sorry, sir,’ Angel said eventually, straightening up and pulling himself away.
Fairchild gave him a superior look. ‘That’s all right,’ he said gruffly. He closed the caravan door, and turned back to face the policeman.
Angel raised a Walther PPK/S between finger and thumb in his left hand, pulled a pencil out of his top pocket, placed it down the barrel, held the gun aloft on the pencil and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. He could see the rim of a bullet in the breech. He held it to his nose and sniffed. The giveaway smell of burning indicated that it had been fired recently.
Fairchild stared at the gun. His eyes flashed. His jaw dropped. He dived frantically into his jacket pocket. It was empty. His eyes flashed again. ‘What are you doing with that?’
Angel stared back at him. He held the Walther up again and said, ‘Have you got a licence for this, sir?’
The pupils of Fairchild’s eyes zipped to the left, to the right and back again, before finally settling somewhere in the centre. ‘It’s not mine.’
‘It was in your possession. Don’t you know it’s a criminal offence to own a gun or even a replica, and this isn’t a replica.’
He shook his head. ‘I know you’ll never believe it,’ he said, ‘but I found it.’
‘Found it? Where?’
‘In the men’s washroom, an hour ago.’
Angel reached inside his pocket and pulled out a polythene ‘EVIDENCE’ bag he had brought for the occasion. He tilted the pencil and the gun slid gently off it into the bag; he sealed it and stuffed it into his pocket. He could hardly wait to get it into SOCO’s hands.
Fairchild had watched him. He blinked several times and said, ‘It will have my fingerprints on it.’
‘That’s all right,’ Angel said. He looked round the caravan. His gaze settled on the sink next to a fridge and between them on the floor was a plastic rubbish bin. He crossed over to it. It seemed to be filled mostly with empty bottles; he fished around and found an empty gin bottle. He pulled it out triumphantly and turned to Fairchild, who had been closely watching him and who now stood there looking at him with a downturned mouth and raised eyebrows.
‘Have you any gin, Mr Fairchild?’
The man stared hard at him. ‘It is too early in the day for me, sir,’ he said.
Angel shook his head. He knew what he was thinking. ‘I need it to clean this bottle,’ he said slowly and with emphasis. ‘Then I’ll have a perfect surface to take your fingerprints for elimination.’
Fairchild’s mouth dropped open. After a moment, he pointed to a cupboard above the sink. ‘There’s almost a full bottle in there.’
‘Do you mind if I take a half tumbler full and some tissues?’
Fairchild nodded his approval.
Angel quickly cleaned the empty bottle systematically with tissues sodden in gin, holding it with a finger in the top. Then he finished off the cleansing by wiping it carefully with a spotless tea towel hanging on a rail by the sink, carefully keeping his hand and fingers away from the glass surface. When he had finished, holding the bottle by a finger in the spout, he placed it on the draining board at the side of the sink and looked back at Fairchild.
‘Now I want you to put your hands around the bottle, one above the other. I don’t want you to slide about the glass – you’ll smudge it. I want you simply to get a hold of the bottle with both hands at the same time, one each side, and grip it tight, then carefully peel your fingers off as you let go.’
Fairchild did it perfectly.
Angel smiled. ‘May I put the bottle in this cupboard? I have other interviews to conduct. May I leave it here until I leave?’
‘Certainly, Inspector. Collect it whenever you like. I will leave my caravan unlocked.’
Angel carefully reached up with his finger in the neck of the bottle and a fingertip underneath and placed it on the shelf along with several other bottles of booze. He closed the cupboard door and turned back to Fairchild. ‘Now, you had better show me where you found the gun.’
Fairchild led him out of the caravan to the gentleman’s washroom. He took him to the WC cubicle at the end of six. He said that he found the Walther on top of the cistern, partly concealed under a reserve toilet roll.
There was a sign behind the washroom door that gave an internal phone number to ring in case the toilets were not to a satisfactory standard. Angel prompted Fairchild to ring the number from a telephone outside in the corridor. A man with a cleaning trolley appeared promptly. Angel ascertained from him that the washroom and each cubicle had been checked and rinsed by him
at two o’clock. He confirmed that the gun had not been there then. Angel thanked him, then he looked up and down the corridors close by for CCTV cameras, but there weren’t any. He frowned.
Angel pushed open the door back into the studio, where the filming had re-started. Angel and Fairchild approached the caravan quietly.
When inside and seated, Angel said, ‘Why didn’t you report the finding of the gun?’
‘I intended to, eventually, but I suppose to have it in my possession gave me a sense of security. It is pretty obvious that Peter Santana’s murderer is someone in this studio, you know. It is somebody I work with every day. There’s a sense of distrust arisen here, which I find very strange. And I ask myself, why was the gun left here, in the studio, when it could have been dumped almost anywhere?’
Angel gave a slight shrug. ‘There are hundreds of questions, Mr Fairchild. I have to try to find the answers.’
He sensed that Fairchild had more to say. He leaned back in the comfortable chair in the caravan and waited.
‘I should have thought as a detective,’ Fairchild began, ‘you would have been perfectly aware that since Peter Santana was murdered, there’s a race for the prize, the beautiful widow and her lovely millions. They go together. Whoever wins Felicity Santana gets his fingers on the jackpot. The favourite, of course, is Bill Isaacs. He’s the boss of this place now, and the natural successor to Peter Santana. He’s got the power, but not the money. Then there’s glamour boy, Hector Munro, every woman’s dream workout. He’s got the looks but not the brains. And then there’s Oliver Razzle, the jumped-up call boy who simply fancies his chances because in one of those early Santana spectaculars made about Egypt a few hundred years ago, in a scene where Felicity was supposed to be Queen Nefertiti bathing in the altogether, in ass’s milk, in a close-up he got to hold a palm leaf in a strategic position on her, from a wire off camera. He was so electrified by the proximity of her that the palm leaf quivered unceasingly throughout the shot. I’m afraid the memory of the palm leaf and all it symbolized to him has gone to his head. He’s far too immature to take on Felicity. She’d eat him alive but he can’t read the signs.’
The Cuckoo Clock Scam Page 10