Angel and the Actress by Roger Silverwood Page A

cocaine.’
    ‘The currency used to be cigarettes.’
    ‘Have you found anything else?’
    ‘No, sir, but we’re not quite finished.’
    ‘Have you been over the Volkswagen?’
    ‘There’s a man looking for prints now, sir. There are no sweet papers, no lager cans, no fag ends, nothing.’
    ‘Leave it with you, then.’
    Taylor turned back to the wreck.
    Angel walked down the line to Crisp’s car and opened the door again. He looked at the older of the two Slater’smen. ‘Excuse me again, gentlemen. Is your office sending some transport to get you two home?’
    ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘Our boss is coming down; so is a man to sort out the insurance.’
    Angel nodded. ‘Right.’ Then he turned back to Crisp. ‘I’m going back to the station, Trevor. I’ll have to get this wreck moved before it’s dark.’
     
    It was four o’clock.
    There was a knock on Angel’s office door.
    Angel was seated at his desk. ‘Yes? Come in,’ he said.
    It was Ahmed. ‘Ah yes,’ Angel said. ‘There are three pickaxes in the boot of my car. Take them down to SOCO.’ He reached into his pocket and gave Ahmed his car key. ‘You’ll need that. Get a photographer to take a picture of all three together. I want the “Stronghold” brand label round the handle of each pickaxe to be readable on at least one of them. Then put the pic online. All right?’
    ‘Right, sir.’
    Ahmed went out.
    Angel picked up the phone and dialled a two-digit number. It was an internal call to Norman Mallin, the sergeant responsible for station transport. He instructed him to organize the immediate recovery of the two crashed vehicles out at Hemmsfield.
    He then rang Simon Bennett, chief news reporter at the Bromersley Chronicle .
    ‘I’ve got a story for you,’ Angel said. ‘You will be the first to hear it. It’s about the robbery of a Slater Security van carrying—’
    ‘Oh, that ,’ Bennett said. ‘ That’s what that road blockageout at Hemmsfield is all about, isn’t it, Michael? I heard they got away with two hundred and twenty thousand pounds.’
    Angel licked his lips. His grip on the phone tightened. He hadn’t reckoned on Bennett knowing so much. He recovered quickly and said, ‘That’s right, and I want you to do me a little favour.’
    Bennett said, ‘Of course, Michael. If I can I will; what is it?’
    ‘I want you to use a photograph of the three pickaxes used in the crime. And I want a mention that if anybody remembers selling them recently, to get in touch with the police. I can send you the photograph online.’
    ‘Not a very interesting photograph, three pickaxes, Michael,’ Bennett said.
    ‘No, but it might give us a lead to the gang,’ Angel said. ‘You’d be doing a great public service, Simon, particularly if the photograph pulled in information that led to the arrest of the armed robbers.’
    There was a short silence: Angel reckoned he could hear Bennett thinking.
    ‘Yes, all right, Michael,’ the reporter said.
    So Angel told him all about the robbery, carefully avoiding the finding of the cigarette butt. Bennett asked a couple of questions for clarification, which Angel answered quickly, and the call was ended.
    Angel reached into his desk drawer, took out the local telephone directory. He turned to the pages with names beginning with P. He scanned down the columns and found the name Pink and Cairncross, Solicitors, Eastgate, Bromersley. He tapped in their number and was soonspeaking to Mr Harry Cairncross.
    ‘I understand you are the solicitor of the late Miss Joan Minter?’ Angel said.
    ‘That is correct, Inspector. It is not very long since I drew up the will.’
    ‘Mr Cairncross, can you tell me who the executors of Miss Minter’s estate are?’
    ‘We are, Inspector. There are no known relatives alive of Miss Minter.’
    ‘And who is the sole or main beneficiary?’
    ‘Her butler, Alexander Trott,’ Cairncross said.
    Angel blinked rapidly, then stared ahead openmouthed at